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They’ll leave for Dragonstone. Her, and Laenor, and—whatever his name is, the knight with the shiny hair.

It’s been too long, too much time, too many of those looks from her father’s lords; too many memories of him in those other days, those bygone hours when he’d sit up straight on that iron chair, when he’d impress upon her with all the vitality in the world the weight of her inheritance, the importance of it.

The importance of her, something her father always seems to center and yet somehow abandon at the same time.  

And then, of course, there are the memories of her; floating through the hallways, such a different fire in those same dark eyes, that disfigured love of their girlhood, that troubled ghost.

Sometimes Alicent looks at her out of the corner of her eye and something horribly familiar flashes in Rhaenyra’s heart—the desire to take her hand.

(Sometimes Rhaenyra rides Syrax until her thighs chafe under the saddle.)

Rhaenyra drags herself, black marble in hand, to her final small council meeting.

(It drags on. Wine and wheat and ships and wheat and taxes and ships; and then, finally, when it seems over—) 

Her father smiles at them the way he does whenever he’s utterly in love with a terrible idea.

“As a final matter of business,” he says, “We have received word from the young Cregan Stark that this most recent string of Ironborn incursions are nearly at an end.”

After you allowed us to dally while they pillaged as far as the Neck, she thinks, bitterly.

“The Starks have sued for peace,” Viserys continues, “And, in turn, Dalton Greyjoy has invoked the judgment of the Crown. As is, of course, his right.”

Mellos grumbles. “There is no need for the Crown to broker a peaceable end to this savage rebellion. We’d better write back to Lord Stark and tell him to take back what is rightfully his and protect his realm, as he is sworn to do—”

Viserys merely raises his hand. “That is not the Crown’s wish. Cregan Stark wants to put an end to this bloodshed rather than see it fell more honorable men. I quite agree. I have granted Greyjoy’s request for intervention.”

“Absurd,” Mellos bites, “That such a man should impose an arduous six-week journey upon his liege lord.”

“Nonsense,” Viserys replies, as Rhaenyra busies herself spinning her marble. “It is his right, and our duty.”

“Your Grace,” Lyonel Strong begins, calm and tempering, “I quite agree that negotiations are preferable to another nine months of slaughter and bedlam in the Neck. But Your Grace is hardly suited for a month upon the Kingsroad.”

“I must concur, my King,” Alicent reaches for his sleeve, shaking her head, brows drawn. “This is a request we simply cannot entertain.”

“Yes, Alicent, as I’m sure my leal counselors can see for themselves,”—and he gives them all that smile, one that’s always disgusted Rhaenyra, the one meant to mask all his pain and anger and humanity—“That their king is an old man indeed.” A mirthless chuckle. “And becoming older every day. Which is why—”

And suddenly he’s looking at Rhaenyra. She drops her marble back into its cradle, looks up, at attention, folding her hands. “I thought I might send an envoy in my stead. A party suited to represent the desires of the Crown.”

No, Gods, not to that frozen hellhole. “Father, perhaps we could extend our own invitation—host Cregan Stark ourselves, here, in—”

“What could be a better representation of our continued friendship with the North, and who better to stand in my stead, to stand as the Crown,” Viserys raises his hands, like he’s about to shock them all with his wisdom, “Than its trueborn heir.”

Even at her displeasure, still, she’s helpless not to preen at the praise, the recognition. “Thank you, Father.”

(Why do you only respect me when you need something from me—)

“And the Queen.”

The smile drops from her face.

Alicent hesitates, like she’s not sure she’s even heard the words. “…Your Grace?” She looks at Rhaenyra, who’s at least managed to shut her gaping mouth, though the shock is still betrayed in her eyes. “You’d like…me, to answer Lord Stark’s invitation, my King?”

“I would,” he declares. “The House of the Dragon stands united, and its authority sacrosanct, even in the far-flung edges of the North. Show the Starks that we mean to stand with them—not only as their liege, but as their friends.” And then his eyes fall upon Rhaenyra. “And as united protectors of the realm.”

She exhales, slowly.

(One of our line—a terrible winter, gusting out of the distant North—to destroy the world of the living—)

“Yes, Father.” She says, working her jaw, eyes downcast. Then, finally, with an even façade: “I should be honored to represent the Crown.” Her eyes flit to Alicent. “As is my duty.”

Alicent snorts.

Viserys apparently doesn’t notice.

“And my lady wife,” he says, turning, taking her hand. She offers him a loving grin, one that hardly reaches her eyes. “May you aid the Princess in this pursuit, and be yourself a token of our good will.”

(Rhaenyra remembers, once, when they’d snuck wine from the kitchens and then Alicent had said—

How different life would be, she’d twirled her reddened hair, If I had a dragon.)

Mellos almost balks. “My King,” he beseeches. “Two women?”

But Viserys seems, or at least pretends, not to even hear it. “I shall make arrangements for you to leave at the end of this fortnight.”

Finally, Alicent loses a bit of resolve. “My love, this journey shall continue for months; the children—”

“The children will be fine.”

Even Rhaenyra hears it, the utter dismissal in his voice; the way he waves his hand like he did when they were discussing ships.

Alicent merely reflexes back, looks down at her hands.

The King stands, then; they follow suit; and that—it would seem, judging by the finality of the King’s word and the surety of his gait—is that.

The King leaves. The Queen tears away like her skirts are aflame.

Fuck.

She finds Laenor in the training yard, swinging his sword at Qarl.

“It seems we’ll have to remain at the Keep for a bit more time than planned.”

This seems to bring him to a halt, and he turns with a look of utter incredulity before barely dodging Qarl’s swing. “What?”

“My father has sent me to Winterfell,” she tells him. “As his envoy.”

He looks back at his lover, then to her. “What about the children?”

She sighs through the nose. “I suppose they will have to rely on their father,” she snaps. “For once.”

He tilts his head with a look of sympathy and she finds herself sorry—ruefully sorry, angry and sorry and still, resentful—all the same.

“I will ensure they have every comfort,” he says, softly.

She nods, quickly, and departs.

Alicent oversees the preparations; checks over and over the itinerary of supplies, minds the servants, greets and expresses thanks to the courtiers, the knights, the attendants who will follow them up the Kingsroad.

(Rhaenyra doesn’t, of course, do anything even remotely capable of being described as helpful; preferring to mull about and do whatever it is Rhaenyra feels like doing. As always.)

When the time comes to leave, she finds the Princess in her quarters, on her veranda, eating a fucking apple.

“We’re due to depart at midday,” she demands. Harrold Westerling stands awkwardly at the door.

The Princess raises an eyebrow. “Good morrow to you as well, Your Grace.”

“You’re not dressed.”

Rhaenyra looks down at her robes. “Well-spotted, my Queen.” And then she looks back up at Alicent, with a sardonic look that’s downright mean, Alicent thinks. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company this morning?”

Alicent resists the urge to stamp her fucking foot. “We are leaving,” she nearly spits, “For a six-week journey, at midday.”

Rhaenyra shrugs. “The Crown’s party departs today,” she says, “But I have no such plans.”

“You plan to arrive in a separate thirty-wagon caravan, do you?”

“I plan to arrive upon my dragon.” Rhaenyra lifts her chin with a barely-concealed sneer. “As all true Targaryens have done.”

Alicent ignores the jab. “And how long do you plan to ride on dragonback—”

“The journey should take little more than a day.”

Alicent almost laughs, though there’s no joy in the sound.

“Right,” she smiles, her eyes blazing. “Scores of knights and courtiers and attendants and maidservants should shuffle hundreds of miles riding days in and out until you settle upon a convenient morning to zip by overhead.” Rhaenyra’s eyes are bored and crystal-clear, staring up at her. “I should have known.”

She turns on her heel, then, to exit—

“You could have zipped by, too,” Rhaenyra replies, almost daring her to turn. “If you had wanted.”

Alicent marches off without a word.

Two weeks onto the Kingsroad she finds she can hardly awaken. The ice is in her bones, not just upon, beneath the skin, anymore. They’ve wrapped her in so many furs she wonders if the Kingswood is still home to any living creatures at all. The wind blows through the panes of the carriage but she hardly feels it anymore; hardly feels anything, her own nose, her own hands.

“My Queen,” her handmaidens plead, pushing cups of hot broth into her hands. “You must eat, Your Grace.”

But she can’t, she just can’t.

She’s in and out, on this frigid, lightless road; in these graceless hours. Overhears someone arguing, then, maybe her driver—

I told them this road wasn’t suited for pretty Southron girls.

You’re right, she wants to reply, defeated. It’s not.

It’s two days more before she registers another handmaiden with another cup of broth. “…Rhaenyra, Your Grace.”

Alicent blinks into focus, turns to her. “What?” She looks down at the soup, back at her maiden. “What of the Princess?”

“Word of your condition has been sent to the King. He has dispatched the Princess to—”

“Why?” She sits up, then, as difficult as the movement is, as much as it takes out of her; tries to be Queen, and not a very cozy corpse, for a moment. “Why was I not informed of this?”

Her maiden looks down, somewhat ruefully. “Apologies, Your Grace,” she replies, meekly. “I—I do believe you were.”

Alicent only closes her eyes.

Then—“And what’s the Princess to do?” She snorts, chuckling, albeit weakly, at the mental image—“Build me a fire?”

The maiden shakes her head. “Well—”

And then another runs up, and there’s a knock on her carriage door. Somebody opens it—Alicent waves her hand, praying they’ll close it again, banish the cold—

“The Princess has arrived.”

Alicent tips her head back, willing herself to remain conscious.

Seven hells, the last person she wants to see.

(The only person she ever really wants to see, even for the wrong reasons—)

No, she doesn’t want to see Rhaenyra. Wants her to go away, preserve the peace she has until they’re forced to spend a month together, and she’ll tell her herself, if she can remain awake long enough—

But she loses her battle, in the next instance, and the world is dreamless, again.

When she wakes, Rhaenyra is there, peering at her from across the carriage, because of course.

Happily, she looks just as awkward as the air about them feels. “You don’t look well, Your Grace.”

Alicent huffs—a tiny, ragged sound. “And a pleasure to see you, too, Princess.”

Rhaenyra looks down at her feet, at her riding boots, then back up to where Alicent is stowed away beneath a mountain of furs. “I’ve come to escort you to Winterfell.”

Alicent raises an eyebrow, peers at the frost outside the latticed window. “It certainly appears we’re on that journey already.”

“On dragonback.”

Her eyes fly open.

“If you think,” she threatens, breath shaky, “For even one second, that I am going to climb aboard that stinking beast—”

“I doubt Syrax or I shall enjoy it any more than you.” Rhaenyra bites back, immediately.

(She ignores the way it hurts; and how, once the words are out, Rhaenyra looks hurt by them, too.)

We’re so good at being cruel these days, Alicent muses, eyes shut again. My back’s so full of scars—

(Talya, gingerly offering to dispose of the sitting pillows soaked in Rhaenyra’s blood—

Alicent had done it herself.)

“My father has asked me to ferry you the rest of the way,” Rhaenyra continues, “So you may receive treatment by Winterfell’s maesters. He has in turn commanded you to accept my generous offer. So, when you are ready, we will re-saddle and continue.”

“Tie me on like cargo, I assume.” Alicent deadpans.

“Dragons don’t haul cargo.” Rhaenyra levels, something like haughty. “They don’t perform work.”

Alicent chuckles, mirthlessly, just a little, an utterly humorless sound. “Isn’t that the truth.”

Alicent lets them tie her legs into the saddle, wrapped in furs, dazed, because Viserys commanded it, because obligation, because even half-alive and wholly incensed, she will do her fucking duty.

(A virtue to which Rhaenyra remains wholly and entirely a stranger, even with the world at her feet, even for all the right reasons.)

Rhaenyra saddles up behind her, much more quickly, settles her arms around Alicent’s middle and takes the reins in front of her. Alicent can feel Syrax moving and breathing beneath her, but she can barely register that she’s even there, that she’s even on her, after all these years, Rhaenyra’s dream, once, in the worst possible way. Syrax could be the seat of a carriage, could be a horse; could be a nightmare, even, for all she’s really there.

“Why,” Alicent whispers, rubbing the frost out of her eyelashes, “Must I ride in front?”

“So that I can hold onto you,” She replies, annoyed. “Since your ability to hold on yourself is a bit untrustworthy of late.”

“I am floored by your chivalric devotion.”

“My father would be most displeased to find I let you fall from the sky.”

Alicent scoffs, eyes closed. “I am sure your father would merely nod and smile as soon as you batted your eyelashes.”

“As I’m sure your father would just as soon send a cousin of yours to assuage the King in his grief.”

Alicent is silent, for a moment, as the knife sinks in.

Rhaenyra, from behind her, softly: “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

Alicent only breathes, in and out, in and—

Then, quietly: “Get on with it.”

Rhaenyra says some words, Valyrian which she barely hears; the nauseating weightlessness of the dragon’s lift underneath her wings, the ungrounded rocking, the swinging of flight is far and away the most terrible sensation Alicent has ever felt, one that makes her wonder if she’s better off braving the cold, really—

Rhaenyra’s arms tighten around her middle, just in front of her, at the bottom of her ribcage. Her head lulls to the side. She feels Rhaenyra’s chin hovering above the furs on her shoulder.

She considers being sick several times. Sleeps for an hour or so and then awakens and always jolts, a little, when she comes to; Rhaenyra always grasps her a bit tighter.

“You’re tied in,” Rhaenyra reminds, gently, elbows bracketing her sides. “You can’t fall.”

(Stop being kind to me.)

She’s awake for around half an hour, maybe three or four hours into the flight, no longer so horrified by the sensation and instead undeniably, horribly bored. She makes the mistake of looking down, then.

Her yelp startles Rhaenyra and then Syrax in turn, who dips just a spot lower in response—

Alicent whips around, as much as she can, winds her arms around Rhaenyra’s middle and clings, hides her face in the fabric of her riding jacket, her clammy hands sweating like mad in her gloves—I’m going to fall, if I look I’m going to fall, I’m going to fucking fall—

“Easy, there,” Rhaenyra murmurs over the whip of the wind, and Alicent wants to fucking kill her, the way she can almost hear the grin in her voice.

(How could Rhaenyra understand the terror of a mere mortal, after all.)

She only grips tighter. And then a hand comes off the reins and around her back, solid; securing Alicent to her chest almost as tightly as Alicent is clinging to it.

(We haven’t been this close in—

I hate this. I hate that it’s happening. I hate that as soon as it’s gone you’ll never touch me again and this will only be another memory of before just like everything fucking else, you always, always get what you want—)

Rhaenyra dips them down a bit lower, to a spot of calmer air.

(I hate the things I’ll say about you when you’re alone.

And the things I’ll think about you once I am.)

Before she can school herself, before she even knows she’s saying it, sorrowful and hopeless—“Let fucking go of me.”

But Rhaenyra doesn’t pull away. Strangely. Doesn’t barb. Instead, her hand remains right where it is around Alicent’s waist, her chin over Alicent’s shoulder, just as it was. “Alright,” she soothes, softly. “Just a little while longer.”

Her thumb rubs along her spine, a little.

(Alicent believes she means the flight; decides it, really.)

And she’s right, of course. As soon as they’re on the ground—as soon as Rhaenyra has undone the lacing at Alicent’s legs and handed her down to the attending knight like a wet puppy—Rhaenyra’s off, riding gloves gone, demeanor firm, receiving the welcoming party as the Northerners try and decide what to make of the dragon in their courtyard.

“She’ll find her way outside the walls,” Rhaenyra tells them, with the ghost of an utterly shit-eating grin at their utter wonderment (and obvious fear, Alicent notes). Then she says something to Syrax in Valyrian and the beast takes off, again, knocking down two of the knights unlucky enough to be standing beneath the great gale of her wings.

Still, Rhaenyra looks back at her, just for a single moment; a strange look upon her face.

They get into it at dinner before Alicent’s even had time to gather herself; still, she pushes away the maesters, accepts the help of the Northern handmaidens and  dresses, all in borrowed silks and velvets and furs of grey and white—all her teals and emeralds and deep forest greens still somewhere along the Kingsroad—pleats her hair and heads down to their welcoming feast.

Cregan Stark greets her as would be expected of him; and he’s charming, and kind, and baby-faced, somehow, despite his wolfish features—but Alicent can tell; he’s already taken with Rhaenyra, and so are his attending bannermen, his courtiers.

The realm’s delight, she thinks, bitterly.

Still, for all of her advantages, Rhaenyra doesn’t seem to actually be able to discern what it is she’s supposed to be doing, exactly. On the other side of Lord Stark, Rhaenyra sits up, fully; not like a humble host, but like she’s ruling, in a sense. Cregan temperately attempts to discuss simple terms—It would behoove us to establish now, before the Ironborn envoy arrives, he says, that we will of course pardon the Ironborn lords involved in this rebellion, should they lay down their arms on our terms—

The Crown makes no such promises, Rhaenyra states, simply; and leaves it at that.

Alicent watches Cregan visibly bristle and resists the urge to get up and grab Rhaenyra by the shoulders and shake her.  

(We’re here to accomplish a task, not so you can practice swinging your father’s sword.)

“My Lord,” Alicent entreats, then, smiling. “It is my husband’s wish that I communicate how much he admires you, for your choice to make an early peace.” She grins again, kindly. “The King hopes you will do us the honour of allowing us to host my Lord in the capitol soon enough.”

Cregan preens, his young eyes alight. “I—Please tell the King how grateful I am for his kind sentiments. For I am a great admirer of his, as well.”  

“And,” Alicent continues, eyes firmly on Rhaenyra, “I am certain that the King will support any agreement, found and forged in wisdom and patience, that may lessen the bloodshed.”

He holds his cup to hers. Rhaenyra fixes her with a tired expression. Still, Cregan nods. “To a fast peace, indeed.”

Later that evening, they’re shown to their permanent quarters. The Lord and Lady Stark have vacated the Lord’s suite for the duration of their stay, leaving it to them as a token of respect.

We must deny, she tells Rhaenyra in the hall, as exhaustion rattles her bones, as the cold seeps into her muscles, weakens her voice. We must insist they maintain their quarters and we stay elsewhere.

Rhaenyra sighs. They’ll undoubtedly insist in turn and we’ll end up right where we’re standing now.

That’s not the point, Alicent presses, It’s about showing deference in their ancestral seat—

The Crown defers to no one, Rhaenyra states; Alicent doesn’t have the energy to reply.

It’s two rooms, accessible down a single hallway; the main room at an entrance on the right, and another other on the left—the Lady’s quarters, where Alicent is brought, shivering and shaking.

Even though I outrank you, she thinks.

(At present, anyway.)

Later, in the hallway, on her way for her evening constitutional, which she insists upon, even as feeling leaves her muscles—she can hear Rhaenyra, in her own chambers, faintly arguing.

“…more furs?” Rhaenyra insists. “A larger fire, a steam bath, anything?”

“Yes, of course, my Princess—”

Alicent can’t help but shake her head, snort.

(It’s Criston’s words in her head again, as much as she flinches at their impropriety, their offence—selfish spoiled cunt.)

Later, it seems Rhaenyra’s gotten whatever it is she wanted; when Alicent returns, Rhaenyra’s door is closed, and there is only silence behind it.

Entering her own chambers, drawing her gloves off and away, she sighs, rolls her neck, makes to find her shift—

She only stares.

There’s a stack a meter high of warm, thick furs resting fresh upon the bed; and a renewed fire roaring hot in the hearth beside it.

The next morning she awakens, and the fire’s gone, and she’s once again absolutely unbelievably, unbearably freezing.

Still, she bathes, dresses; sits with her icy hands folded as her handmaidens weave gold inlays into her hair, place her furs again over her shoulders in what’s becoming a piteously sorry attempt to survive the North.

They have to receive Lord Stark’s local bannermen, and his courtiers, and some of the local merchant gentry who wish to make formal appeals to the Crown—to Alicent, who must sit in Viserys’ stead, in the King’s judgment, until the day is over (or until she perishes of the cold, whichever comes first.)

When she arrives in Lord Stark’s hall, though, Rhaenyra is already there, in a velvet black coat that accentuates her shoulders and skims finely along her sides. Her silver hair is long and brushed back, fingers tapping her gold rings against the stone of Lord Stark’s seat. The Lord himself, apparently, has yet to arrive.

Alicent spots Ser Harrold in the corner, by the ceremonial doors. She approaches Rhaenyra with a tired expression.

“I believe you’re in my seat.”

Rhaenyra doesn’t even flinch. “How did you sleep?”

Alicent resists the urge to roll her eyes.

(Don’t stoop to it—)

“Wonderfully,” Alicent smiles. “I thank you for your concern, Princess. How very thoughtful.”

Rhaenyra blinks, bored. “You look exhausted.”

Alicent’s smile falls. “Get out of my chair, Rhaenyra.”

Snorting, almost amused, Rhaenyra stands, saunters over to the chair beside the Lord’s seat, languidly, like a cat.

Alicent sits. The stone is already warm.

I’m losing my mind in this chill, Alicent thinks, bitterly, And she looks perfectly fine—

(She can already hear Rhaenyra making some inane comment about the blood of the dragon.)

It’s then Lord Stark chooses to enter, looking refreshed and clean and happy, taking his place at Alicent’s right hand. He turns to her, smiles. “It has been long since the Crown was able to look upon its Northern subjects,” he grins, “And indeed, they, the Crown. I’m delighted you would be so kind as to entertain them.”

“As we are delighted,” Alicent replies, easily, “To allow the King’s just and steady hand to provide succor to all his leal subjects on this day. My lord husband is very eager to hear how fare his countrymen to the North.”

“And it is our hope as well,” Rhaenyra notes, then, from beside her, “That the interest of the Crown in peace and health in the North should continue long into the future.”

At that, Cregan really smiles, and Alicent resists the irrational feeling of bitterness that creeps up inside of her.

(We are one House, we are one House, we are one House—)

Alicent has prepared for this day, of course. Read the petitions that were submitted in writing in advance, returned to the histories of the great houses of the North, bid the maesters drill her again and again and again in their customs, their tenants, the standing marriages and alliances and enmities. She loves, loves, loves like a child the legend of Bran the Builder and the Wall—a structure that so utterly captures her imagination and yet she’s sure she will never, in her lifetime, be able to see.

(I want to fly with you on dragonback, see the wonders of the world—)

Rhaenyra crosses her legs, continues her incessant tapping beside her as the first of their petitioners arrive. Behind her eyes, though, the princess seems to be somewhere else entirely.

It doesn’t matter. Alicent knows the second Jonos Mormont’s eyes fall upon Rhaenyra’s Valyrian hair—and then his whole body turns, and his head bows, like she’s the fucking sun in the sky, turns like his Queen does not sit before him (or maybe, in his mind, she does.)  

His eyes sparkle up at Rhaenyra like he’s beholding the otherworldly.

(Not that Alicent’s pallid skin and incessant shivering really sells the image of royalty, exactly.)

Many Northern lords have never laid eyes upon the Crown in living memory, Grand Maester Mellos had told her. Which means, she realizes, with the subtle sting of annoyance, they’ve never laid eyes upon a living Targaryen, either.

Mormont stares up at Rhaenyra like she’s a demigod of the Eastern legends.

“My Princess, it is my honor to stand before you on behalf of House Mormont of Bear Island.”

Rhaenyra, she’s almost certain, has never even heard of House Mormont, and probably couldn’t find Bear Island on a map; Rhaenyra doesn’t know that Jonos’ own grandmother was a great friend to the good Queen Alysanne, which the Princess is all but honour-bound to mention (and won’t, Alicen already knows); nor that the same Lady Mormont was Lord Stark’s own great-aunt, and that he’ll take special note of how Rhaenyra regards this lord. She’s also sure that Rhaenyra hasn’t a single idea of House Mormont’s unbelievably long history of staving off Ironborn incursions, not a glimmer, nor the disquiet they are sure to feel toward an amicable peace with Pyke.

But it doesn’t matter that Rhaenyra doesn’t know any of this. It doesn’t matter because the rubies around her neck glow in the firelight, as does her silver hair, her almost-amethyst eyes; it doesn’t matter because Jonos noticed Rhaenyra’s fucking dragon outside and now he’s actually asking—

“—if it might be possible to behold such a magnificent creature up close.” He bows his head, again. “But do forgive me, Princess, if I have ventured beyond my bounds.”

“I am not concerned so much with your bounds as your limbs, my Lord,” she smirks. “While I’m certain Syrax would be pleased to make your acquaintance, I can never be certain if my guests will enjoy it quite as much.”

Indeed, Alicent thinks, still feeling the damned chafe between her thighs.

“A dragon,” Rhaenyra continues, “Is not a servant. Much as it may seem—from the outside, anyway.”

From the outside.

We’re in the North, she wants to scream, the untamable North, and you’re actually going to sit in a castle older than Valyria itself and suggest he is the outsider—?

