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Chapter Text

All his life, Prince Aegon had heard of the countless stories regarding his father. Lord Flea Bottom, the Rogue Prince, the King of the Narrow Sea. A savage man prone to violence, whoring, and drinking. Such stories his blessed mother attempted to shield him and his siblings from, but courtiers talked with little care for young royal ears. Yet the young heir could never reconcile the myth with the man who raised him.

Prince Daemon was a stern father, it was true, and a harsh instructor on the sands of the training yard. He could be foul-mouthed and quick to anger. But it was after the sun set and the family gathered together, bellies full from the evening meal, that the true reflection of his sire revealed itself, where lines on his ageing face spoke of laughter and fond smiles along with anger and heated emotions.

The winds howled outside the stone walls of Dragonstone like a banshee, warning of a lonely death, but inside the solar of the Princess of Dragonstone, there was warmth by the firelight. Aegon was glaring at the cyvasse board, ignoring the self-satisfied smirk stretched across his little sister’s face. He loathed playing cyvasse with her in truth; she liked to cheat. Her inability to adhere to the usual demands of most ladies among her peers—an attitude only encouraged by their father—made her utterly unremorseful whenever she got caught.

The Targaryen brood, holed away at Dragonstone, currently numbered ten in all. The Princess of Dragonstone and her consort, of course, and a collection of eight children. Aegon suspected there would have been more of them were it not for the existence of moontea or whatever other concoction Maester Gerardys could come up with. He was the eldest, followed by Viserys and Visenya—twins. They had caused a hard birth, a moon too early and the labour far too long. After that, their parents waited some years before having their fourth, Aemma, a surprise babe. After her came Alyssa, and then Daella, and finally the newest babes, Baelon and Aemon. So many girls, all spoiled to death by their otherwise terrifying father.

Family gatherings were rarely quiet, but Muña insisted upon organised chaos when playing their games or reading their stories. Or in Kepa’s case, quietly reading. If he was reading.

To any outsider, the strangest sight of all wasn’t the infant curled against Princess Rhaenyra’s chest, or the cradle occupied by the other twin, but rather the male arm that draped across her shoulders, a yellowing tome spread over his lap. Instead of reading it, however, Aegon’s father rested his cheek upon his niece’s head, whispering too lowly to be heard while his thumb caressed her arm. If Aegon had to guess, his father was whispering Valyrian poetry in his mother’s ear, the stanzas long memorised over the years in his quest to serenade like a dragon in song.

The young prince and his siblings were long accustomed to how differently the infamous Rogue Prince behaved around their mother. Gold cloaks in particular remained ceaselessly in awe of the commander they entered brothels with who now refused to detach himself from the companionship of his beloved bride. “He is her shadow,” Aegon once heard Ser Largent admit while they shared a table at the local tavern (even though Aegon was far too young to be there, as his mother later reminded him and his father). “An insult to her honour is the quickest way to get skewered. I’ve seen a man lose both his ears for speaking of our future queen in a sordid manner. Another with his tongue cut out. Your father would rather sully his hands than let a stain remain on your mother’s name.”

And he had seen it firsthand when he was ten. Aegon was watching his father showcasing him a Pentoshi manoeuvre when the sworn shield of a visiting lord had made an untoward remark about what lay beneath the princess’ skirts, a remark Aegon himself would have beat the man in the head for, but the Prince Consort had reacted with such violence, fists slick with blood, that even some of the most seasoned soldiers in the yard turned green. Instead of seeking retribution, the knightless lord admitted even his own lady wife deserved such fierce defence from her lord husband.

The punished knight was left blind and disgraced, lucky to be alive.

The princess tried and failed to pretend she was annoyed with the circumstance, instead kissing her lord husband’s bruised knuckles as a reward for his mad devotion. Anyone lacking the blood of the dragon would never understand this penchant for violence, however even the king seemed disturbed by how willfully his brother maimed and killed lesser men. Princess Rhaenyra meanwhile insisted she would have demanded justice from her husband anyway. That was the last time anyone dared speak on the matter.

Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen were a pair that exuded dominance and power, living and breathing the Targaryen moniker while their king buckled underneath the weight of his family legacy. As long as Aegon could remember, his parents made a point to dress outside the norm of court fashion, preferring instead to don attire akin to that of the East, reminding all who gazed upon them where the dragons truly came from. Queen Alicent always hated it, but the prince suspected she hated how easily her former friend outshone her. It wasn’t a difficult task. His father never seemed to run out of gold dragons to spend upon his niece-wife, ushering in wealth through gold and silk, ensuring even her hair was donned in glittering rare jewels.

Thoughts of his father and mother continued to distract young Aegon, leading to a laugh of victory from Visenya. “Perhaps one day you will finally beat me, dear brother,” the princess sang, mirth glimmering in her mismatched eyes. She was always a pretty girl, the perfect blend of their parents and in possession of mismatched eyes identical to that of their grandmother. The most notable trait she possessed, of course, was the unique birthmark on her face, a lingering reminder of being born too soon. The skin was rough, akin to dragon scales, and the same shade of plum purple as her dragon. She never let the local children bully her for it, sooner throwing rude boys into the closest pile of dung than taking it with a stiff upper lip. Viserys possessed a similar mark, but it was hidden away underneath his clothes in a random stroke of luck.

“No, I will leave that to Viserys,” the prince grumbled instead as he watched her knock over his queen.

“Checkmate!”

“Fourteen preserve me….”

“Oh, please, you didn’t even try this time. You can’t impress cousin Daenaera if you don’t try.”

The flush on his cheeks arrived unbidden, much to his chagrin. It was ridiculous, he had been betrothed to the eldest daughter of Lady Laena Velaryon for several years now, and yet in recent moons he had found himself looking at her just a little bit longer than before. A detail that had not gone unnoticed in his family, and his siblings were ever increasingly annoying about it. Aegon assumed the only reason his own father refrained from any teasing was due to whatever ironclad grip his mother had on the Rogue Prince. That didn’t stop the suggestive glint in his eye the last time Aegon had been in the same room as the girl he was affianced to, however. Not even Rhaenyra could prevent her husband from smirking.

Leaving his younger brother to battle it out with their sister over the cyvasse board next, Aegon tried to keep his eyes on the page of a random book he pulled off the shelf, but movement caught his eye. Muña was just now draping a blanket over her shoulder, covering herself whilst nursing the babe at her breast—he knew not which of his brothers it was—when not in the privacy of her chambers. Kepa didn’t seem to move, his fingers deftly securing the blanket with so much ease he hadn’t needed to shift in his seat. The book in his lap didn’t so much as slide. Aegon watched the pair of them greedily.

He had been rather young when he first realised how… unusual his parents’ marriage was. Rarely were they in the same room and not gravitating towards each other as if a cord tied them tautly together, pulling one toward the other at all times. They could hold an entire conversation with their eyes, his mother would calm the moment their hands joined together, his father’s most impulsive words halted as soon as she muttered his name. Most importantly, they despised being apart at all, always touching, always whispering. Grandsire often complained of it when they visited court, curiously blaming Kepa for it instead of Muña as if she was his prisoner instead of his wife.

Well, if Rhaenyra was a prisoner, she was certainly a happy one. She was giggling about something as she pressed a kiss on Daemon’s cheek, a smirk gracing his lips at the easy act of affection. Aegon normally thought nothing of it, but he was getting older, his nuptials approaching by the day. He wondered if it would be like this with Daenaera. She also loved to laugh, eyes sparkling like a cloudless summer sky. Would he know her needs without asking, as well? He was lucky to have grown up with her, that they had begun as friends. He wondered how his parents were able to transition from their familial connection to a more romantic one. He wanted to ask. Instead, all he could do was watch and ponder.

The question creeped into Aegon’s mind continuously afterward in the following days. He pondered how many sets of siblings would inevitably fall into the trap of the family tradition, as it were. Their mother had agreed only to his and Daenaera’s betrothal—the price he paid for being her heir and Corlys Velaryon being snubbed two times too many—but after that, she was adamant her children would be given a choice like she had. A choice his father was once robbed of. Aegon could never bring himself to envy his siblings. He and Visenya would be a match made in the seven hells, and none of the other girls he’d met over the years were worth conversing with. Neither the queen nor his father would ever allow a match with his aunt Helaena. He couldn’t shake off the sense of malice directed at him from Uncle Aemond when he was in the same room as her anyhow.

Aegon snorted to himself. Ah, poor Aemond, left to yearn for what he couldn’t have. The queen had been successful in one endeavour. To legitimise the other Aegon further for the throne, marriage to his sister would be a boon, the wedding not one that even Princess Rhaenyra attended. As if that wastrel knew how to appreciate a girl from their shared house. Uncle Aegon would be better off rotting in a tavern somewhere in Flea Bottom, far away from anyone of the female sex. Rhaenyra could not halt the engagement, and last they’d heard, Helaena was with child.

Sometimes, sinisterly, the prince wondered if the right brother was the father.

Later that sennight, in the library, Aegon found his mother behind her desk, perusing over a small stack of papers, the distinctively small scroll of a raven in hand. He leaned against his father’s desk as he listened to Maester Gerardys speak, “You will be able to travel on your dragon without issue, I suspect, so long as we take the necessary precautions. I’m certain the prince will ensure those precautions are met.”

The princess of Dragonstone had a melodious laugh, rich and husky like the spiced wine they drank in the dead of winter. “He certainly will,” she agreed with a knowing grin. “If only he had the patience for it, he’d make an excellent maester.”

“I fear he would play at nurse only for you, my princess. He cares for few others.”

“The children?” There was a humourous glint in her violet eyes.

“Dear to him, most certainly, but you are most precious of all.”

Aegon couldn’t argue with that. Neither could the princess, who only blushed. “Leave your notes on his desk. I will ensure he gets them.”

“As you wish, princess.”

The young prince strolled toward his mother the moment her conversation with the good maester ended, his curiosity already tugging incessantly within him. “What was this I heard about travel?” he promptly inquired.

