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Chapter Text

92 AC after the Death of Aemon

The Royal Family

• King Jaehaerys I Targaryen – 58

  • King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm

  • Dragon: Vermithor 

• Queen Alyssane Targaryen – ~56

  • Queen-Consort of King Jaehaerys

  • Dragon: Silverwing

• Prince Aemon Targaryen (deceased) – 34

  • Dragon: Caraxes (now riderless)

  • Prince of Dragonstone (formerly)

• Princess Jocelyn Baratheon (Aemon’s widow) – 35

  • Was married to Prince Aemon 

• Princess Rhaenys Targaryen (Aemon & Jocelyn’s daughter) – 17.

  • “The Queen Who Never Was.”

  • Newly married to Corlys Velaryon.

  • Dragon: Dreamfyre.

• Prince Baelon Targaryen ("the Brave") – ~33.

  • Dragon: Vhagar.

  • Prince of Dragonstone

• Princess Alyssa Targaryen (Baelon’s wife) – ~31.

  • Dragon: Meleys

  • Princess of Dragonstone

• Prince Viserys Targaryen – 13 (aged down).

  • Dragon: Rode Balerion only once before he died.

• Prince Daemon Targaryen – 9.

  • No dragon yet.

• Princess Gael Targaryen – 10

• Lord Corlys Velaryon – 27
  • The Sea Snake
• Lord Boremund Baratheon – 37
  • Lord of Stormsend
• Otto Hightower – 14
• Septon Barth- 64
  • Hand of the King
• Lord Daemon Velaryon- 68
  • Master of Ships
  • Current Lord of Driftmark and the tides
• Lord Albin Massey- 69
  • Master of Laws
• Lord Alan Beesbury- 40
• Grandmaester Elysar- 65
• Ser Ryam Redwyne- 46
  • Lord Commander of the Kingsguard

The Kingsguards:

• Lord Ryam Redwyne
• Ser Clement Crabb
• Ser Harold Westerling
• Ser Samgood of Sourhill
• Ser Lucamore Strong
• Ser Pate the Woodcuck
• Ser Joffrey Doggett
• Ser Robin Shaw

Others:

• Lady Jonquil Dark
  • Queen Alyssanne's Personal Guard

2 Years after the Death of Prince Aemon, 94 AC

• King Jaehaerys I Targaryen- 60
  • King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm
  • Dragon: Vermithor

• Queen Alyssanne Targaryen- 58
  • Queen-Consort of King Jaeharys I
  • Dragon: Silverwing

• Crown Prince Baelon Targaryen- 35
  • Prince of Dragonstone
  • Dragon: Vhagar

• Princess Alyssa Targaryen- 33
  • Princess of Dragonstone
  • Dragon: Meleys
• Prince Viserys targaryen- 15
  • 2nd in line to the Iron Throne
  • Dragon: Rode Balerion once before he died
• Prince Daemon Targaryen- 11
  • 3rd in line to the Iron Throne 
  • New Rider of Caraxes
• Princess Gael Targaryen- 12
• Princess Rhaenys Targaryen Velaryon- 19
  • Lady of House Velaryon
  • Dragon: Dreamfyre
• Lady Aemma Arryn- 12
• Maester Vaegon Targaryen-31
• Septa Maegelle Targaryen-29
• Septa Rhaelle Targaryen-49

Princess Alyssa's ladies in Waiting:

• Lady Amanda Arryn- 26
  • Half sister of Aemma Arryn
• Lady Sabitha Vypren- 19
• Lady Lyra Mormont- 24
• Lady Barbrey Dustin- 20

Members of the Small Council:

• Septon Barth- 66
  • Hand of the King
• Lord Corlys Velaryon- 29
  • Master of Ships
  • The Sea Snake
  • Lord of Driftmark and the Tide
• Lord Albin Massey- 71
  • Master of Laws
• Lord Alan Beesbury- 42
  • Master of Coin
• Grandmaester Elysar- 67

The Kingsguards:

• Ser Ryam Redwyne- 48
  • Lord Commander of the Kingsguard
• Lord Ryam Redwyne
• Ser Clement Crabb
• Ser Harold Westerling
• Ser Samgood of Sourhill
• Ser Pate the Woodcuck
• Ser Joffrey Doggett
• Ser Robin Shaw

Chapter Text

• While Princes Aemon and Baelon has been the Pride of King Jaehaerys, Princess Saera was his joy. She was his favorite growing up, turning a blind eye on all her mischief until that scandal broke out. 
• Prince Aemon and Lady Jocelyn also have a fair share of miscarriages and stillborn in their marriage after the Birth of Princess Rhaenys. When the healers warned him that another pregnancy might kill Jocelyn, he they stopped trying to conceive a male son. 
• Princess Alyssa was trained in the art of sword-fighting and combat under Lady Jonquil Darke, her mother's sword and by Ser Gyles Morrigen.
• King Jaehaerys instilled the importance of brotherhood between Baelon and Aemon due to his guilt and love for his older brothers (Aegon the uncrowned and Viserys) who died under Maegor. His older brothers' deaths hunted him because he was not able to save them. His dragon, Vermithor at the time was not big enough for battle to fight his uncle Maegor. Like Baelon haunted by grief and guilt for his brother's death, Jaehaerys feels the same for not being to save Viserys and Aegon.
• Prince Aemon hired tutors (learned maesters with links in Laws and Governance and Braavosi Bankers) that taught Governance, Trade and Economics to Princess Rhaenys while they were living in Dragonstone. 
• Prince Aemon was closest his brother Baelon and his sister Saera. When Saera escaped from the Motherhouse to go to Essos, he secretly scoured Pentos and the 3 sisters to find her (Without the knowledge of the King and Queen) and he found Saera there living in a manse as a courtesan. He found her and has since provided monthly allowance, protection and they exchanged ravens once in a while until his death in 92 AC. Princess Rhaenys and Lady Jocelyn are the only ones aware of Aemon's connection to Saera after all this years and since then, it has befall on Rhaenys to provide Saera's monthly allowance and guards all the way from Driftmark. They sometimes exchange ravens in high Valyrian. 
• Viserra never tried to Seduce Baelon to escape her betrothal to Theomore Manderly. She wanted to escape, but the Gold Cloaks were chasing after her which resulted to her accident in the horse.
• Like in Canon, Princess Daella was quick to tears, sensitive but she is observant. A quality her daughter, Aemma inherited from her. 
• Princess Saera was devastated when she learned of Aemon's death. Viserra's death broke her, since those two were the closest. Aemon has been her distant rock, the only sibling she confided to the days after Viserra's death. She was against the decision of her father to name Baelon as heir. (but she had no ill-feelings towards her brother) This only deepened her anger against her father, the king and she swore that there's nothing for her in Westeros ever since. 
• Prince Aemon, Princess Daella and Princess Gael were the favorites of Queen Alyssanne. After Aemon died, she and king Jaehaerys fought which reulted in her 2 year self-exile to Dragonstone taking Princess Gael with her. With the Queen being gone for 2 years, Princess Alyssa took over Queen Alyssanne's Projects (The Queen Alyssanne's Alms fund, Water fountains, Orphanages, Kitchens that serve hot melas to the poor of King's landing)
• With Rhaenys sequestering herself to Driftmark and Princess Gael being in Dragonstone, those 2 years were the miserable for Prince Daemon. 
• Prince Baelon always have regrets about being Heir to the Iron throne, he himself believes that Rhaenys should've been heir instead of him. He also blames himself for his death, always thinking that if he had been there, Aemon wouldn't have died. 
• Prince Viserys has a deep fascinaion with his Valyrian roots, which deepened preference for books (where he loved to read about Valyrian histories, culture and practices)
• Princesses Gael and Rhaenys and Princes Daemon and Viserys are all childhood friends, bonded due to their close age. While Viserys always preferred books, it was Rhaenys and Daemon who always ends up in mischief together, sometimes roping Gael to come with them (whenever she is not coddled by her Mother, the Queen). In those times, Rhaenys noticed Daemon's 'fondness' of Gael. 

Chapter Text

Prologue

The Red Keep, 90 AC

The raven came in the hour before dawn.

Its wings beat against the stone window of the Red Keep's Rookery, dark against darker sky, feathers rimed with salt and sea-wind. A young acolyte pulled the message free with trembling fingers, the black wax stamped with a mark no one wished to see—the sigil of the Velaryons, bearers of tidings from the narrow sea. When the words were read aloud in the Great Hall, the Red Keep seemed to exhale all at once. Murmurs rippled like surf upon rock. Then silence—heavy, suffocating, broken only by the soft crackle of torches.

"Crown Prince Aemon Targaryen, heir of King Jaehaerys, slain upon Tarth by a bolt loosed from a Myrish crossbow. Struck through the neck. Dead before he touched the ground."

The parchment shook in the herald’s hand as he read, though it was the king who seemed oldest in that moment, Jaehaerys the Conciliator sagging upon the Iron Throne as if the news had stolen the marrow from his bones. Queen Alysanne made no sound at all. Her hand, pale as bone, slipped from the arm of the throne to her lap, curling as though she might clutch at air itself. One son had been taken from her by fever, another by accident of birth. And now Aemon—her bright boy, her firstborn son, heir to a realm his father had sought to bind together with law and peace—struck down by sellsails like a common man on a wharf.

The king’s voice, when it came, was rough iron dragged against stone.
“Who dares? Who dares?”

But none dared answer.

Baelon Targaryen was not present in the hall when the raven’s words were read. He was upon the training grounds, sweat dripping down his back as he bested three squires in succession with blunted steel. When the message was carried to him, he went very still.

He read the words once. Twice. His lips moved without sound, tracing the shape of his brother’s name.

The blunted sword fell from his hand.

“My brother,” Baelon whispered.

Alyssa, his sister and wife, came to him quickly, skirts bunched in her hands, Blonde hair unbound from the morning wind. She saw his face and needed no parchment. She clutched his arm as if to keep him upright.

“Tell me it is not true.”

He turned, and though he was called Baelon the Brave, in that moment there was nothing of valor in him, only a man gutted hollow. He pulled her against him, burying his face in the crook of her neck. “A crossbow. They struck him down like a stag in the woods.”

Alyssa’s breath broke ragged. Her hands fisted against his back. “The gods are cruel,” she said, voice muffled by his shoulder.

Baelon did not weep—he was not given to tears—but Alyssa felt the tremor in his body, the tightness of his hold. She pressed her forehead against his chest, eyes shut. "I will make them pay"

"I swear on Aemon's memory, I will make them pay." Baelon said. His voice cracked on the name.

In a chamber high in the Red Keep, Jocelyn Baratheon held the letter that had been delivered to her hand with trembling fingers. Her eyes scanned the words over and over, as though some repetition could undo their meaning.

Crown Prince Aemon Targaryen, struck dead at Tarth by Myrish crossbow.

She could not breathe. Her husband—the love of her life, the father of her daughter Rhaenys—was gone.

The world seemed to tilt beneath her feet. Jocelyn fell to her knees, clutching the letter to her chest, eyes squeezed shut as tears streamed down her cheeks. “No… no…” she whispered into the silence of her chamber, hands shaking so violently she feared she would crush the parchment. Alyssane, picking her up. 

Thoughts of Rhaenys immediately rose to her mind. Her daughter’s future, precarious even in the best of times, now seemed unbearably fragile. The question of the succession came to her mind which made her cry harder. If Aemon was gone, would Rhaenys be sidelined as heir in favor of Baelon? Would the girl’s right to be his heir and her father’s legacy be questioned? Baelon wouldn't, he looks up to Aemon. And yet...

Jocelyn’s sobs shook the chamber. She thought of the little moments—the Rhaenys' first flight on Dreamfyre and Aemon looking proud, Aemon’s laughter when Rhaenys tumbled into his arms, the way he always made her feel safe. And now… all gone.

Elsewhere in the keep, Princess Rhaenys had only just risen when her maidservant came in pale and stricken. The girl dropped to her knees at once, babbling prayers, and pressed the raven’s words into her lady’s hand.

The world tilted.

“No.”

The parchment slipped between her fingers. She heard her own voice—strange, thin, like a child’s—denying, denying. Her father had ridden Caraxes beside her at Dragonstone, had laughed when she evaded another embroidery lessons with the septa, had promised to take her hawking on her next nameday. Her father was strong, valiant, Pale-haired and tall, the pride of House Targaryen. 

He could not be dead.

Yet the words bled across the page, final and unyielding.

It was Daemon who found her there, kneeling upon the floor, her hair a tangle of silver, her breath ragged. He was but a boy of nine, all sharp elbows and restless eyes, the dragon’s temper already flaring in his blood. Yet for all his mischief, his cousin’s tears undid him.

“Rhaenys.”

She lifted her head. Her eyes were wet and rimmed red, her hands shaking as she reached for him without thought.

Daemon went to her at once, dropping to the floor and wrapping his arms around her neck. For once he did not boast or tease. He only held her, his chin digging into her shoulder. 

“They killed him,” Rhaenys whispered, her words hitching. “The pirates killed him.”

“I’ll kill them back,” Daemon said fiercely, though his voice wavered with youth. “When I’m older, I’ll burn them all. You’ll see.”

Her laugh broke into sobs. She clutched him tighter. “He was your uncle.”

“He taught me to ride. He gave me my sword. He promised—” Daemon’s throat worked. “He promised I’d have my own dragon someday. He said I was brave enough.”

Rhaenys’s tears spilled anew, for she remembered the same words spoken to her, the same hand steadying her in the saddle. The ache of his absence yawned like a wound.

The two children wept together, thick as thieves, bound not by games or shared secrets but by grief.

King Jaehaerys sat upon the Iron Throne as though the steel itself had become a cage. He did not speak again after his first outcry; his hand curled tight upon the arm of the throne until the knuckles showed white, and he stared down at nothing. The courtiers and lords of the Red Keep waited, but no command came. It was Queen Alysanne who moved. She descended the steps with slow dignity, though her face was stricken, and came to stand beside her husband. Her hand brushed his, trembling against trembling.

“They have taken our son,” she said, voice low but steady. “Our heir.”

Jaehaerys closed his eyes. He thought of Aemon as he had been: a boy with hair almost as white as the moon in a bright night, eager to spar with blunted swords, laughing when he tumbled. A man grown, proud astride Caraxes, the lean red dragon with the shrieking roar. The future of House Targaryen, struck down not in war, but by the bolt of a pirate’s crossbow. 

“It should not have been him,” the king whispered. “He was too careful. Too wise. It should not—” His voice broke, and the hall shifted in uneasy silence.

Alysanne drew herself taller. “Baelon still lives. Our line does not end. The gods take, but they also leave.”

Her words were for comfort, but Jaehaerys only turned his face from her, shame etched in the lines of his jaw. For all his wisdom, the conciliator could not reconcile the truth: peace had left his son exposed. His dream had failed to shield the blood of his own house. 

In their solar, Baelon raged.

His voice echoed against the carved beams as he tore the message to shreds. “A crossbow! A coward’s weapon. My brother, the pride of this realm, felled like a deer!”

Alyssa Targaryen did not flinch at his wrath. She sat upon the edge of their bed, blonde hair loose about her shoulders, her hands folded tight in her lap. “Do you think your rage will bring him back?”

Baelon spun toward her, eyes wild. “How are you not angry? It will bring me vengeance. That I can give him.”

She looked at him long, and in her gaze was a sister’s sorrow as much as a wife’s. Alyssa had sparred against aemon in the tiltyard all throughout their teenage years up until they reach their adulthood. She raced with him many times on the back of their dragons. 

She had seen his smile alight in the wind, Caraxes’s long neck curving beside her own Meleys. She knew the heat of him, the warmth of his laughter.

Her voice broke despite herself. “Oh gods, Rhaenys! Poor Jocelyn

Baelon’s fury faltered. He came to her and knelt at her feet, seizing her hands. “He was my older brother” he said, low and hoarse. “Not just my brother—my blood, my shadow. Without him I—” His words strangled.

Alyssa pulled him close, pressing her forehead to his. “We will not let him be forgotten. Nor unavenged.”

Their grief bound them as tightly as their love. Vhagar and Meleys stirred restlessly in the Dragonpit that night, sensing the tempest in their riders’ hearts.

Viserys Targaryen was twelve years old when word came of his uncle’s death. He had idolized Aemon as Daemon had, though with quieter reverence. Where Daemon’s worship was boisterous and eager, Viserys’s was soft: listening wide-eyed to tales of Old Valyria and its rich history both of them sharing fascination of the place where their ancestors. He badgered him to take him to the library of dragonstone where he read scores of book about the 40 families and its histories. 

Now Viserys sat in his chamber, fists clenched upon his knees, tears streaking his round cheeks. He was afraid—not only because his uncle was gone, but because death had become real, close, like a shadow waiting just beyond the torches. If pirates could slay a dragonrider, who was safe? Not kings, not queens, not even princes.

He heard his brother before he saw him. Daemon stormed into the chamber, face red, eyes wet. He kicked over a stool with all the fury of nine years.

“They’ll pay,” Daemon swore, fists balled. “I’ll burn every ship they own. I’ll feed their bones to the dragons.”

Viserys sniffed, his fear rising against his brother’s fire. “What if they come for us too?”

Daemon froze, startled. Then he spat, shaking his head. “They wouldn’t dare.” But his voice wavered.

Viserys only wept harder. Daemon hesitated, then sat beside him on the bed, scowling. “Don’t be weak,” he muttered. Yet when Viserys leaned against him, seeking comfort, Daemon let him. Together, they cried for the uncle who had been both warrior and dreamer, the uncle who had believed in them both.

Baelon Targaryen stood with his wife upon the battlements that overlooked Blackwater Bay. The night was chill, the sea black glass.

“I will go to the Narrow Sea,” Baelon said, his voice hard as steel. “I will burn every ship that dares fly Myr’s colors. I will cut their captains’ heads and set them upon pikes.”

Alyssa’s hand tightened around his. “And I will fly beside you. Meleys thirsts for blood as much as I.”

Baelon turned his face toward her, silver hair gleaming faintly in moonlight. “We will not fail him.”

“No,” Alyssa said. Her eyes shone wet, but her voice was strong. “We will not fail.”

And above them, Vhagar rumbled, vast and ancient, her breath hot as a forge. The dragon’s eyes glowed like embers in the dark, as though she too, vowed vengeance.

On the jagged cliffs of Tarth, Caraxes roared once more into the rising sun. The great red dragon beat the sky with his wings, but there was no joy in the motion, only the fury of loss. His rider, Crown Prince Aemon Targaryen, lay still upon the wet stone of the shore, struck through the neck by the bolt of a Myrish crossbow. Blood mingled with the salt spray as the tide lapped around him, and the dragon’s shriek echoed off the cliffs, carrying grief across leagues of sea.

The Myrish pirates fled in terror, little caring for what they had wrought. Caraxes, scorched air and fury alike, circled and descended only to find the lifeless form of his rider. His claws raked the earth; his maw opened in a silent scream that shook the cliffs. There was no comfort to be found, no solace but the knowledge that his master, the heir to the Iron Throne, had been snatched away before his time.

That same day, Baelon and Alyssa made their way through the corridors of the Red Keep, the weight of grief pressing on them with every step. They sought Jaehaerys and Alysanne, though neither could have prepared them for the storm that followed.

The king sat in the private solar, face drawn and pale. The queen’s hands rested upon his arm, fingers tight as though anchoring herself to his presence.

“You cannot stop us,” Baelon said, his voice trembling with rage, not sorrow. “We will find those who struck my brother down. We will make them answer. And we will not rest until Meleys' and Vhagar's fire has scorched their coasts.”

Alysanne, sitting at her father’s side, pressed a hand to her cheek, trying to still the tears that would not be held back. “He is our son,” she said softly. “He is gone. And yet… you speak as though vengeance will mend this wound.”

Baelon knelt before his parents, fists clenched against his knees. “It will not mend, Father. It will not ease the grief. But it is justice. It is the only thing that will honor Aemon’s name.”

Alysanne looked at her son and saw the determination there, the same fire that had carried him through every trial of the training yard. She could not stop him. She could not turn him from the path he had chosen, and she would not try.

Alyssane Targaryen had not spoken much during these days of grief, but in the quiet of her private solar, she made a promise. She placed her hand upon Rhaenys’s chest, steadying the girl as she clung to her mother.

“I will see your claim honored, child,” Alyssane whispered. “No one will take it from you while I breathe. Your father’s blood runs through you. Your name is Targaryen. And I—your grandmother, your mother’s sister—will defend it with fire and steel if I must.”

Rhaenys clung to her, tears soaking into Alyssane’s gown. “But what if—what if uncle Baelon—?”

Alyssane pressed a kiss to the child’s hair, feeling the warmth of her small body against her own. “He will not. We will ensure it. You will have your place, Rhaenys. Your father’s memory demands it, and I will not fail you.”

The chamber was heavy with silence when Baelon and Alyssa returned to their children. Viserys, aged twelve, sat hunched upon a chair, eyes rimmed red from holding back tears. Daemon, younger by three years, stood by the window, fists clenched, his silver-gold hair falling into his face.

They looked up at their parents, searching, though the truth was already known.

Baelon dropped to one knee before his sons, his hands firm upon their shoulders. His own grief was carved deep into his face, but he strove to steady his voice. “Your uncle Aemon is gone. Struck down in treachery, but not forgotten.”

Daemon’s lip trembled. “Uncle was the best of us. He said he’d take me flying on Caraxes again. He—” His voice broke, and his head bent low.

Alyssa knelt beside him, drawing him close. “Daemon,” she whispered, pressing her hand to the back of his head. “You must be strong now. Not only for yourself, but for your cousin Rhaenys. She has lost her father. You are her cousin—her shadow and her shield. You and Viserys both must stand with her, always.”

Viserys nodded solemnly, though his voice wavered. “I will, Mother. I swear it.”

Daemon said nothing. His jaw was tight, his breath sharp through his teeth. But at last he muttered, “I’ll never leave her. She is my bestfriend. Always.”

Baelon ruffled his son’s hair with a trembling hand. “Then you honor your uncle well, my boy.”

Later that evening, Baelon found his niece alone in the dragonpit. Rhaenys sat upon the stone bench, Dreamfyre’s pale scales glimmering faintly in the torchlight beyond, restless in her space. Jocelyn had tried to comfort her, Alyssane had promised her place, but now she was silent—cold, almost hardened.

Baelon approached slowly, his heart aching. He sat beside her, the weight of his armor clinking against the stone.

“Your father was the finest man I have ever known,” he began, his voice rough with grief. “And those who took him from us will not draw breath long enough to boast of it. I swear to you, Rhaenys, I will see them all dead.”

Rhaenys’s eyes, red and shining, lifted to him. Her voice was quiet, but her words cut like steel. “Will you be the next in line, then? When you have avenged him, will they place the crown on your head instead of mine?”

Baelon froze. His mouth opened, but no words came. The truth of the question unsettled him more than the wound of the crossbow could have. He reached for her, drawing her into his arms.

“I will be your sword, my sweet girl,” he whispered into her hair. “Not your rival. Never your rival.”

But her question lingered in his heart long after she had buried her face in his chest and wept.

The skies split as Vhagar and Meleys took wing from King's Landing. Their shadows stretched vast across the Narrow sea, the torches of the Myrish outposts below flickering like candles in a gale. Alyssa’s braid whipped in the wind as she leaned forward upon her saddle, fury mirrored in her eyes. Baelon’s grip upon Vhagar’s reins was iron, his knuckles white.

Neither spoke. The air was filled with only the thunder of wings, the fire of dragons burning the night bright.

They came upon the Myrish ships moored near Tarth at dawn. The pirates had grown bold, their sails thick upon the shore, their banners crude and jeering. They did not see the sky until it opened above them.

Vhagar descended first, her colossal bulk blotting out the sun. Fire erupted from her jaws, a tide of flame that swallowed ships, men, and earth alike. The sea boiled as masts cracked and sails vanished in smoke.

Meleys swooped in after, swift and deadly, her crimson wings slicing the air. She spat fire into the ranks of crossbowmen, their screams drowned in the roar of dragonflame. Alyssa’s face was streaked with tears and soot, but her cries of fury carried as loud as the flames.

The Myrish scattered like insects, but there was nowhere to run. Vhagar’s tail smashed the ships, crushing masts and men beneath it. Meleys raked her claws across the decks of a fleeing galley, splitting wood and bone in equal measure.

The sky itself seemed to burn. Baelon’s rage drove him mercilessly; he wheeled Vhagar over and over, burning ships already aflame, leaving none alive to crawl from the wreckage.

The field reeked of ash and blood. The sea was choked with charred wreckage and floating corpses. Baelon dismounted Vhagar at last, his armor scorched, his face twisted with grief and wrath. His chest heaved as though he had run for leagues.

Alyssa approached him, dismounting from Meleys with gentler steps. She put a hand to his arm. “It is done. They are gone, Baelon. Every last one.”

But Baelon’s eyes still burned. “Not enough,” he muttered. “A thousand, and still it will not bring him back.”

It was Corlys Velaryon who came to them then, solemn-faced, the sea wind tugging at his beard. His own regrets following him. If only he had gotten there sooner, maybe his father-by-law wouldn't be dead by the hands of the Myrish. But then again, dragons are faster than ships. 

“Come,” he said, his voice low. “You must see him.”

In a tent beyond the shore, lit dimly by lanterns, Aemon Targaryen lay. His armor was bloodied, his skin pale, his throat marred where the bolt had struck. The arrow had been pulled free, but the wound gaped despite being cleaned still, mute testament to his end. Baelon staggered at the sight. His knees buckled, and a roar of anguish tore from his chest. He beat the earth with his fists, screaming, kicking, cursing the gods and the world. Tears carved lines through the soot on his face.

Alyssa fell beside him, weeping, but it was she who steadied him as he shook. “He was your brother,” she whispered. “My brother. The Best of. But he is gone. We must bear it.”

Baelon clung to her as though drowning, his sobs shaking his broad frame.

When they came back across the sea, it was no triumph. The skies darkened with smoke as Vhagar and Meleys soared over the Narrow Sea, and behind them flew Caraxes—riderless, his wings heavy, his cry keening and broken. Below sailed the Velaryon fleet, Lord Corlys at the prow, his banners heavy with salt wind. In the flagship’s hold lay the coffin of Crown Prince Aemon, draped in Targaryen colors, his sword laid upon his chest.

King’s Landing gathered to the walls as the dragons descended. Upon the dragonpit stood King Jaehaerys, face pale and looked as if he aged 10 years overnight; Queen Alyssane, holding Princess Gael’s trembling hand; Jocelyn Baratheon, veiled in black; Viserys and Daemon, both stiff with grief, and Rhaenys, her eyes wide and glassy.

Baelon slid from Vhagar’s back, his knees unsteady. His mother was before him, her face ravaged by sorrow. He fell into her arms like a child, his voice hoarse.

“I slew a thousand of them, Mother,” he wept. “A thousand! But it will not bring him back.”

Alysanne held him, her own tears streaming unchecked. “No, my son,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “It will not.”

And above them, Caraxes screamed, a sound that tore the very sky—a mourning for a rider who would never return.

Chapter Text

King's Landing, 92 AC

The Dragonpit had never felt so cavernous, so heavy with silence. Its domed roof seemed to press down upon those gathered, its black stone walls echoing the faintest sound: the shuffle of boots, the hushed sob of a lady, the crackle of a torch.

In the center lay Aemon Targaryen. His body, clad in armor still bearing the faint scars of battle, rested atop a pyre of fragrant woods, woven with garlands of silverthread and firelilies. His sword was set upon his chest, his hands folded over the hilt, his silver hair brushed smooth as if he were merely sleeping.

Above, Caraxes crouched in his stall, keening softly. His mournful cries reverberated through the vast chamber, a sound that made lords and ladies alike shift uncomfortably. Even dragons wept.

Dreamfyre, restless and radiant, circled her stall, her great eyes fixed upon the pyre. Rhaenys stood before her dragon, hands trembling, her young face taut with the burden of duty.

When the moment came, King Jaehaerys stepped forward first. His voice was heavy with age, but carried the weight of a king’s grief.

“My son,” he said, his voice cracking only once. “You served your house with courage, your people with loyalty, and your family with love. Fire takes you now, as it takes all of us, and yet through fire, your memory will endure.”

Queen Alysanne’s hands shook as she pressed her fingers to her lips. Tears streamed freely, but she stood with dignity beside her husband, her gaze fixed on her grandson Viserys, then Daemon, then Rhaenys.

Baelon approached next. He fell to one knee at the base of the pyre, his hands gripping the stone floor. His voice was hoarse. “Brother... you taught me everything I know and I became better for it. I cannot imagine my life without you. Forgive me. Forgive me for not being there.” His shoulders shook as Alyssa pressed her hand to his back, her own tears falling unhidden.

At last, it was Rhaenys who was called forward. She was but seven and ten, her face pale and streaked with tears. Jocelyn held her daughter’s hand until the last step, then let her go. Alone, Rhaenys walked forward, her steps unsteady but unbroken. Rhaenys Targaryen stood at near her father's funeral pyre, Dreamfyre’s massive head bending to hers in silent empathy. She could feel the dragon’s muscles ripple under her palm, the heat of her breath washing over her like a wave of sorrow and power combined. The cavern smelled of smoke, resin, and charred wood—a scent that would forever haunt her.

Her eyes fixed on the pyre where her father, Aemon, lay armored and still. She remembered his laughter, the warmth of his hand when she first mounted Dreamfyre, the way he had whispered secrets of dragons and war. The boy she had once been—the child who had climbed into his lap and begged for stories of Caraxes—was gone. She turned to Dreamfyre. Her voice was soft, almost swallowed by the cavern: “Dracarys.”

The heat from Dreamfyre’s flames licked her cheeks, and she almost screamed with grief. The fire consumed her father, the ashes floating upward as if reaching for the stars, leaving her hollow, raw. She didn’t see the lords and ladies at first, only the bright orange tongues of fire. But their faces reflected in the stone walls—some bowed in respect, some pale with shock, others whispering amongst themselves. Her uncle Baelon knelt by the pyre, his tears visible even in the gloom. Her mother Jocelyn wept openly, hand clutching alyssane's hand. Daemon pressed his face into his mother's sleeve, the young boy’s grief raw and unhidden.

The fire consumed all, but in that destruction, Rhaenys felt the weight of inheritance descend upon her. She was Aemon’s blood, his daughter, yet also a child. Would she be recognized, or cast aside for the comfort of tradition?.

The pyre burned, and with it the last vestiges of joy in the Red Keep.

After the pyre, the nobles gathered in the Dragonpit’s hall for the rites and mourning. Viserys Targaryen, trying to appear composed, leaned against a column, still processing the loss of his uncle.

A young squire, Otto, approached nervously. “Prince Viserys,” he said softly, bowing, “I offer my condolences on the death of… your uncle.”

Viserys inclined his head politely. “Thank you, Otto. It is hard to bear. He understood me you know? Mother and Daemon always stayed in the tiltyard but it was uncle Aemon who stayed with me in the libraries, entertaining my fascination of our history”

Otto’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “Indeed. A man so skilled with sword and dragon… he will be remembered. Though, if I may… with Aemon gone, there must be talk of succession. I mean, surely Prince Baelon—”

Viserys stiffened, eyes wide. “Succession…?” he muttered, a lump rising in his throat. Otto’s smile remained courteous, but his question was blunt. Viserys felt a rush of discomfort—this was his father’s line, all of it, up for debate while the fire of mourning still burned raw in his chest. He wished he could retreat to a corner and hide.

Daemon, only nine but sharp-eyed and wily, slinked behind a pillar, watching the lords and ladies gossip. His tiny mouth twitched in amusement at the absurdity of it all. He caught snippets:

“Baelon will follow… surely a boy on a dragon cannot wield the crown properly… the girl is too young…”

Daemon’s laughter was muffled as he ducked behind the stone, amused that the same people who claimed to mourn his uncle could think only of crowns. He pressed his fingers to his lips, but the spark of mischief—his mother’s blood—was evident.

Lady Redwyne, sweet-faced and tone-deaf, leaned toward Princess Alyssa Targaryen, her voice syrupy.

“Princess,” she said, smiling, “surely it must comfort you to know that Prince Baelon shall be the next in line, yes?”

Time slowed.

Alyssa’s eyes narrowed. Her fists clenched. Her entire being screamed at the arrogance, the impropriety, the sheer gall of the question in the shadow of her brother’s funeral. Alyssa’s grief, her fury, her love for her brother—all of it surged at once. She rose and struck Lady Redwyne square in the chest with her fist. The woman gasped, stumbling back into her chair, clutching her bosom with wide eyes.

The hall fell into stunned silence.

“He just died!” Alyssa roared, her voice breaking. “Can’t you carrion crows wait until his ashes are cold before picking at the crown?!”

Lady Redwyne gaped, then flushed scarlet as laughter and gasps rippled among the gathered nobles.

Daemon, peeking from his pillar, snorted and wiped his eyes. “That’s my mother,” he muttered, giggling. 

Viserys’s mouth hung open, shocked into silence.

Alysanne’s eyebrows lifted, intrigued by the display.

Jocelyn pressed her lips together, suppressing both a laugh and gratitude.

Rhaenys’s eyes shone with appreciation, mixed with awe.

Baelon, watching his wife, nodded approvingly, a small wry smile breaking through his grief.

That night, in the king’s solar, Alyssa stood before her parents. Jaehaerys’s expression was thunder, Alysanne’s sorrow etched deep.

“Alyssa,” Jaehaerys said gravely, “your outburst dishonors the dignity of this court. Violence cannot always be your answer.”

Alyssa crossed her arms, her chin lifting stubbornly as if to challenge her father. “I make no apologies for what I did. She was a cunt, and she deserved it. My brother’s body was still burning, and already they sniff after crowns. If they cannot read the room, I’ll teach them to with my fists.”

Alysanne’s lips twitched—half scandalized, half proud—but Jaehaerys was unmoved.

Baelon, standing nearby, spoke then. “Father, Mother—she is right. They circle like vultures. Let them know we are not so easily cowed. Alyssa did no more than what I would have done.”

Jaehaerys’s jaw tightened, but he did not reply.

Later, alone in their chamber, Jaehaerys and Alysanne finally allowed the words that had been pressing between them.

“Sooner or later,” Jaehaerys said, his voice weary, “we must name an heir. The realm cannot abide uncertainty.”

“You mean to name Baelon,” Alysanne replied, her voice sharp with an edge he had not heard in years.

“He is my son,” Jaehaerys said firmly. “Proven, seasoned, beloved by the people. The realm will not have a queen.”

“The realm must learn,” Alysanne retorted. “Rhaenys is Aemon’s child. She is his blood, his heir. By the laws of Valyria, the firstborn inherits, son or daughter. Will you cast her aside simply because she is a girl?”

“Do you want war?” Jaehaerys’s voice rose. “Because that is what you invite. The lords will not follow a queen.”

“And what of justice? Of law?” Alysanne’s eyes shone with tears. “Our granddaughter deserves her place. Do not steal it from her.”

The rift between them widened, their words echoing into the night.

The next day, the council gathered in the Red Keep. Around the table sat:

• King Jaehaerys, heavy with sorrow but resolute.

• Queen Alysanne, eyes sharp with defiance.

• Septon Barth, Hand of the King, ever thoughtful.

• Grand Maester Elysar, quill in hand, voice calm but firm.

• Lord Albin Massey, Master of Laws.

• Lord Lyman Beesbury, Master of Coin.

• Lord Daemon Velaryon, Master of Ships.

• Ser Ryam Redwyne, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.

The question was put plainly: who should inherit after Jaehaerys?

Grand Maester Elysar was the first to speak. “Baelon must be heir. Male primogeniture has ever been the way of the Andals, and we are in Westeros, not Valyria. The realm will not abide a queen.”

Lord Albin Massey bristled. “That is not law, Grand Maester. Aemon’s daughter is his rightful heir. By all precedent of Valyria, blood passes to the firstborn, regardless of gender. Now that we're bringing up Religions, should I also mention that the laws of the first men dictates a firstborn regardless of gender shall inherit before a relative. The mormonts have done it”

“Precedent of Valyria,” Elysar countered, “has little standing here. The Seven Kingdoms are not Valyria.”

Alysanne’s voice cut sharp across the table. “We are Targaryens. We are of Valyria. Shall we abandon our own law to please the prejudices of lesser men?”

Barth, ever cautious, folded his hands. “It is a question not only of law, but of peace. If the lords reject Rhaenys, will naming her cause strife?”

Lord Beesbury tugged at his beard. “I am not convinced either way. The princess is Aemon’s blood. Yet Baelon is strong, seasoned. Either could serve.”

Ser Ryam Redwyne shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “The girl is young. The prince is tested. But… I would not gainsay the queen.”

The council, divided. Voices rose. Jaehaerys’s face hardened. Alysanne’s cheeks flushed with anger. The question hung over them like a storm: Rhaenys or Baelon? Daughter or brother?

And so the realm of fire and blood inched closer to the conflicts yet to come. Little did they know, the youngest Targaryens are listening through one of the hidden passageways in the Small Council chambers. Rhaenys listened from the doorway, Daemon offering a comforting hand to Rhaenys while Viserys clung to the corner, trying to appear composed.

After eavesdropping on that heavily-charged small council session, the young Targaryens find themselves in the Red keep's gardens. Rhaenys, stared at the horizon, ilent tears tracing her cheeks. Daemon, offering stolen lemon cakes and strawberries to Rhaenys, his young enthusiasm sparked by grief. Viserys withdrew to a corner, overwhelmed by both mourning and the weight of whispered succession plots. Gael, oblivious to all the courtly tensions and gossips, as her mother Alyssanne had ensured to shield her innocence. 

Above, the dragons roared faintly, echoing the tension below. Fire and blood were still in the air, and the game for the Iron Throne had only just begun.

Chapter Text

The mourning bells had ceased, but the Red Keep was not freed of their echo. They lingered in the stones, in the very air, in every glance between husband and wife, father and daughter, king and council. What was supposed to be silence was not peace — it was pressure, heavy and unrelenting, pressing until the mortar cracked.

The royal solar, usually bright with morning sun, was dim. Heavy drapes smothered the windows, muting the day into perpetual dusk. The air smelled faintly of wax and damp vellum, as though even the walls had retreated into shadow.

King Jaehaerys sat at the carved table, quill in hand but parchment untouched. His crown was gone; he had set it aside upon a shelf, as if even gold were too heavy to bear. Across from him stood Queen Alysanne, her hands folded tight at her waist. She had not slept — her eyes were rimmed with red, her cheeks pale, her silver hair unbound and trailing across her shoulders in loose strands that spoke of neglect.

She had been silent too long.

“You cannot name Baelon your heir,” she said finally, her voice low but steady. “You're making a mistake.”

Jaehaerys did not lift his gaze. “He is my son. A proven warrior. A dragonrider.”

“He is not your heir,” Alysanne replied, her words sharp. “Aemon was. And Aemon’s daughter stands before us, as true in blood as he was. Rhaenys is your heir.”

At last the King’s quill snapped, the ink blotting dark across the parchment. His hand trembled faintly, not from weakness but from the fury he was holding still.

“If I name her, I invite mockery upon this throne,” he said, his voice low. “Do you not see it, Alysanne? Do you not remember how I came to sit here? Not by right, but by necessity. My sister Rhaena was passed over, though she was elder. Passed for me because the realm needed stability after Maegor. If I now name Rhaenys, the realm will look back and ask why Rhaena or her daughters were not queen instead. They will spit upon my reign, call me an usurper.”

Alysanne’s eyes widened, aghast. “So this is pride, then? Your pride, set above blood, above justice?”

“It is survival,” Jaehaerys snapped, at last lifting his gaze. His violet eyes, usually calm, blazed like tempered steel. “Do you think the lords will rally to a girl? They will not. They will remember They will remember Aerea. They will remember every chaos born of divided claim. And worse — they will remember Corlys Velaryon. Rhaenys bears his after their marriage. Do you think the realm will allow the Iron Throne to become the seat of the Velaryons?”

“She is our blood!” Alysanne cried, her composure at last breaking, her voice ringing through the solar. “Our granddaughter! The child of the son we buried but two days ago. Gods help you, Jaehaerys, but how could you be so cruel?”

Jaehaerys rose to his feet, the scrape of his chair harsh as sword on stone. “Cruel? Would you have me be weak? Would you have me throw the realm into chaos to soothe our grief? You think the lords will bend knee to her because she is clever and dutiful? No. They will whisper of Corlys’s ambition and his fleets. They will spit in her face and turn to Baelon regardless. Better to name him openly than invite war.”

“War?” Alysanne’s voice cracked. Her hands, white-knuckled, trembled at her sides. “It is war you will make, husband. Do you not see it? You will wound Jocelyn. You will wound Rhaenys. And you will drive your own queen from your side if you do this.”

The words hung heavy, and for a moment silence reigned. Husband and wife, brother and sister, stood opposed, their grief transformed into fury.

Alysanne turned, her skirts whispering across the floor, and left the solar without bowing her head. The door slammed behind her.

Jaehaerys stood alone, his breath heavy, his hand trembling faintly where it rested upon the table. He did not move to follow.

The Dining Chamber was filled that evening with the clatter of dishes and the low murmur of courtiers who knew too much and nothing at all. A feast had been laid — roasted capons, venison in wine, loaves of steaming bread — yet none at the high table had appetite.

King Jaehaerys presided, his crown upon his brow once more, his face carved into impassive dignity. At his side sat Queen Alysanne, stiff as stone, her smile absent. Baelon sat further down, beside Alyssa, his face grim. Jocelyn sat cloaked in widow’s black, her hand upon Rhaenys’s shoulder. Young Viserys and Daemon watched everything with wide eyes, Daemon was having difficulty cutting through his venison. Lord Corlys Velaryon was present, the Sea Snake himself, his dark eyes flicking between king and queen with sharp calculation. At Jocelyn’s other side sat Lord Boremund Baratheon, broad-shouldered, his loyalty a storm barely contained.

The food was served. The goblets were filled. And then, when the hush fell, Jaehaerys rose.

“My Family,” the King began, his voice smooth but heavy. “We are gathered in grief. We are gathered in duty. Aemon, my son, my pride, is gone. Yet the realm must endure, as it has endured before, and as it shall endure long after. And so I speak now, not as a father, but as a king.”

“It is my will,” Jaehaerys said, “that Baelon, second of my sons, shall stand as Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne.”

The words fell like a sword stroke. The silence was absolute, then shattered.

Alysanne’s goblet struck the table with a clang. Jocelyn’s lips parted in outrage, her widow’s veil trembling as she rose half to her feet. Rhaenys’s small hand clenched until her knuckles whitened, her eyes wide and wet. Lord Corlys surged forward, his voice sharp. “By what right is the daughter of your firstborn set aside? The blood of Valyria runs in her as strong as any. By what law do you make this choice?” Lord Boremund’s voice thundered after him. “By none that I’ll honor. My niece is the true heir, and I’ll say it before all the gods and men alike.”

Alyssa struck her palm upon the table. “Rhaenys is Aemon’s daughter. To deny her is to deny him.”

Baelon himself, the named heir, stood abruptly, his chair scraping back. His voice broke with grief and fury both.

“I don’t want it!” His words rang loud and raw, stunning the hall. His hand shook as he struck his breast. “What kind of brother am I, if I steal my dead brother’s daughter’s birthright? Aemon’s blood lives in her, not in me. It is hers! Not mine!”

Gasps rang out. Daemon’s eyes gleamed, as if his father's words gave voice to his own rage. Viserys looked torn, glancing between father and brother, mouth open, speechless.

But Jaehaerys did not falter. His face remained unmoved, his voice cold as iron.

“It is decided. The realm needs strength, not sentiment.”

The hall rang with protest, but the king’s will had been spoken.

And so the feast turned to ashes.

The chambers of Lady Jocelyn Baratheon still smelled faintly of lavender, though grief had already soured the air. The curtains were drawn, shutting out the torches of the yard below. Candles guttered low, and their wavering light cast Rhaenys’s face in half-shadow as she sat at her mother’s feet.

Jocelyn’s hands, calloused from years of hawking and riding, threaded through her daughter’s hair, combing it as she had when Rhaenys was a child frightened by storms. But there was no storm beyond the walls now — the storm was within, crashing, breaking, drowning them both. Rhaenys trembled. At dinner, she had managed silence, her eyes fixed upon her goblet while her world collapsed. But now, in the privacy of her mother’s chambers, the mask shattered. 

“They will never choose me,” she whispered, her voice so small Jocelyn leaned down to hear. “The realm will never choose me. Curse the Andals and their gods, curse their stupid songs that praise kings and sneer at queens. I am the more studied, the more practiced. Grandmother herself taught me sums and court politics and Father drilled me with maps until my fingers cramped. Even the King—” her voice caught on that word, bitter, “—he was invested in my education. He praised me. And now he forgets.”

Jocelyn closed her eyes. The comb slipped from her fingers and clattered onto the carpet. She drew her daughter against her breast, holding her as though she were five again, not a bride grown. “He forgets because he is a man, and men see only what they wish. But I do not forget, and neither will your uncle, nor your grandmother, nor Corlys.”

Corlys Velaryon stood silent at the window, his broad shoulders turned half away. He had not spoken since they left the hall, his face carved like stone. Yet now he turned, his eyes dark with restrained fury.

“Your father would not have been set aside, and neither should you,” he said, voice low but heavy. “If blood and merit mean nothing, then we are ruled not by law, but by fear and pride. And if so, then what honor is there in crowns?”

Rhaenys looked at him, her tears streaking her face, and for the first time that night she did not weep but laughed — bitter, short, without joy.

“Honor?” she said. “Honor is nothing, husband. Honor will not give me the Iron Throne. And if they force me to fight for it, honor will not keep you alive. I could lose you, I could lose Mother, I could lose Grandmother. What kind of queen would I be then, ruling over graves?”

Her voice broke. Jocelyn clutched her tighter, rocking her as though grief could be soothed by motion. Corlys stepped closer and held rhaenys' hand. The room seemed to grow smaller, darker, as if the air itself mourned.

The corridors of the Red Keep were silent, the servants long dismissed, the torches dimmed. Viserys sat in his chamber, a book open on his lap — unread, for his eyes had lingered on the same line for near an hour. The fire in the hearth had burned low, the coals glowing faintly.

The door slammed open.

Nine-year-old Prince Daemon stormed in, his pale hair wild, his small fists balled tight. He did not knock, did not pause, only threw himself into the room like a squall breaking.

“It’s supposed to go to Rhaenys!” he burst out, his voice breaking with rage and grief all tangled. “She’s Uncle Aemon’s daughter! It’s hers! They stole it from her!”

Viserys blinked, startled, closing the book but saying nothing at once. Daemon’s face was red, and he scowled as though daring anyone to name them. He paced, his boots striking hard against the floor.

“She would make a better queen,” he raged, his words tumbling fast, sharp. “Out of the three of us — you, me, her — she’s the one who’s most fit. She used to scare off those squires who called you soft, remember? She made them piss themselves with just a look. And she beat us both in sums in Maester Elysar’s class every gods-damned time. How could they forget that? How could they?”

Viserys swallowed. He wanted to protest, to temper, but the words caught in his throat. He saw Rhaenys in his mind’s eye, steady and proud, the firelight of the dinner hall catching the silver in her hair as she clenched her jaw and bore her humiliation in silence. He remembered her laughter when they were children, the way she urged him to try harder, run faster, read deeper.

“She is,” Viserys said finally, softly. “She should be.”

But his voice wavered. He did not say will. He did not say must. And Daemon heard the hesitation.

“You’re weak,” Daemon snapped at his brother. “You don’t fight for her. You don’t fight for anything!”

Viserys flinched. He had no answer, only silence.

Daemon stood there a moment longer, chest heaving through his fury, then turned and fled the chamber, slamming the door behind him.

Viserys sat in the quiet after, the book forgotten on the floor, the weight of his brother’s words pressing heavier than any crown could.

In their shared chamber, Prince Baelon Targaryen sat slumped at the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. His broad shoulders, once so sure, now sagged beneath grief’s invisible burden. His wife, Princess Alyssa, paced like a caged dragon, her fury too great to still.

“How could they?” she spat, her voice sharp as broken glass. “Those carrion lords with their stupid stars around their necks, circling like vultures before the pyre is even cold. And father—father, defending them! Have they all gone mad?”

Baelon did not answer at once. His hands curled tighter, as though he could crush the memory of his brother’s face, his brother’s voice.

“I don’t want it,” he said finally, his voice hollow. “I can’t do that to Rhaenys. She is Aemon’s. How could I?”

Alyssa halted, turning to him, her eyes blazing with unshed tears. “Then don’t. Refuse it. Gods, Baelon, I don’t want to be queen consort. I can barely stomach those perfumed ladies from the Reach and the gaudy trinketed wives from the west, let alone host them at teas. If I were forced to, I’d punch half of them within the fortnight.”

Her voice cracked, and for a moment the image was so absurd Baelon huffed a bitter laugh. “You would. I’d pay a hundred gold dragons to see it.”

They shared a look then, weary but softened, as though laughter were a rope pulling them back from despair. Alyssa crossed the chamber and sat beside him, pressing her hand to his cheek.

“Baelon,” she whispered, “don’t do this. Don’t let them make you. It will break Jocelyn. It will break Rhaenys. And it will break you.”

Baelon closed his eyes. He remembered Jocelyn as a girl, fostered with them, sneaking through the alleys of King’s Landing with Aemon, Jocelyn and Alyssa at his side. He remembered Rhaenys as a child, squealing with delight the first time Alyssa lifted her onto Meleys’s saddle. He remembered Daemon, placing a drawing in Aemon’s hands of Caraxes soaring through the skies, his boyish hero-worship plain as day.

They were not pawns. They were his family. And yet the weight of the crown pressed upon him even now.

“I will not steal from her,” he said, voice low but fierce. “Even if the realm demands it.”

Alyssa drew him into her arms, and for a time, the chamber was filled only with their breathing, steadying one another in the dark.

Later that night, Rhaenys sat alone in her chamber, her face pale from weeping, her eyes red-rimmed but dry now. Jocelyn and Corlys had gone, leaving her to what silence could give. She stared into the dark, her hands clenched upon her lap, until a soft knock sounded.

It was Daemon.

He slipped inside, his silver hair tousled, his face blotched with grief. He did not pretend at ceremony, only came straight to her side.

“It should be you,” he said at once, his voice breaking, his small hands curling into fists. “It should be you. Grandfather is wrong.”

Rhaenys turned, her lips trembling into a smile that was no smile at all. “I know, Daemon. I know. Mother knows, Grandmother knows. Corlys knows. They would fight for me if I asked it. But it would come to war, and I cannot bear to lose them. Any of them.”

Daemon scowled. “Still — it should be you. Can you imagine Viserys being king? He’s always with his stupid books being stupid." He ranted. 

Rhaenys gave a soft, broken laugh, brushing at her tears. “Daemon, he is not stupid. He is gentle. Let him love his books. The realm needs them, too.”

Daemon shrugged, but his eyes still burned. “At least he has that. I have nothing. No dragon. My egg went cold, and Grandfather will not give me another. I want to fly, Rhaenys. I want to fight. Like father and uncle aemon”

Rhaenys’s heart ached. She reached, cupping his cheek, brushing away a tear. “How about this, cousin? When I am queen, I will let your pick of dragons, even the wild ones. With supervision, of course, so you don’t end up charred or flying halfway to Volantis before you can hold a saddle.”

At that, Daemon’s face lit up, a boy’s joy breaking through grief. “You mean it?”

She smiled, the first true smile of her day. “I mean it.”

Daemon leaned against her, and she wrapped her arm around him. For a little while, they were children again — cousins bound by loss, but dreaming still of skies yet theirs to claim.

Chapter Text

The Red Keep had always been a hive of whispers, but now its halls throbbed with them. Servants moved with lowered heads, carrying trays of wine or folded linens, yet their tongues wagged the moment their backs were turned. Pages loitered at stairwells, ear pressed as knights muttered over their cups. Even the septas, long thought above rumor, prayed in voices low and sharp, the litanies falling somewhere between piety and protest.

“The King must name an heir,” they whispered.
“Too long already.”
“It should be Baelon, he is the natural choice.”
“But the girl, Rhaenys—Aemon’s daughter! Does blood count for nothing?”

The murmur carried beyond the walls of King’s Landing. By the time word reached Oldtown, Archmaesters were already debating succession with quills scratching feverishly across parchment. At Highgarden, Lady Redwyne’s cousins whispered vengeance for the public humiliation Alyssa Targaryen had inflicted at the funeral, coupling the insult with Rhaenys’ exclusion as proof the court disdained the Reach.

In the Riverlands, the Brackens toasted Baelon loudly while the Blackwoods drank in sullen silence, each family seizing the moment to remind the other of their supposed “loyalty.” At Casterly Rock, the lord lannister started dressing theirs daughter, sisters and nieces into red and gaudy heavy crowns to try and gain the princes' attention. He knows that if Baelon becomes her, his sons would look for a wife and he would present the suitable female candidates from his family. Far to the north in Winterfell, Lord Alaric Stark was heard to remark, cold as his country’s winds: “If they pass over her, the Southron lords show they value their own vanity more than their oaths".

The realm was restless, and for the first time in his reign, so was Jaehaerys.

The King entered the small council chamber with a stride that tried for dignity but carried something harsher beneath it. He looked older, harsher, though his crown gleamed as brightly as ever. The Painted Table of his forebears lay before them, maps and markers neatly arranged, but it was not war of borders that troubled them now—it was war of blood.

Seated already were the Lords of his council:

• Septon Barth, face sorrowed but steady, his calm eyes betraying dread of what was to come.

• Lord Albin Massey, Master of Laws, shifting uncomfortably in his chair, wishing himself back to the Stonedance.

• Lord Alan Beesbury, Master of Coin, drumming fingers against the table.

• Grand Maester Elysar, silenty scribbling his quill into some parchments. 

• Lord Corlys Velaryon, his grief veiled in iron composure, but his hand tightening each time Rhaenys’ name was spoken.

At the King’s right hand sat Queen Alysanne, still radiant despite the exhaustion lining her eyes. Yet the warmth that had once softened her gaze when she looked upon her husband was gone. Now she studied him like a stranger.

Jaehaerys’ voice rang out, sharp and unyielding:
“The realm cannot have the position of heir vacant. Every day I delay, the gossips multiply. Already, Oldtown whispers. Storm’s End makes declarations. Even in the North, they murmur about oaths and broken faith. I will not have my reign end in squabbling and doubt. I will announce Baelon as my heir—publicly, formally, finally.”

The chamber stilled. Even the crackle of torches seemed to hush.

Alysanne’s voice broke the silence, cool as steel:
“Very well. Do that. But know, husband, that if you do—then I am gone.”

Gasps stirred among the council. Lord Beesebury half-rose from his chair, only to sit again, pale-faced. Lord Massey, wishing himself far away. Even Barth, who never flinched before dragons or kings, closed his eyes as though in prayer. While Corlys watched the exchange. 

Jaehaerys faltered for the briefest instant. A flicker—regret? fear?—passed across his face, so fleeting only Alysanne could see it. For a heartbeat, he almost reached for her hand, almost recalled the years when they had been not only King and Queen, but brother and sister, partners against a fractious realm. But pride steeled him. His voice snapped like a whip:
“To what? Dragonstone? You always do that—threaten to fly off and sulk upon Dragonstone when you dislike my judgment. Go then. Sulk. Brood. The realm has no time for it.”

The Queen rose slowly, each movement deliberate, as though her bones had turned to glass. Her gaze swept the room, landing not on her husband but on the men assembled, who had the decency to look away, their shame too heavy to bear. “Just know this,” she said, each word quiet yet ringing like a death knell, “our marriage will never be the same, Your Grace.”

Her gown whispered as she swept from the chamber, her absence colder than any winter wind. The small council remained frozen, caught between their King and the space his Queen had left behind. Not one dared breathe loudly, each silently cursing their duty for placing them in this chamber on this day, except maybe for Corlys who watch the entire thing, intrigued. 

Jaehaerys sat stiff and silent, the crown on his head suddenly heavier, though he would never confess it.

The next morning, the bells of the Red Keep tolled thrice, summoning the court to gather in the Great Hall. No word was given as to why, only that the King himself would preside. Nobles crowded in beneath the towering beams and stained-glass windows, their cloaks a riot of color, their whispers sharp as knives.

Baelon arrived with Alyssa at his side, her jaw set like a soldier’s. Behind them trailed their sons—Viserys with his thoughtful eyes and Daemon already restless, tapping the hilt of a wooden practice sword he had insisted on wearing. Rhaenys entered on Jocelyn’s arm, both women pale but proud, their grief still etched raw upon them. Lord Corlys Velaryon was never far from his wife, his face the carved mask of a man who had learned to hide storms beneath a steady tide.

No one expected what followed.

Jaehaerys mounted the dais alone, his face as unreadable as stone. The Queen’s chair to his right stood empty, its cushions untouched. The silence that followed was heavy, expectant.

When he spoke, his voice carried, sharp and commanding: “Lords and ladies of Westeros. For too long the question of succession has remained uncertain. My beloved son Aemon is dead, and grief has shaken this court. Yet grief must not blind us to duty. The realm cannot stand rudderless, without an heir. Thus I proclaim before gods and men: my son Baelon Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, shall henceforth be named heir to the Iron Throne.”

Gasps rippled like a wave.

Baelon’s head snapped up, horror written plain across his face. He stepped forward, his voice breaking with urgency:
“Father—no. I cannot. Not like this. Rhaenys is Aemon’s daughter, his rightful heir. I will not usurp my brother’s blood.”

But the words crashed against deaf ears. From the back of the hall, some Westerland lords raised their voices in cheer, though others remained stiff, glaring openly at the King.And then—before Baelon could speak again—the sound came. A mighty roar of of a dragon followed by a loud beat of wings, so loud the stained glass trembled in its frames. Silverwing, the Queen’s dragon, circled the Red Keep once in slow, defiant orbit before veering southward, wings catching the sun like hammered silver.

Every eye turned skyward. The message was clear. Alysanne was gone.

The cheers faltered. Whispers surged again, louder, harsher.

Rhaenys swayed where she stood, Jocelyn’s arm tightening around her. Her face was stricken, torn between fury and heartbreak. “They’ve stolen it from me,” she whispered hoarsely, “before the whole realm.” Jocelyn pressed her close, eyes glistening with rage, but no tears came. Not yet.

Lord Corlys stepped forward, voice sharp as a drawn blade:
“This is folly! My wife, Rhaenys Targaryen, daughter of Prince Aemon, is the rightful heir. By what law, what oath, is she cast aside?”

“By the law of strength,” one of the Stormland lords jeered.
“By the blindness of men,” Corlys shot back, his voice thundering across the chamber.

Lord Boremund Baratheon raised his fist. “I will not see my niece's birthright stolen!” Several Stormland knights behind him roared their assent, while others shouted Baelon’s name in defiance.

The hall dissolved into clamor, half-shouts and half-arguments, lords splitting in plain view, the realm cracking down its seams.

Alyssa’s fury burst then, too bright to hide. She shoved past a Riverland knight who tried to congratulate her, spitting her words like venom:
“Do not dare speak joy to me. This is no honor. This is theft.” Her eyes found Jocelyn’s across the throng, brimming with grief. “Forgive me,” she whispered, voice breaking. “Forgive me a thousand times.”

Jocelyn seized her hand, shaking her head, her voice low but steady. “No, Alyssa. This is not your doing. It is his.” Her eyes turned to the Iron Throne, to the King seated upon it. “And he knows it.”

For a moment, Jaehaerys’ gaze met hers across the hall. Something flickered there—shame, perhaps, or the faintest memory of the king who had once welcomed her when she first came in the red keep to foster with her older siblings. But he looked away, the weight of the crown bowing his neck, and rose stiffly from the throne. Without a word, he turned and strode from the hall, his Kingsguard falling into step behind him.

The uproar did not fade.

Viserys stood in the crowd, dazed, the voices a blur. He could hardly hear Daemon’s muttered curses over the thunder in his own skull. Me? He means me. If Father is heir, then I am his heir. One day, I— He nearly gagged. —I will be King. But he wanted no throne. He wanted his books, his quills, the quiet joy of sketching the streets of Valyria reborn in his mind’s eye. He had already begun the foundations in ink—spires and domes, the canals, the mighty towers of pale stone. That was his dream. Not this.

“Congratulations are in order, my prince.”

Viserys started. At his elbow stood Otto Hightower, thin and sharp-eyed, a boy of fourteen dressed in squire’s garb. Somehow he had slipped through the press of lords unnoticed, like a shadow at court.

Otto bowed low. “I do not doubt you will be a great king someday. Wise, just, beloved.” His words dripped with polished courtesy, too smooth for a boy his age. He spoke of the greatness to come, of how all the realm would one day look to Viserys. Viserys shifted, uncomfortable, wishing he could melt into the floor. Otto’s words felt like chains laid across his shoulders, heavier than the Iron Throne itself. He forced a tight smile, nodding, though his stomach churned. He did not have the heart to dismiss him.

Otto prattled on, piling flattery upon flattery until—

“Seven hells, who’s this?”

Daemon’s voice cut through like a blade. The nine-year-old pushed between them, glaring up at Otto with all the fury a child could muster. “Who invited you, rat? Scurrying where you don’t belong.”

Otto stiffened, his lips pursing. He gave a shallow bow and withdrew, his pride wounded, though his eyes lingered on the princes a moment too long before he vanished into the crowd.

Daemon snorted. “I don’t like him. He talks too much.” Viserys sighed, rubbing his brow. “He was just being nice.” He paused, then allowed a faint smile. “But… yes. A tiny bit annoying.”

It was the first time in many moons the brothers agreed, and Daemon’s answering grin was quick and sharp.

Later, in the quiet corridors beyond the hall, Alyssa found Jocelyn again,half-hidden by a carved pillar of black oak. Jocelyn’s face was pale, her hands clutched white around the folds of her gown, but her eyes burned like banked coals. She did not weep; she was far past tears. Alyssa went to her as if pulled by an invisible thread. “Joce,” she breathed, her voice breaking, and the name was half a sob. She seized Jocelyn’s hands in hers, pressing them hard against her chest as though to anchor herself.

“I’m so sorry,” Alyssa said again and again, her words tumbling like water from a cracked jug. “I’m sorry for him, for you, for Rhaenys… Gods, I’m sorry. This should not be ours. Baelon and I—we never wanted this. Never.” Jocelyn’s fingers trembled, but she held fast. “Stop. Don’t you dare take this on yourself, Alyssa. It is not you. It is not Baelon. This is his doing.” She nodded toward the Iron Throne where Jaehaerys had sat moments before, the cold steel still gleaming with cruel light.

Alyssa’s lip quivered. “But the lords—they cheer for him. They will cheer for me. For my children. And what of Rhaenys? What of you? How can I stand in that place knowing what it cost you?”

Jocelyn’s grip tightened painfully, forcing Alyssa to meet her gaze. “You listen to me,” she said, her voice low and fierce. “Rhaenys will not forget who she is. Nor will I. This crown may weigh upon your head, but it is not your sin to bear. It is his. Let him be the thief.”

The words steadied Alyssa for a breath, but her fury surged again. She pressed her forehead against Jocelyn’s shoulder like a girl once more, her words muffled against the velvet of her gown. “Seven hells, Jocelyn, I hate it. I hate it all. I will not pour tea for preening ladies from the Reach. I will not sit and smile while they pick over gowns and songs and jewels. And if they dare, I’ll strike them, just as I did that Redwyne cow. Do you hear me?”

Jocelyn’s laugh broke out, sudden and sharp through the tension, though it was lined with tears. “You would,” she said, a half-smile trembling on her lips. “You would strike them all. And gods help the realm if you ever had to hold a sewing circle.”

For a moment, their shared laughter cracked the grief. But the wound beneath it gaped too wide.

Alyssa drew back, brushing her sleeve roughly over her eyes. “I would give it all back if I could. Every cheer, every lord’s smile. To see him again, walking through that door.”

At that, Jocelyn broke. Her hand rose to her mouth, stifling a sound that was not quite a sob, not quite a scream. Her knees buckled, and Alyssa caught her, holding her fiercely as Jocelyn finally wept into her shoulder.

“I don’t want to be strong,” Jocelyn whispered, brokenly. “Not anymore. He was my strength. But Rhaenys needs me and I-”

Alyssa pressed her lips into her hair. “Then let me be yours. Let me be yours, just as we were when we were girls.”

For a long moment, they clung to one another in silence, the world of the Great Hall and its quarrels falling away. They were just Alyssa and Jocelyn again, two girls in borrowed cloaks, laughing as they ran through the moonlit streets of King’s Landing with Baelon and Aemon at their heels. The memory was cruel, and it was kind. At last Jocelyn lifted her head, her face streaked with tears, her eyes red but steady. She managed a brittle smile. “Thank you,” she said softly. “But tell me, Alyssa—will Baelon stand aside? Or will your father’s will bind him tighter than chains?”

Alyssa faltered, guilt darkening her features. “He swore to me he would not. But…” She glanced toward the dais, toward the empty throne. “…I fear oaths mean little when spoken in this hall.”

The words hung heavy between them, a promise and a curse alike.

Alyssa found Rhaenys where she so often retreated now: in the quiet gardens of the Red keep, where different colorful flowers and greenery provide a contrasting environment to what she is feeling inside. The girl was seated on a low stone bench, skirts bunched up in her fists, her head bent as though she could will her grief into the earth beneath her. The dusk had thrown long shadows across the courtyard, painting the air with that melancholy stillness that comes before night.

Alyssa’s heart twisted at the sight. She had faced war, the birthing bed, and the searing fury of her mother’s disapproval without flinching. But to face Rhaenys’s silent grief—her niece who was like a daughter to her—was another matter entirely.

“Rhaenys,” Alyssa said softly, approaching. Her voice cracked despite herself. “May I sit?”

Rhaenys’s eyes lifted. Red-rimmed, swollen. She nodded without a word.

Alyssa lowered herself beside her and for a long while they said nothing, listening only to the rustle of leaves and the faint clamor of the city beyond the walls. At last Alyssa broke the silence.

“I am sorry, Rhaenys. Seven hells, I am so sorry.” She turned to her fully, voice shaking now. “I did not fight hard enough. I should have shouted in that hall until the stones cracked. I should have thrown their words back into their faces. And now—now they’ve stolen from you what is yours by right.”

Rhaenys gave a hollow laugh. “It was never mine, Aunt. Not truly. The realm will never choose me. Curse the Andals and their endless worship of cocks. I could be thrice the man Baelon is, thrice the dragonrider, and it would matter naught. They would look and see only a woman.”

Alyssa seized her hand. “No. You are more than that. You were your father’s pride. His heir. You trained beside us, studied beneath King Jaehaerys himself. You flew Dreamfyre when others quailed at the thought. Do not let them rob you of that.”

Tears slipped down Rhaenys’s cheeks, unheeded. “But they already have. And the worst part… I fear what it will cost us if we resist. My mother, my grandmother—they would go to war for me, I know it. Corlys too. But at what cost? I would lose one of them. Or all.”

Alyssa’s throat closed. She pulled the girl into a fierce embrace, holding her as though she could shield her from the weight of the realm itself. “I will not see you broken, Rhaenys. Not by them. Not by any man on that council, not even by your grandsire. Remember this: I do not want the crown. Baelon does not want it. You are the one it belongs to. And whether the world admits it or not, I will never forget that truth.”

Rhaenys buried her face in Alyssa’s shoulder, whispering through her sobs, “Thank you… but I am so tired, Aunt.”

“I know,” Alyssa murmured, pressing a kiss into her dark hair. “So am I. But we will endure. We Targaryens always endure.”

Dragonstone loomed vast and dark against the horizon, its towers jagged like dragon’s teeth, its great volcanic belly exhaling thin streams of smoke. Silverwings’s wings thundered as she descended onto the ash-strewn courtyard with grace, bearing Alyssanne and her youngest daughter, Gael. The keepers of the dragons rushed forth, their leathern cloaks flapping in the wind, the Castellan bowing deep at the sight of their queen.

“Your Grace,” the Castellan intoned, his voice echoing off basalt walls. “Welcome home to Dragonstone. The chambers have been prepared for your comfort.”

Alyssanne inclined her head, regal though weary. Gael clutched her hand tightly, her small eyes wide at the sight of the looming stone dragons carved into the towers.

“Mother?” Gael’s voice trembled, half awe, half confusion. “What are we doing here?”

Alyssanne crouched low so her eyes met her daughter’s, smoothing a loose strand of hair from her brow. She offered her a gentle smile, though it trembled with unspoken sorrow. “We will be staying here for a while, my sweet. You will love it here. This was your older brother Aemon’s seat.”

At the name, Gael’s face crumpled. “I miss him, Mother.”

The words pierced like a blade. Alyssanne pulled her daughter close, pressing her face into Gael’s soft hair so the child could not see the tears that welled in her eyes. “I know, sweetling,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “Me too. Me too.”

Behind them, Silverwing gave a low, mournful rumble, as though echoing their grief.

The king's chamber  was lit only by guttering torches, their light throwing shadows across the furnitures. Jaehaerys sat in his great carved chair, his hands clasped upon his knee, his face grim as winter stone.

Baelon entered stiffly, jaw tight, eyes smoldering. For the first time in his life, he did not bow his head. “Father,” he said sharply, “why? Why pass over Aemon’s daughter? Why shame Rhaenys? Why set me upon this path I never asked for?”

Jaehaerys’s eyes narrowed, but his voice was calm. “Because the realm will not bear a queen, not yet. You are strong, Baelon. The lords will follow you. The blood of the dragon must endure.”

Baelon gave a harsh laugh, shaking his head. “Strong? I feel like a thief in my own hall, a usurper in my brother’s shadow. Rhaenys cannot even look at me, Jocelyn will hate me and Alyssa weeps in our chambers… and you sit here, speaking of strength? What strength is this, father?”

The torchlight flickered. Jaehaerys leaned forward, his voice low and ironbound. “Because there is more at stake than crowns and courtiers’ whispers. You think this quarrel of succession is all that matters? No, my son. The Iron Throne is not a prize—it is a burden laid upon us by Aegon himself.”

Baelon’s laugh died on his lips. “Aegon?”

Jaehaerys’s gaze grew distant, and then sharp, almost fevered. “Aegon the Conqueror did not dream of conquest for glory. He dreamt of darkness. A cold wind rising from the North, a terror beyond the Wall that would sweep all the world into death. He believed only a Targaryen upon the Iron Throne, united with his dragons, could stand against it. That is our duty, Baelon. Not crowns. Not power. Survival. My sister, Rhaena told me this story when she refused the throne and this prophecy is the long-guarded secret of House Targaryen, passed from king to heir. I passed it with Aemon and now, I'm passing it on to you"

Baelon stared, stunned. Then he barked another laugh, though it was hollow. “So this is your reason? A dream? A whisper of some ghost’s winter night?”

Jaehaerys’s eyes snapped to him, hard and burning. “Do not mock what you cannot understand. This is why I chose you. You will do what must be done. Rhaenys, for all her fire, would not unite the realm. You will. And you must.”

For the first time in his life, Baelon felt a shiver of fear not just of his father’s wrath, but of the weight of what he carried. What Aemon carried. 

The flames guttered lower, and silence thickened, until only silence between father and son—Westeros itself, heavy with the future.

Chapter Text

Baelon left his father’s solar as though the air itself had turned to lead, weighing on his chest with every step. The words echoed, clanging in his skull like a hammer upon an anvil. The realm comes first. Always.

He had spent his life trying to be a dutiful son—brave in battle, steadfast beside his brother, loyal to the realm. And yet for all of it, for all his sacrifices, he felt hollow now. His father’s blessing tasted like ashes, and the crown he had been offered felt like a shackle closing around his throat.

He walked without purpose, his boots striking stone in a rhythm that sounded almost accusatory. Thief. Usurper. Oath-breaker. Each step dragged him closer to him and Alyssa’s shared chambers, though he scarcely noticed until the door loomed before him. Inside, Alyssa sat with her hair unbound, the firelight playing over her face. She looked up, reading the turmoil on him at once. No words had passed, but she knew. She always knew.

“What did he say?” she asked, her voice a careful whisper, as though fearing the answer.

Baelon closed the door with a heavy hand and leaned his forehead against it, struggling for breath. “He told me why,” he said hoarsely. “Why it must be me. Not Rhaenys. Never Rhaenys.”

“And?”

Baelon laughed bitterly, a sound more wounded than mirthful. “He spoke of Aegon’s dream, of some darkness in the far-off winter, of duty and destiny. All the grand words of kings. But all I heard was this: I must rob my brother’s daughter for the sake of the realm. My father looks at me and sees salvation, and I look in the mirror and see a thief.”

Alyssa rose quickly and went to him, pressing her hands against his chest, forcing him to meet her gaze. “Don’t you dare say that. You are no thief, Baelon. If blame must be laid, it lies with the carrion lords who circle the throne, with the whispers in the court, with the king who could not see beyond his pride. Not with you.”

He shook his head, torn between fury and despair. “But it is my name they will remember. My crown they will curse. Do you not see, Alyssa? I will wear the burden, but she will bear the wound.”

Alyssa’s voice trembled. “Do you think I don’t feel it too? Rhaenys is more to me than a niece. She was with us on the battlements as a child, chasing Meleys’s tail across the sky. She laughed at my jests when all the court sneered. She was… ours, Baelon. Yours and mine and Aemon’s. And now…” Her voice cracked and she pressed her forehead against his chest, whispering, “I feel as though I have betrayed her too.”

Baelon’s arms came around her then, fierce, almost desperate. They stood together in silence, holding onto each other as though the world itself had turned against them.

Outside, in the practice yard, the clash of steel echoed. Daemon hacked mercilessly at a straw-stuffed dummy, wooden sword biting deep, again and again. His cheeks were flushed, his hair plastered to his brow with sweat. Rage burned through him, too vast for a boy of nine to carry, and he spilled it with every savage strike.

“Lying carrion lords,” he muttered between blows. “All of them. And Grandfather too.”

He paused only when a procession of servants trundled past, burdened with trunks and folded gowns. A wagon waited near the gates, its horses stamping impatiently. Daemon frowned, wiping his brow with his sleeve.

And then he saw her.

Rhaenys stood a little apart, dressed not in black and red, but in the sea-green and silver of House Velaryon. Her dark hair was braided with pearls, her face pale yet resolute. She looked older, somehow—no longer the cousin who had taught him to hold a sword, but a woman carved from sorrow.

Daemon dropped his practice sword and strode to her. “Where are you going?” he demanded. “Why are they packing your things?”

Rhaenys met his gaze, her eyes soft with exhaustion. “As Grandfather said, I am married to House Velaryon. My place is with my husband. I will go to Driftmark and be Lady Velaryon.”

He blinked, stunned. “But—you taught me everything I know about dragons. You’re a princess. You belong here. With us.”

Her smile was sad, more bitter than sweet. “No, little cousin. Not anymore. That’s what happens to ladies when they marry. Our names are written over by another’s, whether we wish it or not.”

Daemon clenched his fists, heat rising in his chest. “It isn’t right. You’re the true heir. You should be queen, not father.”

Rhaenys laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I know what should be. But what is—that is another matter. I will not tear my family apart in war, Daemon. Not for myself.” She bent and kissed his brow, her voice breaking slightly. “Be good to your brother Viserys. Do not give him a hard time. He will need you, more than he knows.”

Daemon’s throat worked, but he found no words. Only anger, only grief. And then she was turning away, her gown brushing against the stones, her steps measured but final.

The trunks were lifted, the wagon creaked, and Rhaenys Targaryen left the Red Keep not as a princess, but as a lady of House Velaryon. Daemon stood staring long after she had gone, his small hands trembling at his sides, the wooden sword lying forgotten in the dust.

The harbor winds were sharp as Rhaenys stood upon the deck of her lord husband’s flagship, her cloak of sea-green and silver snapping in the salt-bitten air. Behind them, across the waters, Dragonstone rose in jagged silhouette; further still lay King’s Landing, veiled in haze. Dreamfyre circled above, keening, her scales flashing pale blue and silver as she mirrored her rider’s restlessness.

Corlys Velaryon stood at her side, his hand warm upon hers, his thumb brushing circles of comfort as if to remind her she was not alone. His gaze was fixed outward—ever forward, toward Driftmark’s rising cliffs and the sprawl of ships clustered in the bay like a thousand silverfish glinting. “You wear sorrow in your eyes, my love,” he said softly, his voice carrying only for her. “But know this—what was denied you was yours by right. None may gainsay that. Not the lords who cheered for your uncle’s whim, nor even the dragons themselves. You were meant for more.”

Rhaenys turned her face toward him, searching his expression. She found the gentleness there—the tenderness she had grown to lean upon in her darkest hours—but beneath it, glimmering faintly, was something sharper. Ambition. Conviction. A quiet certainty that fate, cheated once, might yet be corrected in time.

“You speak treason, husband,” she murmured, though her voice lacked bite. The sea wind stole her words, casting them between them like foam.

“I speak truth,” Corlys replied simply. His lips curved into the faintest smile, not mocking but resolute. “I have sailed farther than any man of Westeros. I have seen kingdoms that do not yet know our names, treasures the world has never tasted, storms that would break lesser men. And in all my voyages, I have never doubted the worth of the woman who stands beside me.”

Her throat tightened. For all her iron composure at court, for all the dignity she wore like armor, Corlys had a way of cutting through her walls. She managed only a faint nod, her hand curling more tightly around his.

The prow cut into the surf, and soon Driftmark revealed itself fully: the sprawl of High Tide rising proud against the sea, its towers white as foam, its banners of seahorse and wave snapping in welcome. On the shoreline, servants, banners, and knights assembled to greet their lord returned and his lady newly come to stay.

When the ship at last moored, Corlys pressed her hand once more, steadying her as they disembarked. Dreamfyre landed heavily upon the strand, sending up plumes of sand, her eyes rolling restlessly until Rhaenys laid a calming hand upon her pale flank.

“You are home now,” Corlys said, and the words lingered, warm but weighted. Home. As though the Red Keep or Dragonstone, with all its bitter memories, had already been stripped from her.

She smiled faintly for his sake, but her heart was heavy.

Corlys, duty-bound, was soon drawn away by his men—matters of the shipyards, the endless ledgers of trade, the tide of Driftmark’s wealth that never ceased. He kissed her knuckles in parting, his eyes alight with promises he did not voice, before leaving her in the care of waiting attendants.

Rhaenys allowed herself to be guided to the chambers prepared for them—grand and wide, lined with sea-glass windows that caught the light of the waves and made the walls shimmer like living water. It was a queen’s chamber, not merely a lady’s. Corlys had seen to that.

When at last the doors closed behind her, silence engulfed her. The attendants melted away at her gentle dismissal, leaving her alone with the vast emptiness. Alone with herself.

Her fingers trailed across the bedpost, the carved wood cool beneath her skin. She sank upon the edge of the bed, shoulders bowing under the weight she had carried since her father’s death. Since the moment her name was not called. Since the lords of Westeros cheered another.

The tears came without warning, hot and unrelenting. She pressed her palms to her face, stifling her sobs lest the stone walls bear witness. Shame burned within her—that she had not been enough, that her sex was cause enough to strip her of destiny. Grief followed—sharp for her father, who would never see his daughter rise as he had dreamed, and sharper still for the cousins she had left behind in the Red Keep, their bright eyes watching her go.

She wept for her father, whose death had torn all paths open and yet led her only to rejection. She wept for the girl she had been, who once believed dragons could make a woman’s will as unassailable as steel.

At last, hollow and trembling, she lay back upon the bed, her hair spilling dark as ink over the coverlets. Dreamfyre’s distant cry echoed faintly through the windows, a sound that was equal parts comfort and reminder.

She was Lady Velaryon now. But beneath the titles, beneath the silks and pearls, she was still Rhaenys Targaryen—caged by her choices, undone by the choices of others, and haunted by a throne that might have been hers.

And alone in that chamber, the Queen Who Never Was let herself break.

The waves sang their endless hymn outside High Tide’s windows, the sea breathing against stone. Rhaenys lay curled on the great bed, her tear-streaked face turned from the moonlight, when she heard the door creak open.

Corlys entered, the salt wind still clinging to his cloak, his hair unbound and damp from sea spray. He paused when he saw her—the proud princess of the realm, curled small as a child. For a long moment, he only stood there, his face shadowed. Then he crossed the chamber, setting aside his cloak, and lowered himself beside her. His hand rested light upon her shoulder.

“Rhaenys,” he murmured.

She turned, her eyes rimmed red, the proud mask gone. “I cannot bear it, Corlys. To be so near… to be so ready… and to have it taken from me because I am a woman.”

Corlys’s jaw tightened, and he brushed a thumb across her cheek. “The realm is blind, but I am not. What they could not see, I will build. A house, a fleet, a fortune. And all of it will bear your name as much as mine.”

She searched his eyes, torn between gratitude and weariness. “Do you speak to comfort me, or because ambition has already seeded in your heart?”

He smiled faintly, unashamed. “Both, my love. I cannot lie—I see paths others cannot. And I know the truth: the Iron Throne would have been stronger with you upon it. If the realm denied you once, let it choke on regret. We shall raise children who carry both fire and salt in their veins, and they will not be denied.”

Her heart swelled, grief and hope colliding. She laid her forehead against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. For the first time that day, she allowed herself to believe she was not entirely lost.

That night, she did not weep alone.

The hall of nine smelled of sea air and freshly cut cedar when Jocelyn Baratheon swept in, her Baratheon black and gold bright against Driftmark’s pale stone.

“My lady mother,” Rhaenys whispered, rising as Jocelyn entered.

Jocelyn opened her arms, and Rhaenys fell into them, fierce as a child. Jocelyn kissed her hair, then held her at arm’s length, her dark eyes glinting.

“Your place is not to suffer in silence, daughter,” Jocelyn said firmly. “Your lord husband knew you too well—he sent for me because he feared you would fold yourself away. He was right.”

Rhaenys managed a watery smile. “He is always right, it seems.”

“Not always,” Jocelyn said, brushing a strand of hair from her daughter’s face. “But in this, aye. My place is with you. Whatever the lords may say, whatever fools sit a throne, I will not leave you to grieve alone.”

Rhaenys clung to her mother’s hands, strength flowing between them. For the first time since leaving the Red Keep, she felt less like a castaway and more like a daughter again.

The chamber smelled of ink and wax, the air heavy with parchment dust and the faint tang of iron from the torches. King Jaehaerys sat at the head of the table, grave and tired, but still keen-eyed. His crown glinted dully in the candlelight.

Septon Barth adjusted his spectacles and cleared his throat. “Your Grace, the harvest reports from the Reach have been… troubling. Late frosts have withered barley and wheat. Some of the lesser lords along the Mander write that their smallfolk are grumbling at tithe collectors. If the Realm’s granaries are not stocked before winter, we may face shortages. ”Lord Beesbury lifted his head from his figures. “The Crown’s coffers are not in peril,” he said, shuffling his parchments, “but they are not overflowing either. To purchase grain from the Dornish or import from across the Narrow Sea, we would need to levy an additional duty on salt, wool, or wine. None will be popular.”

Lord Albin Massey frowned, his fingers drumming the polished wood. “Raise taxes on salt and the Velaryons will howl. On wine, and the Reach will scream. On wool, and the North will curse us. The lords are restless as it is.”

Jaehaerys’s eyes flicked to his cousin, Lord Daemon Velaryon, who had said nothing yet. The Sea Snake’s grandfather stroked his beard. “The sea can carry your grain, Your Grace, but not for free. If you tax salt, the merchants will look elsewhere. Better to cut waste than strangle trade.”

Septon Barth raised a brow. “Waste? And where would you have us cut? The Watch, perhaps? Or the king’s progresses?”

The chamber murmured uneasily.

Jaehaerys raised a hand, silencing them. “Enough. We will levy modestly on wine, and the Crown shall make up the difference from its own coffers. The smallfolk must eat, or they will turn upon their lords, and the lords upon us.”

All bent their heads, though Beesbury looked as though he might choke on the figures.

Before the ink was dry, another parchment was raised.

“The Brackens and the Blackwoods,” Lord Massey sighed. “Again. There was a skirmish by the Ruby Ford. A dozen men dead, more wounded. Both lords claim the other drew first blood.”

“Of course they do,” Barth muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Their quarrels are as old as the First Men.”

“Lord Bracken accuses Blackwood poachers,” Beesbury added. “Lord Blackwood swears Bracken riders trespassed.”

“They will never end,” Daemon Velaryon said flatly. “So long as the Trident runs red, the Bracken and Blackwood will bleed each other for it.”

Jaehaerys leaned back, weary. “Summon both lords to King’s Landing. They will answer before the Iron Throne. Let them bluster where I can see their faces.”

It was then, when the weariness had already soaked into the bones of the chamber, that the king’s gaze turned to Baelon. His second-born son sat stiffly, eyes smoldering, shoulders coiled tight as if bracing for a blow.

“One more matter,” Jaehaerys said, his tone harder now. “Baelon, son. You have not said one word regarding the issues talked about in the small council.”