Still, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, of course it doesn’t. Jonos smiles like she’s just offered her own hand in marriage, and he makes his requests, and she grants them, without thinking, dispenses with him without ceremony. The same with the next, and the next, and the next. Eventually they get down to the dregs—Houses even Alicent struggles to recognize—and Lord Stark is pulled away to another matter. Rhaenyra relaxes and smirks and fingers her ruby ring, makes idle references to her enormous dragon—not nearly as big as my good-sister’s own Vhagar, who eclipses hamlets under her wing—and makes (noble, decisive, infuriating) promises to which, as Alicent wants to scream at her, they are in no position to give effect.  

Which is exactly what she tells one minor lord—

“With the infighting in the Stepstones, my Lord,” she reminds, carefully, politely, “The Crown is yet unable to dedicate its ships to the patrol of the Blazewater Bay. However, to the extent the Ironborn are responsible for the reaving there, the King intends our coming peace to—”

“It’s not about peace,” Byam Flint interjects. “The Ironborn will know no peace, they have no peace for the Houses of the westerly North. The only time we have been free of such violence was when the Crown made that freedom.”

“I understand,” Alicent continues, a bit harsher, now, “And indeed I sympathize, my lord. But the practicality of our supplies, our ships is such that—”

He scoffs. “Forgive me, but what might you know of supplies and ships, my Queen? If these incursions continue there will be nothing left of us. We lose men every day. Good men.”

Her brow evens. “The King has every sympathy for the troubles you face, and indeed, our negotiations here shall make every effort to quell this criminal bother—”

“You expect me to believe a great house possessing of dragons may only turn to negotiations for this bother?” He scoffs, venomous and impatient. “This is the judgment of the great wise Viserys, is it?”

She quirks a brow, releases a breath, slowly. “As I sit in the King’s Judgment today, the wisdom of the Father, and the merciful nature of my lord husband, command me to forget the suggestion that—”

Lord Flint, face reddened, takes a strong, bold step toward the high seat. Toward her.

Rhaenyra’s eyes flash.

“Presently the only bother I find worthy of my dragon’s ire is you, Lord Flint.” Rhaenyra declares, with fire, with finality. “But we thank you for your audience today.”

Stark’s household knights open the doors for Flint to exit, and she waves her hand to close them again, before the next petitioner enters—

Alicent clenches her teeth, a hair off of seething.

“What,” she fumes, once they close, turning to Rhaenyra, “Is wrong with you.”

Rhaenyra looks back at her with an untenably tired expression. “I imagine I’ve now somehow caused offence by dismissing the Lord causing you offence.”

“You shouldn’t have threatened him. You didn’t wait for my reply, the Queen’s reply—”

“I doubt any other sort of response was required.”

“No, don’t you understand, Rhaenyra, gods above, you have undermined the implicit authority of the Crown—”

“Syrax is the implicit authority of the Crown.” Rhaenyra stands, then, discerning and calm, calm and burning, somehow, at once. “Such a dedicated student of history, I would have thought you knew that already.”

And with that, Rhaenyra is gone, out the adjacent doors, away without so much as a whisper.

That night, Alicent dresses in deep shades of black and grey—a sharp neckline, hair falling in cascading tresses, delicate gold chains long around her pale neck.

The Queen, the Queen, the Queen—

The only Queen she’s ever known was Aemma, and every time she hears it her mind flares up, for a sharp fraction of a moment, with her image—

(Your Grace.

Good morrow, Alicent.)

At the feast, Rhaenyra is in her chair again, dressed infuriatingly beautifully in another velvet black ensemble next to Cregan.

In her fucking chair. She won’t make a scene about it.

(The Queen, the Queen, the—)

She sits next to Rhaenyra, in the seat beside her, back perfectly straight. Servants come and go; Cregan makes idle comments, she returns them. The hall is loud. Someone comes by again, to refill her wine, finding again that it’s still just as full as before—

“I can hear it, you know.”

She doesn’t even turn to Rhaenyra. “What.”

“Your teeth,” Rhaenyra replies, with something almost approaching concern in her tone. “Chattering.”

“I feel fine.”

“You’re clammy.”

And Rhaenyra’s hand is on her hand, and she wants to snatch it back, but they’re at the high table, and Stark’s lords are here—

Does she want her to stop? Does she really?

Rhaenyra takes it, lightly, squeezes her fingers gently—like she’s handling glass, eyes deep, cool, like she’s waiting for Alicent to squeeze back or slap her clean across the face or faint from her chair altogether.

“And cold to the touch.”

And she is, she knows, she can feel it. “I’m perfectly contented—”

“You should drink.”

She blinks, and finally looks at Rhaenyra, then. “What?”

Rhaenyra shrugs. “You should drink your wine.” She takes a sip of her own, then. “It’ll warm you up. A little.”

Just the fact that the suggestion has come from the Princess makes her want to dash it on the floor (or maybe in Rhaenyra’s face—)

(Stop being kind to me—)

But still—the cold has found its way deep in her chest, in a way that makes it hurt to breathe the air in the room, and, well.

She huffs, picks up her cup. Knows Rhaenyra is looking at her. Drains it, down to the dregs.

Rhaenyra only raises an eyebrow, and—if Alicent can trust her peripheral vision—smirks, just the tiniest bit, behind her cup.

(I hate you. Please look at me.)

A servant passes. “More, my Queen?”

She realizes with a start that her hand is still in Rhaenyra’s. She pulls away.

(Maybe she’ll wake up in the Red Keep again, and it’ll all have been a terrible (wonderful?) dream.)

Alicent nods, extends her goblet. “Please.”

Several cups later—maybe three—she’s warmer. Not warm, but warmer; not exactly in her face—her nose and lungs, where she’d like it to be—but buzzing somewhere deeper, lower.

There’s that feeling, again, too; the feeling she remembers from her girlhood, back before Mother found them in her chambers—when they used to steal behind the empty halls and—

Next to her, Rhaenyra laughs and picks up her cup, takes a sip, says something back to Lord Stark, which makes him all the more raucous. Rhaenyra’s hand has brushes her exactly twice—once, when she reaches for a dish; and again, when she leans back to mention something to Lady Stark on Lord Stark’s other side, and balances her hand on the back of Alicent’s chair, by her shoulder.

She feels it.

(And she knows Rhaenyra feels it, too.)

Two can play at this game.

Lord Stark gets up and excuses himself, for a moment; when Rhaenyra’s back, facing forward, Alicent moves—without warning, without looking—lays her hand upon Rhaenyra’s forearm.

She feels her start, just the tiniest bit. Satisfying, something inside of her growls, justice—

“Princess,” Alicent drawls, slowly, “Would you please be so kind as to pass the wine from your other side?”

Rhaenyra’s brow twitches, for a moment, but she doesn’t move her arm; merely turns her head, glances at Alicent’s cup and then, back at her. “You’d like more?”

“I think I’m perfectly capable of deciding that for myself.”

Rhaenyra merely smirks, the corners of her lips just barely upturned. “That wasn’t my question.”

The feast rages through the hall before them. Alicent can barely hear it.

“Yes.” Rhaenyra’s blue eyes fix upon her like a lion’s gaze. “I would like more.”

She doesn’t even look away. Snatches the flagon, sure as a strike of Syrax’s tail. Fills her cup to the very brim.

“Is that to your liking, Your Grace?”

Alicent works her jaw.

“Indeed.” She raises the cup to her lips with a concentrated fragility—sips, and—

Gods, those eyes.

“Thank you, Princess.”

Rhaenyra used to take her by the hand and lead her up the grand steps of the Red Keep. Rhaenyra used to fall asleep in her bed.

(She used to fall asleep in Rhaenyra’s.)

(Every time you’re close to me the smell shocks my memory and makes me want to thrash you bloody like the knights on the yard—)

And then Rhaenyra strikes—places her hand over Alicent’s own; her freezing fingers. Their eyes don’t meet.

They sit that way for the next half-hour. Neither speaks.

Then, after the fourth cup is gone—

“You,” Alicent begins, and she’s given pause, a little, by the sluggishness of her own words (though at least she’s not utterly freezing anymore), “Need to show some respect. Or at least some patience.”

Rhaenyra’s head whips back to Alicent before the words are barely out of her mouth and pulls away, a blaze behind the eyes. “Come again?”

Alicent merely takes a sip, shoots Rhaenyra the ever-innocent doe eyed expression that’s needled her since they were fifteen.

“It’s true, Princess,” she sweetly says. “Negotiation is not fire and blood. You’d do well to listen more,” she turns, recaptures Rhaenyra’s hand, until her small finger brushes the velvet of Rhaenyra’s sleeve—“And threaten a bit less.”

Rhaenyra stares down at their entwined fingers and can’t seem to decide what she wants to say, but either way, some dark part of Alicent’s soul seems to have gotten what it wanted.

(Her undivided—

Stop it, stop it, stop it.)

Rhaenyra’s jaw twitches, just the slightest bit, but she doesn’t move away. “We are here,” she whispers, lowly, “To broker an unnecessary peace between an eternally proud House and a motley band of savages. One has eternally outlasted Southron kings, the other has never respected their authority at all. The only thing should justify our presence to either of them”—and then she sips her own wine, drinks deep, as though to match her—“Is undeniable, nonpareil strength.”

Alicent raises a brow. “Is that what you think you’ve displayed?”

(What am I doing? What am I thinking saying this to her—)

Rhaenyra merely scoffs.

“You certainly seem scared enough of me, Your Grace.” Rhaenyra turns, looks at her, really looks with a gaze she expects to be biting—still, behind the eyes, something else entirely. “No matter how kind I have tried to be to you, these many years.”

And it’s said with such ash in her voice that Alicent almost thinks—

Still, she swallows it back, snatches her hand away. “You are only kind when cornered.”

Before she knows it, Rhaenyra is up, out of her chair, floating down into the crowd, back into the hall.

Alicent is drunk.

Drunk and still freezing in the weight of her bones, damn you, Rhaenyra—

Finds her way through the halls easily enough, without too much of a stumble; dismisses the handmaidens who try to follow. Moves through the grand entrance to their quarters, into the hallway, toward those double rooms; turns right into the bedroom, pulls the lattices out of her hair, clumsily tugs laces off the back of her dress as she walks, feels vaguely sick, even, cold, cold, utterly cold—

When she’s left in her slip and her stockings and her loose hair, again, she paws for the bed in the dark; finds the covers, slides right under, curling in on herself, covering her ice-cold nose with her hand until it no longer hurts, rubbing the gooseflesh along her thighs—

Her bed is warm.

Her bed is never warm.

(Not even in King’s Landing, actually.)

And then there’s a sound behind her, but she’s almost too sluggish to turn as she slips out of consciousness. It’s a warmth she remembers, though. Knows who it is even when she doesn’t.

It’s the smell, she realizes, for a moment.

She moves closer toward the warmth, reaching for it, grasping tight when her hand finds purchase around a wrist and tugs—if it’s not a fever dream, if she’s not half-dead from the cold, again, if Rhaenyra was really waiting in her bed, for whatever absurdity, she’s taking it.

(Something for me, for once.)

She buries the cold of her nose into Rhaenyra’s neck; Rhaenyra hums in askance, she doesn’t reply.

An arm comes around her back, bringing her closer; a fur emerges suddenly over the brink of her shoulders, a hand brushes over her frigid thigh as she tangles herself into the warmth of Rhaenyra’s legs, as the sluggish blood begins to move in her veins again.

Rhaenyra knows how to hold her; she used to all the time.

(She used to beseech her—

Would you, Rhaenyra? A bit tighter, please?)

She awakens with a pounding head and a foggy memory.

And, apparently, a dragon curled halfway around her body.

“Rhaenyra,” she croaks, shoving at her shoulder. “Rhaenyra.”

Rhaenyra’s arm is like a vice around her waist, her chin nestled atop Alicent’s head, breath tickling her curls.

But then she only hums, like she doesn’t even realize—

“Rhaenyra, what in seven hells are you doing in my bed.”

Rhaenyra pulls back, at that tone, just a little—though she doesn’t release her constrictor’s grasp, notably—and opens a single eye.

“I think,” she rasps, in a deeper voice Alicent will definitely be trying to forget, “You’ll find this is my bed.”

And then Alicent does look—tips her head up from behind Rhaenyra’s shoulder, looks around at the larger room; the bigger bed, the different furs, the Lord’s hearth, just beside it—

Fuck.

“Get off me,” she pushes, again, shoves at Rhaenyra’s arm until those smooth muscles untense and she can slide away, away from the warmth, as much as it kills her.

Rhaenyra only sighs.

Alicent huffs, already completely fucking incensed (and it’s only morning—)

“Do not try this again.”

And then Rhaenyra laughs, out loud. “Me?”

With a huff and a yank of the covers, Alicent darts off, slams the heavy wooden door behind her.

(Still, she realizes, in her bones, she’s finally warm.)

They sit to the table just before midday, the real table, the one that will count.

Notably, Rhaenyra does not take her seat.

“I’d like us to discuss,” Lord Stark begins, “Before the Ironborn arrive, what the Crown’s position will be on the extension of several of our terms.”

He begins to explain, his maester handing him testimonials and accounts and records beside him, but it only takes her a moment to realize that he’s speaking almost entirely to Rhaenyra.

“The Neck has lost ten thousand bushels of wheat to the invading soldiers,” he continues, eyes on the numbers before him, “And six-hundred barrels of barley, and rye. We’d like Pyke to agree to compensation, as a bedrock term of the truce.”

Alicent resists the instinctual clench to her jaw, even as she watches Rhaenyra swipe a lock of silver hair over her shoulder (even as she remembers, hatefully, how it smelled on her pillow just hours before.) Rhaenyra doesn’t know a stitch about barley or tributes or taxes—

“While I certainly agree the Ironborn must repay what was taken,” Rhaenyra replies, strangely uncharacteristically temperate, “I believe it is Her Grace who should speak for the Crown on this matter.”

And then Alicent’s eyes meet that near-purple (soft purple?) gaze. And Rhaenyra only waits.

(Why are you—)

“Of course,” She says, recovering, returning to Lord Stark. “However, as you know, and as they like to remind us, the Ironmen do not sow. They’ll be unable to pay the North back in kind, but that’s not to say they lack other means. The Crown granted leave to House Greyjoy to collect duties on imports, where it ferries goods between the North and the Reach. I propose the Ironmen be made to increase their services and pay these imports directly to the Northmen from whom they’ve stolen.”

Stark nods. “And who would enforce these duties—”

“The Crown,” Rhaenyra interjects, “Will have no tolerance for the purloining of the Realm, and especially not by the Ironborn. Her Grace’s proposal is most wise and judicious, and you may have our assurance in its enforcement. Your duties will be paid, my lord.”

Wise and judicious.

She turns to meet Rhaenyra’s eyes, again. Rhaenyra, still, does not meet her gaze.

(Her thumbnail traces around an embattled cuticle.)

The chill is back in her bones again and this time, it isn’t dissipating. She fights not to fall asleep at the tail end of their conference with Lord Stark, and battles for consciousness again through their ensuing meal with Lady Stark in the grand hall, where she clenches her silverware and concentrates, really concentrates, on lessening the chattering of her teeth.

(Where Rhaenyra watches her, still, with that same strange look on her face.)

She’s grown pallid into the sunless afternoon—she can tell by the color leaving her hands, and then her wrists, her collarbone—and she bids them to retrieve her furs to her, which her maidens do, but only three hours past midday she finds herself shaking from within and groggy with a hand braced against the cold stone wall.

And then Rhaenyra emerges, seven hells, of course, just behind, no doubt also on her way—

“Are you headed down to the crypts?”

“Yes,” Alicent replies, through chattering teeth. “To answer Lady Stark’s invitation.”

Rhaenyra only hums in agreement. Then—“Are you alright?”

“I—” And then a shiver goes through her, one so exhausting she wonders if she’ll continue standing—“I’m fine.”

“Take my arm.”

“No.”

But apparently Rhaenyra’s not asking, because before she can react, Rhaenyra’s arm is around her waist and her hand under her elbow and she’s lighter, her thoughts muddled but thank the gods, lighter.

“You should be seen by the Maesters.”

“Gods help me, Rhaenyra,” she chatters, eyes clenched shut, “If you don’t take me to our appointment this instance.”

She can almost hear Rhaenyra’s brow quirk, her smirk widen. “Is that a command, Your Grace?”

“Yes,” Alicent spits, even as she allows her cheek to press against the unbelievable warmth of Rhaenyra’s black longcoat. They make their way down the hall easy enough—Rhaenyra makes an effort to distract her, a little.

“I actually suggested that we tour the crypts,” she offers. “To pay our respects to the late Lady Mormont, as you suggested. As a friend to my House.”

Our House, she thinks.

(But then, that’ll dredge up a whole different cluster of wounds entirely.)

Still, each step is a year long, it seems, and her face only grows colder, more numb as they descend the stairs, turn down another corridor—and Rhaenyra turns them fast, and she thinks she’s going to be sick—

“Rhaenyra,” she says, softly, tugging with cold hands at the edge of her jacket. “Rhaenyra, wait.”

She stops. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist upon the maesters, soon—”

“No, no.” Alicent demands, finding the wall, bracing her arm against it, leaning her forehead there. “I just—just a moment.”

She feels Rhaenyra’s hand, still, upon her waist. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m freezing.”

She can hear Rhaenyra sigh. “Yes, I can tell.”

“Don’t jest, not now, please, Rhaenyra—”

“I’m not.” A thumb, tracing circles over the thick dress at her waist. “I’m not, I promise.” A hand comes up to her shoulder, adjusts the furs, the padding tighter around her neck, her shoulders. “If you won’t see the maesters, I’m going to send for—Cregan told me, in the winters, they use clothed tumblers, full of hot water, it’s—well, it may help.”

And again, before she can bite her tongue—“How are you untouched in this chill.”

Rhaenyra shrugs. “I can’t say.” Then she chuckles. “Blood of the—”

“Don’t.” Alicent clenches her freezing jaw, forehead against the stone. “Don’t say it.”

A quarter of an hour later, she’s walking through the Winterfell crypts, following with Lady Stark and Rhaenyra, a clothed tumbler clutched to her chest as tight and precious and hot as a dragon’s egg.

“And here was Gilliane Stark,” Lady Stark says, with some melancholy. “My lord husband’s own lady mother. She was very kind to me. A fiery woman. We think of her often.”

“I am sorry I cannot meet her,” Alicent offers, staring up at the cold stone of her façade.

“Yes. My husband thinks of his mother often. She found her way to the Stranger about ten years ago.”  

Alicent nods. “I’m sure it feels long ago,” she laments, “And yet like no time at all.”

They continue along in the silence, toward Lady Mormont’s crypt. Alicent catches a glimpse of Rhaenyra’s face as she slows, turns back to the stone image of Gilliane Stark, for a moment.

My husband thinks of his mother often.

Alicent knows that look; an expression on Rhaenyra’s fifteen-year-old face she’s sure, for all their troubles, she’ll never, ever forget.

(I held you through that first night, the worst night, the night you were sick and couldn’t sleep no matter how tightly and surely I—)

Lady Stark moves ahead of them, pointing to something else.

Gingerly, and with a silent sigh, Alicent takes Rhaenyra’s hand, squeezes. Neither of them look.

She survives to the feast, lips still pink but fingertips nearly numb, again, as Rhaenyra sits fairly quietly next to her. Lord Stark, though, is up out of his chair, carousing among his lords and household knights sitting below the high table. Alicent watches Rhaenyra make conversation with Lady Stark, to her right—perfunctory and polite and skin-deep.

Then, their host leans forward, drawing Alicent’s gaze. “I heard,” Lady Stark begins, “That you two were dearest companions, in girlhood. How wonderful, to now be family, too.” She grins, then, like it’s the sweetest story she’s ever heard. Rhaenyra reaches for her goblet and takes a long drink.

“Yes,” Alicent replies. Then, with a glance at Rhaenyra—“I’m sure my Lady knows what an honor it is to join a House boasting such formidable strength.”

Rhaenyra nods. “Though even I must admit,” she notes, with only a glance in her direction, “Whatever the House of the Dragon may boast of ancient power, there is indeed no power in Westeros more ancient than the Starks of Winterfell.”

“We are indeed proud of our histories, here, my Princess,” Lady Stark smiles. “How very kind of you to say.”

She makes conversation with Rhaenyra, again, for several minutes. Alicent thumbs the edge of her goblet and considers draining it again, if not just to banish the chill from her bones.

Before she can decide, though, the Lord to her left returns from the festivities at the lower tables, an older man with small, grey eyes and a clipped beard. “Your Grace,” he greets.

“My Lord,” she replies, in return, setting her shoulders, plastering that smile on. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of making your acquaintance.”

He grins, fills his goblet. “You don’t look like you’ve had much pleasure at all.”

She freezes.

Did she hear—did he just say—did he mean it like she heard?

(Even more fucking awfully, her first instinct is to turn to Rhaenyra, grip her sleeve.)

Then the lord only laughs, laughs loudly, bangs his hand upon the table. “Only a jest, your Grace,” he smirks. “Northern humour.”

She smiles, or tries to; brings her wine to her lips, tries to relax, a little. “Yes, of course.”

“I am Lord Harrion Karstark of Karhold.”

She nods. “It is my—I am pleased to meet you, my Lord.”

“And you are the Queen, formerly Lady Alicent, niece of Lord Hobert of the Hightower, as I understand it.” He smirks. “One of the more beautiful queens in my years.” His eyes rake over her, then. “And even younger still.”

There’s something tickling her at the back of her neck, or maybe deep down in her throat. She ignores it.

“Thank you, my lord, for your very generous compliment.”

“No compliment,” he replies, eyes still somewhere below her neck. She feels eyes on her from behind, then, and wonders if Lady Stark has taken an interest in the change in mood. “Just the truth… easily observed.”

She nods, a clipped motion. “If you say so, my lord.”

“Your royal husband,” he smirks, scrunches his nose up, like he’s smelled something foul. “He’s an old man, is he not?”

How in Seven Hells does this man think he can speak to me—

We’re far from King’s Landing, she reminds herself.

She catches a glimpse of Rhaenyra’s silver hair, brushing over her shoulder as she replies to Lady Stark; the edge of her blue eye, for a moment, on Alicent—

(But not from Syrax.)

The thought appears unbidden.

She smiles, but the expression is more of a warning than anything. “You would never know by the King’s vivacious demeanor, my lord.”

“Oh,” and he takes a sip. “Yes, I certainly hope so.” He turns back. “You know what they say…old, rickety kings, young, fruitful girls...”

And before she can respond, below the high table, some of the lords and ladies line up for a dance. Harrion notices, too. He turns back to her with a grin.

“Your Grace, would you do me the honour—”

“My Queen.” And suddenly Rhaenyra’s standing up, standing there, between them, with her hand out. “Though I am certainly no king, perhaps his heir could humbly request this dance from you.”

Alicent’s not even sure if women are allowed to ask the hand of other women, but this is the North, and whatever’s allowed in King’s Landing—like the basic level of decorum required in dealings with the fucking Queen, she’s apparently found—is clearly not the same here.

Rhaenyra waits, hand out. Harrion looks up at her, a bit taken aback, nevertheless impatient.

I cannot deny her to accept his offer, Alicent realizes, and he knows that.

She outranks him.

“Of course, Princess.” And then Alicent is placing her shivering fingers in Rhaenyra’s, standing with her skirts in hand, trying to ignore how Karstark’s eyes follow her as Rhaenyra leads them down from the high table.

Some lords appear to notice, that they’re women, first off, and also that they’ve extended the honour to each other and none of their hosts. But then, Lady Stark, thank the gods, seems to utterly delight in the idea and takes the hand of one of her own ladies onto the floor with a giggle.

Alicent places a hand on Rhaenyra’s shoulder.

Rhaenyra raises a brow. “I’m to lead, Your Grace?”

But Alicent’s shivering, and halfway exhausted, and spooked, and returns with a tremulous voice, a downcast expression. “You asked me.”

“That’s right, I did.” And then Rhaenyra’s mood changes, almost in an instant—takes Alicent’s waist without hesitating; leads her steady and easy and slow.

They turn and move left, then right, softly, with the others; Rhaenyra has to turn her, then, and she does so as gracefully and practiced as ever, coming up behind her back, leading her left by the waist, and then turning her again. Steps away from her softly, keeps Alicent’s hand sure in her own, and then pulls her back, confident and gentle, back into her arms.

Eventually, they’re close enough that she can rest her chin upon Rhaenyra’s shoulder, that she can feel Rhaenyra’s warm breath upon the exposed skin of her chest. She’s so cold, so cold, and yet, she still knows—

“Rhaenyra,” she murmurs. “We cannot—we can’t—”

Rhaenyra merely smirks, almost innocently. “Can’t what?”

Rhaenyra seems to think it’s funny but bile rises in her throat. She shoves it down.

When it’s over, Rhaenyra steps away—but she doesn’t release her hand. Alicent doesn’t tug it back, either.

Harrion waits back at the high table.

“Princess,” she entreats, placidly. “I am quite tired. Would you do me the kindness of escorting me back to my chambers, please?”

Rhaenyra’s brow seems to twitch, and she looks back to the high table, for a moment.

Please, Rhaenyra, please just—

“Of course.”

She’s freezing as her maidens draw her out of her warm bath; freezing as they dress in her nightgown, freezing as they help her clean her teeth and her face, as they scrub the day’s detritus from under her nails.

