Of Blood, Fire, and Sovereignty

by Artharia_Emrys

Summary:

Prince Vaekar Targaryen — the middle brother of King Viserys and Prince Daemon — is a knight, scholar, and diplomat known as The Wandering Flame. Absent from court for years, he returns to King’s Landing in 106 AC, just as political tensions begin to stir. As he quietly reshapes alliances and mentors young Princess Rhaenyra, whispers grow of his influence, his dragon, and his past. But some fires burn too bright to stay in one place for long.

Notes:

i like platonic relationships in a fic however i just can't find the right scratch for that itch so I figured why not write it myself. vaekar was supposed to be from a far away land but still from a noble house but I thought it will best to have him in the targaryen family legacy.

Chapter 1: The Life of Prince Vaekar Targaryen, The Wandering Flame

In the seventy-ninth year After Conquest, during the tranquil twilight of King Jaehaerys I Targaryen’s reign, the bells of King's Landing rang across the city to herald the birth of a new babe to Prince Baelon Targaryen , the Spring Prince, and his sister-wife, Princess Alyssa Targaryen. The child was born healthy and full-lunged, his cries echoing loud through Maegor’s Holdfast as if to announce his arrival not only to the court but to the realm itself.

The proud mother, radiant in the candlelight despite the rigors of labor, held her newborn son with fierce delight. Prince Baelon, heart swelling with pride, took the child in his arms and named him Vaekar, after no ancient hero or king, but a name of his own choosing—a name that in time would be known across the Seven Kingdoms and beyond.

According to the writings of Septon Barth , who had attended court in those years, “the babe Vaekar was plump and pleasant, quick to squall and quicker still to charm.”

Though the maesters advised caution, Princess Alyssa, strong-willed and bold in the traditions of House Targaryen, defied them. On the sixth day of her son's life, she wrapped him in crimson swaddling cloth and took him into the skies atop her dragon, Meleys. “He giggled the whole time,” she would later boast, to the horror and admiration of the court. The child was said to be calm in flight, soothed by the heat and wind of the skies—his first taste of the fire that would forever mark his path.

As soon as he learned to walk, Prince Vaekar was known to scurry about the Red Keep on hands and knees, then feet—so fast that Viserys , the crown prince, and even Prince Baelon and Princess Alyssa were often forced to chase after him. The boy had the curious spirit of a fox and the fearlessness of a lion, traits that delighted his grandfather King Jaehaerys and made Queen Alysanne laugh heartily.

Vaekar adored his older brother Viserys , following him about the castle with dogged devotion. In this, the royal family saw an echo of the siblings of the previous generation. Just as Baelon had once followed Prince Aemon, and Alyssa had trailed Baelon like a shadow, so too did little Vaekar find his north star in Viserys. Yet unlike his father, who had once grumbled that sisters were bothersome, Viserys welcomed his younger brother with kindness and joy, often found reading to him in the gardens or carrying him on his back through the court.

In the year 91 AC, at the age of thirteen, Prince Vaekar Targaryen was taken to Dragonstone by his father, Prince Baelon, who arrived astride Vhagar herself. There, Vaekar approached and claimed an ancient, slumbering dragon of immense stature and pale iron-gray hide— Aeramon , a beast born of the lines of Meraxes and Balerion the Black Dread, long unclaimed and feared even by the keepers. The dragon was slow to rouse, but upon rising, bowed his head to the boy. From that day forth, they were bonded.

The following year, at merely fourteen, Vaekar was knighted by King Jaehaerys I after a heroic act in the Kingswood—when a noble party from House Staunton was set upon by outlaws, Vaekar, riding ahead of his escort, intervened alone. His blade saved two lives before help arrived. The feat drew acclaim from both lords and commons.

On his fifteenth nameday (93 AC), King Jaehaerys, noting the boy’s cleverness and curiosity, agreed to a proposal made by Baelon and approved by Archmaester Vaegon , the king’s own son and a reclusive scholar in Oldtown . Vaekar was sent to study at the Citadel under Vaegon’s direct tutelage, a rare privilege. There he immersed himself in alchemy , mathematics , history , Valyrian lore , and even arcane disciplines. Though he never forged a maester’s chain, he was granted a black ring by the Archmaesters for excellence in diplomatic theory and long-distance negotiation.

In the year 101 AC, Vaekar returned from Oldtown to attend the Great Council at Harrenhal , where succession to the Iron Throne was to be decided. Though some whispered he might stake his own claim, Vaekar stood proudly beside Prince Viserys , publicly declaring his support and speaking at length on his brother’s fitness to rule. “Peace and knowledge require a steady hand,” he said in that great hall, “and there is none steadier than my brother's.”

Thereafter, Vaekar proposed a new position—royal envoy and advocate—a role that would allow him to roam the Free Cities and distant regions as a voice of the Crown. King Jaehaerys, though in his twilight years, approved. Thus began Vaekar’s long and storied career as a diplomat and peace-weaver. Over the years, he would become known as: The Black Envoy, for the dark robes and Valyrian cloaks he wore,The Far-Flown Prince, for the vast range of his journeys, and The Wandering Flame, for the fiery words and fierce intelligence he brought wherever he went.

By 103 AC, upon the ascension of King Viserys I, Vaekar continued in loyal service, though he remained more often abroad than within the Red Keep. His reputation as a calm negotiator, yet one who never cowered from battle, grew even among the lords of Lys, Braavos, and even the distant shores of Qarth and Volantis.

In 106 AC, when Viserys wed Lady Alicent Hightower , Vaekar did not attend the ceremony. Instead, he sent a fine cask of Arbor gold and a letter penned in golden ink, offering warm but distant congratulations. Many believed his absence to be political—Vaekar had favored a Velaryon match to strengthen the alliance with the realm’s richest and most powerful house.

Later that same year, Vaekar returned to King’s Landing. A modest feast was held in his honor, and for the first time in years, the three brothers were reunited — Viserys , Vaekar , and Daemon , each changed by time but still bound in blood. Though they did not always see eye to eye, it was said by Ser Harrold Westerling that, “never were three dragons more loyal to one another, even if they flew on crooked paths.”

Vaekar resumed a quieter life at court—for a time—offering council, instruction, and an ever-watchful presence in matters concerning Princess Rhaenyra, whom he tutored personally.

Though history would come to know Viserys the Peaceful , Daemon the Rogue Prince , and Vaekar the Wandering Flame , those who knew them in those rare seasons of unity spoke of them not as myth or symbol, but as brothers— scarred, sovereign, and deeply loyal.

Chapter 2: Return to the Realm

Summary:

A feast was held midyear to honor the return of his long-absent brother, Prince Vaekar Targaryen, known as The Wandering Flame. His arrival caused a stir—he had been gone for years as a diplomat across Westeros and Essos, and many, including Princess Rhaenyra, had only heard of him through stories.

Notes:

three words to describe vaekar: dashing, daring, and dangerous.

In the year 106 After Conquest, the Red Keep bore witness to yet another spectacle—one that followed close upon the heels of controversy, quiet fury, and shifting tides.

Earlier that year, King Viserys I Targaryen had taken Lady Alicent Hightower as his second wife. Though the match was hailed by some as a triumph for the Reach and the Faith, others saw it as a grievous political misstep. Among those who were notably absent from the ceremony were Prince Daemon Targaryen, the king’s younger brother, and Prince Vaekar Targaryen, the middle son of the late Prince Baelon and Princess Alyssa, long known across the realm as The Far-Flown Prince. Also missing was Lord Corlys Velaryon, Master of Driftmark and husband to Princess Rhaenys, the Queen Who Never Was.

The wedding was attended, but the unity of the royal family had frayed beneath the silks and song.

But it was not long before the capital once again stirred. Midyear, a raven came—bearing the seal of a black dragon aflame, the personal sigil of Prince Vaekar—and with it, the announcement: he was returning.

The raven carried no long preamble nor poetic lines, only the words:
"I will arrive when the sun next swells at its peak. Make room at your table. – Vaekar"

A royal feast was declared in his honor. The nearby regions—Rosby, Duskendale, Tumbleton, and beyond—sent envoys and lords of their own. Tents blossomed across the hills outside the city. Meleys, the Red Queen, was seen soaring above the clouds, signaling the arrival of Princess Rhaenys, whose presence turned many heads, for she had not set foot in the court since the Great Council of 101 AC.

Even the Kingswood, ancient and full of secrets, seemed to hush in anticipation.

But not all welcomed the occasion.

Within the Red Keep, Princess Rhaenyra, only nine years of age, was being laced into a velvet gown by a flurry of handmaidens. The dress was deep crimson with golden embroidery of dragons coiling across her sleeves, chosen especially by Queen Alicent for the occasion.

She did not smile.

“Another stranger to greet,” she muttered as her nurse combed out her silver-gold hair.

Though Rhaenyra had heard of Prince Vaekar—his name spoken in her father’s tales, his deeds mentioned by her uncle Daemon—she barely remembered the man. She had heard that he was present on her nameday and at the Great Council, but what did that matter? He was just another adult who drifted through her life in absence and expectation.

This year had already proven bitter: her father remarried to a woman who scolded and corrected, and now, this mysterious uncle was arriving like some specter summoned from history.

“Why should I care?” she whispered to herself.

Yet she would attend. She always did what her father asked—until she wouldn't.

When the bells chimed for the third time that evening, it meant only one thing: the last guest had arrived.

The great doors of Maegor’s Holdfast swung wide.

Prince Vaekar Targaryen entered alone.

He was striking—tall, long-limbed, and broad-shouldered, with the unmistakable silver-gold hair of Old Valyria falling down in straight, oiled strands to his elbows. He wore a robe of grey and red, woven with Valyrian glyphs and stylized dragons, some of which shimmered in the firelight as if enchanted.

His eyes—one a deeper violet than the other—swept the hall. He walked not like a courtier, but like a general returning from campaign. His presence sucked the air from the room, turning all heads.

“Your Grace, Your Highnesses. Lords. Ladies. Cousins.” His voice, sonorous and smooth, broke the silence.

King Viserys rose to welcome him, raising a goblet. “To my brother, Prince Vaekar. The Black Envoy returns home at last.”

“To Vaekar!” echoed the crowd.

Daemon, lounging beside a goblet half-drunk, raised his cup lazily and grinned. “Took you long enough, brother.”

Vaekar nodded at them both before taking his seat—but not before he offered his hand to Princess Rhaenys, whose black and red silks mirrored his own. A hush fell again as the two took to the floor while the musicians shifted to a slow, rhythmic Valyrian ballad.

They danced with grace, their words spoken in High Valyrian, soft and swift.

“And what news from Driftmark, Princess?”
“The seas are as turbulent as ever, my prince. Laenor wishes for a dragon of his own, and Laena has taken to maps.”
“Good. Maps will be her friends when politics are not.”
“And yours, Vaekar?”
“Everywhere I go, men speak in lies and truths. Sometimes, they do not know the difference.”

Their dance was brief, a quiet storm of politics cloaked in pleasantries.

At her table, Rhaenyra watched—the man who had walked into the hall like a story brought to life. The man who had fought bandits as a boy, debated Archmaesters in Oldtown, and flown over Braavos and Lys and further still. He was real now, but unknowable.

And yet... she watched.

Something about him—the way he held his goblet without drinking, the way he observed without judging, the way he bent close only to speak sparingly—fascinated her.

He was not like the others.

He was Vaekar, her uncle, and the first mystery she ever met.

Notes:

writing rhaenyra really reminds me that she was just a child. sentences that are spoken in high valyrian will be just in bold letters because I'm lazy to translate them and I worry that it will not be translated very well.

Chapter 3

Summary:

The feast has ended, and the three dragonlords remain—wine in their goblets, firelight casting long shadows.

The fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering gold against the stone walls. A half-finished bottle of Arbor red sat between them, Viserys sunk deep into his chair, Daemon sprawled with his boots up on a stool, and Vaekar sitting upright, his goblet untouched for some time.

“You’ve grown even more like Vaegon,” Daemon muttered, eyeing his middle brother. “Only better dressed.”

“Vaegon never had to convince Dornish lords not to retaliate after you burned half their tents during that skirmish near Ghost Hill,” Vaekar replied dryly.

Viserys chuckled, already flushed from drink. “Gods, how long has it been since all three of us sat like this?”

“Indeed,” Vaekar murmured. “Before the Council convened for Baelon’s succession. Before you became King.”

The weight of those words settled a moment, then Daemon—ever impatient—cut through it.

“And now our King has taken a new queen,” he said, lifting his goblet in mock salute. “Lady Hightower. Pious and pale. Is she to teach the court to kneel before the gods or before her father’s ambitions?”

Vaekar didn’t smile.

“It was a poor match,” he said flatly. “Politically, diplomatically— tactically. Laena Velaryon was the better choice. A union with the sea snake’s house would’ve bound the crown to the most powerful fleet in the realm. Instead—”

“—you now have to pour honey into Lord Corlys’s ear with every raven,” Daemon finished, grinning. “Your job’s never dull, is it?”

“No,” Vaekar said, voice clipped. “Nor easy. Not since Otto Hightower positioned his daughter into our bloodline.”

Viserys shifted, the warmth in his face fading slightly. “I married for the realm—”

“You married for your grief ,” Vaekar said quietly, but not cruelly. “That is the realm’s burden now.”

Silence followed.

Daemon, sensing the tension, quickly redirected. “And what of my marriage, hmm? Still the laughingstock of the Eyrie, am I?”

“To marry a Royce and live in the Vale as little as possible is a contradiction even for you,” Vaekar replied.

“Let him chase his Silver Silk,” Viserys muttered with a smirk. “We all know where his true attentions lie.”

“Mysaria,” Vaekar said simply. “The White Worm.”

Daemon raised a brow. “You’ve heard of her?”

“I’ve read the reports. Street of Silk. Information flows through her fingers like coin.”

“She's clever,” Daemon said. “And dangerous.”

“A fitting match, then,” Vaekar noted.

Daemon laughed aloud, clinking his cup to no one in particular. “And you , dear brother? No Lady Hightower, no Royce, no White Worm? Not even a widow with a lonely tower?”

Raising an eyebrow, he added, “Don’t tell me you’ve been celibate all this time, locked away with maps and dragons.”

Vaekar’s lips curled faintly. “I’ve had lovers.”

Viserys choked on his wine.

Daemon blinked. “ You? ”

Vaekar’s expression remained unreadable, calm. “Is it truly so shocking? I’m a Targaryen man. The blood of old Valyria does not require marriage to know desire.”

Daemon was the first to recover, grinning like a cat. “Well, well. There is fire under that ash-gray scholar’s cloak.”

Viserys wiped his mouth, still stunned. “You always seemed so… above it.”

“I’m not above being a man, ” Vaekar said. “But I’ve no desire for a match that cages me. Duty is already wife enough.”

That silenced them both.

The fire crackled again, and in that glow, the three princes looked like three sides of the same blade—one crowned, one coiled, one tempered by distance.

For a moment, there was nothing but brotherhood.

Notes:

i'm still mulling it over if i want vaekar to have a wife because I think it will cause too much problems. he is always away, from land to land so I think it will be a lonely match. right now I'm just thinking of how many dragonseeds he has and how should I use them as plot devices.

Chapter 4

Summary:

Rhaenyra finally confronts the ghost of her family lore: Prince Vaekar Targaryen, The Wandering Flame, in the one place she expected to find him if nowhere else—the library.

It was quiet, save for the occasional flutter of parchment and the distant toll of a bell from the Sept.

The torches burned low, and Rhaenyra’s slippers barely made a sound on the stone floor as she moved past rows of shelves stacked with dust, vellum, and forgotten kingdoms. She turned a corner—and stopped.

There he was.

Prince Vaekar. Cloaked in shadow and lamplight, seated by a long oak table, sleeves rolled to the forearms, a single open tome beneath his hand. He read in silence, one finger tracking the lines, expression still and patient, like time itself waited for him.

“Uncle,” Rhaenyra said softly.

Vaekar looked up.

He didn’t smile, not fully, but he inclined his head. “Princess.”

“You’ve been difficult to find,” she said, stepping forward. “I was beginning to think Aeramon had taken you back to the east.”

“Not yet,” he replied. “Though I find the quiet here equally rare.”

“I’ve seen you in the yard,” she added, almost accusingly. “Training with the Kingsguard. With Daemon.”

He closed the book gently. “So I was seen.”

She approached the table, suddenly unsure. Her hands fidgeted at her sides. “I remember you… but not clearly. Only in flashes. A gift of pearl pins. A miniature set of histories. You smelled like parchment and smoke.”

Vaekar tilted his head, intrigued. “A poetic memory.”

“I was four,” she said.

“And now you are… what? Eight?” he asked, but he already knew.

“Nine,” she corrected, lifting her chin. “Named heir of the Iron Throne.”

A flicker of pride touched his features. “Then congratulations are in order. The realm will remember that day.”

She sat across from him without asking permission. “You missed the part where the lords kissed my hand and promised to serve me.”

“I’ve read the raven reports,” he said dryly.

She watched him closely. “Why did you never return before now?”

Vaekar took a breath. “I serve your father as envoy. That task rarely leaves me still. War, trade, unrest. The world outside our walls is not slow, Rhaenyra. It demands presence, not comfort.”

“You speak as though comfort is a weakness,” she said.

“I speak as someone who’s seen how luxury dulls the instincts,” Vaekar replied, not unkindly.

Rhaenyra studied him. “I’ve never left King’s Landing. Not truly. A tourney in Duskendale, once. The rest—feasts, politics, games in gilded rooms.”

“You envy the road,” he noted.

“I envy choice.”

There was silence. Then:

“What is it like?” she asked. “The outside. The Free Cities. The sky beyond Westeros. I hear stories but… they all sound like songs.”

Vaekar’s gaze grew distant.

“The Stepstones smell of salt and death. The markets of Lys are perfumed and dangerous. In Qohor, a priest tried to read my fate in a bowl of blood.” A pause. “I’ve broken bread with pirates, signed treaties with liars, and once spoke Valyrian with a boy who owned nothing but a flute and a goat.”

Rhaenyra stared, wide-eyed. “And Aeramon? Did he—fly over it all?”

Vaekar gave the smallest nod. “He watches from the skies while I walk among mortals. I like to believe he is my conscience.”

She smiled faintly. “That sounds lonely.”

“It can be,” he admitted. “But so is a crown, is it not?”

Rhaenyra looked down. “It is. Especially when it’s only ever worn in theory.”

He regarded her now—not as a child, but as someone beginning to fracture beneath the weight of inheritance.

“You’re curious,” he said. “That is good. It means you’re not yet lost to the cage.”

“I’m still in it,” she said.

“But now you know it,” he replied. “That is how escape begins.”

They sat in quiet understanding, two Targaryens forged from very different flames, both watching the world from inside walls they did not build.

He began without ceremony. “Valyrian diplomacy is not unlike the ancient language itself—beautiful, complex, precise. And like fire, it burns or warms depending on how it’s wielded.”

Rhaenyra leaned forward. “I don’t want to make pretty words. I want to make decisions that hold. How do I speak so that they listen without thinking me a child?”

“You listen first, ” Vaekar said. “Even if you think them fools. Especially if you do. Let them believe you are gathering their words to weigh them—but you are measuring their fear.”

She tilted her head. “Fear?”

“Every lord desires something—land, legacy, survival. The trick is to make them believe you can grant it, or take it away. You are not a girl to them, Rhaenyra. You are a future reckoning. ”

Her eyes flickered, something heavy sitting beneath her ribs. “My father never taught me this.”

“Your father believes kindness will sustain the realm,” Vaekar said. “He forgets that kindness without strength is merely permission for betrayal.”

Silence fell. She looked at the parchments laid before her: treaties with Dorne, complaints from the Vale, a threat of embargo from Braavos.

“How would you answer them?” she asked.

“I wouldn’t,” he replied. “I’d send an envoy with three possible outcomes. One where we concede and ask for less coin in return, one where we delay until winter, and one where we subtly mention our new investments in Pentos.”

“And which would they choose?”

“The one that lets them save face,” Vaekar said. “No man enjoys losing. But he’ll accept a deal if he can boast it was his idea.”

Rhaenyra nodded slowly. “So... it’s always a game.”

“It is survival played out in ink and language instead of steel,” he said.

She leaned back. “Teach me.”

Vaekar raised a brow. “You’re already learning through your Septas and Maesters, do you not?.”

“I want more than lessons. I want understanding,” she said, voice low but intent. “I want to know what the world is like when you're the one who must lead it. Not sit at the end of feasts or curtsy to men who think me a crown with no teeth.”

Vaekar studied her. “Then you must understand this, Rhaenyra: the Iron Throne is not won by force alone. It is held through perception. The moment they see you as weak, you are bleeding , even if they haven't drawn a blade.”

“I won’t be weak,” she whispered.

“You won’t be,” he echoed.

They sat for a while, wind brushing in again through the open archway. Her eyes drifted again toward the sky. She looked at him again. Hope bloomed faintly behind her practiced stillness.

Notes:

my head lowkey hurts... writing this chapter especially towards the end, I had to check multiple times that rhaenyra is only nine years old and like, she is kinda spoiled because she's so beloved. i just imagine her like jaecaerys who is the universally agreed to be the better heir than aegon and he was only like fourteen at the start of the civil war.

Chapter 5: Lessons

Summary:

Rhaenyra finally finds the courage to ask for more than answers—for training, for preparation, for power. An intellectual exchange blooms between Prince Vaekar Targaryen and Princess Rhaenyra, firming into a mentorship.

Notes:

warning: the political stuff may or may not be canon compliant. the tabs on my laptop is making my eyes roll around in a very not good way. i don't know why I settled on writing a character who is a bloody diplomat.

The library, once a silent monument to still air and older books, now bore the flicker of candlelight and tension. The late hour left the keep mostly quiet, save for the rustling of parchment and the distant groan of wind against stone.

Rhaenyra arrived unannounced.

Vaekar was seated by the arched window, a goblet of watered wine untouched beside his ink-stained hand, his other lazily turning the page of an old Myrish text. He didn’t look up as she approached—he didn’t need to.

“You found me,” he said, his tone neither surprised nor welcoming, but expectant.

“I had to chase your shadow halfway through the tower halls,” she huffed, dropping into the chair across from him. “No one could tell me where you'd gone.”

“You’ll find that most things worth knowing don’t sit still,” he said, finally meeting her eyes. “What is it you want this time, princess?”

She hesitated.

“I want you to teach me,” she said. “Not about dragons or words in books. About people. Lords. Diplomacy. The way you speak and they listen. The way you seem to offer everything, and still, they leave with less than they gave.”

Vaekar raised a brow, expression unreadable.

“Every lord desires something—land, legacy, survival. The trick is to make them believe you can grant it, or take it away. You’ve been watching.”

“I’ve been listening ,” she said, firmer now. “To my father. To Daemon. To the court. They all speak of you as if you’re something dangerous wrapped in silk. I think I need that. I think the realm needs that.”

At last, he smiled—slight, but sharp. “Then let us teach you to do more than match them. Let’s teach you how to bleed them dry with a smile.”

She sat straighter.

He gestured to a low table now set with colored stones and scrolls marked with old wax seals. “Sit. Lesson begins now.”

“Valyrian diplomacy,” Vaekar began, “is not unlike the language itself—ornate, weighted, and meant to dazzle. But beneath it lies precision. Every syllable must be chosen like a sword in war. ”

“And yet you rarely speak in court,” Rhaenyra noted.

“That is because the man who speaks less makes them work harder to read him. In silence, you can be anything they fear you to be.”

He handed her a scroll. “Read it aloud.”

She unfurled it, eyes scanning the curling script. “It’s a request from House Staunton—an appeal to maintain tax exceptions granted during the Great Council.”

“Answer them.”

“They served at Harrenhal,” she said. “They have a claim.”

“And what does that gain you?”

She blinked. “Their loyalty?”

“No,” he said. “Their expectation . They will return again, and again, until you’re feeding them from the treasury.”

Rhaenyra frowned, then sat back. “So what would you do?”

“I would acknowledge their loyalty. Praise it publicly. Then return new terms —a two-year extension, not indefinite. And in return, they send a hostage—young, harmless, noble—a page to serve you.”

“Make them offer their children?” she asked, shocked.

“Not a demand. A suggestion. Dressed in silk and honor. You call it an honorary position in the royal household . They call it pride. I call it leverage. ”

She blinked. “Does my father know this is how you operate?”

He tilted his head. “Your father prefers ribbons and compromise. That is his strength, and his flaw. You are not your father.”

Rhaenyra stared at the stones on the board. “What if they refuse the terms?”

“Then you return with better ones. But not for them . For their rivals .”

Her lips curled slowly. “Play them against each other.”

“Now you begin to understand.”

“I’ve been dismissed in every small council meeting I’ve peeked into,” she confessed hours later. “They nod. Smile. Then ignore what I say.”

“Because they see the crown before the weight beneath it,” Vaekar said. “And they see a girl behind both.”

She looked down. “How do I change that?”

“You do not.” He leaned forward. “You use it.”

“You make them lower their guard. Let them believe you’re malleable, unsure. Ask them for advice. Then, when they speak long enough to convince themselves they’re brilliant, you close the door with a decision you made long before they opened their mouths.”

She was silent for a time, considering this.

Then, she whispered, “How did you learn all of this?”

“I learned from the only teachers that matter,” Vaekar said. “Failure. Observation. And betrayal.”

They sat quietly again. He scribbled notations on a map of Pentos. She traced the rim of her goblet.

Then she said, without looking at him: “Will you take me with you one day?”

“To where?”

“Wherever you go. Beyond the gates. Beyond the coast. I want to see it. Not as a lady in waiting. Not as a political bride. As a rider . As an heir.”

He did not answer immediately.

Then, “ Perhaps. ”

“That’s not a yes.”

“It’s not a no, either,” he said, rising. “Learn well, niece. For now, conquer here.”

And with that, he left her, the candlelight still dancing over the scrolls between them—one of them marked in her hand , not his.

She was learning. And the realm had no idea.

Notes:

my head officially hurts and is now close to bursting. i have not yet read the books fully although i am trying to. writing this story will be like a fucking thesis, researching and cross referencing details. can't wait to reach the part where vaekar has to dip his hand into the war at the stepstones.

Chapter 6

Summary:

The simmering undercurrents of House Targaryen—the bond between brothers, rising tensions, Rhaenyra's growing education, and the increasingly tangled court politics surrounding the Iron Throne. King Viserys and Prince Vaekar in the solar, a quiet storm behind closed doors.

The sound of metal on metal rang clean through the cool air as two silver-haired men danced in measured combat—Vaekar with a long, two-handed sword carved with Valyrian glyphs near the hilt, and Daemon wielding Dark Sister with the gleam of pleasure in his eyes.

A crowd had gathered at the edges of the yard, squires and goldcloaks whispering behind hands. The sight of two Targaryens sparring was rare enough, but these two—one, the city’s wild and favored prince; the other, its mysterious returning brother—were a spectacle not seen in decades.

“You’ve grown slower,” Daemon teased, circling.

“And you’re still fighting with your chin,” Vaekar returned, parrying a low swing and twisting the blade until it nearly kissed Daemon’s shoulder. “You rely too much on instinct.”

“I rely on victory,” Daemon grinned, stepping back. “And I always get it.”

They circled again, boots scraping over sand and stone.

“You’ve been spending time with the girl,” Daemon said casually, just loud enough for only Vaekar to hear. “Every day, I hear.”

Vaekar didn’t answer immediately, but Daemon could see the flicker of his eye—expectation, calculation.

So Daemon pressed, this time in High Valyrian, so the yard wouldn’t understand.

“Have you taken interest in our brother’s daughter, Vaekar?” he asked, blade poised.

Vaekar’s swing was clean, but the pause in his step gave him away.

He didn’t flinch, though. He only answered—calm, cold as snow over Dragonstone. “She is heir to the throne. I am merely her tutor. Someone must prepare her if her father won’t.”

Daemon’s smirk curled. “You’ve grown into quite the old maester.”

“Our father and grandfather sent me to Vaegon when I was fifteen,” Vaekar replied, parrying a sudden thrust with sharp precision. “He thought it would make a proper man of me. Discipline. Thought. Reflection.”

“You almost took the chain,” Daemon mused.

“I would have,” Vaekar admitted, “but the moment Jaehaerys died, I returned. Viserys needed me. Not cloistered behind scrolls in Oldtown.”

Daemon’s grin widened. “And now you're back to your books. But with a girl instead of ink.”

Vaekar stepped back, ending the bout. His chest rose and fell with exertion, though he barely seemed winded. “She asks questions,” he said plainly. “She listens. She doubts. That makes her dangerous—but it also makes her teachable. ”

He turned, retrieving a towel from the rack. “You know she favors you, Daemon. Her eyes search for you every time you enter a room. That is more dangerous than her questions.”

Daemon was quiet for a moment, expression unreadable.

“She’s young,” he said finally. “The kind of young that believes dragons are made of fire and poetry.”

Vaekar folded his arms. “And what do you believe they’re made of?”

“Ruin,” Daemon said, then paused. “And choice.”

The clang of another sparring pair resumed nearby, and the crowd drifted back into motion. The moment between the brothers passed into quieter territory.

As they walked off the field, Daemon posed his next question. “What do you think of Otto now?”

Vaekar’s eyes narrowed slightly. “He was once a man I looked up to.”

Daemon arched a brow.

“He was everything a young man of court could admire—capable, sharp, always three steps ahead of the rest. A self-made man among dragons.” He exhaled, slow. “But that cleverness became something else. Consumed him. He stopped serving the realm. He started playing god.”

Daemon scoffed. “He placed his daughter’s blood next to the throne.”

Vaekar nodded once. “That cannot be tolerated.”

There was no venom in his voice. Just calm certainty, like judgment passed in a quiet temple.

Daemon watched him a moment. “You’ve changed.”

“I’ve seen the world.”

“And what has it shown you?”

“That ambition untempered by duty is treason waiting for a crown.”

They walked in silence until the doors of the Red Keep loomed ahead.

“Do you intend to stay?” Daemon asked. “Remain here for her? For Viserys?”

“I intend to do what needs to be done,” Vaekar replied. “For the sake of the throne. For the child who wears its shadow.”

Daemon looked sideways at him, thoughtful. “You sound like someone who believes in the heir.”

“I believe in what she could become. ”

And with that, they parted ways—two dragons on different winds, watching the same flame.

The table was set differently now. Dozens of sealed scrolls lay unfurled, maps of Westeros pinned beneath daggers. Colored glass markers marked holdings—green for allies, red for threats, gold for coin.

Rhaenyra sat tall, dressed plainly but with purpose. A single braid wound like a serpent across her crown, meant not for beauty but command.

Vaekar stood at the other end of the table, arms crossed. He played the part of Lord Redwyne, grumbling about the crown’s levy of grain for winter stores.

“You demand too much, princess. The Arbor will starve while the capital feasts.”

Rhaenyra straightened her back. “Your ports remain open because of the Crown. And we’ve ensured that pirates steer clear of your waters. A levy of grain is a small price to pay for peace and prosperity.”

“Peace means nothing to empty bellies,” Vaekar retorted, voice low and clipped.

She didn’t blink. “Then raise your prices in the Reach. The lords there will still pay, if they believe you keep the realm fed. You may lose grain, but you gain coin. A smart trade.”

Vaekar paused.

“Not bad,” he said at last, dropping the tone. “Now try convincing the Lord of Gulltown to send ships, despite bad weather and worse rumors.”

And so they went—six lords, four masters of coin, three foreign envoys, all played by Vaekar with alarming ease. Rhaenyra faltered only twice—once when threatened with the withdrawal of Velaryon support, and again when asked whether she’d marry to secure an alliance.

“You must never flinch when they bring up marriage,” Vaekar said afterward, watching her closely. “Your womb is not a treaty. It is a weapon. And if they try to wield it against you, twist it in your favor.”

“You sound like Rhaenys,” Rhaenyra muttered.

“I was raised beside her. I studied with her. And like her, you will be underestimated—until you aren’t.”

They sat in silence a while, parchment curled at the corners from heat and tension. Outside, bells from the Sept tolled the fourth hour past midday.

Then she spoke, softly, but with purpose. “When you travel… what does the world look like?”

He glanced at her. “Wide. Tired. Dangerous. But it’s also full of stories you won’t read in any book.”

“I want to see it,” she said. “I want to ride. Beyond the walls, beyond the kingdoms.”

He tilted his head. “Do you ask to travel, or do you ask to fly?”

She didn’t answer immediately. But her hand rested lightly on a map, brushing over the waters east of Pentos.

“I want to fly,” she said at last, “not to escape… but to understand.”

A long moment passed. Then Vaekar rose, moving to the high shelf to pluck a book bound in pale leather. He set it before her.

“‘The Merchant Wars of Myr and Norvos,’” she read aloud.

“Dull at first glance,” he admitted, “but inside are the roots of every modern trade pact you’ll ever see. Study it. And when you’re done… we’ll talk about the sea routes.”

“You’ll take me?” she asked.

“One day. If your father allows. But for now…” he tapped the book, “...you conquer with knowledge.”

Rhaenyra looked at the pages, then at her uncle—still inscrutable, still distant, and yet slowly unfolding to her like the maps they read.

She nodded. “I will learn.”

And Vaekar, The Wandering Flame , inclined his head in solemn approval.

The fire in the hearth crackled low, casting orange light against stone and silk. A decanter of sweet Arbor red stood untouched on the side table, beside two goblets. A breeze from the narrow window stirred the curtains, and moonlight streamed faintly through the glass.

King Viserys sat slouched in his chair, crown absent, robes loosened. He looked tired—bloated from wine, weighed down by quiet regrets. But his eyes sharpened when the door opened.

“Vaekar,” he said, with a shadow of a smile. “Come.”

His middle brother stepped inside, closing the door behind him. No guards, no scribes. Just the two of them, as it once was. Vaekar, still in black and silver, moved like a man still halfway between court and battlefield.

“You summoned me,” he said calmly.

Viserys gestured to the seat across from him. “Sit.”

Vaekar did. Silence stretched, filled only by the crackling fire.

“I hear the two of you have grown… close,” Viserys said at last. “You and Rhaenyra.”

Vaekar inclined his head. “She seeks to learn. I provide what I can.”

Viserys watched him. “She speaks of you often. Says you challenge her.”

“Should I coddle her instead?” Vaekar replied. “Would that serve her better, brother? You named her heir. That crown will weigh heavier than any lord’s praise.”

Viserys sighed, rubbing at his brow. “I know. Believe me, I know.”

“She must be ready ,” Vaekar continued. “Not just beloved. This realm will not bend simply because you said so. Naming her was a rupture in tradition. The same tradition that put you on the throne instead of Rhaenys.”

Viserys stiffened.

Vaekar softened his tone. “You broke a cycle, Viserys. You have a duty now to see it through. That means preparing her. Letting her learn not just how to rule —but how to survive.”

Viserys poured himself a drink at last, lifting the goblet slowly. “You speak like a man carrying a sword and a scroll both.”

“I carry memory,” Vaekar said. “And I see what you don’t.”

Viserys narrowed his eyes. “Such as?”

“A new queen,” Vaekar replied.

The words hung heavy in the air.

Viserys sipped, then laughed, low and rueful. “You sound like Daemon. Have you come to chastise me for remarrying?”

“No,” Vaekar said simply. “But I am asking. How is the marriage, truly?”

Viserys looked into his wine. “Pleasant. Orderly. She is young. Kind. Obedient.”

Vaekar’s expression didn’t change. “And if she bears a son?”

Silence. No laughter now.

“That would complicate the line,” Vaekar continued. “And complicate Rhaenyra’s claim. The lords will whisper. Otto will press. The people will wonder why you’d place your daughter over a firstborn son.”

“I will not displace her,” Viserys said firmly. “I gave my word.”

“Then act like it,” Vaekar said, sharper now. “Speak of her more. In council. In court. In front of Alicent. Let the world know who you stand behind. This kingdom needs certainty, not softness.”

Viserys stared at him. Then… chuckled.

“You’ve grown serious,” he said. “Gods. What happened to the troublemaker who snuck into Daemon’s duels and threw firecrackers into the old Sept?”

Vaekar smirked faintly. “He read too much. And traveled further than he should’ve.”

“You and Daemon,” Viserys mused. “Both thorns. But you—your roots are deep, even when you're away.”

They drank in silence a moment longer. Then Viserys said, “I envy you, you know.”

Vaekar blinked. “Me?”

“You left,” Viserys said. “Saw the world. Carried the crown’s burdens without the throne’s iron. I stayed. Sat. Grew fat. Watched them circle me like crows.”

“You chose to be a king.”

“And you chose to serve one,” Viserys said with meaning.

Vaekar looked down at his goblet. “And I will continue to do so. But I’ll not play blind. The Hightowers move cleverly. They smile and bow—but they place their kin in every crevice of power.”

“Otto is loyal,” Viserys said reflexively.

“Otto is ambitious ,” Vaekar corrected. “He was once a man I admired. A man who rose through merit. But now… he sees himself reflected in your crown.”

Viserys frowned.

“He places his blood near the throne,” Vaekar added softly. “And that cannot be tolerated.”

Silence again.

Then Viserys stood, slower now. “Thank you, brother. You’ve always spoken plainly.”

Vaekar rose as well. “I only speak what others fear to.”

Viserys smiled faintly. “You and Daemon, opposites in everything but fire.”

“And what will you do, Viserys?” Vaekar asked, one final question before he turned to leave. “When the realm begins to question her claim?”

The King didn’t answer right away.

But as Vaekar turned to the door, Viserys said quietly—

“I will stand behind my daughter. Even if the realm turns its back.”

And Vaekar, pausing at the threshold, replied only: “Then make sure she knows it.”

And then he was gone.

Notes:

lmfao not me shooting out chapters after chapters. i really want to explore the bond that these three targaryen brothers have

Chapter 7: Green Hightowers

Summary:

Prince Vaekar Targaryen and Queen Alicent Hightower meet in Godswood of the Red Keep. There’s veiled politeness, court tension, and the delicate footwork of two people who know words are as dangerous as swords. Prince Vaekar Targaryen and Ser Otto Hightower cross paths. It is a diplomatic duel between two seasoned minds, veiled in civility but charged with unspoken power. Vaekar plays the courtier with charm, while Otto searches for motive. The tension simmers beneath every word.

The sound of leaves stirred by wind was a rare music in King's Landing, and Vaekar welcomed it like an old friend.

He sat cross-legged beneath the heart tree, robed in black and silver, though his boots and sword were set aside respectfully some paces away. The red leaves whispered above him as though reciting a prayer, and the face carved into the weirwood watched with silent judgment.

His hand rested on his knee, eyes closed, mind settled. This place had always calmed him—the only true stillness within the capital’s ever-shifting noise. Even as a boy, when others rode or sparred, Vaekar knelt here, offering quiet thoughts to gods older than his House.

He heard the footfalls before he heard the voice.

"Prince Vaekar."

He opened his eyes and turned his head, though he remained seated. Queen Alicent Hightower stood several feet away, her hands delicately folded before her green silk skirts.

He gave her a shallow bow from where he sat. “Your Grace.”

Alicent's lips pressed into a fine line. She was not accustomed to people remaining seated in her presence.

“I hope I’m not disturbing your prayer,” she said softly, tone polite but cool.

“You are not,” Vaekar replied, voice steady. “The gods hear whether we speak aloud or not.”

She stepped closer, careful not to tread too near the roots of the weirwood. “It’s rare to find others here. Even rarer for someone of Targaryen blood to kneel before the Old Gods.”

“I was taught to respect all gods,” he said. “But these trees demand less flattery than Septons.”

Her brows lifted faintly. “A curious answer.”

Vaekar inclined his head. “Curiosity is what brought you here, isn’t it?”

A flicker of amusement passed her eyes. “I suppose it is.”

They had met a few times over the years—formal greetings in passing, nods across feasts, never more than pleasantries. She had been the King’s reader, then his wife. Vaekar had been a specter—distant, ever abroad, always in motion.

“I don’t believe we’ve ever spoken beyond introductions,” she said now.

“No,” he agreed. “We haven’t.”

“I used to read to King Jaehaerys,” she offered. “Tended to his rest. He was fond of you.”

Vaekar glanced back to the tree. “He gave me his favor the day I was knighted.”

“You’ve seen much since then,” Alicent said, moving to sit on a nearby stone bench. “They say your dragon casts a shadow over cities half the world has forgotten.”

Vaekar gave a faint nod. “I’ve been fortunate to walk many paths.”

“I’d like to hear of them,” she said. “The Free Cities. Dorne. Even Asshai—if the tales are true.”

“They are,” Vaekar said simply. “Some of them.”

She waited. He offered nothing more. He had mastered the art of giving enough —just enough to satisfy curiosity without yielding advantage. The diplomat's restraint.

Alicent tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly.

“You’re difficult to read, my prince.”

“I am often read incorrectly regardless,” he answered with a ghost of a smile.

She studied him. A silence passed. Then—

“I noticed you have no attendants with you,” he said, not unkindly.

She folded her hands neatly in her lap. “I dismissed them.”

He blinked once. “You’re alone? In the Godswood?”

“I wanted to speak to you,” she said plainly. “Alone.”

Vaekar’s expression didn’t shift, but inwardly, he smiled.

Court games. The words were never what they seemed. Even in the quiet of the weirwood’s shadow, the dance never stopped.

“Then here we are,” he said mildly. “What would the Queen wish to know of a wandering prince?”

Alicent leaned ever so slightly forward. “What does the wandering prince believe of court? Of King’s Landing? Of the realm my husband tries to rule?”

He met her eyes—clear green, intelligent, waiting.

“I believe this city is a stage,” Vaekar said. “And each player convinced their script is truth.”

“And you?”

“I’ve always preferred the wings,” he said. “You see more from there.”

She smiled at last. But it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “And yet you returned.”

“For family,” he said. “For duty.”

Her eyes flickered. “And for Rhaenyra?”

“Especially her,” he replied softly. “If you will forgive my honesty, Your Grace—she needs more than silks and songs. She needs steel.”

A silence.

“I worry for her,” Alicent said finally. “This realm… it was not built for a woman to rule.”

“And yet it was women— Aegon’s sisters —who made sure it could ,” Vaekar said. “Rhaenyra may fail. Or she may rise. But that will be her burden. Not ours.”

He stood then, brushing dust from his robes.

Alicent remained seated, spine straight, hands poised. “I think we’ll have more to speak about.”

“Perhaps,” he said. “If your ladies permit it.”

She smiled—politely this time. “I have always preferred speaking with those who speak plainly.”

He bowed slightly. “Then I suggest you avoid court altogether.”

And with that, he left her—beneath red leaves and an old god’s gaze.

It’s late in the evening. The windows were closed, the curtains drawn at the queen’s solar. Candles flickered low in their sconces, their flame softened by the thick perfume of myrrh and rose oil. Alicent sat at her dressing table, her long auburn hair brushed out, cascading like ribbons over her shoulders.

Behind her, Ser Otto stood near the hearth, his hands clasped behind his back. The fire crackled softly, but it was not warmth he brought into the room.

“You met with the prince,” he said without needing to ask.

Alicent met his eyes through the reflection in her mirror. “He was in the godswood.”

“And you were alone.”

She turned on the stool. “You knew I would speak to him eventually.”

“I had hoped it would be under better... supervision .”

Alicent’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I am Queen, Father. I do not need a chaperone to speak with the King’s brother.”

“You need protection ,” Otto said sharply. “Not from daggers, but from influence .”

He paced once, slow and deliberate.