Baelon stiffened. The lords shifted uneasily.

“I never asked for this,” Baelon said at last, voice low.

“You are heir,” Jaehaerys replied, his tone brooking no dissent. “That is all.”

“Father, the wound of Aemon’s death still festers. Would you pile this burden upon me when I—”

“You are heir and you will do your duty. No more staying silent in small council meetings,” Jaehaerys cut across him, eyes narrowing.

Baelon’s jaw flexed, laughter spilling bitterly from him. “And if I refuse?”

The king leaned forward, voice lowering to a knife’s edge. “Remember what I told you.”

The words cut through the chamber like a blade. Septon Barth shifted uncomfortably. Massey and Beesbury bent over their papers as though ink mattered more than blood. Daemon Velaryon kept his face impassive, though his eyes lingered on Baelon.

Baelon fell silent, his fists clenched on the table. Jaehaerys held his stare a moment longer—until the prophecy unspoken weighed like iron between them—and then turned away.

“Very well. Enough for today. The Realm must eat, the Trident must be pacified, and the Crown must endure. We are done here.”

The clang of steel echoed bright beneath the open sky. Alyssa Targaryen, sweat darkening her tunic, drove her blade against the straw dummy again and again. Her strokes were fierce but precise—she had trained alongside her brothers and was taught by her mother's guard, Jonquil Darke. Around her, knights, squires and servants whispered.

“She should be in the solar,” one muttered.

“A queen consort should not be in a yard,” another chuckled.

Alyssa ignored them until one laugh carried too far. She wheeled, braid swinging.

“You find mirth in me, ser?” she asked, her voice cold as steel.

The knight, bearing the orange sigil of House Peake, colored. “Princess… forgive me… but your place is not here. A future queen consort has no need of swordplay.”

Her eyes blazed. “A worm such as you dares tell me my place? I am well aware of my new, unwanted role. But you angered me, ser, and now you will serve me. Pick up your sword.”

The yard stilled. The knight hesitated, then drew his blade, bowing stiffly.

The knight hesitated, then drew steel. The yard quieted, squires and knights turning to watch.

They circled. Alyssa struck first—quick, a diagonal slash meant to test his guard. He parried, steel ringing, and riposted with a downward cut. She twisted aside, her footwork nimble, and flicked her blade to catch his shoulder.

He pressed her, heavier, stronger, but slower. She ducked beneath a swing, driving her hilt toward his ribs. The knight grunted, stumbling back.

Alyssa pressed the advantage. She feinted left, then spun right, her blade slicing down in a blur. He barely caught it, their swords locking. For a moment, they stood, strength against will.

“Yield, ser,” she hissed.

He shoved her back, desperation flashing. She rolled with it, coming up fluidly, her blade darting in to smack the flat against his thigh. He yelped, staggering.

The yard erupted in murmurs. Alyssa lowered her sword, eyes blazing. “Remember this, ser: queens may wear crowns, but I will always keep my sword.”

From the sidelines, a young squire—Otto Hightower—watched with unreadable eyes, hands folded. His expression gave nothing away, though his gaze lingered long on Alyssa.

Daemon, watching from the shade, whooped with boyish pride. “Well struck, mother! Teach them all!”

Alyssa allowed herself the ghost of a smile, ruffling her son’s hair before returning her blade to the rack. Yet her chest heaved, her blood sang, and for the first time since the council’s decree, she felt alive.

The council had broken up in uneasy silence, the echoes of Jaehaerys’s stern decree still lingering like a hammer-blow in the chamber. The king had fixed his second son with that piercing look—a look that carried more than command, more than paternal rebuke. There had been weight in it, the weight of prophecy and doom, though none in the chamber but Baelon could feel its true press.

Baelon stalked from the hall without a word, his jaw tight, fists clenched at his sides. Courtiers and servants bowed as he passed, but he barely saw them. His steps carried him through the long, torchlit corridors of the Red Keep, until at last he found himself in a high chamber with an open balcony. The air outside was cool, heavy with the brine of Blackwater Bay. Below, the city stretched restless and sprawling, torches winking in the night like a sea of stars fallen upon the earth.

He braced both hands against the stone balustrade and bowed his head. His breath came ragged, as though he had run a race.

He had not wanted this. He had never asked for this. He had been content as the second son—warrior, dragonrider, father to his brood. Aemon was meant for this role, had been groomed for it all his life. Now, Aemon is gone, and duty—his father’s word, the will of the realm—had shackled Baelon with a crown he would never wear but could never escape.

You will be heir whether you like it or not.

The words gnawed at him, a brand upon his heart. Did Jaehaerys not see? The throne had brought their family nothing but sorrow. His brother Aemon had gone to an early grave for it. His mother had worn herself down to a husk serving it. Now he, too, was bound to it, chained by blood and prophecy he only half-believed in.

He struck the balustrade with his fist. Pain bloomed through his knuckles, sharp and fleeting, but it did nothing to ease the storm inside him.

What was an heir? A puppet for the realm? A scapegoat for every grievance of the lords and smallfolk? Aemon had once confided his doubts to him, years ago, when both were younger men and freer. Baelon had laughed then, clapped his brother’s shoulder, and told him he was born for it. Now that same yoke had been thrust upon him, and the jest had curdled bitter in his mouth. Yet…there was Alyssa. His children. Could he truly cast this duty aside when the fate of House Targaryen might hang upon it?

Baelon drew a long, uneven breath, staring into the restless city below. In the distance, he could see the faint glow of dragonfire—the keepers at the Dragonpit exercising one of the younger beasts before the night watch. His blood stirred at the sight. Dragonrider, warrior, son of the realm—that was what he was. Not a king, never a king. And yet Jaehaerys had left him no choice. For a long time, Baelon remained at the balustrade, silent, the wind tangling through his silver hair. Somewhere behind him, he thought he heard the faint tread of footsteps—Alyssa perhaps, or Daemon come to find him—but he did not turn. His turmoil was his own, and for now, he would face it alone. 

Baelon lingered at the balustrade, shoulders rigid, gaze fixed upon the restless sea of torchlight below. His father’s words still echoed in his skull, heavy as chains: You will be heir whether you like it or not.

The wind teased at his hair, carrying the faint scent of ash and brine. He wanted solitude. He wanted silence. Instead, the door creaked open behind him.

“Brooding suits you ill, husband,” came Alyssa’s voice, rich with a mix of mirth and challenge.

He turned, half-ready to scowl, but she was already striding into the chamber, her cheeks flushed, her braid loose from the yard’s exertion. Daemon trailed at her side, a grin stretched ear to ear, eyes alight with excitement that no courtly gravity could ever dim.

“Father!” Daemon burst out before Baelon could form a reply. “You should have seen her! Mother had the yard in awe. She called Ser Olyvar a worm to his face and challenged him right there in front of the squires.”

Baelon’s brows lifted, despite the heaviness upon him. “A worm?”

Daemon’s grin widened. “Aye! And she bested him. Drove him back step by step until he yielded, red-faced as a maid caught kissing. Even Ser Harrold laughed, though he tried to hide it.”

Alyssa smirked faintly, though her eyes glittered with something sharper. “He needed humbling. Too many men think a woman’s worth ends at needlework and birthing beds. I reminded him otherwise.” She lifted her hand then, flexing her fingers as though to shake the stiffness from them. “The sword is an old friend. It felt good to wield it again.”

Baelon stared at her a long moment. Some of the tightness in his chest eased, if only a little. Gods, she was fire made flesh—his firebrand, his solace and his storm.

Daemon bounded closer, tugging at his father’s arm. “You should have been there. I swear, I’ll train twice as hard, three times as hard, if it means I can fight like her one day. The knights laughed at first, but they’ll not laugh at House Targaryen again.”

Baelon let out a long breath, torn between exasperation and pride. He reached out, resting a broad hand upon Daemon’s shoulder. The boy’s eagerness was like sunlight breaking through storm clouds, warm and blinding.

“Your mother’s boldness will earn her enemies,” Baelon said at last, his voice low but steady. “But it will also earn her respect. Remember that, Daemon.” His eyes flicked to Alyssa then, softer now, though still shadowed. “And you, wife—try not to put every knight in the Red Keep to shame. Leave some for the rest of us.”

Alyssa arched a brow, stepping closer. “Would you rather I sit meek in a solar, weaving tapestries while the realm gnaws at our heels?”

“No,” Baelon admitted, a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth despite himself. “Gods keep me from that fate.”

Daemon laughed at the exchange, bright and unburdened. Baelon let the sound wash over him, let Alyssa’s fierce presence ground him. The weight of the crown-to-come had not lessened, but in this moment, it no longer crushed him. His father’s command still burned like iron, but at least he was not alone in the fire.

Daemon was finally coaxed into bed with the promise of swordplay come the morrow. The boy had left the chamber still recounting every thrust and parry his mother had made, his laughter echoing down the corridor like the clamor of a festival.

When the door shut behind him, silence settled—heavy, brittle. Baelon remained by the window, his hands gripping the stone sill as though it alone kept him from falling.

Alyssa moved quietly at first, unfastening her leather jerkin, her practiced fingers tugging at ties and clasps. She was still flushed from the yard, but calmer now, watching her husband’s rigid back with keen eyes.

“You’ve not spoken truly since the council,” she said at last, voice softer than before, stripped of all bravado. “You carry a storm behind your eyes, Baelon.”

He did not turn. “Best I keep it there.”

“From me?” Her tone was sharper now, her feet carrying her closer until she was at his side. “I am not one of the lords you must placate, nor a squire you can command. I am your wife. If you mean to hide yourself, hide from others—not from me.”

Baelon’s jaw worked, but he said nothing. Alyssa laid a hand against his arm, warm, grounding.

At length, he exhaled, ragged and low. “Father has bound me with words I cannot escape. He says I am heir, whether I wish it or no. He spoke of… prophecy.” He finally turned, meeting her eyes, his own filled with a torment she rarely saw there. “Not honor, not service, not love for realm or kin—but prophecy. A shadow cast by Aegon the Conqueror himself. And if I fail—if we fail—it is not only crown and blood at stake, but the world entire.”

Alyssa stilled. For a heartbeat, she simply looked at him, her breath caught in her chest. Then, with deliberate care, she reached up and cupped his cheek. “So that is the weight crushing you.”

Baelon’s hands came up then, clutching hers as though he feared she might slip away. “I never asked for it, Alyssa. I never sought a crown. I wished only to serve father, to guard our family, to ride and fight as the blood in me demands. But now… now I am heir. I am prophecy.” His voice broke. “And all I feel is rage.”

“Rage at him?”

“And guilt,” Baelon confessed. His eyes flickered, haunted. “Aemon should have been heir. It was his by right of birth. He was the true son. And yet here I stand, raised upon his bones. The lords cheered me in that hall as though my brother had never drawn breath.”

Alyssa’s throat tightened. She leaned forward, resting her brow to his. “Do you think I do not feel that same guilt? Every joy I see in our children, I remember that Aemon will never see his own. Every victory I taste is ash for knowing his widow and daughter grieve while we must endure. I feel it, Baelon. Gods help me, I feel it too.”

The words broke something in him, loosening the dam he had held tight. He folded into her arms, shoulders trembling, breath shuddering against her neck. “Then what are we to do, Alyssa? How do I carry what I cannot bear?”

She held him fiercely, as though she could anchor him against the storm within. “You will not carry it alone,” she whispered. “Not while I breathe. Let prophecy weigh on you if it must—but let me share the burden. That is why the gods bound us together. Not crown, not duty. Us.”

Baelon drew back just enough to search her face, as though seeking proof she meant it. Her gaze did not waver.

For the first time since the council, since his father’s grim revelation, he felt a sliver of release. The chains did not fall away—but they loosened. And in Alyssa’s arms, for a fleeting moment, the heir was only a husband, and the storm within him was quieted. The silence stretched between them, soft and fragile. Baelon’s breath slowed as he drank in the steady rhythm of Alyssa’s heart against his chest. Her hands did not leave him, one tangled in his hair, the other tracing soothing circles along his back as if she could smooth away all the jagged edges the day had left behind.

“You have always carried too much,” Alyssa murmured, her lips brushing his temple. “From the time you were a boy, I saw it—the weight you shouldered for our other siblings, the restraint, the obedience. Always afraid of our father’s wrath, always striving to be the dutiful son. But you are mine now as well, Baelon. And with me, you need not be so dutiful. You need only be… you.”

Her words pierced through the iron walls he had built around himself. His hand came to her cheek, rough and trembling, as though he feared she would vanish if he held too tightly.

“Alyssa,” he breathed, the name a plea and a vow all at once.

She tilted her face to him, and their lips met—hesitant at first, then hungrier, needier, as if each sought refuge in the other’s embrace. His anger, his guilt, his grief—all of it poured into the kiss, and she received it unflinching, meeting storm with storm until it broke into tenderness.

When at last they parted, her brow pressed to his once more, Alyssa whispered, “If we must face prophecy, we will face it together. And if it destroys us, then let it find us side by side.”

Baelon’s arms tightened around her, his answer wordless but fierce.

Later, when the moon had risen high and the torches guttered low, the heir to the Iron Throne and his wife lay twined together, not speaking of crowns or prophecies, but of nothing at all—two souls clinging in the dark, finding solace where they could.

And for that night, at least, the storm receded.

Chapter Text

The rookery of the Red Keep was never still. A chorus of caws filled the high stone tower as black wings fluttered in the dawn light, the smell of guano mixing with the tang of smoke from the city below. An acolyte of the Grandmaester, half-asleep, climbed the winding stair with a lantern swinging from his hand. His breath misted in the cool air. A sharp pecking came from the shadows, urgent, insistent. One raven hopped madly in its cage, scratching at the bars, a rolled strip of parchment tied to its leg. The boy muttered a curse, fumbling with the latch. The raven’s beak drew blood from his thumb before he managed to untie the message.

When he saw the seal, he froze. A falcon, pressed deep in blue wax.

“The Eyrie,” he whispered. His hands trembled as he broke it open.

By torchlight he read, his lips moving silently. His breath caught when he came to the names. Lord Rodrik Arryn. His sons. His heir. Dead.

The boy swallowed hard, clutching the parchment as though it might bite. He knew well enough this was no news to keep to himself. With shaking legs, he descended the tower, heading straight for the Master of Whisperers’ chambers.

The council chamber smelled of parchment, wax, and the faint iron tang of the harbor wind that found its way through the arrow slits. The painted table stretched long beneath the glimmer of the morning light, maps of Westeros unfurled, markers scattered like pieces in a game of cyvasse.

The king sat at the head of the table, his crown dull in the gray light. Jaehaerys looked older than he had even two years before, his beard gone almost entirely white, but his eyes still held their flint. At his right, Baelon shifted in his chair. He wore no crown, but the weight of one already bent his shoulders. The sword at his hip gleamed, but he looked tired, as though every word spoken in this room cut deeper than steel. At his side came his wife, Alyssa. She bore herself as a princess should, her blonde hair braided like a crown, a small ledger hugged against her chest containing reports of Queen Alyssanne's project assigned to her by their father. Yet her eyes were sharp, lined with a tiredness Baelon knew too well—his father’s labors pressed on them both now.

King Jaehaerys sat at the head of the long table, his expression grave as he fingered the broken Arryn seal. Septon Barth, leaned forward already, lips pursed in thought. Lord Beesbury, Master of Coin, shuffled his ledgers, muttering. Lord Massey of Stonedance, pale and pinched, sat rigidly. And beside them all, with salt still clinging to his dark braids, sat Corlys Velaryon—the new Master of Ships, his gaze steady, ambition lurking behind courtesy. 

“Let us begin,” Jaehaerys said. His voice was soft, but the room quieted at once.

Baelon slid into his chair, Alyssa beside him. He caught the flicker of unease in her eyes when she glanced at the king—her father’s hair more white than silver now, his face drawn with the weight of years. Grand Maester Elysar rose, parchment in hand. “The raven from the Eyrie, Your Grace. Lord Rodrik Arryn is dead.”

A silence fell. Only the hiss of the brazier broke it.

Jaehaerys closed his eyes briefly. “Rodrik was a friend. A wise counselor, once Master of Laws in my early years as king. He married my daughter, Daella…” The king’s voice faltered, a rare thing. “She died in childbed, gods preserve her, thirteen years gone. And now Rodrik follows her. The gods are not merciful.”

Baelon inclined his head. “Who holds the Vale now?”

The Grand Maester spread his hands. “That is the question, my prince. Lord Rodrik’s heir, Ser Denys, fell with him, as did Denys’s son. Only Lord Rodrik’s daughters remain. Lady Amanda, six-and-twenty, unwed. Lady Elys, thirty, likewise unwed. And Lady Aemma, twelve, his child by Princess Daella. The

“An infant cannot rule,” Lord Massey said briskly. “The Vale must have a strong hand, a regent, at least or the mountain clans will pour down from the hills like locusts.”

“And already a hand moves to grasp it,” Barth murmured. “Lord Arnold Arryn of Gulltown claims the succession, distant kin though he is.”

issue is an infant—Lady Jeyne, daughter to Denys.”

Corlys Velaryon leaned back, fingers tapping the table. “If Arnold seizes the Eyrie, the Vale becomes his fleet, his ports, his silver. Gulltown’s strength is not inconsiderable. And the Vale commands the east. It would be folly to let it fall into hands unfriendly to the crown.”

Jaehaerys’s gaze swept the table. “So. What answer do we make?”

Baelon’s hand curled into a fist. He felt the eyes of the council on him, the unspoken expectation heavy. He was heir; it fell to him now to speak as one who might one day wear a crown.

“The Vale is of the blood,” he said at last. “Aemma Arryn is of our line—your granddaughter, my niece. She will need protection. The vale must have a regent. A babe cannot command knights, nor hold the Gates of the Moon against foes. We must send men. Show strength. Let the realm see the Iron Throne will not let wolves snatch at its own.”

Alyssa spoke then, voice low but sure. “If men march only, the Vale may turn fractious. They will call it invasion. Better to send Baelon with the crown’s men—to advise, to settle disputes, to stand as deterrent. The sight of a dragon will still more than a hundred swords.”

Corlys inclined his head. “Sound counsel, Princess. Vhagar will awe them more than a garrison of foot.”

Jaehaerys exhaled slowly, his eyes on his son. “Very well. Baelon shall go with men enough to stiffen the Vale’s spine. But not as conqueror—as guardian. Let the Arryns see we come not to steal their falcon’s perch, but to protect it.”

Septon Barth folded his hands. “So it is written, so it shall be.”

When the matter of the Vale was settled, the council turned—at Baelon’s urging—to the ledgers Alyssa carried. She laid them open across the table, her slender fingers smudged faintly with ink.

“As Your Grace commanded, I have overseen my mother’s works in King’s Landing during her convalescence at Dragonstone,” she began. “The orphanage houses near three hundred children now. The kitchens serve meals twice daily—bread, broth, meat when it can be had. The fountains at last provide clean water to the smallfolk of the city. But the costs—”

Lord Beesbury squinted at his own numbers. “They mount, aye. Grain, meat, and salt are dear this year. The last harvest was lean.”

Alyssa’s voice sharpened. “The poorest of the city rely on those kitchens, my lord. Without them, they starve. Without the fountains, they drink the Blackwater, and diesease will sweep the streets. Would you have the crown remembered for letting its people rot?”

The coinmaster harrumphed. “I say only—funds must be found.”

Baelon leaned forward. “Find them, then. Cut from trade tariffs if you must, or from the lists of feasts and tilts. Better we fill bellies than purses.”

Corlys smiled faintly. “A prince with a merchant’s sense. Well said. If need be, I will pledge a small portion of Driftmark’s profits from my last voyage. Better the realm be fed than my coffers fatten.”

Jaehaerys nodded gravely. “So it shall be. The crown will commit more coin. My Wife's and now, my daughter's works will not fail while I live.”

Alyssa lowered her head, though pride warmed her cheeks. Baelon’s hand brushed hers beneath the table, unseen. 

It was Lord Massey who shifted next, clearing his throat. “There remains, Your Grace… the matter of your grandsons.”

Baelon stiffened. He knew what was coming.

“Viserys is near fifteen, Daemon near twelve. It is not too early to consider matches for them. A daughter of the Vale, perhaps—if Baelon succeeds in settling the succession. Or a strong house of the Reach. A Tyrell, a Redwyne…”

Baelon’s jaw clenched. “No.”

Massey blinked. “My prince?”

“No,” Baelon repeated, firmer. “It is bad enough I was saddled with heirship unlooked-for. Now you would shackle my sons to women with grasping families, eager only for the prestige of the crown. Let my sons have leave to marry where their hearts lead them.”

Alyssa’s eyes softened, pride shining through. “They are boys yet. Let them breathe before you bind their lives with contracts inked in ambition.”

The silence stretched. Jaehaerys’s gaze lingered long on his son’s face. At last, the king nodded. “Very well. Let the matter rest. The gods grant enough years remain for choices yet to be made.”

The council droned on—grain tallies, tax disputes, murmurs of clashes between the wildlings and the nights watch that never seemed to cease. Baelon answered when called upon, though each word weighed him further down. At last, with sun sinking westward, the king raised his hand.

“Enough. We adjourn.”

The lords rose, parchments gathered, chairs scraping. Baelon lingered, his hand tight on Alyssa’s, both drawing breath in the chamber that smelled of ink and old stone. Outside, the Red Keep stretched vast and shadowed, dragons stirring restlessly beyond its walls.

The realm shifted beneath them, and the weight of it pressed ever heavier upon their shoulders.

The Red Keep buzzed like a hive disturbed. Courtiers whispered in shaded halls, their silks rustling as their tongues darted.

The news of Lord Rodrik Arryn’s death had spread faster than the raven’s wings. The Vale had always seemed immovable, a bastion of old stone and older pride, but now its foundations trembled. Ladies in the queen’s solar spoke of Lady Amanda’s beauty wasted in spinsterhood, of Lady Elys’s quiet bitterness, of little Aemma—barely twelve—carrying the weight of the falcon’s nest upon her narrow shoulders.

“An infant as heir!” gasped Ser Marq Peake at supper, loud enough for the hall to hear. “What is the Eyrie now, a nursery?”

“It will be a battleground if Lord Arnold of Gulltown takes his chance,” another replied grimly.

Some whispered of opportunity: houses with daughters ripe for match spoke honeyed words about strengthening ties between crown and falcon. Others muttered darkly that the Iron Throne should simply place its hand upon the Vale and keep it clenched. The Arryns were blood, yes—but blood had been passed over before.

Rhaenys’s name was not spoken openly. But the memory of her slight still lingered, a bitter taste in many mouths.

The solar where Prince Viserys studied was stifling with parchment and dust. The boy sat hunched at a heavy oak table, a quill dangling in his fingers, ink smeared across the parchment where his thoughts had wandered.

Maester Albin stood behind him like a crow, robes rustling, eyes sharp. “You are heir to the heir, my prince. You must understand matters of coin and law, not merely dragons and old stones.”

Viserys bit his lip. The maester’s words pricked because they were true. His father is now heir, his cousin Rhaenys passed over, his uncle Aemon dead. If father is lost, the crown might fall upon Viserys’s brow. The thought soured his stomach.

The parchment before him bore neat columns of trade agreements—levies on Myrish lace, tolls from the Stepstones, tariffs on Dornish wine. The maester tapped a finger.

“Explain to me the difference between the Free Cities’ taxation on wool and our own in the Riverlands. Which is more profitable, and why?”

Viserys frowned at the cramped words. “The Free Cities… tax by weight. We tax by bale.”

“Go on.”

“Their system encourages… smaller shipments. We… lose less to spoilage, but… but—” He faltered, the thread slipping from his grasp. “But I don’t see why it matters! Let the merchants wrangle. I am no merchant.”

“You will be king one day, gods willing or no,” Albin snapped. “Every copper of tax fills your coffers. Every grain lost is a soldier unfed. You will not sit a throne by dreaming of spires and dragons, my prince.”

Viserys flushed hot. “I dream because the rest of it is wretched. Trade, tariffs, levies—words that stink of ledgers. But Valyria… Valyria was glory. Its arches and towers, its bridges of dragonbone… Why must I learn of counting sheep when I could be sketching the temples fourteen Flames?”

Maester Albin’s face softened, just barely. “Because the glory of Valyria is ash, my prince. And sheep feed your people.”

Viserys turned his face away. He hated the truth of it. He hated it, he hated himself and he hated how the heirship now landed on his father and he must also bear the weight of it. 

The training yard was alive with steel. Daemon Targaryen, wiry and fierce at eleven, squared against a boy older and broader. His shield felt heavy, but he gritted his teeth. He would not falter.

Ser Ryam Redwyne’s voice cut through the clamor. “Guard high, My Prince! Do not meet strength with strength. You are small—be quick!”

The older boy lunged, blade flashing. Daemon darted sideways, shield jerking up just in time. The clang rang in his bones. His breath burned, but pride drove him onward.

He countered, blade slashing low, forcing the other boy to stumble. The squires jeered, some cheering for Daemon, others snickeing at envy.

Daemon snarled. He wanted to shut them all up. He darted forward, reckless, striking again and again, until the older boy’s sword twisted and went clattering to the ground.

A moment of triumph—until Ryam’s wooden sword cracked against Daemon’s ribs, sending him sprawling into the dirt.

The squires roared with laughter. 

Daemon spat grit, fury boiling in him like dragonfire. “I had him beaten!” he shouted.

“You had yourself spent,” Ryam said flatly. “Victory is not rage. You strike like a storm, then wonder why you are swept aside. You must be steel, not wildfire.”

“I don’t want to be steel,” Daemon panted, clutching his side. “I want to be fire.”

The Lord Commander studied him a long moment, then crouched down so his shadow fell over Daemon. “Fire burns bright, boy. But steel endures. Learn the difference—or you’ll burn yourself to ash.”

Daemon’s hands clenched into fists. He would prove them wrong. He would be both.

That night, Baelon found Alyssa pacing their chambers, her gown unfastened, her hair loose from its pins. She had abandoned the pretense of courtly composure.

“Another letter to mother?” Baelon asked, sinking into the chair by the hearth.

“She will not answer differently,” Alyssa said bitterly. “Always Dragonstone is peaceful. I am well. My health requires solitude. Two years, Baelon. Two years she has hidden while the realm whispers. And who bears it? We do.”

She turned, eyes flashing. “The orphanage doors I must keep open, the kitchens I must supply, the fountains I must see repaired when the pipes clog with filth. It is endless. I am no queen, yet I am made to play one.”

Baelon rose, took her hand, kissed her knuckles. “You are more queenly than any. You are the one who gives the poor bread when my father gives them decrees.”

She shook him off. “Do not flatter me. It is not my work. It is hers. And I am no shadow to take her place.”

Baelon’s own temper frayed. “Would you rather I leave you outside the council chamber, silenced? You say you bear her burdens—so do I. Every lord looks at me as if I am king already, as if my father will not last another year. They press me to be decisive, to wed our sons. To wed Daemon, who is but eleven! And what would you have me do?”

Alyssa’s lips thinned. “I would have you refuse them.”

“I did,” Baelon said, his voice weary. “Today. They sought to bind Viserys and Daemon to grasping families with fat dowries. I told father, let my sons have leave to marry who they wish. He relented. But for how long? My father loves his line, not our happiness.”

Her anger softened then, her hand finding his again. “And what of you, Baelon? You never wished this burden. You never wished to be heir.”

Baelon laughed without mirth. “I wished only to ride the skies with you. To fight when needed, to feast when the day was done. I did not wish for crowns or councils. But wishing changes nothing. We are bound to the throne whether we will it or not.”

They stood in silence, the firelight flickering. Their guilt—over Rhaenys, over their sons, over their mother—hung between them like a specter neither dared name.

In his solar, Jaehaerys sat rigid, the crown absent from his brow yet its weight pressing all the same. Septon Barth, robed in plain gray, faced him across the fire.

“You have grown weary, my king,” Barth said softly.

“I am not weary,” Jaehaerys snapped. “I am burdened. There is a difference.”

Barth’s eyes twinkled with sadness. “Burden and weariness are brothers, Your Grace. And without your queen, both grow heavier.”

Jaehaerys looked away, jaw clenched. “Alyssanne chose Dragonstone. I did not banish her.”

“You chose Rhaenys’s fate. You chose Baelon’s. You chose to silence her counsel. Do you wonder why she fled?”

Jaehaerys’s hand curled on the arm of his chair. “She was ever strong-willed. But to sulk for two years—”

“This is worse than sulking,” Barth cut in gently. “This is wounding. A wound that festers when ignored. Even the court whispers now. They say your marriage is broken. That grief has torn it asunder.”

“Let them whisper,” Jaehaerys muttered.

“Whispers become roars,” Barth said. “And what then? A king who cannot rule his household—how will he rule a realm? Even now, Alyssa bears her mother’s burdens, but she cannot be Alyssanne. She should not have to be. The people see, my king. And they pity her. But they wonder—what of the queen who should be at her side?”

Jaehaerys’s face fell into shadow. For a long moment he was silent, seeing in the flames the face of his lost son Aemon, of his daughter Daella, of all those who had gone before.

Finally he whispered, “She was my light. And I have driven her away.”

“Then seek her back,” Barth urged. “For the love you bear, for the realm you guard. Even I could not sway her. So I sought another. The High Septon has agreed—Septa Maegelle will return. She will mediate, if you will allow it. A gentle hand where mine has failed.”

Jaehaerys stiffened. “Do you think me so weak I need a septa to school me in marriage?”

Barth met his glare without flinching. “Not weak. Human. Even kings need healing, Jaehaerys. Even dragons need rest.”

The Old King closed his eyes, and in that moment looked older still. “Perhaps… perhaps.”

The fire snapped in the hearth, throwing sparks like brief lives, flaring and dying before they reached the stone floor.

Septon Barth bowed his head, but did not press further. The silence between them was heavy, filled with all the words Jaehaerys would not say.

The Old King sat stiff in his chair, his hand gripping the armrest until his knuckles whitened. In his mind he heard Alyssanne’s laughter, bright as silver bells, echoing from years long gone. He remembered her hand in his, remembered the soft chiding voice that once kept his pride in check.

But when he blinked, there was only the darkened chamber, only the fire, only Barth’s quiet gaze.

His lips parted, as if to call her name, but no sound came.

He had built roads across mountains, linked kingdoms with stone and law, stitched together a realm with decrees and dragons. Yet he could not bridge the gulf that had opened in his own bed.

Jaehaerys lowered his eyes. His breath rattled like dry leaves, and the silence stretched until even the fire seemed to hush.

And there the Old King sat—alone, unbending, unmoving—wrestling with ghosts only he could see.

Chapter Text

In the morning, King’s Landing still murmured of the raven from the Vale. Rumors slipped through kitchens and training yards alike — the mountain clans growing bold, the falcon’s nest near empty, the blood of Arryns spilt in their own high valleys.

Baelon found his wife in the gardens overlooking the city, where Alyssa often sought air before descending into the endless work of their mother’s projects. She sat upon a stone bench, the early sun catching in her hair, her eyes turned eastward toward the bay.

“You look as if you could summon ships with a stare,” Baelon said lightly as he approached.

Alyssa looked up, her mouth curving faintly. “Ships? No. Ghosts, perhaps. I was thinking of Aemma and Daella.”

The name hung between them, soft and heavy as falling ash. Her name was not mentioned for a long time since her death and they only know about Aemma when they receive ravens about her containing updates about her life.

Baelon sat beside her. For a time, they said nothing, letting the murmur of the fountain fill the silence. Finally, he asked, “What were you remembering?”

“How she spooks easily,” Alyssa whispered.

“Do you recall it? When we were kids, Saera introduced her to her cat and she got scared and burst into tears. Mother was fluttering around her in an instant and she punished Saera, just for her introducing her cat to our sister. And she always said she wanted a quiet life… to be loved, to be a mother. She had it, for so short a time. I miss her, and Saera too, wherever she is.”

Her voice caught, and she pressed her sleeve to her eyes quickly, as if ashamed of the tears.

Baelon reached over, laying a broad, callused hand over hers. “I remember,” he said. “I remember the way she braided your hair for feasts, And who could ever forget how you dumped that whole pitcher of Wine to Vaegon's head when he insulted her. She was—” His voice thickened. “She was gentle and innocent, where the rest of us are hard.”

“She should not have died,” Alyssa murmured. “Childbed should not be the death of a princess. Of a sister.”

“No,” Baelon agreed grimly. “But her blood lives on. In Aemma. In that little girl, the Vale still has a Targaryen heartbeat.”

Alyssa turned her eyes to him then, searching. “You will see her?”

Baelon nodded. “I will. I swear it. I’ll watch over her as if she were my own. Whatever storm brews in the Eyrie, I’ll stand in its path.”

Alyssa exhaled, a sound between a sob and a laugh. “Always the hero, aren’t you?”

“Not a hero,” Baelon said, and for a moment his smile was boyish, weary. “Just a brother who knows the cost of silence. We lost Daella because none of us could save her. I’ll not lose Aemma to quarrels and greedy cousins.”

A bell tolled from the city below, calling the hour. Duty intruded like a shadow. Baelon rose, tugging at his gloves, his face settling into the lines of resolve.

“It’s time,” he said simply.

Alyssa rose with him, and they walked towards the red keep's outer courtyard where a carriage is waiting for them to them outside of the city where Vhagar rests since the dragonpit is too large for her. Vhagar loomed further within, vast as a mountain, her breath hot enough to make the stones sweat.

Baelon paused, turning to his wife and sister one last time. “Take care of the city, Alyssa, the boys as well. And of Mother’s projects. You are her mirror more than you know.”

“And you,” she whispered, “take care of yourself. And of Aemma.”

They embraced, the hug long, fierce, unspoken words passing between them. Then Baelon broke away, mounting Vhagar with the ease of long years.

The beast rumbled deep in her throat, wings unfurling wide enough to blot out the morning sun.

“Fly swift,” Alyssa called, her voice almost lost in the rising wind.

Baelon only nodded, and with a roar like a thunderclap, Vhagar leapt skyward. The earth shook under the beat of her wings, and King’s Landing’s folk looked up as the great shadow swept eastward, toward the mountains of the Vale.

Alyssa watched until the sky swallowed them both, her heart clutched in a fist of pride and dread.

The flight was long, the air thinning as Vhagar bore her rider higher, further eastward. Storms gathered around the mountains, their jagged peaks biting into the clouds like dragon’s teeth. Baelon sat hunched in the saddle, wind clawing at his face, his mind circling not on the path ahead but on the ghosts trailing behind. He thought of the raven’s words: Rodrik Arryn, fallen. Denys, his heir, cut down beside him.A single skirmish with the mountain clans had gutted the falcon’s line, leaving the Vale trembling on a knife’s edge. And at the heart of it — a child in swaddling, and a girl who carried Daella’s smile.

Daella.

He could almost hear her quiet laughters in the gusts, see her pale hair whipped across her eyes as she leaned too close over a balcony, Alyssa pulling her back in alarm. And Aemma… he had never seen the girl, only heard of her in letters, whispers in court. His niece. His sister’s daughter. She waited in those stone halls now, alone, surrounded by vipers.

When the Eyrie came into sight, Baelon drew a sharp breath. Its towers rose like spears from the mountain’s crown, white against the storm-dark sky. Yet banners that once flew proud now hung limp, their falcon sigil sodden from rain. Vhagar descended with a roar that echoed across the vale, her wings buffeting the courtyard below. Guards scattered, horses screamed. The smell of fear clung to the air — fear of the dragon, and of what her arrival meant.

Baelon dismounted slowly, boots striking the wet stones and commanded vhagar to roost in one of the mountains nearby. Lords and retainers of House Arryn stood waiting, their faces drawn, their ranks thinner than they ought to have been.

From the hall came the women of the house. Lady Amanda first, second eldest daughter of Rodrik, tall, with her father’s long face but her mother’s sharp eyes. Beside her walked Lady Elys, the eldest daughter of Lord Rodrik, sterner, lips pressed in a thin line, the look of a woman accustomed to disappointment. They both wore black for mourning, though the pearls in their hair glistened like small tears.

Baelon inclined his head. “My ladies.”

Behind them came a slighter figure, flanked by a nurse. Twelve years only, pale as morning snow. Violet eyes, wide, wary. Her silver-blonde hair caught the torchlight in strands that shone like spun glass.

Baelon’s breath caught.

Aemma.

It was as though Daella had been remade before him. Every contour of her face, every tremor of her hands — his sister’s image, alive once more, yet so much younger, so much more vulnerable. He stared, frozen, as if looking into a memory made flesh.

Aemma clutched her nurse’s skirts when his eyes found hers. She lowered her gaze, as though ashamed of her own resemblance.

“Prince Baelon,” Amanda spoke, breaking the spell. “The Vale welcomes you in our hour of need. We are diminished. My father, my brothers… all gone to the gods. Now only we remain.” She placed a steadying hand on Aemma’s shoulder. “And my niece, Lady Jeyne. Denys’s daughter.”

A wetnurse stepped forward with a swaddled babe in her arms — tiny, pink-faced, barely aware of the storm brewing around her. A pitiful, fragile thing, yet the rightful heir to the falcon’s nest. Baelon swallowed. His chest felt tight. He looked from the infant, squirming weakly in her wrappings, to Aemma, who would have been safe in King’s Landing had the gods been kinder to her mother. His blood. His sister’s blood.

“My ladies,” Baelon said at last, his voice lower, rougher than intended. He dropped to one knee before the child. “By law and blood, she is Lady of the Eyrie. And while I stand in here, no man shall take what belongs to her.”

The words rippled through the yard, some lords bowing their heads, others muttering darkly. Amanda’s eyes shone with restrained relief. Elys kept her face stone-hard.

Lady Aemma, their little niece from Daella, stood in the hall with her half-sisters, pale Amanda and sharp-eyed Elys. She was smaller than Baelon remembered Daella at that age, perhaps twelve years, but the resemblance nearly undid him. The same soft eyes, the same pale hair, the same fragile beauty. For a moment he could not breathe.

Aemma, shy but not uncurious, curtsied with stiff formality.
“My prince,” she said, voice trembling.
Baelon forced a smile, willing warmth into his tone. “Seven hells, girl—no need for such ceremony. I’ve come to frighten mountain clans, not nieces.”

The jest cracked something open; Aemma’s lips twitched upward, hesitant, before she laughed—a thin laugh, like a bird startled into flight. Baelon reached for her hand, large and scarred from years of swordplay, and pressed it lightly.
“You are Daella’s image,” he whispered, soft enough that only she heard. “Forgive me if I stare.”

Aemma blushed and looked down, tears welling. Baelon drew her close, his throat aching. For a heartbeat, it was as if his sister still walked the halls.

The lords of the Vale were called that evening to the great hall. Thunder boomed outside, shaking the narrow glass windows. Baelon sat at the high table, his shoulders set, every movement heavy with command.

The debate was vicious.

“Lord Arnold of Gulltown will not wait,” A bannerman warned. “He rallies men already. He claims the falcon’s nest by strength and blood, and strength we sorely lack.”

Lady Elys’s voice cut him down like a blade. “Arnold is no falcon. He is a gull, scavenging. Jeyne is heir by law, and by the gods’ will.”

“An infant cannot defend the Vale,” another lord spat. “And her aunts? Women do not rule falcons’ nests. Not here.”

Baelon slammed his hand on the table. The sound cracked like a whip. “Enough.” His voice rang against the stone. “The falcon’s nest is no bauble to be stolen by gulls, nor by cowards who think blood counts for nothing. Jeyne is the heir. Aemma is her kin, blood of Daella, granddaughter of your king. And behind them stands not only your law and your oaths, but fire and blood.”

He rose, turning sharply toward the tall windows. A rumble rolled through the mountain as Vhagar shifted her vast bulk outside, the scrape of her claws on stone echoing like doom itself.

“You wish to test your steel against the might of the dragon?” Baelon asked coldly. “Then do so, and see your halls turned to ash. But while I draw breath, no pretender will seize the falcon’s nest.”

Silence fell. Even the storm outside seemed to pause.

The lords glanced at each other, muttering low, subdued now. Amanda’s shoulders eased a fraction. Elys’s hard mask cracked, just a little.

Baelon sat again, every muscle taut. His gaze sought Aemma across the hall. She sat beside the nurse, watching him with eyes too large, too bright. Daella’s eyes.

And for the first time since the raven arrived, Baelon felt a promise carve itself into his bones: I will not fail you. Not you, not her.

The next days passed in a blur of duty. Baelon walked the high halls of the Eyrie with Lord Royce—Gerold Royce, a stern man of iron-gray hair and heavy bronze plate, whose voice carried both grief and iron resolve. Together they summoned the vassals, demanded oaths, and took stock of provisions. The mountain clans circled like wolves. Raiders struck caravans and villages; their numbers had swelled with mercenaries drawn to Lord Arnold’s banners.

Aemma, too, sought him often. She followed her uncle like a shadow, peppering him with shy questions. “Did my mother laugh as I laugh? Did she ever sing?” she would ask. Baelon answered as best he could, weaving stories of his sister’s gentle humor, her kindness and her gentleness.

One night, when the torches burned low and the wind howled against the Eyrie’s narrow windows, Aemma asked, almost in a whisper: “Do you think Mother watches us still?”
Baelon paused, heart stilled. He brushed her hair back gently. “Aye. From the skies. And I think she is glad I came—for you most of all.”

Aemma smiled faintly, then wrinkled her nose when he teased her about eating more stew than a knight. Laughter broke the grief for a moment. Baelon made a vow in his heart: no one would harm this girl while he drew breath.

The rebellion broke in the passes three days later.

Arnold Arryn of the Arryns of Gulltown had thrown off pretense. His banners—falcons of blue and white torn by streaks of crimson—rose above a host of five thousand, many mountain clansmen swollen by promises of plunder. He had chosen his ground well: a narrow defile beneath the Eyrie’s shadow, where avalanches of stone could rain death and where cavalry found no easy footing. Baelon would not balk. He led two thousand loyal knights and men-at-arms, the Vale’s hard core, with Gerold Royce commanding the bronze-armored lords of Runestone. Vhagar

“Let them hear the Dragon has come,” Baelon said, helm in hand, sword gleaming. His men roared.

The battle began with arrows screaming down the slopes, mountain clans shrieking their war-cries. Bronze shields locked as Royce’s men braced, iron against storm. Baelon drove the vanguard forward, shield splintering as the clash shook the pass.

Steel rang, blood sprayed. Baelon swung dark sister two-handed, cleaving through fur-clad raiders. He fought like a storm given flesh, every blow a hammer. “For the Vale! For the rightful Lady!” he shouted, voice raw.

Vhagar circled overhead, wings tearing the clouds. Vhagar descended, a shriek tearing the sky. Her fire rolled across the slopes, engulfing shield walls and scattering clansmen in burning terror. Rocks tumbled, dislodged by flame, crushing those who fled.

Gerold Royce held the line grimly, his bronze armor dented, his axe red to the haft. Beside him, Baelon carved a path toward Arnold’s banners. The usurper lord, heavy in gilded mail, fought atop a white destrier. Their eyes met across the chaos.

Arnold charged, lance lowered. Baelon met him, parrying the lance aside with a brutal slash that sheared wood and drew sparks. The destrier screamed as Vhagar’s shadow passed overhead, but Arnold pressed on, swinging a greatsword.

Steel met steel. Baelon’s arms shook with the force, but rage burned hotter than pain. He thought of Daella, of Alyssa’s tears, of Aemma’s small voice asking if her mother watched. With a bellow, he shoved the usurper back, then struck. His sword bit through Arnold’s helm with a wet crack. The false falcon fell, blood pooling in the snow.

The sight shattered the rebels’ will. He sent a mental command to Vhagar using his strong bond with the old dragon to roar fire again, and the mountain clans broke, scattering like ash on the wind. Knights of the Vale hunted them through the passes until night fell, steel and fire cleansing treachery from the mountains.

Baelon stood amidst the carnage, helm under one arm, sweat and blood running down his face. Gerold Royce clasped his forearm.
“The Vale owes you, Prince. And so does my niece.”

Baelon looked up at Vhagar, wings folding in the dusk, then down at the Eyrie where torches glimmered faintly. His muscles ached, but his heart was heavy with both pride and sorrow. For victory was never without ghosts.

That night, as the banners of the falcon flew free again, Aemma ran to him in the hall, cheeks flushed, eyes wide.
“You truly slew him?” she whispered, half in awe, half in dread.
Baelon knelt, placing a blood-crusted hand gently on her shoulder. “I did what needed doing. For you. For your sisters. For all the Vale.”

Aemma stared at him, trembling, before embracing him tightly. Baelon closed his eyes, the weight of blood and kin pressing down, and whispered into her hair:
“You are safe now. Daella can rest easier.”

But in the dark corners of his heart, he wondered how many more of his dead siblings would come to haunt him. If Viserra comes to haunt him on his sleep tonight, he might fling himself through moon door. 

The council chamber in the Eyrie was filled with the sound of boots scraping stone and the low murmur of lords still rattled by blood. The banners of the falcon hung once more, unstained by Arnold’s false sigil, but the hall bristled with quarrel.

Lord Grafton leaned forward, voice sharp as a hawk’s cry.
“The child cannot rule. The Vale has bled enough—Arnold’s treachery proves how weak the falcon’s line has become. We need a strong hand, not swaddling cloths!”

Others muttered assent, some cautious, others bold. Baelon sat at the head of the long table, Caraxes’ roar still echoing in their bones, his sword laid bare across the oaken surface. He did not raise his voice at first. He let the lords argue—of trade routes, of mercenaries, of raiders yet to be scoured—until their words grew heated and their eyes slid to him.

Only then did he speak.

“The Vale has a rightful heir,” Baelon said, each syllable iron. “Lady Jeyne, daughter of Ser Denys, granddaughter of Lord Rodrik. Her blood speaks truer than your ambitions.”

Lord Coldwater cleared his throat, uneasy. “Aye, yet the girl is but an infant. Who governs in her stead?”

Baelon’s gaze turned, hard as dragonstone. “Lord Gerold Royce will serve as regent—kin to her through Lady Anya, and proven in battle. He fought beside me when Arnold fell.”

Gerold, seated stiff and unyielding in his bronze plate, bowed his head only once. “I swore my niece would not fall prey to usurpers. I will keep that oath until she comes of age.”

“And alongside him,” Baelon continued, his voice gentling slightly, “Ladies Elys and Amanda, both daughters of Lord Rodrik by his first wife. Their counsel shall guide the falcon’s flight.”

The murmurs grew again—surprise, even resentment. But Baelon leaned forward, hand resting atop his naked blade. His violet eyes swept the chamber like a drawn bowstring.

“Your choice is simple,” he said, voice low yet deadly. “Swear to Lady Jeyne and her appointed regents, or make yourselves oathbreakers before the King himself. Vhagar has not yet left the Vale. Nor have I.”

Silence fell like snow. The lords bent their heads one by one, voices murmuring loyalty. For now, the Vale held together.

That evening, after the hall had emptied, Baelon sought out Amanda and Elys in their private solar. They sat together, the firelight catching their pale Arryn features—Amanda’s quiet grace, Elys’ sharper suspicion. Aemma lingered by the window, half-listening.

“My ladies,” Baelon began, tone softer than in council, “I have one request of you.”

Amanda folded her hands. “Name it, Prince Baelon.”

He hesitated, then smiled faintly at Aemma before turning back. “The King, the Queen, Alyssa, my sons and Rhaenys—they know Aemma only through ink and parchment. Through letters of her growth, her tutors, her health. I would see her come to King’s Landing, if only for a visit. Let her kin know her, not as words on a page, but as Daella’s daughter.”

Elys’ eyes narrowed. “And if misfortune befalls her in that den of vipers you call court? Would the falcon not be all the weaker?”

Baelon straightened, princely once more. “She would be safer there than anywhere—surrounded by family, guarded by dragonfire itself. I swear it on my life. On Vhagar.”

Amanda glanced at her sister, lips pursed. “If one of us were to accompany her…perhaps. But we cannot leave at once. The Vale still bleeds from this rebellion. Its lords must be soothed.”

Baelon inclined his head. “I understand. I ask no haste. Only that you permit her, when the time is right, to walk among her blood in the capital. She is of both the falcon and the dragon. She should know both.”

Amanda’s expression softened. Elys said nothing, but at length she gave a curt nod. That was victory enough.

Later, Baelon found Aemma in the small garden of the Eyrie, where thin pines clung stubbornly to the stone and snowflakes drifted on the evening air. She sat upon a bench, cheeks flushed from the cold, her hands clasped in her lap.

“Your sisters fret over you like mother hens,” Baelon said as he joined her. “But I told them you’d be safer in King’s Landing than anywhere else. With dragons to watch over you, who would dare mischief?”

Aemma smiled faintly. “I have never seen a dragon. Only heard their cries, distant.”

Baelon chuckled. “Vhagar is no gentle creature, but perhaps one day I’ll bring her down to let you touch her scales. You’ll find she smells of smoke and blood and sky. Daella used to say she was the ugliest beast she’d ever seen.”

That drew a small laugh, quick and shy. “Did Mother tease you often?”

“Every day,” Baelon said with warmth. “She teased Aemon too, though he bore it better. Once, when we were children, I tried to climb the Red Keep’s walls to prove myself the braver. Daella caught me and told father, who dragged me down by my ear. I never forgave her—until she slipped a sweetcake under my door that night.”

Aemma giggled, and Baelon’s chest ached with the sound.

He told her of Alyssa, forever the cleverest of the brood, and Vaegon, who had once locked himself in a library for two days until coaxed out. Of Viserys, still more book than blade, and Daemon, wild as any storm.

“And uncle Aemon?” Aemma asked softly. “My father once said…Mother wanted to name me after her favorite brother. Was that him?”

The words struck him like a spear. Baelon’s breath caught, his eyes burning. For a long moment he could not speak. The memory of Aemon—the quiet strength, the laughter, the wound of his death—flooded him.

“Yes,” he said at last, voice raw. “It was Aemon.”

Aemma touched his hand, small fingers tentative. “I am sorry, Uncle.”

Baelon nodded and just hugged aemma to his side. 

"I lost my older brother too, Denys. He was kind and gentle to me when he is stern to everyone else. He always takes me hawking. I miss him too." Aemma shares to his uncle.

He forced a smile through the ache and he realized he and his niece Aemma are alike, having lost their older brother. He squeezing her hand. “Grief is the price of love, little falcon. But remember this: you are not alone. We are your family too, Aemma. You are welcome in King’s Landing. I hope to see you there soon.”

Aemma nodded, her eyes glistening, and leaned against his arm. Snow fell softly about them, white as Daella’s smile, white as wings spread over the Vale.

And for a moment, Baelon let himself believe that ghosts could find peace.

Rumor moved faster than ravens.

By the time the acolytes of the rookery placed Baelon’s own seal in King Jaehaerys’s hand, King’s Landing already breathed his victory like incense. Sailors muttered it in wine-soaked corners of dockside taverns, silk-gowned ladies carried the tale like perfume in the Queen’s Ballroom, and even the fishwives of the Mud Gate recited it between guttural cries for mackerel.

“The Mountain clans were broken,” they whispered.
“Arnold of Gulltown scattered like chaff before dragonfire.”
“The young Lady Jeyne raised upon her falcon’s throne.”

And always: “Prince Baelon did it. The Spring Prince, the King’s Heir.”

The Red Keep buzzed like a disturbed hive. Some lords praised. Others measured. And a few, with ambition in their eyes, began to ask where next the Spring Prince would turn his gaze.

Alyssa read the raven’s parchment three times that night in her solar, the flame of a single candle throwing shadows across her tired face. She traced the familiar hand of her husband—firm, confident, and weary between the lines.

“Tell the boys their father thinks of them often. Tell Mother that Daella’s memory lives yet in the falcon’s youngest.”

The words blurred, and Alyssa pressed her knuckles to her lips. A soft shuffle of boots broke her reverie.

“Mother?”

Daemon stood by the door, barefoot, his hair wild from sleep.

“Father won, didn’t he?” he asked. “Will he bring our cousin here?”

“Perhaps,” Alyssa said softly, folding the parchment. “One day. But she is safest in the Vale for now.”

Her son frowned, lips pursed in thought, before padding across the chamber and climbing onto her lap. He smelled of boyish sweat and ash from the brazier. Alyssa held him close, breathing him in, as if by holding him she might hold the realm steady too.

The next morning, she took Daemon with her into the city. Two white cloaks flanked them—Ser Joffrey Doggett, old but sharp-eyed, and Ser Lucamore Strong, tall and broad as an oaken door. Both had argued against the princess venturing so openly into Flea Bottom, but Alyssa had silenced them with the quiet, unyielding steel she had inherited from her mother.

“It is my duty,” she said, “and my son will learn it with me.”

The Kingsguard exchanged glances but obeyed.

They walked through twisting alleys where beggars crouched in the shadows and butchers’ blood ran thick into the gutters. Children in rags pointed and whispered at the sight of Daemon with his silver hair shining bright beneath the sun, a dragonling among rats. He held tighter to his mother’s hand as they passed.The orphanage stood at the end of a crooked lane, a hall of pale stone and sagging beams. Once, Alyssa thought, it must have looked proud. Now, its roof tiles gaped like missing teeth, and laughter mixed with the cries of hunger inside.

When the door opened, a wave of noise and need washed over them. Children swarmed the septas who tried to herd them, thin arms reaching, eyes wide and hollow.

“Princess,” one septa breathed in relief, bowing low. “Forgive us. The kitchens grow bare again. The city’s poor multiply faster than the coin.”

Alyssa nodded, her heart heavy but her face resolute. She gestured to Daemon. He stepped forward, dragging behind him a bulging sack. With a grunt, he upended it, and a cascade of tunics, small boots, and painted wooden soldiers tumbled across the floor.

“These were mine,” Daemon said proudly, puffing his chest. “I’ve outgrown them. You can have them.”

The hall erupted. Children squealed and pounced upon the treasures, hugging the clothes to their chests, waving wooden swords as if they were real steel.

A little boy clutched a toy dragon so tightly his knuckles whitened. Alyssa knelt beside him, brushing his tangled hair back.

“It will not burn you,” she whispered, smiling gently. “But if you are not careful, my son may chase you with it.”

The boy laughed, darting away as Daemon mock-growled and gave chase. For a moment, the hall was alive not with hunger, but with joy.

When at last they left, Daemon was flushed and frowning, walking close by her side. His dragon toy was gone, gifted to another boy who had clung to it like salvation.

“Mother,” he said suddenly, voice sharp. “Why do we do this? They’re…just smallfolk.”

Alyssa stopped. The Kingsguard paused behind her, one raising an eyebrow, but she ignored them. She drew Daemon toward the fountain her mother had ordered built, its water trickling clear into a stone basin where small hands often cupped to drink.

She knelt so her eyes met her son’s, her voice quiet but unyielding.

“They are our people, Daemon. Their songs and their bread, their spears and their prayers—these are the pillars that hold a kingdom. Keep them happy and fed, and they will love you. Neglect them, and they will rise against you.”

Daemon scowled, silver brows knitting. “But we have dragons. No one can rise against us.”

Her heart ached at his certainty, so young, so blind. She cupped his cheek, forcing him to look into her eyes.

“Dragons burn,” she said softly, “but dragons cannot build. Bread fills bellies. Water keeps children alive. Mercy binds men to your cause in ways fire never can. Do you understand?”

His lip trembled, though pride made him stiffen. “Even if they’re dirty? Even if they have nothing?”

“Especially because they have nothing,” Alyssa whispered, her voice breaking with a tenderness he could not yet name. “Power is not only fire and steel. It is love, Daemon. Remember this lesson. For one day, your choices will shape not only your own life, but theirs as well.”

He said nothing, only leaned against her, small hands clutching her sleeves. Alyssa pressed her lips to his hair, breathing deep, praying silently that the lesson would take root before fire consumed it.

Above them, Ser Joffrey and Ser Lucamore stood guard in silence, white cloaks stirring in the wind.

That evening, the Red Keep’s halls thrummed with murmurs of Baelon’s triumph. Courtiers praised his valor, whispered of the child Aemma, and weighed how the falcon’s fate might yet bind more tightly to the dragon.

King Jaehaerys received the news with a face carved from stone, though in the privacy of his solar, he sat long with the scrolls before him, rereading the names of the dead. Old friend Rodrik. Ser Denys, brave and fallen.

He felt the weight of years pressing heavily. Barth had warned him the realm strained under absence—Alyssanne’s absence most of all—but tonight it was the faces of children that haunted him. His grandson Viserys, struggling with sums and treaties. Daemon, wild as wildfire. And now Aemma, so like Daella that it tore the breath from his chest.

He closed his eyes, the words of prophecy echoing again, that secret burden he alone carried: The Song of Ice and Fire.

And in the dark, Jaehaerys wrestled silently, as he always had—between duty and love, between the realm and his blood, between peace today and the shadow of war tomorrow.

Chapter Text

The sea stormed restlessly at Dragonstone that morning, waves clawing at the black cliffs, spray hissing against the fortress carved by dragonlords of old. In its courtyards, dragons shifted and bellowed, their wings stirring the mists. It was into this storm that Septa Maegelle arrived, her plain grey robes clinging damp to her frame, her face half-hidden beneath a soaked cowl. She had not set foot here since she was a girl. She had left the court for the Faith years ago, quiet and pious, content to serve the gods. Now she returned not only as a servant of the Seven but as a daughter — called back to her mother’s side at the High Septon’s urging, and at Septon Barth’s desperate counsel.

Queen Alysanne waited in her solar, high above the sea.

She sat by the open windowsill, a shawl about her shoulders, silver hair unbound and tugged at by the brine-salted breeze. Her face was pale, her eyes shadowed by two long years of grief. Her bones aching. She did not rise when the septa was ushered in.

Maegelle stopped at the threshold, dipped her head low. “Mother.”

The word cracked Alysanne’s composure. For a moment her hands clenched upon her lap, fingers whitening. But she only said, quietly, “So even my daughters are sent against me now.”

Maegelle approached with measured steps, folding her hands before her. “Not against you, Mother. Never against you. I came because I could not bear to be away any longer. I came because you need not carry all this sorrow alone.”

Alysanne gave a brittle laugh, turning her face back toward the sea. “What would you know of it, child? You cloistered yourself with prayer and penance, far from this cursed court. You did not watch Daella die screaming in her birthing bed. Or when Viserra died. You did not interred Aemon's ashes in the crypt.”

“No,” Maegelle said softly. She knelt beside her mother’s chair, gazing up into her weary face. “But I lost them too. And I lost you, Mother, when you fled to this isle and left the rest of us behind.”

The Queen’s eyes glistened. “They do not understand,” she whispered hoarsely. “Your father, Barth, the lords who prattle in council chambers—they think it is only duty that weighs me down. But it is love, Maegelle. I loved too much, and now I am hollowed out.”

Maegelle reached for her mother’s hand, folding it gently in hers. “Love is not meant to hollow, Mother. It is meant to bind. You and Father were bound by it once—more strongly than any king and queen before you. If you let grief break that bond, then all of us suffer. The realm suffers.”

Alysanne closed her eyes, a single tear slipping free. “You sound like Barth.”

Maegelle’s lips curved into the faintest smile. “Barth sent ravens. I came myself.” She squeezed her mother’s hand more firmly. “Let me be your strength awhile, as you were mine when I was small. Let me help mend what grief has torn.”

For a long moment the Queen said nothing, only staring out into the storm, where a dragon wheeled in silhouette against the clouds. But slowly, almost imperceptibly, she allowed her daughter’s hand to remain in hers. The sea roared, the stones of Dragonstone groaned, and within that storm-lashed chamber, the first cracks of reconciliation began to form.

The storm outside did not abate. By midday, thunder rolled across Blackwater Bay, and the very stones of Dragonstone seemed to tremble under its weight. Inside, torches hissed and smoked in their sconces, the damp air curling flames into fragile shapes.

Alysanne had allowed Maegelle to stay — a victory of silence rather than words. Now they sat together in the Queen’s solar. The chamber smelled faintly of lavender and parchment, for Alysanne still kept her ledgers and letters near, though many lay unopened, their seals broken but the messages unread.

Maegelle poured her mother a cup of spiced wine and one for herself. The act was quiet, unassuming, but Alysanne’s lips curved faintly, as if reminded of a memory.

“You were always the most dutiful of my children,” Alysanne murmured, fingers tracing the rim of her cup. “The others flew, read or laughed. You prayed.”

Alysanne’s lips trembled into a smile, but it did not hold. She turned her face away, to the window, to the restless sea. “I once had so many children, Maegelle. Aemon, my firstborn son, brave and bold—taken from me by steel and treachery. Daella, sweet Daella, who loved gardens more than courts, and left this world giving life. Everyday, I see more of her in Gael. And Viserra—willful, reckless Viserra, who thought herself untouchable until the gods proved otherwise.”

The queen paused, her throat tightening. “Six gone, before me. Six I cannot hold again.”

Maegelle squeezed her hand gently. “They are with the gods now, Mother. But they live in us too. I remember Daella’s laughter whenever she stole flowers for my hair. I remember how Viserra teased me for being too pious. And Aemon—he was my shield, when we were young. I see them still, every day, when I think of us as children running through these halls.”

Tears welled in Alysanne’s eyes, softening her grief into something bearable. “It is cruel, Maegelle, that the world forgets them so quickly. But you remember. And with you here…I need not carry the memories alone.”

The younger woman leaned close, resting her head lightly against her mother’s shoulder. “Then let us carry them together, always.”

For the first time in moons, Alysanne allowed herself to lean into the warmth of another, the weight of loss easing just enough. Outside, the wind howled around Dragonstone’s towers, but within, mother and daughter sat quietly, the silence between them not empty but full—of memory, of love, and of the dead they both refused to let fade.

The days on Dragonstone lengthened into a rhythm. Maegelle was patient with her mother, never forcing conversation, but always near—at the sept for prayer, in the gardens beneath the looming black towers, and in the quiet hours after supper when the wind rattled the windows and only firelight kept the shadows away.

It was on such an evening, with the sea crashing below and the sky heavy with storm clouds, that Maegelle finally found her voice. They sat together in the solar, a tray of untouched figs and cheese between them.

“Mother,” Maegelle began softly, folding her hands in her lap. “You should not be alone here.”

Alysanne looked up from the embroidery she had abandoned, her silver hair unbound, her eyes ringed with weariness. “I am not alone. I have you Gael, and I have you now.”

“Yes,” Maegelle said gently, “but what of Father?”

The name lingered in the chamber like a shadow. For moons, Alysanne had not spoken of Jaehaerys except in clipped tones, her grief for Aemon and her fury at the court driving her from him to this isle of dragons. But Maegelle pressed on, carefully, like a healer tending a wound.

“You and Father ruled together for near half a century. The realm was strong because of you both. And you—” she hesitated, choosing her words—“you were stronger because of him. I have seen it, all my life. When one faltered, the other steadied. When one doubted, the other believed.”

Alysanne’s eyes softened, but she shook her head. “Your father…he does not understand. He buries himself in laws and councils, while I…I needed someone to share my grief. He did not come.”

“He has lost too, Mother,” Maegelle whispered. “Aemon was his pride. Daella his fragile child. Viserra his vexation, yet he loved her too. Perhaps he does not know how to show his pain as you do, but it is there. You should let him bear yours as well. Just once more. Do not let years slip into silence.”

The Queen’s hands trembled as she clasped her daughter’s fingers. “I do not know if I have the strength to forgive him.”

“Then let him give you that strength,” Maegelle said simply. Her voice was quiet but steady, the faith of a daughter who had spent her life tending to others. “Go to him. Let him come to you. But do not let your love wither, Mother. Not after all you’ve built together.”

Alysanne drew a breath, shaky and uncertain, and for the first time in moons she nodded. “Perhaps…you are right. Perhaps it is time.”

But before more could be spoken, the chamber shook. A low thunder rolled across the night, not from the storm but from the sky. The distinct roar of a dragon split the heavens, deep and commanding—a sound Alysanne knew in her bones. Vermithor.

The fire crackled as she and Maegelle both turned to the window. Against the storm clouds, a vast shape descended, bronze wings beating the air, eyes like smoldering gold. Vermithor’s roar echoed through the cliffs of Dragonstone as he came to roost upon the castle’s great yard. Silverwing welcomed her bonded dragon with joyful screech of her own. And upon his back sat Jaehaerys, silver hair streaming in the wind, cloaked in regal dark blue.

Alysanne’s breath caught. Her hand gripped Maegelle’s tightly.

“Mother,” Maegelle whispered, almost in awe, “he has come for you.”

The door to the solar opened moments later, the guards announcing him with hurried bows. And then he stood there in the doorway—older now, his face lined by sorrow, but still the Dragon and he was dripping wet from the storm. For a heartbeat, neither spoke. The silence between them was heavier than any words.

Jaehaerys stepped forward first, his voice low and raw. “Alysanne.”

Her eyes filled, tears brimming until they spilled unchecked down her cheeks. “You came,” she whispered, voice breaking.

“I should never have let you go,” Jaehaerys said, closing the distance at last. His hand lifted to her cheek, trembling as though he feared she might vanish if he touched her. “Forgive me, my love. I was a fool. I thought…if I buried myself in rule, I could spare you my grief. Instead, I only deepened yours.”

Alysanne fell into his arms then, clutching him as though to anchor herself against the storm outside. “I missed you,” she sobbed, her voice muffled against his shoulder. “Seven, I missed you so.”

“And I you,” he whispered into her hair. “Every day. Every night. I am not whole without you, Alysanne. I never was.”

Maegelle watched, tears in her own eyes, before quietly rising and slipping from the room, leaving them to each other.

By the window of the solar, where the sea crashed and Vermithor roared again into the storm, the King and Queen of Westeros held each other close—two old hearts, battered by loss, yet still beating in unison.

The chamber was silent but for the storm outside and the muffled roar of Vermithor settling on the yard. Alysanne clung to Jaehaerys as though the years of cold silence might steal him away again if she let go. He held her just as fiercely, one arm about her shoulders, the other cradling her silvered hair.

For a long time, they only breathed together, the weight of decades and of absence pressing close. But at last Jaehaerys drew back, enough to look upon her face. His thumb brushed away her tears, though his own eyes glistened.

“We have lost so much, you and I,” he said softly. “And I… I thought burying it would shield you. Instead I only drove you further from me.”

Alysanne shook her head, her voice hoarse. “No, husband. Do not take all the blame to yourself. I am proud, too proud. When Aemon fell, I wanted you to rage with me, to curse the gods, to shout at the injustice. Instead, you were stone, and I mistook that stone for indifference.”

His face twisted. “Aemon was my heart, Alysanne. My heir, my pride. I could not—” his voice cracked, rough with years of silence breaking all at once—“I could not bear to show how hollow I was inside. So I hid it, even from you.”

“I know,” she whispered, her forehead pressing to his. “But it felt as though I mourned him alone.”

“You never did,” Jaehaerys said, voice fierce. “Every night since he died, I have whispered his name before sleep. Do you remember, when he was small, how he clung to my leg even in court, unafraid of all the lords glaring at him?”

Alysanne let out a sound between a sob and a laugh. “He always wanted to sit the throne, even at five. He would say, ‘Move aside, Father, I’ll rule now.’”

“And he would pout when I laughed,” Jaehaerys said, his mouth curving with sorrow. “Seven save me, I thought he would live forever.”

They were quiet a moment, before Alysanne’s voice lowered. “And Daella…”

Her hand trembled in his. “Sweet Daella, with her songs and her soft voice. She was afraid of everything, yet she loved so deeply. I should have kept her nearer, Jaehaerys. I sent her to the Vale, and she—”

“She blossomed there,” Jaehaerys interrupted gently, his thumb stroking her hand. “She found love. She gave us Aemma. Her death was not your fault, Alysanne. If blame is to be borne, it is mine. I should have given her more choice in her match, but I was too concerned with alliances.”

“She was my little bird,” Alysanne whispered, her tears falling freely. “And I caged her, as I caged too many of our daughters.”

“Not you alone,” Jaehaerys said firmly. “I caged them as well. Together, we were jailers. And together, we grieve.”

They fell silent, until Alysanne forced the next name, bitter on her tongue. “Viserra.”

Jaehaerys’s mouth pressed thin. “Viserra,” he echoed, heavy with memory. “She was wild as a colt, too clever for her own good. I tried to discipline her, but—”

“She wanted to be seen,” Alysanne said quietly. “Not only as a pawn for marriage, not only as a troublesome girl. She wanted freedom, and we… we gave her chains.”

“She would have drunk herself into the Stranger’s arms no matter what we did,” Jaehaerys muttered, bitterness rising, then faltering. “And yet… sometimes, in the night, I wonder. If I had listened more, if I had not dismissed her so swiftly…” His hand closed into a fist. “I failed her too.”

“You did what you thought best,” Alysanne said, touching his knuckles, though her own grief was plain. “We lost her to folly and to pride. Yours, mine, and hers. But she was ours all the same.”

They sat with that sorrow between them until another shadow rose, unspoken yet heavy. Alysanne’s lips trembled. “And Saera.”

The name cut the air like a blade. Jaehaerys stiffened, his jaw tight, eyes shadowed.

“I will not speak of her,” he said at first, voice clipped.

“You must,” Alysanne said firmly, though her voice quavered. “She is ours too.”

Jaehaerys closed his eyes, a muscle ticking in his cheek. “She was my jewel,” he admitted, bitterly. “My clever little Saera, who made me laugh more than any of them. She could twist me about her finger, and I adored her for it. Until she…” His breath shuddered. “Until she spat upon us all. Upon me.”

“She was only a girl,” Alysanne said, her voice thick. “Hungry for love, for attention, for freedom. Yes, she erred, but—”

“She disgraced us,” Jaehaerys snapped, then faltered when he saw Alysanne flinch. He pressed his hand to his brow. “And yet, gods forgive me, I still miss her. Even in my anger. She was once the light of my court, and I cannot kill the memory of that no matter how I try.”

“Then do not kill it,” Alysanne said softly. “Remember her as she was, before the scandal. Remember the laughter, the joy. We cannot change her path, nor Aemon’s, nor Daella’s, nor Viserra’s. But we can forgive ourselves, husband. And each other.”

Jaehaerys lowered his hand, his gaze meeting hers. At last, he bowed his head, the proud king humbled before his queen. “I have wronged you, Alysanne. I shut you out when you needed me most. I let the realm consume me, when I should have clung to you.”

“And I to you,” she whispered, cupping his face. “I ran from you when I should have stood by you. But I am tired of bitterness, Jaehaerys. Tired of silence. I want only to be your wife again. To grieve with you, not apart from you.”

Jaehaerys kissed her then, not as king and queen, but as man and wife—old, weary, scarred by loss, yet bound still by love stronger than grief. Their tears mingled as their lips met, their hands clutching as if to weave their shattered hearts into one whole again.

Outside, Vermithor’s roar rumbled like thunder, but in the solar of Dragonstone, the storm broke at last.

The late-afternoon sun lay molten over the Blackwater, setting the bay aflame with ripples of gold and bronze. Outside the Lion Gate, a royal party waited on the dusty road: Princess Alyssa, rigid in her saddle though her heart hammered, her sons beside her—Viserys trying his best to appear calm, and Daemon practically vibrating with impatience. Two Kingsguard stood sentinel: Ser Samgood and Ser Lorimer Lythe, white cloaks snapping in the breeze.

The city hummed behind them, restless with rumor. The Vale was quiet now, the raven said, the usurpation crushed. But Alyssa would not breathe ease until she saw her husband again.

Daemon shaded his eyes with a small hand. “Why isn’t he here yet? Vhagar should have carried him home days ago.”

“Vhagar is vast, and your father is careful,” Alyssa said, though she searched the sky herself, lips pressed thin.

And then the sound came: not the high shriek of a young dragon, but the earth-shaking bellow of an ancient one. All along the road, peasants turned and gasped, bowing heads or clutching at children as the shadow passed over. Vhagar descended slow as doom itself, wings spanning half the field, blotting the sun as she circled. Her roar cracked the air like thunder, scattering birds from the treeline. When she landed, the ground trembled.

Baelon swung down from the bronze-scaled giant, a warlord returned—his hair windswept, his cloak stained from travel and smoke, a small cut along his cheek. He looked weary but unbowed, and when his eyes found Alyssa’s, his smile was sudden and boyish, as though years had fallen away.

Daemon reached him first, bolting forward. “Father!” he cried, and Baelon caught him up in his arms, laughing deep in his chest.

“Seven hells, you’ve grown heavier,” Baelon said, lifting him.

“I want to hear of the battle!” Daemon demanded at once, grey eyes fierce. “Did you cleave Arnold yourself, or was it Vhagar?”

Baelon chuckled, setting him down. “Always straight to the blood. Harrump—aye, there was plenty of both, though you’ll hear the full tale later, when we’ve a fire and a cup to go with it.”

Viserys came forward more hesitantly, though his face shone with relief. Baelon bent to clasp him close. “My heir of an heir,” he murmured warmly. “Tell me you kept to your scrolls while I was gone.”

Viserys mumbled, “Most of them.”

“Most of them, he says,” Baelon teased, planting a kiss on his brow. “That will do.”

At last, Alyssa slid from her horse and crossed the short distance between them with uncharacteristic haste. For a heartbeat they only stared at one another, years of fear and love caught between them, then she was in his arms, clinging to him fiercely.

“You’re whole,” she whispered against his shoulder. “You’re whole.”

Baelon kissed her temple, voice low. “And thought of you with every breath. With every swing of my sword.”

She drew back enough to study him, brushing her thumb against the cut on his cheek. “You look thinner.”

“That’s Vale bread and salt beef for you,” he quipped, though his eyes softened as they drank her in. Then his voice turned rougher. “Alyssa… I met Aemma.”

Her breath caught. “Tell me.”

“She has face eyes,” he said thickly. “The very same. She laughed at my poor jests, gods bless her. Sweet, shy, bright. I told her she is not forgotten, and that she has kin who love her still.”

Alyssa blinked back tears. “You saw Daella in her.”

“I saw us all,” he murmured. “And I promised her she will meet you. And her cousins.”

She pressed her lips to his, silent gratitude filling her. And then, as though recalling herself, she gave a short laugh. “Oh—by the way. You missed some excitement here too. Father got in over his head.”

Baelon raised a brow. “What trouble has he brewed now?”

“He flew to Dragonstone to win Mother back.”

For the first time since he dismounted, Baelon barked a sharp laugh, tilting his head back. “Ha! The mighty Jaehaerys, who lectures the realm on patience and duty, taking to the skies like some lovesick boy. On Vermithor, no less. Gods, I would have paid gold to see that.”

Alyssa’s mouth twitched despite herself. “Maegelle had her half-convinced already, but I think it was Vermithor roaring outside the window that sold her.”

Baelon shook his head in amused disbelief, then slipped his hand into hers and squeezed. “Well. Let the court whisper what it will. If it brought them together again, perhaps some dragons are still stronger than grief.”

Daemon tugged at his sleeve impatiently. “But Father—the battle, the mountains, tell me—”

Baelon ruffled his hair, grinning. “Later, son. Tonight, I’ll tell you all. For now—let me just breathe home again.”

Together, the family turned toward the looming gates of the Red Keep, Vhagar’s shadow stretching long over them as the smallfolk whispered and bowed. A prince had returned, a husband reunited, and all the city already murmured of victory, of dragons, and of the ties that still bound House Targaryen fast.

The Red Keep had not blazed so brightly in months. Word had flown ahead of the dragon’s wings: Prince Baelon, victor of the Vale, is returned to court upon Vhagar’s back. By the time the great bronze beast descended into the Dragonpit, half the city was already whispering of mountain clans broken and rebels scattered like chaff.

That night, the hall of the Red Keep thrummed with life. Torches spat flame in iron sconces, casting long shadows across the vaulted ceiling. Musicians plucked at their strings, their melodies lost beneath the rising din of conversation as lords in velvets and ladies in their silks pressed in close.

When Baelon strode into the hall, clad in black and red, sword at his hip and the fire of battle still clinging to him, the chamber hushed for the space of a heartbeat. His hair gleamed like molten silver, his shoulders squared with unshaken pride. And beside him walked Alyssa, her hand set firmly upon his arm, her chin lifted in open defiance of every eye that dared linger too long on her husband. Behind them trailed Viserys and Daemon, still flushed with the excitement of meeting their father outside the city. The boys whispered to one another as they crossed the hall, Daemon puffing his chest like a squire who had just seen his knight crowned in glory, while Viserys clung a little closer to their mother.

“He is a warlord reborn,” murmured Lady Staunton to her cousin, her fan fluttering furiously before her lips.

“More than that,” another answered. “He is the very breath of Balerion’s line. Seven save us all if his temper proves as hot as his dragon’s.”

“No wonder the Princess Alyssa clings to him,” someone else whispered. “Were he mine, I should never let him out of sight.”

On the dais, King Jaehaerys sat in iron majesty, his silvered beard gleaming under the torchlight. At his side, Queen Alysanne — serene, regal, yet visibly softened now that her estrangement from her husband had ended — regarded the procession with quiet pride. Flanking her chair were two daughters: Maegelle, thoughtful and composed in her septa’s gray, and Gael, the youngest, who leaned forward eagerly with childlike wonder in her violet eyes.

When Baelon and Alyssa knelt, Jaehaerys rose from the Iron Throne, his voice carrying to every corner of the chamber.

“Rise, Baelon Targaryen, my son and heir. You went to the Vale when it cried for aid. You broke rebellion and restored order, not with words but with steel, and the realm is stronger for it. Tonight, we honor you. Let all lords present bear witness: Baelon the Brave has brought peace back to the Eyrie.”

The cheer that followed shook the rafters. Alyssa allowed herself a private smile, pride swelling in her chest. She angled her head slightly, catching the sight of ladies whispering behind their fans, their eyes darting covetously toward Baelon. The smile sharpened into something else — a flash of possession.

“They may look,” she murmured to him under the roar of applause. “But it is my hand you took. My bed you share.”

Baelon bent just enough to brush his lips near her temple. “And my heart you keep.”

That night, the feasting hall glittered like a treasury. Long tables groaned under platters of roasted boar, honeyed hams, and steaming fish pulled fresh from Blackwater Bay. Harpers played in the corners, their music weaving through the laughter and the clinking of cups. The smell of spiced wine and roasted garlic filled the air.

At the high table, the royal family gathered at last in rare unity. Alysanne sat beside Jaehaerys, her hand resting lightly over his, her smile gentler than it had been in years. Maegelle, serene, spoke softly Alyssa about the work awaiting her in the city. Gael, too young to hide her emotions, leaned across the table to Daemon, her eyes alight.

“Did you see it?” she asked, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. “Vhagar, circling the city? I thought the whole sky would burn.”

Daemon’s grin spread wide, pleased to be noticed. “I saw her, aye. One day, I’ll have a dragon half so fearsome. Then I’ll fly higher than Vhagar ever dared.”

Gael giggled, clapping her hands together. “You’ll scare the stars, daemon.”

“That’s the plan,” Daemon smirked, puffing out his chest. He lowered his voice, leaning closer. “And when I do, I’ll take you flying with me. Just don’t tell anyone.”

Gael’s eyes widened with delight. “Truly?”

Daemon pressed a finger to his lips. “Truly.”

Viserys, overhearing, frowned from Gael’s other side. “You shouldn’t promise things you can’t keep. Flying’s dangerous.”

Daemon rolled his eyes. “You sound like an old man already.”

Alyssa, seated near enough to hear, cut in with gentle firmness. “Dangerous, yes — but Daemon has his father's boldness, Viserys, and boldness has its place. Still, promises are oaths, my son.” She fixed Daemon with a steady gaze. “If you give one, you must be certain you can fulfill it.”

For a heartbeat Daemon looked chastened, then his boyish grin returned. “Then I’ll just have to claim the fiercest dragon there is. Caraxes”

Baelon laughed from Alyssa’s other side, his voice warm. “Gods help us all when he does.”

Yet beneath the music and merriment, the whispers of court snaked through the hall like smoke. Lords Boremund Baratheon and Lord Corlys Velaryon spoke of Baelon’s campaign in hushed tones, debating how many men had truly followed him into the mountains. Lady Staunton murmured to Lady Massey of what a husband he would make — if Alyssa had not claimed him already.

“He’s hers, body and soul,” Lady Massey replied, sipping her wine with a sly smile. “But if fate ever widows him, every maid here will pounce.”

And through it all, Alyssa heard. Her smile stayed, her hand on Baelon’s arm never faltering, but in her heart burned a quiet vow: They may whisper. They may scheme. But Baelon is mine, and I shall not yield him to any ambition but our own.

At the high table, Jaehaerys raised his cup. “Tonight, we are not divided. Tonight, we feast as one House, one family, one realm.”

Glasses lifted, voices rang, and for a fleeting moment, the Targaryens of King’s Landing appeared unbreakable — dragons basking in their own firelight.

The feast had settled into that mellow rhythm that came after the first rush of food and song. The air smelled of cinnamon, roasted duck, and spilled wine. At the high table, candles guttered low in silver holders, their flames reflected in goblets of red. Laughter and gossip echoed from the long benches below, but here, at the seat of power, the conversation turned softer, more intimate.

Queen Alysanne leaned ever so slightly toward her daughter. “Alyssa,” she began, her voice carrying that mixture of steel and gentleness that could still make a grown man feel like a boy. “Since my absence, I hear it has been you who kept the kitchens, the fountains, the alms, and the orphanage alive. Tell me — how fare my projects?”Alyssa, who had been watching her husband out of the corner of her eye while he drank with his father, turned quickly to her mother. Pride and fatigue mingled in her violet eyes. “They fare… well enough, Mother. The kitchens serve twice a day still, though the queues grow longer each season. The fountains are in working order, though the masons complain they must be cleaned more often than funds allow. And the orphanage—” Her expression softened, voice catching with quiet fondness. “—the orphanage is always brimming with life. I just took Daemon there recently. He says it smells, but he gave away his old clothes and toys regardless.”

Alysanne’s hand, warm and delicate, came to rest over her daughter’s. “You have done more than well. You have done rightly. They are more than projects, Alyssa. They are lives, and you tended them when I could not.”

Alyssa ducked her head slightly, cheeks coloring at her mother’s praise. “It is hard work. Sometimes… too much. But I think of you, and what you would want. And I do it.”

The Queen’s smile turned sly, though her eyes remained warm. “Then remember this too — while you tend to the poor, do not forget to guard Baelon. The realm loves a hero, Alyssa, but so too do flatterers, and flatterers are far more dangerous than rebels.”

Alyssa straightened at that, her fingers tightening slightly over her mother’s hand. She said nothing at first, but the possessive tilt of her chin spoke louder than words. Finally, she answered with a small, measured smile. “He is mine, Mother. Their whispers cannot change that.”

Alysanne chuckled, satisfied, and turned her gaze toward her husband and son.

Baelon leaned closer to the King, speaking low but with fire in his voice. “It was no great war, Father, but the mountain clans fought savagely. And Arnold Arryn… he misjudged both his claim and my patience. Lord Gerold Royce fought beside me, and the Vale stands secured. I left Ladies Elys and Amanda, and Lord Gerold as regents for Lady Jeyne. The lords grumbled, but they will bend.”

Jaehaerys’ stern face softened with approval, though his voice remained grave. “You acted as a king should, even if you wear no crown yet. Swift, decisive, merciful where mercy was warranted. The Vale owes you a debt.”

Baelon’s mouth quirked at the corner. “The realm owes me nothing, Father. But I did bring back something — someone — you should know of. Aemma. My niece and your granddaughter. Daella’s daughter. She lives still, and gods, Father, she has Daella’s face. I thought my heart would stop when I first saw her. She laughed at my attempts at jests, though I fear she humored me.” His tone gentled, a shadow of grief passing through his features. “I thought you and Mother should know her better. I hope to bring her here one day, to meet her kin. She deserves that.”

For the first time that evening, Jaehaerys faltered, his voice tight. “Daella’s girl… She lives. Yes, Alyssanne will rejoice at such news. We lost Daella, but not all she gave us.”

Alysanne, overhearing, reached for her husband’s hand, her eyes glistening. “Our Daella lives on. In her child.”

The king’s jaw flexed, but he gave a small nod, as if steadying himself against a tide of memory.

At the far end of the table, Maegelle sat quietly, her septa’s garb setting her apart amid the silks and velvets. She did not drink, nor eat much, but her gaze lingered on the family gathered around her. For the first time in years, she saw her parents sitting close, her mother smiling again, her siblings speaking with ease. Her heart warmed, though she could not help noticing the absence that shadowed it all.

Rhaenys was not here. The girl — no, the young woman — whose claim had been passed over. The princess who should have been at her grandmother’s side tonight. Maegelle’s thoughts drifted to her niece, and she prayed quietly that her absence was not a wound that would never heal.

Still, she smiled softly, content to be surrounded by the family that remained.

Below them, laughter rang out from the younger Targaryens, their world a simpler one of dragons and dreams.

“Caraxes is the fastest,” Daemon declared with all the confidence of youth. He smacked the table with his palm. “Lean and long, like a whip in the sky. None can match him.”