The future queen sighed and offered her eldest son a raven. Taking the scroll, he glanced down at the message:

To the Princess of Dragonstone, I write to you inquiring whether you and your family will be attending His Grace’s name-day celebration, a matter he has been most insistent upon. I understand you have only recently delivered a child and I offer any assistance you might require for greater ease of travel. Write to me with your reply as soon as you can if you please.

Your obedient servant,

The Hand of the King

Ser Otto Hightower

Aegon’s lip curled in disdain at the signature. The name Hightower was all but a curse within the Targaryen ancestral keep. The first time Aemma swore, it had been to insult the man that had much to gain from Lyonel Strong’s untimely death. “Untimely” was no word worth using, however. It took a fool to believe the fire that struck down Harrenhal’s liege lord was an accident, but a means to make way for the green snake to reclaim his position as Hand. Aegon’s sworn shield, Ser Harwin, had been distraught, yet any attempts to grieve together with his younger brother Larys had been suspiciously rebuffed.

“Hasn’t Grandsire been ill?” he asked. “More than before, anyway.”

“So I have been told. Gods know what plans are in place for his name-day, but if the king wishes to see us for it, we should go, don’t you think?”

“Hmm.” Aegon was tempted to just throw the scroll of parchment into the closest open flame but his mother was right. His youngest sister had not yet met her grandsire. There was no reason not to travel to King’s Landing save for a keen desire to relieve Otto Hightower’s head from his body. “What of you? Does the maester think you can travel?”

“I can fly,” Rhaenyra assured him, rising from her seat slowly, “and the twins will be with the nurses on the ship. No need to worry, sweet boy.”

The prince blushed. “Muña…” he grumbled.

“You will always be a boy to me, my love. A mother never forgets the day she first holds her babes in her arms.” She reached to cup his cheek, brushing the skin with her thumb. “You look so much like your father. I look at you and see him from a time where I possess no memories. Only my smile remains.”

On this, Aegon felt only pride swell in his chest. He was proud to be his father’s son and hoped to one day match him in skill as well. “I like our smiles, Muña,” he admitted.

“So do I.” The corners of her mouth lifted into the crooked smile they shared.

***

The dragons were stubborn this morning—even Syrax, who typically remained the calmest. Caraxes was always led to the walkway first, dragon and rider in synch to scope out potential danger before their mates and offspring were released into the open skies. The eldest three would fly with their parents, the younger five travelling by ship for King’s Landing. Visenya watched with no small measure of mirth as she watched the Blood Wyrm snap at the nearest dragonkeeper. She had yet to see that beast calm under any hand other than her father’s.

Her siblings’ ship had already set sail the previous morning, doomed to be slower than on the back of a dragon. Muña tried to hide her tears when kissing the little ones goodbye, but Visenya knew better. The elder princess was always a little more sensitive just before and after delivering a babe. Kepa could be unbearing during this time, catering to his wife’s every whim, prowling around her lest some unsuspecting fool cross whatever nonexistent barrier he’d drawn around her. Perhaps secretly, Princess Rhaenyra relished in her husband’s domineering presence when she was heavy with his child.

Visenya watched her father climb up Caraxes’ wing and settle easily into the saddle, chaining himself in place. As always, the red dragon began moving with no vocal prompting from his rider, so tightly bound together were the pair of them. Greedily she wondered if she would ever be able to accomplish the same. Her mother’s command was difficult to hear, as she instead whispered her wish as she stroked Syrax’s neck. Syrax snorted loudly before at last moving forward, climbing through the cavernous opening of the Dragonmont.

As their mother’s heir, Aegon was the next to mount his dragon, Stormcloud whistling cheerfully, if Visenya had to describe an emotion for a dragon. Viserys sidled up to her. “He’s been brooding again, haven’t you noticed?” he hummed, crossing his arms.

“Has he?” Visenya sighed.

“Mm. And staring.”

“Staring?”

“At Muña and Kepa. I wonder if his impending nuptials are getting to him.”

“Well, if he has questions, he knows who to ask.”

He snorted. “I don’t envy that predicament!”

Their father’s old reputation was no secret, and at one point or another a child of his union with their mother was doomed to stumble upon them in a compromising position. Visenya herself had seen more than she needed to see thrice now. Finding them in the library in the middle of the day had been the worst one. Her cheeks flamed furiously at the mere thought. “Kepa must have frightening stamina,” she muttered with a giggle.

Viserys let out a loud guffaw. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”

“Prince Viserys!” a dragonkeeper called. Arrax grumbled as he was prodded to the end of the landing strip.

“Well, sister, I’ll wait for you at the Dragonpit!”

“I’d like to see you try, brother!” Visenya snapped, but she still laughed as she watched him strut toward his dragon, his walk all too similar to that of Prince Daemon’s.

When at last Aegarax was brought forward, Visenya hastily mounted her and took flight, joining the rest of her family awaiting her in the sky. She wondered, when the smallfolk saw them together, an ever-growing hoard of dragonriders, their winged wyrms growing in size with every passing year, did they see them as gods? Unconquerable and immortal? Did they so easily forget the Doom that their ancestors once fled from? Perhaps they believed no enemy would dare attack this stronghold, no longer recalling the scorpion bolt that pierced Meraxes’ eye.

As always, Syrax and Caraxes flew side-by-side at the beginning of the trip while the three eldest heirs swept to and fro, diving toward the water before hoisting up ever so high. Caraxes would blow fire, click affectionately toward the yellow she-dragon that he shared his nest with. Syrax would trill softly back in turn or playfully nip at the edge of her mate’s wing. Where the princess’ mother and father remained speechless, their dragons spoke for them. Visenya was grateful not to be placed in an arranged marriage, waiting to grow up to marry some man in the North. She envied the easy way her parents were when no disagreements loomed between them. And when they did argue, well, it was impossible to deny it only seemed to increase their want for each other.

Disgusting.

The journey wasn’t long, not compared to the journey Prince Daemon had made to Pentos or the Stepstones, but by the time the lot of them finally landed in the Dragonpit, Visenya’s legs nearly buckled underneath her when she slid off of Aegarax’s back. She was better off than her mother, at least. While technically fully recovered from her labours, it was doubtful such a long flight was comfortable for a woman so freshly released from her confinement. The Rogue Prince cradled her against him as soon as she was on the ground, no doubt itching to carry her in his arms. Visenya knew her mother would kill him if he tried that in public like this.

With the younger siblings still making way from Dragonstone, the rest of them climbed into the wheelhouse that awaited to take them to the Red Keep. The proximity allowed for conversation, yet the small group remained quiet. It was their last moment of respite before the madness of court and of Alicent Hightower’s tyranny. Visenya dreaded it. Being a girl meant she and Helaena were forced to spend time together despite their vastly different interests, and the princess was not about to fault her quiet aunt for wanting her space when her queenly mother so often invaded it. She herself would rather be in the yard with her father and brothers, and was free to do so as she pleased on Dragonstone. Trust a Hightower to ruin everything.

Muña and Kepa were whispering in rapid High Valyrian, and as proficient as Visenya was in the language, she could only catch bits and pieces of what was said. Their hands rested in Rhaenyra’s lap, Daemon’s thumb rubbing over her palm. The princess would say, “Keep an eye on the boys,” while the prince would tease, “Our Aegon is better with a sword.” She heard the queen’s name more than once, met with a sneer each time, and later in their conversation the two of them chuckled together in perfect unison, mocking in tone.

“Cheer up, Vis,” Aegon muttered, patting her knee.

“I’ll cheer up when the green hag is dead,” the princess snapped.

“That day can’t come quickly enough,” Viserys sighed.

“If the gods were kind, she’d take her foul father with her.”

“Shh, we’re almost there. I would rather we avoid a lecture about speaking against our betters,” the eldest hissed before the three of them fell into fits of laughter.

The giggles alerted their parents, unfortunately, and with them so close to the keep now, they had no choice but to restrain themselves. Visenya felt cold as she looked at the fortress built by her notorious ancestors. Her family’s home had been infiltrated by outsiders. She had a duty to love her grandsire, but she would never forgive him for being foolish. Only an idiot would marry the daughter of his Hand, build a whole other family, and expect no resistance with a daughter’s inheritance. While the king turned a blind eye to machinations orchestrated behind the scenes, her mother and father had been carefully planning together, preparing for the worst.

The wheelhouse came to a halt, and her heart beat just a little faster. “Come,” the princess of Dragonstone uttered calmly, “the king is expecting us.”

***

Stars. There were seven-pointed stars. Viserys took it as a personal offense. He let his twin slip her arm around his, as he was certain his feet would have remained frozen to the ground like a marble statue. Their mother’s welcoming party had been pathetic at best. Lord Caswell had been the sole courtier to greet them. Kepa’s eyes had narrowed at the distinct absence of their kin, the queen, and the Hand. Ill as he was, Viserys could not blame his namesake for not trekking so far to greet them.

But gods, the stars. Gone were the distinctly erotic Valyrian tapestries and the dragon mementos. It was as if the High Septon had chosen to redecorate the place when no one was looking. His muña, bless her, was trying her best to guard her expression from the observations of lords and ladies.

“His Grace is waiting for you,” Lord Caswell was saying, walking on one side of Princess Rhaenyra while Prince Daemon remained on the other, his fingers tapping rapidly against the hilt of Dark Sister. On instinct Viserys reached for the knife at his belt, one identical to that of Visenya’s and Aegon’s, a gift for the three of them from their father the day they were at last allowed to train with real weapons.

The stairs were many as they journeyed to the king’s chambers. Their mother took the forefront, as is her right, their father barely a step behind. Ser Harrold awaited them at the door, almost an eternal and ageless figure from Viserys’ earliest memories. “My princesses, my princes,” the knight greeted warmly, bowing at the waist.

“Ser Harrold, I am pleased to see you again. How is my father?” the future queen inquired. Despite her efforts to maintain a brave face, Viserys could hear the slight waver in his mother’s voice.

“Not well, I’m afraid. He’s declined significantly since you were last at court, princess.”

“Ah.”