She hears pails of water being brought to Rhaenyra’s chambers across the hall and surmises that she’s finally returned from the feast. Late enough, she snarks.

(Not that it’s any of your concern.)

Eventually, her handmaidens bid her good night, once she’s been deposited into her (cold) bed. She curls up to her side, for a while, knees hugged to her chest, trying, trying to feel the warmth from her hearth, but it just won’t reach her.

They said they would bring her another heated tumbler, and at this point, she’s begging—before too long, there’s a knock outside her chambers. Yes, thank the gods. “Enter.”

But it’s Rhaenyra at her door.

“I didn’t realize you had gone to sleep.” Rhaenyra is completely still, in her nightgown and shawl, in the doorway; maybe even a little stunned. Her silver hair falls over her shoulders in waves. “I just wanted to check you had everything you needed. That you were comfortable.”

She has none of what she needs, as usual; she’s miserably, unbearably uncomfortable; and so cold she’s sure she’ll die.  “I’m perfectly content.”

Rhaenyra nods, but then she fully enters and shuts the door behind her. Alicent frowns, sits up.

“I also hoped,” Rhaenyra begins, eyes downcast, “That we might discuss amongst ourselves, before meeting with Lord Stark tomorrow. What our interests may be, in peace with the Iron Islands.”

Only Rhaenyra would attempt politics at midnight.

(Duty, duty, duty—)

“Yes, alright.” She sits up, fully. Rhaenyra stands awkwardly at the foot of the bed until Alicent gestures, and then Rhaenyra sits, just barely, along the edge.

“I believe Lord Stark may attempt to seek from the Crown’s coffers what the Ironborn are unable to provide in reparations,” she murmurs. “As penance, in particular, for allowing the rebellion to continue for so long.”

Alicent frowns. “Lord Stark is Warden of the North; he is sworn to protect these lands, not in the Crown’s absence but in its name. And besides, we’ve hardly the resources to dedicate here when the Triarchy rises in the east.”

“I quite agree.” Rhaenyra says, eyes glittering with that damned sideways smile. “For once.”

Alicent shakes her head. “And Stark’s bannermen,” she laments. “Particularly to the West, Rhaenyra… an easy and generous and inexpensive peace is preferable to Lord Stark, I’m sure; but powerful minor houses will lose confidence in him, even more than now, if his terms become lenient. Disunity in the North will only encourage the Ironborn to try their luck again, and then more will die, more fields will burn.”

Rhaenyra nods. “I understand.” Then, with something behind her voice—“You’re shaking.”

Alicent looks down, then, and folds her arms under her furs, tries to bring them closer. “I must admit,” she whispers, “I’ll be happy to return South, soon.”

Rhaenyra is silent, for a moment.

“My hearth,” she says, then, “Is much bigger than the one here—it’s quite warm in my chambers, actually. Winterfell is heated by pipes from the hot springs beneath, I hear.” Then she smiles, almost playful, just a little. “Perhaps Bran the Builder liked to leave his ladies chilly.”

Alicent smirks up at her, despite herself, then. “What, so he could come warm their beds?”

Rhaenyra only shrugs, brows raised. “Perhaps,” she drawls. “And perhaps so they’d be a bit happier to see him when he did.”

And then Alicent really laughs, just a little, just for the moment.

Rhaenyra hesitates, for a minute. “We could continue to discuss… terms.” She offers. “Well, I could—I could have some wine brought up, if you like.”

“I’m surprised there isn’t already a small vineyard in these frigid ladies’ quarters,” Alicent chuckles. “I’m sure that would make his ladies even happier.”

Rhaenyra blinks. “What?”

“Vineyards. Of—so there would be wine.”

“Oh.”

Alicent shakes her head with an unbidden smirk, and before she can even think about it, pinches Rhaenyra’s arm. “Dense.”

Rhaenyra scoffs. “Dense? You are speaking to the heir to the throne, I’ll have you know.”

“Dense as the throne.”

“Oh, now you’ve gone too far.”

Alicent smiles again, a little; gets up, drawing one of her furs closer over her shoulders. “I think I will take wine.”

“As Your Grace wishes.” Rhaenyra heads for the door—then looks back. “But without the vineyard, I take it?”

“You’re exhausting, Rhaenyra.”

Rhaenyra laughs at her own jest and then she’s out the door, beckoning to an attendant.

Alicent crosses the threshold; pushes the door open to Rhaenyra’s chambers. It is warmer, though not by much; the fire roars in Rhaenyra’s larger hearth, painting the walls with shadows. By the bedside—Rhaenyra’s ruby necklace, in a velvet box; Rhaenyra’s ornate chest on the other side of the room.

She sits, gingerly, on the bed. It smells like her, almost.

She wants to—she doesn’t want to want to, but she does, she wants to lay down on her pillow and smell it, that smell of home, like she used to, like she did, just hours before—or years—

“Success.” Rhaenyra enters behind her, playful grin, flagon and two goblets in hand. “May the night’s watch begin.”

Two hours later, she’s not really drunk, but she’s almost sure Rhaenyra is, sitting in her fur shawl, the front open to her nightdress, with her legs crossed in the single chair by the fire as Alicent lays wrapped up on the top of the bed, prone on her stomach, half-full goblet in hand.  

“Anyway,” Alicent insists, almost petulant, as Rhaenyra fights to suppress her laughter, “It is not true that I called the midwife a—a—”

“A cunt?” Rhaenyra asks, and then she does, utterly true to character, bursts into laughter.

“I—Yes.” Alicent huffs. “That.”

“Well, I did.”

“Rhaenyra.”

She merely shrugs. “It’s true,” she smirks back at Alicent, swishing her goblet. “During Joffrey’s birth. I was being torn to shreds, it felt like, and she kept dousing me with water every other breath I took and I said, listen to me, you miserable cunt, I am on this bed to birth a child, not to go for a fucking swim.”

She burst out in giggles, then, as Alicent shakes her head, scandalized. “Rhaenyra.”

“What, it’s the truth.” She sighs. “Perhaps I’m finished, after this last one.” Then she chuckles. “To think my father feared for a dearth of Targaryens. At this rate we’re due to run out of dragons.”

But then Alicent is quiet, almost miserably quiet, for a moment.

“Rhaenyra,” she starts, and her old friend (ex-friend?) must sense the change in mood, because her smile fades. “Rhaenyra, I—I do apologize.” She pushes insistently against a break in the cuticle. “For that day.”

Rhaenyra purses her lips; turns her face toward the fire. “Yes. Well.”

“It was regrettable—”

“No.” Rhaenyra says, then, with a shake of her head. “No, it’s—” She stops herself, looks down for a moment; then back at Alicent with that strange look, that iridescent dark-blue gaze—and then waves her hand. “It is forgotten.”

Alicent waits in the silence.

“I have,” Alicent ventures, almost demurely. “I have missed, at times. Some of the…”

(I can’t, I can’t, I’m angry with you, I’m terrified what you think of me, I’m terrified to know what you’ve done, and what you’ll do, and I don’t want to know, I think.)

“As have I.” Rhaenyra states. She seems to understand. Her gaze is solid and unbending and true.

And then it falters, for a moment; down to where Alicent’s hands are shaking.

“You’re shivering.”

Alicent finishes her wine, shakes her head, begins to sit up. “I am sure, once I find myself under those many layers of furs they’ve piled upon my bed, I’ll doubtless survive—”

“Why don’t you stay?”

She looks up.

(And Rhaenyra’s eyes are sweet, gentle, unobtrusive.)

“It’s much warmer, here.” Rhaenyra murmurs. “And—the King would be most displeased, if you froze to death.” Her deep blue eyes are endless, endlessly dark. “As would I.”

And when Rhaenyra moves closer, for her goblet, Alicent lets her take it.

(Rhaenyra knows how to hold her, she used to all the time.)

She slides underneath the linens and furs; turns her face into the pillows, breaths in—

Feels it, feels it from the bottom of her stomach and from the very beginning.

Rhaenyra places everything neatly on a writing desk by the door, runs her hands through her silver hair, until it’s loose; fans the fire just one more time, watches it burn. Then her shawl comes off, and her eyes are on Alicent’s bare shoulder, her hand on the linens. And then she slides underneath.

They lay beside each other, for a moment.

And then Rhaenyra turns and moves closer at a pace all too familiar—apprehensive and gentle and deliberate—and Alicent turns when Rhaenyra comes forth; takes her easily, slow and sure, a practiced dance that leaves her unsure if Rhaenyra’s reaching or if Alicent is taking. She slides her hand up to rest against Rhaenyra’s collarbone, fits her head in the divot between Rhaenyra’s neck and shoulder; Rhaenyra takes her waist, folds her arm up over her back, lays her cheek against her soft auburn curls.

Here, in these arms, against this heart; its selfishness, its pride, its unending desire, its endless pursuit of its own—

(But it’s you, still you—I know you. The only person I know.)

Rhaenyra’s soft breath comes slow against her skin. Her chest rises and falls and beats beneath her hand.

I swear, I swear, I swear to all seven gods, I have shed my last tear for Rhaenyra.

Rhaenyra’s thumb traces cool circles in the divot of her spine.

It’s not true, though.

(As soon as she’s sure she’s asleep, Alicent cries and cries and cries.)

Rhaenyra’s arm is around her still when she wakes, but she’s faced away, Rhaenyra’s front pressed gently to her back, her arm around her tight as a vice, again.

It’s Rhaenyra’s preferred position.

(Or, at least, it was.)

She used to love to lay this way, when we were girls. But then, who knows what she got up to, flouting entirely her sacred duty just to traipse around with—

(Duty? Is that why?)

There’s a flare of something in her heart, then, unbidden; something she doesn’t want and doesn’t recognize, something she puts away.

(I didn’t mean to, I didn’t want that, as much as it hurt, I didn’t want him to—)

Her eyes are rimmed red and her throat raw. And her head pounding. But she’s warm.

“Rhaenyra,” she whispers, fingers tracing softly up her arm. “Rhaenyra, are you awake?”

Rhaenyra mumbles and her grip only grows tighter around her waist.

(I love it.)

“Rhaenyra,” she insists, again, and this time she allows her fingernails to scrape feather-light across Rhaenyra’s skin. “Rhaenyra, have they brought you any water?”

At this, Rhaenyra does seem to register her words, and a deep breath fills her chest.

“I’ll have them bring it now.”

And then the arm is sliding back, away from her waist—

“No, that’s alright,” she insists, and she’s not sure whether she’s protesting the offer or Rhaenyra’s withdrawal, maybe both—“I should return, anyway, to—”

Rhaenyra’s up and poked her head outside the door, then. “I’ll have some water brought to me, please.”

A voice—“We will deliver it to your chambers—”

“No,” Rhaenyra says, then, calmly. “To me, please.”

She waits in the doorway for a while. Alicent lays her head back down, tries to absorb whatever warmth is left in Rhaenyra’s absence.

But after a few minutes she returns, then, closing the door behind her, with a cup of water in an outstretched hand, setting a flagon on the table by the bedside. “Here.”

Alicent drinks like a Dornish soldier, sets the cup down, collapses back against the pillows. “My head.”

Rhaenyra hums. “Are you warm? You seem to have some color returned to you.”

Alicent resists the urge to pout, pout like she used to.

Sure, but that was before—

“I was warm.”

She expects Rhaenyra simply to scoff or chuckle and then tell her to get up—but she doesn’t. Instead, she feels the bed dip, that solid weight take its place beside her, again; tentative and careful.

She’s not going to, unless I ask.

“Rhaenyra,” she forces, pushing it down.

(Why shouldn’t I be as hungry as you—

Something for me, for once.)

“Rhaenyra,” she says, then. “Would you…”

She feels her closer to her, behind her, then. Just barely. A soft breath moving aside the small hairs upon her neck.

And then an arm, just barely, glances upon her waist.

(We’re far from King’s Landing, she reminds herself.)

Alicent takes her hand, takes it in her own, draws it over herself, up to her heart. And then Rhaenyra is close, again, her cheek against Alicent’s curls, again, her breath upon her skin, again, in a way that makes her think I’ll never sleep another night in my life, once this is over.

With a swallow, then—“Do we have to rise?”

Rhaenyra sighs, a low sound. Then her arm tightens around her middle, the grip of her fingers still so gentle around Alicent’s own hand, and she hums. “Not until midday.”

Alicent nods.

“Midday, then.”

The next three nights, she sleeps in Rhaenyra’s bed.

Each night, cries herself to exhaustion, cries herself to sleep.

Each morning, they rise, and she watches Rhaenyra, diligent and thoughtful and interminable in their work; something approaching duty, even. Or at least her version of it.

Each evening after, she waits for Rhaenyra to fall asleep, waits until her tears can fall; clutches Rhaenyra’s hand over her heart.

One day, in the middle of the day, she finds herself in the Godswood, panting at the chill in her bones, eyes shut tight to the sting of the air, but she stays, just for little while, because it looks just the same.

Where Rhaenyra’s head was in her lap, once, years ago; in another life; in the summertime.

(On the fourth night, Rhaenyra breaks.)

She sighs, first. That night she knew—almost understood, almost felt the desperation, deep in her bones, the relief.

(Can I do this, again? Am I allowed? Shall I have a friend, again? Shall I have a—

Well.)

But the second night, and then the third.

(I used to be able to draw my hand around your cheek, command your maidens to touch you only gently, that day.)

The fourth night, though, begins just the same. As soon as she’s relaxed, begun deep breathing—pitiful sounds, the sweetest, gentlest cries; simple, tiny hiccups; the way Alicent’s hands grasp the sheets, Rhaenyra’s nightgown, anything.

I can’t talk to you about it, I can’t talk to you about anything. Maybe in King’s Landing; maybe in the Red Keep, where all their history haunts—

But they’re not there anymore. Not now, anyway.

“Alicent,” she whispers, entreating, her hand moving to clasp her wrists, gently, slowly. The other remains around her back, tight and present, tight as ever. “Alicent, what can I do?”

Alicent only shakes her head—shuts her eyes firmly, as though she can make pretend that she was asleep if only she believes it herself, enough. Her voice croaks—“I—nothing.” She turns her face further to the pillow, where her tears have fallen. “I’m perfectly content.”

“You’re not.”

Even softer—“Yes I am.”

Rhaenyra can’t help rolling her eyes.

I haven’t seen you content in ten years.

“Alicent,” she says, then, softer. “Tell me what to do.”

But all Alicent can do is cry, cling to her—plaintively? Aggressively?—and cry, so fully and piteously that Rhaenyra knows it’ll rattled something far too deep inside herself—

“Can I hold you?” She whispers; and then she takes her by the waist, brings her even closer, tucks Alicent’s arms against her chest, lets her face hide into her neck, rubs her back as it shakes. “Can I hold you like this? Is this better?”

But Alicent doesn’t say.

“I’m sorry.” Rhaenyra whispers, finally. “I’ll make it better, if you tell me how.”

At the end of that fortnight, they haven’t talked about it. But Alicent knows it’s different; knows in the way Rhaenyra always requests water as they wake; how Rhaenyra’s hands don’t seem to leave her arms, her sides in the mornings; how the servants don’t question it when Rhaenyra will wait, in Alicent’s quarters, chatting to her idly about their day as the maids help her dress.

How, when one of the Northern girls draws the laces of her gown too tight, and she draws a sharp breath—Rhaenyra’s eyes flash. “Don’t touch her so harshly.”

Their clothes arrive, eventually, with the rest of their campaign; as do Talya, and Harrold Westerling—who, when Criston requested leave from the King to accompany her, was sent in his stead.

(“I wish my sworn protector to remain by my side, my King,” she’d begged.

He’d merely waved her off, with a sweet smile, as always. “It is the Lord Commander who is fit to see to my family.” Then, with barely a glance—"We shall speak no more of this, my darling.”)

She wishes him there all the more as she traverses Winterfell’s grand halls; as Harrion Karstark’s eyes seem to follow her wherever she goes, passing beside her in the halls ever too closely.

Still, it doesn’t matter, when the Ironborn arrive, with as little ceremony as Alicent could have imagined. Among Greyjoy’s true representatives stand only two men—Veron Greyjoy, of two and forty years, Lord Dalton’s brother; and Veron the Younger, twenty years his junior, who identifies himself as Dalton’s eldest salt son.

Rhaenyra explains, later. “Children of concubines. Women stolen on raids.”

Alicent isn’t sure whether to be six-and-ten and scandalized or six-and-twenty and tired. Of course, she thinks.

The Ironborn, as it turns out, are hardly prepared to negotiate and even less comfortable in Lord Stark’s house. They’re loud and disjointed and seem ill-informed even on the exploits of their own men. Alicent needs not remind them of the King’s will or the Crown’s power or the interests of peace and justice; all it takes, in the end, is Rhaenyra’s silver tongue.

Not even your favourite of your better skills, Alicent muses, as Veron nods effusively at Rhaenyra’s careful words, commanding and sharp and endearing, and yet the one I’ve always hated the most.  

Still, it’s Rhaenyra—not Criston, or Westerling, or anyone else—who’s there when Veron the Younger spits in Alicent’s direction and asks what you might ever know of war, my lady.

“Perhaps you’ll soon come to find out,” Rhaenyra replies, fiery and unyielding. “And you shall address your Queen as Your Grace.”

Alicent remembers returning to the Hightower, as a child. She owes so much to it, she knows, and yet it’s a place she can hardly remember, that incredible hulking fortress.

There were summer gardens beneath its great arching walls, beneath those stark grey towers. Warm and green and graceful and wet, sometimes, just the lightest kiss of rains such that the septa wouldn’t notice enough to beckon them back inside.

Her and her brother, when he was a boy; their cousins, Hobert’s girls—

Her arms out, her face in the wet sun, twirling in the rain.

Before queendom. (Before Aegon.)

Before Rhaenyra, even.

Alicent Hightower lives in those memories, she imagines; somewhere back in those summer days.

Rhaenyra is still at her writing desk, staring down at reports from the day that she’s nevertheless clearly not reading, when Alicent brushes her hair back and slides cold beneath the covers. “Are you coming to bed?”

Rhaenyra blinks up at her. “Oh. Yes, of course.”

She tends to the fire again; blows out a candle by the window, drapes her shawl against a chair; and then she’s under the furs, and Alicent is in Rhaenyra’s arms, again, and she can finally fall asleep—

“I was thinking today.” Rhaenyra murmurs. Alicent can hear the rumble in her chest. “It seems Lord Stark’s suit is progressing quite favorably.”

Alicent hums.

“The Crown’s more immediate involvement may no longer be required,” Rhaenyra continues. “Or requested, at least. For the time being, anyway. Cregan has entreated that he and Veron the Younger be left to parley on their own, on a day’s hunt.”

Alicent quirks her brow. “Interesting.” She turns, then, resting her chin on her arm at the top of Rhaenyra’s ribs, thumbing the latticed fabric of Rhaenyra’s shift. “This may be a fortuitous opportunity, for us.” Then Rhaenyra’s face changes entirely—a perfect expression of girlish shock (excitement, even?) “An opportunity,” she continues, “For you to strengthen your camaraderie with Veron the Elder.”

Rhaenyra’s face strangely seems to fall, then, though she barely catches it—

"He’s quite a bit wiser than his nephew—and his brother, I suspect.” Alicent counsels. “He respects you. I can tell. Take him for a walk; a ride, even. He may be able to change his brother’s mind on their presence in Blazewater Bay.”

Rhaenyra’s mouth quirks. “I was actually going to take the time for something else.”

“Needlepoint and studying the histories, I imagine.”

Rhaenyra chuckles, though it’s strangely humorless. “I was actually going to—well, I was going to visit the Wall.” She sighs. “I’m not sure I’ll ever get the opportunity again.  That magnificent thing. I’ve made arrangements to spend the night at Castle Black, shore up the command—spread the King’s good will.”

Alicent’s heart drops, then, though she’s not sure exactly why; eyes focused on the fabrics between them. “And how long will you be away?”

“Just a couple of days.”

(Of course you can; of course you would.)

And then Rhaenyra notices, frowns. “What’s wrong?”

Alicent purses her lips; taps her knuckles against a hard point on Rhaenyra’s ribs, twice, then stills. “We are here to fulfill a duty, Rhaenyra—”

“Yes, but Lord Stark has asked me to remain away—”

“—Not to fulfill some…” She huffs, then, hard and frustrated and feeling that same frustration inside, that heat. “Some childish fancy.”

“I shouldn’t think the interests of the Crown are some childish fancy.”

“I’m not a fool, Rhaenyra, these interests are clearly and purely your own.”

Rhaenyra opens her mouth to reply—then stops herself. “I’m not sure why this should make you so upset,” she intones. “Other than your seemingly unending dissatisfaction with everything I do.”

And then her gaze whips back to Rhaenyra who meets it, unafraid.

“I’m not—”

“Why are you so angry with me?” Rhaenyra demands, but her hands only clutch tighter, hotter around her back. “I should think it is I who should be angry with you, these endless—"

“Is that so?”

And then Rhaenyra leans up, and takes her with her, against her chest, face close and breath hot on her own, hot aggressive and demanding like the spoiled princeling she is—

“Come now,” Rhaenyra whispers, icy. “For years you’re furious and furious that I don’t know why, is that it? In all your equanimity and righteousness, you must have a reason. Let it out.”

It’s only then she looks down between them, past the curve of Rhaenyra’s jaw, and finds her own hands bound up angrily in the front of Rhaenyra’s shift, knuckles white, pulsing, even.

(If I tear you apart you won’t hold me after, and then I can’t, and I wanted so badly to sleep soundly—)

Rhaenyra, again—“Are you going to say it, or must I?”

“Off me, off me, off me, off me right fucking now.” She tears away, then, wrests Rhaenyra’s arms from around her waist, thrashes from her grasp, kicks and shoves and throws away the linens, moving quickly, blind, mean, marching to the door, freezing, freezing and mad—

Gathers herself, then; pauses and pushes it down, down down—

(Until I can’t even feel—)

“These years, Rhaenyra,” She seethes, hand on the door, “I was a child, made to act like a woman. And I did my best, I did, I—” Her voice breaks, and she stops, hand on her throat, pushing. “But you—you were a woman, you are, and yet endlessly given leave to still act like a child.”

Those ethereal eyes only simmer.

“Surely you must do whatever it is you wish, Rhaenyra.” She whispers, as the heat builds, as she burns in it, slowly, as she shoves through the door. "Surely the world would turn on its head if not.”

They sit to break fast. Rhaenyra doesn’t speak to her. She doesn’t invite it.

Her face is colorless and cold. Her hands shake, a little.

“We’ll have to fetch you another tumbler,” Lady Stark offers, smiling. “We don’t want you falling ill before your return, Your Grace.”

Alicent turns back to her, ignoring Rhaenyra completely. “Of course, my Lady, I’m grateful.” She smiles. “It is hard to warm this Southron blood.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she catches Rhaenyra scoff, just the faintest sound.

Rhaenyra finds her in her chambers, writing her letters, before she leaves for the wall.

(At least, she’s theoretically writing her letters; she’ll send one to Viserys as well, she decides. Rhaenyra’s done the reporting on the progress of Lord Stark’s suit, but still, she resolves nevertheless to inquire into the welfare of the children—though she’s sure he’s not seen them at all.)

(Her little Aemond—so full of consternation in her arms, so small and so sad, most days, in a way that only she knows, that she remembers from her own girlhood, deep down and hidden—)

Rhaenyra stands still, expressionless, leaning against the doorframe. “I’ll head off, at the end of the hour.”

Alicent doesn’t even look. “I wish you safe travels, Princess.”

“I wanted to ask if there was anything you might require, before I left.”

She raises a brow. “I’m sure I’d be more than capable of summoning it myself.”

Rhaenyra huffs in the silence. Then—

“I apologize if I caused any offence, yester evening.”

Alicent scoffs. “No, you’re not.”

“No, I’m not.” Rhaenyra doesn’t miss a beat. “But I’ll still stand in your fucking doorway and apologize and shoulder the blame, if that’s what’s necessary, let you reprove me, if you like.” She shakes her head, arms open wide. “So come on with it, Alicent, deliver the blows. I’m right here.”

Her eyes, horribly, effortfully trained upon the page, dead and burning—“Is that the solution, to your mind?”

“No.” Rhaenyra replies, shoving off of the frame, starting down the hallway. “That’s the difference.”

She’s drunk at the evening’s feast, again; this time in her own chair, alone—Lady Stark is turned away, beside her, facing her husband, who’s entertaining the Greyjoys on the other side of the table.

Rhaenyra’s chair remains empty beside her.

She takes another sip of wine; waits for it to take her somewhere else, just a little, for a heartbeat.

Aemond was the first one that felt like her own, she remembers; his face the first she’d looked upon after the birthing and thought my baby, the first she’d considered nursing herself, and she had, almost, in the daze after the battle—moving aside her robe, watching him latch, watching him nurse so gently, like he wasn’t even sure she was there, but she was, she was, more than she’d ever been—

And then they’d snatched him right off her chest and presented him, wrapped in a blanket of gold to the King. Her baby had screamed for her. Viserys smiled down at him, tickled his chin. Then they took him away.