Viserys shook his head stubbornly, cheeks pink from wine he had been allowed to sip. “Meleys is swifter. Mother flew her across Blackwater in half the time it took Vhagar.”

“Vhagar,” Daemon snorted, though his eyes gleamed. “Vhagar is an old grandmother with wings. She’s strong, aye, but speed? No.”

“Mind your tongue,” Baelon interjected with mock sternness from down the table. “Vhagar has carried more dragonlords to battle than you’ve years, boy.”

The hall laughed, but Gael’s soft voice cut through with a note of delight. “Silverwing is the gentlest, and the fairest, and she is Mother’s. I care not for speed.”

“Gentlest,” Daemon repeated with a grin. “Perhaps. But when Caraxes further grows, he will be the fiercest. And then we’ll see.”

“Sure, Daemon,” Viserys muttered, though his smile betrayed his fondness.

And so their bickering went on, easy and bright, like sunlight chasing shadows across the stone.

The feast lingered late, with songs echoing long after the lords and ladies retired, their laughter trailing down the halls like fading embers. The high tables had been cleared, the rushes on the floor swept, and still the torches burned low in the Red Keep, casting a warm orange glow over the ancient stones.

Baelon and Alyssa walked together toward their chambers, their steps quiet save for the faint scrape of his boots and the soft brush of her gown against the floor. Alyssa’s hand clung tightly to his arm, as though even here, in the safety of King’s Landing, she dared not let him slip from her grasp.

Once alone, with the door closed and the heavy velvet curtains drawn, Alyssa finally allowed herself to let go of the restraint she had worn before the court. She turned on him swiftly, her hands pressed against his chest as though to assure herself he was truly there.

“You came back,” she whispered, her eyes glistening in the firelight.

Baelon smiled, a half-tired, half-boyish grin that softened the harshness of a man forged by battle. “Where else would I go, Alyssa? Vhagar could have flown me to the ends of the earth and still I’d have found my way back to you.”

Her breath hitched, and she pressed her forehead to his. “I am proud of you, Baelon. More than words can say. You’ve given Father victory, the Vale peace, and the realm a hero. But—” Her voice cracked before she steadied it. “But each time you take wing, each time you ride into war, last time I was with you but when you left, I feel the world tilt beneath my feet. If I lost you…” She broke off, clutching him tighter, her nails digging into the fabric of his tunic. “I could not bear it. You are mine, Baelon. Mine.”

His hand cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear that slipped free. “And I am yours. Always. No lord’s flattery, no battlefield’s glory, no dragon’s wings could ever take me from you.”

She let out a shaky laugh. “Say it again.”

“I am yours,” Baelon murmured, kissing her brow, her cheek, her lips. “Now and until the Stranger comes for us both.”

The fire crackled low, the weight of her possessiveness softened by the tenderness in his touch. In that moment, the world shrank to just the two of them, bound not only by duty but by a love fierce enough to smolder even against the iron of the realm.

Elsewhere in the keep, Jaehaerys and Alysanne sat together in the king’s chambers, the years heavy upon them yet their bond renewed. The chamber was quiet, save for the rustle of night air through the curtains and the distant cries of a dragon circling above the city.

Alysanne sat on the edge of the bed, her hair unbound, silver falling over her shoulders. Jaehaerys was at her side, his hand covering hers, as though anchoring her to him after too long apart.

“I want to meet her,” Alysanne said softly. “Aemma. The girl who has your eyes, if Baelon’s words are true. Our granddaughter.”

Jaehaerys looked down at their joined hands, his face shadowed by memory. “You shall. The realm has taken much from us, Alysanne—Aemon, Viserra, Daella, even Saera in her way. But perhaps it is time it gave us something back. Aemma is hope. A thread that binds us forward, not just back.”

Alysanne leaned her head against his shoulder, the weariness of years giving way to a rare warmth. “I feared once that we were lost to one another, Jaehaerys. But no—” She smiled faintly. “We are too old to let go so easily. And too stubborn besides.”

He chuckled, a low rumble in his chest, and pressed a kiss to her hair. “You have ever been my good queen. Even when I was too proud to see it.”

“And you,” she teased lightly, “are still the man I fell in love with, though your beard is grayer and your back stiffer.”

“Stiffer, is it?” he said with mock offense, drawing her closer. "I'll show you stiff" 

She laughed, the sound soft but genuine, and for a moment they were not king and queen, not parents who had buried children or rulers who had steered a realm through storms, but simply Jaehaerys and Alysanne—two souls who had found their way back to one another.

The fire burned low, and the Red Keep lay in slumber. In their separate chambers, two couples—one young and fierce, the other seasoned and enduring—held each other close against the vast weight of duty and time, bound by love that no crown, no council, no war could take away.

And outside, the dragons slept, their dreams twining with the heartbeat of House Targaryen itself.

Chapter Text

Seven months after the Vale’s unrest had been quelled, the Red Keep stirred with a rare kind of excitement. Prince Viserys’ fifteenth name day was upon them, and with it, the long-awaited arrival of Lady Aemma Arryn and her elder sister, Lady Amanda.

The royal family gathered in the sunlit courtyard to greet them. The banners of House Arryn snapped bright against the wind, blue falcon on white, as the party rode through the gates.

Alysanne, aging but stately in her pale blue gown, leaned forward eagerly, her hand tight on her staff. Her breath caught when she saw the girl dismount from the carriage—Aemma, fair-haired and fine-boned, so like her lost daughter Daella that for a heartbeat the queen’s vision blurred.

When Aemma curtsied before her, Alysanne stepped forward with trembling hands. “My child,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “My sweet girl… I have waited too long for this day.”

Aemma’s eyes were wide, shining with tears. “Grandmother.” Her voice was small, but steady. “It is an honor to be here.”

Alysanne gathered her close, kissing her brow, tears slipping free. “No honor. A joy. A blessing.”

Baelon, standing proud beside his mother, smiled faintly at the sight—relieved, perhaps, that this reunion did not reopen old wounds but rather soothed them. Alyssa, who had been half-hidden behind her husband, took a step forward. For years she had read the letters chronicling Aemma’s growth, seen only words on parchment, not flesh. She had told herself she would be brisk, even guarded, for the girl was not hers. Yet the moment she looked upon Aemma—those eyes, that shy, uncertain smile so like Daella’s—her heart softened.

Kneeling slightly so she was nearer the girl’s height, Alyssa said warmly, “So this is the little bird I have only heard of in letters.”

Aemma blinked at her, surprised at the gentleness in her tone. “Aunt Alyssa.”

Alyssa smiled, brushing a strand of hair from Aemma’s face, her voice unexpectedly thick. “You have your mother’s look about you. Gods, Daella would have been so proud.” For a moment, her own eyes glistened. “Come here, child.”

Aemma hesitated only a breath before stepping into her aunt’s embrace. Amanda, watching, seemed ready to object—but Alyssa’s sincerity was plain, and she relaxed.

Behind them, Alysanne beckoned softly. “Gael, my darling, come. This is your niece. She is your kin.”

Princess Gael, sweet and shy, clasped Aemma’s hands with a small, hopeful smile. “I hope we can be friends.”

“I would like that,” Aemma answered gently, and Amanda’s stern gaze softened further.

The courtyard filled with a sense of family, warm and unexpected—silver and falcon feathers mingling at last.

Later, when the keep was quiet and Aemma and Amanda were settled in their appointed rooms, Baelon and Alyssa sat together in their chambers. Alyssa was bent over a long parchment, lists of feast preparations, names of lords and ladies to be seated, tapestries to be hung.

“You are always busy,” Baelon remarked, lounging in a chair, watching her with amusement.

She did not look up. “Someone must be. If not me, who? The feast will not arrange itself.”

Baelon smirked. “Have you thought of ladies-in-waiting? Other women could see to these details. You could rest.”

Alyssa snorted, finally glancing up at him. “You remember I once punched a Redwyne chit, don’t you? Do you truly think I would bear perfumed little doves dithering about me?”

Baelon laughed aloud, the sound rich and boyish. “Then don’t choose perfumed ladies. Choose ones like you. Women with steel in their spines. I heard Lady Lyra Mormont fights as well as any man, and Lady Barbrey Dustin—she has wit enough to hold her own with you. Even Sabitha Vypren is sharp-tongued enough to match your temper.”

Alyssa’s lips twitched despite herself. “You would surround me with vipers.”

“I would surround you with allies,” Baelon said, leaning closer. “Not all women at court are peacocks. Some are wolves. Meet them at the feast. See if you like them. You need not fight alone.”

She leaned back, regarding him, pride and affection warring in her eyes. At last she relented, though grudgingly. “Perhaps. But only if they can drink as much as I can.”

The library of the Red Keep was quiet but not still—pages whispered as maesters copied texts, dust drifted lazily in the shafts of morning light, and the smell of parchment and candle wax hung thick. Aemma had slipped away from her older sister’s watchful eye, eager to explore on her own. She was small for her age, but stubborn, and now stood on tiptoe, fingers straining for a fat tome on the upper shelf. She had nearly hooked it with her nail when another hand darted in and plucked it down.

“Hey!” she snapped, spinning around.

Viserys Targaryen—pale-haired, a little gawky, his sleeves too long for his arms—held the book smugly against his chest. “You’re welcome. You’d have toppled over trying.”

Aemma’s pale violet eyes narrowed. “I had it. You stole it.”

“Rescued it,” he corrected primly. “And besides, I was coming for this one anyway. It’s about Valyria—stonecraft, monuments, things you probably wouldn’t even—”

“—understand?” Aemma cut in, hands on hips. “You don’t know what I understand. I wanted to see the maps.”

Viserys faltered, cheeks going pink. “Oh. Well… maps are fine, I suppose. But the stonework—arches that defied weight, domes that seemed to float in air—that’s the real wonder.”

Aemma sniffed. “Sounds boring.”

“It’s not boring!” His voice cracked in indignation. “It’s history. Important history. One day, I’ll need to know it. You won’t.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Won’t I? Father used to say a lady should know as much as a lord, if not more. Perhaps I’ll know these maps better than you ever could.”

Viserys clutched the tome tighter, puffing up a little. “You can’t. Because I read faster.”

“That’s not true!”

“Yes, it is!”

“You just make up facts because you like to sound clever.”

Viserys spluttered. “I don’t— I—” He glared at her, then in a burst of clumsy gallantry shoved the book toward her. “Fine. Read it, then. I’ll see how long it takes you to find Pentos on the map.”

Aemma stared at him, half tempted to fling the book back at his head, but the challenge lit something in her. With exaggerated calm, she opened the tome on a nearby table, flipping pages until the crackling map unfolded. She jabbed her finger at the eastern coastline. “There. Pentos.”

Viserys leaned over, peering down, lips pursed. “You cheated. That was too fast.”

“I didn’t cheat. You just underestimated me.”

Their eyes met, both violet, both hot with the thrill of their little quarrel. For a moment, neither spoke. Then, in perfect unison, they both muttered—

“You’re insufferable.”

And they burst into reluctant laughter, the sound too loud for the library’s quiet. A passing maester gave them a scolding look, which only made their giggles worse.

By the time they calmed, their shoulders were nearly touching, the tome spread between them like a truce neither admitted aloud.

The great hall bustled as servants polished goblets and set out trestle tables. At the far end, a pair of musicians plucked at lutes, running through steps with the younger royals so they would not disgrace themselves at the feast.

Viserys was struggling. His limbs seemed to have grown too long for his body, and each attempt at a gallant step ended in something closer to a stumble.

“Seven hells,” Aemma muttered, watching him trip over his own foot. “You dance like a goose on stilts.”

Viserys flushed crimson. “Do not! I’m improving. Look—” He tried again, only to twist his heel awkwardly.

Aemma covered her mouth, laughing. “Improving? At falling, perhaps. If you collapse at the feast, I’ll tell everyone you meant it as a bow.”

Viserys scowled. “You think you could do better?”

“I know I could.” She swept into a curtsy, neat and graceful despite her age, her skirts fanning out perfectly. She rose with a little smirk.

“That doesn’t count,” he huffed. “That’s standing still.”

“It’s better than collapsing like a sack of flour,” she shot back.

The two of them continued their bickering, circling each other like cubs, every barb landing with the sting of mischief rather than malice. And though Viserys muttered under his breath, he kept sneaking glances at her footwork, trying to copy it when she wasn’t looking.

Across the hall, Gael had perched on a bench beside her nephew. She nudged Daemon with her elbow, eyes bright with amusement.

“Do you see them?” she whispered, nodding toward Aemma and Viserys.

Daemon looked over, unimpressed. “What of it? They’re squabbling like children.”

“They like each other. That's the only time I've seen Viserys not stutter,” Gael declared, sing-song.

Daemon snorted. “They’re insulting each other.”

“Exactly.” Gael grinned, swinging her feet. “That’s how it begins.”

Daemon rolled his eyes skyward. “Fourteen save me. If that’s how liking someone looks, I want no part of it.”

Gael only giggled, tucking the secret away like a treasure.

The great hall of the Red Keep glowed golden with torchlight, tapestries fluttering faintly in the warm air. Music drifted across the chamber, and laughter rose from the noble guests, but at the center of it all sat the royal family, their presence commanding every glance.

At the long tables below, Prince Viserys found himself wedged between Aemma Arryn and his Aunt, Princess Gael Targaryen. Daemon had taken the seat just across them, his cup already half-full of watered wine.

Viserys tried, with forced dignity, to cut into a slice of honeyed quail—but Aemma nudged his elbow just enough to make the knife slip. The meat skidded on his plate.

“You did that on purpose,” he hissed under his breath.

Aemma gave him a wide-eyed look of innocence. “Did I? Perhaps you should steady your hand better. Princes ought to have proper table manners.”

Viserys scowled, cheeks pink. “I have manners. You’re just impossible.”

“You’re clumsy,” she countered.

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

Still, there was a spark between Aemma and Viserys, their words sharp but their eyes brighter than either would admit.

When the meal was done, Jaehaerys rose, his voice carrying over the hall. “It is my grandson’s fifteenth name day. Let us honor him with gifts befitting a prince of House Targaryen.”

One by one, the gifts were presented.

The King himself placed a belt of hammered gold at Viserys’s waist, the buckle wrought in the shape of a dragon’s head. “Wear this, my boy, as a reminder of your blood and duty.”

Queen Alysanne followed with a collection of finely bound books, each bearing illuminations of the grandest palaces of Essos. “To broaden your mind, Viserys. A king must know the world beyond his shores.”

Viserys accepted them eagerly, eyes alight. “Thank you, Grandmother.”

The lannisters brought with them a shield lined with gold and encrusted with rubies. “a gift for his highness, may he be as fierce in battle as his sire and grandsire” Lorld Lannister said with a flourish but deep down all the Targaryens seated in the high table knew Viserys would not use it since he has no talent in sword training but he accepted it nonetheless, schooling his features as if he is delighted by the gift. “Thank you, my Lord”

Then came Ser Otto Hightower, his smile polished, his voice smooth as he set a gilded book upon the table. “A treatise on the Faith of the Seven. Wisdom for a prince who will one day be more than a prince.”

Viserys bowed politely, but Daemon snorted loud enough for all nearby to hear. “A book about gods? That will keep you safe in a fight.” His tone dripped with mockery.

Otto’s jaw tightened, but before he could retort, Daemon thrust his own gift forward: a slim dagger in a plain sheath. “Here. You need to carry something, even if you won’t learn a sword. At least this much.”

Viserys blinked, caught between awe and embarrassment. “Thank you, brother.”

From the Vale, Lady Amanda and young Aemma stepped forward together. Amanda presented the gift: a finely made gilded bookmark.

Aemma smirked as she handed it over. “So you don’t lose your page… or your patience, which you seem to misplace often.”

The table chuckled at her quip, and Viserys turned red, mumbling, “I do not…” as he slipped it into one of his new books.

Last came Lord Corlys Velaryon, broad-shouldered and confident, who unrolled a rare map across the table. The hall murmured as the faded vellum caught the light, etched with crumbling outlines of Old Valyria.

“This comes from my wife, Princess Rhaenys,” Corlys said, his voice deep and formal. “She regrets that she cannot be here, being with child, but sends this as token of her regard for her cousin.”

A hush fell over the table.

Alysanne’s hand stilled on her goblet. Jaehaerys’s lips pressed into a line. Alyssa and Baelon exchanged a look, their eyes shadowed with something unspoken.

Rhaenys had not returned to court in years, save once. Her absence was conspicuous, and though her pregnancy offered a perfect excuse, the silence that followed Lord Corlys’s words carried a weight none dared break aloud.

Finally, Jaehaerys inclined his head stiffly. “Our thanks to Princess Rhaenys. May Meleys grant her health.”

The moment passed, but the unease lingered like smoke in the rafters.

The music shifted after the gifting ceremony, viols and pipes swelling into the cadence of a dance. Courtiers rose, ladies smoothing silks and velvets, lords adjusting belts and collars. The air shimmered with anticipation: for if feasts fed the belly, dances fed the heart and the whispers of the realm.

Baelon turned to Alyssa, extending his hand. His lips curved into something between mischief and ceremony.

“Come, wife. Let them all see how we Targaryens dance.”

Alyssa arched a brow, feigning reluctance, though her chest warmed with pride. “And make all these simpering ladies envy me further? Very well.”

Her hand slid into his, and he drew her to the center of the hall. The crowd parted like a tide before dragon’s fire. Gasps fluttered among the noblewomen. Whispers darted like minnows:

“Prince Baelon and Princess Alyssa, ever inseparable.”
“She is fierce, that one — see how she grips him.”
“Baelon could have had any lady at court, yet he clings to her still.”

Baelon and Alyssa began their steps — precise, strong, yet with the intimacy of two who knew each other beyond steps and measures. When Alyssa turned beneath his arm, her skirts flared crimson and black, the very colors of their house. When Baelon pulled her back, his hand lingered at her waist, almost daring the court to comment.

“Too close,” Alyssa whispered through her smile.

“Let them choke on it,” Baelon murmured back, eyes gleaming.

The courtiers clapped in time, murmurs swelling. Alyssa held her head high, her gaze sharp, as though to say: He is mine. Always mine.

When the next round of dances began, Daemon was cajoled into the circle by none other than Gael, who tugged his arm with surprising insistence.

“You promised!” she chided.

“I said no such thing,” Daemon grumbled, but his young aunt's determined pout softened him. With exaggerated reluctance, he bowed. “Very well, little imp.”

The sight of the two — tall, cocky Daemon and bright-eyed Gael — drew fond laughter from onlookers. Gael moved with awkward grace, yet Daemon guided her with surprising gentleness.

Meanwhile, Viserys found himself staring down Aemma across the hall. She had already risen, cheeks flushed with both watered wine and mischief.

“Don’t even ask,” she said, folding her arms.

“I wasn’t going to,” Viserys snapped, already on the defensive.

“Oh, so you mean to let me sit while everyone else dances? That would be very rude, wouldn’t it?”

Their dance was as much argument as art — Viserys trying to remember the steps drilled into him, Aemma deliberately skipping one to trip him up, the two muttering under their breaths.

“You’re too stiff,” she hissed.

“You’re too reckless,” he retorted.

“Better reckless than boring.”

Daemon and Gael spun past them, Daemon muttering, “Seven hells, they’re at it again?.”

Gael deadpanned. “They haven't stop bickering since the feast started.”

At the high table, Alyssa caught the sight and nudged Baelon with her elbow. “Look at them. Not long ago, it was us with Aemon and Jocelyn, clumsy and proud. Now it’s their turn.”

Baelon’s smile was faint but wistful. “Aye. Gods keep them better than we were kept.”

Later, when the dances slowed and wine cups were refreshed, Baelon brought Alyssa toward a small cluster of women — the ones he had mentioned before in their chamber.

“Wife,” he said, voice pitched low with a hint of amusement, “I thought you might like to meet a few ladies who are not simpering Redwynes.”

Alyssa narrowed her eyes, muttering, “If this is some ploy to fill my days with prattling companions…”

“You’ll see,” Baelon said smoothly. “They’re not of that kind.”

The first was Lady Lyra Mormont, tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a gown of green that did little to hide her martial bearing. Her handshake was firm enough to startle some lords.

“Princess Alyssa,” Lyra said bluntly, “an honor. I’ve heard you spar with the men as often as they’ll allow you. I prefer the axe myself, but a sword will do in a pinch.”

Alyssa’s lips quirked. At last, a woman with some spine. “We may have to test that claim one day, Lady Lyra.”

Lyra grinned, unoffended. “Any time.”

The second was Lady Barbrey Dustin, young but sharp-eyed, her auburn hair plaited with silver thread. She curtsied elegantly, but her words carried an edge.

“I was told the Princess Alyssa does not suffer fools. I should hope I am not one of them.”

“Not yet,” Alyssa replied dryly. “But there’s time.”

Barbrey smirked. “Good. I like to keep expectations realistic.”

The third was Sabitha Vypren, black-haired, thin-lipped, and dressed in a gown of midnight blue. Her voice dripped with sly amusement.

“They say the Red Keep trembles at your temper, Princess. I rather admire it. My own mother said I’d never find a husband with my tongue, but I prefer a sharp wit to a dull marriage.”

Alyssa chuckled, though her eyes assessed. “We’ll see if that tongue cuts as well in loyalty as in jest.”

Sabitha tilted her head, like a raven sizing up another bird. “Perhaps you’ll be the judge of that.”

As the women dispersed for more dancing, Alyssa leaned closer to Baelon, voice pitched low.

“You think I’ll let these three trail after me as ladies-in-waiting?”

Baelon raised a brow. “You liked them more than you let on.”

Alyssa huffed. “Lyra is blunt as a hammer — but strong. I could spar with her in the training yard. Barbrey is clever, but sharp enough to wound. Sabitha… she’s dangerous and seems competent. And yet…”

“And yet?”

“They are not perfumed fools,” Alyssa admitted grudgingly. “I will not have simpering chits dithering about me. These three… might be tolerable.”

Baelon smirked knowingly. “I thought you’d see it. Better companions than those who would flatter your pride only to envy you behind your back.”

Alyssa slid her hand into his, possessive and fierce. “I need no companions when I have you. But… perhaps it will do.”

Her gaze swept the hall — over the scheming lords, the whispering ladies, the younger Targaryens caught in their quarrelsome dance. The music swelled again, and Alyssa leaned against Baelon’s shoulder, her voice soft but resolute.

“They may whisper, flatter, scheme, but let them all see: you are mine, Baelon. And I will guard what is mine.”

Baelon kissed her hand, his smile warm. “And I am yours. Always.”

The torches in the Red Keep’s corridors had burned low, and silence reigned where only hours before there had been laughter and music. In the royal chambers, Alysanne was unpinning her hair, letting her blonde hair fall loose around her shoulders, while Jaehaerys sat in his chair near the hearth, boots already off, rubbing the long day from his temples.

“You’re quiet,” Alysanne said, glancing over her shoulder with a knowing look.

“Just tired,” he answered, though the smile tugging at his mouth betrayed him. “And… thinking of our grandchildren.”

Alysanne gave a soft hum, moving to sit beside him. “You mean Viserys and Aemma.”

At that, Jaehaerys let out a chuckle. “Fourteen save us all, Alysanne, I thought they’d leap across the table and strangle one another before the night was through.”

“They bicker like cockerels in a pit,” she said, laughing herself. “Did you see Gael’s face? The poor girl was ready to stuff her fingers in her ears.”

“And Daemon,” Jaehaerys added, amused. “He looked one heartbeat away from flinging his goblet at them just to quiet them down.”

They both laughed, the kind of laughter that comes easy when the burdens of rule are set aside. After a moment, Alysanne leaned against his shoulder, her hand finding his.

“They remind me of us, you know,” she said softly.

“Us?” Jaehaerys raised a brow. “I don’t recall ever bickering like that.”

“Oh, you did,” she teased, giving his hand a squeeze. “Do you not remember arguing with me over which keep we’d winter in, or whether your blasted law codes needed revising?”

“That was not bickering,” Jaehaerys said with mock severity. “That was righteous debate.”

Alysanne laughed again, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Whatever name you give it, my love, it was ours. And now it’s theirs. Perhaps that’s a good sign.”

Jaehaerys sighed, though his arm came around her, pulling her closer. “They’re young yet. Too young to know what all this is. But I admit…” His eyes softened. “It warmed me, watching them. For all their nonsense, I saw how they looked at one another, even when they didn’t mean to.”

Alysanne smiled, nestling into him. “Perhaps one day they’ll quarrel less and laugh more, as we do now.”

“And may the gods grant us many more years to see it,” Jaehaerys murmured, kissing her hair.

The fire crackled low, the world shrinking to just the two of them. Their laughter gave way to silence, a silence heavy not with weariness but with the comfort of long love.

Chapter Text

The Red Keep stirred slowly at dawn, but the whispers woke before the roosters did. Already, the ladies of the court were gathered in clusters — in the courtyard, along the gardens, by the fountain courts where silken veils trailed in the morning breeze.

“Oh, did you see it? The way she looked at him?” murmured Lady Meredyth Oakheart, fanning herself lazily.

“She glared at him,” corrected Lady Carrow, sipping her watered wine. “Every word out of her mouth was barbed.”

“Which means,” Lady Piper cut in slyly, “that she thinks about him even when she should not. I know the look of a girl who cannot stop herself.”

Laughter rippled, the sound half-glee, half-venom. They did not say her name too loudly — Princess Aemma was still a guest, still a niece of their beloved Baelon and Alyssa — but tongues had been loosened by wine and excitement.

Viserys, they agreed, had grown into a gentle, bookish youth, a boy with far more patience for maps and histories than for swords or sport. But that girl from the Vale — the one who looked so strikingly like her late mother Daella — had caught the eye of many. And though neither seemed to realize it themselves, the whispers had begun: a match in the making, if the King and Queen so willed it.

Oblivious to it all, the subjects of rumor were once again at odds.

“No, you’re wrong,” Viserys said firmly, tugging a heavy tome from a shelf, his face flushed with the effort. “The First Men didn’t build the causeway at Moat Cailin — it was raised long before their wars with the Andals.”

Aemma, perched primly on the edge of the reading table, swung her legs and narrowed her eyes at him. “That’s ridiculous. My maester in the eyrie taught me the opposite — and he was very well read.”

Viserys gave her the kind of look only an older brother might give a little sister, though she was no sister of his. “Your maester must’ve had more wine than wisdom, then. Here — see? It says right here—” He flipped open the parchment so abruptly that dust plumed up into her face.

Aemma coughed, waved her hand, and glared. “You did that on purpose.”

Viserys smirked, though his ears pinked. “Did not.”

“You did,” she snapped back, snatching at the book.

They scuffled for it, hands tugging at opposite sides until the binding groaned, and only Gael’s sudden voice from the doorway stopped them.

“Seven help me,” she muttered, arms crossed, Daemon slouching behind her. “Must you two always sound like dogs tugging over a bone?”

Daemon gave a low laugh. “If they wed one day, I pity the servants who’ll have to hear them argue over supper.”

Both Viserys and Aemma flushed crimson. “Wed?!” they blurted in unison, then promptly turned to glare at one another as though it were the other’s fault.

Meanwhile, in their shared chambers, Baelon lounged half-dressed in a chair, one boot off, grinning at his wife as she tugged her girdle tight.

“You’re fussing more than you did when we rode into battle,” he teased.

“I am not fussing,” Alyssa shot back, adjusting her braid. “This is serious.”

“It’s only tea,” Baelon said, amusement dripping from every word. “With a few ladies. You could frighten them all off with one glare and be done with it.”

She turned on him, eyes sharp. “That’s exactly the problem. Mother asked me to begin… stepping in. Managing her projects, speaking for her with the women of the court, keeping her circles intact.”

Baelon leaned back, hands behind his head. “So? You’ll do it better. You always do.”

But she was still bristling, tugging at her sleeves. “What if they’re tedious? Perfumed chatterers? I’ll strangle myself with my own braid if I have to listen to an hour of embroidery talk.”

He chuckled. “Didn’t I already tell you? Don’t take perfumed ladies. Take the ones who’ll swing a sword beside you, or spit fire in your stead. Lyra Mormont, Barbrey Dustin, Sabitha Vypren—” He ticked each off on his fingers. “Sounds like a trio sharp enough to keep even you amused.”

Alyssa huffed, but her lips twitched. “Amused, or exasperated.”

Baelon stood and approach his wife and pressed a kiss to her temple. “Either way, my love, you’ll manage them. You always do.”

By midmorning, Alyssa’s solar was set. The windows were thrown wide, letting in the soft autumn air. Platters of honey-cakes and lemon slices sat beside pitchers of spiced wine and tea steaming in silver pots.

Lady Lyra Mormont was the first to arrive — tall, broad-shouldered, hair plaited back in the northern fashion, with a confidence that carried into the room like a challenge.

“My lady,” she greeted Alyssa, her bow more like a nod. “I hope you serve something stronger than tea.”

Alyssa smirked. “If you ask for it.”

Next came Lady Barbrey Dustin, younger than Lyra but already carrying herself like a seasoned matron, her dark eyes watchful, her gown rich but practical. She kissed Alyssa on both cheeks, then looked around as though measuring every detail.

Finally, Lady Sabitha Vypren swept in, all in green silks, her tongue as quick as her steps. “Gods, this castle is choking with dullards,” she announced without preamble. “If I didn’t know better, Princess, I’d think you’d gathered us to save yourself from them.”

The three ladies settled, and Alyssa found herself both amused and wary.

The sunlight poured into the solar, gilding the tables, silver tea-sets, and polished wood with a lazy warmth. Lady Lyra Mormont was already examining the room as though preparing for a battlefield. She stood tall, her heavy northern cloak sweeping behind her as she leaned forward slightly. “So,” she said, voice low and measured, “you wish to understand how power moves not just in the court, but on the ground.”

Alyssa nodded, pouring a cup of steaming tea for herself. “Yes. My mother has entrusted me with her projects, her correspondences, even her social influence in the city. I do not want to fail her—or let these responsibilities become hollow gestures.”

Lyra lifted a brow. “Then you must learn to measure threats and allies alike. A sword alone does not win a war of whispers.” She sipped her tea, eyes sharp. “If a lord delays taxes, or a castellan ignores your mother’s instructions, you must know the weight of men who serve and those who merely obey when watched.”

Barbrey Dustin leaned forward, her dark eyes reflecting the sunlight. “And the land, Alyssa. Orphanages and kitchens are fine for public goodwill,” she said, tapping her fingers on the edge of the table, “but one must understand the incomes that sustain them. Taxes, tithes, feudal obligations. You must know which lords will bend for charity, which will stonewall, and which will leverage a kingdom’s mercy to their own ends.

Sabitha Vypren reclined, an ever-sly smile playing on her lips. “And, of course, gossip,” she said, tilting her head. “Whispered news travels faster than any raven. A lord’s daughter caught sneaking wine from the storerooms might seem trivial — until that detail reshapes alliances. You must learn to use it, Alyssa, and to understand what others might use against you.”

Alyssa leaned back, absorbing their counsel. Her mind flitted across years of training in her education and the yard, introductory lessons in governance in her early years. “And how do you—” she began, “how do you know who to trust?”

Lyra’s lips pressed together. “You don’t. Not fully. But you watch their reactions. You see how they behave under scrutiny. Test them when no one else is looking. That’s why I will spar with you before a council, not just physically, but with ideas, with feints of conversation.”

Barbrey nodded in agreement. “And I will bring pragmatism. Every orphanage, every fountain, every kitchen — it depends on the lords beneath your command. You must understand their holdings, the crops, the taxes, the tithes, and who will stand firm or falter when you request funds.”

Sabitha grinned. “And I will tell you everything I hear in King’s Landing before it reaches the queen herself. Disguised as gossip, it’s intelligence. And you will know who to shield yourself from, who to court, and who to manipulate without being obvious.”

Alyssa felt a surge of energy. This was not just tea. This was training. These women were her advisors, her allies, the ones who would help her keep her mother’s work alive while ensuring her own presence in court remained vital. She raised her cup. “Then I am honored to learn from the three of you. Let us start today.”

The women all raised their cups, Lyra with a rare grin, Barbrey with a wry nod, and Sabitha with a mischievous sparkle in her eyes. Alyssa sipped, feeling the warmth of the tea flow into a sense of purpose. This would be the start of a formidable network.

In a quiet corner of the Red Keep’s library, Viserys had returned to his favorite corner table, the pile of Valyrian history texts towering dangerously. Aemma followed, hands clasped behind her back, her expression carefully prim and precise.

“You’re hogging the books again,” she accused. “There are others who need them.”

“I am reading important things,” Viserys replied, lips pursed. “Maps, trade records, the history of Old Valyria — things that will matter when I am heir and king"

Aemma’s eyes narrowed. “Important to you, maybe. But the rest of the realm matters too.”

Viserys snorted. “Do you even know what’s in them? Or are you just pretending to care to look clever?”

“I am clever,” she shot back. “And I can prove it.”

He raised a brow. “Oh? And how?”

Aemma leaned over the table and jabbed at a book he was holding. “By taking this one before you finish it.”

Viserys yelped and jerked the book toward himself. “No! I already—”

Their fingers met in a tug-of-war, and the tome slid across the table. Books rattled, dust flew, and Viserys’s cheeks flushed red.

Viserys, exasperated, leaned over the table. “Fine! You can have it — but you must read it out loud while I follow the footnotes!”

Aemma tilted her head, lips twitching. “Deal. But if I mispronounce anything, you must correct me.”

Viserys groaned dramatically. “You will mispronounce something, I guarantee it.”

Aemma smirked, enjoying this small victory. “Then I will mispronounce everything.”

And so, as the day passed, books spread across the table, dust motes floating in the sunlight. They bickered, argued, and laughed, each determined to outwit the other, oblivious to the fact that the seeds of a lifelong friendship — perhaps more — were quietly, stubbornly taking root.

The clangor of steel resounded through the yard of the Red Keep, sharp and rhythmic as a hammer at a forge. Ser Ryam Redwyne, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, stood in polished steel and flowing white cloak, calm as a mountain, unshaken by the flurry of blows raining against his blade. His opponent, Prince Daemon Targaryen, fought with the untempered fire of youth—sweat soaking through his tunic, his silver hair plastered to his brow, violet eyes blazing with effort.

The boy was fifteen, lean and restless, and every strike of his sword was a declaration: I will not be ordinary.

“Your guard, boy!” Ser Ryam barked, deflecting a wild stroke that would have opened Daemon’s ribs to a killing thrust. “You swing like you’re threshing wheat!”

“I’ll break through!” Daemon spat, driving forward.

“Not against me.” With a twist of the wrist, Ryam hooked Daemon’s blade, sent it clattering to the ground, and pressed his steel to the boy’s throat.

Daemon froze, panting, every muscle taut with fury.

Ryam lowered his sword, his face unreadable. “Again.”

For nearly an hour, the lesson repeated itself—Daemon’s aggression rising, his defenses breaking, and Ryam’s patient mastery undoing him each time. Finally, when Daemon collapsed to one knee, chest heaving, Ryam relented.

“You have spirit enough for three men,” the Kingsguard said. “But fire without temper burns its wielder first. Learn patience, Prince Daemon. Rage alone makes a poor sword.”

Daemon retrieved his weapon, jaw tight. He bowed stiffly—obedient in form, rebellious in heart—and watched as Ser Ryam strode away.

Only then did he turn toward the shadowed edge of the yard, where a figure lingered quietly— his aunt, Princess Gael.

She had been watching the whole time, wide-eyed and silent, hands clasped before her skirts.

When Ryam’s white cloak vanished into the corridors, Daemon crossed to her, his smirk returning as though the beating had not bruised him at all.

“Enjoy the show?” he asked, his voice still ragged from exertion.

Gael tilted her head, frowning. “He bested you every time.”

“That’s his job.” Daemon wiped sweat from his brow. Then his grin sharpened, mischief lighting his eyes. “But I’ve something better in mind than endless drills. I need your help.”

“With what?” she asked warily. “Sneaking lemon cakes again?”

He leaned in, lowering his voice to a conspirator’s whisper. “The Dragonpit.”

Her heart lurched. “The Dragonpit?”

He nodded. “I’m going to claim Caraxes.”

Gael blinked, stunned. “Daemon—you can’t. Caraxes is—he was Aemon’s.”

At the name, something flickered in Daemon’s face—pride, grief, longing. “Uncle Aemon used to take me flying with him. Caraxes knows me. He remembers. He’s waiting.”

“You’ll get yourself killed.” Her voice broke on the word.

Daemon grinned, though it wavered at the edges. “Not if you’re with me. Keep watch. Just… be there.”

Gael shook her head, torn between terror and loyalty. She knew she should refuse, that she should run to tell their mother or father. But Daemon’s gaze—urgent, daring, alive with that Targaryen fire—caught her like a snare.

At last, she sighed. “You’ll be the death of me.”

The chamber given to Lady Amanda and Lady Aemma was big and airy, with pale tapestries of dragons in flight and soaring falcons in the skies and a carved window-seat looking over the city. A fire burned low, and Amanda was seated by it, brushing out her long dark hair with deliberate strokes when her younger sister came in.

Aemma dropped onto the cushioned seat by the hearth, cheeks still flushed from the long day. “Sister! You will not believe what an infuriating boy Viserys is.”

Amanda arched a brow, unhurried. “I take it you mean the prince. Your cousin.”

“Yes, that one,” Aemma said, flinging herself back against the cushions in mock despair. “He thinks he knows everything. I asked for a book on the histories of Pentos, and do you know what he did? He snatched it from the shelf right before me, just to prove he was taller. Taller by two fingers, mind you.”

Amanda set her brush aside, fighting a smile. “And did you claw it back from him?”

“I tried!” Aemma huffed, sitting up straighter. “He held it up like a trophy over my head, smirking all the while. We bickered until Gael laughed so hard she nearly dropped her own book. I swear, he’s insufferable. He quotes things without even checking the pages—‘Essosi architecture is this,’ ‘the history of Braavos is that.’ He rattles on as if he built the cities himself.”

Her sister folded her hands neatly in her lap, watching her with a level gaze. “Yet you stayed with him in the library most of the day.”

Aemma’s mouth opened, then closed again, her cheeks pinkening. “Well, yes, but only because I wouldn’t let him have the last word. Every time he made some ridiculous claim, I had to prove him wrong. He even said he could memorize all of the Free Cities’ sigils in one sitting! Can you imagine?”

Amanda’s expression softened into something between amusement and concern. “So you bickered from morning until supper?”

“Yes,” Aemma said defiantly. Then, quieter, “It was… not so dull as I expected.”

Amanda leaned back in her chair, tilting her head as she studied her little sister’s face. The firelight caught on Aemma’s hair, the very image of her step-mother Daella reborn, yet brighter with youth. Amanda’s lips pressed together.

“You know,” she said carefully, “there are whispers already, Aemma. You and the prince were not subtle at the feast. Many eyes noticed how you two squabbled.”

Aemma groaned, covering her face with her hands. “We were only jesting! Why must they twist every little thing?”

“Because this is court,” Amanda replied softly, her tone both warning and protective. “And you are not only a girl of the Vale, you are Step-mother's Daella's, King Jaehaerys' and Queen Alyssane’s granddaughter. They will watch you, and they will wonder what bonds may be forged—or broken.”

Aemma peeked out between her fingers, looking suddenly very small. “But he is just… Viserys. He teases. I tease back. That is all.”

Amanda reached over, smoothing her sister’s hair with gentle fingers. “For now, that is all. And I will keep it so, if I can. But be careful, little bird. A jest at the hearth becomes a story at the high table. And here in King’s Landing, stories take on lives of their own.”

Aemma leaned into her sister’s touch, muttering stubbornly, “He is still the most insufferable boy I have ever met.”

Amanda only smiled faintly, but behind her calm eyes lay a flicker of unease. She had lived long enough to know that “insufferable” was too often the first word of a tale that ended differently.

By the time the fire had burned down to embers, Aemma was curled on her bed, her hair fanned across the pillow, her breathing soft and even. Amanda sat by her side for a long moment, smoothing the coverlet, watching the little sister she had promised their father she would protect.

Aemma’s last muttered words—“He is insufferable, Amanda, truly…”—still hung in the air, almost making Amanda smile. The girl spoke with the conviction of youth, with no idea how dangerous her laughter, or her stubbornness might become in a place like the Red Keep.

Amanda rose quietly and moved to the window-seat, gazing out at the starlit sprawl of King’s Landing. The faint hum of the city drifted upward—distant tavern songs, the occasional dog’s bark, the clatter of a wagon wheel on cobbles. A city alive with tongues, and every tongue eager for a new tale. Already the whispers had started. She had heard them herself that very evening, wafting from behind a half-closed door as they left the hall.

“Did you see how the young princess sparred with the prince?”
“Like fire and smoke, those two. Perhaps the gods themselves are weaving a match.”
“Or perhaps the girl seeks too much attention.”

Amanda clenched her jaw. How quickly courtiers turned children’s bickering into schemes for marriage, into shadows of scandal. Aemma was only thirteen, still soft around the face, her hand small when it clasped Amanda’s sleeve. She should be safe, she should be free to quarrel and laugh without consequence.

But here, in King’s Landing, nothing was free. Aemma leaned into her sister’s touch, muttering stubbornly, “He is still the most insufferable boy I have ever met.”

Amanda only smiled faintly, but behind her calm eyes lay a flicker of unease. She had lived long enough to know that “insufferable” was too often the first word of a tale that ended differently.

Her mind drifted to the court’s endless hunger—how lords and ladies measured every glance, every misplaced word, every smile. Alyssane herself had once walked this same dance, beloved and feared in equal measure. And Daella… sweet, gentle Daella… had not survived the weight of expectation.

Amanda pressed her palm to the cool stone of the window. She had not forgotten how her father’s voice had faltered when he begged her to watch over Aemma before that damned ambush in with the mountain clans. “You are Aemma's older sister. She will need you. Promise me.”

And she had promised.

Now, she thought, she would need to keep more than watch. She would need to guard her sister from stories that might be woven into chains. From alliances that might bind her too soon. From whispers that might corrode her spirit before it had a chance to bloom.

Amanda glanced back at the bed. Aemma shifted in her sleep, murmuring something indistinct, then stilled.

The elder sister allowed herself a small, private sigh. “Dream of books and games, little bird,” she whispered. “Leave the battles of tongues and courts to me.”

She straightened, drawing the coverlet of her own bed tighter, her resolve settling like steel in her chest. Tomorrow would bring more gossip, more watching eyes. And Amanda Arryn—half-sister, guardian, a lady of the Vale—would be ready.

Chapter Text

Later that night, they stole a horse from the stables, muffling its hooves with rags. The city lay hushed beneath the moon, its cobbled streets silvered in pale light. Gael clutched the reins as Daemon urged her on, their shadows long and strange as they wound their way toward the vast, looming dome of the Dragonpit. It rose against the night like a giant’s skull, black and brooding, its great bronze doors etched with ancient sigils. The closer they drew, the heavier the air became, thick with the tang of ash and sulfur.

Gael’s pulse hammered in her throat. “We shouldn’t be here.”

Daemon only smirked. “That’s what makes it worth doing.”

They slipped inside, past the dragonkeepers and into the vast cavern swallowing them whole. The darkness was alive with echoes—the scrape of talons, the hiss of scales on stone, the faint exhale of something vast and sleeping.

And then the sound—high pitch, guttural, reverberating through the bones: a growl.

Gael froze. Daemon strode forward.

From the shadows emerged twin embers, eyes burning red in the gloom. Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm. His body slithered into view, long and serpentine, his crimson scales gleaming faintly in the torchlight. His wings unfurled, spanning the cavern, and his maw opened with a roar that shook the stones. Fire spilled forth, scorching the floor mere feet from where Daemon stood.

Gael screamed, but Daemon did not flinch.

“Lykiri, Caraxes. Dohaeras. It’s me,” he said, voice trembling but steady. “Daemon. Son of Baelon. Nephew of your former rider, Uncle Aemon. You remember.”

The dragon hissed, smoke curling from his nostrils. He prowled closer, each step shaking the ground, his gaze locked upon the boy who dared face him.

Daemon raised his hand, slow and deliberate, and pressed it to the blood-red scales.

For a heartbeat, the cavern stilled.

The city woke to terror and wonder.

Caraxes blazed crimson against the moon, his wings cutting through the heavens, fire trailing from his jaws. His roar echoed across the rooftops, rolling down the river, shaking windows and rattling doors. On his back, Prince Daemon Targaryen clung to the saddle, his silver hair streaming, his face alight with exhilaration. He laughed into the wind, the sound lost to the night, his triumph written across the heavens.

Gael staggered from the pit’s mouth below, shielding her eyes, tears of awe and terror blurring her sight.

Across the Red Keep, lords and ladies staying in red keep spilled into balconies and halls, craning to see the fiery shadow circling the sky.

Baelon and Alyssa, summoned by the uproar, rushed to a terrace. Alyssa gasped, hand to her mouth, while Baelon’s eyes narrowed—half in pride, half in dread.

“Daemon,” Baelon murmured. “The boy has claimed Caraxes.”

Alyssa clutched his arm. “He’ll kill himself!”

But Baelon only shook his head, gaze fixed on the soaring crimson shape. “No. Look—Caraxes accepts him.”

Even King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne were roused, stepping out onto a high balcony of Maegor’s Holdfast. The King’s jaw was tight, unreadable, but the Queen’s eyes shone with something softer.

“Aemon’s dragon,” Alysanne whispered. “And now Daemon’s.”

Jaehaerys exhaled slowly. “The Blood Wyrm has chosen.”

Above them all, Daemon wheeled Caraxes in wide arcs over the city, his laughter wild and exultant. In that moment, boy and dragon were one—fearless, inseparable, undeniable.

A new bond had been forged in fire.

A new legend had taken flight.

The chamber was unusually still the next morning. Tapestries hung motionless, as if even the air feared to stir. Baelon stood with his arms crossed, his jaw tight enough to creak, while Alyssa paced in short, clipped strides, her crimson skirts snapping with each turn. They had come at dawn, too restless to wait, and the silence between them was alive with anger and pride—two forces pulling hard in opposite directions. When the doors opened, King Jaehaerys entered with deliberate gravity, Queen Alyssanne gliding at his side. Behind them followed the Hand, Septon Barth, both faces carved into solemn masks.

The king lowered himself carefully into the high-backed chair at the head of the table, his movements deliberate, his age showing more in the stillness afterward than in the descent itself. “Well,” he said at last, voice heavy. “It seems your son has made the court very lively.”

“Not only the court,” Barth murmured. “The Faith will be restless before the day ends.”

Alyssa’s eyes flashed. “The Faith is always restless when dragons rise. What’s one more?”

“One more is precisely the danger,” Barth replied, unruffled. “Caraxes was Prince Aemon’s dragon. Some will see in this the gods’ judgment—that the dragon chose not Viserys, the elder, but Daemon. Whispers spread quickly when people are hungry for signs.”

Alyssa’s pacing stilled. Baelon’s head snapped up, and for a moment the chamber seemed to quake with the force of his stare. “Are you saying lords will flock to my younger son, and forsake his brother? That this is the makings of another Maegor, another kinslaying?”

Barth did not answer at once, but the implication hung heavy.

Baelon’s voice rang out, raw and furious. “Do not dare put Daemon’s name in the same breath as Maegor’s. Aye, he is wild—he sneaks, he fights, he bristles at every leash—but he is not cruel. He has no hunger for the Iron Throne. None. I know this because he is a second son. As I am. And I know the shadow of an elder brother.”

The words came tumbling now, weighted with years of grief. His hands shook where they gripped the table as he addressed his father. “You taught Aemon and me, from the cradle, that brotherhood must come before crowns. That together we were stronger than any lord or council could ever be. For that, I am a better man. And gods, I loved him. My brother. Every day I breathe, I feel the hollow where he should be. I bear the burden of Crown Prince and I still believe it should've been Rhaenys. She should be heir, not me. But I took his place. I wear the burden he left behind, and it eats at me every day.”

Alyssa stilled, her lips parting at the rawness of it. Alyssanne pressed a hand against her mouth, her eyes shining. Even Jaehaerys, who so often let duty harden him, leaned forward, his expression softened, as though the king had been set aside for the father.

Baelon’s voice broke, but he pressed on. “Daemon is nothing like Maegor. He loves his brother—I have seen it with my own eyes. When squires mocked Viserys for preferring his books instead of the tilt yard, Daemon used to drag Rhaenys to torment them in kind. He would stand behind Viserys in every quarrel. He is brash and foolish, yes, but he is always his sword. Always his defender. He is no usurper. He is a boy who wants to protect his brother, as I once protected mine but clearly I failed in that because I breathe and he's not. That will haunt me for the rest of my life.”

Jaehaerys’s stern face eased. He leaned forward, folding his hands atop the table. “Baelon, you have spoken with a true heart. I hear you. You need not convince me your boy is no usurper. Whatever trouble he gives you—and he will give you much—the ambition for crowns does not lie in him. That I will trust.”

Baelon drew a ragged breath, bowing his head. Alyssa reached under the table to squeeze his hand.

“But,” said Barth, careful again, “the Faith will see what they will see. They will speak of Caraxes belonging to Aemon, and of the Seven’s judgment in granting the beast to his nephew rather than to Viserys. And lords with loose tongues—”

“You will leave the headaches of the Faith to me and your mother,” Jaehaerys interrupted, his voice iron. “Baelon, Alyssa—you need only strengthen goodwill in my grandsons. Leave the septons to us.”

Baelon sagged into his chair, as if some great stone had shifted from his chest. Alyssa squeezed his hand tighter, both comforted and comforter.

Barth cleared his throat gently. “Then the next matter: punishment. They cannot escape censure, not Daemon nor Gael. Sneaking past guards, endangering themselves—it cannot pass unanswered. I propose they devote themselves to the sept for three moons. Sweeping, polishing relics, learning discipline.”

Alyssa gave a laugh sharp as steel. “Septon, my son has less patience than a sparrow in a cage. He’d turn your relics into playthings before the moon was half done.”

Baelon snorted, unable to hide a flash of amusement. “Daemon would riot. And it would shame my sister besides, to be seen dusting icons of gods we do not worship.”

Jaehaerys’s brow furrowed; he clearly agreed but said nothing, letting the silence stretch.

It was Alyssanne who broke it, as calm as the tide. “Then let them serve where their service matches their blood. Daemon will spend his days among the dragonkeepers. Shoveling dung, scrubbing floors, oiling chains—learning that dragonlord pride must be tempered by sweat. As for Gael, she shall polish scales, aid the keepers in their gentler labors, learn the ways of our heritage. A moon’s turn will be enough.”

Alyssa’s lips twitched, failing to suppress her grin. “Daemon knee-deep in dragon dung. Fourteen save us, I almost wish to see it.”

Baelon laughed outright this time, shaking his head. “It may even teach him something.”

Jaehaerys’s face betrayed only the faintest crack of a smile. “So be it. The court shall be told Daemon tends his bond with Caraxes, and Gael prepares herself for a dragon of her own. The punishment will pass as honor, and the lesson will be ours alone.” 

All around the table, heads nodded. 

“Summon the children. We shall scold them for their folly, and then tell them their duty.”

The matter settled, servants were sent to fetch the culprits.

When Daemon and Gael entered, the hall was heavy with disapproval. Alyssa’s glare could have set fire to straw; Baelon’s frown weighed like iron. They were chastised soundly for their recklessness, warned of the dangers, and lectured on trust. Daemon stared at the floor, half-smirking despite himself. Gael kept her head bowed demurely, her lips pressed together in a mockery of solemnity.

Then came the punishment.

Daemon’s head snapped up, and his grin returned in full force. “That’s no punishment,” he muttered, unable to hide his delight at the thought of lingering with Caraxes every day.

Gael curtsied prettily, her smile peeking through her lashes. “I shall do my duty, father.”

The grown-ups exchanged glances, and for once, even in the face of defiance, they were united—proud, amused, and more than a little relieved.

The children thought they had outwitted their elders. But the elders knew better.

The moment the great oaken doors shut behind them, Daemon let out a long, exaggerated whistle. “Well, that could’ve gone worse.”

Gael swatted his arm with a small, sharp hand. “Worse? They compared you to Maegor the Cruel!”

Daemon smirked, tossing his silver-blond hair back. “And I’m still breathing, aren’t I? Besides, I’ve a dragon now. Who’s going to stop me?” His grin widened, sharp and boyish. “Caraxes chose me.”

Gael rolled her eyes but her lips twitched. “He nearly roasted you alive first.”

“Details, details,” Daemon said breezily.

Before their laughter had faded, two familiar figures came darting around the corner. Viserys, cheeks flushed from curiosity, and Aemma, eyes wide with timid boldness, almost collided with them.

“Well?” Viserys demanded, practically bouncing on his heels. “What did they tell you?”

“Did they shout?” Aemma asked, clutching her skirts.

Daemon puffed his chest and spoke in mock gravity. “They’ve given us our punishment.”

Viserys leaned forward eagerly. “and?”

Gael folded her arms, playing up the drama. “I am to polish dragon scales. Daemon…” Her lips twitched again, this time betraying her delight. “Daemon will shovel dragon-dung.”

For a heartbeat, silence—and then Viserys burst out laughing so hard he had to brace himself against the wall.

“Shoveling dragon dung!” he wheezed. “Seven hells, I can see it now—you up to your knees with a shovel bigger than you are!”

Daemon tried to look offended, but his grin betrayed him. “Better dung from a dragon than dusting relics in a sept.”

Aemma, to her credit, tried not to laugh—but her nose scrunched, her eyes bright. “Considering their size… gods, it must be mountains of it. You’ll disappear in it, cousin.”

Viserys doubled over again, and soon Aemma was giggling with him, their shoulders bumping as they teased in tandem.

“Perhaps we’ll bring a flagon of wine and toast to you from the courtyard!” Viserys teased.

“And I shall send you a handkerchief,” Aemma added sweetly, “so you may cover your nose.”

Daemon only laughed louder. “Mock me all you like. I’ll be closer to Caraxes than either of you. A little muck is nothing if it means I ride him again.” His eyes gleamed with mischief and pride. “This isn’t punishment. It’s an adventure.”

Gael, calmer but no less bright, nodded. “And I’ll learn the keepers’ ways. Their songs, their stories. I want to know every secret of our dragons. That is worth any soap and scrubbing.”

Viserys and Aemma shared a look, and though their smirks lingered, there was envy beneath them—envy neither would ever admit aloud.

Later after the meeting, Alyssa convened with her ladies for brunch. Alyssa sat at the center of the window-seat, her legs drawn up, hair loose from its pins, looking more like a sister than a lady of the realm. But the women around her—Lyra Mormont, Barbrey Dustin, Sabitha Vypren—leaned forward with the ease of confidantes, their eyes sharp, tongues sharper still.

“Dragondung,” Lyra said flatly, cutting into a pomegranate slice with her dagger. “A prince of the realm, condemned to shovel dung.” She popped the seed-flesh into her mouth, chewing without mirth. “If that isn’t proof the gods have a sense of humor, I don’t know what is.”

Sabitha smirked, her voice low and quick, like a whisper already half-way to becoming a rumor. “The dung is not the punishment. The true punishment is the laughter. Every keeper, every stable-boy, will carry that story out of the Dragonpit. ‘The Rogue Prince, waist-deep in muck.’ Imagine the court’s feasting on that tale.”

Barbrey, always more deliberate, leaned back in her chair. Her hands, broad and steady from years managing her house’s holdings, folded over her lap. “No. The dung humbles him, yes, but mark what it gives him: closeness to the dragonkeepers. Men who know every hatchling, every whisper of wing and scale. He’ll learn things no maester dares write down. Knowledge. Secrets. You punish him with dirt, and he comes away with weapons.”

Lyra grunted. “Weapons in the hands of a boy who already thinks himself steel. Tell me that doesn’t worry you.”

“It does,” Barbrey said simply.

Sabitha leaned closer to Alyssa, her eyes glittering in the candlelight. “And Gael—your sweet, sister—she’ll turn it into an education. The keepers love a curious ear. She’ll gather tales and tricks, all the scraps of Valyrian lore that survive in their mutterings. Give her a month, and she’ll know more of dragons than any septon who ever preached of them.”

Alyssa sighed, her voice soft but sure. “So they are punished, and yet they are not. Daemon will treat it as adventure. Gael will see it as a story. And the rest of us must live with the consequences when both come away sharper than before.”

Lyra pointed her dagger at Alyssa like an accusation. “You don’t disapprove.”

“I do,” Alyssa said, but her lips quirked. “I also admire it. They are fire-born. Even in dung, they burn brighter than most.”

Barbrey chuckled, low and knowing. “That, my lady, is the most dangerous truth of all.”

The godswood of the Red Keep was no Winterfell—its weirwood long dead, its heart-tree a pale stump—but still the air there was quieter, thick with leaves and the murmur of water. Viserys and Aemma walked slowly along the path, the late sun painting their faces in dappled gold.

“Viserys?” Aemma asked, breaking the hush. “How do one Claim a dragon?”

Viserys’s mouth twitched, caught between pride and something darker. “You will feel it, the tug in your bones when a dragon is meant for you. Daemon walked in, laid hand on him, and the beast all but bowed.”

Aemma studied him, her voice half-teasing, half-gentle. “You don’t sound pleased.”

“I am,” Viserys insisted. Too quickly. “Why shouldn’t I be? He is my brother. It strengthens the house.”

“Bold,” Aemma repeated, her eyes narrowing. “Or reckless? You are smiling, cousin—but you are also frowning. Which is it?”

Viserys stopped, his gaze drifting to the pool at the godswood’s center, its surface rippling with the breeze. His voice, when it came, was softer. “I did have a dragon once. Balerion. Shortly before Uncle Aemon died, I claimed him. Daemon was happy when he saw me flying around King's landing and grandfather looked like he was about to pass out” he chuckled mirthlessly.

Her breath caught. “Balerion the Black Dread.”

He nodded. “But he was old. Too old. They said he was weary. That is why he died, so soon after I claimed him. But—” His hands clenched at his sides. “I think he did not want me.”

The words spilled like a confession. Aemma’s expression softened at once, all teasing gone. She touched his sleeve gently. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

“It does not matter.” He turned sharply, as though to walk on, but she held his gaze.

“It does,” she said. Her voice was low, sure. “A boy without a dragon must find other ways to be fierce. That is why you scowl so much.”

Viserys blinked, startled. “I do not scowl.”

“You do,” she teased, though her eyes were kind. “All the time. It’s very fearsome, truly. Terrifying.”

He sputtered, indignant, and she laughed—a soft, bright sound that filled the stillness of the godswood. For a moment, it felt less like rivalry, more like kinship, the edges softened by shared hurts neither had meant to reveal.

Viserys looked away, but not before she saw the flicker of gratitude in his eyes.

Viserys and Aemma’s voices drifted through the stillness of the garden, carried by the breeze. They had forgotten the court for a moment, forgotten that in the Red Keep no word went unmarked.

From the shaded edge of the path, Sabitha Vypren lingered, ostensibly admiring the roses that twined around the stone arch. In truth, her ears pricked like a fox’s.

“—I think he did not want me,” Viserys muttered, staring at the pool.

Aemma’s softer reply reached her just as clearly: “It does matter. That is why you scowl so much. A boy without a dragon must find other ways to look fierce.”

Sabitha’s lips curved. Scowl. Boy without a dragon. She could already hear how the words would spread when told over spiced wine in the solar. Not cruelty—never cruelty—but information. Everything was useful, if whispered the right way.

She slipped back along the path before either cousin could notice her presence, the hem of her gown brushing leaves, her smile secret and satisfied.

The ladies confered again in the afternoon, The solar was warm with the golden hush of late evening. Tapestries muffled the stone walls, and the air smelled faintly of spiced wine and beeswax from the half-burned candles. Alyssa sat curled in her chair, hair unbound from the day’s formalities, her refilling her goblet with another Dornish Red. Across from her, Lyra Mormont leaned forward on her elbows, as at ease as if she were back on Bear Island. Barbrey Dustin sat straighter, quill and parchment on the table before her, as if her hands needed always to keep accounts. And Sabitha Vypren, small and sharp-eyed, perched close to Alyssa’s side, her dark braid resting against her shoulder.

These were not idle companions chosen for chatter. Alyssa had gathered them because each brought something the court could not: steel, sense, and secrets.

It was Sabitha who broke the quiet.

“My princess,” she began, voice lilting like silk slipping through fingers, “today, in the godswood, I passed by Prince Viserys and your young niece.”

Alyssa glanced up, one brow arched. Sabitha’s stories always came dressed in silk, but the steel beneath was what Alyssa valued. “And?”

“They thought themselves alone,” Sabitha continued. Her eyes gleamed in the candlelight, though her tone was careful—never gossip, but intelligence. “He confessed that when he claimed Balerion, the Black Dread did not want him. That the dragon died soon after, and Viserys believes it was by choice. He said it as though he carried a wound that would not heal.”

A hush fell. Even the fire seemed to still its crackle.

Barbrey tapped her quill against the parchment, sharp as a judge’s gavel. “So. The heir to the Iron Throne thinks himself rejected by fire made flesh. A man who doubts himself at the root—that is no small danger, Princess.”

Lyra snorted, leaning back in her chair, but her expression was grim. “No wonder he scowls. But what happens when Daemon, bold as the dawn, comes swaggering with Caraxes at his heel? Brothers love each other, aye—but love wilts quickly when envy feeds at its roots.”

Sabitha tilted her head, lips curving. “And the Arryn girl—Aemma—teased him for it, though softly. She told him his scowl made him fierce.” A pause, deliberate. “Strange, is it not? That the one to ease the heir’s heart is not his mother, nor his sire, but a timid little girl who does not yet know the venom of court.”

Alyssa had not moved, but her grip on her goblet tighted. “And no one else heard this?”

Sabitha’s eyes met hers, steady, loyal. “No one but me. And now you. Your circle, Princess. Never beyond it.”

Barbrey gave a short nod. “Weigh it carefully, Alyssa. If word spread that Viserys feels unworthy of his dragon, lords would begin to whisper of omens. They would measure him against Daemon before the boy is even grown.”

Lyra’s mouth twisted, blunt as always. “If Viserys doubts, he will lean on Daemon. But if Daemon grows too strong, he will fear him. Either way, it breeds strife.”

Sabitha leaned closer to Alyssa, her voice low and certain. “That is why I bring it only here. In your hands, such knowledge becomes shield and sword. Elsewhere, it becomes poison.”

At that, Alyssa finally set aside her goblet, exhaling slow. She looked at each of them in turn—the warrior, the steward, the whisperer—and let her shoulders ease.

“You are my eyes, my hands, my ears,” she said, voice hushed but firm. “I will not treat this as court tattle, but as counsel. Viserys is not cruel. He is not weak either. Only wounded. If I must be the one to see that wound does not fester, then so be it.”

Lyra thumped her fist lightly against her knee in agreement. Barbrey only inclined her head, approving of the measured resolve. Sabitha smiled faintly, satisfied that her gift had been well received.

The conversation moved on to maps and tallies, to small rumors of coin and land, but the weight of Viserys’s confession lingered in the air, binding them all closer. This was no embroidery circle. This was a council in all but name.

When Alyssa finally dismissed her ladies, the solar felt too quiet. Lyra’s blunt wisdom, Barbrey’s stern pragmatism, and Sabitha’s whispered secrets still echoed in her ears as she crossed the keep’s dim corridors to her and baelon's chamber. She found Baelon half-undressed, silver hair loose about his shoulders, sitting at the edge of the bed while unlacing his boots.

He looked up, and his smile was soft, easy. “You’re late. Did Your ladies keep you plotting again?”

Alyssa hesitated at the door, then shut it behind her. “Not plotting. Listening. To truths I wish I had not heard.”

Baelon frowned, rising to her. He took her hand, tugging her toward the bed. “Tell me.”

And she did. Quietly, earnestly, repeating Sabitha’s account as if laying down a fragile relic. How Viserys had confessed in the godswood that he believed Balerion had rejected him. How Aemma, timid as she was, had soothed the sting with teasing gentleness. How her ladies cautioned that such doubts, if loosed to the court, might twist into whispers of unworthiness.

Baelon’s jaw tightened as he listened, a shadow falling over his features. When she finished, his hand closed around hers firmly.

“Viserys,” he muttered, shaking his head. “The boy carries ghosts heavier than his shoulders were made for. And now Daemon, bold little whelp, claims Caraxes, and every eye will set them against each other before they’ve grown to men.”

Alyssa searched his face, her own voice low but fierce. “That is why I tell you. My ladies are right: this is no small matter. The lords will pry at every crack. And if the Faith chooses to see portents in Viserys’s doubt…” She trailed off, shivering. “Baelon, you must make them strong together. Or the realm will make them enemies.”

For a long moment, silence pressed between them. Then Baelon pulled her against him, his forehead resting to hers. His voice was steady, resolute.

“I will. Gods bear me witness, I will. Aemon and I were taught what it meant to be brothers. We were told again and again, until the lesson carved itself into our bones. He and I were all better for it. And still, when Rhaenys was passed over for me, I bear the weight of betrayal. I feel it yet.” His throat worked. “But I will not see my sons undone the way we were. Viserys and Daemon will be bound, not broken. I swear it.”

Alyssa exhaled, some of her tension easing. Her eyes gleamed in the low light, softened by relief. “Good. Then the gods have given them no better father.”

Baelon kissed her brow, and though the worries did not vanish, they found a kind of peace together.

The very next morning, before Daemon and Gael were to begin their punishment in the Dragonpit, Baelon summoned his sons to his solar. Viserys arrived with a wary scowl, annoyed by being roused before the sun rises; Daemon, all swagger and barely-suppressed laughter, looked as though he expected praise hidden in the rebuke.

Baelon stood before them, Dark Sister strapped at his hip, and regarded them both in silence until they grew restless. Then he spoke.

“You two,” he began, voice firm but not harsh, “are more precious to me than gold, or steel, or crown. You are brothers. Never forget that. Men at court will try to put a blade between you. They will whisper that one is stronger, the other weaker. One bold, the other timid. One worthy, the other not.”

Viserys shifted uncomfortably, gaze dropping to the floor. Daemon folded his arms, defiant but listening.

Baelon stepped closer, his hand falling heavy but gentle on Viserys’s shoulder. “They said the same of aegon and visenya, and of Aenys and Maegor and of me and your uncle Aemon. And now he lies in the ground, and not a day passes I do not curse that it is me who wears the title of heir, and not him. I loved him. And I will tell you this—nothing mattered more to him than his family.”

He turned then to Daemon, clasping his son’s chin until the boy met his eyes. “You are wild, boy, and reckless. But you are not cruel. You will not let lords or ladies make you into something you are not. And you will not raise sword or word against your brother. The only time you will raise it will be in defense of him. You hear me?”

Daemon’s grin faltered, and for once he nodded without jest. “Aye, Father.”

Baelon looked back between them, his voice softening. “You will quarrel, you will bicker, but in the end, you must be shield to shield, as your uncle and I were. If you hold that bond, no one—not the Faith, not the lords, not even dragons—can break you.”

For a moment, silence hung, the weight of the vow heavy in the air.

Then Daemon muttered, “Does this speech mean I don’t have to shovel dragon dung today?”

Viserys barked a startled laugh despite himself, and Baelon couldn’t help the smile tugging at his lips. “No, you still have to shovel dung. And you will both remember what I’ve said while you do it.”

Viserys shook his head, grinning now despite his sourness. Daemon smirked, as though shoveling dung were the greatest adventure a boy could have. And Baelon, watching them, felt the faintest spark of hope that his vow might yet hold true.

Chapter Text

The morning sun had scarcely crested over the Red Keep when Daemon and Gael were marched to the Dragonpit under the eyes of two dour guards. To the court, the sight would appear as nothing more than a prince eager to strengthen his bond with his dragon and a princess growing curious about the keepers’ craft. Only Daemon’s grin, broad as a crescent moon, betrayed the truth.

“Punishment,” he said, arms swinging wide as they walked. “Hah! This is better than being stuffed in a sept to dust candlesticks. Let Viserys try that—I’ll take dragons any day.”

Gael, smaller, keeping her stride even with his, frowned but not without a spark of excitement in her eyes. “You say that now. Wait until you’re ankle-deep in muck.”

Daemon barked a laugh, tossing his head. “Muck is the blood of dragons, little aunt. I’ll wear it like a crown.”

The Dragonpit loomed before them, vast and cavernous, its domed roof scarred from centuries of fire. Inside, the air smelled of ash, oil, and beast — thick, cloying, alive. The dragonkeepers, leathery men with faces as worn as their scaled cloaks, met them with grim nods.

One, broad-shouldered and missing three fingers, stepped forward. “Prince Daemon. Princess Gael. Orders from the king, aye? You’re with us for a moon. You’ll follow rules. You’ll keep your hands where we tell you, and if you don’t, you’ll lose ‘em.”

Daemon smirked, unfazed. “If Caraxes didn’t roast me when I climbed onto him, I doubt a bit of dung will do the job.”

The keeper only grunted, tossing him a wide, battered shovel. To Gael, he offered a long-handled brush, bristles stiff with dragon-scale dust. “You’re on polish duty, princess. He’s on dung.”

Daemon hefted the shovel like a knight with his spear. “Perfect.”

Caraxes’s cavern reeked of smoke and scorched stone, his hoard of bones scattered like macabre trophies. The dragon himself stirred at their entrance, long and serpentine, eyes gleaming crimson in the gloom. His growl rolled through the chamber like distant thunder.

Daemon swaggered forward, shovel slung over one shoulder. “Morning, Caraxes. Seems your droppings are now my noble charge.”

Caraxes hissed, smoke curling from his nostrils. One of the keepers cuffed Daemon on the back of the head. “Show respect, boy. That beast was your uncle’s heart before it was yours.”

For a moment, Daemon bristled, but then he straightened, bowing—awkwardly but with genuine effort. “Forgive me. I’ll see your cave kept worthy of you.”

The Blood Wyrm’s eyes narrowed, but he did not flame. Instead, he lowered his head slightly, as if granting acknowledgment.

Daemon grinned. “See? He knows.”

And then the real work began. The shovel sank into steaming piles of dung, heavy and foul, the stench clinging to hair and clothes. Daemon gagged once, but set his jaw, working furiously as if the muck were an enemy to be conquered.

“I’ll tame this pit faster than any squire learns his sword,” he boasted, though sweat dripped down his temple.

The keepers only chuckled. “That’s what they all say.”

Gael, meanwhile, crouched near her mother's mount, Silverwing, brushing carefully along gleaming scales that shed fine dust with every stroke. The keepers guided her hands, showing where cracks needed oiling, how to soothe the beast with Valyrian phrases.

She whispered them back, haltingly but eager. “Zaldrīzes buzdari iksos daor… a dragon is not a slave.”

One of the older keepers, weathered as oak, watched her with approval. “Your tongue is quick, princess. The dragons know the sound of their old speech. Keep it up, and you’ll learn their moods better than half the lads here.”

Gael’s eyes lit, and for a moment, she forgot this was meant to be punishment. She touched a scale gently, reverently, as if tracing the memory of her bloodline itself.

By midday, word had already reached Viserys and Aemma, who came skulking to the outer yard of the pit, eager for a glimpse.

When Daemon emerged, shovel over his shoulder, boots and tunic caked with filth, Viserys doubled over with laughter. “You smell worse than the fishmongers on Dragonstone!”

Aemma wrinkled her nose, though her eyes shone with mischief. “Considering Caraxes’s size, it must be mountains of dung. Poor prince. You’ll drown before the moon is done.”

Daemon only flashed his teeth, unbothered. “Better dung than dust. Dragons know me now. They’ll know I’m not afraid.”

Viserys shook his head, still chuckling. “Not afraid, but filthy.”

“And proud of it!” Daemon declared, thrusting his shovel skyward like a knight’s banner.

Gael emerged more demurely, streaks of dragon-scale dust across her cheeks. “It isn’t so bad,” she said, smiling faintly. “They let me hear stories. Of when father first rode Vermithor, of how dragons grow restless when their riders are gone. They said Caraxes only waited. That he knew Daemon would come.”

The cousins fell silent at that, even Viserys sobering a little. Aemma glanced sidelong at him, watching his face.

“Caraxes waited,” she echoed softly. Then, in a braver tone, “Well. Let us see if you can keep pace with your brother, Viserys. He shovels dung for dragons. What will you do?”

Viserys sputtered, flushing, and Aemma laughed, darting off ahead before he could form a retort.

Daemon slung an arm around Gael’s shoulders, smearing her sleeve with muck. “Come, aunt. Today we stink. Tomorrow we soar.”

Gael only shoved him "eww you stink"

The days unfurled like banners in the wind — each dawn dragging Daemon and Gael down the slopes of Rhaenys’s Hill to the gaping maw of the Dragonpit. At first the guards walked them like prisoners, but soon even they recognized the truth: these were no ordinary royal children sulking at punishment. Daemon strode with the pride of a conquering general, shovel slung across his shoulder like a weapon of honor. Gael walked softer, head bowed, but her eyes drank everything in — the groaning gates, the tang of sulfur, the bellowing cries echoing beneath the domed roof.

The keepers set them to their work: Daemon shoveling the steaming mounds of dung that clotted Vermithor's, Meleys', and Caraxes’s caverns Gael polishing Silverwing's and Vermithor's scales until they gleamed like molten bronze and Silver. Daemon made sport of it, swearing the dung steamed hotter than dragonflame, taunting the keepers with boasts that he shoveled faster than ten men. He would return to the Keep in stinking boots, muck crusted to his sleeves, crowing about his “victories” in the pit.

“Viserys can polish his cups in the solar,” he jeered on the third day, “but I? I polish dragons with fire and filth!”

Viserys, affronted and amused in equal measure, swore to the ladies that his brother was half-mad, though laughter chased him out of every hall.

Gael’s lessons were quieter. The keepers taught her the old words to soothe restless wyrms: “Rytsas, zaldrīzes…dohaerās naejot.” She whispered them under her breath, each syllable awkward on her tongue, until the dragons cocked their heads as if listening. She watched the way their eyes flicked, the subtle tilt of a wing that warned of temper, the long sigh of smoke that meant peace.

“You’re a listener,” one of the female keepers said to her, pressing a vial of oil into her hands. “That’s rarer than a talker in this pit. Dragons need ears as much as voices.”

By the fifth day, their punishment had rippled through the Red Keep like a stone in a pond. At the gardens, the other ladies whispered:

“The prince shovels dung as though he were squire to a stable boy!”

“And the little princess, polishing scales as if she were some dragonkeeper’s daughter.”

Of course, each whisper was heard by Alyssa through her loyal lady, Sabitha Vypren But Alyssa herself, stern-eyed, heard more than ridicule. Each rumor that reached her sharpened into a blade she carried to Baelon’s chamber: the children’s loyalty, their willingness to bend to punishment, their unspoken bond. And Baelon, hearing, swore to instill in his sons the brotherhood that blood and dragonfire demanded.

It was on the seventh day that Aemma joined them. Curiosity had burned too long in her veins, whispered by Daemon’s boasting and Gael’s quiet smile. She begged her sister and septa to allow her “only to watch,” and soon enough, she descended into the cavernous pit where heat shimmered like a forge.

The keepers, wary, inclined their heads. “The little lady may look. But no closer than the eggs.”

Aemma’s breath caught as she entered the dragon egg chamber. The air was thick with warmth, coals banked under bronze braziers, the heavy perfume of earth and ash. Along the the metal incubators lay clutch upon clutch of eggs — mottled, massive, each one humming faintly with life not yet born.

Gael, face smudged with soot, tugged her cousin’s hand eagerly. “See? Here are the stones that will be dragons. Each one a world waiting to wake.”

Daemon, nearby, puffed his chest. “They’ll never let you near them, Aemma. Eggs know their kin. They’ll know me first.”

Gael corrected Daemon "You forget Daemon, that she is our kin"

But Aemma hardly heard. Her gaze had fallen to a single egg nestled apart from the others, resting in its cradle of coals. Its shell gleamed gold with bronze flecks, as though dawn itself had been trapped within stone. She felt something stir deep in her breast, a pull both strange and tender.

She stepped forward, almost without thought.

The keepers muttered uneasily. “Stay back, princess. The eggs are not toys.”

But Aemma did not touch. She only knelt, skirts pooling, and stared as if listening to a voice no one else could hear. A warmth spread through her palms though she had not laid hands upon it. Her breath quickened, her eyes glistened.

“What is it?” Gael whispered, crouching beside her.

Aemma’s lips trembled into a faint smile. “It’s…beautiful. It feels…as though it waits. Not for me, but for…” She faltered, unable to finish, a shiver running through her.

Daemon snorted, though his own eyes were wide. “It waits for a dragonrider, of course. Perhaps for me.”

"You already have a dragon, daemon. Do you mean to claim another one?" Gael deadpanned.

But the keepers exchanged looks heavy with silence. They knew better. Some eggs seemed to slumber longer than others, their destinies bound to futures unseen.

The golden shell glowed in the firelight, and for a moment the chamber seemed hushed, as though the dragons themselves were listening. Aemma drew back at last, heart still pounding. She laughed lightly, trying to shake the strangeness. “It’s silly. An egg is only an egg.”

Yet as she rose, she glanced back once more. The gold gleamed like a promise.

When they left the pit, Daemon was crowing about his dung-shoveling contests with the keepers, Gael was murmuring dragonlore under her breath, and Aemma walked quietly, her thoughts tangled around that gleaming shell.

That night, she dreamed of wings — golden, vast, and bright as the sun.

And though she told no one, she carried the memory of that egg with her long after the punishment had passed. In years to come, when her daughter would cradle a dragon named Syrax, she would recall the glow in the Dragonpit and wonder if fate itself had brushed her hand.

The stench of the Dragonpit had become something Daemon wore like a badge. On the second week of his punishment, his swagger had softened into a rhythm — not arrogance, but a kind of pride that he was beginning to master the muck.

Daemon sloshed through the dung-pit with a shovel twice his size, dragging heavy chains to polish with oil until his shoulders ached. His hair was a tangled silver mane, and his boots caked thick with filth. But his chin was high, his eyes bright, as though every day in the pit made him stronger.

Perched on a stack of barrels, Viserys had come armed with figs and honeyed almonds, grinning as though he were attending a mummer’s show.

“You missed a spot,” Viserys called, flicking an almond into his mouth.

Daemon scowled without heat. “You try shoving dragon dung, brother. The piles are bigger than you.”

Viserys smirked, holding up another almond. “That is why I am eating, not shoving.”

Gael was nearby, sleeves rolled, kneeling beside a dragonkeeper who spoke to her in hushed tones. She listened with rapt attention as he told her of firestone, of the way dragons were soothed by touch and rhythm rather than words. Every so often she repeated a phrase in High Valyrian under her breath, testing it like a prayer.

Aemma had joined that day too, her skirts pinned high to keep from trailing in the muck. She lingered at the back of the cavern, wide-eyed but not afraid. The keepers respected her timid curiosity, guiding her to the racks where the dragon eggs rested in cradles of ash and sand.

It was there she stopped, her breath catching. Among mottled shells and streaked stone, one egg gleamed faintly golden, light pooling in its ridges like dawn trapped in scales. Aemma reached out again, almost against her will, and the cavern seemed to hush. Even the keepers fell silent, watching.

Her fingers hovered, never quite touching. A strange warmth pressed against her chest, like the thrum of a heartbeat not her own. For an instant, she felt it was hers — and not hers. Something waiting, not for her, but through her.

Gael glanced over and saw her niece standing transfixed. “Do you feel it?” she whispered.

Aemma blinked, snatched her hand back, cheeks pink. “It is only… beautiful,” she said quickly, though her voice trembled. She turned away before anyone could question her. But the vision of gold lingered, a secret nesting in her heart.

Viserys, of course, missed the moment entirely. He was too busy laughing at Daemon’s shovel slipping in the muck. “Careful, brother! If you fall, we’ll never find you again.”

Daemon grinned, breathless with sweat. “At least I’ll smell better than you.”

Viserys nearly choked on his almond laughing.

Elsewhere in the Red Keep, Jaehaerys paced the solar, the weight of parchment heavy in his hand. Letters from septons, veiled warnings that the Faith would look askance at yet another dragonrider born to House Targaryen.

“They see fire as pride, and pride as sin,” he muttered, shoulders stooped with care. “Every dragon claimed is another sermon preached against us.”

Alyssanne, seated by the hearth, watched him with eyes that knew his every furrow. She rose and caught his hand. “Every dragon claimed is also another torch against the dark. You must remember that. The Faith will bluster, but our duty is larger than their fear.”

He exhaled, leaning into her steadiness. “And what if it consumes them — consumes us?”

She kissed his hand, firm and sure. “Then we stand together, as we always have. We are more than fire, Jaehaerys. We are a family.”

Far across the sea-wind halls of Driftmark, Rhaenys sat beneath her mother’s careful eye, her hands cradling her swelling belly. Jocelyn busied herself with cushions and teas, while Corlys entered with salt still clinging to his cloak.

“News from King’s Landing,” he announced. “Caraxes has been claimed. By Daemon.”

At once Rhaenys’s lips curved into a smile. “Little Daemon? Bold as a storm at sea… of course he would.” Her laugh rang bright, genuine. She had always loved that cousin, quick-tongued and fiery.

But when Jocelyn glanced aside, she caught the shadow flicker across her daughter’s eyes. A quiet fury, buried deep. Rhaenys’s thoughts cut sharp: Another thing taken. Father’s blood, father’s dragon… now even father’s memory, swallowed by cousins who know nothing of loss.

Jocelyn reached for her hand, warm and steady. “Do not let grief twist joy, child. Love him still, as you did yesterday.”

Rhaenys nodded, swallowing hard. Later, alone, she unrolled a fresh parchment, dipped quill in ink. The words would not come, though her heart churned with them: I

I am proud of you, cousin. May Caraxes bear you high and safe. I look for-

The page stayed with words she should say but tatsed like ash in her mouth but her tears dotted the margin like ink.

The chamber was dim, the shutters drawn half-closed against the night. A single brazier burned low, casting shifting shadows that licked across carved beams. Baelon sat at the edge of the bed, unlacing his boots, while Alyssa moved about in her nightshift, combing her silver-gold hair with slow strokes.

“You looked proud of him,” Alyssa said at last, breaking the silence. Her tone was not accusing, only musing.

Baelon glanced back. “Daemon? Aye. How could I not? Caraxes does not bend easily. And my boy… he stole away and came back riding flame.” His mouth twisted. “I should thrash him for it.”

“You won’t,” Alyssa replied, setting the comb aside and slipping to sit beside him. She leaned against his shoulder, her warmth anchoring him.

Baelon’s jaw tightened. “I miss him, Lys. Every time I see Daemon swagger, or Viserys scowl at his brother’s victories, I remember Aemon. Gods, he should be here. It should be Rhaenys to inherit, not me. Do you know what it feels like, to carry a crown that was meant for another?”

Her hand caught his, fingers lacing firmly. “I know what it feels like to carry a sword meant for a brother who died. But you do not dishonor him by living, Baelon. You honor him with every choice you make. And Rhaenys—” Her voice softened, touched with sorrow. “She will have her own glory. Do not bleed yourself hollow with guilt.”

He looked at her then, eyes raw. “When Father gave me Dark Sister, I thought it was for me. But it wasn’t, was it? It was to be Aemon’s shield, his warrior. I was forged for him. And now I look at my sons, and I swear—by gods and dragons both—I’ll see to it they never doubt each other’s worth.”

Alyssa pressed her forehead to his, tears shining at the corners of her eyes. “Then you’ll have done more than any crown could ever demand. You’ll have given them what you and Aemon shared. A bond no throne could shatter.”

Baelon kissed her brow, the weight of his vow sealing between them.

The morning air at the Dragonpit stank of smoke and rot. Daemon strode in with a shovel twice too big for him, grinning like his father would with Dark Sister itself.

“Well?” he barked at the dragonkeepers. “Where’s the muckiest pile?”

The keepers exchanged weary glances. One pointed toward a steaming mound taller than the boy. Daemon laughed and set to work, driving the spade in with exaggerated force.

“Come on then! If dragons eat whole oxen, there ought to be dung fit for kings!” He heaved the shovel, splattering muck across his boots.

Caraxes watched from his cavern, long neck swaying. A low rumble vibrated the ground, half warning, half amusement.

Daemon dropped the shovel long enough to bow. “You’ll see, blood-wyrm. Someday, I’ll ride you to battle. Until then, I’ll shovel your shit gladly.”

One of the keepers muttered, “The fourteen preserve us, he’s enjoying it.”

And perhaps the strangest thing—Caraxes huffed, smoke curling, as if in approval.

In the solar that evening, Jaehaerys sat with another letter in hand, ink still fresh. His jaw clenched as he read the High Septon’s words aloud:

“‘Too many dragons is a curse upon the realm, a pride that shall call down judgment.’” He spat the words. “As if we were children to be scolded.”

Alyssanne touched his shoulder. “They fear what they cannot hold, my love. The Faith has ever feared us.”

“And perhaps they are right to.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “A boy of eleven, riding fire. Another dragon bound to blood. Will they see it as strength—or as the herald of fire unchained?”