The Rogue Prince’s mouth pressed into a thin line, but he said nothing. They walked into the king’s chambers in twos and threes, Visenya pressed between her brothers, having looped her arm through Aegon’s as well when Viserys wasn’t looking.

Despite the time of day, the curtains remained closed to block out the sun, fire roaring with ferocity regardless of how stuffy the rooms were. The smell was stale, almost acrid, and entangled with the distasteful scent of medicinal herbs, tonics, and rot. Viserys wrinkled his nose and risked a glance at his siblings. His sister’s eyes had widened in unschooled shock, his brother’s spine as stiff as a board. If Muña and Kepa were in surprise, they were much better at hiding it.

“Father?” Rhaenyra called quietly, as if to avoid startling him.

The king sat by the fire, possessing even less hair than before, skin mottled like a man twice his age, one cheek particularly gaunt-looking. He was wrapped in a heavy robe and unlikely to be fully dressed underneath. “There you are!” he exclaimed weakly, smiling. Viserys squinted, then widened his eyes. His grandsire’s right eye was bloodshot, seemingly every vessel burst while the cornea itself was milky white. He could vaguely remember when the patriarch of their family still possessed both arms, and now he was but a shell of the man he once was.

Daemon’s hand curled into a fist. “Brother,” he muttered, almost mourning.

“Don’t look at me like that, Daemon, we both knew it would come to this, which is why I insisted upon your attendance for my name-day. I wish to see my grandchildren, your newest babes. Twins, again! My dear Rhaenyra, don’t tell me you flew here.”

“Of course I did, papa! Not even Daemon could keep me off of Syrax’s back for long.” Rhaenyra carefully knelt beside the king’s chair and took hold of his hand. “Aegon, Viserys, and Visenya are here as well; the others haven’t arrived yet. You will not believe how tall they all have gotten.”

“I can imagine. It runs in the family.”

Aegon was the first one brave enough to step forward after Rhaenyra. He briefly rested his hand on Daemon’s shoulder as he walked past, but their father didn’t acknowledge the comforting gesture, frozen where he stood with his head bowed. None of them have ever seen him like this—so defeated.

“Grandsire,” the heir greeted gently, “are you comfortable?”

“Yes, yes. Alicent ensures my greatest care.”

Visenya chose not to hide how her face blanched at the mention of the green witch’s name. “Not now,” Viserys reminded her. It was doubtful their grandfather could see their expressions from this angle, and even less likely for him to acknowledge the negative reactions directed at his second wife. Regardless of this, the second born prince would not sour the mood of an already tense meeting.

It was decided they would meet for dinner once the other children arrived and the king had rested. Aegon was the first to note their king’s waning energy, a skill he seemed to naturally possess. With any luck, the queen would deign not to grace them with her presence and therefore sour their appetites. Aegon, Viserys, and Visenya dutifully followed their parents to their mother’s solar and gathered around the table. They sat in silence at first, none of them willing to breach the silence.

Their lord father visibly stewed and immediately rose to his feet nearly as soon as he had sat down. His cloak swirled around his body as he paced to and fro, ignoring his wife’s intense stare. “Muña?” Aegon interrupted the silence, his tone questioning in nature.

“No, I did not know he was doing so poorly,” was her response, as though understanding what her eldest son wanted to know.

“Of course you didn’t, mama. You would have said so.”

“He has always been ill, of course, but….” Rhaenyra stopped, her palm rubbing against her thigh, the act more telling of her distress than her lack of words. Viserys rose to his feet as well and reached for his mother’s hand, squeezing it. He offered no platitudes, for he could think of none. It was no secret the king’s ailment, how his health had dwindled since before their father had gone to war in the Stepstones. It was why so often he found his parents pressed together in the library or by the war table, whispering and reading and moving pieces across the war table like a cyvasse board. Blood and death were coming, and much sooner than he would like. His dragon was still small.

“What a good thing it is to be here then,” Visenya pointed out, forcing a smile on her face. “Who knows how much time we have left with Grandsire? I say we enjoy our time here as best we can and give the court nothing but strength.”

It was as soundly devised a plan as any. While the king was weak, they would have to show a united front while Alicent Hightower and her brood fumbled about as they usually did. Rhaenyra would rule next, not her younger brother, and it was important to show that they would be better in her hands than his. That meant, Viserys knew, ensuring his younger sisters were just as prepared for the scrutinising eyes set upon them. It would be easier with Aemma and Alyssa, but Daella would be the hardest to wrangle into formation, so often was she pacified with sweeties by their father.

Rhaenyra sighed lightly and glanced up at their father. “Daemon, jorrāelagon ñuha,” she uttered, reaching her free hand for him. No matter his agitation, he was incapable of resisting their mother. He paused his pacing, stared at her stretched fingers for a moment, and then clasped them into his own. They stared at each other, silent as the grave, yet seemingly reaching an understanding.

“Prūmia ñuha,” he whispered as she pulled him closer to her. She had a talent for dragging him out of his worst moods, even if she was the one he was upset with. The pair of them rarely apologised after their spats, instead letting touch speak for them, and their father so easily submitted to their mother’s caresses.

The siblings made quick glances at each other before almost immediately shuffling out of the room. Not because their parents were feeling particularly amourous, but perhaps this was a conversation best left between them. Viserys was the last one out, and he promptly shut the door behind them. “Why do they always do that?” he quipped.

“Better than to be at each other’s throats. I would hate to be Lady Rhea’s daughter instead,” Visenya huffed.

“Sister, we know better than to assume Kepa would ever sire a child upon that woman, much less three,” Aegon reminded her with a snort.

“Yes, well, I would hate to be a Royce. They all seem so woefully plain. I do not care how shiny their bronze armour is.”

“What, you wouldn’t wish to have brown hair?” Viserys teased.

The smack on his back echoed loudly down the hallway.

Chapter Text

With the children gone, Rhaenyra claimed her husband’s other hand and pressed kisses on his knuckles, a lone tear escaping from her eye. She could feel his thumb brush the teardrop away. His heart must surely be breaking, no matter the state of his relationship with his brother now. “Come here, my love,” she whispered, tugging on his hands. For once, Daemon didn’t insist that he was fine, or that he didn’t need to be coddled. He came and sat beside her, letting her pull him under her chin.

He wouldn’t speak, as she knew he wouldn’t, so she stayed silent too, massaging the back of his neck the way she knew brought him comfort on nights when he felt more melancholic. It was good that the children had left; he would hate for them to see him like this. His hand pressed against her ribcage, firm, and it made her wish they were unclothed so that they might press their skin against each other’s.

Seeing her father so poorly was shocking. Rhaenyra had no other word to say. Every time they returned home, the king deteriorated a little bit more. It was hard to say how much time he had left. Maybe a few years? All the while, her husband remained hale and strong. Even as his aching bones worsened with each harvest, only she could see the truth of it when he sighed in relief sinking into a tub of water. If any doubted that he could defend her claim, Daemon was swift to prove them wrong.

Now, however, his brother’s impending mortality brought the Rogue Prince to his knees. Rhaenyra pressed him tighter to her breast.

They sat in silence until there was a knock on the door. Daemon sat up rapidly while a maid came in and curtsied. “Your Graces, the Realm’s Delight has docked at the harbour. The princelings should be at the keep before too long,” the woman announced.

“Thank you. The prince and I will meet them upon their arrival.”

“As you wish, princess.”

The maid curtsied again and left the room, letting Rhaenyra lean forward and kiss her husband’s back. “The girls will be happy to see you again,” she reminded him softly. Unbidden, he smiled just slightly.

“It has hardly been two days,” he reminded her with a chuckle.

“But it’s a long time for ones so small. They’ll want to see their kepa.” Rhaenyra leaned in to nuzzle the side of her husband’s neck, letting her fingers trace down his arm until they could reach his hand. Their fingers entangled on instinct. “You don’t need to hide from me, my love. I know you miss them too. Our little hatchlings.”

That did the trick, of course. His smile lifted a little bit higher and he sat straighter. When Daemon stood on his feet, he pulled her up with him. He didn’t deign to respond to her statement, but neither did he deny it. Married to the Rogue Prince for nearly fifteen years, the princess knew how to read her uncle’s moods. It took time to learn the depths of them, and it took him just as long to fully let her in. Some days had been nearly impossible, but Rhaenyra was a persistent woman who refused to lose the good in her life, her husband and children chief among them. She became the sanctuary he so badly needed, the same way he’d always been a sanctuary for her.

Parenthood proved the greatest challenge, and one they learned together. It granted them to discover new sides of each other, only deepening their bond. With every child and every ritual, every hatched dragon egg, they discovered peace. Rhaenyra loved her husband more and more; she could feel how much more her husband felt for her too. His actions spoke for him more than words ever could, she discovered.

Daemon’s hand remained tightly in hers as they walked toward the entry of the keep. Children’s laughter echoed down the halls. Rhaenyra smiled at the constant flow of talk coming from her youngest daughter, who no doubt kept her sisters occupied the entire trip across the bay, a trait she no doubt inherited from her father regardless of whether either of them realised. “Girls!” the heiress called, immediately alerting her princesses. Her beautiful little girls, oh how she had missed them.

“Muña! We saw a shark!” little Daella shrieked as she darted over to hug her.

“For the last time, it was a dolphin,” Aemma insisted in exasperation.

 “We keep trying to tell her but she won’t listen,” Alyssa grumbled.

Laughing, Daemon poked Daella on the nose. “Shark or dolphin, both are dragon food,” he teased.

“Kepa!” the little girl whined loudly.

Rhaenyra gleefully watched the girls tackle their father, his hand ripped from hers in the process. She knew better than to intervene. Instead, she turned to the nursemaids who were cradling her precious boys. They were both awake but calm—a miracle. “Oh, my loves,” she cooed, stroking their soft cheeks with her finger. “Did they behave themselves?”

The midwife holding Aemon rocked him gently as she replied, “Alas, not at first, princess. They are unaccustomed to such a long separation from their mother I’d wager.”

“Gods willing, they’ll sleep through the night,” the second midwife hoped.

