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114 AC:

The lingering frost of the year 114 AC seeped through the corridors of the Red Keep, slipping past ill-fitted windowpanes. A cold atmosphere wrapped the fortress like an invisible hand. Yet beyond its walls, in the winding streets of King’s Landing, hope stirred once more. The promise that the coming year might finally bring an end to the long winter that had stretched across the realm for several years, warmed the hearts of the small folk . But in the heights of the keep, warmth failed to reach Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen.

At just seventeen, she already carried the weight of a kingdom on her shoulders. Haunted by the legacy of her house and the heavy expectations of the court, she could find no peace, no solace. It was not the winter’s cold that chilled her to the bone, but another one, a more insidious frost that crept into her heart. A cold that came from the walls of the Red Keep itself, from avoiding eyes, too-polite smiles, and whispers that began the moment she turned her back. Rumors sharp as knives, ready to slice any illusion of her happiness.

A month had passed since the birth of her son, Jacaerys. Her sweet boy, as she gently called him in the quiet of her chambers. His fierce cries echoed through the halls like a long-awaited melody. His tiny, warm body resting against her own should have brought her peace. But Rhaenyra couldn’t rest. Her joy was darkened by another birth—only a few weeks later, Queen Alicent had delivered another daughter, the little Princess Daenora.

Even if the court awaited the birth of her son, the future Prince of Dragonstone, with more anticipation than Alicent’s fourth child, Rhaenyra couldn’t shake the feeling that her stepmother was trying to eclipse her joy. Subtle remarks about the babies’ different physical appearances made their way through the court like wildfire.
Rhaenyra wished to ignore them, but whispers were everywhere: “How little Daenora looks like a true Targaryen princess… and how Rhaenyra’s son does not ressemble to his father at all.

Suspicion hovered over her child like a hawk circling prey. His dark eyes and brown curls bore a striking resemblance to Ser Harwin Strong, something that made the court’s vipers whisper even louder. It didn’t matter that Laenor treats Jace as his son, or that Lord Corlys himself had chosen the boy’s name. Gossip, once born, fed on nothing but its own poison.

⸻⸻

That morning, a fresh thorn pierced the uneasy peace she’d managed to maintain. Her father, King Viserys, had summoned them all to his private chambers for a shared meal. Her stomach knotted at the thought, nothing good ever came from such family gatherings.

She entered the room with Laenor at her side, Alicent was already there, seated to her father’s right, surrounded by her children: Aegon and Helaena. The queen wore as usual a dark green dress with gold stripes and her mask of cold courtesy. She barely nodding at Rhaenyra’s arrival, concealing her hostility beneath a thin veil of propriety.

The king, however, greeted them warmly, his face glowing with rare joy. He invited everyone to sit and at his signal the servants brought the food: steaming eggs, fresh bread, and sweet fruits were laid on the table. Yet, soon after the meal had begun, her dear father stood up, wiping his fingers on the embroidered cloth.

“I have an announcement,” he said, his voice silencing the low murmurs of conversation. All eyes turned to him. He smiled, clearly pleased with what he was about to say.

“My beloved daughter and my queen have brought great joy to this family by giving us two beautiful children: my daughter Daenora, and my grandson Jacaerys. And after some long reflection, I have personally chosen a new wet nurse for Daenora. And I would like Jacaerys to be entrusted to her as well.”

A heavy silence filled the room, but the king continued as if he hadn't just said something crazy.

“I believe a bond between them, from the cradle, can only be beneficial. Two royal children, nursed at the same breast, it will make them milk siblings.”

As soon as the king finished speaking, Rhaenyra stood and approached her father. She took his wrinkled hand in hers, a gesture she used to make as a child when asking him for a favor. Looking up at him, her voice came soft, almost pleading.

“Father… I’ve personally chosen Jace’s nurse; he’s already grown attached to her. This decision shouldn’t be made on a passing whim.”

“It’s for their good,” Viserys replied, with a maddeningly gentle shrug. “They’ll grow up close, and it will strengthen the family bond.”

Across the table, Rhaenyra caught the cold, sharp look Alicent gave her and the confused expressions on the children’s faces.

“Your Grace,” Alicent added carefully, “perhaps it would be better to leave the nurses as they are. The children are still so fragile.”
Alicent tried to add but Viserys interrupted her by placing his hand on hers.

“I know that both you and Rhaenyra are mothers, and that you want what’s best for your children. But sometimes… it’s a father who sees further.”

Rhaenyra hated the way he looked at her stepmother, with such affection. It inevitably reminded her of her late mother, who died too soon because of her father's selfish desires and the pressures of a kingdom that would one day be hers.

Oh, how she wished her mother could have seen Jacaerys. Aemma would have cradled him in her arms, humming the soft songs she used to sing to Rhaenyra. She would have loved him truly, gently, without judgment. The thought brought sorrow, and sorrow made her vulnerable, but now she had no longer the right to be vulnerable. She was a mother now and she had to be strong, for her sweet boy.

She sat back down slowly, holding her head high and staring at Viserys, who had returned to his meal, satisfied. If she couldn't refuse his decision today, she would find another way to oppose it. He imposed her again a decision disguised as an act of goodwill, just as he did by trapping her into this purely political marriage, where she and Laenor cannot fulfill their duties and forced to seek love elsewhere.

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Chapter Text

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115 AC:

The sun was shining on the towers of the Red Keep, making the air inside the castle heavy. Perched on the wide ledge of a window, his legs still too short to touch the floor, young Prince Aegon gently swung his feet in the air after he discreetly skip his lesson. He was only seven, but he already knew that something was wrong in the castle. The adults were always whispering, and the silence they left behind felt even worse.

Down in the gardens, screams rose up to him. It wasn't the first time Aegon had heard such crying. He didn't really remember Helaena's very well, but Aemond's, yes, far too well. His little brother was a child whose loud cries echoed throughout the halls.

Thankfully, Daenora and his nephew Jacaerys were quieter. Since their birth, six months ago, the adults seemed to be more nervous. Especially his mother. She spent her days speaking with Otto, Aegon’s grandfather. They looked angry and upset. Aegon didn’t understand everything, but he knew one thing: something was wrong with Rhaenyra’s baby.

Aegon didn’t hate Jacaerys. Not really. He had seen him once or twice, in Rhaenyra’s arms or held by a nurse. He was just a baby like any other: he sleeps, cries, eats. He hadn’t done anything wrong. But people already talked about him like he was a mistake. Aegon didn’t know if he should hate him. But he could feel that people expected him to.

The corridor leading to the queen’s chambers was full of warm light, softened by green silk curtains. Aegon walked slowly, his hands gripping the fabric of his black tunic. Having learned how to avoid the maesters' lessons, he usually hid where no one could find him. But today something lead him to go see his mother, maybe simply the desire not to be alone.

“Aegon?” a voice said as soon as he entered. It was Helaena, sitting on the floor in the middle of some pillows. Her pale pink dress was wrinkled and her silver hair was messy. She was playing with dolls that their grandfather often gave her.

“Mmh. It’s me.”

He walked over slowly. The scent of lavender floated in the air. His mother, His mother, Queen Alicent, was sitting near the fire with baby Daenora sleeping against her chest. She didn’t look up at him; she was entirely focused on the baby’s tiny fingers.

Aemond was lying on the floor near the fire, his head on his arms, a book opened in front of him. He looked up when his older brother entered but said nothing. His gaze, far too sharp for a four year old, made Aegon uncomfortable.

“You’re still holding her,” he murmured.

“It’s a baby, Aegon,” Alicent replied without looking at him.

He stared at little Daenora, she had pink cheeks and her lips where slightly parted. He didn’t feel jealous. But something ached in his chest, a feeling he didn’t know how to name. Daenora got their mother softness, songs, attention. He only had promises.

“I heard her crying last night…” he said, just to remind her he was there too.

“She’s teething,” Alicent replied, this time looking at him. “You understand that, don’t you?”

He nodded. He wanted to say something more, but when his mother looked away again, he fell silent. It was useless. She never really gave him her full attention. Even if she loved him, she had trouble showing it.

⸻⸻

Otto Hightower, his grandfather, rarely spoke to him about games or stories. He had no sweets to offer and he didn’t pat Aegon’s head like the Septa sometimes did. But he had a deep, serious voice, and used big words that Aegon didn’t always understand… but still, he listened. Because Otto talked to him as if he was already a man.

They were in the godswood, Otto’s favorite place when he wanted to have serious conversations. That afternoon, he had asked Aegon to come alone. The boy liked walking with his grandfather. Otto never spoke to fill silence. He didn’t ask if Aegon had slept well or learned something new. He went straight to the point. They had stopped in front of the heart tree.

“You are the son of a king, Aegon,” Otto said calmly.

Aegon looked up at him. He had heard those words a thousand times, sometimes even in his dreams.

“You’re a true Targaryen. A real dragon.”

His heart swelled, he loved hearing that. He loved feeling like he mattered. Because deep down, he wasn’t always sure who he was — a brother, a son, a prince. But in his grandfather’s firm, assured voice, he became someone.

“You think I’ll be king one day?” he dared to ask.

“This is not about what I think,” Otto replied. “It’s about what is right. You are the firstborn son of the king. You carry the name of the Conqueror, and his blood. All you need to do… is follow my words.”

And Aegon nodded.

⸻⸻

That night, he was alone in his room, sitting on the edge of his bed. His nurse, a kind woman with gentle hands, was brushing his hair.

He stared at the wall for a long time, then asked, in a small voice, “Did my mother love me… when I was a baby?”

The nurse paused, surprised by the question.

“Of course, my prince. Mothers always love their children,” she said softly before continuing to brush.

When she finished, she placed a kiss on his forehead, wished him good night and left the room. Lately, Aegon cherished those small gestures more than ever. Because he knew he would soon turn eight. And at that age, boys were supposed to grow up and not need a nurse anymore.

That thought made the young prince quietly sad.

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Chapter Text

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118 AC:

The sea stretched as far as the eye could see. The ship cut through the waves smoothly, its wake tearing the clear water as it slowly neared the capital’s shores. Leaning against the railing, Laena Velaryon watched the horizon, her eyes lost in the waves’ movements. The salty wind blew through her hair, and her turquoise dress flowed around her.

Beside her, her two daughters played happily. Baela, always bold, tried to make her wooden dragon stand on an empty barrel. Rhaena, quieter, followed along, laughing every time the dragon fell. Laena watched them with love, two young souls at the start of their lives.

Daemon, her husband, the Rogue Prince, had gone ahead of the ship on Caraxes, the blood wyrm. Vhagar, however, had stayed at Driftmark. This was their way of traveling: a mix of dragon passion and seahorse patience. She pictured him already in King’s Landing, looking falsely uninterested, with a teasing smile. She knew this man better than anyone, his fiery rages and his unexpected tenderness, those rare but precious flashes of weakness.