She knelt before him, her cool hand covering his. “Let them mutter. The Faith has no swords. We will bear the whispers, as we always have. Do not let them steal your joy. Daemon’s bond is not a curse—it is a gift. And we will guide him, as we guided you.”

Jaehaerys looked at her, his features softening. “What would I do without you, woman?”

“You’ll never need to know.” She pressed a kiss to his knuckles, and for the first time that day, he smiled.

On Driftmark, the sea air was heavy with salt and storm. Rhaenys sat again at her desk, the candle guttering low, parchment stretched before her. The words would not come.

Caraxes had been her father’s. To see him bound to another—her cousin, her favorite cousin no less—was joy laced with bitterness. It was as if the last memory of her father had been taken, shifted to another boy’s keeping.

Her quill hovered. Should she write her congratulations? Should she confess her anger? In the end, she set the pen down, whispering instead to the waves outside her window:

“Fly high, Daemon. Fly for us all.”

Jocelyn entered then, soft-footed, and found her with wet eyes. Without a word, she wrapped her arms around her, holding her until the storm inside quieted.

Later, Rhaenys picked up the quill again and began a letter—not with bitterness, but with love. She wrote of her pride, of how she looked forward to the day she would see him aloft. But she left much unsaid, folded deep inside where no one would see.

The sun was low when Baelon summoned his sons and his sister, Gael to his solar. Viserys came first, still smirking from the memory of Daemon in the dung pits. Daemon followed, hair wild, his hands scrubbed raw from days of labor but his spirit unbroken. Gael slid in last, clutching a scrap of parchment filled with the dragonkeepers’ sayings in High Valyrian.

Baelon studied them in silence for a long moment. His eyes softened, but his tone when he spoke carried the weight of command.

“I hear, Viserys, that you visit your brother’s punishment often,” Baelon began.

Viserys flushed, uncertain whether it was censure or praise. “Only to… observe. It is amusing.”

“Amusing?” Baelon repeated, his gaze narrowing.

Daemon crossed his arms, half-proud. “He laughs while I work.”

Gael tilted her head, quietly: “And I learn while they jest.”

Baelon’s stern expression eased. “Good. All of it. Viserys, it is well that you find joy in your brother’s burdens, for it means you are with him. Daemon, it is well that you do not shrink from toil, for it makes you strong. And Gael—” he paused, a faint smile tugging his lips, “—wisdom gathered is a treasure none can take from you.”

He leaned forward, his voice dropping, heavy with memory. “My brother Aemon and I—we were as one soul in two bodies. I would have bled for him, and he for me. Now he is gone, and I tell you this: no crown, no dragon, no lordship is worth more than the bond of brotherhood.”

His eyes fixed on Viserys and Daemon, one after the other. “You will quarrel. You will envy. But you will never forget that you are of one blood. Do you understand?”

Viserys swallowed hard, nodding. Daemon’s chin jutted, fierce, but his voice was quiet when he answered, “I do, Father.”

Baelon reached across the table, laying a hand on each son’s shoulder, then glanced to his sister. “And you, daughter of our house, you bind them. Do not let their fire burn each other to ash.”

She bowed her head solemnly. “I will not.”

The Great Sept's chamber was cool with incense when the High Septon entered, robed in heavy white, his fingers glittering with seven rings for the Seven. Jaehaerys and Alysanne rose to greet him, Septon Barth hovering close, eyes keen and mouth pursed in thought.

“Your Grace, Your Grace,” the High Septon intoned, his voice rich as an organ. “The Faith trembles at the news. Another dragon saddled, another boy aloft in the sky. Do you mean to fill the heavens with fire until none may see the stars?”

Jaehaerys folded his hands, voice steady as stone. “We mean only to let our children follow their nature. To deny a dragonrider his mount would be to deny a septon his prayers.”

Alysanne’s smile was warm, disarming. “Surely, Your Holiness, you remember when Silverwing herself carried me across the realm to hear the supplications of the smallfolk. Did I not bring their petitions here, to you? Did I not work to ease their burdens with laws and mercy?”

The High Septon shifted, flustered by her honeyed tone. “Yes, Your Grace, but fire is dangerous. The commons fear. The Faith is charged with calming that fear.”

Septon Barth interjected smoothly, his deep voice resonant. “And what calms fear better than seeing dragonlords guided by the Seven’s wisdom? By the Septon’s blessing? These children are no wild fire made flesh — they are heirs to your counsel, Holiness.”

Jaehaerys leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a tone of reason. “Caraxes is but one more dragon in a line that has flown since Aegon’s time. Yet every year we mend roads, protect septs, uphold the Faith’s rights. Has the sky burned you, Holiness, while the ground has prospered beneath us both?”

The High Septon blinked, lips moving as if to counter, but Alysanne pressed forward, her hand lightly touching his sleeve in a gesture of feminine deference. “We do not ask the Faith to carry our burdens. We only ask that you see we carry them with care. Would it not reassure the faithful to know that even our children and grandchildren kneel to the Seven before they ride?”

It was masterful — not a concession, but a promise that the Faith’s dignity was entwined with the dragons themselves.

The High Septon’s sternness cracked into a smile. “If that is so… then perhaps the people need not fear. So long as the dragons are ridden by those who remember the Seven watch even the skies.”

“Always,” Jaehaerys said smoothly.

Barth’s eyes glittered. Manipulation complete. The High Septon left convinced he had won a pledge of obedience, while the King and Queen had ceded nothing.

When the doors closed, Jaehaerys let out a long breath, rubbing his face with both hands. Alysanne leaned against the table, laughter bubbling in her throat.

“He believes himself triumphant,” she whispered. “Can you imagine? He walked out thinking he guided us!”

Jaehaerys shook his head, grinning despite himself. “I thought he would choke on his own self-righteousness when you touched his sleeve. You nearly had him blushing like a novice.”

She laughed outright then, her blonde hair shining in the lamplight. “Well, better blushing than breathing fire.”

Jaehaerys chuckled with her, then caught her hand, pressing it to his lips. “You are cleverer than half my council, Alysanne. And I thank the gods every day you sit beside me.”

“And I thank them that you listen,” she returned softly. “Together we are stronger than even the Faith suspects.”

For a moment, the aging King and Queen leaned into each other’s warmth, the world and its burdens shut out beyond the chamber doors.

Chapter Text

The last day of Daemon and Gael’s punishment dawned pale and sharp, the kind of morning where the Dragonpit loomed like a sleeping god above King’s Landing, its shadow falling long over the cobbled streets.

Inside, the cavernous halls smelled as they always had—ash, charred bone, and the faint musk of dragon musk that clung to stone even when the beasts were away. Daemon stood with his arms crossed, chin high, as though daring anyone to remind him this was his last day among muck and chains. Beside him, Gael folded her hands, bright-eyed, as she had every morning, eager still to listen.

The dragonkeepers—hard men and women with leathery skin and hands burned raw by fire-scales—gathered them before the pens. The head of the order of Dragon keepers, Elder Maelios, cleared his throat.

“Well, your highnesses,” he said, his voice like gravel. “A moon you’ve given us. And a moon you’ve survived. Before you leave, have you aught to say to us?”

Daemon shifted, his pride rising like a shield—but for once he lowered it. His violet eyes flicked toward Caraxes’ cavern, where the great red beast lay coiled in shadow, smoke curling from his maw. When Daemon spoke, it was softer than they expected.

“I thought, at first, that you were keepers of dung and chains. That this was punishment fit for a stableboy. But I was wrong.” He looked each of them in the eye, steady and solemn. “I learned what you do is sacred. Dragons are not beasts of burden. They are not playthings for bored princes. They are our blood, our bond to Valyria, and without you, we would forget that. You keep more than dragons—you keep our legacy.”

There was a murmur among the keepers, one even crossing his arms to hide a smile. Maelios inclined his head in respect.

Gael stepped forward then, her small hands clasped before her. “And I will never forget what you taught me. Every tale, every warning, every trick you shared about scales and tempers and feeding fires. It was not punishment for me—it was a gift. Thank you.”

She dipped a curtsy, simple but graceful, her silver hair falling forward.

The dragonkeepers bowed their heads, touched. Even Caraxes stirred, loosing a long, rumbling hiss that echoed off the cavern walls, as if to mark the moment.

That evening, the Red Keep glowed with lanternlight. It was no great feast—no heralds, no minstrels, no courtiers crowding the tables. Only family, gathered in the smaller hall where warmth clung to the walls and conversation could be soft without echoing into gossip.

Jaehaerys sat at the head, his white beard gleaming in the firelight, Alyssanne at his side, her hand resting lightly atop his. Baelon and Alyssa were already seated, speaking low together, when Daemon and Gael entered, fresh from their baths, their hair still damp.

Viserys was there too, fiddling with a plate of sugared plums, and Aemma sat beside Amanda, her older half-sister, whose protective eyes missed nothing.

“Well now,” Jaehaerys said, voice booming though it was only kin at the table. “Our truant dragonlord and his shadow return to us. Sit, both of you. Your moon’s penance is done.”

Daemon dropped into his chair with the casual sprawl of a boy who thought himself already a man. Gael sat more carefully, folding her napkin in her lap.

Jaehaerys fixed them with his sharp old eyes. “Tell us, then. What have you learned from this punishment of yours?”

Daemon straightened. For once, no swagger touched his words. “That the dragonkeepers do the work that is greater than I ever thought. They do not serve us, the princes and princesses—they serve the dragons, and through them, they serve our house. Dragons are not beasts to be mastered when whim strikes. They are… kin. To be honored. To be respected.”

There was a hush at the table. Alyssanne’s lips curved into the faintest smile.

“And you, Gael?” the queen asked gently.

Gael folded her hands tighter, her voice a soft but steady note. “That knowledge is a kind of treasure. And the keepers gave me more of it than I can ever repay. I will never forget their stories, their warnings, or their kindness. And I learned that dragons… they choose us, not the other way around.”

A murmur of approval rippled through the adults. Alyssa dabbed her eyes discreetly, while Baelon leaned back, pride plain in his gaze.

“Well said,” Jaehaerys murmured, nodding. “Well said, both of you.”

The solemn air broke like a wave when Viserys leaned forward with a smirk. “And how many times did you shovel dragon dung, Daemon? Enough to know what it smells like from leagues away?”

Daemon scowled, though there was no heat in it. “More than you could stomach, bookworm.”

Viserys grinned, triumphant. “I should have brought quills to tally it. A hundred piles, perhaps? A thousand?”

Aemma giggled, covering her mouth. “Considering their size, it must have been mountains.”

“Mountains of fire,” Viserys said gravely, then added, “And Daemon the Dunglord, standing atop them.”

The table erupted in laughter. Even Jaehaerys chuckled behind his beard, and Baelon leaned over to clap his younger son’s shoulder.

“Dunglord!” Alyssa teased, her eyes dancing. “Well, better that than stinking of perfume like a Braavosi fop.”

Daemon groaned and pressed a hand to his face, though a smile betrayed him. “You are all cruel.”

“Not cruel,” Viserys corrected with mock solemnity. “Honest.”

The evening unfolded in warmth after that—roast lamb and honeyed carrots, candied almonds and strongwine for the elders. Conversation danced from dragons to books to old tales of Aemon and Baelon's childhood mischief, each story more embellished than the last. Amanda kept a watchful eye on Aemma, though she softened when her sister’s laughter rang out.

And through it all, the family’s bond was a web of gentle jests and fierce loyalties, stitched tighter by the trials of the past moon. The children grew, the elders watched, and the house of the dragon—scarred, proud, and ever aflame—glowed bright beneath the Red Keep’s vaulted roof.

The gardens of Maegor’s Holdfast were in bloom when Queen Alysanne summoned her daughter to walk with her. Bees droned lazily among the lavender, and the air was rich with the scent of late roses, their petals pale against the dark green leaves. Alyssa matched her mother’s pace, her long blonde hair braided back simply, her violet and green eyes bright though her cheeks were flushed from the morning’s labors.

“You have surprised me, child,” Alysanne said at length, her smile warm but edged with curiosity. “I hear whispers that you now keep ladies of your own. I had thought you the last girl in Westeros to gather a flock of ladies-in-waiting.”

Alyssa’s mouth curved, not in embarrassment but in quiet amusement. “Not a flock, Mother. And certainly not the sort you once had. They are not all silks and songbirds. They are the antithesis of what court expects a lady’s company to be.”

Alysanne arched a brow. “Then tell me why. Who are these women, and why have you chosen them?”

Alyssa’s voice steadied, carrying the conviction of one who had considered the matter deeply. “Lady Lyra of House Mormont I chose for her discipline. She has lived among warriors since she was a girl, and her skill with arms is second only to her ability to read men—their strengths, their posturing, their lies. I trust her eyes as much as her sword.”

The queen chuckled, pleased. “A she-bear at your side, then. That is no poor choice.”

“Barbrey, of House Dustin, I chose for her mind,” Alyssa continued. “She knows land, inheritance, and resources as if she were born with ledgers in her hands. I believe she will be a great help in managing your works among the people—your orphanages, your fountains, the kitchens. She sees what is waste and what is want, and already she has cut coin where it was being lost.”

“And the last?” Alysanne asked, her eyes gleaming with interest.

“Sabitha Frey,” Alyssa said, a small smile tugging her lips. “You might think it folly at first, but I have learned better. She has a gift for whispers. She brings news, rumors, sometimes nothing more than tavern songs, but in them lie truths. She is my ears, where I cannot be. Information is its own weapon, and she wields it well.”

Alysanne laughed, soft and bright as bells. “Seven save us, Alyssa. You have gathered a warrior, a steward, and a whisperer. No harpists or embroiderers among them?”

“I have Baelon to thank for it, in truth,” Alyssa admitted, her tone half-wry. “At first he teased me for not having ladies, and he helped me choose them—though I thought it folly. Yet now I see their worth. I value their counsel, and more than that, their work.”

Alysanne squeezed her daughter’s hand. “I am glad, truly. The realm may expect you to sit quiet and be with your swords, but you have made yourself something more. That gladdens me, Alyssa. It reminds me of… well, of myself when I was younger.”

They walked on, the conversation turning naturally toward the projects that tied them both.

Alyssa’s eyes lit as she spoke. “I have put aside a portion of my dowry, only a little—two percent. Yet even that was a hundred thousand gold dragons. Enough to renovate the orphanage at the Street of the Sisters, enough to see the fountains scrubbed and their cisterns kept clean. The water runs clear again, and the children have soft beds instead of straw.”

“Your heart is as full as your coffers, daughter,” Alysanne murmured, pride warming her tone.

“Barbrey oversees much of the work,” Alyssa went on. “She spares no coin where it is needed but spends not a copper more than what is just. And the kitchens—Mother, they now have a second branch near the Fishmongers’ Square. Each day, hot meals are ladled into bowls for the poor. Stew with barley, fresh bread when there is flour enough. Sabitha tells me the smallfolk sing praises—of you, first, but also of me, for continuing your works.”

The queen’s eyes grew misty at that. “The smallfolk will never forget the hand that feeds them. Remember that, Alyssa. Their love is truer than the flatteries of lords.”

“I know it,” Alyssa said softly. She hesitated, then laughed lightly, shaking her head. “And yet, all this worthiness does not quiet my heart. I miss the yard. The clash of steel, the feel of a sword’s weight. I shall spar with Lady Lyra when this is done, to remind myself I have not grown soft with books and ledgers.”

Alysanne laughed, pressing a kiss to her daughter’s temple. “Then go. A queen may build with words and coin, but a princess must sometimes remember the blade.”

The clang of steel reverberated through the Red Keep’s training yard. The morning sun had already risen high, throwing hard light across the beaten earth where two women circled like predators. Princess Alyssa Targaryen, tunic sleeves rolled to the elbow, her silver hair tied back in a warrior’s knot, faced Lady Lyra Mormont, the She-Bear of Bear Island, whose thick arms and fierce grin made her every inch the fighter her reputation promised.

“Keep your guard high, Princess,” Lyra warned, circling. Her voice was rich with amusement. “I’d hate to see that pretty Targaryen nose broken.”

“Try me, and you’ll find I break more than noses,” Alyssa shot back, her tone sharp but playful. She shifted her weight, her training blade poised.

Steel met steel with a ringing crack as Lyra lunged. Alyssa parried, but the force of the blow pushed her back a step, her boots scraping on packed dirt. Lyra pressed her advantage—one, two, three strikes in rapid succession—each heavy enough to numb Alyssa’s arms.

From the wall, Daemon whooped. “Mother, watch your left!” His boyish voice carried across the yard, shrill with excitement.

Alyssa twisted at the last moment, Lyra’s blade whooshing past her ribs. She darted in, aiming low at the northern woman’s thigh. Lyra barked a laugh and twisted aside, shoving Alyssa away with her shoulder.

“Good!” Lyra grinned. “Better than most lords who swagger through here. But you’re too light on your feet—you need to plant.”

“And give you my center?” Alyssa panted, circling again. Sweat beaded at her brow. “I think not.”

They clashed once more, the rhythm shifting. Lyra advanced with broad, battering strokes; Alyssa countered with sharp, precise cuts, steel ringing like bells. At one point, Lyra tried to overpower her, blades locked, their faces inches apart, teeth bared in grimaces.

“Yield yet?” Lyra growled, their swords trembling between them.

Alyssa’s lips curved. “Never.” With a twist of her wrist, she slid off Lyra’s blade and ducked low, rolling past her to come up behind her. The watching armsmen gasped at the unexpected maneuver.

Daemon erupted in cheers, clapping his hands until they stung. “Did you see that? She rolled like a cat!”

Lyra turned, face flushed, but her grin wider than ever. “Seven hells, you’ve claws, Princess.”

“Better to keep them sharp,” Alyssa answered, her chest heaving.

They reset, blades raised, circling once more. This time Alyssa struck first, feinting high then snapping low. Lyra blocked, but the speed forced her to stumble, and Alyssa drove forward, hammering blow after blow. Sparks flew as their practice swords clashed. At last, Alyssa wrenched her wrist and smacked Lyra’s blade aside, darting in to rest the point just above the northern woman’s heart.

A hush fell over the yard. Then Lyra threw back her head and laughed. “Well struck, Princess! Gods, I’ll have bruises from this one.”

Daemon leapt down from the wall, landing with a thud, and rushed to his mother’s side. His face was flushed with pride, his violet eyes alight. “You beat her, Mother! Truly beat her!” He looked up at Lyra with childlike awe. “And you’re the best fighter I’ve ever seen, Lady Lyra—except my mother, of course.”

Lyra tousled his hair with her calloused hand. “You’ve a fine mother, boy. And if you’re half as stubborn as she is, you’ll be trouble for the whole realm one day.”

Daemon puffed out his chest at that, delighted.

Alyssa sheathed her sword with a flourish, though her arms ached and her muscles burned. “Again?” she asked, her eyes bright with challenge.

Lyra chuckled, shaking her head. “Aye, but after I’ve had a horn of mead and some rest. The She-Bear’s not too proud to say she’s been bested—for now.”

Daemon slipped his small hand into Alyssa’s, looking up at her with boundless admiration. To him, she was not just his mother, not just a princess who sat in councils and poured over ledgers. She was a warrior, fire and steel, the sort of woman sung of in the songs.

And in that moment, with the clang of steel still echoing faintly in the yard, Daemon swore to himself that one day, he too would wield a blade as fiercely as she did—and perhaps, if the gods were kind, win her same proud smile.

The library smelled of parchment and dust, the air heavy with the weight of centuries. Viserys sat at a long oak table, a thick tome spread open before him, its pages covered in curling Valyrian glyphs that shimmered faintly in the shafts of afternoon light. His brow was furrowed in concentration, lips moving as he murmured the words beneath his breath.

Aemma stood at his shoulder, tilting her head curiously. “What does it say?”

Viserys smirked without looking up. “If you cannot read it, why should I tell you?”

Her cheeks colored at once. “Because I asked. And because you are supposed to be kind to your cousin.”

He glanced at her then, violet eyes glinting with mischief. “You cannot read Valyrian?”

Aemma stiffened, her fingers knotting together. “No. Not well. Not at all, really.”

“That’s impossible,” Viserys said, sitting straighter. “You are Aunt Daella’s daughter. You have Targaryen blood.”

Her lips curved into a rueful smile. “Blood does not make letters any clearer. I wanted to learn, but... they never taught me in the Eyrie.”

Viserys blinked at her, surprise softening into something else. “Truly?”

“Truly.”

He tapped the page, his expression shifting into something like determination. “Sit, then. If you cannot read, I will teach you.”

Aemma hesitated, then slid into the chair beside him. She leaned forward, the pale curve of her hair catching the light, her face bright with expectation.

Viserys pointed to a word, his voice carrying the clipped confidence of a boy who loved nothing more than his books. “This one. Drakarys. Say it.”

Aemma squinted at the glyphs. “Dra… dra-kee-rus?”

Viserys choked on a laugh. “By the gods, no! Not kee-rus. Ka-ris.”

She wrinkled her nose. “It looks like kee-rus.”

“That is because you are not looking properly.” He leaned closer, tapping again. “Listen. Dra. Kar. Is.”

“Dra… kar… is.”

He nodded, though his grin betrayed him. “Better. Still dreadful, but better.”

Her elbow jabbed into his side. “If you are going to mock me, I’ll leave you to your precious books.”

“You asked me to teach you!”

“I did not ask to be insulted.”

They glared at each other across the table for a long moment before, quite suddenly, both of them broke into reluctant laughter. The sharpness between them softened, and Viserys, though he still wore his smug little smile, repeated the word patiently until she managed it without stumbling.

Hours seemed to slip away in that rhythm—his teasing, her stubbornness, the sound of ancient Valyrian haltingly rolling from her tongue.

At last, when the light dimmed, Aemma closed the book with a soft thump. She was quiet for a long while, her gaze distant. Then, almost in a whisper, she said, “Viserys, may I tell you something?”

He blinked, startled by her tone. “What is it?”

“When Gael had her punishment… with the dragonkeepers… I went with her once. Out of curiosity.”

He leaned forward. “And?”

Her hands tightened in her lap. “There was an egg. Gold, and warm to the touch. I—I knew it wasn’t mine. Yet when I laid my hand upon it, it felt… familiar. As though I had touched it before, in some dream.”

Viserys stared, breath caught in his throat. “A dragon egg?” His voice trembled with awe. “That is no small thing, Aemma. Such eggs are rare—precious. Do you know what it could mean?”

“I know only that it is not mine to claim,” she said quickly, eyes darting to him. “I haven’t spoken of it. Not to Gael, not even to my sister. You must not tell anyone, Viserys.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, searching her face. At last he nodded, solemn for once. “Very well. Your secret is mine.”

She exhaled in relief, though a small smile tugged at her lips. “Good. For if you told, I would never forgive you.”

Viserys tried to summon his usual smirk, but it faltered under the weight of her gaze. He looked down at the book instead, his finger tracing the glyphs. “Then we shall call it our bargain. I teach you Valyrian, and I keep your secret.”

“And if I mispronounce again?” she asked, daring to tease.

“Then,” he said, with exaggerated patience, “I will endure it. For your sake.”

The look they shared in that quiet moment was not yet love, nor even friendship fully formed, but the beginning of something balanced between rivalry and trust—sharp edges softened by laughter, secrets sealed between them like mortar in stone.

Aemma and Viserys remained in the library, their laughter echoing softly against the stone, unknowing of the shadow just beyond the archway.

Sabitha Vypren leaned against the wall, quiet as a cat in the dark. She had only been seeking a book herself, some dusty tome for the Princess’s ever-growing projects, but what she overheard was far weightier than a ledger of coin or a list of landholdings. She waited until their voices dropped again, until the candlelight flickered lower, and only then did she slip away, her mind busy with the secret she carried.

By the time Sabitha reached the yard, the clang of steel rang out against the night air. Princess Alyssa was sparring with Lady Lyra Mormont, sweat darkening the front of her tunic, her braid loosed and whipping like a silver lash as she struck. Lyra met every blow with the solid strength of Bear Island’s blood, her shield ringing with the force of Alyssa’s strikes.

Daemon sat perched upon a low wall, cheering for his mother as if she fought in a tourney rather than practice, his small voice carrying over the yard.

Sabitha lingered at the edge until Alyssa disarmed Lyra with a deft twist, both women laughing breathlessly as they lowered their blades. Only then did she step forward, bowing her head.

“My princess,” she said smoothly, “I have news you may find… curious.”

Alyssa, cheeks flushed, tossed her sword to a squire and motioned for a cloth. “Speak then, Sabitha. You never waste your breath unless it is worth the telling.”

Sabitha allowed herself the faintest smile. “I happened upon the young prince and Lady Aemma this evening in the library. Viserys was teaching her Valyrian—or attempting to, for she butchered it quite bravely. Yet what caught my ear was not their quarrel over letters. It was what followed.”

Alyssa arched a brow, dabbing at her brow with the cloth. “Go on.”

“Lady Aemma confided in him,” Sabitha said softly, her tone edged with intrigue. “She spoke of the dragonpit, of touching a golden egg that felt… familiar to her. She made him swear never to tell another soul.”

Alyssa stilled. Behind her, Lyra frowned faintly but said nothing, accustomed by now to Sabitha’s talent for ferreting whispers out of stone walls.

“She trusts him,” Sabitha added, letting the words hang. “And he her. What began as mockery and rivalry is bending into something else. Something closer.”

For a long moment, Alyssa said nothing. Her violet eyes shifted toward the wall where her son still sat, kicking his heels against the stone, calling for Lyra to best her again so he might cheer louder. A faint, rueful smile touched her lips.

“When Baelon and I were children,” she murmured, more to herself than her ladies, “I pestered him daily until he agreed to teach me swordplay. I swore I hated him at first—his airs, his stubbornness, his endless sermons on duty. And yet, iron sharpens iron, Sabitha. Affection crept in through the cracks of rivalry.”

Sabitha inclined her head. “Precisely, my princess. The beginnings of such cracks I heard tonight.”

Lyra grunted, adjusting her shield strap. “If Viserys gains as much fire from Aemma as she from him, it may not be the worst match.”

Alyssa’s smile widened, though faintly wistful. “Neither I nor Baelon will ever force their hands. Yet… I see what you mean. They push each other, as Baelon once pushed me. And that is no small thing.”

She cast a glance toward her son, now shouting for her to spar again, and shook her head with a laugh. “Let us watch. Let them quarrel and tease and stumble over words. Sometimes love grows best in the soil of mockery.”

Sabitha bowed low, satisfied, while Lyra raised her sword again, ready to give her princess another bout. And in the shadows of the Red Keep, a secret took root, one that would bind two young hearts more tightly than either of them yet knew.

Later that night, Alyssa sat in her chambers, hair unbound and falling about her shoulders, the scent of lavender oil clinging faintly to her skin. Her limbs ached pleasantly from the sparring, and her thoughts still circled Sabitha’s whisper.

Baelon entered without ceremony, fresh from the council chamber, his face shadowed by candlelight. He loosened his cloak, set aside his sword-belt, and came to stand behind her chair, resting his broad hands upon her shoulders.

“You fought again,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting. “I can tell by the stiffness of your shoulders. You will not be satisfied until you’ve bested Lyra Mormont twice in a row.”

Alyssa smiled faintly. “She gives me no quarter. I would have it no other way.”

Baelon bent to press a kiss against her temple, then moved to the chair opposite hers. His violet eyes, keen and steady, studied her face. “Yet your mind is elsewhere.”

“It is.” She folded her hands in her lap, weighing how to speak. “Sabitha brought me word tonight. Of Viserys.”

Baelon’s brows rose. “He is well, I hope?”

“Well enough. More than well, perhaps.” Alyssa’s lips curved, though her tone remained careful. “She found him in the library with Aemma. Teasing her, teaching her, keeping her confidences. Sabitha believes there is… a growing closeness.”

Baelon’s expression tightened, not in anger but in guardedness. “And already, the whispers begin.”

“Whispers can speak truth as well as folly,” Alyssa said gently.

He shook his head. “I will not pressure my son to wed. Not now, not when he is still a boy.”

“Nor will I,” Alyssa answered, her voice quiet but firm. “But think, Baelon. Aemma is there, close to hand. She challenges him, she vexes him, she draws him out from his books. That is no small thing. It was the same with us. Do you not remember?”

His gaze flicked to hers, wary softening creeping into it despite himself.

“When I was a girl, I plagued you without mercy,” Alyssa went on, smiling at the memory. “I demanded you teach me the sword, though you scolded and lectured. I thought I despised you for it. Yet you drove me harder than anyone. You made me better. And in time, that became love.”

Baelon let out a slow breath, the lines of his face easing. “You were relentless,” he admitted, a ghost of amusement in his tone. “Stubborn as stone.”

“And you were insufferable,” she teased, her eyes alight. “But together, we sharpened each other’s edges. As Viserys and Aemma may do, if left to grow in their own time.”

Baelon leaned back, the fight in him softening into memory. For a moment, silence stretched between them, warm and thoughtful. Then he reached across the table, taking her hand in his, rough warrior’s palm against slender fingers.

“Perhaps,” he conceded quietly. “If the gods will it, and if it grows true. But let it be theirs, Alyssa. Not ours.”

She squeezed his hand, smiling tenderly. “Always theirs. But I cannot help seeing in them a reflection of us.”

Baelon chuckled, low and fond. “Then may the fourteen help the realm, for no one ever withstood your stubbornness, my love.”

She laughed, leaning across the table to kiss him, and for a time, the weight of responsibility and crowns and matches dissolved into the simple sweetness of shared memory, husband and wife recalling the children they had once been.

Chapter Text

The Red Keep’s council chamber was cool in the morning light, its high windows throwing pale beams upon the oaken table where the realm’s rulers gathered. Maps lay spread before them, marked with inked roads and strongholds, and the scent of parchment and wax mingled with the faint tang of the sea wafting in from Blackwater Bay.

King Jaehaerys sat at the head, stern and measured, his silver beard trimmed close. Beside him, Queen Alyssanne, her bright eyes softened by years yet no less shrewd, leaned forward in her seat, eager to begin. Crown Prince Baelon sat a little further down, broad-shouldered and straight-backed, while Septon Barth, quill ever ready, hovered with the patience of a scribe and the wisdom of a sage. Across the table, the masters of coin, laws, and ships—Beesbury, Massey, and Corlys Velaryon—waited with their own papers and thoughts.

The chamber door closed. Silence settled. Jaehaerys cleared his throat.

“Let us begin.”

It was Alyssanne who spoke first, voice clear as a bell. “I would open with word of the orphanage and fountains. My daughter Alyssa has overseen the projects with diligence, and the reports are favorable. The kitchens feed near twice the mouths as before, and the smallfolk have begun singing not only my name, but hers.”

A faint smile played at her lips as she glanced toward Baelon. “It seems your wife has discovered a talent for governance, my son.”

Baelon could not help the pride that rose in him, his hand clenching lightly on the table. “She has ever had the heart for it. If not in the yard with sword in hand, then at the ledgers and plans. I cannot claim her labors—those victories are hers.”

Lord Beesbury, wizened and sharp of eye despite his years, adjusted his spectacles. “I have the figures here, Your Grace. From the princess’s own dowry, a mere fraction was employed—two percent, yet a hundred thousand golden dragons. With Lady Dustin’s oversight, expenditures have been precise, with no waste. The kitchens in Flea Bottom run at a surplus, thanks to donations from grateful guildsmen.”

Barth nodded gravely. “It is not merely charity, but good governance. A well-fed city is less restless.”

Queen Alyssanne’s smile deepened, though her husband’s face remained its usual careful mask. Still, Jaehaerys inclined his head. “Let it be entered into record. Princess Alyssa has served the realm well.”

Baelon felt warmth flush through him at that, though he kept his voice even. “I thank you, Father.”

The talk turned then to roads—dusty tracks winding from Oldtown to White Harbor, from Gulltown to the Golden Tooth. Lord Albin Massey unfurled a scroll covered in neat figures, his voice nasal but practiced.

“Repairs are underway on the Rosby road, though banditry plagues the northern stretches. Some suggest a levy of men be dispatched to guard the works, though it will raise costs.”

“A levy is cheaper than unrest,” Barth countered calmly.

“True,” Jaehaerys said, his eyes narrowing at the map. “Yet coin is finite. Beesbury, how fares the treasury?”

“Well enough, Your Grace, though the Braavosi trade has slowed. Still, if the Crown continues its present restraint, we can maintain both projects and protection.”

So it went, numbers and needs passed like stones across the table. Yet soon the queen, restless, turned the talk elsewhere.

“Another matter weighs on me,” Alyssanne said. “We must think of the babe Rhaenys carries. When it is born, a cradle should be set with a dragon’s egg, as befits a child of her blood. Baelon, Alyssa’s son, has his. So too should Rhaenys’s babe.”

Baelon glanced at his mother, brows rising, but before he could speak, Jaehaerys’s lips thinned. “Is it not too soon to discuss eggs? The child is not yet born.”

Alyssanne gave him a look of exasperation. “And when it is born, will you say the same? Better to decide now. The child deserves its heritage, no less than any other.”

But it was Lord Corlys who shifted in his chair, the broad-shouldered Master of Ships bowing his head, his dark eyes cast to the polished table. His voice, when it came, was low and heavy.

“My queen,” he said. “Forgive me, but this talk is… ill-timed.”

All eyes turned toward him. Even Jaehaerys’s stern face softened, if only slightly.

Corlys swallowed once before continuing. “My wife suffered another miscarriage. We have no need to be speaking of eggs today.”

The chamber fell into silence, heavy as stone. The proud Sea Snake, who faced storms and battle with unshaken courage, now spoke with grief plain in every word.

Baelon’s stomach turned with guilt—guilt for thinking of his sudden elevation to heir instead of Rhaenys and now this...  his niece’s womb had known only sorrow. Alyssanne’s hand flew to her mouth, her bright eyes brimming.

“When was this?” she demanded, her voice sharp with pain. “Why am I hearing of it only now?”

Corlys raised his head, solemn but steady. “Because my wife wished it so. She desired no courtly mourning, no whispers in the halls. Her mother, Lady Jocelyn, has been at her side in Driftmark. She consoles her better than all of us put together.”

Alyssanne pressed her lips tight, anguish plain upon her face. “My poor girl. My sweet Rhaenys.”

Jaehaerys shifted in his chair, his voice quieter than before. “Tell her she is ever welcome here, Lord Corlys. This keep is her home as much as yours.”

The Sea Snake bowed his head again. “I thank you, Your Grace. Yet she prefers Driftmark’s salt air. At times, she goes to Storm’s End, to her mother’s halls. Here in the Red Keep, every stone reminds her of what she has lost. In Driftmark, she can breathe.”

No one argued. For a long while, the council sat in silence, the maps forgotten, the quills stilled. The weight of loss hung heavier than matters of coin or stone or steel.

At last, Barth cleared his throat softly, a mercy of sound. “Then let it be recorded that Rhaenys is in our prayers. And let the matter of dragon eggs rest—for now.”

Jaehaerys gave a single nod. “So be it.”

The meeting limped to its close after that, voices subdued, the great engine of rule slowed by grief. Yet as they departed one by one, each carried not only the burdens of realm and duty, but the private sorrow of a family that, though royal, could not escape the cruelties of fate. When the meeting was at last dismissed, courtiers shuffled away with parchments and maps, and the council chamber’s weighty silence remained behind. Yet grief and unease followed its members down the stone halls of the Red Keep.

The Queen’s solar was a softer place than the council chamber—warm tapestries of stags and swans upon the walls, embroidery hoops upon the table, a hearth burning low despite the summer sun. But when Jaehaerys entered, his face lined and heavy, the air felt as thick as if grief itself had smothered the flames.

Alyssanne stood by the window, hands gripping the sill so tightly her knuckles were white. “She is but a girl,” the Queen whispered. “A child. To lose again, and again…” Her voice broke, and she shook her head fiercely, as if anger might steady her. “Why was I not told? Am I not her grandmother? Am I not her Queen?”

Jaehaerys closed the door with a sigh. He did not go to her at once, but stood a few paces away, looking down at his hands. “Rhaenys is proud after what happened. So is Corlys. They would not lay bare their pain before the court.”

“She should not have to bear it alone,” Alyssanne said, turning on him, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “No woman should. I know what it is to lose babes. Gods, Jaehaerys, I know.” Her voice cracked again, and she pressed a hand to her chest as though steadying her heart. “I could have comforted her. I could have—”

The King crossed the chamber at last, taking her hands in his own, though his touch was hesitant, almost guilty. “We cannot mend what is already broken, my love. Not with all our power, not with all our prayers. Corlys, loathsome as I am to admit it but he guards her like a ship against the storm, and she… she has her our sister, her mother. Jocelyn will be balm enough, for now.”

Alyssanne’s lips trembled, but she leaned into him, resting her forehead against his chest. “Still, I would have held her. She is ours as much as theirs.”

“Aye,” Jaehaerys murmured, resting a hand on her silver hair. “She is ours. Whatever storms come, she is ours.”

They stood together in silence, the Queen’s tears dampening his tunic, the King staring past her shoulder at the hearth’s dim embers. For all the dragons that roared in their blood, neither had power enough to keep their children—and their children’s children—safe from the cruelties of fate.

Far across the keep, Baelon Targaryen sat heavily upon a cushioned bench in his chambers, his head bowed into his hands. His sword-belt still hung at his hip, but it seemed a burden rather than a badge of honor. The memory of Corlys’s words gnawed at him: Another miscarriage.

He felt Alyssa before he saw her—her hand, light upon his shoulder. When he looked up, her face was pale, her eyes shadowed.

“It is not your fault,” she said gently.

“It feels as if it is,” Baelon muttered, voice rough. “Rhaenys is my blood, my brother’s daughter. And here we are—speaking of dragon eggs, of future heirs, while she bleeds alone in Driftmark. What kind of kin am I?”

“The same as I,” Alyssa said softly, lowering herself beside him. She folded her hands in her lap, staring at them as though ashamed. “I have been so busy with the fountains, the kitchens, the city’s works. I should have thought to send a letter, a gift—something. She is my niece, and yet I left her to bear her grief in silence.”

Baelon turned to her, astonishment in his eyes. “You have done nothing wrong.”

“Nor have you,” she countered, her voice firmer. “But guilt comes easily to those who care. That is our weakness, and perhaps our strength.”

For a moment, neither spoke. Then Baelon exhaled sharply, leaning back against the bench. “She is so young, Alyssa. Too young for such losses. And yet the realm already whispers of her womb as if it were a granary to be counted and weighed.”

Alyssa reached for his hand, threading her fingers through his. “That is the curse of women in our bloodline. Queens, princesses, mothers before we are anything else.” She gave a humorless laugh. “Do you think they will speak of me any differently, if I fail to bear sons enough?”

Baelon’s head snapped toward her, his eyes fierce. “You are more than your womb, Alyssa. You are fire and will and steel, more than most men I know. The realm should kneel in thanks for you, not weigh your worth in children.”

Her lips curved faintly, touched by his fervor. “Then let us hold fast to that, husband. For Rhaenys’s sake, for mine. And when next we see her, we will not speak of loss. We will bring her laughter, even if only for an hour.”

Baelon drew her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss against her knuckles. “Aye. Laughter. For her, and for us.”

They sat together in quiet after that, their grief mingling but eased by one another’s company, as the Red Keep beyond their chamber carried on in its endless, ceaseless hum.

Daemon had not meant to listen. He had only meant to creep closer to the chamber where his parents spoke, hoping perhaps to hear some mention of Caraxes, or of the punishment in the Dragonpit that he had only just endured. But as the boy of ten and two lingered by the carved door, the words that reached his ears struck harder than any scolding.

“…she has suffered another,” his father’s voice, low and grim.
“…when were we to be told?” his mother’s, trembling with anger.
“…Rhaenys wished it kept private,” came Lord Corlys’s steadier tone, muffled but unmistakable.

Another. The word was enough.

Daemon’s breath caught in his throat. His hands, small but restless, clenched into fists at his sides. He did not wait to hear more. The corridor seemed suddenly too narrow, the stones too heavy upon him. He darted away before their voices could follow, his heart hammering as though he had been struck.

He had not known. No one had told him. Rhaenys—his Rhaenys, his cousin, his closest friend, the one who laughed at his boasting and dared him in return—had been carrying a babe, and now had lost it, and he had not been there.

By the time he found Lord Corlys in the yard below, the Sea Snake was speaking with a steward about ships’ timetables. Daemon did not wait for courtesy. He stormed forward, his pale face flushed, silver hair disheveled.

“Why did no one tell me?” he demanded, his voice high with fury. “Why did no one tell me about Rhaenys?”

Corlys turned, blinking down at the boy. The lines of care around his mouth deepened, but he did not chide him. He dismissed the steward with a flick of his hand. “You were not told,” he said evenly, “because she wished it so.”

“That is no answer!” Daemon shot back, his violet eyes bright with unshed tears. “She is my cousin. She is my—my best friend. She is everything to me! And I did not even know she—” His voice broke, sharp as glass. “She should not suffer alone.”

For a long moment Corlys regarded him, his sea-blue cloak stirring faintly in the wind. At last he crouched, so his proud face was level with the boy’s. “Daemon. She asked that no word spread, not even to you. It is her grief to bear in her own way.”

“But it is not fair,” Daemon whispered fiercely. “She lost—she lost a babe, and still they keep secrets from me, as though I am a child.”

“You are a child,” Corlys reminded him, but the words were not cruel. “And yet… I see the man you may be.” His hand clasped Daemon’s shoulder briefly. “Hold to that love you feel for her. But let her come to you in her own time. Do not force her hand.”

Daemon swallowed hard, the storm still whirling in his chest. He nodded, but it was stiff, unyielding. He would not be told to wait.

That night, when the halls had grown quiet, he went to find his brother.

Viserys was in the library, of course—where else? The older boy was hunched over a heavy tome, a plate of figs at his elbow, lips moving silently as he traced the words.

“I need your help,” Daemon said without preamble, stepping into the lamplight.

Viserys looked up, amused. “What is it this time? Another wager with the dragonkeepers? Have you decided to make muck-shoveling a hobby?” His grin widened at his own jest.

But Daemon did not laugh. His face was pale, stricken. “Rhaenys…” he began, and faltered. His throat felt too tight. “She lost another babe.”

The mirth slipped at once from Viserys’s face. He sat straighter, the book forgotten. “How do you know?”

“I heard Father and Mother speaking,” Daemon said, his words tumbling over one another. “And Lord Corlys. They did not want me to know, but I do. And I cannot—I cannot sit here in the Red Keep as though nothing has happened. especially, after everything” His small hands clenched. “I must go to her.”

Viserys frowned, his own heart aching. Rhaenys was dear to him too, though she laughed more easily with Daemon. “You cannot simply fly across the sea without leave. Father and Grandfather will—”

“I will not ask leave,” Daemon cut in. “Caraxes is mine. It is but a short flight to Driftmark. Twenty minutes, no more. I can be back before they notice.” His eyes, bright with urgency, locked on his brother’s. “But if anyone asks where I am, you must tell them I am only at the Dragonpit. That I wished to test Caraxes, to strengthen our bond by only flying nearby. They will believe you.”

Viserys hesitated. He was five and ten, only 3 years older, but already his nature bent more toward caution. Yet seeing Daemon now, trembling with a grief he barely understood, he could not bring himself to refuse.

“You would risk punishment,” he said softly.

“I would risk worse,” Daemon replied, his chin lifting. “She is my cousin. My friend. My Rhaenys.”

Viserys closed his eyes, then opened them again with a sigh. “Very well. If they ask, I will cover for you. I will say you are with Caraxes.”

Daemon exhaled, relief and gratitude mingling with his fierce determination. He reached across the table, gripping his brother’s wrist. “Thank you, Viserys. You will not regret it.”

“I already do,” Viserys muttered, but there was no venom in it. His eyes softened. “Bring her some comfort, then. She deserves at least that.”

Daemon nodded once, sharply, as though sealing a vow. Already he could feel the pull toward the Dragonpit, the restless stirring of Caraxes awaiting him. Soon he would take wing into the night, cutting across the sea air to Driftmark. To Rhaenys.

To her sorrow, which he would not allow her to bear alone.

The sea air struck Daemon Targaryen’s face like knives as Caraxes descended through the fog over Driftmark. He was greeted with a roar from Dreamfyre, Rhaenys' mount. The dragon’s cry was shrill and mournful, a sound that rolled across the waves and echoed against the pale stone cliffs. To those below, it was the sound of fire in the blood, of a Targaryen’s presence announced before his feet ever touched the ground.

Daemon’s small hands clutched the reins too tightly, his knuckles white with strain. He was only eleven years old, but he had flown hard, harder than he ever had before. Caraxes had sensed his rider’s urgency, his unsteady grief, and carried him like an arrow across the narrow stretch of sea.

When Daemon leapt to the ground, his boots hitting the wet cobblestones of the courtyard, he was trembling—not with fear, but with the weight of what he carried. His cousin. His best friend. His Rhaenys, in pain. He had not been meant to know. He had overheard the hushed words between his parents the night before, words wrapped in sorrow, words not meant for children’s ears. Rhaenys had lost a babe again. And worse, she had borne it in silence, kept it hidden, even from him. The injustice of it gnawed at his chest like a wolf.

Daemon’s breath fogged the cool air as he turned—hoping, praying—that she would be glad to see him. That he might bring her some comfort. That he might remind her she was not alone.

But Rhaenys was already there. She had heard the dragon’s approach long before he appeared. She came from the arched doorway of Driftmark’s hall, her hair unbound, her cheeks pale, her eyes swollen from weeping.

And her face—when she saw him—was not the face of joy or relief.

“You shouldn’t be here.” Her voice carried across the courtyard like a lash, sharp and merciless.

Daemon faltered, his heart lurching. He had expected—what? A faint smile, perhaps, even through her grief? A running embrace, the way she had once greeted him when they were children? He stared at her, confused, lost.

“I had to,” he said at last, his voice too small for the courtyard’s wide emptiness. “I heard… I heard about what happened.” The words caught in his throat. He could not finish them. “I wanted to see you. To make sure you were—”

“Do not speak of it.” Her tone cut like a blade.

The tears stung his eyes before he could stop them. “But you’re my cousin. My favorite cousin. I couldn’t just sit in the Red Keep while you—while you suffered.” His voice cracked. “I had to come.”

Rhaenys’s eyes shifted past him, to where Caraxes loomed, crimson wings twitching, neck arched. Her grief darkened, hardened into fury.

“Of course you did,” she said, her lips curling. “Of course you came. You and your family always come. You come and take, and take, and take. First your father took my inheritance, though all the realm knew it should have been mine. Now you ride my father's dragon.” Her voice trembled, but the venom was there. “What more will you take from me, Daemon? What more can you and your father’s line strip away?”

The words landed like stones in Daemon’s chest. He staggered, breathless. “No!” His protest came out broken, desperate. “No, Rhaenys, it’s not like that. I never—I didn’t mean—Caraxes chose me. I swear it. I never wanted to hurt you.”

He was weeping now, openly, his cheeks wet, his nose running. “I only wanted to be here. For you. Because you’ve always been there for me. Don’t you remember? You were the one who understood me. When no one else did. You were my best friend.”

Rhaenys’s face wavered for a heartbeat, the steel of her anger thinning to show the broken woman beneath. Her lips trembled as she looked at him—tall, slender, still a boy despite his dragon, despite his blood. He loved her, that much was plain in his eyes.

But love was not enough.

“You should have stayed away,” she whispered, and her voice was raw. “I have made it clear. I want nothing from the rest of them—your father, your brother, your mother and our grandire's court. Haven’t I made it clear enough? My distance was not an accident. I meant it.”

“Please don’t say that,” Daemon begged, his small hands reaching toward her, palms open. “We’re family. You and me. That’s supposed to matter.” He sobbed, trying to choke it back, trying to be brave as a dragonrider should. But he was only a child. “You’re all I have, Rhaenys. You understood me, we are bestfriends”

Her eyes glistened, her own grief threatening to drown her. For an instant she swayed toward him, as if her body longed to hold him, to weep in his small arms as she once had in the gardens of the Red Keep, when their laughter had rung through the halls.

But she forced herself back.

“You have enough,” she said hoarsely. “Your father. Your brother. Your dragon. I have no one now but Corlys, my mother, and the sea. My father is gone. My children are gone. And still your house takes. I cannot—” Her voice broke entirely, and she covered her face with her hand, shoulders shaking.

Daemon pressed forward, his tears falling fast, his small fingers clutching her sleeve. “I don’t care about thrones, or titles, or crowns,” he cried. “I don’t care about any of it. I just care about you.”

For a moment, her hand hovered over his, trembling. For a moment, her body ached to pull him close.

But she drew away, retreating step by step.

“You have done enough,” she whispered, though each word cost her. “Leave me, Daemon. Leave me now. I cannot bear the sight of you. Not today.”

It was a dismissal. A breaking.

He stared at her, his face blotched and red with grief, his tears unending. His chest heaved with ragged sobs, his voice gone. For the first time in his short life, Daemon Targaryen had no words.

He turned and fled, stumbling back to Caraxes, the dragon hissing low at his rider’s anguish. Daemon scrambled into the saddle with shaking hands, clinging to the reins as Caraxes crouched low and then launched into the sky.

The red wyrm’s scream carried across the cliffs, shrill and sorrowful, echoing into the sea.

Rhaenys sank to her knees in the courtyard, burying her face in her hands, her body wracked with sobs. She wept not only for her babe, not only for the life denied her—but for the boy she had pushed away. For the cousin she loved, the last remnant of her childhood laughter, now torn from her as surely as the child from her womb.

And on the wind, the sound of Caraxes’s cry lingered, a wound carved into the sky.

Caraxes rose into the clouds with a shriek that made gulls scatter from the cliffs. His vast wings beat against the salt air, each stroke carrying boy and beast higher and farther from the island below.

But Daemon was not soaring.

He clung to the saddle with shaking fingers, his body pressed tight against the curve of Caraxes’s neck. The wind lashed his face, drying his tears as fast as they came, but they would not stop. His vision blurred; the glittering expanse of the Blackwater Bay warped into a watery haze.

He had thought—foolishly, childishly—that love would be enough. That his tears, his presence, his heart laid bare, would matter to Rhaenys. But she had pushed him away.

Her words echoed through his mind, sharper than any sword: First your father took my inheritance. Now you took his dragon. What more could you and your family take from me?

Daemon’s sob caught in his throat. He pressed his face into Caraxes’s scales, the red hide warm beneath his cheek. “I didn’t mean to,” he whispered into the wind, though only the dragon could hear him. “I never wanted to take. I only wanted to comfort her. I only wanted family.”

But family was not enough. Not for Rhaenys. Not when grief had hardened her heart.

Something cracked inside the boy then—not the innocent hurt of a child scolded, but something deeper. A seed planted in grief and rejection, watered by shame. If they will not see me for who I am, then I will make them see. I will carve my own place, whether they wish it or not.

Caraxes keened, a sound of shared sorrow, and tilted his wings toward King’s Landing. The dragon’s instincts pulled him home, but his rider felt no homecoming in the thought. The Red Keep, the family within—it all felt smaller now, colder. Daemon’s tears stung as the city came into view. The sun struck the bay, gilding the water in molten gold, yet to him it looked like nothing more than salt and ashes.

Back in Driftmark, the courtyard lay heavy with silence after the dragon’s departure. The sound of Caraxes’s wings faded into the distance, leaving only the sea’s dull roar against the rocks.

Rhaenys stood frozen where she had been, her hands limp at her sides, her chest still heaving from the force of her sobs. She had pushed him away—her cousin, her friend, the boy who had once been her joy. And in doing so, she had ripped something from her own heart.

“Daughter?” The voice came from behind, soft, tentative. Jocelyn Baratheon, stood in the doorway. She had heard enough—perhaps all—to know what had transpired.

Rhaenys did not look at her. She could not.

“Why?” Jocelyn asked gently, stepping closer. “Why did you send him off so cruelly? He is but a boy, and he cares you. Anyone can see it.”

The words were kind, but they were barbs all the same. Rhaenys trembled, the mask of her fury breaking, leaving only raw anguish.

“I don't know, grief perhaps,” she whispered, voice hoarse, “if I let him hold me—I would break, mother. And I cannot break again. Not after…” Her voice cracked into silence.

Jocelyn’s eyes filled with tears, and she reached for her daughter's hand. “You already are broken, sweeting. And pushing him away will not mend you.”

Rhaenys’s knees buckled, and Jocelyn caught her, lowering her gently to the cold stone. She gathered her in her arms, rocking her as though she were a child.

“I’ve lost him,” Rhaenys wept, her voice muffled against Jocelyn’s shoulder. “I’ve lost another child, Jocelyn. And now—I’m afraid I lost Caraxes too. He was the last piece of my father left to me. I lost Daemon too."

Jocelyn pressed her lips to her hair, holding her tighter. “Hush now. You’ve not lost him forever. He is a boy. Boys’ hearts are stubborn things. He will come back to you in time.”

But Rhaenys only shook her head, her sobs violent, hopeless.

“Daughter,” Jocelyn murmured, kneeling beside her. She brushed Rhaenys’s hair back, her touch tender. “You need not bear this alone. Not your loss, and not your guilt. Let me carry it with you.”

At last Rhaenys let go, collapsing fully into her mother’s embrace. She wept and wept, the sound torn from her like the sea’s waves crashing ceaselessly against Driftmark’s cliffs.

And far above, where no one could hear, Caraxes’s cry carried on the wind—an echo of a boy’s broken heart, and the first note in the long, mournful song that would one day earn him the name of Rogue Prince.

By the time Caraxes alighted on the cliffs below the Red Keep, dusk had swallowed King’s Landing. The torches along the walls burned like watchful eyes, casting long shadows across the courtyard. Daemon slid from his dragon’s back, his legs trembling as they touched stone.

The keepers approached to see to Caraxes, but one look at the boy’s face was enough to silence them. No swagger, no mischief, none of the impish spark they were used to. Only a boy hollowed out, his silver hair plastered to his cheeks with the tracks of salt tears.

He slipped past them without a word, his boots heavy against the worn flagstones.

No one stopped him. Not the guards at the gates, not the servants bustling through the corridors. He was the prince, after all. But tonight he felt like nothing more than a ghost haunting the halls.

His steps carried him to his chamber, where the fire burned low. He shut the door behind him and leaned against it, his breath shuddering out. The quiet pressed in on him, heavy and merciless.

With shaking hands, he tugged the clasp of his cloak free, letting it fall in a heap. His swordbelt clattered beside it. For a long while, he simply stood there, staring at nothing.

At last, he stumbled toward the window. From there he could see the Blackwater Bay, the dark expanse of sea stretching toward Driftmark. Somewhere out there, Rhaenys was weeping too—he could feel it in his bones.

But she had told him to leave. She had cast him out.

“First your father took my inheritance. Now you took his dragon…”

Daemon’s small hands gripped the stone sill until his knuckles whitened. He pressed his forehead against the cold wall, tears slipping silently down.

“I only wanted to be there,” he whispered. “She is my bestfriend.”

The words dissolved into the night air, unheard by any but himself.

For the first time in his young life, Daemon Targaryen felt truly alone. Not the loneliness of being overlooked beside his brother Viserys, nor the restlessness that had always gnawed at him—but the piercing solitude of rejection, of love turned into scorn.

He curled onto his bed without removing his boots, drawing his knees to his chest like the boy he still was. His shoulders shook with quiet sobs until sleep, at last, stole over him.

And in his dreams, fire and salt tangled—Caraxes’ cry echoing through an endless storm, and Rhaenys’s voice cutting him again and again.

When morning came, Daemon would rise. He would laugh, and jest, and swagger once more. But deep inside, a fracture had formed, one that no balm could mend.

The boy had gone to Driftmark seeking solace. He returned with something else entirely: a wound that would harden into defiance, a scar that would shape the man he would become.

The Rogue Prince’s shadow had begun to stir.

Chapter Text

The morning light fell pale and hesitant over Driftmark, brushing against the stone walls of High Tide. Rhaenys Targaryen Velaryon sat curled on a low window seat in the solar, her hands clasped around a cup of lukewarm tea. Her cheeks were streaked with the remnants of the night’s tears, and her eyes, usually so alert and bright, seemed dull, clouded with grief.

Jocelyn, her mother, sat beside her, her own heart heavy but steadfast. She had been tending to Rhaenys ever since she came to driftmark, speaking little but offering presence—sometimes the only solace a daughter in mourning could bear.

“It should not have happened this way,” Rhaenys whispered, her voice brittle, almost swallowed by the vast quiet of the room. “Everything I have loved… taken or lost. My father, my child, my place… and now…” Her voice trailed, eyes closing for a moment, as though she were trying to hold back the torrent of emotion threatening to overwhelm her.

Jocelyn reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from her daughter’s face. “You have endured more than any of us could have imagined, Rhaenys. I am here. I will not leave you.”

Before Rhaenys could answer, the door opened quietly. Corlys Velaryon entered, weary from travel, his expression set in the mask of calm duty, though his eyes betrayed concern. “Jocelyn,” he said softly, inclining his head in greeting. He had just returned from King’s Landing, where he had attended the small council meeting, his mind weighed with the affairs of the realm—but his heart had never left Driftmark, never far from his daughter’s side.

Jocelyn rose to meet him halfway, and quietly, in low tones, she recounted the events he had missed: the news of Rhaenys’s miscarriage, the way it had been kept private, and the ensuing grief that had consumed her daughter.

Corlys’s face tightened. He took a slow breath and then turned to Rhaenys, kneeling beside her chair so that his height did not loom over her. “My love… so that is why Daemon came to me yesterday,” he said gently. “He was angry that the news of your miscarriage only reached them now, after it had already happened. He… he felt left out, and perhaps… he wanted to act, in his own way.”

Rhaenys’s eyes snapped open, meeting his. “Act? Is that what you call it? To ride my father’s dragon as though mocking me?” Her voice shook with a mixture of grief and fury, each word sharp as a blade. “Do you think it was not enough that I have lost so much? My father, my child, my inheritance… and now him, too, parading what was never his to take?”

Corlys held her hands, his own warm and firm. “He is only a boy, Rhaenys. He cares for you, in the only way he knows. He meant no insult, I swear it.”

Rhaenys pulled back slightly, shaking her head. “You do not understand, Corlys. Everything I have lost—the succession, my child, my father’s passing—each piece of my life has been taken from me, and he arrives on the one thing that connected me to him, to my father, and to my past… and it feels like a mockery. He cannot see it, cannot feel it. But I do. And I will not forgive such trespass so easily.”

Corlys’s jaw tightened. He had hoped to defend Daemon, to explain away the boy’s clumsy loyalty, but he could not argue against the raw, unfiltered anguish in Rhaenys’s tone. “I only wish to say that he came out of care, not cruelty,” he said softly. “He is learning, my love. He… does not yet understand the full weight of what he has done. He only knows that he could not stand idly by, knowing you suffered alone.”

Jocelyn moved closer, her hand on Rhaenys’s shoulder, steadying her. “He is young,” she said gently, “but your anger is justified. No one could blame you for that.”

Rhaenys’s lips pressed into a thin line. Her gaze drifted toward the window, toward the gray waters of the Narrow Sea, though her thoughts were not on the horizon. “I am angry at everything. My father… my losses… my succession… and him,” she said, voice breaking, nodding toward Corlys as if Daemon’s presence were physically there. “I loved him as a cousin, as my only friend in all this. And now… I pushed him away. I cannot even bear to see him. Everything is stolen, and there is nothing left but… this fury, this grief.”

Corlys’s eyes softened. He held her gaze firmly, trying to anchor her in the room, in the now. “My love… you have every right to your anger and sorrow. Let it be. Let it have its voice. And know this: Daemon came because he cares. Though he cannot yet show it rightly, it is born of love and loyalty to you. That, at least, remains.”

Rhaenys’s shoulders slumped slightly, the first hint of exhaustion settling over her. Tears rolled down her cheeks unheeded. Jocelyn moved to gather her into her arms, a comforting embrace in the quiet morning of Driftmark, and Corlys remained kneeling beside them, holding Rhaenys’s hand in silent solidarity. The storm within her had not passed—it would not pass for days—but here, at least, she was not alone.

The morning light was pale and thin in the Red keep when Daemon dragged himself from bed. He had hardly slept, and what little rest he stole had been full of restless dreams—Rhaenys’s voice, her tears, the way her words cut like sharpened steel. He dressed quickly, yanking his tunic over his head and fastening his belt too tightly. Caraxes’s distant screech carried faintly through the open shutters. The sound once filled him with pride. Now it only twisted the knife in his chest.

In the corridor outside his chambers, he nearly walked straight into Viserys. His brother’s face was flushed from the early climb up the stair, and trailing behind him was Princess Aemma Arryn, her pale hair loose about her shoulders, a book clasped to her chest.

Viserys grinned when he saw him. “There you are. Just the one I wanted. I was teaching Aemma her new lessons.” He puffed his chest, clearly pleased with himself. “High Valyrian.”

Aemma rolled her eyes in a way that reminded Daemon of Rhaenys once—before the thought soured.

Daemon’s lips twisted. His voice came sharp, a blade meant to cut before it cut him.
“What, you’re teaching her Valyrian now? You used to fight like dogs over a book.”

Viserys’s smile faltered, his brow creasing. He opened his mouth to answer, but Aemma shifted uncomfortably between them. The weight in the hall was different now, charged, personal.

“I think I’ll go find Gael,” she said softly, retreating with her book clutched tighter. She glanced once at Daemon, her eyes kind in that way she had, but then she was gone.

The brothers were alone.

Viserys studied him in silence for a long moment. “What happened?” he asked at last. His tone was quiet, steady—too steady for Daemon’s liking.

“Nothing.” Daemon turned away, his hands clasped behind his back as if he were suddenly fascinated by the torch brackets on the wall.

“Don’t lie,” Viserys pressed. “I know you too well.”

Daemon’s jaw worked. He felt the sting of tears again and hated himself for it. His first instinct was to lash out, to sneer, to say something cruel and end the conversation. But then—like a ghost—his father’s voice stirred in him.

“You are brothers, and the realm will look to you both. Quarrel if you must, but remember always: one day all you may have is each other.”

Baelon’s words, spoken just two moons ago, echoed with uncomfortable weight.

Viserys must have thought of them too, because he stepped closer and said, softer this time, “Remember what Father told us. About brotherhood. You don’t have to carry this alone. Tell me.”

Daemon turned his head, his throat tight. For a moment he said nothing. Then, with a shuddering breath, he forced the words out.

“She cast me aside.” His voice cracked, low and bitter. “Rhaenys. She said… she said we take everything from her. That I stole Uncle Aemon’s dragon. That I stole everything from her like father did to her inheritance”

Viserys’s eyes widened, horror plain on his face. “She said that to you?”

Daemon gave a stiff nod, his hands curling into fists.

Viserys swore under his breath, something coarse he would never say before their mother. His face reddened, and his voice rose with indignation, surprising since it came from Viserys who always prefer peace. “She has no right. None! We never wanted it, Daemon. It was never ours to choose. How can she blame you?”

But Daemon shook his head, his voice steadier now, quieter but far heavier.
“She has every right.”

Viserys blinked. “No, she—”

“She does,” Daemon cut him off, his voice breaking with the weight of it. His gray eyes shone, but his tears did not fall. “She saw me riding Uncle Aemon’s dragon, the last piece of him she had. And she is grieving. She has every right.”

Viserys’s mouth opened, but no words came. The anger drained from him, leaving only helplessness. He reached out, a hand hovering awkwardly on Daemon’s shoulder before settling there.

“You didn’t deserve that,” he said finally, his voice rough with feeling. “Not you.”

Daemon did not shrug him off, but neither did he lean into the touch. He only stared ahead, his jaw set, his expression carved from stone. The hurt was still there, yes—but it was buried now, deep under layers of something darker.

Viserys’s hand lingered on Daemon’s shoulder, but the boy’s gaze was distant, fixed on some place only he could see. He had spoken the words plainly enough—she has every right—yet the way he said them chilled Viserys. They were not words of understanding. They were a wound, dressed in iron.

Something had broken in his brother, and though the break was still fresh, still bleeding, Viserys feared it might never knit back the same.

He swallowed hard, forcing steadiness into his voice. “You have me, Daemon. Always.”

Daemon gave the faintest of nods, but no more. The silence between them stretched, heavy with all the things neither could mend.

At last, Viserys let out a breath and dropped his hand. There was nothing more to say. Not now. He turned away, his heart weighted with worry, and went in search of Aemma.

He found her down the corridor, perched on a window seat with her book, sunlight spilling pale across her hair. She looked up as he approached, brows knitting with concern.

“Everything well?” she asked.

Viserys forced a smile, pushing Daemon’s haunted eyes from his mind. “Well enough. Now then, let us see if you’ve remembered your declensions… or if I’ll have to send you back to the septa in shame.”

Aemma groaned, clutching the book to her chest. “You’re cruel.”

Viserys only laughed, though the echo of Daemon’s pain lingered, tucked like a stone in his breast.

The light in Aemma’s chambers was softer than the bright corridors of the Red Keep, the curtains half-drawn against the autumn sun. She slipped inside, grateful to breathe in the familiar lavender scent Amanda insisted on scattering about the room.

Her elder sister sat by the window, sewing with patient hands. Amanda looked up as Aemma entered, her expression calm but her eyes sharp, always too perceptive for Aemma’s liking.

“You’ve been spending quite a lot of time with your cousin,” Amanda said, her needle pausing mid-stitch.

Aemma blinked, startled. “Viserys?”

Amanda inclined her head. “Yes, Viserys.”

Aemma let out a small, incredulous laugh. “Well, I still think he’s insufferable,” she admitted, tossing her book onto the bed with exaggerated disdain. “But… he’s not all that bad. He’s still a buffoon, mind you, but he’s a buffoon who teaches me High Valyrian.”

Amanda’s brow arched. “High Valyrian, is it?” Her tone was mild, but her gaze probed deeper. “Forgive me, I’d nearly forgotten you share blood with them. Father, Elys, Denys, and I—we’ve been remiss. We should have included High Valyrian in your lessons long ago.”

At the mention of her father and brothers, Aemma’s bravado crumbled. Her voice softened. “It’s all right. I… I miss Father. And Denys.”

The quiet confession settled between them like a stone. Amanda’s hands stilled, the needle slipping forgotten into her lap. Her lips pressed tight as her own composure faltered. “Me too,” she whispered, the words raw with a grief she rarely showed.

For a heartbeat, they were only two sisters missing the men who had anchored their lives—the stern but gentle Lord Rodrik, the proud and steady Denys, both gone now to memory.

But Amanda, ever the elder, swallowed back her sorrow and shifted the conversation. “Still,” she said, her voice firmer, “people will notice. They will whisper about your growing closeness with Prince Viserys. And they will make assumptions. Especially since he is the heir of the heir.”

Aemma froze, stumbling over her words. “What? But I—”

Amanda raised a hand, cutting her off before she could tumble into flustered denial. “I only want to protect you, Aemma. This court is full of people who will twist the smallest thing into a weapon. Exploit a secret, turn it into gossip. Elys told me as much before we left the Eyrie. Best you hear it from me.”

Aemma’s lip wobbled despite her best effort to steel herself. “I understand.” She sank onto the bed, fiddling with the tassels of the coverlet. “It’s just…” She paused, gathering her thoughts. “Growing up in the Eyrie, it felt like I had no one close to my age. Not really. Now I’m here, and there’s Gael—she’s my aunt, but she’s close enough in years that it feels like we’re sisters too. And Daemon, loud as a horn in the Vale, but he can be kind in his own way. And then there’s Viserys.”

Her voice grew brighter, animated in spite of herself. “He vexes me terribly, Amanda. You have no idea. The way he struts into the library as if the books themselves bow to him. He acts as though no one else could possibly know as much as he does—except he does know a lot, which makes it worse! When he bests me in reciting some line of history, he smirks as though he’s won a tourney. A tourney, Amanda!” She flung her hands up in frustration, her cheeks flushed pink. “And yet… when he explains a word in Valyrian, when he takes the time to show me, I feel…”

Amanda tilted her head, studying her with quiet patience. She said nothing for a long while, though inwardly her thoughts flickered. Aemma’s eyes lit differently when she spoke of Viserys, though her lips shaped insults. It was not yet love, no—it was too young, too untested—but Amanda recognized the seed of something dangerous. And she could not help but think that Viserys, with all his pride, might one day look at her sister in turn.

But she kept such musings locked behind her teeth. Aemma was not ready to hear them, not yet.

Instead Amanda said gently, “You feel less alone.”

Aemma’s voice caught. “Yes. That’s it. Less alone. For the first time, I feel as though I have people who see me. Truly see me. With Gael, with Daemon, even with that insufferable buffoon Viserys… it’s different. Don’t mistake me—I am grateful for you, for Elys, for Denys. But this—” She pressed a hand to her chest. “This feels like belonging.”

Amanda rose and crossed the room, gathering her into her arms. Aemma clung to her tightly, burying her face against her sister’s shoulder.

“I understand,” Amanda whispered, her voice low but firm, stroking Aemma’s hair. “Truly, I do. And I will always protect you. Even if you do not see the storms before they come.”

She pressed her cheek to Aemma’s crown, silent in her own thoughts. She did not voice her suspicion—not yet—but the awareness lingered in her chest like a stone. Her little sister was treading the edges of something tender, something dangerous, and Amanda would be ready for when whispers turned to truth.

The Queen’s projects had become something of a second court, and Alyssa Targaryen ruled it with quiet steel. Though she was Baelon’s wife and daughter of the Queen herself, she no longer sat idle in the shadow of her mother’s vast influence and her swords. In the solar that had been given over to her work, scrolls of expense ledgers, parcels of parchment filled with proposals, and small caskets of coin were laid out upon the table like a general’s maps before battle.

Around her were her chosen ladies—an odd, mismatched company by courtly standards, but bound by trust and use. Lady Lyra Mormont, with her broad shoulders and hawkish stare, leaned her elbows upon the table as though ready to wrestle the sums into obedience. Lady Barbrey Dustin, sharp of tongue and sharper of wit, held a quill with such brisk authority she might have been signing death warrants rather than calculating the cost of timber and stone. And Sabitha Vypren

They were deep in discussion about the expansion of the second kitchen when Alyssa, half-smiling, leaned back in her chair.

“You know,” she said, voice light but deliberate, “I have been thinking. We lack a lady of the Vale among us. It strikes me, given that we share a blood there through my niece, Aemma, that it is almost negligent.”

Lyra barked a laugh. “You want balance of bloodlines, Princess, or balance of temperaments?” 

“Both,” Alyssa replied smoothly. “But more than that, I have noticed Lady Amanda Arryn. She is not like the perfumed dolls of the Reach, nor the jeweled hawks of the West. She carries herself as one who guards her own—always watchful, always measuring. I should like to have her among us.”

Barbrey arched a brow, tapping her quill against the parchment. “An Arryn in our circle would lend us weight, certainly. And from what I have observed, she is steady as stone. Rare in a girl in ladies of westeros.”

Sabitha’s lips curved faintly, though her eyes glimmered with interest. “And you would have her near, Princess, to see what she sees.”

Alyssa’s gaze sharpened at that—Sabitha always cut too close to the truth. “I value her discernment,” she said simply, though in her heart she admitted to more. Amanda’s protectiveness toward her sister had not gone unnoticed, nor the way her gaze sometimes lingered when Aemma and Viserys quarreled their way into uneasy companionship. To bring Amanda into her circle would be to keep her near—and perhaps, in time, to sound her thoughts on what Alyssa herself had begun to suspect.

Lyra chuckled low, a rumble like a bear. “Seven hells, I’d welcome her. She looks as though she’d sooner take up a shield than a spindle. That suits us fine.”

Barbrey leaned back, smirking. “And yet, if we are to draw her in, we must make the attempt seem gracious. A Vale lady will expect… courtesies.”

“Tea, perhaps?” Sabitha suggested dryly, though her tone held the faintest note of mischief.

That brought a gale of laughter from Lyra, who slapped her palm upon the table. “Tea? Us? May the Old Gods save her, if she expects dainty biscuits and perfumed chatter.”

Even Barbrey’s lips twitched at that, though she hid it behind her quill.

Alyssa smiled, indulging their mirth. “We may endure a pot of tea for one afternoon. Let us not forget—appearances have their place. If Lady Amanda is to join us, she should see both our steel and our courtesy. And besides…” Her eyes gleamed as she reached for a quill herself. “It will amuse me greatly to watch the three of you pretend to enjoy it.”

That set them all laughing again, even Sabitha, whose laughter was more like a soft ripple than a peal.

When the mirth subsided, Barbrey dipped her quill into the ink. “Very well. I shall see to it. A pot of tea and a plate of sweetmeats, perhaps. We’ll make her think us tame—just long enough.”

Lyra grunted. “If she stays long enough, she’ll learn the truth.”

“She will,” Alyssa agreed, her voice quiet but certain. “And perhaps she will belong. I think there is more to Amanda Arryn than courtly manners. She knows something of storms. And I should like storms at my side.”

The three women nodded, each in their own way—Lyra with blunt approval, Barbrey with amused calculation, Sabitha with a silent, secret smile. And so it was decided: Lady Amanda would be invited, not with summons nor with ceremony, but with tea.

Tea, and all the storms that followed it.

The letter arrived with more courtesy than Amanda expected: a neat fold, sealed in wax with the falcon sigil impressed beside the dragon of House Targaryen. It was handed to her by a steward who bowed as though delivering some great honor.

Amanda broke it open with a frown.

“An invitation?” she muttered, brow furrowing.

Aemma, sprawled across her bed with a book open on her lap, looked up. “From whom?”

“Princess Alyssa,” Amanda answered, scanning the words. Tea, in her solar, with her ladies. The words were graceful, but Amanda’s mind moved beneath them. Alyssa is Prince Viserys’ mother. What reason had she to draw Amanda near? The thought twitched at her unease, but she smothered it quickly. To say such aloud would only trouble Aemma—and she had been troubled enough these days.

Aemma tilted her head. “Tea? With my aunt and her ladies? That sounds dreadfully dull. You’ll hate it.”

Amanda’s lips quirked. “Perhaps. But it will give me something to do in King’s Landing aside from listening to you complain about Viserys all day.”

Aemma gasped in mock offense, though her eyes danced. “I do not complain about him all day.”

Amanda smirked. “Half the day, then.”

The girls shared a laugh, the sound light enough to lift the heaviness that had lingered in the Red Keep since Aemon’s death. Amanda reached over, giving her sister’s hand a squeeze. “Besides, I ought to accept. I am here as the representative of the Vale, not merely your shadow."

Aemma made a face. “I suppose. But if it turns dreary, you may escape back here and I will let you complain about it for half a day. That seems fair.”

Amanda laughed softly, though the unease in her chest lingered. She did not say it aloud, but she wondered: was this truly tea—or a measure of her?

Amanda Arryn had been in many halls—those of the Eyrie, stern and lofty; Runestone, weather-beaten and warlike; even Gulltown, full of noise and color. But the Queen’s solar had its own air. It was not the grandeur of the Red Keep’s great hall, nor the cold authority of the council chamber. This was a place where power was woven softly, like threads into a tapestry.

The table had been laid with a delicate porcelain service, steam curling gently from the spout of a silver pot. Yet around it sat not perfumed maidens, but the Queen’s chosen ladies:

• Lady Lyra Mormont, who looked like she might break the teacups in her hand if she gripped too hard. She shifted uncomfortably, broad shoulders ill-suited to dainty chairs.

• Lady Barbrey Dustin, whose smirk suggested she found the whole affair a jest, though she poured her tea with exaggerated elegance, pinky finger crooked in parody.

• Sabitha Vypren, quiet as a shadow, her eyes glancing between Amanda and the Princess with a soft, secretive smile.

• And at the head, Princess Alyssa, serene, gracious, every word and gesture measured.

Amanda inclined her head respectfully, though her guard was up.

“Lady Amanda,” Alyssa said warmly, rising to greet her. “We are so pleased you could join us. The Vale has long given strength to House Targaryen. It gladdens me to have its daughter at my table.”

Amanda offered a polite smile, lowering herself into the chair offered. “The honor is mine, Princess.”

Lyra eyed her across the rim of her cup. “You take tea often, Arryn?”

Amanda blinked, caught off guard. “On occasion.”

“Good,” Barbrey quipped, swirling her cup. “You’ll forgive us if we don’t. Our Princess thought it wise to make a show of civility today.”

Lyra gave a short laugh. “I nearly asked for ale instead.”

Even Sabitha’s lips twitched at that, though she said nothing.

Amanda allowed herself the smallest smile, but her attention drifted back to Alyssa. The Princess’s gaze was gentle, but keen—like a falcon’s, fixed upon a hare.

As the tea was poured and small cakes passed around (Lyra looked at hers as though it were poison), Alyssa steered the talk. Of the Queen’s projects, of the needs of King’s Landing, of the Vale’s own concerns and the Regency under Lady Elys and Lord Royce. Amanda answered with care, aware she was being weighed. The women laughed, the sound easy, and for a moment Amanda relaxed. Perhaps this was not a trap but simply a gathering—women filling the hours in company. Yet every so often her gaze slid back to Alyssa, who said little, content to let her ladies chatter while she observed. Her eyes, green and violet and searching, lingered a beat too long on Amanda each time.

The conversation drifted naturally—Alyssa asked after the Vale, Amanda spoke of its falcons and its windswept passes. Barbrey remarked on the differences between the North and the Vale, while Lyra muttered about the harshness of Bear Island. Sabitha added quiet notes, her voice soft as a breeze.

But then Alyssa turned the river of talk with a single, measured question.

“And tell me, Lady Amanda,” she said gently, stirring honey into her tea, “how do you and your sister find King’s Landing? I imagine it must be quite a change from the heights of the Eyrie.”

Amanda smiled politely. “It is louder, busier… yet full of life. In the Eyrie, one hears only wind. Here, it seems one hears everything else.”

Alyssa chuckled softly. “Indeed. Here, bonds are formed swiftly—sometimes tested even swifter. Friendships, alliances, affections… King’s Landing has a way of magnifying such things.”

Amanda’s pulse quickened. She reached for her teacup, hiding her unease in its rim. The words were gentle, casual even, but Amanda heard the shape beneath them. This was not idle talk.

“I suppose that is true of any court,” Amanda answered carefully, setting the cup down with deliberate calm. “People reveal themselves in many ways. Often not by what they say, but by what they seek to conceal.”

Barbrey’s smirk sharpened. Lyra leaned forward, intrigued. Even Sabitha’s eyes flicked upward, studying Amanda with new interest.

Alyssa only smiled, her gaze never wavering. “Wise words. You speak like one who watches keenly.”

Amanda inclined her head. “The Vale teaches one to look down from heights, Princess. To see more than what lies at your feet.”

There was a murmur of approval from Lyra, but Alyssa pressed on softly, her tone as mild as spring rain.

“And my niece, Aemma—how does she fare? She must find herself… overwhelmed, at times. So many new kin, so many cousins near her age. It is rare, is it not, to find such companions after a childhood among the mountains?”

Amanda’s shoulders tensed. She schooled her face, but her heart beat faster. “She is… adjusting. There are some she quarrels with, others she grows fond of.”

Alyssa sipped her tea. “Fond?”

Amanda hesitated, then said, “They are children, Princess. It is natural they should form attachments among themselves.”

“Of course,” Alyssa agreed smoothly. “Yet some attachments are stronger than others. My son Viserys, for instance, seems to take great interest in your sister.”

The air in the solar stilled. Even Barbrey and Lyra glanced between the two women, sensing the shift.

Amanda forced herself to breathe evenly. “Viserys is… often near. They bicker more often than not.”

Alyssa’s smile softened, though her eyes never lost their edge. “Yes. It is often so, with the young. Quarrels hide a fondness neither party admits. You are her sister—you see much, I think.”

Amanda tightened her grip on her teacup until her knuckles whitened. She met Alyssa’s gaze, steady though her stomach churned.

“I see that my sister is still a girl,” she said firmly. “And I would protect her from idle tongues, wherever they wag.”

For the first time, Alyssa leaned back, her expression unreadable. The silence stretched, broken only by Barbrey’s dry laugh.

“Well spoken,” Barbrey murmured, lifting her cup. “The Vale breeds steel, it seems, as well as falcons.”

Lyra grunted her approval, Sabitha gave a faint, approving smile.

And Alyssa, after a long pause, inclined her head. “Then you do well, Lady Amanda. It eases me to know Aemma has a sister so devoted.”

Amanda bowed her head, but inside, unease coiled tighter. The Princess’s words had been kind, but Amanda could not shake the sense that she had just stepped upon a game board she did not choose.

The tea had grown cold long before the talk wound itself down. What began with laughter at Lady Lyra’s disastrous attempt to balance the delicate porcelain saucer had, like a ship subtly turning on an unseen tide, shifted toward heavier currents.

“Lady Amanda,” Alyssa said at last, her voice calm but with a thread of intent beneath. “It pleases me to see how well you have borne yourself in King’s Landing. One can tell at a glance when a woman has her own ground beneath her feet—and when she does not.”

Amanda inclined her head slightly. “Your Grace is kind.”

Lyra leaned forward, bracing her elbow on the table without shame, as though daring the dainty teacups to scold her. “We’ve taken a liking to you. Not just because you can hold your tongue better than Barbrey—”

“I heard that,” Barbrey muttered, which only made Lyra smirk.

“—but because you’ve a steadiness about you,” Lyra finished, brushing crumbs from her lap.

Sabitha, more refined but not without humor, added softly, “The Princess' ladies must be more than perfumed ornaments. We labor for her Grace’s vision. We speak with guilds, merchants, septas, healers. We are her eyes and her messengers. It is no easy calling.”

Amanda let their words pass through her like water over stone. There was warmth in their candor, yes—but also measure. She knew when she was being weighed.

Alyssa did not prolong the moment. She folded her hands together on the table, gaze steady. “I would have you join us, Lady Amanda. You are of the Vale, and my sister’s blood runs in Aemma. It is only fitting that my circle bear witness to that kinship, and the Crown be bound more tightly to your mountain lords. Yet I will not deceive you. To be my lady is not to be cloistered. You will have tasks of consequence. You will bear weight.”

Amanda sat straighter, a faint prickle at the nape of her neck. “If I am to serve, I would rather it be of substance. The Vale breeds little patience for idle finery.”

A smile touched Alyssa’s lips. “So I thought.” She studied Amanda a moment longer, then her voice gentled. “You are uneasy. Do not think I do not see it. I know what it is to wish to guard one dear to you. My sister Daella is your sister's Aemma’s mother. Through her, I am bound to Aemma as you are. You and I are of one mind in wanting her well, and safe.”

For the first time since the invitation had arrived, Amanda’s guard wavered—just a flicker, like a hawk lowering its wings a span before tensing again. She nodded once, firmly. “That is all I would ask.”

Alyssa’s eyes softened, approval passing through them like sunlight through glass. “Then it is settled. You will serve among us. And in time, I think you will find your place here…as we have found ours, each in her fashion.”

The gathering eased after that, the laughter returning in scattered bursts. But Amanda felt the weight of what had transpired long after she rose, curtsied, and took her leave of the solar.

When at last Amanda took her leave, the corridors of the Red Keep felt heavier than usual. The stone pressed close, the tapestries seemed to whisper. She walked slowly, her thoughts chasing themselves: Alyssa’s warmth, her probing questions, the formal invitation. It was honor, yes—but also entanglement.

If I say yes, I step into their circle. If I say no… do I make myself an outsider in hers?

Her steps carried her to the chambers she shared with her sister. The door was half-open, laughter spilling out. Inside, Aemma sat cross-legged by the hearth, her hair unbound, while Princess Gael leaned against the arm of a chair. Prince Viserys lounged nearby, a book on his knee, though his lips were curved in smug satisfaction as Aemma argued animatedly with him about some phrase in High Valyrian.

When Amanda entered, Aemma leapt to her feet, bright-eyed. “Manda! You’re back! How was it? Did Lady Lyra knock over the tea?”

Amanda chuckled softly, shutting the door behind her. “Not quite, though it was close.”

Gael grinned. “I should’ve gone just to see it.”

Amanda gave her a fond look. “No, my Princess, you would’ve spoiled their act of civility.”

Viserys snorted at that, but said nothing. He returned to his book, though Amanda caught the flicker of his eyes toward lingering towards Aemma.

Aemma tugged Amanda to sit beside her on the bed. “Well? Tell me everything. Was it dreadful?”

Amanda smoothed her skirts. “It was… enlightening. Princess Alyssa is gracious, and her ladies are not what I expected. Blunt, sharp-tongued, amusing even. They have a kind of… bond, forged in work rather than gossip.”

Aemma’s brow rose. “That sounds… not dreadful at all.”

“No,” Amanda admitted, allowing herself a small smile. “Not dreadful. Strange, perhaps, but not dreadful.”

“Then you’ll go again?”

Amanda hesitated, her mind flashing back to Alyssa’s probing gaze, the weight of her words about Aemma and Viserys. She forced her tone light. “Perhaps. She even invited me to join her household as one of her ladies.”

Aemma gasped. “Truly? Amanda! That’s wonderful.”