“Well, get them settled in the nursery. Lady Samantha Beesbury will show you the way. Princess Daella will join you once she has settled down.” The lady in question nodded and waved the army of maids towards the nursery.

What was once Daemon’s personal chamber at the start of their marriage had been altered to accommodate their youngest children, accustomed as he was to travel with as little as possible and occupy as much space in their bed as Rhaenyra could possibly allow him. They always started on his side of the bed, with her curled against his body and head on his chest. By dawn, Rhaenyra usually rolled closer to the left, faced away from her husband, and his chest pressed firmly against her. The couple often got out of bed themselves, as too often an unsuspecting maid or lady-in-waiting had walked in on them making love. Daemon never had the shame to stop, while Rhaenyra herself could only encourage him until they’d had their fill of each other.

Rhaenyra bit her lip at the thought of being pressed underneath her husband once more, but birthing twins wasn’t easy, and she was not as young as she used to be. Unconsciously, she pressed a hand to her belly.

“Rhaenyra?”

The princess jumped and glanced over her shoulder. Daemon still had Daella clinging to his leg while Aemma and Alyssa were evidently trying to drag him down the hall. Rhaenyra was hasty to brush away the yearning that threatened to creep within her, and instead she hastily came to her uncle’s aid. “Let your father breathe!” she chastised.

“But Muña, I want to see Grandsire!” Aemma whined.

“And you will! At supper! Now, Lady Prudy agreed to help you unpack. Once you do that, you are going to take a nap.”

“But I–”

“You said we–”

“I wanna see–”

“Girls!” Daemon snapped. The effect was immediate; their spines immediately straightened like soldiers and their little hands dropped to their sides. Daella, while startled, still managed to keep her hand in Daemon’s, whose thumb lightly brushed against her wrist—a little sign for her to know that he wasn’t angry, which was a signal he’d had to develop when his temper got in the way of level-headedness. “When your mother tells you to do something, you do it, hmm? There will be plenty of time to do what you wish later.”

“Please, girls, don’t make this difficult. We are at the Red Keep; things are different here. Do as you’re told, and we will braid your hair for supper tonight. How does that sound?” Rhaenyra knew she would have to negotiate if she wanted to get out of this unscathed. Who knows what eyes might be watching now?

“Yes, mama,” the sisters mumbled.

“Good. Your kepa and I will come in a couple hours. Now go.”

Aemma and Alyssa left first, following Prudence Celtigar to their shared chambers. Daella lingered, however. She tugged on Daemon’s overcoat. “Kepa? Kiss kiss.”

“All right, come here,” the prince muttered, crouching down. Swiftly the little princess pressed a peck on his cheek before hurdling off after her sisters.

“And where is my kiss?” Rhaenyra teased with a crooked grin.

Daemon smirked and slowly approached her, entangling their fingers together. “Whenever you want it,” he purred. His breath brushed over her lips before his mouth did, the tip of his tongue slipping between her teeth. Rhaenyra sighed without restraint. They could be married a thousand years and she’d never stop delighting in his kisses.

The pair of them continued to kiss, breaking away to walk down the hall a ways before resuming their affections. Many at court no doubt believed they should have rid themselves of such public displays when the honeymoon was over, Alicent chief among them, but Rhaenyra and Daemon cared only for the desires of their respective spouse, not the judging eyes of lesser men. It was why they still had not coupled, after all, simply because she was not ready. Her beloved consort slaked his lust for her in other ways, but never did he stray from her bed.

“By the Flames, woman,” Daemon grunted against her neck once they slammed shut the door to her solar.

“Soon, my love,” she promised, inhaling the leather of his riding doublet.

“Prūmia ñuha, if you make me wait much longer, I will go mad.” His hand cupped her cheek, thumb brushing against the hand harshly enough to pull at the skin. It was upon instinct that Rhaenyra glanced at his lips.

“Will it not be worth the wait?” Her hands pressed against the planes of his firm chest, her wedding ring glinting beautifully in the light.

“You know it will be. I worship you.”

“And I you, uncle.”

Daemon sighed heaving and let their heads collide together, eyes closed. Rhaenyra felt content. Outside those doors, every care in the world awaited her attention, but in their quarters, she could be cradled by her husband, who murmured, “Come, let us rest a while before the trunks get here.”

They relaxed on the daybed on the balcony, the commanding orders of Rhaenyra’s ladies faint while the royal couple basked in the sinking sunlight, staying there until it was time to visit their little girls. Rhaenyra wasn’t sure where her eldest three had wandered off to and could only hope Viserys would keep the other two in line, as he was often inclined to do.

Despite the girls’ incessant complaining, all three of them remained dead to the world when Daemon and Rhaenyra entered their chambers. “Stubborn little things,” the prince snorted fondly.

“They get that from you,” Rhaenyra insisted.

“Mm, they came from your womb, sweetling.”

Rhaenyra giggled while she reached for Aemma, nudging her gently while Daemon reached for Alyssa and Daella, who were squished together like sardines. “Wake up, sleepyhead,” she crooned, brushing back her daughter’s hair.

“Five more minutes….”

“We don’t have five more minutes, my sweet. Did you not want your hair braided for when you see your grandsire?”

“Fine.”

Daemon seemed to fare a little better, Daella clinging to him with her head on his shoulder while he roused Alyssa. “Up you get,” he was telling the girl, who of the three seemed to have the easiest time getting out of bed.

Their nurse stood a distance away from the family, dipping into a light curtsy before asking, “Would you like me to pull out their dresses, Your Grace?”

“Let Aemma and Alyssa choose their own. As for Daella, well, she refuses to wear anything other than pink lately. Choose the one with the lavender details.”

“As you wish, princess.”

“I want my yellow dress!” Aemma insisted, sitting up straighter as though she had just witnessed a nightmare.

“And I want my pale blue one!” Alyssa shouted.

Daemon clicked his tongue. “Girls,” he chided, “either get the dress yourself or quit shouting.”

Rhaenyra chuckled deeply. “Your father is right, little loves. Shouting after members of your household is not befitting of a princess. Save that for commanding your dragons.”

Like the rest of her children, the girls’ eggs had hatched in the cradle. Only Daella’s was still small enough to remain in residence with the princess, but Rhaenyra wisely ensured the little dragon remained on Dragonstone lest a spit of fire turned the ship into a pile of ash. Daemon was eager to see Baelon’s and Aemon’s eggs hatch, but the eggs remained warm, brought in their warming chambers to maintain the bond.

The two eggs were inverted forms of each other. While Baelon’s egg was red with streaks of gold, Aemon’s was gold with streaks of red. At first the contrast intrigued Rhaenyra, until she noticed that while the boys were identical, they almost seemed to mirror each other. When Baelon might reach for something with his left hand, Aemon reached with his right. They bore the same birthmark on opposing shoulders. Even their hair grew on different sides of their heads. It made things easier in telling the twins apart.

“Daella,” the Realm’s Delight called, “why don’t you go and get dressed first, and then Kepa can do your hair?”

“Yes, muña,” the princess acquiesced easily while Alyssa sat politely in front of Daemon. Rhaenyra grinned to herself. He’d had much practise, what with her insistence that he be the one to braid her hair when he was in King’s Landing and later fulfilling the traditional Valyrian custom between husband and wife.

Aemma demanded Visenya’s braid, while Alyssa wished for something a little more relaxed, perhaps knowing Daemon would need to work over two princesses instead of just one. Daella inevitably wanted a crown braid with a ribbon that matched her dress. Rhaenyra assisted, of course. Such a hairstyle was more complicated than her uncle was used to.

Once the girls were done, Rhaenyra kissed the tops of their heads. “Now, your kepa and I must get ready. Please refrain from undoing all our hard work in the meantime.”

“Yes mama!” the girls all but sang.

In their own chamber, Rhaenyra summoned two of her ladies to help her dress. Daemon, as usual, rendered his grooms utterly useless by dressing himself, spending the rest of his time admiring her through the reflection of the looking glass. He nursed a glass of wine, letting their eyes lock while her hair was being brushed.

Dressed in rose and gold with a low back, Rhaenyra slipped on a series of rings, all from her husband, nearly each one commemorating the birth of their children. Around her neck was draped a fine collar of gold and pearl, and etched in the metal where none could see was her husband’s name in Valyrian glyphs. It was a little secret between them, the same way that the brooch currently pinned to Daemon’s cobalt blue doublet had her name carved into the gold as well. Small claims of ownership in a way less permanent than the scars on their palms, mutual gifts shared to celebrate their first decade of marriage together.

“Let me,” the prince muttered, interrupting Elinda from her task of styling the princess’ hair. Rhaenyra smiled fondly, feeling his fingers gently stroke back her hair.

“I thought your hands would be tired by now,” she jested.

“You forget, sweet niece, the number of times you would make me redo your hair in a single afternoon.”

“And yet you never denied me.”

“That’s because you’re my favourite girl.”

Rhaenyra giggled, content to watch him work. He was so focused, twisting tiny braids into long plaits before binding them together behind her head, letting the bulk of her hair fall around her shoulders and clamping her braids with golden clasps. “Let me do yours now,” she insisted. “Father will have a fit if you’re the only one with windswept hair.”

“He always had something about me to complain about.” Nevertheless Daemon sat himself at her vanity and opened under Rhaenyra’s loving hands. She combed his long hair, admiring the silver strands with each stroke.

“All these years and he still manages to hold you at a different standard from the rest of us. I am weary of it. I had hoped grandchildren might soften him, but—”

“—the children only remind him of how they were made, darling. He will never not despise that I am to blame for your condition.”

“He should be thrilled I have such an attentive husband.”

“He perhaps finds me too attentive.”

“‘Tis unfortunate for him that I welcome your touch so readily.” Rhaenyra carefully braided the sides of his head, the plaits a style all warriors of Valyrian blood bore. Braiding his hair was both her duty and privilege as his wife. His beauty was hers.

Daemon’s hand reached for her wrist, letting his thumb brush against her skin. She smiled and squeezed his shoulder. “Shall we retrieve the children now?”