Their marriage was a bit unusual. At her father Corlys’s request, Daemon had fought the old betrothed she’d been forced to accept. A man she didn’t like much, neither handsome nor bright. But it wasn’t just a political deal; Daemon truly wanted to marry her, and they didn’t wait long. They married in secret, without the King knowing, and traveled to Essos. At first, her mother hadn’t been too happy about their marriage. She knew they didn’t know each other well, but their love was strong and quickly bore fruit.

Their years in the Free Cities, far from the vicious plots of King Viserys’s court, had been a blessed freedom. But after giving birth in Pentos and with the arrival of their beautiful twin girls, they decided to return to Westeros and settle at Driftmark. Over time, the King had forgiven his brother and welcomed them back to court.

But this trip to King’s Landing wasn’t just a visit. Even though Rhaenyra and Laena regularly visited each other to spend time together, this one was different. They had big news, news that could shape the fate of the Seven Kingdoms.

The ship finally slipped into Blackwater Bay. The city’s port buzzed with noise: the shouts of dock workers unloading ships, the creak of chains, the sharp smell of salt mixed with wine. Not far off, the Red Keep stood huge and imposing.

⸻

The next morning, Laena woke to the sound of birds and sunlight streaming through the windows, gently warming the room. Daemon had refused the idea of a shared breakfast and had gone straight to the training yard.

After a few maids helped her into her new blue silk dress from Myr, decorated with hundreds of pearls, she left to meet Rhaenyra.

Rhaenyra and Laenor’s rooms were next to each other in Maegor’s Holdfast, in the most secure part of the castle. Rhaenyra had carefully designed the chamber to her taste: luxurious but cozy, with a dull red tapestry and finely carved wooden furniture.

Rhaenyra was already waiting for her, standing by a table full of food, smiling with a half-eaten lemon cake in her hand. She wore a pale lavender dress with gold embroidery and amethysts, making her purple eyes shine. Her silver hair was carefully braided.

Laenor soon arrived and greeted Laena with a warm hug, they hadn’t seen each other in months. They sat together. Without the children, there was a rare peace in the air. A peace Laena had missed.

“You look well,” Rhaenyra said softly, pouring wine into a silver cup. “Was the trip too tiring?”

“The girls were surprisingly restless. I think they were impatient to see their cousins,” she answered.

Rhaenyra chuckled but said no more. Laena would never admit it, but the fact that her sister-in-law and brother hadn’t come to greet her the day before had hurt her. Still, Laena wasn’t a woman who held grudges, especially not against those she loved. And today was an important day. They had made this decision together, months ago. And now, they were finally going to announce it to the whole kingdom.

As soon as the meal was over, they headed to the Small Council chamber. The heavy doors opened with a groan, revealing the long table and the lords seated around it.

Rhaenyra entered first, head high and confident. Laena followed close behind, her steps calm but assured. She felt the weight of all eyes on her. The Queen and King were already seated, surrounded by council members: Lyonel Strong, the Hand of the King, loyal and fair; Lord Beesbury, aging but still clear-headed; and a few other lords. The seat reserved for her father was empty, he was away on a mission.

Viserys looked up and seemed surprised to see her, but said nothing. He hadn’t changed: still plump, though more tired. Seeing him always gave her chills. To think he could have been her husband… When the King had rejected the proposal to marry Lady Laena, her father had been furious. But Laena herself had been relieved. At twelve, she wasn’t much interested in boys, especially not older men.

Sitting beside the King, the Queen greeted them, but didn’t even try to hide her displeasure. Her sharp, calculating gaze stayed fixed on them. She seemed to want to object to Laena’s presence at the council, but seeing that the King said nothing, she remained silent. Alicent represented a world Laena had never wanted to be part of: a world of schemes wrapped in false piety and virtue.

Once everyone was seated, the council began. But the King showed little interest; the Queen led the meeting with confidence. Until Viserys stood up, placing his hands in front of him as if to show he had something important to say.

“I’ve been thinking,” he began slowly, “about how to ease tensions between my daughter and my Queen. I believe a marriage could help. Jacaerys and Daenora seem close. They could be a good match.”

A heavy silence fell in the room. Laena felt a cold chill on her neck. Beside her, Rhaenyra froze, stunned.

Alicent was the first to react. She leaned slightly toward the table, her lips tight.

“Engage Daenora to Jacaerys?” she repeated slowly, as if unsure she’d heard correctly. “That would be insulting!” She paused, then continued, her tone sharper: “You want to marry our daughter to one of her… plain-featured sons?”

The hidden meaning was clear. Lyonel Strong slowly turned his head, tense. Laena felt her blood boil but remained silent. She knew it wasn’t her place to speak.

Rhaenyra, however, sat up sharply. She placed both hands flat on the table, her eyes locked on Alicent’s.

“How dare you?” she said, raising her voice. “You speak of my son. My heir. And you question his legitimacy, in front of this council, in front of my father?”

Alicent crossed her arms, straight and cold.

“I am only stating facts, Princess. Perhaps that is the real danger: the illusion you build around your lie.”

“There is no lie!” Rhaenyra shouted. Her eyes burned, her cheeks flushed with fury. “Jace is Laenor’s son, like his brothers. If you refuse to acknowledge him, it’s because you’re blinded by your own ambition, not by truth.”

Viserys raised a hand, clearly uncomfortable, trying to calm things down, but no one was listening. The room now had eyes only for the two women.

“And as for your proposal, Father…” Rhaenyra slowly turned toward him, her voice now steadier, more controlled. “It cannot be accepted. Not because of my half-sister Daenora, but because Jace’s engagement is already set.”

Viserys raised his eyebrows. “What do you mean, set?”

“For many moons, Laena and I have considered uniting our children. Jacaerys will be engaged to Lady Baela, and Lucerys to Rhaena. These are strong alliances, rooted in dragon blood. There is nothing stronger.”

Alicent gave a mocking smile. “Two children marrying their cousins. How pathetic.”

“And yet, even so, my sons have dragons and more legitimacy than yours ever will,” Rhaenyra snapped, her voice sharp as a blade. “Baela received her egg, and it hatched. Moondancer will fly soon. While your sons still have nothing.”

A murmur passed through the room. Alicent paled. Her lips parted, but no words came out.

⸻

The day ended in silence. The sun set, casting red-gold light across the halls. Rhaenyra’s words echoed through the Red Keep, heavy and impossible to ignore.

Later that evening, Laena quietly closed the door to her chambers. The sound of her footsteps mixed with the soft crackling of the fire. She had put the girls to bed herself. Baela slept clutching her wooden dragon, and Rhaena had soon followed.

Daemon was already there, lying on the bed, his tunic open, arms crossed behind his head, eyes fixed on the ceiling. He turned his head when she entered but said nothing right away.

“So?” he finally asked in a neutral tone. “How was the council?”

Laena sighed and lay down next to him, resting her head on his chest. She had spent the rest of the day with Rhaenyra, who had locked herself in her chambers, trying to calm down. Seeing Daemon brought her comfort on this difficult day.

“As expected, Viserys surprised everyone. He wanted to betroth Jace to Daenora.”

Daemon raised an eyebrow, half amused, half annoyed.
“Daenora? Seriously? My brother has lost his mind.”

“Alicent hinted that Jace was a bastard. In front of the whole council.”

Daemon sat up slightly, his gaze darkening. “She said it directly?”

“Enough for everyone to understand.” Laena paused, then continued, “I thought of you. Of all we’ve been through, what we’ve built. And I knew it was the right decision. Jace and Baela. Luc and Rhaena. It’s more than a political bond. It’s a reminder of who we are. Dragons.”

Daemon nodded slowly, then pulled her closer. His voice softened.

“Do you ever think about it?”

“About what?” she asked.

He hesitated a moment before replying, “Having more children.”

Laena turned toward him. “Another?”

Daemon shrugged slightly.
“The girls are still young. But… I’ve been thinking about it lately. Maybe a son.”

“A son? Since when does Daemon Targaryen dream of a little boy to hold in his arms?” Laena teased, amused.

He laughed softly.
“Not only to hold him. To make him a fierce dragon and a brave fighter. One who can protect you and the girls. I fear that one day I won’t be here anymore, and I’ll fail to protect our family.”

She sat up to look at him, her lilac eyes bright in the firelight.

“If he’s like you, I fear for the entire castle.”

Daemon let out a genuine laugh.
“If he’s like you, he’ll be a blessing to the realm.”

And so they fell asleep, wrapped in each other’s arms. Unaware that the gods had other plans for them.

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Chapter Text

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120 AC:

The Red Keep felt too big when he was alone.

Jacaerys Velaryon stood by the window of his bedchamber, small hands resting on the stone sill, his face pressed close to the cold glass. The morning sun spilled over Blackwater Bay, shimmering the waves like it was the scales of a silver fish. Ships moved like toys in the harbor far below, their sails fluttering in the breeze. From here, everything seemed so peaceful, as if the world itself was holding its breath.

But Jace knew that wasn’t true.

His mother had been gone for seven days. She had flown to Driftmark to be with Aunt Laena for her last month of pregnancy and support her during the labor. At first, it had felt exciting. A little adventure. His mother had kissed him on the brow and told him to be brave.

“You’re my big prince now,” she had said. “Watch over your brothers. Be careful, and don’t fight with Lucerys.” She’d smiled, and Syrax flew into the sky.

She had told Father to stay behind. “Stay at King’s Landing and watch over our boys,” she’d said.

Father had nodded, but something passed between them that Jace couldn’t understand. A quiet thing. A grown-up thing. He didn’t like it.

But last night, just before the moon rose, Father had left too.

A message had come by raven. Aunt Laena was not well. The baby was coming soon, too soon, and things weren’t going right. Jace had been reading in the library with Maester Edwell when the door burst open. Father hadn’t looked like himself. His smile was gone, and his eyes were wide and darker than usual.

“She’s in trouble,” he’d said, though no one had asked anything yet. “I have to go.”

“But Mother said-” Jace had started, but Father had already turned away.

He’d told Ser Harwin to protect the boys, especially the youngest, little Joffrey, who still cried when Mother wasn’t around and didn’t understand much of anything yet. Then Father left, just like that. No goodbye. No hug. Jace had been too frustrated to sleep last night, and too tired to care this morning.

He turned from the window and walked across the room. His shoes made soft scuffs on the stone floor. The room was quiet. The septa had proposed a walk in the garden to get some fresh air and clear his mind. He refused, saying that he was too busy, but in reality he just didn’t want anyone asking him how he felt. Adults always asked things like that when they didn't want to answer questions themselves.