Amanda smoothed her sister’s hair gently, her smile faint but careful. “We shall see. It would give me something to do beyond minding you and reporting to the King and Queen about the Vale.”

Aemma laughed, nudging her playfully. “As if I don’t keep you busy enough already.”

Amanda chuckled, her gaze softening. “You do. But I don’t mind.”

Aemma leaned against her shoulder with a sigh. “Well, if you do join them, promise you won’t turn into some perfumed court lady. I like you as you are.”

Amanda kissed the crown of her sister’s head. “Don’t worry. They are not perfumed court ladies. And I will always be as I am—with you. It just means we won't be going back to the Eyrie for a while.”

She said nothing of Alyssa’s subtle probing, nothing of the unease that lingered in her chest. That burden, she thought, was hers to bear.

Chapter Text

The library smelled of parchment and dust, the long shelves rising like walls around the narrow windows where the last of the day’s light spilled in gold. Viserys leaned over a great tome of histories, finger tracing the curling script of High Valyrian.

“Ñuhor līr ziry issa, ñuha byka kostōba,” he said slowly, pleased with himself.

Across from him, Aemma pursed her lips and repeated it. “Ñuhor līr ziry issa, ñuha byka kostōba.”

Her tongue stumbled slightly over kostōba, and Viserys’s grin widened like a cat who’d cornered a mouse.

“You mangle it still,” he teased, snapping the book shut with a flourish. “One day the dragons will laugh at you instead of heeding you.”

Aemma tossed a ribbon from the table at his head. “And one day you will choke on your own arrogance, cousin. That much I’ve mastered in the common tongue.”

Viserys caught the ribbon, smug as ever, but there was warmth in his eyes. Aemma had learned to volley back, and their sparring—first sharp, now playful—seemed to settle into a rhythm as familiar as the turning of pages.

Gael, curled on a cushioned seat nearby with her half-finished flower crown, watched them with mild exasperation. “You sound like an old married couple arguing over who sits closest to the fire,” she muttered, though neither paid her much heed. Aemma was too busy triumphing over her first full sentence in Valyrian, and Viserys too busy crowing that he had taught her.

In the training yard below, steel rang against steel. Daemon moved with sharp, impatient strokes, his face set in a scowl as he swung against a straw dummy. He fought as though the figure bore a grudge against him, each strike harder than the last.

From the shade of the wall, Gael watched after stopping by at the library. At ten and two, she was already told she would grow up to be a great beauty, her hair tied simply, her gaze keen. Being his aunt did not feel like it should—Daemon was her nephew, yes, but only a year younger, and often they fell in together like equals.

But today, there was something different.

“He fights like the world has wronged him,” she murmured to herself, watching his shoulders tense with every blow. The stick cracked against the dummy’s head, splinters flying, and Daemon only picked up another weapon to continue.

It was not the play of boys anymore, she thought. Something heavier weighed on him. Something she did not yet know.

The training yard of the Red Keep was alive with sound: the clash of wooden blades, the grunt of boys straining with shield and spear, the sharp corrections of the master-at-arms. Dust rose in clouds beneath boots, catching the late light of afternoon, turning the air hazy and thick.

Daemon stood at the center, practice sword gripped in both hands. He was leaner than the boy before him—older by three years, broader across the shoulders, already with the look of a man. The squire grinned, confident, perhaps too much so. He had already bloodied two younger lads that morning. To him, Daemon was just another small prince to be humbled in the sand.

But when the bout began, Daemon moved differently.

He did not dance, did not bait with jeers or cocky flourishes as he so often did. He came at the older boy hard, blows landing fast and sharp, each strike ringing with the sound of effort held too tight inside him. The squire stumbled under the assault, parrying clumsily as Daemon’s wooden blade battered against shield and sword alike.

“Easy, lad!” the master-at-arms barked, but Daemon did not ease. His jaw was set, his face reddened with exertion—and something else.

The squire’s size should have told. He was taller, heavier, his arms thick from carrying true steel for his knight. But Daemon drove him back step by step, his strikes fueled not by skill alone but by something hotter, harder. Fury.

The crowd of pages and younger squires jeered and gasped, sensing the shift. Daemon’s eyes flashed, not with mirth or mischief, but with something colder. He ducked a swing, rammed his shoulder into the squire’s chest, and with a savage twist of his blade knocked the older boy’s sword spinning across the dirt.

The yard erupted, boys cheering or jeering, but Daemon was not done. He struck again, a brutal overhead blow that cracked against the squire’s shield and sent him sprawling to one knee.

“HALT!”

The master-at-arms strode forward, hand raised. The command broke the spell, but Daemon lingered a moment longer, breathing hard, eyes still locked on his kneeling opponent. Finally, with a sharp exhale, he let the sword drop from his fingers. It clattered on stone, the sound jarring in the silence that followed.

He turned away without a word. No smirk, no taunt, no triumphant flourish. Just silence.

From the edge of the yard, Gael Targaryen had watched it all. At ten and two, she was scarcely older than her nephew, but she knew him better than most. Daemon was a creature of swagger, of sharp jests and sharper grins, delighting in making others chase his temper while he laughed at their fluster. But here, now, there had been no laughter.

Her lips pressed tight as she followed him with her eyes. His shoulders were rigid, his steps clipped. The Daemon she knew would have called out some barbed remark to the onlookers, basked in their surprise at besting an older squire. Instead, he strode past their stares as though he hadn’t heard them. When his gaze flicked up and found hers, the look in his eyes made her breath catch. The fire there was different—too sharp, too restless, as though something inside him gnawed and refused to be soothed. For a heartbeat he held her eyes, and though his chin lifted in defiance, there was no jest in it. Only that fierce, unspoken thing burning behind his silence.

He looked away first.

Gael’s brow furrowed. She did not call to him. She knew he would not answer. But as the boys began to chatter and the master-at-arms scolded the squire for losing to a younger opponent, she kept her gaze fixed on her nephew’s retreating back.

Something had changed in Daemon Targaryen.

And for the first time, she was not sure if that change would burn itself out—
—or blaze into something far harder to contain.

The stables were quiet that evening, long shadows stretching across the straw-strewn floor. The smell of hay and horseflesh hung heavy, broken now and again by the impatient snort of a restless stallion. Daemon sat slumped on an upturned bucket in the farthest corner, his wooden practice sword discarded on the ground beside him. His tunic clung with sweat from sparring, but he had not bothered to change, nor to wipe the streak of dust from his cheek.

Gael lingered in the doorway at first, watching him. She had seen him in the yard earlier—seen the way he fought the older squire, not with clever smirks and needling jests, but with a grim ferocity that startled even the master-at-arms. Daemon had always relished a fight, but never like that. Never so joyless.

She stepped inside, her boots crunching softly against the straw. “You nearly sent that poor boy running back to the riverlands,” she said, her tone light but her brow creased.

Daemon didn’t look up. “He should’ve kept his guard up.”

“He was twice your size.”

“And half as quick,” he muttered.

Gael tilted her head, studying him. Normally, he’d seize that moment to puff out his chest, to boast, to turn her words into another chance at cheek. But his voice was flat, his posture rigid, as though some coil inside him had been wound too tightly.

“That’s not why you bested him,” she said carefully, drawing closer.

Daemon’s gaze flicked toward her then, sharp and defensive. “What do you know of it?”

She met his glare steadily, though her heart beat a little faster. “I know you weren’t fighting the boy. Not really.”

He frowned, his mouth opening as if to retort—but no words came. Instead, he kicked at the straw, shoulders hunched.

Gael eased down onto the bale beside him, leaving a space of air between them. “You always fight with words first, then with the sword. Today there were no words. Only…” She searched for it, then shook her head. “Only anger.”

Daemon scoffed and looked away, staring at the dark flank of a mare in the nearest stall. “Maybe I’m tired of being laughed at. Maybe I don’t want to jest anymore.”

His voice was too raw for the dismissal to land properly.

Gael studied him in silence for a long while. She didn’t know what gnawed at him—only that something did, and it had changed the boy she thought she knew.

At last she said, softly, “You’re not yourself, Daemon. I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but if you keep fighting like that, you’ll break more than wooden swords.”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t answer. The gelding in the corner snorted, stamping at the dirt, as if filling the silence on his behalf.

Gael rose slowly. “I’ll leave you be. But don’t shut everyone out. You’ll only make the shadows darker.”

She turned and walked toward the doorway, the golden light of evening spilling past her. Just before stepping out, she looked back one last time. Daemon sat hunched, shoulders taut, his eyes fixed on nothing at all.

Whatever it was that stirred in him, Gael realized, it was not passing quickly. Something had taken root. 

Gael lingered just outside the stables, the last warmth of daylight brushing her cheeks. She folded her arms tight, more to steady herself than against the cooling air.

Daemon was a storm waiting to break—that much she knew. She had grown up alongside him, close enough in years that she could remember when he would not stop tugging at her braids, or daring her to climb too high in the keep’s old trees. Mischief, sharp wit, a tongue that ran quicker than his blade—that was Daemon.

But the boy inside the stables had been a stranger.

It was not the victory that unsettled her; Daemon had always been gifted with the sword, quicker than most boys his age. No, it was the way he carried himself afterward, as though he’d won nothing at all. No grin, no boast, not even a sly glance in her direction to see if she’d noticed. He had fought like one cornered, and even in triumph, he’d looked smaller.

She drew a sharp breath, hugging her arms tighter. She wanted to tell someone—perhaps her sister, Alyssa, or even mother, who had a gift for drawing secrets out of the most stubborn of children. But Daemon was proud, too proud, and if he discovered she had carried tales of him… she knew he would never forgive it.

So she bit her tongue and bore the weight of her worry alone.

He’s only eleven, she reminded herself. Nearly twelve. Boys thrash about, they burn quick and bright and then laugh the next morning as though nothing had happened. Perhaps that was all this was: a boy lashing out, a fit that would fade.

And yet her heart whispered otherwise. The Daemon she knew would have laughed already.

Gael shook her head, pushing away from the stable wall. “May the fourteen help you, nephew,” she murmured under her breath, and walked back toward the keep, the sound of her boots swallowed by the growing night.

Inside the stables, Daemon had not moved. He sat hunched still, elbows braced against his knees, fists clenched so tight the knuckles ached.

Gael’s words echoed in his skull, sharp and unwanted. You weren’t fighting the boy. Not really.

He hated her for seeing it. Hated that she had glimpsed beneath the armor he wore, even when he’d tried to keep his head down, to hide the roil of grief and rage that had been gnawing at him since Driftmark.

Rhaenys’ voice haunted him worse than Gael’s. First your father took my inheritance. Now you take my father's dragon. What more could your family take from me?

The words struck again, as fresh and cruel as the moment she’d spat them. He wanted to shout that he hadn’t meant harm, that he’d only wanted to be near her, to remind her she wasn’t alone. But the more he replayed her voice, the more he began to believe she was right.

Daemon pressed his palms into his eyes, willing the tears back. He was no weakling, no mewling babe. If Rhaenys did not want him, then fine—he’d have no need for anyone. Not for her, not for Gael, not for anyone who thought they knew what gnawed at him.

But beneath the vow, softer thoughts lingered, traitorous ones he could not shake. The memory of her laughter, of summers in the Red Keep gardens when she had been more sister than cousin, his partner in every mischief. To have that torn away—it hollowed him in ways his sword could not fill.

So he fought harder. He swung until his arms ached, until his lungs burned, until pain blotted out thought. And still, when he closed his eyes, he saw her face.

Daemon dragged in a ragged breath and let it out slow. Something inside him had cracked. Perhaps Gael had been right after all: he was not fighting the squire. He was fighting the world that had taken his favorite cousin from him—and he meant to win, no matter how much blood it cost.

The dining room of the Red Keep was bathed in soft golden light, the glow of torches and braziers flickering against the stone walls, warming what might otherwise have felt like a tomb. The table was not overly large, but the setting had an intimacy to it, a gathering of blood and kin, with only Aemma and Amanda Targaryen permitted into the fold beyond the Targaryens themselves.

At the head sat Queen Alysanne, blonde hair pinned high and crowned not with jewels but with a solemn dignity that night. She raised her hands before the food was touched, her voice measured, resonant, and unmistakably Valyrian as she began the prayer:

“Flames of the Fourteen, hear us. Welcome this lost child into the warmth of your fire, that their spirit might soar where no cold can touch them. Grant Rhaenys, our granddaughter, strength to rise from sorrow. Bind this family together in light, that grief not unmake us.”

The words rolled like music, heavy with reverence. Even those who did not fully understand their meaning—Amanda among them—bowed their heads in silence. Gael lowered hers as well, but her eyes flickered sideways, unable to stop themselves from finding Daemon.

He stood unnaturally still, lips pressed thin, his posture rigid in a way that was not boyish at all but sharpened, as though he were bracing against some unseen enemy. Once, Daemon would have muttered a jest even in a prayer, something sly and wicked to make Viserys smother laughter. But tonight, nothing. No smirk, no roll of his eyes, no quick aside.

Gael felt the quiet coil of unease twist in her stomach. This was not the cousin she knew—the boy who made the world lighter by mocking it. The fire in him was darker now, and she feared what it might be burning toward. She lowered her gaze quickly when his eyes almost flicked her way, as if afraid he might see that she noticed.

When the prayer ended, the meal began. Platters of roasted duck glazed with honey and herbs, venison steeped in wine, trencher bread, and fresh figs were set out. The family spoke as families do when trying to mend a mood. Baelon, hearty as always, began recounting a story from his youth of a hunting trip gone awry, making a bear sound comically cleverer than a dozen men. Queen Alysanne smiled fondly, even laughed, her shoulders easing slightly from the solemn weight of her prayer.

Alyssa leaned in then, eyes bright, hands folded in her lap before she spoke with careful pride:

“I have an announcement. Lady Amanda Arryn has agreed to join my ladies in waiting.”

Amanda’s cheeks colored faintly as all eyes briefly turned her way. Alyssa’s smile was warm and earnest as she continued, “She has already shown thoughtfulness and courage beyond her years. Her presence among my companions will be a blessing.”

Aemma beamed for her half-sister, reaching out to squeeze her hand. Baelon raised a cup in acknowledgment, and even Viserys muttered something politely congratulatory. King Jaehaerys inclined his head approvingly, speaking of how another Arryn presence was always welcome beside their line. The mood swelled with cheer, the conversation rolling back into anecdotes, projects, and lightheartedness.

Yet through it all, Daemon said nothing. He sat between his brother and Gael, but he might as well have been a shadow. His food went largely untouched. Where Viserys chattered nervously about histories he had been reading, and Amanda listened carefully to Alyssa’s soft-spoken outline of her ideas for a new school in King’s Landing, Daemon’s silence cut like a blade.

Gael could not stop glancing his way. His jaw clenched whenever laughter rose around the table, as though the sound grated on him. His eyes were lowered to his plate, but they were not dull—they were smoldering, alive with something he would not name aloud. She wanted to reach across, to nudge him into some quip, to pull from him some shard of his old self. But she stayed still, swallowing her worry like bitter wine.

Viserys noticed too. He sat fidgeting, his words running dry whenever he glanced at his younger brother’s silence. He knew what Gael did not—that Daemon had left Driftmark in the wake of a cruelty no boy should have committed, no matter the anger in him. The weight of that knowledge made Viserys squirm, his usual easy pride unraveling in Gael’s gaze, as if he feared she might pry it from him.

Aemma, ever perceptive, caught her cousin’s unease. She tilted her head, watching him with a trace of suspicion, her mind sharpening. She did not yet know the truth, but she felt its outline in the air—secrets, guilt, something hushed and heavy.

And Baelon, loud and jovial, still noticed. Between his laughter and stories, his eyes kept sliding to Daemon. The boy’s silence was too great a contrast, too strange. Baelon knew his son’s nature—full of fire and sharp humor. For him to sit so muted at table was like a flame refusing to crackle. Something was wrong, and though Baelon said nothing, the thought lingered in the back of his mind like a splinter.

So the dinner carried on, voices rising and falling, stories and plans woven together in warmth, while beneath it all a current of unease ran silent. Gael’s eyes on Daemon. Viserys’s guilt curdling his stomach. Aemma’s suspicion prickling at her thoughts. Baelon’s paternal intuition gnawing at him.

And Daemon, the quiet center of it all, kept his silence.

Daemon felt all their eyes, even when they tried to hide them. Gael’s worry, Viserys’s guilt, his father’s suspicion, his mother’s softness. It pressed on him, a suffocating weight. He wanted to spit a joke, to shatter it, to make them all laugh so they’d stop looking at him like that. But the words wouldn’t come. He could only sit there, holding the knife, silent, while the warmth of the meal washed around him and left him cold.

The family’s supper had broken with the clatter of silverware and the murmured courtesies of dispersal. Queen Alyssanne’s prayer still lingered in the air—those soft, lilting words in High Valyrian, asking the gods to welcome Rhaenys’ lost babe and grant her strength. The solemnity had given way to a quieter meal than usual, punctuated by Alyssa’s bright announcement of Amanda’s acceptance as one of her ladies. Smiles and congratulations rippled around the table.

Everyone, that is, save for Daemon.

He had been unusually silent, pushing food about his trencher without jape or retort, not even to tweak Viserys when the older boy stumbled over a toast in Valyrian. Gael’s watchful eyes had flicked toward him often, concern simmering beneath her young face and flickering to Viserys every once in a while. Viserys, too, had noticed—though he kept his head bowed, shifting in his seat like a lad with a splinter lodged beneath his skin. And Baelon…Baelon noticed most of all.

When they rose from the table, Baelon dismissed his mother and wife with gentle courtesies but held Daemon and Viserys back with a single firm command: “You two, with me.”

Viserys blinked. “Father—”

“No questions,” Baelon said, his tone one that brooked no defiance. “Come.”

The small audience chamber smelled faintly of cold ash and tallow. A single torch sputtered in its bracket, throwing long shadows across the walls. Baelon closed the heavy door himself, sliding the bolt into place with a resonant thud. The sound seemed to trap the air along with the three of them.

Daemon stood before the hearth, though the fire was long dead, arms crossed as if daring someone to come too close. His chin was high, his posture rigid, but his eyes betrayed him—they darted, restless, unwilling to meet his father’s gaze.

Baelon regarded him in silence for a long moment before speaking. “I spoke with Ser Robart this evening. The master-at-arms.”

Viserys stiffened. Daemon’s head snapped up, suspicion flashing like steel.

Baelon went on, calm but weighty. “He tells me you fought a squire twice your size today. Put him in the dirt hard enough he’ll be pissing blood for a fortnight. And that you did it not with skill, but with fury.” His brow furrowed. “That is not training, Daemon. That is something else.”

Daemon’s lips pressed thin. His jaw worked, but he said nothing.

“Do you deny it?” Baelon asked.

A scoff burst out, sharp and defensive. “Would you rather I’d lost? That I’d let him beat me bloody instead?”

“That is not what I said.”

“You never say it outright,” Daemon snapped. “But it’s always there, isn’t it? That look.”

Viserys shifted uncomfortably by the door, eyes flicking from father to brother. He could feel the tension winding tighter with every heartbeat. The memory of Driftmark—Daemon’s red face, his tear-choked voice, Rhaenys’ cutting words—clawed at his insides. He hated being here, hated being asked to stand as witness when the truth was twisting Daemon from within.

Baelon’s gaze swept toward him suddenly. “And you, Viserys. You’ve been uneasy all night. What do you know of this?”

Viserys froze. Daemon’s head turned slowly toward him, those sharp eyes narrowing into a warning. A wordless plea and threat both: Don’t.

Viserys swallowed hard. “I…I don’t know, Father. He’s just—different, of late. Quieter. I thought it was only…mood.”

Daemon let out a harsh laugh. “Hear that? I’m a moody child, now. Perhaps you’ll both coddle me with sweetmeats until I smile again.”

“Enough.” Baelon’s voice cracked like a whip. He strode forward a pace, looming, his shadow cutting across Daemon’s face. “I will not have shadows growing between my sons. Whatever gnaws at you, boy, it will fester if you keep it hidden. I taught you both—brothers stand together, or they fall alone.” His voice softened, but only slightly. “What weighs on you, Daemon? Speak it.”

Daemon’s throat worked. For the briefest of moments, he nearly did. The words pressed against the back of his teeth: I went to Driftmark. I tried to help Rhaenys. She cast me aside. I do not know what to do with the anger left in me. His chest felt tight, his skin too hot. He wanted to confess, wanted someone—anyone—to understand the ache in him.

But the thought of speaking it aloud, of exposing that wound to his father’s steady eyes and Viserys’ judgment, felt unbearable. The pain turned sharp, shameful. He dug his heels in.

“I’m fine,” Daemon ground out. His arms folded tighter, a fortress around himself. “Perhaps I’m simply tired of being watched like a hawk every time I draw breath.”

Baelon studied him for a long, long moment. He had known his sons all their short lives, and he could always tell when one lied. The lie in Daemon’s voice was plain as day. But Daemon’s chin was high, his eyes glinting with defiance, daring his father to call him out.

Viserys shifted again, miserable. He wanted to reach across the silence, to bridge it, but Daemon’s warning look still burned behind his eyes. He kept his mouth shut.

At last Baelon let out a slow breath. “Very well. Keep your silence, if you must. But mark me, Daemon: anger left untended grows wild. Do not let it master you. If you will not speak now, you will find yourself speaking later, when the price is higher.”

The words hung heavy, the torch sputtering in the silence. Daemon said nothing. He only turned back to the cold hearth, staring into the ashes as though they might answer for him.

Baelon’s shoulders sagged. For all his sternness, there was weary concern in his eyes as he turned away. “Go on, both of you. To bed.”

Viserys obeyed at once, slipping through the door with a quick step. Daemon lingered, shoulders squared, jaw locked. He wanted to spit out words, any words, to prove he was not so easily dismissed—but nothing came. So he followed after, footsteps echoing in the dark hall.

Baelon stayed behind, staring into the dead fire, unease gnawing at him.

And Daemon, though silent, carried the storm with him, coiled tight beneath his skin.

Daemon’s chamber was dark save for the restless fire. He had not lit more than one torch; shadows suited him better tonight. He sat at the edge of his bed, elbows pressed to his knees, fists tight, staring into the flames as though they could burn the memory out of him.

Rhaenys’ voice would not leave him.

Your father has already claimed my throne, and now you come riding my father’s dragon.

It had cut deeper than steel. He had thought to offer her comfort—clumsy, yes, but from the heart. Instead, she had given him nothing but scorn. And perhaps she was right. He had come to Driftmark wielding all the wrong things: pride, fire, a dragon that was never his to flaunt. He had only reminded her of what had been stolen from her.

His hands still trembled when he remembered her face, the way her sorrow had burned hotter than her anger. He had seen in her the ache of all she had lost—the throne, the recognition, the children she had never held. And he had been a fool to think he could fix any of it.

She’s right, he thought bitterly. Every word. Grandfather’s choice at the succession stole her crown, and now she bears the burden alone. And I—I worsened it. Drove the knife deeper.

The anger clawed at his chest, looking for something to break, to wound. But beneath it was shame, cold and rotting, the kind that silence could not smother.

Dinner had been unbearable. Gael’s eyes on him, sharp and searching. Baelon’s rebuke ringing still in his ears. Even Viserys, poor fool, squirmed in his seat, as if the secret he carried weighed heavier by the hour.

Baelon’s words had been worse than a lashing. I will not have shadows growing between my sons. Whatever gnaws at you, boy, it will fester if you keep it hidden. I taught you both—brothers stand together, or they fall alone.

Daemon scoffed under his breath. Easy for Father to say, when he had never been cast aside by a cousin who had once trusted him. When he had never stood beneath the ashes of someone else’s grief.

The fire snapped, throwing sparks. Daemon dragged a hand through his hair, tugging hard enough to sting, wishing pain could drown memory.

Elsewhere in the Keep, Viserys could not sleep. He lay on his back, staring at the carved beams above, replaying the dinner until his stomach twisted. Gael’s glance across the table—piercing, knowing. Daemon’s silence like a wound bleeding into the room. Father’s command, sharp as steel.

Brothers stand together, or they fall alone.

But what if standing together meant breaking under Daemon’s storm? What if it meant revealing a truth their father would never forgive? Viserys turned restlessly, clutching his blanket. He had covered for Daemon’s absence, lied smoothly enough to others, but Gael had seen through it, and Father suspected.

He could not leave Daemon alone tonight. He would not.

Quietly, Viserys slipped from his bed. He padded barefoot down the hall until he reached the kitchens, where the servants had long since gone. There, on a sideboard, a pitcher of wine gleamed in the moonlight. His heart raced as he snatched it up—risk enough, for if they were caught, punishment would be certain. They were allowed wine only at feasts, under watchful eyes, not to steal like common thieves.

But Father’s words rang louder than fear. Whatever gnaws at you, it will fester if you keep it hidden.

He carried the pitcher and two cups up the stairs, his pulse loud in his ears, and stopped outside Daemon’s door. A faint light flickered beneath it. He knocked once, then pushed it open.

Daemon sat hunched by the fire, shadows carving hard lines into his face. His eyes flicked up, sharp, as though expecting a foe.

Viserys raised the pitcher. “I brought something.”

Daemon’s brow furrowed. “You’ll get us whipped for that.”

Viserys shrugged, trying for levity he did not feel. “Then we’ll share the whipping. Like always.”

For a moment, Daemon did not move. Then, grudgingly, he gestured to the chair opposite him. Viserys poured them both cups, his hands only slightly unsteady, and slid one across the table. Daemon took it, drained half in one swallow, and exhaled like a man easing into pain.

The silence stretched. Viserys sipped slowly, waiting.

At last, Daemon spoke. His voice was rough, low. “Rhaenys’ words—do you know what she said?”

Viserys shook his head.

“She told me I was nothing but another thief. That Father stole her throne, and I came to Driftmark riding her father’s dragon, to mock her grief. She looked at me like I had betrayed her.”

The words cracked as they left him. He stared into the fire, jaw clenched, but his eyes gleamed.

Viserys said nothing. He knew better than to rush in.

“I wanted to mend things,” Daemon went on, voice harsher now, “but I only made them worse. I thought—” He broke off, fists tightening. “I thought I could be what she needed. But all I did was remind her of what she’s lost. The crown. The children. Everything.”

His chest heaved. “And the worst part? She’s right. It isn’t her fault. It was Grandfather’s choice that damned her. She was left with nothing but shame, while he built his peace on her back.” He slammed his cup down, wine sloshing over the rim. “And I—her cousin, her blood—I made it worse. I was cruel without meaning to be. Cruel when she’s suffered enough.”

The firelight caught the rawness in his face, the boy behind the fury.

Viserys reached across the table, resting his hand on Daemon’s forearm. “You wanted to be there for her, it makes you someone who cares. You going there in Caraxes? I understand you were doing it to comfort her but it’s short-sighted. But that doesn’t make you cruel. It makes you… lost. Like her. Like all of us, when the crown’s weight falls wrong.”

Daemon’s breath shuddered, as though he might shake him off—but he didn’t. He sat, shoulders hunched, eyes fixed on the fire.

Viserys tightened his grip. “Brothers stand together, or they fall alone. You don’t have to carry this alone, Daemon. Not while I’m here.”

For a long time, there was only the fire, the wine, and the weight of unspoken grief. And then, slowly, Daemon leaned back, not easing, but yielding, if only a fraction. He lifted his cup again and drained it, but this time, he poured Viserys another too.

Not forgiveness, not peace. But something closer to it than silence.

The morning came gray and cool, mist hanging heavy over the Red Keep’s stones. The bells rang softly to call the household to its tasks, but Daemon had been awake long before them.

Sleep had been shallow, broken. Every time his eyes closed, he saw Rhaenys’ face again, heard her voice accusing him. Your father has already claimed my throne… The words lived behind his eyes now, carved there like a brand.

He washed quickly in the basin, but the water did nothing to ease the ache in his chest or the pounding in his skull. The wine from the night before clung to his tongue, bitter, though it was not the drink that soured him—it was memory, shame, and anger, tangled together so tightly he could not pull them apart.

When he strapped on his sword belt, his movements were sharper, harsher. It felt as though something inside him demanded he be ready, always ready, as if battle alone might silence what no amount of drink could.

Viserys, by contrast, rose late. The cupbearer who brought him bread and watered wine found him yawning, hair still tousled from sleep. For once, he had not woken with a pit in his stomach. The guilt of secrecy still lingered, yes, but it felt lighter somehow. He had done something last night—faced Daemon’s storm, sat in it, and refused to let his brother drown alone.

That counted for something.

He remembered the words they had traded, Daemon’s raw confession, and the way—if only for a breath—Daemon had let him in. That was worth a hundred lies.

When Aemma crossed his path later in the corridor, books under her arm, Viserys even managed a smile instead of his usual half-bickered jab. She raised a brow, suspicious, and muttered that he must be plotting something. He only chuckled, and it was true—it startled him how easy the laugh came.

Chapter Text

The morning light poured golden through the narrow arched windows of Alyssa’s solar. She sat before her polished bronze mirror while a maid smoothed her hair back, pinning it with delicate clasps of pearl and ruby pins. Her gown for the day was a softer blue than her usual court finery—more practical for the quiet labor of letters and ledgers she intended with her ladies—but the richness of its fabric still caught the sun like water.

Baelon leaned lazily against the carved doorframe, arms crossed, watching her with a fondness he made no effort to hide.

“You take the morning like a warrior dons his armor,” he said. “No wonder even mother defers to you in her projects. You are always battle-ready.”

Alyssa turned her head just enough to smirk at him in the mirror. “If I am to face Lyra Mormont, Barbrey Dustin, and Sabitha Vypren in council today, I shall need armor. And with Amanda joining us, all the more.”

Baelon chuckled, but his eyes softened. “It's her first day right? Good. The Vale blood runs strong in her. Gods know, Aemma will need her sister close.”

At the mention of their niece, Alyssa’s smile dimmed just a touch. “Aemma is settling. She has her moments of laughter, and her rivalry with Viserys keeps her sharp. But court is a place where laughter is rarely free.” She smoothed a clasp into place, as if setting her thoughts alongside it. “That is why Amanda’s presence pleases me. She guards her sister without smothering her.”

Baelon stepped further into the room, resting a hand on the back of her chair. His reflection in the mirror caught her eye—taller, broad-shouldered, but with that same faint shadow of worry she felt in herself.

“And our sons?” she asked quietly, knowing the answer already.

Baelon sighed. “Daemon was… himself, yet not himself, last night.” He shook his head, lips pressing thin. “The boy who once filled every silence with a quip sat through dinner with his mouth shut as if it had been stitched.”

“I noticed too,” Alyssa murmured, nodding. “He scarcely touched his food last night. Gael was watching him closely.”

“Gael notices everything,” Baelon said. “She’ll ferret it out if no one else can.”

Alyssa gave him a sidelong look. “And you? Did you ferret it out?”

“No,” Baelon admitted, grimacing. “But I did speak with the master-at-arms. He said Daemon fought like a man twice his size yesterday. Put down a squire older, broader, and would not stop until the straw dummy was hacked near to splinters Talked to them after dinner too, they Daemon indeed has changed and Viserys knows something.”

“That does not sound like a child’s practice,” Alyssa said.

“No.” Baelon straightened, running a hand across his jaw. “It sounds like something gnaws at him. And Viserys—” here, he gave a half-laugh, half-groan “—Viserys has been skulking like a thief who cannot keep his purse hidden. Whatever secret his brother carries, Vis wears it plain on his face.”

“You think they are keeping something from you?” Alyssa asked.

“I know they are,” Baelon said, though his voice softened into amusement despite himself. “My talk of brotherhood must have struck deep. Viserys is trying so hard to protect his brother’s confidence that he can barely look me in the eye. He is terrible at hiding things. Always was.”

That earned him Alyssa’s quiet laugh. She reached for his hand and squeezed. “Perhaps that is no failing, only proof of his heart. He loves Daemon too much to betray him, even to you.”

Baelon squeezed back, but the shadows did not leave his face. “Maybe so. Still—I will not have shadows between us. Sooner or later, I will drag the truth into the light.”

“And until then,” Alyssa said, rising from her chair with a rustle of skirts, “we watch. We keep them close. Even a dragon whelp hides its hurt poorly.”

Her eyes were clear, and though her voice was light, Baelon heard the same current beneath it that ran through his own thoughts: pride in their sons, yes, but worry also. Daemon was too clever, too willful to be allowed to stew in silence, and Viserys too earnest to shoulder burdens meant for older men.

Baelon offered his arm as she prepared to leave for her gathering. “Then go,” he said warmly. “Plan your schools and win the realm’s love. I will see to our sons. But Alyssa…”

“Yes?”

“Keep an eye on Amanda as well. She is shrewder than she lets on, and her loyalty to Aemma will make her a voice worth heeding.”

“I intend nothing less,” Alyssa said, leaning to kiss his cheek before sweeping from the room with the poise of a queen.

Baelon watched her go, alone now in the solar, the morning sun spilling where she had stood. His chest was heavy with pride, yet weighted still with unease.

Somewhere in the Keep, his younger son was hurting. And Baelon Targaryen, for all his strength, had not yet found the words to draw him out.

Baelon had the habit of watching his children the way a seasoned commander watched the tilt of a line before a charge—keen, attentive, unwilling to mistake restlessness for calm. That morning, he lingered in the gardens longer than was strictly necessary, ostensibly to see Alyssa off before she joined her ladies, but truthfully because the sight of his brood scattered about the Red Keep’s greens gave him both pride and pause.

Viserys was at the bench with little Aemma Arryn, her bright eyes fixed on him with the fierce concentration only a child had. He was coaxing her through the sounds of High Valyrian, the language rolling awkward and heavy on her young tongue.

“Qeldlie zaldrīzes… no, slower, Aemma,” he urged, smiling when she screwed up her face in mock frustration.

“I will best you at it, cousin!” she shot back, the gleam in her eyes unmistakable—Arryn stubbornness meeting Targaryen playfulness.

Viserys barked a laugh, soft enough not to carry too far, and tried again. “Best me? You forget, I’ve been speaking this tongue since I could toddle. You’ll have to try harder.”

Baelon, leaning against a column, allowed himself a smile. Their rivalry—half jest, half earnest—was harmless, but it carried a lesson: language was pride, a tether to Valyria. If his son had chosen to teach it, even to amuse himself, then it meant he understood that.

The clang of steel on steel echoed up into the vaulted galleries of the training yard, the sound as relentless as a war drum. Daemon pressed his opponent back with a ferocity that drew uneasy glances from the master-at-arms and the squires watching at the edge of the sand. His blade sang too quick, too sharp, as though every strike carried with it more than practice—something deeper, rawer.

From the balcony above, Gael leaned against the carved stone rail, her knuckles pale against it. She had come only to take the morning air, but her eyes had found Daemon the moment she heard the clash of swords. And now she could not look away.

This was not the swaggering boy she had grown up alongside, her nephew yet so close in age that their laughter and japes had once felt like equals’. This was something harder. Anger coiled in his movements, striking through every swing. When he finally dropped his sparring partner to the ground with a blow that rang far beyond what was needed, Gael’s breath caught in her throat.

“Your gaze will burn a hole clean through him, sister.”

The voice came at her shoulder. Gael flinched and turned to see Baelon, his bulk blotting out the sun where he leaned into the balcony’s light. His smile was easy, but his eyes were not.

“I was only watching,” Gael said, smoothing her skirts.

Baelon’s gaze dropped to the yard again, where Daemon stood over his panting opponent, face taut with something too sharp for victory. “So was I. The boy fights like a storm bottled too long. I know the signs.”

Gael swallowed. “He has been different. Quieter. Except here.”

Baelon turned his head, studying her with the same scrutiny he had once reserved for squires hiding a broken blade. “Different how?”

“He—” She hesitated. Daemon’s temper was not hers to betray. But Baelon’s presence was pressing, steady as a wall behind her. “He doesn’t jest. Not with me. Not with anyone. He… he feels like someone who is listening to something I cannot hear. And when I try to speak to him, he pushes me away.”

Baelon’s mouth pressed into a grim line. “Aye. And Viserys wriggles like a fish every time I set eyes on him, as though he’s hiding half the Red Keep behind his back.”

“I don’t know what it is,” Gael said quickly. “Only that something is wrong.”

Baelon looked back down into the yard, where Daemon had already reclaimed his practice sword, demanding another bout with a voice too sharp for sport. His youngest sister’s words confirmed the unease he already felt. He rested a heavy hand on Gael’s shoulder, more warning than comfort.

“Keep your eyes open, Gael. He’ll not speak to me while his jaw is locked shut. But he cannot keep both you and Viserys at bay forever.”

The chamber Alyssa had chosen was warm with light, tall windows unshuttered so the midmorning sun poured across stone floors veined with shadows. A carved table stretched between them, spread not with silks or jewels, but with parchments, inkpots, and the faint scent of wax and crushed herbs.

Princess Alyssa sat at the head, her posture regal but her eyes alive with eagerness. Around her, her companions leaned in: Lyra Mormont, blunt and practical, shoulders square as if she’d rather be in a sparring yard; Barbrey Dustin, quick-eyed, skeptical but curious; Sabitha Vypren, a touch more aloof, her fingers fussing with the edge of her sleeve; and now, newly joined, Amanda Arryn, Aemma’s sister, still carrying the air of a woman finding her footing in King’s Landing’s intricate dance.

At the far side of the chamber, Queen Alysanne herself had come to sit with them, not above, but alongside her daughter. Her hair shone like the sun in the sunlight, her face softened by age but sharpened by the gravity of her presence. She folded her hands before her and smiled faintly.

“It warms my heart,” she began, her voice clear but low, “that you speak not of revels or masques, but of seed and stone. Of futures. I once dreamt of a Westeros where women would be seen and heard, not as ornaments to their lords, but as keepers of wisdom, as wielders of choice. Perhaps this school will be a step toward that.”

The ladies lowered their heads slightly, acknowledging the Queen’s words. Amanda in particular seemed struck, her eyes darting to Alyssa before she quickly set them down again on the parchment before her.

Alyssa tapped the vellum spread across the table — a map of King’s Landing. Her finger came to rest on the Street of Seeds, not far from the fishmongers’ stalls and the rows of modest bakeries.

“Here,” she said. “Not the Street of Silk. I will not have our work drowned beneath the noise of carnal trade. Seeds are humbler, yes — but humbler is better. This school will not be for lords’ daughters, nor ladies who can afford private tutors. It will be for the butcher’s girl, the baker’s niece, the washerwoman’s daughter. If they are to walk there without shame, they must see it set among their own people.”

Lyra Mormont gave a grunt of approval. “Then the question is: who teaches? Who among us here can give letters to girls who’ve never held quill?”

“Not I,” Barbrey said dryly, arching a brow. “But coin will buy us maesters. Even minor ones. Not every chain is forged long enough to keep a man at Oldtown. Some may be coaxed here.”

Sabitha leaned forward, sharp. “Coin we have—but coin must be given openly, or it looks like vanity. Who pays? The Crown?”

Queen Alysanne answered that with a glance at her daughter. Alyssa inclined her head. “Some will be mine. Some, I hope, from the Crown as well, if Mother permits. And perhaps donations from houses that have a mind to see their name gilded on the work.”

Amanda spoke then, a little tentative but steady enough: “My house could send grain, parchment, ink. Such supplies are dear in the Vale, but dearer still here in the city where so many children scrabble for bread. If the girls are to learn, they must eat first.”

Alyssa’s eyes warmed. “that's wise, Amanda. Very wise. I had thought of ink and slate, but not of bread. Yes. They must eat. If you can arrange it with your sister Lady Regent Elys, it will be remembered. I know your niece Lady Jeyne cannot yet understand such matters, but give her my love nonetheless. Tell her this work is done in her name too — a gift for women from women.”

Amanda nodded, visibly moved, and murmured that she would.

Sabitha’s voice cut back in, practical again. “You’ll need rooms large enough. And a woman to oversee them—one the smallfolk will trust, who can keep order. Maesters may teach, but women will run the place. I’ll say it plain: the wrong matron, and the whole thing rots.”

“Then we must choose carefully,” Alyssa said. She glanced to her mother, who gave the faintest nod of approval. “I thought to call on my sister, Septa Maegelle or even my cousin, Septa Rhaelle. They are kind, but firm with the girls in service here. And if the sept can be persuaded to bless it, we will stand on both feet: faith and knowledge together.”

Alyssanne inclined her head "This is good. It warms my heart that both my daughters and my niece are involved here. Nice work, daughter"

Lyra smirked. “I’ll wager the sept will be less pleased when girls begin reading scripture for themselves, Princess.”

“Then let them be displeased,” Alyssa said, her voice sharp enough to cut the room still. “I am my mother’s daughter. If knowledge is a threat, then perhaps it deserves to be.”

Silence followed for a breath, then Queen Alysanne’s smile deepened, and her hand came to rest lightly atop her daughter’s.

The women bent their heads back over parchment, arguing and debating—how to keep order in lessons, whether to admit older girls alongside the younger, how to coax fathers to allow their daughters to go, how to protect them walking home in dusk’s shadows. Ideas spilled, tangled, sharpened.

By the time the sun crept higher, they had a plan of sorts—messy, ambitious, and fragile as a hatchling—but real. Alysanne gave it her blessing, her eyes bright with memory of her own younger self.

“Seed it well, daughters,” she told them. “For this city, too, deserves its harvest.”

The chamber had grown warm with voices. Not shrill, not frivolous — but intent, with the cadence of women who knew their time was precious and meant to use every beat of it. Parchments crisscrossed the table, some ink already smeared where Alyssa’s quill had pressed too fast in her eagerness.

Lyra Mormont was the first to break into hard practicality again.
“Princess, forgive me, but your plan for maesters… they’ll take coin, aye, but many of them balk at teaching girls. The Citadel still mutters against you, even for allowing midwives into the birthing chambers. If one maester refuses, others may follow. We must be ready.”

Barbrey Dustin snorted softly. “Then let them choke on their chains. A clever scribe without a chain might teach just as well, and at half the cost. The North is full of hedge-wrights who read and write for their supper.”

“That may work,” Sabitha Vypren countered, “but will it carry weight? Men respect titles, and fathers will not send their daughters if they think it a mockery. If we cannot secure a chain, we must at least secure the blessing of the faith.”

All eyes turned toward Queen Alysanne. She sat silent for a long moment, silver hair catching the light, her gaze distant as if she weighed not only their words, but years of memory.

“The Faith will bless it if I ask,” she said at last, “but blessings are fragile. They fray at the first tug. I will give you my word, and more if I must… but do not lean too hard on septons. Lean instead on women. A septa yes — one who can speak their tongue, soften their doubts. This is when my daughter and niece comes in. And mothers who have seen too much of hunger to let daughters go unlettered. They will fight for this, if given the chance.”

Amanda Arryn, quiet until now, leaned forward. Her hands were folded neatly on the table, but there was a tremor in her voice that gave her away. “If the Crown lends its coin, some houses would send their donations, and the Faith its nod, still it will not be enough unless the smallfolk themselves are willing. I think of the Vale, where the shepherd’s daughter works dawn to dusk — if you pluck her for a lesson, her family may starve for lack of her hands. We must find a way to make it worth their while.”

Lyra grunted, almost approving. “Then food must be part of the bargain. A girl leaves her work for a day, she must bring back bread at least. A meal in the belly is a lesson her father will not begrudge.”

Barbrey smirked at that, wry. “Trust a Mormont to think with her gut.”

But Alyssa’s eyes lit, sharp with decision. She bent over her parchment and drew a neat line beside the site marked on the Street of Seeds.
“Yes. A kitchen. We will staff it with women who cannot teach but can cook. Let the girls eat once they arrive, and carry something home besides. Amanda, you spoke true — they must eat first, or all else falters.”

Sabitha frowned, thoughtful. “Coin again. And more coin. How many girls, Princess? Dozens? Hundreds? How many meals?”

Alyssa did not flinch. “As many as we can bear. Start with twenty. Expand to forty. If the rooms cannot hold them, we build more rooms. If the pots run dry, we fetch larger pots. No vision shrinks itself into nothing. My mother taught me that.”

At that, Alysanne’s eyes softened, though she said nothing.

For the next stretch of time, the council spun tighter into detail:

• Which houses might be coaxed to lend coin or grain without expecting too much in return.

• Whether to house the girls in shifts — morning for the youngest, afternoons for the older ones.

• If lessons should begin with letters and sums, or if practical skills — midwifery, healing herbs, accounts — ought to be taught alongside.

• How to guard the place against men who might scorn or prey upon young girls.

Lyra vowed she could spare two swordswomen from Bear Island’s sworn shields. “Women of my blood, stout and true. Let some man try to spoil your school, Princess, and he’ll leave with fewer teeth than he came.”

Amanda’s mind turned to letters. “My sister Elys keeps many scribes in the Eyrie. I could send word, and one might come south for this. A woman, perhaps, who already knows the burden of quill. It would not need to be a man at all.”

Barbrey’s lip quirked in something close to approval. “Good. Men have long had their turn. Let us see what a woman’s hand makes of it.”

Alyssa bowed her head, her mother’s words ringing in her chest like a prayer. She looked then to Amanda, offering a small, almost private smile.
“Your place among us matters more than you know. This is not courtly pastime. This is work — real work. And I am glad it is shared with you.”

Amanda flushed, but she dipped her head. “I will not fail you, Princess.”

That evening, as Alyssa set aside her gown and pinned up her hair for rest, Baelon lingered in the chamber’s quiet with her. He leaned against the carved post of the bed, his hands folded, watching her in the wavering candlelight.

“I saw our sons today,” he said. His voice was low, thoughtful, not yet weighted with anger. “Viserys in the library, coaxing High Valyrian out of Aemma. Gods, she mangled it near past mending, and he laughed, and she laughed after him, though not kindly. Still… something blooms there, Alyssa. They do not know it, not yet, but I see it.”

Alyssa turned, the faintest smile curving her mouth. “And Daemon?”

Baelon’s jaw tightened. He hesitated. “Daemon… is changed. The master-at-arms told me he fought with a squire twice his size, and won — not with wit, not with craft, but with fury. Too much fury. I watched him again from above, and saw Gael watching him too. I pressed her, little as she wished to speak. She knows not what ails him, only that something does. He pushes her away, but she feels it keenly.”

He crossed the chamber, set his hand against Alyssa’s arm. His tone darkened.
“And Viserys — I think he knows something. He carries it poorly, like a boy smuggling a dagger under his cloak. His laughter with Aemma is easy, but when I look too close, he flinches. As if he holds his brother’s secret tight, and fears to let it slip.”

Alyssa searched his face, her own eyes grave. “And what will you do?”

Baelon's hand closes over hers "I honestly don't know, lys. Watch until I cannot stomach it and wrangle it out from themselves?" they both laughed at his answer. 

The next day, The solar was bright with morning light when Amanda took her seat at the long table, parchment unfurled before her. The other women were already busy — some tallying lists of provisions, others reviewing names submitted from guilds and septs. Princess Alyssa stood at the head, hair braided and pinned in a crown, her presence as steady as the tide.

“The Street of Seeds has given us ground,” Alyssa announced, tapping her finger against a map. “A dilapidated building with An orchard, neglected since its owner died in the Shivers. Its walls are still sound, and there are wells enough to sustain a household. We will rebuild it as a school.”

Amanda bent quickly to her work, recording the Princess’s words. Already, she had been folded into the rhythm of this circle — organizing notes, drafting letters, sorting the endless details that transformed an idea into reality.

“The carpenters’ guild agrees to send apprentices for the roof, but the masons will want coin,” Lady Sabitha murmured.

“And coin they shall have,” Alyssa replied firmly. “But from the Crown’s purse, not the brothels’. This must be clean from its first stone.”

Amanda glanced up, meeting Alyssa’s eyes for only a moment. The Princess’s face was resolute, her voice steady. Here was no idle dream — this was the marrow of her work, as serious as steel in the yard. Amanda dipped her quill again, quickening her hand.

Below, in the yard, steel rang sharp against steel. Prince Baelon moved with practiced precision, his grip steady on the wooden longsword. Opposite him, Viserys was slower, less sure, sweat already beading on his brow. He is training him (for the first time in years) on swordfighting. His reason behind it? He wanted to see upclose how Daemon behaves in the training yard and well, this,

“You are my heir,” Baelon pressed, his voice carrying across the stones. “And an heir who cannot raise a blade is half a man. You will not always have Daemon or knights at your back.”

Viserys parried clumsily, the blow nearly slipping past his guard. His father stepped back, lowering his sword. “Again. And this time, do not flinch.”

From the sidelines, Daemon watched. His own blade rested across his knees, polished to a hungry gleam. His expression was unreadable, though his eyes never left the clash between father and elder brother. Every failed strike of Viserys’s seemed to draw his shoulders tighter, his fingers flexing as though itching to intervene.

Baelon noticed. He always noticed. The boy had been restless these past days — sharper in sparring, quicker to temper, his edges honed like a knife always whetted but never sheathed. He’d seen Daemon drive himself mercilessly, as if the steel could scour something away.

And now, watching his eldest falter and his second son coil like a spring, Baelon weighed them both.

“Focus, Viserys,” Baelon said. “Do not think of what your brother would do. Think of yourself.”

Viserys gritted his teeth, but his father’s words struck too near. For every clumsy swing he made, Daemon’s shadow pressed heavier. For every correction, he felt the secret burning on his tongue — the truth Daemon had confessed in the dark, the wound that still bled unseen.

He lunged again, clumsy but determined. Baelon caught the blow easily, then shoved him back with a grunt.

“Better,” Baelon said at last. His eyes slid to Daemon. “But not enough.”

As the lesson ended, Viserys bent, panting, to rest his hands on his knees. Daemon rose at once, stepping forward with a glint in his eye.

“Let me show him,” Daemon said, his voice low, dangerous. “Let me teach him how not to be cut down like a milk-drinking lordling.”

Baelon studied him — the eagerness in his stance, the heat in his tone. It was not brotherly aid he offered, but an edge honed too sharp, too eager to draw blood.

“Another time,” Baelon said curtly, sheathing his sword. “Viserys has had enough for today.”

Daemon’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing, only spun his blade in one last restless flourish before stalking from the yard.

Viserys watched him go, chest tight. Relief mingled with guilt. He could not shake the feeling that Daemon’s storm was worsening — and that he alone carried the secret that might explain it.

Above, Alyssa had come to the gallery, Amanda at her side with a bundle of parchments. Alyssa’s eyes were not on the pages but on the yard — on her husband, her sons, and the fragile line drawn between them.

She said nothing, but her hand closed briefly on Amanda’s arm, steadying herself, as if the work of schools and stones was easier to manage than the fire of her own blood.

The solar was warm with firelight, the last of the day’s light bleeding rose and gold across the high windows. Alyssa sat at her dressing table, silver comb moving slowly through her wavy blonde hair — her mind fixed, as his was, upon their sons. Baelon leaned by the fire, arms folded, his stance restless, the way of a man who had sparred all day but still found his blood unsettled.

“Daemon’s blade,” Baelon said finally, the words cutting the quiet, “sings with too much fury these days. It is not training I see in him. It is fury. On steel. On flesh. He strikes like he means to kill.”

Alyssa did not look up at once, but she did not need to — she had heard it too often from the masters-at-arms, seen it herself from the balcony where the royal ladies sometimes gathered to watch the practice yard. “He is young,” she answered, calm, though her needle paused in the air. “A boy may grow wild before he learns to temper himself.”

Baelon turned sharply, firelight flashing against the steel of his expression. “Not like this. He is my son — I know the difference between a boy chasing strength and a boy burying something deep beneath each stroke.” He dragged a hand through his hair, pacing before the fire. “And Viserys — gods, Alyssa. The boy is splitting under it. I saw it with my own eyes. He holds something for Daemon, carries it like a stone in his chest, and it weighs him down even while he smiles at Aemma. What secret could bind one brother so heavily, and silence the other with rage?”

At last, Alyssa lifted her gaze to him. Her eyes, the silver-grey of House Targaryen, met his, steady as the thread she had set aside. “You would tear it out of them before it ripens?” she asked softly. “Would you have Viserys betray his brother’s trust? Would you have Daemon resent you for pressing him into a corner he is not ready to leave?”

“They are boys,” Baelon muttered, “yet they carry themselves like men bearing crowns. Daemon with his violence, Viserys with his silence. They should come to me.”

“They will,” Alyssa countered gently, rising from her seat to cross to him. Her hand, warm, pressed to his chest. “Patience, husband. We cannot pry open their hearts like coffers. We must trust they will bring their burdens to us in time. A father’s love is not proven by forcing the truth from their lips.”

Baelon’s jaw tightened, his eyes cast to the flames. “Patience,” he repeated, but there was bitterness in the word. “You counsel patience while our sons fray before our eyes.” He turned, kissing her brow but with a fierceness that betrayed his turmoil. “I am done waiting, Alyssa. If Daemon will not unburden himself to his mother or his brother, then he will answer to his father.”

The torches hissed in the corridor as Baelon pushed open Daemon’s door. He meant to speak with his younger son alone, but to his surprise, Viserys was already there—perched on the edge of the bed, a pitcher of wine between them, two cups unsteadily poured. They froze like boys caught red-handed, Viserys paling, Daemon glaring.

Baelon’s eyes narrowed. “You're drinking Wine now, is it? One cup at feast does not mean you may swill it in secret like dockside sailors.” His voice softened as he stepped into the chamber. “But I care little for the wine. What matters is the shadow between you. Out with it.”

Daemon’s mouth twisted. “There is nothing.”

Viserys blurted, “There is,” then bit his lip, eyes darting to his brother. Daemon’s glare burned into him, but Baelon’s voice cut through before he could retreat.

“You would shield him, Viserys? You think I do not see the strain in your shoulders, the guilt in your eyes? If Daemon’s burden is yours, then it is mine too. Speak.”

Viserys’s hands clenched around the cup. He looked at Daemon, voice shaking. “I swore to him I’d keep it. Swore by blood. I can’t—”

“You can,” Baelon said sharply. Then softer: “And you will. For brothers stand together, or they fall alone. I taught you that.”

Daemon stood, restless as a wolf, pacing the room. His eyes were bright, his voice raw. “Leave him out of it. He kept his word because I made him. Because I needed him to. If there’s blame, it’s mine.”

Baelon’s gaze fixed on him. “Then speak your shame, boy, and let it be done.”

Daemon froze by the window, hands gripping the sill until his knuckles went white. He is cornered and there is no use fighting it or keeping it in. His shoulders heaved, and at last the words tore out of him:

“I heard you and Mother speaking. That Rhaenys lost another babe. That she bled and suffered alone. And no one told me—no one! She is my cousin, my best friend, and you hid it as if it were shame.” His voice cracked. “I couldn’t bear it. So I went to Driftmark. I swore Viserys to cover for me. He lied to you because I asked it of him.”

Baelon’s eyes widened, then narrowed, his jaw tightening. “You flew Caraxes across the blackwater bay without leave? At eleven years old? Gods, Daemon—”

But Daemon’s words drowned him, tumbling out in a torrent. “I confronted Lord Corlys at the docks here before doing that. Demanded why they told us nothing. He only looked at me as if I were a child playing at court games. I hated him for it. So I went to her. To Rhaenys.”

His voice faltered, trembling now. “And she… she looked at me as if I were poison. She said I came only to take more. That you stole her crown, and I—her father’s dragon. That I had no right to her, to Caraxes, to anything. She wanted nothing to do with me, to us!” His eyes shone wet. “She told me to leave. That she could not bear the sight of me.”

The silence after was thick as tar. Baelon felt his chest constrict; Viserys looked stricken.

Viserys set his cup down, rising quick to defend his brother. “It wasn’t his fault! He only wanted to comfort her. He heard you, Father—you and Mother. What was he meant to do, sit quiet while she suffered? He's her best friend. That’s all this is.”

Daemon turned on him sharply. “And you—don’t take my blame, Vis! I dragged you into it. I made you lie.”

Baelon raised a hand, silencing them both. His own face was pale, troubled. “Rhaenys’s grief is not your fault. Nor her anger. The blame lies with me—aye, with my father too. It was his choice that wounded her, and I have carried it like a scar ever since. That wound festers still, through you.”

He stepped forward, taking Daemon by the shoulders. The boy stiffened, but Baelon’s grip held. “You are not a thief, Daemon. Not an usurper. You are a boy who loves too fiercely, and wears that love like armor and chain both. Do not twist her pain into your crime.”

Daemon’s tears broke loose then. He tried to fight them, jaw set hard, but they streamed down his cheeks unchecked. “But she’s right. I take and take—Caraxes, her smiles, her time—and what have I ever given back? Nothing. Only more hurt.”

For a long moment, Daemon stood between them—his father’s steady hands on his shoulders, his brother’s grip at his side—shaking, angry, ashamed. Then his head dropped forward, his forehead pressed into Baelon’s chest, the first surrender he had shown in weeks.

Baelon exhaled slowly, stroking his son’s silver hair, his own heart leaden. “I cannot mend what has passed. Nor can you. But you will not bear it alone. Do you hear me, boy? Not while I draw breath.”

Viserys sagged with relief beside them, his secret finally lifted, his burden shared.

Baelon looked down at both sons, pride and sorrow warring in his eyes. “We are blood. We stand together. That is our strength. Do not forget it again.”

The chamber felt different once the storm had broken. The torches hissed low, their light gentler, shadows clinging to corners like listeners who had heard too much. The wine went untouched, cooling in its cups.

Viserys was the first to breathe easier, as though he had been holding his lungs tight for weeks. He sank onto the bed again, elbows on his knees, rubbing at his face. “Gods, it feels… lighter,” he whispered, more to himself than anyone else. “I thought I’d split apart keeping it all in.”

Daemon stood rigid still, wiping at his cheeks in quick, angry motions. He would not look at his brother, nor his father, though his body leaned unconsciously toward the comfort Baelon had given. The shame sat thick on him, heavier than armor.

Baelon, sensing his son’s battle between pride and need, kept a steady hand on his shoulder. Not tight, not forcing—simply there, a tether to keep Daemon from fleeing back into silence.

“You did not dishonor her,” Baelon said again, voice lower now, almost weary. “Rhaenys’s anger is not yours to own. Nor is her grief. You tried, Daemon. You tried when the rest of us stayed still. Do not mistake rejection for sin.”

But Daemon only muttered, eyes fixed on the floorboards, “She will never forgive me.”

Viserys looked up quickly, words tumbling out in defense. “She will. You know her heart—hot one day, soft the next. You only startled her, that’s all. You came without leave, without warning, with Caraxes at your back. What did you expect?”

Daemon shot him a glare, but there was no venom in it. “I expected she’d know me. That she’d let me be there. Not cast me off like—like some thief.” His voice cracked again, and he snapped his jaw shut, unwilling to let more spill.

Baelon finally released his son’s shoulders, but only so he could crouch before him, bringing himself eye to eye. He set a hand firmly against the boy’s chest. “Listen well. You are not her enemy. You are my son. You are Rhaenys' cousin, her blood. And whether you storm into Driftmark or sit quiet at her side, nothing changes that. Do not let one cruel moment define the rest.”

Daemon’s lips trembled, pressed tight against words unsaid. He gave a curt nod, though it carried little conviction. Still, he did not pull away when Baelon drew him briefly into his arms again, nor when Viserys leaned against him with a brother’s stubborn loyalty.

It was a quiet tableau, fragile as spun glass: a father cradling his sons, one weary, one wounded, both bound by love stronger than their quarrels.

At last Baelon rose, taking away their pitcher of wine, bidding them both to their beds. Viserys obeyed without protest, pulling off his boots and curling beneath the coverlet with a relieved sigh. Daemon lingered by the window, face turned away, but when his father’s hand brushed his hair in passing, he did not flinch. That alone was enough.

The corridor outside felt colder than the chamber within. Baelon walked slowly, his steps echoing faintly off stone. He should have felt relief—his sons had spoken, the secret had been laid bare, the air between them clearer than before. And yet…

Daemon’s broken words clung to him: She said I was poison. She said I had no right.

Baelon closed his eyes as he reached the empty solar, gripping the edge of the table until his knuckles went white. His guilt settled heavy, for it was his choices—his father’s choices—that had sown this grief. Jaehaerys’s ruling had crowned him, yes, but in doing so had gutted his niece’s birthright, her joy, her faith.

"Aemon, forgive me for what I have done. I took her crown and if that wasn't bad enough, I was not there for your little girl"

And now that wound bled into his children.

He poured himself a cup of the wine the boys had left untouched, staring into the dark red surface as though it might yield answers. What have I passed down to them? Not only dragons, not only pride—but scars. Rhaenys bears them, and now Daemon does too.

The thought gnawed at him: had his son’s fierce love curdled because of the injustice he himself embodied? Did every harsh strike of Daemon’s blade echo the bitterness of a girl denied her crown, a cousin left to bleed alone?

Baelon drank deeply, but the wine did not dull the guilt. His heart ached with it, a scar beneath his ribs that no steel could cut away.

The Red Keep lay in near-perfect silence, the night thick with the kind of stillness that pressed against the walls and corridors. Only the occasional whisper of wind against the stone kept the dark from being absolute. Baelon found himself standing at his and Alyssa's chamber door, hesitating, unsure if he could bear speaking the truth aloud.

He entered quietly, the soft click of the door sounding impossibly loud in the stillness. Alyssa looked up immediately, as if she had felt him arrive. Her eyes were wide, shadowed under the candlelight, and she gestured for him to sit beside her.

Baelon sank into the chair, resting his elbows on his knees, his head bowed. “I pried it out of them,” he began, voice low, strained. “It concerns Daemon and partly, Viserys"

Alyssa leaned forward, intuition pricking at her. “Everything?”

Baelon’s hands curled into fists on his knees. “He overheard us… that conversation about Rhaenys. About her… another miscarriage. That she suffered alone, and no one had told him—or anyone—that he might have known.” He swallowed, his throat tight. “He… he flew to Driftmark. On Caraxes. Alone.”

Alyssa’s hand went to her mouth. “Alone? To… to comfort her?”

Baelon’s lips pressed together. “Yes. He told me—he said: ‘And she… she looked at me as if I were poison. She said I came only to take more. That Father stole her crown, and I—her father’s dragon. That I had no right to her, to Caraxes, to anything.’” His voice wavered, the words almost too much to speak. “‘She told me to leave. That she could not bear the sight of me.’”

Alyssa’s fingers trembled as they gripped the edge of her chair. “Oh, Baelon…”

He let out a broken sigh. “Viserys knows. He… he covered for him. Swore to keep the secret. And he bears the weight of it too, though he would never admit it. Daemon… he is hurt, ashamed, angry. He carries the blame for everything Rhaenys suffers. And Viserys… he hides it, but I see it. That burden has twisted them both in ways I feared, ways I cannot easily fix. He was there too, when I talked to Daemon, sharing a wine, can you believe it?” he huffs, making a mental note to punish them lightly for that later. 

He continues "They were protecting each other, infront of me, when I confronted them" he adds. 

Alyssa reached for his hand, covering his clenched fist with hers. “My love, you cannot carry this alone. You are not responsible for what Daemon felt he had to do, nor for her grief. That burden is not yours, not truly.”

Baelon shook his head slowly. “I am responsible, Alyssa. For what happened to Rhaenys. For what Daemon felt he needed to do. For the anger he carries, the shame. He is no longer the boy he was. Something has shifted in him.” His voice cracked. “And Viserys… he struggles too. He is trying to protect his brother, but he bears it alone. It is tearing at him.”

Alyssa stood and moved to him, placing her hands gently on his shoulders. “Baelon, look at me. Daemon loves too fiercely, yes, but he is still your son. And Viserys… he is strong, but also tender. You cannot let your guilt consume you. You did what you could, and your sons… they are learning what it means to care, to bear burdens. That is not failure, Baelon. That is love. Fierce, unrelenting, and sometimes painful love.”

He let her hands guide his own to relax, breathing in the quiet warmth of her presence. “And Rhaenys,” he murmured, “it should have been her. She should have inherited the crown. And my choices… my family’s choices… have left scars in all of us.”

Alyssa’s eyes softened. “I know. I feel it too. The succession… it is a wound in our hearts, as much as in hers. When I am doing mother's projects, don't you know how many times it crossed my mind that it should be Jocelyn doing this? But we cannot let that wound define our sons. They are ours to nurture, not punish. And they will heal. We will guide them. Together.”

Baelon exhaled, leaning into her touch. “I fear for Daemon’s anger, his shame. It has changed him. I see it when he trains, in his silence at the table. He carries more than a boy should, Alyssa. And Viserys… he hides it, but I see the strain. It eats at him because he is protecting his brother.”

Alyssa squeezed his hands. “And yet, here you are, sharing it with me. That is strength, Baelon. That is what we must offer our children: trust, understanding, and love when the world has dealt them cruelty and grief they cannot control.”

Baelon shook his head slowly, voice low. “I am afraid, Alyssa. Afraid that I have failed as a father. That Daemon’s heart will harden, that he will bear guilt and anger longer than he should. I do not know how to reach him, not after Driftmark, not after her words… Not after he blamed himself for everything.”

Alyssa rested her forehead against his shoulder. “You are his father, Baelon. You have given him love and courage, and he will find his way. But you must not carry his burden for him. That weight is his to wrestle with, as hard as it is to watch. And we must not forget, Viserys carries his own share, quietly, because he cares. Both of them are learning what it means to love fiercely, and what that love costs.”

Baelon let a shuddering breath escape. “It is unfair. He should be laughing, playing, not… this.” His hands fell to his knees. “And yet I see him at night, alone, pacing, his thoughts turning over the wrongs he cannot undo. I see him sharpen his sword, his strikes harder than they ever were before. And I know it is more than mere practice—it is anger, grief, frustration… all of it churning into something I fear even he does not understand.”

Alyssa stroked his hair softly, her voice steady. “Then we stand with him. We are here to remind him that love does not have to destroy him, that family does not have to break him. He is our son. We will guide him through this darkness.”

Baelon closed his eyes, letting the warmth of her presence settle his racing thoughts. “And Rhaenys… my heart aches for her too. She suffers more than anyone should, and yet I see how our decisions, our family’s choices, have left her scarred as well. Daemon… he wanted to comfort her, and she recoiled. He has not been the same since. I see it in his eyes, in his shoulders, in the way he no longer laughs freely.”

Alyssa’s grip tightened. “And yet he went. He tried. That is courage, Baelon. That is the heart of a Targaryen. And Viserys… he has been brave in ways few can measure, bearing this secret to protect his brother. This is not failure, it is love in its rawest form.”

Baelon exhaled, a long, heavy sound. “I can only hope they forgive themselves, that they do not carry this wound longer than they must. I fear I have created more shadows than light.”

Alyssa pressed a kiss to his temple. “No, my love. You have not. You have given them guidance, protection, and a home where they may learn the difference between right and wrong, love and guilt. The shadows may linger, but together we can help them bear the weight. Daemon and Viserys will not fall alone—they have us, and they have each other.”

Baelon leaned back, finally allowing himself to feel some release, a small easing of the tension in his chest. “You are right. I… I needed to speak this aloud. To feel that perhaps they will not carry it as heavily as I fear.”

Alyssa smiled softly. “They will find their way. And we will be here, always. That is all we can offer them—and all they truly need.”

Outside, the first blush of dawn began to light the Red Keep, golden streaks creeping across the stone battlements. Inside, Baelon and Alyssa remained in quiet embrace, two hearts heavy with the weight of grief, guilt, and love, yet steadied by the promise of family and the strength to guide their sons through the storms yet to come.

Chapter Text

The first light of morning crept over the Red Keep, brushing the towers with pale gold and casting long shadows across the training yard. A thin haze of mist clung to the stones, and the world felt hushed, holding its breath as if uncertain of what the day would bring.

In the solar, Daemon rose from his bed with sluggish movements, hair tousled, eyes heavy but brighter than they had been in days. There was still a weight upon him, yes—the ache of shame, the sting of rejection—but it felt less oppressive now. The words he had spoken to Baelon, to Viserys, had loosened some of the tension coiled in his chest. He moved with a stiffness softened by relief, the fire in his blood tempered, at least for the moment.

Viserys, on the other hand, emerged with a different kind of lightness. His shoulders, which had carried the burden of secrecy, seemed to have shed some invisible weight overnight. There was a tentative spring in his step, though his brows remained knotted with lingering worry. Yet now, the relief of sharing Daemon’s burden with their father had cleared a path through the anxiety that had clung to him so tightly.

From across the hall, Baelon observed them both as he prepared for the day. His gaze lingered on Daemon first, noting the boy’s softer movements, the way his eyes no longer flickered with that sharp, defensive anger. And yet, there was still a quiet intensity in the boy, a residual ache beneath the surface that reminded Baelon of how much had transpired in the past hours.

Alyssa joined him quietly, her hand brushing his arm. “They carry it differently,” she whispered, voice low, careful not to disturb the stillness. “Daemon still bears the sting, but it is lighter. And Viserys… he seems freed, at least a little.”

Baelon exhaled slowly. “Yes,” he said, eyes returning to his sons. “And yet… my heart aches. I see the marks of it in Daemon, the change in his spirit. It is my fault he had to carry it this long, my fault for the choices that brought us here. Even now, he moves forward, but I cannot help the guilt.”

Alyssa pressed closer. “You’ve done what you could, Baelon. You’ve guided them, spoken to them, held them in the truth. You cannot undo what happened, but you can be here, as you have been, and that is more than most could do.”

Daemon descended the stairs, brushing past them with an almost imperceptible nod, his movements careful but freer than they had been. His gaze met Viserys’, who was waiting near the table, and there was a silent acknowledgment between them—a shared understanding, a bond tempered by grief but strengthened by honesty.

Baelon followed with a slow, deliberate step. “I see you,” he said quietly, voice rough. “You’ve both carried much. But today, the world waits, and you face it together. Do not forget that.”

Viserys inclined his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. “We will,” he murmured, though his mind still flickered with worry for Daemon. The boy’s grief was not gone entirely, but it had been shared, laid bare in the only way that could lighten it: with family.

Daemon lingered at the table, staring briefly out the window at the morning haze. The sky, pale with early light, felt almost like a promise—a chance to move forward, to breathe, to reclaim the moments stolen by sorrow and anger. And though he still carried shame, the anger that had burned so sharply in Driftmark, that had made his fists grip the sword in the yard like iron, had softened, giving way to something quieter: reflection, understanding, and the faintest glimmer of hope.

Alyssa and Baelon exchanged a brief glance, sharing a wordless understanding. Their sons were not wholly healed—how could they be?—but the burden had shifted. Shared. A little lighter, a little more bearable. And for now, that was enough.

The morning air carried the faint scent of soil and salt from the nearby bay as Amanda Arryn followed Princess Alyssa Targaryen and the other ladies—Lyra Mormont, Barbrey Dustin, and Sabitha Vypren—down the narrow, uneven streets toward the dilapidated building on the Street of Seeds. Its windows were grimy, shutters hanging crooked, and the plaster chipped in great swathes, but Alyssa’s eyes gleamed with vision.

“This,” Alyssa declared, sweeping a hand toward the building, “will be the heart of something greater. A place where girls who are too often overlooked can learn to be heard, seen, and capable of shaping their world. It is not the streets of silk, where wealth and influence hold sway, but here, on the Street of Seeds, we plant something that will endure.”

Amanda glanced around at the wide backyard, imagining a playground of laughter and learning, the tiny seeds of potential Alyssa envisioned. The other ladies murmured their agreement, each offering observations. Barbrey noted the sunlight on the back wall, perfect for a garden; Lyra suggested the main hall for communal lessons; Sabitha pointed out which rooms might need reinforcing before occupation.

Alyssa led them through the building, counting rooms and discussing uses with precise practicality. “The front left wing will serve as classrooms for letters and basic arithmetic,” she explained, tapping the cracked wooden floor. “Next door, we’ll have a space for herbs and cookery. I have sent a raven to my sister, Septa Maegelle. She is known for her skill in herbalism and healing. She will oversee these lessons once she arrives.”

Amanda nodded, trying to absorb every detail. “And the lodging for the teachers?” she asked, her voice thoughtful.

“The rooms above,” Alyssa said, climbing the stairs to inspect the upper floor. “Septa Rhaelle, experienced in teaching and guiding children, will manage their education. These girls need consistency, and they need guidance that is firm but patient. I trust both my sisters to instill that.”

They continued to walk the grounds, Alyssa pointing out a corner for a small garden where herbs would grow, another patch for vegetables and teaching cookery. Amanda could almost hear the excited chatter of girls learning their first letters, learning to measure ingredients, to identify plants.

Alyssa paused in the center of the backyard, folding her arms as she surveyed the space. “We will need to reinforce the roof in some rooms, repair the floors, and bring in proper desks and tables. I will handle the finances for the materials, but each of you will help plan how these spaces function. Your insight is invaluable.”

Lyra spoke first, her voice practical. “The main hall could double as a space for communal gatherings. A place for reading aloud, for exercises in debate and discourse. It should be flexible.”

Barbrey added, “And the garden needs walls. The children cannot be exposed to the street entirely. Safety and structure first.”

Sabitha agreed, “Perhaps a schedule for lessons in rotation. Letters, arithmetic, cookery, herbs. If we manage time wisely, all can have a chance.”

Amanda listened carefully, her mind already sketching the layout. Her unease from court gossip, from whispers about Aemma and Viserys, lingered faintly in the back of her mind—but here, with these women, there was purpose. There was action. She liked it.

Alyssa’s gaze softened as she regarded her ladies. “I am proud of what you will create. These girls will see what it means to have voices, to be capable of more than the roles assigned by birth. And I will send word to my sisters regarding the curriculum, the training, and guidance. We cannot leave such matters to chance.”

Amanda glanced briefly at Alyssa, sensing the unspoken strength in her vision, the patience, and the steely resolve to carry the plan forward—even as she bore the weight of her own family concerns.

And in the quiet moments, as Alyssa discussed the allocation of rooms, the garden’s layout, and the rotation of classes, Alyssa felt the emotional undercurrent from King’s Landing and Driftmark hover in her mind. Though the boys were not here, she knew of Daemon’s storm, the shadows of Rhaenys’ grief, and Viserys’ relief. The world outside this small building still carried sorrow and secrets—but here, they planted something tangible. Here, they built hope.

As the sun climbed higher, Alyssa gestured to the ladies. “We will start drafting layouts today. Measurements, furniture placement, and classroom order. Let us work with care. This is more than a building—it is a future.”

Amanda felt a small thrill of purpose. It was a distraction, yes, but a welcome one. She realized that while the court and the Red Keep carried burdens, here she could see progress in motion. Here, she could act, and act wisely.

And yet, even as they measured floors and examined walls, Alyssa Targaryen could not fully push away the whispers of grief and anger she had glimpsed in her family—the threads of emotion from Driftmark and King’s Landing that wove faintly through the day, reminders of what awaited them beyond this street of seeds.

Still, with every plan they made, every decision they debated, She felt herself rooted in the possibility that something better could grow. Something enduring.

The morning sun spilled across the training yard, glinting off steel and catching in Daemon’s silver hair as he moved with a controlled fury. He no longer fought with the raw, untempered anger of yesterday. Each strike, each parry, carried weight, but it was tempered by focus, precision, and a newfound steadiness. The storm within him had not vanished, but it had found a measure of order.

From the balcony, Gael leaned against the stone railing, her eyes narrowing as she observed her nephew. His movements were sharper, faster, but there was a clarity now that had been missing. He still had the fire of youth in his strikes, but it was harnessed, directed. Something had shifted overnight.

Baelon stood nearby, watching carefully, arms crossed. He noticed Gael’s gaze lingering on Daemon, her concern etched plainly on her face. He approached her quietly, lowering his voice so only she could hear.

“You’re watching him, again” Baelon said, a trace of amusement in his tone, though his eyes were serious.

Gael’s brow furrowed. “He… he’s different. Angry, but precise. I can see it—he’s… calmer, but there’s still something… wrong.”

Baelon nodded slowly. “I know.” He rested a hand on the railing beside her, leaning in just enough for her to feel the weight of his words. “What you see, Gael… it’s true. I know what happened with Daemon.”

Gael’s eyes widened. “You… you do?”

Baelon’s gaze softened. “I do. But he will tell you himself, in his own time. He needs to come to it on his own. What matters now is that he knows he’s not carrying it alone. That knowledge has already given him something he needed… and it shows.”

She watched Daemon again, noting the subtle shift in his stance, the way he anticipated his partner’s moves, the way his strikes landed with calculated efficiency rather than blind force. “It’s… it’s like he’s fighting smarter now,” she said softly.

Baelon allowed himself a rare, approving smile. “Precisely. Relief, Gael. He’s relieved now, and it shows in his sword. Anger still fuels him, yes, but now it is disciplined. Controlled. He’s no longer trying to lash out at the world—he’s aiming, calculating. That is the boy I want him to be.”

Gael let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “So… he’s okay?”

Baelon’s smile lingered, gentle but weighted with unspoken burdens. “He’s on his way, child. And so are we all, if we watch, guide, and trust the boy to find his own way.”

Below, Daemon’s blade flashed once more, cutting through the air with both precision and strength. Gael’s lips curved into a small, tentative smile, relief easing her chest. The boy was still carrying his grief, his anger—but he was learning to wield it, rather than let it wield him. And that, for now, was enough.

Meanwhile, in the quieter wing of the Red Keep, Viserys and Aemma had taken up their books in the library. Aemma’s fingers traced the delicate scripts of High Valyrian, repeating phrases slowly, carefully. Viserys, perched on a low bench beside her, had loosened his usually rigid posture, a subtle ease settling over him that Aemma noticed immediately.

“You mispronounced that last word again,” Viserys teased, though his voice was lighter than usual.

“I did not,” Aemma replied, feigning offense, “I simply made it more… dramatic.”

Viserys chuckled, a sound that warmed the room. “Dramatic? You mean absurd. Like your father when he tries to wield a sword and ends up fencing with air.”

Aemma’s lips twitched with a smile. “I’ve seen him do worse.”

“Not possible,” Viserys replied, grinning. “I’ve watched him nearly decapitate a squire without meaning to.”

They laughed together, the tension from the previous day’s lessons melting further as they broke into another round of playful banter. Aemma noticed the lightness in Viserys’s movements, the ease with which he corrected her pronunciation and gestured at the texts. For once, he didn’t seem haunted by unspoken burdens—at least, not visibly.

The sun casted long shadows across the Red Keep, gilding the stone battlements with gold. Baelon’s hand rested lightly on the hilt of his sword as he regarded his son, Daemon, with an intensity tempered by patience. The boy had been quieter of late, thoughtful, sharper in his movements during training, but Baelon knew that under this new precision lay a storm still unspent—a storm born of guilt, grief, and all that had transpired on Driftmark.

“Daemon,” Baelon said finally, his voice soft but steady, “it has been far too long since you rode Caraxes. I think… it is time you returned to him. Not for duty, not for ceremony, but for yourself.”

Daemon’s brow furrowed, wary. “Father?”

Baelon’s gaze softened. “You have carried much, boy. I’ve carried what I could, and you have taken on what I could not. Riding… riding a dragon—Vhagar, myself—I have found it clears the mind, sharpens it, steadies it. Caraxes may do the same for you. You will feel lighter, if only for a while. I figured, Rhaenys' words regarding you claiming caraxes affected you that made you temporarily stopped seeing Caraxes. and Let me tell you: That is Dangerous, especially with your bond so young. You should be enhancing your bond with him”

Daemon hesitated, then gave a small nod, more to himself than to his father. He followed Baelon through the city streets toward the Dragonpit, his steps echoing with both anticipation and a lingering shadow of shame. The keep’s familiar paths did little to quell the nerves twisting in his stomach, but the thought of Caraxes beneath him steadied his breath.

The gates of the Dragonpit swung open with a creak and a roar of wings. Acolyte keepers bustled about, some tending to the dragons, others stacking feed, cleaning the vast stones of the pit. A few spotted Daemon immediately, grins splitting their soot-streaked faces.

“Well, well!” one called, gesturing toward him with a pitchfork. “There goes Ser Dragon Dung!”

“Lord Poop Shoveller himself!” another added, chuckling.

Daemon blinked, and then a laugh broke through his chest—a real, unguarded laugh, the first in days. “You lot never miss an opportunity, do you?” he muttered, shaking his head with a small grin. The humor, the familiarity of these men who had known him in his humblest and messiest moments, was grounding.

Baelon dismounted outside the city proper, near Vhagar’s roost. The great dragon’s wings stretched across the sky, catching the morning light. Beside him, Daemon adjusted himself in the saddle of Caraxes, the crimson scales glinting beneath the sun.

“Easy now,” one of the acolytes said, helping him with the reins. “He remembers you.”

Daemon exhaled slowly, letting the tension of the past weeks seep from his shoulders as Caraxes rumbled beneath him, a low, vibrating growl of recognition.

Baelon’s own dragon, Vhagar, shifted on the cliffside, wings unfurling. He swung into the air with a practiced ease, the wind rushing past him, whipping his hair and filling his chest with that unique exhilaration only flight could offer. Daemon followed, Caraxes leaping after the air currents, wings slicing through the dawn sky with powerful precision.

For a moment, the world narrowed to wind and sky, dragon and rider, father and son separated by nothing more than a few hundred feet but tied by understanding. Baelon glanced down at Daemon, noting how his movements had lost the jagged edge of anger. Where once his strikes in the yard had been sharp with frustration, now they were smooth, precise, controlled. He could see the relief behind the boy’s eyes, subtle but unmistakable.

They rode for a stretch in silence, the world beneath them insignificant, the pressures of court and grief and guilt replaced by the rhythmic beat of wings. Baelon felt a temporary lightness in his chest, a reprieve from the gnawing guilt he carried for Rhaenys, for Daemon, for the secret his younger son had borne alone with Viserys.

Daemon, for his part, allowed himself a small exhale he hadn’t known he’d been holding. Caraxes’ powerful wings beneath him reminded him that he was not broken, that he could still soar despite the mistakes, the anger, the sorrow. His shame was not gone—he would carry it—but for the first time since Driftmark, it felt tempered, softened. He could think, not just react. He could breathe, not just bear.

After several circuits around the cliffs, Baelon brought Vhagar down onto a sunlit plateau. Caraxes landed beside him, the great dragon’s wings folding over him like a cloak. Daemon slid from the saddle, knees weak but heart lighter.

“Well,” Baelon said, offering a hand to his son, “I see you are returning to yourself. Not entirely, perhaps, but enough for now.”

Daemon grinned, brushing a lock of hair from his eyes. “Enough to be less of a fool, yes.”

Baelon’s lips twitched with a small smile. “Aye, that is good. And remember, boy—fools are rarely this clever at hiding their mistakes. Learn from the sky, from the dragon beneath you, not just from your heart.”

They watched the dragons shift and stretch, the sun illuminating their scales like burnished metal. Both father and son felt a measure of peace settle over them—a temporary balm for wounds both old and new.

Daemon, Caraxes now settled, looked to the horizon and smiled faintly, the first honest smile in weeks. For the first time, the world felt manageable, if only for a while. Viserys’ secret-keeping, the shame of Driftmark, the anger at injustice—each had been carried up into the sky and released, leaving only the boy and the dragon beneath him, and a father who understood.

And for a moment, they all could simply breathe.

The afternoon sun hung heavy over the Red Keep, casting long shadows across the training yard. Daemon adjusted the grip on his wooden practice sword, eyes narrowing as he observed Viserys across from him. The boy’s stance was rigid, eager yet awkward, betraying the tension in his shoulders. This was to be another session—not merely of instruction, but of rebuilding confidence, both theirs and his.

Baelon watched from a few steps away, arms folded across his chest. He noted Daemon’s measured movements, the precision that had returned after Caraxes had lifted him above the burdens of Driftmark. No longer driven by anger alone, each strike and parry was exact, purposeful. Daemon was teaching Viserys with a patience that had seemed impossible weeks ago, guiding his younger brother through the subtleties of balance, footwork, and the way to angle a blade defensively.

“Relax your shoulders,” Daemon said, his voice calm but commanding. “You’re bracing too much. Let the sword flow with you, not against you.”

Viserys exhaled, trying to match his brother’s rhythm. “Like this?”

Daemon adjusted his grip lightly, repositioning his hands. “Better. Step with your back foot—yes, just like that. Good. Now don’t overreach; your body moves before your blade.”

Baelon’s lips twitched in a small, approving smile. He knew his sons were navigating more than just swordplay—both were navigating trust, release, and the invisible burdens of their recent trials. Gael, perched high on the balcony, watched intently. Her sharp eyes flicked between the brothers, noting the subtle shift in Daemon. He was calm, focused, patient even, yet still possessed the fire she had always admired. A small exhale of relief escaped her; her brother had already told her he knew the truth, and seeing Daemon here, in control, was reassurance enough.

The clatter of leather boots on stone announced the arrival of another party. Princess Alyssa, radiant in the afternoon light, strode into the courtyard flanked by her ladies—Amanda Arryn, Lyra Mormont, Barbrey Dustin, and Sabitha Vypren. Their conversation hushed as they took in the sight of the training yard.