“Lead the way, my queen.”

***

Daemon’s youngest daughter greedily clung to his shoulders, her head tucked underneath his chin. It was doubtful that she would be able to sit through the entire meal, but Viserys would want to meet his youngest granddaughter. Rhaenyra was fiddling with her wedding band as she walked, their children dutifully trailing behind her and whispering in hushed voices. Ser Steffon Darklyn and Ser Lorent Marbrand both trailed behind the family, the former being Rhaenyra’s Kingsguard and the latter entrusted with their children, their armour clinking quietly in the distance. Aegon’s sworn shield, Ser Harwin, was granted a holiday to visit with his brother.

The prince consort reached with his free hand for his wife’s, their fingers entangling lest she turn her fingers raw from the incessant twisting of her rings. He didn’t attempt to placate her, but he long since learned holding her hand soothed her better. Words were never their way.

When they entered the private dining room, Daemon’s stomach dropped like dragon shit. It was perhaps too much to hope that dinner would not include Alicent Hightower nor the insults to House Targaryen that she birthed. Rhaenyra’s hand tightened around his. He squeezed back, his arm holding Daella pressing her just a little bit tighter to him.

“Your Grace,” Rhaenyra greeted dully. None of them bowed.

“Princess Rhaenyra, Prince Daemon.”

Thus ended the pleasantries.

Daella was settled in her high chair between Rhaenyra and the king, Daemon sat next to his wife of course, and their children were assorted girls first, then the boys to act as a buffer between Alyssa and Rhaenyra’s unfortunate half-siblings. Daemon glanced briefly at Aegon, who nodded stiffly. Viserys’ eyes flicked up, rotated between his sire and his uncles, then scrunched his nose in distaste. The Rogue Prince almost chuckled at the trait his second boy inherited from his mother.

“His Grace the king!” Lord Commander Westerling announced, and immediately all rose and bowed—save for little Daella, who only clapped in joy. Daemon scowled; he shouldn’t have been surprised that Ser Otto Hightower would be at his brother’s heel, but the man was more an outsider than even Alicent was. As if on cue, Rhaenyra reached for his hand this time.

King Viserys walked slowly, aided with a cane, and was fully dressed, however he remained wrapped in a heavy robe to keep him warm. A quick glance at his nephews informed Daemon that he was not a fondly regarded father. Helaena seemed to barely notice he was there, doing her best to also ignore her elder brother entirely. The poor girl was barely older than Visenya and already wedded and bedded, belly protruding significantly.

“Ah, my family, how lovely you all look!” Viserys praised as he sat in his chair, and then he took a good look at little Daella. “And you must be my youngest granddaughter. How pretty you are! You remind me so much of your dear grandmother.”

Which grandmother? Daemon pondered, but if he had to wager a guess, he already knew the answer. Aemma.

Of all his daughters, Daella certainly favoured her Arryn blood the most, whatever of it was left. Even her eyes were more blue than purple. Daemon wouldn’t hold it against her. House Arryn had its faults, but without it, he wouldn’t have his Rhaenyra or their children. “Kepa did my hair,” Daella blabbed immediately.

Seven hells what he wouldn’t give to fling himself from the nearest balcony. It was one thing for his children to know their roguish father braided their hair and taught them the significance of each plait, but to have that truth revealed in front of his nephews and sister by law—not to mention Otto fucking Hightower—was another thing entirely. What was worse was the look of utter bewilderment on his brother’s face.

Rhaenyra, the gods’ most magnificent creature, took only a small glimpse at his face and brushed her thumb over the back of his hand before speaking, “Daemon has been teaching the children various aspects of our culture, and he personally instructs them in our language. The braids are something they all eventually learn to do for themselves, however Daella is only three and thus requires more attention from him at present.”

A mocking glance shifted towards her siblings, at the girl whose single braid crown spoke of her Reach connection, the second son with his hair merely pulled back, and the Elder who did nothing with his hair at all. Meanwhile, their small army of children all possessed braids in some way, some simple while others were more complex. It was a stark contrast.

“Ah, well, learning about the culture is always good,” the king relented awkwardly. “I’m surprised you took such personal interest, Daemon.”

“They are my children,” Daemon all but snapped in reply.

“Kepa has always been involved in our instruction,” young Aegon piped up smoothly, diplomatically. “He teaches us the sword, the language, and the culture of our family. It was he who took me on my first flight and each of my siblings. He bleeds for us at every ritual. He and Muña raise us in their own ways, but always together.”

“Ritual?”

The surly one, Aemond, questioned with a twist of his lips.

Visenya smiled sweetly—too sweetly. Daemon could almost feel the glee erupting from within her across the table. “Yes! To celebrate our first year of life, there is a ritual Valyrian parents perform to ensure longevity in their children. Kepa also performs a ritual for our mother whenever she is with child to ensure her health.”

“Sounds rather barbaric if you ask me,” Alicent muttered with disdain.

“You are an outsider, Your Grace. Our gods do not need you to understand,” Viserys, the prince, responded coolly. “Some blood is a minor sacrifice to make, and our father gives it willingly both at the altar and on the battlefield. Our house will maintain its traditions because of him, and I for one am grateful.”

Daemon clenched his jaw. He had not foreseen his children defending him so quickly. The shock on his decaying brother’s face, eyes glued to his own countenance, made him want to melt into the shadows and hide. Only Rhaenyra’s hand kept him firmly in place.

“Well… that’s good. Very good.”

Viserys cleared his throat loudly. The servants approached the table and poured wine for all but the youngest three, who instead were given sweet pomegranate juice. Rhaenyra’s midwife also insisted upon her drinking juice rather than wine while she still chose to nurse their sons. The wine was mulled rather than Arbor Gold. So long as it wasn’t the piss he was forced to drink on the Stepstones, Daemon would happily drink any wine from the king’s cellar.

The children chattered, his more jovial than his brother’s. In their usual fashion, Daemon and Rhaenyra would often share their food, so frequent was this practise that Daemon had learned to eat with one hand so that he might keep his arm draped over the back of his wife’s chair. Her midwife was insistent on nutrition, a duty the Rogue Prince took seriously, which meant he piled high her plate with fresh strawberries, roast duck, bacon, buttered carrots, oatcakes, and of course, he plucked the candied lemon off of several lemon cakes merely for her pleasure.

Rhaenyra, for her part, returned the favour by ensuring he had a sizable serving of venison with blackberry sauce, rice pudding, and clam chowder, and while he enjoyed the lemon cakes, they were not his favourite. Rhaenyra knew. His brother seemed to have forgotten.

“Now that bellies are full and watered with good wine, I have made a decision regarding my name-day celebration,” the king spoke while everyone was still polishing up their plates, his voice raspy. “I may be a fool, but I am not blind. I know how… distant you all are from each other. Always fighting over petty squabbles, ignoring each other, even going so far as designating specific colours for your clothing. I have had enough of it! So, my demand is this: on the name-day feast, my wife and children are to wear black while Rhaenyra, you and your family will wear green.”

“What?!”

“Father, you cannot be serious!”

“Husband, perhaps—”

A long stream of laughter was what passed from Daemon’s lips. That was it; Viserys had finally cracked. Whatever potions he was being fed, however his illness had addled his brain, the king’s self-sufficiency was clearly at an end. “How does this solve anything, brother?” he asked.

“I would hope you lot realise how ludicrous it is with your colour-coding! We are all Targaryens”—Daemon was inclined to disagree—“and this division must be ended. Let the court see we are united and willing to support each other, hmm?”

“Father, I cannot foresee changing our clothes being a soothing balm to family strife,” Rhaenyra muttered, fingers twitching in her lap.

“Well, I cannot see how else to do it. The glares and indifference to each other drive me mad.”

“Your Grace, perhaps—”

“No, Otto, ‘perhaps’ nothing. Enough is enough!”

In a rare case of solidarity, the two Aegons shifted glances at each other before glimmers of disdain followed. Daemon’s son scrunched his nose the same way Rhaenyra always did. “This is ridiculous,” the Elder muttered.

Viserys’ lunacy failed to address the elephant in the room: where the hell was a family of fifteen supposed to get clothes on such short notice?

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra’s pounding headache persisted since dinner despite a hot cup of tea and sleeping comfortably in her husband’s arms. Exhausted as they were, neither had addressed their king’s latest command, staying awake long enough only to send the children to bed and nurse the twins. The morning, however, was a different matter.

A plate of honey fritters was the first thing set before Daemon at breakfast. He smirked lightly and kissed her hand. Her father may have forgotten his brother’s favourite treat, but she certainly had not.

While her husband headed off for the training sands, their boys no doubt already waiting for him along with the squires, she had her own work to do. When Alicent had married the king, one of the first things Rhaenyra did was rescue her mother’s things from the queen’s bedchambers, and those items resided on Dragonstone. A hasty note was attached to a raven’s leg and sent off for her castellan. While she waited for what she asked for, she wandered into the nursery—Daemon’s old room following their marriage.

The wardrobe was full of her old things, packed away like a secret. Her old dresses wouldn’t be enough for all her daughters. Even early on, she had favoured pink and purple along with her house’s colours, but surely she had some green lying around.

Would Father allow blue? Rhaenyra thought desperately to herself.

By some miracle, she was in possession of three green dresses. That, however, left her in an awful conundrum: one of her middle daughters would be left without a dress, and her boys still remained unaccounted for. Was it possible that Daemon had a spare doublet from his youth? Or her father? She hated the idea of having to borrow from Alicent or her spawn, but it was doubtful she would have any choice.

Fourteen damn her father. He could have at least given her a month’s warning. Rhaenyra hastened back to her rooms, where her ladies awaited her. “Princess!” cousin Amanda cried.

“Good morrow, my friends,” Rhaenyra greeted warily. “None of you would happen to have access to green children’s clothing, would you?”

“Green? Are you mad?” Laena snorted.

“Believe me, I wish I could say it was my idea.” Rhaenyra sat in the nearest chair, her breeding the only thing that kept her from carelessly flinging herself across the seat.