“I knew Vaekar when he was a boy,” Otto continued. “Even then he listened more than he spoke. Observed. Calculated. But he was never one to chase power for himself.”

“Then he is not a threat,” Alicent said.

“He is a grave threat,” Otto snapped, turning fully to face her. “Not for ambition, but for what he represents . What he can muster. ”

He stepped closer. “He is beloved in Braavos. Respected in Dorne. Feared in the Stepstones. He speaks six tongues. The Archmaesters still send ravens to ask his judgment. The Free Cities call him The Black Envoy. Here, they call him The Wandering Flame. But most dangerous of all—he has returned.”

Alicent folded her hands in her lap. “He teaches Rhaenyra.”

“He shapes her,” Otto said bitterly. “He sharpens her mind, steels her resolve. And the girl listens. Gods, she listens.”

There was silence, broken only by the hearth.

“Viserys trusts him,” Alicent said finally.

“Too much,” Otto replied. “Because he is not like Daemon. He does not break things. He does not tempt scandal. He speaks softly, and the realm follows.”

He moved to the table by her bed and poured himself a goblet of wine.

“And let us not forget,” he added darkly, “that he rides Aeramon. An ancient beast of Balerion’s blood. They call him The Watcher and The Judgement Dragon. Only Vhagar outmatches him. Barely.”

Alicent looked down. Her knuckles were white over her silk skirts.

Otto approached, lowering his voice now. “You must understand, daughter. If Vaekar stands behind Rhaenyra, he gives her legitimacy. Not just as heir—but as a ruler who might win .”

Alicent’s jaw tightened.

“You must hold the King’s favor,” Otto said. “He still visits your chambers, does he not?”

A pause. She nodded once.

“Then be more than his comfort,” he whispered. “Be his future. Bear him a son. A boy to unite the realm. The girl cannot be allowed to rule. The realm will not accept it.”

Alicent stared into the fire. “She is just a child.”

“And wholly unsuited,” Otto replied. “Emotion has no place in succession.”

He placed a hand on her shoulder, a rare gesture of gentleness—his only form of affection.

“You will birth the true legacy,” he murmured. “And when the time comes, Vaekar will fly off again, chasing dreams of old Valyria. Let him. The court belongs to you. ”

Alicent nodded, slowly. But in her heart, something twisted—tighter than any corset, colder than the chill of court.

The sunlight filtered through painted glass and blooming orange trees at the garden corridor outside the Small Council Chamber. Prince Vaekar was studying a marble carving of Aegon the Conqueror on Balerion when the quiet click of boots echoed behind him. He did not turn at once, only traced the contour of the relief—fingers stopping at the dragon’s eye, weathered by time.

“Prince Vaekar,” came a smooth voice behind him. “We finally cross paths in stillness.”

He turned, his expression composed as ever. “Lord Hand.”

Ser Otto Hightower offered a slight incline of the head. Not quite a bow, not quite informal. A move of equals in different towers.

“Walk with me?” Otto asked.

Vaekar gestured ahead. “Your pace or mine?”

Otto smiled thinly. “Let us meet in the middle.”

They began their slow stride along the garden walk, their shadows stretching over mosaic tile and flowered path.

“I had thought you’d still be in the east,” Otto said lightly.

“I was,” Vaekar answered. “But duty brings all men home. Sooner or later.”

“Does it?” Otto glanced at him. “I’ve heard you delayed your return quite a few times. For reasons unexplained.”

“I trust the reasons were still… reported,” Vaekar said with a polite edge.

Otto’s mouth twitched. “Eventually, yes. Peace talks, trade interventions, a minor rebellion quelled in Qohor. Quite the resume.”

“Nothing more than an old envoy doing what he can,” Vaekar replied modestly. “The raven is a far less dramatic mount than a dragon, but it carries the same weight—if you send the right words.”

Otto chuckled. “You speak with the tongue of a scholar.”

“I spent nearly a decade with one,” Vaekar said. “Uncle Vaegon taught me that words win longer wars than blades. Most of the time.”

Otto’s brow raised slightly. “And yet, you left the Citadel.”

“I did,” Vaekar confirmed. “The chain was too heavy. I preferred wings.”

Otto hummed. “A Targaryen through and through.”

There was a pause.

“You know,” Vaekar said suddenly, glancing sidelong at him, “as a boy, I admired you.”

Otto looked genuinely surprised. “Truly?”

“I did,” Vaekar continued. “When my father brought me to court, I often watched the Hand from afar. Always calm. Always in command. I once asked the maester if all men from Oldtown were as clever.”

Otto allowed himself a smile. “I would’ve thought you were too proud for flattery, Prince.”

“Not flattery,” Vaekar said softly. “Memory.”

That silenced Otto for a few steps. The tension between them lessened, if only slightly.

“Your recent journeys,” Otto began again, “I am curious. How fares the peace with Myr?”

“Managed,” Vaekar replied simply.

“Managed?” Otto echoed with a raised brow.

“There are many layers to peace,” Vaekar said, still not slowing his step. “Trade, faith, pride, coin, revenge. I’ve found that if you soothe the first two, the rest follow.”

“And the details of such arrangements?” Otto asked lightly.

Vaekar smiled. “Well… the letters are en route, I imagine. You are the Hand. They’ll find your desk eventually.”

Otto chuckled again, this time with something warmer. “A diplomat’s dodge, well-played.”

“A diplomat’s truth,” Vaekar returned with equal grace.

They reached the fountain near the heart of the garden. The sound of water trickling offered a pause to their pace. Otto’s tone shifted.

“You missed the wedding.”

Vaekar turned to face the basin, fingers brushing a petal that had fallen into the water. “I did.”

“You were invited.”

“I was.”

A moment passed.

“I was halfway to Volantis when the raven reached me,” Vaekar said calmly. “It would’ve taken longer to return than to send wine and my blessing.”

“You could have tried,” Otto pressed, voice cool. “It was a royal union.”

“I am royal,” Vaekar replied gently. “And duty-bound, as I’ve always been.”

He turned, meeting Otto’s eyes. “I meant no slight to the King. Or to the new Queen.”

Otto regarded him carefully. “Some viewed it as… a statement.”

“I prefer diplomacy to statements,” Vaekar said. “But I’ve learned even absence is politicized.”

They stood in silence.

Then Otto said, “She is Queen now.”

“I know.”

“She has given Viserys comfort. Stability.”

“I hope she gives him heirs,” Vaekar said, voice even.

Otto’s brow twitched. “You… hope? ”

“I serve the realm, Lord Hand,” Vaekar said quietly. “I also serve the King. But I will not pretend succession is not delicate.”

Otto nodded slowly. “Delicate indeed.”

Another beat of silence.

“Then we understand each other,” Otto finally said, tone sheathed again in cordiality.

Vaekar inclined his head. “To understand and to agree are not always the same.”

“But both are valuable,” Otto said.

“Indeed,” Vaekar said, stepping away, “especially in court.”

As he walked off, Otto watched him go—expression unreadable, but eyes sharp as ever.

And for the first time, the Hand of the King began to wonder if the true challenge to Hightower ambition was not Daemon...

…but Vaekar.

Chapter 8

Summary:

Emotional, politically charged, and quietly powerful garden scene, where Viserys and Vaekar observe Rhaenyra, two brothers weighed down by duty and history. The moment is tender, but shadows linger on its edges. Daemon and Rhaenyra’s first lesson in swordplay with Vaekar watching from the shadows. Then follow into the emotional consequences of her rigorous education, Otto’s unease, and how this web of mentorship draws Viserys and Rhaenyra closer in both frustration and familial love. The three Targaryen brothers share a candid moment about Rhaenyra’s progress, with all their grunts and grievances masking their shared affection. Then Otto confronts Viserys, trying to assert control once again—while Alicent sweetly, subtly reinforces his doubts with honeyed concerns. The political tension tightens, and the familial ties stretch.

Notes:

thank you so much for the kudos, guys! here is rhaenyra being a child aaahhh it's so good to write her act out with her tantrums and being whiney to her father

The sun filtered gold through the weeping willows, dappling the marbled paths in warmth and light. In the wide garden beneath the terrace, the sound of laughter rang clear as bells. Princess Rhaenyra, in her riding skirts and loose braid, chased two younger children around a trimmed hedge maze—both noble-born, but from lesser houses. A boy with sandy hair tripped and giggled, while the girl, freckled and wild-eyed, shrieked with delight as Rhaenyra caught her by the wrist.

They were free in a way few children of court ever were.

A few feet above, seated beneath a carved stone arch veiled in flowering ivy, King Viserys sipped from a goblet, his robe open at the neck, his brow glistening from the afternoon heat. Beside him stood Prince Vaekar, arms loosely folded, eyes trained on the little scene unfolding below.

“A shame,” Viserys said quietly, “that these moments are rare to her.”

Vaekar gave a small nod. “Too rare. You’ve gifted her a crown, brother. But she still deserves a childhood.”

Viserys sighed. “The court is not so kind.”

“No,” Vaekar agreed, voice cool. “It is full of thorns. And vipers.”

They watched a moment longer. One of the children offered Rhaenyra a small bouquet of wildflowers. She accepted with a curtsy, all mock-grandeur, making them laugh again. She looked nothing like a dragon in that moment—only a girl who’d been caged too long.

Vaekar turned his head slightly. His next words came in High Valyrian, soft and crisp.

“The Queen and the Hand approached me.”

Viserys’s eyes didn’t leave Rhaenyra. “Let them.”

“You misunderstand.” Vaekar’s tone sharpened. “They are studying me. Weighing what influence I might hold. Wondering if it threatens their future.”

Viserys frowned, finally glancing at his brother. “You’re paranoid.”

“No,” Vaekar said calmly. “I am prepared.”

The king exhaled through his nose. “You’ve only just returned and already you suspect shadows.”

“Because I’ve lived among them,” Vaekar said, switching back to the Common Tongue now, lowering his voice. “I’ve seen how power coils around those who want it. You named Rhaenyra your heir, Viserys. But now you’ve married a Hightower. That shift —that opportunity —changes everything for them.”

Viserys said nothing, but his jaw tightened.

“She must be protected, yes,” Vaekar continued. “But more than that, she must be prepared. ”

“She’s not a warrior,” Viserys muttered. “She’s a lady.”

“She is a Queen-to-be ,” Vaekar said gently. “The Iron Throne is made of swords , not pillows.”

He stepped forward, resting a hand on the edge of the railing, gazing down at Rhaenyra again. She was twirling now, letting the flower petals fall around her.

“Have Daemon teach her. Just a little. Swordplay. Balance. Self-defense. Let her know the weight of a blade. Not to fight in battles—but to understand what it means to hold her own ground.”

Viserys hesitated, clearly torn.

Vaekar’s voice softened. “Let your brothers help you, Viserys. Let us help her. She is the flame that must not go out. She is your blood. The one who will carry on the name you’ve preserved.”

The King looked at her again—his daughter, laughing beneath the trees, the sunlight catching in her silver-blonde hair. There was a tenderness in his eyes, raw and unspoken. Fear, too. A fear that he would not always be able to protect her.

“You love her deeply,” Vaekar murmured.

“I do.”

“Then let her grow strong enough to survive the world you’re handing her.”

Viserys said nothing for a long while.

Then, quietly, he asked, “And what if she begins to love you more than me?”

Vaekar allowed himself a rare smile, turning to his brother. “Then Daemon and I will just have to make sure she doesn’t.”

Viserys chuckled, tired and fond. “Seven save me from both of you.”

Vaekar clapped a hand gently to his shoulder. “Seven can’t reach where dragons fly.”

And below them, Rhaenyra looked up and saw her father and uncle watching. She beamed, lifted the flowers above her head as if offering them to the gods—or to the two dragons waiting above her.

 

 

At the training yard, steel kissed steel in sharp, clumsy clangs.

Rhaenyra’s arms trembled under the weight of the practice blade, her hands gripping it too tightly, too high. Daemon Targaryen circled her like a cat with a limp mouse, wooden sword resting on his shoulder, smirking.

"That’s not how you hold it, little niece, " he said in Valyrian. " The sword is not a hammer. Let it dance, not bludgeon."

"I am letting it dance," Rhaenyra growled, adjusting her grip and lunging forward with youthful determination.

She missed, of course—Daemon sidestepped easily, letting her momentum carry her off-balance.

"Too eager," he said, catching her by the back of the collar before she fell. "You’ll be dead in seconds if you keep charging like that."

"Then stop moving so fast!" she snapped, cheeks red with exertion.

Unseen from the covered archway above, Vaekar leaned against a column in the shadows. Arms folded, face unreadable, he watched every movement—every misstep, every flicker of pride or frustration in his niece’s face. The girl had fire. Too much, perhaps. But it was Targaryen fire nonetheless.

As Daemon gave a final instruction for the morning, Rhaenyra threw her practice blade onto the ground and flopped onto the bench with a loud sigh. Sweat plastered her hair to her brow, and her palms were raw.

"You enjoy this, don’t you," she muttered.

"Deeply," Daemon said, smirking.

“Savage,” she grumbled.

From the shadows, Vaekar finally stepped forward. Daemon straightened, and Rhaenyra blinked up in surprise.

"You watched the whole time?"

Vaekar inclined his head. “I observe before I advise. And you have much to learn.”

Daemon tossed her a waterskin. "She needs more stamina before we begin footwork."

"I need more sleep," Rhaenyra groaned.

"Then sleep faster," Vaekar said mildly, his tone unreadable.

She scowled at him but didn’t argue. Instead, she drank deeply, eyeing both her uncles with annoyance and admiration alike.

Beneath the heart tree, where petals floated on the surface of a shallow pond, Rhaenyra sat cross-legged beside Vaekar. The stone bench had been too stiff for her liking. Vaekar remained seated upright, ever composed, a thick tome of Valyrian military treaties opened on his lap.

But she was not listening. Not anymore.

"You brought them, didn’t you?" she asked suddenly.

Vaekar glanced down at her. “The children?”

She nodded. “Mira and Elric. They said they’re from the Marches.”

He nodded again. “House Swann owes loyalty to the crown. When I visited Stonehelm, their lord offered a younger cousin. The other boy is from Gulltown. A merchant’s child. Gifted in numbers.”

She tilted her head. “They’re not just here for me, are they?”

“No,” Vaekar answered. “They’re here for the realm. But I knew you’d be... better with them around.”

She hesitated, then said quietly, “Thank you.”

He looked at her.

“For not treating me like I’m breakable,” she added.

Vaekar closed the book. “You are not breakable, Rhaenyra. You are malleable. And that is far more valuable.”

 

Otto stared at the reports with tight lips. His eyes flicked over the words—sword lessons, public sightings, whispers from the Septa.

“So it’s true,” he muttered. “They have her training like a prince.”

He stood from his desk, pacing once across the flagstone floor.

He had once allowed Vaekar’s overreach—the use of hostages disguised as noble wards, the bartering of loyalty with coin and promises. But now… he was watching a base of power take root not just in the girl, but around her.

And he was not in control of it.

 

“Again.”

“No,” Rhaenyra said defiantly.

“Rhaenyra—”

“I don’t want to do alchemy,” she pouted. “It smells.”

“You smell,” Vaekar said dryly.

She slammed the book shut and threw it across the table. “This is boring! ”

From the corner, Daemon laughed under his breath. “Told you.”

Vaekar pinched the bridge of his nose. “You are heir to the Iron Throne.”

“I’m a girl with ink on her fingers!” she yelled, storming from the study.

The two brothers stood in silence for a long moment.

“I think we broke her,” Daemon said.

“She was already cracked,” Vaekar replied.

 

“I can’t take it,” Rhaenyra said dramatically, sprawled across her father’s chair. “They’re relentless. Vaekar makes me read six languages and Daemon hits me with sticks.”

Viserys chuckled, rubbing her back affectionately.

“I thought you wanted to be Queen,” he teased.

“I do,” she grumbled. “I just didn’t realize they’d be the dragons I had to slay first.”

He laughed fully this time, the sound echoing through the chamber.

“Oh, my sweet girl,” he murmured, pulling her into a warm embrace. “They’re only hard on you because they love you.”

She huffed. “They have a terrible way of showing it.”

“They’re teaching you to be strong,” Viserys said. “And stubborn. Like your mother was.”

That quieted her. She leaned into his side and closed her eyes.

“I just want to make you proud,” she whispered.

“You already have,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “And you always will.”

 

 

Outside the solar, the Red Keep slept. But within its walls, dragons stirred—and a future was being carved by fire, love, and steel.

It’s late in the evening, the fire crackled low in the hearth. King Viserys, sleeves rolled, sipped from a heavy goblet of wine as he leaned back in his cushioned chair. Across from him, his two brothers—Prince Daemon and Prince Vaekar—sat in their own ease, though the tension in their frames betrayed the truth: they were exhausted.

“She refused to read any of the tomes today,” Vaekar said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Claimed the pages were cursed.”

Daemon snorted. “At least your pages stay put. Mine throws the practice blade at my head when she loses. Nearly broke my nose last week.”

“Hmm,” Viserys murmured, sipping. “Did she hit you?”

“She almost did,” Daemon said, pointing the rim of his goblet at Vaekar. “That one made me keep going instead of letting her sulk.”

“She needs to learn discipline,” Vaekar said simply. “If she’s to rule, she must control her own temper.”

“She is nine years old, ” Viserys reminded, though a chuckle bubbled from his lips. “The last I checked, you two were firebrands at that age—Daemon tried to steal Caraxes before your tenth nameday, and you,” he pointed at Vaekar, “were climbing the Maester’s Tower claiming you could summon storms.”

Vaekar gave a one-shoulder shrug. “They were effective storms.”

“You just threw ink pots at the bell,” Daemon muttered.

“Still worked.”

A quiet chuckle passed between them, warm and rare.

Daemon leaned back, sighing. “Gods help me, I have no children, but I now know why so many fathers drink.”

“Mm,” Vaekar murmured in agreement. “She tests every nerve in the body—and then finds new ones to torment.”

Viserys laughed fully this time. “And yet you return to her lessons each day.”

“She’s your heir,” Vaekar said. “Ours too, whether we claim it or not.”

“She’s a dragon,” Daemon added with a shrug. “A small one, but a dragon still. She’ll get there.”

Viserys’s gaze softened. “She will.”

And in the quiet that followed, the firelight danced between them, as if binding three fates—three flames in the same house—watching over the girl who would one day carry their name.

 

 

Viserys barely had time to break his fast when Ser Otto Hightower arrived. The Hand was dressed immaculately, not a strand of his beard out of place.

“You have concerns,” Viserys said dryly, slicing into a fig with his knife. “You always do.”

Otto didn’t smile. “Your brother. The middle one.”

Viserys looked up, unimpressed. “He has a name, Lord Hand. Prince Vaekar.”

“Yes. He commands... too much,” Otto said carefully. “He has noble children brought from across the realm in the name of diplomacy—yet he houses them here like hostages.”

“Wards,” Viserys corrected. “Hostages implies threat.”

Otto tilted his head. “Is it not a threat? To have so many voices loyal to him ? To see Rhaenyra cling to him in council? To have lords from the Stepstones to the Narrow Sea speak of The Black Envoy instead of the King ?”

Viserys set his knife down, expression cooling. “He serves me. He always has.”

Otto stepped forward, lowering his voice. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but you once said the same of Daemon. And now he trains your daughter in the ways of war.”

The king arched a brow. “Would you rather she train in embroidery while her enemies sharpen blades?”

“She is a girl ,” Otto said with just a touch too much emphasis. “And you have given her everything. But now, she plays swords in the yard with Daemon and reads war tactics in the library with Vaekar. What message does that send the realm?”

A soft knock interrupted them. The door creaked open. Queen Alicent stepped inside.

“Husband?” she called out, when she realized that her father was there too, she hung her head low.

“I’m sorry to intrude,” she said gently. “But I want to speak about Princess Rhaenyra. And… may I speak?”

Viserys gestured her in.

She approached gracefully, all pale green silk and delicate poise. “The Princess is bright, clever, and spirited. Everyone knows this. But she is also... a lady.”

She folded her hands before her. “Her studies, her lessons—they are noble pursuits. Refining. But the swordplay… it invites scrutiny. It is not very ladylike, and the court whispers more than it should.”

Otto, silent now, watched his daughter with faint approval.

Viserys’s gaze softened. “She’s still a child.”

“Exactly,” Alicent said with a gentle smile. “And so easily molded. We must shape her into a queen the realm will accept. That is your legacy.”

He sighed, rubbing at his temple. “Seven help me. Everyone wants to shape her.”

“No,” Alicent said sweetly, placing a hand on his arm. “We only want what’s best… for you. And for the realm.”

Behind her calm voice, behind Otto’s unreadable eyes, behind Vaekar’s patience and Daemon’s chaos—Viserys sat alone with his crown. A father. A king. A man torn by every dragon at his side.

Notes:

i think this is the longest chapter I have written yet... anyway, poor viserys:( heavy is the crown

Chapter 9

Summary:

The shifting landscape at court as Prince Vaekar’s influence continues to ripple outward through the arrival of new retainers, culminating in a divisive Small Council meeting that balances loyalty, suspicion, and ambition. Warm, whimsical, chaotic, and brimming with the Targaryen familial energy, showcasing the rare peace and unity among the brothers, Rhaenyra's bond with her dragon, and that perfect blend of humor and heart that only comes when dragons and Targaryens take to the skies together.

Notes:

are yall ready for this? one thing i have noticed in the show was the lack of ladies-in-waiting rhaenyra has so, i wanted to fix that here. i'm thinking if i should viserys bond with a dragon again... idk but i'm kind off leaning towards no already.

The Red Keep breathed with new life.

From the marble halls to the outer kitchens, servants spoke in foreign tongues. Some had arrived on ships from Lys, others walked from far-off corners of Westeros, and a few had been sent from Essos itself—at the request of Prince Vaekar Targaryen, the Black Envoy of the realm.

They came with gifts, with vows, with expectations. Most were placed in service of the Princess Rhaenyra, some sworn to her household, others offered to the Queen, or the King’s brothers, or to fill expanding roles across the growing royal court.

For a day, Rhaenyra was overwhelmed. Strangers in every hallway. New faces to memorize. Tongues unfamiliar.

But by the second day, she was chasing a group of ward children down the east corridor barefoot, her braid undone, shrieking with laughter. The shy girl vanished beneath her joy.

Each morning, her bath was drawn by Myrish hands. Her gowns were laid out by a soft-spoken Essosi noble girl from the Painted Mountains. Her breakfast was prepared by a Dornish cook who claimed to have once served Princess Meria. And when she practiced her Valyrian, one of her tutors translated her mistakes into three other dialects.

It was a new world, sculpted carefully by Vaekar’s hand.

And when the warlock from Qarth arrived—clad in shimmering robes of deepest blue, with eyes like polished obsidian—there were murmurs across court.

She was a woman, though shrouded in mystery. Rumors claimed she was once part of the Thirteen, though none knew her true name. To most, she was simply called Mezhari. She bore no weapons—only a carved ivory staff that hummed faintly in the air, as if whispering secrets. She was positioned to be the heir’s personal guard, her presence stoic, her gaze unblinking.

And she bowed only to Vaekar.

They had once dueled in Vaes Dothrak, it was said. And she had bested him, a rare mark of pride on her resume.

 

The great painted table groaned with the weight of records, ledgers, maps—and tension.

Otto Hightower stood beside it, his expression grim as his voice echoed through the chamber. “We are accommodating over fifty-seven foreign persons not born of the realm, some with questionable titles and undefined allegiances. The coin alone to house them is unsustainable.”

Across the table sat the full council: Lord Lyonel Strong, whispering with his son Harwin behind him. Lord Lyman Beesbury, squinting at a balance ledger. Ser Tyland Lannister, running his fingers across gold valuations. Ser Harrold Westerling, silent, watching. Grand Maester Runciter, blinking behind his spectacles.

The Queen sat in her place, hands folded delicately, her green sleeves pressed.

And at the head of the table, reclining in the King’s seat: Viserys, fanning himself slightly.

Near the side, relaxed but alert, sat Daemon, smirking like a cat at a songbird’s squawk.

At the opposite end stood Vaekar, in dark armor layered with traveling leathers and a black cloak edged in Valyrian runes.

“My lords,” he began. “This is not a waste. It is an investment . ”

Otto narrowed his eyes. “You have overstepped , brother of the King. You’ve played the Hand without the title.”

“I’ve done what the realm needs,” Vaekar replied coolly. “Loyalty is bought in many ways. Not just with gold—but with security. Influence. Mutual gain.”

“Or illusions,” Otto muttered.

“ Speak plainly, Lord Hand,” Vaekar said.

“Fine,” Otto snapped. “This warlock . She is dangerous . Magic from Qarth should not be welcomed in the shadow of the Iron Throne.”

“She has sworn to guard the Heir,” Vaekar said. “And she has proven herself in battle. I would trust her against a hundred steel-clad knights.”

“And what of her motives?” Otto demanded. “What does a shadowbinder from the east want with the next Queen of Westeros?”

“That,” Vaekar replied with a slight smile, “she only tells me. ”

A cold silence fell.

Alicent finally broke it. “Surely, we can see the merit in expanding the Princess’s household. But a woman of Rhaenyra’s position must be shaped in refinement. Swordplay and warlocks and diplomats whispering tactics—this is not how ladies are molded.”

Runciter cleared his throat. “Still, Your Grace, the cost is not nothing. The treasury—”

“The treasury,” interrupted Lord Beesbury, adjusting his glass, “can recover through future trade with these regions, if properly maintained.”

“The influence this court now holds stretches across the Narrow Sea,” Vaekar added. “And should a war come—and it will—those ties may save more coin than you can imagine.”

Silence again. Viserys tapped a finger on the table.

Then, “I approve it.”

Otto’s head jerked. “Your Grace—”

“The wards will be dispersed. Not all housed here. But the warlock remains. She has proven herself. And if she guards Rhaenyra with the same ferocity she showed Vaekar, then I sleep better knowing she’s in our halls.”

Vaekar gave a slight bow. “Wise, brother.”

Viserys eyed him with amusement. “Don’t make me regret it.”

The council broke into grumbling half-concessions. Otto’s face was carved from stone.

As the lords filed out, Otto lingered behind, his eyes on the map. The shadow of a dragon had been cast across it—one that wore no crown and claimed no titles.

Yet still, it gathered flame.

The sun cast golden fingers across the stone terrace as the three brothers sat in quiet companionship. A gentle breeze tugged at the crimson banners above, and the scent of arbor gold wafted from their goblets.

Prince Viserys, cloaked in thick velvets, leaned back with a long sigh. His crown rested beside him, forgotten for the moment. Vaekar, in dark robes trimmed with flame-colored embroidery, poured himself another glass of wine, his expression distant and nostalgic. Daemon, legs propped up on the balustrade, lazily twirled his goblet between his fingers, eyes half-lidded in amusement.

“I still remember,” Viserys said with a soft chuckle, “when Father caught Daemon sneaking out of the dragonpit in the dead of night.”

“With two stolen torches and a sack of sweetbread,” Vaekar added dryly.

Daemon smirked. “Caraxes was hungry.”

“You were five-and-ten,” Viserys said. “You were always hungry.”

Their laughter was interrupted by a sudden shriek of boots pounding on stone, echoing down the corridor.

A heartbeat later, Rhaenyra burst in, face streaked with ash and soot, her golden hair disheveled, her cheeks flushed from exertion.

“ I WANT TO FLY! ” she bellowed.

The three men froze. A blackened hand flailed toward them.

“She won’t fly far!” Rhaenyra huffed, nearly in tears. “The dragonkeepers said Syrax can only fly far if she’s with an elder dragon! That’s not fair!”

She sniffled, chest heaving. “Can we—can we all go flying? Please? All three of you with me?”

Daemon’s grin widened instantly. “Why didn’t you start with that?”

“I’m covered in ash and no one listened—”

Viserys stood slowly, walking to her. His hands cupped her face, gently wiping a smudge from her cheek. “There now, little one. No need for wailing. We’ll go.”

Rhaenyra blinked, uncertain. “You mean it?”

“I never lie about dragons,” Viserys murmured.

Vaekar and Daemon exchanged glances.

“Been a while,” Vaekar said quietly.

Daemon grinned. “Far too long.”

 

The dragonkeepers’ eyes widened as not one, but all three Targaryen princes entered the cavernous pit—Rhaenyra trailing behind like a soot-covered shadow. Syrax, golden and curious, gave a soft trill as her rider approached.

Caraxes growled from the shadows, and Aeramon, the mighty ancient dragon Vaekar had claimed as a boy, loomed in regal silence—its scales like darkened steel, its horns pale as bone.

The dragonkeepers scrambled. “You’re riding, Your Grace?”

Viserys hesitated. “...Yes.”

His voice was barely above a whisper.

“You sure?” Daemon teased. “You haven’t mounted anything but a throne since Balerion died.”

“I said yes, ” Viserys grumbled, eyeing Caraxes with suspicion. “But I’m not flying with that beast.”

Vaekar raised a brow. “You’re welcome on Aeramon. He is... forgiving. Usually.”

Viserys nodded hastily. “Yes. Yes, I will ride with you.”

Daemon scoffed. “Coward.”

“I still have my stomach,” Viserys replied. “For now.”

 

With a thunderous rush of wings, the dragons took flight.

Syrax leapt with the youthful enthusiasm of her rider, golden wings slicing through the air. Aeramon rose steadily, like a mountain being pulled into the sky, while Caraxes twisted and shrieked like a maddened serpent.

The people of King’s Landing poured into the streets, gasping as three dragons circled the capital—gold, crimson, and dark iron-gray—dancing above the towers.

Children pointed, fishmongers froze mid-sale, Septas crossed themselves.

 

They landed on soft grass, warm with midday sun.

Rhaenyra slid down from Syrax, squealing with laughter, cheeks flushed with joy.

“That was amazing! ”

Vaekar dismounted with regal precision, helping Viserys down from Aeramon’s saddle. His brother was windblown, white-knuckled... but grinning.

“I missed this,” Viserys murmured. “The wind on my skin. The roar in my ears. Thank you... both of you.”

They pulled into a warm brotherly embrace, Rhaenyra wrapping her arms around their waists, caught in the middle of the moment.

“I’ll remember this forever,” she said with a breathless smile.

 

This time, Rhaenyra rode in front of Vaekar on Aeramon.

She sat nestled against him, her hands gripping the saddlehorn, while his gloved hands rested firmly on the reins. She could feel the steady rise and fall of his breath at her back, his calmness grounding her. Aeramon’s dark wings stretched wide on either side of them, gliding effortlessly through the clouds. Syrax, smaller and quicker, followed close behind like a golden shadow.

Ahead, Viserys climbed—reluctantly—onto Caraxes.

“Why do I get him?” he hissed, already pale.

Daemon grinned like a demon. “Because Vaekar already has a passenger. And I wanted to hear you scream.”

With a sharp whistle and a flick of his wrist, Caraxes lunged, his serpentine body twisting through the air like a blood-scaled ribbon. Viserys let out a high-pitched shriek, clutching Daemon’s waist with white-knuckled desperation.

“ STOP LOOPING! ” he bellowed as Caraxes performed a wicked spiral.

“ WHAT? ” Daemon called over his shoulder, hair flying wildly. “I CAN’T HEAR YOU!”

“ YOU BASTARD— ”

Vaekar gently tugged Aeramon’s reins, the ancient dragon slowing to hover midair. Its great wings beat methodically as its head turned to follow the chaos unfurling nearby.

Vaekar leaned forward, his lips near Rhaenyra’s ear, voice low and dry.

“Your father will surely throw up.”

Rhaenyra burst into laughter, nearly slipping in her saddle, breathless as she clung tighter.

They both watched as Viserys gave one final cry—and then, as if on cue—

Viserys vomited. In the air. Mid-loop.

A trail of glittering sickness fell behind them like some twisted shooting star.

Rhaenyra doubled over in laughter, her voice ringing through the skies.

Vaekar chuckled under his breath, a rare smile touching his lips. “This was… a good day.”

Notes:

i just know daemon will be telling that viserys threw up while flying on caraxes to all his kids lol

Chapter 10: The Crown, the War, and the Brothers Targaryen

Summary:

With tensions rising in the Stepstones, Prince Daemon Targaryen boldly volunteers himself—and his dragon Caraxes—to support Lord Corlys Velaryon in fighting back against the Triarchy’s growing control of the Narrow Sea. The war threatens Westerosi trade routes and the stability of the realm.
Prince Vaekar brings the matter to King Viserys, who is reluctant to involve the Crown in war. However, Vaekar convinces him that Daemon will go, and the Crown should shape the narrative. The Small Council debates the matter, with opposition from Otto Hightower and Queen Alicent. Viserys ultimately votes in favor of Daemon's deployment, allowing him to fight under Velaryon banners as an ally.

Notes:

stepstones arc, yall! so excited:)) but like lowkey dreading on writing it. thank god for fanpages. thank you for the kudos!! happy tenth chapter!

The candles had burned low again.

Dozens of them lined the carved stone walls and thick oaken desk of Prince Vaekar’s solar, their flames flickering softly against towers of parchment and scrolls. The chamber reeked faintly of wax, dried ink, and exhaustion. Parchments lay unfurled like wounded beasts across every surface—some unopened, others scrawled with tight High Valyrian and the jagged quills of faraway scribes.

Maps of the Narrow Sea, the Stepstones, and the Free Cities’ ports were pinned to the boards with daggers. Small iron markers were clustered around the Velaryon sigil on one, and the Triarchy’s emblem on another. The war was brewing. And Vaekar had not left this room in seven days.

He sat hunched over, his silver-gold hair falling messily around his temples. His cloak had long since been discarded; his leather jerkin was unbuttoned. Eyes shadowed by sleeplessness, he barely noticed when the chamber doors groaned open.

The only one who moved was the acolyte, a boy in grey, who bowed low.

“Prince Daemon of House Targaryen,” he announced.

Still, Vaekar did not look up.

He simply scratched something down on a scroll, signed it, and slid it to the side.

Daemon stepped further into the room, eyeing the disaster of maps and ledgers. “You planning to invade the Free Cities without telling anyone?” he drawled.

Vaekar only responded with a quiet, tired grunt. The acolyte glanced toward him for permission, and only when Vaekar gave the faintest nod did the boy bow again and take his leave, closing the door behind him.

Daemon didn’t sit immediately. He circled the desk like a predator considering his prey.

“You’ve had your meals sent up. Haven’t been seen in a week. Even Viserys started to notice. Rhaenyra is missing her favorite uncle.”

Vaekar ran a hand down his face and leaned back in his chair, the leather groaning beneath him. “What do you want now, Daemon?”

“Nothing from you,” Daemon said, finally sitting across from him. “But I see you’ve been busy.”

He gestured to the opened scrolls nearest him, dragging one closer. His eyes scanned over the details: shipments of obsidian and steel from Dragonstone, coin exchanges with the Myrish merchants, and—his interest sharpened—a letter from Lord Corlys Velaryon, sealed with the silver seahorse.

Daemon raised a brow. “So. The Sea Snake wants war.”

Vaekar didn’t correct him. He simply rubbed at his temple and said, “He wants the Triarchy driven from the Stepstones. They’ve been harassing his fleets. Taxing his routes. It threatens all trade from Driftmark to the Blackwater.”

“And you’re actually considering supporting him?”

“I’m considering every option,” Vaekar replied coldly.

A silence stretched between them—until Daemon leaned forward, fingers steepled.

“Send me.”

Vaekar blinked, once. Slowly. “You?”

“Me and Caraxes. Let us burn the crab-feeders out of their holes. You want peace? Then let me bring it through fire.”

“You don’t even know what they’re fortifying down there.”

Daemon smirked. “Doesn’t matter. Caraxes does.”

Vaekar studied his younger brother.

Daemon’s eyes burned with that reckless hunger, that deep longing for purpose, for war, for a name untangled from court ridicule. He wanted blood, and glory, and fire—and Vaekar, for once, did not want to stop him.

“You think fire will end this war?” Vaekar said softly. “Or start a larger one?”

Daemon shrugged. “Does it matter? If it’s not now, it will be later. Let me strike first.”

Vaekar’s fingers tapped against the table once, twice. “Very well.”

Daemon blinked. “That’s it?”

Vaekar nodded. “It’s high time you make a name for yourself beyond the Street of Silk, Lord Flea Bottom.”

That earned a chuckle.

“I’ll run this through Viserys,” Vaekar added, beginning to stack the scrolls again.

That made Daemon bark a laugh. “Since when have you needed permission, Black Envoy?”

Vaekar’s eyes, red-rimmed but still sharp, lifted to meet his.

“Since I am sending our brother into a vicious war.”

The words hung in the room like a sword unsheathed.

Daemon blinked, amused grin softening. It was a rare thing, hearing true care from Vaekar’s mouth.

He rose to his feet and stretched. “If I die,” he said flippantly, “don’t let Otto plan my funeral.”

“I’ll make sure you’re buried somewhere poetic,” Vaekar muttered. “With crab claws for company.”

Daemon laughed as he walked out.

Vaekar leaned back again, eyes drifting to the parchment with Corlys Velaryon’s seal. He stared at it a long time—then reached for a fresh sheet and began to write.

The hour was late, and the moon hung pale over the towers of the Red Keep. In the King’s Solar, the hearth crackled low, casting orange shadows on the floor. King Viserys Targaryen, his robes loose and crown absent, sat slumped in his high-backed chair, a goblet of spiced wine in hand. He looked tired—not from age, but from the quiet erosion of a thousand burdens.

Across from him stood Prince Vaekar, cloaked in black and bronze, scrolls tucked beneath his arm, eyes unreadable in the firelight.

The silence between them had stretched too long, until Viserys finally broke it.

“You bring me war,” the king said. “Why is it always you or Daemon that brings me war?”

“I bring you the truth,” Vaekar replied simply.

Viserys sighed and set his goblet aside. “Then speak it plainly.”

Vaekar stepped forward, laying out the sealed scroll from Lord Corlys Velaryon onto the table between them. The wax had already been broken. Beside it, a hand-sketched map of the Stepstones, smudged with ink and ash from use. Viserys looked down at it but did not touch.

“The Sea Snake requests support—coin, men, food stores. He is prepared to march against the Triarchy’s chokehold in the Stepstones. Their tolls threaten not just Driftmark’s trade... but the Crown’s routes as well.”

Viserys’s voice was tight. “We are not at war.”

“No,” Vaekar said calmly. “But it may soon find us, regardless.”

The king leaned back, fingers drumming against the wood. “And Daemon has offered himself.”

“He has,” Vaekar confirmed. “With Caraxes.”

That made Viserys exhale hard, almost a laugh. “Of course he has.”

He stood abruptly, crossing the solar to look out the arched window. Below, the city flickered with torches like fireflies. “Do you know why I hold so dearly to peace, Vaekar? Why I host feasts, tournaments, games—while you and Daemon would rather sharpen swords and plot campaigns?”

Vaekar watched him closely. “Because our grandfather ruled in peace.”

“Yes.” Viserys turned toward him, eyes shadowed. “For fifty years, King Jaehaerys built roads instead of burning them. He settled blood feuds, didn’t incite them. He made the realm whole. That’s what a king should do.”

“Aye,” Vaekar said. “But Jaehaerys also listened—to his council, to his kin, to the threats gathering in the dark.”

Viserys’s jaw tensed.

“You would have me commit the realm to war,” he said.

“I would have you weigh your options while we still have them.” Vaekar stepped closer. “Daemon will go, with or without your blessing. You know that.”

Viserys looked down at the map, at the names and tide-marked coasts, at the inked ships and crossed swords. “If he goes to war... it means the Crown goes to war.”

“He is your brother,” Vaekar reminded softly. “And a prince of the blood. Whether you like it or not, the realm will see it as your hand behind the sword.”

Viserys didn’t speak.

And then, as if the weight had cracked something within him, he spat bitterly, “What have you been doing, then, Vaekar? If war is upon us—what good has all your diplomacy been?”

Vaekar stilled.

The words cut deeper than any he expected. From a stranger, he’d dismiss it. From Daemon, he’d scowl. But from Viserys—his brother, the boy he once watched tame Balerion, the king who once asked him to serve the realm abroad—it struck like a blade beneath the ribs.

“I have kept this realm at peace,” Vaekar said, voice low. “I’ve prevented riots in Lys over coin shortages, stalled Myrish pirates from targeting Westerosi trade, and ensured the Crown still receives tribute from ports you barely remember we control. But you asked me to be your envoy, brother. And now that war brews, you act as though I chose failure.”

Viserys turned back to the window. His shoulders drooped.

“I know you’ve worked hard,” he said, almost regretfully. “But I never wanted this. War. Death. Not for Daemon. Not for the boy we used to chase around these halls and in Dragonstone.”

Vaekar’s voice softened. “Then listen to me. Not as your diplomat—but as your brother.”

Viserys glanced back at him.

“If you bring this to the Small Council, they will say no,” Vaekar continued. “Not because it is unwise—but because it is expensive. Because it sends a message they’re too afraid to speak aloud: that we still remember the power of House Targaryen.”

“They’ll remind me of the coffers,” Viserys muttered. “Of the unrest this will bring to the lords of the Reach, and the West. The messages from Dorne and Oldtown already weary of our dragons.”

“Then let us not make it our war,” Vaekar said. “Let it be Corlys Velaryon’s. Let us support him with gold, not banners. Let Daemon join his fleet as an ‘ally’, not as a prince of war.”

Viserys looked at him for a long while. “You twist words well.”

“I’ve had good teachers,” Vaekar said with a tired smile. “Mostly in Oldtown. A few in the Free Cities. And one or two from the court of our grandfather.”

Viserys returned to his chair, exhaling as though the weight of dragons pressed down on him.

“Daemon is reckless.”

“I know.”

“He may not return.”

“I know that too.”

Viserys was silent again, gaze lost in the dancing firelight.

Then—quietly—he asked, “Why are you really here, Vaekar? Why bring this to me? You could have sent word from your solar. You’ve done it before.”

Vaekar hesitated only a beat.

“Because he’s our brother,” he said. “And if this is to be his war, it should be our decision.”

That caught Viserys’s attention.

And Vaekar added, voice slow and deliberate: “Because if we support this—if we stand beside Driftmark—it may mend what’s been cracked. The Valyrian blood runs thin, brother. We three are the last of the dragonlords. It’s time we act like it. Together.”

Viserys stared into the fire.

And in that moment, there was no crown, no throne—just two brothers, bound by blood, burden, and a looming war.

“I’ll summon the council,” the king said quietly.

Vaekar bowed his head.

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

But as he turned to leave, Viserys spoke once more.

“Vaekar?”

He paused.

“Make sure he comes back.”

Vaekar gave a tight nod, the flicker of emotion crossing his face.

“I will.”

The torches in the Small Council chamber burned tall, but the tension inside burned hotter still.

King Viserys I Targaryen sat at the head of the table, his crown absent, though the weight of rule pressed visibly on his shoulders. Beside him were the loyal and the ambitious alike—his Hand, Ser Otto Hightower, already red with discontent; Queen Alicent, ever demure, her eyes sharp beneath lowered lashes; and the rest of the council, gathered for what had become the most divisive meeting in years.

Prince Vaekar Targaryen, robed in black and bronze, stood at the side of the table. He had brought the matter here personally—a rare move, and all the more telling.

Daemon was absent. Of course he was.

“Let us be plain,” Otto Hightower said, his voice already high with irritation. “To involve ourselves in the Sea Snake’s war is to burden the royal treasury with a private feud between merchants and pirates. It is not our place.”

“And yet,” Vaekar interjected smoothly, “the ‘private feud’ has already begun bleeding into Crown interests. The Narrow Sea has grown less navigable, more dangerous, and costly.”