What if Aunt Laena died?

He didn’t like thinking it. But he couldn’t stop. Everyone said she was strong and that she could bear a lot of children. She always laughed loudly and ruffled his curly brown hair. She flew the biggest dragon in the world, Vhagar, and she’d once taken Jace for a ride.

Once his father said that sometimes strong people died too. That was the part that scared him the most.

Laenor Velaryon was a good man. Everyone said so, however some people murmured about his specific taste. Jacaerys had no idea what that meant. It’s true that Laenor likes some weird Essosi food, but it doesn’t make his father stranger than other fathers.

For example, Laenor loves to tell stories about his voyages and he is friends with so many knights; sometimes he drinks wine with them. Just like Uncle Daemon or any other man.

But sometimes father felt… distant or sad. Mother says that he missed his closest friend, Ser Joffrey Lonmouth, killed by Criston Cole during the tourney for his parents’ marriage.

Then there was Ser Harwin Strong, to whom he bore too much resemblance. Certainly Jace is young, yet he’s not stupid; he hears what people say around him, and more important, he sees that he and his brothers don't look like Valyrians.

Still, Laenor was his father. He taught Jace so many things; like swimming or how to hold a sword and also-

Suddenly a knock rapped on the door.

“Prince Jacaerys?” It was Ser Harwin. His voice was deep but also really gentle.

Jace didn’t answer.

Harwin opened the door carefully. “Forgive me, my prince. But it’s time.”

“For what?”

“Your training. With your uncles.” He added.

Jace blinked; he was so deep in his thoughts that he had completely forgotten about the sword training.

Harwin gave a small nod. “The Master-at-Arms expects you in the yard.”

Jace stood slowly. He adjusted his tunic and tried not to let his stomach twist. The last time he’d trained with Aemond, he had gone back with a bruised shoulder.

He took a long breath and answered, “I'm coming, Ser Harwin.”

⸻

The training yard of the Red Keep smelled of dust, sweat, and old leather. The sun became even hotter than an hour ago, making the air stifling. Jace squinted as he stepped onto the sand, his practice sword tucked awkwardly under his arm.

Aegon was already there, lounging on a bench as if it were a throne. His armor was only half-buckled, his silver hair fell messily around his face. He tossed his sword from hand to hand like it was a game.

Aemond stood at the other end of the yard, already stretching with perfect movement and his expression very serious. His practice gear was spotless. He hadn’t even looked up when Jace arrived.

Jace approached slowly, nodding a polite greeting to the Master-at-Arms, Ser Allar Swann. Harwin stood nearby too, arms crossed, watching silently but carefully. Sometimes he attended the training.

Jacaerys had started his lessons a few months ago when he reached 6 years old.

“Well, well,” Aegon said, pushing himself up lazily. “The little Velaryon has come down from his books. Shall we see if you still remember which end of your sword is sharp?”

“It’s not sharp,” Jace said, holding up his practice sword. “It’s made of wood.”

Aegon smirked. He bragged about having a real sword, even if it's rounded at the edges, as if he hadn't received the permission to use it just two months ago, which is pretty late for a 13-year-old prince.

Jace bit the inside of his cheek and said nothing. He didn’t like the way Aegon always talked as if everything was a joke. He was older, taller, and faster, but he never took things seriously. He mocked the maesters, made the septa cry, and once, Jace was sure of it, he’d seen Aegon spit into Aemond’s cup and pretend he hadn’t.

He didn’t trust Aegon. And yet, Aegon made people laugh. Some of the guards liked him. He had a way of saying just enough to make others feel clever. He’d done it once with Jace too, called him “the clever and strong Velaryon prince” with a wink, and for a second Jace had smiled before realizing it was meant to be mocking.

Aemond was different. Colder. Stricter. He never smiled. Him and Aegon liked to jab him with words, but Aemond still preferred to hurt his nephew with the sword. He fought like he was proving something every time. Jace didn’t know what, only that Aemond always seemed angry against the whole world.

They began with footwork. The Master gave instructions to the two younger boys, while Aegon was training with the older noble boys.
Jace tried to focus on his stance. Shoulders low. Balance on the points of his feet. Sword angled just so.

Aemond’s movements were perfect. Too perfect, Jacaerys was jealous.

Next they started sparing. Aemond stepped up first. His strikes were fast and too aggressive. Jace grit his teeth but kept his cool. He didn’t want Harwin to see him lose focus. He managed to parry most, stepping back, letting Aemond wear himself down.

“Better keep your guard up, little nephew,” murmured Aemond.

“I’m not little,” Jace muttered, his voice too low for anyone to hear.

He meant it. But sometimes, when Aemond or Aegon smirked that way, Jace felt vulnerable.

After almost two hours, they were still sparring. Jace had taken a hit to the wrist and was shaking it out, when a small voice called from the edge of the yard.

“Is it over yet?”

Daenora stood at the archway, holding a little basket in her hands, her dress brushing the dust as she stepped gingerly onto the training sand.

The guards didn’t stop her. They never did.

Before Ser Allar Swann could open his mouth, Ser Harwin turned his head with a faint smile. “Not yet, princess.”

Daenora huffed and came closer, her steps small but confident. “I brought biscuits with honey,” she said. “Cook let me take some, since I said it was for my brothers.”

She said the words with pride, like she was presenting a treasure.

Aegon dropped his sword immediately. “Biscuits? Now that’s a reason to finish the training.”

Daenora giggled as he crouched down in front of her, his whole tone changing, warmer, lighter. “You bring those just for me?” he asked with a grin.

“No,” she said. “For you two.”

“But I’m your favorite, aren’t I?” Aegon winked, and Daenora blushed.

Jace watched in silence, sword still clutched in his hands.

She looked at Aegon like he was a knight from songs come to life. Her eyes sparkled when he joked; her laugh trailed after his like a shadow.

He wondered if she’d ever look at him like that.

However she didn’t look at Aemond the same way, even though he was better at the sword. Even though he always stood up straighter and looked more like a Targaryen prince.

No, Daenora liked Aegon, because he knew how to smile the right way, how to say her name with flair, how to bow as if she was a real lady.

She liked stories. Jace could see it in her. She liked feeling part of something exciting, something noble and bright.

He envied Aegon. And not for the first time, he wished he had a sister.

Someone younger, someone delicate. Someone who might follow him around the same way, eyes wide with admiration. Who might cheer when he picked up a sword, even if he stumbled. Who would always need protection.

Lucerys would grow up, Joffrey too. One day they’d stop looking at Jace like he was the bravest person in the world. They’d fight their own battles. They’d want to prove things for themselves.

But a sister…

A sister would never stop needing her big brother. She’d always be smaller and softer. Girls weren’t trained to fight. They weren’t expected to ride into war. A sister would need him.

And if he had one, if the gods ever gave him a little sister, he swore he’d treat her better than Aegon and Aemond did.

They barely looked at Daenora when she wasn’t carrying food. They never asked her to stay, or to watch them. And if she did, they forgot she was there.

Jacaerys thought of Helaena too. She was older than him, gentle and strange in her own way, always whispering about insects or staring at things no one else saw. Aegon found her odd. He laughed at her in front of others, sometimes imitated her at the table, making her blush.

Aemond, on the other hand, didn't mock her as much, but he never protected her from insults. However, when they needed a favor from her, they both became particularly kind, especially Aegon. As he used to do with Daenora, when she brought some food after training, he used flattering words towards Helaena to make her feel special and soften her up.

Jace wouldn’t do that. He would teach his sister to read. He’d sneak her into the library and tell her dragon stories before bed. He’d take her egg to the fire himself and check on it every morning. He would protect her from this cruel world and the men who would try to court her.

He’d be the best big brother there ever was.

He blinked and realized Daenora was now sitting on the bench beside Harwin, humming softly to herself and swinging her legs. Watching her older brothers go back to training when the Master-at-Arms told them to first finish the lesson.

Jace exhaled. Picked up his sword again. Maybe he didn’t have a sister.

But he had little brothers. And they needed him just as much.

For now.

⸻

After the lesson, while his uncles surrounded Daenora to enjoy the biscuits, Ser Harwin approached Jace and placed a strong, calloused hand on his shoulder.

“Come,” he said. “You need air. Let’s walk.”

They walked for some time in comfortable silence, the hush of the gardens wrapping around them like a soft cloak. Harwin’s steps were heavy and deliberate. Jace found comfort in the sheer weight of them; he fancied the way Harwin never hurried. There was a steadiness to him, like stone.

Finally, Harwin spoke.

“You held your stance well,” Harwin said, nodding approvingly. “Aemond fights with vanity, that makes him weak, but you kept your composure.”

“I don’t like fighting him,” Jacaerys admitted. “He’s always angry. Like he’s trying to hurt me.”

Harwin agreed. “That’s because he is.”

Jace looked up at him. “He doesn’t like me.”

“No. But that doesn’t matter. You don’t fight to be liked. You fight to be ready.”

Jace shrugged.

Harwin let out a soft laugh, rough and low. “I’ve seen many men win a fight, and still lose their honor. And I’ve seen boys take a beating, and walk away with their pride untouched. You’re still learning.”

“Sometimes I think I’ll never be like them,” he muttered.

“Like who?”

“Aegon. Aemond. They’re…” He hesitated. “They feel like true Targaryen princes. Like they were born to be them. I don’t think I was.”

Harwin stopped walking. He turned to face Jace, lowering himself slightly so they were eye-level.

“You listen to me,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “You’re not them. Thank the gods.”

“But no one takes me seriously and they don’t listen to me. I’m just—just the boy they whisper about. The one with brown hair.”

Harwin’s expression darkened slightly, but he didn’t deny it. “Let them whisper. They don’t know you. I do. And one day, so will everyone else.”

Jace looked away. “You sound like my mother.”

“Good woman, your mother.” Harwin smiled faintly. “Brave and more passionate than most people I know.”

“You’re going to be a fine king, Jacaerys. Just like your ancestor, King Jaehaerys. That's because you care. That’s rarer than diamonds in this city,” he added with confidence.

Jace didn’t know what to say to that. So he nodded, heart thudding strangely.

Just then, a gold-cloaked guard approached. “Ser Harwin. The Commander requests your presence.”

Harwin’s face shifted the moment he heard the message.

“I won’t be long, don’t go too far,” Harwin said before turning away.

Jace watched him walk off, the afternoon light glinting off his armor. He felt the quiet settle again.

He made his way to the Godswood and sat down at the base of the tree, staring up into the branches as if they might answer the questions no one else could.

A rustle of skirts behind him drew his attention.

It was Daenora.