He’d rubbed the top of her shoulder. Well done, my dear wife.

I want him, she’d whispered, panting through sweat-stained cheeks.

He’d merely smiled back down at her, of course. She was seventeen.

When she was twenty, she’d had him on her knee, head against her breast, again, rubbing his shuddering back as he cried and cried about something she couldn’t remember—and she’d tried, she really did, but whatever was hurt inside of him she just couldn’t reach it—

Viserys, from across the table, nevertheless with kind eyes—It won’t do any good to coddle him, my dear.

She’d smiled and nodded but it was the first time she’d felt it toward him.

Rage.

Later, in Aemond’s chambers, brushing his silver curls, tucking him into bed, blowing out his candles, soothing him to rest—

(Viserys, worn and weakening; Alicent ascendant.)

This day I am the dragon, she had thought. And you are my little egg.

(He’d peered up at her with big sad eyes, manipulating her long fingers in his tiny hands—“Mama, stay?”)

Years later, in his father’s chambers. They’ve hurt him, they’ve hurt him, our son, she’d protested.

He’d paid it no mind; dismissive with the same things she’d always heard from her own father—

This child is too much a child.

She’d felt like a pig with wings, once.

(“Imagine,” Rhaenyra had scoffed, eyes laughing and haughty, “Being imprisoned in a castle and made to squeeze out heirs.”)

Rhaenyra, who’d left her alone in the cold; once before, and then now, this time, literally—

Her hands shake with the freeze and so she hides them under the table, folded.

“Ah.” And then it’s Harrion beside her, sinking down into Rhaenyra’s empty chair with a bloodred wine-stained smile. “My Queen.”

Her heart coils inside of her. “My lord.”

“You seem lonely.”

She raises a brow. “I am surrounded by our dear friends in the North, my Lord. Hardly alone.”

He nods with a sly smile. “Not alone. Lonely.”

“I’m not sure what you mean, my Lord.”

She leans away; he leans in, closer still.

“Where’s your… companion?” She knows what he means, with his stinking wine breath, but chooses to ignore it. “Your…” He tilts his head. “Stepdaughter, is it?”

Disgusting. She’s not sure if it’s in reaction to his sweating face or his remarks (however true) but still she recoils.

Swallows it back—fucking Rhaenyra—“The Princess is performing her duties elsewhere.”

His eyes glint.

Is this the reaction he wanted—

“My Queen,” he continues, eyes alight. “I must say how very glad I am, that you’ve come to Winterfell, these fortnights. But how pallid you seem, without the King’s presence.” His eyes are unwavering. “Your bed is cold without him, I imagine.”

She ventures a glance to her left, to the door, where Harrold Westerling stands in his Kingsguard attire; luckily, he’s looking back at her—and seems to be frowning. Maybe he knows.

“My Lord,” Alicent begins, simply, “You must forgive me, as I’m sure I will seem quite foolish to say this, but.” She fixes him with a look, that look, as much as she can—

The Queen, the Queen, be the fucking Queen—

“The tenor of your comments may seem—were my husband here—quite untoward, to him.” Her eyes are hard, unflagging. “Though I’m sure you did not intend as much.”

Harrion’s grin disappears, piqued and wolfish.

“Indeed.” He notes. “Were he here.” And then he pushes out his chair, but before he stands—“I was a ward in Winterfell, as a boy. I have heard that Lord and Lady Stark have lent their chambers to the King’s guests. How very kind.” And then he does stand, his wine with him. “Perhaps I shall pay Your Grace a visit, later. To welcome her further.”

He stands. Her arms feel tight.

A memory, then, unbidden—

Aemond, after his first day on the yard, running up to her in his leather padding—Ser Criston said I was the best on the longsword, today! Did Father see?

Viserys had barely watched a minute before retiring, his wounds ailing. I saw you, my love, she’d insisted, wiping the dirt from his cheek with the pad of her thumb. My wonderful, talented boy.

He’d smiled up into her eyes, having forgotten entirely about his father’s absence—Ser Criston said I’m almost as good as Aegon. One day I will be your sworn sword, Mother. He’d promised. Just like Ser Criston.  

Yes, she’d replied, softly. Of course you shall, sweetling.

You’ll best them all.

She looks back into the crowd. It’s Harrion, eyes on her; when she finds them, he looks away, as though he’d never been looking (maybe he hadn’t, she thinks.)

Rhaenyra, Rhaenyra in their youth, vibrant and young and biting—

(“If ever someone makes you angry,” she’d said, one night, after a cup of stolen wine, “You tell me. And I will burn them with my dragon.”

“Rhaenyra, that’s hardly appropriate.”

Her eyes had only glinted. “Syrax and I would both enjoy—”)

“Your Grace?” She looks up, then, to find Harrold Westerling behind her, eyes full of concern. “It has grown late. I wanted to ask if you’d like to be escorted to your chambers.”

“Yes,” she sighs, stretching her aching shoulders. She looks for Karling in the crowd but he’s nowhere to be seen. “Yes, I would, Ser Harrold. Please.”

(She imagines telling Viserys about Karstark; imagines leaning into his ear, were he here; clutching his forearm.

She knows, somewhere inside of herself, he’d merely wave his hand, merely smile.

“We shall speak no more of this, my darling.”)

One time, in their later years, Rhaenyra caught her in the Godswood, her back up against the tree, eyes closed, waiting, waiting for the feeling to return.

Your Grace. She’d heard Rhaenyra’s voice and thought maybe it had—that she’d been able to conjure something from before, just for a moment, in the heat and the swelter, in her loneliness, trapped in her armor of sun-kissed green—

But then she’d heard the title, and she’d known it was no ghost.

Her eyes had flown open. “Princess.” Still regal, haughty, even, in this somber state. “To what do I owe the pleasure.”

And Rhaenyra had stared back at her; equally guarded, equally caught. “I was—I was coming here to think.”

Alicent pursed her lips, nodded. Shoved off the tree. “I shall leave you to your peace.”

(Always, always a lie.)

She’d asked Ser Harrold to wait outside of her door. But then he’d suddenly left, quickly, gone before she could beckon him back.  

She’d tried, but the door had no lock. Considered shoving the desk in front of it—even if she could move it—wondered if the wine was making her shake, making her paranoid—and she was still miserably cold—she’d already dismissed her maids, dismissed the attendants—praying, praying Ser Harrold returns—

Waiting on her bed, hair down, clutching in white knuckles the letter opener from Rhaenyra’s desk.

She looks down at it. Father above, have I lost my mind?

(Horrifically uninvited, she sees the image—Karstark shutting her door with a predatory grin—We wouldn’t want to disturb this peace, would we? Spotting the meager weapon in her hand, rounding the bed—Feisty, are you? That’s alright, I like it that way—)

Her door jostles. She freezes.

And then it swings open.

She screams, then, screams loud, as loud as she can—and a hand emerges around it, large and gloved—

And Rhaenyra practically jumps back, wide eyes reflecting Alicent’s terrified expression in the firelight. “Seven hells.”

She can barely catch her breath. The blade clatters to the floor.

Rhaenyra’s eyes train to it; then back to her, back to her wide, trembling eyes.

“Alicent,” she starts, softly, as though to a battle-shocked soldier. “I’m sorry. It’s only me.”

She can’t catch her breath, so she nods, draws her arm around herself, digs her fingernails into the skin—

“Can I come in? Can I shut the door?”

She nods, dumbly. Then Rhaenyra does, shuts the door and turns and walks over, slowly, joins her gingerly on the edge of the bed, eyes soft. “Alicent, what’s happened?” She looks calm—an attempt at comforting, or Rhaenyra’s very convincing version, maybe, but there’s a venom pumping beneath, a girding for battle—

She thinks someone’s hurt you.

(Perhaps someone has?)

Again, a shake of her head, eyes shut. Don’t be a fucking child—

“Nothing has happened.”

Rhaenyra’s mouth opens, then closes, then her eyes flit from her letter opener on the stone to the sweat beading Alicent’s forehead. “Why do you have that, then?”

“I—” She looks down at it, too; shrinks back against her pillows, a little. “I was only  nervous.”

“Why.”

And then there’s another knock outside the door. This one is loud. Aggressive and unmistakable.

Alicent jumps.

Rhaenyra’s hand catches her, then, by the arm, sure and soothing—“Enter.”

“Rhaenyra, no—”

But it’s only Ser Harrold who peaks around the door. “Your Grace, I only wanted to inform you that I have returned, as you requested. Apologies. I departed to receive the Princess’ return.”

The Princess’ return.

It’s only then that she looks to Rhaenyra, really looks, clutches her back, arm around the thick cotton of her riding jacket. “You—you’re here.”

Rhaenyra raises a brow, but it’s a mellow teasing, almost gentle. “Disappointed?”

And her throat thickens so that she only shakes her head, shakes it softly, barely a motion, barely a sound.

The princess nods to Ser Harrold and he back to her, shutting the door to them.

Rhaenyra searches for her eyes, thumb stroking her hand. “Alicent,” she begins, softly. “I’m so sorry for before. When I left. We were improving, you and I—or, we’d had our understanding, and—I’m sorry. I wouldn’t want to upset you—”

And then she throws her arms around Rhaenyra’s neck, grabs her tight, tight tight, so she can breathe, again, breathe slowly, surely, into the soft of Rhaenyra’s neck.

Rhaenyra brings her hand to the side of Alicent’s face, large and calloused and warm.  

And Rhaenyra, again, so purely in that liminal space between herself and the ghost—

“If you tell me what happened,” she asks, again, again, again and again and again—“Maybe I can fix it.”

(Of course you can; of course you would.)

Rhaenyra doesn’t even ask; merely tugs her right up, her hand in her own, right off the bed, leads her to her own chambers, takes the shoulders of Alicent’s shawl and drags it off slowly, silently, the warm silk running off of her wrists and past her fingers.

Rhaenyra tucks her under the furs; returns to her own writing desk, begins to scribble, like nothing at all is amiss.

Alicent clutches her pillow, turns her nose into the linens, smells.

(I hate you for leaving.)

She clutches the furs up to her neck, stares at the opposing wall from Rhaenyra’s pillow. “You returned early.”

Rhaenyra nods. “I paid a visit to Castle Black, but denied their hospitality for the night.”

Alicent swallows. “Why.”

She doesn’t turn, but a smile graces her features. “I couldn’t just leave you to freeze.”

Alicent shakes her head, returns the side of her face to the pillow. Shuts her eyes.

“May I ask a question of you, now?”

Alicent sighs. “Of course.”

And then Rhaenyra does look; sets down her quill.  

“Who did you suspect of barging into your chambers this evening?”

She tells her, once Rhaenyra comes to bed. Once she’s underneath, and the light is gone, but for the fire, and there’s only the hollow before the ceiling above them, once her head isn’t burning but resting silk-soft on Rhaenyra’s chest, rising and falling with that hushed lull.

“Don’t you understand,” she whispers. “I don’t have a great hulking dragon. I only have me.”

But Rhaenyra, vibrating with cool energy, merely turns, grasps her tighter.

“You indeed have a great hulking dragon.”

She dreams of it, then. The canopy and the rats.

Her husband atop her, his hand braced against the bed, the other gentle upon her shoulder. He never removed the loose silks from it, only touched her over them, like he was afraid to break her, to stain her.

He was gentle and perfunctory and quick, always. She knows it must be one of the later times, because it doesn’t hurt, isn’t sore, not terribly. Not like when—

But then a hand comes to the cusp of her neck and there’s a fire, an ache, insistent, insistent and yet so far from painful—

He pulls back with a hand on her jaw, but it’s not Viserys. It’s Rhaenyra on top of her, over her—lips red, mouth open, panting. 

She wakes with a start, Rhaenyra only an arm’s length away, on her back, fast asleep.  

She grasps for her, tugs Rhaenyra’s hand, tugs insistently—

“Rhaenyra,” she whispers. “Rhaenyra, please?”

Rhaenyra only hums.

But she feels almost desperate, then; desperate and not angry but not not angry and her blood’s pumping and desirous of something, something she can’t even name.

“Rhaenyra,” she murmurs, voice low, heat low, buzzing in her body somewhere she can’t even acknowledge. “Would you hold me, please.”

And then Rhaenyra turns, scoots closer without a second thought, wraps her arm around her waist—tugs her back against her body, tight as a dragon’s coil; rests her nose against Alicent’s neck, entirely calm, entirely peaceful.

She places her arm over Rhaenyra’s, under the furs, turns her head. Feels Rhaenyra’s breath coal-hot on her cheek; her body sturdy and weighty over her back.

(She feels the ardor of the dream, its residuals; but its contents she can hardly recall.)

She learns Lady Stark keeps the Faith of the Seven, that morning, when she invites her to their altar to pray.

She’s on her knees beside her, before the image of the Mother.

“I like to think of my own mother,” Lady Stark entreats, “When I’m here. I find it calms me. Puts me at ease, for the coming day.” She smiles, then. “I heard the peace is almost finished.”

Alicent nods, eyes on the glimmering candles. “Indeed it is.”

“You must be proud.”

Alicent hums. “I am only relieved, really. That the Crown could be of some help.” She looks back. “I have no taste for bloodshed.”

Lady Stark tips her head, a smile upon her lips—older and wiser than Alicent’s yet seen. “I must agree.” And then she’s silent again.

Alicent thinks on her mother; tries to conjure her smile, again, the sparkle around her eyes, the light in them—

“Alicent!” She’d exclaimed, standing in the doorway to Alicent’s quarters. Then, her eyes darting between them—“Princess Rhaenyra.”

Rhaenyra swallowed. Alicent had fidgeted, torn her hands from Rhaenyra’s own—“Mother, it was only—”

“Please excuse us, Princess, I must speak to my daughter alone.”

Rhaenyra stood, even if unwillingly. “Of course.”

Her mother, later, sitting next to her on the bed, eyes hard and serious—

“You may not engage in such activities, Alicent. With anyone. Ever. I can understand—I can understand the urge—but you must understand. If Rhaenyra were a boy—”

“But Rhaenyra’s not a boy.”

Her mother looked down, and pursed her lips, and nodded, nodded sadly, almost—“And that, my girl,” she’d sighed, “Presents another sort of problem.”

She’d asked her how often—and she’d been honest—

“Whenever we can.” Despite herself, the effusive excitement, the feeling, the heat, in her heart when Rhaenyra smiled, and elsewhere, when Rhaenyra’s lips were upon hers, when her hand came upon her shoulder, and then—“She’s kind to me, Mother, it’s nothing more—"

“You mustn’t, Alicent.” Her mother had instructed. “Never again.”

But it had been wonderful, in that moment, that last stolen moment—

A hidden corner by the dragonpit, covered in dirt, Rhaenyra covered in the stink of her dragon, Rhaenyra’s hands over her jaw, around her waist, in her hair. Setting her alight.

“That was the last time,” Alicent insisted, again, hands still fisted in silver hairs at her neck.

Rhaenyra had only quirked a brow. “I’m sure.”

Alicent shifts in her dress; feels pressure, below, somewhere—something she hadn’t felt in years, really.

(Except several nights prior, with the wine—)

Stop it, stop it.

“Are you ready to depart?” Before she realizes, Lady Stark is on her feet, extending her a hand. “I’m sure your talks begin soon.”

“Yes.” She takes it, stands, smiles, primly. “Of course.”

Rhaenyra wears silky, velvet, shining blacks to the table that utterly sunless afternoon, all but glittering in the firelight, silver hair glinting and bright like Valyrian steel.

Still, that feeling beneath her—

She sits strong in her dark greens, almost black, black furs across her shoulders, as Lord Stark concludes.

“It is agreed, then.” He announces, as the Maesters scrawl furiously onto parchment at the end of the table. “The North shall halt its assault on the Iron Islands and its siege of the Ironborn trapped at Moat Cailin. In return, all Ironborn incursions into the Neck shall end, and all land ceded back to its rightful stewards. All provisions stolen shall be returned in the form of payment, raised by ferry levies, as the Crown has so generously offered to enforce. As the Queen so judiciously suggested.”

Stark goes on, but Alicent doesn’t hear it—watching how Rhaenyra’s jaw works; how her hands bracket the side of the table, tendons strong, forceful, flexing.

Finally—“Does the Crown accede to these terms?”

Alicent can barely recover. “Yes,” she insists, finally. “The Crown upholds these terms.”

Rhaenyra smiles, then. Alicent can’t look away.

Rhaenyra laughs at the feast, when Alicent leans in, whispers something in her ear about Veron the Elder’s absurd ceremonial kraken outfit; laughs truly, almost with a snort, eyes alight.

(Charismatic and ethereal and warm and familiar, more familiar than anything—)

“You mustn’t, he’ll hear,” she chuckles, and her hand is over Alicent’s, and Alicent’s never been more contented, not for this single moment where nothing at all exists—where they’ve won, a little bit, where she’s pleased, pleased with herself, almost.

Not bad for two women.

Where she wants something; and where she might even stand a chance of getting it.

She looks into Rhaenyra’s clear, mirthful eyes. If I tried to tell you how you hurt me, would you fix it? Would you let me tell you? Would you let me let you hear it?

(I think you would.)

For all the years she’s spent fuming at Rhaenyra, she knows—however much it’s bothersome, however much it hurts—Rhaenyra has also spent them fuming at her. But it’s all the moments in between—the moments longing, the moments ruminating, worrying, that she knows Rhaenyra doesn’t share.

No, Rhaenyra’s longing for her is different; more direct, purer, more like before, when things were simpler. More like her touches confess—smooth, blunt, bare as it once was.

(I know you still—

And I do, too.)

And it’s fun, here in the din, in the moment, as Stark’s fools and jesters play, as his singers perform and maidens dance, as the band begins, then, from a corner—she and Rhaenyra giggling, jesting, talking like they couldn’t—like they haven’t in years.

“More wine, Your Grace?” Rhaenyra smiles.

And she returns it, and lends her cup, but her hand comes to the crook of Rhaenyra’s elbow, just gently.

(She wants to curl her fingers around her jaw, make Rhaenyra wait for it, like she used to—)

Rhaenyra fills her cup, then, to the top.

She’s wondering if she’ll ever have a night in the North where she’s not entirely besotted by their sweet ice wines, but still, she is, clutching the top of Rhaenyra’s arm and doubled over as the Princess again continues with an utterly foul jest.

Rhaenyra, who Alicent can’t remember ever being so—magnetic, maybe.

(So fucking attractive, if she’s honest.)

(“That was the last time—)

“And then he said,” Rhaenyra laughs, wiping a tear, “To the entire council—he goes, you’re looking up the wrong end!”

Alicent shakes her head, hand on her aching side, “Rhaenyra, stop, gods, I’m going to choke.”

“Well, we can’t have that. Not while we’re celebrating the peace you made possible, of course.”

Alicent smirks. “No, of course not.”

Rhaenyra quirks a brow, smirks, almost secretly. “To think it was only the Queen to the realm’s aid; all because she paid attention in discussions about ships.”

“And shipping levies, mind you.”

They look over, then, as Lady Stark excuses herself to retire. Rhaenyra smiles. “It’s grown late, apparently.”

Alicent quirks a brow. “The hour of the bat, I think—”

“Your Grace.”

And then she looks up, altogether freezes, to find Karstark smiling down before her. Out the corner of her eye, Rhaenyra sets her goblet down, stiffens.

“I wanted to bid you good night,” Karstark murmurs. “And ask if my Queen might need an escort to her own chambers.”

Before she can reply, Rhaenyra, from her other side—“How chivalrous of you.”

Alicent watches her jaw working with worried eyes; brings her hand back to Rhaenyra’s arm.

“Remind me your name, my lord?”

“Lord Harrion Kar—”

“Karstark, yes. I thought so.” She stands, then, smooths her dress. “Well, go on.”

Karstark stumbles, for a moment. “I’m sorry?”

“You’re here to bid Her Grace goodnight.” Rhaenyra drawls, smooth and even. “So do it.”

Karstark inhales, slowly, lips turning upward. “Her Grace only seemed quite chilly, Princess. We in the North are an accommodating sort.” His eyes flicker back to Alicent. “And, my Queen shouldn’t be denied—”

“I’m rarely so clear, my lord, but I hope this makes things a little easier.” She can hear the quiet slowness to Rhaenyra’s words, just slightly wine-tinged, piqued and venom-laden all the same.

Then she leans in, and he takes a simple step back, away from the table. “My ancestor Aegon,” she begins, simply, “Considered igniting the whole of these sullen castles, before your cousin bent the knee. It was kind of him, that mercy, don’t you agree? The dragon devoured ancient houses in the Conquest. Not to mention their meager cadets.” She tilts her head. “Dragonfire melted Harrenhal and all its lords and ladies like chicken in a pie. Now, she’s no Balerion, I concede, but if you’d recommend I cut Syrax’s teeth on a smaller fortress, I may be inclined.”

He steps back, again. “Princess, if I didn’t know, I’d think you were making—”

“A threat. Indeed, Lord Karstark, but there should be no need for threats tonight. Because you will not address Her Grace Again.” Rhaenyra dimples her chin, then, as though in thought. Alicent can barely breathe—for all their troubles, she’s never seen Rhaenyra actually—“But if you and your clan ever find yourselves chilly in your tower, well.” Rhaenyra smiles. “Do only say the word.”

His eyes are hard upon hers. She never flinches.

“Goodnight, Princess.” He says, finally.

She nods. “Good night, my lord.”

She sits, then. Alicent only watches.

“Rhaenyra,” she says, finally. And waits for her to turn. “You didn’t need to do that. He’s only—he’s only blustering. If Lord Stark hears—”

“I find myself strangely unconcerned with his intentions. And Lord Stark remembers to whom he is sworn.” With that, Rhaenyra’s turned back to her goblet, her shoulders relaxed, merriment back upon her features. “Have you had enough to eat?” she asks, then. “I was going to visit Syrax this evening. Would you like to join me?”

And in that simple moment, heat blooming inside her, Alicent doesn’t know why she agrees.

(Or worse, maybe she does.)

“Lead the way.”

(You indeed have a great hulking dragon.)

Syrax is even larger than she remembers, and it’s that moment that she realizes she hasn’t seen, really seen, the colossal she-dragon in nearly ten years.

“You can come closer,” Rhaenyra soothes, as the dragon’s enormous head nuzzles fondly into her side. “She won’t harm you.”

Alicent stares at her, stock-still, wide-eyed. “You can’t know that.”

“I can,” Rhaenyra smiles, somehow comforting and gloating at once. “And I do.” She extends a hand. “Come.”

And then Alicent is walking forth, of her own accord, like a fucking insane woman, up the frost-laden path where Syrax is lounging beside a great grove of evergreen trees

(and she wonders if the Northron creatures can smell the smell from a league away—)

“Syrax,” Rhaenyra entreats with a soft smile. “This is Alicent.”

And then she’s face-to-face with a dragon, sniffing her with an impossibly enormous nose, huffing through a bracket of teeth sheathed behind an impossibly enormous maw.

Alicent can barely breathe.

Syrax careens toward her, quick as a snake, and she yelps—

But then the yellow head merely falls down in a cloud of dust before her, long neck stretched out, eyes halfway closed. When she opens her eyes, Syrax’s orb of an eye is mere inches away, looking back at her calmly, almost curiously; even and quiet and serene.

Serene and—humming?

“Rhaenyra,” Alicent whispers, and she wonders if she can almost see her gloating from her other side—“Do dragons—is she—is she purring?”

Rhaenyra merely pats Syrax’s side, lifts a brow. “Well, she’s quite happy.”

Syrax seems to purr louder, then, as though in agreement. “Go on,” Rhaenyra entreats. “Touch her.”

“I can’t.”

“Sure you can.”

And then she does—(have I lost my only mind?)—reaches out and places a hand, a single hand, against the dragon’s bony brow.

She’s soft, somehow. Smooth like satin.

But then Syrax leans in and she’s being pushed—the dragon doesn’t let up, pushes against her whole side, with all the magnificent weight of her cranium, eyes closed, still fucking purring—and she stumbles back, topples over the hem of her skirts—“Rhaenyra—”

And then Rhaenyra has a hand on the beast’s cheek; reaches down and pulls Alicent up by the hand. “Syrax, behave.”

The dragon barely graces her with a glance, moves again as though to rub its nose against Alicent’s frost-covered coat—

“Syrax, lykiri.” Rhaenyra commands.

Syrax only grumbles.

Alicent dusts the dirt and snow off of her coat. Rhaenyra quirks a brow. “I think that went well.”

Alicent scoffs. “As always, I am merely grateful to be alive.”

Rhaenyra shakes her head. “You have no cause for fear from Syrax.” Then she takes her hand, again. “Come. I suppose we should get you back within the castle walls, before you freeze—”

And then Syrax, from behind, all but shoves Rhaenyra off—just about the gentlest movement, Alicent suspects, that the dragon is capable of making—and her head falls down right in front of her, blocking the path, curling around her.

Syrax purrs, again. Looks at Rhaenyra with what Alicent is sure is a distinctly Rhaenyra-esque defiance.  

Rhaenyra sighs, then, as though they’re having some sort of secret conversation. “Syrax, we’ve got to go.”