Ser Tyland Lannister, hunched beside Otto, nodded quickly. “The treasury cannot support an extended conflict. We would need to raise taxes or reallocate naval resources. Either path will upset the Lords of the realm.”

“And where would you find these men?” Otto added sharply. “Our forces are limited. Our ships are few. Are you proposing we conscript commoners? Force House Bar Emmon to surrender more ships? Or perhaps send your wards to fight?”

That last remark made Vaekar’s eyes flicker, just briefly.

Queen Alicent chose that moment to lace her fingers atop the table and say, with a sweet smile: “Surely the diplomat must not be doing his job well... if war has managed to find us anyway.”

There was a beat of silence—then Vaekar gave her a thin, cool smile. “Peace reigned for years in the Stepstones—until the Triarchy grew bold with their coin and lust. The Lyseni and their allies grew fat on tolls they had no right to impose. The women and boys they drag back in chains? That is not peace. That is piracy—slavery masquerading as trade.”

A low murmur passed around the table.

Ser Harrold Westerling, the white-cloaked Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, grunted. “If a call to arms is made, I reckon many houses will offer their second sons. There is always glory to be earned fighting under a royal banner.”

Lord Lyonel Strong, calm and scholarly, stroked his beard. “And if Prince Daemon leads them, they may follow more willingly. A prince’s presence lends legitimacy. War has already come to our shores in coin and blood. Turning a blind eye does not make it vanish.”

“But the cost,” Otto pushed again, voice harder now. “Every suit of armor, every grain shipment, every sword and horse sent to war must be accounted for.”

“And who better to afford it,” Lord Lyman Beesbury piped up, “than House Velaryon? They have gold enough to fund a dozen wars. The prince will be sent not as a commander of the Crown’s forces, but as an ally to Lord Corlys. The distinction is... politically convenient.”

Otto’s lips tightened.

Vaekar, still standing, crossed his arms. “Convenient or not, it will mend strained ties between our Houses. Driftmark still resents the king’s choice to wed Lady Alicent over Laena Velaryon. This support can stitch the wound.”

Alicent’s smile thinned.

“And what of the foreign wards you’ve brought into the Keep?” Otto asked abruptly, trying to seize back the room. “From Lys, from Myr, from Qarth and Volantis. You claim to guard the realm, but you parade foreign children through its heart like pieces in your own game.”

That was not about the war—and they all knew it.

Before Vaekar could respond, Grand Maester Runciter—who had been dozing, or so it seemed—raised his voice:

“That matter was settled last moon. If the Council wishes to reopen discussions on the presence of wards, let it be on another day. We have war before us, my lords, not children.”

Vaekar bowed his head slightly in appreciation.

Otto fell quiet, but the sourness in his stare remained.

Viserys, who had remained silent all this time, finally leaned forward.

All eyes turned to him.

“I did not wish this,” he said softly, voice weighed down by weariness. “I long for the days of my grandsire—when roads were safe, courts were calm, and there were no cries for dragons beyond the walls of Dragonstone.”

He looked toward Vaekar. “But the world has changed. I cannot deny that.”

“And you, you always say,” he turned now to Otto, “that my brother Daemon is the root of my troubles. That he incites scandal. That he causes unrest.”

Otto blinked.

“Then let him go,” Viserys said, spreading his hands. “Let him wage his war. Let him burn his enemies and carve his legacy on coral and bone. If that keeps him out of trouble—if it keeps the realm from tipping further into chaos—then so be it.”

Silence followed his words.

Otto’s jaw worked, but he said nothing.

Viserys stood.

“Daemon will be sent to the Stepstones. He will ride under Velaryon banners, with Crown support—but not Crown declaration. He is not a general of Westeros. He is merely... Daemon.”

A heavy pause.

Then, quietly: “This Council is dismissed.”

Chairs scraped back. Tyland rose first, bowing stiffly. Lyonel Strong followed with a nod. Runciter hobbled out grumbling about crab-feeders. Lord Beesbury blinked and asked what day it was as he left. Harrold Westerling offered only a quiet “Your Grace.”

Alicent walked out gracefully. Otto lingered... but when Vaekar met his eyes, he looked away.

Soon only the king and his middle brother remained.

“You believe he’ll come back?” Viserys asked softly.

Vaekar’s expression was unreadable. “He’s Daemon. He’ll either return triumphant... or return trouble.”

Viserys laughed bitterly, rubbing his temples.

Vaekar, ever the dutiful envoy, bowed and turned to leave.

But just before exiting, he paused at the threshold.

“One last thing,” he said without turning. “The realm may not need war. But our House? It needs victory.”

And with that, the Black Envoy was gone.

Notes:

can you tell this is my favorite chapter i have written so far? i think this may be the longest chapter i have written one like longer than the previous one but i could be wrong tho

Chapter 11: Flame and Quill

Summary:

As tensions flared across the Narrow Sea, the Crown prepared for war. Under Prince Vaekar Targaryen’s calculated oversight, three thousand men-at-arms were raised under the Lord Commander, and ships were readied under Master of Ships, Tyland Lannister. While gold, food, and arms were gathered, Prince Daemon Targaryen, ever hungry for purpose, was sent ahead as vanguard, leading a force of sellswords and landless adventurers into the contested Stepstones. His departure stirred unrest at court, not least from young Princess Rhaenyra, who — after months of studying diplomacy, swordplay, and statecraft — felt caged and cast aside. Her tantrum was sharp, her frustration real, and yet the Crown moved forward without her.
In the wake of Daemon’s departure, Prince Vaekar sealed himself within his chambers, working ceaselessly with a trusted circle of acolytes. While the war raged abroad, the true backbone of the campaign was built in ink and quiet fury: diplomatic correspondence, supply chains, tactical intelligence, and delicate alliances with the Free Cities — all strained under the threat of bloodshed.

Notes:

heeyyy srry it took so long i feel as though since the pride month went away so did my abilitynto write. supposedly the stepstones arc but i took a creative leap. so there's that

It took one month.

One month of chaos in the Red Keep, as war moved from whispered possibility to inevitable reality.

By order of the Crown, Lord Commander Ser Harrold Westerling had gathered three thousand men-at-arms from the surrounding garrisons, watch posts, and minor lords sworn to King Viserys. Three great ships were prepared, commissioned under Ser Tyland Lannister, Master of Ships—each bearing the sigil of House Targaryen. One was laden with provisions, grain, salted meat, and dried fruit; another with armory supplies, weapons, and chainmail; the third would carry soldiers and commanders across the Narrow Sea.

And Prince Daemon—cloaked in blackened leathers and already sharpening Dark Sister before the sun had risen—led a motley force of sellswords, cutthroats, and landless adventurers, the kind of men who only pledged themselves to fire and glory.

The city buzzed with the fervor of preparation. But in the stone-walled calm of his tower chamber, Prince Vaekar Targaryen sat in council with his youngest brother.

Daemon stood, arms crossed, tense with anticipation. “It’s ready?”

“Almost,” Vaekar replied, not looking up from the stack of open scrolls spread across his table. “Food is being loaded. The second shipment of arrows arrived from Rosby this morning. Tyland Lannister confirms the ships will be in harbor by sunset.”

Daemon grunted. “I’ll be ready. Caraxes is restless.”

Vaekar finally looked up, his face stern and measured. “Then let him fly.”

A pause.

“You’ll go ahead of the army. Fly to the Stepstones now, strike where you must. But you are a vanguard, Daemon—not a storm.”

Daemon raised an eyebrow. “You’re giving me orders now, brother?”

“I’m giving you timing,” Vaekar corrected. “The bulk of men and resources take time. Coin may buy swords, but it doesn’t summon siege towers or feed mouths. You’ll be first, yes, but the hammer comes behind you.”

Daemon rolled his eyes, pacing. “I should’ve known you’d make war sound like a counting table.”

Vaekar smirked faintly. “And yet here you are, trusting me with your army’s balance sheet.”

Already, acolytes were writing letters at the far end of the chamber—six total, all bearing the diplomatic seal of the Black Envoy.

“To House Massey, House Stokeworth, House Celtigar of Claw Isle, House Sunglass, House Rykker, and House Darklyn,” Vaekar said. “They will receive the Crown’s summons for coin, men, and transport ships. They will give.”

Daemon approached the window, watching the flickers of the harbor below. “They’ll be whispering in court by nightfall. ‘Viserys is backing Daemon.’ ‘The crown goes to war.’”

“Yes,” Vaekar said plainly. “Let them whisper. That’s the point.”

 

In the royal courtyard, the ships gleamed in the sun, the men-at-arms assembled like spears in formation, and dragonkeepers moved like shadows beneath the looming weight of Caraxes’ coiled wings.

And in the middle of it all, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen was screaming.

“You promised,” she yelled, tears of rage in her eyes. “You taught me! I learned diplomacy. I practiced Valyrian. I bled learning swordplay and now—now I just stay behind like some highborn milkmaid?”

Vaekar, already dressed for court, only gave her a patient look.

“This is not your war,” he said gently. “Not yet.”

“And what is the point of preparing me at all if I cannot act?” she snapped.

Daemon—already halfway into his saddle—snorted. “She’s got your fire, brother.”

Vaekar said nothing, but he looked at her. Truly looked.

“Do not mistake restraint for neglect, niece,” he said. “The fire must be tempered. That is what makes it burn longer.”

Viserys arrived then, slower than usual, robes dragging behind him as he approached the courtyard.

“Rhaenyra,” he said, brushing soot and wind-tangled hair from her cheek, “they go to war so you may stay in peace.”

“I don’t want peace,” she muttered, but buried her face in his chest.

Daemon mounted Caraxes, now fully saddled and armored. “Ready when you are.”

Vaekar clasped his hand in a rare show of open affection. “Don’t be reckless.”

Daemon grinned. “But what would be the fun in that?”

Caraxes reared with a shriek that sent pigeons scattering from the stone towers. As Daemon flew, the war had begun.

And the people of King’s Landing would say that the Rogue Prince soared first, but he did not fly alone—he had his king’s blessing, and his brother’s hand guiding the wind.

 

The hour of the bat. The sky was just a murky veil of gray when the knock came.

“Enter,” said Vaekar, not looking up from the scroll he was annotating.

The door opened without fanfare. Cloaked in black and red, her eyes veiled behind a lattice of silver beads, Mezhari of Qarth stepped inside. The air turned still with her presence, as if the shadows bowed at her feet.

“You summoned me, Prince.”

Vaekar did not rise. He gestured to the chair opposite his desk, strewn with opened tomes and war letters, half-burnt candles pooling wax into cracked holders.

“You’ll be reassigned,” he said curtly. “Not far. The princess remains your charge.”

Mezhari tilted her head.

“I thought she already was.”

“She was under your watch. Now she will be under your ward,” Vaekar clarified, eyes sharp despite the sleepless circles beneath them. “You are not merely her sword. You are now her mirror. Hold her to the courtesies. Ensure she does not overstep, or is stepped on.”

Mezhari’s voice was low. “She will not listen to me.”

“She doesn’t have to,” Vaekar replied. “She will watch you. That is enough.”

A beat of silence passed between them, thick with tension. Then Vaekar’s tone softened—not kind, but respectful.

“I am needed elsewhere now. The war has teeth, and my hands are the ones meant to pull them.”

Mezhari rose, bowed her head only slightly, then turned and disappeared like a vanishing shadow. The room was silent once more.

 

In the days that followed, Prince Vaekar’s tower chamber was transformed into a war room.

The long table, once used for writing poetry, studying Valyrian metallurgy, or examining ancient maps, now bore ledgers, shipment requests, and diplomatic exchanges stacked like siege towers. There were supply chains to secure, rations to stretch, roads to clear, and tax routes to guard from opportunists.

Three acolytes remained at his side—Maester Ceryn, a young man from Oldtown gifted in arithmetic; Alyne, a former scribe from Lys who now served as his quill-woman; and Rorik, a silent giant from the Westerlands whose skill was in cipher and code.

They worked around the clock. No bells were rung in Vaekar’s office. Time was marked in wine cups, in candle stubs, in ink-stained sleeves and missives sent to every port city and grain lord in Westeros.

 

At one end of the chamber, scrolls from Essos were being translated and decoded—some about Free Cities whispering alliance with the Triarchy, others about coin movements in Myr and Lys.

Near the hearth, maps were updated with every raven’s return: red pins for Daemon’s confirmed advances, blue for sea patrols, black for unconfirmed sightings of Triarchy ships.

By noon, five ravens had been sent: One to House Celtigar for salt and shipwrights. One to House Sunglass for timber and ashwood. One to House Darklyn with instructions to fortify the Duskendale coast. One to Oldtown, seeking monetary counsel from the Hightower banking representatives. And one directly to the Sealord of Braavos, laced with careful flattery and a veiled request for neutrality—or discretion.

 

Meals were brought to him thrice daily, left untouched more often than not. Wine was watered down; he needed his mind sharp. He barely spoke unless necessary—his acolytes had come to know the rhythm of his sighs, the silent flick of his hand, the kind of pause that meant rewrite this letter with firmer tone.

Once, Lord Tyland Lannister arrived unannounced, bearing questions about coin lending and the city’s grain storage.

“You’re overreaching,” Tyland said, narrowing his eyes. “You act as Hand.”

Vaekar didn’t blink. “Then someone should tell the Hand to reach further.”

 

By dusk, his fingers were blackened with wax and soot. The bells of the Sept rang out across the city—another day closer to war. Another day Daemon would be alone at the front.

Vaekar stood by the window briefly, overlooking the narrowing bay. Ships bobbed like silent guards, waiting for their cue to sail. Somewhere out there, Caraxes was carving the sky. But here… here was the true labor.

He turned back to the table.

“Add new parchment,” he said to Alyne. “We need to re-route grain from Maidenpool. They’ll feel it less than Blackwater Bay.”

She dipped her quill without question.

The swords were Daemon’s.

The crown was Viserys’s.

But the foundation—the machinery, the planning, the glue that kept this war from crumbling the realm—that was Vaekar’s.

He was not on the battlefield.

He was the battlefield.

Notes:

almost considered abandoning this fic cause when i researched about the steprones and the citiesnthat were involved, i just fell into this massive rabbit hole which made me intimidated. but yeah, i conquered it.

Chapter 12: The Crown Without Rest

Summary:

The new year of 107 AC arrived in King’s Landing with a grand feast—and an even grander announcement: Queen Alicent was with child. The court rejoiced, whispers blooming in every corner of the Red Keep. Some hoped for a son, a boy to bring ‘stability’ to the realm. But in the eyes of Princess Rhaenyra, it only threatened her place as heir. With Daemon off to the Stepstones and Vaekar buried in his war preparations, the princess found herself adrift.

Under Alicent’s ever-watchful eye, Rhaenyra was pressed back into a regimen of ladylike decorum: embroidery, etiquette, tea. She obeyed, outwardly. But the fire inside her remained restless. One night, using the hidden passages she learned from Daemon, Rhaenyra snuck into Vaekar’s chambers. There, amidst candlelight and scrolls, they spoke—of court, of war, of loneliness. He held her gently on his lap as she vented her frustrations, and in the safety of his arms, they both fell asleep. By morning, courtly vultures had caught scent. Alicent and Otto Hightower, ever ambitious, twisted the innocent moment into scandal, feeding the embers of suspicion and seeking to drive a wedge between uncle and niece, mentor and heir—all in the name of a crown not yet born.

Notes:

Wholesome moment... until it wasn't

Two months had passed since the send-off. Since Prince Daemon, clad in blackened armor with Caraxes roaring above, led his chosen army into the Stepstones.

Two months since Vaekar Targaryen, the Black Envoy himself, retreated into his tower — commanding the realm not with sword or flame, but with ink, coin, and scroll.

And now it was 107 AC, the new year, and the Red Keep’s great hall rang with celebration.

Trumpets blared. Musicians plucked harps. Lords and ladies from every corner of the Crownlands—some even from Oldtown and Driftmark—raised goblets of gold in honor of the King and Queen.

Alicent Hightower stood radiant in green, hand placed softly over the curve of her belly as Viserys announced the news that would ignite a thousand whispers.

“The Queen is with child.”

The cheers were deafening.

All around her, the court rejoiced. Ladies clutched their chests in reverent awe. Older lords nodded sagely and muttered of blessings from the gods. Even the usually cold Lord Lyman Beesbury offered a smile and raised his cup.

“May it be a son,” Lord Tyland Lannister toasted. “For such is the realm’s desire.”

Rhaenyra stood on the dais beside her father, chin high, smile taut. The silk on her dress itched. Her ringlets were pinned just a bit too tight.

Notably, Vaekar’s chair was empty.

He had not come.

 

In the weeks that followed, King’s Landing changed. The people, once obsessed with the stories of the Rogue Prince in the Stepstones, began turning their eyes inward—toward the future of the realm. Toward the child that Queen Alicent now carried.

Among the whispers in the corridors:

“If it’s a boy, he’ll inherit.”
“A girl will not rule, not when the King has a trueborn son.”
“Pity the princess—poor Rhaenyra.”

Some were cruel. Others sounded almost relieved. But none were said in Vaekar’s presence, for he had not been seen in court since the early days of planning the war.

He still sent scrolls. Proclamations. Edicts.

But his chair remained empty. His sharp, cold voice no longer sliced through council bickering. The fire that once shielded Rhaenyra now flickered behind doors she could not pass.

 

Rhaenyra noticed.

Even surrounded by her little court—the wards handpicked by Vaekar, boys and girls from Essos and the Reach and Stormlands, trained in etiquette but playful at heart—she felt the absence. Her mother had passed, Daemon was at war, and now even her uncle, her teacher, was nowhere to be found.

In her quieter moments, she turned to Mezhari, her warlock protector, and asked in common tongue:

“Is he well?”

Mezhari’s answers were clipped, yet honest.

“He eats. He works. He sends no lies.”
“He watches the realm as he watches you, girl-princess.”

It should have comforted her. But it didn’t.

 

Her studies continued—but they had changed.

Gone were the swordplay lessons with Daemon and the sparring matches under the sun. In their place: embroidery. Court dancing. Herbal medicine and etiquette. She read the histories of the Faith of the Seven. Her Septa returned, strict and pious.

“You must not run in the halls.”
“Sit straighter, my lady.”
“Ladies do not raise their voice, nor wield blades.”

She obeyed. For the most part. But at night she sulked. Sulked and missed her her uncle of scrolls, her life before court tried to dull her.

 

And then, there was Alicent.

Soft-spoken and sugar-tongued, Queen Alicent doted on Rhaenyra like a porcelain doll. Always smiling, always present, and always correcting her.

“Don’t play with the boys, sweet girl, you’ll bruise your hands.”
“Come inside, tea is better than dragon bones.”
“Dolls are more fitting company than swords.”

Rhaenyra bristled beneath the affection. Alicent was not her mother.

She grumbled to Viserys, arms crossed in the solar, lip jutting in a stubborn pout.

“She treats me like I’m a babe again,” she huffed. “She won’t let me play. I can’t spar. I can’t run with my wards. She makes me sit and pour tea. I’m not some lord’s simpering daughter!”

Viserys laughed, that warm belly-deep chuckle of his, but the corners of his mouth twitched.

“She’s with child, my star. She is practicing how to be a mother.”

“But I already had a mother,” Rhaenyra snapped.

Viserys’s laughter faded.

A long silence passed. Then he sighed and brushed her hair behind her ear.

“She means well,” he said. “Try to be kind. It’s not easy for her, either.”

Rhaenyra said nothing. But she looked away, and for the first time in a long while, she wished for the war to end. Not because she missed Daemon. Or longed to see the Stepstones won.

But because she wanted her uncle back.

 

The sun had dipped beyond the horizon, casting the Red Keep into a soft hush. The castle, alive by day with shouts and silk and scheming, had quieted into murmurs. Torchlight flickered in the corridors. Candles wept slow tears of wax onto stone. And above it all, in a narrow tower swaddled by the sea breeze, Prince Vaekar Targaryen sat hunched over a desk drowning in parchment.

Scrolls littered every inch. Unfurled maps, grain counts, troop movements, letters of import, diplomatic responses left unsent.

He groaned low, pinching the bridge of his nose. The temples at his skull throbbed with dull agony, his eyes heavy-lidded and dry from too many sleepless nights.

He had spoken to no one, save his acolytes and servants. No Viserys. No Daemon. No Rhaenyra.

And yet every hour brought him news of them.

Daemon remains in the Stepstones—there is progress, and bloodshed, both. Rhaenyra studies with the Septa again. Her temper flares more often. Queen Alicent is holding more salons with the court ladies, fewer of whom support the Princess.

Vaekar stared into the flame of a candle, its tip flickering gold and blue.

His hand trembled slightly as he lifted his quill to sign yet another letter to House Rykker—

Then, the faintest shuffle.

He froze.

A breeze disturbed the flame. His eyes darted to the stone archway behind him—once a blank wall, now cracked open just slightly.

The hidden passage.

He reached for the small blade hidden beneath the desk.

Then he saw her.

A small figure, cloak damp from crawling through passageways, silver-gold hair slightly tousled, eyes wide and guilty and bold all at once.

“Uncle,” Rhaenyra said, sheepish and breathless.

Vaekar’s mouth parted in surprise. “Rhaenyra... what in the seven hells are you doing here?”

“I snuck in,” she whispered like it was a confession and a triumph all at once. “Through the passages. The one Daemon showed me—and the other ones I found.”

He let out a tired breath, resting back in his chair. “You could’ve been seen. Or hurt.”

“I wasn’t.” She stepped closer. “You weren’t at the feast. You haven’t been at court. No one’s seen you.”

“Because I have work to do,” he replied, words clipped and heavy. His hand ran through his hair, dark and streaked with silver. “The kingdom still moves, even in celebration.”

She stepped to his side now, looking at the mountain of parchment. She saw ink stains on his fingers, black bags under his eyes, the way his mouth pinched in frustration.

“You look awful,” she muttered.

Vaekar barked a quiet laugh. Then, after a pause, he reached for her, and without protest she let him lift her up and seat her on his lap. Her knees bumped against the edge of the table.

“How are you faring, little dragon?” he asked, voice finally soft.

And Rhaenyra spilled like a flood.

“I hate it,” she whispered. “Everything changed when you left. I have to sit for tea and sew little stitches and my Septa is horrible. She talks and talks about Seven Hells and sins and propriety like I don’t know what a dragon’s fire is. And Alicent’s always smiling, always saying I should play with dolls and not the boys and—Mezhari teaches me hand-to-hand when no one’s looking—and I can’t spar anymore and Father always sides with her even when I tell him I’m lonely and bored and—”

She slumped against him, breathless. “I miss training. I miss being with you.”

Vaekar didn’t speak. His eyes had fluttered shut.

His arms were wrapped around her protectively. His breathing had evened out.

The weariness had finally won.

And in the quiet of the candlelit room, with scrolls still unfurled, a diplomat slept for the first time in days.

Rhaenyra nestled against him, tucking her face into the crook of his neck. She felt the rise and fall of his chest. The warmth of his presence. Her little fingers tangled in the fabric of his sleeve.

Outside, the moon rose high, washing the tower in silver.

And for the first time in weeks—neither of them felt alone.

 

The sun had barely risen when the morning bell tolled through the Red Keep. Dew clung to the cobblestones. Servants rushed quietly through the halls with linen and fresh bread, and in one of the upper towers — the door to Vaekar’s study creaked open.

It was Mezhari, silent as a shadow, her eyes painted kohl-black and her presence unnervingly calm. The warlock's gaze swept across the room, the scent of burnt candle wax and ink clinging to the air.

She paused.

On the worn couch, beneath a dark velvet cloak thrown hastily in the night, Prince Vaekar Targaryen lay asleep. His arms wrapped around a smaller figure curled against his chest — Rhaenyra. Her silver-blonde curls spilled over his dark robes, her head tucked beneath his chin.

Mezhari did not flinch. She had protected the Princess long enough to understand trust — and danger.

But the door had not closed fully. A shadow moved behind her.

 

By midday, the whispers had begun.

“The Princess spent the night in her uncle’s chambers.”
“It was not the first time.”
“They’re Targaryens, you know what they’re like.”
“The warlock did nothing to stop it, surely she condoned it.”

 

In the cool shade of the Queen’s solar, Alicent Hightower poured wine into Viserys’s goblet. She smiled as she handed it to him, gentle and graceful, her hands soft from rosewater.

“You look weary today, my king,” she said kindly. “Too many matters burdening your head?”

Viserys gave her a small smile. “The war. The cost. My daughter’s future.”

Alicent took her seat across from him, folding her hands primly in her lap.

“She’s spirited,” she murmured. “And clever. She reminds me of… of Queen Rhaenys, perhaps. So certain she’ll be crowned.”

Viserys blinked. “Is that so terrible?”

A pause. Then a careful smile.

“Only if it clouds her judgment, my love. There are… troubling rumors about her closeness to your brother. You know what people say of Targaryen blood.”

He stiffened.

“Alicent—”

“Only that perhaps the girl should be kept among more fitting company. Ladies of court. Septas. Tutors not… well, not warlocks and wandering scholars.” Her voice dipped, syrup-thick with feigned concern. “She is the realm’s hope, after all.”

Viserys’s jaw tightened. He did not respond — not yet.

 

Elsewhere, Otto Hightower stood in the shade of the Tower of the Hand, speaking quietly with Ser Tyland Lannister and Lord Beesbury before dismissing them. He waited alone in the long hall until Viserys passed through.

“Your Grace,” Otto greeted him smoothly, bowing slightly. “A moment?”

Viserys stopped reluctantly.

“I’d not disturb you if it were not urgent,” Otto said, stepping into stride beside him. “The court stirs with rumors. About the Princess. And Prince Vaekar.”

Viserys exhaled harshly. “I’ve heard them.”

“Then you know how dangerous they are.” Otto’s voice was calm, laced with just enough gravity. “The princess is young. She may not understand what it means, but others… they see opportunity.”

“I trust my brother,” Viserys snapped.

“As you should.” Otto inclined his head. “But the realm does not trust so easily. And neither do the Lords of the Reach, or the Riverlands, or the Vale. They will begin to question—should a boy be born of Alicent—why they must bend the knee to a girl shadowed by… rumors.”

Viserys halted. He turned to Otto with narrowed eyes. “You presume much.”

“I only serve the realm,” Otto said, voice low and measured. “As do you, my king. And the realm whispers. Best to silence them early.”

Viserys did not answer. He turned and walked away, faster than before. Otto watched him go, hands folded neatly behind his back.

 

That night, Viserys sat alone in his solar, goblet untouched. His eyes lingered on the flickering hearth. In his hand was a piece of parchment—a letter he never finished writing.

His mind warred.

He trusted Vaekar, more than any man alive. It was Vaekar who shielded him at Harrenhal, who fought back-to-back with him in tourneys, who never sought a throne of his own. It was Vaekar who brought the kingdom allies, wealth, learning, dignity.

And yet…

He remembered Aemma, screaming in childbirth. The child who was born—who died. He remembered how he chose his crown over his wife. And the guilt sat like a blade in his ribs ever since.

He looked at the small portrait of Rhaenyra sitting on the shelf nearby. Her eyes were wild and joyful. She was his daughter. His only heir.

And now the court whispered about her.

 

In the dark, elsewhere in the castle, Alicent touched her swelling belly. She whispered to the babe.

“You will be king. You must be. For the realm’s sake.”

Outside, the ravens took flight into the night.

And somewhere down the hall, Rhaenyra slept soundly, unaware of the shadows beginning to form around her.

 

Four moons had passed since the turn of the new year, and the Red Keep — ever a simmering pot — had only grown hotter.

The first whisper came not from the lips of a lord or lady, but from a white-cloaked knight in polished armor, stepping into the Princess’s chambers with a sword at his hip and the scent of rose oil clinging to his hair.

Ser Criston Cole.

Handsome. Gallant. Pious. Chosen, of course, by Queen Alicent, and approved by her father Otto Hightower.

“A princess needs more than a single sword,” Alicent had said smoothly before the court, her hands folded over her growing belly. “These are perilous times. The crown is at war.”

There had been no debate — only a nod from Viserys, and thus, it was done.

Mezhari did not take it lightly.

“You are polished, knight. But there is no shine in the soul,” she said in passing to Criston one morning. “Do not mistake your smile for loyalty.”

Criston — ever the stoic — had simply dipped his head and replied, “And do not mistake your rags for wisdom, shadow woman.”

From then on, they circled each other like predators, each believing themselves the better guardian of the girl who had dragons in her blood and thorns beneath her tongue.

To Rhaenyra, it was almost amusing.

“My sworn shadows, at war,” she giggled one evening, feeding scraps to a cat beneath the table. “One of you should court the other, you bicker like lovers.”

Criston flushed. Mezhari only blinked, silent.

 

In the higher towers of the Keep, Vaekar Targaryen had not been seen in court for a considerable time.

The Black Envoy was buried in ink and ash, his rooms dim, only lit by candlelight and the steady shuffling of scrolls passed between his hands and those of his ever-growing network of acolytes and spies.

There were maps spread across the table, detailing the shifting borders of the Stepstones. Red lines, gold pins, folded markers. One missive bore a seal broken only minutes ago — Daemon’s handwriting.

"The caves shield them from Caraxes' flame. They strike at dusk and vanish by moonlight. Craghas is clever. But not invincible."

Vaekar’s jaw clenched.

The Triarchy’s tactics were increasingly clear now. They did not fight like knights or kings — they fought like ghosts. Hit-and-run strikes. Supply wagons sabotaged, wounded soldiers dragged off into the caves, never to be seen again. They were using the very terrain to their advantage. Deep, winding tunnels where fire was useless and dragons could not reach.

Vaekar’s strategy changed with it.

He began dispatching scouts from Westeros, men and women who knew caves, cliffs, and shorelines. He called for sappers — men who dug trenches and tunnels. He sent word to archmaesters of the Citadel for historical accounts of conflicts fought in similar terrain.

And still, his work with the Free Cities weighed on him.

He had spent years negotiating with Essos — building bridges with Myr, with Tyrosh, with Lys. But now, the Triarchy had burned those bridges with the same torches they used to light their raids.

Diplomacy had failed.

 

The second wave of aid was launched — five great ships, bearing the quartered sigils of the houses that supported the crown: House Stokeworth of the Crownlands. House Celtigar of Claw Isle. House Massey of Stonedance. House Sunglass of Sweetport Sound.

Each ship was laden with food rations, barrels of clean water, crates of spears, blades, crossbows, and padded armor stitched with the seven-pointed star. There were surgeons and scribes, cooks and groomsmen, and even a few minor septons who hoped to bring the light of the Faith to the blood-soaked Stepstones.

Criston Cole watched from the Keep’s highest balcony as the sails disappeared across Blackwater Bay. Rhaenyra held onto the ledge beside him, hair braided back in gold and silver. She said little — but her eyes were stormy.

 

That evening, in Vaekar’s apartments, Mezhari entered silently. She poured wine without asking.

“Your niece grows restless. She wishes to ride. To fight.”

Vaekar didn’t look up from his parchment.

“Let her wish. She’s a dragon. But a caged one.”

Mezhari tilted her head. “And what will happen when she breaks her cage?”

He smiled faintly. “We’ll pray she does not burn the whole world down.”

 

Back in the gardens, Rhaenyra twirled with her little companions, the foreign wards brought to court months ago by Vaekar’s design. Some were from Dorne, others from Lys or the Disputed Lands. They played pretend-war, swordfighting with sticks and laughing in three different tongues.

But the laughter died when Alicent entered, flanked by Septas.

“Tea time, my sweet girl,” she cooed. “You mustn’t play in the sun too long. What would the court say, hmm? Come, we’ve embroidery to finish.”

Rhaenyra obeyed — but only just. Her eyes lingered back toward the gates that led to Vaekar’s tower, a place she had not visited in weeks.

 

In the warfront, Daemon’s forces were slowly carving a name for themselves, learning to lure the Triarchy from their caves, scorching paths with Caraxes’ fire, striking at their supply lines.

In court, however, the true war was only beginning.

Alicent’s belly grew.

Otto's reach deepened.

And Vaekar, the middle son of House Targaryen, the scholar and warrior and shadowed prince, held the line not with fire — but with ink and steel, and a mind sharper than any blade.

He was not at the front, but he was the war’s spine.

Notes:

yeaahh so i forgot ser criston sorry:'( also fucking otto and alicent proper villians i think

Chapter 13: All Flames Burn the Same

Summary:

Word of Daemon’s injuries reached King’s Landing by raven—brief and bloodied. The message said little, but enough: Caraxes had returned to the shore singed and snarling, and Daemon had not walked away unscathed. The moment Vaekar read the scroll, his features steeled. He made no grand announcement nor roused a court. Instead, he went straight to the King. Viserys—haggard and hesitant—gave his blessing with only one condition: come back with their brother alive. That same night, Aeramon was readied in the dragonpit. As his black-armored figure vanished into the clouds, it was said a great flame tore through the sky, like a black comet descending to war.

But in his absence, a quiet battle brewed. Rhaenyra—left behind once more—found herself surrounded by polished smiles and hidden blades. Without her Black Envoy uncle to shield her and no news from her Rogue Prince, she was left to endure the sharp tongues of the court. Otto Hightower watched with calculating eyes, Alicent cloaked her intentions with soft hands and sweet smiles, and the court began whispering again. With her champions now away at war, the vipers moved closer.

Notes:

writing is hard yall:'(

Two moons had passed since the turn of the year, and with it, the Red Keep gradually began to feel the presence of Prince Vaekar Targaryen once more.

The prince who had once vanished behind closed doors and burning candles now walked the halls again, silent and austere as ever. He sparred at the training yard, blade swift and precise, his armor black with crimson edges—reminiscent of flame and blood. He attended the Small Council, where he calmly delivered reports of grain shipments from Gulltown, tariffs renegotiated in Lannisport, and the ongoing cost of the war in the Stepstones.

No one dared mention the whispers that once rippled through the court—the scandal with Rhaenyra. It was as if the air bent around him, heavy with unspoken things, and yet Vaekar said nothing of it. But he knew. He heard the half-stifled laughter behind curtains, the way Otto's eyes sharpened when he entered, the way Alicent's voice grew honeyed around Viserys when Vaekar passed. He held it all behind a still face, masking fury with poise.

And then, the letter arrived.

Delivered by an acolyte, head bowed, voice low. A raven from the Stepstones, sealed with the mark of House Velaryon. Vaekar took the scroll and read.

“Prince Daemon has taken injuries—arrows to the shoulder and leg. He lives, but fever burns, and his wounds are deep. Caraxes returned to Driftmark half-mad with blood. We are holding ground, but only barely.”
—Lord Corlys Velaryon

Vaekar did not flinch. Not in front of the acolyte. He rolled the scroll back tightly, a breath caught in his throat and buried down deep. The next moment, he turned on his heel, robes flaring, and walked the long halls to the King’s solar.

He found Viserys in the solar, standing by the window, framed by the cold light of early dusk. The sky above Blackwater Bay was streaked in storm-bound color—ashen clouds tumbling like restless waves. The King did not stir when the door opened, nor when it closed with a soft thud. He merely stared, hands clasped behind his back, as if he had been waiting for something to break the stillness.

It was not often that Prince Vaekar appeared before anyone—least of all his brother. For years he had been a figure glimpsed only in passing, kept company by scribes and ravens, vanishing into corridors thick with parchment and ink. That he now stood in Viserys’ presence—shadowed, silent, and cloaked in his ever-worn black—was enough to unsettle.

Viserys turned, slowly, and the weight in his eyes gave truth to Vaekar’s fear before a word was even spoken.

“Lord Corlys sent a raven,” Vaekar said at last, quiet but sure. “Daemon is injured. It happened during a siege.”

Viserys' breath left him like it had been struck from his lungs. He said nothing at first, only turned his gaze back to the window, as if the answer might lie somewhere beyond the horizon. His knuckles whitened behind his back.

“He may be reckless,” he began, voice rough with effort, “may test the patience of every man in court… but he is still our brother.” There was a tremble at the end—small, but unmistakable. He drew a shaky breath. “He is all we have left… of Mother and Father. Of who we were before all this.”

Vaekar stepped forward, the silence between them not cold, but sacred. “I know,” he murmured. “And we made a promise once, the two of us—that we would always watch over him.”

Viserys let his hands drop to his sides, turning to fully face his brother. His composure cracked—just a flicker, but enough. “We swore it in the godswood,” he said. “When he was still small enough to cling to our cloaks.”

“And now he bleeds in a foreign land,” Vaekar said, pulling the weather-worn scroll from his sleeve and placing it gently on the table beside them. “I will go to him.”

Viserys looked up sharply. “No. You’ve done enough. You’ve sent ships, men, gold—”

“And now I send myself,” Vaekar interrupted. His tone was calm but ironclad.

There was silence between them. The crackle of the hearth. The hiss of wind against glass. Viserys took a long breath, one hand trembling on the edge of the table.

“He might die,” he whispered.

“He will not,” said Vaekar. “Not while I draw breath.”

Viserys looked at him long and hard. Then suddenly, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around his brother—a fierce, desperate hug, the kind shared only by those who knew loss. It was brief, but it burned in their blood.

“I trust you,” he said at last. “I trust you more than anyone. Bring him home.”

 

The Red Keep buzzed with activity over the next few days. A third wave of troops and supplies was prepared. Food, arrows, armor, and coin were loaded onto three large ships, each bearing the Targaryen sigil quartered with the banners of the houses that had pledged men—Massey, Stokeworth, Celtigar, Darklyn, Sunglass, Rykker.

In his study, Vaekar finalized every instruction. Acolytes and archmaesters were assigned to take over his correspondence duties. Letters were dispatched to his network of wardens and informants across the realm, ensuring that even in his absence, his reach would stretch across the Seven Kingdoms.

He checked every parchment, every seal. He did not sleep.

 

At the docks of Blackwater Bay, crowds gathered. Another send-off, another wave of fire and fury. And amidst them, Princess Rhaenyra stood in a pale gown, braids adorned with small rubies, face tight with emotion she could not name.

When she approached Vaekar, her small hands held a folded cloth—delicate embroidery stitched with dragons, fire, and three figures in flight.

“Come back,” she whispered. “With Uncle Daemon. I still need teaching.”

Vaekar knelt before her, eyes catching hers. “And you shall have it,” he said, taking the cloth, folding it carefully into the inside of his armor. “You are the fire that comes after us. You must burn brighter than any of us.”

Rhaenyra did not cry, but she looked like she could.

Viserys stood nearby, face somber. As Vaekar turned to him, there were no speeches. No grand proclamations.

Just a hug—tight and wordless. Targaryen men do not cry.

But their hearts bleed just the same.

And then, Aeramon roared to the heavens, black wings slicing through the clouds as the Wandering Flame took to the skies once more, headed straight for blood, war, and the brother he swore to bring home.

The dragons had flown.

Their roars had echoed across the city, shadowing the rooftops, and then disappeared over Blackwater Bay like ghosts chasing the dying sun. The people had watched in awe, in fear, and in admiration.

But inside the Red Keep, within the stone walls of a court already divided, Alicent Hightower stood at the window of her solar—composed, serene, hands neatly folded over her skirts.

A single blink.

Then a slow breath.

“They’re gone.”

Behind her, her father—Ser Otto Hightower, Hand of the King—stepped forward, silent for a time.

“Yes,” he said eventually. “Both dragons... gone from court.”

A flicker of a smile touched Alicent’s lips. “I never imagined they would go together.”

“They’re brothers. Foolishness runs deep,” Otto muttered, walking to the table and pouring himself a cup of  wine. He offered none to his daughter. She didn’t need it.

“We warned His Grace,” he continued. “And yet he sends them off like hounds to fetch glory.”

Alicent turned from the window, eyes sharp and alert beneath her demure expression.

“Without them,” she said softly, “the Red Keep is... quieter.”

Otto looked up, brow raised. “More manageable.”

She tilted her head. “I was going to say vulnerable. But yes. That too.”

They shared a knowing look.

Vaekar—for all his cold, composed nature—was watchful, always a step ahead. Even when he wasn’t in the room, his presence was felt, like the silent judgment of a god. His web of foreign wards and scribes had filled the halls, making Otto’s reach shallow, diluted. And Daemon—unpredictable, ungovernable, yet beloved by his niece—kept Rhaenyra laughing, sharp, unruly.

Now both were gone.

Now the princess was alone.

“She will rage,” Otto said. “At first. But rage has little use without direction.”

“She’ll be reminded of her duties,” Alicent replied. “She’s the heir. She cannot sulk like a child forever.”

Otto sipped his wine. “And you’ll be the gentle hand, I assume?”

A smile, honeyed and cold. “Of course.”

Rhaenyra had not come to break her fast. She had not come to sept, nor to the gardens. Her guards found her in the library, surrounded by scrolls—none of which she read.

Alicent came to her there, escorted by ladies and septas.

“You should join us,” the queen said sweetly. “There’s embroidery and music in the garden today. The sun is kind.”

Rhaenyra didn’t look up. “I don’t want embroidery. Or music.”

“You want war, perhaps?” Alicent mused. “I fear you were born in the wrong body, Princess.”

Rhaenyra bristled, but said nothing.

Alicent stepped closer. “You must remember what you are, my dear. A queen-to-be. Graceful. Learned. Unshakeable.”

Rhaenyra’s knuckles clenched against the table. “You mean obedient.”

A breath. A smile. “No. I mean disciplined. Let us not undo all the work your... uncles poured into you.”

Otto's shadow passed through the doorway minutes later. He did not speak to Rhaenyra, only offered a nod—and began quietly instructing her steward to rearrange her schedule, cut off certain letters, intercept certain guests.

 

In the coming days, Rhaenyra’s routine was shifted. The wards and foreign servants Vaekar brought were reassigned, dismissed, or quietly sent to other posts under the guise of “reorganization.” The library was restricted to daytime hours only. Her lessons now revolved around needlework, courtly manners, and septa-led morality. Her sparring sword mysteriously vanished.

Even her loyal maids noticed.

“They’ve caged her again,” Elya whispered to Elinda Massey as they dressed the princess in a gown she despised.

“She’s the heir,” Elinda replied under her breath, smoothing the fabric. “But it seems she’s back to being their pawn.”

And yet—even now—Rhaenyra would sit by her window at dusk, eyes fixed on the sky.

Waiting for wings. Waiting for fire.

Waiting for them.

It took three days and three nights of relentless flying for Aeramon, the Judgement Dragon, to cross the Narrow Sea. He cut through thick clouds and stormy winds like a blade, his vast iron-gray wings casting long shadows over the ocean below. The air was sharp with salt and smoke, for Bloodstone—the largest of the Stepstones—had become a battlefield of ash, steel, and blood.

On the fourth morning, just before the first light cracked the sky, Aeramon descended.

He circled once, a silent shadow in the dawn mist, then let loose a guttural roar that shook the cliffs. Without warning, flame poured from his jaws, scorching the Triarchy’s ships that had moored too close to the cove—merchant vessels converted into warcraft, now reduced to blackened husks. The Lyseni sailors screamed, scrambling from their decks as sails caught fire and men dove into the sea. The camps on the beaches, filled with sleeping soldiers and makeshift defenses, erupted in chaos. Tents turned to flame. Siege weapons melted where they stood.

Aeramon soared upward and banked again, disappearing briefly into a sea-mist before coming down like a falling god of war, landing on a rocky incline just above the Velaryon camp. Smoke curled around his claws, embers still flickering along his ridged spine.

By the time the men gathered outside their tents, Prince Vaekar Targaryen was already dismounting.