Baelon caught her gaze and gave a subtle nod. In that single motion, he conveyed the unspoken: he had tended to his sons. Both of them. Daemon’s burdens had been addressed, Viserys’ unease tempered. Alyssa’s lips curved into a proud smile, a light of approval dancing in her eyes.

“I must leave you to your work, ladies,” Alyssa said warmly, her voice carrying across the courtyard. “We shall reconvene at the project site soon.” The ladies curtsied and began to make their way toward the keep’s inner corridors, Amanda glancing back with a shy smile.

Alyssa joined the training yard proper, her presence both gentle and commanding. She offered advice to Viserys as Daemon guided him through a basic parry, occasionally repositioning his feet or adjusting his grip. “Angle your wrist slightly,” she suggested. “Remember, the strength is not in your arm, but in the turn of your body.”

Daemon stepped back and watched, his eyes calm and focused, as both Viserys and their mother made slight adjustments. His father’s watchful gaze remained fixed on him, approving, yet allowing the younger Targaryen the space to teach. It was a delicate balance: father as overseer, son as instructor, brother as student.

“Good, Viserys,” Daemon encouraged, smiling faintly. “Keep that rhythm. Now, remember—never overcommit. Your blade is an extension, not a hammer.”

Alyssa nodded, approving the younger prince’s guidance, then stepped closer, gently correcting a posture or the tilt of Viserys’ grip. “Yes, exactly. You’re learning quickly. And Daemon, your patience is admirable.”

Baelon’s eyes lingered on the scene, his chest swelling slightly at the sight. Daemon had returned to himself—not just his skill, but his temperament. Viserys, bolstered by both his brother’s instruction and his mother’s careful guidance, moved with more confidence than ever. Even Gael, observing silently from above, allowed herself a small, relieved smile.

The sun climbed higher, gilding the courtyard in light, and for a brief, perfect moment, the family existed in harmony. A father’s pride, a mother’s guidance, a brother’s mentorship, and a younger sibling’s determination intertwined seamlessly. Shadows from past sorrow remained in the corners, yes, but they were softened—carried off for now on the steady rhythm of sword against wood, dragon fire distant and quiet, and the quiet heartbeat of family moving forward together.

The solar smelled faintly of ink, parchment, and beeswax candles, a quiet sanctuary from the bustle of the Red Keep. Jaehaerys sat hunched over a stack of scrolls, quill in hand, revising edicts with the careful precision only a king could manage. Queen Alyssanne leaned casually against the edge of the desk, hands folded, her gaze soft yet sharp, taking in her husband’s furrowed brow.

Finally, Jaehaerys set down his quill and exhaled, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “Our brood is up to no good,” he said, the corners of his mouth twitching in what was half amusement, half exasperation.

Alyssanne arched a brow, feigning innocence. “What do you mean, husband?”

He shook his head, letting out a small groan. “We hear so little from them. Only fragments. Alyssa opening a school, the rest are leading some quiet life or secretive affairs with the others, and no word to me, their sire or their grandsire.”

A sly smile tugged at Alyssanne’s lips. “Well, you know our Alyssa,” she said, amused, “she plans to include Maegelle and our niece Rhaella in the new school for the lowborn and smallfolk women she’s building.” She leaned closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “We’ll need to ease the Faith into allowing them to take part. You remember how strict they can be.”

Jaehaerys snorted, imagining the conversations to come. “Ah, yes. Letting the Faith bend once again at the Red Keep’s whims. As is our headache"

Alyssanne chuckled, unbothered. “And Rhaenys. She prefers solitude on Driftmark or Stormsend after… everything. I had to command Corlys to keep us appraised of her health and well-being after that council meeting.”

Jaehaerys laughed quietly to himself, the image of his queen commanding the Sea Snake to report on their granddaughter, like a general marshaling her troops, flicking across his mind. “You always did have a way of bending men to your will,” he said softly.

She continued, her tone switching to a quieter, more factual rhythm. “Then there’s Vaegon in the Citadel. And Saera… she’s gone off to who knows where in Essos.”

At the mention of Saera, Jaehaerys’s jaw stiffened. He set down his quill and stared at the parchment, eyes distant, thoughts far away. His once-favorite daughter had left, stirring both hurt and frustration, yet beneath the anger there lingered a quiet, stubborn love—an impossible hope that she would return.

Alyssanne reached for the thread again. “Viserys. I heard from the keeper of the books that he’s spending much time with Aemma in the library. Teaching her High Valyrian.”

Jaehaerys groaned. “Another oversight of mine. I ought to have ensured in Daella’s marriage contract to Rodrik that their children would learn Valyrian—it is part of their heritage, after all. Well, at least Viserys is remedying that.”

Alyssanne nodded. “Yes, but Baelon, Daemon, and Gael… I’m unsure what they’re up to. Only that Gael has taken a special interest in Daemon’s sword training. I often see her on the battlements overlooking the yard, watching him closely. And I do not wish to pry; you know how our daughters respond when forced.”

Jaehaerys stopped writing completely, looking at her with solemnity. “You’re right. We shouldn’t pry too much. When it is needed, it is our duty to carry them. All of them.”

Alyssanne’s gaze softened. “But Viserys and Aemma… there’s something. We saw them sparring—not seriously—on Viserys’ nameday. Afterwards, they are thick as thieves. Baelon and Alyssa do not wish to broach marriage, yet if it were to happen, Aemma is already… there. We need not look further. She comes from a good family, our granddaughter through sweet Daella. It would bind the Vale to us more firmly. Something is blossoming there, whether they are aware of it or not.”

Jaehaerys leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, a slow smile tugging at his lips. “Aye,” he said finally, voice warm, eyes softening. “You are right in that, wife. Marriage… marriage is your specialty.”

Alyssanne’s lips curved with satisfaction. She reached over and squeezed his hand gently, her tone both teasing and tender. “And for once, we may allow them their secrets to grow, as we once had ours. I will silently keep an eye on them and keep you appraised, as always.”

Jaehaerys exhaled, half-laughing, half-resigned, and returned to his edicts. But a part of him, heavy with a father’s love and a grandfather’s pride, allowed himself a brief moment of amusement—and wonder—at the secret lives of his brood, each weaving their own stories, their own trials, while the crown and its family watched silently.

Chapter Text

The morning had been long in the Red Keep, but now Princess Alyssa moved with purpose, her ladies flanking her as they approached the dilapidated building on the Street of Seeds. Sunlight fell unevenly across the cracked stones and overgrown courtyard, highlighting the potential hidden beneath years of neglect. The place had history, no grandeur, but it offered space—rooms for teaching, lodging for instructors, and a backyard large enough for practical lessons.

Amanda Arryn walked slightly behind Alyssa, her eyes wide as she examined the uneven floors and sagging roof beams. Lyra Mormont, always practical, ran her hands over a splintered doorframe, muttering about what would need reinforcing. Barbrey Dustin and Sabitha Vypren began marking out the sections in the dirt with sticks, discussing where lessons in herbs, cookery, letters, and basic accounting might be best held.

Alyssa paused at the center of the courtyard, letting her gaze sweep across the site. She inhaled the scent of old stone and damp earth, letting the possibilities fill her. “We will need classrooms here,” she said, pointing toward a cluster of small, boarded-up rooms. “And teacher lodging here, upstairs. That way, the girls can practice and learn without leaving the yard.”

Amanda scribbled notes in her small book, glancing up at Alyssa. “Do you think this space will be enough?”

Alyssa smiled, a mixture of confidence and quiet concern softening her features. “It will grow. We start with what we have. And we will have help. I’ve sent ravens to my sister, Septa Maegelle—her skill with herbs will be invaluable. And Septa Rhaelle for teaching. They will manage daily lessons, while we establish the structure.”

Lyra chimed in, voice steady. “The backyard can be used for practical lessons—gardening, herbs, even basic drills if needed. It’s large enough for the girls to move freely.”

“Exactly,” Alyssa said, nodding. “We are building more than a school. We are giving them space to be seen, to be heard. Not ornaments. They will learn, and they will carry that knowledge far. Hopefully, the ladies who have finished here can be employed as healers, servants in the keep or they can teach here or in the other branches of the school which will hopefully happen” Her eyes softened momentarily, remembering Queen Alyssanne’s vision of a Westeros where women mattered—not just for their beauty or their alliances, but for their minds and skills.

The ladies began debating specifics—where the herb lesson would be, which room best suited cooking, how letters and basic accounting would be taught. Alyssa moved among them, offering insight and guidance, yet there was a subtle emotional thread beneath her practical mind. She carried the weight of her family’s recent upheavals, the quiet awareness of Daemon’s troubles, and the relief that Viserys and her husband Baelon had managed the boys’ burdens overnight. Though Daemon was absent here, his shadow lingered—he was anchored now, riding Caraxes earlier with Baelon and even once with her father, King Jaehaerys who still remains oblivious to what happened. 

Yet, Alyssa could not help but feel the echo of that sorrow in her steps, in the careful planning she undertook. Each choice she made—the placement of rooms, the structure of lessons, the selection of trusted sisters to assist—was influenced by the understanding of responsibility, of nurturing and guidance, both for the girls who would attend the school and for her family back at the Red Keep.

The afternoon stretched, filled with discussions of beams, room sizes, and the logistics of daily instruction. Plans were drawn, ideas debated, and solutions forged. In the background, the quiet relief from Driftmark’s shadow lingered—Daemon’s heart slightly lighter, Viserys’ tension eased, and Alyssa’s own sense of purpose a stabilizing force for the day.

By the time the sun began to dip toward the horizon, the foundation of the school—both in brick and in plan—was laid, and Alyssa stood at the center, hands on her hips, surveying the work. “We have a start,” she said. “It will not be perfect yet, but it will grow. And these girls will grow with it.”

Amanda scribbled the final notes for the day, Lyra adjusted the makeshift garden plot, Barbrey and Sabitha measured and aligned spaces, and Alyssa allowed herself a small, satisfied smile. Somewhere far away, in the Red Keep’s training yard, she imagined her sons moving with ease, Daemon teaching Viserys under Baelon’s watchful eye, the family slowly stitching back together the threads of worry and guilt, one careful step at a time.

A week had passed since the first groundwork of the Street of Seeds school, and the air was thick with planning, negotiation, and cautious diplomacy. Princess Alyssa, conscious of her limits in dealing with ladies of the Reach and the Westerlands, remained mostly in the background while Lady Amanda Arryn and Lady Sabitha Vypren took point in courting support from other noblewomen. They moved with grace and authority, presenting the school’s vision with clarity and charm, securing preliminary pledges and favorable consideration from several prominent houses.

Meanwhile, Alyssa focused on the lords who controlled resources vital to the school’s construction. Assisted by her trusted ladies, Barbrey Dustin and Lyra Mormont, she approached the Master of Ships, Lord Corlys Velaryon, and Lord Beesbury, Master of Coin. She laid out the practical plans: classrooms for letters, basic accounting, cookery, and healing and Midwifery; lodgings for teachers; a central garden to grow vegetables and medicinal herbs; and a spacious backyard for practical lessons.

Corlys, predictably wary at first, furrowed his brow as he studied the diagrams and notes. “You ask for my men, my coin, my oversight?” he asked, a low rumble in his voice. Alyssa met his scrutiny with calm, measured words. “Not your ships, my lord, only your counsel and assistance with construction. Your knowledge of the harbor, transport, and landscaping would be invaluable. The essosi instructors for healing and widwifery for instance; I could use your help for bringing them here, alongside with other materials from essos that will be needed here such as teaching materials and other construction materials for this school”

He hesitated, then his eyes darkened with thought, and a shadow of memory passed over his face. “And you say this school will teach midwifery and healing?” His voice carried a sharper edge now, personal. “For… women.” He exhaled slowly, and Alyssa held her breath, sensing the weight behind his question.

“Yes, my lord,” she said softly, her gaze steady. “The students will learn herbs, healing, and the basics of midwifery. Your assistance in transport and construction will ensure the school is safe and functional.”

Corlys’ jaw tightened. “Aye,” he said, and for a long moment, his hands clenched the edge of the table. Then he spoke with quiet decisiveness. “This… it matters to me. The realm has suffered enough from poor care and loss. And Rhaenys—” He paused, the memory of her miscarriages flashing across his mind. “If this school can train midwives who prevent such tragedies, then I will shoulder a quarter of the construction myself. The design, the landscaping… it will be done to last.”

Alyssa’s heart lifted. Relief and gratitude surged through her chest. Her eyes shimmered as she nodded, bowing her head slightly. “Thank you, my lord. For your care, and for her.”

Lord Beesbury, more reserved, followed suit, setting aside coin for the project. “The purse will provide what is needed,” he said, approvingly. “The school shall have its means.”

As the lords departed, a flurry of raven wings announced letters from Oldtown. Alyssa broke the seals with care, her eyes scanning the notes from Septa Maegelle and Septa Rhaelle. Both wrote with delight and determination, agreeing to join the school. Their expertise in herbs, healing, and teaching would anchor the school’s instruction. Alyssa’s lips curved into a small, emotional smile, thinking of her niece Rhaenys, and the lessons the girls would learn from women who had been nurtured by the family.

Later that evening, Alyssa shared the news with her husband, Baelon, and their parents, King Jaehaerys and Queen Alyssanne, within the quiet of the Red Keep. “They will come,” Alyssa said, holding the letters close. “Septa Maegelle and Septa Rhaelle have agreed to be part of the school. They are eager to teach.”

King Jaehaerys, who had been reviewing edicts, looked up and spoke with authority. “Then I will have Baelon fetch them. You know where they are—Oldtown. Take Vhagar. Bring them to the capital. You will not delay.”

Baelon inclined his head solemnly. “As you command, Father,” he said. The weight of royal command rested heavily on him, but he accepted it without question.

Once in the privacy of their chambers, Alyssa had found his arm, a brief grounding touch “And the boys?” she asked quietly, the worry in her voice subtle. Daemon and Viserys had recently endured so much, and Baelon’s absence would be felt.

“They are steady,” Baelon said after a moment. “Daemon has found some relief after recent… events, and Viserys carries himself with lighter shoulders. But still,” his jaw tightened, “they will notice my absence. We must trust them to manage, as we do in all things.”

Alyssa smiled softly, pride and concern mingling in her expression. “They are strong. They’ve grown from the burdens they’ve carried, just as we have.”

Baelon’s eyes lingered on hers, acknowledging the truth in her words. “Then it is settled,” he said firmly. “I will go at first light, and bring them back. Until then…” His gaze shifted briefly to their sons, thinking of the subtle peace now settling between them. “…until then, we guide and watch as we always have.”

Alyssa’s hand tightened over his briefly. “And we do so together. Always.”

Outside the chamber, the Red Keep held its quiet rhythm. Inside, the family prepared for the coming days, aware of the responsibilities that lay ahead, but also the hope that their work—the school, the boys’ growth, the healing of old wounds—would ripple outward, shaping a brighter future.

The first light of dawn brushed the Red Keep with pale gold and rose. Baelon moved quietly through the corridors, his boots echoing softly against the stone floors. The air was crisp, carrying a promise of the journey ahead. At the Kings Landing’s outer gates, Alyssa waited, her cloak wrapped tightly against the morning chill, her hand resting lightly on the hilt of her small dagger. Vhagar’s massive wingspan shimmered beyond the walls, the dragon poised to carry Baelon across the narrow sea to Oldtown.

Baelon approached, the weight of command heavy on his shoulders. “I will bring them back safely,” he said quietly, though his eyes betrayed the unease of leaving the Red Keep in their care.

Alyssa’s lips pressed together, half-smile, half-frown. “I know,” she said softly, stepping closer. “But the boys…” Her gaze flicked to the Red Keep in the distance, to the small figures of Viserys and Daemon standing together. They were older now than she remembered, stronger and steadier, yet still their hearts bore the shadows of recent troubles.

Baelon reached for her hand briefly, their fingers brushing. “They are well. Daemon has steadied himself. He rides better, thinks clearer. Viserys… he carries less weight now, having shared in the secret.”

Alyssa’s lips pressed together, eyes flicking toward Viserys and Daemon, who waited nearby in the courtyard, clad in training garb. Daemon stood taller now, less burdened than he had been, though his shoulders still carried the weight of recent grief. Viserys’ expression was careful, measured, but alert.

Baelon knelt slightly to meet Daemon’s gaze. “You are strong, boy. I have seen it. Your mind is clear, your sword steady. Remember what I taught you—but more importantly, remember your heart. Do not carry what is not yours to bear alone.”

Daemon swallowed, fists clenching at his sides. “I’ll be careful, Father,” he said softly, voice steady but eyes bright with unspoken emotion.

Viserys stepped forward, placing a hand on his father’s arm. “And I’ll make sure he is,” he said, though his own voice trembled slightly with relief and worry alike.

Baelon’s eyes softened. “You both have grown much,” he said. He reached out and gripped each boy’s shoulder firmly, lingering, imprinting the moment. “Daemon… Viserys… I leave you in each other’s hands as well as your mother’s. You will look out for one another, and remember that even when I am gone, you are never truly alone.”

Alyssa stepped forward, wrapping her arms around Baelon in a tight embrace. “I will miss you,” she whispered against his shoulder, her voice breaking slightly. “Both of you must be careful. And when you return… come back to me.”

Baelon pressed his lips to her temple, inhaling the faint scent of her hair, grounding himself. “I will,” he promised. “And when I return, we will all stand together again.”

He straightened, turning to mount Vhagar, who shifted restlessly beneath him. Daemon and Viserys watched from below, their faces a mixture of admiration, love, and apprehension.

Before he left, Baelon leaned down again to Daemon, brushing a hand over his silver hair. “Ride your dragon in spirit, boy,” he said softly. “Let it anchor you, as you have anchored yourself these past weeks.”

Daemon’s mouth twisted into the faintest of smiles. “I will, Father.”

Viserys nodded in return, a quiet promise in his eyes.

With a final glance at the Red Keep, at his wife and sons, Baelon nudged Vhagar forward. The great dragon flexed its wings, lifted into the morning sky, and carried him away over the city, the river, and out toward the horizon.

The Hightower rose like a white and gold sentinel against the morning sky, its shadow stretching long across the streets of Oldtown. Baelon felt the familiar thrill of riding Vhagar, though it was tinged with unease; there was a tight knot in his chest that he could not shake. The dragon landed gracefully in the courtyard, and Baelon dismounted, letting the leather reins slip from his hands.

He was immediately greeted by Ser Otto Hightower, the second son of Lord Hightower, whose grin was far too wide, his bow far too deep, and his tone positively effervescent.

“Prince Baelon!” Otto began, nearly tripping over his own words in eagerness. “Oldtown, the very heart of the Reach, is honored beyond measure! Your valor, your wisdom, your—well, truly, your presence alone would make any city quake with pride!”

Baelon inclined his head politely, already sensing the long day ahead. “I am here to fetch my sister and cousin,” he said evenly, his voice measured, careful. “Nothing else is required.”

But Otto’s enthusiasm did not abate. He prattled on, recounting Baelon’s deeds in the Vale: how he had restored peace after Arnold Arryn’s failed rebellion, how he had demonstrated courage in battle, how he exemplified the very ideals of a prince. Each word, meant to flatter, made Baelon’s chest tighten. The knot in his stomach grew—not from offense, but from the absurdity of it. He had fought, yes. He had acted, yes. But this constant praise felt almost performative, like a play being performed for him.

On the sidelines, Maegelle’s lips twitched with amusement, and Vaegon’s expression, though guarded, betrayed the faintest smile.

“You’ve always had a way of inspiring the world,” Otto continued breathlessly. “Your son the Illustrious Prince Viserys—imagine him learning from such a paragon of virtue!”

Baelon suppressed a groan. “Ser Otto, I am here on family business, not to broker alliances.”

“Oh, but of course!” Otto stammered, bowing so deeply it seemed he might topple. “Of course, but one can never be too careful! Surely, one must consider—what opportunities for our houses!”

Vaegon muttered under his breath in High Valyrian, “A nest of vipers, and all with sugar on their tongues.” Maegelle snickered softly.

Finally, the moment Baelon had traveled for arrived. He stepped into the chamber, and there they were: His younger brother, Maester Vaegon, his younger sister, Septa Maegelle, his cousin, Septa Rhaelle.

Maegelle’s eyes were bright, and she rushed forward to embrace him tightly. “Brother,” she whispered, “it’s been too long. I feared you’d be swallowed by their… theatrics and never leave.” Her voice was soft, filled with relief, and her grip lingered. “And I am so proud of what Alyssa is doing with the school. I cannot wait to be there, to help her shape it.”

Baelon pressed a hand to her back, feeling both pride and longing. “She is strong,” he said quietly. “But she needs us. And we are here, Maegelle.”

Septa Rhaelle, elegant and composed despite her age, came next. Her eyes softened as she approached Baelon. “You were only a toddler when I last saw you, during Uncle Jaehaerys' tenth year anniversary in his reign,” she said, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “You toddled about then, trying to act fierce despite your cuteness. And now—my, you’ve grown into a great man, a seasoned soldier, and a devoted father. I’ve heard much of your sons, and of your service.”

The words struck Baelon harder than he expected. Despite it only being five days since he left King’s Landing, his chest tightened with longing for Alyssa and the boys. “You honor me,” he said quietly, voice thick with emotion. “More than I deserve.”

Vaegon stepped forward, his usually austere demeanor softened for once. “And I… I am sorry for Aemon. I was not there, and I thought burying myself in books would help me cope. But you—you’ve always carried the weight of family with more grace than I ever could.”

Baelon placed a hand on Vaegon’s shoulder. “You always have a home in King’s Landing, Vaegon. That hasn’t changed.”

Vaegon smirked. “Just don’t let Alyssa dump another flagon of wine on me. I’m not ready for that kind of baptism again.” Maegelle and Rhaelle stifled laughs at the exchange, clearly entertained by the banter.

Before the emotional reunion could fully settle, the Hightowers intervened again, this time more aggressively. Lord Hightower himself presented his daughter, Lady Ceryse, as a prospective bride for Viserys. Otto and his siblings made a show of flattery, practically falling over themselves to convince Baelon of the “advantageous match.”

“Consider, Prince Baelon,” Otto said, bowing low, “the honor this union would bring! A house as venerable as ours, the wealth of Oldtown, the intelligence and beauty of Lady Ceryse—surely your son Viserys would flourish under such a union!”

Baelon felt a faint ache behind his eyes, a headache forming. All he had come for was to retrieve his sister and cousin. Not negotiate dynastic arrangements with a house that would rather kiss his boots than speak plainly. “I am honored by your offer,” he said carefully, maintaining politeness despite his frustration, “but my purpose here is to fetch my sister and cousin. Matters of marriage will be considered only when my sons themselves choose, and under Alyssa’s guidance.”

“Oh, but Prince—” Otto began, only to be cut off by Maegelle, her voice firm but amused. “They are not here to be married. Baelon, you have our support, and nothing more is required.”

Vaegon muttered, barely audible, “A house of flattery and faltering wits…”

Lady Ceryse curtsied again, clearly bewildered by the sudden halt to the discussion. Baelon inclined his head politely. “Lady Ceryse, you honor me. But I am here on family business alone.”

By the time Baelon, Maegelle, and Rhaelle prepared to depart, the Hightowers’ flattery had reached near comedic levels, yet Baelon maintained his composure, exchanging smiles and nods that hid his exhaustion and mild exasperation.

He mounted Vhagar, Maegelle and Rhaelle seated behind him, their bags secured tightly on Vhagar and felt the familiar wind beneath them. Ahead lay King’s Landing—his family, his sons, Alyssa, and the ongoing work of the school. His heart tightened at the thought of the Red Keep and the boys, but he knew they were in good hands, anchored by what had passed in Driftmark.

The stream’s cold mist clung to their cloaks as Vhagar settled near the banks for a brief respite. Baelon dropped into the grass, rubbing at his temples. “By the fourteen, I swear I can’t take another word from the Hightowers. Their incessant flattery—it’s like being pelted with coddled eels. My head feels ready to split.”

Septa Maegelle chuckled, shaking her head. “Oh, brother, you’re not imagining it. I kept a running tally with Vaegon. Every time Lord Hightower said ‘advantageous match,’ we added a mark. I think we lost count somewhere past thirty.”

Rhaelle giggled, leaning against Baelon. “Thirty? Try fifty-two, at least! By the time we left the hall, my sides ached from laughing.”

Septa Maegelle muttered “And here I thought I’d seen every form of tedious ceremony. Turns out, a Hightower flattery contest is far worse.”

Baelon groaned theatrically. “If I hear one more ‘advantageous match,’ I’ll tell them Viserys is already preparing to take the vows of the night's watch!”

Maegelle and Rhaelle doubled over, laughing until tears streaked their cheeks, while Baelon shook his head with a fond smile, secretly glad for the brief levity amidst the long ride back.

Chapter Text

The sun hung low over the Street of Seeds, catching dust and timber in golden streaks. Princess Alyssa, in a simple dark green riding gown, stood surveying the skeleton of the school’s walls. The sound of hammers and saws filled the air as laborers worked with careful precision. Lady Amanda Arryn and Lady Sabitha Vypren approached, scrolls and ledgers in hand.

“Look here,” Amanda said, pointing to a layout. “We’ve allocated the northern wing for basic letters, arithmetic, and simple accounting. The central hall can be for cookery and herbs, and the adjoining rooms will be the teachers’ quarters.”

“Good,” Alyssa said, her gaze softening as she watched the laborers fit the beams together. “And what of the backyard?”

Sabitha opened her scroll, revealing a garden plan. “Herbs, flowers, and some basic medicinal plants. Lord Corlys himself promised to fund the gardens and the equipments for the Healing and Midwifery classes. He believes that training midwives and healers is… important.” She hesitated, glancing at Alyssa. “He knows the history, what happened with the Princess Rhaenys. This school might prevent future tragedies.”

Alyssa’s lips curved, but her eyes misted slightly. She thought of Daemon—how the boy had changed after Driftmark—and of her niece Rhaenys. “Then all the more reason to make it right,” she whispered, more to herself than to her ladies.

A few days later, Alyssa brought Daemon and Viserys to the site. Daemon, still bearing the faint shadows of his Driftmark shame, tilted his head. “Mother… why are we building this?”

Alyssa crouched beside him, smoothing his unruly silver hair. “Because the world we live in… it favors men, often at the expense of women. Your cousin Rhaenys lost children, and many women suffer in silence. This school will teach them skills—healing, arithmetic, letters, cookery—so that no woman need rely solely on a man for survival.”

Viserys frowned, absorbing the weight of her words. “So it’s… more than just learning?”

She smiled, eyes glinting with quiet fire. “Much more. It’s a lesson in governance, Viserys. A woman who can feed herself, care for the sick, and manage her affairs… she wields power the realm cannot easily take from her. If you understand this now, you will one day govern justly. This is what responsibility looks like, in every shape and form.”

Daemon shifted, nodding slowly. “I… understand. I’ll help make it the best school in the city.”

Alyssa placed a hand on his shoulder. “And you, Viserys, watch closely and learn the value of supporting such work. Men of power are as strong as the women who guide them.”

Meanwhile, back in the Red Keep, Viserys sat across from Aemma Arryn in the library. She had been stumbling over her pronunciation of a particular High Valyrian phrase.

“You said vryzihor, not vryzihor, Aemma,” he corrected gently, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“I said it right!” she protested, cheeks reddening.

“No, no,” he said, leaning back, “I think Vryzi-horrible might suit you better.” He grinned, amused at his own joke. Aemma snorted, trying to hide her laugh, then shot him a glare that quickly dissolved into a smile.

He chuckled to himself, feeling lighter than he had in weeks. The tension of keeping Driftmark a secret from Baelon had vanished, replaced by the normal rhythm of teaching his cousin.

Gael had accompanied Daemon to the Dragonpit, their steps echoing against stone. Both are wearing their dragon-riding leathers and appropriate clothes for dragon-riding. The acolyte dragonkeepers, remembering the month Daemon and Gael had spent assisting them, greeted him warmly.

“There goes Ser Dragon Dung!” one called, pointing at him with mock solemnity. “You’re going to sweep floors or take another month with, eh?”

Daemon laughed—a rich, free sound that hadn’t been heard in weeks—and shook his head. “Not today,” he replied, taking Gael’s hand. “Come, I’ll show you how to ride properly. Caraxes won’t bite, if you’re brave enough.”

Gael grinned, and together they mounted the crimson dragon. The wind whipped at their cloaks as Caraxes lifted them into the sky. For a moment, Daemon felt all the weight of what happened lift. Here, with the dragon beneath him and his aunt by his side, he felt anchored again.

Back at the Red Keep, Lady Sabitha and Lady Amanda gave Alyssa updates on the court’s reactions. Lords and ladies pledged coins, labor, and supplies for the school. A few muttered about overreach, questioning a woman’s ability to run a school, but Sabitha handled it with tact, writing detailed reports for Alyssa’s review.

Amanda, meanwhile, wrote a letter to her half-sister, Lady Regent Elys.

Dearest Sister,

I hope this letter finds you in good health and high spirits, and that you, Jeyne and Lord Gerold Royce are in doing well. I write to you with tidings from King’s Landing, where Princess Alyssa has set her mind to a project that I believe will bring lasting benefit to the realm: a school for women and I am inlcuded in its planning and construction. I have pledged our Houses' help in this endaevor with a donation of Grain, Parchments, Quills and an instructor, a scribe. I hope that we can assist in this matter because this will greatly impact women; both lowborn and highborn alike and it is my wish for Jeyne to be a Lady in a world where women can rise due to her skills and knowledge and not solely rely on the mercy of her male relatives.

On a more delicate note, I must inform you of a developing dynamic between our half-sister Aemma and Prince Viserys. He has taken it upon himself to teach her High Valyrian, a task she approaches with enthusiasm, though his manner can be… teasing at times. I assure you, the interaction is strictly educational. However, I am mindful of the court’s tendency to gossip and misinterpret such closeness. I write to you not to alarm you, but so that you may be aware and advise if necessary. While the lessons are innocent, perceptions in King’s Landing often shift in ways we cannot always control. Aemma sends her love to you and Jeyne. 

Your Sister,

Amanda Arryn

 

Daemon now moved with a precision and focus that had been absent for weeks. Under their father’s absence, he took it upon himself to teach Viserys the basics of swordsmanship under the watchful eyes of their Mother and Lady Lyra Mormont. Gael watched from the battlements, feeling a flicker of relief that the boy was steady again.

Viserys stumbled slightly under his brother’s instruction. “I—wait, hold your stance!” Daemon barked, then softened. “No, relax… feel the weight, don’t fight it.”

Alyssa and Lyra Mormont observed from the sidelines. “He’s improving,” Alyssa murmured. “And Viserys… he’s more relaxed too. Both are healing.”

Viserys smirked as Daemon playfully jabbed him with the flat of the blade. “You’re getting your jabs in, little brother,” he said, catching his breath.

Daemon grinned, delighted to see Viserys laughing. “Always. You’re learning."

Daemon had again returned to Caraxes like a boy reunited with an old friend. The dragonkeepers greeted him warmly, their teasing a balm for his lingering shame. “He's here again!” one shouted, grinning.

Daemon chuckled, brushing it off as he prepared Caraxes for flight. Beside him, Gael climbed nimbly, her expression a mixture of excitement and apprehension. Daemon helped her settle, guiding her hands on the reins.

“You’ll feel him through the reins, not just beneath you,” Daemon said, his tone patient but light. “Caraxes listens. You listen back. Trust him, and he will carry you.”

As they lifted into the wind, the city shrinking below, Daemon felt a tension ease from his shoulders. The memory of Driftmark, of Rhaenys’ words, of the guilt he had carried alone, felt lighter, softened by the strength of the dragon beneath him.

Gael’s laughter rang out as Caraxes rolled in a gentle dive, and Daemon felt a warmth he hadn’t anticipated—a subtle, fluttering camaraderie with her. Unaware to both, it was more than trust and skill forming between them. Gael hugging him tighter when Daemon made a dive. 

On the ground, the dragonkeepers nodded in approval. “Bet you a gold dragon that the two dragonlings are unaware of what is happening between them,” one said, “I'll take you up on that.”

Back in the training yard, Daemon’s return to form was evident. He sparred with Viserys, correcting his stance, teaching him to pivot and guard properly. Occasionally, Daemon threw a teasing jape, making Viserys stumble or laugh despite himself.

“Your footwork, brother!” Daemon called, pretending indignation as Viserys faltered.

“Very funny, little thief,” Viserys shot back, shaking his head, a smile tugging at his lips. “One day I’ll make you eat those words!”

The sight was familiar, comforting. Alyssa and Lady Lyra watched from the sidelines, noticing the subtle balance: Daemon’s precision, Viserys’ patience, and the bond between them mending visibly with each swing of the sword.

Alyssa caught Baelon’s absence but saw that her sons were steady, and for now, that was enough.

During another flight, Daemon rode with Gael behind him through tighter maneuvers, showing her how he anticipated Caraxes’ movements. Gael’s fingers brushed his occasionally as she held the reins, and both felt a flutter they did not yet name.

When they landed, Daemon dismounted first, preparing to help Gael dismount after. Gael’s cheeks were flushed, and she glanced away, stifling a laugh.

“Did you enjoy that?” Daemon asked, trying to mask a subtle curiosity in his tone.

“It was… exhilarating,” Gael admitted, though the blush betrayed her.

Unbeknownst to them, Aemma had been observing from the balcony, noting the way Gael’s smile lingered. Later, she teased Viserys about it. “Seems our cousin is smitten,” she said, smirking.

Viserys laughed aloud, nearly spilling his ink. “Impossible! Daemon? Smitten? to Gael?” He shook his head, incredulous. “No… surely not.”

It was morning when Vhagar’s massive shadow appeared above the Red Keep. Alyssa and Viserys stood on the terrace overlooking the roost, hearts beating a little faster.

“Baelon,” Alyssa whispered, brushing a hand over her hair as she tried to steady herself. “He’s home.”

Vhagar descended, wings stirring a soft wind across her roost, just outside the walls of King’sb Landing, where Princess Alyssa and Prince Viserys are waiting for them with a carriage behind them. Baelon guided her expertly to land, dismounting with his usual grace, and helping both his sister and cousin in the process, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed him.

Alyssa rushed forward, throwing herself into his arms. “You’re back,” she breathed.

Baelon hugged her tightly, relief and a flicker of panic in his chest. “Where’s Daemon?” he asked, scanning the yard.

Alyssa chuckled softly. “He’s taking Gael for another ride on Caraxes,” she said, giving Viserys a pointed look that earned him a groan. “You should see it—he’s having the time of his life, and she’s… well, she’s with him too.”

Baelon’s tension eased, the panic melting into amusement. “Of course,” he said, shaking his head with a small smile. “Of course, they’d do that.”

They shared a quiet, lingering moment, fingers entwined, smiles brushing lips and cheeks, the sun warming their reunion. Viserys, standing a short distance away, groaned again, earning a soft laugh from both parents. “Honestly, the pair of you,” he muttered, averting his eyes. Alyssa hid her smile behind her hand, while Baelon whispered into her ear, “I missed this… all of it.”

In the background, Septa Maegelle and Septa Rhaelle watched, amusement clear in their expressions.

Alyssa turned to her sister, Maegelle, and enveloped her in a firm, sisterly embrace. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she said.

Maegelle returned the hug, voice low with emotion. “I am proud of you, Alyssa. What you’re doing with the school… the training halls for healing and midwifery… it will save so many lives. Lowborn, highborn… it will help them all. I think of Daella… and Rhaenys… all that could have been spared. You’re making a difference.”

Alyssa felt tears prick her eyes. “I hope so,” she whispered. “I hope it changes more than just their skills.”

Septa Rhaelle approached next, her motherly presence calming. “I am proud of your work as well, Alyssa,” she said softly. “You’ve taken on so much for them, for the realm.”

Viserys stepped forward, bowing slightly. “It is an honor to meet you, Aunts.” Both Septas smiled warmly, and the introductions were formal yet gentle, a quiet weaving of family bonds renewed.

Inside the Red Keep, King Jaehaerys and Queen Alyssanne waited, anticipation and relief written on their faces. Alyssanne swept into Maegelle’s arms first. “I am so glad you are here,” she said, voice quivering slightly with emotion. “To have you overseeing the day to day operations of the school with your sister and cousin… it will be in good hands. Your old chambers have been prepared, just as before, and Rhaelle, you’re welcome too. Your chambers are right infront of Maegelle’s”

Jaehaerys followed, a weight in his gaze that spoke of old regrets and lost siblings. When Rhaelle approached, he caught himself, memories flooding—Rhaelle’s resemblance to the late Princess Rhaena striking. He embraced her tightly, voice low and choked. “I am so glad to see you. You remind me so much of both your sister and your mother.”

Outside in the dragonpit, Baelon finally found Daemon. Caraxes had just returned to her roost there, wings shaking off the air. Gael, perched beside the dragon, looked up and exchanged a silent nod with Baelon—a gesture of gratitude for watching over Daemon.

Daemon dismounted, eyes lighting up at the sight of his father. “Father,” he said, rushing forward. “I—well, this week… I’ve been teaching Viserys the basics of swordplay, just as you said. And I took Gael on Caraxes, a few times! Caraxes is slowly getting to know her”

Baelon’s eyes softened, pride and relief mixing with lingering concern. “I see,” he said, placing a hand on Daemon’s shoulder. “I’ve missed this.”

Daemon smiled, the shadow of Driftmark still behind him but fading. Baelon’s gaze lingered, noticing the subtle bond forming between Daemon and his youngest sister, though neither seemed aware of it.

By evening, the family gathered for a private dinner: King Jaehaerys, Queen Alyssanne, Baelon, Alyssa, Septa Maegelle, Septa Rhaelle, Viserys, Daemon, Gael, Lady Aemma Arryn, and Lady Amanda Arryn. Candles flickered across the table, and the Red Keep felt lighter somehow, filled with warmth, reunion, and cautious optimism.

Jaehaerys lifted a goblet. “To the return of my daughter and niece, and the school Princess Alyssa is building. And for some reason… I cannot explain, it feels lighter today.”

Viserys exchanged a glance with Daemon; their shared understanding of the trials behind them flickered in their eyes. Across the table, Baelon, Gael, and Alyssa shared a look too—the silent acknowledgment of Daemon’s pain, and of the healing that had quietly begun.

Laughter, soft words, and the clinking of goblets filled the hall as the family settled into a rhythm, renewed, and ready to face the challenges to come.

The morning air carried a crispness that suggested the lingering chill of autumn, but the sun had already begun its slow climb over King’s Landing. Princess Alyssa, with her usual quiet authority, led her sister, Septa Maegelle, through the Red Keep’s inner chambers. Today’s destination was not the school construction, but a more intimate introduction: her niece, Aemma Arryn.

Aemma sat cross-legged on a low bench in the solar, her fingers fumbling with a book of High Valyrian poetry. She glanced up as the door opened, and Maegelle’s gaze softened immediately.

“My dearest Aemma,” Maegelle whispered, crossing the distance between them. Her voice quavered slightly, the weight of grief past and love present threading through her words. “You… you are Daella reborn. She and I are the closest in our siblings, she was my bestfriend. Every line of your face, your mother’s quiet strength… it is a miracle to see you here.”

Aemma’s lips trembled as she rose, not fully understanding the depth of Maegelle’s emotion, but sensing the warmth and intensity in her aunt’s eyes. Alyssa, standing behind them, felt a lump in her throat as she watched the two embrace.

“I—thank you,” Aemma whispered, her voice small. “I only hope I can live up to her.”

Maegelle held her shoulders gently. “You already do, little one. Your mother would be proud… and I will help you see that you are more than the shadow she left.”

Alyssa, feeling her own heart swell, placed a hand over Maegelle’s and Aemma’s.

The sun had risen over King’s Landing, casting pale gold streaks across the Red Keep, when Alyssa gathered her ladies in the yard. The air was fresh, carrying the faint tang of sea and stone. Septa Maegelle’s eyes glimmered as she followed Alyssa’s steady steps, taking in the bustling site. Beside her, Septa Rhaelle’s hands were folded, the edge of a faint smile tugging at her lips as she observed the organized chaos: carpenters measuring timber, masons laying stone, and the outlines of the future classrooms forming under the watchful gaze of Princess Alyssa and her aides.

A soft murmur of awe escaped Maegelle as she approached a cluster of young women inspecting herbs and flowers meant for the school’s gardens. She bent slightly, brushing a hand across the leaves. “It is… extraordinary,” she whispered, voice thick with emotion. “To think how much good can come from these walls. Alyssa, you’ve truly undertaken something remarkable.”

Alyssa reached for her sister’s hand, squeezing it gently. “I hope it honors our sisters—Daella, Rhaenys—and teaches these girls skills that will give them strength in a world that so often leaves them powerless.” Maegelle nodded, her eyes misting. “Your heart guides this work, and it will flourish because of it.”

Septa Rhaelle stepped forward, surveying the grounds. “I will assist in organizing the curriculum and ensuring the girls learn properly,” she said, her tone both authoritative and warm. “Alyssa, your vision will be guided, but not dictated.” She cast a fond glance at the smallfolk, especially the women at the entrance curious at the School they are building.

Alyssa, noticing from the corner of her eye, allowed herself a small, indulgent smile before turning back to her sisters and her ladies. “Come, I want to show you the classrooms we’ve planned so far. The teaching hall, the herb gardens, and the spaces for midwifery and cookery.”

Lady Amanda Arryn led the way, her stride confident, while Lady Lyra Mormont’s hawk-like gaze swept over the walls, noting structural details. Lady Barbrey Dustin whispered suggestions about the layout for the girls’ lodging, and Lady Sabitha Vypren pointed out spots ideal for storage and training exercises.

Septa Maegelle offered her own observations, her voice both gentle and exacting. “This hall here,” she said, gesturing to the large open space lined with timber supports, “would benefit from wider windows. More light will aid in reading and learning, and the midwives will need it when examining the herbs.” Septa Rhaelle nodded. “And perhaps a separate room for more private lessons—some skills require discretion.”

As Alyssa listened and nodded, Maegelle’s gaze drifted to the Aemma and Viserys, who joined them that day on the site. Viserys, engrossed in demonstrating the proper inflection for a Valyrian phrase to Aemma, was patient and animated, the girl stammering slightly over the pronunciation. Lady Amanda muttered under her breath, shaking her head at the court’s inevitable gossip, which she would later share with Alyssa. 

Alyssa guided the group to the back of the site, where the herb gardens would grow. “This will teach the girls to nurture, to understand the value of life,” she explained, touching the soil. “They will learn basic gardening and cultivation of herbal plants. The harvests from these gardens shall go to the kitchens for self-efficeincy, and the herbal plants harvested will be go to the healing class and midwifery class.”

Septa Maegelle knelt slightly, brushing a hand over a row of newly planted seedlings. “You’ve thought of everything,” she said softly. “Our sister Daella would be proud, and our niece will inherit the care and wisdom of her mother through you.” Alyssa felt a lump in her throat and pressed her hand over her heart.

As the sun climbed higher, the sounds of hammering and chatter filled the air. For Alyssa, it was a rare day of pride and hope, a reprieve from the lingering shadows of Driftmark and the delicate balance of her sons’ hearts. And while the future remained uncertain, the school, the bonds of family, and the quiet strengthening between her children promised a light threading through the heavy tapestry of the Red Keep.

Meanwhile, in the skies, Daemon had handed Gael the reins of Caraxes, watching her navigate the dragon with gentle guidance from behind her. His usual sharp edges softened into a quiet patience. Small teasing exchanges—elbows brushed, shared smiles, quiet laughter—passed unnoticed by anyone else but carried a growing intimacy, unspoken but tangible.

Chapter Text

The chamber smelled faintly of ink and cedar as Baelon unrolled a chart of Dragonstone across the long oak table. The flicker of candlelight caught on the parchment, highlighting the careful notations he had drawn of courtyards, terraces, and the vast cavernous hall that could be cleared for feasting.

“Dragonstone?” Alyssa asked, brows lifting as she crossed the room, her silken skirts whispering against the floor. She glanced down at the map, her expression softening. “For Daemon’s twelfth nameday?”

Baelon nodded, a small, almost boyish smile tugging at his lips. “It seemed fitting. A short journey, enough of a getaway to make it memorable. Just the six of us—Daemon, Viserys, Gael, Aemma… and us.”

Alyssa rested her hand lightly against the back of his chair, leaning to study the chart. “He’ll love it,” she said after a moment, a fond warmth in her voice. “That place is half mystery, half legend. Perfect for a boy who thinks he was born to command dragons.”

Baelon chuckled, but his eyes softened. “And for once, we can give him a day that isn’t shadowed by politics or grief. Just laughter. Just family.”

Alyssa’s hand brushed his shoulder as she leaned closer, her voice lowering. “You know my ladies will manage well enough without me for a few days. Especially now that Maegelle and Rhaelle are with us. Septas are far sterner taskmistresses than I ever could be.”

“Mm,” Baelon agreed, glancing at her sidelong. “They have steadied the keep already. Your ladies need no coddling.”

“Spoken like a man who has never juggled with Mother’s projects alongside five noblewomen”

Alyssa teased, laughter dancing in her eyes.

Baelon smirked but said nothing. Instead, he leaned forward, rolling the chart closed with careful precision. “There is something else I’ve arranged,” he said at last, his tone shifting toward the deliberate.

Alyssa tilted her head. “Oh?”

“When I was at Oldtown, I spoke with our Brother Vaegon,” Baelon explained, his voice steady, but his gaze flicked briefly to hers as though gauging her reaction. “I asked him to come to King’s Landing as a tutor for Viserys. His discipline in matters of economy and governance is unmatched at the Citadel, and Viserys… could benefit from that kind of no-nonsense guidance. More than that—he is kin. Perhaps Viserys will listen where he might not with another.”

Alyssa blinked, her lips parting. “Vaegon?” she repeated, the word falling from her mouth with the mixture of disbelief and amusement only siblings could inspire. “You mean to set that sharp-tongued, joyless boy on poor Viserys?”

Baelon allowed himself the faintest laugh. “He is no boy any longer. He is a maester now, and a learned one. And—” here he paused, almost smiling, “—he has already shown some interest in taking on Aemma as well. Conversational High Valyrian, he says. The irony of it is not lost on me.”

That made Alyssa laugh outright, her voice ringing bright against the stone walls. She pressed her hand against her mouth but could not stop herself. “The irony? Baelon, it is delicious. Do you recall the time he mocked Daella when expressed his intent to marry them both? She was in tears for a day, and I—” her eyes glittered with remembered mischief—“I poured an entire flagon of wine over his head at supper. He smelled like a sour vintage for weeks.”

Baelon shook his head, though his mouth twitched. “Yes. Father nearly had apoplexy, but you never regretted it for a heartbeat.”

“Of course not,” Alyssa said, unabashed. “Daella forgave him, as she always did, but I never quite did. To think of him now… patiently teaching her daughter to form Valyrian phrases? Gods.” She laughed again, shaking her head. “If Daella could see it, she’d be laughing louder than I am.”

There was a pause, softer now, as her laughter ebbed into quiet. She set her hand gently atop Baelon’s, her eyes searching his. “Why is he not with us yet, if you invited him?”

“He had matters to settle at the Citadel,” Baelon replied, his tone even. “Permission to leave, duties to hand off. I sought Father’s leave as well, which has now been granted. He will sail for King’s Landing within the fortnight.”

Alyssa exhaled slowly, her expression unreadable—half amusement, half wary nostalgia. “Seven save us all,” she murmured. “Vaegon Targaryen back at court. King’s Landing will not know whether to be grateful… or afraid.”

Baelon squeezed her hand, his eyes glinting with quiet certainty. “Grateful, I think. He will serve his purpose. And if he vexes you, Alyssa, you may always keep another flagon of wine at hand.”

She laughed again, this time leaning against him, her head resting briefly against his shoulder. “Don’t tempt me, husband. Don’t tempt me.”

The morning air smelled of ash and salt as the Targaryens gathered within the yawning caverns of the Dragonpit. Smoke coiled in thin wisps from the nostrils of the great beasts within, the sound of scales against stone reverberating like distant thunder. Even for the Red Keep, the day felt momentous; it was not often that the King and Queen themselves came to see their children and grandchildren off.

Queen Alyssanne stood cloaked in pale blue trimmed with ermine, her hand resting lightly upon King Jaehaerys’ arm. Though age had drawn silver deep into his hair and beard, there was still strength in his stance, though softened now with a heaviness born of memory. Their eyes followed their children with a mixture of pride and wistfulness as Alyssa and Baelon prepared for flight.

Meleys, the Red Queen, shifted restlessly, her scarlet wings unfurling against the sunlight streaming into the cavern’s mouth. At her side stood Princess Alyssa, calm and confident, her hand brushing the warm scales at the base of the dragon’s neck. Beside her, Aemma Arryn lingered, pale with excitement and fear. It was to be her first flight. Her fingers clutched the folds of her aunt’s riding cloak until Alyssa gently pried them free and placed them upon the smooth leather of the saddle.

“You’ll be safe, sweeting,” Alyssa murmured, her voice pitched for Aemma’s ears alone. “Meleys is as steady as the sunrise. She will not let you fall.”

From behind, Lady Amanda Arryn fussed as though Aemma were still a child swaddled in her cradle. “It is her first time, my princess,”

Amanda said anxiously, smoothing invisible wrinkles from Aemma’s sleeve. “She is too young, perhaps too—”

“She is ready,” Alyssa interrupted kindly, her smile warm but firm. “You must trust her, Amanda. Trust her… and trust me.” She gave her niece a reassuring squeeze before turning to her other ladies—, Lyra Mormont, Barbrey Dustin, and Sabitha Vypren—who stood clustered near Septa Maegelle. “You have your instructions. Continue the planning, oversee the masons, and keep the books balanced. If there are any disputes, Maegelle’s word is law until my return.”

Septa Maegelle bowed her head, her expression serene but her eyes moist with emotion. “Enjoy Dragonstone, sister. We shall not falter.”

Alyssa’s gaze lingered a moment longer upon them all—her ladies, her sister, her tireless companions—and for the briefest breath, she ached to stay. But then she felt Aemma’s trembling hand slip into her own, and resolve surged back into her like a tide.

Not far off, Baelon was already mounted upon Vhagar. The great she-dragon’s sheer mass dwarfed even the vaulted space of the pit, her wings brushing against the stone as she huffed irritably, unused to being confined. Baelon sat tall and certain in the saddle, his arm steadying Viserys, who clung with both awe and pride.

“Hold fast, my son,” Baelon said, his voice deep and even. “Vhagar does not suffer weakness, but she respects strength.”

Viserys’ face lit with excitement, at riding Vhagar again. “I’ve ridden him with you before father,” he answered, his already deepening voice echoing against the cavern walls.

And then there was Daemon, lingering near Caraxes, who snorted and hissed with impatience, his long neck weaving back and forth like a serpent’s. At his side was Gael, her laughter ringing out as the dragon nudged her shoulder with his snout.

“Not so rough, Caraxes!” she scolded, though her eyes sparkled. Daemon, standing beside her, smirked and muttered something under his breath.

The dragonkeepers nearby chuckled, their rough hands resting on spears and chains. They were men who had known Daemon since he first learned to slip into the pit to watch the hatchlings, men who had chased him from straw pallets and scolded him for smearing dung across his boots.

“Ser Dragon Dung,” one of them called out now with a grin, “will you be keeping our pits in order again, or only your beast?”

Another joined in, laughter shaking his shoulders. “Careful, lads, he’ll steal your posts if you let him. Always did say he preferred dragons to courtiers.”

Daemon flushed but did not scowl as he once would have. Instead, he rolled his eyes and climbed nimbly into Caraxes’ saddle, his lips twitching. Gael laughed openly at the jesting, and even the dragonkeepers’ rough cheer seemed to warm Alyssa’s heart. To see her son so at ease with them again, so nearly himself—it was worth more than rubies.

The King stepped forward then, his voice carrying with the authority that had once commanded the realm’s armies. “Fly safe, my children. Bring joy back with you.” His eyes lingered on Daemon longest of all, as though seeking something in him, some proof that time had not hardened the boy into something unrecognizable.

Queen Alyssanne’s hand tightened upon her husband’s. Her gaze softened on Gael, Daemon, then Aemma, then Viserys, her voice barely more than a whisper. “The future rides with them.”

At last the time came. With a sharp command, Baelon urged Vhagar forward, the cavern quaking as the she-dragon’s colossal wings unfurled. Meleys answered with a roar like a clarion trumpet, her crimson wings snapping open. Caraxes shrieked in his strange, high-pitched cry, eager to follow.

Alyssa mounted swiftly, drawing Aemma up before her, her arm wrapping protectively around her niece’s waist. “Hold tight,” she whispered.

Baelon settled Viserys more firmly, his voice calm even as Vhagar rumbled like a waking storm. Daemon pulled Gael into the saddle before him with practiced ease, their laughter mingling as Caraxes reared, claws scraping sparks from stone.

And then, with the beat of three sets of wings that sent dust and cinders swirling through the cavern, they took to the skies.

King’s Landing dwindled below them as the dragons soared eastward toward Dragonstone—three blazing comets across the morning sun, carrying laughter, hope, and the promise of a boy’s twelfth nameday.

The sea was steel-grey when Dragonstone rose before them, its towers jagged and black against the horizon, a fortress carved by fire from the bones of the earth. The children clung to their dragons’ saddles as the beasts descended, wings catching the brine-washed winds. To Aemma, it seemed a place conjured from legend: not merely a castle, but a citadel of dragons, older and fiercer than any tale she had ever read.

Her wide eyes drank in the sight—the massive stone dragons that adorned every parapet, the gaping maws that seemed poised to breathe flame, the smoke curling eternally from the mountain’s peak. “It looks as though it might come alive,” she whispered, pressing back against Alyssa, who held her steady atop Meleys.

Alyssa’s lips curved. “It is alive, in its way. Every stone here remembers fire.”

Vhagar alit upon the cliffside with a thunderous impact, scattering gulls into the air. Viserys climbed down from her saddle as soon as his father dismounted, his boots crunching against black sand. His eyes gleamed with anticipation. “The library,” he said breathlessly, almost to himself. “Uncle Aemon used to take me there when I was younger… he said the scrolls smelled of smoke and salt.” His voice faltered at the memory, the shadow of loss dimming his face.

Aemma, still trembling from her first flight, reached out shyly, touching his arm. “Then you must take me,” she said. “Show me where he took you. Tell me what he told you. That way, it will not be only you who remembers.”

Viserys blinked at her, surprised, then nodded quickly, too grateful to put words to it. “Yes. Yes, I will.”

Caraxes landed last, his long neck swaying as he hissed, claws gouging deep into the volcanic rock. Daemon leapt down with a boy’s eagerness, helping Gael dismount. He tilted his head back to look at the fortress above them, grinning from ear to ear. “Dragonstone,” he said with delight, as though naming it claimed it as his own. “I want to see the towers. All of them. Every chamber. Every dragon carved in stone!”

Gael laughed softly at his enthusiasm, brushing hair from her face. “If you explore all the towers, you’ll fall into the sea before supper.”

“I won’t!” he shot back. “I’ll race the tide.” Already his boots were moving toward the steps, his excitement radiating like heat from the mountain.

Baelon and Alyssa exchanged a look as the children’s voices carried ahead of them, the sound bouncing from stone to stone. The air was bracing, heavy with the tang of salt and smoke, yet there was a rare lightness in their hearts.

By the time the dragons were settled in their roosts and the household of Dragonstone had welcomed them, the family’s rhythm had already begun to take shape. Viserys led Aemma into the keep, their voices fading as he explained how the corridors twisted like labyrinths. Gael, uncontainable, darted from hall to hall, dragging Daemon along with her, eager to show him every shadow and stair as though she herself were lord of the island.

That night, the six of them gathered in one of the smaller solar chambers, the fire in the hearth crackling, the sea winds rattling faintly at the shutters. Supper was laid before them: fish fresh from the bay, bread still warm, and honeycakes Gael claimed were nearly as good as those from King’s Landing. There were no courtiers, no lords, no ladies with sharp tongues—only family, gathered close.

Alyssa found herself watching them—Viserys earnestly sketching a dragon in charcoal for Aemma to admire, Gael laughing at Daemon’s exaggerated tales of the dragonkeepers’ nicknames for him, Baelon quietly refilling his son’s cup of watered wine before Viserys even noticed it was empty. It felt… rare. Precious.

Later, when the children had gone to their chambers, Alyssa and Baelon lingered alone on the battlements. The sea was restless beneath them, the night air cool but alive with the sound of waves striking the rocks. Meleys and Vhagar’s distant rumblings echoed from the cliffs, like thunder in slumber.

Alyssa leaned against the cold stone, her cloak fluttering, her eyes on the horizon where the stars spilled silver upon the water. Baelon came to stand beside her, his broad hand covering hers where it rested on the parapet.

“You did this,” he murmured.

She turned to him, puzzled. “Did what?”

“Made this moment possible. For them. For us.” His eyes dark violet eyes, softened in a way they rarely did. “When I was in Oldtown, surrounded by the Hightowers and other Reach lords, they kept on fluttering around me and buttering me up. A week alone with family, without the world prying at us. You gave us that.”

Alyssa’s throat tightened. She turned fully toward him, searching his face. “Then let us make it count.”

He bent his head, their foreheads touching, and for a long moment the sea, the wind, the island itself seemed to fade, leaving only the two of them—bound by love, by fire, by all the burdens and joys they carried together.

Below, a wave crashed against the rocks with a roar like dragonfire, and Alyssa thought: this is what it means to belong.

Morning light spilled over Dragonstone in pale ribbons, gilding the jagged spires with a false gentleness. The sea mist still clung to the cliffs, but inside the keep, the halls were already stirring with life.

For Viserys, there was only one destination. He had woken before the others, too eager to sleep, and he nearly dragged Aemma through the long corridors toward the library. “You will love it,” he insisted, his voice a mixture of boyish excitement and solemn memory.

The library of Dragonstone was no grand sept or gilded archive like the Citadel, but it held a collection of vast books, scrolls and tomes containing knowledge brought by Aenar the Exile from Valyria. The shelves were dark oak, warped by salt air, the parchment curled and fragile. Many of the scrolls smelled faintly of smoke, as if they had been seared once by the dragons themselves.

Viserys’s hands trembled as he touched the spines. “Uncle Aemon said the dragons left their fire in the stones, and that if you read too long, the words burn into you.” He stopped, cheeks flushing. “Not really, of course, but… he always liked saying that.”

Aemma tilted her head, studying him. She saw the sadness flicker behind his eyes and, instead of speaking, she stepped closer and lifted one of the lighter tomes from the lower shelf. “Then read it to me,” she said. “If the fire burns, then let it burn us both.”

Viserys blinked at her, then grinned despite himself. He cleared his throat and began haltingly translating the High Valyrian text aloud. Aemma repeated the phrases after him, mangling the pronunciation in ways that made him laugh so hard he nearly dropped the scroll.

“You sound like a drunken gull,” he teased, eyes sparkling again.

“Better a gull than a dragon who chokes on smoke!” she shot back, her laughter ringing against the stone vaults.

For the first time in months, the library did not feel haunted by loss.

Elsewhere in the keep, Daemon found himself being tugged along by Gael, who moved with the confident stride of someone who knew every twist and stair by heart.

“Come,” she urged, her braid swinging as she led him down a narrow spiral stair. “This way. There’s a passage behind the kitchens that brings you to the sea caves.”

Daemon followed, half-excited, half-suspicious. “How do you know all this?”

“I lived here with Mother for two years,” Gael replied over her shoulder. “Do you think I just sat in the solar stitching samplers?”

Her words carried a mischievous challenge that made Daemon quicken his pace. Soon they were squeezing through hidden doorways, ducking beneath lintels worn by centuries of feet. She showed him a narrow slit in the wall where one could spy upon the great hall unseen, a tunnel that opened to a rocky ledge high above the crashing sea, and a stair that led to a chamber carved with draconic reliefs so ancient even the septons dared not claim their meaning.

Daemon’s breathless awe was plain. “It’s as if the castle itself is alive, whispering secrets to us.”

Gael turned to him with a half-smile. “Not to us. To those clever enough to listen.”

Their eyes lingered a moment longer than either intended. Daemon looked away first, but a faint flush crept into his cheeks.

When they emerged back into the light of a courtyard, he blurted, “When I have a keep of my own, I’ll build secret ways in every wall.”

Gael laughed softly. “And I shall be the first to discover them all.”

The warmth between them hung in the air, subtle but undeniable.

High above in one of Dragonstone’s solar chambers, Baelon and Alyssa sat together with parchments spread before them, the sea wind rattling the shutters. Their heads bent close, voices low and thoughtful.

“It must feel his day is more than a name upon the calendar,” Alyssa said firmly, her quill scratching across a page. “After all that has passed, he needs joy, not only duty.”

Baelon nodded, though his brow furrowed. “Food first, then. Daemon eats like a wolf after the hunt. Salted mutton, roasted boar… and honeycakes. Gods, that boy would sell his sword for honeycakes.”

Alyssa chuckled. “I’ll have the cook prepare a feast fit for six kingdoms. But not too grand—we are here for him, not for show.”

“As for activities…” Baelon tapped the parchment. “A hunt, perhaps? Dragonstone’s forests still teem with deer. And—” his eyes brightened with boyish mischief—“a mock tourney. Wooden swords, tilts with blunted lances. Let him feel the clash of it.”

Her gaze softened. “Yes. Let him fight and laugh in the same breath.”

They grew quiet for a moment, the air heavy with unspoken tenderness. Then Alyssa asked, “And gifts?”

Baelon reached beneath the table and drew forth a wrapped bundle he had hidden. Carefully, he unwrapped the cloth to reveal a sword—smaller than a knight’s blade, but well-forged, gleaming steel with a grip bound in dark leather. “I had it made in secret,” he admitted. “Not yet Valyrian steel, but sharp enough. A blade of his own.”

Alyssa’s eyes shone as she traced the hilt. “He will never forget this.”

“And from you?” Baelon asked.

Alyssa smiled, a glimmer of mischief in her eyes. “Something he will not expect. I once snoop around his old drawings from when he was seven and found a sketch of what his dream armor would look like. He wanted its helm to be dragon-shaped like Aemon’s and black like yours, so I made a helmet and a plate armor inspired from his drawings”

Baelon leaned back, watching her with quiet admiration. “Alyssa, he will love that.”

Outside, the sea struck the cliffs with a sound like drums, and the children’s laughter echoed faintly through the courtyards. Dragonstone, ancient and solemn, seemed—for one brief day—to cradle them in warmth.

Chapter Text

The dawn of Daemon’s twelfth nameday broke with a brilliance that made the black stones of Dragonstone gleam red, as if the castle itself blushed for the occasion.

The great hall smelled of honeyed ham and roasting birds, of garlic and butter, and fresh bread torn apart by eager hands. Daemon sat at the long table with his kin, flushed and beaming, already tearing into a haunch of venison. His laughter filled the vaulted hall, louder than the crackle of the fire.

“Slow down, boy,” Baelon muttered, shaking his head fondly as his son dropped half a capon into his lap. “Eat slower, or you’ll be choking on your own birthday.”

“That’s what Caraxes is for,” Daemon shot back, grinning, “he’ll eat what I cannot.”

That earned a laugh, even from Gael, who sat beside him with a look that was both indulgent and amused. Viserys, by contrast, was measured, carefully carving his slice of bread as though it were an enemy to be bested. Aemma sat near him, curiosity bright in her eyes as she tried everything—biting into a dragon-shaped pastry, chewing thoughtfully, and making a face when it was more spice than sugar.

“Your tongue is not used to fire,” Viserys told her with mock solemnity, and for once his jape earned him laughter from both Aemma and Daemon.

It was a rare, easy meal—the kind where no shadow of court or duty lingered, only the bonds of kinship.

When the feast was done, Baelon stood, his voice ringing with command. “A Targaryen nameday is not kept indoors. Come—we hunt.”

Outside, the air was brisk and sharp with salt, but the forests along the Dragonmont offered shade and silence. Servants were already there, leading lean hounds straining against their leashes, their barks echoing like war horns. The animals pawed at the earth, eager for the chase.

Daemon was first to the line, striding with a  spear nearly as tall as he was, grinning as if he were already crowned victor. Beside him, Gael steadied herself and gave him a look that softened his swagger just enough.

“Stay close,” she told him.

“I’ll bring back a stag,” he boasted.

“Or trip over your own boots,” she countered, and he flushed, half-pleased that she teased him at all.

The horns blew, and the hunt began.

They moved through tangled woods, branches overhead whispering secrets of ages past. The hounds darted ahead, noses pressed to the earth, their handlers urging them on. Twice they flushed pheasants from cover, the birds bursting skyward in a frenzy of feathers. Viserys startled at the sound, but Daemon hurled his spear in vain, cursing when it thudded into a tree.

Baelon himself brought down the first prize—a sleek stag, caught with a cast that struck clean through the shoulder. The hounds bayed triumphantly, circling as the beast collapsed. Baelon knelt by the kill, murmuring thanks, then called his sons forward to witness.

“This is what it means to take a life, son,” he said, his hand on Daemon’s shoulder. “Not for sport, but for use. To waste is to dishonor.”

Daemon, eyes wide, nodded solemnly, his earlier boasting quieted. Viserys watched from her behind, his gaze equally wide, as though he saw the moment the stag lost its life in its eyes.

Aemma clung closer to her aunt’s side, unsettled but thoughtful. “Does it always end this way?” she whispered.

“Always,” Alyssa replied gently, brushing her niece’s hand. “But each end gives to a beginning. Remember that, Aemma.”

By the time they returned to the castle, the hunt had become tale and laughter, Daemon already exaggerating his near-miss, Viserys rolling his eyes, and Aemma asking more questions than anyone could answer.

That afternoon, the yard was alive with color and cheer. The locals of Dragonstone—the sons of keepers and servants whose bloodlines wound back to Valyria itself—had been invited to join the sport. Dark-haired, purple-eyed, they carried themselves with the pride of half-forgotten heritage, eager to test themselves against princes.

The tilts were simple: wooden barriers, shields painted with bright marks, lances blunted for safety. Yet the energy was no less fierce.

Daemon mounted first, flourishing his lance with reckless bravado. Across from him, a dragonseed boy of his age lowered his weapon and charged. Wood splintered, both lads tumbling into the dirt with laughter.

“Up, Ser Dragon Dung!” one of the keepers jeered, and the yard roared with mirth. Daemon flushed crimson, but the grin never left his face.

Viserys proved more careful than daring, but his patience won him small victories. Aemma clapped each time he landed a blow, her encouragement sweeter to him than triumph itself.

The mock tourney stretched long, the yard ringing with laughter, cries, and the thud of wooden strikes. Even Alyssa found herself leaning forward, heart alight, her arm brushing Baelon’s.

“Gods, this cheaper and equally as fun as the tourneys father throws” she commented to Baelon.

For a moment, it was as though they were children again—bright, unburdened, Targaryens at play.

The great hall of Dragonstone glowed with torchlight, the sea winds muted by heavy iron-banded doors. A feast had been laid—platters of venison, roasted boar, honeycakes in towers, and flagons of dark Arbor wine for the elders, watered sweet cider for the young.

At the high table sat Baelon and Alyssa, with their children gathered close. When the last crumbs of cake were brushed away, Baelon rose, his hand resting on Daemon’s shoulder.

“And now,” he declared, his voice proud and warm, “comes the best part of a man’s nameday: the gifts.”

Daemon’s eyes lit, bright as dragonfire.

Aemma’s gift came first. She stood shyly, smoothing her skirts before speaking.

“I wanted something from the Vale,” she said, her voice uncertain but steady. “So I sent word to my sister Elys to find the best hawk she could find. A hawk from the Eyrie is already bound for King’s Landing. You will have it soon… so you may go hawking whenever you please.”

Daemon’s mouth parted in wonder. “A hawk? Truly?”

Aemma smiled, proud of herself.

Before Daemon could reply, Viserys spoke up quickly, almost tripping over his words. “I—I knew she would give you a hawk,” he said, fumbling beneath the table. He drew out a wrapped bundle and thrust it forward. “So I had this commissioned. A hawking glove. Strong leather. If you look closely, you can see the embroidery of a dragon in the likeness of Caraxes”

Daemon took it reverently, his grin widening. “Then the hawk will sit on my hand, brother, and I’ll think of you both.”

The two boys laughed, Alyssa’s eyes softened as she watched them.

Next came Baelon’s gift. With a flourish, he laid a small but shining sword upon the table. Its steel gleamed, castle-forged, the grip dark leather.

Daemon reached for it at once, his hand trembling. “A sword… my own?”

Baelon’s voice grew low, almost solemn. “Not yet Valyrian steel, but true steel nonetheless. You are ready, son. No more wood when you spar with me. Guard it well, and it will guard you.”

Daemon bowed his head, and for a moment, he could not speak.

Then Alyssa stood, her smile both radiant and tremulous. From a chest nearby, she drew out armor unlike any the children had ever seen—black plates chased with dragon motifs, each curve echoing the likeness of his uncle Aemon's famed suit, yet wrought small enough for Daemon’s size.

“I found one of your drawings,” she said softly. “When you were seven. You wanted dragon-shaped armor, like your uncle Aemon’s. I had it made for you. Black, as your father’s was.”

The hall went still. Viserys’s eyes glistened, Gael clasped her hands together tightly, and even Baelon swallowed hard, pride mingled with grief. For in the black steel was the memory of a brother lost, and the promise of the boy who wore it now.

Daemon touched the armor with reverence. “Mother… it’s the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”

Alyssa brushed his hair back from his brow. “It is yours, my little dragon.”

Now it was Gael’s turn. She hesitated, cheeks warm, before slipping a leather-bound journal into Daemon’s hands.

“It is not forged or stitched,” she said, voice low, “but written. When we were punished in the Dragonpit, I kept notes. The masters’ words, the histories, the tricks to soothe the beasts, the lullabies they taught us. I thought… you might wish to keep them.”

Daemon blinked, then opened the journal. Lines of her neat hand filled every page—songs, secrets, fragments of wisdom. He looked up, awe and something softer in his eyes.

“This is—” His throat caught. “Gael… it’s the greatest treasure I could ever hold.”

Their hands brushed as he clutched the journal close, and Aemma, watching, tilted her head curiously at the charged silence between them. Across the table, Alyssa and Baelon exchanged a glance that said much without words.

The hall grew hushed again when a letter, sealed with the king’s hand, was opened. Baelon read aloud:

“To my grandson Daemon. I have commanded that one of the finest pure-bread Dothraki stallions—prized among all horses of the world—be brought to the Red Keep. It awaits you in the royal stables.”

Gasps rippled through the room. Even Alyssa’s eyes widened.

“A Dothraki stallion?” Aemma whispered.

Viserys, torn between awe and envy, muttered with a crooked smile, “The gods favor you, brother. I only get books.”

Laughter broke the tension, though Daemon sat frozen, stunned at such a gift.

Another letter followed, this one in Queen Alysanne’s graceful hand. Baelon read again:

“For my little dragon. I have ordered a saddle crafted, fitted for Caraxes alone. May it hold you safe in every sky.”

Daemon’s eyes shone as he realized the saddle was already being fitted to his dragon that very hour.

Then came a book from Lord Beesbury, sent in Baelon’s care. “On the balancing of sums,” Baelon explained dryly, placing the tome beside the sword. “He apologizes for his absence, but insists you learn to count as well as you cut.”

Daemon rolled his eyes, but grinned. “Perhaps I shall balance my sums by striking them in two.”

At last came the trunk Lord Corlys had entrusted to Baelon.

Inside lay riding leathers in black and red, every stitch fine, every piece exacting—clearly crafted by master hands.

The note atop bore Rhaenys’ hand.

Daemon,

I was cruel when we quarreled, and crueler still in the words I threw at you. You did not deserve them. Your temper burns, but mine does too, and I should have known that fire cannot be fought with fire. I feared losing you, though I would never admit it, and so I pushed you away.

These clothes are yours. I had them made in our colors, cut for your measure, to see you ride Caraxes as you should—bold, terrible, magnificent. I was wrong in what I said. Wear them, if not for me, then for the blood we share, the house we are. Know that if my words wounded, they wounded me as well. I will not ask for forgiveness, but I pray you know I love you still.

—You Cousin, Rhaenys

Daemon’s face went still as stone. His hand clenched the letter until it crumpled, then thrust it into his breeches. The gifts blurred before him. The laughter and warmth around him seemed distant, muffled, as if through water.

Alyssa’s smile faltered. Baelon’s jaw tightened. Viserys’ eyes widened. They knew the boy’s mood had shifted like the sea before a storm. But no one else spoke of it. The celebration wound to a close, yawns feigned, excuses made. One by one, they drifted away.

Daemon did not. He slipped into the night, down black corridors, out to the cliffs where the sea howled its endless lament.

And, as if tied to him by fate itself, Gael followed.

The storm had come rolling across Dragonstone’s cliffs by the time Daemon fled the hall. The sea thrashed below, dark waves beating against black rock, and the rain came down in sheets that blurred the jagged horizon. His boots pounded the slick stones as he tore away from the keep, his breath ragged, his chest still aching from the weight of Rhaenys’s letter. He ran until his legs burned, until the hall and the torches of the castle vanished behind him.

Daemon stopped only when he reached the edge of the cliffs. The sea winds struck him like a blow, salt and rain stinging his face. He bent forward, palms on his knees, gasping, as if he had outrun something greater than his own sorrow. Then, with a strangled sound, he threw his head back and shouted into the storm—wordless, feral, all grief and rage.

“Daemon.”

He flinched at the voice, sharp against the roar of wind and surf. Turning, he found Gael standing there, her hair plastered to her face by the rain, her cloak clinging heavy to her shoulders. She must have followed him from the feast, silent as a shadow.

“Leave me be,” he snarled, too quickly, his voice breaking.

But Gael did not move. She crossed her arms instead, narrowing her eyes against the rain. “No.”

He barked a bitter laugh. “No? Gods, Gael, I said leave. I don’t need you here.”

“You do,” she shot back, stepping closer despite the wind tugging at her skirts. “I saw your face in the hall. You can’t carry that and keep pretending you’re made of stone.”

His jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists. “You don’t understand.”

“Then make me,” she said simply, her voice steady. “Tell me.”

The words hit him like a lash. He turned on her, furious, eyes bright with unshed tears. “You want to know?” His voice rose, hoarse with the storm. “You want the truth so badly, fine. I’ll give it to you!”

He stepped forward, the rain streaming down his pale face, streaking across the trembling anger etched into him. “I heard my parents whisper it—Rhaenys had lost another babe. They weren’t going to tell me, thought I was too young to understand. But I did. I understood too much. And I couldn’t sit in that damned keep while she suffered alone.” His voice cracked, raw. “So I begged Viserys to cover for me, to lie for me, and I took Caraxes across the sea in the dead of night.”

The memory poured out of him, unbidden, unstoppable. His hands shook as he spoke, as if the words themselves were knives. “She was there, Gael. In the courtyard, her face pale, her eyes swollen from crying. I thought—gods, I thought she’d be glad to see me. I thought I’d comfort her, remind her she wasn’t alone.” His chest heaved, the sob tearing through his throat before he could stop it. “But she didn’t want me. She said I’d come to take more from her. That my father had already stolen her inheritance, and now I’d stolen her father's dragon. She—” His breath caught. He dragged both hands across his face, smearing tears with rain. “She said she couldn’t bear the sight of me.”

The words spilled, harsh and helpless, each one a wound reopened. “She was my best friend, Gael. My cousin, my—my other half in that gods-forsaken keep. She understood me when no one else did. And I lost her. Just like that. One moment I had her, and the next she was gone, pushing me away like I was poison.”

He choked, his voice rising in fury. “And then tonight—her letter, her apology—it cuts worse. I don’t know what to feel. I’m angry, I’m relieved, I’m—” He beat a fist against his chest, as though to tear the feelings out. “I hate her, and I love her still, the shame and the guilt is all there and I thought I was free of it, but gods, it still hurts!”

The storm swallowed the sound of his cry. Daemon staggered, his breath shallow, his body trembling with the violence of the confession. At last, his knees buckled, and he sank to the wet stone, clutching fistfuls of the earth like it might anchor him.

Gael did not hesitate. She dropped down beside him, the rain pooling around them, and wrapped her arms fiercely around his shaking shoulders. He fought her at first, stiff and furious, but she only held tighter, her cheek pressed to his rain-soaked hair.

“Then rage,” she whispered, steady and unyielding. “Rage if you must. Break if you must. But don’t do it alone, Daemon. Not with me here.”

Something inside him cracked then. He buried his face against her shoulder, his sobs muffled by her cloak, his hands fisting in the fabric as though afraid she too would push him away. Gael held him through it, silent save for the steady rhythm of her hand smoothing over his soaked hair. She let him cry, let him rage, let him be the boy beneath the dragonrider’s mask.

When at last his sobs slowed, he lifted his head, his face blotched and red, his eyes raw. Their gazes locked, close enough to feel each other’s breath despite the storm. There was no jest between them now, no bickering. Only the fragile, dangerous truth that had crept between them without name.

“I thought I lost her,” Daemon rasped, his voice breaking once more. “And maybe I have. But gods, Gael—” His throat tightened, and he shook his head helplessly. “Everything’s changed.”

She did not answer with words. She simply pulled him close again, pressing her forehead to his, grounding him with her presence, with the stubborn warmth of her refusal to let him break alone.

And on the cliffs of Dragonstone, beneath the lashing rain and the roar of the sea, Daemon Targaryen wept for the cousin he loved and lost—and began, unknowingly, to tether his heart to someone new.

The rain hammered Dragonstone’s windows, steady and relentless, a drumbeat of storm against ancient stone. The warmth of the feast had long faded, the echoes of laughter and music smothered by the tempest outside. In the great chamber, Alyssa sat stiff-backed, her fingers twined so tightly in her lap they had gone pale. Baelon paced before the hearth, his great frame shadowed in the firelight, his jaw set, his eyes never straying far from the doors as if Daemon might suddenly walk through them.

Viserys lingered in the doorway, drenched from the short run across the courtyard, his cheeks flushed, his hair plastered to his brow. He looked younger than his age in that moment, shoulders hunched, worry written plain across his boyish face.

“Mother,” he said at last, voice low. “Father.”

Both turned at once. Alyssa half rose, her eyes softening at the sight of him, but it was Viserys’s words that froze them in place.

“I… I think Lord Corlys’ gift—it wasn’t just from him,” Viserys stammered, wringing his hands. “The clothes—the dragonrider’s leathers. The stitching, the cut—it reminded me. I think it was from Rhaenys. Her design.”

Alyssa’s face drained of color. For a heartbeat, the only sound was the storm. Then she whispered, hoarse, “There was a letter, Oh gods. It triggered him.”

Baelon staggered, his broad shoulders slumping as though a great weight had been placed upon them. His hand came up to grip the mantel, knuckles whitening. His eyes flicked to the rain-lashed windows, and he turned, already striding toward the door.

“I need to go to him,” Baelon said, his voice tight, urgent. “He should not be out there alone.”

“Baelon—” Alyssa began, but he was already gone, the heavy door slamming shut in his wake.

Silence stretched in his absence, broken only by the steady roar of rain and the restless crackle of the fire. Viserys remained by the doorway, shoulders trembling. At last he spoke, his voice small, pleading.

“Mother… will his progress be all for naught? After everything we’ve done, all this time—” His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard, eyes shining. “Will he fall back again?”

Alyssa’s breath hitched. She beckoned him with trembling hands, and Viserys, though nearly grown, obeyed like a child, crossing the room to fold himself into her arms. She held him fiercely, clutching her eldest son as though by holding him, she could hold them both—Viserys and Daemon, her boys, her dragons.

“He will be okay,” Alyssa whispered into his hair, though her voice wavered, though her eyes glistened. “Gods, I hope he will be okay.”

Viserys buried his face against her shoulder, clinging to her warmth as the storm raged on outside. And Alyssa, her heart stretched taut with fear for the son who had fled into the night, repeated her prayer as if the words alone might tether Daemon back to her.

Baelon moved through Dragonstone’s courtyards like a man possessed, the rain soaking him to the bone within moments. His cloak clung heavy against his shoulders, his hair plastered to his brow, but he cared little for the storm. Only one thought consumed him: Daemon.

He tore through the lower yards, his boots slapping on slick stone, calling his son’s name over the wind. “Daemon!” His voice was nearly swallowed by the sea’s roar, but he shouted again, louder, commanding, as if his son’s very soul might hear him through the rain.

The storm had turned Dragonstone’s cliffs into a blur of grey and black, the sea lashing violently below. Lightning split the horizon, illuminating the jagged rocks and the restless waves. It was there, along the cliff’s edge, that Baelon finally saw them.

Two figures, huddled together in the storm.

Daemon’s shoulders were shaking, his head bent low, pressed against Gael’s shoulder as she held him tight, her arm wrapped protectively around him. His small body quaked with sobs, raw and unrestrained, his face hidden, but his anguish plain even from a distance. Gael’s silver hair was plastered to her face, her gown soaked through, but she did not let go. Her hand clasped Daemon’s tightly, anchoring him against the storm.

Baelon’s heart broke at the sight. For all his son’s fire and temper, Daemon looked so small then. So young.

He surged forward, his heavy cloak flaring, and dropped to his knees beside them. Without hesitation, he swept the sodden cloak around both children, shielding them as best he could from the rain. The gesture was clumsy, desperate, but he pulled them close, one arm around Daemon, the other steadying Gael.

“Daemon,” Baelon said, his voice thick with urgency, though he forced gentleness into it. “Look at me, son.”

Daemon did not at first. His shoulders still trembled, his eyes red-rimmed, his breath hitching. Gael’s hand squeezed his, urging him softly, her presence quiet but unyielding. Finally, Daemon lifted his gaze to his father’s.

The boy’s face was streaked with rain and tears alike. His lips trembled, and when he spoke, it was a broken, choking confession. “She hates me.” His voice cracked. “Rhaenys… she said I take everything. She—she told me to leave, Father. And now… now she writes to me, and I—” He shuddered. “I don’t know what to feel. Angry. Ashamed. I thought I lost her. I thought I lost my best friend forever.”

Baelon’s chest constricted. He cupped the boy’s wet face in his large hand, his thumb brushing tears and rain alike. “Daemon,” he said firmly, grounding him with every syllable, “listen to me. She does not hate you. She is grieving, in her way. Her words were born of pain, not truth. You must not carry them as your own.”

Daemon shook his head, but Gael squeezed his hand tighter, her eyes glistening, urging him to listen.

“You are my son,” Baelon pressed on, his voice fierce even as it wavered. “You are brave. You are stubborn. You are loved, Daemon. More than you will ever know. Nothing she says can strip that from you.”

At those words, Daemon’s composure crumbled again. He buried his face against Baelon’s chest, clinging to his father’s soaked tunic with small, desperate fists. The boy’s sobs were muffled, raw, but Baelon held him, rocking slightly, his large hand cradling the back of his son’s head.

“I’ve got you,” Baelon whispered into the storm. “I’ve got you, my boy.”

And all the while, Gael remained at Daemon’s side, her small hand still entwined with his, refusing to let go. She leaned into them both, the silent third pillar of that fragile moment, her eyes burning with quiet determination as if vowing that she too would bear his rage, his grief, his fire.

Together, the three of them huddled beneath the storm, father, son, and sister/aunt bound by the tempest and by love that refused to break.

Baelon gathered his son closer, the weight of Daemon’s small, trembling body pressed against him as if he were a boy much younger. Gael stayed at Daemon’s side, still gripping his hand, refusing to let go even as the rain beat harder. Baelon unfurled the heavy cloak fully over both children and rose to his feet, drawing them into his arms.

“Come,” he murmured, half to them, half to himself. “Let’s get you home.”

Step by step, he led them back across the slick courtyard, the stones gleaming black under the storm. His boots splashed through puddles, water seeping into the seams, but Baelon paid no mind. His eyes never strayed far from Daemon’s face, from the way the boy leaned heavily against him, exhausted by sobs. He pressed his hand reassuringly to Daemon’s back, steady and grounding. Gael trotted beside them, her thin frame almost lost in the fold of the cloak, but her hand never wavered in Daemon’s.

Lightning split the sky above the Dragonmont, thunder booming loud enough to shake the stones of Dragonstone itself. Baelon’s jaw tightened, the storm answering the chaos in his son’s heart, but he pressed forward, shielding them both with his broad shoulders.

By the time they reached the carved doors of the Red Keep’s great hall, torches sputtered in the wind, rainwater streamed from their hair and clothes, and their breaths came ragged. The guards moved to open the doors at once, recognizing their lord even through the downpour. Warmth and torchlight spilled out into the rain.

Inside, the great hall was alight with fire in every hearth, braziers glowing with heat that steamed the wet stone. The storm’s howl dulled behind thick walls, replaced by the crackle of flame and the low murmur of servants rushing about. Alyssa was already there, her gown simple but her face lined with worry, a towel clutched tightly in her hands. Beside her, Viserys stood with another, his brow furrowed, his jaw tight as though holding himself together.