Her hair was half-tamed with a ribbon, curls bouncing around her face. She wore a dark blue dress with tiny white flowers embroidered along the hem, now slightly stained with dust.

“There you are,” she said brightly.

Jace sat up a little straighter, wiping his hands on his tunic.

“I saved the good ones,” she said freely, sitting down beside him. Daenora took a biscuit and passed one to him.

Jacaerys hesitated a second, then accepted her offer with a smile. When he finished his biscuit, he asked her why she decided to look for him after he hurriedly left the training yard.

“I just thought… maybe you’d feel a little lonely, with both your parents gone to Driftmark,” she said, her voice softer now, eyes flicking to the biscuits in her hands before meeting his again. “I have never been alone for long without my mother.”

They ate in silence for a few moments, only the wind and the rustling branches above them filling the space.

“I saw your training,” she added between small bites. “Aemond nearly dropped his sword when you hit him.”

“I still lost,” he tried to keep his voice stable, but in fact it was frustrated and bitter.

Daenora giggled, her eyes shining with amusement. “Still. He said you were getting better.”

Jace blinked. “He… said that?”

She nodded. “He said, ‘That little Strong boy hits harder than he looks.’”

That name Strong echoed strangely in Jace’s ears, and for a heartbeat, he wasn’t sure if she meant it kindly or not. But Daenora didn’t look cruel. Just proud. Proud of him.

“Do you like watching us train?” he asked.

“I do. It’s unfair that they don’t let girls learn. I’d be good with a blade. Or maybe with a bow.”

Jace smiled. “You’d scare Aegon.”

“He’d deserve it,” she muttered, then looked down, as if she’d said too much.

Jace glanced at Daenora; she was very beautiful, he thought. Her upturned eyes had a very dark purple color, and her nose had the straight shape of Queen Alicent’s. She was tall and slender, already very graceful for her young age. Daenora looked like she had been carved from porcelain.

She didn’t look like Viserys at all, not like Helaena did; soft features, a plump body, and that ghostly lilac downturned eyes. Daenora reminded him much more of her mother. Regal and unreachable. And though he would never say it aloud, he found Daenora far more beautiful.

But as the thought settled in his mind, Jace’s chest tightened with guilt. He looked away quickly, cheeks flushing. What was he doing?

He had no right. He was already promised to Baela: bold, wild, with windblown curls and a voice that always seemed a little too loud for her small frame.

She was only four, still clumsy with her steps but already fearless, always trying to climb things twice her height. She didn’t care for dresses or embroidery; she wanted to ride and fight, just like her father.

She was young, but Jace had always liked that fire in her eyes. It made him proud to know that one day she would stand at his side.

Thinking of another girl, even one as clever and gracious as Daenora, felt wrong. He pressed his lips into a line, cheeks warm with guilt. Daenora was just being kind. And he… he should know better.

Just then, footsteps rang out across the stone path.

A septa in a pale gray habit approached, breathless, her face tight with something unsaid. “My prince,” she said, voice pinched and urgent.

Jacaerys stood. “What is it?”

The septa hesitated, then looked at them both with pity.

“A raven has arrived. Lady Laena… she has passed. She died in childbirth this morning. Your parents remain in Driftmark.”

Jace’s heart stopped. The biscuit in his hand dropped to the ground, forgotten. His ears rang, the words echoing through him without meaning at first. His vision blurred with unshed tears.

Daenora’s hand brushed his. He looked down and fixed his gaze on her trembling fingers closed around his.

He didn’t pull away.

Not this time.

⋆ ༺𓆩 ♛ 𓆪༻ ⋆

Chapter Text

⋆ ༺𓆩 ♛ 𓆪༻ ⋆

120 AC:

The sea wind felt different today, sharp and mournful, carrying the scent of salt and the heavy promise of grief.

Princess Daenora Targaryen stood on the deck of the royal barge, her small hand gripping the polished wood of the railing. Her dark purple dress, a somber contrast to the vibrant silks she usually favored, felt heavy against her skin. For her, life had mostly been about honey cakes, quiet hours with her mother, and the rare fleeting smiles of her father. Now, the world felt like a gray tapestry woven with loss.

Driftmark, the ancestral seat of House Velaryon, loomed larger with every gentle swell of the waves. The fortress usually a beacon of prosperity and naval power, seemed hushed under the overcast sky. Daenora’s stomach fluttered, not with seasickness, but with the unfamiliar tremor of impending sadness.

Lady Laena was gone. The news had reached King’s Landing like a cold arrow, piercing the uneasy peace that had settled after the storm of whispers around Joffrey’s birth. Now, they were here for her funeral, a grim procession to mark the passing of a dragonrider.

Daenora’s gaze drifted from the approaching shore to her own hands, clasped tightly before her. A faint warmth pulsed against her chest. It was her dragon, Tessarion, a tiny bundle of scales, no larger than a house cat. Tessarion was a dark colbalt, while her claws, crest, and belly scales were the color of bright beaten copper. She had named her in honor of Tessarion, Goddess of foresight, of dreams and prophecy. Tessarion had come into her life. It was a day that remained vivid in Daenora’s young mind.

Helaena, her older sister, had successfully claimed Dreamfyre, the blue dragon of Queen Rhaena Targaryen, five months to the day after her brother, Aegon, had claimed Sunfyre, in the year 119 AC. The sight of Helaena mounting the magnificent dragon had filled Daenora with awe. It had also filled her with a profound sense of belonging. She was a Targaryen too, and soon after, an egg from Dreamfyre’s clutch, one that Helaena had personally chosen for her, had hatched. Her own dragon, it was a secret comfort, a small, vibrant spark in a world that often felt dull and overwhelming.

The thought of dragons always brought her to Aemond, her older brother. A pang of pity, sharp and unexpected, twisted in her small chest. Aemond, at ten years old, was the only one of her siblings who still lacked a dragon. She remembered his quiet desperation, the way he would watch Aegon and Helaena, then her, with a gaze that held a mix of longing and resentment. Their father, King Viserys, had promised Aemond a trip to Dragonstone, to the very heart of the ancient Targaryen seat, to try his luck with the dragons that nested there.

Daenora often pictured him, small but brave, standing before Vermithor, the mighty Bronze Fury, one of the largest and oldest dragons still alive, riderless since King Jaehaerys’s death. She imagined Vermithor, huge and fearsome, bowing his head to Aemond, recognizing the Targaryen blood in his veins. The thought made her both proud and a little afraid for him. Aemond was intense, so serious, and she knew how much a dragon meant to him. It was a deep ache in his young soul, one that only a dragon could truly mend.

Daenora’s gaze swept across the familiar figures gathered on the quay as the gangplank was finally lowered. Her father, King Viserys, stood at the forefront, his usually cheerful countenance was shadowed by grief, his broad shoulders slumped. Daenora felt a surge of affection for him. Viserys, for all his blindness to the court's undercurrents, was a kind father, always ready with a gentle word or a small treat. He often overlooked her, absorbed by Rhaenyra's or Alicent’s dramas, but when he did notice her, his affection was genuine. She loved him for his softness, even if it often left her feeling like a forgotten flower in a huge garden.

Beside him stood her mother, Queen Alicent. Her posture was rigid, impeccable as always, but her face was a mask of restrained sorrow. Alicent's grief for Laena, a woman who had been Rhaenyra’s closest friend and, in her eyes, a political rival, seemed complex.

Daenora knew her mother's love was a deep, quiet current, often hidden beneath layers of duty and propriety. Alicent showed her affection through thoughtful gestures. She wasn’t demonstrative like some mothers, but Daenora understood that her mother’s reserved nature was just another facet of her strength. Today, however, that strength seemed brittle, stretched thin by the weight of the tragedy.

Then there were her siblings. Aegon, thirteen, looked uncharacteristically subdued. His usual mischievous grin was absent, replaced by a sullen frown. He rarely showed deep emotion, preferring to hide behind jokes or indifference, but Laena's death seemed to have pierced even his usual apathy. Daenora felt a mix of exasperation and affection for Aegon. He was often boisterous and a bit of a bully, especially to Aemond, but he also had a way of making her laugh, of making her feel special with his playful winks and exaggerated compliments. She knew he preferred her to Helaena, who he found "odd," and Daenora often enjoyed being his favored audience. It was a simple, uncomplicated bond, built on shared secrets and stolen sweets.

Helaena, her elder sister, stood a little apart, her pale face marred by a deep sadness in her eyes. Helaena was always pleasent and a happy girl. Daenora loved Helaena’s gentleness, her quiet, unwavering presence. Helaena never judged, never demanded. She simply was. Daenora often wondered what Helaena saw in insects that was so interesting. Daenora felt a surge of protectiveness towards her. Helaena was so vulnerable, so easily hurt by the whispers that say her beauty was less striking than most Targaryens.

And there was Aemond, her ten-year-old brother, standing stiffly. While others were grieving Laena’s and her baby death, Aemond seemed indifferent and absorbed in his mind. Daenora felt a complex mix of sympathy and fear for him. He was a difficult brother, quick to anger, slow to forgive. Yet, she saw the yearning in his eyes, the deep desire for a dragon, for recognition. She knew his frustrations mirrored her own, though in a much darker way. She longed for him to find his dragon, and helping Aemond to free himself from this weight, and believing it might soften the edges of his fierce personality.

A cross from her immediate family stood the Velaryons and their allies. Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, a towering figure even in his grief, held himself with a dignity that bordered on exhaustion. His silver hair and beard seemed to gleam in the muted light, but his eyes, usually so sharp and commanding, were clouded with profound sorrow.

His arm was wrapped around Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, the Queen Who Never Was and Laena’s mother. Rhaenys, a dragonrider of immense power and presence, appeared utterly devastated. Her shoulders shook almost imperceptibly, and her usually proud head was bowed.

And then, Prince Daemon Targaryen, Laena’s husband, her uncle. He stood beside Rhaenys, a dark, brooding presence. His face was a thundercloud, his eyes, usually alight with mischief or fury, were hollow with pain. He was not a man to show weakness, but the raw grief emanating from him was palpable, a silent scream of agony. Daenora knew Daemon was dangerous, impulsive, but she also knew he loved fiercely.

And finally, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, her half-sister, stood a little forward from the rest, her purple eyes red-rimmed but resolute. Her silvery hair, usually so meticulously braided, was slightly disheveled. The loss of her beloved friend had clearly hit her hard. Yet, there was a strength in her, a quiet defiance that Daenora recognized.

Ser Laenor Velaryon surprisingly, stood apart, a solitary figure near the water's edge, his back to the group. He seemed almost a ghost of himself, his usually vibrant demeanor muted by grief and a profound, unreadable sadness.