“Is that—?” one soldier muttered.

“Yes,” whispered another. “The Black Envoy.”

Lord Corlys Velaryon emerged, eyes wide. Behind him, limping but upright, Prince Daemon appeared, wrapped in bandages across his chest, shoulder, and thigh. His normally swaggering gait was replaced by stiff, aggravated steps. He held onto the edge of a spear for support.

“Seven hells,” Daemon muttered. “Missed me that much, brother?”

Vaekar didn’t reply—he crossed the camp in a few strides and embraced Daemon without a word, armor clinking softly.

“Easy, easy—fuck—” Daemon grimaced as the hug jostled his injured side. “You trying to finish what the bastards started?”

Vaekar pulled back, inspecting him. “You’ve gotten softer,” he said, though his eyes betrayed the relief. “I saw Caraxes circling low from miles away and thought the worst.”

“He’s still pissed about those arrows.” Daemon huffed. “We both are.”

 

Inside the command tent, Vaekar stripped off his cloak, laid out the scrolls and maps he brought, and summoned the camp healers—not just the maesters, but also the foreign apothecaries and two Essosi herbalists who had journeyed with him. He spent an hour with them, observing Daemon’s wounds, asking sharp, focused questions, switching between the Common Tongue and Valyrian.

Then, his mind turned to war.

The table was a mess of parchment reports, crude maps, and stained goblets. Lord Corlys sat across from him, face grim, one hand still bandaged from a recent skirmish.

“We’ve lost three forward camps,” Corlys said. “Two were taken in the night. We believe the Triarchy is hiding in the caves.”

Vaekar frowned, unrolling a newer map. “Their tactics are unconventional—asymmetric warfare. Sabotage, ambushes, rapid retreat. They want to bleed you dry, not win clean battles.”

Daemon poured wine and sat heavily, wincing. “They’re using the terrain against us. Every cave we burn, two more spring up.”

Vaekar nodded. “We won’t match them in terrain knowledge. But we can starve them.”

He tapped the map. “They’ve grown overconfident. They’ve set up small ports for resupply along the southern beachheads. We cut them off—no more grain, no more firewood, no more fresh water—and we force them out of their holes.”

“And if they retreat further inland?” Corlys asked.

“Then we let them. Push them deeper until they’re isolated. We will burn the fields behind them and collapse their tunnels.”

He turned to Daemon. “You’ve used Caraxes to scatter them. Now we’ll use fire more wisely. Let fear build. Isolate each commander. We take them one at a time.”

Daemon raised a brow. “Been planning this, have you?”

Vaekar allowed a small smile. “Since I left King’s Landing. A fortnight’s march behind me are three ships—one with food, one with fresh steel, and one with men. Another three are being prepared.”

Corlys’s brows lifted. “Another wave?”

“I’ve rerouted trade flows through Gulltown and Duskendale to secure coins. The Free Cities won’t act while I hold the purse of their northern trade. I’ve ensured House Sunglass and House Massey will hold the rear supply lines. The war’s foundation is not won in blood, Lord Corlys—it is won in grain, ink, and steel.”

 

By nightfall, the Stepstones were burning again—but this time under a new command, and with new fire.

The Wandering Flame had come to war.

And with him, the tides were changing.

Notes:

yeah soooo in this part we are now properly entering the stepstones arc

Chapter 14: Ashes Between Brothers

Summary:

As Daemon Targaryen recovered from his wounds, he expected to return to the skies as soon as the third wave of men and supplies arrived. But Vaekar, ever the cautious diplomat, refused his younger brother the skies, insisting he heal fully first—an act that Daemon saw not as care, but condescension. The wedge between them deepened. Plans were made with Lord Corlys, compromises forged, but the fire inside Daemon refused to be contained. Fueled by pride and a festering fear of being overshadowed, Daemon soared with Caraxes, dragging Aeramon into the sky and unleashing dragonflame without command. His defiance burned more than the Triarchy—it singed his bond with his brother.
As Myr reached out with offers of parley—perhaps trap, perhaps opportunity—Vaekar saw the fruit of his whispers ripen into fear among their enemies. Rumors of Vhagar and Meleys flying to join the fray fractured the Triarchy’s unity. Hungry for a swifter end to the war, Vaekar dared send ravens to Dorne, reaching for a historic alliance. But to Daemon, none of that mattered. Diplomacy was shadowplay—he would etch his name into the stone and ash with fire and blood. He would be remembered.

Notes:

the brothers reunite... uh-oh... honestly in the coming chapters i'm gonna feel sorry for corlys cause he's just out there trying to shoo away the triarchy and their heavy tollgates and now he has to father two sons who will growl and shout at each other every chance they can. also get ready for this for i will now be shooting out chapters then dip once again:))

The camp reeked of smoke, salt, and blood. Men were patching tents and tending to wounds while the sea whispered threats from beyond. Inside the command tent, lit only by flickering oil lamps, two dragons in human skin faced off—not with steel, but with clashing wills.

Vaekar stood at the war table, his long fingers dragging across the map. Arrows marked enemy movements. Burned edges showed where he’d seared enemy routes with Aeramon. Scrolls, reports, logistics—everything meticulously in place.

Behind him, Daemon entered, limping, Dark Sister attached at his hip.

“You sent for me?” he rasped.

Vaekar didn’t turn immediately. “You should be in bed, not slicing off dummies.”

“I should be in the sky.”

Vaekar exhaled and turned. “You’re injured, Daemon. You’ve bled for this cause. You will not fly Caraxes until you’ve healed properly.”

Daemon snorted, jaw tightening. “So that’s it? You’ll chain me down while you burn your way to victory? Is that why you came? To clean up my mess?”

Vaekar’s brows shot up. “Is that truly what you think of me?”

“I think,” Daemon snarled, stepping closer, “that you still see me as the youngest. As the reckless boy who couldn’t hold a sword straight without tripping over his own feet.”

“I see a man,” Vaekar answered sharply, voice lowering, “whose fire burns so hot he risks turning himself to ash.”

That stung. Daemon turned away, biting the inside of his cheek.

“I’m not taking your glory,” Vaekar continued, softer now. “And I won’t be raining fire on legions of men. That’s not what I do.”

Daemon turned back, baffled. “Then why bring the beast?” He motioned to the skies, where Aeramon rested like a coiled mountain, wings tucked, breath smoldering faintly.

Vaekar returned to the war table, laying his palm flat. “Because war is not just fire and steel. It is precision. I’ve sent scouts to pose as deserters, leaking false information. The Triarchy thinks we have four dragons. I’ve destroyed their supply lines, collapsed bridges they relied on. Let their hunger weaken them before our blades even touch.”

Daemon looked unimpressed. “It’s what we’ve already done. It’s why we’re stuck.”

“We’ve done it disjointedly. I will bring order,” Vaekar snapped. “No more reckless charges. No more reacting. This is strategy. We smoke them out, not blow open their caves like fools.”

Daemon’s jaw ticked. “You mean to cage me.”

“I mean to win.”

Silence fell.

Daemon lowered his eyes, then scoffed softly. “Aeramon won’t be content to just perch. He’s old, yes. But I know dragons. He wants to feel alive again. He wants to breathe fire.”

Vaekar’s eyes flicked to the tent’s edge. Past it, a shadow moved—Aeramon, vast and unmoving, like a sleeping god waiting for a call to rise.

Vaekar gave a nod. “Then when the time comes, we’ll let him breathe.”

A pause. Then Daemon stepped closer again, quieter now. “You promised I’d still get my glory.”

Vaekar met his brother’s eyes. “And you will. But not if you're bones in armor.”

That was the closest to affection the two would admit.

The war table was a battleground of its own.

Corlys Velaryon stood across from Vaekar, arms folded. His salt-streaked braids fell past his shoulders, eyes narrowed over the map. Around them were a dozen bannermen, knights, sellsword captains—each with their own opinions, loud and clashing.

Daemon leaned on a crutch, hovering behind Vaekar.

“We’ve located the caves,” a scout reported. “They hide their numbers there. Sleep there. Use tunnels to appear and vanish.”

“We go in,” Daemon said immediately. “Smoke them out and kill what runs. I’ll lead the charge.”

“No,” Vaekar countered.

The table went silent.

Daemon’s face darkened. “Why not?”

Vaekar placed both hands on the table. “Because they want us to. The caves are narrow and trapped. The minute you charge, they collapse a tunnel. They’re using irregular warfare—ambushes, sabotage. No honor in it. Only death.”

Corlys nodded. “He’s right. We lost thirty men in the last cave run. They vanished into the rock like phantoms.”

“Then what?” Daemon snapped. “Wait forever?”

“We blockade,” Vaekar replied. “We seal the exits. Collapse what we can. Deny them food and water. Every time they show their faces—we burn that stretch of land to ash.”

A bannerman scoffed. “Dragons to starve out rats?”

Vaekar looked at him coldly. “No. Dragons to win. Clean.”

Daemon’s jaw clenched. “We lose momentum. People back home need a victory.”

Vaekar tilted his head. “Then give them one. I’ll let Aeramon fly. Burn their eastern port. Let them scream about the sky burning red. Let the realm see that fire still answers our blood.”

It was a compromise. One that Daemon hated—and yet accepted.

Corlys spoke, firm and resolute. “Then we have a plan.”

Vaekar nodded. “The ships bearing the third wave. Food, men, steel. They’ll arrive within a fortnight. Until then—we hold the line.”

The bannermen dispersed slowly, murmuring amongst themselves.

 

Daemon caught Vaekar’s arm.

“If this goes wrong…”

“I’ll shoulder it.”

“And if it goes right?”

“Then we both walk away as brothers with a war beneath our boots,” Vaekar said, holding his gaze.

Daemon let go, finally.

As the wind blew across the bay, they looked out to the sea. The horizon was blood-red.

Dragons would fly.

And so would the rumors of the two princes—one of flame, one of shadow—who ruled fire from above.

Fortnight came, and with it, the third wave of aid to the war-ravaged Stepstones. Three more ships sailed under banners of houses sworn to the Crown, laden with food, sharpened steel, and hardened men-at-arms from the Crownlands and beyond. The Blackwater ran thick with activity, and a new wind blew across Bloodstone Island, one that bore the scent of reckoning. The troops disembarked, greeted by the salt-heavy air and the weight of looming expectations. Prince Daemon stood at the shoreline, Caraxes slithering in the background, wings tucked, tail twitching.

He waited, eyes on the sky, expecting the signal that his time had come to fly again. The pain in his limbs had dulled to a low burn, more irritating than incapacitating. A fortnight of careful healing had passed. He believed himself ready. But Vaekar said nothing.

The elder brother was entrenched in his war tent, surrounded by scrolls, war maps, and the constant scratching of quills from his ever-present acolytes. Trade reports, coded messages from King’s Landing, troop dispersals, diplomatic projections—all organized and annotated in Vaekar's meticulous Valyrian script. The war with the Triarchy had become a political machine, and he was its unseen engine.

What Daemon did not see was that Vaekar's mind was everywhere at once: weighing the cost of another week of siege, factoring in food ratios, gauging local terrain shifts, planning psychological strikes. Whispers Vaekar had seeded weeks ago were beginning to bear fruit: fear spread among the ranks of the Triarchy, now splintered with the idea of a third and fourth dragon—Vhagar & Meleys—possibly en route. Some Triarchy commanders dismissed it as falsehood. Others, less certain, began rationing their own supplies, fortifying cave exits, or preparing ships for retreat.

One admiral of Myr broke ranks entirely, hoarding food stores and threatening to abandon the other Free City captains unless reassured by Lys and Tyrosh. Arguments turned to bloodshed in at least one enemy camp.

And just as the cracks widened, Daemon cracked as well. He mounted Caraxes without permission.

He flew high and fast, cutting a path of terror across the narrow strip of land held by the enemy. Fire roared. Caraxes was merciless, coiling through the sky like a great red dagger, scouring siege towers, slashing supply caravans.

Aeramon followed. Vaekar's mighty dragon, with iron-gray scales and eyes like molten gold, joined the attack without command. The camp trembled when the news reached it.

Vaekar stormed out from his tent, red cloak fluttering like blood in the wind. His face was unreadable—a dangerous calm masking white-hot fury. The roar of Aeramon echoed, and the smell of burning timber wafted across the battlefield.

When Daemon landed, his face alight with fire and adrenaline, Vaekar was already there, standing tall, waiting.

"You defied the plan," Vaekar said, his voice low but lethal.

"And earned us a victory," Daemon snapped back. "Your plans were taking too long."

Vaekar stepped forward. "It is one thing to act against the strategy, Daemon. But to pull Aeramon into your chaos?"

Daemon shrugged, but there was venom beneath. "Perhaps Aeramon is not so tightly leashed as you imagined."

A sharp silence fell between them. A line had been crossed.

Corlys Velaryon interjected, wisely, with the tone of a man who'd seen too many wars. "Enough. The enemy camps burn. Let us use the momentum."

Vaekar gave him a look, one that simmered with unspoken frustration, but nodded. "Very well. We move."

Yet it was clear: the trust between the brothers had frayed.

Later that night, a letter arrived from Myr. Its seal was unfamiliar, its tone urgent. The missive called for parley. A general of Myr, disillusioned with Lys and Tyrosh's greed, sought terms. It was unclear if this was a trap or an opportunity. But Daemon, flush with victory, took it as validation.

Vaekar, however, saw the bigger board. If one Free City could be pulled away, others might follow.

Privately, he began sending letters to emissaries of Dorne. Though untrusting of Westerosi and of their House, the Dornish had no love for the Triarchy and long memories of slights from the Free Cities. Vaekar's hope was simple: use old wounds to carve new alliances.

 

The war that had once been Daemon's alone had grown into something far more complex. And even as fire rained from dragons' mouths, it was the slow, subtle burn of diplomacy that might end the war before the islands turned fully to ash.

Yet none of that mattered to Daemon. For him, there was only the need to fly, to burn, to be remembered.

And to make sure that no matter how smart Vaekar's plans were, no matter how deep his influence ran, the name that rang loudest from blood-soaked stone would be Daemon Targaryen.

Notes:

daemon clawing out of the cages where he's only seen as the youngest that needs protection. another thing, whena dragon bonds with a person automatically it's assumed that only them can control the dragon but i took the ideology that dreams didn't make us kings, dragons did and ran with it. like what i'm saying is dragons have their own mind and will take action of their own. Aeramon is old and he understands Vaekar, he likes it that he gets to fly, rarely gets injured and caught on fire because his passanger is a peace weaver but still he knows when to use fire. He feels from the bond that Vaekar wants to burn the enemy and so, he flies off and does exactly that. hope i got my point across even if i did a lot of swerves to get there.

Chapter 15: The Dragon’s Wroth

Summary:

A letter from a Myrish admiral requesting parley throws the war camp into debate. Vaekar urges caution, Corlys senses potential, and Daemon dismisses it outright—he will not bow to bait, even less to reason. No decision is made. But tension thickens when Daemon discovers his brother has secretly written to Dorne—first to request neutrality, then to court alliance. Outraged, Daemon invokes the blood-soaked history of the Four Dornish Wars, reminding Vaekar that Dorne does not bend; it bleeds and burns. Corlys speaks of Baelon the Brave—bold to the edge of madness—and the fine line between ambition and folly.

Back in King’s Landing, whispers stir the court as word of Vaekar’s letters reach the Small Council. But more tremors follow: Queen Alicent has birthed a son. For Daemon, it’s another step away from the Iron Throne, another nail in the coffin of his forgotten claim. For Vaekar, it is the culmination of Otto’s quiet war—his green bloodline now rooted in the crown. Viserys, blind to the rot, has given the realm its doom swaddled in silk. Enraged, both brothers unleash fire from the skies—Aeramon and Caraxes carving twin circles of flame above the Stepstones.

Notes:

i just want to say thank you for the people giving kudos to thissss ♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

here's corlys yet again dousing water to the dragon fire. also yes, i know the thing with dorne and the targs but really just chill out cause i got plans with it. near the end of this chapter you'll see that aeramon roars out fire and i can just imagine his relief and the adrenaline pumping in his veins cause finally he truly burns.

The flap of the command tent cracked open with a gust of wind, salt-heavy and thick with tension. Lord Corlys Velaryon, still armored but drying from the dampness of sea mist, laid the letter flat on the war table. Vaekar stood at the side, eyes scanning its seal: a crimson kraken entangled with a golden sun—the sigil of a Myrish admiral with dreams larger than his fleet. Daemon, seated but restless, leaned forward as if daring the parchment to offend him.

“The Triarchy are cracking,” Corlys said plainly. “They’ve suffered losses. They fear what’s coming.”

“Then let them burn,” Daemon muttered. “We should answer with fire, not ink.”

Vaekar didn’t look at him. “It’s precisely because they fear what’s coming that we must use that fear. No war is won by fire alone.”

Daemon scoffed. “Spoken like a man who’s never buried his sword in the gut of an enemy.”

“And yet here we are,” Vaekar replied coolly, “with your sword arm stitched together by a healer I brought, in a war I helped fund, flying under a banner I helped preserve.”

The silence that followed was leaden.

Corlys raised a brow but chose diplomacy over provocation. “We could meet with this general from Myr, but it may be a ploy to gauge our numbers. Or worse—an ambush.”

“And you’re suggesting we walk into it anyway?” Daemon asked Vaekar sharply.

“I am suggesting we exploit it,” the older brother said. “Let them think they have us where they want us. Let them move first. Meanwhile, we observe, gather intelligence, and divide them from within.”

Daemon only grunted.

Corlys tapped the edge of the parchment. “We delay. If they are serious, they’ll press again. If it’s bait, they’ll move before we do.”

No decision was finalized. The meeting ended with no scheduled parley, and the letter was placed in a sealed box, alongside a dozen others Vaekar had accumulated.

The storm came not from the sea but from the brooding younger prince.

Daemon stormed into Vaekar’s tent, his expression twisted in half fury, half disbelief. Vaekar was seated before a map of Westeros, scrolls of correspondence and wax-sealed letters sprawled around him, including a letter adorned with the seal of House Yronwood of Dorne.

“You’ve lost your fucking mind.”

Vaekar didn’t look up. “Not yet. But I admit it is a tempting indulgence.”

“You’re reaching out to Dorne?” Daemon laughed, and it echoed like thunder in the tent. “That’s the plan now? Plead to the scorpions in the sand for help?”

Vaekar finally looked up, and his voice was steady, patient—but sharp beneath the surface. “I’m opening a door. Not kneeling at it.”

“They killed Rhaenys,” Daemon said, voice suddenly bitter. “And they made Aegon and Visenya torch half the fucking desert. They buried their princes in rocks so dragons couldn’t burn them.”

“Which proves that they are not fools,” Vaekar said. “They endured dragonflame and survived. Would you rather have them quietly align with Myr and Tyrosh? Or bring them to the table before they sharpen their knives in secret?”

“They won’t kneel.”

“I’m not asking them to kneel,” Vaekar bit out. “I want neutrality. I want them absent. Do you understand what it means for Dorne to simply not interfere?”

Daemon folded his arms. “You think the Prince of Dorne gives a shit about neutrality?”

“No. I think he cares about trade routes. I think he cares about gold. About maintaining power without war.” He pointed to the letter. “And the Yronwoods—they’ve always been the most pragmatic of the Dornish houses. If we get one house to lean our way, we create a fissure.”

Daemon looked away, jaw tightening. “You’re tired of this war,” he said flatly.

“I am,” Vaekar admitted, sitting back. “But not because I lack fire or blood. It’s because I see what this costs. Not just coin, or men, or steel. But the cracks it opens in the realm. Viserys is on his second wife. Alicent is with child. Rhaenyra is a girl standing on a foundation that shakes more with every gold dragon we burn. I’ve lived long enough to know when a war has more than one front.”

Daemon was silent. For once, truly listening. “I thought you wanted glory,” he said finally.

“I do,” Vaekar said. “But not the kind that leaves our name in songs written by people who survived our stupidity.”

Daemon scowled, but the words didn’t bounce off him this time.

“I’m not asking for peace with Dorne. I’m buying time,” Vaekar added. “While they argue among themselves, we strike smarter. With less risk. With fewer coffins.”

There was silence between them. Then Daemon muttered, “Still foolish.”

“Perhaps,” Vaekar said. “But I’ve been called worse.”

The two brothers, blood of Old Valyria and fire, stood facing each other in a tent full of maps and calculations, while outside, the war raged. And even here—especially here—words were as sharp as blades.

 

The wind howled through the salt-stained cliffs of Bloodstone, rattling the canvas flaps of Vaekar’s command tent. Inside, maps were spread across the war table, weighed down with carved stones and smudged with soot from a flickering oil lamp. Vaekar stood alone, quill in hand, writing a fourth letter—this one thinner on pleasantries, thicker with veiled threats.

Then came the storm. The tent flaps were flung open with force, wind howling in behind Daemon, cloaked in bloodied leathers, bandages poking out from his collar.

Last time, when you said you hadn’t lost your mind, I believed you. But now? You’ve completely lost your fucking mind.”

Vaekar didn’t look up. He finished the line, signed his name—Prince Vaekar Targaryen, Black Envoy of the Realm—and only then did he set the quill down.

"Good morning to you, too, Daemon."

"You’re writing them again. Letters to Dorne? Have you completely forgotten our family’s history? Or just ignoring it for convenience?"

Vaekar didn’t flinch. "I know our history better than you ever bothered to learn it."

Daemon stalked toward the table, slamming a dagger down onto the map. "Then you know that our grandsire fought them twice—and only came out breathing because he rode dragons. That our father bled in the Fourth Dornish War. They never yield, Vaekar. They burn, regroup, and kill again. And you—what, you think your fancy titles and silver tongue will make them bend?"

Vaekar exhaled slowly, wiping ink off his fingers with a cloth. "Our father fought because he had no choice. I choose something else."

"Something stupid," Daemon spat. “Something soft.”

Vaekar’s eyes narrowed. "Something strategic. Dorne may be a thorn, but they are not blind. If they fear our strength, they may be tempted to wield it instead of fight it. A united front with the southern coast at our back could cut off Triarchy supply routes from Essos entirely.”

"You want to ally with the same people who killed Rhaenys Targaryen? Who spat on Aegon the Conqueror’s peace terms? Who set our father’s banners ablaze in the marches?" Daemon’s voice cracked with fury—and perhaps a sliver of something more dangerous: fear.

"You think they’re your enemy because your pride demands one."

"They are our enemy!" Daemon barked, slamming his fist on the table. "They have always been. And if you had an ounce of warrior’s sense—"

"I’m not a warrior," Vaekar cut in coolly. "I’m the only one of us who still thinks like a prince."

 

A third voice interjected, calm as deep tidewater. "You remind me of Baelon, you know."

They turned to see Lord Corlys Velaryon enter, arms crossed, white hair windblown. "Your father, that is. People called him brave. Others called him mad."

Vaekar met Corlys’s gaze. "And what do you call me?"

"Ask me after this war is over."

A heavy silence settled.

Daemon paced away, raking a hand through his hair. "He’s writing them letters. More than one. The first was polite. The second less so. Now he’s threatening fire. What kind of diplomacy is this?"

"The kind that works," Vaekar said quietly. "Sometimes peace is bartered by coin. Sometimes by blood. And sometimes by reminding your enemies what you are capable of."

Corlys looked to the war table. “Dorne may see this as overreach. But if they answer him, and if it works…” he nodded slowly, “the realm will call him a miracle-worker. They’ll say even the Conqueror could not do what Vaekar did.”

 

Back in the Red Keep, whispers grew like ivy through stone.

Alicent smiled gently in court, hand resting on her pregnant belly. "My good-brother seems to forget that dragons have burned Dorne before… and it never took." She sipped her wine. "Perhaps it’s not fire he’s spreading, but weakness. A brother who courts the sands of Dorne does not always come back clean.”

And at small council, Tyland Lannister murmured to Lord Beesbury: “If he pulls it off… what do we call him then? Vaekar the Miracle-Worker?” He chuckled. “Vaekar the Mad, more like.”

“No,” Beesbury said, adjusting his spectacles. “They’re calling him something else now. Vaekar… the Brave.”

 

As the raven took flight bearing the fourth letter to Sunspear, Vaekar watched it disappear beyond the cliffs.

Daemon stood behind him, silent.

"Are you really so desperate for their help?" he asked.

Vaekar did not turn. "No," he said. "I’m desperate for this to end."

 

The tent was quiet, save for the flap of sea wind tugging at the canvas walls. A courier had delivered the letter only moments before, and now it lay open in Daemon’s hand—creased at the corners where his fingers had clenched too tightly.

A son.

The words blurred slightly from the sweat gathering in his brow. He read it again. And again. Still the words did not change.

Queen Alicent has delivered a healthy babe. A boy.

Daemon sat very still. The oil lamp beside him flickered, casting fire-shaped shadows across his face.

A son. Not a daughter. Not just a royal child, but a prince.

A Targaryen son born of Viserys.

He did not speak. Not for a while. His other hand rested on the hilt of Dark Sister, and though it did not move, the veins in his arm were tight, his jaw even tighter.

He knew Vaekar would not care—not in that way. His older brother had long buried any ambition for the Iron Throne beneath scrolls and treaties. He was the peace-weaver, the Watcher, the Wandering Flame. Even now, Vaekar only flew when the war demanded it, and even then, only with purpose. The throne was not his to take, nor did he want it.

But Daemon… Daemon had always wanted.

He did not crave the seat itself, perhaps—not truly—but what it stood for. Power. Recognition. Purpose. And for the briefest of moments, before Alicent Hightower had wormed her way into their lives, Daemon had been next in line.

He had clung to that notion. That maybe Viserys would tire of waiting for a son. That maybe he, Daemon Targaryen—brother to the king, rider of Caraxes, warrior of blood and fire—would be named heir.

He could still see the faces of the council the day Rhaenyra was declared the Princess of Dragonstone. The girl. Beautiful and sharp, yes, but young and untested. Her blood was pure, but her crown would be anything but assured. Daemon had smiled that day, yes—but inside, a part of him shattered.

He had accepted it, though. Even trained her. Because she was still blood, and he would rather see her rule than watch Hightower bastards poison the legacy of Old Valyria.

But now—Now there was a boy.

And Daemon knew this realm. He knew its lords, its septons, its swords. Men would sooner watch the world burn than kneel to a queen. They passed over Rhaenys. They would pass over Rhaenyra, too.

The line of succession now stretched longer. Thinner. More twisted. And he—Daemon—was being pushed further and further to the edge.

He folded the parchment once. Twice. Then he tossed it into the brazier. Flames devoured the words in seconds, crackling like laughter.

He rose. Strapped his armor and called for Caraxes.

If this was what the gods intended—to strip him of name, title, crown, purpose—then they would also watch as he burned their chosen enemies to the ground.

They would know that Daemon Targaryen still reigned in fire.

And as he took to the skies, Caraxes roaring beneath him, Daemon did not think of kings or queens or titles. He thought only of flame.

Not far from the smoldering coast, Vaekar stood at the edge of the cliff, wind tearing through his hair as he stared out at the horizon, a scroll clutched tightly in his fist. The ink bled from where his hand had clenched too tightly, but the words were seared into his mind already.

Alicent had delivered a son. 

Otto Hightower had done it. He had rooted his green bloodline into the very veins of the Iron Throne. The slow, insidious work of a man who smiled as he drove the blade deeper.

Vaekar’s jaw clenched. “Foolish,” he muttered aloud. “Foolish, sentimental Viserys…”

Marrying a daughter of a second-born nobody—seduced by her youthful gaze and soft, prayerful lips—a king, brought to his knees by Hightower ambition disguised as affection. And now a boy. A boy who would grow under Otto’s thumb and with his mother’s eyes fixed on a crown that had already been promised.

Vaekar did not roar like Daemon. He was not fire unchained. He was fire contained, and that made him more dangerous.

He made for Aeramon, the colossal ancient beast coiled in slumber at the edge of the mountains. The dragon raised its head slowly, his iron-gray scales catching the sunlight like armor from a forgotten age. A low rumble left his throat as Vaekar approached, not quite a growl—more of a recognition.

The Judgement Dragon had not flown in days. Not like this. Vaekar climbed atop his beast, and without a word, they took to the skies. No war horns. No banners. Just shadow and wrath.

And then came the fire. Aeramon did not screech. He did not twist wildly like Caraxes. His movements were slow, deliberate, thunderous. Each wingbeat sent gusts that rattled trees and tents alike. And when his jaws opened—the flame was not red but pale blue, so hot it turned stone black. He burned the outer cliffs of the caves, not to collapse them—but to carve warnings into the stone.

We are fire made flesh. We are fury contained.

Villages where enemy scouts had hidden were reduced to ash. Rock walls that had once sheltered commanders were marked with lines of glass where Aeramon’s breath had scorched them. Unlike Daemon, Vaekar was not lashing out in chaos—he was sending a message.

To the Triarchy. To the Free Cities. And most of all—to King's Landing.

Two dragons now reigned in the Stepstones, and if they so willed it, the entire archipelago would burn before spring returned.

Caraxes rejoined Aeramon mid-flight. Their forms were dissimilar—Caraxes wild and writhing like a serpent, Aeramon regal and monstrous like a god of death. But the two circled the Stepstones together, one howling in joy, the other silent as thunder.

From below, soldiers gawked, struck dumb by the sight of two Targaryen dragons flying in unity over war-scarred skies. Whispers rose like smoke: “The brothers have unleashed their wrath.”

The Triarchy panicked. Rumors spread like disease.

“Vhagar will soon come.”

“The Dragon's Wroth comes.”

“The sky belongs to the dragons.”

Back on the ground, when the dragons returned, Daemon was grinning—his hair windswept, his face flushed with satisfaction.

“You finally let it out,” he told his brother.

Vaekar dismounted slowly, his cloak whipping behind him. He did not answer. He merely looked back toward the sea, where the fire still danced upon the waves.

Then, softly but clearly, he said: “This was never about fire. This was about warning them how close they are to annihilation.”

Daemon tilted his head, smirk faltering just a little. He understood. He finally understood. And he would remember.

Notes:

can yall see what i did? eehhhh got that from researching a hell of lot in this stepstones war arc. i fell into a rabbit hole honestly. another thing, yey! baby aegon is here which means the dance is near. characters will be dying soon... back-to-back funerals. though i have plans with them at least before they exit the stage dw guys:))

Chapter 16: The Hollow Triumph

Summary:

The war in the Stepstones wore on, and so did the bond between the dragon brothers. With each passing skirmish, each failed accord, the distance between Vaekar and Daemon widened. Corlys Velaryon, ever the sailor navigating rough waters, tried to steady their course—yet even his seasoned hand couldn’t halt a tempest born of pride and buried wounds. The brothers fought, bitterly, viciously, until one night, under the ghostly hour of the wolf, Vaekar left without a word.

Left behind, Daemon stepped into command. He embraced the Dornish alliance with gritted teeth and plotted his final move. Disguising surrender, he lured the Crabfeeder from the caves and, with fire and fury, carved his path through blood and bone—until he stood over Craghas Dahar’s corpse. Crowned King of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea, his triumph shook the realm and unsettled the council. Yet in Daemon’s chest, the victory rang hollow. For no matter how many banners flew, how many men roared his name, the one person he longed to prove himself to—was gone. Not Viserys. Not the realm. But Vaekar. And without him, the crown weighed little more than ash.

Notes:

dramaaaaaa

finally finished this arc, yey!! celebration on both sides, for me and daemon's. naming their fight was from their grandparents who had first and second quarrels. don't worry, they'll make up. and then fight again. then make up. family and brotherhood, yeah?

The new year had come and gone with no horn blown in triumph, no flag raised in victory. Only the wind howled through the cliffs of Bloodstone, laced with the scent of salt, ash, and the quiet rot of stalemate.

Aboard the stony ridge overlooking the main camp, Prince Vaekar Targaryen stood unmoving, his black and silver cloak snapping behind him in the winter sea wind. He read the newest report from his scouts with no visible reaction, though his jaw ticked once. A streak of ink trailed off where the maester had rushed to scribble his final thoughts: We lost another fifty men at the southern pass. A fog rolled in, and they struck unseen. Crabfeeder tactics. Again.

Behind him, the tent flap burst open.

"More dead men?" came Daemon’s voice, biting as steel. “How many this time? A hundred? A thousand? Or does it matter anymore to you, Prince Diplomat?”

Vaekar didn’t turn. “Fifty-two,” he replied calmly. “Their names are written here.”

“Lovely. You can carve them on a statue once we lose the Stepstones,” Daemon snapped, striding in, armor half-buckled, sword clanking at his side. “Or will you write them in your pretty scrolls and call it peace?”

A pause. Then—

Daemon slammed Dark Sister onto the map-laden table. “We are bleeding men, brother!” he spat in sharp Valyrian. “You hide in your scrolls while Craghas nails our dead to driftwood like trophies!”

“They died for the realm,” Vaekar replied tightly. “Because unlike some, I do not throw men into fire for the sake of theatrics.”

Daemon’s eyes flared. “Theatrics? Is that what you think this is? War isn't a performance—it's blood and chaos. And right now, your ‘calculations’ have us trapped like rats.”

“We hold four of the isles,” Vaekar said, facing him now. “Before I arrived, you had one. The mother lives long when the son learns patience,” he said, voice low but clipped. “You want to storm the caves like some fool knight from a song? That is not how we win this war.”

“We are not winning, Vaekar!” Daemon roared, knocking a chalice aside, wine pooling like blood. “Your clever little deceptions work only when they don’t expect them! Now they mock us. That crab-feeding bastard dares to build forts now, out in the open!” Daemon’s voice cracked like a whip, and for once, even Vaekar flinched. “You sit here with your maps, your ink-stained fingers, counting barrels and waiting for the enemy to die of boredom. That’s not how we win this war.”

“That’s how we survive it,” Vaekar seethed, stepping forward. “You fight with your sword, Daemon. I fight with my mind. One without the other fails.”

Daemon shoved the war table, sending wooden tokens clattering to the ground. “Your mind won’t stop the Triarchy from digging into our flanks. Craghas mocks us now—he's feeding our men to the crabs again.”

“I know.” The admission was low, bitter. “He’s adapting. They’ve started breaking their camps before we can strike. Our fire is now only smoke to them.”

“So we burn them closer,” Daemon said. “Let me take Caraxes. We fly at dawn. I’ll torch the southern caves.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You’re not my king, Vaekar!” Daemon roared, slamming a gauntleted fist on the table.

“No,” Vaekar hissed, “but I am your brother—and the one trying to keep your head on your bloody shoulders.”

The silence that followed was strangling.

Then Vaekar spoke again, lower now, in fluent Valyrian, sharp and fast like blades slicing through air. “I am doing this for your sake. What are you, Daemon? A warrior or a boy?”

Daemon’s eyes flared in offense. He responded in kind: “My sake is fire and dragon. And I am both. You do not get to decide what I am—I do.”

“We have Dorne,” Vaekar said simply. “They’ve agreed to help. It changes the board.”

Daemon scoffed like it was a joke. “Dorne?” he spat. “They sat idle for decades. You think they’ll bleed for us now? You think they give a shit about the Stepstones?”

“They know what it means to oppose the Free Cities,” Vaekar said, eyes narrowing. “They know the cost if we lose. It benefits them too—”

“It benefits you,” Daemon cut in, venom in every word. “Another alliance. Another letter sent. Another friend earned. You’re not fighting a war, you’re playing fucking chess.”

Vaekar’s jaw clenched. “And you are playing at war, brother. Flying in with Caraxes, lighting up the skies like a mummer’s farce—”

“Say it!” Daemon dared, stepping forward, armor clinking, eyes wild. “Say you think I’m reckless. That I’m the fool younger brother playing soldier while you solve everything with ink.”

“I think you are tired,” Vaekar said, finally rising from his chair, tall and shadowed in the flickering light. “And angry because for once, this war is not bending to your will.”

The two brothers stared at one another like fire made flesh. Then—

“Enough.”

Lord Corlys Velaryon entered without warning, his voice like a crashing tide, his white beard damp with sea spray. “You’ll wake the entire camp. And if not that, you’ll kill each other before the enemy gets the chance.”

Daemon’s breathing was ragged. Vaekar’s was tight. Neither looked away.

“Let me speak plainly,” Corlys continued, stepping between them. “We’re being strangled here. The Triarchy has grown bold—too bold. They’ve adapted. You’re both right, but if you burn each other down, you hand them the victory.”

Neither spoke.

“I’ll ask again,” Corlys said, eyes narrowed. “What’s the next move?”

Vaekar tore his gaze from his brother. “We hold. We bait them with false movements—again. But this time, we rotate our scouting paths and leak false plans through a prisoner. I’ll coordinate with Tyland for another shipment of archers and funds.”

Daemon scoffed. “You’ll coordinate. You’ll wait. Always waiting.”

Vaekar’s voice was like ice. “And you’ll get more men killed if you keep rushing in without thought. If we fight Craghas directly, we walk into his jaws,” he said. “But if we break his flank—cut his food and fuel from Tyrosh, block their ports, and strike at night—he starves. And starving men die quietly”

Daemon was silent, jaw tight. He hated how sound it sounded. Hated that it came from Vaekar’s lips. There was no reconciliation that day.

No embrace. No truce.

When Daemon stormed out, the flap of the tent slammed like a thunderclap.

Vaekar sat back down slowly, staring at the map. The wooden tokens still scattered on the ground like broken dreams. He did not move to pick them up.

For all their victories… it still felt like loss.

He could feel the weight of his brother’s resentment like a sword at his back. He could feel the war slipping into a quagmire no clever map could untangle. Dorne’s aid gave hope—but hope was fragile. And alliances were fickle things.

The wind howled again.

And somewhere beyond the camp, in the caves where the crabs fed, Craghas Dahar grinned in the dark.

 

The moon hung low, a pale sentinel above the brooding sea. The war camp was quiet save for the crackling of embers in dying torches and the distant cawing of gulls circling the corpses on the shore.

Inside the largest tent, two shadows faced one another—Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince, fury written in every sinew of his body, and Prince Vaekar, his older brother, jaw clenched, voice sharp.

And then the shouting began.

They spoke in High Valyrian, words cutting through the thick night air like blades. It wasn’t a conversation. It was war behind closed flaps—words hurled with the same violence as swords. They were shouting now, loud enough to rouse the whole camp. Soldiers stirred from their bedrolls. Acolytes glanced at each other from the war tents. The guards exchanged glances, gripping their spears, unsure if they should intervene.

But none moved.

None understood the words. Only the tone—furious. Frantic. Fractured. They could feel the tension, the threat veiled behind the ancient tongue of dragons. Something was breaking.

Then suddenly: silence. The calm before storm. A thud of boots. The tent flap flung wide.

Vaekar emerged, draped in black, his face set like stone, moonlight reflecting off his silver hair. His jaw clenched. No words spared. No glance thrown back. His face was a storm—his eyes twin furnaces. Wordlessly, he walked the winding path to the edge of the cliff, where Aeramon rested like a mountain of iron and bone, massive eyes gleaming in the dark.

He did not hesitate.

He climbed into the saddle.

A sharp whistle—and the dragon took to the sky, wind shrieking in its wake. No words. No explanation. Only his departure and the distant, fading roar of The Watcher, gone into the clouds.

The men were left murmuring in the half-light. “The Sundering of the Flame”, they called the brothers’ fight. The Far-Flown Targaryen prince had vanished before dawn. He was gone and never seen again.

Daemon stood outside the tent, arms crossed, watching the horizon until the dot of gray disappeared. He didn't explain. Didn’t rage. Didn’t mourn.

Only said to the men gathered nearby:

"Rest well. In three days’ time, we will end this. And go home.”

 

Morning arrived, the men whispered about the fight in the tent—but no one dared ask. And when they saw Daemon striding through camp, all fire and resolve, issuing orders with an authority they hadn’t seen before, they followed.

He coordinated the formations. Mapped new paths. Drilled the archers and infantry. Barked commands like a general forged in flame.

Then came the signal—dust on the horizon.

Dorne had arrived.

Three thousand Dornish soldiers under the banner of House Yronwood, led by a grim-faced captain and a host of spearwives. Burnt-orange cloaks, long curved blades, and wary eyes.

Daemon met them at the edge of camp, Caraxes looming behind him like a devil unchained.

He greeted the captain with a smirk and said, "You remember what dragonfire feels like, don’t you? It’s colder when it doesn’t hit your side."

The Dornishman laughed—a dry, humorless sound—but nodded. “We’ll take the caves from the west.”

That night, they mapped the assault.

And on the third day, they marched.

 

A gray morning greeted them, heavy clouds dragging across the sky like bruises. The waves crashed violently below as Caraxes screeched. No word had come from Vaekar. No raven. No flame. No brother.

But Daemon Targaryen was already mounted on Caraxes—the Blood Wyrm shrieking as it circled overhead. The men gathered at his command, silent and armed to the teeth. Velaryon ships lined the shores with banners snapping in the salt wind. The third wave of soldiers, fresh and battle-starved, stood in ranks behind hardened knights and sellswords.

Daemon did not wait for a ceremony. He did not wait for caution. He marched.

With three thousand Westerosi and three thousand Dornish behind him.

Through wet stone and narrow passes, mud caking their boots and blood crusting their blades. Dornish forces and Westerosi soldiers surged forward. They stormed the caves with fury, spears slamming into flesh, war cries ringing.

Daemon cut a path through the battlefield like a crimson comet. His cloak dark with blood, his blade slick and gleaming. The air stank of burning skin and split bone. Smoke coiled into the heavens.

And then Daemon did something unexpected.

He approached the caves—where Crabfeeder's men lurked in the shadows. He laid down Dark Sister. Raised one empty hand and on the other, a white flag fluttered from his hand.

The enemy blinked. Was it surrender?

Craghas Drahar, the Crabfeeder, emerged from the shadows of his cave. Silent. Skeletal. Masked. Thin. A grotesque figure caked in blood and crusted salt, barnacles still clinging to the armor he never removed. Cloaked in the stench of rot and the armor of stolen kings. 

Daemon knelt.

The Crabfeeder's face, half-covered in a ghastly mask, twitched as he motioned to his archers. They took the bait.

Daemon stood. And smiled. Then he ran. Straight at them.

Dark Sister was in his hand in a heartbeat, cleaving through the first line of enemy men like a reaper in a field of grain. Arrows loosed from above, cutting through the wind—but Caraxes shrieked, tail coiling around the cliff and spitting flame upward, forcing the archers to scatter.

The soldiers followed their prince—charging.

Steel rang. Blood sprayed. The narrow passes filled with screams and flame. Daemon was a blur of silver and red, his blade singing, cutting down three men before his feet left the shore.

He climbed the rocks, slashing his way up, dodging javelins, smashing through the line of Triarchy defenders. The caves, once the stronghold of the Crabfeeder, now burned with dragonfire. The shadows that once gave him protection betrayed him in the blaze.

Daemon found him deeper within the cave. Craghas. Waiting.

The battle outside raged on, but in the gloom of the cave, there were only two men—two killers, two commanders.

No words were spoken. Steel met steel. Bone cracked. Blood painted the walls.

Craghas fought like a rabid hound—clever, fast, darting in and out like a shadow. But Daemon was quicker. Meaner. Angrier.

He took a slice across the chest—then returned it with a vicious stab to the gut. Craghas tried to flee—Daemon grabbed his arm, pulled him close, and cut him in his waist. Then— A swing—clean, decisive, like lightning through the throat of hesitation.

Blood sprayed the rocks. The Crabfeeder gasped—and fell.

