Chapter Text
Dark Sister was as sharp as it’d ever been, as it cut down straw dummy after straw dummy, but Daemon felt restless still. Something was brewing in the air, and he could not figure out what plots were aiming against him, and which ones where aiming at the Greens.
Going to war had been easier, he figured. Even if the days were long, and the food shite, war was merely figuring out which army was his and which army was not, and burning down the enemy with Caraxes. But politics had not been for Daemon. He’d never had much of a head for it – that place was for Laena, always better with her courtesies and charms, and later Rhaenyra.
Yet another dummy fell. Daemon felt no relief in that.
He sheathed the sword. Perhaps he ought to go on a flight, clear his head – Caraxes must have been as restless as he, after all. But his guileless little stepson – the plain-faced boy Rhaenyra loved despite his little ability on anything, which left Daemon wondering how he could even be descended from Baelon the Brave – ran up to him.
“Uncle!” Lucerys beamed. “I did not know you’d be training today.”
Daemon said nothing. The boy did not seemed deterred, for he continued following him like a lost duckling, chattering his ear off about whatever it was that he’d been learning in the art of the sword. A pair of boys, some of the companions his niece had sent for for her so-called Velaryon son, stayed behind. Wise things, he hummed to himself. He was rather thinking to let his feelings out on some actual flesh.
“Mother’s forbidden me from yielding live steel yet,” the brat prattled on, “but I’ve grown much better with the training swords, so, surely, I’ll have my own sword soon enough. Jace already has one, of course, and I think mother will have him made a proper one for him for his nameday, one with a name of its own.”
Daemon ignored the boy.
“Or maybe mother will ask grandsire to give Jace Blackfyre? I wonder-”
“Jacaerys is too green a boy for a sword like Blackfyre,” Daemon spat at the boy. Lucerys blinked up at him. “He would sooner put out an eye from his own face with it than do anything of use.”
He’d seen both boys in the training yards. They were unimpressive, average at best. Living proof that Rhaenyra had borne bastards, for all to see. His niece never liked the reminder, however, and Daemon was eager to comply, but giving the eldest bastard Blackfyre was something he would never agree with. Blackfyre was meant for a true Targaryen, like his son Aegon, not for a polite lie hidden behind courtesies.
It was already trouble enough that Jacaerys produced a child with that Green bitch.
Daemon ignored Lucerys and walked away towards the dragons. Caraxes called him yet.
Rhaenyra was laying in her bed when he arrived. Her last months of childbearing had been spent in bedrest, save for the visits to her children. “You stink of dragon,” she smiled, tone light.
Daemon smiled back and gave her a light peck on the lips. “Would you prefer for me to stink of wine, then?”
Rhaenyra giggled. “Only that I could join you in flying. I feel miserable here,” she bemoaned, rubbing her belly. "This babe seems ready to come out any day now - even Viserys was not so eager."
Daemon rubbed her belly, hands joining.
“Perhaps you might yet join me in the bath?”
The water was warm, smelling of orange – a gift from the Celtigars, those bath oils that Rhaenyra preferred whenever she laid for a soak. She rubbed a sponge on his back, letting the suds cover it evenly.
“So tense…” she whispered. “Has the council truly been that dull today?”
Daemon sighed. “I continue to advise you that a strong approach is ideal. Why must we play courtesies with oathbreakers and traitors? We already know who they are. Cut them down – nip the problem in the bud, Rhaenyra.”
His niece rolled her eyes. “We have spoken of this matter many times befoe, Daemon-”
“Then you know why I urge you to do so.”
“And you know why I do not take your advice,” she sternly said, eyes glaring. “The Realm must see us as allies, not enemies. If we are seen wont to cause a war, or inclined to being merciless, then none of our enemies will be persuaded to join our cause.”
Daemon turned to look at his wife. “You were not so eager to break bread when we married.”
“My position was not secured then,” Rhaenyra sniffed. Sat back on the tub, sprawling her arm on the side, silver hair floating on the surface of the water. “I have five sons, a living grandchild, and hostages from all the Realm.”