Rhaenyra’s eyes found her boys who traveled with them in the same ship. A soft, almost desperate cry escaped her lips, and she rushed forward, her arms outstretched. Jacaerys, now six, ran into her embrace first, burying his face in her black dress. She held him tightly, pressing kisses into his brown curls, tears finally streaming down her face. Then Lucerys, a smaller, shyer version of Jace, followed, clutching her leg. She pulled him into the hug too, her grief momentarily overshadowed by the overwhelming relief of holding her children.

Even little Joffrey, still a three year old babe, was scooped up by a tearful Rhaenyra, held close to her heart. The tableau was a powerful testament to a mother's love, a brief moment of warmth and reunion amidst the prevailing sorrow. Daenora watched, a strange mix of emotions swirling within her. A flicker of envy, perhaps, at the raw, unrestrained affection Rhaenyra showed her sons.

A profound sense of the fragile, intricate web that bound them all together: Targaryens, Velaryons, Greens, and Blacks united, for this one somber day, in shared grief. The Red Keep, with its whispers and hidden animosities, suddenly seemed very far away. Here, on the shores of Driftmark, in the shadow of sorrow, only family remained.

The funeral procession moved slowly towards the jagged cliffs overlooking the Narrow Sea. The wind grew stronger here, whipping at cloaks and hair, carrying the mournful cries of gulls. The air tasted of salt and the damp earth of Driftmark. The Velaryon custom dictated a burial at sea, a final return to the element that had defined their house for centuries.

A hush fell over the gathered lords and ladies, their faces solemn, their eyes fixed on the simple, unadorned casket. It was not a dragon's funeral pyre, bursting with flame and smoke, but a quiet, solemn descent into the depths. This was Laena, the Sea Snake's daughter, returning to the sea that was her birthright.

Ser Vaemond Velaryon, Lord Corlys’s younger brother, stepped forward, his voice gruff but clear as he began the traditional eulogy.

"We stand here today by the sea, as is our tradition, to commend to the waves Lady Laena Velaryon. She was a woman of spirit, a rider of dragons, and a daughter of the tide. May her journey be swift, and her rest eternal..."

Daenora listened, her small fingers idly twirling a lock of her silver hair around her forefinger. It was a habit she’d picked up recently, a small, unconscious gesture that soothed her when she felt overwhelmed. The cold air, the solemn words, the collective grief, it was all too much for a child, a silent storm inside her.

As Vaemond’s voice droned on, Daenora's sharp, observant eyes began to wander. She noticed the small, almost imperceptible habits of the adults around her, the tiny tells of their hidden anxieties.

Her mother, Queen Alicent, stood stiffly, her lips pressed into a thin line. Daenora saw the quick, nervous flick of her tongue as she bit and worried at her thumbnail, a habit her mother usually reserved for her most private moments of stress. Her brother Aegon, stood beside their mother, equally restless. Though he tried to appear nonchalant, Daenora saw him, too, gnawing at his nails, a mirror image of their mother’s quiet torment. It was a shared, unconscious tic, revealing the depths of their unease.

Helaena, lost in her own thoughts, seemed to be wrestling with the fabric of her dark funeral gown. Her delicate fingers nervously picked at the rich embroidery, twisting the threads, and tugging at the delicate patterns. Daenora knew this habit well; Helaena’s dresses were often slightly frayed or unravelled at the cuffs, testament to her anxious fiddling. Helaena’s mind seemed to wander, seeking comfort in the tactile world of stitches and textures.

Aemond, usually so composed and intent, betrayed his unease in a subtler way. He stood perfectly still, his hands clasped behind his back, but Daenora noticed the constant, rhythmic tapping of his foot against the cold stone, a silent, relentless beat against the solemn silence. It was a tremor of impatience.

Daenora remembered her mother earlier remark about Rhaenyra's "vulgar" choice of wearing so many rings to a funeral. But Daenora knew the reason of that choice. Rhaenyra’s fingers, adorned with a multitude of glimmering jewels, were constantly fiddling with the rings on her fingers, twisting them, turning them, sliding them up and down. Each ring was a tiny distraction, a point of focus for her restless energy, a tangible anchor in the swirling chaos of her grief and anger.

Laenor Velaryon stood beside Rhaenyra, looking utterly lost. His eyes were red-rimmed, his shoulders slumped. Daenora saw him biting his lower lip, hard, as if trying to physically suppress the pain welling up within him. His eldest son, Jacaerys, stood close to him, his small face mirroring his father's pain. Jace, too, was chewing at his lip, a nervous habit he shared with his Laenor, maybe the only thing they shared.

Lucerys, the quieter of Rhaenyra’s sons, stood a little behind Jace, his gaze wide and distressed. He wasn't biting his lip, but his small hand was clasped tightly in Rhaenyra's own, clinging to her as if she were his last tether to the world. Lucerys was always the one who sought physical comfort, who needed to hold onto someone when he felt afraid or overwhelmed.

Joffrey in his nurse's arms, was blissfully unaware of the gravity of the occasion. He fussed and squirmed, his tiny hand reaching up to scratch his nose repeatedly, a familiar, innocent gesture for those who noticed.

And Prince Daemon stood like a statue, his face a mask of impenetrable grief. His hand, hanging loosely at his side, was clenched tightly around the hilt of Dark Sister, his Valyrian steel blade. His knuckles were white because of the tension in his grip.

Finally, her father shifted uncomfortably. He was coughing frequently, a dry, hacking sound that punctuated Vaemond’s eulogy like an ominous drumbeat. His illness, caused by infection, was a physical manifestation of his weariness and sometimes weakness.

Vaemond’s words ended, swallowed by the wind. The casket was slowly lowered, then pushed into the churning grey waters below. A splash, muffled by the distance and the wind, marked Laena Velaryon’s final journey. The tears that had been held back by ceremony now flowed freely for some. Daenora, her own small anxieties swirling, continued to twirl her hair, her eyes fixed on the restless sea, wondering what secrets it held, and what more it might take from her family.

⸻

The last rays of the sun had long vanished beneath the turbulent waves of the Narrow Sea, taking with them the somber light of Laena Velaryon’s funeral.

Now, the moon hung like a pale, watchful eye over Driftmark, casting long, distorted shadows across the ancient keep. Inside, the castle was cloaked in a fragile, uneasy quiet. The grieving family had retreated to their chambers, each wrestling with their sorrow and the lingering chill of the sea breeze.

Princess Daenora Targaryen lay nestled in her bed, a silken blanket pulled up to her chin. The day’s events had left her profoundly tired, a heavy weariness settling deep in her small bones. Daenora closed her eyes, she wanted to think of honey cakes and her mother’s soft voice, of Aegon’s teasing smiles and Helaena’s quiet stories. She wanted to forget the tension, the hidden anxieties she’d observed in every twitch and fidget during the funeral.

A sudden, piercing scream tore through the silence of the night, raw and full of anguish. Daenora’s eyes snapped open, her heart leaping into her throat. It was a sound of profound pain that could only come from a child. Almost immediately, other cries followed, frantic shouts, the heavy thud of running footsteps in the corridors, and the panicked voices of servants.

Her door burst open. It was her mother, her face pale and drawn, her green eyes wide with terror. She clutched a silk robe around herself, her usually impeccable hair dishevelled.

"Daenora! Get up, quickly!" Her voice was a strained whisper of urgency.

Before Daenora could fully register the shock, Helaena, roused from her own quiet slumber in the adjoining room, appeared in the doorway, her eyes already wide and unseeing.

Daenora scrambled from her bed. Her small legs carried her through the echoing halls, following her mother and sister towards the source of the commotion. The castle, which had moments ago been steeped in silent grief, now pulsed with a terrifying energy.

They were ushered into the bustling, brightly lit Great Hall, filled with the urgent whispers of guards and maesters. The air crackled with a palpable tension, thick and suffocating. Daenora’s eyes darted around, trying to make sense of the horrifying scene unfolding before her.
And then she saw him.

Her brother Aemond. He stood at the center of the room, held by two guards, his usually stern face contorted in a silent, agonizing scream. His dark clothing was torn, his silver hair matted with blood. But it was his right eye that made Daenora gasp, a small, choked sound.

It was gone. A gaping, bloody hollow stared back at her, a raw, terrifying wound. Aemond, her brave older brother, is now forever marked, maimed. A wave of sick horror washed over Daenora, mingling with a surge of profound pity. He looked like a wounded animal, trapped and in agony. She wanted to run to him, to cover his eye, to make the horror disappear.

Her gaze then fell upon her nephews. Jacaerys stood slightly in front of his younger brothers, chest heaving from held-back tears, a smear of blood at the corner of his lip. His curls were tousled, his tunic torn at the sleeve, and yet… he looked brave. Taller than usual. Older, somehow.

Before tonight, Jacaerys had always been… different. In the Red Keep, Daenora often found her gaze lingering on him. He wasn't like Aegon, all boisterous charm and casual mockery. Jace was quiet, thoughtful. He had an earnestness in his dark eyes, a kindness in his gentle smile, that hinted at a deeper soul. He was diligent in his lessons, polite to the servants, and genuinely fond of his younger brothers.

He was everything she imagined a noble prince should be: strong without being cruel, intelligent without being boastful. He possessed a certain melancholy that, to her young, romantic mind, made him seem all the more captivating. He was the kind of prince who would protect you with quiet loyalty.

And then there was Baela. The fiery daughter of Laena and Daemon. When Rhaenyra had announced the betrothal of Jace and Baela, a flicker of something Daenora, then only four years old, couldn't quite name had stirred within her. It wasn't anger, not exactly, but a faint, unfamiliar ache. Baela was bold and wild, a true dragon rider, already fearless.

Daenora had always admired Baela. She was everything Daenora wasn't: unbridled, unafraid to be loud, destined for great things.
But as the years passed, a tiny and illogical part of her wondered why she couldn’t be the one promised to Jace. This vague, childish jealousy had always felt wrong, a secret Daenora quickly buried, but it was there.

But now, looking at Jacaerys, that innocent admiration was tainted. He wasn't the handsome and unwavering prince she had imagined. He was just a boy, a boy with a lot of rumors about his legitimacy. The one who had participated in a brutal act that had scarred her own brother. The gentle and loving image she held of him shattered, replaced by the stark reality of his complicity. The shock of the violence, the sight of Aemond's raw wound, eclipsed any tender feelings. Jacaerys was not her prince charming; he participated in this bloody family feud.

Lucerys was even worse. His clothes were filthy, his small body trembling, and he held a hand to his head, where a nasty bruise was already blossoming. Little Joffrey, mercifully, seemed more bewildered than hurt, covered in mud and grime, but otherwise unharmed, clinging to the skirts of his nurse.