 

Outside, Caraxes circled once more, and when Daemon emerged—soaked in blood, his hair matted, blade dripping—the battle ended. Daemon rose, sword in one hand, Craghas’s head in the other, red dripping into the sand.

Then—

Chaos.

Screams from the caves. Arrows fired in panic. The Triarchy broke ranks. They fled. By nightfall, The caves were cleared. The Stepstones belonged to the dragons.

The war... for now... was over.

And yet there was no victory cry. No trumpet.

Daemon dropped Craghas’ head at the feet of Lord Corlys.

“We’re done here,” he said, voice low.

But his gaze turned to the sky. Where Aeramon had not yet returned. 

 

Daemon Targaryen stood atop the blood-soaked cliffs of Bloodstone, Craghas Drahar’s decapitated body lying somewhere far behind him, the salt wind biting at his face. His hair clung to sweat-drenched skin. Blood—Triarchy blood—dried on his knuckles, his chestplate, and the steel of Dark Sister.

He had won. He won.

The Stepstones had been taken. The war—at least this one—was over. The armies hailed him, sung songs already being drunkenly shouted by the fires below. He was the Prince who ended the Crabfeeder. The dragon who scorched the caves. The general who led men into blood and glory.

And yet… He stood alone. No Aeramon circling the skies. No silent shadow cloaked in black to meet him.

No Vaekar.

Daemon had imagined it a dozen ways: his older brother riding down with Aeramon after the final blow, perhaps saying something like “Now that’s how you carve a legacy.” Or even a simple nod, a muttered "You did well."

But nothing. No raven. No presence. No shadow from the skies.

The victory tasted like ash.

Because no matter how loudly the men cheered his name, none of them were Vaekar.

Daemon would never admit it aloud—but he had always sought it. Not just the crown. Not just the glory. But recognition. That he wasn’t just the youngest. That he wasn’t just fire without discipline, passion without purpose. He wanted his brothers to look at him and see him.

See him not as the reckless boy who lost his City Watch post. Not the lover of brothels and bloodshed. But as the warrior, the prince, the man who brought down an enemy that had outwitted their fleets and burned their shores.

He sank to a knee on the blackened rock, dragging a hand over his face, and whispered to no one, “Where are you now, Brother?”

The wind replied with nothing. Only the crash of waves and the wind, carrying ash. The skies remained empty.

He clenched his jaw, swallowed the ache, and rose. The men would call him Victor of the Stepstones. King of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea. Let them. Let the bards sing their songs. Let the letters reach court and the banners fly high.

But in his heart, Daemon knew what was missing. And it would fester. Like all things Targaryen, it would boil into something more.

Notes:

daemon being the validation seeking sibling is my agenda lol alsooo where have vaekar gone off? also guess what they fought about.

Chapter 17: The Crown and the Silence

Summary:

Daemon was crowned King of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea by Corlys Velaryon, his sword still slick with Crabfeeder’s blood. News of his coronation swept across the Narrow Sea like wildfire until it reached the Red Keep, where the Iron Throne’s court buzzed with scandal. Whispers of treason danced beneath chandeliers, and Otto Hightower’s voice rose loudest, calling it a declaration of rebellion. But King Viserys I did not rage. He only stared at the crown drawn on parchment, as if seeing through it, haunted by the silence of one brother and the defiance of another.

By week's end, Otto was dismissed—replaced by Lord Lyonel Strong. A quiet nod to House Targaryen’s chaos, and perhaps, a feeble attempt to restore balance. Vaekar, still unseen, sent a letter—short, formal, offering approval. Then came another child from Alicent: a daughter. The kingdom celebrated. Gifts poured in. Even Vaekar sent a fine tiara and bracelet for the babe. And Rhaenyra? She received nothing. Not even a word. Alone in her solar, she raged to Mezhari, her voice trembling. “Not even a letter.” Grief sounded like betrayal when spoken aloud. And no magic could soothe a girl forgotten.

Notes:

short and sweet chapter

The air was heavy with salt and smoke, and the Stepstones—burned and soaked with the blood of Triarchy men—fell into a trembling silence. Daemon stood at the highest ridge of Bloodstone Isle, cloak torn and crownless still, his sword stained red from root to tip.

At his feet lay what remained of the Triarchy command—a pile of ash, bone, and charred banners. The battlefield below was strewn with corpses, and the sea ran pink from the tide dragging the fallen into its maw.

Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, stood beside him. His white beard was streaked with blood and sweat, eyes gleaming with respect. He held aloft a crude circlet of dark iron, forged by his men from the swords of fallen foes and fragments of enemy armor.

"King of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea," Corlys declared, loud enough for the war-torn army below to hear. "By blood, by fire, and by victory."

Daemon said nothing at first, staring at the crown in silence. But when he turned—blood-streaked and bone-tired—he gave the smallest of nods, and allowed the crown to be placed on his head. He did not smile.

This was no coronation born of peace or ceremony.

This was a warning.

 

The news arrived on raven wings and rode through the mouths of every noble house in Westeros.

Prince Daemon Targaryen had crowned himself King.

The Iron Throne’s court erupted in whispers. Some were amused. Others, outraged. Many murmured of treason. But King Viserys I only stared at the crown sketched on parchment in silence, the faintest twitch of emotion behind his wine-softened eyes.

He had not seen either of his brothers in moons.

And now one had crowned himself… and the other had vanished like mist.

Beside him, Otto Hightower wasted no time.

“This cannot stand,” he said. “He challenges your authority outright—”

“He has won us a war.” Viserys replied, soft but firm.

“A war that should never have needed fighting,” Otto snapped. “He acts without order, he disregards your council—”

“And yet he wins, Lord Hand.”

The words hung in the air like dragonfire.

Otto’s face twitched.

By week’s end, Viserys dismissed him.

Lord Lyonel Strong of Harrenhal was named the new Hand of the King—respected, pragmatic, and with no ambitious daughter whispering in his ear.

The court exploded.

Some lords called it justice, others betrayal. Alicent’s eyes flashed with hurt behind her practiced smile, but she said nothing.

Until that night.

 

When Viserys was resting in his solar, sipping sweet arbor red, a sealed scroll was brought to him—bearing the seal of Prince Vaekar Targaryen.

His brother had written.

The letter was not long, but every word was iron.

Brother,

You have made a decision that will restore balance. I trust Strong will serve you well, and your rule better. I commend your courage. And I thank you for choosing loyalty over noise.

As to Daemon… he is now King in name and deed. I do not approve of the title, but I do not contest it. A victory is still a victory, and the blood spilt is ours, not the realm’s.

Remain wise, brother. The time for feasting may be over soon.

—V

Viserys closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair.

He missed his brothers. And he missed peace.

 

Back in the Red Keep, Alicent delivered her second child.

A daughter, this time.

The kingdom erupted in polite applause. Another royal child. Another testament to Alicent’s virtue and “fruitful womb” as some old fool dared to say aloud. The Hightowers sent gifts, and feasts were thrown in Oldtown.

And then came another gift—sent from afar.

A tiara and bracelet, crafted from Myrish silver and Valyrian steel—delicate, expensive, beautiful.

It was from Prince Vaekar.

He had not returned, but he had sent a gift. For Helaena, the green babe barely days old and nothing for Rhaenyra.

 

The Princess was livid.

She sat in her chambers, arms crossed, eyes stinging—not with tears, for Rhaenyra Targaryen did not cry, but with fury.

"Nothing," she spat to Mezhari, the warlock who stood silently in the corner. "Not even a letter."

The warlock said nothing.

"I thought he loved me," Rhaenyra hissed. "He ran off to war, fine. But to send gifts to the queen’s daughter? And not me?"

“You are angry,” Mezhari said softly. “Anger is not unworthy. But it is unwise when untempered.”

“He promised,” Rhaenyra said, teeth clenched. “He promised to teach me. To stand by me. I am the heir, not that newborn greenling. I should have been his priority.”

Her hands balled into fists. A tiara? A bracelet? For her?

It wasn’t about the jewelry. It was about what it meant.

Vaekar was drifting away—lost in war and flame, diplomacy and duty.

Rhaenyra had been left behind. She missed her uncles dearly. One crowned himself King. The other had vanished like a storm after fire. Rhaenyra wrapped in black and red sat alone—angry, forgotten, and slowly learning just how dangerous being left behind could feel.

Notes:

otto's finally gone from the small council and haleana is now here:))

Chapter 18: Sands and Shadows

Summary:

After Daemon Targaryen was crowned King of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea, a fragile calm settled—forts restored, towers lit, Targaryen and Velaryon banners flying together. But the tide was turning. Racallio Ryndoon came with fire and vengeance, and with him, Dorne. The desert had risen. Old wounds from the Dragon’s Wroth—when Aegon and Visenya ravaged Dorne after Rhaenys’s death—still bled beneath the sands. Some blamed Vaekar. They said he tried to court Dorne before the war and failed, or worse, insulted them. Now, Dorne joined the Triarchy not just to strike Daemon down—but to make Vaekar bleed for thinking scrolls could tame scorpions.

In King’s Landing, his name echoed in uncertainty. Had Prince Vaekar fled to the ruins of Valyria, like mad Princess Aerea? Had he perished in fire? No gift came for newborn Aemond, no raven from the missing prince. Rhaenyra, surrounded yet alone, grew cold and bitter in his absence. Daemon, unsure if he'd been betrayed, buried his doubts beneath fire and blood. Peace was never truly won—it had only caught its breath. And now it burned.

Notes:

including all alicent's birthing each time... viserys is really clapping those cheeks of hers all the time. aemond's here, yey!

What began as a conquest for the Stepstones devolved into a waking nightmare. After the crowning of Daemon Targaryen as King of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea, there was a brief period of tenuous control. Forts were rebuilt, watchtowers lit, and banners bearing the Targaryen three-headed dragon flew alongside House Velaryon’s seahorse across the shattered islands.

But peace—if it ever truly existed—was short-lived. Across the Narrow Sea, the storm was coming.

Ravens flew in from the south like a murder of crows. The Triarchy had returned. Only this time, it was not just Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh. It was Racallio Ryndoon, the mad admiral, whose eccentric genius was matched only by his brutality. And more terrifying still—he was flanked by Dornish banners.

The desert had risen. Dorne had allied with the Triarchy.

 

The betrayal was a knife to the throat. Once, the Targaryens had stood with Dorne against the Free Cities. The sands had known dragonfire and blood, yes—but they had also known diplomacy, shared trade, and the rare occasions when Valyrian fire bowed before Dornish pride.

But now? Now they had chosen the enemy. Why? Some said it was revenge. The Dragon's Wroth still haunted Dorne’s memory—when Aegon and Visenya laid waste to the deserts after Rhaenys’s death, turning towns into scorched ruin. The wounds had festered in silence.

Others whispered it was Prince Vaekar’s doing. Some alleged he had attempted to strike an alliance with Dorne before the war turned bitter—that he had courted them with scrolls and treaties, and been scorned. Or worse, that he had scorned them.

That now, Dorne had aligned with the Triarchy not just to break Daemon’s crown—but to punish Vaekar for thinking diplomacy could tame the sands. Whispers burned through the camps like wildfire.

Daemon heard them all. And he seethed.

 

"He’s betrayed us." Daemon spat, sword unsheathed as he slammed it against the map table.

“No,” his trusted comrade said firmly. “Your brother is proud. Difficult. But not treacherous. Not to you.”

“He left before the final battle. Took Aeramon and vanished like a coward. And now Dorne—DORNE—fights beside the men who enslaved Westerosi sons. You call that loyalty?”

The trusted comrade laid a steady hand on the map. “He is fire and blood, just as you are. Whatever bitterness lives between you now, it is not treason. Look to the Free Cities—they are masters of poison. Dorne simply turned to the side they feared least.”

Daemon turned away, jaw clenched. “I will not be stabbed in the back by my own kin.”

 

But the truth came swiftly, and painfully. The Dornish prince, in a bold speech to his court, said:

"We have not forgotten the Wroth of Dragons. We do not wish war, nor do we seek alliance with tyrants who think their fire can burn away old debts. Whether they wear iron crowns or forged ones of stone, the blood of Valyria always demands more. The dragons may fly where they please, but the sun never forgets the flame that tried to scorch it. We remember the Dragon’s Wroth. We will not be pawns in another war that is not our own. Dorne will never kneel. Not to a king. Not to his dragon brothers."

 

The message rang clear. Dorne had never truly forgiven. And Dorne would never forget.

And Vaekar? He was nowhere to be found. Still off-court. Still silent. And with that, the realm spun anew.

The Green-aligned nobles crowed in glee. Otto had always said Vaekar was more danger than asset. Alicent, too, made pointed remarks during feasts: “The prince was always fond of disappearing, wasn’t he?”

But where was Prince Vaekar? No one could say.

Some said he flew east, to Braavos or Qarth, to parley with spice traders and gather foreign sellswords in secret perhaps to try and salvage the broken ties. Others claimed he turned north, beyond the Neck, seeking wisdom from the crypts of Winterfell or pacts with distant clans or perhaps toward the Wall, where black brothers would have welcomed—or feared—his return.

But the darkest tale that only a few spoke—in hushed tones—that he had taken Aeramon, the Judgement Dragon, and flown to the ruins of Valyria.

 

That rumor alone chilled the bones of the king.

Viserys, who remembered all too well what happened to Princess Aerea Targaryen, who had once stolen Balerion to fly to that cursed land and returned a melted shell of herself. The story was old, but not forgotten. Princess Aerea Targaryen, many years ago, had stolen Balerion the Black Dread and flown east. When she returned, her body burned from within, she babbled of cities still burning, of beasts with wings of smoke, and of fire that did not die.

It had taken Grand Maester Benifer and Septon Barth weeks to cleanse her corpse before burial.

He could barely stomach the thought. He dismissed the maester who brought the idea forward and did not sleep for three nights after. If Aeramon, the Judgement Dragon, had flown back to the bones of Valyria…

...then Vaekar may never return.

“I should have stopped him,” he murmured once to Lyonel Strong. “I knew something in him was breaking… but I let him go.”

 

Rhaenyra took it harder than anyone. For weeks, she had pretended otherwise—focusing on dancing, etiquette, embroidery under Alicent’s thumb. But every night, when Mezhari sat beside her with wordless calm, she would ask the same question.

“Is he coming back?”

The warlock never answered. Mezhari, however, stood firm at Rhaenyra’s side. The warlock had grown colder, sharper—even more shadow than person. And when Alicent once suggested that perhaps a different lady should be assigned to Rhaenyra’s keeping now that she was blossoming into womanhood, Mezhari simply smiled and said:

“If your Grace wishes it, I will leave. But I leave with her.”

The conversation ended there.

 

 

In the dead of night, Daemon stood over a fire-pit, watching the flames twist.

He remembered their father, Baelon the Brave—how he smiled at the tourney grounds, how he cradled his youngest son with rough, calloused hands. He remembered Alyssa, their mother, laughing in the gardens of Dragonstone. She had always said they were the last good thing she’d give to the world.

And now? He, Viserys, and Vaekar were all that remained. Fire and blood, but only embers now.

 

Vaekar’s absence was a bleeding wound in the command. He had been the spine, the planner, the diplomat holding the front by whispers and scrolls while Daemon roared from the skies.

Now? The skies were Daemon’s alone and the enemies were learning.

Vaekar’s clever tactics had grown predictable—the Triarchy now countered their supply-cutting raids, avoided dragonfire bottlenecks, and struck deeper into the islands under Racallio’s chaotic leadership.

Daemon fought harder. Caraxes flew until his wings bled from ash and smoke. And still it felt like losing.

 

At King's Landing, Queen Alicent again took to her birthing bed, and the realm buzzed with morbid anticipation. Another son. The third babe, delivered at dawn with a caul across his face, was named Aemond.

There was wine poured in his name, bells rung through the Red Keep, and silks sewn green and gold in haste by the queen’s ladies. Alicent’s triumph was quiet and calculated. Her womb, it seemed, would never run dry, and the Hightowers made sure the realm never forgot it. Otto Hightower smiled like a cat fat with cream every time someone offered congratulations. “This is the true strength of Oldtown,” he was overheard saying. “Not swords… but sons.” 

Three children by now, two sons and a daughter—all healthy, all trueborn. The Green faction rejoiced. The whispers grew louder: why cling to a girl heir, when the king had a house full of healthy sons?

 

Rhaenyra stared at the cradle of the child during the feast and bit her tongue until it bled. She had begged her father to send word. To send search parties. But Viserys, heart worn thin and dignity clinging by a thread, only said:

“He will return. When he chooses. I will not chase after a brother who does not want to be found.”

But those were lies.

He had already sent five ravens. One to Oldtown. One to Storm’s End. One to Sunspear. Two eastward. Not a single word returned.

 

Rhaenyra asked for news each morning and each night. Unfortunately Mezhari had little to offer. “No birds,” the warlock would say. “No signs in the flames.”

Her faith in her uncle—so strong, so fierce—was starting to crack, not from betrayal, but from abandonment.

It was a wound worse than any blade.

He had given Helaena a gift. A tiara. A bracelet. And nothing to her. Now he gave Aemond not even a glance. Not even a single word.

“I hope he is dead,” she hissed once in private, eyes burning.

But Mezhari heard the pain in it. The grief. Because if he was dead, then at least there would be closure. But Vaekar Targaryen was not dead. He had simply… vanished. And that was worse.

For the realm still whispered his name like a curse. Was he forging a new alliance elsewhere? Had he turned against the throne, against his kin? Was he gathering something darker than dragons, cloaked in secrets and fire?

 

None could say. But the last time a Targaryen vanished into smoke and silence… the realm burned soon after. And all across King’s Landing, the people grew uneasy. Because dragons, when untethered from duty… do not sleep. They wait.

And when they return? They return in fire.

 

At court, tongues wagged louder than ever. Alicent, ever the smiling spider in the web, feigned sadness at Vaekar’s disappearance. “So sad,” she’d murmur to her ladies. “He was such a dear to Rhaenyra. But perhaps he flies from us because he has too much to hide.”

 

And Otto, ever strategic, offered honey-laced poison: “I worry for the princess. It is unnatural… the bond they shared. The dragons have long known strange appetites.”

 

The whispers slithered. There were no accusations. Only the soft implications that something dark had tied Vaekar and Rhaenyra together. Something too close. Too devoted. Too unnatural. And with Vaekar gone, he could not defend himself.

Vaekar Targaryen had disappeared. But his absence had not. It loomed like a stormcloud. It stirred old grief, birthed new rumors, cracked alliances, and reminded everyone at court of one painful truth: When dragons vanish, they always return changed—if they return at all.

 

 

Back in the war camp, Daemon stood on the edge of the cliff, watching the sea. The fire in him had turned sour. Once, he thought this war would forge him. He would take the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea and carve a kingdom for himself, with Caraxes by his side and his brothers behind him.

But now? Now he stood alone.

One brother vanished, and the other—King Viserys—back in his halls, letting Alicent fill the cradles with green-blooded babes. The line of succession was slipping from his grasp.

With Vaekar gone, Daemon ruled unchecked, wearing his forged crown and hunting pirates like a wolf let off the chain. Craghas Drahar was dead, but Racallio Ryndoon, madman and military commander, had risen in his place—backed by Dornish coin and steel.

The Triarchy had not ended. It had mutated. Their counterattack came swift—sharp, bloody, and brutal. It became clear that without Vaekar’s diplomacy, there would be no alliances—only enemies.

Daemon drew Dark Sister from its sheath, holding it to the light. The blade gleamed crimson, a reflection of the campfires below and the blood in his mind.

“Then let them all burn,” he muttered.

Notes:

can yall tell that this is a flop chapter? if yall can, don't tell me. This chapter is a mess guys sorry:((

Chapter 19: Wings of Departure

Summary:

Tensions at the Stepstones explode when Daemon proposes a reckless plan to bait the Crabfeeder, offering himself up as false surrender. Vaekar refuses, horrified at the thought of losing his brother to foolish bravado. The two argue bitterly, voices raised in Valyrian, old wounds laid bare—love warped by fear, duty twisted by ego. When Daemon accuses him of fearing being outshone, Vaekar, furious and heartbroken, leaves in the dead of night, vowing he cannot watch his brother throw his life away. “Fly well, brother. May you see yourself crowned,” were his final words before vanishing into the sky.

Vaekar flies without direction, grief and fury bleeding into Aeramon’s fire. He lands on a quiet isle, seeking solace and clarity. There, beside his ancient dragon, he reflects on the weight of his name, his family, and the futility of endless sacrifice. For once, he dreams of a life outside their shadows. At dawn, with the wind clear and the sea calm, he sets a new course—not for home, but for Qarth. A place where his name carries wonder, not duty. A place to start again.

Notes:

every single dialogue here is spoken in High Valyrian:)) alsoo wooowww not this book reaching a thousand hits shallow win but a win nonetheless ya know? also fight revealed!!! i am really happy to bring out the sibling dynamics of these brothers as someone who is also a sibling. guess which one i am?

The tent was silent, save for the scratching of quill against parchment. Vaekar Targaryen sat at his desk, the flame of a single candle casting tall shadows over the map-strewn floor. His hand moved swiftly, purposefully, across the page—his journal. A habit from the Citadel, one he never abandoned. A prince might die a dozen deaths in stories, but in ink, he would live forever. It was his legacy he wrote—truth carved in fire, not court whisper.

He wrote of Daemon often. Of his bloodthirst, of his brilliance, of his maddening recklessness. He wrote because someone must tell the story truly—because he feared the world would twist his brother into either a monster or a martyr. And he could not abide either.

The tent flaps rustled sharply. Vaekar did not look up.

“Brother,” Daemon said, his voice firm, his presence unmistakable.

Vaekar kept writing. “It’s late, what do you want?”

“I have a proposal.”

That earned his attention. Vaekar set his quill down and turned, brows raised. Daemon stood tall, eyes burning, the same fury that had defined him since boyhood flaring behind his jawline.

“I offer myself to the enemy,” Daemon began, “Pretend to surrender. Let them believe the war is won. When they emerge—Craghas with them—I take his head with Dark Sister.”

Vaekar blinked once. “You... what?”

“It’s the only way,” Daemon pressed. “We’re wasting away, Vaekar. For every win, we lose twice. The men are starving, the Dornish are coming, and I—”

“No.” Vaekar stood, voice edged with steel. “Absolutely not.”

“You don’t have any other plans.”

“I will not sacrifice my brother,” Vaekar snapped, voice rising. “I will not let you be butchered for a show of bravado!”

“It’s not bravado,” Daemon snarled. “It’s strategy. You said yourself—this war exhausts you. You’re tired, Vaekar. You want this to end.”

“I want you to live,” Vaekar shot back. “I swore to our father, when he lay dying, that I would watch over you. Not let you play hero and die in some cave.”

“Oh, now you remember father,” Daemon sneered. “How noble of you. But don’t lie to yourself—this isn’t about oaths. It’s about fear. You’re afraid. Not for me, but for you. You think if I end this war, they’ll forget the great Far-Flown Prince. No more songs about the scholar-warrior. Just Daemon—the warrior-king.”

Vaekar’s laughter was sharp and bitter. “You think that little of me?”

“I think,” Daemon said, stepping forward, “that you didn’t come here for the war. You came here to coddle me. To control me.”

“I came here because you were injured. Because you needed me.”

“I don’t need you to baby me!”

“You’re not invincible, Daemon!” Vaekar shouted. “You took arrows in your shoulder and thigh. You barely walk without a limp. But still you want to throw yourself at the enemy because you think dying with fire in your lungs is glory?”

“I wield Dark Sister. I can do it,” Daemon growled. “But gods forbid you trust me. Gods forbid you let go of the leash.”

Vaekar’s fists curled at his sides, white with tension. “You want to be trusted? Then stop acting like a damned child!”

Daemon stepped closer, their foreheads nearly touching now. “And you stop pretending you’re our father.”

Silence. Just breath. Just rage. Just pain. And then—

Vaekar stepped back, bitter resolve carving lines across his face. “Fine,” he said, voice low. “Fly to your death. Let Caraxes lose another rider. Die like our uncle Aemon—glorious and alone.”

Daemon’s breath caught.

Vaekar’s lips twisted in a sad, scathing smile. “But I will not be here to watch. I won’t be the one to carry your charred corpse home. If you fall, I will have our mother’s dragon burn you upon the pyre. That is the only funeral I can offer now.”

He reached for his swordbelt, slung it over his shoulder, and walked toward the tent’s flap.

Daemon didn’t stop him.

“Fly well, brother,” Vaekar said, voice tight. “May you see yourself crowned.”

And with that, he was gone. Minutes later, the sky above the Stepstones roared as Aeramon took flight. The iron-gray wings of the Judgement Dragon vanished into the clouds, and with him, the last tether Daemon had to anything that felt like home.

Left in the silence, Daemon stood alone in a war camp filled with strangers, weighed down by a crown not yet his, and a brother’s final words that rang louder than any sword.

May you see yourself crowned.

A blessing. A curse. A prophecy.

And tomorrow—Daemon would make it true.

The ground was still trembling from the departure of Aeramon, his colossal wings flapping with fury, carving through the cold night air like the wrath of gods. Below, the Stepstones faded into smoke and distance. Vaekar didn’t look back. He couldn’t. His throat was tight, heart hollow, and the bitter taste of his brother’s words still burned like bile on his tongue.

He hadn’t planned to leave—not truly. But something in Daemon’s eyes had shattered him. The trust that had frayed between them for moons now finally snapped. The battlefield was no place for brotherhood. And if he stayed any longer, he feared he would no longer see Daemon as blood, but as another soldier too willing to die.

“Fly,” he muttered against the wind, his grip clenched into the ridged saddle of Aeramon. “Fly, old friend. Anywhere but here.”

Aeramon, ancient and monstrous, obeyed without hesitation. The great iron-gray beast surged higher into the stars, his vast wings swallowing the moonlight, his cry—a low, echoing wail—splitting the night. The Judgement Dragon, forged of old Valyria’s nightmares and the blood of Meraxes and Balerion, thundered into the heavens with a fury to match his rider’s storm.

Vaekar’s face was tight with restraint, jaw clenched, eyes burning. But the wind—gods, the wind tore through every mask he wore. It whipped his silver hair loose, pulled tears from his eyes he could not lie about. And when the first fell freely, he could not stop the rest. He screamed. A raw, primal scream of grief and rage, of exhaustion and love.

Aeramon bellowed beneath him, releasing a column of fire that lit the sky for miles—fury made flame. His great neck arched in pain, in shared sorrow. He felt it. He always did. The dragon coiled mid-air, veering away from the eastern winds, as if to shelter his rider from his own anguish. They soared in circles, high above a sea that shimmered with flame-light and stars. It was a lullaby in motion—violent, yet strangely calming.

After hours, Aeramon glided low, finding a small, forgotten isle. It was barren save for black sand and a ridge of rock. The sky was soft purple now, the edge of dawn touching the horizon. Vaekar slid from his mount with a heavy breath. His boots crunched against ash-coated ground as he stumbled, limbs shaking. He did not walk far. Just close enough to collapse. He sat against Aeramon’s folded claw, the dragon curling his body around him protectively, a living fortress of fire-warmed scale and memory.

There, he spoke aloud, not because he expected an answer—but because silence was worse. “I only ever wanted to protect them,” he said softly, eyes on the sea. “My brothers.”

Aeramon stirred, his rumble low. “I know Daemon's fire. He’s always burned too brightly. Too recklessly. And Viserys… he’s gentle. Too gentle. He’d rather be loved than feared. And I…”

He swallowed thickly, his voice cracking. “I stood between them. The peace weaver. The Far-Flown Prince. I bore the weight between crown and flame, hoping I could keep them whole.” He glanced down at his ink-stained fingers. “But I am not whole. I haven't been for a long time.”

He let his head fall back against Aeramon’s hide. “I’m tired. I am so tired. They don’t understand—how heavy it is, to see all the ways the realm bends and breaks. To watch as family becomes rival, as love becomes politics.”

His fingers dug into the sand. “I never wanted a crown. I only ever wanted to serve. To help. But all they see is threat. Or weakness. Or distance.” The dragon blinked slowly, a deep growl of sympathy rumbling from his chest. A small plume of smoke escaped his nostrils like a sigh.

Vaekar closed his eyes. “I don't know who I am anymore without them. Without this.” He sat in silence for what felt like an hour, wrapped in dragon-warmth and the cold stillness of dawn.

Then, finally, he stood, wiped his face and took out his journal and began to write once more. Because if no one else would tell his story right… he would. And one day, perhaps, the world would understand that even a prince born of fire could be burned from the inside out.

Beneath the light of the moon and beside the heaving breath of a dragon older than most mountains, Prince Vaekar Targaryen slept like a boy again. He had found his peace—if only for a day.

The isle was quiet, save for the rhythmic crashing of waves and the occasional low groan from Aeramon, whose slumber pulsed like thunder in his ribcage. The ground beneath them was dark and scorched from old volcanic ash, but it held them both as if it had been waiting all this time—waiting for fire-born sons of Valyria to find rest again.

Wrapped in his cloak, the prince curled against his dragon’s flank, warmed by heat that no campfire could match. It was this—this closeness, this simplicity—that stilled the unrest in him. No scribes. No war tables. No voices in his head that bore the names of Daemon and Viserys. Just wind and waves and the faint scent of fire lingering in Aeramon’s breath. He had slept in a thousand silk-filled chambers, walked the halls of kings and warlords, broken bread with high lords and foreign princes. But never was he more at peace than under the open sky, with nothing but stars above him and the pulse of Aeramon beneath.

The night faded gently into morning, a golden haze rising above the sea, casting a shimmer on the beast’s pale-gray scales. Vaekar awoke not with urgency but with purpose. He moved slowly, quietly. First stretching,then ran his fingers over the scales of his neck. The same pattern he’d traced in his youth when Aeramon was but a hulking adolescent, half-wild and impossible to break. They had grown old together now. Weathered. Wise. He spent the hours simply: foraging for fruit and cracked shellfish along the edges of the isle, He found berries, a few mushrooms he recognized from his years of study; hunting a lean hare in the bush with a dagger gifted by a Braavosi trader years ago and speared a fish with a sharpened branch. He even laughed, bitter and breathless, when Aeramon returned from his own hunt, a charred boar swinging limp in his jaws like a child’s toy. They feasted, man and beast, in silence. The sky above untroubled, as if it too was tired of fire and screaming. 

 

When the sun kissed its peak, Vaekar stripped away his armor and leathers, stepping into a quiet pool fed by an inland spring. The water was cold, startling, but it was clarity made liquid. He let it wash the soot from his body, the blood from old battles, the touch of fire from his weary skin. He submerged himself entirely, stayed there with eyes closed, as if hoping that when he rose, he would come out new. And he did.

Afterward, hair damp, clothes clean, and journal beside him, he sat once more beneath Aeramon’s folded wings and began to plan. He could not return. Not yet. Not like this. King's Landing would question him. Daemon would resent him. Viserys would lecture and weep and beg and forgive. But he was tired of playing prince, brother, peacemaker, heir-that-never-was. For too long his life had revolved around duty to others. “I’m done being only a brother,” he said at last. “Done being the ghost behind other men’s crowns. The clever son who never wants a throne.” Aeramon shifted, releasing a soft rumble. He had no wish to claim the Iron Throne. So why not claim something else? A life. A family. His own. One chosen. Loved fully. 

A legacy that wasn’t chained to war rooms or the whims of courtiers. He had flown far before—east to Volantis, to Leng, to Yi Ti. He had been welcomed in temples and palaces, libraries and night markets. But the place that lingered in memory, even now, was Qarth. He remembered the laughter of the Qartheen—velvet-tongued merchants with silken veils and painted brows, their courtyards spilling over with fruit and music and philosophies older than Oldtown. The city of splendor. Of silk-robed merchant kings and jeweled palaces. A place where people bowed not to birthright, but to beauty, wealth, and mystery. There, he had been welcomed not as a prince of Westeros, but as Vaekar the Dragon, the Far-Flown, the Flame-Bearer.

There, he had been seen for himself. He remembered the warm courtyards, the singers, the scent of spiced wine, and women and men who looked at him not with suspicion or schemes—but with wonder. And perhaps, in that city of painted doors and endless masks, he would find one more thing: a wife. Someone far from the intrigue of Westeros. Someone of peace and pride. Someone who would not want him as a prince—but as a man.

And so, Vaekar stood. Aeramon watched, tilting his massive head as if understanding. As if approving. “We go east,” Vaekar said softly, brushing a hand along the old beast’s neck. “To Qarth. Where no one will ask me about Daemon or Viserys. Where I can begin again. For once… just me.” A man who had chosen life. A man who could love, and be loved. A man who could begin again.

He mounted the saddle with fluid ease. And as Aeramon launched into the sky, wings slicing the air, fire humming in his ancient veins, the prince did not look back. He had turned his gaze eastward. Toward the city of splendor. Toward the life that might still be his. The sky ahead was wide, the wind warm, and for the first time in a long, long time—Vaekar Targaryen smiled.

Notes:

okay, so we're going to qarth! so excited:)))) but just a warning that i may be pulling some stuff out of thin air cause qarth in the sites i'm reading doesn't provide as much details and all the infos are from the present timeline so, i gotta be creative and yall have to endure it:P idk if yall peeped at the very, very subtle hamilton reference. hahaha was listening in to the songs when i drafted the story and i really couldn't get out of my head.

Chapter 20: The Dragon’s Indulgence

Summary:

In the golden heart of Meereen, Prince Vaekar Targaryen shed the weight of blood and duty to revel in something rarer than victory—freedom. Far from war councils and the ever-tightening noose of House politics, he arrived not as a prince burdened by legacy, but as a man eager to lose himself in the decadence of the slaver city. He dined with nobility dressed in tokar finery, walked among silk-draped markets, and returned familiar nods in fighting pits and brothels he once frequented on diplomatic missions. But now, he was no envoy. He was a guest of honor… and a creature of indulgence.

The city offered pleasures both subtle and carnal—flirtation from highborn daughters, whispered invitations from widower sons, and the scent of wine-drenched nights. And Vaekar, ever the dragon, did not deny himself. He charmed, teased, and tasted all that Meereen laid before him, not for king or kin, but for himself. Here, in a palace of silk and spice, the Prince of Blood and Ash burned not for crowns or councils—but for the thrill of being alive.

Notes:

sorry it took this so long. World building and researching shit is putting me off. anyhow, i did it! i know the worldbuilding and its lore is one of the focuses but like maybe not focus on it too much...(lowkey feel like i flopped on executing it T-T) the names wre really hard to do like, i just mixed and matched some sounds and there were the names. idk if some are canon characters already but i kinda doubt cause i also searched for them but yeah. this chapter lowkey serves as his bachelor party. sorry, no smut. just a bit of teasing and banter. can't write it and i'm not confident with that product of mine.

HAPPY 20TH CHAPTER!!

The sea mist clung to the iron-gray scales of Aeramon like a shroud as he descended on the ragged cliffs near the port city of Khyzari’s Landing, a modest but thriving coastal haven just near Meereen. The smallfolk scattered in awe and terror, faces turned upward toward the sky as the ancient dragon hovered above their fishing shanties and salt-worn rooftops. With the grace only an old, knowing creature could possess, Aeramon curled into himself at the edge of a plateau, awaiting his rider’s next word.

Vaekar dismounted slowly, his traveling cloak fluttering in the salt-laced wind. His silver-gold hair was tied back in a low knot, a hood resting atop his shoulders but not concealing his face fully. As he placed a gloved hand on Aeramon’s snout, he murmured in High Valyrian, “Fly free for now, old friend. Stay hidden in the high clouds. You’ve borne me far… now let me walk among men again.” Aeramon huffed, smoke curling from his nostrils before he stretched his wings and vanished into the skies. The Far-Flown Prince was, for the first time in moons, alone.

He spent two days in Khyzari’s Landing under the name “Vayen of Lys”—a merchant prince, tall and articulate, with an air too polished for the rustic port yet charming enough to earn a few favors. He wandered the sandstone alleys, dined on grilled squid and fermented plum, and played a few games of cyvasse with the sailors and slavers who dared challenge him. None won. He bought a new cloak—deep crimson with obsidian lining, and subtle embroidery that hinted at Valyrian dragons curling along the edges. Not enough to proclaim his blood, but enough to stir whispers in smoke-filled taverns. When he boarded the copper-decked merchant galley Sea’s Grin, bound for Meereen, the crew did not ask questions. The captain bowed his head once, then turned away. Rumors had already sailed faster than their ship could glide across the waters.

 

Awaiting him at the gates of Meereen stood a full court of colors and power. The harpy-bannered guard formed two lines, spears held upright, polished to gleam in the sun. Between them stood the nobles—lords and ladies of the Fifteen Families, the ruling dynasties of Slaver’s Bay, resplendent in layers of silk and wealth.

Each wore the Ghiscari tokar, draped and knotted in traditional style, a maddening labyrinth of cloth that spoke of age, power, and pride. The House of Loraq shimmered in lilac, indigo, and purple; House Hazkar in rust and gold; House Galare in greens braided with copper. But it was the House of Pahl—who held sway over the western coast—that stepped forward in white and pale pink, matching the hue of their family pyramid.

At their head stood Lord Malzakar Pahl, a stern man with coiled waxed hair swept into curved horns above his brow, and eyes lined in kohl. Beside him was his eldest wife, Lady Seraya, her painted nails tipped like talons, her eyes unreadable. The Pahls had no lack of heirs; their household was a palace unto itself. Sons, daughters, cousins, all trained in war, commerce, and courtesy. They bore their legacy not through singular inheritance—but through dominion in numbers. Nasari, the eldest daughter, stood at the center, proud and composed. She was beautiful, yes, but it was the calculating gaze behind her kohl-lined eyes that gave her real power. The others flanked her, some older, some younger—already being trained for diplomacy, trade, and war. Every one of them looked at Vaekar not with awe… but assessment.

 

“Prince Vaekar Targaryen,” Lord Malzakar said, offering a shallow bow. “Meereen remembers its friends. And it does not forget those who bring dragons to its skies.”

Vaekar returned the gesture, ever the diplomat. “Then let us speak as friends, my lord. No need for titles. I am a traveler now.”

Lady Seraya’s smile was faint but shrewd. “A traveler with wings, then. And wings… always cast long shadows.”

 

As the prince was escorted past the harpy gates, whispers trailed behind him like perfume. Some of the daughters of the noble houses stared behind painted veils, eyes measuring the cut of his jaw, the silver of his hair, the softness of his voice. The sons—hardened from training pits and polished courts—looked on with caution. He was offered wine, dates, and a silk-draped procession to the Pahl Villa at the foot of the Great Pyramid. Though the other families—Galare, Ghazeen, Loraq, Hazkar, Rhazdar, Yherizan—watched like snakes behind gold-stitched veils, none dared speak against the Pahls’ claim to his welcome. Not when his dragon might be near.

The Pahl Villa, resting in the shadow of the Great Pyramid, was a wonder of opal and ivory stone, with hanging gardens and red silk drapes billowing like sails. The family welcomed him not as a guest, but as a presence to be studied, perhaps courted. He had come to Meereen many times as a diplomat—but this time, he had no script, no mission, and no brothers in his shadow. Only himself, his fire, and the promise of something new. And so, the city opened to him. Not as a foreigner, not as a stranger, but as a prize.

 

The Pahl Villa was no mere estate—it was a gilded fortress of decadence where the breeze carried the scent of brine, spice, and something older, darker—blood beneath marble. Torches crackled along the serpent-lined walkways, illuminating veils of silk and golden harp strings as the nobility of Meereen gathered like predators to scent out the Targaryen prince. Vaekar, bathed and clad in loose Essosi robes of midnight and ember red with Valyrian glyphs only the learned might decipher, entered the central hall beneath the eyes of old statues and curious heirs. His silver hair was left untamed, catching the torchlight like strands of fire. At his side, Lady Seraya Pahl offered him her arm, a courtesy that was as much a claim as a gesture of grace. Behind them, the heirs of Meereen's Great Houses watched him like he was a feast laid before lions.

The dining hall of House Pahl was a sunken marble chamber layered with velvet pillows and reclining couches in shades of rose and pearl. Braziers of perfumed smoke wound around the pillars, and veiled dancers moved like mirages through the incense, their bodies adorned in gold thread and moonstones. The nobility of Meereen gathered around the grand spread—a parade of roasted lizard-lion, bowls of honeyed locusts, dates stuffed with crushed almonds and figs, platters of spiced goat and lemoned crab.

Vaekar sat not at the head of the feast, but beside Lord Malzakar, draped in rich black robes threaded with crimson and Valyrian glyphs. He wore no crown, no pin of office—only his dragonbone ring, and his name. And that was enough. There were House Loraq, House Merreq, and House Hazkar among others. And as the wine flowed—honeyed, spiced, potent—the conversation sharpened like knives.

Whispers stirred as he drank the wine of the evening—poured from a jug shaped like a harpy’s talon. The other houses had come in full regalia: Galare, Hazkar, Loraq, Zhak, Uhlez. Each paraded sons and daughters dressed in their finest tokar silks. All of them eager to test or tempt the Targaryen prince. House Galare, resplendent in red-and-gold silks, with twin daughters—Yzarra and Malane—who had already begun arguing over which would dance with the prince first. House Hazkar, a colder house with a reputation for cruelty, had brought two sons: Rahliz the warrior, and Nekarro, who never stopped watching Vaekar the entire meal. House Loraq had seated their third daughter, Sylase, beside him—a tan, sharp-tongued beauty with ink-stained fingers and the boldness of a woman who read too much and feared too little. Even House Quazzar had presented a young widower son, Zorren, who poured Vaekar’s wine with a knowing smile and let his hand linger a breath too long.

“Tell us, Your Grace,” Lord Malzakar Pahl said, fingers clinking his goblet. “You left Westeros amidst a war. And yet here you are. Has the blood cooled so soon?”

Vaekar leaned back, lifting his glass of golden wine. “I left it in good hands. My brother, Daemon, is fire enough for ten men. He was born for the blade—I was born to keep the realm from burning.”

There were chuckles. Someone muttered, “A diplomat’s pride.”

But before the conversation could wander, Lord Rhazdar of House Rhazdar arrived late—flanked by his four sons and two daughters. He took his seat and raised a scroll. “It seems the realm agrees with your faith, Prince. Your brother has been crowned. King of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea.”

“Indeed. I even heard,” began Lord Zhakandar of House Zhak, his hair teased into high wings of wax and gold beads, “that your brother has been personally crowned by the Sea Snake, no less.”

“King of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea. How... interesting.” said Lord Zhalor Loraq, voice like rustling silk.

The room hushed momentarily.

Vaekar raised a brow, a slow, practiced smile curling his lips. “Has he now?” he murmured, sipping his wine. “Then I imagine he’s smiling as wide as the Narrow Sea itself.”

“You are not troubled?” asked Lady Rezani Hazkar, her hands bejeweled and her voice low like silk against skin. “A crown given without the king’s blessing...”

“I trust in my brother’s capabilities,” Vaekar replied. “He was born for glory. I, for peace. Besides…Daemon is fire and fury incarnate. The kind of chaos even war learns to fear. He’s earned it. And the world will remember it.”

“But not you?” came the inquiry from Lady Nyzani Hazkar, her face obscured behind a sheer lavender veil, only her kohl-rimmed eyes sharp as blades.

“I am no king,” Vaekar said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “And I’ve no need for a crown. My duties take me where fire is needed—not where it merely burns for spectacle.”

A flicker of tension moved like a shadow between the families. They had all heard rumors of the shouting match between the dragon brothers. And though Vaekar smiled, his words held the weight of ash.