The sight of Baelon carrying Daemon — wet, shaking, red-eyed — made Alyssa’s breath catch audibly. She stepped forward, her composure faltering as relief and anguish clashed in her eyes. “Oh, my boy,” she whispered.

Baelon knelt the moment they were within the warmth of the hall, lowering Daemon carefully to the rushes laid fresh over the stone. Daemon clung to his father even as he was eased down, and Baelon had to gently prise his fists from his sodden tunic.

Alyssa dropped to her knees before him, her towel already lifting to blot rain from his face, though her hands trembled. “You’re safe now, Daemon. You’re safe, my love.” Her voice cracked, and she smoothed back his wet hair with a mother’s tenderness.

Gael sat beside him instantly, still holding his hand, the other clutching her soaked skirts. She shivered, but her eyes stayed fixed on Daemon, determined.

Viserys approached slowly, his own towel still clenched at his side. His lips parted as though to speak, but his voice failed him. Instead, he crouched and passed a towel to Gael who murmured in thanks while still looking with concern to Daemon. 

Daemon blinked up at them all, his eyes red and swollen, confusion and exhaustion still written on his face. “I… I didn’t mean to…” he whispered, voice raw.

“Hush,” Baelon said softly, his arm still steady around the boy. “You do not need to explain. Not tonight.”

Alyssa looked up at Baelon, tears shining in her lashes. Her hand lingered on Daemon’s cheek, but her other reached to clutch Baelon’s wrist, tethering herself to him as much as to the boy. “He will be all right,” she whispered again, as though by repeating it she could make it true.

Viserys finally found his voice, quiet but firm. “We’ll make certain of it.” His gaze flicked briefly to his father, then back to Daemon. He leaned in slightly, lowering his tone to something private. “You’re not alone in this, little brother. None of us will let you be.”

Daemon’s lip trembled again, but this time he did not break. His fingers curled tighter around Gael’s hand, and the smallest nod passed through him, weary but real.

Baelon let out a long, shaky breath. His body sagged with it, as though he had been holding up more than just his son in that storm — but now, at last, within these walls, he allowed himself to ease. He pressed his forehead briefly to the crown of Daemon’s wet hair, eyes closing, as if in silent prayer.

And so the four of them — father, mother, and two brothers — remained huddled there in the firelit hall, towels wrapped tight, storm forgotten outside. The Red Keep seemed to breathe around them, ancient and enduring, a shelter against both wind and sorrow.

Daemon, still clinging to Gael’s hand and resting against his father, let his eyes flutter shut. For the first time since the storm had risen within him, he allowed himself to believe what they told him: that he was safe. That he was loved. That he was not alone.

The storm still rumbled over Dragonstone, its voice a low growl muffled by thick stone walls. Rain streaked down the tall windows of the great hall, each patter softened by the heavy drapery. The firelight glowed gold against the dark, the crackle of logs the only sound beneath the hush of weary breaths.

Viserys, after lingering with one last look at his father and brother, rose reluctantly. A servant bent low to whisper in his ear: the Lady Aemma had been startled by the thunder, frightened by the fury of a storm that was commonplace for Dragonstone but alien to her Eyrie-born heart. With a worried frown, he stood and put a hand on Daemon's shoulder before excusing himself.

“I’ll see to her,” he said softly to Alyssa. “She doesn’t know these storms like we do.”

Alyssa touched his arm briefly, grateful. “Go, my sweet. She’ll need you.”

Viserys nodded once more to his father, then strode from the hall, his steps echoing into the long corridors, leaving the hearth’s glow behind.

Silence settled when the doors closed, save the storm’s distant grumble. Baelon remained on the rushes, one arm heavy around Daemon’s shoulders. The boy was sagging against him now, lids fluttering, exhaustion dragging him down after the tempest of his emotions. On Daemon’s other side, Gael leaned in close, her small hand still tangled with his. At some point, her head had tipped onto his shoulder, eyes closing, lashes casting faint shadows on her cheeks. Her breaths grew steady, a gentle rhythm against the backdrop of the storm.

Baelon watched them both — his son and his sister, children by years though bound in something deeper. His jaw softened, and he reached with his free hand to adjust the cloak so it draped over the pair of them fully.

“They look as though the storm never touched them,” Alyssa whispered, settling beside her husband on the rushes. She had shed her towel, her silver hair drying in the hearth’s warmth, her face pale from the strain of worry. Her hand sought his, fingers intertwining with a quiet urgency. “But gods, Baelon… my heart near stopped when I thought we’d lost him again.”

Baelon tightened his grip around her hand, grounding her. His other hand rubbed circles over Daemon’s damp shoulder, steady and deliberate. “You didn’t lose him. Not while I breathe. Not while you do.” His voice was low, gravelly, as though saying it aloud kept the promise alive.

Alyssa’s gaze lingered on Daemon’s face, pale against the firelight, lips parted in the shallow breaths of a boy slipping toward sleep. She brushed her thumb gently across his cheek, drying what the towel had missed. “He is so young still… but the effects of the succession burdens him…” She shook her head, tears pricking her eyes again. “I fear what they might make of him.”

Baelon leaned forward, pressing his forehead briefly to hers. “We will not let them break him. That much I swear.”

They stayed like that for a moment — husband and wife tethering each other, the children nestled safe between them. Outside, thunder rolled again, but softer now, the storm easing toward distance.

Gael shifted faintly in her sleep, her grip on Daemon’s hand tightening instinctively. The gesture tugged at Alyssa’s lips, the faintest smile flickering. “She is fierce, that one. Fierce for him.”

Baelon glanced at his sister, his expression caught between pride and worry. “Fierce, yes. And unyielding. Mayhap it’s what he needs.” His eyes lingered on the pair, so small under the folds of his cloak, so fragile and yet so stubbornly alive.

Alyssa rested her head against Baelon’s shoulder at last, her body sagging with exhaustion now that the worst had passed. Her voice was a whisper, meant for no ears but his. “Do you think the fourteen flames hear us, Baelon? When we beg them to keep our children safe?”

He kissed her temple, slow and reverent. “If they don’t, then let them tremble. For I will fight them myself if I must.”

For a while, they said nothing more, only watched the fire burn, its warmth wrapping around them like a shield. Daemon stirred once, murmuring in half-sleep, and Baelon soothed him with a hand to his back until he quieted. Gael, too, shifted, her small fingers still clasping Daemon’s as though she anchored him against dreams.

And so the family sat in the glow of the great hall, the storm softening to a distant patter, the night carrying them into a fragile but real peace.

Alyssa pressed his cheek with her hand, her eyes red with strain. “Go, my sweet. She'll need you.”

Viserys nodded and turned, the shadows of the hall closing behind him. He climbed the narrow stairs two at a time, the sconces flickering, the stone damp with the storm’s breath. When he reached her chamber door, he hesitated only a moment before pushing it open. 

He did not need the servants’ whispers to know Aemma would be uneasy — he had seen how she clutched herself when the winds howled through the courtyard, how she glanced skyward as though the clouds themselves were hunting her.

At her chamber door, he paused only a moment before pushing it open.

Inside, Aemma sat on her bed, knees drawn up, her hair loose about her shoulders. A crack of thunder rolled so near it made the windowpanes shudder, and she gave out a yelp and flinched before quickly straightening, her lips twisting into a smile far too practiced.

“Well,” she said, voice thin but reaching for levity, “you’ve caught me. Lady of the Vale, terror of the library shelves… undone by the sky. Quite the legacy, isn’t it?”

Viserys stopped just inside the door. Her jest was light, but her knuckles were white where they gripped the coverlet. He saw through it at once.

“You don’t need to pretend with me,” he said softly.

Aemma let out a little huff, tossing her hair as if to wave him off. “Pretend? No, I was only deciding whether to hide under the bed. You’d fit under there too, you know — we could share.”

Another thunderclap crashed, and though she tried to smirk, her shoulders jolted despite herself. Her breath quickened. Her façade cracked.

Viserys crossed to her and sat at the edge of the bed, steady but unassuming. “The Storm frightens you,” he said plainly. “That doesn’t make you weak.”

For a heartbeat, she kept her eyes on her lap. Then her voice slipped lower. “My father used to say… my mother was afraid of storms too. Princess Daella, the gentle one, the timid one. She wept at thunder, shrieked at mice, hid from shadows. That’s all anyone remembers of her. That is all they see in me.”

Her hands curled tighter around the blanket. “A timid little lady. Scared of everything. They whisper I’ll be nothing more.”

Her voice caught, and she shook her head. “And the worst part is — I know they’re right.”

Viserys’ jaw set, his tone firm but not unkind. “They’re wrong.”

She blinked at him, incredulous.

“I met you in the library,” he went on. “Do you remember? I took that book in the upper shelf you were poorly trying to reach and I all but grab it without even tipping my toes and then you snapped at me for taking it. That wasn't timid"

Her brow furrowed, but she said nothing.

“And when I corrected your High Valyrian, you mocked me back until I thought my ears would burn. You weren’t afraid of me, or of being wrong. You dared me. You laughed at me.” His mouth tugged into the faintest grin. “That’s fire. Fire in your blood. Not a shadow of your mother, Aemma. Your own flame.”

She stared at him, caught between disbelief and the faintest flicker of relief. Another thunderclap cracked overhead — and though she stiffened, she did not shrink from it this time.

“You believe that?” she whispered.

“I do,” he said simply. “And one day you’ll believe it too.”

Her breath trembled out, half a laugh, half a sigh. “You’re ridiculous,” she murmured, though her cheeks glistened.

“Perhaps,” Viserys allowed. “But I’d rather face a hundred storms than your temper.”

That startled a laugh from her — a real one this time. She wiped at her eyes and shook her head. For the first time since the storm had broken, her shoulders eased.

“Stay,” she said quietly, almost shy.

He nodded without hesitation, leaning back against the carved bedpost beside her. He did not speak again, only kept his steady presence as the storm clawed and raged against the keep. Slowly, Aemma’s hand loosened its grip on the blanket, her breathing deepened, and she leaned nearer to him.

And so it was that, as Daemon downstairs found his comfort in Alyssa and Baelon, upstairs Aemma found hers in Viserys’ quiet certainty — a promise spoken into the storm that she was not timid, not small, not doomed to shadows.

The thunder rolled on, but in her chamber, its roar seemed softer.

The storm raged deep into the night, its voice unrelenting against Dragonstone’s black stone. In Aemma’s chamber, Viserys remained where he was, keeping his post beside her. She had drifted toward him without realizing, her shoulder brushing his, the blanket drawn half across both their laps. Whenever the thunder cracked too near, her breath hitched — but she did not hide.

At some point her head found his shoulder, her hair a golden-silver spill against his tunic. She tried one last time to joke, whispering, “I’ll stain your sleeve with tears and you’ll scold me come morning,” but her voice had grown drowsy, and soon enough sleep took her.

Viserys did not move, though his arm ached from the weight. He only listened to the rain slacken little by little, until, in the darkest hours, the thunder rolled further away. The sea winds still clawed, but they were gentler now, their fury spent.

By dawn the storm had passed. Pale light spilled through the window, gilding the chamber in washed-out hues. Aemma stirred awake slowly, blinking at the gray sky. For a moment she seemed disoriented — until she realized she was still leaning against Viserys.

“You stayed,” she murmured, her voice raw from sleep.

“Of course I stayed,” he answered, as though it had never been in question.

She smiled faintly, color rising to her cheeks. She sat up straighter, smoothing her hair. “The storm… wasn’t so terrible in the end.”

“That’s because you faced it,” he said.

She gave him a look — half skeptical, half warmed by his certainty — then shook her head, muttering, “You’ll make me proud of myself yet.”

He allowed himself a small grin. “That’s the plan.”

Chapter Text

In the Morning, Dragonstone had welcomed the first rays of sunlight.

The air was damp and cool, the sky stretched wide and clear, the sea restless but no longer savage. Servants opened the shutters, letting the scents of salt and wet stone drift into the halls.

In the great hall, Baelon and Alyssa sat with Daemon between them on a bench before the fire. His hair was still damp, his eyes shadowed from little sleep, but he leaned into them without protest. Alyssa stroked his arm absently, murmuring soft words, while Baelon told him in that steady, grounding way of his:

“You haven’t lost her, Daemon. Rhaenys is your friend. That bond isn’t broken by one quarrel, no matter how sharp the words. Time will cool it. You’ll find your way back to one another.”

Daemon nodded faintly, his gaze fixed on the flames. He said nothing, but he did not resist when Baelon pressed a kiss to his head or when Alyssa drew him against her shoulder.

Gael lingered nearby, drowsy still from the night’s vigil, but her hand rested on Daemon’s. She did not speak either — but her quiet presence said enough.

The hall was hushed, save for the crackle of the hearth and the faint drip of rainwater from the eaves outside. It was not a perfect peace, but it was steady — and steadiness was what Daemon needed most.

When Viserys came down later, Aemma walking at his side, there was no announcement, no ceremony. But Alyssa’s eyes lit when she saw the two children together, and Baelon’s relief was plain. Even Daemon, glancing up at his brother, found a flicker of comfort in the sight of Aemma smiling faintly, calmer now after the night’s terror.

The storm had passed — within the keep as much as beyond its walls.

And so the family found small ways to bring light into the morning. Servants laid out warm bread and honey; Gael fetched her own book and continued to scribble while Aemma ate; Daemon leaned against his mother’s arm and closed his eyes without shame. The fractures of the night had not vanished, but they were bound, for now, with gentleness.

It was enough.

The morning after the storm carried a strange stillness. The sea still churned restlessly against the cliffs, but the sky was washed clean, blue streaks peeking through fading gray. Dragonstone breathed easier — the torches extinguished, shutters thrown wide, the scent of damp stone lingering in every corridor.

In the training yard, Baelon stood opposite Daemon, his new gifted sword in his hands. The boy’s stance was rigid, his face drawn from the night before, but Baelon’s voice was patient, low and steady.

“Again,” he urged.

Daemon lifted the blade, his movements sharper now, more precise. Each strike echoed against Baelon’s parry. The rhythm soothed him — foot forward, blade raised, twist and counter. When his father finally caught him off balance, Baelon only chuckled, tugged him upright, and clapped his shoulder.

“You’ve a storm in you, boy,” Baelon said, smiling faintly. “But a storm can destroy… or it can sharpen a blade. Today you’re sharper.”

Daemon’s chest rose and fell, sweat at his brow, but for the first time in days, a flicker of pride lit his eyes.

The sea struck softly at the cliffs as Gael drew Aemma close to the window alcove. The girl’s fingers twisted the hem of her gown, her shoulders still tight from the night before.

“Do you know what the keepers sing to calm dragons when the storm makes them restless?” Gael asked gently.

Aemma shook her head, her pale eyes wide.

Gael’s smile was soft, reassuring. “A lullaby. In High Valyrian. It steadies the blood.” She said with a laugh

She began to hum first, then sang in a voice that was low and lilting, the syllables flowing like waves:

Drakari Pykiros

Tikummo jemiros

Yn Lantyz bartossa

Saelot vāedis

Hen ñuha ēlēni:

Perzyssy vestretis

Se gēly  irūdaks

Ånogrose

Aemma blinked at her, then whispered, “It sounds like the sea… only softer.”

“Try it,” Gael encouraged, repeating the first line slowly.

Aemma stumbled, her tongue catching on the roundness of ānogrose, but Gael corrected her patiently, guiding her lips with her hand until the sound rolled more smoothly. T

“You’ll get it,” Gael said, her grin easy, almost proud. “This song belongs to us, not to the septas or the faith. The dragonkeepers taught me during me and Daemon's month long punishment They said it’s older than King’s Landing itself. When the storms came, the children of Valyria sang it to keep the dragons calm—and themselves too.”

Aemma’s eyes widened, wonder softening her fear. “And now you’ve taught it to me.”

“Exactly. Which means next time thunder makes you flinch, you sing it. Softly or loud, doesn’t matter. That’s how you claim the storm, instead of letting it claim you.”

Aemma was quiet for a heartbeat, then whispered, “Like a dragon.”

“Like a dragon,” Gael agreed, their foreheads touching in the candlelight.

The last notes of the lullaby lingered in the air, Aemma’s small voice trailing after Gael’s until the words thinned into silence. A flicker of lightning brightened the chamber, followed by a distant rumble.

This time, Aemma didn’t flinch.

She lifted her chin, whispering the words again under her breath: Perzyssy vestretis... Se gelyn irudaks... Anogrose

Gael grinned, eyes gleaming with pride. “There. That’s my dragon-girl.”

The door creaked softly, and both turned. Viserys stood at the threshold, unsure if he had intruded. His cheeks were faintly pink, whether from running the errand his mother had sent him on or from overhearing, Gael could not say.

“You were listening,” Aemma accused, though there was no heat in it—only the bashful smile of someone caught in play.

Viserys raised his hands in mock defense. “Only a little.” His gaze softened on her. “You did well, Aemma. I heard you, strong and steady. Just like last night.”

Gael tilted her head, studying him with a slyness that belied her years. She caught the note of earnestness in his tone, the way he spoke too quickly, too warmly. A knowing smirk tugged at her mouth.

Aemma ducked her head, cheeks pink as she smoothed her skirts.

Viserys cleared his throat and tried for a princely air. “Mother asked for me. She’s holding petitions in the hall. But… I wanted to be sure you were all right.”

“I am,” Aemma said softly, eyes still lowered.

Gael leaned back on her elbows, satisfied. “She’s braver than she knows.”

Viserys nodded, though his glance lingered a heartbeat too long before he stepped aside, waiting for Aemma to follow.

When the door shut behind them, Gael chuckled to herself. She had seen enough storms—of the sky and of the heart—to recognize the first sparks when they struck.

The storm had passed, leaving Dragonstone washed clean under a pale, silvery light. The smallfolk of the island trickled into the hall with their petitions—fishermen worried about damaged nets, shepherds fretting over scattered flocks. Alyssa sat tall in her chair, her presence calm and commanding even in the mundane rhythm of these requests.

At her side, Viserys stood with a careful solemnity, trying to match her composure. His hands were folded behind his back in a pose Baelon had shown him, but his shifting weight betrayed nerves.

“Listen, then decide,” Alyssa murmured to him between speakers, “and never let them doubt they’ve been heard. Even if your answer must be no, let them leave feeling seen.”

Viserys nodded dutifully, repeating her phrasing under his breath.

When the hall emptied at last, Alyssa dismissed the attendants and stretched the stiffness from her shoulders. Her eyes flicked toward her son, lingering a moment before she spoke.

“You left us in the great hall last night,” she said lightly, almost casual. “When the storm was at its worst.”

Viserys blinked, caught unprepared. “I—yes. I went to Aemma.”

Alyssa hummed, tilting her head. “And how was she?”

He hesitated, shifting under her gaze. “She… was frightened at first. Dragonstone’s storms are not like those at court.” He rubbed the back of his neck, words tumbling faster. “But she tried to jest with me, to hide it. And then she let me stay. She—she did well.”

A knowing smile curved Alyssa’s lips. She let the silence stretch just long enough for him to color faintly in the cheeks.

“She did well,” she echoed softly. Then, with warmth threading through her voice, she added: “And so did you.”

Viserys glanced away, suddenly busy with the clasps of his tunic. Alyssa watched him, the curve of her smile deepening. In her heart, she made a quiet note to mention this to Baelon later—how their son was beginning to look at the world, and at Aemma, with new eyes.

For now, though, she spared him the embarrassment of pressing further. Instead, she rested a hand briefly on his shoulder, grounding and steady. “Come. There is still much to learn of ruling before our midday meal.”

Viserys nodded quickly, grateful for the change of subject, though the warmth in his chest lingered.

The stones of Dragonstone’s yard still glistened with rainwater, the puddles reflecting shards of pale sunlight breaking through the clouds. Steam rose faintly from the black rock as the day warmed, carrying the sharp tang of salt and storm-washed air.

Daemon stood opposite his father, both hands wrapped tight around the hilt of the new sword. The steel gleamed faintly—clean, sharp, still carrying the air of a gift not yet fully broken in. His grip was firm, though his shoulders betrayed tension.

Baelon watched him for a moment, his own stance relaxed, a wooden practice blade balanced casually across his palm. “Well?” he prompted, his deep voice carrying easily across the yard. “What will you show me, son? That the sword is only pretty to look at? Or that you know how to make it sing?”

Daemon’s jaw tightened. He stepped forward and raised the blade, giving a testing swing. The steel cut the air with a hiss, and Baelon nodded faintly.

“Again,” Baelon urged. “But with your feet under you. The blade is nothing without the legs to drive it.”

Daemon tried again, this time adjusting his stance. He moved into a basic guard, the way Ser Ryon had shown him, though the weight of the real steel demanded more effort than the wooden swords he was used to. His brow furrowed with concentration.

Baelon circled him slowly, the way a great cat might circle prey—not threatening, but assessing. “Good,” he murmured. “Now strike.”

Daemon swung, the steel whistling. Baelon deflected with his wooden blade, the crack of impact sharp in the yard. Daemon staggered a step, then recovered.

“Better,” Baelon said, pride threading through his stern tone. “But again.”

They moved in rhythm for some time—Baelon correcting his footing, forcing him to strike with his whole body, not just his arms. Daemon’s cheeks flushed with effort, damp hair clinging to his temple, but he pressed on, teeth gritted, refusing to give ground.

Finally, after one particularly heavy clash, Baelon lowered his blade and laughed softly. He stepped close, resting a calloused hand on his son’s shoulder.

“You’ve fire in you, boy,” he said. “Never doubt it. This blade will not master you—you will master it. As you will master yourself.”

Daemon looked up at him, chest rising and falling with the weight of exertion. His lips twitched faintly, not quite a smile, but a flicker of something lighter than the shadow that had followed him since the night before.

Baelon squeezed his shoulder once more before stepping back. “Enough for today. Better to end with strength still in your limbs than to drain yourself dry.”

Daemon nodded, sheathing the blade carefully. For the first time, the steel felt like it truly belonged in his hand.

The yard had quieted. Even the gulls wheeling overhead seemed hushed, their cries distant against the sea wind. Daemon sat on the low wall of black stone, sword laid carefully across his knees, chest still rising and falling from the exertion. His knuckles were white where they gripped the hilt, though the practice was long ended.

Baelon approached at an easy pace, carrying a waterskin. He set it beside his son before lowering himself to sit at Daemon’s side. For a while, he said nothing, letting the rhythm of the waves below fill the silence. Daemon took a sip of water, eyes fixed stubbornly on the gleaming sword.

“You did well today,” Baelon said at last, voice low, steady. “You move with more fire than I did at your age.”

Daemon glanced at him sidelong, the ghost of doubt shadowing his face. “But fire isn’t enough, is it?”

Baelon studied him for a moment, then shook his head faintly. “No. It must be tempered. Like steel.” He tapped the blade gently with a finger. “And you’re tempering, Daemon. More than you know.”

The boy’s lips pressed thin. He said nothing.

Baelon leaned back on his hands, looking out at the sea. “I know what’s been gnawing at you. You think all of this—” he gestured loosely, meaning not just the sword, but Dragonstone, the crown, the unspoken weight of legacy “—rests on your shoulders. That somehow, you’ve been measured and found wanting.”

Daemon’s grip tightened around the hilt. His throat worked, though no words came.

Baelon’s voice softened, almost a whisper. “But hear me well, son. This burden, this bitterness—it is not yours. It was never yours or Viserys'. The quarrel was sown by your grandsire’s choice, when he passed over Rhaenys. It was he who set this fracture between cousins. Not you.”

Daemon’s head dipped, his silver hair falling like a curtain across his eyes. Baelon reached, gently brushing it back so he could see his son’s face.

“You have not lost her forever,” Baelon continued. “Rhaenys is proud, as all of us are. She hurts. But she is still your kin, your blood, your friend. The wound will close, in time. You two will find your way back to one another.”

Daemon’s lip trembled despite his effort to still it. He blinked hard, looking away toward the restless sea. “What if she doesn’t want to? What if she hates me now?”

Baelon’s hand settled firmly on his son’s shoulder, anchoring him. “Then we wait. We give her the time she needs. Love does not vanish, Daemon. Not when it is forged in childhood, in laughter, in all the years you shared. She may be angry. But she does not hate you. Not truly.”

The boy swallowed thickly, the sword across his knees seeming heavier than ever. For the first time in days, a single tear escaped him, sliding down his cheek. Baelon did not shame him for it. He simply shifted closer, pulling Daemon gently against his side.

“You’re not alone in this,” Baelon said, resting his chin briefly atop his son’s silver head. “You have your mother and me. You have Gael, and Viserys, and even Aemma now. You have more love than you think, boy. Don’t let grief blind you to it.”

Daemon leaned into him, silent, but no longer resisting. His father’s arm around him was as steady as the stone beneath their feet, unyielding against the world.

Baelon looked out over the wide, storm-washed sea and exhaled. “The world may shift, the crown may pass where it will—but you, Daemon, are not defined by who wears it. You are defined by the man you choose to be. And I swear, on my life, you will not face that road alone.”

For the first time, Daemon let out a breath that wasn’t heavy with anger or despair. It came shaky, but freer, lighter. He nodded once against his father’s shoulder.

And Baelon held him there, as the sun broke more fully through the clouds, casting a clean light over the drenched stones of Dragonstone.

By afternoon, Dragonstone had settled back into its rhythm. The storm was gone, the sky scrubbed clear and pale, leaving the air sharp with salt and sea-spray. From the windows of the great solar, Alyssa could see her husband and son returning across the yard.

Baelon’s hand rested steady on Daemon’s shoulder as they walked, not so much guiding as grounding him, their heads bent close together in quiet talk. There was no stiffness in Daemon’s gait, no bristling defiance. Instead, he moved slower, more deliberate, as though some weight had been eased off his chest.

Alyssa’s heart softened at the sight. For nights she had lain awake, worrying that the shadow of Rhaenys’s rejection and the storm of his own temper might swallow her youngest whole. But now, she saw the faintest spark of light in his eyes as he tilted his head toward Baelon, listening—truly listening—as his father spoke.

When they entered the solar, Alyssa rose from her seat by the window. Daemon went first, flushed from the yard, hair tousled from the sea breeze, sword still belted at his side. He paused just long enough to bow his head to her before slipping away, Gael darting after him with some excited whisper about another passage to explore.

Baelon lingered, crossing to her with the weary smile she knew too well—the smile of a man holding the family together with both hands. Alyssa reached to brush damp hair from his brow, her fingers lingering there.

“Well?” she asked softly.

“He’s steadier,” Baelon murmured, voice pitched low so no servant could overhear. “I told him the truth—that the fracture between him and Rhaenys was not his burden to carry. That she is not lost to him forever.” His eyes flicked toward the door where Daemon had gone, then back to her. “He heard me this time.”

Alyssa exhaled, relief loosening the tension in her shoulders. “Gods, I prayed he would.” She pressed her forehead briefly against Baelon’s chest, her voice muffled. “Every night since Driftmark I’ve feared we’d lose him to his own anger. But if he believes us—if he begins to hope again—then perhaps he’ll mend.”

Baelon’s arms enfolded her, holding her as firmly as he had their son. “He will. We’ll see to it together. Slowly, gently. And when the time comes, we’ll help him find his way back to Rhaenys.”

Alyssa drew back, her eyes shimmering though her smile held steady. “Our poor boy… carrying wounds not his own.”

“He’ll not carry them alone anymore,” Baelon said firmly, brushing his thumb along her cheek.

From somewhere down the hall, laughter echoed—Daemon’s, clear and unguarded, mingling with Gael’s. Both parents turned toward the sound, and Alyssa’s lips curved at last into something warmer, freer.

“Yes,” she whispered. “That’s the sound I’ve missed.”

Baelon pulled her close again, both of them anchoring themselves in the knowledge that, for this day at least, their family was steady.

The household had quieted after supper, the storm now only a memory. Alyssa sat at the long table in the solar, parchment spread before her, half a petition from the fisherfolk of Dragonstone in her hand. Yet her mind wandered, as it often did these days—to Daemon, to Gael, to the balance of her family in this precarious peace.

The door creaked.

“Mother?”

Viserys entered, hair still mussed from the yard, his cheeks touched with the glow of firelight. He hovered at the threshold for a heartbeat before stepping in. Alyssa knew that look—it was the same Baelon wore when he needed to speak of something too heavy for the hall.

She set aside her parchment at once. “Come here, my son.”

He did, crossing the solar until he stood before her, shifting on his feet as if unsure whether to sit or pace. Finally, he lowered himself into the chair beside hers, his fingers worrying at the edge of the table.

“It’s Aemma,” he said after a pause. “Last night… during the storm.” His voice faltered.

Alyssa waited, her expression patient but keen. She reached out and smoothed his sleeve, wordlessly bidding him go on.

“She was frightened,” Viserys admitted. “Truly frightened. She tried to laugh it off when I first came to her chamber, but I could see it.” His lips pressed thin. “The thunder shook her so badly, Mother. I’ve never seen her so small, so—”

He cut himself off, searching for the right word.

“So like her mother?” Alyssa supplied gently, her tone free of judgment.

Viserys flushed, his eyes darting down. “That’s what she thinks, yes. She said to me that everyone only sees her as timid… like her aunt Daella. Quick to tears. Afraid of things she oughtn’t be.” He drew in a breath, as though steadying himself. “But I told her she isn’t. That she has fire. That she always has, since the moment we met in the library. That she teases me, challenges me, never bows her head when I press her. I told her she is her own lady, and not in anyone’s shadow.”

The words came out in a rush, his cheeks flushed not just with embarrassment, but with something fiercer—protectiveness, almost defiance.

Alyssa studied him, her lips curving slowly into a knowing smile. She saw more than he realized—the softness in his voice when he said Aemma’s name, the way his hands clenched when he recalled her tears.

“You did well,” she said softly. “Better than well. You gave her strength she could not find in herself. That is no small thing, Viserys.”

Viserys’ shoulders eased, though his face remained flushed. “I only told her what was true.”

“Truth can be the gentlest balm,” Alyssa murmured, reaching to cup his cheek, guiding his eyes to hers. “And you have her trust now. Do you understand what a gift that is?”

He nodded, his throat bobbing, though words failed him.

Alyssa leaned back, thoughtful, her smile faint but warm. So the girl fears the storm, yet runs to my son for calm. And my son—my boy, so earnest—has begun to see her in ways beyond childhood games and lessons.

She said nothing of it aloud. Not yet. Instead, she pressed a kiss to his brow as she had when he was a child.

“Go on, Viserys,” she said softly. “Find your rest. You’ve done enough for today.”

As he rose and bowed his head in farewell, Alyssa watched him go, her mind turning. Later, she would tell Baelon. Not to tease, nor to plan, but simply because he deserved to know: their eldest was growing, finding his own bonds in the storm’s wake.

And perhaps, she thought with a faint smile, fire was not so hard to see after all.

In the master chambers—once Aegon the Conqueror’s own—Baelon and Alyssa readied themselves for bed.

Candles guttered in the sconces, their light throwing soft shadows across carved basalt walls. Alyssa sat before the mirror, undoing the pins in her hair, her silver strands falling loose around her shoulders. Baelon, already stripped down to his undertunic, worked the fastenings of his boots, casting a tired glance toward the table where parchments lay stacked—the day’s petitions, carried up from the hall.

Alyssa sighed as she set aside her comb. “The fisherfolk came first this morning. They beg for more protection from the storms—they lose too many nets and boats. I promised them timber from the stores to repair what they could. And the shepherds from the inland valley asked for stronger watch along the cliffs. Their lambs are being stolen by the wild dogs again.”

Baelon gave a low grunt as he pulled free his boot. “A handful of hounds we can spare. If the dogs grow too bold, I’ll send a hunting party. And as for the fisherfolk—” He leaned back against the bedframe, running a hand through his hair. “If we give them timber this once, we should also press the shipwrights in King’s Landing to send proper boats when the weather steadies. Dragonstone cannot keep patching scraps forever.”

“You sound more a prince than you think,” Alyssa said, smiling faintly at his tone. “They looked to me as though they were praying you would sit the hall beside me.”

Baelon only grunted again, though softer this time, pride ghosting in the corner of his mouth.

For a while, silence stretched between them, broken only by the crackle of the hearth. Then Baelon spoke again, his voice heavier.

“There is something else,” he said, eyes fixed on the flames. “Last night. When I went searching for Daemon in the storm.”

Alyssa turned toward him at once, brows lifting.

“I found him,” Baelon continued, “but not alone. Gael was with him. She had followed him into the rain. When I came upon them, he was in her arms—like a drowning boy clinging to driftwood. She held him as though she meant to shield him from the storm itself.”

Alyssa’s breath caught, her hand stilling on her lap. “Gael?”

Baelon nodded. “I hadn’t the chance to tell you before. I led them both back to the hall with you waiting there, but Alyssa… there is something between them. A closeness. More than I had thought. More than I can yet name.”

Alyssa sat back, her lips parting in surprise. For a long moment she said nothing, her mind working through the image her husband had painted. At last, she exhaled. “Gods. They are so young.”

“Too young,” Baelon agreed, though his voice was not unkind. “But their bond is plain. I would rather keep my eyes open to it than be caught blind when it grows.”

Alyssa nodded, thoughtful, though a flicker of unease lingered in her eyes.

To shift the weight in the room, she said quietly, “Speaking of bonds… Aemma was frightened by the storm last night. Viserys went to her chamber. He stayed until dawn, even shared her bed, to be certain she slept through the thunder.”

Baelon’s brows arched, and for a moment, silence pressed in again.

“And what does that mean?” he asked at last, voice low but steady.

“It means our son has a gentler heart than many give him credit for,” Alyssa said, though her gaze searched Baelon’s face. “But it also means Aemma looks to him for comfort. And he—he cannot hide the way he looks at her.”

Baelon leaned back, exhaling through his nose. “Viserys. My heir. If one day I am King, he will be Prince of Dragonstone. And his cousin sleeps in his arms through a storm.”

“Not as man and wife,” Alyssa said quickly, firm. “They are children still. But…” Her expression softened. “They may not remain so forever. Feelings grow in places one does not expect.”

Baelon huffed, rubbing his jaw. “Strange, then, that Lord Hightower paraded his daughter before me like a mare in an auction when I was at Oldtown when I was there to fetch Maegelle and Rhaelle. That explains all the buttering up. Ceryse Hightower, slim as a reed, well-schooled in her prayers. I believe, he spoke the words “Advantageous Match” 52 times according to Septa Rhaelle’s Tally.” he quipped.

This earned a loud laugh from Alyssa.

“And what did you say?”

“I said nothing,” Baelon replied, lips curving in disdain. “I will not throw my son to Oldtown’s ambitions, not yet. He is too young, and his heart too unformed. He should not be chained to duty before he even knows what it is to love.”

Alyssa reached for his hand, lacing her fingers through his. “We agree, then. He must choose with his heart. Whoever he marries, he will need more than alliances and coin. He will need a companion strong enough to walk with him when the crown grows heavy.”

“And you think Aemma—”

“I think they are blind to it now,” Alyssa said gently. “But blindness does not mean absence. And should their paths entwine, it will not be a misfortune.”

Baelon studied her, then squeezed her hand. “So long as it is his choice. So long as no lord, no septon, no parent forces it upon him.”

Alyssa smiled faintly, her gaze drifting toward the window where the rain had stilled, leaving only the sound of dripping stone. “Clueless children,” she said softly. “But perhaps not for long.”

And with that, she leaned into him, letting the chamber fall into the quiet warmth of shared resolve—two parents, not only prince and princess, guiding their brood through storm and fire alike.

Alyssa groaned suddenly, falling back beside him with a muffled laugh against the mattress.

“We’re getting old,” she sighed, staring up at the carved ceiling. “Our babies are already besotted with girls.”

Baelon’s laugh rumbled low and warm in his chest. “Besotted? Gods, Alyssa, you make them sound like lovesick minstrels.”

“Well, they are,” she countered, rolling her head toward him. “Daemon and Gael huddled in the storm, Viserys curled up with Aemma till morning. What’s next? Flowers and songs?”

Baelon chuckled harder, the sound easing something tight in the chamber. “I’d rather Daemon and Viserys be besotted with their swords and books for a few more years.”

Alyssa smirked, then let the mirth soften into something more pensive. “Is this what Mother and Father felt when they were making matches for us?” she asked quietly. “Gods, I can’t even imagine myself a matchmaker, and yet… that’s part of being queen.” She groaned dramatically, flopping her hand over her eyes. “I dread it.”

Baelon laughed again, shaking his head, but the laughter slowly ebbed into something deeper. He shifted, propping himself up, studying her with a look that was more vulnerable than she often saw in him.

“Alyssa,” he said, his voice low, “do you think we will be like Mother and Father? Where the weight of the realm… the crown… drives us apart?”

The question silenced her groaning. She turned her head toward him fully, brows knitting, her heart giving a sudden pang.

Baelon swallowed, staring into the fire as though gathering the courage. “You remember after Daella died, how Mother blamed Father? How they fought—horribly? Then when Saera defied them, Mother still wanted her to come home but Father wouldn’t yield. Gods, they fought over and over. And then—” His voice caught, thick with grief. “Then Aemon’s death. The succession. That was their worst fight. I still hear them shouting. They nearly tore apart. If not for Maegelle—and Septon Barth—I’m not sure they would have come back together.”

He stopped, chest tight, his breath uneven at the memory of his brother’s name. Aemon. Always a wound that never healed.

Baelon’s eyes dropped, his voice almost breaking. “What if that happens to us, Alyssa? What if the crown drives us apart too? I cannot imagine… I cannot bear the thought of a world where I am not with you. Even a moon apart would feel like a lifetime.”

Alyssa was shaken, truly, by the depth of his fear. She sat upright, reaching for his hand, threading her fingers through his. Her grip was firm, grounding him.

“We won’t know what the realm will bring,” she whispered, voice steady though her eyes burned. “But what I do know is this: I cannot imagine a world without you either, Baelon. Just thinking of it pains me. We need each other—more than crowns, more than titles. And we can learn from our parents’ mistakes. We don’t have to repeat them. We choose what kind of marriage we have. What kind of rule we share.”

Baelon’s eyes searched hers, shining with unspoken emotion.

“Promise me,” she said, her voice thick but unwavering. “Promise me we won’t be like them when they fought. Promise me that no matter what storms come—succession, loss, even the realm itself—we won’t walk away. We stay. Even when it’s hard.”

“I promise,” Baelon whispered, the words almost a vow.

He leaned in, kissing her fervently, desperately, as though sealing the oath with his very breath. Alyssa kissed him back just as fiercely, her hands rising to cradle his face. When they finally broke apart, foreheads pressed together, Baelon exhaled in relief, his body softening as though unburdened.

“Always you, Alyssa,” he murmured. “There is no crown, no realm, no world without you.”

She smiled, her lips trembling as she brushed them against his again. “Then we are safe. Whatever comes, we are safe.”

He pulled her into his arms then, holding her tightly, almost as if afraid she might vanish. The embrace turned tender, then slow, then intimate—the kind of closeness that belonged only to husband and wife who had chosen each other again and again, beyond politics, beyond duty. The storm outside had passed, but here, in the quiet of Aegon’s ancient chamber, another kind of vow was forged—unspoken but no less binding than those they had made at their wedding.

And for that night, Baelon’s fears eased, soothed by the certainty of Alyssa’s love.

Chapter Text

Morning came softly to Dragonstone, the air cleansed after the storm. The sea outside the windows glittered with a sheen of pale gold, waves calmer, lapping like a steady heartbeat against the black shore. The chamber was still dim, the heavy curtains drawn half aside, letting in the first light.

Baelon stirred first. For a moment, he simply lay there, watching Alyssa sleep beside him, her blonde hair spread across the pillow like a halo. He traced a gentle hand along her arm, marveling at the peace of her face, at the quiet strength in her even breaths. She shifted, eyes fluttering open, and smiled when she saw him.

“You’re staring,” she whispered, voice hoarse with sleep.

“As though I have any right not to,” Baelon murmured back, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

Their laughter was soft, almost shy, the laughter of two who had shared fears and promises deep in the night. They rose slowly, dressing together, the intimacy of brushing shoulders and adjusting clasps grounding them more than words could. Outside, servants moved briskly, voices rising and falling as trunks and chests were loaded onto ships bound for King’s Landing.

By midmorning, the family gathered in the great hall for a final meal before the day’s leave-taking. The children were bright-eyed again, the storm having passed from their spirits as quickly as from the skies. Daemon was already tugging at his new sword, practicing flourishes near the hearth until Baelon told him to sit down and eat. Viserys helped his mother with parchment rolls she had set aside for King’s Landing, while Aemma and Gael huddled together, giggling as Gael tried to braid her niece’s hair.

Alyssa looked on, her chest tightening with warmth. The fracture of the stormed night was behind them, and though unspoken, each of them felt the weight of its mending.

By late afternoon, with the sun dropping toward the horizon, they stood in Dragonstone’s courtyard, the dragons waiting. Servants carried the last of their belongings to the ships, and the keepers readied the great beasts for flight.

Alyssa adjusted Aemma’s cloak before lifting her onto Meleys’ crimson-scaled back. “Hold tight to me, sweetling. She flies smooth, but she is still a dragon.”

Aemma nodded bravely, though her small hands clutched her aunt’s waist a little tighter than usual. Alyssa only smiled, soothing, before climbing up herself, the saddle fitting her as if made for her alone. Meleys rumbled, wings rustling like the creak of silk.

Across the yard, Baelon clasped Viserys’ shoulder before boosting him onto Vhagar. The boy’s face shone with a mixture of awe and nerves—Vhagar was massive, ancient, her bronze-green scales gleaming under the lowering sun. Baelon swung up behind him, steady and certain, his voice low in his son’s ear: “You are safe with me. Always.”

Daemon, stubborn as ever, clambered onto Caraxes with a grin, Gael climbing on behind him. The red wyrm hissed, serpentine neck twisting as he stamped restlessly at the stone. Daemon laughed, unbothered, though Gael muttered something about his lack of sense.

“Ready?” Baelon called, his voice carrying across the courtyard.

The three dragons answered as one, wings beating the air into thunder. The courtyard filled with heat and sound as they lifted, Meleys first, then Vhagar, then Caraxes surging after them, his cry sharp as a trumpet.

From above, Dragonstone fell away, its towers and black stone walls shrinking against the wide blue. The sea stretched endless, the air sharp with salt and freedom.

The flight was short, no more than thirty minutes, but it was glorious—riding the dying light of day, the wind whipping their hair, the dragons exultant after the storm. They raced the sinking sun, its fire painting the sky in red and gold.

By the time the walls of King’s Landing came into view, the city was bathed in the brilliance of sunset. The Red Keep loomed high on Aegon’s Hill, waiting for them, its towers glowing in the last light as though welcoming the heirs of House Targaryen home.

Together, as one family upon three dragons, they descended toward the capital, the storm behind them, the future waiting.

The descent into King’s Landing was a spectacle. From the harbor to the streets winding up Aegon’s Hill, thousands craned their necks to see three dragons wheel against the sunset, their wings carving shadows over rooftops. Caraxes shrieked, his serpentine cry scattering gulls in the bay, while Meleys glided with regal poise and Vhagar moved with the slow, inexorable majesty of an ancient queen.

When their talons struck the stone yard of the Red Keep, retainers rushed forward, bowing, as the family dismounted. A small honor guard stood ready, but before any formalities could begin, King Jaehaerys and Queen Alyssane stepped forward themselves, unadorned by crown or scepter. The king’s silver hair gleamed in the torchlight, his face weathered but alight with joy, while Alyssane moved swiftly, arms open, eager as any grandmother.

Baelon dismounted first, helping Viserys down, and the boy was immediately swept into Alyssane’s embrace. “My sweetling,” she whispered, pressing her cheek to his, before reaching for Daemon, who was still brushing ash from his tunic after Caraxes’ landing. The queen’s kiss made him squirm, though secretly he smiled.

Jaehaerys clapped his son on the shoulder, pride and relief both in his eyes. “You’ve brought them back safe,” he said to Baelon, then turned to Alyssa, kissing her brow. “And you, daughter, have kept Dragonstone’s old heart beating.”

That night, the royal family gathered not in the vast echoing hall, but in a more intimate solar chamber laid with a long oaken table, lit by candelabras and a roaring fire. Servants moved quietly, setting trenchers of roasted lamb, lemon cakes, and flagons of honeyed wine.

Septa Maegelle and Septa Rhaelle joined them, their presence calm and grounding, while Lady Amanda Arryn sat at Alyssa’s side. She unfurled parchment with neat sketches and lists. “The first floor of the school is nearly finished,” she reported. “The rooms are taking shape—spacious, airy, with windows enough for light. We should be ready to begin instruction within the year.”

Alyssa’s eyes glowed with pride. “You’ve done more in days than I could have hoped. The children of King’s Landing will bless your name, Amanda.”

Amanda waved off the praise lightly before turning to Aemma, who sat straight-backed between Viserys and Gael, still glowing from the flight. “And you, little dove, tell me—how was Dragonstone? Did the fortress treat you kindly?”

Aemma’s eyes brightened. “It was wonderful. We walked the halls that Aegon himself walked. The library is full of books in High Valyrian—Viserys read to me from them, though he corrects me whenever I mispronounce.” She wrinkled her nose playfully, making Viserys flush. “And the storms… oh, the storms shook the walls, but…” she hesitated, then added, “Viserys was there in my chambers. He calmed me until morning.”

Amanda’s smile stayed soft, but her mind marked the detail. Later, she would speak with Alyssa.

Before the moment could weigh too heavily, Daemon leaned across the table. “And we hunted!” he announced eagerly, his eyes sparkling. “In the Dragonmont forests—we brought down a great stag. Father said I loosed my arrow true.”

Viserys laughed. “Your arrow only finished what mine began.”

“Lies,” Daemon shot back, grinning.

Gael smirked from her place. “And then they made me joust them with wooden lances. Both swore victory, and both ended flat on their backs in the mud.”

The table erupted with laughter—Alyssane nearly choking on her wine, Maegelle shaking her head, Jaehaerys chuckling deep.

“They forget to mention,” Gael added slyly, “that it was the local Dragonstone boys who beat them both.”

“Traitor,” Daemon muttered, but even he was laughing now.

When the mirth subsided, Daemon turned solemnly to his grandparents. “Thank you, grandsire—for the stallion. He’s magnificent. And you, grandmother—the saddle for Caraxes fits him perfectly. I’ll ride him with pride, knowing it came from your hand.”

Jaehaerys nodded gravely, though his eyes softened at his grandson’s earnestness. “Ride him well, Daemon. A dragon and his rider must be as one.”

The rest of the meal flowed easily, warmth weaving through the room like golden thread. They spoke of Dragonstone’s winds, of the progress in the capital, of Aemma’s delight at the Valyrian histories, and of the seabirds that still nested along Dragonstone's cliffs. The fire burned low, the platters emptied, and laughter lingered long into the night.

It was not a courtly audience nor a rigid affair of state. It was family, gathered after storms both within and without, steadying themselves in each other’s presence.

When the laughter had dwindled and the fire in the solar sank to embers, the family began to disperse. Servants moved silently, gathering trenchers and pouring the last of the wine, while the children were ushered toward their chambers by Septa Rhaelle. Gael trailed after them, still ribbing Daemon about his muddy defeat, and Aemma stifled a yawn behind her hand.

It was then that Lady Amanda Arryn lingered at Alyssa’s side. She waited until the last of the chatter drifted from the room before touching the Princess’ arms. “A word, if you will.”

They slipped into a quieter gallery, the moonlight falling through narrow windows. Alyssa, still flushed with wine, looked at her lady curiously. “What troubles you?”

Amanda’s voice was gentle, but her brows knit. “It is about my sister, Aemma. She spoke freely at table of the storm, of being frightened, and of Viserys spending the night with her. You and I know it was innocence—children seeking comfort in thunder—but the court…” She exhaled slowly. “The court can be cruel. Already tongues wag too eagerly. If they twist it, it could tarnish her reputation. To them, is Daella’s daughter, timid in their eyes, and they will look for weakness where there is none. I hope you understand why I'm telling you this, I just want to protect my sister.”

Alyssa pressed her lips together, the concern settling heavy in her chest. “Gods,” she muttered, “I did not even think of how it sounded. We know Viserys meant no harm—he would defend her as his own blood. But the snakes of court…”

Amanda reached for her hand. “I say this not to scold, but to warn. Shield them both, Alyssa. They are still children, yet their closeness will be read with older, sharper eyes. Better to guide than to let the whispers grow untended.”

Alyssa squeezed her sister’s hand, gratitude warming her eyes. “You are right. I will speak with Baelon. We must guard them—not from each other, but from the weight of gossip.”

They parted then, Amanda’s shoulders stiff with her protective worry, Alyssa’s mind already whirling with quiet resolve.

Meanwhile, in another chamber lit by only a single lamp, Jaehaerys had bid Baelon to stay behind. Father and son stood by the window, the city sprawled beneath them, its torches twinkling like a sea of fireflies.

“You lead well,” Jaehaerys said at last, his voice steady, though years had worn it softer. “The hunt, the games, the care you show your children. You carry it easily, as though it is natural to you.”

Baelon inclined his head. “It is not always easy. Daemon especially… he is fire and storm, and I fear he burns too bright.”

Jaehaerys’s gaze lingered on the horizon. “So did Aemon, once. So did I, when I was young.” He turned, his eyes keen. “The trick is not to quench the fire, but to build the hearth around it. You must be his hearth, Baelon. Not his gaoler.”

Baelon swallowed, the words striking close. “I try. Some days I fear I fail him.”

“You will fail him,” Jaehaerys said, not unkindly. “As I failed Aemon, Saera, Viserra, and perhaps too often even your mother. But fatherhood is not in never failing—it is in standing again, in mending what you break, in loving them even when they drive you to despair. That, too, is governance.”

Silence stretched, only the wind rattling the shutters. Finally, Baelon bowed his head. “I will remember.”

Jaehaerys placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Good. For one day the weight will pass to you, heavier than you can yet know. But if you carry your children rightly, you will not carry it alone.”

For a fleeting moment, the stern king seemed only a father, weary and proud, remembering the younger man he once was and placing his hopes upon the son before him.

That night, after the family had parted ways and the Red Keep grew hushed with sleep, Alyssa returned to her chambers. Baelon was already there, unfastening the last of his tunic ties, his frame lit in half-shadow by the candle flames. He looked up as she entered, and at once he knew she carried the weight of a conversation unshared.

“You wear the same face I do,” Baelon said softly, setting aside his belt.

Alyssa allowed herself a tired smile and crossed to him, her fingers brushing over his hand. “Amanda pulled me aside. She spoke of Viserys and Aemma at Dragonstone—the storm, and how he comforted her in her chambers.”

Baelon straightened, his brows drawn. “In her chambers?”

“It was harmless,” Alyssa reassured, though the edge in her voice betrayed her unease. “Yet Amanda fears the court may turn harmless comfort into ruinous whispers. Aemma’s name would be the one most harmed, not Viserys’s.”

Baelon exhaled, running a hand down his face. “Then we must guard them, teach them to guard themselves. They are tender-hearted still, unaware of the claws of court.”

Alyssa nodded, then searched his eyes. “And what did father say to you?”

Baelon hesitated before answering, then lowered himself to the bed. “He spoke of governance, of fatherhood, of not smothering those you guide—be they the realm or my own children"

Her expression softened at that, and she touched his cheek. “Wise words, though I know how heavy you carry the world.”

“And I know how keenly you watch over our children,” Baelon murmured. “Tomorrow, we speak to them. Gently. Not to frighten, but to teach.”

They lay together then, their worries shared and halved between them, candlelight flickering until sleep claimed them.

The sun had fully risen by the time the family’s wing in the Red Keep began to hum with motion. Servants arrived in staggered lines from the docks, hauling crates and trunks freshly unloaded from Dragonstone’s ships. The familiar scents of sea air and pine pitch still clung to the wood, and the children crowded in the corridor to watch as Dragonstone’s relics were carried into the castle’s halls.

Viserys lingered over a carved chest of books, tracing the familiar sigil pressed into the corner. Daemon and Gael darted in and out of the chamber, half-hindrance, half-help, tugging at covers and laughing when the servants scolded. Aemma stayed close to Alyssa, her hand wrapped around her aunt’s sleeve, her eyes bright as she watched their things find a new home.

“Feels as though we’ve uprooted a whole mountain,” Alyssa murmured to Baelon, amused at the chaos.

“Better the mountain be carried here than we left behind it,” Baelon replied, steadying a heavy candelabrum before it toppled. He ruffled Daemon’s hair as the boy rushed past, and Daemon beamed, proud of himself for dragging a smaller chest—though clearly with more enthusiasm than strength.

Breakfast was late that morning, taken in a private solar overlooking the city. A platter of fresh bread, honey, and figs was set between them, but it was the quiet togetherness that fed them most. Viserys poured his mother’s cup without being asked, a small show of his careful nature. Daemon stole half the figs before anyone else could claim them, and Gael chased him with mock outrage until Alyssa called them back with a firm look and a softened laugh.

Aemma leaned close to Viserys to share a whispered remark about the color of the sunrise over the Blackwater, and though both were quick to fall silent when Alyssa’s eyes flicked toward them, she only smiled faintly and let it pass.

By late morning, after the last of their Dragonstone belongings had been squared away, Alyssa excused herself from the solar where the children played and met with her ladies. In a quieter chamber of the Queen’s Tower, Septa Rhaelle and Septa Maegelle awaited her, their scrolls neatly rolled, their faces lit with the satisfaction of progress. Lady Amanda Arryn stood with them, her expression characteristically brisk, though softened by a small smile at Alyssa’s arrival.

“The foundations are strong, Sister,” Septa Maegelle began, her voice warm and proud. “The first floor is nearly complete. Three classrooms already stand walled and roofed, with hearths set to keep them warm when winter winds blow.”

Septa Rhaelle added, “We have secured more instructors from among the septas and learned widows who volunteered their service. They will teach letters, numbers, and healing arts. Some even offered to give lessons in household governance—how to manage accounts and lands. All skills the realm’s daughters will sorely need.”

Alyssa’s face brightened, her heart swelling with quiet pride. “Good. Very good. My mother always said that the strength of a kingdom rests not only in its swords, but in its women, too. This work—” she looked at each of them in turn, “—is the future.”

Lady Amanda, who had been marking notes with a careful hand, lifted her eyes. “We will need more funds if the upper floors are to be finished before winter’s end. And more hands. The laborers are stretched thin, some called away to mend the city’s outer walls after last month’s storm.”

Alyssa nodded, thoughtful. “I will speak with my father on the matter. If the walls of King’s Landing can be mended, so too can its people be fortified. We will find the means.”

The women bowed their heads, content, and Alyssa promised to visit the site herself within the week.

Elsewhere, in the vaulted hall of the council chamber, Baelon stood before his father and his hand, Septon Barth. The storm’s weight had not left him, nor the memory of Dragonstone’s battered coast.

“Father,” Baelon said plainly, his voice firm but respectful, “Alyssa and Viserys were hearing petitions in Dragonstone the other day and the smallfolk there all complain

Elsewhere, in the vaulted hall of the council chamber, Baelon stood before his father. The storm’s weight had not left him, nor the memory of Dragonstone’s battered coast.

“Father,” Baelon said plainly, his voice firm but respectful, “Dragonstone needs a small fleet—swift ships, not great war galleys, but sturdy vessels that can weather sudden storms and guard its waters. When the squalls came last week, two fishing cogs were dashed upon the rocks. The smallfolk barely escaped with their lives. If we had had ships enough to go out, perhaps fewer would have been lost. They could aslo double dose swift ships into fishing vessels" He explained. 

Jaehaerys regarded him steadily, his long fingers steepled before him. “The realm bleeds coin from every corner, my son. The Stepstones, the walls of this city, the granaries after the poor harvest. Every petition is urgent.”

Baelon did not falter. “And Dragonstone is the shield of House Targaryen. Its people, our people, look to us for safety. If we cannot protect them from the sea, then how can they believe we will protect them from greater storms?”

There was a silence. Septon Barth, seated at Jaehaerys’s side, shifted, his brow furrowed as though weighing numbers in his head. Finally, the King leaned back, a flicker of something—pride, perhaps—passing across his face.

“You make your case well,” Jaehaerys said. “I will see what can be done. Three ships, perhaps four. Nothing vast, but enough to give Dragonstone teeth.”

Baelon bowed his head in thanks, though relief softened his shoulders as he straightened again. “It will be enough.”

By Midday, the rhythm of court life had settled back around them. Alyssa gathered with her household in a sunlit chamber of the Queen’s Tower, where the smell of ink and parchment mixed with fresh rushes on the floor. Septa Maegelle and Septa Rhaelle were already waiting, scrolls arrayed neatly on the table. Lady Amanda Arryn stood with them, her quill poised, while Alyssa’s other ladies—Lyra Mormont, Barbrey Dustin, and Sabitha Vypren—clustered nearby, each with a different kind of energy.

Maegelle began first, her voice calm and confident. “The school’s foundations are strong, Sister. The first floor is almost finished—three rooms enclosed and roofed, hearths already built. By winter’s start, the girls can begin lessons.”

Rhaelle added, “We have secured a handful of teachers, septas and widows alike, versed in letters, sums, and healing. Some even volunteered to teach household accounts. The response has been heartening.”

At this, Sabitha Vypren leaned forward, sharp-eyed. “Letters and sums are well enough. But will they be taught the histories of our house? The songs of old Valyria? If the daughters of this realm are to be strong, they must not forget where the blood of dragons comes from.”

Lyra Mormont gave a low chuckle. “Spoken like a woman who’s never set foot on Bear Island. Our girls learn to wield a spear before they can braid their hair. Not every daughter needs to know histories—better they learn to fight.”

Barbrey Dustin’s voice cut in cool and measured, bridging them. “Both, perhaps. Let them be clever with accounts, sharp with histories, and—if the chance arises—able to gut a man who forgets his manners.”

The room rippled with quiet laughter, even Alyssa’s lips curving despite herself. Amanda Arryn, ever the pragmatist, tapped her quill lightly against the parchment. “Practicalities must come first. We will need more funds to complete the upper floors, and more laborers. Many have already been pulled to mend the outer walls of the city after last month’s storm.”

Alyssa listened, her hands folded before her, then said with quiet conviction, “We will find the means. My mother always said the strength of a kingdom rests not only in its swords, but in its women. This school is not for one house, but for the realm itself.” She looked from her septas, to Amanda, to her fierce ladies of Bear Island, Barrowton, and the Trident. “You have my word—we will see it finished.”

The women bowed or inclined their heads, reassured by her certainty.

Chapter Text

The day had wound to a close in the Red Keep, but in Aemma Arryn’s chambers, the night opened like a wound. The storm had long since passed, yet her hands shook as though thunder still rolled outside. She sat on the edge of her bed, white as moonlight, her breath caught high in her throat.

The sheets beneath her were stained. Scarlet, stark against the pale linens.

At first, she had thought it some wound she hadn’t felt, a scrape or a cut. But when she touched her gown and found the same warmth, the truth began to creep upon her like a tide she could not turn back.

A sound at the door startled her. Amanda Arryn, her elder half-sister entered briskly, quill and notes still in her hands. “Aemma, it’s late. You should be—” Her words faltered when she saw her sister’s face. The girl was pale, lips trembling, eyes round with unshed tears.

Amanda’s frown deepened, her tone softening. “What is it, sweeting?”

Aemma only raised a shaking hand and pointed to her bed.

Amanda followed her gaze. Then she saw it.

The blood.

For a moment, the world fell out from beneath her. The quill slipped from her fingers, forgotten. She crossed the room quickly, kneeling beside her sister, though her own heart thundered with something colder than fear.

“Gods above,” Amanda whispered, pressing her hand briefly to her mouth. Then, to Aemma, gently but firmly, “Do not be frightened. Do you hear me? This is natural, Aemma. This means only that you are becoming a woman.”

But her own mind was racing, dark and quick. She has flowered. Already. Gods, she’s scarcely more than a child. She thought of the men in court, the whispers in corridors, the way they devoured scraps of gossip like hounds with bones. If the court learns of this—if they so much as hear a breath—she will no longer be the cherished child of the Eyrie. She will be a prize. A match to be bartered. A pawn to be claimed.

Amanda forced her voice calm, even as her pulse hammered. “We will not tell anyone tonight,” she said, her hand finding Aemma’s trembling one. “Not yet. This is your matter, not theirs. Do you understand me? No gossips, no ladies’ whispers, no snickering lords. You are not a prize to be passed along. You are my sister.”

Aemma blinked at her, still too shaken to speak, her lips parting soundlessly.

Amanda smoothed the hair from her brow and whispered as though sealing an oath, “I will protect you. Whatever comes, I will protect you. Let no one make this into something it is not.”

And in the silence that followed, Amanda Arryn felt the weight of it settle on her shoulders: her sister had flowered, and with it came the danger of every greedy hand in King’s Landing reaching out.

She gathered her sister into her arms despite the blood. “Hush now, little bird. It is nothing to fear. It only means you are becoming a woman.”

Aemma sobbed harder. “It hurts… and I do not understand.”

Amanda stroked her hair, awkward but determined. “Each moon, your body will bleed. It is the way of women. Painful, yes, and strange, but it is not an illness. It will come again and again until you are grown. You must keep it secret, Aemma—tell no one but me. Do you understand? The court feeds on whispers. If they knew, they would twist this into something ugly.”

The girl nodded miserably.

Amanda rose, her face hardening. She summoned the maidservants she had brought from the Vale—women who had served House Arryn for years and owed their loyalty not to Maesters or Red Keep tongues, but to her bloodline.

“Strip the bed,” Amanda ordered softly but firmly. “Take the linens. Burn them. Say nothing to anyone. Not a word, or your silence will be sworn upon your lives.”

The servants curtsied low, pale but obedient, and carried the soiled sheets away.

Once they were gone, Amanda turned to her desk. Hands still trembling faintly, she pulled parchment and quill toward her and began to write:

Elys,

It has come. Our little one has flowered. She is frightened, and I have sworn her silence. No one here must know, lest the wolves and snakes descend upon her with their schemes. You will understand what this means for her future, and why it must remain veiled for as long as we can keep it so. I entrust you with this truth, and this truth alone. Guard it as you would her life.

Your sister in blood and bond,
Amanda

She read it twice, then sealed it. But her gut twisted with mistrust. Ravens were not safe—too many eyes and hands could see what was meant only for Elys.

“Ser Joffrey,” she said when her bastard cousin entered at her summons, still smelling faintly of leather and steel.

He bowed. “My lady.”

Amanda pressed the letter into his hand, gripping it so hard her knuckles whitened. “This must reach Elys and Elys alone. Not the Maester. Not a page. Not another soul. Ride swift, ride hard, and do not tarry. This is life and death, Joffrey. Do you understand?”

His jaw tightened at her tone, but he nodded solemnly. “I swear it, cousin.”

“Then go and be safe cousin”

When the door closed behind him, Amanda turned back to her sister. Aemma still sat curled, rocking slightly, her face streaked with tears.

Amanda knelt beside her once more, wiping her cheeks with a gentleness that belied her sternness. “It is only blood, Aemma. But it changes everything. That is why we must be careful. You are not alone. I will keep you safe.”

Aemma buried her face in Amanda’s shoulder, trembling. “I am afraid.”

Amanda held her tighter, staring out toward the shadowed court beyond the window, where whispers seemed to stir even in the stone.

“So am I,” she murmured. “But we shall endure.”

When Aemma finally slept, worn down by tears, Amanda sat vigil in the chair by her bed. The chamber was too quiet, save for the faint dripping of rain against the shutters and the girl’s soft, hiccuping breaths.

Amanda’s thoughts circled like hawks. If the court learns of this… She could see the faces already:

Lord Baratheon, laughing over his wine, boasting that the flower of the Vale was ripe for plucking.
Lord Lannister, coldly calculating what price her blood might fetch in gold and power.
The Reach Lords whispering of matches that would bind the Vale and the Dragons to the South.
Even among the Targaryens themselves—she thought of the hungry eyes of courtiers who would see Aemma not as a child but as a womb, a vessel for heirs.

Her stomach clenched. No. Not yet. Not while she is mine to guard.

That night, Aemma dreamed.

She was in her own bedchamber, yet it was not the chamber she knew. The walls loomed taller, shadows stretched longer, and the air was heavy, stinking of iron and ash. She lay in the bed, but her body was not her own—her limbs too long, her hands pale and thin, a woman’s body trapped beneath a child’s gaze.

The sheets were warm and wet beneath her. She touched them and her fingers came away red. The stain spread, blooming like a great crimson flower across the bed, soaking through the mattress until it seemed to pulse with a heartbeat of its own.

All around her stood figures—lords and ladies, dressed in fine velvets and silks, but their faces were blurred, eyeless, mouths open in a murmur. Their whispers slithered over one another until she could make out the words:

She is ripe.
She is ready.
Her blood is proof.
Her womb will serve us all.

The faceless courtiers leaned closer, their hands stretching toward her, not to comfort but to claim. Aemma tried to rise, to cry out, but the sheets clung to her like vines, dragging her deeper into the blood-soaked bed. The whispers grew louder, rising to a chant.

At the foot of the bed, a child’s crib rocked gently. She stumbled toward it, desperate, but every step sank her deeper in blood, until it lapped at her waist, her chest. She reached out—only to find the crib empty, save for more red, dripping through the bars to the floor.

The chanting became laughter. The faceless courtiers pointed at her, their mouths yawning wide, and the chamber filled with the copper tide until it drowned her screams.

Aemma jerked awake with a strangled cry, clutching the coverlet to her chest. Her nightdress clung to her skin, damp with sweat. For a heartbeat she thought she could still smell it—the iron tang of blood—but when she blinked, it was gone. Only the quiet chamber, dimly lit by the dying embers of the hearth.

From the chair nearby, Amanda stirred. She was on her feet at once, crossing the chamber to sit at the edge of Aemma’s bed.
“Aemma?” she whispered. “You cried out. Was it pain?”

Aemma shook her head quickly, burying her face in the pillow so Amanda would not see her trembling. “No. Just a dream.” Her voice was small, muffled.

Amanda’s brow furrowed, but she didn’t press. Instead, she smoothed Aemma’s hair back from her damp forehead and sat with her until her breathing steadied again. “Sleep, sweeting,” she murmured softly. “I am here. No one will trouble you.”

Aemma clutched at her sister’s hand, as if afraid it might vanish, and closed her eyes. She said nothing of the whispers, nor the blood. But Amanda stayed long after, keeping watch, as if by her presence she could bar the dream from returning.

The morning broke soft and golden over the Red Keep, sunlight slanting through the high windows of the breakfast hall. Trays of fresh bread, honey, and fruit lay upon the long table, but Aemma only picked half-heartedly at a fig, her face pale and her eyes ringed as though the night had stolen rest from her.

Amanda, seated close, noticed at once. She leaned nearer, speaking in a voice meant for her sister alone. “You are quiet, little dove. Did you sleep at all?”

Aemma’s lips pressed together. After a moment, she turned her wide gray eyes up to Amanda, whispering, “Sister… what does this mean for me now? Can I still learn High Valyrian with Viserys?”

Amanda froze. The question pierced her—the sweetness of it, the innocence. Of all the things the girl might fear at her first moon’s blood, it was not the shadow of marriage contracts or the weight of gossip, but whether she might still sit in the library with her cousin and stumble over foreign syllables together.

Amanda’s throat tightened. She reached to squeeze Aemma’s hand beneath the table. “I don’t know, little one,” she said softly, careful to keep her tone light, though her stomach churned. “Maybe not for a few days, until your period is finished. Until then… would it be so terrible if I confined you to your rooms instead?”

Aemma’s brow furrowed, but she only gave a small, reluctant nod. “If you think it best.”

Amanda smiled faintly, brushing a strand of pale hair from her sister’s cheek. “It is only for your sake.” Yet even as she said it, unease coiled in her chest. She knew too well how cruel confinement could feel, how the walls of a chamber could become a cage. But in the Red Keep—where whispers spread like wildfire, where every misstep could be seized and wielded—secrecy was safety.

When breakfast ended, Amanda rose with her sister, guiding her gently back to her chambers before setting off for her own duties. Her steps carried her toward Princess Alyssa’s solar, where she was expected to assist in reviewing household accounts and correspondence. But all the while, the weight pressed between her shoulder blades—the knowledge of what Aemma had asked, and what innocence might cost her if the wrong ears ever learned the truth.

The chambers were too quiet.

Aemma sat curled upon the cushioned bench beneath the window, staring at the gardens far below where courtiers strolled in the sunlight. She pressed her knees to her chest, her night-robe falling in folds around her, and wished she might be among them—or better yet, in the library, her hands ink-stained and her tongue twisting stubbornly over High Valyrian syllables.

Instead, her world had shrunk to four walls. Her sister’s command echoed in her ears: Until your period is finished.

She had nodded in obedience at breakfast, yet now in the silence, doubt gnawed at her. Was she… changed forever? Was she no longer the same Aemma who ran laughing through the Eyrie halls, who teased Viserys when he stumbled over a translation, who felt small but safe in Amanda’s shadow?

Her hand drifted to her stomach, as though she might feel some mark there, proof of what her body had done. But there was nothing—only the memory of blood and the dread of what it meant. A woman’s blood, Amanda had called it. A gate opening, though to where Aemma could not yet see.

She buried her face against her knees, whispering to herself in the smallest voice: “I don’t want to be a woman yet.”

The storm of last night seemed to echo inside her still, not in thunder but in the whispers of her dream: faceless courtiers, the smell of iron, the bed soaked red. A shadow of what might be. She shivered, clutching tighter at her robe, trying to push it away. But the fear lingered, pressing against the fragile innocence she clung to.

Meanwhile, in Princess Alyssa’s solar, Amanda bent over a spread of parchment, quill in hand, her sister’s pale face haunting her.

Lady Lyra Mormont read off a list of timber shipments from the North, while Lady Barbrey Dustin compared the figures with prices marked by crown agents in King’s Landing. Septa Maegelle oversaw plans for the dormitory wings, sketching where the study hall might be expanded. The solar was alive with women’s voices, practical and purposeful, a hive of order.

Amanda tried to fix her attention on the lists before her—stone quarried from the Vale, tiles from Dorne, parchment and inks to be imported for the school. Yet her thoughts wandered again and again to Aemma.

If word spread that the girl had flowered—if even a whisper escaped—lords might descend like hawks. Some Arryn cousin in need of advancement. Some ambitious Riverlord. Even a Reachman, hoping to tie the Vale closer. Aemma’s innocence, so sweet and so fragile, would mean nothing. They would see only a marriageable girl.

Her hand clenched around the quill. She must guard her sister as fiercely as she guarded her own heart.

“Amanda,” Princess Alyssa’s voice broke gently through her reverie. “You seem distracted. What say you of Sabitha Vypren’s proposal—that the lower wing be set aside for orphaned girls of noble blood, with a separate hall for the smallfolk’s daughters?”

Amanda blinked, pulling herself back into the moment. She forced a small smile and set her mind again to the work. “It is wise, Princess,” she said, her voice steady though her chest felt tight. “If both are given learning, but each in their own space, harmony will be easier kept.”

Alyssa nodded approvingly, though Amanda could feel her gaze linger, sharp and curious, as if she sensed the unease her lady-in-waiting carried like a hidden stone.

The solar was filled with the muted clatter of ink against parchment and the scratch of quills across maps. Sunlight spilled across the long oaken table, illuminating stacks of ledger books, bundles of parchment, and small samples of tile and timber. Alyssa traced her fingers along the plans, moving pieces of parchment as though arranging the future itself.

Amanda leaned close, spreading out a map of King’s Landing and the proposed trade routes for supplies. “If we secure the northern timber by way of the Vale, and the Dorne tiles come by ship, the construction can proceed uninterrupted,” she explained. “Lady Sabitha has spoken with merchants willing to provide parchment and inks. We need scribes to maintain a record of the girls’ progress—and of donations received—so no misappropriation occurs.”

Septa Rhelle nodded, her sharp eyes glinting. “Yes, and the dormitories must be placed near the study hall but separate from the workshops. We cannot have the young ladies distracted by the clatter of carpentry while learning letters and numbers. And the wing for orphaned noble girls… Maegelle’s suggestion to add quiet study rooms on either side is wise. They will need space to reflect, to practice, to be safe from any prying eyes.”

Lady Lyra Mormont interjected, her voice firm but measured. “The weapons practice courtyard should be shielded from the younger girls’ wings. Safety is paramount. Yet we can maintain a viewing gallery for instructors so that they may observe proper discipline.”

Alyssa smiled faintly. “Yes, and Lady Barbrey’s suggestion to include a separate hall for crafts—spinning, weaving, embroidery—will give the girls a choice in how they wish to build skill, without it feeling like punishment. We are not training soldiers, but women who will know the strength of their minds and hands alike.”

Lady Amanda scribbled notes rapidly, aware of every detail. “I will ensure the inventories of quills, parchment, and ink are delivered by trusted merchants. Nothing should be left to chance, Princess. And the kitchen… we must have enough storage to feed twice the number of girls, should more be added. Hygiene, proper meals… it is essential.”

Alyssa leaned back, taking a breath. “Yes. I can feel the walls of the school already. The voices of girls learning, laughing, reading… I will see them running along the hallways long before the first stone is laid.”

Maegelle smiled softly, her hands folded over the front of her tunic. “It will be a sanctuary. And when we hear the stories of women who were lost or unheard, we will remember this as a place of beginning. Their safety, their knowledge… it will be a mark of what is right in this world.”

Amanda glanced toward Alyssa with a tight smile. “And we must protect the innocent while we build it. There is little worse than a gift undone by those who seek to take advantage.” She lowered her voice, almost to herself. “Even a child as young as Aemma.”

Meanwhile, in her chamber, Aemma sat cross-legged upon the edge of her bed, the gray morning light filtering through the shutters. She had gathered her books and ink, though her heart was not fully in them. Every now and then, she pressed a hand to her stomach, the memory of blood still new and frightening.

She tried to read, but the words blurred. Instead, she traced the curves of letters in her notebooks, copying them slowly in High Valyrian, her tongue tripping over syllables as her eyes flicked to the window. Beyond it, the streets of the Red Keep carried on in their oblivious rhythm, unaware of the small, anxious figure confined within her room.

To pass the hours, she wrote in her own journal, drawing small sketches of dragons and castles, reminding herself of Dragonstone, of the library, and of the warmth of Viserys’ hand on her shoulder during the storm. She tried to imagine herself calm, brave, a girl who could hold her own.

Sometimes she hummed softly to herself, an imitation of the lullaby Gael had taught her, repeating the High Valyrian lines even as she fidgeted in her chair:

“Vezof jin azantys,

Jorrāelza rūklon,

Daor līr, vestri vēzos,

Rūhagon ūndē.”

(“Sleep now, little one,

Let the night embrace you,

Fear not, your path is steady,

The stars watch over you.”)

Though it did little to quell the tightness in her chest, it gave her a measure of control—an act of quiet defiance against the sudden, inexorable changes her body demanded she accept.

By midday, the sunlight had grown sharp in the Red Keep, reflecting off the polished floors of the corridors. A soft knock echoed at Aemma’s chamber door, just enough to be polite, yet insistent.

“Who is it?” Aemma called, her voice tighter than she intended.

“Aemma?” Viserys’ voice carried through the wood. “It’s me. May I come in?”

Aemma’s heart leapt. She hadn’t been to the library all morning, and the thought of facing Viserys—of explaining why she hadn’t appeared for their lessons—made her stomach churn. She pressed a hand to her chest, trying to steady her breath.

“I… I’m not feeling well,” she said quickly, forcing a cough that came out more ragged than she intended. She kept her head lowered, staring at a loose thread in her bedding.

There was a pause on the other side of the door. “You sound… unwell,” Viserys said cautiously. “I was coming to fetch you. You weren’t there in the library”

Aemma’s chest tightened. Panic pressed into her throat. Her sister Amanda’s instructions echoed in her mind: No one must know yet. You mustn’t let them see you. Her fingers fumbled with the edge of her blanket.

“I… I’m really not feeling well,” she forced out. “Just… a little tired, maybe. I can rest a bit more.” She tried to muster a weak smile, but it faltered almost immediately.

“Are you sure?,” Viserys asked gently, “if you’re truly unwell, I can have Aunt Maegelle check on you. She’s also a healer.”

Aemma’s heart jumped violently. The last thing she wanted was anyone discovering her secret. Her lips parted, and she attempted to disguise her panic with a joke, a thin attempt at levity. “Oh, no! Aunt Maegelle would fuss so much—she’d make me drink some horrid medicine. I’d rather—” she waved a hand, trying to appear casual, “—sleep through it all.”

Viserys frowned, stepping closer. “Aemma… you know you don’t have to pretend with me. I only want to make sure you’re safe.”

Aemma swallowed hard, feeling the weight of her secret press down upon her. She tried one final deflection, pitching her voice into a sleepy yawn. “It’s really okay. I’m… sleepy anyway. You don’t have to worry about me. Go on with your lessons; I’ll catch up later.”

Viserys hesitated at the door, his brow furrowed, uncertainty clear in his expression. “Are you sure? If you need anything—anything at all—you must tell me.”

Aemma nodded, forcing another cough to punctuate her insistence. “Yes. Really. Just… let me sleep.”

The young prince finally withdrew, but the faint echo of his concern lingered in the room. Aemma pressed herself against the pillows, trying to steady her racing heart, but the secret she guarded so fiercely weighed heavily on her chest. The library and her lessons could wait—she had to survive this day first.

The clanging of wooden swords echoed across the training yard as Daemon finished his last set of drills with Ser Ryam Redwyne. His small arms ached pleasantly, the sting of exertion mixed with satisfaction. Ser Ryam gave him a nod of approval, stepping back with a faint smile. “Well done, boy. You’ve the strength and precision of your line in your blood, that’s for certain.”

Daemon wiped the sweat from his brow and leaned against the fence while adjusting his gear. He was just about to leave the yard when a shadow fell over him. He looked up. Viserys. Sour-faced, arms crossed, pacing like a storm cloud had settled above his head.

Daemon froze. “You—what are you doing here? I wasn’t told we were training.”

Viserys’ lips twisted. “Aemma’s sick today. I was supposed to go over her Valyrian glyphs in the library. Instead…” He gestured vaguely at the sun-drenched yard. “…I’m stuck pacing, waiting, glaring at the stones, and trying not to think about her.”

Daemon raised a single brow, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Oh? So the mighty Viserys Targaryen is reduced to pining over little Aemma without her presence in the library? Truly, this is a tragedy worthy of song!”

Viserys shot a glare, though the faint twitch at the corner of his eye betrayed amusement. “Ha. Very funny, little brother. Perhaps you should write the song yourself while I grieve appropriately.”

Daemon grinned and picked up a nearby wooden sword, tossing it lightly at Viserys’ feet. “Now that you’re here, you might as well go over your sword training. Pick it up. I’ll show you what I’ve learned today from Ser Ryam. Consider it… a gift.”

Viserys hesitated, then arched a brow. “A gift? From you?”

“From me,” Daemon confirmed with mock solemnity, twirling his sword in a practiced arc. “Take it. Don’t make me hurt your pride and teach you by example.”

With a roll of his eyes, Viserys bent down to pick up the wooden blade. “Fine. But if you swing that thing at me like you did Ser Ryam, I’ll make you regret ever calling it a gift.”

Daemon chuckled. “Oh, I swing it carefully, brother. Don’t worry. I wouldn’t want to scratch that perfect hair of yours.”

The afternoon passed in the rhythmic clash of wood, laughter, and shouted instructions. Each parry and thrust became less about competition and more about camaraderie, the small moments of teasing and joking stitching a bond between the two boys.

After a particularly fancy feint, Daemon leaned on his sword and grinned. “See? You’ve got to trust your instincts, Viserys. And also—don’t act like you’re too good to have fun with your little brother.”

Viserys smirked, lowering his blade. “Perhaps I underestimated your skills today, Daemon. Perhaps.”

Daemon’s wooden sword thudded to the ground as he wiped sweat from his brow. “And that’s enough for today,” he said, his voice carrying across the training yard.

Viserys, still catching his breath, straightened and frowned. “You’ve got your energy for swordplay, I see. But there’s more pressing business.”

Daemon cocked a brow. “Oh? And what pressing business would that be?”

Viserys’s expression softened, but there was a hint of worry in his eyes. “Aemma. She’s alone in her chambers. We… we need to make sure she’s alright”

Daemon chuckled, a teasing tilt to his grin. “You moping around because your little cousin isn’t entertaining you in the library?”

“Shut it,” Viserys replied, though the corners of his mouth twitched. “She’s… not herself today. And I want to make sure she’s safe. You coming or not?”

Daemon hefted his wooden sword onto his shoulder. “Aye, I’ll come. Someone’s got to keep you from fussing too much. Lead the way, brother”

They walked in tandem through the Red Keep, their boots echoing on the stone floors. The corridors were quiet, the servants bustling in the distance, but the hallways near Aemma’s chambers were still, as if the entire keep held its breath.

When they reached her door, Viserys knocked lightly. “Aemma? It’s Viserys again. We just wanted to check on you.”

From inside came Aemma’s voice, trying to sound cheerful but failing to mask the tension beneath. “I’m fine! Really. You don’t need to check on me again.”

Daemon leaned casually against the doorframe, teasing lightly. “Stubborn as ever, little cousin. We’re not going anywhere until we know you’re actually fine.”

Aemma’s voice faltered, her pride clashing with the instructions Amanda had given her. “I… I’m fine, really. Just a little tired. Nothing for you to worry about.”

Viserys pressed a hand gently against the door. “If you’re tired, that’s alright. But you don’t have to hide anything from me. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I—” Aemma paused, fumbling for a joke to hide her panic, “I’m sick, I think. Maybe… library sickness? You know, too many books!” She coughed lightly, forcing a laugh.

Viserys and Daemon shared a confused look about how made up that was. His brow furrowed in concern. “Library sickness?” he asked, trying not to sound alarmed. 

Aemma’s voice tightened, panic rising. “No, no! It’s okay. Really. I’m sleepy anyways.” She tried to brush him off, but the tremor in her tone betrayed her.

Daemon shook his head, grinning despite himself. “Always trying to hide something, aren’t you?” He nudged Viserys with his elbow. “Looks like we’re stuck keeping watch, brother. Might as well go grab your sword and train me some more while we wait.”

Viserys shot him a look, half annoyed, half exasperated, but a small smile tugged at his lips. “Fine. But after that, I’m not letting you out of my sight near her. You hear me?”

Daemon laughed, swinging his wooden sword lazily over his shoulder. “Heard. Lead the way, master worrywart.”

Together, the brothers lingered outside Aemma’s door, giving her the small comfort of their presence without forcing her to reveal her secret, sharing a quiet camaraderie and keeping a careful watch over their cousin as she navigated this delicate, private moment.

Amanda approached Aemma’s chambers, her skirts whispering against the stone floor as she walked briskly but cautiously. She paused at the door, noticing immediately the familiar figures lingering outside. Daemon leaned lazily against the wall, wooden sword slung over his shoulder, while Viserys pressed a hand to the door, his expression full of concern.

Amanda’s brow furrowed. Great, she thought. Now I have to improvise. She straightened her posture and called out lightly, trying to sound casual. “Ah, Prince Daemon, Prince Viserys. Just the princes I wish to see.”

Daemon raised a brow, skeptical. “That’s too formal. You look like you’re hiding something, Amanda.”

Viserys’s frown deepened. “How’s Aemma? Did something happen?”

Amanda smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Nothing—nothing serious, I assure you. Aemma has… a bit of an upset stomach. That’s why she’s confined to her room for now. She just needs rest, that’s all.” She glanced at the door, then back at the boys, forcing cheer into her voice. “You know how delicate she can be. Better safe than sorry.”

Daemon tilted his head, suspicious. “Upset stomach, eh? Sounds serious enough to keep her from library lessons?” He shot Viserys a pointed look, half-joking.

Viserys’s mouth twitched, though he didn’t speak. Amanda pressed on, hastily. “Yes, yes, nothing to worry about. She’ll be fine soon. You two should carry on with your own training—don’t fuss too much over her. I’ve got her covered.”

She gave them a look that brooked no argument, her tone gentle but firm. Daemon sighed and threw a mock salute, while Viserys relaxed his posture slightly, though the worry lingered in his eyes.

“Very well,” Viserys finally relented. He and Daemon begun to leave.

With that, she stepped aside, letting the boys continue on their way while she turned back toward the door, determined to check on Aemma herself. Once inside, she found her half-sister curled up on her bed, hands clutched to her stomach, her cheeks flushed with fear and embarrassment. Amanda’s heart ached.

“You’re safe, little one,” Amanda whispered, perching on the edge of the bed. “I’m here. No one else will know. Not a soul.”

Aemma’s lips trembled, and tears threatened, but she nodded. “I… I didn’t want them to know,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I know,” Amanda said softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “That’s why we’re careful. Now, rest. And leave the rest to me.”

The tension in the room eased slightly, though Amanda could feel the weight of responsibility settling on her shoulders. I must protect her, every way I can.