 “Certainly not the prince’s?” Elinda teased conspiratorially. In her hands was a sampler, where she was carefully sewing beautiful embroidery. It was a womanly craft Rhaenyra never held the patience for.

She picked at a loose thread on her sleeve as she responded, “He would sooner choke on his own blood. No, the king announced last night at supper that he wished us to dress in each other’s colours for his name-day feast. I was able to find a few dresses, but it isn’t nearly enough.”

“Men,” Samantha Beesbury grumbled in disapproval. “All these grand ideas of theirs and they never think them through.”

“Alas, His Grace is not as well as he used to be. I simply hope he has a plan on how to get my husband into a green doublet.”

“Well, I am certain there is something only you possess that would make him more… compliant.”

“Laena.”

“Come now, cousin, there is no need to be shy. Only you possess the magic that keeps him home every night.” Laena’s eyes glittered wickedly. “If only you had been born a generation earlier, ‘Lord Flea Bottom’ would never have existed! You are the envy of every woman to ever walk its streets, I am certain.”

Rhaenyra, while accustomed to her women’s teasing, could never let go of her youthful possessiveness of her husband. For years she couldn’t stop envisioning herself clawing the eyes out of some vague harlot or other, especially the paramour that had kept his bed warm prior to the war in the Stepstones. Daemon assured her the woman was unimportant, and she believed him, but she was a dragon.

“You can tell the women of Flea Bottom to stop simpering after my husband,” she hissed.

Melissa Frey brought their attention to the matter at hand. “I suppose the seamstresses will already be busy. The queen will have no doubt taken the first step to avoid a conversation about borrowing clothes.”

Rhaenyra groaned. They should have stayed on Dragonstone, away from all this madness. Her babies would be safe from Alicent and the Greens. “I have a dress for Visenya, Alyssa, and Daella. I wrote to my castellan about a gown my mother once owned as well as the tiara Daemon gave me from Leng. Aemma, my boys, and my husband still lack what they need and the seamstresses will be overloaded with work. We daren’t beg from women in my stepmother’s party for spare clothing. What else are we to do?”

Laena pursed her lips. “Does the shade matter?”

“I know not.”

“House Velaryon has plenty of aquamarine and sea green to offer, and a short distance away. My girls and nephews will have clothing to spare. Daeron will have plenty of doublets for your husband. They look about the same size.”

“Cousin, you are a saint!” Rhaenyra leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Later I shall speak with my father and inquire if he cares for the shade of green.”

“I suspect the princes are less likely to burn their clothes this way.”

With that hurdle a little less impossible to climb, the princess found her headache lessen little by little.

The younger girls came in later to play, the twins nursed. The gods knew where Visenya ran off to. Perhaps the library or the stables, it mattered not. It was only when Daemon and her elder boys came in, sweaty and muscles aching from intense training, that Rhaenyra returned to full ease. Once she sent the men off to wash, she made the climb to the king’s chambers to make her petition.

“Princess Rhaenyra, Your Grace.”

“I am surprised you came to see me, my dear, but happy nonetheless. And here I thought your uncle would be too busy keeping you from me,” Viserys greeted with a hint of bitterness that often came at the slightest mention of Daemon.

“And why would he do that?” Rhaenyra pressed, shifting her skirts around her as she sat across from him. She tried her best not to glare at him, but how many times must she assure him she was safe and happy? It was agony that her father couldn’t offer kindness to the father of her children.

“You have rarely visited me since marrying him! What else am I expected to think?”

“Father, you named me Princess of Dragonstone, therefore Dragonstone is my seat and my home. I have children whose lives I cannot disrupt on a whim and I have no desire to spend time in the same room as my stepmother any more than I have to. I know, I know, you wish for us to not fight, but this was inevitable the day you sired a boy upon Alicent Hightower.”

Rhaenyra fell into silence, her thumb pressing to the scar on her palm, the skin a touch smoother than the rest. Looking at it made her yearn for her husband. The feeling would be impossible to describe to those unfamiliar. It was like there was a red thread always pulling her to him, and he to her. She long learned to take care of herself, and should Daemon ever have to leave her shores, the princess knew she would be fine. Having her beloved by her side merely made things easier, more comfortable. The best feeling in the world was leaning against his chest with a babe at her breast.

Viserys didn’t respond, his fingers rubbing together absentmindedly. Queen Aemma’s ring was just visible, too small for any of his fingers.

“I had a question, actually,” Rhaenyra spoke again. “I’m afraid you have given us very little time to accommodate your… request. I’ve written to my castellan regarding one of my mother’s dresses, and I found several of my own for most of the girls, but we still lack. Would you be terribly opposed if I borrowed things from Laena? She thinks she has everything I need. Nothing strictly green, I’m afraid to tell you, more… aquamarine. Maybe something sea green.”

“Could you not ask Alicent?”

“Father, I am no more inclined to ask Alicent for help than she is with me.”

Viserys sighed. “You two are going to be the end of me,” he huffed, reaching to take a sip from his goblet—wine or medicine, Rhaenyra knew not—before he nodded and said, “Very well, if you must insist. I fear you may be correct about your stepmother, however. Last I heard, the poor seamstresses had been summoned. Honestly, you two….”

This very well could have been avoided, Rhaenyra so badly wanted to scream, but she held no desire to to give her father no reason to be upset with her so soon into her visit. She endured with as much patience as she could until the maester arrived, in which the princess quietly took her leave. Afterward, she informed her cousin that the king had granted his approval, and more clothing was sent for.

After lunch, the younger girls were tucked into bed for their naps, the elder three children sent to the library for their studies. In the solar, Rhaenyra laid Aemon in her lap. He was the sweetest babe, her treasure. Already she could see the personality differences between him and Baelon, as plain as day to her as the way they reflected each other in looks.

Baelon whined lightly, being plucked up from the crib by his father. It was a beautiful sight. If only her father could see it, see a side of Daemon he had always pretended didn’t exist.

”Come on, little man,” the prince was whispering, rocking slowly, mindlessly. With his doublet strewn across the back of a nearby chair, his white shirt gaped loosely to grant Rhaenyra a fine look at her husband’s bare chest. She was perturbed about this fact regarding herself. Fifteen years had she been married to Daemon. Fifteen years and eight children between them. It wouldn’t be long before the years they’d spent together stretched longer than the first nine-and-ten years of her life. Yet here she was, ogling a bit of his bare flesh like they were back in that pleasurehouse all over again, observing something brand new.

They had it too good. That was the logical explanation. Despite fiery tempers, sleepless nights, and ostracisation by their own flesh and blood, they had it better than anyone else she knew. Daemon was an attentive lover, eager to teach, longing to touch. Her body changed much after her many pregnancies, yet her husband never failed to desire every inch of her, and Rhaenyra was always eager to receive his amorous attention. Every invariable night, when he kissed her goodnight and wrapped her in his arms, she could feel his hands linger on her curves or soft belly.

Soon.

But not soon enough.

Rhaenyra couldn’t explain why she did not yet feel ready, she simply wasn’t. Carrying and delivering twins was more difficult. Viserys and Visenya had nearly killed her. The boys were a much easier birth, thank the gods, yet still she waited, and Daemon’s scant patience held steady for her sake. Carefully, she set Aemon back in his crib and plucked Baelon from her husband’s arms.

On instinct, Daemon’s arms wrapped around her waist, his nose pressing against her neck. “Something new for you to worry about?” he hummed.

“No,” Rhaenyra lied, pressing a kiss on Baelon’s head.

She could tell he didn't quite believe her. Mercifully, he did not question her further, and once Rhaenyra had settled her son beside his brother, she turned in Daemon’s arms and secured her own around his neck. “My love,” she murmured in contentment, claiming his lips.

“My queen,” he sighed, his tongue warm against her bottom lip. His fingers lightly stroked her back, making her shiver. It was no wonder she kept falling pregnant when that man had such a natural ability to make her weak in the knees.

“How was training with the boys?”

“They know how to behave themselves. Those half-brothers of yours, however….”

Rhaenyra sighed heavily. “What happened?”

“Nothing outside of the ordinary. The buffoon Alicent insists should become king was so drunk he could barely stand. Aemond at least takes it seriously, but he makes mistakes out of hubris, and Ser Crispin does nothing to correct him. He’s too busy complaining about you.”

“He can complain as he pleases. Perhaps had he learned to hold his tongue, he would still be guarding me as he so badly wished.”

“Mm, I would contest that. He would require his eyes being gouged out first.”

Rhaenyra clicked her tongue. “No need, husband. He never had a prayer when I have you.” She kissed him again, deeper. Sometimes her silly uncle felt jealousy for no reason. So long as he existed in this world, Daemon was the only person she truly desired, and it was by the gods’ graces that she didn't have to know what it was like to be married to anyone else.

 “Dragons don’t lay with sheep, princess.”

“Says the man who’s lain with half of Westeros.”

Daemon groaned loudly at the reminder and shoved his face against her shoulder. The statement was said in jest, of course. She could never let her uncle get away with such a statement without reminding him he’d fallen short of his own standards. Someone had to bring him back to the ground. Rhaenyra made a point to nudge him down to the couch before draping herself over his thighs. The easy way her husband’s strong arms secured around her was information enough that he wasn’t upset with her for pointing it out.

“Were you anyone else and I would gut you for your insolence,” he growled, but the threat only made heat pool into the princess’ belly.

“Anyone else,” Rhaenyra whispered, curling her fingers until the nails dug into his scalp, “and I would have your tongue cut out for daring to speak against me.”

“And fed to your dragon, no doubt.”

“I doubt your tongue would be much of a feast for my Syrax.”

Daemon chuckled boisterously. “No, not at all.”

Rhaenyra’s fingers relaxed in his hair. “I will have uses for that tongue soon enough, never fear.” His tortured groan almost made her lose her composure.