The dinner carried on—spiced lamb, roasted lizard-lion, a stew of Meereenese beans and blood sausage. Beneath laughter, there was unease. The nobles made idle jokes about the fighting pits, discussed brothels famed for both their acrobatics and their poisons. One offered to show Vaekar the Night Garden, Meereen’s most notorious pleasure house. He chuckled, “Perhaps another night. I find I enjoy being hunted more than doing the hunting.” But beneath the charm, Vaekar was calculating. He noted the sons—musclebound and golden-skinned, some too eager, others sharp-eyed and serpentine. He noted the daughters—the poised, the wild, the curious, the dangerous. Each house made subtle offerings. A dance from Miryzah of House Merreq, a song from Tollan of House Quazzar, a slave offered as tribute which Vaekar refused with a gentle but pointed smile. 

Talk shifted to the fighting pits—of a new champion from Yunkai who cleaved four men with a curved axe–a spectacle Vaekar had patronized in years past. He listened, half-lidded, as the nobles praised a new champion known as the Pale Claw and laughed about the fate of a cheating pit-master who’d been fed to his own beasts. The conversation turned darker when they discussed the slave trade. Some, like Lord Kandaq, boasted of the new Unsullied stocks from Astapor. Vaekar made no overt judgment—he had, after all, purchased a unit himself years before. For a man who plays the long game, pieces must be moved even before the game is declared. One day, someone would thank him for being prepared.

The sons and daughters of the houses eyed him closely. The Loraqs had five children of age—two sons and three daughters. The Galare twins, a matched pair of glinting bronze and dark hair, offered song and flirtation. Pahl’s third son, Seran, poured Vaekar his wine with just too much attention. A few glances. A lingering smile. Vaekar noticed, of course. How could he not? 

 

When dessert arrived—pomegranate wine jellies and sweet peppers stuffed with citrus meat—so did flirtation. Sylase Loraq quoted Valyrian poetry across the table. Nekarro Hazkar laughed too loudly at a joke Vaekar whispered only once. Yzarra Galare leaned too close, her fingers brushing the hem of his robe. Even Zorren Quazzar slipped a folded note beneath his plate—"The night is warm, my prince. If you seek stars, I know where to find them." Vaekar entertained each with mild curiosity. But his heart… was far. Farther even than the wine-dark sea. Qarth loomed at the back of his mind like a dream that had not yet taken form. And while he might share a bed here, or indulge in a moment of heat and silk and laughter, he would not give away his name—nor his lineage—lightly.

Still, he played the game. He would not marry for coin. Or strategy. Or convenience. Not this time. Love—or something like it—would guide his hand. Still, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t enjoy the chase.

When Lady Naraza Loraq leaned too close and whispered, “We would be honored to have your fire among our pyramids,” Vaekar only chuckled and said, “Careful, my lady. Fire is not easily caged.”

The night lingered on, drenched in spice and speculation. And though he laughed and drank with them, he knew it well—they were not friends. None of them were truly his friends. They were stars circling the same flame, waiting for it to burn too low or too high. He knew how Meereen worked.

 

The night air of Meereen was thick with incense and heat, laced with the distant cries of revelers and the hum of silk curtains swaying in high balconies. The great pyramids of the noble families loomed like sleeping giants under the moons, their torches casting shadows against red sandstone and polished marble.

Vaekar moved through the polished corridors of the Pahl pyramid, his steps unhurried. Beside him walked Seran Pahl, the third son of the house, robed in flowing white and soft pink—the colors of his line. The fabric clung to his lean, sun-burnished frame, the embroidery across his chest catching the flicker of the torchlight with each easy stride.

“You must grow bored of the courtly airs of Westeros,” Seran said with a half-smile, his voice silken and low, “all those stiff collars and long winters. Meereen, at least, offers heat. And... variety.”

“I’ve always found heat preferable to frost,” Vaekar replied with amusement, his tone light but watchful. “And I’d be lying if I said your city wasn’t beautiful.”

Seran tilted his head. “The city... or the people?”

The prince did not answer, but the glance he gave Seran was answer enough. They continued walking. Seran spoke animatedly of the markets—the Purple Lotus, where exotic poisons and perfumes changed hands in equal measure, and the Spice Bazaar, where even whispers were traded like coin. He described the newest Unsullied import, proudly noting the quality of the drills and the strictness of the conditioning. Vaekar nodded with polite detachment; he’d heard it all before.

“If it pleases you,” Seran offered, “we could visit the market tomorrow. You may even allow me the pleasure of introducing you to our most private delights. Sylase Loraq will no doubt insist she join. She’s grown fond of you already. Or,” he added with a playful grin, “we could keep it more intimate. There are games we play here, my prince. Some meant for four, some for three, some for two.”

Vaekar gave him a sideways glance, sharp and assessing, before a slow, unreadable smile curled his lips. “I’ll consider it.”

By the time they reached the guest chamber, the mood had thickened. The scent of myrrh drifted from braziers, and silk sheets lay already turned back on the bed carved from dark teak. Seran stepped inside first, lingering by the doorway with a casual ease that spoke volumes.

“Would you prefer solitude tonight?” he asked, though his tone implied he hoped the answer was no.

Vaekar looked at him fully now. “Do you?”

A pause. Then Seran stepped closer, his bare feet silent on the marble. “Not particularly.”

 

The doors closed with a soft thud behind them, shutting out the hush of the pyramid’s winding halls, the torchlight inside dancing as if stirred by the heat of something unsaid.

Vaekar stood by the center of the room, eyes skimming over the decadence prepared for him—soft rose-tinted lamps, a bed carved from dark teak and wrapped in silk sheets dyed blush and cream, scented oils on a golden tray. The Pahls did not skimp on hospitality.

Behind him, Seran lingered near the threshold, watching him with open amusement. “You seem unimpressed, my prince,” he said, voice a touch dry. “I do hope it's not my fault. Would you prefer a firmer mattress? Or perhaps softer company?”

Vaekar turned to him, slow and deliberate. “Are you volunteering for either?”

Seran smirked, stepping inside with a hand at his waist, letting the flowing white-pink robe shift open at the chest. “For both.”

“Bold,” Vaekar mused, walking a lazy circle around him. “You Pahls do like to live deliciously.”

“We live generously,” Seran corrected, “and with our eyes open.”

“You volunteered rather quickly to walk me to my chamber,” the prince said, voice low, teasing. “Do all sons of noble Meereenese houses escort their guests so… eagerly?”

Seran stepped forward, the silver rings on his fingers catching the light. “Only those who ride dragons.”

“Careful,” Vaekar murmured, “you might get burned.”

“I like the heat.”

The words hung in the air like smoke, heavy and fragrant. Vaekar reached out, thumb brushing along Seran’s lower lip with deliberate slowness—just a touch, a test. Seran didn’t flinch. He met the prince’s gaze, leaned in slightly, lips brushing the edge of Vaekar’s jaw, just below his ear. “Tell me what you want, dragon prince.”

Vaekar chuckled, low and smooth. “I want you to stop talking.”

“Make me.”

They stood toe to toe now. Seran looked up, smaller but unafraid. The tension simmered between them—thick with invitation.

Vaekar lowered his hand, brushing his fingers down the side of Seran’s throat, pausing at the hollow of his collarbone. “You don’t fear dragons?”

Seran laughed, low and warm. “Only the ones who hold back.”

With a faint chuckle, Vaekar pulled him in, their mouths hovering, barely touching, the anticipation electric. “Then don’t,” he whispered, “make me wait.”

They kissed, slow and testing at first, before Seran’s fingers tugged at the prince’s sash. Vaekar responded in kind, parting the silk robe that barely clung to the younger man’s hips. They stumbled toward the bed—half-laughter, half-heat—knocking aside a tray of fruit with a sharp clink against the floor.

The silk sheets rustled. The lanterns flickered. The rest unfolded behind closed doors, with nothing but the soft groans of pleasure and the distant sound of Meereen alive below them.

 

By sunrise, the blush-colored light poured through the narrow lattice windows of the Pahl guest chamber. Vaekar lay reclined on his side, hair tousled, a faint smile playing on his lips. Seran’s leg draped over his waist, the younger man’s head resting against his shoulder. The silk sheets were a tangle at their feet.

“Still afraid of dragons?” Vaekar murmured, voice thick with sleep.

Seran didn’t lift his head, only grumbled, “Only the ones that steal the whole bed.”

Vaekar chuckled, drawing him closer. “Then it’s good I prefer sharing.”

And for that brief, golden morning, the Prince of Blood and Ash let himself have peace.

Seran was gone by the time Vaekar stirred once again. Only a trace of warmth lingered on the bed, along with the faintest scent of spiced oils and sweat—memories of indulgence. The Prince of Blood and Ash rose slowly, stretching beneath the filtered gold light spilling from the lattice windows.

He bathed again, letting the cool water chase off the clinging heat of last night. With careful precision, he dressed—not in his silks of Westeros, but a black tunic embroidered with subtle dragon-thread designs across the chest and sleeves. The scales shimmered faintly with red and gold under the sun. His trousers were of soft tan fabric, loose around the legs, cinched at the knee with leather cords. He wore no crown, no sigil. But he didn’t need one. The air around him shimmered with the heat of his blood.

After a light meal, Vaekar strolled the high walkways of the Great Pyramid of House Pahl, drawing glances from servants and courtiers alike. But it was not his host he sought this day. No—he left the warmth of white-pink banners behind and made his way toward the violet-and-indigo colossus of House Loraq.

The Pyramid of House Loraq loomed vast and dignified, its walls painted with ancient murals of Ghiscar glory, its banners fluttering in rich purples, indigos, and lilacs like bruised silk against the sky. The guards did not stop him. They bowed. The doors opened.

Lord Zhalor Loraq greeted him in the inner courtyard, clad in a deep violet tokar with a golden sash. His wife, Lady Meylena, stood beside him, serene and poised with a ring of golden chains draped from her ears to her hairline. After the niceties were exchanged, Vaekar wasted little time.

“If I may,” he said, offering a courtly bow to both, “I’d request the company of your daughter, Lady Sylase, for a day’s promenade. She is gracious with conversation and sharp with wit. I find such traits rare.”

Zhalor exchanged a brief glance with Meylena before nodding. “You honor our house, my prince. She shall be ready shortly.”

Sylase Loraq emerged with a smile, dressed in a fine lilac tokar that shimmered in the sunlight, gold bracelets circling her wrists and a sheer veil of gauze fluttering behind her like mist. Her dark eyes held mirth—and something sharper, more deliberate.

“Prince Vaekar,” she greeted, dipping her chin, “I was beginning to think you preferred House Pahl’s courtyards.”

“I prefer variety,” he replied with an easy smile. “And today, I find myself curious about the violet shade of Meereen.”

They descended the great pyramid in a palanquin borne by six lithe slaves, each adorned in gold collars and oil-slicked skin. Sylase lounged beside him, her fingers lazily drumming against the silk cushion, brushing his sleeve whenever she spoke.

“So,” she mused, “your brother is at war, and you are here playing diplomat. Or are you playing something else?”

“I play many roles,” Vaekar answered, watching the streets pass beneath the open curtains. “But you are mistaken. I am at war—just not with swords.”

“Mm,” she hummed, tracing a finger down the line of embroidery on his chest. “Perhaps we’ll see what kind of victory you seek.”

Their first stop was the Spice Market, a cacophony of sound and color. Stalls brimmed with saffron and smoke, dried snakes and red lotus. Sylase took the lead, introducing him to the Purple Lotus merchants near the pyramid of Rhazdar. Vaekar smelled perfumes laced with aphrodisiacs, sipped honeyed wine from jade cups, and tasted a dried fig soaked in fermented plum vinegar. Sylase fed it to him with her fingers.

As they wound through the market, Sylase nodded toward one of the large archways—the Red Street. “Would the prince like a souvenir?” she teased. “Perhaps two?”

“Another time,” he said smoothly. “When I don’t intend to walk straight afterward.”

They laughed, and the palanquin soon carried them toward the famed brothels of Meereen, all of which Vaekar knew well—though he pretended unfamiliarity. There, they encountered Rahliz and Nekarro Hazkar, lounging at the terrace of the Scarlet Vow. A Red Grace leaned over Nekarro, her robe sheer and clinging, while Rahliz smoked a hookah laced with dreamvine.

“Care to join us?” Nekarro offered lazily, waving a hand. “The prince must see how Meereen worships beauty.”

Vaekar smiled as he stood beside Sylase. “Perhaps another time. I intend to sleep tonight.”

Sylase chuckled beside him. “A shame,” she said, “the Vow has very soft beds.”

Finally, they arrived at the Great Pit of Daznak. Its towering Gates of Fate loomed above them—two bronze warriors forever locked in mutual slaughter. The crowd roared within.

Inside, blood painted the sand. Two fighters—one in chains, one in gleaming bronze—circled each other beneath the scorching sun. The scent of iron and sweat hung heavy in the air.

Zorren of House Quazzar, a widowed son with sharp cheekbones and a blood-red tokar, sat beside them. “The art of death,” he said, gesturing. “Poetry, isn’t it?”

Vaekar folded his hands, watching the dance of steel. “It’s religion, isn’t it? To spill blood for the gods. And for the crowd.”

Sylase leaned toward him, voice low. “And what do the dragons spill blood for?”

Vaekar turned to her, eyes gleaming. “For fire. For vengeance. For memory.”

She studied him for a long moment before giving a small, knowing smile. “And here I thought it was for pleasure.”

Vaekar tilted his head. “You’d be surprised. The line between the three is thinner than you think.”

As cheers erupted from the arena, Vaekar leaned back against the cushions, his gaze fixed not on the fight—but on the shadows behind every smile.

He was far from home, yet right in his element. Among snakes in silk, in a city that whispered of fire.

 

The sun had dipped low, casting Meereen in molten gold and rose-petal red. The cheers of the crowd in the fighting pit still echoed as Sylase leaned into Vaekar’s side, her perfume sweet and spiced like the markets they had walked through. Her fingers traced idle circles on his sleeve.

“I tire of blood,” she purred, glancing past him to Zorren. “What of pleasure?”

Vaekar arched a brow, slow and deliberate, already smiling. “Lead the way, my lady.”

A palanquin was fetched, this time heavier with anticipation than noble ceremony. Sylase sat between them, her bare leg brushing both their knees as the silken curtains swayed with the desert breeze. Her laugh was low, head tilted toward Vaekar. “You know, people in the city are already whispering about you.”

“Let them,” he murmured. “They always do.”

“They say the dragons are not only wild in war but… free in their beds.”

“And are they right?” Zorren asked, voice like velvet and wine.

Vaekar smirked, his gaze flitting between the two. “You’ll have to tell me.”

The inn was quiet, tucked just behind a curtain-draped colonnade near the fighting pits—where victorious warriors often came to celebrate. But tonight, it would not be champions who claimed the room, but a prince, a widow, and a daughter of old blood.

The private suite was lush with plush cushions, a low table set with chilled wine, figs, and rose-stained dates. The curtains were drawn, the lamps flickering with orange light.

Sylase turned to face him as they entered, running a painted nail along his chest. “And so it’s true… what they say of Targaryens.”

Vaekar’s smile was slow, indulgent. “And what, pray tell, do they say?”

Zorren leaned against the wall, arms folded, eyes flickering with amusement. “That they don’t play by rules. That they share their fire… with many.”

Sylase leaned in, lips brushing Vaekar’s jaw. “Will you show us how dragons burn, prince?”

Vaekar answered not with words, but with a kiss—deep and drawn out, the kind that tasted of smoke and control. He claimed Sylase’s mouth like a secret, fingers curling at her waist.

It was Zorren who turned his head gently after, tilting Vaekar’s chin and kissing him with slow confidence. There was no urgency—only heat, curiosity, and the unspoken thrill of surrender.

Sylase stepped closer, placing a hand on Zorren’s chest, then another on Vaekar’s. “You two kiss very prettily. But don’t forget me.”

Their laughter was warm, tangled in flirtation. Vaekar glanced between them, golden hair glinting under the lamplight. “I never forget a lady. Or a lord.”

Sylase pulled them both to the pile of cushions beside the wine tray, where fingers tangled and mouths met with teasing slowness. They were careful, reverent, but wicked too—trading glances, kisses, and whispers like coins in a foreign bazaar.

“You’ll ruin me,” Zorren murmured against Vaekar’s neck, drawing a laugh from Sylase.

“Oh no,” she whispered, slipping a hand around both their shoulders. “You’ll ruin me.”

“And what if we all fall together?” Vaekar asked, lips brushing her ear.

“Then we fall,” she said. “Gloriously.”

The night stretched, layered in silk and sighs. Nothing hurried. Nothing forced. Only the glow of lamps, the quiet rustle of fine linen, and the gentle hum of desire between three bodies tangled like serpents in a Meereenese mosaic.

When morning came, only the warmth remained—along with the scent of spiced wine and something more ephemeral: a memory of pleasure shared freely, without shame, as the dragon among them drifted back to his thoughts of fire, crowns, and far-off Qarth.

Notes:

love me some pride month material lol be who youuuu areee. vaekar got game yall. it sad to think that he ain't got real, real friends, ya know? but whatever gonna have to thug it out. anyway, everytime i think i've written the longest chapter yet her comes another one. my gdocs has now 182 pages which is a lot wordsss. thanks for the kudos, people. encouraging you to comment as well. i will try my best to answer if you have any questions.

Chapter 21: The Greatest City That Ever Was Or Will Be

Summary:

Leaving behind the indulgences of Meereen, Vaekar turns his gaze toward Qarth—the “Queen of Cities,” famed for its wealth, beauty, and politics as sharp as its ivory towers. Welcomed with luxury and ceremony, the dragon prince quickly learns that in Qarth, every gesture hides a bargain, and every smile masks calculation. At the grand feast, he declares his intent: he seeks a bride, a future, and perhaps a new legacy. The revelation electrifies the room—merchants see trade routes, Pureborn see bloodlines, and rival guilds see leverage.

Amid the gilded halls, Vaekar finds himself not only navigating Qarth’s labyrinth of alliances but also facing a familiar figure: an old flame whose presence stirs memories of a forbidden past. Surrounded by offers of power, wealth, and influence, he must decide whether to choose strategically—or dare to follow the path of his own heart. In a city that already possesses everything he offers, the question lingers: Will he claim the life he seeks, or will Qarth claim him instead?

Notes:

hey, how yall doing?

and we arrive in qarth. so happy to finally reach this part of the story. this is where he will spend the remaining of his days just until he goes back to the main storyline. i had so much fun and also stress in writing these because there was almost nothing in the barrels about the houses that are ruling in qarth. i made them all up and just went with headcanons on what they are and how they move. since this is a fantasy story, i also appreciate the culinary freedom i get to take, cause wdym they're eating pickled jelly fish and curried squid… what?! i lowkey miss when i'm shooting out chapters and ideas were just flowing but now i am hip-deep into the lore.

enjoy the 10k+ words meal:))

The morning sun shimmered against the sandstone walls of Meereen, casting golden light across its pyramids as Prince Vaekar Targaryen rose once more within the lavish guest quarters of House Pahl. The silken sheets were tangled, the air perfumed with incense, but the thrill of the city had not dulled. Today, he was to be hosted by House Galare—ancient and proud, with wealth not only in coin but in the lush farmland they cultivated beyond the city’s outer rings. Known for their influence over Meereen’s food trade and their deep connections with Astapor’s spice dealers, House Galare welcomed him dressed in red and gold tokar silks, the sheen of their finery catching the light like flame.

Vaekar arrived mounted not on Aeramon, but by a palanquin—already beginning to enjoy the small luxuries Meereen afforded. Yzarra and Malane, the Galare twins, greeted him at the base of their pyramid. Dark-haired, amber-eyed, with the sharp confidence of women used to being admired, they bowed low and smirked when they rose. "We had hoped you'd wear something tighter, my prince," Malane murmured in Meereenese Valyrian, the kind that rolled like honey off her tongue. “If you're to learn our harvests, you might as well look the part of a farmer,” Yzarra added.

Despite himself, Vaekar chuckled. "And if you're to guide me, I pray your fields are not as dangerous as your tongues."

They toured the Galare estates outside the walls—verdant, almost unnatural in the dry lands surrounding Slaver’s Bay. Irrigation powered by slaves, spice gardens that coiled with fragrant vines, and aqueducts dating back to Old Ghis. Though he had sworn this leg of his journey was for leisure, the prince could not resist—eyes darting to cartloads of exotic fruits, to tall-stalked grain with superior yield. “The crown could import these,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. “A single ship of this barley could feed the Stormlands through a long summer drought.”

"Even in your escape, you think of your brother’s table," Yzarra teased, brushing against him. "Duty looks tight on you."

“And yet you wear desire just as snug,” he returned with a smirk.

After the farms, they took him to a pleasure house nestled near the Black Canal, renowned not for its excess—but for its discretion. There, he was introduced to Tavaar Naqqan, a nobleman of their generation—tall, olive-skinned, with curling hair bound in golden clasps and dark eyes that weighed Vaekar as one might a precious gem. Tavaar was the youngest son of the Naqqan line, which presided over Meereen’s silver trade and the largest silk dyeing house in the city. "You drink wine," he said as he poured Vaekar a goblet, "but have you ever tasted silk?"

Vaekar met his gaze. "Not yet. But I do intend to before I leave Meereen."

The evening passed in a haze of spiced wine, low laughter, music, and the hum of subtle flirtations. Yzarra whispered a scandalous joke in Ghiscari into Vaekar’s ear while Malane dared him to test the city's famed "honey fruits" fed by slaves in a dance of tongue and syrup. Tavaar joined in with droll sarcasm, arms draped across the couch like a cat too lazy to pounce—yet too dangerous not to watch. The tension between them all was undeniable—coiled, warm, alive. Their words slowed, turning into half-finished thoughts. Fingers brushed when passing a cup, lingered when not required to. Their eyes twinkled as their hands roamed each other’s bodies—unhurried, unafraid, testing where comfort ended and curiosity began. 

The laughter faded into something quieter. A silence that wasn’t empty but heavy, rich. They didn’t simply drift apart when the hour deepened—they drew closer, shadows overlapping, breaths mingling. And when the lanterns finally dimmed, the night itself decided to look away.

On the fourth day, Vaekar was escorted to the training fields beyond the lower terraces of Meereen, where the Unsullied drilled beneath the unforgiving sun. Rows upon rows of spears struck in perfect rhythm, leather sandals scuffing against the packed earth. The footwear was cheap, worn, and thin—just enough to shield their feet, yet a clear reminder of the lives they had been forged from. Sharp shouts of command cut across the heat, answered by the grunts of soldiers straining in unison. Still, beneath the noise, there remained that relentless undercurrent—the steady, almost hypnotic thud of bodies in motion, a sound as precise as a drumbeat.

Each man fought not to best another, but to perfect himself. Discipline, pure and unyielding, defined every breath they took.

Vaekar watched from beneath a shaded canopy of lacquered wood. His silver hair was tied back, a thin veil draped over the lower half of his face to keep the dust from his throat.

“I wonder,” he mused aloud, voice like soft steel, “if our knights in King’s Landing might benefit from such discipline.”

The commander beside him let out a short, dry laugh.

“Only if they learn to keep their tongues from wagging. Or their wine from spilling down their fronts.”

Vaekar’s eyes remained fixed on the sparring formations.

“That may be too steep a price.”

The two men said nothing more. Words weren’t needed—not here, not amidst the hush of honed violence.

 

Later that afternoon, House Pahl, eager to extend its favor, invited him to view the city’s southern bay—a complex tapestry of docked vessels, coral-stained hulls, and rust-slick chains. The wind off Slaver’s Bay stung with salt and spice, and the markets that spilled into the wharf reeked of exotic oils and flayed fish.

He boarded a trading barge, the finest Pahl had to offer, and was shown the routes of their trade fleet. There were talks of wealth and silk and elephants, but Vaekar’s attention was pulled elsewhere: a group of deckhands and sailors, raucous and sunburned, were arguing near the stern, voices raised in a mishmash of Low Valyrian and Westerosi gutter-talk.

A burly pirate, shirt half-buttoned and reeking of fermented dates, slammed a tankard onto a barrel and declared: “The green-licking bastard’s been tossed! King's Hand’s not that snake Hightower no more. Got a new one now—some Strong cocksucker, cracks skulls better than he talks!”

Laughter erupted around him. Someone spat overboard.

Vaekar turned his head—just slightly. Otto Hightower… gone. In his place, Lyonel Strong. A change long needed. The weight finally shifted.

The pirate had no idea he’d just delivered that message to the king’s own blood, and Vaekar offered nothing in return—not a glance, not a word. He only turned his eyes to the sea.

 

That evening, in his private quarters overlooking the bay, Vaekar lit a single candle and took up quill and parchment. The wax seal was carved with his sigil. Each word he wrote was chosen like a blade from a rack—sharp, clean, precise. He stood at the edge of the deck long after the raven had flown, the sea whispering below, ships creaking around him. 

It was time. His time here was done.

 

The sun over Meereen was a burnished coin—ever watchful, ever relentless. It beat down upon the city’s golden pyramids and cracked streets with equal fury, casting long shadows where secrets and stories festered. He had remained in Meereen longer than expected. Seven days, to be exact. Seven days of offered wine, carefully worded speeches from councilors, and ceremonial gestures from house-lords who lived more like merchant princes than noblemen.

 

At dawn, a final feast was held in Vaekar’s honor. Beneath the towering arch of the city gates, beneath the shadow of pyramids and brass warrior statues, the Great Masters gathered in ceremonial tokar—House Pahl in white and pink, Galare in crimson and gold, Loraq in lavender and silver, Naqqan in navy and smoke-gray. “You are always welcome here,” Lord Zhalor Loraq said. “Both you and your beast.” At that, the air shifted—the flap of wings echoed from above.

Aeramon descended in a swirl of wind, his massive wings stirring the sand and awestruck silence from the crowd. The sight was a spectacle—iron-gray and ancient, a living legend from the blood of Balerion and Meraxes.

Vaekar looked back only once before he climbed into the saddle. Tavaar bowed low, Yzarra blew a kiss, and Sylase Loraq gave him a parting wink from the watching crowd. The city had given him much—temptation, intrigue, and a chance to breathe as no one’s brother, no one’s strategist. Just himself. But the pull in his chest knew its direction. Eastward.

He whispered to Aeramon, "To Qarth."

And in the next heartbeat, the dragon took flight, carrying the Prince of Blood and Fire into the sky, toward the shining city of spires, spices, and secrets. Toward whatever new chapter awaited him there.

The sun blazed in yellow–white brilliance above the Red Waste, and through its shimmering heat flew Aeramon, the ancient iron-gray dragon whose wings shadowed a thousand shifting dunes. For four long days, they crossed barren lands, wild oasis towns, and jeweled rivers that threaded their way toward the glittering gem of the east. And now, on the fifth day, the city appeared on the horizon like a mirage solidified by stone and ambition. Qarth. The greatest city that ever was or will be—or so its people liked to claim.

Vaekar Targaryen circled above its towering walls thrice, the city’s infamous triple barriers rising one after the other—thirty feet, then forty, then fifty. Engraved upon the outermost were great beasts locked in eternal combat: lions devouring stags, krakens wrestling wyverns, elephants in armor crushing men like ants. The second wall bore the art of war: archers in gold and chariots set in silver, soldiers whose eyes blazed with obsidian. The final wall, closest to the heart of the city, was etched with the oldest art of all—lovemaking in all its forms, delicate and depraved, erotic and exalting, celebration and ceremony. Painted by the sun, the city shimmered like heat made real.

A herald's trumpet sounded as Aeramon landed beyond the last wall, wings folding in a storm of ash and sand. Vaekar dismounted in silence. His dragon towered behind him, breath misting, its tail curling like a serpent of old Valyria.

 

The Thirteen came first—Lord Xhoban the Goldenhand, robed in opulent jade with rings of citrine and pearl upon each gloved finger, stepped forward with a bow deep enough to graze the sand. “Prince Vaekar of House Targaryen,” he said with a practiced smile, “your flame warms even this distant shore.” Behind him stood other merchants draped in colored silks and scented with saffron, men and women who had bartered kingdoms for spices, and watched kings rise and fall like market prices.

From the Ancient Guild of Spicers, Matriarch Sarya Lo Val glided like a mirage in shimmering red samite. Her eyes were lined with gold dust, and she held in her hands a basket of Qartheen silks and rare incense. “The gods are kind to bless us with such beauty,” she purred, “from the west of dragons to the east of spice. May your breath be always perfumed, my prince.” She kissed both his cheeks, her rings cold against his sunwarmed skin.

Then came the Tourmaline Brotherhood—three figures masked in black and amethyst, but it was the one in the center who spoke. “For the Prince of Blood and Ash,” he rasped, and produced a box of shadeglass carved in the shape of a snarling dragon’s maw. Inside lay a half-mask, crafted from volcanic glass, which could be worn over the lower face. Its jagged teeth curled in a frozen roar. A whisper of Valyria. A warning cloaked in a gift. Vaekar took it without flinching, the flames of Aeramon reflected in its obsidian curves.

Finally, silence fell as the Pureborn arrived—arrayed in robes of moonlight and coral, mounted atop camels bedecked in gemstone-inlaid armor. Their high helms shimmered with copper tusks and long silk plumes. At their head rode Lord Xho Uthezer, pale as salt with eyes like sunbleached bone. He said nothing. Instead, he extended his hand, and at his signal, servants unfurled a carpet of flower petals—blue and violet, white and pale green—stretching from the dragon to the gates of the city.

A silent invitation. A royal welcome. A recognition of who he was—not just a prince, but a player. One of fire. One of coin. One of dreams yet to be claimed.

Vaekar’s lips curled in a slow smile. “Then let us see,” he murmured to himself, stepping forward, “what Qarth has to offer the dragon.”

The City of Splendors had opened its gates, and the dragon had entered.

The hall of the House of the Thirteen glowed with lantern light, casting long shadows on marble floors veined like ancient maps. Drapes of translucent silk shimmered overhead, the floor inlaid with mosaics of dragons, ships, and roses. Braziers burned with spices—cinnamon, star anise, myrrh—saturating the air with heady perfume, coiling in the air like ghostly serpents. Musicians played strange-stringed instruments, and dancers with veils of liquid silk spun like whispers between the tables, painting stories of sea voyages and dragonfire with their movements. Slaves in gold-painted masks served iced wine from golden ewers and cut delicacies of pickled jellyfish, lotus-root, firefruit, and curried squid. Laughter and the clink of chalices filled the night.

Vaekar Targaryen did not sit at the highest table—Qarth’s ways did not bend easily, not even for dragonlords—but he was close enough to matter. Gilded eyes turned to him often, weighing him like merchants do fine gems. One by one, members of the nobles toasted the prince.

“Where a dragon flies, gold follows,” said Xhoban the Goldenhand, master of ships.

“The markets stir, for a legend has landed,” added Sarya Lo Val, matriarch of spice. 

His tunic of black and red shimmered faintly with thread-of-dragon, and when he rose from his seat, the room stilled. A servant refilled his chalice with jade-colored wine. He held it in one hand, the other resting casually on the hilt of a curved dagger he’d received as a gift from a Spicer lord. He smiled—slow, deliberate—and let the silence settle like ash before he spoke.

“My hosts,” Vaekar began, voice deep and commanding, “I bring you no offers of coin, no urgent treaties, no summons of war. I come not as envoy, nor as prince of fire and blood. Tonight, I am merely a man. A man in search of a wife. A partner of mind and might, of fire and grace.”

There was a flicker through the room like the gust of a flame. Whispers flared behind fans and goblets. Some looked amused, others alarmed. The noble houses of Qarth had daughters aplenty—draped in silk and painted gold—but dragons were dangerous creatures to tie your name to. Some saw opportunity. Others saw extinction.

He let the weight of his words linger. Slowly, his gaze swept the hall—passing over veiled ladies, jeweled matrons, and curious lords—until they settled, unwavering, on a woman seated among the Thirteen.

Lady Qezari Lo Vazar.

She wore lilac and opal like starlight draped over shadow, her long, ink-dark braid coiled over one shoulder. Her eyes were sharp as ever—clever and unreadable, like a puzzle half-solved. She met his stare with quiet confidence, a single brow arching, the faintest smirk curling the corner of her lips.

It was her.

The ghost of a flame long buried beneath duty and distance. Once, she had led him through the spice bazaars and silk courts of Qarth, showing him her city not as a diplomat but as a secret lover. Once, they had touched fire. And then he had left—because princes do what duty demands and she had been betrothed then. He had said goodbye with no promises. And yet neither had truly looked away. They had followed each other from afar like constellations shifting across distant skies. Now the stars realigned.

The other nobles stiffened. Some with ambition, some with insult. A few whispered of bloodlines and dragons and what it would mean if Valyrian fire mixed with Qartheen silk. House Vel Teyraan’s heir looked ready to choke on his wine. The matron of House Zynari Qu narrowed her eyes. Lord Laor Mo's son murmured something cruel behind his hand.

But Qezari only tilted her head, simply lifted her goblet, raised a perfect brow, and offered him a smile that was half dare, half memory.

The dragon had returned. And he’d announced his hunt. Let them all smirk, scheme, and sulk. The game had just begun.

The sun had not yet set when word spread like wildfire across the great bazaar that the Pureborn would host the dragon prince before the Thirteen could lay their silken carpets and strew their garlands. It was a bold claim, veiled in courtesy, but to the people of Qarth—where form was substance and tradition a fortress—it was a declaration of precedence. After all, the Pureborn claimed descent from the kings and queens of ancient Qarth, their bloodlines older than the tiles upon which they walked, and as they would say, far more enduring. Their name itself, Pureborn , held weight far beyond ceremony: it signified not only royalty, but the cruel, quiet belief in racial sanctity. Even among the ivory-skinned Qartheen, those who did not share their blood were deemed lesser. It was a claim of purity , racial and divine. In their eyes, they were not only heirs to royalty—they were guardians of unblemished legacy. Their bronze-armored guards were not for show alone; they were a message: Qarth had power. And power had heirs.

 

Vaekar Targaryen, clad in robes of black and deep crimson, his silver-gold hair bound in a low knot, arrived with the same calm that cloaked him in every court. But inwardly, he measured every gesture. This was not merely a visit—it was an appraisal. He knew what they wanted. The city had heard the rumors, carried on sea winds and market whispers: that the Far-Flown Prince was unwed, and his House—though mighty—was divided. A bride to the dragon might mean favor, fire, and fortune. Vaekar stood before them, regal and measured. He felt the pressure not only of foreign expectation—but of legacy. His House. His brothers. The Realm. His heart stirred at the memory of a fire-eyed merchant’s daughter, bold and untethered, but his mind… his mind was calculating the map that unfolded before him.

 

To wed a Pureborn was to secure a bloodline older than many kings. But to choose them meant endorsing a society that claimed superiority by birth. Would the Realm understand? Would his House? Would he? The thrones awaited his answer. The court of Qarth had begun its game. 

 

But as he stepped onto the marble stairs of the Hall of a Thousand Thrones, he thought of another reason. In the deeper hollows of his mind, despite all rationality, despite the years passed, he still considered the political advantage of wedding a daughter of the Pureborn. It was not love—it was legacy . The idea of blood so old it nearly fossilized, joined to Valyria’s fire—that kind of union stirred thoughts of dynasty. He hated himself for thinking it, yet could not deny the cold allure of it.

They were escorted by the Civic Guard, their formation pristine. Bronze plates glimmered over dusky tunics, long lances bristling in synchronized rhythm as they moved through the court halls. Their round shields bore the sigils of their masters, and the quiet power of the procession was not lost on the prince. These men were not the ragged sellswords of distant ports—they were city-born soldiers, bound by tradition and the unseen chains of the Pureborn’s command.

They led him through the palatial causeways toward the Hall of a Thousand Thrones, a structure so vast it defied sense—its ceiling stretching higher than any sept dome in Westeros, its columns carved with tales of ancient Qartheen conquest and divine favor. Inside the Hall, where a thousand thrones lined the walls like petrified ancestors, the air was perfumed with exotic resins and chilled by great slabs of ivory and obsidian. The Pureborn, each in robes of seafoam, lilac, and pale gold, welcomed him with open palms and regal smiles. They responded to flattery, and Vaekar, raised among the venomous courtesies of court, gave it to them like a serpent offering fruit. He praised their city’s grace, the splendor of the Hall, the refinement of their dialect—yet none of it sounded hollow. He meant what he said. He appreciated the weight of ancient things, of statues carved not in imitation of the past, but by hands from the past.

They seated him on a divan of glass and silk, offering chilled wines laced with lotus essence, candied fruits, and petals soaked in honey. Daughters were brought forth— not yet offered , no. That would be unseemly. But they danced, sang, played instruments of strange strings. The prince observed, not as a man evaluating suitors, but as a dragon gauging what tribute would best please him.

All the while, outside the walls of the Hall, the city watched. Some nobles whispered of how desperate the Pureborn had become. Others, shrewder, recognized the shift— a game had begun , and the opening move had been made. There were already calculations written in the glances of merchant queens and veiled priestesses. Who would be the next to offer a daughter? Would it be a perfumed noblewoman from the Saffron Lane? A jewel-eyed heiress of the Shadow Market?

For now, Vaekar basked in the adoration. He laughed— freely , for once. He complimented a maiden’s verse, listened to a boy’s tale of sea serpents near the Jade Gates, and took no counsel but his own joy. And yet, even in the warmth of the moment, in the flicker of candlelight on polished marble, he felt the weight of a thousand gazes and a thousand thrones—watching, measuring, waiting for the dragon to choose.

 

He thinks to himself, he knows : These are the "pure" people of Qarth. Bloodlines kept locked behind ivory gates for millennia. To marry one of their own would not just win favor—it would bind Valyria’s last heirs to the old royalty of the East. It would mean prestige. A statement to the world that the dragonlords have not lowered themselves to trade, but risen to forgotten kingship.

 

And yet…

 

She stands in the shadows.

 

Qezari Lo Vazar. Regal. Poised. Not seated on a thousand thrones—but rooted in the real power of Qarth. She who had once shared whispers in the baths with him. She who had once promised nothing, yet offered everything.

 

And while the Pureborn prattle about blood and memory, Vaekar finds himself glancing toward her again. He cannot ask for her hand yet. Not while diplomacy is dancing on knives.

 

But he wonders…

 

Would Qezari still remember how he tasted of summerwine? Would she know he still carries the scent of her in his dragonleather cloak?

The moon had risen, casting its silver gaze across the white marbles and crimson silks of Qarth. Its light spilled through the open terrace where Prince Vaekar sat alone, his shadow stretched long over the tiled floor. The scent of exotic spices lingered in the air from the feast he had just left behind, yet he barely noticed it. He was tired, but not enough to sleep. And so, as he often did in the quiet hours when no voice could answer him, he reached for his journal.

Ink met parchment with practiced ease, and his hand moved with a restless energy. Since Aeramon landed in this city of gates and masks, he wrote, I have been caught in a tide I did not expect.

He had been received with reverence—velvet-robed nobles, drummers announcing his name, and white peacocks fluttering through the courtyard. The Thirteen had sent silk and gold. The Tourmaline Brotherhood had sent warriors and wine. But it was the Pureborn who had seized him first. Descendants of Qarth’s ancient kings, they paraded their supposed purity with pride. Their Hall of a Thousand Thrones gleamed with obsidian floors and statues of jeweled ancestors, and Vaekar had walked beneath its vaults like a dragon invited into a temple.

The Pureborn had flattered him, and he, in turn, had flattered them. That was the way here—words traded like coin, glances loaded like daggers. He had smiled and spoken of his House’s long memory, his brothers’ victories, and the glory of peace that followed dragonfire. Already, he could sense the shifting wind: daughters whispered to mothers, who whispered to fathers, who whispered to the courtiers. They wished to wed their blood to the flame, to bind themselves to Targaryen legacy through him.

But what am I doing? he paused in his writing, frowning at the ink blot on the page. What am I truly doing?

He had told himself it was strategy. That Qarth was a jewel too valuable to leave untied. That to marry into the Pureborn would lend their House the upper hand—not just here, but across all the Jade Sea. He had told himself that the sacrifice of personal longing was noble. That love could come later.

And yet—he had seen her again.

Qezari. Standing amidst the Thirteen’s dancers, her hair darker than he remembered, her smile more controlled, more careful. She had not approached him. She hadn’t needed to. Her gaze had cut through all the silks and gold, as if to say: you have returned, but not for me.

 

He closed his eyes. Was he a fool for still carrying the hope of a fire long cooled? Did she think of him at all, or had time turned her heart to something else—someone else?

He was a prince, a rider of an ancient dragon. He had brought peace to Essos, to Dorne, where no envoy could. He was a Targaryen. But in moments like this, with only the moon and his own thoughts, he felt like a boy again. Writing in the dark, trying to understand the shape of his own longing.

He thought of his brothers. Of Viserys and Daemon, of their fierce loves, of their duties, of their triumphs and sacrifices. He wondered what they would say. Would Daemon scoff and call him sentimental? Would Viserys tell him to follow the heart if it could be made to serve the realm?

Vaekar did not yet know the answer. Only that Qarth was a city of illusions, and he was beginning to wonder whether the greatest illusion of all was that he could ever separate his heart from his crown.

He wrote one last line before closing the journal: If I wed, let it be with eyes open. But gods, how I wish the heart could remain closed.

And with that, he lay back, staring up at the stars—searching, perhaps, for a sign.

The dawn broke golden over Qarth, light spilling through the colored glass panes of the guest wing in the Palace of House Xheran Q’ai. It was a vibrant, warm morning, already sweet with the scent of flowering silksage and ivoryfruit from the courtyard groves. The sea wind rustled against the pale marble lattice, whispering of change and consequence.

 

Prince Vaekar Targaryen had just slipped on his robe of black silk trimmed in platinum thread when a firm, elegant knock rang at his door.

 

He opened it to find the Lady of the House herself: Zahrina Xheran Q’ai, a tall woman with skin like the moon, high cheekbones sculpted by nobility, and beige hair pulled tightly into a crown of braids. Clad in flowing robes of pearl and aquamarine, with rings adorning nearly every finger. She did not bow, but inclined her head—a queenly motion, for she moved with the dignified elegance of a woman well aware of her place in the world.

“My lord Vaekar,” she greeted. “I trust your rest was undisturbed?”

Vaekar inclined his head politely. “It was, my lady. I thank you for your generous hospitality.”

The lady offered him a sly smile, then gestured to the two young women behind her. “Then allow me to introduce two dearest treasures of House Xheran Q’ai,” she said with a careful smile. “It is my honor to present my daughters: Virelli and Laenys.”

 

Two women stepped forward, adorned in robes of white and amethyst gauze that fluttered like moth wings. Virelli, the elder, bore her mother’s proud gaze and a haughty tilt to her chin. Her beauty was striking—sharp, dignified, aware. She was statuesque, poised, and every inch her mother’s daughter. Laenys, the younger, was softer: wide eyes brimming with curiosity, her fingers nervously playing with the ribbon at her wrist. She curtsied with a visible flutter of nerves, her fingers briefly brushing against her braid. She was slighter in build, with soft eyes and a gaze that flitted quickly to Vaekar’s face and just as quickly away.

“They are both unwed, of noble blood, and of age,” Lady Zahrina said with delicate insinuation. “And I thought today would be a fine day for you to see more of our legacy.”

Before he could respond, she turned on her heel with all the grace of a matriarch on a mission. “We are most pleased to host the dragon of Westeros,” Lady Zahrina continued, eyes gleaming. “Come. Our ancestors await to greet you.”