Another vibrating sound, low and petulant.  

“She’s going to freeze.”

Groan.

Rhaenyra fixes her face then, stern and serious. “Syrax, move.”

With another sound of annoyance, Syrax lifts—massive muscles tensing under her mighty neck—and sets herself down again, a few meters astride, with a look of utter petulance.

Rhaenyra takes her hand, then, again, shakes her head. “She’s horribly stubborn sometimes.”

Alicent almost laughs. “Like nobody else I’ve known.”

“I’ll escort you back to our chambers,” Rhaenyra says, then, striding beside her through Winterfell’s arching bowels. “I should attend to some business with Cregan, afterward. But I’ll be abed soon.”

Alicent merely nods, tightens her grip under her arm as they turn the corner toward their rooms.

“I—” She stops, for a moment, as they come to Rhaenyra’s door. “Rhaenyra, I was glad, tonight. To see her again.” She fixes her eyes on her fingers, for a moment—forces them back up to Rhaenyra’s own deep gaze. “Syrax.”

Rhaenyra merely arches a brow. “She was indeed quite happy to see you, evidently.”

Her jaw is smooth, eyes clear, Alicent notices. Lips that same pale-pink as always, looking down at her with that same near-expressionless open inquisitiveness as she did years ago, at fifteen.

(Before queendom.)

She feels something lower, but it’s not the wine.

“Well,” Rhaenyra whispers. “I suppose I’ll leave you here, for now.” Her hand threads through Alicent’s own, warm and sure. “But I’ll be back before you’re asleep.”

Alicent merely nods.

But Rhaenyra doesn’t drop her hand, doesn’t leave her.

And Alicent doesn’t pull away; can’t.

She curls her hand around that impossible jaw and closes the space and kisses her.

And then Rhaenyra kisses her back, steady and inviting and firelit, too.

She pulls back; hand braced, clutching the top of her arm.

Rhaenyra’s eyes, steady and blue and unjudging as ever.

“I’m so sorry.” Alicent whispers. She steps back. Eyes wide. “I’m—you must forgive me.”

Rhaenyra only watches.

And then Rhaenyra recaptures her hand.

“I’ll be back before the hour is up.” Rhaenyra promises. She smiles, softly. Then she tilts her head toward the door. “I’m sure the fire’s hot by now.”

Rhaenyra indeed returns before the hour is up.

Alicent sits at the writing desk, in her silk bedclothes and her shawl, staring down at absolutely nothing.

Rhaenyra shuts the door behind her.

“Are you warm enough?”

Alicent turns, then, stands. “Rhaenyra, I—”

And then Rhaenyra’s lips are on hers, hot and wet and wanting and years for the longing between them, hands clutching upon her silks, and there’s a thrumming in Alicent’s ears that she can barely hear her whispering through their tangled arms and her insistent lips, and Rhaenyra’s hands are hot on her waist, tugging at her shawl and threading through her hair like she’s wanted to touch it for a decade and couldn’t—

familiar, so fucking familiar—that she can almost pretend to herself that it’s not real, that they’re not here, that they’re fifteen again, that it’s not changed, nothing’s changed, Aemma’s alive, and there is no distance in the godswood, no fire at Harrenhal, Rhaenyra’s the same—

Rhaenyra pulls back, quick as she came. Eyes alight. “Don’t do that.” She commands. It’s unequivocal. “Don’t leave.”

Alicent shakes her head, fingers shaking against the back of her neck. “I don’t—”

“I’m here.” Rhaenyra insists, and it’s quick and real and true, her grip there, in the present, as her lips nip at Alicent’s neck and her toes curl in her heels, real as the ringing of steel. “I’m real and I’m right fucking here—”

Alicent dives in again and feels that thing below but it’s not the same. Not the same at all.

It breaks inside her, washes over like the tide.

Rhaenyra walks her back toward the bed.

She’s burning inside.

(I hate you, I need you, I want you all to myself.)

“I’ve never felt this way.”

Rhaenyra stares down at her, godlike, a dragon. “How do you mean?”

Alicent tugs at the collar of her slip, the hem of her dress. Shakes her head. “I—”

“Oh.” And then Rhaenyra smiles. “I see.”

It’s her slip first, and she’s never been warmer, not in the North or ever.

Rhaenyra’s hands along her sides.

I know you I know you I know you—

The lace falling from her legs in the dying firelight.

Rhaenyra’s hands atop them, her knee, the slope of her calf—

Rhaenyra’s eyes glint like a dragon’s in the flames. Show me.

She turns over, red curls fall across her hair like curtains, red as blood.

Rhaenyra’s mouth on her collar, Alicent thinks it’s what death might be like, in the trance of the final moments, weightless.

Rhaenyra’s mouth on her breast, her fingers in silver hair, pulling it in, it out, points of a prized stag.

The white stag they never found.

Her legs open.

It’s nothing like the times before, without her, so little in its similarity and memory that Alicent doesn’t even feel it.

Hands across her shoulders, across Rhaenyra’s back, the smooth of her neck, the dip of her abdomen, across the bridge of her nose, a thumb, Rhaenyra’s slip falling away, pushing it away, pushing like an impetuous child, I want it—

Rhaenyra everywhere, Rhaenyra below.

Alicent ascendant.

Something comes apart inside her, but it doesn’t break; it’s more like the parts have rearranged themselves, to an unerring and impossible shape.

Rhaenyra dives beneath her and she follows, pursuing like a predator.

I want my piece of you, she thinks. I want my due.

The rearrangement is forceful and undeterred.

It’s a desire that makes her wonder whether she’s lost her mind and elsewise whether she even cares.

She catches Rhaenyra alone in a corridor by an empty servant’s quarters and pushes her inside them and shuts the door.

She catches Rhaenyra alone in a solar writing her reports and pushes the parchment off the desk and throws a leg over her lap.

She finds her finally in the forest by Syrax, patting her side as the dragon licks sheep’s blood off its maw. Rhaenyra turns and looks at her with the same sated expression.

And then smiles, when Alicent’s against the tree, with her skirts hiked up beneath her coat, opening like flowers in the spring.

They’re high up over a crag, one afternoon, Syrax grumbling and rumbling behind them, finding a soft spot in the trees.

Rhaenyra sits in the wintry grass, Alicent between her legs, tracing over the fingers curled around her middle.

“You have a voracious appetite.”

Alicent merely quirks a brow. “You seemed quite hungry yourself, this morning.”

Rhaenyra hums.

“That was a light snack.”

Alicent scoffs, nods sardonically. “Right.” And then she looks down, back over the white sky off the cliffside. “Did you know…” She trails off. “Did you know about all this, before?”

“What, coupling?”

She hesitates. “Is that what we’re doing?”

Rhaenyra frowns, tilts to the side to look at her with a quizzical scowl. “Are we not?”

Alicent shrugs, stares down. “It’s nothing like—like the coupling I’ve come to know, anyway.”

Rhaenyra inhales, slowly. “I’d prefer not to imagine.”

“Well, you know. You must. With your…” Alicent shakes her head, a little, then, at the continued necessity of the world’s most obvious lie. “Your husband.”

Rhaenyra shakes her head. “Some things in life can be pleasurable. Some things are meant to be, actually.”

“It’s not a pleasure, it’s a duty, Rhaenyra.”

Rhaenyra, unconvinced, merely shrugs.

“So what, then?” And then she looks down at her, and her eyes are soft, so soft. “Am I duty bound to give you such pleasure?”

“Yes.” Alicent keeps her eyes on the fog. “An extraordinary amount.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I missed you, Rhaenyra.” She shakes her head. “And you never came back.”

“You didn’t want it.”

 “No, Rhaenyra.” Alicent whispers. “I wanted you all the time.”

That night, in Rhaenyra’s arms, skin upon skin.

“There was a garden, beneath my uncle’s seat,” she whispers. “The Hightower. We used to play in the summer. When the days were easy. And long.”

Rhaenyra’s almost asleep—but just almost. “I know. You told me.”

Alicent frowns, barely. “I did?”

“You did.”

“And you remember that?”

Rhaenyra laughs, just a breath, a tiny sound. “Alicent,” she chides, fingers rubbing circles to her side, lips warm on her hairline. “Please.”

I’m not in love with Rhaenyra, I hate her.

I don’t hate Rhaenyra, I resent her. She lied to me.

She didn’t lie. But she let him go—she let Father be dismissed, she let him ride eons away, where I was alone, where he couldn’t help me.

She didn’t make me defend her honor, but she beseeched me—and I capitulated, and I did it, at fifteen, because—

I’m not in love with Rhaenyra.

She sits in front of a cold dish to break fast. Nobody joins her. Rhaenyra is elsewhere, with Cregan. A social call, a tour of the garrisons, apparently. Showcasing Winterfell’s strength for the king.

Rhaenyra likes that, she knows.

(Always fancied herself a knight, maybe. In another life. Or this one.)

She forsook her sacred duty, she disgraced her honor.

(Still, somewhere inside of herself, she knows she never cared.

Well—

It’s not the reason, anyway.)

Lady Stark stands before her, eyes full of concern.

“I know it’s not my place,” she begins, and glances around Alicent’s rooms, like she’s sure the whole of Winterfell is about to pop out from behind the curtains at any moment. “And I certainly should not pray my case to you before my husband, Your Grace. But I hoped to ask your counsel. My husband—and the Princess—they have revoked the Crown’s offer. Of clemency, in the repayment of the North’s losses. The shipping taxes. They will instead take it from the Ironborn as spoils. Pyke is meant to forfeit it. But they will never, and—if—I fear, Your Grace.” Lady Stark trembles. “That this war is not like to end.”

Alicent vibrates. Still, calmly—“How did you hear this?”

“My husband,” Lady Stark admits, softly, “Is… loose-lipped, in his cups.”

Alicent merely nods.

“But I know this part of our peace was your doing, Your Grace, and that compromise hard-fought, and I thought—”

“I’m grateful, Lady Stark.” It’s simple, almost mechanical in her mouth. “You have my deepest thanks, and the assurance of my discretion.”

She finds Rhaenyra in the godswood, deep in thought.

Finds her like a dragon finds the sheep.

“How dare you.”

Rhaenyra turns, then, to find Alicent’s eyes sharp and hot as dragonflame.

She almost scoffs. “Well, isn’t this a familiar scene.”

“You lied to me. You unilaterally amended our deal.” She spits. “Without my consent. Without the Crown’s assent. And now it’s going to fail, almost certainly. The North, plunged back into war; a moon’s time of efforts for naught. Your father, the throne, his leadership, all but humiliated. And you kept it from me. You couldn’t have consulted me, Rhaenyra, you couldn’t have possibly considered that someone other than yourself might have something to contribute, despite all your pretenses—”

Rhaenyra raises a brow. “You’re the Crown, now, are you?”

She shakes her head. Tears are blooming but she doesn’t feel them, not beneath the heat. Her voice breaks. “You’re—” She shakes her head, eyes still reflecting in shock. “You’re a fucking liar.”

“Watch your tongue.”

“No, you are, Rhaenyra, you so inescapably and deeply are.” She pushes at her then, stinging and raw-red and hurt. “We were sent here, Rhaenyra, sent here for a duty, and even at that, you’d just—move behind me so—”

Rhaenyra laughs, then, and it’s an utterly awful sound. “My, my, what an incredibly ironic criticism.”

“Come again?”

“Speaking of dissembling and deception,” Rhaenyra breathes, the falling leaves blood-red against the white of her hair, the blue of her eyes, narrowed and discerning—“Who is it who spends day after day spreading vicious slanders about myself, my family?”

“Oh Rhaenyra,” Alicent scoffs, eyes wet. “That you would even believe such rumors were avoidable is only testament to your own arrogance. They are the very image of—of—”

“Say it.” Rhaenyra dares. “Can’t say his name, now? Surely it’s on your lips in my father’s chambers at least twelve times a day.”

“Harwin fucking Strong.” Her eyes burn. “How could you be so foolish, Rhaenyra, really. Just look at him.”

Rhaenyra’s sneer is hard and unmistakable. “That’s really your qualm, is it, Alicent? That it was unadvisable? That I wasted my father’s matchmaking efforts?”

Alicent shakes her head. “Your entitlement knows no—”

Rhaenyra laughs, empty. “My entitlement, is it?” She shakes her head, steps closer, ever closer, so close that Alicent can feel the tension, the bowstring of the rope of her muscles, the curl of her lips over her teeth—“Are you going to admit it yet?”

(Why shouldn’t I be as hungry as you?)

Her eyes meet Rhaenyra’s own, dark as the clouds.

“Do you want the bitter truth of it, your last pound of flesh from me?” She seethes. “Have it, then, as I know you must always have your fucking way—yes, of course I hate him, Rhaenyra. How dare you make me speak it aloud when you know, when you knew. You didn’t even know Harwin Strong. And still you let him touch you improperly, with everything at stake.” Her eyes flood. “Before you’d ever come and touch me.”

Something flickers behind Rhaenyra’s eyes, but then she can hardly see it. “You were fairly otherwise occupied, as I recall, securing your position.”

“It was a duty. You were pursuing your own interests while I was—”

“Spending night after night beguiling my grieving father, beginning your seduction before her body was cold—”

She doesn’t realize that she’s done it after she’s done it—but she knows once she sees Rhaenyra’s eyes snap back to her, the red mark on her cheek, reeling with the force of her slap.

“You,” Rhaenyra breathes, slow as a ghost. “Have just raised a hand to the Crown Princess.”

Alicent shakes her head, wipes a tear with the back of her hand, covers her mouth, shuts her eyes tight—

(I hate you, I hate you, I hate it, I wish—)

(She feels blood bloom beneath her nail.)

“Rhaenyra,” she says, finally, and it’s a begging sound. One she doesn’t recognize; a voice that isn’t her voice, almost, one she can hardly hear. “This.” Her hand waves—to her, to them, to this. “This is how I know.”

Rhaenyra stands still as stone, hands vibrating like twigs in the wind.

“Know what.”

She shakes her head.

“That you’ll kill them.” Her voice is small, smaller than ever—

Not the Queen, not the Queen at all, but someone else—

(Summer gardens, she tries to tell herself, summer gardens, before queendom, before peril, so far away, before Aegon—)

And then Rhaenyra’s frowning, just a simple fracture in the mask, but enough for the moment, or a piece of one—“Who?”

Her arms are tight around her middle, leaning up against that great hulking tree.

Gods, take me away.

“My children, Rhaenyra. Aegon. My sons.”

Rhaenyra just blinks like Alicent’s speaking in foreign tongues. “What in under the gods would make you think I’d ever—”

“Because you’re a fucking liar, Rhaenyra, don’t you understand,” she bites. “Because you’re going to tell me, one day, with his crown on your head, you’re going to promise you’re not going to hurt them and then, just like this, it’ll all seem peaceful—then I’ll wake up one day and someone will come and tell me that Aegon has been thrown from his solar and Aemond and Daeron are in some stinking black cell—” Her tears flow unbidden. “And I’ll beg, and I’ll plead, Rhaenyra, and I’ll tell you please, please, please don’t.” She shakes her head. “And you’ll say, in those sweet dulcet tones, you’ll say of course, and worry not, and you’ll say I would never. But I could never trust it, Rhaenyra.” She shoves off the tree, then, paces away, back toward the castle. “I was a fool to trust you now.”

She cries herself to sleep and then doesn’t sleep. Locks herself in her room. Doesn’t respond when the handmaidens knock, doesn’t pay attention to the sound as Rhaenyra’s door closes.

(In her dream, Rhaenyra pets Aemond’s silver silken hair, smiles lovingly as he admires Syrax. Aemond reaches up with elated excitement to pat her yellow side—

Syrax turns, devours him.

Alicent screams and screams, but she can’t make a sound; Rhaenyra only gives her that same sorry expression, the one that means she’s not really sorry at all.)

There’s clanging steel, running and shouting in the halls, in the yard.

Harrold Westerling knocks insistently at her door. “My Queen,” he intones. “I must insist that I speak with you.”

She sits up. “Enter.”

He all but barges in, fully armored, sweating. “Your Grace,” he pants, “The Ironborn are marching on Moat Cailin. They have broken the terms of the peace. Cregan Stark is mobilizing his retinue, and the Princess will ride for the Moat—”

“What?” She blinks, like she’s heard it underwater. “The Princess—”

“She rides upon Syrax, my Queen, she makes to put down the incursion by force.”

She breathes fast, shallow. “Rhaenyra—she rides for war.”

“Yes, my Queen.”

Outside, the clapping of hooves on the frozen earth—

The Ironborn, said the Grand Maester, once. They’re the greatest archers in the realm.

“No.” She flings the sheets off the bed, grabs for her shawl, throws it over her arms, around her shoulders, pushes past him—“No, no, no.”

“My Queen—”

“Where is she?”

“She departs with her dragon any moment, Your Grace, she’s—”

Barefoot, she tears down the hall—past the servants, pushing past knights, barefoot and in the silken nightdress and thin cotton shawl and her hair flying wild as her eyes must seem, she’s sure, bitter and bitten by the cold, down through the corridors and cutting her feet on the rough stone stairs and out through the yard and then—

My queen, my queen, you mustn’t—

(She shoves past breastplates, screams at them, move aside, move aside as your Queen commands—)

Rhaenyra, by the grove of trees, testing the tie of Syrax’s saddle in her riding jacket, in an armored breastplate, hair tied, gloved and stern.

The path stings on her bleeding feet, but still she races.

“Rhaenyra—!”

And Rhaenyra turns. Same as ever.

And then her brow contorts, eyes narrow, hands out to catch her—“Alicent, sweet seven above, you’re going to freeze—your feet—”

“You can’t, you can’t, you can’t.” Fingers tight on her riding jacket, gripping, clutching, weighing her down, holding her down, down on the ground—

(With me.)

“Rhaenyra, please, please, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she sobs. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, please don’t, Rhaenyra, I’m begging you—”

Rhaenyra tries to be stone for a second, she sees it.

(But it can’t last, it doesn’t.)

“Shh.” Rhaenyra’s gloves come over her hands, she leans in, pries her fingers off her riding jacket, draws her close. “Easy.” She looks down with concern at her bloody bare feet. “You’ve got to go back inside, alright? You’ve got to let the maesters see—”

“I don’t care, I don’t care, damn you, Rhaenyra, you can’t, you can’t go—”

But Rhaenyra only shushes her again, brings a hand down to her waist.

(She wonders what the soldiers are seeing; the Queen, barely dressed, tearing out like a demon toward—

Well, she doesn’t really care, though, does she.)

“It’s alright,” Rhaenyra soothes, easy and placating and sad, she can see it, so, so sad. “Alicent. I’m sorry, too. I am. I’m sorry. I promise you, I’ll be back before—”

“They’re archers,” she trembles. “They’re unmatched archers, Rhaenyra.”

Rhaenyra shakes her head. “Nothing bests a dragon.”

“Not the damn dragon, Rhaenyra, gods—” She grabs her by the breastplate, shakes her, fucking shakes—“You. You will be hit. You, the rider.”

Rhaenyra shakes her head. “That’s what the armor is for.”

And she’s desperate, then. “Rhaenyra, please, please please please, I’m begging you, I’m begging you, if you still love me, please don’t—”

It’s out before she can take it back.

They both only stare.

Rhaenyra’s glove comes against her cheek. Her eyes are deep, deep like the sea.

Alicent stands, and then shakes her head, and then beseeches—a whisper—“Stay—”

“I promise to return,” Rhaenyra smiles, and it’s small, then, small and mournful and nostalgic, even, “But I have to go. I must do my duty.” Then, before Alicent even knows it, before she can cleave to her, she climbs atop the saddle; readies herself in its ties, like she’d done forever; her entire life. Rhaenyra smiles down at her, softly. “The woman I love taught me that.”  

For two nights, Alicent vomits. Barely eats. Sleeps in fits.

What news, what news, what news.

Nobody tells her anything.

I’m the fucking Queen, and I want to know what fucking news—

(Nobody tells her anything, anything at all.)

Sir Harrold, she beseeches. He says nothing at all.

She curls in on herself in Rhaenyra’s bed, on Rhaenyra’s pillow, like a child, she chastises, until she lacks the energy to chastise any longer.

Clutches Rhaenyra’s shawl in long, cold fingers.

Please, please, please.

Late in the night, the hour of the wolf.

The roar. Unmistakable.

Syrax.

She tears out of their chambers in her nightclothes on her bandaged feet—

It’s Rhaenyra, sweating and covered in dirt and covered in soot and covered in blood, with a deep, open scratch across her cheekbone and her silver hair tangled with ash.

Rhaenyra being lifted up by two knights onto a maester’s table, wincing hard, gritting her teeth.

Rhaenyra, with an arrow jutting out of her side.

Alicent’s breath catches in her throat.

“Gods be good.”

And then she looks up, finds Alicent’s eyes.

“Alicent,” she breathes. She inhales a little and winces, again, a pure expression of agony. “Alicent, you mustn’t see—”

“We’ll need clean rags,” the Maester murmurs, to someone else, someone away, “For the removal—”

Her hand finds Rhaenyra’s own, sticky and muddy as it is. “Rhaenyra.”

The princess shakes her head with something almost approaching a grin. “It’s only a flesh wound,” she quips, breath ragged, “But still hurts as all seven hells, nevertheless.”

Her eyes nearly drag down to where the splintering wood is sticking from Rhaenyra’s side. She averts them. “Will you—”

The maester shakes his head. “The Princess will fully recover within the moon, if the Princess will allow us to remove the offending object in prudent time.”

Rhaenyra forces a half-smile. “I suppose that’s my cue to lay back. Why don’t you return to our chambers? I’ll be there soon. Just as soon as we’re finished.” The maester gives her a skeptical expression, but Rhaenyra pays him no mind, soothing and calm over the layers of pain. “Why don’t you have them build a great warm fire. I’d enjoy that. Would you go and do that for me? And I’ll join you very shortly?”

Alicent can barely breathe. “Right.” She states, getting her grip, holding it—“Yes. Okay.”

Rhaenyra nods, squeezes her hand. “Okay. I’ll see you soon.”

Alicent races back through the corridors, before her maidens can see her cry.

Rhaenyra isn’t allowed a real bath, with her dressings. She’s lost some blood. She’s woozy.

She asks for wine. Alicent has them bring milk and bread, milk and bread and salt and butter.

She sits Rhaenyra in the Lord’s high-backed chair; dips a clean rag into the warm water she’d requested, squeezes it damp. Avoids Rhaenyra’s soft blue eyes as she runs it across her cheek, her forehead, wiping the soot away, the blood, the battle.

Rhaenyra only blinks up at her, hazy and tired. “How do I look.”

Alicent swallows back a fresh round of tears. “Filthy.”

“Hm.”

She submerges the cloth, wrings it out; places a steadying hand against her cheek, cleans her brow, her cracked lips, her chin, the sweat on her neck.

Rhaenyra sighs, closes her eyes against the warmth of the fire. Alicent hums. “Are you cold?”

Rhaenyra only chuckles, much as the movement seems to pain her. “Oh, how things change.”

(Alicent runs water through her hair, brushes it silver again.)

Three hot buckets and ten cloths later, Rhaenyra is clean, clean and half-asleep and on her back in their bed.

“Alicent,” she whispers. “I’m so sorry.”

She shakes her head. “We don’t need to talk about it, not now—”

“No,” Rhaenyra says. “I want to.”

Alicent is only quiet at that.

“I know,” Rhaenyra sputters, then, eyes closed. “I know why you’re afraid. I can understand. I don’t know who told you that I’d—well.”

Alicent only brings the furs closer up to her shoulders.

“I can’t apologize for who I was as a child, Alicent,” she murmurs. “But you must understand. I did not change the terms of our peace. Cregan insisted, as a term of his continued support for his own suit. The houses of the Northerly west—they were—” She coughs, then, hard. “They were unhappy. Veron the Younger agreed. Veron the Elder did not.”

She shakes her head. “Rhaenyra,” she whispers, “Why didn’t you tell me that.”

“It didn’t matter,” she replies. “It was only that you thought I’d have lied to you. That you were so sure. I know what happened before. And I’m sorry. I am.”

Alicent is silent, for a moment.

(Something for me, for once.)

“I didn’t want it to become this, these years,” she says. “But you hurt me, Rhaenyra. And I didn’t know what to do.”

Rhaenyra nods. “I don’t understand,” she says, and then winces, just a fraction, and then opens her eyes, opens them until Alicent can see crystal blue. “How could you think, for a second,” she labours, “That I could possibly hurt—that I could ever take your children from you.”

Alicent shakes her head. “In the pursuit of power, Rhaenyra, worse has been done for far less.”

Rhaenyra hums.

“What can I do?” She asks, finally. “To prove it to you. That they’re safe.”

Alicent finds her hand under the furs.

Somewhere outside, the morning lark begins its call.

“You should sleep.”

“No. Tell me what I must do, Alicent.”

Alicent shakes her head.

“Aemond.” She says, then. “Aemond has been—he’s melancholic. The other boys, Rhaenyra, they torment him. Your boys. And Aegon, too. He’s—I wish you could see him, Rhaenyra—” She swallows. “The King cares not for his suffering. I want—I want you to put a stop to it. Immediately.”