***

The Targaryen brood had a surprisingly quiet evening, all things considered. The children focused on their respective lessons, ate with a reasonable level of chatter between mouthfuls, and even the babes were sleeping soundlessly, yet Daemon couldn’t shake off the dread that crept up on him. Rhaenyra fell asleep with ease now that the issue of procuring green clothes had resolved itself. He, meanwhile, was still staring up at the canopy above their bed, his arm slightly numb from the weight of his wife’s head.

They’d been preparing for years for the eventuality of the king's death, carefully and quietly. Their household had been constructed with selections from various houses, Rhaenyra diligently organised matches between her ladies and other allies or neutral parties, and even he pulled strings with the men among the City Watch. There was no more denying that the king was a foot in the grave, and Daemon knew Otto Hightower was making moves. So must he if he wanted to see his brother’s rightful heir ascend the throne.

What disturbed him was the revealed identity of the White Worm in the moons between the birth of Aegon and his first twins. In the years past when Mysaria had contented herself with warming his bed, she was sneaking whispers of his comings and goings to his old rival. It was she who had revealed that Daemon was with Rhaenyra in that pleasurehouse. He’d told his lady wife that his former paramour was of no threat now, and she wasn’t anymore once he’d moved his young family from the Red Keep to Dragonstone. Yet something worrying lingered in the pit of his stomach. Perhaps the king’s creeping death was making him feel vulnerable, more aware of their weaknesses.

Daemon rubbed his eyes with his fingers, and then rolled to his side, pressing himself against Rhaenyra’s back. He let his arm drape over her, his hand resting on her soft belly. The Rogue Prince craved to make love to his woman again, to bind their bodies together into a single being as they were meant to be, but he could be patient. He was getting older, content with simpler things than he used to be. He could relish in her warmth and softness while they lay clothed in the black of night, hear her soft breathing and know she was safe and comfortable only in his arms.

Evidently this quiet peace at last lulled him to sleep, for when his eyes opened again, the sun filtered through the window and his head was resting against her breast. Rhaenyra’s fingers calmly stroked through his hair, gently detangling a knot. Daemon’s arm remained draped over her waist, her smooth hand absentmindedly rubbed up and down his forearm. The prince huffed softly. This was nice. Better than nice. It was rare for his wife to wake before him.

“Good morning, my love,” Rhaenyra whispered, kissing his head.

“Morning, sweetling.”

Not another word was spoken until Rhaenyra’s servant, Annora, bustled in with her usual deferential pleasantries, pulling open the curtains to let in more light. She’d served Rhaenyra long before they married, loyal as ever. Daemon still remembered the woman’s surprised shriek the morning after their first wedding, finding them both abed and as naked as newborn babes, the bedsheet tangled far below their waists. The poor thing hadn’t bet on him still being in the princess’ chambers. Rhaenyra’s cheeks had burned fiery red, but he had laughed and laughed.

Luckily for her, they were both dressed this time. “My princess, my prince,” the maid greeted with a curtsey. “Breakfast will be served in the solar in the hour, as always. The princelings are being roused now so they might join Your Graces. Is there anything else you require?”

“Tell my ladies not to dress me this morning. I wish to enjoy the quiet with my husband a while longer yet,” came Rhaenyra’s calm reply.

“Of course, princess.”

Daemon couldn’t help but smirk to himself, feeling Rhaenyra kiss his head once more. Any additional time he got to spend in her arms, away from the constant talk of her ladies-in-waiting, was time well spent. He rarely paid the women any mind, even his cousin, always too busy admiring his goddess’ beauty or wrangling their wily hatchlings into some semblance of obedience to deal with their idle chatter.

Several more mornings followed in this matter thereafter, his unusual inability to sleep, waking with Rhaenyra’s arms around him coupled with the command to grant them space. The only exception was the morning Aemma burst into their bed chamber, her curls unkempt and feet bare. “Kepa, I don’t want to wear green!” she shrieked, pouncing on his back.

He groaned at the shockingly heavy weight of the petulant seven-year old, who was promptly wiggling her way between her parents to burrow herself against Rhaenyra’s lap.

The dresses from Dragonstone had arrived only yesterday, and the wardrobe from Laena’s household a day earlier. Daemon almost pitied whichever maid was the one to inform his dragonlings of their eventual wardrobe change for this evening. The elder children would accept their fates with little grumbling, but Aemma and Daella would fight tooth and claw. Alyssa, so unlike her namesake, might be a breath of fresh air when it came down to his youngest daughters.

“Oh, my darling, neither do we,” Rhaenyra was attempting to placate her, “but ‘tis a command of the king.”

“Grandsire should wear it himself if he wants us to so badly,” Aemma grumbled in turn.

Daemon carefully rolled to his side and brushed back the girl’s hair. “Consider yourself lucky; you get away with a Velaryon dress over true green,” he reminded her.

Aemma pouted, but the reminder of her dress’ origin allowed her to relent. “If I must,” she sighed dramatically. It reminded the prince too much of himself.

“Yes, my dove, you must. Once the banquet is over, you will never have to wear green again if that’s what you wish.” Rhaenyra tucked her fingers underneath the little girl’s chin and nudged her to look up at her. “I will let you wear my hair comb. Does that satisfy you?”

The small princess pouted, thinking very hard about it. Her lilac eyes shifted briefly to Daemon, whose brows rose as his answer. Finally, she grumbled, “Yes, muña.”

“Good girl. Now get dressed; you won’t need to wear any green monstrosity just yet. Your papa and I will be ready for breakfast at the usual time.”

Aemma may be stubborn as a dragon, but like all the children, she was eager to please her mother. After kisses on her parents’ cheeks, she hopped off the bed, darting off before another word could be said.

The pair of them chuckled at their daughter’s antics. “A good thing she’s too big for your old dress,” Daemon remarked, “otherwise we would have a right mess on our hands.”

“Her and you. I doubt I could get you into a proper green doublet no matter how much I pleaded.”

The prince smirked and squeezed her thigh. “Your pleas I would happily welcome, make no mistake.”

“Daemon.”

He pressed a kiss against her stomach, the admonishment merely amusing to him. Gods, she was so beautifully soft. Six pregnancies certainly changed her, but for the better. Only lesser men would find fault in her plumpness, and such men had no business siring babes. “I speak only the truth, my heart. Do you remember which one of us pleaded for even more babes after Aemma’s arrival?”

Rhaenyra bit her lip. “Yes, well—” she stuttered.

“No excuses, Rhaenyra.” His kiss was as swift as his retreat from the bed.

By the time the two were groomed and dressed for the day, they had run out of time for him to do her hair, so Rhaenyra left it unbound while she brushed up his hair out of his face, her soft curls tucked behind her ears where crescent gold earrings could be seen. The teases and lighthearted bickering led to much kissing while Rhaenyra nursed the twins, leaving their lips slightly swollen.

It was Viserys who first noted their arrival. “Muña, Kepa,” he greeted warmly.

“Mama!” Daella cried from her high chair.

“Good morning, sweetheart.” Rhaenyra smiled as she plopped a kiss on their girl’s head.

The food was quickly served, and as usual, silence was impossible to be had. The boys debated with Daemon regarding Valyrian grammar, Rhaenyra and Visenya squabbled about the need for lessons today, and the youngest girls took turns declaring which part of Essos they wanted to travel to (Daella refused to believe Old Valyria was really in shatters).

For decades, Daemon yearned for this, the constant chatter of family. Viserys had practically raised him, his parents, uncles, and aunts gone long before he could remember any of them. Only Gael had lived long enough for him to want for something he could not quite name beyond Targaryen pride, that something crushed within the angry fist of his grandmother before he could know what that tasted like, and the last of his aunts snuffed out like smoke. Rhaenys ignored him for years, so he ignored her back. Cousin Aemma was a quiet presence, but welcoming him all the same. The something he yearned for, however, remained nameless until his first niece was placed in his arms. 

“Rhaenyra,” he muttered in his distraction, unaware he’d spoken her name aloud until her fingers slipped into his hand. His eternal companion.

“Daemon,” she replied, her gaze questioning.

His kiss lingered on her wrist. Daily, the prince dreaded leaving for the training sands. Not because he disliked training their sons or meeting with the other men, but it meant being away from her. Another nameless thing tightened in his chest whenever they were apart. It made him grumpy (a word that came from Aegon’s mouth when he was old enough to notice the difference in his father’s moods). He couldn’t ask any of his companions if they experienced such a sensation when apart from their wives. He’d never live it down.

After bellies were filled, Daemon begrudgingly left his beloved behind—after several lingering kisses, of course—to train his boys. Visenya often trained with them, but not always, and especially not when word of her breaking nonexistent female protocol could easily be reported back to the green queen. His children’s skills were impeccable, but most importantly, natural. He always looked for boredom or distaste, for any signs they were more like their uncle (or to them, their grandsire) than their father on the training sands. He didn’t imagine himself as one to react badly should either of them express disinterest in the art of the sword, but he wasn’t sure what he’d do if such a situation occurred. He had two more sons to prepare for that eventuality. What if one of the twins wished to be a scholar? Or, Fourteen forbid, a priest?

Daemon donned his gambeson, comforted by the weight of the padding that protected him from well-placed whacks. The mail was even heavier, but the limit of his armour. So long as Aegon and Viserys trained with blunted blades, the damage would be minimal. He was eager to commission their first suits of armour once they graduated from their squiring. On Dragonstone, they acted as his own squires, and so long as he had a say in it, things would remain that way. Squiring for anyone else, least of all one of their half-uncles, would only be a humiliation.

“My princes,” the lords greeted with bows of varying depth depending on their political affiliation. The trio of Targaryen men cut striking figures. How many of these lords would witness Aegon ascend the throne? Daemon wished he himself could see it. His eldest boy was a great source of pride. Tall, handsome, talented, clever, with a Velaryon bride to be and an ever-growing dragon that obeyed his smallest command. Aegon was exactly what any Targaryen prince ought to be. And Viserys? The only man who would be able to match him, if not outpacing in cleverness. That boy was going to be Hand of the King someday, Daemon hoped.