 

She led them down an echoing corridor to a vaulted hall carved from pale jadeite and onyx—the Reliquarium, as the family called it. Sunlight spilled through hidden seams in the stone, bathing ancient statues in eerie, reverent glow. There were towering marble effigies of long-dead queens, their headdresses like inverted lotus blooms; mosaic portraits set in silver frames of warriors in bronze masks, wielding spears that once guarded the walls of Qarth before even the Doom of Valyria. The museum was vast. Statues lined the aisles—robed figures of Qartheen ancestors posed in solemn dignity, each beneath gilded nameplates. Murals of seaborne empires and spice fleets adorned the walls, their paint meticulously maintained over centuries. Vaekar paused before a tall marble effigy of a man with a circlet carved into his brow and an ivory scepter clutched in one hand.

 

“Our blood,” Lady Zahrina said, resting a hand delicately on Vaekar’s arm, “is among the oldest that still stirs in the bones of this city. Before the Thirteen opened their vaults, before the Guilds sharpened their knives, there were the Pureborn. We were not only rulers—we were chosen. The term is not ornamental, Prince. It is truth. The blood of kings, unsoiled by the lesser continents.”

 

Her words were smooth, almost breathless. There was desperation hidden in them, but gilded in pride. Her daughters stood behind her like twin statues—Virelli disinterested, Laenys rapt.

 

Vaekar offered a polite, approving nod. “And now your legacy lives on, Lady Zahrina. Few lineages possess such memory.”

 

She beamed, bowed slightly, and then excused herself with the excuse of council business, leaving the three in a silence that clung like heat.

 

To ease the tension, Vaekar turned to the young women and gestured with a mild smile. “Would you accompany me to the gardens? The fountains there seem eager to outtalk even the most stubborn courtiers.”

 

The sisters agreed. They walked slowly beneath canopies of flowering glassvine and orange trees. The gardens were lush and meticulously tended. White lotus blooms floated on reflecting pools, and towering trellises draped with scented starvine arched above the gravel pathways. The fountains bubbled and spilled into one another like cascading silver, their murmurs a soft curtain around the trio as they walked. It was there, amidst perfumed air and low laughter, that Vaekar saw them more clearly.

 

Virelli Xheran Q’ai, with her arched brows and wine-dark eyes, was composed and graceful. But there was steel beneath her calm. She asked questions—polite ones—about his titles, the exact logistics of Targaryen succession, his duties in King’s Landing. Yet her eyes often strayed back to the palace walls.

 

“I do not think I would enjoy Westeros. I know every alley and whisper here. I do not wish to leave it,” she admitted softly, as they sat beside a basin shaped like a weeping nymph. “Qarth has all I need. And truthfully, I think my place is here. With someone who understands what it is to belong to this city.”

 

“That is fair,” Vaekar said, his voice gentle. “A place of belonging is not something to cast aside lightly.” Vaekar did not press. He only nodded, understanding in his quiet way. “A lady should always follow her heart, and her peace.”

 

Laenys, on the other hand, was a spark waiting to catch fire. Timid at first, she bloomed as their walk continued—asking him about Westeros, about court dances and dragons, about whether ladies there rode or if they always wore cloaks in the wind.

“My lord… is it true that dragons sleep on piles of gold?”

 

Vaekar chuckled. “That is a tale children enjoy. They sleep on stone, usually.”

 

She gasped softly, rapt, and continued with more questions—about courtly customs in King's Landing, whether it was true that ravens knew their way across oceans, if his hair really turned silver with age or if it was born that way.

“Do you truly have a beast large enough to shadow a castle?” she asked, blinking up at him with awe.

 

Vaekar smiled gently. “Aeramon’s wings are wide enough to darken most lands. He prefers to fly high. He enjoys the stars.”

 

“And you?” she asked, barely above a whisper. “Do you?”

 

There was a pause. Vaekar looked out at the horizon—the sky above Qarth was always golden, even in the morning. “I used to chase stars,” he said. “These days I only follow where duty bids me.”

 

The words hung in the air like incense smoke.

Laenys then hesitantly asked, “Do you miss home when you travel?”

 

He smiled, the expression touched with something melancholy. “I carry my House wherever I go. My duty is my shadow. Sometimes I long for stillness… but I was not born for it.”

He treated them both with warmth and respect. He knew what was expected of him—marriage, alliance, something to root for House Targaryen in the Jade Sea. Yet his heart was still tethered elsewhere, quiet but unresolved. Still, he had come to Qarth not for himself, but for his House. And if duty required him to smile and court, then court he would.

 

Vaekar, for all his noble bearing and seasoned diplomacy, knew his path was not entirely his own. He could not simply follow the beat of his heart, not when his House needed alliances, not when his wings were expected to shield Westeros from storms on the horizon. He was kind—yes—but disciplined. A gentleman by choice and a dragon by blood.

 

As the sun slipped further across the sky, the sisters parted from him—Laenys looking back once, her fingers still clutched to the ribbon he had complimented earlier.

 

Vaekar remained by the fountain a moment longer, watching the water dance. In the distance, he could already feel the eyes of other Pureborn watching. Behind walls, in shaded balconies, in silent gardens.

The sun had long dipped below the sea of dunes and risen anew, casting a warm amber glow over the spires and domes of Qarth. In the calm hush of morning, Prince Vaekar Targaryen took his breakfast in solitude, seated by a lattice-window that filtered sunlight into shifting golden mosaics across the black marble floor of his guest chamber. A small copper dish held sliced persimmons, dates soaked in honey, and spiced bread beside a pot of fragrant tea brewed with lemon blossoms. It was one of the rare mornings where his time was wholly his own.

 

As he dipped a crust into the sweetened tea, a servant entered the room with quiet grace and a bowed head.

“My prince,” the girl said, “the eldest son of House Marrax Zo requests an audience with you this afternoon. You are to meet him in the Grand Library.”

 

Vaekar nodded wordlessly, wiping his fingers with a damp cloth before dismissing her with a polite gesture. After he’d finished his meal, he stepped into a sunken marble bath drawn by the servants — burning water kissed with mint and crushed rose petals — and let himself drift for a few quiet moments.

 

Later, he dressed himself with quiet deliberation: a fitted shirt of black linen embroidered at the hem with faint silver flames, paired with loose, ankle-length skirts of beaded silk the color of smoked sapphire. Around his waist, a sash of ash-gray velvet was tied with a signet in the form of a dragon’s talon.

 

When he arrived at the library, he was greeted not by a lone figure, but by a small court of vibrant color and soft laughter.

 

The Grand Library of House Marrax was a marvel in itself — a towering atrium supported by white pillars carved into the likeness of mythic beasts and ancestors lost to time. Books and scrolls lined the walls, while mosaic floors depicted the journeys of merchant kings and sea-bound prophetesses. Suspended glass lanterns burned with blue flames, flickering against the towering shelves of knowledge.

 

There, standing in the midst of this living monument to intellect, was Lord Vaehros Marrax Zo — a tall man in his mid-thirties with milk skin and heavy-lidded, discerning eyes. His beard was oiled and plaited in narrow cords, and atop his head rested a silver diadem inlaid with blue spinel and white moonstone — the mark of his status as heir to House Marrax. Beside him stood his wife, Lady Ivalai, adorned with her own diadem, though hers was strung across her forehead like a circlet of stars, signifying not just status but artistry. She wore a long, sleeveless robe the color of lapis lazuli—her left breast exposed, and her gaze was sharp despite the gentleness of her smile.

 

Flanking them were two younger women: the elder, clearly their daughter — poised and elegant, with skin like burnished copper and a fan of black curls gathered with golden threads. The other was one of the youngest sisters of Lord Vaehros, a sprightly girl in her early twenties with a sly smile and ink-stained fingers. She had been writing as he entered, but now she looked up, eyes alight with mischief and challenge.

 

Vaekar gave a courteous bow, one hand to his chest.

 

“My lord, my ladies. I am honored to be summoned.”

 

“You honor us with your presence, Prince Vaekar,” said Lady Ivalai. “We have heard much of the Far-Flown Flame, but it is a rare thing indeed to measure myth against the man.”

 

“Qarth speaks kindly,” he said smoothly, “though I suspect today I am to be tested more than praised.”

 

Lord Vaehros let out a low chuckle. “You suspect correctly. House Marrax thrives on spectacle, yes — but beneath our silks and spices, we are merchants, mathematicians, and madmen all. We do not give freely what is untested.”

 

His sister held up a parchment with a wide grin. “I’ve written a poem. About the arrival of your dragon. Do you wish to hear it?”

 

“I would be most honored.”

 

She stood and recited, voice full of youthful vigor:

 

“Iron-gray winged god of the sky,

Ash-feathered judge with embered eye,

Who flew from stars and stories bold

To land where spiced winds never grow cold…”

 

The piece was dramatic and vibrant and Vaekar listened with soft attention, smiling as the younger woman delivered her final verse with flair.

 

He clapped gently. “You do my dragon justice, my lady. I shall read it again before I leave, and perhaps even recite it to Aeramon — though I warn you, he is a critic.”

 

That earned a chorus of amused murmurs.

 

Lady Ivalai approached, holding a ledger in one hand. “Perhaps you might lend us your insight, Prince. We know you studied at the Citadel in Oldtown — and that you do not just ride dragons but read books.” Her eyes twinkled with quiet challenge. “We have a matter of trade to consider. Qarth has long been the jewel of spice and silk, but famine has tightened her belt these last summers. Rationing may be upon us again.”

 

Lord Vaehros added, “We wonder, then, what counsel a prince-scholar from Westeros might offer in times where opulence must yield to necessity. If you were in our place — how would you distribute, preserve, and pacify a people so addicted to plenty?”

 

Vaekar took the question with solemn care. “I would begin with inventory,” he said. “There is a notion among Western lords to measure strength in hoards. But hoards are only useful when they are moved. Hidden grain is no better than rot. Know what you have. Count every grain. Every amphora.”

 

The daughter of Vaehros began taking notes.

 

“I would then employ illusion — not deception,” he continued, “but perception. The people must not feel that they are being starved. I have seen towns on the brink of collapse remain stable through clever redistribution: the wealthiest given a public ration — for show — while the poorest are quietly given extra. A shared table, where all eat visibly the same, fosters unity.”

 

“And trade?” Lady Ivalai asked.

 

“You trade what you have in surplus — be it books, art, or influence. Qarth’s spice is still its currency, but what about your knowledge? Your scholars? The Glass Gardens, your water-drawing machines from the Red Waste? Other cities may give grain in exchange for minds that build aqueducts. Or for engineers who know how to make stone sing.”

 

The conversation rolled on, shifting to sea routes, pirates, and winter stores. As the sun cast latticed shadows across the floor, the people of House Marrax Zo found themselves drawn in. Intrigued. Cautious, still — for Qartheen nobility never gave themselves fully in a single conversation — but Vaekar had offered something real. Not pomp. Not dragonflame. But thought.

 

Later, as the sun dipped toward the horizon and the conversation wound to a close, Lady Ivalai gave him a look that was almost appraising.

 

“You are not what we expected, Prince Vaekar.”

 

“No one ever is,” he replied gently. “Not when judged by rumor alone.”

The days in Qarth passed slowly, languid as the wind rolled in from the Jade Gates, and Vaekar Targaryen—The Far-Flown Prince—drank deeply of every minute.

 

After his unusual reception at the library of House Marrax Zo, where he found himself both scrutinized and serenaded, Vaekar had quietly slipped into the rarified air of the Pureborn’s inner circles. They did not offer rooms in their homes, but neither did they shut their doors. They permitted him presence—so long as he brought no flames, metaphorical or otherwise.

 

It was said among the locals that the Pureborn were not truly a noble house, but rather a sacred communion of lineages—aristocrats who styled themselves as the last surviving scions of the mythical kings who once founded Qarth. They named themselves not merely rulers but custodians of purity. Their robes flowed like water; their architecture mimicked stars; and their words always seemed twofold, never simply spoken but deliberated.

 

House Qe’ron Tal was said to be the oldest among them—a family of ivory complexions, golden-flecked eyes, and impossibly perfect posture. Their estate in the Pureborn quarters stood like a living monument to geometry and restraint. And it was here Vaekar spent his mornings in the Reliquarium, a vaulted hall said to hold relics of Qarth’s fabled past: carved obsidian scales supposedly from a Sea Dragon, parchments older than Valyria, and egg-shaped stones encased in crystal.

 

The whispers were immediate. They watched him. Measured him. Weighed the lines of his face, the cut of his jaw, the hunger behind his eyes. Was he a man playing dragonlord? Or a dragonlord playing the long game?

 

Some were intrigued. Others are cautious. Many doubted.

 

Their leader, Archon Lirael of House Qe’ron Tal, was the most vocal skeptic. She was old but unbent, wrapped in translucent robes of starlight silk. Her voice could cut marble. “Let the dragons burn in their mountain nests. Qarth has endured empires. We endure still.”

 

Vaekar did not argue. He observed. Listened. He quoted histories from the Jade Compendium, corrected the translation of a misshelved Ghiscari manuscript, and more than once impressed the curators of the Reliquarium with his detailed accounts of Valyrian metallurgy. But for all that, he remained a curiosity. A talking scroll. A fire-breather who did not breathe fire.

 

If only he had a dragon egg.

 

If only, they murmured.

 

One of the lesser priests of their philosophical order once asked him during a shared tea, “Prince of Westeros, what would you give for the friendship of Qarth?” To which Vaekar replied without blinking, “A year of peace. A hundred years of trade.”

“But not a dragon?”

Vaekar only smiled.

 

A month passed like spilled perfume on a hot stone.

 

The Pureborn did not reject him, but neither did they court him. He was permitted to stay—but never truly invited. And it was in that space between invitation and exile that the Tourmaline Brotherhood made their move.

Without fanfare, they sent word. A scroll pressed into the hand of a servant: The Brotherhood welcomes you.

 

And so Vaekar crossed the city once more, and was received not into a reliquary of ancient stone, but into the wild pulse of salt-born ambition.

 

The Tourmaline Brotherhood was no single house, but an alliance of merchant families who thrived in flux. They did not seek purity—they craved opportunity. And for Vaekar, who sought allies, resources, and understanding of this jewel city in the desert, they offered more than curiosity. They offered partnership.

 

House Tha Xirn, in particular, was swift to show interest.

 

Its leader, Saelar Tha Xirn, was an aging merchant prince with a voice like sea shanties and calloused hands from ship ropes. But it was his daughter, Yaeha, who drew the most attention. A sailor in her own right, rumored to have once killed a mutineer with a coral-handled dagger, she met Vaekar not in silks, but in salt-wet leathers and with windburned cheeks.

 

She was the first to ask him directly: “Can your dragon fly across the Summer Sea without rest?”

Vaekar replied: “Aeramon does not rest. He watches.”

To which she laughed, and said: “Then let him see the isles I’ve yet to chart. Perhaps he might find a home for himself beyond sand and salt.”

 

She was intrigued, but not just by power. She longed for spectacle, for wonder, for the myths to leap from books and soar above her sails.

 

Beside them was House Laor Mo—pragmatic, hawk-eyed, and deeply opportunistic. They transported everything from cinnamon to scrolls, and now, they smelled the shifting winds. They were not interested in gifting daughters, but in arranging them. They played matchmaker—not out of love, but out of debt. And favors.

 

“If you wed the daughter of House Loqar Yun, we'll give you thirty ships,” said one merchant-matron. “And you’ll owe us nothing… for now.”

Vaekar raised an eyebrow. “And if I refuse?”

She smiled. “Then someone else will wed her. And we’ll offer them fifty ships.”

 

Even in politeness, the game was vicious.

 

The Brotherhood was less of a court and more of  a floating bazaar. And yet, amidst the clamor, the food, the glittering silks and whispering tapestries, Vaekar found momentum. He did not need to burn cities. He only needed to make them believe that he could. Rumors began to circulate. That he kept a dragon’s egg hidden. He denied none of it. After all, dragons grow with belief—and Qarth, ancient as it was, had begun to believe.

 

The sun was low in the western sky, casting the Tourmaline Brotherhood's halls in soft amber light when Yaeha of House Tha Xirn requested a private audience with Prince Vaekar. The summons came in the form of a sea-green scroll, sealed with wax shaped like a spiraling nautilus shell. The symbol of House Tha Xirn. The missive was brief, elegant in its phrasing:

“The tide calls, and I wonder if a prince forged by fire might also heed the sea. Meet me by the Shell Balconies. Let us speak—alone.” —Yaeha.

 

Vaekar came as twilight set its indigo crown upon Qarth, clad in muted robes of onyx and copper thread, with a high collar and long sleeves that shimmered like a raven’s wing. He found her waiting beneath a canopy of perfumed silk, overlooking a private harbor balcony carved with obsidian sea-serpents and lined with brass lamps that mirrored the stars.

Yaeha Tha Xirn, the youngest daughter of her line, was dressed in a sailor’s tunic dyed tourmaline blue, her braids threaded with slivers of pearl and jet. She rose as he approached, offering him a goblet of chilled persimmon wine before gesturing to the cushion beside her.

“I hoped to speak with you away from gold halls and silver tongues,” Yaeha said, her voice laced with calm. “The halls of the Pureborn ring too loudly with vanity. Out here, there’s only wind. And truth.”

Vaekar stood near the edge, his gaze fixed on the horizon where sky met water in a thin blade of firelight. He did not turn, but she knew he was listening. When at last he did face her, it was with the stillness of a statue given breath.

“You sent for me,” he said, voice low. “Speak it plain.”

Yaeha didn’t hesitate. “There is a voyage bound for the Jade Gates. Five days from now. Spices, silks, jade for Yi Ti and Leng. I command it.”

Vaekar’s brow lifted. “And you wish the Watcher of Westeros to play what role aboard your ships?”

“Not the Watcher. Not the prince. I would have you join us, if not for diplomacy, then for curiosity.” Her eyes flicked to his, steady as the tide. “I want the man who reads ancient maps for pleasure. Who listens when harbormasters speak. The one who stares at the sea like it still owes him something.”

His lips curved—almost a smile. “And if I say my place is with dragonfire and thrones, not seafoam and trade winds?”

Yaeha stepped closer, her tone shifting, lighter but edged. “Then I say: you’ve flown farther than any Targaryen alive. But even dragons cast long shadows they never chase. Sail with me. Learn the shape of the world beneath the sky you think you know.”

A pause. 

“Come,” she said. “I wish to see if your fire can survive the sea.”

 

Her proposition was bold—and dangerous. But it was also something more: an opening. House Tha Xirn was making a deliberate bid not with courtly gifts or flattery, but with curiosity, adventure, and trust. They were not trying to tie him down—they wanted to see him in motion.

In the days that followed, preparations bloomed like coral.

Word of the invitation reached the ears of House Laor Mo by morning tide. A house of pirates cloaked in merchant’s silk, they understood the weight of alliances brokered not through steel but with coin, cargo, and calculated charm. Within hours, Laor Mo sent their emissary—Jorell of the Saffron Hands—to the Tourmaline halls, bearing gifts: a chart of the Jade Gates freshly inked, a jeweled astrolabe from Leng, and a message.

“We see your journey as a tide worth swimming with. If the Lady Yaeha becomes his bride, it will be her banner, yes—but our vessels will carry them. Let us be joined not in blood, but in salt, silk, and shared ambition.”

 

The preparations surged forward.

Vaekar was given a cabin aboard Salt Pearl , Yaeha’s personal ship—its hull lacquered a burnished green, trimmed in ghostfire gold. The vessel had survived three monsoons, one pirate siege, and a seaquake. Its sails bore the sigil of House Tha Xirn: a spiraling nautilus shell.

Yaeha oversaw every detail. Crates of black cardamom and star anise from Asshai were loaded alongside bolts of painted silk from Lhazar. Vaekar brought scrolls on Lengii customs, YiTish dynasties, and Qartheen trade codes. Their voyage was not merely a mercantile one—it was a statement to every watching eye in Qarth:

A Targaryen rides the wind. But will he also brave the tide?

House Tha Xirn prepared the harbor ceremony—small, by their standards, but rich with layered meaning. It would not be a grand parade but a quiet launching. A Pavilion was lit with blue lanterns with the scent of seawater mingling with jasmine and cinnamon. Yaeha even requested Vaekar perform the ancient salt rite with her—tossing a pinch of salt and saffron into the sea as a gesture of passage and pact.

And though no official betrothal had been spoken, whispers began to roll like undertow through the city.

“The dragon sails with a lionfish.”
“Will they marry in Yi Ti or Qarth?”

Within the week, the harbor buzzed with anticipation—not only for trade, but for tales. And above them all, Aeramon watched from a high perch, wings tucked like an omen. Whether he would follow the ship or wait in the skies was yet to be seen.

But what was clear to all: Vaekar Targaryen would sail with House Tha Xirn. And the sea, at last, would taste the fire.

The Salt Pearl cut through the waters like a blade, its sails swelling with wind that carried the scent of spice and brine. The first day at sea startled Vaekar with its rhythm. There was no ceremony, no gilded protocol, no measured tones of courtiers. Instead, there was shouting—raw, unpolished, and alive. Lines snapped taut as sails swelled with wind. The deck tilted and righted with a grace that reminded him of dragon-flight, but the sounds were different: creaking timbers instead of beating wings, waves striking instead of wind slicing.

bove, Aeramon circled—vast, iron-gray wings casting fleeting shadows over the deck. Every time the dragon roared, the crew looked up—not in fear, but in awe laced with murmurs. Some muttered superstitious blessings, touching charms made of bone or carved driftwood. Others debated openly.

“A beast that big could block the sun,” one sailor said in their sharp, lilting dialect, words tumbling fast.

Vaekar caught the tone if not the meaning. “What did he say?” he asked Yaeha, who was standing beside him, arms crossed.

She smirked. “He says Aeramon looks hungry enough to eat the whole crew.”

The men laughed when she translated back, and one called out something that made the others howl louder.

Vaekar arched a brow. “And that?”

Yaeha’s grin turned wicked. “He says if you feed the dragon their captain first, maybe the rest will be safe.”

Vaekar let out a rare, unrestrained laugh—loud enough to make a few heads turn. “Tell him I’ll keep you around just to see what he’d say when you’re not here to save him.”

She relayed it, and another wave of laughter rippled across the deck. The tension that had clung to them at departure began to unravel. By the end of the first day, the prince was no longer just a guest; he was a curiosity they wanted to test, a man they wanted to see sweat.

 

Men and women clambered over rigging, bare feet gripping ropes slick with brine. Some sang in a dialect harsh and strange, syllables crashing like waves against rocks. Vaekar, fluent in Valyrian tongues and Westerosi dialects, found himself straining to catch even fragments.

“You’re staring,” Yaeha said, coming up behind him, her sea-green coat flaring as she balanced easily on the swaying deck. A dagger hung at her hip; her hair was tied up in a sailor’s knot, small salt-crystals catching light. “You look like a fish out of water.”

He didn’t look away from the chaos—controlled chaos, he realized. “I’m staring because it’s… beautiful.”

That earned him a sharp laugh. “You’re the only man who would call swearing deckhands and the smell of pitch ‘beautiful.’”

“I’ve spent my life with men arguing over chairs carved from swords,” Vaekar replied. “This feels more honest.”

Later, he learned their honesty firsthand and on that on a ship, titles meant little. When a sudden gust snapped a rope loose, a deckhand shoved one into Vaekar’s hands. “Hold!” the man barked—universal enough to need no translation. The line burned his palms, but he held, feeling the ship tilt, hearing Yaeha’s voice cut sharp commands from above.

“Now pull it taut—loop it, don’t just knot it!” she shouted, darting over, quick as a cat despite the rocking deck. She took his hands, guiding them. “Like this. No, twist it once more. There. You just saved my sail.”

He looked at the neat, tight knot. “I can make dragons bow, but rope humbles me.”

“Dragons don’t keep ships afloat,” she said, already moving on.

 

The crew had no hesitation in teaching him—even when he slowed their work. He helped oil the lines, braced the mainmast with sweating hands, and learned to tie a proper reef knot. The dialect remained half-incomprehensible, but they laughed with him rather than at him. He wasn’t treated like a prince. He was just another pair of hands. He liked that. 

He sat cross-legged on the deck as the stars came out, maps rolled out beside them. A grizzled navigator pointed upward, drawing lines between constellations.

“No lighthouse here,” Yaeha translated. “We follow the stars and the swell. See that?” She gestured to the sea. “The waves hit from the east, so we’re drifting slightly off course. You adjust, you don’t fight it.”

Vaekar traced the stars silently, committing them to memory. “I thought the sky only mattered to dragonriders,” he murmured.

“Turns out it belongs to all of us,” she said simply.

 

When the day’s work was done, barrels were rolled out, and cups were filled with a liquor that smelled like smoke and citrus. Yaeha sat on a coil of rope, one leg dangling, and the crew crowded around, boisterous and flushed.

Vaekar sat with them, drink in hand, as they taught him their words.

“Say sarkh-ven ,” Yaeha instructed.

“Sarkh-ven,” he repeated.

The crew roared with laughter.

“What did I just say?”

“You called yourself a barnacle on a whale’s ass,” she said with a grin.

He chuckled. “Then I should learn the word for dragon so they know which ass they’re drinking with.”

They taught him. He learned zhai-torrh meant “big fire-wing” and korrin meant “storm that eats ships.” The men teased him, betting how quickly a prince would pass out, but Vaekar surprised them—matching them drink for drink, laughing until his voice was hoarse.

At one point, someone asked a question too quickly for him to follow. Yaeha leaned in close, hair brushing his cheek as she translated softly. “They’re asking why a prince with a dragon would bother sailing with pirates.”

“Tell them,” Vaekar said, gaze steady on her, “that maybe I needed to remember what freedom feels like.”

She hesitated, then repeated it. The men grew quiet for a moment, nodding in their own way before someone banged a cup and started a song that rose into the wind.

 

Days went by as the bright sun and illuminating moon took their places. One night, Yaeha found him coiling ropes alongside a grizzled oiler.

“You’re making my crew soft,” she teased. “They’re letting a dragon do sailor’s work.”

“Your crew are good teachers,” Vaekar said, standing, brushing tar from his palms. “Better than some maesters I’ve known.”

Her brows arched. “Flattery works on my crew, but I don't think it will work on me.”

He only smiled.

 

Later still—moon high, waves whispering—the two were in her quarters. The Salt Pearl’s captain’s office was cramped but full of life: maps pinned to walls, compasses, bottles of spiced rum rolling slightly as the ship rocked.

She poured him a drink, strong and burning. “I’ll admit,” she said, lifting her cup, “I thought you’d be a burden.”

“Harsh,” he said, amused.

“But you listen,” she continued, studying him over the rim of her cup. “You get your hands dirty. That’s rare for… your kind.”

“My kind?” he asked, leaning back, one brow rising.

“Princes. Men with dragons. Men who think the world bends for them.”

He leaned forward slowly, letting the space between them tighten. “I know the world doesn’t bend for me, Yaeha,” he said, voice low. “But sometimes,” he added, letting the corner of his mouth lift, “people do.”

She laughed, but her gaze didn’t break away. “Confident, aren’t you?”

“Confident enough to know you’re tempted.”

“Tempted is not the same as—” she started, but his hand brushed hers lightly, stopping the sentence. She glanced down, then back up.

“Finish your drink,” he murmured.

“Why?”

“Because if you don’t,” he said softly, “I’ll take it from your lips.”

That broke her composure—just enough. She downed the rest, and he caught her jaw lightly, kissing her hard. She matched him, quick, sharp—like the sea itself.

The ship rolled, knocking the bottle against the table. She pushed him back against the map-covered wall, smirking against his mouth. “You’re trouble.”

“And yet,” he murmured, his hands sliding to her waist, “you’re not stopping.”

“Not yet,” she whispered, dragging him toward the desk. “But you’d better be worth the mutiny I’ll have on my hands.”

 

The lantern swayed, throwing their shadows wild against the walls. The maps, the sea, the stars—all blurred into motion as laughter turned to quiet, and quiet into heat. When the curtain closed, it was to the sound of a bottle tipping over and Yaeha’s low voice:

“Careful, dragon. The sea takes what it likes.”

Notes:

dammnnn is it hot in here? are you hot? hduyagduyab hahaha i hope you love that ending as much as i do. anyway, this chapter was supposed to be published on the 50th kudos as a celebration but then before i knew it we've got 54 which is honestly bonkers. thank you for reading this and giving kudos!! leave me comments about anything.

Chapter 22: Where Winds Belong

Summary:

In Asabhad, Yaeha parades Vaekar like a rare jewel, flaunting him before captains and merchants alike. By the time they reach Yin, the young dragon has already begun weaving threads of legacy—negotiating contracts, trading silks and spices, dreaming of rebuilding the House of the Dragon to its former glory. A necklace purchased in secret, meant as a proposal, becomes the quiet emblem of a love that cannot be. Yaeha chooses the endless call of the sea, while Vaekar longs for roots, a home, a bride to stand beside him. Still, for one night, they forget destiny’s cruel edges: drinking, telling ghost stories, mocking arrogant merchants, laughing over women and rigged gambling tables. Yet beneath the laughter lingers the ache of what could never be—love that bloomed halfway before dying, leaving behind only memory, sacrifice, and the haunting thought of what if.

Notes:

hellooo how r u all?? got too busy with life so priorities changed but here it is!! this chapter have been marinating for a very long time... i kept on reediting it and the spaces in between paragraphs been killing me but whatever,, we push through

tw: blood mentions and angst

After days spent caressed by gentle winds and calm tides, the shimmering forested coastline of Asabhad finally revealed itself, rising like a green jewel from the embrace of the Jade Sea. Vaekar stood by the rail of the Salt Pearl as the sails were drawn and the ship began its careful glide into the river mouth, gilded by the low sun. The air smelled richer here—lush, damp, and thick with the scent of unfamiliar trees and river silt. Birds with jewelled feathers soared overhead, crying out across the wind.

To the surprise of none but Vaekar, Yaeha was already striding across the deck before the ropes were cast, her voice cutting through the crisp air as she barked orders to the crew in their native tongue. She was alive here in a way Vaekar hadn’t yet seen—fluid, sharp, commanding. She spoke with a strange reverence and camaraderie to the other captains who came to greet her at the port, men and women clad in silks and sea-leathers, smelling of citrus oil and salt.

 

“Old friend!” one captain cried, his dark braids clinking with jade rings as he embraced her.

“Two years ago, she sank my ship with a smile,” another captain laughed, tipping a woven hat. “And now she sails in with a Westerosi dragon like some pirate queen came for our purses and pride.”

Yaeha grinned, pleased. “I’ll take both, if you’re offering.”

 

And through it all, Vaekar was at her side.

She led him into the bustling marketplaces and the dockside taverns, her hand either on his arm or resting against his back—proprietary and proud. He was introduced not as a guest, but as something rarer. Something more coveted.

Later that night, the moon hanging low and amber over the Salt Pearl, Vaekar found her again in her office, lounging with her boots kicked up on the table. The air smelled like strong liquor and burnt orange peel.

“Presented me like some pretty jewel back there, didn’t you?” he teased, stepping inside, the door creaking closed behind him.

Yaeha raised her cup and grinned lazily. “Aye. Well, a Targaryen and a Westerosi is hard to come by in these lands. After Corlys Velaryon, you’re the second one to step foot in these ports.”

Vaekar leaned against her desk, the soft sea-green silk of his shirt glowing in the lanternlight. “Then perhaps I’ll be the first one to come back. Again and again.”

The smile she gave him was slow, curious. She said nothing as he stepped away with a nod, leaving the scent of dragonfire and foreign cologne behind.

If Asabhad was wild and cloaked in green, Yin was its opposite: a marvel of jade stones and painted roofs, of towering monuments and fragrant marketplaces brimming with saffron, silk, and secrets. The docks alone were bigger than any square in King’s Landing, filled with foreign banners fluttering alongside prows who were shaped after various animals and jewel-toned hulls.

Yin was like a painting that moved. From the first mist-veiled glimpse of its golden spires rising from jade green hills, to the teeming harbor cradling ships larger than any Vaekar had ever seen—even in Lys—he knew this city was no mere port. It was a living relic. A monument to wealth, wisdom, and warlike pageantry disguised in silks and lacquered masks. Within a day and a half from their dealings in Asabhad, Yaeha’s fleet glided into the harbor of Yin with the Salt Pearl’s sails proudly billowing against a sky kissed in saffron light. A hundred more ships circled them like escorting petals—small spice galleys and wine merchants, glimmering with colorful flags.

As they docked, Yaeha stood tall at the helm, calling out in the dialect of the southern coast with the ease of one who'd lived in ten cities and belonged to none.

 

Vaekar emerged from the Salt Pearl wearing the full regalia of House Targaryen—a black velvet coat embroidered with silver thread and a crimson sash at his waist. A ring bearing the three-headed dragon sigil glinted on his finger, and his pale hair was tied back with a silk ribbon. Right now, he was no longer Yaeha’s exotic shadow; he was Prince Vaekar of House Targaryen, and this was a city of contracts.

Yaeha wasted no time with bartering. She left that to her trusted officers while she secured her trade contacts. Vaekar, however, sought something deeper than coin or spice.

 

In the sprawling western quarter of Yin, near the Street of Sun-Merchants, he made a name for himself not through haggling, but through investment. Rather than depleting his coin purse, he produced contracts—drawn by his own hand after studying the formatting of YiTish seals and glyphs.

He set his gold on land and literacy, on spice caravans, and private leases for the rights to ship saffron out to Westeros. He listened when the traders spoke, and he asked questions—not as a prince, but as a man building something new.

He held court with dignitaries and merchants, drawing up long parchments sealed with red wax, investing in silk lines and saffron farms, agreeing to trial shipments of rice wine and seaweed paper. Yi Ti was fertile and rich with possibility—and he, for once, was ready to reap rather than conquer.

But one particular stall made him pause.

 

Behind a woven screen, painted with red phoenixes, stood a boy tending to a corral of striped creatures. Zorses. Each one glimmered with bands of black and ivory, their manes stiff with golden beads. Their eyes, dark and intelligent, followed him as he stepped forward. The zorses were kept in a sprawling paddock. They were beautiful, fierce, and mean.

The boy bowed low. “Great prince, do you wish to ride? Or do you seek the milk? It is fermented. For strength, the kings say.”

“They are only half-tame,” Yaeha warned, watching with amusement as Vaekar stepped into the pen without hesitation. “Like fire wrapped in skin.”

 

He stood still, letting the beast approach. Its stripes glistened like oil beneath the sun. He wasn’t afraid.

 

He could see her clearly in his memory: her sharp eyes watching his every word, her laughter bright as bells echoing through the halls. He missed her fiercely in that moment, though he rarely allowed himself to admit it.

 

“She’d love you,” he whispered to the zorse. “Or pretend not to.”

 

“She would name you something bold,” Vaekar muttered as he reached a hand forward. “Perhaps Ashfyre... or Shiverstripe.”

 

The zorse didn’t bite. But Vaekar wasn’t just thinking of his niece.

 

He was thinking of what could be made from these creatures. Zorses could survive on weeds and devilgrass, go long months without water, withstand heat and filth and battle. Their foul temperament meant they would be hard to break—but if bred in Westeros?

 

“They could feed a whole cavalry,” he murmured. “Or replace it entirely.”

 

He imagined them in Blackwater Bay, pulling carts of grain through the chaos of Flea Bottom. Imagine them leading merchant processions. Guarding kings. He would breed them, not for war—but for value.

 

“And when they sell,” he told Yaeha with a slow grin, “their coin will fill our vaults in Dragonstone so high, even the Maesters will count it in towers.”

Yaeha raised a brow. “Our vaults?”

 

He ignored the tease. But his smile lingered.

In the twilight days of their stay, Vaekar took an interest in something Yaeha already expected—books.

Yi Ti was ancient—older than Oldtown, older than Valyria by some counts. Their tomes were inscribed on bark, bone, silk, and jade tablets, each guarded by silent monks who took no coin.

Vaekar watched a child read aloud to her mother in the spice market and paused. It struck him—not with awe, but with conviction.

In King’s Landing, the children begged for bread, not knowledge. Yet here in Yin, even the poorest homes bore glyphs on their doors and stories passed through generations in written verse.

 

He saw an opportunity not just to imitate, but to cultivate.

He struck deals to translate YiTish farming treatises, medicine scrolls, and architectural manuals, all with the goal of one day educating the commons back home. He thought of Viserys, so desperate to be loved by his people that he ignored the rot beneath their feet.

 

“Maybe,” Vaekar whispered as he ran a finger along the carved spine of a YiTish war journal, “if they could learn… they wouldn’t have to beg for their king’s love. They could build something with it.”

The deck was alive with music and spice-scented smoke. Drums thudded deep, echoing off the harbor, and a fire had been built in a brass brazier. The shipmates danced, toasted, and drank, passing round mugs of green liquor and charred skewers of spiced river fish. Vaekar sat beside Yaeha, both of them draped in pillows near the helm.

She laughed as he choked on a sip of the bitter liquor. “That’s ‘goat-breaker,’” she said, patting his back. “Strong enough to ruin a man’s bones.”

He coughed, grinning, eyes watery. “Aptly named.”

“Try this one next,” she said, passing him another mug. “It’s called ashka . Means ‘blood-friend.’ Only shared when you trust someone not to stab you in your sleep.”

Vaekar raised a brow. “Should I be honored?”

“You should be alert,” she deadpanned.

The sailors spoke in their quick, melodic dialect, half of it is still a blur to his ears. He leaned in as Yaeha whispered translations against his cheek.

“That one’s cursing his boots. Says they’re cursed by a water-spirit.”

Vaekar snorted. “How poetic.”

“And that one? He just bet two silvers that you couldn’t tie a proper anchor knot if your life depended on it.”

Vaekar stood, swaying slightly. “Where’s the rope?”

The laughter that rang out from the crew was genuine and rough. He was a prince, but he was game. And under Yaeha’s watchful eyes, and the low hanging lanterns of Yin’s harbor, Vaekar tied his knot with trembling fingers and more pride than he’d admit.

He got it wrong—twice—but when he finally made it stick, the shipmates cheered like he'd felled a kraken.

Yaeha leaned back, her smile hidden in her cup, but her eyes never left him.

Another day has gone and the sun began to sink, casting the river in molten gold, Vaekar and Yaeha sat on a terrace overlooking the city. They drank chilled fruit wine and watched the jungle shimmer.

 

"Do you ever tire of all this?" Vaekar asked.

"I live in the present," Yaeha said, swishing her wine. "One port at a time. No promises, no debts. Only trade."

"But even trades need trust."

"Trust is fleeting. Like wind."

 

Vaekar looked at her, truly looked. She sparkled under the dusk, but behind her laughter was something unknowable. She was the sea, endlessly shifting. And he? He was Dragonstone. Volcanic. Waiting.

 

She kissed him that night under a sky scattered with stars. But when he woke, she was already gone, shouting orders on deck. The Salt Pearl was lifting anchor.

Their ships were loaded again—barrels of wine from the Amber Hills of Yi Ti, bolts of indigo-dyed silk, sacks of saffron so rich their scent clung to every breath. The young zorses were loaded into iron-padded stalls. Their huffs sounded like dragons to some of the new deckhands.

 

Vaekar stood on the top deck of the Salt Pearl as the gangplanks were raised. The sun burned gold over the Jade Sea, and he could hear Yaeha laughing with her crew. Behind him, the city of Yin glittered like gold dipped in ink. Ahead of him, the unknown waited—Leng, and after that, Qarth once more.

 

But Vaekar no longer felt like a visitor. He had plans now, and a sea beneath his feet. They were no longer the only wonders in the world. Dragonstone would rise again for he would give them what he had seen and more. 

“Hope you didn’t spend all your gold in Yin,” Yaeha said as she strolled past Vaekar, her voice light and teasing as she let her hair down, salt-winds catching in silver strands. “There’s much more to see in Leng.”

Vaekar barely looked up from his parchments, quill scratching lines and calculations beside a fresh plate of fruit. His mind was elsewhere—in ink, in gold, in roads that led back to Dragonstone. It was time to bring glory home. To build something enduring. “That’s the plan, isn’t it?” He murmured. 

Yaeha grinned at that and rolled her eyes. She knew him well enough now to know when he was flustered but too proud to admit it. He hadn’t expected the East to overwhelm him this much—but gods, it did.

As they sailed closer to Leng, Vaekar was still pouring over the documents he had drafted in Yin: agreements, letters of intent, future projections for breeding zorses, imports of saffron and silks, the delicate management of spice routes and new vineyards. It was no longer just trade to him — it was rebuilding a future, a stronghold of legacy that did not lean solely on dragons or birthright. It was time to bring glory back to Dragonstone. Real, sustainable glory. His brothers, his kin—they would see.

A horn had been blown from the crow’s nest—a low, echoing sound that rolled over the sea like a ghost’s call. Turrani was close. The Salt Pearl curved into the mouth of a wide river, its green banks shadowed by towering trees with pale yellow blossoms and hanging vines that pulsed with color.

Vaekar set down his pen and closed the ledger with care. Then, he went to his trunk and chose a deep crimson tunic embroidered in black silk thread, scales like falling embers climbing up the sleeves. The three-headed dragon of House Targaryen shone proudly on his chest in silver. He would wear his house, wear his blood, wear his right to be here. This place may not be Westeros, but he would not be forgotten nor underestimated.

 

When he joined Yaeha on deck, she raised a brow. “Wearing your war paint, Dragon Prince?”

“I am Westerosi,” he said with a flash of teeth. “The dragons are not extinct.”

Turrani was unlike anything he had imagined.The very air smelled of cinnamon, crushed flowers, and sweet wine.

The city bloomed at the mouth of a winding river, the scent of flowers and spice thick in the humid air. The jungle surrounding the port pulsed with life, trees towering overhead, strange birds cawing in piercing notes. The buildings were carved into the landscape with an elegance that hinted at millennia of civilization: domes covered in shining mosaics, bridges arching over the water like silver ribbons, statues of teak-skinned gods and golden-eyed queens.

And the people—the Lengii—tall, slender, graceful. Their oiled teak skin glistened under the sun, their luminous eyes seeming to peer into one’s soul.

Vaekar stepped onto the stone pier and stared in open awe. He had only read of them in books. To see them in flesh made the world feel wide again.

 

“You’ll hurt your neck gawking like that,” Yaeha said dryly from beside him, arms crossed as she watched a line of Lengii dockworkers unload goods from the Salt Pearl.

“Have you ever seen anything like this?” he asked, his voice caught somewhere between reverence and disbelief.

“A thousand times,” she smirked. "You're so amazed by every little thing," 

“Then will you be the one bringing me here until it gets old?”

Yaeha blinked, caught off guard."Don’t tempt me, dragon.” Then she laughed and slapped his arm. “You’re getting better at this.”

“At what?”

“Flirting.” She only chuckled again before tossing her hair over her shoulder.

The markets of Turrani were layered in scents and sounds. Every step was a new marvel: a riot of color and scent. Spices stacked in pyramids. Gemstones glittering in hanging cloth pouches. Silks dyed with beetle shells and sea snails. Vaekar let himself be lured by the beauty of it all. 

 

“Which gemstone is your favorite?” Vaekar asked Yaeha as they passed by a Lengii merchant showcasing trays of raw rubies, moonstones, and strange black opals that glittered with deep red veins.

She paused, looked at him sideways. “That’s a dangerous question. What if I say the most expensive one?”

“Then I’ll have no choice but to buy it,” he said simply.

She narrowed her eyes, amused. “Fine. It’s black opal.”

 

He paid for it without haggling.