The room erupted into a cacophony of accusations and demands. Aemond claimed Vhagar in secret. For his part, Lucerys hit Aemond in the face, gouging out his right eye. The two mothers, Queen Alicent and Princess Rhaenyra, were at the heart of the storm, their voices rising above the din, each a lioness defending her cubs.

Alicent, her face contorted by a furious grief Daenora had never witnessed, pointed a trembling finger at Lucerys.

"An eye for an eye!" she shrieked, her voice cracking with raw emotion.

"He took my son's eye! He will pay the blood price! Take his eye, Ser Criston! Aemond must have justice!" Her voice was a desperate, primal scream, demanding retribution for her son's horrific injury.

Daenora watched her mother, shocked by the depth of her rage, a stark contrast to her usual composed demeanor. This was a mother driven to the brink, consumed by the need for vengeance.

Rhaenyra, equally enraged, stepped forward, shielding her sons. Her face was flushed, her voice shaking with barely contained fury.

"No! You will not touch my son!" she retorted, her eyes burning with defiance. "I demand to know where Aemond heard such vile lies! Question him! Question him sharply until he tells us who poisoned his mind!"

Rhaenyra’s rage was just as fierce, but it stemmed from a different place: the defense of her sons' legitimacy, of her own honor. To call her boys "the Strong" was to brand them bastards, to deny their birthright, and to accuse her of high treason. The stakes were impossibly high.

King Viserys, caught between his wife and his daughter, seemed to shrink before their wrath. His face was a picture of utter misery, his usual cough becoming more frequent and rasping.

"Silence! Both of you!" he said, his voice weak against the torrent of their fury. "Aemond…look at me. Your king demands an answer. Who spoke these lies to you?"

Daenora's gaze flickered from the King's disappointed face to her mother. Alicent, usually so careful, had been the most vocal in that vile accusations about Rhaenyra's sons. Whispering bastards, where others dared not.

Now, with Aemond about to speak, a faint dread seemed to pass over her mother's features, a subtle tightening around her eyes. Would Aemond protect their mother, or would he reveal the source of the insidious rumors?

Daenora knew that "bastard" was a terrible word, a stain on a name, a mark of dishonor. It meant you had no right to anything, no claim to noble blood or grand titles. The septa spoke of it as a betrayal against the faith of seven, and she had heard the whispers, even if she didn’t fully grasp the depths of the shame it implied.

Pressed by their father, Aemond finally spoke, his voice hoarse, choked with tears and resentment. "It was Aegon."

All eyes snapped to Aegon, who stood sullenly, refusing to meet anyone's eyes. He simply shrugged, his earlier bravado replaced by a surly defiance.

"Everyone knows it," he muttered, his voice low but audible in the tense silence. "Just look at them."

The words hung in the air, a final, undeniable accusation. Rhaenyra gasped, her face paling at the blatant insult. Alicent, for a fleeting moment, looked almost satisfied, despite the horror of Aemond’s injury.

King Viserys, his face a mask of profound despair, finally brought his fist down on a nearby table, a surprisingly loud thud that momentarily silenced the room.

"Enough!" he roared, his voice trembling with exhausted authority. "I will hear no more of this! No one's eye will be taken!" He looked from Alicent to Rhaenyra, then at his children and grandchildren, his gaze filled with a desperate plea for peace.

"But mark my words," he continued, his voice dropping to a dangerous hush, "if anyone: man, woman, or child, noble, commoner, or of royal blood, ever again question my grandsons legitimacy, I will have their tongue ripped out with hot pincers!"

The pronouncement hung heavy in the air, a chilling threat that finally silenced the warring factions. Alicent stiffened, her face registering shock and defeat. Rhaenyra, though still seething, seemed to breathe a small sigh of relief.

Daenora, her heart thumping against her ribs, took in the scene. Aemond stood rigid, his jaw clenched, blood trailing from the wound where his eye had once been. His fists trembled at his sides, not from fear, but from rage barely contained.

“Do not mourn me, Mother,” he said, voice cold and sharp like a blade. “It was a fair exchange. I may have lost an eye… but I gained a dragon.”

And amidst it all, she continued to twirl a lock of her hair, her small fingers seeking the familiar comfort of the gesture, her mind trying to process the horrifying reality that had ripped through the night.

And for the first time in her life, she felt afraid: not of dragons, or the dark, or the sea.

But of her own blood.

At the end, the funeral of Laena had marked a sorrowful end, but this bloody wound promised an even darker new beginning.

⋆ ༺𓆩 ♛ 𓆪༻ ⋆

Chapter Text

⋆ ༺𓆩 ♛ 𓆪༻ ⋆

120 AC:

The drums echoed through the cliffs of Dragonstone, a slow and thunderous rhythm, like the heartbeat of the old volcano beneath their feet. Red banners, woven with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, twisted and slapped against the black stone in the sharp sea wind. Overhead, the sky was still a bruised dark with predawn haze, and the sea’s fog curled thickly around the castle base, a living thing reaching for them.

The ceremony was held before dawn, in the air thick with the smell of salt and smoke, expectant and ancient. No septon gave blessings here. This was older than the Seven, older than any king. It was a ceremony older than Jace could ever hope to understand.

He stood apart from the small gathering of witnesses, no more than a handful of retainers sworn to his mother. He barely noticed them. His eyes were on Rhaenyra as she moved slowly across the courtyard toward Prince Daemon. Her dress was crimson and bone-white, like a dying flame. Her silver braid trailed down her back, and her hand cupped the round of her belly, already five moons swollen with Daemon’s child.

A child of Daemon. A child of the dragon.

Jace watched in stony silence as the two took out ceremonial daggers, carved from Valyrian steel and etched with ancient glyphs. In a slow and deliberate ritual, they cut their lips and hands, blood welling up to the surface. Then they kissed, blood mingling with blood.

They whispered their vows in High Valyrian, words that felt like fire in the mouth: ancient and unyielding. The flames of the braziers hissed and spat around them, casting their shadows long and dancing. Somewhere overhead, a dragon shrieked in the fog.

Jace felt a coldness settle deep in his bones.

He hated the way Daemon looked at her. Hated the casual intimacy when the man touched her hand. Hated the way his mother smiled back. She never smiled like that to his father, who had been dead only a few moons. Where was the proper mourning? Where were the tears for his father? Jace had seen her cry, but only in fleeting, private moments. Now, she was all smiles, her face radiant in the torchlight, her eyes bright with a joy he felt she had no right to feel so soon. But now… now she was Daemon’s.

After the ceremony, the small wedding feast began. It was a modest celebration by royal standards, with only a handful of guests, though wine flowed freely and firelight danced on the walls of the hall. Musicians played soft Valyrian harp songs, but their melodies did nothing to lift Jace’s spirits.

He could neither eat, nor sit still, nor look at his mother.

Instead, he slipped away from the crowd, finding a quiet alcove beside a carved dragon head near the outer wall. The air was colder there, the wind from the sea biting at his cheeks.

He sat and curled his knees to his chest, alone, forgotten, angry.

He didn’t want a new father. He didn’t want a new baby brother or sister. He wanted his real father back. Or at least he wanted Ser Harwin, but Ser Harwin had died burning alive, and now they had Ser Erryk Cargyll.

He was lost in this sullen state when a familiar hand landed gently on his shoulder.

It was Baela, her silver-white curls framing a long dark face. She had cropped her hair short, like a boy's, just after her mother's funeral. As far as Jace could remember, she had always been leaner and shorter than most people her age. She wore a crimson cloak with the Targaryen sigil stitched in gold thread, and her boots were still dusty from the rocky ground.

"Are you all right, Jace?" she asked, her voice gentle.

“How can you be okay with this?” His voice cracked despite his best effort to sound strong. “Your mother died, Baela. She died not even half a year ago. And now your father… he’s marrying my mother.” He looked at her, desperate for some kind of shared pain. “Doesn’t it hurt?”

Baela sat down beside him, her little hand reaching for his. She held it, her grip firm and comforting.

"It does hurt," she admitted, her gaze fixed on the dancing flames of a nearby torch. "Losing her... it was like losing a piece of the world. But this..." she gestured towards the celebrating hall, a small, sad smile on her lips, "This is different."

Jace looked at her, baffled. "How can you know that?"

“I’ve been watching them,” she said simply. “My father and your mother. They look at each other like they’ve been waiting for this their whole lives.”

"I can see it, Jace," she continued, her gaze focused ahead. "In the way they look at each other. They are dragons, bound by fire and blood. Your parents were friends, but… my father and your mother… they are in love."

The word "love" felt hollow in Jace's mouth. He was too young to truly understand it, especially now, when it seemed to have caused so much pain.

“So,” she went on, “I decided… if they’re happy, it’s okay. I can accept this and be happy for them.”

“I’m trying to understand,” he admitted. “But it’s hard. I keep thinking… what if my mother stops loving me? Like she never loved my father.”

Baela’s eyes widened, and she squeezed his hand. “She’ll never stop loving you, Jace. You’re her son.”

He blinked, unsure what to say. Baela looked so sure, so calm. He felt stupid.

Baela smiled then, a little more playful.
“Anyway… one day it’ll be our turn.”

“What?” he asked, caught off guard.

“Our wedding,” she said excited.

He flushed. “Oh. Right.”

She leaned her head on his shoulder, her curls tickling his cheek. “I want us to be happy,” she whispered, her tan fingers tracing a pattern on the back of his hand.

"I truly like you, Jace. I will be your Rhaenys and you’ll be Aegon the Conqueror. And we’ll ride dragons together and all the realm will cheer us.”

He let out a short breath of laughter. “Aegon had two wives.”

“Well,” she grinned, “you’re not allowed that.”

He laughed again, more freely this time. Her presence, so steady and direct, was like sunlight breaking through stormclouds. He truly admired her and felt a deep fondness for her. That was close enough, he reasoned. That could grow into love. He wanted to believe her, wanted their life together to be everything she promised it would be.

He let out a breath and squeezed her hand back. “I’m glad it’s you,” he said quietly. “Not someone else.”

Baela smiled. “Me too.”

And for the first time that evening, Jace didn’t feel quite so angry.

⸻

The final days of the year 120 AC were cold and unforgiving on Dragonstone. The wind howled from the sea, a constant, mournful cry that seemed to carry the weight of the past year's tragedies.

Three moons had passed since his mother's secret wedding to Daemon, and for weeks, the household had been bracing itself for a single event: the birth of Rhaenyra’s child. Now, it had come at last.

A cry echoed through the castle, a child’s first breath. The news would spread swiftly across the Seven Kingdoms: Princess Rhaenyra had given birth to a son. Another boy, but this time, a true Targaryen.