“A grandchild whose mother’s loyalties are divided – at best,” he amended, earning his wife’s sharp look. “You’ve read the Queen’s letters. They are filled with nothing but plausible deniability and evasion. And hostages are not so reliable when the Greens also have them.”
“But we have the Green’s only princess. Alicent and her sons will not want to place Helaena in danger.”
Daemon scoffed.
Rhaenyra turned to the tray of soaps and oils. She picked up a tiny glass bottle, pink in colour and pleasant in smell, and began to rub it through her strands. “Let us speak of happier matters, husband. Jace’s nameday is to arrive soon. Perhaps we ought to throw him a feast, and combine it with the birth of this child.”
Daemon sighed and picked up the comb. He slowly detangled his wife’s knots as she rubbed more oil on the strands. “Must we? The boy has had more than enough feasts, surely. Our child could have one of their own. Especially if she is to be Visenya.”
“I would like a merged celebration. It would show our might to our allies – Jace has a daughter of his own now, after all. And more merriment has never been in bad taste.”
Daemon knew then that there was no arguing with his wife. She was much like Viserys, he noted, when it came to feasts and undue favouritism. He often loved her for how similar she was to his brother, but the pain of being reminded of his worst traits also came to frustrate him.
“Then you shall have it,” he relented. “I hear Jacaerys shall have a sword made for him?”
Rhaenyra smiled. “Yes. I’ve commissioned a blacksmith from King’s Landing for it. Where have you come to hear of it, husband?”
“Lucerys has quite the gossiping tongue.”
“Oh, yes, he does,” she laughed. “I had asked him to keep those plans a secret, but it seems he could not help himself.”
Helaena was amidst her studies of the Realm, reading a book on heraldry and customs of the North, when one of her maidservants – Wylla, a dragonseed of silver hair and yellow eyes, like those of a falcon – arrived, a silver tray in hand.
“The tonics from the Maester, m’lady,” Wylla muttered, bowing. “And your letters.”
“You may place the tray on my table, Wylla.”
“Yes, m’lady. Of course, m’lady.”
The maid bowed and left. Helaena watched the corridor, and then looked at Gella Arryn. It was late in the day, after supper, and only the lady who’d been deemed her bedmate for the night was still in her rooms. Helaena first drank her tonics – one for a calmer sleep, so that she would not be awoken by her frequent nightmares, and one for recovering from Alyssa’s birth.
Both were bitter, awfully so, but Helaena took a pastry from her plate to disguise the taste.
“Will you bring me my letter opener, Gella?” she asked, amiably. Gella did so, bringing the small blade from its rightful place in one of Helaena’s chests and handing it over to her expecting hand.
There were three letters in total. Two were common correspondence, nothing but the usual pleasantries between herself and her cousin Falla Hightower, who’d served as one of her ladies in King’s Landing. One must have been lost. There had been a storm not so long ago, perhaps the raven had had to take shelter before resuming the trip.
The third was from King’s Landing, marked with the Queen’s seal. Helaena eagerly cut the wax open, unfolding the papers within.
My dearest daughter, her mother’s hand curled. Helaena could imagine the Queen in her solar, with a single lit candle illuminating the expensive black ink she used in her private letters, sharpening the point of the feather to write to her.
It brings me great joy to hear of your safe delivery, and of the birth of young Alyssa. If the child takes after you, she shall be a beauty to behold, a true Princess of the Blood. Your father, the King, has declared it so as well, and has chosen to grant you the jewels of his lady mother, the Princess Alyssa, to be passed onto your own child when she grows old enough.
Your brothers were overjoyed by the news as well. Daeron sings to all who will hear him of his niece. Even Aegon is happy, having raised quite a few glasses of wine when the King announced your daughter’s birth to the court.
Aemond, despite the happiness he must feel, sulks. I fear he is resentful of your circumstances, still. Perhaps he might benefit from seeing you and Alyssa and grow happier as a result.
The rest of the letter was filled with gentle warnings and advice over what to do with a babe. Helaena took the page and gently folded it – she’d have to save it in one of her journals. Any piece of her mother’s advice was invaluable. No mother came from the womb knowing how to raise a child, after all, even with nursemaids on their beck and call.