Rhaenyra nods. “Consider it done.”

“And Aegon. He’s a drunk at fourteen and I can barely—gods, Rhaenyra, I can’t understand him sometimes at all. He’ll only become a lout, if this is his youth. Viserys doesn’t see it. And Aegon is so cruel, sometimes.” She shakes her head. “I need help.”

Rhaenyra quirks a brow. “You think I’ll know what to do with him?”

“I don’t know, Rhaenyra, I don’t know if anyone does. But I need help.”

Rhaenyra hums. “And Helaena.”

At this, Alicent pauses. “Helaena follows her own way.”

Rhaenyra smiles, a little. “She’s my favorite sibling, after all.”

Alicent scoffs. “Because of the succession?”

“Because she reminds me of you.” Rhaenyra’s brow twitches, eyes returning closed. “Sweet like you.”

Alicent only sighs. “I’m not sweet anymore.”

Rhaenyra shakes her head. “Utter falsehood.”

“And Rhaenyra,” she beseeches. “I want my baby. I don’t want him at the Hightower. I want him home. With me.”

Rhaenyra frowns. “Daeron?”

“Daeron.” She whispers. “I want him home. My father requested—Viserys capitulated—he’s young, Rhaenyra, he’s only just seven years—”

“Alright.” Rhaenyra assents. “I will negotiate it with my father.”

Alicent settles under the furs beside her, then, careful not to jostle her.

“And,” Rhaenyra continues, then, in the firelight. “My sons.”

Alicent waits.

“You’re right, of course,” Rhaenyra sighs. “Laenor, we tried, but—it never. And my father, so insistent on the bloodline. And I’ll admit, with Aegon…” She coughs, again, low. “It’s piteous, but. I was lonely. And I was afraid. And Harwin was there. He didn’t expect anything, didn’t demand anything. Never left when I needed him, never spoke to me harshly. Listened when I needed someone to listen, after the bloodletting of the day. You can fault me, for doing what a thousand kings have done. Were I a man, I might only legitimize them and put it all to bed with a stroke of ink.”

“But you’re not a man, Rhaenyra,” Alicent whispers, eyes away, eyes sad. “You jeopardized everything.”

She shakes her head. “Maybe.” And then she looks back. “But don’t think I wouldn’t have chosen you, in all of this. I would have chosen you a thousand times over.”

She shakes her head. “Who am I to judge you now,” she laments. “After—after what we’ve done.”

Rhaenyra looks up at her then, looks hard, an expression older and more serious than she’s ever seen upon Rhaenyra’s face. “Have you ever considered,” she states, “That the rules to which you bind yourself may not actually deserve your devotion.”

Alicent shrugs. “It doesn’t matter, now.” She admits. “They won’t have it, either way.” And then she turns—looks back, looks mournful.  “I don’t bear ill will toward your boys, Rhaenyra.” Alicent whispers. “I was simply—it is difficult.” She traces her thumb over Rhaenyra’s knuckles, softly. “To watch you flout the yoke that has choked me so. Forgive me. I know it is childish, I know—”

“No.” Rhaenyra replies, then, and then her hand is squeezing back, gentle and loving. “No.”

Alicent quiets, eyes downcast. “I’m sorry for it. I’m sorry I tried to tie you into it, that I tried to tie you down.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes open, but for a moment. “I should have tried to set you free.”

Alicent focuses on her grip, lets it hold her.

“You, Rhaenyra.” She whispers, low and gentle and true. “Other than my children. You’re the only person. The only person I have ever loved.”

Rhaenyra nods, eyes falling shut. “In my dreams, we fly together all the time.” Her brow smooths over. “When the weather’s warm.”  

It’s when they’re alone, when she’s bare in Rhaenyra’s arms, in bed, that she tells her.

She struggles not to sob, not to break.

“I didn’t mean to kill him,” she cries. “I swear it. I’m so so sorry, Rhaenyra, I didn’t know. I swear to all seven gods, I would never have asked—”

Rhaenyra is silent, rigid and silent.

Finally—

“You didn’t kill him.”

“But I—”

“I understand, Alicent. But you didn’t kill him.”

“Larys Strong—”

Rhaenyra’s eyes glint. “I will deal with Larys Strong.”

Rhaenyra grows stronger over the days, the following two fortnights. Whatever her efforts won at Moat Cailin has seemed to have stuck; there is peace in the North, again.

“Gentle, gentle,” Alicent cautions as Rhaenyra pulls on her slip. She takes it by the hem, pulls it over Rhaenyra’s arms, settles it over her stomach, her legs. “Don’t pull your stitching.”

Rhaenyra sighs. “The damned stitching was supposed to be out by now.”

Alicent raises a brow. “You’ve got a bruise blacker than the night across your side, Rhaenyra, the stitching can stay right where it is.”

Rhaenyra huffs. “Smotherer.”

“Really?” Alicent raises a brow. “Would you like to help yourself into your stockings, then?”

Rhaenyra fixes her with an expression equal parts petulant and defeated. “Alright, alright.”

Then she wiggles her toes. Alicent flicks them with a finger, rolls her eyes, presses a kiss to the fading scratch across Rhaenyra’s cheek.

When they fly back, she’s crying. But she doesn’t know why.

“You okay?” Rhaenyra’s eyes are serene over her shoulder, serene and blue. Alicent shakes her head, closes her eyes, grips Rhaenyra’s waist tighter.

“I’m alright,” she calls, but she’s not sure Rhaenyra hears her over the roar of the wind, the beat of Syrax’s wings.  

(Syrax had chittered happily when she’d climbed aboard; shook and grumbled when Rhaenyra saddled up after.

Rhaenyra had only rolled her eyes. “It’s important to share, now, Syrax.”)

She falls asleep against Rhaenyra’s back, for a while. Rests her arms against the ties that bind her to Rhaenyra, to the saddle. The smell of Rhaenyra’s hair is clear as ever, even here, even high in the air.

“Don’t be scared,” Rhaenyra calls, again, leaning back against her touch. “I’ve got you. You can’t fall.”

I’m not afraid to fall, she wonders, as Syrax’s wings lift. I’m afraid to land.

Rhaenyra can see it, it’s easy to see. The way Alicent’s sideways glances linger warily; the clench of her fingers, the near-motionless twitch of her thumb, the ghost of that old habit.

She wants to say it, she does. You’re wondering if I’m going to stay.

The King greets them with merriment and joviality, thankful and grateful and kissing her up on the cheek, squeezing her hand—my girl.

Alicent withdraws to her apartments, to her children.

Rhaenyra finds her own boys in her own quarters, Joffrey warm and giggling in Laenor’s arms. She takes him quick, takes him strong, presses a kiss upon his head, cradles him in the soft red velvets.

“Welcome home,” Laenor smiles.

Alicent’s bed is cold, that night, when she knocks upon her door.

Enter, she says, and Rhaenyra does.

She’s back in her silks and greens, hair down in a thousand waves.

And then her expression changes.

You came, it says, but Rhaenyra already knows.

She dives into Alicent’s arms that night, buries herself like a woman possessed.

She’s walking along the ramparts by the training yards when she hears it—the boyish yelp.

It’s Aemond, stumbling into the dirt from a kick to the breastplate by Aegon, who laughs gleefully as Aemond falls. He raises his wooden sword to brace for the blow—

But out of the corner of her view, it’s Jace, not Aegon, who knocks the weapon from Aemond’s hands.

“Call for your dragon, Aemond!”  Jace mocks, from a side of him she’s never once seen.

From behind him, Lucerys and Aegon cackle.

She’s down the steps before she knows it; through the turret and down, past the gates, into the yard—

“My Princess—” Harrold cautions.

“Stop.” Her command is sure as the clench in her fists, the set of her jaw. “This instant. Jacaerys Velaryon, you will drop that sword.”

He does. It clunks against the ground.

She steps over it, past Aegon, who only stares, dumbly, to Aemond, who’s picked himself sourly out of the dirt, scowling and hurt.

“Aemond,” she levels. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” he spits. His eyes remain on the grass.

She turns back to them, to her boys. “Aemond is your family.” She states. “Your blood. And a Prince of the Realm. And you are not to aggress him.”

Jace looks down at his feet. “Yes, Mother.”

“And you.”

Aegon worries his lip, looks up at her with equal parts disinterest and embarrassment.

“Come now,” she chides, softer. “Aegon. He’s your brother, after all. You musn’t—”

“Our brother.”

She blinks. “What?”

“He’s our brother.” Aegon says. “You are our sister, after all.”

At that, Rhaenyra only stares.

“Yes.” She says, finally. “Our brother. Please treat him kindly,” she levels. “For your mother’s sake, if nothing more.”

As she leaves, Aemond’s eyes follow her; across the yard, through the door; back up to the ramparts, until she is gone.

Alicent watches, closely, carefully.

Rhaenyra leans in, smiles at her sister.

(Helaena, as though in some dream she’s had, smiles back.)

“Dragons of flesh, dragons of thread,” Helaena repeats, like yesterday, the day before, like always.

But Rhaenyra doesn’t even blink, not for a moment. “Was this a dragon dream, Helaena?”

Alicent frowns. What in under the gods—

“Yes,” Helaena replies, even as ever. “I have had many more.”

Rhaenyra nods. “I would like to hear them.”

And then Helaena beams, like Alicent’s never seen.

Rhaenyra yanks the cup out of his hands, dashes the wine in the grass.

“Come now, Aegon, I thought we had an agreement.”

Aegon frowns with annoyance. “We do. This is my one for the day, and it’s after midday, and it’s not in Fleabottom, is it?”

Rhaenyra raises her brow. “The deal was one cup of wine, not the use of only one goblet.”

Aegon sighs. “But I’m—”

“Your brother is back, this day.” She reminds. “Don’t you want to see him? Don’t you want him to see you, not down on your ass in an alley?”

At this, Aegon pauses; worries his cheek. Sniffs. “Yes.”

Later that day, she passes by the dragonpit, on the way to Syrax. Spots them.

Thank the gods.

It’s Aegon, with his dragon.

And Viserys. Like Rhaenyra had asked of him.

(Over and over and over again, that is.)

Aegon says something she can’t hear, something that makes him grin, just a little. Viserys smiles; pats Sunfyre’s glittering side.

Rhaenyra can only smile when she sees it; smile wider than she can remember, wonder why her eyes are misting over.

Alicent races to the carriage, where Daeron emerges like an arrow from a bowstring, eyes wide and desperate, wanting.

“Mama!”

He’s tiny, Rhaenyra notes. Smaller than Lucerys was when he was two years his junior.

Alicent gathers him up into her arms. There are tears in her eyes.

My baby, my baby, my sweetling.

He buries his silver head in her curls. Rhaenyra watches a little fist finds its way into the shoulder of her dress.  

I’m here, Alicent whispers, eyes shut tight. I’m here, I’m here.

The truth of Harrenhal outs.

Viserys is displeased with several elements of Alicent’s private testimony to him, but Rhaenyra locks eyes with him, strong and sure.

Believe her.

And Rhaenyra vouches for her. For her character. Her veracity.

When the King passes judgment, Rhaenyra is not there; somewhere above, upon Syrax, in thought, in mourning, where nobody can see her.

But she’s there for the punishment, for her vengeance. For Harwin.

Syrax opens her gaping maw—

Dracarys.

(Larys meets his brother’s fate.)

Alicent worries her lip as Rhaenyra ties Daeron to her chest in the front of Syrax’ saddle.

“He’s too old not to have had his first flight,” Rhaenyra lobbies, pulling his sleeves lower over his riding gloves. Daeron grins with unbridled excitement.

Alicent exhales, strong and anxious. “Rhaenyra, be careful.”

Rhaenyra only smiles down at Daeron, who bounces in his seat, nods along. “He’ll be joyous. And he deserves it. My father did it for me.”

Alicent hugs around her middle. “But Rhaenyra—”

“Surely you wouldn’t rather Aegon take him up on Sunfyre—”

“No.” Alicent replies. “I told you, I agreed if it were you, and if you remained above the city.”

“It seems you’re eager to revoke that offer.”

“Apologies if I express unease at having him a league in the air.”

Rhaenyra only arches a brow. “You survived, didn’t you?”

And that, Alicent sighs, capitulating.  She pats Daeron’s little leg; pulls again at the strength of the ties. “Have fun, my love,” she tells him. “You must be a good boy. Obey your sister, now.”

He nods, turns forth, looks up toward the skies. “Soves! Soves!”

Rhaenyra only laughs. And then acquiesces.

“Soves, Syrax,” she commands.

Alicent watches as they ascend, light as a bird, into the skies.

Viserys grows weaker, older. But on better days, cooler days, he asks for her, and they talk.

“You and the Queen,” he says, one afternoon. “You’ve grown close again.”

Rhaenyra nods. Looks out over the city, from the edge of his lonely veranda. “It is a singular joy.”

“I notice you spend the night, often.”

Rhaenyra stiffens, a little.

Viserys seems to notice. “It’s not a qualm, my dear.”

She shakes her head. “Father—”

“Rhaenyra,” he cuts in, simply, quietly. His face has disintegrated around them but his eyes—those eyes, her father’s eyes, still the same; the same from when she was a girl, chipper and riotous, and he’d tie her into her saddle. “Are you happy?”

Rhaenyra pauses. “I—”

(But there’s no use in lying to him, not now, is there?)

“Yes.” She sighs. “I’m happy.”

“And is she happy? The—” He swallows. “Alicent.”

And Rhaenyra only nods again. “I think she is.”

Viserys smiles, then.

“Very good,” he rasps, and then he coughs, and coughs and coughs, and she brings his tea to his lips, slow and sure.

“Then I’m happy, Rhaenyra,” he sighs, eyes smiling. “I’m happy indeed.”

They end up in the godswood, after everything.

Alicent sits, loose and light in her blue summer dress, book open beside her. She reads to Rhaenyra the ancient legends of the Wall.

Rhaenyra listens, lays down, silver hair across her lap, Alicent’s fingers betwixt her own, eyes closed.

The breeze blows soft.

“Are you cold?” Rhaenyra asks, lips curling upward.

“No,” Alicent replies. Her curls glitter, Rhaenyra notices, almost the same color as the red-dappled leaves.

Joffrey chases behind Daeron, somewhere not too far off; Rhaenyra can hear their cheers.

And then Rhaenyra watches Alicent smile, a brilliant, world-ending smile. Her eyes shine. “No,” she says, again. “I’m perfectly content.”

Chapter Text

They walk for mere moments, or hours, maybe.

He never knew a place could smell like this. Oldtown didn’t. Not the parts he remembers, the parts he used to know.

(Or look so dark like this, really—)

It’s flashes of somethings he catches in the din, between the legs and around the hips and rags of the beggars, the carts of the merchants and pedlars and hawkers—

The women in the alleys, at the edges.

(One, with long red hair, like his mother’s—

A man’s hand fisted in it, bending her low, on her knees.)

Aegon laughs with a hand on his shoulder, pushes him forth, closer to it. Daeron claws at his hand, tries to stumble back—

Did you see that, little dragon? He sneers. You can’t blame our sister, see. Everyone wants to enjoy the Queen.

He turns to Aemond, breath tight and high in his throat—“I want to go back—I want Rhaenyra—”

But before he knows it, Aemond is gone.

“Aegon?”

Beside him, a man breathes a plume of fire and two men roar and barrel through the crowd and he falls to the cobblestones. He picks himself back up. The palms of his hands are black.

If you get lost, head toward the Blackwater.

(He knows which way is east; the Maesters taught him so.)

There’s a shout, a whistle through the sizzling air; a crowd calls out Aegon’s name, but he’s not there, and a man on a stage points toward Aegon’s Hill—

The only cock on the rock!

Daeron turns, again, and his eldest brother is nowhere to be found.

He spies a soldier, there—by the edge of the crowd, a knight—

Daeron tugs on his gold cloak. “I want to go back to the castle,” he murmurs, voice quiet from below his hood. “I want to see the Queen.”

The goldcloak laughs and shoves him off. “So do I, little beggar,” he snickers. “Quite a few things I’d like to do with her—”

The crowd grows louder as he wanders—a flagon of wine spills and wets his boots, someone shouts—

Daeron makes haste toward the beach.

The day before it happens, Daeron drops his egg back in its cradle by the fire and looks back at Rhaenyra with stinging red hands.

His mother rises, but it’s Rhaenyra who meets him first, turning his palms gently over, frowning, tutting at the crisscross of the red welting scales—

You must be careful, sweetling, she says, as she always says. Mother calls for the maesters, dispatches Ser Harrold behind her. You mustn’t touch, when it’s hot.

He sighs with consternation, with wide piteous eyes.

I want it to hatch.

Mother pets his silver hair, an arm around her middle, looking down at the red of his hands, sad and vacant and far away—

“That way I can fly back,” he supplies.

(So she’ll understand; so she’ll be happy.)

“Back here. If they take me away.”

“Daeron,” Rhaenyra squeezes his wiry wrists. “No one shall ever take you away. I command it.”

The King has demanded a feast, the evening of the morrow; one for his family, and his family alone.

(That means Daeron, too, because the King is his father.)

He knows because Aegon has been griping about it all day, how Rhaenyra is too busy with the King to join him in the skies with Sunfyre, how Sunfyre always smarts when Syrax isn’t around, how Daeron should be angry, because it means Daeron can’t fly, either—

I don’t like Syrax, he wants to say, but he doesn’t.

(Not since his dream, anyway.)

Aemond always attends the Small Council with Rhaenyra upon the moon’s turn; Aegon is supposed to as well, but he always stalks through the hallways shouting to Mother that I’ve told her a thousand times I don’t fucking care and slips off to somewhere else. Luke trains separately now—with Jace again—because he’s tall enough, and Daeron still isn’t, so Daeron’s alone.

Well, not completely.

“Ser Erryk?” He begs, again, tugging on the knight’s sleeve—“Can’t we please go for a lemon sweet?”

(Ser Erryk is the youngest knight of the Kingsguard. He’s like Daeron, that way. Daeron’s always youngest, too. He can’t fly on Sunfyre because he’s youngest, or train will steel because he’s youngest.

Or even wander the halls alone. But he can go with Ser Erryk, who sometimes lets him go for treats in the kitchen. Ser Erryk likes lemon sweets, too, even if he pretends not.)

Ser Erryk shoots him a half-smirk and directs him through another corridor. “As I said—not today, my Prince.”

Daeron skips along beside him—swings below the tapestries two steps at a time, pianos his fingers against the painted walls and silver banister; hums a tune he thinks he’s heard Rhaenyra whistle, when she walks the halls to think.

“Ser Erryk, surely my dragon shall hatch soon, don’t you think?”

Ser Erryk shakes his head. “I’m no Valyrian, my Prince. I'm afraid I do not know.”

But Daeron only sighs. “Neither do I.”  

A while later, after midday, he’s meant to train with Ser Criston—

(And he knows Rhaenyra doesn’t like him—)

(When Daeron falls on a parry with Ser Harrold, he always helps him up and tells him that to persist is the true victory, my Prince; Ser Criston always leaves him in the dirt, tells him to watch your damned feet.)

I want to be a knight, he whispers to his bedroom ceiling, sometimes. I want to be the bravest knight in the land, so Mother will never be scared, and then—

“Does Ser Criston not like me?” He’d asked Rhaenyra, one evening, upon her lap at her desk. She’d looked up from her papers and down at him and seemed angry and so—sorry he’d said, sorry, I’m sorry.

Still, she’d not relented—"Why do you ask that, sweetling?” She’d brushed his hair from his eyes with concern across her face. “What’s happened?”

Then Mother had entered their chambers and Rhaenyra had turned back to her letters  like nothing had happened.

(But later that night, tucked into his bed, waving away his nursemaids—Rhaenyra, silver hair framed like a crown—

I love you, Daeron, and she’d reached her hand upon his own, and he’d tried to clutch her back, trapped her first two fingers in his palm. She’d merely smiled, a tired smile, resigned. There’s no limit to my love.)

I will watch my feet today.

Ser Criston swings the wood across again, a simple blow, and Daeron’s supposed to catch it on his left side and then switch to the backfoot—

“No, I told you, use your momentum—"

Ser Criston’s practice sword comes under his swing—but instead of knocking him on the kneepads it raps him hard just under the ribs and he falls, winded, and the air won’t come—

“You’re lazy and careless today,” Ser Criston scolds, and it’s a low voice like his cousin Garse from the Hightower who’d used to walk past and shove him aside. “Just like your sister.”

Daeron only frowns. Ser Criston barely knows Helaena.

“She’s not,” he protests, meekly.

Ser Criston scoffs, motions for him to get back on his feet. “And insolent, too.”

Later, Ser Harrold arrives to bring him to supper. Bess, who’s round and plump and kind and his nursemaid who says you’re just as sweet as you were as a babe, skinny and happy as a little colt, but her eyes are unhappy when she beckons Ser Harrold into his chambers and lifts Daeron’s shirt to show him—

Ser Harrold frowns at the blue bloom upon his ribs. They look at each other a moment but Ser Harrold doesn’t say anything at all.

“I’ve heard,” Ser Harrold says, after a moment, smiling that wry smile that means sorry, the smile he used to give him when he’d barely just arrived from Oldtown and he’d cry when his mother had unfurl his fingers from her skirts and leave him—“That my Prince is our greatest admirer of lemon sweets in all the world. How about we sneak down to the kitchens and have you one? As a reward, for my Prince’s hard training.”

“Yes please,” Daeron smiles, and it’s as though he’d never felt the bruise at all.

Sometimes in his dreams there’s a dragon that howls, and she’s brilliant and blue and looks happy, happy and triumphal and splendid. She snarls with gleaming white teeth and ascends into the skies, strong and righteous battle-ready.

He watches her lift and lean, dodge and swoop, sure as an arrow, light as all air. Upon her flies a knight with white hair, in gleaming silver.

Sometimes Mother stands beside him, in the vermillion grass, looking younger than he’s ever seen her. Tessarion, Mother says.

After he’s dressed for the feast in an itchy black doublet he watches his egg in its cradle by the fire and waits. Helaena is there, in her silvery lilac dress, and Mother enters soon afterward, moving briskly through the apartments and until she’s nowhere to be found, embattled-looking and dour again.

Mother’s very sad, he’d told Aemond, though it was more a question than elsewise.

Not like before, Aemond had said.

Daeron didn’t know what to make of that. Did the King make her sad?

Aemond quirks a brow. Not for much longer.

He looks at Helaena with her needlepoint, and something like Mother herself, Helaena can be there without being, her eyes someplace else, like she’s not really with him at all.

“I want my egg to hatch,” he laments.

Helaena answers from the longue, drawing the thread across another strand, calm and unbothered as ever. “It won’t.”

“Rhaenyra,” he asks, when he’s found her along the hallways, outside their apartments, dressed in her finery, enigmatic, saying something to Lord Beesbury, and Ser Harrold, who looks tired and resigned. She doesn’t look so he tugs on her skirt and she catches his hand without even looking down, rubbing with her thumb in that way that means hush now as she finishes telling Lord Beesbury that they’ve got to be prepared, at least.

“Rhaenyra,” he nags, tugging again at her hand. “What if my egg doesn’t hatch and I have to go? Helaena said—what if I have to go, and—”

Then she does look down, frowns. “Go where, my sweet?”

“Away.”

“Daeron, my love,” she entreats, in that calm low voice that means it’s okay, the same voice she uses when he had his night terrors and she used to take him on long walks in the night around the Keep. “Nobody is ever, ever taking you away. Why don’t you go find Luke, yes? Perhaps you can practice a round of cyvasse before the—”

“But what if I have to? Because of duty? Or if I’ve made a promise?”

She sighs; nods to Beesbury, who departs behind Ser Harrold down the corridor. “Listen,” she says, leaning down, “When you are a man grown, and a very brave knight, you may embark on all the adventures you wish, so long as you wish it.”

“But how will I get back?”

She frowns, again. “How will you—?”

“How will I ever return?”

She takes his shoulder in her hand, squeezes, runs a thumb across his cheek. “The same way as always, Daeron. Not to worry, my love,” she murmurs, gentle. “We will always bring you home.”

His mother approaches, then, from the corridor that leads to the King’s chambers, among other things, quickly and with much purpose, like she’s running, a little.

Rhaenyra catches her eye down the corridor and they share an inscrutable expression.

“I’ll retrieve you on Syrax, if I have to,” Rhaenyra assures him, eyes still on his mother. “From anywhere in the world.”

“I don’t like Syrax,” he says, before he can think.

Mother almost pauses; turns and looks at Rhaenyra with an impossible cast.

But Rhaenyra merely nods, unbothered as ever. “On horseback, then,” she says. “Or a carriage, or a boat, or on the back of a giant ape from Yeen.” She smiles, then, and he does, too. “However, wherever I can.”