The summons came before sunset. Maester Gerardys had sent for all the children; Lucerys, Joffrey, Baela, and Rhaena, to see the newborn.

Lucerys and Joffrey were beaming, almost running, their cloaks flapping behind them. Rhaena clutched Baela’s hand as they hurried along, their eyes wide with excitement. Jace walked with them through the corridor, his brothers and cousins chattering ahead of him. It was as though none of them remembered the grief. As if this child wiped away all that had come before.

But Jace remembered.

For a time, he had forced himself to forgive her. She had been pregnant, after all, and with her belly swelling each day, it had felt like a gamble against the gods. After seeing what had happened to Laena, Jace had feared he might lose his mother too. But now, with the birth, the old resentment returned.

When they entered, the birthing room smelled of sweat and blood, but also of the sweet herbs the maester burned to mask the scent. Rhaenyra lay in her great bed, pale from the labor, her hair damp at her temples. She wore a loose gown of soft cream fabric, her eyes looking tired, but shining when they fell upon her children.

Daemon stood at her side, dressed in deep red and black, one hand resting lightly on her shoulder. He looked down at the baby with a strange softness Jace had never seen in him before.

Then, Rhaenyra turned her head, her smile widening as she saw her children. "My sweet children, come," she whispered, her voice a little weak but full of love. "Come meet your new brother."

Jace approached slowly, his feet dragging. He looked at the baby in his mother's arms, a tiny, squirming bundle wrapped in a crimson blanket. The baby had a head of pale silver hair, fine as spider silk. His eyes, when they fluttered open for an instant, were a dark purple that looked almost black.

Joffrey stepped forward eagerly. "He's so small, Mother," he whispered, a look of wonder on his face. Lucerys, Baela, and Rhaena, standing close together, looked on with a mixture of awe and solemnity.

The sight of the boy, so impossibly perfect, reignited the old fury in Jace’s heart. They were not true Targaryens, not in the eyes of the court. Jace had spent his entire life hearing the whispers, the veiled glances, the accusations of "the Strongs." He had always known he was different, a fact he had long since accepted with a child’s resigned weariness. Now this child was here, a living, breathing accusation.

He felt like he couldn't breathe. The room blurred. The voices of his siblings became distant. He turned without a word and strode out. He didn't know where he was going, only that he had to get away, to a place where he could breathe.

He found himself on the winding path that led to the Dragonmount, the home of the island's dragons. He stumbled into the vast, cavernous expanse, the air thick with the smell of sulfur and ancient stone. He could feel the heat of the slumbering beasts, the low, rumbling hum of their breathing.

He found Vermax in his lair, a cavernous, smoke-filled space within the volcano’s belly. The young dragon was curled into a massive, scaly ball, a great green coil of muscle and fire. Vermax was not yet old enough to be ridden, but he was a constant, powerful presence in Jace’s life. He stayed there for a long time, stroking the warm scales, murmuring in High Valyrian. Vermax shifted, lowering his great head so Jace could press his forehead to the dragon’s brow.

He told Vermax about his father Laenor, about the whispers of "bastard," about the guilt he felt for being angry at his mother, and the shame he felt for being so different. Vermax listened patiently, his slow, rhythmic breathing filling the lair with a calming warmth.

An hour after he had stormed out, a small, tentative voice broke the quiet of the lair. "Jace? Are you here?"

It was Lucerys.

Jace wiped his face with the back of his hand, trying to compose himself. He looked at his younger brother, standing just outside the lair's entrance, his face a mix of concern and timidity.

Lucerys, or Luc, as he often called him, was different from Jace in every way. Where Jace was restless and intense, Luc was gentle and quiet. He was a sweet boy, and Jace loved him fiercely, in a protective, almost paternal way.

"Why aren't you with them?" Jace asked, his voice still thick with emotion.

Lucerys came closer, standing beside him and looking up at Vermax. The dragon rumbled again, a soft acknowledgment. "I was worried, you left so fast."

Jace fell silent, unable to articulate the depth of his feelings. The low huff of Vermax’s breath filling the space. Finally, Luc continued.

"It's about the baby, isn't it?" Lucerys asked quietly, his eyes meeting Jace’s. "We are a family, Jace. The new baby doesn't change that. Nothing changes that."

"It does," Jace insisted, the old resentment returning. "It changes everything. The whispers... they'll be even louder now. With this... this perfect Valyrian baby. They will always whisper about us. About how we are... different." He couldn't bring himself to say the word "bastard," but Lucerys understood.

Lucerys was silent for a moment, shuffling his feet and his gaze falling to the ground.
"I don't know, Jace," he admitted. "I don't think about it that much. I just... I just want us to be a happy family again."

Jace, struck by a sudden realization, looked at Lucerys, truly seeing him for the first time that day. He saw not just a shy little boy, but a prince with a deep and unwavering loyalty. He saw the same anxieties and fears that he harbored, but Lucerys had managed to bury them, to push past them for the sake of his family.

"I'm sorry," Jace whispered, his voice cracking with emotion. "I shouldn't have said that."

"It's okay," Lucerys said simply, his thumb rubbing small, comforting circles on Jace's hand. "It's all right to be angry, Jace. It's all right to be sad. As long as we're together."

Jace, his mind now clearer, was struck by another thought. He thought of Baela and her twin sister, Rhaena.

"I will promise you something, Luc," Jace said, his voice low and serious. "I promise... no matter what happens in the future," he continued, the words a solemn vow, "that I will never marry Rhaena."

He looked at Lucerys, whose eyes widened in confusion. "We are brothers. She is your betrothed, and she is also my future good-sister. I will not have her as my wife. It would be a betrayal to you and Baela. I can't do that to you."

"Jace, what are you talking about?" Lucerys said, his face a mask of confusion.

"I've been having bad dreams, Luc. Ever since the wedding. Nightmares about our future: it’s all about blood, fire, and death… I didn’t see you or Baela in this horrible future…" Jacaerys’s voice cracked and his eyes pleaded for understanding.

Lucerys was silent for a long time, staring at his brother's tormented face. He didn't understand the complex, terrifying vision Jace had described, but he understood the pain behind the words. He understood the deep-seated fear that had led his brother to say such a thing.

Lucerys said softly. "Don’t worry, I'm here. We'll figure it out. As we always do."
He pulled Lucerys into a tight hug, holding him close.

The corridors of Dragonstone were dark by the time Jace and Luc returned. The torches along the walls burned low, their light flickering across the carved stone. Neither spoke much during the walk back; the cold night air had stolen most of their words. At the junction of the hallway, Jace clasped Luc’s shoulder briefly before turning toward his own chambers.

Inside his room, Jace shut the heavy door behind him and leaned against it for a moment. He pulled off his boots, setting them neatly by the wall, and let himself collapse onto the bed. His mind was still tangled with the day’s events. He had thought the solitude might bring some peace, yet his thoughts only circled back to the same questions and the same knots in his chest.

A faint knock broke the silence.
Before he could rise, the door creaked open, and Rhaenyra stepped inside.

Jace immediately sat up, startled.

“Mother? What are you doing here? You should be resting.” he said quickly, his voice sharper than he intended.

Her lips curved into a faint smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “And yet, here I am,” she replied softly. She closed the door behind her and came to sit beside him on the bed. “I wanted to see you, Jacaerys. Properly see you. We haven’t had a moment alone in far too long.”

Her cheeks were pale, her hair loose and damp from sweat, the kind of exhaustion only childbirth could bring.

He felt a tightness in his chest. He didn’t know whether to be touched or angry that she’d pushed herself for his sake. “You didn’t need to-”

“I did.” Her voice was gentle but firm. “You’ve been keeping your distance since the wedding. I know why. And I know this… new child has stirred feelings you thought you had put aside.”

Jace’s throat tightened. He stared at his hands, clasped together in his lap, trying to will his eyes not to sting. “I… I was trying not to be angry anymore,” he admitted in a low voice. “I thought I’d made peace with it. But I cannot.”

Rhaenyra was silent, her gaze unwavering. "He's your brother, Jace. Your baby brother Aegon."

"He's not my brother," Jace said, the words once again slipping out before he could stop them, his voice tight with a mixture of shame and anger. "He's Daemon’s son. He's a Targaryen and I’m a Velaryon."

Rhaenyra took a deep, shuddering breath, and Jace saw a tear well up in her eye, a single, luminous pearl of sorrow. "And so are you," she said, her voice filled with a quiet strength.

“You are my firstborn,” she said, her tone fierce despite her exhaustion. “No matter how many children I have, that will never change. I carried you when I was barely more than a girl myself. I fought for you, protected you. That will always be true.”

Something inside him cracked. He turned toward her suddenly, and before he could think better of it, he threw his arms around her. His forehead pressed into her shoulder, and he felt the steady, faintly rapid beat of her heart beneath his cheek.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I don’t want to hate Aegon or Daemon. I just… I miss Father and Ser Harwin. I feel like I’m supposed to forget them, and I can’t.”

Rhaenyra’s arms came around him, holding him close with surprising strength.

“You are not meant to forget them,” she murmured. “Laenor loved you in his own way. And Harwin was a loyal knight for our family. Their care is part of who you are. No one will ever take it from you.”

For a long while, they stayed like that, mother and son clinging to each other in the dim chamber. Outside, the wind howled against the huge walls, but inside, there was warmth, the kind of warmth Jace had feared he had lost.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were red but clearer. Rhaenyra brushed a hand through his brown curls and smiled faintly. “Sleep now, my son. Tomorrow will be a better day.”

He nodded, unable to trust his voice. She rose slowly, each movement careful, and slipped out of the room.

Jace lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling. For the first time in weeks, he felt something close to peace.

⋆ ༺𓆩 ♛ 𓆪༻ ⋆

Chapter Text

⋆ ༺𓆩 ♛ 𓆪༻ ⋆

122 AC:

The air in Helaena’s chambers was a cloying mix of wildflowers and expensive perfumes. Sunlight, thin and pale as watered milk, filtered through the high windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the stillness. A handful of Alicent's most trusted ladies and serving girls moved with practiced quietness, their hands busy with silk and bone combs. At the center of this hive of activity stood Princess Helaena, her form a soft silhouette in her underskirt of white linen.

Alicent watched from her chair beside the hearth, a cup of morning wine untouched in her hand. Her face, a study in regal composure, betrayed none of the turmoil within her. Every tug of a lace, every pin placed in her daughter’s elaborate hairstyle, felt like a small, sharp knife twisting in her gut. She was a queen, and this was her daughter’s wedding day, the culmination of a decade of careful, agonizing labor. And yet, she felt no joy.

Only a profound, aching sorrow.