The other page continued. The King’s health declines, as you must surely know. He has manifested some interest in seeing Rhaenyra once more, and her younger sons as well, but is well-aware that the newest child has not yet been born. But letters have been sent nonetheless.
Perhaps we might yet meet before the year ends.
Then, her mother’s titles and styles, before the signature. Helaena reread the letter, capturing all of the words again and again, before placing the sheets back on the tray.
“Would you like for me to store the letter, Princess?”
“Not yet, Gella,” Helaena answered, rising from her chair. “I think I will need my lady mother’s advice on childrearing still. Leave it on the table, if you will.”
Gella’s eye turned to the letter, suspicious, no doubt, but Helaena simply smiled. Gella Arryn would find nothing to report in it, just as Rhaenyra would not. The words that they would be looking for were simply not there, after all.
“Let us ready for bed,” Helaena said.
Gella was well and truly asleep when Helaena rose. There was no light in her rooms but for the fireplace, small embers running hot still.
Helaena walked lightly to the pitcher. Wine flowed from it to the cup, watered down and sweetened, and she took it with her back to the table. The letter was still there, pages separated, and she ran her fingers through her mother’s signature.
Putting down the cup, she grabbed the page and took it with her to the fireplace.
As the parchment heated, small words began to appear on the bottom. They were small and tight, packed as to spread the least possible amount of space. There, it said:
Velaryons on our side. Will have a trial for Driftmark. Rhaenyra in the dark, be prepared. I will meet you in our usual place in a fortnight if possible. Egg
Helaena committed them to memory before ripping the small strip from the bottom of the page. She fed it to the fire.
When she returned to bed, the letter seemed untouched. The only sign of activity was the cup still half-full.
Baela chafed in her rooms, finding little and less to do whilst in confinement. Rhaenys had tried to strike conversation with her, but she refused to do so, no matter how bored it made her feel.
Baela was no turncloak. She would not go against her father and Jace, no matter what.
But there was nothing to do other than read old books she’d rather feed to the fire or pick up the embroidery her Septa wanted her to do – and she’d rather prick herself with a thousand needles than spend her time doing so. Embroidery was for Rhaena or Helaena, women in disposition and not only in sex, not for Baela, who’d learned to wield a sword at her father’s knee and would rather call herself a Rogue like him.
She chafed. She chafed at the boredom, at the lack of company other than Rhaenys and the Septa, at not being able to see Moondancer. A fortnight in her rooms would not break her, however.
By the second, she’d taken to singing.
In Pentos, she’d heard all manners of bards. Her mother had taught her and Rhaena the bastard Valyrian that they heard and spoke titbits of the histories that connected their ancestors and those places that were sung about. Baela had never been the strongest student, and had forgotten many of the words, but she knew less of Westerosi songs than of Pentos’s.
By the third, she ran out of songs.
Baela chafed as she looked out of the window. She could see the ships and sailors at a distance. It was a bright day, skies clear and a gentle breeze in the air - good for sailing. A dragon flew past the castle, bright red and old: Meleys.
She wished she was with Moondancer.
Half-an-hour passed, Baela still at the window. The Septa arrived, a maid by her side, with a light meal to distract her from the window. She drank the soup and mopped up the broth with bread, and the maid then offered her cold meats and cheeses to pick at while the Septa read silently from her bejewelled little book.
She was still picking at the meats when Rhaenys arrived. “Good afternoon,” she greeted, nodding at the Septa. “How are you feeling today, Baela?”
Baela said nothing, turning her head away from her grandmother.
“The skies are clear today,” Rhaenys hummed. “Meleys must have sensed it, for she was restless for flying, even after I’ve just returned with her. But perhaps she could use some company.”
Again, Baela said nothing. Rhaenys sighed.
“Baela…”
Rhaenys sat next to Baela, the little alcove by window feeling smaller as she did so. Despite her grandmother’s black hair, she looked much more like Baela’s mother than her grandsire did – Rhaenys and Laena had the same aquiline nose, the same sharp chin, and the same purple eyes. Baela looked away.