Now, if only Viserys and Visenya were inclined for marriage, that would make things easier, but Rhaenyra doubted the pair of them would ever feel inclined to marry each other. Daemon did his best to quash his expectations for them, for in the end he wished only for their happiness. But in another life, had he and Rhaenyra been twins, he would be without a doubt for whom he’d be destined for. Viserys at least had his pick of sisters, a luxury he himself had been denied.

“Kepa,” the boy in question spoke, wiping sweat off his brow.

“Mm?”

“We’re no longer alone.”

The Rogue Prince swung around and watched as Criston Cole marched the Elder Aegon into the ring, a hand on the lad’s scruff. Daemon would have laughed if the sight of the two of them didn’t irritate him so much. Aemond was a much more devoted pupil; apparently he was fluent in High Valyrian. If not for his abominable Hightower blood, he’d almost be proud of him.

“Pay them no mind, boy,” Daemon muttered to his secondborn, ruffling Viserys’ hair a little.

“It’s hard not to when they take up so much space,” Aegon piped up, glaring over his father’s shoulder.

“There will be many who will take up space during your reign, Egg, and few worth your time. Pay them no mind.”

“Yes, Kepa.”

Daemon wouldn’t pretend to be an expert on ruling. That was Rhaenyra’s domain. He did, however, have much experience with lickspittles and court intrigue. For good or bad, he was a member of the ruling house, and as a result he was often pestered by lesser men for this or that. His influence as the king’s brother may have waned as Viserys chose to listen to others over him, but success in the Stepstones coupled with Rhaenyra taking him as her husband rebirthed him as the future king in all but name.

Well, king-consort.

Rhaenyra never let him speak that mistake twice.

“Good morning, nephews!” The other Aegon shouted louder than necessary, clearly unbalanced, hair unbrushed. Crispin no doubt dragged him out of bed mere hours after he initially crashed into it after a long night in Flea Bottom.

“Uncle,” Aegon greeted stoically, the only of the three to do so. Any further pleasantries died on the tongue.

They trained until the sun was at its zenith, when the men all ate together in the barracks to regain their energy. After that, the boys were sent off to bathe before resuming their studies until it was time to dress for the banquet. Daemon was happy to sink into his tub of hot water, groaning while his muscles warmed. He felt like Caraxes curled up in his steaming hot nest, however unlike his dragon, he was missing his own Syrax.

Rarely since their wedding has Daemon felt the need to touch himself save for during the periods when Rhaenyra could not make love with him, a price he was willing to pay for the numerous babes their fucking brought them. He found himself doing so now, grasping his stiff member. He yearned to feel her buttery soft skin and kiss her gloriously long hair, to let her wet cunny envelope him in a way not even boiling water could achieve. He wanted to be conjoined with her until they were both beyond exhaustion. He envisioned her naked body as he pleasured himself, pretending she was riding him until he could not contain his release anymore.

Pleasure only just dissipated from his bones when at last he could all but sense her presence, the tightness in his chest loosening at the feeling of her arms coiling across his chest. “Feel better?” Rhaenyra purred, nuzzling his neck.

“Until you let me have you again, I must make do,” he sighed, letting his head loll backward against her shoulder. Daemon could almost weep from her sweet smell engulfing him.

The Realm’s Delight giggled lightly. “Perhaps, when this mess is over and we’re back home, I will allow you to do just that,” she promised, knowing full well the mere mention of it would drive him mad.

“Surely a few days’ difference won’t matter, my love.”

“Consider it an incentive. I like my husband on his best behaviour, and when he’s on his best behaviour, the children will be more manageable.”

“You make it sound like I rile them up!”

Rhaenyra smiled serenely. “Sometimes you do.”

Daemon scoffed. She was, unfortunately, entirely correct. He would accept the admonishment so long as she continued to caress his hair as she was. His eyes slid closed again. In mere moments, their peace would be disturbed. “Join me for a few minutes.”

Rather than a vocal response, the whisper of Rhaenyra’s dress sliding to the floor was answer enough. The water splashed as she climbed in, her form settling on top of his. Daemon held her tightly, and he kissed her deeply. It took great willpower to not let his hands explore her body. What new marks graced her belly now? Essosi creams were not perfect, and the prince enjoyed finding what traces each pregnancy left behind.

Rhaenyra did not possess the same reservations. Her fingers skimmed over his old war scars, sinking under the water to stroke over his hip, and then down to his knee. He made the mistake of complaining about its ache several years ago, and Daemon has since found himself under Gerardys’ constant scrutiny. “Cease your teasing, woman,” he complained.

“No teasing, I am merely admiring my husband.”

“Unless you intend to do more with that hand, put it away.”

“You did well enough on your own, uncle. Now come here.”

Their kisses were languid with hints of tongue, as was almost always the kiss for them. Mere pecks weren’t enough unless one of them was in motion, and even then Daemon often found himself being dragged to his feet if only to kiss her a little longer. Rhaenyra would melt in his arms, and stupid luck often forced one of the children to witness it. When Aegon was little, he made a point of making gagging sounds, not that that ever stopped them.

Alas, the prince could never have peace to himself for long unless it was in the dead of night, for the telltale pitter patter of women’s feet could be heard just outside their chamber. “Princess!” Lady Elinda called. Rhaenyra giggled against Daemon’s mouth.

“Perhaps she’s running late?” Lucinda Strong pondered.

“Oh no, Rhaenyra is never late. I suspect Prince Daemon is holding her hostage somewhere,” Eleanor Strong speculated lowly.

“Daemon, stop it,” Rhaenyra chastised when he tried to keep her pinned to him in the tub.

“You are a cruel mistress,” he complained.

“And if we want to avoid getting chastised by my father, we will arrive for the banquet on time. Now let me out!”

A kiss had been given to pacify the Rogue Prince, yet Daemon still pouted a little with Rhaenyra’s absence. He had little desire to lounge in the tepid water without her, and thus he clambered out to dry off.

The clothing Rhaenyra had picked out was already laid out on the bed, the doublet mercifully the least shade of green one could get away with. Ser Daeron was a cousin worth having, it would seem. The doublet proved to be just a little tighter around the shoulders than what was practical, but perhaps he would have no need for his sword arm tonight.

As for his hair, well, he could braid it himself. He’d done it numerous times in the past, particularly during the war in the Stepstones, but a man grew accustomed to his habits, and Daemon would be remiss to lose out on any extra time spent with his wife. Rhaenyra was, however, surrounded by her gaggle of women, and Fourteen forbid he ask. Not even High Valyrian was safe. He glared at Laena from the corner of his eye.

Life would have been far easier had they just stayed in Essos. No courtly expectations, no king to dictate the way they dressed. The only acceptable interruptions would be ones caused by their children. Preferably at a decent hour, Daemon mused, after I’ve had my fill of Rhaenyra. Of course, it wouldn’t be until they’d passed on that they would find true peace, for even in Essos they would have found themselves forced to dance to the tune of whoever was willing to take them in. He could endure it if he must, as he’s done before, but he was meant to defend the dignity of his wife and children, not subject them to humiliation.

“Daemon? What do you think?” Rhaenyra was asking, her face appearing in the looking glass. 

The prince turned to study his niece. Uncertainty painted across her lovely face. The dress, emerald green, had once belonged to her mother, and it fit her perfectly. It left her shoulders bare, granting him a perfect view of the collarbones he liked to kiss. “It is a shame that harlot ruined the colour for you, fireheart. Green looks exceptional on you,” he complimented, taking hold of her hand before she could begin playing with her rings.

“It feels strange.”

“Perhaps,” he agreed, planting a kiss on her palm, “but you’re breathtaking.”

“You look handsome; yet you couldn’t wait for me, I see!” Rhaenyra’s fingers tugged at the end of his hair.

Daemon scoffed. “You were busy, my love. I had no desire to interrupt,” he insisted.

“You know you can always come to me for something such as this, you fool. Let me do it properly! You’ll look ridiculous if we leave it alone.”

He found himself promptly shoved into the nearest chair, his wife’s hands stronger than they looked from years of controlling the movements of her dragon. Rhaenyra began undoing his work, fingers now gentle.

“Princess—” one of the ladies behind them began to speak, Prudence mayhaps.

“Not now!” Rhaenyra insisted, combing through Daemon’s hair in a way that almost made him purr. “Prudy, can you all check to ensure the children are ready? I fear we shall be late after all.”

“I— yes, princess.”

Daemon huffed a chuckle. “Rarely are you so sharp with any of your ladies,” he commented with a raised brow.

“Yes, well, my foolish husband couldn’t wait an additional few minutes for me to plait his hair.” Rhaenyra’s nose scrunched in her displeasure, yet he always thought it adorable.

“Your ladies take too long on nights like this.”

“Oh, let’s blame my ladies.” She rolled her eyes. Her fingers became less gentle with their braiding. Daemon winced.

“Spare a man his pride, Rhaenyra.”

“Men are nothing without their pride.”

They fell silent while she finished with his braids, which she ended with a kiss on his head after a sigh of defeat. “My turn,” he insisted, reaching for her hair.

“Daemon, no, Elinda spent a long time on it!”

“Nah-ah, fair’s fair.”

Rhaenyra grumbled but did as she was told, letting him tear apart her lady’s hard work. Daemon smirked to himself, watching his niece’s hair unfurl from the intricate updo. Elinda can style the princess’ hair all she wants in his absence for all he cared for, but so long as he was residing in the same bloody castle as his wife, Valyrian braids were his area. He twisted the plaits with practised ease, an improvised deviation from Visenya’s braid, turning the braid into a twist at the base of her skull, allowing for several loose strands to frame Rhaenyra’s face.

“You’re incorrigible,” Rhaenyra complained, with narrow eyes watching him carefully pin her jade tiara upon her head.

“You should have left my own hair well enough alone then,” he teased. “Just tell Elinda I was fulfilling my conjugal rights.”

“Never fear, husband, she knows you always make a point to claim your conjugal rights.”

Daemon only laughed. “Let this be a lesson for her then, hmm?” He cupped Rhaenyra’s jaw and stooped low to kiss her mouth. With all her complaining, she certainly didn’t seem to mind him claiming what was his, either.