The gown, when they finally presented it, was a masterpiece of the seamstress’s art. It was a delicate light blue, the exact shade of Dreamfyre’s scales under a clear sky. It shimmered with silver threads woven into the silk, a tribute to the dragon Helaena had claimed just three years prior. Her daughter’s pale, silvery hair was being braided with strands of moonstone and pearl, the intricate design a symbol of a queenly destiny she had been born to fulfill.

Alicent’s mind, however, was a maelstrom of thoughts and regrets. She watched her daughter’s gentle face, so innocent and serene, and a wave of nausea washed over her. Helaena was only thirteen, a girl still more comfortable to play with doll or sometimes spiders, than to men. She was a sweet and joyful child. To give her to Aegon... it felt like a blasphemy. It felt like sacrificing a lamb on the altar of a political god.

She had fought against this. God's truth, she had fought. She had pleaded with Viserys, argued with her father. A brother for a sister was Targaryen custom, but it was an abomination in the eyes of the Faith. Everyday she knelt in the Sept, praying to the Mother for guidance, praying for a way to avoid this sin. She had envisioned other futures for her children, futures that would not tie them so tightly to the fate of the House of the Dragon, futures that would serve the realm.

Aegon to the daughter of Lord Baratheon, she had argued, to secure the Stormlands. Helaena to a son of Lord Vaemond Velaryon. Such unions would have offered true support, a bulwark of steel and ships against Rhaenyra’s claim. But her father, always the voice of cold reason, had insisted. "The blood of the dragon must remain pure, Your Grace. It is the only way to ensure the loyalty of the other houses."

And her husband, the king, had simply smiled, believing this incestuous union would somehow mend the schism between his wife and his daughter. As if the king's wishful thinking could erase a lifetime of bitter truths.

A faint voice drew her from her reverie. Daenora, her youngest daughter, had entered the chamber. At eight years old, Daenora was a miniature version of herself: courteous and clever, but in a delicate Valyrian frame. Her hair, so very Targaryen and silver, was a constant, cruel reminder of the blood that bound them all. She approached her older sister, her eyes wide with a mixture of reverence and curiosity.

"Helaena! You look like a princess from a storybook!" Daenora gasped, her eyes shining as she took in the sight of her sister. "Look at the pearls! They're so shiny, like dragon eggs!"

Helaena, ever kind, gave her a soft, shy smile. "Do you think so, sweetling? They feel heavy. I think they might be too much for my hair."

"Oh, no!" Daenora protested, reaching out to gently touch the intricate braids. "They're perfect! And the dress... it's the color of the sky on a sunny day."

"It’s for Dreamfyre," Helaena murmured, her eyes distant for a moment. Her gaze returned to her sister, her smile fading slightly. "I feel like a little bird in a very big nest. I am supposed to be happy, but my tummy feels sick, like when you fly too high on the sky."

Alicent watched them, her heart aching. She wanted to rush to her daughter, to tell her that it was all right to be afraid. But she could not. She was a queen, and her duty was to be a bastion of strength. She had made this bed, and now her daughter must lie in it.

Aegon was not the husband she would have chosen for her daughter, not in a hundred years. He was a boy, and he was her son, and she was ready to sacrifice a part of her soul to make him a king. But he was lazy, and he had a good appetite: he ate for two, loved ale and strong wines.

What would the Faith say of a mother who sacrificed her own child for the sake of a crown?

The ladies finished with Helaena's hair, arranging the strands of pearls and moonstones into a crown. Helaena looked radiant, like a princess in songs. But Alicent knew better. This was no fairy tale. This was a tragedy, a slow-burning fire that would consume them all.

She stood from her chair and walked to her daughter, her face a mask of forced serenity. "You are beautiful, my daughter," she said, her voice a silk-smooth lie. "A true future queen of the Seven Kingdoms."

Helaena smiled, but her eyes held a hint of the fear that Alicent had tried so hard to hide. She was a sacrifice, a pawn in a game of thrones she did not understand, and Alicent was the mother who had given her away. The wedding bells would soon ring, and the kingdom would celebrate, but in her heart, Alicent knew that this day, this glorious, triumphant day, was the day she lost her daughter forever.

⸻

Rising upon Visenya’s Hill, the Great Sept built by order of Jaehaerys I, was a testament to harmony and solemn devotion. It was built of pale grey and white stone with a dark slate roof. Inside, seven statues of the gods watched over the faithful, their faces calm and solemn. Slender windows filled the nave with soft light, while small chapels along the sides offered space for private prayer. At its heart lay a modest altar, where candles burned in honor of each aspect of the Seven.

The Great Sept was not made to dazzle but to welcome. Its wide nave, stone benches, and simple carvings made it a place where highborn and smallfolk alike could kneel together in worship. For many years, it served as the spiritual heart of King’s Landing, a house of prayer and ceremony where vows were spoken, children named, and blessings given in the sight of the Seven.

Yet, to Alicent, it felt more like a cage of polished stone, a grand mausoleum where she was to bury her daughter's freedom.

She stood at the altar, a pillar of green silk and silver, her face a mask of serene duty. Her heart was a drum against her ribs, a frantic beat of anxiety. Across from her stood her son Aegon, his eyes, when they met hers for a fleeting moment, were bored, filled with the same sullen listlessness that defined his waking hours. He was no hero, no knight in shining armor. He was a boy given a crown, and now, a wife.

The great oak doors of the Sept groaned open, and the silence was shattered by the high, sweet melody of harps. All eyes turned to the aisle. It was a procession as tragic as it was grand. Helaena walked beside her father, his hand on her arm. Like his daughter, Viserys was plump and round-faced, with a bushy silver-gold mustache. He dressed in dark purple silk brocade and wore the gold-and-gemstone crown of his grandfather.

At the altar, Viserys gave Helaena’s hand to Aegon, a solemn exchange of duty and blood. Then came the moment Alicent had both dreaded and expected. Helaena wore a cloak in the colors of her house, a soft red and black velvet emblazoned with the three-headed dragon. It was a simple cloak, a maiden’s garment, signifying her innocence and her place as her father’s daughter. With hands that trembled, Viserys reached out and unclasped it. It fell silently from Helaena’s shoulders, a gentle shroud of her past, pooling on the floor behind her. 

Aegon then took a cloak, who looked the same as the one which was taken off, from a page, a grand thing of black velvet embroidered with the red dragon. He placed it carefully about Helaena’s shoulders, its heavy material a stark contrast to the light silk she wore.

Septon Eustace, a man of grave piety, stepped forward. His voice, deep and resonant, filled the sacred space.

"In the sight of the gods and men, we are gathered to join together in holy matrimony Aegon of House Targaryen and Helaena of House Targaryen, to make them one flesh, one heart, one soul. May the Father judge them with justice, the Warrior protect them, and the Maiden keep their innocence.”

Alicent bowed her head, her lips moving in silent prayer. Mother, forgive me. Forgive this abomination. Forgive us all.

The Septon turned to the couple. "Prince Aegon, do you take this woman, Helaena, to be your wife, to be one with her in flesh and blood, to be her lord and protector, to cherish her and to hold her safe in the sight of the Seven?"

Aegon’s voice, when he spoke, was low and hesitant. "I do."

The Septon then turned to Helaena. "Princess Helaena, do you take this man, Aegon, to be your husband, to be one with him in flesh and blood, to be his lady and his comfort, to be his solace and his joy, to obey him in all things, and to be his true and faithful wife?"

Helaena's voice was weak. "I do."

"Then join your hands, as your lives shall now be joined. As the Seven are one god with seven aspects, so shall you be two souls made as one flesh, one heart, one life, forever bound."

Their hands were clasped, and the Septon bound them together with a white ribbon, the symbol of the gods’ blessing. Alicent felt a shiver run down her spine. The act was meant to be a symbol of love and unity, but to her, it was a symbol of a cage.

Then her two young children spoke and recited the vows. "Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger: I am hers/his and she/he is mine, from this day until the end of my days."

"In the sight of the Seven, and in the sight of men, I do solemnly proclaim you now man and wife, from this day until the end of your days." with that, Septon Eustace lifted the cord from their hands.

The bells of the sept rang, and the guests cheered as the couple is led forth to the feast.

The feast that followed was a three-day blur of revelry. The halls of the Red Keep, which had been so quiet since the birth of Rhaenyra’s fifth son, Viserys, now rang with the sound of laughter, of clinking goblets, of drunken songs and raucous shouts. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meat, spiced wine, and the mingled perfumes of the lords and ladies who had come to celebrate the union of the royal children.

Alicent sat at the high table, a beacon of dignity in her green gown. She smiled at the appropriate moments, listened with a practiced ear to the toasts and the songs, and sipped her wine with a queen's grace. But her eyes were fixed on her son, the boy-king, the husband of her daughter, who sat at the head of the table.

He was a sight to behold. He drank too much, his face flushed with wine, his eyes glazed with a mixture of boredom and merriment. And his hand, when it was not holding a cup, was constantly reaching for the maidens who passed by, his fingers pinching and caressing them with a casual cruelty that made Alicent's blood run cold.

Her heart ached for her daughter. Helaena, ever so fragile, sat beside him, a look of quiet resignation on her face.

She closed her eyes for a moment, and her mind went back to the day she had made her own choice. The realm had seen her as a dutiful maid, but the truth was more complex. As the only daughter born to the Hightower line in two generations, her father had raised her with a singular purpose: to ascend. Her three brothers and cousin, Hobert's son Ormund, were soldiers and lords, but she was the one who was meant to forge their destiny with a good wedding.

From a young age, she had been fascinated by the Targaryens, the stories of their dragons, their Valyrian grace. She had spent countless hours reading to the old king, the day he mistook her for his daughter Saera and called her with gentleness, Alicent felt so lucky and loved.

When Queen Aemma had died, a terrible grief had hung over the court, but Alicent had seen it differently. She had seen an opportunity. Viserys was a broken man, and a gaping hole had opened at the heart of the realm. While others mourned, she put aside her own innocence to pursue the king.

She had seduced him, not with passion, but with a gentle hand and a sympathetic ear, offering him a solace he so desperately craved. She had always respected him as a good, if naive, man, and had fulfilled her duties as his wife and queen without fail. But she had never loved him. Her heart had remained her own, a fortress in a political landscape.

The bedding ceremony, the final ritual of the wedding feast, had been a tradition for centuries. The bride and groom were to be led to their chambers by their guests, stripped of their clothes, and left to consummate their marriage. But this night, it would not take place. The maester had advised against it, claiming that Helaena was too young. And Alicent, for the first time in a long time, had been grateful for his words. It was a small mercy, a final act of protection for her daughter. A temporary reprieve, nothing more.

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