Usually, they take dinner in their apartments; it’s when Mother sits with Joffrey on her lap and coaxes blueberries and parsnips into his mouth, and he and Luke wait for him to fuss so they can try and play marbles under the table without Mother noticing. Aegon always tries to sit furthest from where he thinks Rhaenyra will and Rhaenyra always comes in last and sits right beside him. Then they engage in silent battle—Aegon pushing his luck on his cups and Rhaenyra deciding whether she’s in the mood to lecture. Sometimes she does and Aegon slides his chair out on the stone with that awful sound and storm back to his rooms, cup in hand and uses a word that you know you are not to utter around the children.

(Some nights Mother tries; asks Jace a question, then another, waiting with plaintive eyes—his day, or his reading—to which he hardly replies.

And then Rhaenyra asks him the same in that tone and he moves his food around and mutters something like yes, quite well, thank you, Your Grace.

But Mother never looks happier for it; she just looks back at him, bouncing Joffrey, quieter and sadder than before.)

If they’re good, sometimes he and Luke get to play with Rhaenyra’s four-sided hourglass (which they only broke once and not even that bad and Rhaenyra didn’t even mind.) One time after dinner, later, when he’d left his rooms to ask for it, he’d found Aegon and Aemond outside her doors—

(They were shut, but there was sound, just the faintest sound, almost like crying—)

Aegon laughed and sipped something awful smelling, and Aemond rolled his eyes and said surely Ser Arryk won’t choose this night to finally object to your damned adventures—

(Adventures where Daeron is infuriatingly never allowed—)

Still, the noise, again.

“Is Mother sad?” He’d asked Aemond, as Aegon smirked wider. “Is Mother crying?”

“No,” Aegon chortled. Then he looked down at Daeron, lanky and tall and big-headed as he’d gotten, smiling a canary grin. “Mother is fucking.”

“Watch your tongue,” Aemond had snapped. “Especially here.”

“She’s fucking our sister. Everyone knows,” Aegon japes. He smiles back at Daeron, but it’s that woozy smile, like it’s not really Aegon at all. “That’s what she’s in there doing, right now.”

“Helaena’s in her rooms,” Daeron protested.

“Not Helaena,” Aegon sniffed, disgusted. “Rhaenyra, of course. Gods, you’re—"

“Let him alone,” Aemond had said. Daeron had only frowned. Then Aegon had slunk off, and it was only Aemond who remained, tugging his cloak in tow.  

“Is that a bad thing?” Daeron asked. “What Mother’s doing?”

“It’s not to be spoken of,” he’d replied. “Ever.”

Daeron had toed his slipper into the stone for a moment, worried his lip.

“Aemond,” he said. “What if my egg never hatches?”

Aemond only sighed through the nose, shook his head.

“Gods.”

And then he’d been off into the night.

He doesn’t remember the King, not really; isn’t sure if they’ve ever met, except that one time, that time in his apartments—

Hello, my son.

I like your ring, Daeron had said. It looks like my egg.

The King had smiled warmly, and coughed, then, coughed loud.

Then you must have it, my boy, the King told him. He’d looked back up to Mother. Will you ensure…?

(Of course, she’d said, hand on his shoulder. I promise.)

Only months after his arrival back home, Daeron had to go, but Mother came with him—to Driftmark, in that chilly, foggy air, how grey it was that day, how sour in the morning dew.

Mother had put him in the carriage with herself and with Rhaenyra and Joffrey—who’d squalled all the while, and Rhaenyra had looked distraught and said I should not have brought him, and I can’t let him with the nursemaids upon the road, I can’t, and then Mother had moved to her bench and touched her arm and said it’s alright and give him to me and she’d held him and shushed him and made him stop and Daeron could finally sleep.

He'd met his Uncle Daemon at Driftmark. Daeron didn’t like him.

He’d stood beside Jace and Helaena and Luke, that day. They were very sad, because someone had died. Uncle Daemon’s wife.

Later in the evening the King had approached Uncle Daemon and touched his shoulder.

A month afterward, there had been a feast, in the Red Keep, again; Daemon had worn a golden pin.

(All the while Aemond kept talking about a dragon, talking and talking and talking—by the shore, in his sleep; when he thought no one was there to listen.

God of war, he’d murmured, in the velvet dark; God of war.)

Ser Laenor has passed, Mother told him, later. Murdered by his companion.

He’d only blinked.

(Once, Ser Laenor had given him a blue ornate dagger—blunted, though, at the banquet for his eighth birthday.

You’ll become a most fearsome night, Laenor had assured, and then he’d smiled. Together, you and I and the knights of the Realm shall vanquish many enemies on behalf of the Queen.

Do you promise? Daeron had asked. Do you think I’ll be brave?

I promise, Ser Laenor had said, and then he’d patted him on the back, small and hearty. He’d smiled again with assurance. Daeron the Daring.

At their feast, finally, private and solemn and warm as it is, Daeron pulls at the black wool across his chest and tries to smile as the King brings his hands to the chair and slowly, shaking, stands.

(You must remember your father in good health, his mother told him, in good spirits.)

(I don’t want the King to die.)

When the King pulls forth his mask, Mother’s brows knit, but she reaches for his hand again and her eyes are deep and sad.

Rhaenyra remains still to his left; still and cool as the air.

“It gladdens my heart,” the King says, “That our family has reunited despite its differences, and come together, today and in all the tomorrows to come, to embrace love and unity over discord.” The King looks at Mother, then, and Rhaenyra, on his other side. “I am grateful,” he says, “That you have set aside your quarrels. For the sake of this old man.”

(Aegon snorts. That’s why, he mutters.)

“I know that the House of the Dragon shall only grow stronger, for the trust and good will of the beloved faces gathered round this table. Your husband, your brother, your grandsire—” and then the King turns to Rhaenyra once more, tender and quiet and true, like it’s only them, like they’re alone—“Your father is happy, my dear.”

Rhaenyra smiles, looks down.

“My daughter,” he says, then. “You shall indeed make a fine Queen.”

(Mother smiles—just a little.)

The King raises his cup, and they follow suit, and he sits. Somewhere off, music begins to play.

“My King,” Mother entreats, again, hand clasped in his own, “You have always said that the House of the Dragon could not stand unless united. As you’ve echoed tonight.”

“Yes.”

“Unity is the fruit of leadership,” she beseeches, softly. “Leadership that is strong.” Daeron notices Rhaenyra’s eyes lift from her plate, from Daemon’s conversation beside her. Mother swallows. “Strong, and upright, and uncontested.”

Rhaenyra quirks a brow.

(Ser Criston stands silent as the night in the far corner by the door.)

The King frowns. “Dear wife—”

“The lords of the realm are like to stir up gossip,” Mother presses. “And take whatever advantage they can, whenever they can, to flock and scavenge to power. It has been more than a decade since the lords of the realm affirmed their leal commitment to your trueborn and chosen heir. The first in history of her kind.”

(Her eyes flicker up to Rhaenyra. They look like they do when she’s asking for something, like when Daeron’s overheard her telling Rhaenyra to fasten her straps tighter on dragonback, or make Aegon leave his wine aside, or watch over the boys’ training.)

Daemon sighs. “Your Grace, she may be right—"

The King stills her with a hand. “What do you ask of me?”

“I believe it would be prudent,” Mother entreats, her hand closing around his, “To call upon the Realm again in this hour. And receive their oaths of loyalty to the Crown, and to your heir. And to peace.” Her eyes shine. “A decade is a century to men with fickle memories.”

Rhaenyra looks between the King and Mother, a tempering voice—“Your Grace, perhaps—”

“My dear,” the King rasps, “Hardly necessary. Oathbound and honour-bound, the Realm knows my wish—”

“But shall the Realm accede,” Mother pleads, “Shall the Realm honour—”

“Alicent,” Rhaenyra insists, again.

(She sounds serious, Daeron thinks, serious as she is when she finds him jumping down the stairs.)

Daemon’s eyes move fluid and expressionless between them.

“My dear wife.” The King states. “There is no cause to fear. Rhaenyra shall rule. With strength. And wisdom. It shall be.”

(Mother’s eyes are wet in the firelight. Daemon raises a brow.)

“I must agree the hour grows late,” Daemon murmurs, eyes on Mother, “To put our trust in men so far away.”

Rhaenyra’s jaw twitches. Then, slowly—“This is hardly the time, or the place—”

“Later, then.” Mother says.

Something passes between them, then, something left unsaid.

The King sighs, merely tips his chin. “If this will put your concerns to rest, my Queen,” he says, “Then I shall consider it.”

Daeron looks around, then—Jace and Luke and Aemond, watching with worrisome intent; Helaena, far away as always.

But Daemon—thumbing the edge of his plate in the firelight, eyes downcast, thinking; working his fingers over, like he’s been thinking all the while.

Later that night, after his burned palms have been wrapped, and they’ve been sent to their chambers, his brothers and Jace and Luke and even Aegon, surly as he is—he pads out of his chambers in the apartments. Mother’s door is open—

Mother is angry with Rhaenyra—her eyes are livid, and she’s pointing, pointing and seething—still they’re only whispering, like they always do after they’ve all gone to bed, quiet and forceful in clipped breaths.

(—whether they want it or no, Mother insists.)

Rhaenyra whispers something back, quieter; Mother replies, and then Rhaenyra, again, reaching out a hand—and then Mother draws back, covers her mouth, closes her eyes.

Alicent, Rhaenyra says.

(Rhaenyra brings Mother’s head to her shoulder, fits her arms around her waist, holds her; like the knights do in the songs.)

When he returns to his rooms, Aegon is there, with his hood, and Aemond, too.

Aegon holds a third shroud.

“Would you like to come play, little brother?”

(Aemond looks away.)

Aegon leans down, right in his face, smiles with too many teeth. He looks like his dragon.

“Are you a brave knight, Daeron? Brave enough to meet the Conqueror’s city?”

When he was younger, Rhaenyra used to lift Daeron into her arms, when he was sad, used to sit with him in the gardens, by the flowers and the water and when the sky was nothing but sun.

Do you like it here?  She’d asked him, once, smiling down to his face, a thumb stroking at the base of his spine. In the capitol? Your brothers, your nephews—are they kind to you? Are you excited to train with the sword?

“What happened to Oldtown?” He’d asked, then. His face leaned in her shoulder. He wasn’t sure if she’d heard.

It’s still there, she’d said, though her voice had changed, maybe a little. But then she’d smiled again and bounced him a little and pressed a kiss to the crown of his head.

(He’d liked that.)

We can visit. Whenever you’d like.

Somewhere, a gull’s call, deep over the waters.

He remembered this moment—her braids, her silver; like his.

He looked up at her. “Why did I go away?”

Her eyes were smooth as satin, but she hadn’t replied. Not right away.

She looked out forth, toward the sea. “Your mother missed you very much.”

He finds the docks past the Iron Gate and they smell like fish and death and by a sidestreet ways away, a man beats another, and his cries are loud, and then he cries not at all.

The man with firebreath, the goldcloak’s oily beard—

Daeron runs, faster, until the docks and tents and stragglers are gone, and there’s only deep beach, gleaming sand, yards and yards and yards, and then the water.

Black as dragonglass, still as a stone.

Daeron sits upon the sand, waits for Aemond.

(Sometimes in his dreams he sees a man with long silver hair and beaten-silver armor and a gleaming sword, and he rides upon a dragon as blue as sapphires, blue as a dress of Mother’s, that he’s seen her in, sometimes.)

(The dragon rears up and the sun hits its belly of gleaming bronze; her flame burns bright and blinding and blue, too, blue as the sky. Daeron feels the heat on his face, the burn on his brows beneath her long copper eye.

She reminds him of his mother, standing by the throne, in blue, when Rhaenyra sits in the King’s stead. When she touches Rhaenyra’s shoulder, just gently.)

The moon is low in the sky when a hooded man approaches.

“Is that you, little Prince?”

So smiles the wolf with its gleaming teeth; when he draws his knife and removes his hood he’s got no eyebrows, no beard, no hair—smooth as a serpent.

As Syrax.

“Sweet little princeling,” he croons.

(Daeron stands, bites on his lip, tastes blood.)

“Wandering the beach all alone? Where’s your knight attendant, my Prince?”

Daeron swallows. “He’s relieving himself. He’s just over there. He’s much much bigger than you.”

The man snickers.

Daeron can feel his heart in his chest. “He’s got a Valyrian sword. And claws like a lion’s.”

The serpent raises a brow. “Call for him.”

(And in his mind, Daeron does—

The blue dragon, and the silver knight—anyone—

Please, please, please.)

The man steps closer and tears bloom in Daeron’s eyes and he stands and tries to make himself run, run now—

And then he recognizes the knife as the serpent nears—the handle, the hilt, at least.

He steps back, back and back, until he’s pacing, until he falls, scrambles back as the serpent moves forth with languid strides.

“That’s my father’s,” Daeron accuses.

The serpent only sneers. “Your father’s dead.”

It’s just a sniffle, Bess had said. He’ll be right as rain in a fortnight.

But Mother’s eyes shone as she looked down at him.

Rhaenyra nodded, from the corner, looked to Mother with a sympathetic gaze. “You’ll  take your medicine, now, for us; won’t you, Daeron?”

Daeron nodded. Took the cup from his nursemaid’s plump and happy hands.

Thank you, Bess, he’d said. She’d squeezed his shoulder and smiled.

(It tasted like ash.)

“Would you like us to remove the Prince to his own chambers, this evening?”

“No,” Rhaenyra had said, eyes on Mother. “No, I believe he shall remain with the Queen.”

His fifth day in bed, Rhaenyra brought a jester, all the way to hers and the Queen’s chambers, when they’d let him lay in the big bed. He’d performed all the histories Maester Gyldayn had read to him, in those long and boring days; he’d had cloth of bright colors and jingle bells, shimmery-loud.

He’d been Balerion, the Black Dread, and fluttered and flapped his arms, waving streams of paper fire all across the room. He'd roared and danced. He'd been Harrenhal. “I’m melting, I’m melting!”

Rhaenyra smiled. Daeron laughed and laughed and laughed.

Mother’s voice, a year ago, maybe more—Yes, you’re a happy baby, you’re a sweet boy, hello, yes you are.

He’d tugged on his mother’s skirts. “Why can’t I hold Joffrey?” he whined. “Luke and Jace get to.”

Mother looked to Rhaenyra, and then back down at him. “You promise to be very, very patient, and very gentle?”

Eagerly, he nodded.

He’d sat at her cushioned chair. Mother had leaned down; he’d held out his arms, the way she told him, and she’d transferred the baby in her arms, slowly but surely, to his lap, kept her hand just under his head.

“Say hello to your nephew,” Mother smiled. “Tell him you love him very much, don’t you, my sweet?”

Daeron nodded.

“I love you very much,” Daeron said.

He thinks it’s a dream, at first.

The Gods provide when we ask, they extend mercy to the penitent; the Mother takes pity on the naked, the Father shall vindicate the righteous—

But this couldn’t be an act of those gods—not Mother’s, the gods of right and wrong.

No, these are Rhaenyra’s; the gods of fire and blood.

(Silver like mine.)

From the dark of the skies the dragon sweeps down from the skies like a bolt of fire in the air, loud as a thousand sirens is her cry. Bright and blinding and screaming like a rancorous god—down from the clouds tumbling and thundering in the nighttime rains, she descends, cobalt and gleaming and cutting as a lance, larger than anything Daeron could ever imagine he would have seen; larger than Syrax, larger than he can capture with the edge of his covered eyes, as he put his elbow to his face, as he braced for the killing blow—this dragon he doesn’t recognize, this dragon he does, knows he does—

The serpent man is captured in jaws big enough for three of him, and the riderless dragon ascends again light and swift as a lance and then hot blood rains in sheets upon him—

Daeron turns and wipes at his eyes and stumbles two paces and he can taste it in his mouth and empties his stomach on the sand.

The dragon cries out again—triumphal and carnal—and then descends once more.

Daeron begins to run—

And then, in a cloud of sand, a boom that knocks him back, back ten paces, flying down into the ground—

The dust clears and she beholds him, staring with a simmering copper eye.

Blue, bright blue.

(Daeron knows—this dragon he knows, he knows, knows deep in his blood.)

Where is the Silver Knight? Daeron asks.

The dragon provides no answer.

He nears her as the image vibrates like a vision. He lays his hand upon her flame-blue maw. The dragon snorts, and the great gust of her wings turns him over into the sand.  

Daeron sits, for a long while.

He breathes shallow. His pants feel warm and wet and the blood is dry and it’s sticky.

And then a voice, a familiar one, shouting loud—

“Prince Daeron!”

Before him, running like mad, it’s Ser Erryk, sword drawn, eyes wild.

“Prince Daeron—”

Ser Erryk drops to his knees in front of him, takes his face in both hands. “What’s happened? Are you hurt, can you hear me—seven above—”

Daeron shakes his head.

Ser Erryk peels up his shirt, the sleeves, trying to find—“You’re bleeding—"

“I’m not.” He says. His voice sounds very far away. “It’s not mine.”

And then Ser Erryk looks around—to an arm, a hand dead on the beach.

And then he looks back to Daeron. “What—?”

“A dragon.”

Ser Erryk shakes his head. “A—what dragon?” His chest rises and falls. “Vhagar did this?”

Daeron shakes his head. “No.” He says. “The blue one.”

Ser Erryk shakes his head, again, eyes wide, mouth open—and then seems to get hold of himself, shuts his eyes, tight, shakes himself, stands and grabs Daeron and hoists him clean over his shoulder, begins to run—“We must go—no matter—quickly, now—”

They’re almost at the gate when Ser Erryk stops in his tracks. Leans down on the beach.

Daeron turns his face over on his shoulder, then, in the vague light of the fires at the gate.

The knight looks down at the hilt of the blade and his breath leaves him quick.

“My father’s dead.” Daeron says.

Ser Erryk’s eyes are wide. “Who told you?”

“The man.”

Ser Erryk swallows. Quickly, then, he carries him back through the night.

Ser Criston finds them at the gate, the mouth of the Red Keep, hands on his belt.

“Prince Daeron,” Criston bellows. “I have been looking for the Prince. I see you’ve found him.”

“And why might you seek the Prince this night, Ser Criston?”

“The meaning of the Queen’s orders is hardly a concern of yours, Ser.”

“I’ve strict orders from the Queen to return the Prince to Her Grace at once.” Ser Erryk sets his jaw. “You may report to the Dowager Queen,” he states, “That is where the Prince shall be taken.”

Ser Criston merely stares. “No sign of his elder brothers?”

Ser Erryk pushes past him, up the steps, into the halls.

They near the Queen’s chambers, the ones where Rhaenyra emerges, most mornings, in her long silken nightdress, into the apartments, where sometimes when the door is ajar he sees her lacing Mother’s dress, as her handmaidens sit and stand beside, each criss-cross pulling with cool languid fingers—

But it’s shouting from it now, shouting like ice and fire, shouting like venom and wroth—

Mother’s voice—fucking coincidence that mere hours after the King’s passing all three of my sons are miraculously missing—anywhere under the Seven—and I’m supposed to believe—

And Rhaenyra, muffled, lower but deeper and more cutting—halfway along the road to Oldtown—as you found him first, after all—

The door opens. Ser Erryk bows his head.

“My Queen.”

They both turn, at that.

Daeron stands unsteady on his feet, blinks through sticky eyes.

(He’s not sure what the look on Rhaenyra’s face really means, but he knows he’s never seen anything like it; knows somewhere inside of himself that he never will again.)

His mother shrieks, but he can hardly hear it; and then he’s in her arms, lifted against her chest, and Rhaenyra behind her has a hand on her own chest, and her eyes look panicked and relieved and there are tears at the corners of her eyes—

Rhaenyra brushes something out of Daeron’s matted hair and rubs his back and then fits her palm on Mother’s trembling cheek.

They sit him on the cushioned chair. Rhaenyra tells Ser Arryk send for the maester at once with a tone of command that sends a prick up his spine.

And then his mother is reaching for her handkerchief, wiping sand and dirt out of his eyelashes—

He’s not hurt, Ser Erryk says, somewhere else. It’s someone else’s blood.

(He’s not sure that he’s there, not really.)

“Where,” Rhaenyra says, with a tone of insistence, “Under the seven were you? How in the gods’ name did you leave this castle?” Her eyes are wide, disbelieving. To Ser Erryk—“Whose—"

“The serpent man,” Daeron whispers.

Rhaenyra breathes in, in and out, and then blinks, blinks hard, brows knit, mouth open, shaking her head—“I—what?”

“Aegon took us,” Daeron says. “He said I would be brave if I went outside the castle. To the city. It was dark, and there were shows, and big men, and women—in the alleys—”

Rhaenyra’s eyes flash with concern, meet Mother’s over his head.

“I’m sorry.” Daeron shrinks into the chair, reaching for Mother’s hand. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“Where is Aegon? Was Aemond with you?”

“He left, Aemond too, he said—he saidif I was lost, to go to the beach outside the Iron Gate, but he wasn’t there, and—” His eyes water. The maester seems to arrive, he thinks, someone coming through the door—his hands shake—"I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

Alicent squeezes his hand, staunches her fingers at the corners of her eyes, lips downturned—“That’s enough. It’s alright, my sweetling, it’s alright.” She looks up, into his eyes, fits her palm against his cheek, shushes him—"It’s alright, I promise.”

(She looks pale and distraught and shaking, Daeron thinks. There’s blood on her thumb, in the corner.)

Ser Erryk waits at the door—Rhaenyra makes her way to him, murmuring something about guards and searching and Aegon—

He looks into Mother’s eyes. “Is my father dead?” He whispers.

His mother shuts her eyes, brow evening out, slowly, lip trembling. She takes his other hand in her own, too. “My sweet,” she murmurs. “My sweet boy, it’s all going to be alright—"

“There was a dragon,” Daeron whispers.

Rhaenyra’s head whips around. “What?”

(Mother gives her that look that when Daeron gets it means stop it right now but Rhaenyra doesn’t seem to even notice.)

“Daeron, what dragon?”

“The blue one,” Daeron sighs. “The one from my dreams.”

Rhaenyra frowns, almost imperceptibly. “Was she real, Daeron? Tonight, outside the gates?”

“She was real. The blue dragon came from my dreams and ate the serpent man. And then Ser Erryk found me.”

The maester looks at Rhaenyra. “The Blue Queen hasn’t been spotted off of Dragonstone for six years, Your Grace. Or anywhere else, for that matter.”

“Daeron,” she says, gentler, leaning down, “Are you sure there was a dragon? Do you mean a real dragon, my love? Was Ser Erryk the dragon? Because of his sigil? On his breastplate? Is that what you mean?”

“No,” Daeron insists, hard, impatient. “A real dragon with wings and teeth and she was real and she was blue. She was my dragon and in my dreams she has a silver knight and he sent her to save me and then she flew back to him.”

Rhaenyra looks at the maester. Then Mother.

(They don’t believe him, he knows it, he knows it he knows it he knows—)

“She has copper eyes,” Daeron says.

At this, the maester turns.

“ —An assassin,” Ser Harrold had said.

Daeron sits in the bath, as his nursemaids wait in attendance, as Mother leans forward, cleans the blood from his face, from his neck.

“Ser Erryk reported finding his remains on the beach.”

Mother looked back at Daeron in horror.

“It was the dragon,” Daeron explained, like it had been the most obvious thing in the world.

Then Ser Harrold had moved his cloak. “And Ser Erryk discovered this, as well.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes glowed upon the knife. She took it by the handle.

Her eyes met Mother’s.

Rhaenyra had rushed away, Ser Harrold not long behind her.

Ser Criston arrives. “The young prince Aemond,” he says. “I’ve found him.”

Mother places Daeron in her bed, tugs the covers up around him, tells Ser Erryk by the door that you are not to leave from this post.

“I have to go, my sweet,” she whispers. Her eyes look red and scared.

Somewhere through the window, he can see the blackness edge out, the herald of dawn, coming—

“I’m sorry.”

She presses a kiss to his brow, tucks the sheets up around him, tucks Rhaenyra’s silken pillow to his side, like he likes.

Then she turns to go, and—

Pauses; looks toward the door, at his face, and turns back.

“My love.” She looks at him deep, looks sad, looks like she means it, takes his hand gently. “Tell me why you don’t like Syrax.”

He focuses down on the clench of her fingers, white on the sheet. “It was my dream.”

Her eyes shine.

He dreams of Rhaenyra, but it’s not Rhaenyra; it’s not like Rhaenyra, anyway. Rhaenyra upon the throne, cold and distilled and burdened and tempestuous.

A man kneels before her—

The silver knight.

Bring him to me, Rhaenyra commands, waving him away, toward the door, her hand covered in rings of blinding bloodstones.

The knight rides out upon the blue dragon, in his silver armor, with his gleaming sword—

He rides out to the Trident, to its Southron edge, to a springtime ford.

It’s Aegon, sitting by a babbling brook, chin in his hands.

The silver knight approaches, raises his sword.

Aegon stands.

When he awakens, only hours later, Aemond sits by his bedside, half his faced covered in gauze.

Daeron’s heart races, eyes pour over him—“Syrax?”

“What?” Aemond looks at him like he’s lost his mind. “Of course not.” And then he lifts his chin. “I claimed my dragon and paid its price.”

Daeron only stares. “A dragon burned—”

“The dragon didn’t take my eye,” Aemond sighs. “A wayward gull did that.”