“When I lost my father, vultures came to peck at his corpse,” her grandmother said, taking Baela’s hand into her own. It was warm. ‘Fire runs in our blood’, her father once said. “A woman is unfit to rule: that was what they thought. My grandsire, King Jaehaerys, had taken the throne over his own niece – some whispered usurpation. But Aerea died young, and so he ruled uncontested.”
“I need not a lesson,” Baela snapped.
“Oh, but you do – for you know nothing of how the world works.” Rhaenys sighed. “Your mother shielded you. That was her due as your mother. Your father and stepmother did not teach you – but that was because they needed you ignorant and complaint.”
Baela sneered.
“Do not give me that look, Baela. You will hear what I have to tell you, and you shall pay attention to it.”
“Go on, then,” she rolled her eyes. “Say how old kings and dead men told you to betray our side.”
Her grandmother said nothing to the insult. Instead, she continued: “Jaehaerys was dying. He did not want his rule to be remembered as false. And he had never thought as women as much more than vessels for heirs, not even his wife and daughters. You must remember how Princess Gael was born to the Good Queen in her old age, right?”
Baela reluctantly nodded.
“That is a story for another time. But Jaehaerys did not see me – a girl, more Baratheon than Targaryen to boot, married to a man with a name and influence for himself, as anything more than a threat. If I came to be Queen, he would have been a usurper. If I ruled, as a woman, more competently than a man, then he would have been a bad husband and father. So, he called for a Council. And the Council, as Jaehaerys knew, would not choose a woman.”
That was irrelevant to the point, Baela thought. “So? It was not a Council that chose Rhaenyra. It was the King.”
“And it was not Jaehaerys that chose Viserys,” Rhaenys said. “If he could, don’t you think that he, King Jaehaerys, the Wise, was the one king with the power to overturn law and precedent on his own? How does Viserys’s word have the chance to resist his death, if Jaehaerys needed to solidify his own with a decision from the Realm itself?”
Baela had heard enough. “You are a coward,” she spat. “You watched your claim be disposed of, and instead of aiding Rhaenyra, who is going though the same, you turn against her!”
“I have done more for that girl than you can imagine!” Her grandmother stood. Rhaenys had never looked more like Baela’s father than in that moment. “I married my son to her. I turned a blind eye to her sons. I helped her politically, I taught her how to navigate court, I broke peace with Viserys in her stead multiple times. And for that, for all that I did, for all that Laenor did, she repays us with conspiracy and murder!”
Her grandmother was heaving. Baela blinked at her – she had seen her lose her temper before, but never to Baela.
Rhaenys sat back down. “Baela. I cannot trust Rhaenyra’s words. When the King dies – and it shall be sooner rather than later – his wishes will be gone to the wind. It is not cowardice to ascertain your position and act accordingly – it is cunning. And I know you are cunning and ambitious.”
Baela scoffed. “I am no traitor.”
“You have sworn no oaths,” Rhaenys told her. “You are not betraying. By law, you are being usurped, just as I was, for someone who has no rights or preparation to take your rightful seat! You do not protect Lucerys or Jacaerys because you think they’ll make for good rulers, Baela. You protect them because you care for them. As Queen, you can protect them.”
“What you speak of will bring war,” Baela said. “No one is protected in war – not a Queen, and not Princes.”
“War will happen, Baela. With or without your involvement, those boys will be in danger – and die, as dragonriders at war against older dragons do.” Baela’s grandmother squeezed her hand. “A whisper in the right ear might save them from a terrible fate. Do you think Aemond One-Eye likely to forgive Lucerys for what happened to him? Or any of the Greens to not have contempt for Jacaerys stealing their sister? A beloved wife and Queen could quell their violence, ensure that those boys survive.”
Baela stayed quiet.
Her Grace, Princess Rhaenyra, Princess of Dragonstone and Heir to the Iron Throne,
Declares the birth of Prince Baelon Targaryen, to herself and her husband, Prince Daemon Targaryen.
Prince Baelon was anointed at the Sept of Dragonstone, under the Light of the Seven, and presented to the Fourteen Flames as per Valyrian tradition.
Long may he live.