He also bought moonstones—for Rhaenyra. If she ever had daughters, he would have something to give them too. He bought a heavy pendant of amber for himself, a gemstone that warmed under the touch, and an array of lesser stones for his future children. Handfuls of emeralds, sky sapphires, and polished tiger’s eyes. He struck a deal with one of the gem merchants to send regular shipments west, drawing up contracts that would cross land and sea by the time Dragonstone bloomed again.

 

He stopped beside a nursery cart of trees — rare jungle sprouts, fragile but alive.

“I’d like to bring these to Dragonstone,” he murmured. “Something green in a place of black stone.”

“Planning your garden already?” Yaeha teased, taking a mango slice from a passing platter.

“Someone has to live there. Daemon flies where he pleases, and Rhaenyra will remain in King’s Landing. The fortress will be left to me and my bride.”

She arched a brow, but didn’t respond.

 

Later, a merchant tried to sell Vaekar, one of the famed apes of Leng — a spotted humpback ape that watched him with unsettling intelligence. “Apes from the northern cliffs,” the man said in High Valyrian. “The spotted humpbacks are nearly as learned as men. They learn quickly. Some use tools. The hooded ones, though—strong as giants, loyal if trained young.” He declined, intrigued but wary yet kept an open mind. Perhaps someday. They were said to be as clever as men. Perhaps cleverer than some on the Small Council, he thought bitterly.

That night, Vaekar stood on the veranda of the quarters provided for him, looking over the river where fireflies danced like floating embers.

Yaeha joined him, hair unbound, the black opal gleaming at her throat.

“You look like a sorceress in moonlight,” he said.

“Good. Maybe I’ll hex you into spending even more.”

He chuckled, shook his head. “You treat all this like a game.”

“It is a game,” she said, leaning on the railing beside him. “We live. We eat. We trade. Then we vanish. The present is the only thing that matters.”

“And what of the future?” he asked.

She looked away, her expression unreadable.

“I like the idea of building something that lasts,” he said quietly. “Not just trade routes and gold. Education. Knowledge. Leng has existed since the First Men were still climbing trees. Look at them. Civilized. Learned. Even their peasants read ancient tomes. Why can’t we do that in King’s Landing?”

“You want to teach the pigs to write?” Yaeha snorted.

“I want a realm that works, ” he said. “Where the common people don’t live in shit and filth. If they’re learned, they contribute. If they contribute, they thrive. We fill the coffers and they gain pride in their labor. Perhaps... that will please Viserys.”

She glanced at him, surprised by the mention.

“You think he’d be proud?”

“I don’t know,” Vaekar said. “He always wanted everyone to be happy. Maybe I’m trying to do the same. In my own way.”

She watched him for a long time. “You’re serious about all this.”

“I am.”

She looked back toward the jungle. “Then I hope your bride knows what she’s getting.”

He turned to her, voice soft. “And if she were already with me, showing me the East like a dream?”

Yaeha met his eyes — then smiled and shook her head, stepping away.

“Go to bed, dragon prince,” she said. “Before the jungle eats you alive.”

 

And alone, Vaekar returned to his quarters—another black opal glimmering in his hand, heart heavier than he dared admit.

He dreamed of a house on a cliff in Dragonstone, with trees from Leng swaying in the wind, black opals inlaid on the walls, and laughter echoing from children who will never know war.

They remained in Leng for several more days.

 

Yaeha took him through the winding streets of Turrani as though she were queen of it—though she claimed no crown. She knew the names of the alley cats and the rhythms of the temple bells. She wove through crowds with laughter on her tongue and spice dust on her lips, her hair always loose and windblown. She spoke to beggars and spice lords alike in the same melodic voice, without a single note of pretension.

Vaekar watched her from just behind, letting her lead him through gardens scented with night jasmines, riverside pavilions lit with floating lanterns, and wine houses where music never ceased. She laughed when he grimaced at a sour mango wine, tugged him along when he lingered too long at the jade stalls, and danced barefoot in a street celebration without caring that her silks dragged through colored dust.

 

One night, after sharing a meal of honeyed fish and cinnamon rice, they retired to their guest chamber—a high-ceilinged suite overlooking the river, its terrace bathed in starlight.

She had thrown off her outer robes and sprawled on the silken cushions. Vaekar lay beside her, shirt discarded, his silver hair damp from the river bath they had taken earlier. He watched her hum to herself as she braided a few strands of her hair, her back to him.

 

"You belong to no one," he murmured.

Yaeha turned to him, brow raised. "What was that?"

He hesitated, then reached out, fingers brushing the side of her thigh. "You belong to no one. Not even to your name. And yet you move like the world itself was made for you."

She blinked once. Then smirked. "Poetic tonight, are we?"

"I'm always poetic. You just never listen."

She shifted closer, stretching beside him, the scent of cloves and sandalwood clinging to her skin. Her fingers traced the scar on his chest—the one just above his heart.

"You're always thinking ten steps ahead," she said softly. "Even when we're in the moment, you’re somewhere else. Dragonstone. Your legacy. Your family."

"Not tonight," he whispered.

"Where are you, then?"

He paused.

"Here. With you."

She searched his eyes, perhaps trying to find something unspoken. But she didn't press. Instead, she kissed his jaw, then his collarbone, then the space between his brows. They lay together like that for a long while, limbs tangled, warmth shared not just in touch but in breath, in presence.

“Do you miss it?” she asked after a while, voice quieter than before. “Home?”

“Sometimes,” he answered. “But it feels less like home when you’ve seen places like this. Less like something worth going back to… unless you’re bringing something new with you.”

She hummed, brushing her fingers through his hair. “Maybe you’re not meant to stay still either.”

“I was born to rule stone. To shape it. Mold it. You were born to sail winds.”

“And yet we meet here,” she said, lips curving. “What do you think that means?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached for her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. A small, simple thing—but one that betrayed something heavier.

Love , he thought. But he did not say it.

 

Not yet.

 

For now, he’d savor the days of starlit rivers and laughter-laced winds. For now, she was freedom, and he was still learning how to breathe in it.

Finally, the Salt Pearl pulled up its anchor. The waters churned beneath as the sails bloomed, catching the morning wind. Vaekar stood at the stern, eyes lingering on the harbor of Turrani as it slowly shrank behind them. He felt a quiet ache—one he hadn’t expected. Leng had carved itself into his chest. The strange music, the scent of sandalwood and cardamom, the wildness that thrived behind lacquered doors… and her .

 

He turned. Yaeha stood near the helm, legs braced, hair whipping about her face, laughing with her first mate over a map. Her voice was loud, sure. Commands rolled off her tongue like she was born speaking wind. Her skin gleamed beneath the sun, a bright flame at the heart of her crew. His bride. His captain.

 

She didn’t need silk or sapphires to look royal—she needed only salt, sunlight, and a deck beneath her boots.

 

He would be back. Not because of trade or conquest. He’d be back because she would take him. And because she would show him places even more wondrous than this.

Like before, he didn’t idle. He rolled up his sleeves and joined the crew—hoisting ropes, tying knots, scrubbing deck planks slick with brine. The sailors teased him less now; he had earned their camaraderie. He asked questions, too, about winds and stars, and the old men who had salt in their beards shared what they knew with grins missing teeth. They spoke of constellations, and how to gauge a storm’s breath just by the way gulls shrieked at dawn.

 

It felt easy. Honest. As though he was not a prince with a dragon waiting far across the sea, but a boy carved from tide and wind.

 

And maybe this was what Corlys Velaryon had loved. Not the wealth or titles, but this: the motion of the sea, the promise of discovery, the way the world unrolled like a map too vast to conquer.

 

He glanced back at Yaeha.

Yes. He would tell her soon.

But for now—he would sail, and learn, and breathe.

A week had passed since they left Leng, and Qarth drew closer with each breath of wind that filled the sails. The waves no longer roared but lapped, almost lullaby-like. The skies bled orange and violet from the west, streaked with dying sunlight that kissed the horizon. It was the kind of hour that felt like the world held its breath.

Vaekar clutched the necklace in his palm. A polished black opal, set in fine gold—a delicate thing, smooth as night and carved with the sigil of House Targaryen and the spiral of House Tha Xirn’s wave crest. A union in gem. It glimmered, dark and iridescent, like the promise it was meant to be.

 

He found her where he often did: at the crow’s nest, standing tall against the dying sun.

Her hair whipping around by the wind, tangled and wild. Her silhouette, framed by the sun, looked like something out of an ancient dream—windswept, free, untouchable. And gods, Vaekar thought, she is so beautiful . Not just in the way poets wrote about, but in a way that was so her . Laughing with storms, speaking with stars. Uncaged.

 

He drew a deep breath before ascending. The wood creaked under his boots. His heart pounded like war drums in his chest. Say it. Tell her. Make her yours.

But before he could speak, she sensed him—as she always did—and a faint smile touched her lips.

“Did you enjoy it?” she asked, eyes still fixed on the horizon.

“Yes,” he said, surprised at how steady his voice came. “I’m thankful that you brought me here.”

“The wind,” she murmured, closing her eyes for a second, letting it rush past her cheeks. “It’s so crisp and clean out here. Untouched. You don’t have to be anyone out here. Just… alive.”

He nodded quietly, but his fingers curled tighter around the necklace hidden in his hand.

 

“I’ve sailed this route many times now. I never get tired of it. The ship knows me. The crew sings to me. I feel it when the wind changes before the mast does. I wake to the stars and sleep under the hum of sails.”

Her words flowed easily, dreamlike, carried over the ocean breeze like a lullaby. She never looked his way.

 

“I thought it would feel like the end,” she said, voice swept by the wind. “Leaving Leng. Leaving all that color and warmth behind. But it doesn’t. It feels like everything is just beginning again.”

Vaekar stayed quiet, hand still clutching the black opal necklace in his fist until his knuckles whitened.

 

Only then did she cast him a sidelong glance, a small, wistful smile tugging at her lips. “You looked at that city like you were dreaming. Like you wanted to stay.”

“I did,” Vaekar answered, barely audible. “I still do.”

“I don’t,” she replied. “I can’t. I don’t belong to any place. Not to Leng. Not to Qarth. Not to you. The sea’s the only thing that ever made sense to me. She doesn’t ask me to become anything else.”

Her gaze drifted back to the horizon, searching its vastness as though it held answers.

 

Vaekar’s voice came softly. “And I was hoping to find something still. A home. Something I could build, not just run toward.”

“The sea is home,” she said, firmer now. “It’s not meant to be built on. It’s meant to carry. To change.”

 

At last she turned fully to him. Her hair whipped into the wind, wild silk framing her face, and for a moment he forgot how to breathe. She looked impossibly free.

“I wouldn’t give it up,” she said, words falling like stones, heavy and sure. “Not for anything.”

 

Their eyes locked and something inside Vaekar cracked.

 

Oh.

Oh.

 

It hit him all at once—like a wave rising, crashing over him before he could brace. He had come up here with a hope tucked in his palm. A gift. A vow. But now it burned against his skin like shame.

Vaekar didn’t speak. He just stared at her—at the way the dying sun kissed her wind-wild hair, the curve of her smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. The sea whispered below them. It always did.

And yet, this silence—it was different. Heavy. Like something sacred had just been named and buried in the same breath.

 

All this time.

All this time he had looked at her and thought—maybe. Maybe there was a world where she would choose him. Not because of the blood in his veins or the legacy behind his name. But because he saw her—unfettered, unbound, glorious. And he thought, maybe she could love the shape of a man who wanted to stay. Who wanted to build something still. For her.

But she had already chosen. Long before him. She belonged to no one and nowhere. Only to the wind. Only to the tide.

His hand loosened on the black opal necklace. He felt foolish now. It wasn’t a gift—it was an anchor. A chain.

She reached out with her hand—callused, sun-kissed, smelling faintly of salt and oil—and cupped his cheek. And like a boy desperate for warmth, he leaned into her touch. Eyes fluttered shut, breath uneven.

“I am not the one for you to take home,” she whispered.

 

And it broke him.

He took her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles, slow, trembling.

“I know,” he said hoarsely. “I’m sorry.”

“You shouldn’t be,” Yaeha replied, soft but firm. “You’ve given me something real. That matters.”

His throat constricted. His eyes stung.

He stepped back. Just slightly. Just enough to not crumble. Just enough to breathe again without her scent overwhelming him. The opal necklace remained in his palm, clutched so tightly now that it left indentations. Putting distance between them felt more like falling than walking. Like leaving something behind that would never come again.

“What happens next?” he managed to ask, even though it felt like the world had narrowed into a pinprick.

“When we land,” she said, calmly, cleanly, “my family and some from the Tourmaline Brotherhood will greet us. And you. You’ll be guested by the Thirteen. You’ll return to your bride.”

Her voice had no malice. No sadness either. Just the truth, delivered like an oath.

She turned and left, nimble as ever, climbing down the crow’s nest as the last sliver of sunlight dipped below the sea.

And Vaekar stayed.

Alone.

He stood motionless, the wind roaring in his ears now, louder than before. His hand unclenched at last. The opal necklace fell onto the wooden platform with a soft clink, forgotten.

He couldn’t breathe.

So he sat, knees drawn to his chest, and let the tears fall.

No one heard him cry. Not above the wind, not with the sails humming their endless tune. His shoulders shook quietly, face buried in his arms. Grief wasn’t loud. Not for princes raised among dragons and masks. It was something silent. Something that crept into your ribs and hollowed them out.

He cried because he love her and because she love the sea more.

The stars were coming out one by one, but they didn’t bring him peace.

They only reminded him of everything she still belonged to—everything he never could be.

He descended the rigging slowly, like every limb weighed twice its worth. When he finally reached his chambers, Vaekar didn’t even bother lighting a candle. He dropped his sword belt at the foot of the door, boots left abandoned in the middle of the floor. The wooden planks creaked under his weight as he staggered to the bed and sagged onto it like a man unraveling. The sheets were cool, untouched since morning, but he didn’t bother pulling them over. He only stared up at the beams above his head, their grain shifting faintly in the lanternlight.

 

He laid there in the dark, staring at the ceiling. A sigh escaped him—long, quiet, trembling at the edges. He closed his eyes.

Maybe… maybe this was all just a dream. The sunset. The wind. The feel of her fingers on his cheek. Maybe he had imagined the finality in her voice, that strange sense of mourning laced within her smile. Maybe when he wakes up, she’ll say yes.

He let himself drift for a short while. A light, restless sleep pulled him under—but it didn’t hold.

When he woke, the room was colder. He turned on his side, eyes still heavy, until they caught a glint in the dark.

There—resting atop the dresser—was the black opal pendant carved like a shell. 

 

It was not a dream.

 

He sat up slowly, his breath shallow, his hair falling loose over his brow. For a while, he didn’t move. Just stared at the gem like it mocked him. It had been meant to be part of the moment. The beginning of something. Now, it was only a relic of something that never even got the chance to start. The ache in his chest had dulled, but only because it had sunk deeper. It was a familiar feeling, really—like a sealed box at the bottom of his ribs. One more thing to be folded away.

He ran a hand down his face, fingers brushing against the faint dampness still clinging to his lashes.

What should he do?

The first impulse was to write—to journal, the way he often did when something important needed remembering. He had done it after battles, after political dealings, even after heartbreak before. A ritual of clarity. But not this time. The thought revolted him now.

Writing about it would immortalize it. Set it in stone; would carve the heartbreak into permanence. Preserve the grief like a pressed flower in a book. He didn't want that. No part of him wanted this to be remembered. Not this. Not like this.

 

What was it, in the end? Not a story. Not a memory. Just a necklace unoffered, a word unsaid, a goodbye that refused to name itself but lingered all the same.

No. He refused to frame it as anything more. He would not give shape to something that had never been.

 

His hand moved instead to the other papers strewn across the desk—contracts from Turrani, investment plans from Yin, figures, seals, tallies. He latched onto them like a man clinging to driftwood. Numbers stayed where you put them. Agreements held fast. There was no risk of them unraveling beneath your hands.

 

He forced his body into the chair, ink-stained fingers steady, almost mechanical.

Push it down.

He had practice.

 

He was Vaekar Targaryen—rider of Aeramon, son of fire and blood. His life was not for fleeting attachments, not for half-born dreams. He would not mourn what had never been his to keep.

 

So he pressed it down, crushed it into the hollow of his chest until it was nothing. And he worked, because work was solid. Work was legacy. Work was purpose.

 

And if something twisted inside him when he thought of what could have been? He silenced it.

It wasn’t love. It wasn’t loss.

It was nothing.

He felt absurd. A man like him—Vaekar Targaryen. Prince of a dynasty so steeped in blood and fire it seared the very air around him. Born of ancient magic, draped in silk and prophecy.

And here he was. In his cabin. Alone. Sulking.

Sulking because he had been rejected by a girl.

He scoffed bitterly at himself, but the laugh that escaped him was hollow, pitiful. His hands gripped the edge of the desk.

He had never expected it to hurt this much. Maybe that was the cruelest part. He hadn't let himself hope, not really. But some part of him must have. Some part of him had believed she’d say yes.

And now… he couldn’t undo it. Couldn’t unhope.

The black opal glinted in the dim light.

Vaekar turned away from it.

He would go back to being what the world expected of him tomorrow. But tonight, just for a little while longer, he let the grief sit in the hollow of his ribs, heavy and quiet, like the sea.

The lull of the ship was once a comfort—steady, familiar, a pulse that matched the rhythm of the sea. But tonight, it grated against Vaekar's bones. The heartbreak from the crow’s nest lingered like a bruise on his chest. No matter how many parchments he rifled through, or how many contracts he pretended to assess, the ache would not fade. Numbers blurred, ink smudged. Yaeha’s voice echoed still, like waves crashing upon the shores of his mind. 

He surrounded himself with scrolls and ink, contracts from Yin and figures from Turrani, numbers and maps that once filled him with a sense of purpose. He told himself this—this was what mattered. These parchments were the building blocks of his legacy. Not the windblown girl who had chosen the sea over him. Not the moment that slipped through his fingers before it could even begin.

And yet his thoughts, like water through cupped hands, kept slipping back to her. To the look in her eyes when she said she wouldn’t give it up for anything. As if her very soul was tethered to the salt and the sky. As if she belonged nowhere and to no one. He had offered roots. She had chosen the wind.

And now the cabin felt too still, too empty. He hated it.

Vaekar pushed aside the scrolls. No use pretending. The ache in his chest wouldn’t go away, and the distraction had thinned to threads. He stood, dragging a calloused hand through his silver-gold hair, and reached into the worn satchel he had brought from Oldtown. Among the trade ledgers and agreements, his fingers brushed against something harder—smooth carved stone.

The figurines of the Old Gods.

He took them out and set them on the table with care, one by one. Shrykos, Goddess of Beginnings, of Transitions and Gateways. Tessarion, Goddess of Dreams, Foresight, and Instinct. Meleys, Goddess of Wisdom, Knowledge, and War Strategy. Three ancient goddesses whispered in the deepest recesses of Valyria’s forgotten temples. Each carved from volcanic glass and etched in ancient High Valyrian glyphs. Few worshipped them anymore—even then, not properly for they are mostly forgotten and replaced. But in his blood, in the deepest marrow of his bones, Vaekar knew: they were not gone. Not truly. Only waiting.

He lit a  new single candle and cleared the table with a sweep of his hand. Pulling out a fresh sheet of parchment, he began sketching sigils in black and red ink— sigils, glyphs, and sacred scripts passed down through the old tongue. Old glyphs that he saw in the books at the Citadel, ones he had copied from crumbling temple walls during his travels at Volantis. All traced from his memory. He placed each figurine atop a corner of the blank parchment, forming a triangle. Then, invoked the names of the goddesses under his breath, a litany of reverence and plea. The air in the room grew still, the candle’s flame leaning unnaturally sideways, as if drawn to the growing pulse of power.

 

A ritual must be sealed with a price. He had no offering. 

“…Except my own.”

From beneath his cloak, Vaekar retrieved the Valyrian steel dagger, it catched the glow of the lanternlight like a silver tongue. He stared at his palm for a breath, then sliced clean through the flesh.  The sting flared sharp and quick. Blood welled up dark and thick. It spattered onto the parchment, and with a sudden sizzle, the ink and blood melded together, disappearing into the fibers of the page.

The ink and glyphs hissed. The blood shimmered like molten metal. It smoked, then vanished into the symbols as if the page itself drank it.

The candle beside him flared violently—its flame tall and blinding white. Flickered once. Twice.

Then the world turned as it roared to life.

The flame turned white-hot. The air in the cabin grew heavy, charged, electric. Vaekar gasped as the light swelled until it filled his eyes—

—

Fire.

He gasped and stumbled, yet his body never left the cabin. The chamber fell away, replaced by the red-orange glare of molten rock. Lava bubbled and cracked, surrounding him like a living beast. In the distance, pillars of obsidian rose like broken towers. He stood upon a bridge of glass, his shadow long and trembling. A hand reached out to him from the fire—tattooed in curling ink of flowers, stars, and spirals. He could not see the face it belonged to, only that he was handing something over: a small clay idol in the shape of Aeramon, his dragon.

He looked up to see the face but found only the sky, a pale-blue stretch of horizon. His vision shifted—swept away like ash in the wind.

—

He’s flying. Wind lashed his face, the world a blur beneath him. Aeramon’s wings cut through the clouds like knives. Vaekar laughed aloud—he could feel the joy of it, the freedom. Other dragons rose beside him: a green spiral, a red blur, and yet, another red blaze—all known to him. Familiar roars filled the sky, a terrible symphony of wings and flame. The clouds parted and a bright beam of sunlight split the horizon, and for a moment, he felt invincible. Whole.

He turned his head—and once again, the scenery changed.

The sky cracked. The world twisted and he was falling. 

—

Then stillness.

A chamber of stone. Soft candlelight flickered against the walls. And there—Daemon.

The Rogue Prince lay pale and still, blood staining his chest and shoulder. His head lolled to one side. Beside him, six candles. Five candles unlit, and one burning low, the flame dancing like it struggled to live, as if ready to die at any moment. Vaekar’s eyes locked on it. Time slowed. The wax dripped. The wick hissed. Vaekar stared at the last candle. The flame flickered... flickered... then—White light again. Blinding. 

His breath caught and with a blink, the visions were gone.

—

When he opened his eyes, he was back in the cabin. The candle on the desk was normal now, dancing softly, gently. The blood on his palm had dried, the parchment blackened around the edges. The figurines remained where they were, silent and still.

Vaekar exhaled shakily, his heart thudded in his chest.

What did it mean?

A girl with inked hands… a gift of clay… skies with dragons… his brother, bleeding. And the candle.

He looked at the flame again.

So much he didn’t understand . He could not interpret all of it. Not yet. The meaning hung just out of reach, like fog on a mirror, but something within him—something ancestral—understood enough. He saw a hand reaching for the legacy of his House, not his own. He saw dragons united. He saw Daemon, not dead, not thriving, but waiting.

And that candle. That damned candle.

 

But one thing was certain: something had been set in motion. A thread had been pulled, and now the tapestry of his life—of his fate—was beginning to unravel into something far greater than a prince rejected on a ship at sea. He had prayed to the goddesses for guidance—and they had answered. Not with comfort. Not with love. But with a path.

Once the dizzying vision faded, Vaekar did not move at first. His chest slowly rose and fell as he sat in the silence of his chamber, eyes lingering on the parchment where his blood had sizzled in spirals of prophecy. There was no fear—only stillness. A calm that came only after the storm had passed and left revelation in its wake.

He gathered the figurines—his three goddesses carved lovingly from glass and shaped with care—and returned them to the velvet pouch, pressing a kiss to each one before they vanished into its depths. Then, with practiced precision, he set fire to the parchment. The sigils and glyphs, still faintly etched in blood, curled and blackened under the flames until they crumbled to ash. 

It was not the first time he had done this. Nor would it be the last.

As the last cinders of the parchment curled into ash, Vaekar leaned back, eyes gleaming with the reflection of flame. The scent of smoke and blood lingered in the chamber like incense—a prayer offered in flesh and fire. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the hush of the ship cradle him once more, like a mother rocking her child to sleep, or perhaps a dragon coiling around its egg, patient and eternal.

The gods had spoken.

 

As he bandaged his palm with practiced ease, he exhaled slowly, almost laughing at himself.

“A child of the Fourteen Flames,” he murmured. “And it takes heartbreak to make me call upon them properly.”

He shook his head but his smirk lingered. In truth, he should have done this long ago. But love makes fools even of dragonlords.

He smirked faintly. The kind of smirk that didn’t reach his eyes but was borne from a profound understanding. “Thank you,” he whispered quietly, voice low and firm. “Thank you, grandsire. And you, father.” It was because of them—Jaehaerys the Conciliator, the Old King, and Baelon the Brave—that he had been sent to Oldtown. To the Citadel. Where he had studied under quiet candlelight, beneath rows of scrolls that stank of dust and age, poring over tomes most people would sneer at—what use had a dragon prince for books and bones?. His uncle Vaegon, the monk-prince, had nurtured the spark within him. Taught him more than the maesters ever dared. Showed him how to speak to the old gods of Valyria and walk the knife’s edge between reverence and ruin.

It was through his uncle that he learned the sacred glyphs, the secret offerings, and how to ask without demanding. Yes, he had long been a quiet servant of the old ways, of the Fourteen Flames that danced and whispered behind the Valyrian pantheon. Even now, that knowledge burned inside him like a quiet flame, stoked by belief and blood. Most Targaryens believed the fire ran through their veins simply by name. But Vaekar… he made the fire listen.

 

He reached for a strip of linen and bound the wound in his palm, tightly and expertly. He’d done it so many times before that the sting barely registered. Already, the flesh beneath would be knitting itself together. The blood of Old Valyria ran true in him. Even minor wounds closed swiftly, scarring little. In truth, the offering had not hurt as much as it should have. Because the gods took . They always did. By tomorrow, the cut would be gone, vanished as though it had never been there at all. But the sacrifice had been made. The gods had answered. That was what mattered.

He thought back to his grandparents once more. Jaehaerys and Alysanne—who fought tooth and nail for the Doctrine of Exceptionalism, who had secured their children’s ability to wed within the bloodline. He owed them everything. For if they had failed… Baelon and Alyssa would perhaps never have wed. He would never have been born. There would be no three Targaryen Brothers.

He owed them his life. He owed the House of the Dragon his soul.

He scoffed quietly at the fleeting thought that crossed his mind. Laena. He had once entertained the idea of marrying her for her blood, her beauty, and her dragon. But that path had been closed off before it could ever open. Perhaps it was for the best. The gods had shown him something else. And he would abide. They had given him a sign, vague but sure.

He would listen.

He must listen.

He gazed down at his hand again, flexing the bandaged fingers. It was all temporary. Even wounds like this. Even longings. Even heartbreak. He had offered blood for guidance, and guidance had been given. That was the exchange. That was the covenant.

A heavy breath escaped him as he leaned back in his seat, letting the candlelight cast its flickering shadows across the walls. He had not just done this for himself. He never had. Every call to the gods, every whisper offered in fire and blood—it had always been for House Targaryen. For their legacy. Their dominance. Their future.

He was the quiet blade that struck before anyone noticed. The one who negotiated trades with kings and warlords alike. The one who made the contracts, moved the gold, whispered the omens. It was he who made Dorne lift its banners for the war in the Stepstones. Not Daemon. Not Corlys. Him.

And the men who bled for it? The soldiers and spies sacrificed for victory? May their souls rest easy. For they had done more for their Houses through death than they could ever have achieved in life. In the name of strategy and survival, yes, but also under sacred rites few would understand. That, too, was part of the covenant.

The House of the Dragon was eternal. And he served it absolutely.

He would not share this with his brothers, nor his niece. Not yet. The gods had shown him the road. But it was his road to walk alone—for now. He would wait. He would watch. He would act when the time was right. Until then, he would carry this truth in silence, locked behind smirks and sighs, masked by princely charm and distant laughter.

And when the hour comes?

He would be ready. The gods were with him. The fire in his veins burned bright.

With the quiet returned to his soul and the storm inside him had finally relented, Vaekar reached for his leather-bound journal. The same one he had carried across a dozen cities, damp with sea salt, dusted with the sands of Asabhad, and stained faintly with ink from a dozen late-night musings. The cover felt warm in his hand, the edges worn soft like the memory of a familiar song. He opened it to a blank page and sat with the stillness of the candlelight dancing beside him.

For the first time in weeks, his thoughts were no longer clouded. The haze had lifted, the ache in his chest still present, yes, but softened by the clarity that comes after tears have been shed and prayers have been answered—though not in the way he expected.

He dipped his quill and began to write. Not for obligation. Not for documentation. But for remembrance—for truth. For the kind of memory that deserved to be preserved.

He began with her name, Yaeha Tha Xirn, bold and unhidden, scrawled across the page as if to anchor everything that would follow. No codename. No allusions. Just the sound of her name echoing in his head and flowing out of his pen like a final goodbye.

To My Dearest, Yaeha,

Salt-kissed and storm-hearted, Daughter of the sea, Captain of her soul

 

You gave me what no court nor keep ever could: freedom.

Thank you—for that, and for more than I can name.

 

For the starlit nights when the sea whispered secrets only we could hear.

For the laughter, the teasing, and your insistence that the wind was not an obstacle, but a companion.

For grilled eel beneath Asabhadi skies, for the taste of dust and smoke in Yin’s markets, for silk scarves I never asked for but still wrap around my wrist like reminders of a vanished self.

Thank you for letting me be just a man—not a prince, not a dragonrider, not a son of war and fire. Just… me.

Thank you for teaching me what it means to drift.

 

You held my hand when I forgot I had one to hold.

You showed me a world that was cruel, kind, strange, and alive.

And gods, for a time, we were alive.

 

Perhaps in another life, we’d have burned the world to make space for each other.

Or perhaps we’d still part ways—because you are the sea, Yaeha. Vast, changing, untamed.

And I am a dragon. I soar, I wander, but I make lairs. I land. I choose my flame and guard it 'til death.

 

It was never in our nature to last.

But oh, how we lived.

 

His pen paused above the page. He breathed in deeply, then smiled faintly. No bitterness now—just memory of something sacred.

He continued, this time shifting into the recounting of his journey.

He wrote of Turrani with its temple markets and scarlet-robed scribes who debated philosophy over tea sweetened with fig nectar. Of the wild rooftop festival where he’d been crowned “Bright Star Reader” by a half-drunk poet after correctly identifying all the constellations above them. He scribbled down notes of dishes he wanted to bring back home: crispy lotus root dipped in spiced yogurt, wine-soaked pears, and almond-paste candies filled with citrus zest. 

He wrote of the heated spices that stung the tongue but warmed the soul, of the dancers with bells on their ankles, and of the lavish feasts held on rooftops beneath the moon. He recalled the dizzying night markets and the contracts he had forged there, the investments sealed with smiles and veiled threats—he recorded it all, not as a prince, but as a man who had walked, tasted, and bartered with the best of them.

 

He wrote of Yin—of its towering brass towers and arched bridges, of the saffron-rich soup he wouldn’t forget, and of the jade-haired woman who read his fortune in the steam rising from her kettle. She had told him: “You carry fire not in your lungs but in your shadow. Beware those who mistake your silence for weakness.” He’d nodded then, unsure. But now… he understood.

 

He wrote of Asabhad, of the silver coins that changed hands in alleys full of whispered danger, of the dancers who moved like water in torchlight, and of the long discussions about gods and war with the men of the Bronze Host. Men who believed in honor still, despite the cost. He recorded the way the priests there whispered of winds and fate, how they called him dragon-son and touched his brow as if marking him for something greater. He wrote of a night spent in the temple where he was told his blood burned brighter than oil, and that the gods still watched over those who dared believe.

 

And of course, he wrote of the men of the Salt Pearl—the shipmen who had unknowingly taught him more than all the maesters in Oldtown ever could.

“I’ll never forget them,” he wrote. “Kalem, with his knotted beard and louder-than-life laugh. Old Rahi, who taught me how to navigate by the stars and told me the stars could hear us back if we were kind to them. Kol, who sang lullabies to the sea when it roared too loudly. And Arah, the quiet one, who shared her pipe and her stories about the whales that sing only once every thousand years. They all taught me something. Knotting ropes. Fixing sails. Drinking without drowning. And most of all—living. Just living. No titles. No expectations. Just sky, water, wind, and heart. They live not for crowns, nor gold, nor the promise of songs. They live to survive. To see the sun rise over new waters. To laugh another day. I envied that. I admired it. They taught me what it meant to live—not for duty, not for lineage, but for self”

 

He set down the quill at last.

There was nothing more to say, at least not for now. 

The journal felt heavy when he closed it—not because of weight, but because of meaning. His story was immortalized now, pressed in ink and spirit. Not the story of a prince or a warrior or a chosen son. But the story of a man who loved, who lost, and who lived. This, he thought, would be the chapter he left behind for history—for the bards and the curious minds who would one day ask, who was Prince Vaekar Targaryen before the betrothal? Before the crown? Let them read and find a man, not just a prince. A dragon who had flown far and wide, seeking answers beyond prophecy.

 

Tomorrow, they will dock at Qarth and tomorrow, he will meet his old flame.

 

The wind outside howled softly through the sails—like a final goodbye from the sea.

He looked out the window of his quarters, eyes narrowed at the horizon where stars blinked into sight.

“Farewell, Yaeha,” he murmured. 

 

And with that, he laid back, arm draped across his chest where his dragon pendant rested, and let sleep take him—not as a prince of flame but simply as Vaekar, who once dared to wander and now dares to return. Outside, the wind hummed a soft lullaby. The sea had calmed now, like it, too, had said its farewells.

A knock at the door tore Vaekar from his thoughts, halting the steady scratching of his quill over contracts and investment summaries from Yin and Turrani. He blinked, momentarily disoriented. The parchment before him blurred—inking seals, trade routes, and the future of his House laid bare in delicate script.

"Come in," he called out, sharper than intended.

The door creaked open. For a breath, his heart climbed into his throat.

But it wasn’t her.

 

It was Akhmo, the broad-shouldered sailor with the ever-jesting mouth and salt-bleached braids. The pirate took one look at Vaekar and barked out a laugh.

"Expecting my Captain, have you now, comrade?"

Vaekar stiffened, jaw ticking ever so slightly. He thought his disappointment had been well-hidden. Clearly, not well enough. He rolled his eyes in reply, but the weariness in his shoulders was telling.

"What do you want, Akhmo?" he muttered.

The older man strode in like he owned the place, throwing himself lazily onto the nearby bench. "We thought you’d died, Dragon Prince. You haven’t stepped foot out of this chamber in days. Land’s made your legs soft, has it?"

Vaekar didn’t answer. He merely regarded the pirate with quiet indifference, though the dark circles under his eyes betrayed the unrest that had followed him like a shadow since that night in the crow’s nest.

Akhmo raised both hands in surrender. "Alright, alright. No lectures. We’re drinking later, is all. Thought maybe you'd want to grace us with your presence. Might be our last hurrah together—Salt Pearl's docking tomorrow."

Vaekar glanced back at the papers in front of him. Future deals. Gold. Landed duties. It all suddenly felt… sterile.

After a pause, he nodded.

Akhmo gave a satisfied grin before leaving him in peace once again. When the door clicked shut, Vaekar exhaled deeply and stood. He gathered the ledgers, tucking them away neatly into a satchel. Then he faced the mirror above his writing desk. His reflection was gaunter now, more solemn. He brushed imagined dust from his tunic, adjusted the collar. A prince once again, not a boy chasing smoke across the sea.

This would be the first time he’d leave his chambers since Yaeha refused him—not with cruelty, but with the soft firmness of a woman who knew her own path. He hadn’t seen her since.

He closed his eyes for a breath, steadying the roil in his gut.

When he stepped onto the main deck, it was to the scent of roasted meats, the sound of laughter and clinking mugs, and the soft glow of lanterns swaying overhead. The stars above blinked bright, and the sea hummed gently beneath their hulls.

He took his seat beside Akhmo, who handed him a cup filled to the brim with rum.

"Drink, Dragon. You look like you’ve swallowed saltwater and regret."

Vaekar took a sip. The burn was immediate. He coughed, grimacing at the sting, which drew howls of laughter from the crew.

"Still not used to the strong drink, are you, Dragon?"

The voice came from behind. And when he turned, there she was.

Captain Yaeha.

Her curls caught the lanternlight, her earrings glittering like seafoam gems. She sauntered in like the night itself belonged to her. Fashionably late. Infuriatingly beautiful.

Vaekar managed a half-smile. "Still arriving like you own the tide, Captain?"

"I do," she said smoothly, plucking a drink from a passing hand before settling opposite him.

And so the night unfolded.

 

“What’s this now?” Gerren started, voice already slurred from previous rounds. “You lot ever heard about the lighthouse at the edge of the Straits? The one with the woman who cries at night?”

“Oh not this again,” Akhmo groaned, but others shushed him eagerly.

“She walks the halls still, lookin’ for the captain who left her there—says her wail sounds like a dying gull.”

“You just described my second wife,” another sailor barked, drawing laughter.

“No, no, Gerren’s right,” someone else chimed in. “They say if you anchor near it, you’ll find seaweed in your sheets and none of your knots will hold in the morning.”

“Cursed knots, huh?” Vaekar muttered, chuckling. “Maybe that’s just poor craftsmanship.”

Yaeha leaned in, smirking. “He doesn’t believe you, Gerren. Next time, make the story bloodier.”

And so they moved from ghost tales to what they agreed were far scarier things.

“The true nightmares,” Akhmo declared, slamming down his mug, “are those smug, perfumed merchants in Asabhad who sell sand with ‘healing’ properties.”

“Or the bastards in Yin who price their pearls like they were carved from dragon eggs!” Gerren spat.

“And don’t get me started on those spice peddlers who cough on their wares just to ‘enhance’ the flavor!”

They howled at that, and the conversation took a natural, foul-mouthed turn as it always did when rum was plenty.

“You boys remember that place in Turrani? The one with the twin girls from Naath?” one of the older men drawled, eyes unfocused.

“Imported mouths,” Akhmo groaned dreamily. “ So much better. It’s like they learn the art from birth.”

Vaekar, cheeks flushed from the drink, couldn’t help but laugh.

“And the tall women,” another piped in, shaking his head as if haunted by memory. “They taste like luxury . All honey and leather.”

Yaeha didn’t flinch. “At least you all pay for it. Unlike the rats who try to charm them with dice and lies.”

“Speaking of dice,” Gerren slurred, suddenly leaning forward, “ those tables in the east? Rigged. I swear it. No one loses fifteen hands in a row unless the gods themselves hate you.”

“You’ve just got piss-poor luck,” someone quipped.

“No! No, listen—dealer tapped twice before rolling, I saw it. Means someone was watching from behind the screen.”

“Should’ve bet your tongue, maybe you’d have won that back,” another laughed.

Vaekar sat amid the chaos, the air thick with smoke, laughter, and the sharp bite of salt. It was crude and unpolished, a far cry from the feasts of lords and princes—yet more alive than any hall he had ever known. The teasing, the songs, the wild boasting—all of it burned with a vitality that made his heart ache. These men and women lived as though tomorrow was no promise, and for a time, they had let him belong to that life.

 

Across the fire, Yaeha laughed at something Akhmo whispered, her head thrown back, the flames painting her in bronze. His chest tightened, but the sharp grief had dulled; what remained was a quiet gratitude. He would miss this—the warmth, the filth, the reckless honesty of them all.

 

But endings came as surely as tides. He had chosen his path: a bride awaited, duty beckoned, legacy demanded his return. The sea had given him a fleeting taste of freedom, and perhaps one day he would chase it again—but never with this same crew. The sea always changed its cast.

 

So he carved them into memory instead. Their songs, their curses, their laughter stitched into the fabric of him, carried across every shore he would walk after this.

 

The Dragon had flown far. But even he must return to his lair. Tomorrow, they would dock in Qarth, and Vaekar Targaryen—son of Baelon and Alyssa, blood of Old Valyria—would step onto land with a piece of his heart left forever aboard the Salt Pearl, beneath the stars and the endless sea.

By the time the laughter dulled and the bottles thinned, Vaekar had already been swaying on his feet. His cheeks were flushed, his voice louder than usual, slurring praise and half-finished stories. Akhmo had tried to hold him steady, but it was Yaeha who ultimately crossed the deck with steady steps and took the prince by the arm.

“Come on, Dragon,” she muttered, almost fondly. “Let’s not have you puking on the ropes again.”

He leaned heavily into her, a rare moment of vulnerability, as she carried him across the lower deck and into the narrow passageways that led to his chambers. Each step he took sagged under the weight of too many drinks and too many things left unsaid. They stumbled inside, her shoulder bracing his frame until she reached his bed and let him down slowly.

Yaeha was just about to straighten, to leave him to the safety of solitude, when his hand shot out and grasped her wrist.

“Stay,” he whispered, voice rough.

She stilled. Her eyes met his, and something in them must have struck her—so she sat, settling at the edge of his bed. Her hand reached up to stroke his white hair, fingers brushing through the tangles softened by salt and rum.

“…with you,” he murmured, eyes half-lidded.

“What?” she leaned in closer, trying to make out his words.

But instead of answering, Vaekar sat up with drunken resolve and kissed her. Their mouths met in a deep, hurried kiss—one that tasted of unspoken longing, soaked in warmth and desperation. His hand cupped her cheek with more emotion than steadiness, and for a moment it felt like time had paused for them. Just for them.

But Yaeha pulled away, breathless.

“Why?” he asked, voice cracked open. “Do you not like me anymore? Got bored of me, have you?”

She laughed at his pitiful accusation, brushing a thumb along his jaw. “No, I have not. Trust me, I would love to get in bed with you…” she trailed off, eyes soft with regret. “But I am not that cruel.”

Vaekar exhaled and let himself fall back against the mattress. “Can’t I just be with you?” he mumbled. “Sailing away. Seeing wonderful lands. No titles, no duty.”

Yaeha shook her head slowly, gaze steady. “Aren’t princes supposed to be the ones taking away their wives and not the other way around?”

He grunted, turning his head to look at her. “Who cares about the way things should be? I’d throw it all away. I'd follow you aboard your boat and live like a merchant. I’d learn your stars. Your wind. Everything.”

She smiled, sad and knowing. “Perhaps it is not me you truly want, Dragon,” she said, her fingers still threading through his hair. “But my freedom. You want the sea that answers to no king. The sky that forgets your name. I’m not tied down to anyone—not even to my House. Yes, I belong to the Tourmaline Brotherhood. To House Tha Xirn. But we are pirates. We are born of the tides and the wind. Fleeting. Ever changing.”

Vaekar’s breath stilled. For a second, Yaeha thought he had passed out. But his voice rasped up from his throat, hoarse and raw.

“Perhaps. Perhaps you are right. I yearn for your freedom… your carelessness. You live as though no one owns you. And I—” he closed his eyes— “I have been owned by duty since birth.”

She said nothing to that. She only kissed his forehead, her lips barely brushing skin. Then she stood and walked toward the door.

“Yaeha,” he called, voice rough and fragile.

She stopped. “Hmm?”

“In another life,” he said, eyes still glossy with emotion, “I would have really liked sailing through the seas with you.”

She smiled. But it didn’t reach her eyes.

“Yeah… maybe.”

And then she was gone—leaving the door to close softly behind her and Vaekar lying alone in the dark, with the taste of her kiss still lingering like a fading storm.

Notes:

i like incorporating movie references to the stories so pls tell me if u get ittt:)) also remember when i said i had plans with dorne helping the targs... yep. anything is possible with magic lol i think i can update frequently for september since we are slowly going back to the main storyline