He worries his hands. “Is the King dead?”

Aemond nods.

Daeron swallows. “What happens now?”

Aemond shrugs, shakes his head. “They’ve been in the Small Council chamber,” he gripes, “For hours.”

“Why—”

“Aegon.”

Daeron frowns. “Aegon is missing.”

“And he must be there,” he says, in that tone that means he thinks Daeron’s stupid, “When Rhaenyra is crowned.”

“Why?”

Aemond merely tilts his head, sighs loud. “Why do you think.”

But Daeron doesn’t know, so he merely worries his fingers.

“Daemon’s missing also.” Aemond notes.

Then, without a word, he makes to leave—

“What dragon?” Daeron calls. “What dragon was it? Was it blue?”

“No,” Aemond replies. A smirk colors his solemn features. “It was Vhagar.”

(Aemond seems taller as he leaves.)

God of war, god of war.

Two days pass. Mother is beside herself. They haven’t found him.

There’s no word, no sign, as far as Daeron knows.

(Daeron watches his mother collapse into Rhaenyra’s arms; and still not clutch her quite as tightly, even while.)

On the second day, Daeron is allowed out of the apartments.

He wanders the castle, Ser Erryk beside him.

Where is my mother?

There are no histories with the maester. No breaking fast with his brothers, with Luke, who he has yet to have seen, these days; no training with Ser Criston.

The halls are empty, emptier than he’s ever seen. It’s grey and cavernous and the walls echo under his footsteps.

He goes to her, to the Great Hall, after an hour or so—or two, or four, he isn’t sure. Anything to avoid—

(The serpent raises the blade in his dreams, brings it down into Daeron’s belly, again and again and ag—)

Rhaenyra upon the throne. Looking out with ashen eyes; tired, and sadder than he’s ever seen.

Sitting like she was born to it, though.

Well.

(Cold and distilled and burdened and—)

Beesbury whispers something in her ear. He turns with Mellos and filters out the side corridor.

Her eyes find him.

“Daeron,” she says, disquiet in her face. Her brows knit. “Sweetling, have you broken fast?” Her eyes seem to follow to Ser Erryk, who nods.

It’s as though in a dream. He’s never seen anyone but the King upon this throne.

Where is the King, now? Is there a dais where the Stranger’s made him go?

(I’ll retrieve you on Syrax, from anywhere—)

But upon her face, behind her eyes—only the Rhaenyra who’d sat with him in the garden, only the Rhaenyra who’d laughed at the jester.

(Her fingers wave him forth and there are no bloodstones upon her hand.)

She tilts her head, though, once he pauses. “Are you alright?”

He’s quiet. Beside him, the sorry edge of a smoked and blackened sword.

Rhaenyra smiles, almost sadly. “You don’t have to be afraid of the throne, Daeron.”

He only swallows.

“Come.” Rhaenyra beckons. She holds out her arms. “Come here.”

She seems so far away—

(There’s no limit to my love.)

When he approaches, climbs the steps toward her, she draws his hands into her own, soft and entreating, and then releases them to brush through his hair, cup his cheek. “You’re alright, today, aren’t you?”

He nods, looks down. Reaches for the edge of a blade, ash-black—

“No, no,” Rhaenyra counters, catching his hand—gentle, easy. “Touch here.”

She guides his finger to the round of a hilt. He runs his finger along its grooves.

(Bring them to me, she’d said, a her that wasn’t her.)  

“Where is Mother?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” she replies. Then she smiles. “Should we go find her?”

(Rhaenyra’s eyes always twinkle, a little bit, at the mention of Mother.)

But before they leave—something like before, so like before, Rhaenyra settles him upon her lap upon the throne, as though he’s still small as two years before, as though it’s easy, as though it’s then, in the garden, in the sun.

His mother sits at the end of the Small Council’s table, head in her hands.

Beside her, Ser Harrold looks grave.

(Ser Criston, in the corner, hand on the hilt of his sword.)

Rhaenyra pauses in the doorway. Daeron peaks around her skirts.

“Mother?”

But her eyes find Rhaenyra, only Rhaenyra.

“My love,” she begins.

(Daeron’s never heard her say that outside of their apartments, not ever.)

His mother, again—“If we could speak alone—"

Rhaenyra’s eyes flicker between them and her body hardens, solemn as stone.

“No,” she says, then. “Go on, Ser Harrold.” But when no one speaks, Rhaenyra’s eyes flicker to him. Her voice is low. “What news.”

“The Prince has been spotted upon the Kingsroad.” Ser Harrold murmurs. “By the Crown’s searchers headed South. He acquired a stallion from a trader outside the city and made it known to him that he required a mount fast enough to make South by the fortnight’s end.” Beside him, Ser Arryk’s eyes avert. “To Oldtown.”

Daeron can see the change in her features, something awful behind them; something that stills.   

Mother stands, eyes desperate—

“Rhaenyra—”

Before she can say, before Daeron even knows it, really, Rhaenyra’s gone.

He hides out in the apartments, sits on the floor behind the sitting bench under the blue-and-gold tapestry, silk tugged over his back, hiding from his mother’s tears.

He’d never seen anything like it when she’d left—standing in her blue dress, her knotted red curls, a face crumbling, a face of such pain—

Daeron hides when Rhaenyra enters, again, blistering angry.

And then when Uncle Daemon comes forth, meets her on the veranda, a moment later.

You’re supposed to be missing, Daeron thinks. You’re supposed to be gone.

They speak for a while. Daeron wonders if his mother will come, eventually.

But then—

He catches wed and Laenor and marriage; and he catches together and the greens, all Daemon, all venomous—

He doesn’t know what Rhaenyra says, but he knows she’s mad, livid mad.

Daemon—

Of course not Oldtown—I arranged—You’re telling me you’d ever miss little curs whelped on that venomous bitch—

And then Rhaenyra says something. Something in a voice Daeron doesn’t recognize; something low.

(It stills him in his place.)

Daemon marches out only seconds later, but not arrogantly; almost like he’s slowing himself down, like he’s too proud to run.

Once he’d sat out on the veranda of their apartments, one warm summer evening, a year or so after his arrival; Mother and Rhaenyra had taken wine out in the nighttime air, and everyone else had been off and away, even Luke, who’d gone to his dragon—

He’d closed his eyes on Rhaenyra’s shoulder, on her lap, but he wasn’t quite asleep; not entirely.

His mother, whispering, a smile in her voice—He looks like he could be yours.

He’d felt Rhaenyra’s chin against his hair, her thumb tracing circles on his back. He liked that.

The sweetest little dragon, indeed, Rhaenyra had said.

He loves you, Mother had told her. I know he’s scared—but the way you’re so gentle with him, Rhaenyra, I—

It’s nothing, Rhaenyra said, then. He’s a gift.

His mother was quiet, for a moment.

Sometimes when you’re with him, I—then she’d stopped. I imagine another life, another place. Where you could have given him to me.

Rhaenyra’s voice, smooth and gentle and warm—He’ll never know the difference.

Mother enters, later. Tiptoes through the door.

He expects Rhaenyra to fight, he expects her to yell. He braces himself for it.

(Maybe Mother does, too.)

(He imagines the silver knight in the room, taking Mother by the hand, leading her to Rhaenyra, joining their hands together, making it better, making Aegon come home, making her tears dry, making Daeron theirs, putting a star in Aemond’s severed eye, making it right.)

But the silver knight doesn’t have to, because Rhaenyra does it.

She strides forth from the black of the night and envelops her before she knows Mother will take it, it seems; wraps tight around her waist, cradles her head against her shoulder, holds her.

(Mother cries and cries and cries.)

“I’m sorry,” Rhaenyra says, then, softer than he’s ever heard. “Alicent. Please, my heart. Please forgive me.”

Mother only shakes her head—

Lips wet, words crinkled, soft on the breath of a whisper—

“I love you,” she vows, but her voice is so hollow—

My first boy, my first one, please.  

“I’ll find him.” Rhaenyra says. “I will. I promise.”

Rhaenyra’s lips on her knuckles. (Like the knights in the songs.)

Out corner of his eye, out the window, he almost doesn’t notice it—

“I’ll take Syrax south,” Rhaenyra vows, higher and further away.

The blue dragon gliding by past the furthest tower, over the Blackwater, into the velvet, through the blackness.

I’ll take Syrax south.

He knows Aegon’s not south.

(He knows it like he knows the blue dragon in his dreams; like he knows the silver knight, like he knows the quirk of Luke’s brow that means he’s sliding a marble across the floor.)

“I need your help.”

Aemond quirks a brow, looks up from the laces of his boot. “I’m headed out.”

“You’re not allowed.”

Aemond scoffs.

“I need your help, please, Aemond. I need to get to the beach.”

It’s then Aemond laughs, truly, shaking his head, looking back at him with a bewildering expression. “The beach? Gods above, Daeron. Septa Sibel always says some men yearn for death, though I never thought she meant so fucking plainly. Of course I’m not taking you to the beach. You’re not leaving the Keep.”

“Then neither are you.”

Something flashes in Aemond’s eyes. His back straightens.

He takes a step forward, just a little. “What was that?”

But Daeron holds his ground. “If you don’t take me,” he says, chest rising, “I’ll tell Mother. I’ll tell her before you’ve gone.”

Then I’ll punish you when I return.”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

Aemond lifts his chin. “I’ll burn you with my dragon.”

Daeron frowns. “No you won’t. You like me a lot.”

And it’s almost not there—almost something he could be seeing in his head, really, something just below the surface—

But Aemond tempers, for a moment.

“Daeron,” he says. “You know I can’t.”

Daeron cocks his head toward the door. “Mother—!”

“Alright!” Aemond slaps a hand over his mouth, eyes averting to the door. “Alright, alright, gods. You’re a menace. Find your cloak.”

Aemond and Daeron wait, then, outside the Iron Gate. The night grows longer around them.

Behind them his colossal dragon huffs, head down, kicking up a cloud of sand in her wake.

(But still, it’s the same place; looks just the same, just the same as with the knife, with the hand—)

Daeron edges toward his brother. “We’re safe, aren’t we?”

Aemond looks over his shoulder at Vhagar, then back at Daeron. “Is that a fucking jest?”

They’re silent, again, for a moment.

“How did you know she was yours?” Daeron asks. “Meant for you. I mean.”

Aemond shrugs. Toes the sand with his foot. “I didn’t, I suppose. I wanted her to be. So I approached.” He sighs. “She saw me. Saw me in a way I’ve never been seen. Not even by Mother.”

Daeron looks down. “Do you think Mother is cross with us?”

“I think Mother is cross with Aegon,” Aemond snarks, bitter. “Who has always done his damndest to deprive us all of her happiness, one way or another.”

“I miss Aegon,” Daeron says.

Aemond sighs. “Go on, little brother. Call for your dragon.”

Daeron blinks, stutters—“I don’t—I don’t know her name.”

“Yes you do.” Aemond gives him a tired expression. “In your sleep, and at Driftmark. You say it all the time.”

He thinks, for a moment.

Then, like it’s a covenant all his own—

(Like Mother used to say, standing beside him on the open field—)

Tessarion, he calls.

He takes her by the horns, grips her back like a saddle.

“You’ve got to tell her, now!” Aemond shouts from meters below. Somewhere in the distance Vhagar watches, a cold yellow eye. “Tell her to fly!”

He can’t say it, his breath caught in his throat, but he knows it, knows the word, from the dragonkeepers and the maester and—

Soves, he’d once said, light as a bird atop Syrax.

(Soves! Soves!)

He doesn’t have to say it.

(Or maybe he already did.)

“Soves!” He commands, anyway.

Tessarion ascends into the night underneath her silver rider.

(It’s the most wonderful feeling, he thinks.)

He rides to the Trident, to the stream, to the brook.

Tessarion is striking in the day, a gleaming flame-blue beauty against the sea of vermillion, smiling back at him, he thinks, with that warm coppery hue.

He tumbles off of her and rolls into the grass and climbs back onto his knees.

He starts for a grove of trees. “Aegon!” he calls. A stallion startles, tied to a tree yards ahead. “Aegon!”

Aegon smiles softly when he comes upon him, in a hat and plainclothes and without his steel sword, but it’s him, sure as anything.

It’s Aegon, sitting by a babbling brook, chin in his hands.

He extends the paper in his hand. “Fish?”

Aegon settles where the dirt meets mud and watches the water of the ford glide past, slowly, with the sound of a rush at its edge, with the peak of the wildflowers.

“Mother never wanted me,” Aegon says.

Someday this place will be famous, Mother had said, in his dreams. But that’s a long time from now.

“That’s not—”

“Helaena’s four and ten. Maybe if you put a baby in her arms she’d love it. But that’s not the same thing as wanting.” He rubs his nose. "You're only a mother after the fact, you know."

Daeron only watches, chin on crossed arms, curious lilac eyes.  

“Haven’t I been who I’m supposed to?” Aegon murmurs. “Who would have wanted me quick and dark and ambitious. Who would have wanted Aemond first. Wouldn’t that just have made it all the more complicated?”

A knot in Daeron’s silver brow—“What’s complicated?”

And then Aegon turns, laughing and sorry and sad. “Sometimes I’d like to have lived your life, Daeron. To truly not have a clue in the world.”

“That’s mean.”

“No it’s not, it’s a compliment.” Aegon picks at his fish. “Mother’s sweet boy. Rhaenyra’s adopted Strong.”

“We’re not supposed to say that about them—”

“I don’t care that they are.” Aegon laughs. “But what could speak louder of Father’s devotion, of the strength of Father’s pride.”

“Father, the King?”

Aegon, sardonic, sarcastic—“No, your father—Rhaenyra.”

Daeron frowns.

Then he toes his foot in the mud, flings it out to the water with the edge of his boot. “Mother misses you very much. Rhaenyra is looking for you.”

“Her search parties won’t possibly—”

“No, Rhaenyra is. Rhaenyra herself. With Syrax.”

And then Aegon seems to pause.

“I see you’re a dragonrider, now.”

“I dreamed of her.”

Aegon nods. “Yes, yes, the dreams. I suppose I inherited Mother’s dreams—that is to say, none at all.”

“What does that mean? Mother wants things. Mother wants you home. Why won’t you come home?”

“Easier for everyone.”

“Rhaenyra won’t be crowned if you’re not there.”

Again, Aegon pauses; and frowns. “Why?”

“I don’t know. That’s just what Aemond said.”

Aegon sniffs. “Legitimacy, I’m sure.”

“Aegon…” Daeron waits, thinks; toes up another clump of mud. “Don’t you think it’s all a bit harder than it has to be? Sometimes?”

Aegon is silent.

“Couldn’t you just come home and be our brother? Even if Mother was four and ten, and even if the King wasn’t nice, to you, I mean, and even if Aemond wants to be first but he’s third. I think it’ll find its peace, if you come home. I think we need you.”

(Somewhere off—a twig cracks; a doe, on the other side of the stream.)

“Out in the world we defend our own,” Aegon whispers.

“What?”

Aegon kicks a rock. “If I'd returned before now I'd have been dead before I reached the walls.”

Daeron’s head picks up. “What?”

“Daemon.” Aegon snaps, low. “Or did you think some heedless, haphazard city cutthroat simply came upon the Conqueror’s blade?”

“How do you know—”

“Whores know everything.” Aegon quirks a brow. “Actually, remember that. Might be useful to you someday.” He shrugs. “I suppose he thought it a more honorable death for you. Us. The Valyrian steel. He’s always had that obsession.” He sniffs. “Same as Father.”

Daeron shakes his head. “But Uncle Daemon—the King chose him as Hand, he’s our kin, why—"

“Rhaenyra is about to become Queen.” Aegon reminds. “She’s without a husband. Daemon’s without a wife. He wants Rhaenyra to ascend. No complications. No claimants.”

“I’m not a claimant.”

Aegon laughs but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. 

“Rhaenyra loves me,” Daeron tries. “Rhaenyra loves you.”

Aegon is silent, for a moment. “Regardless,” he says. “Daemon does not.”

“Rhaenyra’s very angry with Daemon,” Daeron says.

At this, Aegon’s eyebrow quirks.

“He said something to her,” Daeron continues. “Something in the apartments. About marriage and—and whelping. About us, I think. She sent him running.”

Aegon hums.

“You must come back. Rhaenyra wants you to come back, Mother begged—”

“Don’t you worry,” Aegon says, taking another bite of his fish. “I’m coming back. I’ve no choice.”

Daeron tilts his head. “Yes you do. I can’t—I can’t make you—”

Aegon rolls his eyes. “You rode a giant bright-blue dragon out of the city in the middle of the brightest hour of dawn. Rhaenyra will follow you in a matter of hours. Less if the wind is kind.”

Daeron waits.  

“I had a dream Syrax ate Aemond, once.” He confesses. “Syrax ate Aemond and me. And Sunfyre ate Daemon, and Jace and Luke and Joffrey, too. Mother watched. Mother was screaming.” Daeron whispers. “And then Sunfyre ate Syrax. While you and Rhaenyra—”

“Yes,” Aegon muses, corners of his lips upturned. “What was I doing, during all this?”

“Dancing,” Daeron says. “You and Rhaenyra. You did the dragon dance.”

Across the ford, the doe picks up her head; perks her ears, tips them—rushes away. 

Aegon is silent for a moment.

And then he laughs, breaks into a childlike, raucous laugh, so full it reaches his belly, stings at his eyes.

“Right,” he says, nearly bent over, “So Sunfyre is just—is just feasting on the Strong boys—Syrax, too, gulping down family members—and—” He wipes a tear from his eye. “And Rhaenyra and I are just jumping about.”

Daeron works his jaw. “It wasn’t funny.”

Aegon sighs. “No. I suppose." He wipes his eye. "War never is, really.”

As though it were clockwork, they both turn—

The beating of wings in the distance.

“Better pack up,” Aegon says.

Before long, Syrax approaches, silent as the breeze.

Aegon stands.

Rhaenyra dismounts in gleaming silver armor. Her eyes look tired.

She raises her arms. Aegon lets her envelop him. Syrax rumbles from the chest next to Tessarion; chuffs and purrs in the sun.

In less than an hour they’re due at the Grand Sept. Daeron waits in his finery.

Rhaenyra, back in the apartments—in her splendid dress, in her ornamentation, her jewels.

Helaena looks up, sees her first. Then Jace and Aemond.

“You’re supposed to be with the Septon.” Aemond says.

Rhaenyra holds a box. “Where’s your elder brother?”

“Brooding on the balcony.”

Rhaenyra makes her way past.

He’s there, it’s true; overlooking the city, in that red-and-black wool and metal, in his silver, his silver hair, gleaming like Sunfyre—

Aegon, she says.

She opens the box.

Aegon looks down with an expression Daeron has never once seen upon his brother’s face.

(He’s quite handsome, when he’s not scowling, actually.)

He draws the blade sacred like a prayer; There, in the light of the morning, gleaming brighter than a falling star.

Father’s, Aegon says.

Rhaenyra fastens the bejeweled scabbard to his belt; puts a hand on his shoulder.

After the Field of Fire and the submission of the North, when the Starks knelt, Aegon the Conqueror marched on Oldtown to find the pillars of the Faith.

Mother’s hand had stilled over the histories; Rhaenyra had fallen asleep, there on the pillow beside him, but Daeron was still awake, still sniffling and red-eyed, the joy of the jester’s amusement gone.

That night the High Septon had a vision of a great fire across the city. Thousands dead in the conflagration as the dragons danced overhead. Balerion, and Rhaenys upon Meraxes. The cries of terrible Vhagar.

He called upon the keeper of the city, Mother read. Lord Hightower, still young.

And Lord Hightower answered the call of the faith, with his sword and staff; and he went to Aegon, Mother had said. And placed a kiss upon his fingers. He said, let you be my Lord now. And Lord Hightower knelt.

Let you have my city, he said. Let you have my sword.

(Mother had woken Rhaenyra, when she thought he was finally asleep. With a hand on her face, jewels against her cheekbone; and her hair had fallen past her shoulders in long ringed curls.

And Mother placed a kiss upon her fingers.

My love, Mother had said. Are you awake?)

A thousand swords fall in the quiet of the Sept, as the lords summoned by the King watch, as Daeron watches, a step below Lucerys, astride the mighty dias.

Rhaenyra ascends, Rhaenyra kneels.

Mother—Smith—

Mother watches, only an arm’s stretch beside. Her eyes shine bright as the anointing oil.

Harrold Westerling holds the Conciliator’s Crown; it catches the light from a painted window, gleams like always; like on the King, once before.

Daeron wears Ser Laenor's dagger on his hip; fidgets with the ring on his finger. 

(The one that had matched his egg.)

The Lord Commander steps back, the trumpets blow; Rhaenyra rises with her crown.

First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men—Lady of the Seven Kingdoms. Protector of the Realm.

Daeron bows low. Lucerys, bowing beside him, catches his eye.

(He smiles. Daeron smiles back.)

Daeron peeks upward. Mother—curtsying low, impossibly low.

But her eyes, upon Rhaenyra.

(The Septon says something else, but Rhaenyra doesn’t turn.)

Her eyes upon Mother, too.

(From beyond the painted windows, he heard it; the dragons roared as one.)

Later, at the feast, the celebration, where Luke has, in all has gall, dashed from their seats at the end of the high table and tugged on Rhaenyra’s shoulder, crown and all, and begged and begged and begged until—

Shaking her head, that telltale half-smirk—Yes, yes, you can go get the hourglass. Come straight back.

(They’d cheered like victorious conquerors.)

They return only moments later, turning it over and over and over again.

You know what this means, Luke says. Time’s all ours.

Mother sits beside her. Wipes something from Rhaenyra’s cheek.

Daemon has fled east, someone had said.

Rhaenyra catches her hand in her own. Presses a kiss to her knuckles. Mother smiles.

(Everyone knows, Aegon had said, arms crossed.

Mother should be happy, Aemond replied.)

Daeron begins training with Tessarion tomorrow.

(You’ll learn all sorts of commands. Rhaenyra had smiled and led him through the dragonpit, introduced him to the dragonkeepers. Not just soves. You’ll tell her lykiri, mazis, rybas—

Dracarys? He’d asked.

Yes, she’d smirked, shook her head, chuckled. Dracarys, too.)

But when Mother beckons him over, he goes; lets her pet his hair, plant a kiss to his forehead, even though it’s in front of everyone.

(He’s excited to train with Luke, soon. Ser Harrold told Rhaenyra that Daeron would become such a fearsome and selfless knight that he would train Daeron himself.)  

“Rhaenyra—I mean, Your Grace,” he asks, and she returns, smiles over her goblet. “What happened to the Silver Knight?”

She frowns. “The Silver Knight, my love?”

“In my dreams. Upon Tessarion, her rider—there was a knight. He wore silver armor, and he had long silver hair.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes flicker to Mother’s—she smiles.

“I think we’re soon to meet such a man,” she says, grinning. She swipes his chin with her thumb. “Unfortunately quickly, actually. In far fewer years than I’d wish.”

“He’s coming?” Daeron asks, eyes wide.

“I think so,” Mother adds. She pushes his curls behind his ear. “Getting stronger every day.”

Mother smiles in the sun, in the garden, by the blackwater, beside the flowers, in blue.

Rhaenyra smiles back, hand on the small of her back; presses a kiss to her cheek.

“Look!” Joffrey leans up toward Mother, holds a fallen daisy, waves it in his hand, reaching his arms upward. “Flower!”  

“Beautiful, my love,” Mother praises. She lifts him up into her arms. Rhaenyra’s thumb traces circles on her back.

“Have you found a pretty one, Joff?” Jace asks, sitting upon the wall, by the tree, beside her.

(Mother meets his eyes, gives him a tentative smile; Jace smiles back, just a little.)

“Now, listen,” Rhaenyra continues, tugging on Aegon’s hand again. “You’ll be managing your own castle, now. Your own castellans, your own stewards. Your retinue. You’ll need to mind the dragonkeepers, with Sunfyre, and ensure the maesters are minding your letters, and sending your envoys—”

“Yes, yes,” Aegon says. “I know—"

“And if I hear you haven’t been attending your own appointments—” Rhaenyra raises her brow, fixes him that look, that one that means she’s serious—“I’ll strip this title faster than you can say Dragonstone.”

“I know.” Aegon says. “I’m ready. I promise.”

“There was another Aegon, Prince of Dragonstone once,” Aemond needles from beside Helaena, smirk upon his features.

“Was there?” Aegon muses.

“Yes there was,” Aemond replies. “He died in a civil war. He was eaten by a dragon.”

Aegon rolls his eyes. “I’ll be sure to avoid that fate, thanks.”

It’s then that Daeron feels a familiar light thwack at his legs. He turns; of course Luke’s smiling back at him, ever mischievously.

“No fair!” He calls, raising his own wooden blade. “I wasn’t even looking!”

He lunges, only for Luke to easily dodge. “If you want to best me,” he says, “You’ll have to catch me first!”

Daeron takes off after him, a grin blooming upon his features.

Mother adjusts Joffrey in her arms, rests her chin upon the Queen’s shoulder.

Rhaenyra smiles at her, again; bigger and brighter than the sun.