Aemma’s room was silent, save for the occasional groan and sharp intake of breath as her body convulsed with pain. Blood has already tainted her gown. She curled tighter into herself on the chaise, her small hands clutching at her stomach. The ache was relentless, foreign, and terrifying, and without Amanda there to guide her, panic flared.

A sudden cry of pain escaped her lips—a sharp yelp that carried beyond the closed door. By chance, Queen Alyssanne, passing through the Red Keep after Viserys had informed her of Aemma’s supposed sickness, was nearby. The Queen’s heart immediately seized. “Viserys was right,” she muttered under her breath. “Something is very wrong.”

Her guard, Lady Jonquil Darke, moved swiftly beside her. “Your Grace?”

“She is in pain,” Alyssanne replied sharply. “Open the door. Now.”

With a careful but firm shove, Lady Jonquil forced the door ajar, revealing the sight of Aemma writhing, face pale and twisted with discomfort with blood stained dress. The Queen’s sharp eyes took in the scene instantly. This was no ordinary illness.

Aemma’s eyes widened as she saw her grandmother, instinctively trying to pull the blankets over herself, embarrassment and fear mingling with the pain.

“Shhh, little one,” Alyssanne said gently, kneeling beside the chaise. Her voice carried the calm authority of someone who had faced this many times before. “It’s alright. You are safe. I can help.”

Aemma shook her head, tears running freely. “I… I don’t know what to do…”

Alyssanne’s heart softened. She had seen this before—six daughters, one by one, had come to her in the same helpless state. She knelt closer, untying the fastenings of Aemma’s skirts with practiced hands. “It is alright, my sweet. You are having your first moonsblood. Nothing to fear. It is natural.”

Aemma’s lips quivered, shame and pain intertwining. Alyssanne placed a comforting hand over her trembling shoulder. “I remember your mother, Daella. The first time this happened to her, I thought she would faint right there in my arms. And now it is your turn, little one. You are strong, though it may not feel so now.”

Carefully, Alyssanne assisted Aemma with what she needed, discreet and efficient. The Queen moved like a shadow of reassurance, showing no hint of discomfort, only warmth and authority. Each motion was deliberate, measured, and full of the empathy only a grandmother with experience could offer.

The room was silent except for Aemma’s quiet breaths and the occasional soft murmur from Alyssanne, guiding her gently. The Queen’s hands lingered a moment longer, ensuring the young girl was settled comfortably, her pain somewhat eased.

Alyssanne’s mind drifted briefly to the memory of Daella’s first period—the flustered, fearful girl who had looked to her for guidance, trusting in the safety of her grandmother’s hands. She realized now with a pang that this was indeed Aemma’s first moonsblood, and the responsibility of seeing her through it stirred both pride and tenderness in her heart.

“There now,” Alyssanne whispered softly, brushing a strand of damp hair from Aemma’s forehead. “You are alright. You are safe. Your half-sister Amanda will want to know, but we must keep this quiet for now. No one else must see. Understand?”

Aemma nodded, still trembling, but a small measure of relief flickering across her tear-streaked face. She felt the weight of the moment, but with Alyssanne beside her, it no longer seemed insurmountable.

“Good,” Alyssanne said, her voice firm yet gentle. “Rest now. I will stay with you until you are steadier.” She offered a reassuring smile, one that carried the quiet strength of experience and love. And as she guided Aemma to a more comfortable position, the young girl allowed herself to finally lean against her grandmother, trusting that for the first time in this sudden, confusing new world of growing pains, she was not alone.

Outside, Lady Jonquil closed the door quietly, giving the two space. The Red Keep continued its day, oblivious to the tender moment within, while inside, Aemma’s first encounter with womanhood was met with care, calm, and the love of a grandmother who had guided generations before her.

Later that afternoon, as the light in the Red Keep shifted toward the warm gold of late afternoon, Amanda returned to Aemma’s chambers. She had been occupied with errands and attending to matters in the castle, but the moment she approached, she froze in her tracks. There, kneeling beside the chaise, was Queen Alyssanne herself, her composure serene yet commanding, her hands gently steadying Aemma as the girl curled against her grandmother.

Amanda’s heart thumped violently. How could she—how could the Queen possibly know? Her chest tightened, panic threading through her thoughts. Someone beyond their small circle had seen this? The very idea sent a shiver down her spine.

Alyssanne’s gaze met Amanda’s the moment she stepped fully into the room. There was no rebuke, only calm, quiet scrutiny. “Amanda,” she said gently, “when did these courses occur?”

Amanda’s mind raced. A lie would be futile now. The Queen’s eyes held a depth of awareness, of patience, that left no room for deception. She swallowed hard and admitted, her voice tight but earnest, “Last night, your Grace. I found her panicked… confused… in her chambers. I took care of her myself, and disposed of everything… discreetly.”

Alyssanne’s expression softened, but she remained still, waiting for Amanda to continue.

“I—” Amanda began, struggling with the words, “I did it because… because if the court learned… if word got out that Aemma has already flowered, they would…” Her hands clenched briefly. “…they would see her as nothing but a broodmare, a commodity for marriage or alliances. They would speak of her as if she were a thing to be claimed. I… I couldn’t let that happen. I had to protect her.”

Alyssanne nodded slowly, listening intently to the confession, every word weighed and measured. She recalled her own experiences, the courtly pressures, the way young women’s worth was so often reduced to gossip, alliances, and dowries. She understood the fear that had driven Amanda’s actions, the fierce protectiveness that had compelled her to act in secrecy.

“You did well,” Alyssanne said finally, her voice quiet but certain. “You acted with wisdom and care. And I promise you, no one outside of this room will know. Aemma will be safely confined with only me, her grandmother, you, and Lady Jonquil.” She glanced toward the door, where the guard stood quietly, ever-vigilant.

Amanda exhaled slowly, a weight lifting from her shoulders. Relief, mingled with lingering tension, flushed her face. “Thank you, Your Grace,” she whispered, voice trembling. “I only… I only want her safe. I want her to have her childhood… before the court notices anything.”

Alyssanne reached out, lightly resting a hand on Amanda’s shoulder. “And she will,” the Queen assured her. “You have done well to protect her. Your care for her will not go unnoticed. She is lucky to have you, Amanda.”

Amanda’s chest swelled at the praise. She felt a deep, protective warmth toward her half-sister, now shared and validated by the Queen herself. Together, they watched over Aemma as the young girl, exhausted from pain and worry, began to relax against her grandmother.

Alyssanne’s mind briefly wandered to Daella, her daughter, remembering the first time she had guided her own child through the same rite of passage. How quickly the years pass, she thought, a pang of bittersweet nostalgia threading through her heart. But she refocused, her resolve firm. Aemma’s secret would remain safe. The child would be protected, not exploited, until she was ready to face the world outside these walls.

And Amanda, witnessing the quiet strength of the Queen, felt herself steadied. She would continue to guard Aemma with vigilance, but she now had the reassurance that they were united in their duty, bound by the trust of both grandmother and guardian.

After a long moment of quiet reassurance, Alyssanne moved with practiced grace. From a small satchel she had brought, she withdrew a selection of teas and a bundle of warm compresses. She set them carefully on a table near Aemma’s bed, mindful of the girl’s fragile state and the secrecy surrounding her first moonsblood.

“Aemma,” the Queen said softly, her voice as gentle as a summer breeze, “I have brought something to help with the discomfort. Some herbal teas… and warm compresses for your abdomen. They will ease the pain.”

The girl’s wide eyes flicked toward the steaming cups, the faint scent of chamomile and lemon balm drifting into her senses. It was a comfort she had not expected in this moment of confusion and fear. She nodded, grateful but still trembling slightly, curling tighter against the bedcovers.

Amanda knelt beside her half-sister, placing a hand lightly on her arm. “Drink slowly,” she instructed softly, “and let the warmth ease your cramps. No one must know of this, understand? Only us three.” She gestured to Alyssanne, who inclined her head in agreement.

Aemma swallowed, taking in a shallow breath, and sipped the tea gingerly. The warmth spread through her chest and stomach, a gentle balm that soothed some of the fear and pain. Amanda pressed the warm compress to her sister’s belly, holding it there firmly but tenderly. The simple contact grounded the girl, helping her to breathe a little easier.

Queen Alyssanne observed the quiet scene, a sense of maternal pride and relief threading through her chest. She remembered each of her six daughters, the first moonsbloods she had guided them through, and she felt the same care and tenderness for this granddaughter, so like her mother in temperament and spirit. Even as the Red Keep bustled beyond these closed doors, this private chamber became a sanctuary of safety, warmth, and discretion.

Amanda leaned closer, speaking in a whisper. “It will pass, little one. And you will be stronger for it. No one else must see, and I will make sure of it.” Her tone was firm yet soft, carrying the weight of responsibility she bore and the fierce protectiveness she felt for her half-sister.

Aemma relaxed slightly against the warmth of the compress, letting herself be comforted by the tea, the touch of Amanda’s hand, and the serene presence of her grandmother. She did not speak much, but her eyes softened as the fear ebbed slowly, replaced with trust and a fragile sense of safety.

Alyssanne, satisfied that Aemma was stable, gave Amanda a quiet nod. “Stay with her, and make sure she drinks the tea and rests,” the Queen said. “I will remain nearby if needed, but this is in your hands now.”

Amanda bowed her head, gratitude mingling with her vigilance. “I will not fail her,” she said quietly.

Chapter Text

The Great Hall of the Red Keep buzzed with anticipation. Servants lit the last of the braziers as King Jaehaerys and Queen Alyssanne stood waiting before the throne. Baelon and Alyssa flanked them, while young Princess Gael lingered near Septa Maegelle, her small hand looped through the septa’s sleeve.

The great doors groaned open. A slim figure stepped inside, pale as snow, his posture slightly hunched as though centuries of parchment had bent his spine. Vaegon Targaryen’s face was drawn in that familiar sour cast, his sharp eyes scanning the hall with scholarly disdain—until they landed on his mother and father.

“Father. Mother.” His bow was short, perfunctory, but there was a glimmer of warmth behind the austerity.

“Vaegon,” Queen Alyssanne breathed, her voice breaking with joy. She hurried forward, grasping her son’s pale hands, ignoring the stiffness of his body. “At last, you are here.”

Baelon strode up next, his broad frame and booming laugh in sharp contrast to his brother’s bookish silhouette. He clapped Vaegon heartily on the back. “You made it, brother. The Capital is better for it.”

Vaegon’s lips twitched—whether from irritation or reluctant amusement was hard to tell. “Better, perhaps. Quieter, certainly not. Not with you rattling the rafters.”

Alyssa stepped forward, arms crossed, head tilted in appraisal. “Hells, Vaegon, you’ve grown even paler than before. Do they keep you locked in a cellar at the Citadel? Or perhaps you’ve developed an allergy to sunlight?”

Vaegon arched a brow, unimpressed. “Says the sister who spends her days preening with her ladies like a jeweled bird. At least my ink-stains produce something useful.”

Her eyes narrowed, though a faint smile tugged at her lips. “Oh, don’t act as though you’re above us all, Vaegon. You’ve always thought yourself too clever to breathe the same air as the rest of us.”

“And yet,” he said dryly, “you’re still eager for my attention. Some things never change.”

Alyssa bit her lip to stifle a laugh, shoulders shaking slightly. Alyssanne, beaming at both of them, clutched her hands together. “Five of my children… under one roof again. It is more than I dared hope.”

Vaegon, never one to let a tender moment go uninterrupted, added with a sharp smirk: “Could have made it six, had you invited Saera.”

At that, Alyssa burst out in a muffled snort, trying to cover her mouth. Jaehaerys’ sharp eyes fell on her. “What is it, daughter? What amuses you?”

Alyssa straightened, smoothing her skirts, face carefully schooled. “Nothing, father. Vaegon merely… told me something.”

Jaehaerys studied her for a long moment, then let it pass, turning instead to Vaegon. “Your return serves a dual purpose, son. You will aid Viserys in matters of taxation, trade, law, and governance, and instruct Aemma in the intricacies of High Valyrian. And,” his voice firmed, resounding through the hall, “you shall take a seat upon my Small Council. Advisory, yes, but it is time all Targaryens in Westeros make themselves useful to the realm.”

At the mention of “all Targaryens in Westeros,” a brief, sharp silence fell. Saera’s absence hung unspoken, yet palpable. Vaegon inclined his head, neither arguing nor agreeing, but the flicker in his sharp eyes betrayed his thoughts.

Up in the shadowed recess of a secret passageway overlooking the hall, three young faces pressed close together to watch the scene unfold.

Viserys leaned forward, lips quirking into a grin. “Uh oh, Aemma. Seems you’ve just inherited a sterner teacher than I ever was. You’ll miss me soon enough.”

Aemma wrinkled her nose, whispering back, “If he’s anything like you, I’ll manage. Books and lectures don’t frighten me. It’s your endless droning that nearly kills me.”

Viserys gasped in mock offense. “Droning? I am a delightful tutor. Ask anyone—”

“Anyone with the patience of a saint, perhaps,” Aemma teased, eyes dancing.

Daemon, crouched behind them with his chin on his hand, rolled his eyes. “Seven hells, All that bickering—makes my ears ache.”

Viserys gave him a shove. “Quiet, imp. Go polish your sword or something.”

Daemon only grinned, whispering back with wicked glee, “Gladly. At least my sword doesn’t argue back.”

The three stifled laughter as the hall below buzzed with the weight of new duties and expectations, while in their hidden corner, childhood banter softened the heaviness of what awaited them all.

The Small Council chamber smelled faintly of parchment and ink, with a drift of smoke curling from Septa Barth’s lamp. The long table was crowded today:

• Septon Barth, Hand of the King, sat nearest Jaehaerys, his solemn eyes betraying both patience and weariness.
• Lord Corlys Velaryon, Master of Ships, leaned forward over a map of the Narrow Sea, his rings catching the sunlight.
• Lord Albin Massey, Master of Laws, slim and precise, shuffled legal codices at his elbow.
• Lord Alan Beesbury, Master of Coin, cleared his throat every so often, clutching a small chest of ledgers.
• Ser Ryam Redwyne, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, stood silent but alert, his white cloak pooling behind his chair.
• Grand Maester Elysar fiddled with his chain links, his lined face half-hidden beneath a hood of age.
• Crown Prince Baelon, broad shouldered, listening at the meeting with a faint smile

And at the far end: Prince Vaegon, seated stiff as a drawn sword, hands folded before him as though he had been carved from salt-pale marble.

Jaehaerys opened with measured dignity. “My lords, we are graced today by the presence of my son, Prince Vaegon, who will join us henceforth as an advisor. His studies are… considerable.”

There was polite murmur, half-bows and cautious glances. Barth’s eyes lingered longest, unreadable.

Lord Corlys wasted no time, sweeping his hand across the map. “As I have stated before, your grace, Westeros must look beyond its own shores. Lys and Tyrosh grow fat on their fleets. If we extend routes to Qarth and beyond, it would enrich both Crown and kingdom. Our ships—”

Vaegon’s voice cut across him, dry as tinder. “Your ships, you mean.”

The silence was abrupt. Corlys’ dark eyes narrowed.

Vaegon tapped the parchment with a long finger. “Your plan ignores cost. Sailors’ wages, supply lines, storms, corsairs. Yi Ti’s gold will not fill your holds if half your fleet founders before reaching it. Do you propose to fund this fantasy from your own coffers, Lord Velaryon, or shall the Crown bear the loss when you run aground?”

Lord Beesbury coughed into his sleeve. Massey frowned. Ser Ryam shifted, bemused.

Corlys bristled. “I do not gamble with lives, Prince. I know the sea. I know its risks.”

“You know pride,” Vaegon replied evenly. “If you crave exotic spices, buy them from Oldtown merchants and spare the realm your vanity voyages.”

Jaehaerys cleared his throat sharply. “Enough. Corlys, Vaegon—your arguments will be recorded and weighed.”

The matter shifted, uneasily, to law.

Lord Massey adjusted his scrolls. “The disputes over land grants in the Crownlands multiply daily, Your Grace. I urge you to grant the authority for broader reforms of inheritance laws—”

Vaegon leaned back, pale eyes narrowing. “Inheritance laws are already labyrinthine. You would weave another snarl? Lords will interpret reforms as license to squabble over parchment rather than blood. Better to let them keep their squabbles with swords—it settles matters more swiftly.”

Massey stiffened. “That is a dangerous jest.”

“It is no jest,” Vaegon said flatly. “Men will kill each other over property whether ink approves it or not. The law should record, not invent.”

Barth finally intervened, voice steady but edged. “The law is the crown’s will made flesh. To let swords alone decide is an abdication.”

“Then perhaps fewer fools should be given quills,” Vaegon snapped back, and the chamber fell into another uneasy silence.

Grand Maester Elysar tried to smooth matters. “Prince, surely you concede—”

“Grand Maester,” Vaegon interrupted, eyes sharp as knives, “I concede nothing to men who mistake age for wisdom.”

A sharp intake of breath went around the table. Elysar sat back, affronted.

Only Beesbury, clutching his ledgers, broke the tension, clearing his throat with some courage. “If I may, Your Grace—perhaps we should return to figures. Trade revenues in the last quarter—”

Vaegon inclined his head, just slightly. “At last, a man who knows his purpose. Continue, Lord Beesbury.”

Jaehaerys massaged his temples, voice weary. “Yes. Let us hear from the Master of Coin.”

The tension eased only in the droning comfort of coin and figures. By the time Jaehaerys adjourned, his temples throbbed, Barth’s quill had stilled, and most of the council looked as if they had weathered a storm.

Baelon rose slowly, arms folding across his chest, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Well. At least it wasn’t dull.”

Jaehaerys gave him a long-suffering look. “If you find amusement in quarrels, Baelon, you may enjoy many such mornings with your brother.”

Baelon chuckled low. “Father, dull councils breed dull rulers. Best we keep our swords sharp, even if they’re only words.”

Vaegon’s thin lips curved—whether in pride, annoyance, or both, none could tell.

Jaehaerys only sighed, already regretting the storm he had seated at his table.

Jaehaerys could almost hear Saera’s mocking laughter in his mind—this is what you wished for, Father, all your brood in the service of the realm. Already, the king wondered if inviting Vaegon to the council was wisdom or folly. 

The oak doors of the council chamber swung shut behind them with a heavy thud, sealing away the mutters of lords and the scratch of quills.

Baelon strode easily through the vaulted passage, his long legs carrying him at a soldier’s pace. At his side walked Vaegon, hands clasped behind his back, stiff as a page from a book, his thin mouth set in its habitual line of disdain.

“Well,” Baelon drawled, voice carrying down the hall, “you’ve made friends swiftly. Corlys looked ready to throw you from the battlements, Massey near to bursting, and poor Elysar—seven save him—nearly choked on his own chain.”

Vaegon’s head turned just enough for a sliver of pale eye to glance at his brother. “If their pride cannot endure correction, they ought not sit a king’s council.”

Baelon laughed, full-throated. “Correction, you call it? That was no correction, brother, that was a flogging. And you enjoyed it.”

“I spoke truth,” Vaegon replied, unbothered. “That most of them cannot stomach it is hardly my concern.”

They passed beneath a row of torches, their shadows stretching long along the stone floor. Baelon shook his head, grinning despite himself. “Truth has many edges. You wield yours like a dagger at a feast.”

“Better a dagger than a spoon,” Vaegon shot back.

That drew a bark of laughter from Baelon. He clapped his younger brother on the shoulder, nearly staggering the slighter man. “Seven hells, Vaegon—you may gut half the realm with your tongue before you ever lift a blade.”

Vaegon smoothed his sleeve where Baelon’s hand had fallen, but for a heartbeat, his lips twitched—not quite a smile, but close.

“Father meant to test me,” he said quietly. “Now he has his answer. I will not sit idle while dullards waste the realm’s breath.”

Baelon studied him sidelong, amusement mellowing to something closer to fondness. “Storms unsettle sailors, but they also carry ships farther than calm seas. Perhaps you’ll do the same for the council.”

Vaegon inclined his head a fraction, as though accepting a compliment reluctantly.

“And if not,” Baelon added, grinning again, “then at least you’ll keep me awake during those cursed ledgers of Beesbury’s.”

That earned him the barest huff from Vaegon’s nose. A rare concession, and one Baelon treasured. 

It was at that moment that the rustle of silks joined their footsteps. Queen Alyssanne emerged from a side corridor, flanked by Lady Jonquil, her face brightening at the sight of her sons.

“Baelon,” she greeted warmly, then her gaze settled on the slighter, paler figure at his side. “And Vaegon.”

Vaegon inclined his head stiffly. “Mother.”

“Were you fleeing the council chamber, or did the council flee you?” Alyssanne asked, eyes dancing with restrained amusement.

Baelon nearly choked on his laughter. “Both, perhaps.”

“Baelon,” she said with mock sternness, though her smile betrayed her. Then, to Vaegon, “Walk with me. Your brother must see to his duties, but I should like your company in the gardens.”

Baelon gave a half-bow to his mother, still grinning at Vaegon. “Seven bless whoever shares that walk.” He clasped Vaegon’s shoulder once more, then departed down the hall, his laughter echoing behind him.

Alyssanne slipped her arm through her son’s, steering him gently toward the sunlit colonnade that opened onto the gardens. “Tell me,” she said as they passed beneath the arch, “how do you find your first council?”

Vaegon’s mouth drew tight. “I find Lord Beesbury competent.”

“And the others?” Alyssanne prompted, though she already guessed his answer.

“The others…” He exhaled sharply through his nose. “If they were my students, I’d dismiss them from their lessons and send them to the kitchens. At least there they might be useful.”

Alyssanne bit back a laugh, her fingers tightening around his arm instead. “Fourteen help me, Vaegon, you have your father’s sharpness and none of his patience.”

“I have patience for knowledge,” he corrected sourly. “Not for fools wasting the realm’s breath.”

They stepped into the late-afternoon light, where servants were setting sweetmeats and spiced wine beneath the shade of a vine-draped gazebo. Alyssanne guided him toward it, her smile softening as she took in the pallor of his skin in the sun.

“You’ve spent too many years buried in books,” she murmured. “Alyssa is right. You’re pale as snow, and hunched like an old maester.” She fussed at his collar, smoothing it, though Vaegon tolerated the gesture without complaint.

“Books do not betray their purpose, Mother,” he said. “Unlike men.”

“Perhaps,” Alyssanne replied gently, “but books cannot laugh with you either. Or share a meal. Or remind you that you are loved.”

Vaegon looked away, his jaw set—but he did not pull from her touch. For once, he allowed her fussing.

“Come,” she said, ushering him toward the table. “Sit with me. The sun will do you good, and we have years to make up for.”

And though his face remained sour, Vaegon obeyed, settling stiffly onto the cushioned bench beside her.

She waited until he had settled, back straight and hands folded, before asking, “Tell me of Oldtown. You were years at the Citadel, and I have only letters to judge your time there. Did it teach you what you sought?”

Vaegon sipped his watered wine before answering, his tone clipped but precise. “It taught me that most men who wear chains of learning do so only to strangle truth. Still—there were a few minds worth sharpening against. I took a link in economics, another in law, and half in trade before I tired of their endless quibbling.”

Her smile tilted wry. “And now you bring that sharpness home to us. Your father means for Viserys to be your pupil in such things.”

A faint grimace crossed Vaegon’s face. “Viserys has a hunger for knowledge, that much I’ll grant him. But he is soft-hearted, and soft hearts make poor stewards. He will listen, but whether he will act is another matter.”

Alyssanne folded her hands, studying him. “You sound more a tutor already than a brother. And Daemon?”

Here, Vaegon gave a small scoff. “Daemon would sooner break a book’s spine than open it. Steel suits him better than parchment. I’ll not waste ink on him.”

She chuckled softly, though her eyes held fondness for them all. “And Aemma? You are to guide her in High Valyrian.”

For a moment, Vaegon’s expression softened—if only slightly. “To be honest mother, I haven’t met her yet. I will only meet her later or tomorrow for our lessons.” He admitted.

And Alyssa,” Alyssanne pressed on, “she has taken up much of what I once oversaw. She is building a school for the lowborn women of the city.”

At this, Vaegon blinked. “Alyssa?” He set his cup down. “You mean to tell me that the same girl who bloodied squires in the yard when they mocked her… is now building schools?”

Alyssanne laughed, full and bright. “The very same. Maegelle and Rhaelle lend her their hands, though it is Alyssa’s vision. The years do change us, Vaegon. Even those who once bloodied squires.”

Vaegon shook his head slowly, as though still disbelieving. “Strange… yet perhaps fitting. If any of us could wrestle sense into the realm, it would be her.”

Alyssanne reached across the table to pat his hand. “And you as well, in your own way.”

For a while, they shared figs and bread in silence. But then her eyes softened, shadows passing over her face. “I think often of Aemon,” she said quietly. “And of how the realm chose to pass over Rhaenys when his line might have endured.”

Vaegon’s expression, usually so sharp, grew still. He did not jest, nor sneer, nor scoff. “I am sorry about Aemon, when I heard mother. He was the best of us, most dutiful, the only sibling I tolerated. They feared a woman upon the Iron Throne. They will fear it still. Yet it was folly. Rhaenys is strong, clever, and true. I share your view, Mother. The realm erred.”

Alyssanne studied him—her sharp-tongued, pale, bookish son—and in that moment saw in him not only the Citadel’s teachings but her own blood reflected.

“But Baelon,” Vaegon went on, measured, “he does well enough. The men love him, the lords respect him. He may not be Aemon, but he is steady, and the realm may endure under steady hands.”

Alyssanne exhaled, both proud and weary. “You speak as though you are thrice your age.”

“Perhaps I am,” Vaegon muttered, though without bitterness.

She leaned forward, fussing with his collar again, smoothing his hair as she had when he was a boy. “You are still my son, no matter how many links you wear, no matter how sharp your words. And you are pale as chalk, Vaegon. You’ll sit here with me until the sun gives you some color.”

He gave a long-suffering sigh, but he did not move away. Instead, he allowed her touch, even leaning ever so slightly into it.

Alyssanne smiled, warmed by that tiny concession. “There now,” she murmured, “books may sharpen the mind, but it is love that tempers the soul.”

And for once, Vaegon said nothing to contradict her.

Meanwhile, in a sun-dappled corridor leading back from the site where the school’s foundations had begun to rise, Crown Prince Baelon walked alongside his wife-sister Alyssa and their other sister Septa Maegelle. Dust clung to Alyssa’s skirts, and her cheeks were flushed from laughter rather than the labor of oversight.

“I swear,” Baelon said between breaths, “the look on Lord Beesbury’s face when Vaegon called him ‘competent—barely competent’—” He clutched Alyssa’s shoulders for balance as he doubled over in mirth. “I have never seen a man swell with so much pride at an insult!”

Alyssa and Maegelle laughed before Baelon continued. “It was a council, not a cockfight, and yet Vaegon turned it into one. Corlys near choked on his own tongue when Vaegon all but called him self-serving without using those words”

Septa Maegelle, ever the gentle observer, allowed herself a small, knowing smile. “Sharp words cut deep—but they cut truer than dull ones. Still, I wonder how long the lords will suffer his temper.”

Alyssa waved a hand airily. “Oh, they’ll suffer. Because no matter how sour his face, he’s right more often than not. And gods, it’s delicious to watch.”

Baelon laughed, kissing her temple as she leaned into him. “You find too much delight in your brother’s misery.”

“Not misery—humbling,” Alyssa corrected, eyes sparkling. “And someone has to humble the high lords now and again, else their heads grow too fat for their helms.”

Maegelle gave a soft tsk, though she was smiling too. “You sound like Saera when she used to rant about Lords.”

Alyssa’s laughter only rang louder, filling the corridor, her mirth a counterpoint to Vaegon’s sourness and a reminder that in this family—no matter how sharp the tempers—warmth and wit still bound them together.

Viserys, Daemon, and Aemma had claimed their secret haunt in one of the library’s shadowed passages, books stacked like battlements around them. They had listened to the echoes of Vaegon’s arrival and the whispering reports that he was to take seats both as tutor and councilor.

Viserys was the first to speak, his tone half-serious, half-dramatic. “So—our pale uncle, returned from the Citadel with a chain’s worth of scorn. He’s to teach me the laws and taxes of the realm.” He sighed in mock despair. “I’ll be buried under ledgers before I’m ever crowned.”

Aemma smothered a laugh. “At least you’ll know the words to put on those ledgers. He’s to teach me High Valyrian. Perhaps I’ll be buried under glyphs instead.”

Viserys grinned at her. “Oh, Aemma—uncle Vaegon is sterner than I. You’ll wish for my gentle lessons again.”

“You were not gentle,” she retorted. “You made me copy every glyph thrice.”

Daemon, sprawled on the floor with a wooden sword across his lap, snorted. “You two prattle like an old couple already. Glyphs, ledgers—bah. Give me steel.” He tapped the hilt of his practice sword against the floor. “If our pale uncle ever picks this up, I’ll wager the sword weighs more than he does.”

That set Aemma giggling, and Viserys, despite his mild protest, soon joined her. Their laughter wound through the passage, a little relief from the heaviness that had hung since Aemma’s confinement.

The appointed hour found Viserys and Aemma waiting in one of the larger study chambers, scrolls unfurled and inkpots set neat. Daemon had tried to linger but been shooed away by a humorless servant with instructions from the Queen herself.

When the door opened, Vaegon entered as if he carried the weight of Oldtown’s library upon his shoulders. His robes were dark and plain, the chain of his learning catching faint light with every measured step. His pale face betrayed little—save for the faintest sour downturn at the mouth, as though even the air of King’s Landing offended him.

But when his gaze fell upon Aemma, he faltered. Just for a breath.

Her eyes, her small stature, the softness of her face—it was Daella’s ghost, risen young again. His mind struck with the memory of his father’s half-serious betrothal proposal years past. He could almost hear his own cruel words then, spitting across the hall: “I will not marry her. Producing dumb babes is all Daella is good for.”

He swallowed hard, an unfamiliar bitterness climbing into his throat.

“Uncle,” Viserys greeted with all the stiffness he could muster. “We are ready.”

Vaegon’s eyes lingered on Aemma a moment longer—her hands folded nervously over her gown, her chin lifted with quiet determination—before he inclined his head curtly and strode to the table. “We shall see.”

Aemma, perhaps sensing the weight of his gaze, broke the silence in High Valyrian: It is nice to meet you, Uncle Vaegon. I look forward to our class in High Valyrian.

Vaegon froze. Her accent was careful, her words clear. Not perfect, but no child’s mimicry.

Viserys smirked faintly from his side of the table.

“You speak the tongue already?” Vaegon asked, voice flat but betraying just the faintest thread of surprise.

Aemma blushed and glanced at her cousin. “Viserys has been teaching me.”

Vaegon’s eyes flicked to the boy. Stern. Narrowed. But he said nothing. Instead, he set his chain upon the table with a sharp clatter and declared:

“Very well. Lady Aemma—you will have a separate class with me. Short. Focused. Your tongue will sharpen, your glyphs will flow. No more soft lessons, no more cousin’s indulgence. You will learn to speak as if you have been speaking Valyrian since you can toddle.”

Aemma nodded, half-frightened, half-proud.

Then Vaegon turned to Viserys, his gaze sharpening like steel.

“And you, boy,” he said, voice flat but merciless. “You are Alyssa’s whelp, and heir to far more than you yet comprehend. I will not waste time. Five hours a day on weekdays, three hours on weekends. Economics, taxation, trade, governance, laws. We will begin at once.”

Viserys shifted uneasily, mouth parting in protest, but Vaegon cut him off with a single raised hand.

“You will thank me in years to come—or curse me. Either way, you will learn.”

Vaegon pulled a thick codex from the table and dropped it before Viserys with a heavy thump. The boy winced at the weight of it.

“This,” Vaegon said, “is the Code of Septon Barth, compiled under the reign of your grandfather. It reconciles the Faith’s teachings with the Crown’s law. You will memorize the pillars, then you will learn to interpret them. The law is not mere parchment—it is weapon, shield, and shackle.”

He opened to the first chapter, his long fingers tracing the script.

“Viserys—tell me: if a merchant ship is wrecked upon the rocks of Driftmark, who owns the cargo? The Crown, that dreadful Lord of Driftmark, or the salvagers who risk their lives upon the surf?”

Viserys blinked, faltering. “The… the lord of Driftmark?” he guessed.

“Wrong,” Vaegon snapped, though not cruelly. “By precedent, salvage belongs first to the Crown, then divided by right of salvage. Driftmark’s lord may claim his portion, but only through the Crown’s grace. Remember this—the king’s justice supersedes all feudal rights.”

Viserys swallowed and nodded, his quill scratching clumsily across his parchment as he tried to keep pace.

Vaegon continued, relentless.

“Next: a sellsword murders a man in Oldtown. The Faith calls for his hanging, but his captain claims the right of trial by combat. Which law prevails?”

Viserys hesitated again, unsure.

“I—I suppose… the Faith?”

Vaegon’s eyes narrowed. “No. Wrong again. The Crown’s law supersedes the Faith’s judgments, though the king must tread carefully when it touches the Seven. Here—write this. Lex regis est suprema. The king’s law is supreme. Learn it. Live it.”

Meanwhile, Aemma, dismissed for the day, lingered quietly at the table, watching with growing admiration. She noticed how Vaegon, though stern, seemed oddly alive when lecturing, as though the sharp edges of his solitude found order in the clarity of law.

Viserys, however, already looked like he was drowning, sweat beading at his temple as Vaegon pressed harder, flipping from taxation clauses to inheritance disputes to tariffs on Dornish wine.

“Five hours a day,” Vaegon reminded him without mercy. “By year’s end, you will either stand taller for it—or collapse beneath it. We shall see which.”

Vaegon did not allow the lesson to remain abstract. He pushed aside the codex and unfurled a scroll of parchment before Viserys, thrusting a quill into his hand.

“You will not sit idle while I speak,” he said. “Ink fixes thought to memory. Write.”

Viserys dipped the quill with clumsy haste, blotching the parchment at once. Vaegon ignored it and dictated sharply:

“Case One: A fisherman of Blackwater Bay is found dead, struck by another man’s oar in a quarrel over catch. Is this manslaughter or murder? Write both arguments, then write the judgment.”

Viserys scribbled furiously, brow furrowed, tongue peeking from the corner of his mouth.

“Case Two: A caravan of Dornish merchants brings fifty casks of wine through the Boneway. By law, one in five casks must be taxed. But the merchants bribe the gatewardens to look away. Who is at fault? The merchants? The gatewardens? Or the Crown for failing its oversight? Draft your reasoning.”

The prince’s hand cramped, but Vaegon’s tone did not soften.

“Quicker, boy. The kingdom does not wait for your quill.”

Then Vaegon pulled another sheet and began scribbling columns of figures in his own neat, austere hand. He pushed it toward Viserys.

“Here. Calculate tariffs. If five ships laden with Myrish silks arrive at King’s Landing, each with cargo worth five thousand gold dragons, what is the tenth owed to the Crown? What if three ships founder in storm and only two arrive? What if smugglers evade port duties? What then is the loss? Do the sums.”

Viserys groaned inwardly, staring at the numbers as if they were a dragon with open jaws. Still, he bent to the task, sweat pricking his forehead.

Vaegon leaned back, arms folded, the faintest glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes. The boy struggled, but he struggled earnestly. There was iron to be found in him, if beaten and forged.

Aemma had lingered at first, fascinated by the sharpness of her uncle’s mind and the gravity he gave to subjects most found dull. But as Vaegon bore down heavier upon Viserys, she quietly excused herself, dipping her head.

“Tomorrow, Uncle,” she said in Valyrian.

He gave a single curt nod, already turning back to Viserys. “Tomorrow.”

Aemma slipped into the cool stone corridors of the Red Keep and wound her way toward the gardens. There, beneath the shade of an elm, she found Gael.

Her aunt—but truly her companion, for they were of an age—sat cross-legged upon the grass, humming softly as she wove flowers into a simple circlet. She looked up at once, smiling wide.

“Aemma! How went it? Did Vaegon breathe fire?”

Aemma laughed, dropping down beside her. “Not fire. Ice, perhaps. He is… stern in his lessons. Poor Viserys—he will be smothered by scrolls before the moon turns.”

Gael’s laugh tinkled like a bell. “That is our brother indeed. Always grave, always certain. Mother told me when Vaegon and my other siblings were little, he scolded Viserra for singing too loudly in the sept. Said it distracted the gods.”

Aemma grinned, reaching to pluck a blossom from Gael’s basket. “Perhaps the gods did not mind. Only Vaegon.”

“Only Vaegon,” Gael agreed, shaking her head fondly. “But tell me more. What did he make you do?”

“He meant to teach me High Valyrian—but when I spoke to him, he dismissed me. Said I would have two hours each day. He reserved five for Viserys.” Her tone carried half amusement, half relief.

“Five?” Gael’s eyes went wide. “Poor boy. He will curse Vaegon before long.”

Aemma leaned closer, conspiratorial. “And yet… I think Viserys wishes to prove himself. Even as his hand cramped, I saw it in his eyes. Perhaps Vaegon will make something of him after all.”

Gael tilted her head, considering. “Or break him. Time will tell.” Then her smile returned, gentle and bright. “For now, stay with me. Lessons can wait until tomorrow.”

And so the two girls—niece and aunt, but friends more than kin—remained in the garden, sunlight flickering through the elm leaves, their laughter a welcome contrast to the stern, relentless voice still echoing in the stone chamber where Viserys bent over his sums.

Chapter Text

The scratch of quill on parchment slowed until it ceased. Viserys stared miserably at the columns of figures before him. He had smudged half the ink across his hand, and the sums tangled in his head like knotted fishing nets.

Vaegon’s shadow fell across him as the older prince leaned over the desk, his pale eyes flicking down the page.

“Wrong,” he said at once, tapping the blotch of ink with his long finger. “You taxed the ships at nine percent instead of ten. Why?”

Viserys swallowed. “I—I thought… if the Crown were lenient, merchants might come more often—”

Vaegon cut him off. “Speculation without foundation. The rate is the rate, decreed by law. One does not alter tariffs on a whim.” His voice was sharp as a lash. “Do it again.”

Viserys forced his cramping hand to grip the quill and scraped down the figures anew, jaw tight with determination.

Minutes stretched, marked only by the drip of wax from the candles. At last, he shoved the parchment forward.

Vaegon scanned it in silence. His expression did not soften, but neither did he strike the work through with his quill. He set it down and looked squarely at his nephew.

“Better,” he allowed. Then, after a pause: “Not good. But better.”

The words startled Viserys more than if his uncle had praised him outright. He blinked, unsure if he should thank him or remain silent.

Vaegon spared him the choice, already sliding another parchment forward.

“Now, write a judgment on the fisherman’s quarrel. Murder or manslaughter? Ten lines. No less. If you cannot fill ten lines, you have not thought deeply enough.”

Viserys groaned under his breath but bent once more to the task. His hand cramped anew, his back ached, but a strange fire kindled beneath his fatigue: the desire to wring even the faintest “better” again from Vaegon’s lips.

For the rest of the afternoon, the library echoed with quill-scratches, Vaegon’s curt corrections, and the boy’s halting arguments forced into order on the page.

When at last Vaegon called a halt, Viserys was slumped with exhaustion, ink-stained and aching, yet a spark of pride glowed within him. He had endured. He had not been found wanting.

Vaegon gathered the parchments with his usual sour face, but before leaving, he spoke a single word that hung in the air like a rare coin.

“Tomorrow.”

And with that, he was gone—leaving Viserys drained but secretly eager to prove himself again.

After their lessons, Vaegon sat alone in his chambers, shutters open to let in the dusk air. The table before him was already stacked high with tomes from Oldtown—volumes on trade law, taxation ledgers, case judgments from the Vale and the Reach. But for once, he was not reading.

Instead, he turned over Viserys’s parchment in his hand, pale brows drawn.

The calculations were crude, ink-stained, hesitant. Yet they were not wholly wrong. The boy had caught the correction and pressed through his fatigue.

“Not bad,” Vaegon muttered, lips twisting in something that might have been a smirk if it weren’t so bitter. “Not bad—for a son of Baelon.”

He leaned back, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Gods help us, I may make a scholar of him yet. Stranger still, I almost pity the lad.”

Then, with his usual brusque decisiveness, he shoved the parchment aside and reached for another book. Brooding would not sharpen Viserys’s wits—but drills, endless drills, might.

Meanwhile, in the Queen’s garden, Aemma sat with Gael beneath the shade of a myrtle tree, the air thick with the scent of summer roses. Aemma’s cheeks were still pale, but her laugh rang clear as Gael plaited blossoms into her hair.

“You look like one of mother’s old statues,” Gael teased, stepping back to admire her work. “If the statue had been attacked by a meadow.”

Aemma swatted her playfully. “Better a meadow than a sour old bookworm. Your brother is stern in his lessons.”

Gael wrinkled her nose. “Which brother? They’re all stern, save Baelon. And sternness is no use if you cannot make it fun.”

“No,” Aemma insisted with a shy smile. “Vaegon. He stares like he can see the wrong answers before you even speak them.”

Gael laughed, collapsing into the grass.

Their giggles broke off at the sound of dragging footsteps. Viserys came into view, shoulders slumped, hair mussed, his doublet ink-stained at the sleeves. He collapsed beside them with a groan, letting his head fall back against the bench.

“I think,” he said faintly, “I have died. If not, I will by tomorrow.”

Aemma covered her mouth to hide her laughter, while Gael clapped her hands in mock delight.

“Oh, he’s survived one day with Vaegon!” Gael declared. “Quick, someone fetch a maester. We must mark the miracle in the ledgers!”

Viserys cracked an eye open to glare at her, but the corners of his lips betrayed a reluctant grin. For all his aching hand and tired mind, he had endured. And from the faintest flicker of approval in Vaegon’s eyes earlier, he knew he would endure again.

The garden air rippled with laughter until a loud, swaggering voice cut through it.

“There you are, skulking among flowers like milkmaids.”

Daemon strode across the path, cheeks flushed, hair damp with sweat. He carried his new sword, the one his father gave him for his nameday, every inch of him radiating pride.

“I’ve just bested two squires at once,” he declared, planting himself before them like a conquering hero. “Both older than me. Both flat on their backs by the end.”

Gael clapped slowly, grinning. “Should we fetch the singers? A song about how Daemon slew the great squires of King’s Landing with a wooden blade?”

Aemma giggled, adding, “The Ballad of Bruises and Bruised Egos.”

Viserys shook his head, suppressing a smile. “Only you would call two battered squires a victory worthy of boasting.”

Daemon scowled at him, though the glint in his eyes betrayed amusement. “You wouldn’t last a heartbeat against me.”

“Nor would I try,” Viserys replied dryly, earning another round of laughter from the girls.

The four of them fell easily into teasing and play, the ease of their youth turning the grand gardens of the Red Keep into little more than a sunlit courtyard for cousins and siblings.

Unseen by them, at the far end of the walk, Vaegon paused. He had been returning from the library, intent on revising the King’s notes on tariffs, when the sound of their laughter had drawn his steps.

He lingered, half-shrouded in the shadows of an arched colonnade. His sharp eyes fixed on the four young figures—Viserys flushed but smiling, Daemon restless and triumphant, Aemma with blossoms in her hair, Gael sprawled in the grass.

For a moment, the present blurred with memory. He saw not nieces and nephews but echoes: Baelon’s proud stance in Daemon’s boyish swagger. Aemon’s steadfast warmth in Viserys’s smile. Alyssa’s spark and Maegelle’s wit in the girls’ laughter. Daella—sweet Daella—hovered most strongly, her ghost lingering in the curve of Aemma’s cheek, the innocence in her laughter. Even Saera and Viserra, reckless and wild, whispered through the memory like shadows.

They had been seven once. Seven bright, quarrelsome, brilliant children beneath these same stones.

And now he stood apart, watching their echoes live on.

Vaegon’s jaw tightened, his fingers curling against the edge of his sleeve. He said nothing. He did not step forward. Instead, with a brisk turn, he vanished back toward the keep, carrying his ghosts with him.

Daemon, still puffed with pride, swung his practice sword in a wide arc—so wide that Aemma squealed and darted behind Viserys for cover.

“You’ll lop my head off before you ever lop a squire’s,” she scolded, peeking around her cousin’s shoulder with a mock frown.

“You wound me, cousin,” Daemon said, smirking. “I’d never mar such a pretty head. Gael’s, perhaps.”

“Try it and you’ll sleep with toads in your boots,” Gael shot back, lunging to snatch the sword. The two scuffled playfully in the grass, Daemon twisting away, Gael chasing him with unladylike determination.

Viserys sighed but his lips twitched. “The training yard is not far, you know. You could wrestle there without frightening Aemma half to death.”

“I wasn’t frightened,” Aemma said, lifting her chin. “Just cautious.” She slipped a hand into Viserys’s, almost absentmindedly, a gesture born of comfort rather than thought. He gave her fingers the faintest squeeze in return.

Gael finally toppled Daemon into the grass with a victorious laugh, sitting on his chest until he yielded. “Say it,” she demanded.

“Fine!” Daemon huffed. “You’re the terror of the Red Keep. Are you happy now?”

“Ecstatic,” Gael said, and let him go.

The four of them collapsed into a loose circle on the warm lawn, breathless with laughter. For a rare moment, the weight of lineage and expectation slipped away. They were simply cousins, simply children.

“I’d still like a song made of my duel,” Daemon muttered, half to himself.

“We’ll compose it together,” Aemma said, eyes bright. “But it’ll be in High Valyrian so no one else will know when we’re mocking you.”

Viserys laughed softly. “That may be the first time I’ve agreed with you, Aemma.”

The sun dipped lower, spilling the gardens in amber. They lingered, speaking of silly things—the way the cooks scolded Daemon for stealing honeycakes, how Gael had once hidden in the rookery tower for half a day just to escape lessons, how Aemma wanted to sneak into the royal library’s locked shelves someday.

It was the kind of idle talk that wove threads between them, invisible but binding.

At last, a servant in Targaryen livery appeared at the edge of the path, bowing low. “My princess, Princess Gael, Lady Aemma—your presence is requested in the hall. Supper has been laid.”

Their laughter stilled, replaced by exchanged glances. Duty tugged them back from their little world.

“Come then,” Viserys said, rising first and brushing the grass from his tunic. He offered his hand to Aemma, who accepted it with a small smile.

Together, the four drifted toward the keep, their mirth trailing behind them like the last echoes of birdsong at dusk.

The supper that evening glowed with warmth, the long table lit by golden candlelight and softened by the laughter of kin. Unlike the great feasts with half the court in attendance, this was an intimate family affair—no heralds, no pageantry, just blood and bond gathered together.

King Jaehaerys presided at the head, with Queen Alysanne at his side, their faces eased in the comfort of their children and grandchildren. Baelon and Alyssa shared their accustomed seats nearby, their easy presence anchoring the mood. Maegelle, serene in her septa’s robes, added a gentle calm; while Vaegon, sharp-eyed and spare beside her, sipped his watered wine with an expression that promised barbs yet to be loosed.

Further down the table, Viserys, Daemon, Aemma, and Gael sat close together, still humming with the afterglow of their games in the garden. Lady Amanda Arryn joined near Aemma, lending quiet courtesy, though her eyes often strayed toward her queenly cousin with admiration.

It was Baelon who first lightened the hall with laughter, recalling some long-forgotten mischief of his youth.

“Do you remember, Alyssa,” he began, eyes bright, “when we tried to sneak one of Dreamfyre’s egg into Maegelle’s bedchamber? Gods, the look on her face when it almost cracked against the floor—”

Maegelle had a mock gasped. “That was you!”

Alyssa covered her mouth, trying and failing to smother a laugh. “And you blamed it on Viserra! Poor girl wept until Mother believed her.”

“Believed her?” Vaegon cut in, voice dry as parchment. “You mean, Mother pretended to believe her because the truth—that her golden son was an utter fool—was too tiresome to bear.”

That earned him a chorus of chuckles and a fond shake of the head from Queen Alysanne. “You grow sharper with every year, Vaegon,” she said, though there was no real sting in her voice.

Baelon grinned, unoffended. “Better sharp than dull. You might cut yourself on that tongue one day, brother.”

“Wouldn’t be the first wound I’ve suffered at your expense,” Vaegon replied, smirking faintly into his cup.

The laughter rolled on, and the hall was warmer for it. But Jaehaerys, keen-eyed as ever, turned the flow of talk toward his grandson.

“Tell me, Vaegon. You spent the day with Viserys, did you not? How fares the boy under your tutelage?”

A hush stole over the younger ones. Viserys, who had been sneaking a grape, froze halfway to his mouth, ears pink. Daemon leaned back, smirk already coiled.

Vaegon considered the question, gaze flicking briefly toward his pupil. “Not bad,” he said at last, his tone smooth as a knife’s edge. “But not the best either.”

The words seemed to hang in the air. For Viserys, they rang like a triumph; his chest swelled, face lit with the pride of having won even that morsel of praise. He beamed, daring to glance toward his grandsire for approval.

Daemon, though, snickered into his cup, the sound sharp enough to cut. “Not the best,” he echoed under his breath, earning a light kick beneath the table from Gael.

Queen Alysanne reached across to squeeze Viserys’s hand. “It is a fine start, my sweet,” she said gently, her smile like a balm. “And no Targaryen ever soared the skies on his first flap of wings.”

The hall warmed again with chuckles, with stories flowing back to childhood days and youthful schemes, the mischief of old reigniting in their retelling. Around them, the supper gleamed as a thing half-ordinary, half-sacred: a family, for all its faults and frictions, still bound by fire and blood.

Elsewhere, in the royal solar, Jaehaerys and Alysanne shared a quieter fire. The king loosened the collar of his doublet, sighing with the weariness of years and rule.

“Vaegon unsettles them,” he confessed. “He unsettles even me. Today at the council he all but terrorized the lords—pecking apart every word, every figure, as if they were boys fresh to their letters. Gods, Alysanne, even Barth shifted in his chair.”

The queen, weaving her silver hair into a braid, gave him a steady look. “And yet he was not wrong.”

“No. He never is.” Jaehaerys rubbed his brow. “But truth without mercy breaks more than it mends.”

“He has little mercy for fools,” Alysanne said gently. “And perhaps less for himself.”

Jaehaerys sighed, gazing into the fire. “I wonder if we did him wrong, sending him to Oldtown. He came back sharper, but also harder. Still, I will not gainsay that he may yet shape Viserys into something more than softness. Gods know the boy will need steel if he is to wear a crown.”

The next morning, after the household had broken their fast, Viserys found himself drawn aside by his father and mother. Baelon, all warmth and ease, clasped a heavy hand on his son’s shoulder while Alyssa’s keen eyes, brighter and softer both, fixed on him like a candle flame.

“Well then, boy,” Baelon said, voice low but teasing, “you’ve survived your first day with the maester-prince. Tell us—did he try to drown you in ink and parchment already?”

Viserys hesitated, shifting under his father’s hand. “We… we went straight into advanced law, tariffs, trade, and economics. He—he wasted no time. None at all.”

Baelon chuckled, though Alyssa’s brow furrowed with a mother’s quick concern. “Straight into the salt mines, then. No easing you in.”

Viserys gave a nervous laugh, then quickly sobered. “He’s strict. He has no room for… for incompetence. If I falter, he sees it at once. He doesn’t let mistakes pass.”

Alyssa exchanged a glance with Baelon, reading what lay beneath her son’s words—the thin edge of both fear and awe.

“Do you admire him?” she asked gently.

Viserys nodded, though uncertainty clouded his expression. “He knows everything, Mother. Every figure, every law. It’s as if nothing escapes him. But…” He swallowed. “He looks at me as though I am always behind, always failing. I want to prove him wrong.”

Baelon laughed again, softer this time, and squeezed his son’s shoulder with pride. “Good. Let that fire push you forward. Better to sweat in his lessons than bleed for lack of them when the crown weighs on you.”

Alyssa reached out, smoothing back a lock of Viserys’s silver hair. “Do not fear him too much, my love. Fear is a poor tutor. Learn what you can, and remember—you are more than his sharp tongue allows.”

Viserys’s lips tugged into a small smile, though his heart beat fast at the thought of the day’s lessons yet to come. Fear and awe tangled in him like threads, binding him tighter to the stern figure of his uncle, Prince Vaegon.

Viserys’s second morning under Prince Vaegon began with the same stern call to order as the day before.

The great library was cool and still, the air heavy with the scent of parchment and ink. Vaegon was already seated when Viserys entered, a ledger of statutes and precedents open before him, quill in hand. His pale, sharp eyes flicked up only once.

“You are late.”

Viserys froze. “The sun has only just risen—”

“Which means you are late,” Vaegon said, his voice flat as slate. He closed the ledger with a soft thump. “A ruler cannot hide behind the measure of the day. Sit. We waste time.”

Viserys sat, heart already racing, but his quill and parchment ready.

“Yesterday we touched on tariffs and tribute,” Vaegon continued, “but law is more than coin. It is the marrow of a realm. Today we begin with conflict resolution. The disputes of lords, the quarrels of peasants, the feuds of kin—all must find their answer in the king’s judgment.”

He slid a slim codex across the table. “Read aloud.”

Viserys obeyed, stumbling only twice on the dense High Valyrian phrasing. The case was a simple one: a farmer accusing his neighbor of stealing a cow.

When he finished, Vaegon asked, “And? Your judgment.”

Viserys chewed his lip. “The farmer… would need proof. Witnesses? A sworn testimony, perhaps. If the cow bore a brand, the mark would settle it.”

Vaegon leaned back, expression unreadable. “Adequate. But what if both men brought false witnesses? What if both claimed the same brand?”

Viserys faltered. “Then… then I do not know.”

“Then you think harder.” Vaegon tapped the table once with his finger. “In disputes, truth is a shadow. What matters is precedent and order. The law cannot chase every lie, but it must be clear. Else chaos takes root. Write it down: A false judgment breeds ten more quarrels; a firm one quells them all.”

Viserys scribbled furiously, his quill scratching.

The morning stretched on. Vaegon piled case after case before him: a lord refusing levy, a knight striking a merchant, a septon accusing a reeve of heresy. Each time Viserys gave his ruling, Vaegon countered with sharper complexities, forcing him to think, forcing him to falter, and then to try again.

At last, near midday, Vaegon set down his quill. “You have struggled. That is good. Struggle sharpens. Yet you still rush. The law rewards no man for haste.”

Viserys looked down at his ink-stained hands, weary but oddly proud.

Vaegon regarded him in silence, his mouth set in its usual sour line. But there was the faintest softening, a flicker like the ghost of approval. “Not bad,” he said at last, “for Baelon’s son.”

The words, backhanded as they were, sent a flush of warmth through Viserys. He bowed his head. “Thank you, uncle.”

After the heavy morning session with Viserys, Vaegon dismissed his nephew to the gardens with a curt wave of the hand. “Go. Clear your head before midday meal. And do not forget to review your notes, boy—I will know if you have.”

When the library had quieted, he shut away the ledgers of law and coin and exchanged them for slimmer volumes bound in pale leather—grammars and lexicons of High Valyrian, their margins lined with his own meticulous annotations.

A knock sounded on the doorframe.

Aemma Arryn stood there, a little hesitant, her hands clasped before her gown. “You wished to see me, uncle?”

Vaegon’s eyes flicked up. For an instant, he faltered. The pale hair, the shy tilt of her smile—it was Daella’s ghost looking back at him. Memory pricked like a thorn: the cruel words he had once spat in the sept, when their father suggested a betrothal. Producing dumb babes is all Daella is good for. He had been a boy, sharp-tongued and unkind, and she had run off weeping. He had not seen her again without a hollow shame in his chest.

His mouth thinned. “Come. Sit.”

Aemma obeyed, smoothing her skirts, her eyes wide at the sheer weight of tomes surrounding them.

“We will begin simply,” Vaegon said, his tone clipped, but not unkind. “High Valyrian is the speech of dragons, of law, of lore. You have had some lessons, I presume?”

“A little,” Aemma admitted, cheeks coloring. “Viserys has been teaching me the basics and the glyphs.”

“Mm.” Vaegon set down a parchment. “Your cousin's teachings are serviceable, but it will not carry you far. Repeat after me.”

He recited a line from The Doctrine of Balerion, the syllables flowing sharp and precise. Aemma echoed them, halting at first, but steadier on the second try.

“Better,” Vaegon said. He did not smile, but the edge of his voice softened. “Again.”

They went on like that for an hour—verbs and declensions, the names of rivers and mountains, phrases from the histories. When Aemma stumbled, he corrected her briskly, but without mockery. When she succeeded, he gave a curt nod, as if acknowledging more than he wished to admit.

At one point, Aemma paused, her eyes shining with a trace of mischief. She strung together a clumsy sentence of her own: Ñuha hāedar issa jēdar ēdruta—“My uncle is very stern.”

For the first time, Vaegon’s sour mouth twitched, almost a smile. “Your grammar is poor. But the sentiment is clear enough.”

The moment hung between them, warmer than either expected.

By the end of the two hours, Aemma’s hand ached from writing, but her eyes were bright. She bowed her head slightly. “Thank you, uncle. I did not think I would enjoy the lessons so much.”

Vaegon closed the grammar with a soft snap. “You will work harder tomorrow. High Valyrian is not a pastime, but a discipline. Still…” He hesitated, just for a breath. “…your mother would have been pleased.”

Aemma’s smile softened, touched with pride she did not quite understand.

Vaegon turned away quickly, stacking his books in neat, severe piles, unwilling to linger in sentiment. “Two hours each day. Do not waste them. Now go. Rest.”

And as she left, her footsteps light down the hall, Vaegon allowed himself a single exhale—guilt and something gentler threading together in his chest.

When the door clicked shut behind Aemma, the silence of the library closed in again. Vaegon lingered by the desk, fingers resting on the spine of the grammar. He stared at the parchment covered in her careful, uneven hand—declensions lined in neat rows, letters smudged where her quill had trembled.

For a long moment he did not move.

Daella’s face swam in his mind—the way she used to bite her lip when struggling with her prayers, the tears welling in her eyes when he had mocked her before the court. That shame, so long buried beneath study and distance, flared anew now. And yet, Aemma’s eagerness, her willingness to try, had tugged something looser in him.

“She has her mother’s eyes,” he murmured, his voice dry, almost bitter. “And her courage.” He gave a short, humorless laugh. “Fourteen save me, I was crueler than I had any right to be.”

He gathered the papers into an orderly stack, but his thoughts were scattered. It was only when the library’s air grew stifling that he strode out into the gardens, seeking cooler air.

The gravel path crunched beneath his boots, and there he found his sister, Maegelle, pacing slowly with a book in her hands. She looked up at his approach, her face warming with quiet recognition.

“Vaegon,” she said, inclining her head. “It gladdens me to see you out of doors. I feared the Citadel had turned you into a shade who only haunts cloisters.”

“I prefer books to chatter,” he replied curtly, though without venom. “But the air in the Gardens is tolerable enough.”

Maegelle tucked the book into her sleeve. “You’ve been with Aemma today. How fares she under your instruction?”

Vaegon’s mouth pressed thin. He was not one for confessions, yet Maegelle’s presence—serene, steady, with Daella’s gentleness in her eyes—pried words loose despite himself.

“She is… better than I expected. Not simply willing, but hungry for it. Quick to laugh, though she hides it behind formality. She reminds me—” He stopped, jaw tightening.

“Of Daella,” Maegelle finished softly.

Vaegon gave the smallest nod. His eyes dropped to the gravel. “When Father suggested a match between us, I said…” His voice caught, then hardened with self-reproach. “I said she would give me nothing but dull, useless babes. I cannot forget the look on her face. She fled from me as if I had struck her.”

Maegelle’s expression did not waver. “Daella forgave more than most. She wept, yes, but she prayed for you after. She never wished you ill.”

That, somehow, cut deeper than condemnation.

Vaegon exhaled sharply, as if the memory itself weighed him down. “Aemma is not her mother, and yet… she carries her in every gesture. I find myself wanting—foolishly—to undo what cannot be undone.”

Maegelle touched his arm lightly, the only sister he allowed such a gesture from. “Then perhaps you can, in part. Teach her. Guide her. Do for Aemma what you once denied Daella. That may be your penance—or your gift.”

His gaze flicked to her hand, then back to her calm eyes. “You speak as though all wounds may be mended.”

“No,” Maegelle said with a small, sad smile. “But some may be softened.”

The siblings walked on in silence for a time, the summer air rustling the hedges around them. Servants were setting out a tray of figs and bread in a shaded gazebo, and Alyssanne’s laughter floated faintly from the other side of the gardens.

At last, Vaegon muttered, “She deserves better than my sternness.”

“And yet,” Maegelle replied, “your sternness may be the very thing that sharpens her. Daella had sweetness enough for both of them. Perhaps you will teach Aemma steel.”

Vaegon did not answer, but his lips twitched—somewhere between a frown and the ghost of a smile—as they strolled beneath the whispering leaves.

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was a cavernous vault of stone and shadow, the torches along its walls guttering in the drafts that swept through the high doors. The Iron Throne loomed atop its dais, black steel twisted into cruel spikes, the very image of power made peril. Upon it sat King Jaehaerys I Targaryen, the Conciliator, his long white beard gleaming in the torchlight. His face was grave but not unkind, his pale violet eyes keen and watchful as they swept across the gathered supplicants.

At the foot of the throne stood Septon Barth, hand of the king, his quill scratching swiftly across parchment as he recorded the petitions and decrees of the day. On the lower dais to Jaehaerys’ right was Crown Prince Baelon, clad in the silvered breastplate of the heir, his expression attentive, his shoulders squared. It was not his first time observing the burden of rule, but each time the king turned to him for judgment, he felt the weight of the realm pressing heavier upon him.

“Let the first petitioner speak,” Jaehaerys commanded.

A woman was brought forward, bent from age, her face sun-leathered, her hands raw from toil. She bowed low, trembling.

“My liege,” she said, voice quavering, “I am Alayne of Sow’s Horn. My husband tilled the fields of Lord Darklyn, but he is dead these two winters past. My son is but ten, and Lord Darklyn’s reeve demands the same dues as when my husband yet lived. If I pay, we starve. If I do not, they will cast us from our cottage.”

The words stirred a murmur among the gathered court. Jaehaerys’ expression did not shift. He regarded her in silence, then turned his gaze to Baelon.

“And what say you, son of mine? What is just here?”

Baelon hesitated, but only for a breath. “If the reeve’s word is law, the widow is ruined, and with her, the child. Yet if the law is ignored, the lord’s right is diminished. I would have Lord Darklyn forgive half the dues for the widow’s household until the boy comes of age. Thus, she keeps her home and her dignity, and the lord’s right is upheld in part.”

Septon Barth dipped his quill, waiting.

Jaehaerys’ pale eyes lingered on Baelon. “Mercy, balanced against duty. Well said. So shall it be. Lord Darklyn shall have his dues halved, and the Crown shall make good the difference from the royal purse this year. Henceforth, widows with children under age shall not be driven from their holdings for want of a man’s arm.”

The woman sobbed as she withdrew, blessing the king’s name.

Next came a knight of middling birth, armored but unpolished, the sigil of House Staunton stitched to his surcoat. He knelt before the throne.

“Your Grace,” he said, voice firm, “my neighbor, Ser Tommen of House Farring, grazes his herds upon lands that were granted to my father by royal charter. I have set my men to drive them off, but blood was near spilled. I ask Your Grace to uphold the charter, and to command Ser Tommen cease his encroachment.”

Jaehaerys sat forward, the metal of the throne creaking faintly beneath him. “And what say you, Baelon?”

Baelon frowned, the matter thornier than the first. “Land disputes fester into feuds if left unresolved. If Ser Staunton holds royal charter, then law is clear—but proof must be seen. I would command the charters be produced and examined. If the Stauntons speak true, Ser Tommen must be censured and repay damages. If not, the Stauntons are forsworn and must yield their claim.”

Septon Barth murmured, “Prudent.”

The king inclined his head. “You choose the middle path, seeking proof where others might leap to judgment. That is well.” He lifted a hand, his voice ringing across the hall. “Let the charters be brought before me within the fortnight. Should Ser Tommen be found false, he shall pay threefold damages to the Stauntons, and the Crown shall confirm the bounds of the land by surveyor’s hand. Should the Stauntons be found false, their claim is void, and they shall pay for every head of cattle driven off.”

The knight bowed low, face taut with both relief and unease.

As the day wore on, others came:

A group of fishermen from Blackwater Bay, protesting new tariffs that cut deep into their livelihood.

A minor lord from Rosby, begging redress for levies that stripped his lands of men during harvest.

A septon from Maidenpool, pleading that brigands harried the roads and despoiled pious travelers.

Each was heard. Each weighed. And at times, the king’s pale eyes turned to his son, bidding him render judgment.

When the fishermen spoke, Baelon said, “If tariffs strangle trade, men will smuggle and cheat, and the Crown loses more than it gains. Lower them enough that men pay willingly, and the Crown’s coffers will swell in truth.”

When the lord of Rosby knelt, Baelon counseled, “Men taken in levy must not be taken at harvest. To rob the fields is to rob the realm. Let levies be drawn after harvest’s end, unless war is dire and immediate.”

When the septon cried of brigands, Baelon’s answer was swift: “Send riders from the Gold Cloaks. Make gallows along the roads. Men will not prey upon travelers if they see their fellows hanging.”

To each, Jaehaerys listened, sometimes nodding, sometimes narrowing his gaze. To each, he gave the decree—sometimes as Baelon counseled, sometimes with his own amendment.

At last, as the final petitioner withdrew, the king sat back upon the cruel throne, his hands resting on its armrests of jagged steel. The hall was quieter now, the echoes of voices fading into stone.

Jaehaerys turned to his son, voice lowered. “You spoke well today, Baelon. You saw not only the law, but the lives it governs. Remember this: a king rules not parchment, nor coin, nor field, but men and women, in all their needs and frailties. To keep peace is to bind them, not with chains, but with trust.”

Baelon bowed his head, solemn. “I will remember, Father.”

Septon Barth’s quill scratched the last of the record, and the court was dismissed. Yet the weight of judgment lingered, as heavy as the Iron Throne itself.

Chapter Text

The morning sun spilled across the Red Keep’s eastern wing, catching the pale stone of the half-built structure that would, in time, house something unprecedented in the realm of Westeros: a school for women of humble birth.

Princess Alyssa Targaryen stood at the scaffolding’s edge with her ladies gathered about her—Lady Amanda Arryn, keen-eyed and inquisitive; Lady Lyra Mormont, broad-shouldered and blunt of tongue; Lady Barbrey Dustin, sharp-witted and ever watchful; and young Lady Sabitha Vypren, whose restless gaze roved from mason to carpenter to the princess herself. Behind them followed Septa Maegelle and Septa Rhaelle, their grey habits stark against the pale dust of construction. With them is Lord Corlys who came to see the construction and who have a personal stake at the school. 

“Half done,” Alyssa murmured, resting her hand on the stone sill of what would soon be the hall of lessons. “Faster than I dared hope. Yet the walls alone will not make this a place of learning.”

Septa Rhaelle inclined her head, ever practical. “No, Cousin. Stone and timber are but the bones. We must give it a heart.”

“And hands,” Alyssa added. “Without them it cannot live.”

Already she had secured the Crown’s blessing and her father’s coin. Now came the harder task: finding those who would serve within these walls. Cooks to feed the girls, guards to keep them safe, and—most crucial of all—teachers, Specialists and scribes who might impart letters, numbers, and trades.

Lord Corlys, eyes bright, pointed toward the row of smaller chambers jutting from the hall. “And these, Princess? What purpose will they serve?”

“Dormitories,” Alyssa answered as they walked. “Each girl shall have a bed of her own, with room enough for thirty to begin. Should the school thrive, we will expand.”

Sabitha wrinkled her nose. “Thirty lowborn girls under one roof? It will be a riot.”

Lyra Mormont barked a short laugh. “Then we’ll need guards stout enough to keep order. A Mormont woman could manage them better than any gold cloak.”

Alyssa smiled faintly, unoffended by the banter. “And so we shall have guards, chosen for steadiness as much as strength. But this is no gaol, my ladies. It is meant to be a place of promise.”

It was Maegelle who answered the deeper question, her voice soft yet certain. “Letters enough to read scripture, numbers enough to keep a household’s accounts, and the rudiments of healing. Every household, high or low, profits from a woman who can tend wounds, ease birthing, or measure herbs with care.”

“Septa Maegelle will take charge of the healing,” Alyssa explained, pausing where light filtered through unfinished beams. “And Septa Rhaelle will oversee the letters and numbers. They shall shape the course of each day.”

Rhaelle folded her hands into her sleeves. “A structured routine will serve them best. Lessons in reading and writing. After, ciphering. Afternoons for the specialized classes, simple accounts, healing, Midwifery, Sword-work and instruction in needlework or kitchen craft. They must leave here able to make themselves useful—and independent.”

Barbrey Dustin, quiet until then, tilted her head. “Independence breeds ambition. And ambition in women is rarely welcomed.”

Alyssa’s gaze held hers steadily. “That may be so. Yet if we never plant the seed, no tree will grow. Better a few thorns than barren soil.”

Her words drew silence, until Amanda spoke again, softer: “It will change much. For them. For us all.”

“That is the hope,” Alyssa said.

Already names of candidates were being drawn up: 2 Mormont guards from bear Island, a pair of cooks’ daughters from Flea Bottom eager to raise their station, an aging scribe with shaking hands who longed to pass on his knowledge, A scribe from the Vale, a sworn sword once of the City Watch now seeking steadier employ.

The princess turned to the septas. “It will fall to you both, day by day, to guide this place. The girls will look to you as they would to mothers. Can I trust in you?”

Septa Maegelle laid her hand over Alyssa’s. “You can.”

“And I,” Septa Rhaelle echoed, voice firm.

For a long while, Alyssa stood silent, gazing over the rising beams. Around them the Red Keep bustled with laborers, sawdust drifting like motes in the air. Yet she felt the weight of what they were building—a future shaped not by swords or dragons, but by knowledge.

“Then let us see it finished,” she said at last. “For we have much to do, and little time.”

The great chamber chosen for the interviews was a modest hall in the Red Keep, its walls bare of the usual silks and banners. Alyssa wanted it plain, free of intimidation. A simple table had been set at the center, parchment and quills spread before her, while her ladies sat to either side like a small council of their own.

Septa Maegelle and Septa Rhaelle sat slightly apart, scrolls stacked between them, quills scratching as they bent their heads to the first draft of the school’s curriculum.

The first to enter was a cook named Morya, a plump woman with red cheeks and calloused hands. She curtsied awkwardly before the princess.

“Your Grace,” she said, voice rough from years at the hearth. “I’ve fed thirty mouths with little more than broth and barley. Girls’ll not go hungry under me.”

Lady Lyra Mormont leaned forward, arms folded. “And if they bicker and waste food?”

Morya sniffed. “Then I’ll make them eat what they waste. Hunger is the best lesson.”

Sabitha Vypren stifled a laugh, whispering to Barbrey Dustin, “She’d frighten them into saints.”

But Alyssa smiled. “Frugality is no vice. You may do.”

The second was a man of perhaps fifty, thin and stooped, with ink stains on every finger. A scribe by the name of Tommin, once employed in the counting-house of a minor Crownlands lord. His voice quavered as he spoke.

“My hands shake, Your Grace. But I can teach them letters and sums enough to tally bread or read a prayer. It is all I ask—to pass on what I know before my eyes fail me altogether.”

Barbrey regarded him coolly. “And what wage would you demand?”

“Little enough, my lady. A bed, a crust, ink and parchment.”

Amanda Arryn’s expression softened. “A heart for teaching matters more than hands steady with a quill.”

Alyssa nodded, noting his name with care.

Next came the guards. A pair of men stood before them: one a broad-shouldered sellsword with a scar down his cheek, the other a former gold cloak whose armor still bore the faint sunburst sigil.

The sellsword, brash and bold, boasted of killing five men in a single skirmish. Lyra Mormont snorted aloud. “This is no sellsword’s company. Can you keep order without blood?”

He faltered, uncertain, and Alyssa dismissed him.

The gold cloak, steadier, bowed deeply. “I have three daughters of my own, Princess. I know well the dangers of a city for young women. My sword is theirs, if you’ll have it.”

That won approving murmurs. Alyssa inclined her head. “You will be considered, and perhaps your daughters may find their place in the school we're building”

While candidates shuffled in and out, Maegelle and Rhaelle worked steadily, their voices a quiet counterpoint. At last they beckoned Alyssa over.

“We have sketched the bones,” Rhaelle said, offering a parchment.

The draft was simple, yet ambitious:

• Mornings: Morning prayers and letters 

• Late Morning: Numbers and simple accounts.

• Afternoons: Specialized elective lessons — Maegelle’s healing (herbs, birthing, poultices), needlework, kitchen craft, and household management, Sword Training (Will be taken by Women who can read, write and have working knowledge of Simple Accounting)

• Evenings: Tests, Reflection and practice in reading aloud.

“It will give them discipline,” Maegelle said gently, “and a foundation to stand upon.”

Sabitha raised a brow. “Will they not grow restless? Girls of low birth are not trained for such rigor.”

Rhaelle answered without flinching. “All the more reason to give it them. Better to labor with quill and mortar than with ignorance.”

Alyssa touched the parchment, running her fingers over the fresh ink. “It is more than I dreamed. This will be their lantern in the dark.”

Her ladies exchanged glances, some doubtful, some quietly moved.

Amanda Arryn broke the silence. “This place will make enemies, my princess. Men do not smile on women who teach women.”

Alyssa’s violet eyes lifted, steady as stone. “Let them frown. I was not born to make men comfortable. I was born to make things grow.”

Outside the window, the sound of hammers and chisels carried up from the courtyard. The school’s skeleton rose beam by beam, and in the echo of tools and parchment alike, something larger took shape: a promise, fragile but real.

That evening, when the Red Keep’s great hall had emptied of petitioners and the Iron Throne stood in shadow, Alyssa was summoned to her father’s solar. The chamber was lit by lanterns, the king seated at his table with scrolls before him, Alysanne at his side with embroidery in her lap.

Jaehaerys looked up as Alyssa entered, the lines of age deep about his eyes, but his gaze clear.

“Well, daughter,” he said. “Can you appraise us of the updates so far in the school you are building in my City?.”

Alyssa curtsied, the words tumbling out before she could catch them. “So far, half of the construction is gone, Maegelle and Rhaelle has the foundations of the curriculum, my ladies and I are at the planning stage and courting some lords and ladies who might —”

“—cost a fair bit of gold,” Jaehaerys cut in, though not unkindly. “And stir talk among lords who see no profit in teaching girls their sums.”

Alyssa’s lips parted, her breath catching. But before she could defend herself, Alysanne looked up from her needlework, her tone even.

“Talk there will always be,” the queen said. “But a girl who can read a tally sheet will not be cheated by the baker, nor left helpless when her husband is at war. I should think the realm stronger for it.”

Jaehaerys’s eyes softened on his wife before returning to Alyssa. “I do not forbid it. No—on the contrary, I find it has merit. But a school is like a ship: it needs a steady captain and rules to keep it from drifting.” He reached for a quill, tapping it against a parchment. “Have you given thought to how these girls will be chosen? Who will see that they do not run wild?”

“Yes, Father,” Alyssa said quickly. “We will admit those most in need—the daughters of craftsmen, smallfolk, widows. They will be housed within the school walls. Septa Maegelle and Septa Rhaelle will oversee their daily lessons. I am vetting cooks, scribes, guards. It will be ordered, as any household must be.”

“Good.” Jaehaerys nodded once, approving. “But do not take more than you can manage. Start small. Better to teach a few well than fail a hundred.”

Alyssa hesitated, then bowed her head. “As you say.”

Alysanne’s hand brushed her daughter’s sleeve as she passed with the embroidery frame. “Your father speaks from care, not doubt. He would see your work endure.”

Alyssa met her mother’s gaze, finding warmth there, a steadying anchor.

Jaehaerys leaned back in his chair, folding his hands. “You already had my master of coin's support yes? I will extend it so that the crown provides coin from the royal treasury for the first 2 years. After that, you must show me that the school can stand with less aid. Prove its worth.”

The words struck Alyssa like a challenge, but also as a gift. Her lips curved, slow but certain. “I will, Father.”

The king allowed himself the faintest smile. “Then build your lantern, daughter. But mind the oil—else it gutter out.”

When she left them, Alyssa’s steps were lighter. She had her father’s approval, her mother’s quiet support, and a vision still burning in her chest. The school was half-stone and half-dream, but it was hers.

And now, it was real.

A week later, the clamor of hammers and saws rang across the lower slope of Rhaenys’s Hill, where the skeleton of the school for women rose stone by stone. Alyssa stood in her riding cloak, her ladies behind her, when her brothers and sister arrived to see what she had made of her dream.

Baelon dismounted first, a grin spreading across his face as he took in the half-finished walls, the rows of dormitory chambers already framed in timber. “Fourteen save me, Alyssa,” he said, clapping her shoulder, “you’ve raised more here than half the lords of the Crownlands have in their keeps. All for your school.” His pride was plain, his voice swelling with it. “My wife, the builder.”

Alyssa rolled her eyes, though her lips quirked. “It is not castles and dragons, Baelon. Only stone and mortar—and purpose.”

“Purpose is stronger than dragons,” he said simply, and she loved him all the more for it.

Vaegon came last, sour-faced as ever, his maester’s chain glinting in the autumn sun. He stood with his hands tucked in his sleeves, gaze sweeping the construction. “Walls too thin. You’ll want them thicker to keep the damp out when the rains come. Unless you mean for your pupils to learn their sums with quills half-rotted.”

Alyssa sighed, but before she could answer, he went on. “And that courtyard—make it larger. You’ll need space when fifty girls decide all at once they despise their lessons and would rather run about like wild hens. Best to confine the chaos where you can see it.”

His voice was dry as dust, but his eyes lingered longer than usual on the foundations, thoughtful rather than dismissive.

“You approve, then?” Alyssa asked carefully.

Vaegon sniffed. “I approve that you are not entirely foolish. Which is rarer than you think.”

Baelon chuckled at that, slinging an arm around Alyssa’s shoulders. “High praise, sister. Do not let it go to your head.”

Meanwhile, Gael skipped ahead, her pale hair gleaming in the sun, peering into unfinished doorways and poking her head into a bare chamber that would one day house rows of beds. “Is this where they’ll sleep?” she asked, her voice lilting with curiosity.

“Yes,” Alyssa said, softening at the sight. “Here, they’ll have a roof, a meal, and a chance to learn.”

Gael spun about, skirts flaring, her laughter ringing like bells. “I should like to stay here too. To learn letters and numbers from Maegelle and Rhaelle. And to keep secrets with the girls.”

“Fourteen help us. She treats it as if she treats it as if she is sleeping over with a friend,” Vaegon muttered, though his lips twitched almost—almost—into a smile.

Baelon laughed outright, lifting Gael briefly into the air before setting her down again. “If Alyssa keeps building, little one, perhaps you shall.”

As they walked the site together, Alyssa listened to her brothers’ banter, to Gael’s eager questions, and felt a warmth spread within her. The walls were only half-built, the rooms bare, yet already the place felt alive. A seed of change, planted in stone.

And for the first time, she allowed herself to believe it might grow.

That evening the five siblings gathered in the solar’s private dining chamber, a fire crackling low in the hearth. A modest table was laid with roasted fowl, honeyed carrots, and warm bread—no feast, only a family meal.

Baelon was the first to raise his cup. “To Alyssa,” he declared, his voice booming as though he were in a hall of a hundred knights instead of among his kin. “Builder of walls, dreamer of schools, the pride of House Targaryen.”

Alyssa flushed and waved him down. “Stop before you embarrass me further.”

“I would,” Baelon said with a grin, “but I am sworn to tell truths, and the truth is that you’ve done more with your stones and mortar than most lords do with their whole lives.”

Across the table, Vaegon gave a sharp snort. “Yes. And with those stones and mortar she has constructed walls thin enough to let the damp breed mold in every corner.”

Alyssa’s jaw tightened, her retort swift. “And what would you know of damp, brother? You’ve hardly set foot outside a library long enough to see a cloud.”

The corners of Baelon’s mouth twitched as he tried to smother a laugh.

“Still,” Vaegon went on, lifting his goblet with a thin smile, “you’ve contrived to found a refuge for wayward hens. I suppose the Realm should thank you. It may keep them from laying their eggs underfoot.”

“Chickens again,” Alyssa muttered. “Do you think of nothing else?”

“Rarely of chickens,” he said, deadpan. “Always of fools.”

Before Alyssa could snap back, Maegelle’s calm voice cut through, as even as a prayer. “The walls will be thickened. The plans have been adjusted already. And Rhaelle has near finished drafting the first of the lessons—letters and numbers for the youngest, and herbs and simples for the elder girls.”

Alyssa exhaled in relief at her sister’s intervention. “Yes. Thank you, Maegelle.”

Baelon raised his brows. “So you see, Vaegon? Not only walls, but a plan for what happens within them.”

“Mm.” Vaegon took a sip of wine. “At least one of my sisters has a head on her shoulders.”

Alyssa threw him a glare, but before she could rise again, Gael leaned forward, eyes shining. “There’s a courtyard, Vaegon. And great windows! And a hall where all the girls will sit and eat together. I saw it. One day, when it is finished, I should like to learn there too.”

Vaegon looked at her, his mouth pressing into a line. For once, no sharp remark came. Only: “You need no school, little sparrow. You’ve more letters than most already.”

Gael beamed, unbothered by his tone. “Then I’ll help them, when it is built.”

Baelon laughed, ruffling her hair. “Fourteen save us, Alyssa—your youngest recruit is already sworn.”

Alyssa smiled faintly, the sting of Vaegon’s barbs softened by Gael’s bubbling joy and Maegelle’s quiet steadiness. For all the bickering, for all the sharp words, there was something precious in this: the four of them gathered around a table, arguing, laughing, dreaming.

It had been too long since such warmth had lived among them.

When the meal was done and Baelon had gone off to find Daemon, Gael excitedly skipping beside him, and Maegelle lingering only long enough to clear the last of the questions about herbs and tutors, Alyssa found herself alone with Vaegon.

He lingered by the hearth, nursing what remained of his wine, the firelight sharpening the angles of his thin face. Alyssa came to stand opposite him, folding her arms.

“You’re cruel, Vaegon.”

He glanced at her sidelong. “Cruel? I told you the walls were too thin. Would you rather I lie?”

“You mock, you prod, you cut down every word I say,” she pressed. “But you don’t mean half of it. You care more than you admit.”

Vaegon tilted his head, considering her as though she were some puzzle in one of his tomes. “Perhaps.”

“Then why hide it behind all that venom?” Alyssa’s voice softened. “I’ve seen the way you looked at the plans. The way you held your tongue when Gael spoke. You want this school to stand as much as I do.”

He swirled his wine, watching the dark liquid lap against the cup. “Wanting something and saying it aloud are not the same.”

“Why not?” she pressed. “Why make me fight for every scrap of approval you grant?”

At that, his mouth quirked. Not quite a smile, more a knowing smirk. “Because it amuses me to see you claw at it.”

Alyssa rolled her eyes. “Fourteen save me from your humor.”

He let the silence hang a beat longer, then said, almost idly, “Do you know who you remind me of when you ask me that?”

Her brow furrowed. “Who?”

“Viserys.”

Alyssa blinked. “My son?”

“No, the butcher's boy. Of course, your son!” Vaegon said jesting, at last turning to meet her gaze fully. “Every lesson I give him—trade, tariffs, law, economics—he watches me like a hawk, waiting for some morsel of praise, desperate for it. As though my word alone could confirm his worth.”

Something stung in Alyssa’s chest at the comparison.

Vaegon drained his cup, setting it down with a soft clink. “Oh well. Like mother, like son.”

Her hand twitched toward the goblet on the table, half-tempted to hurl it at his smirking face. Only half. She caught herself, lips curling instead into a dangerous smile.

“One day,” she said lightly, “I may just do it again.”

“And one day,” he murmured, stepping past her toward the door, “I might deserve it.”

Then he was gone, leaving Alyssa half-annoyed, half-amused, and wholly certain he cared far more than his barbs would ever admit.

The solar was cool, the shutters drawn against the late summer heat. Books and parchments lay strewn across the table where Vaegon sat, quill in hand, scratching neat lines onto a ledger. Viserys sat opposite him, shoulders tense, sweat beading at his brow as he bent over his own page.

“Again,” Vaegon said without looking up.

Viserys sighed, reciting from memory. “A levy on imported grain depresses prices within the Crownlands but risks angering the Reach, whose bread feeds the capital.”

“And?”

“And… it could drive merchants toward smuggling to avoid tariffs, which would reduce revenue to the Crown.”

Vaegon finally lifted his eyes, sharp as a knife. “Could? Would. A merchant avoids loss as a man avoids the pox—at any cost. Write it properly this time.”

Viserys dipped his quill, scratching furiously, lips pursed. After a long pause he dared, “Is that better?” and slid the page forward.

Vaegon read in silence. Then he gave a short, humorless snort. “Better. Still clumsy. Words should cut like a blade, not stumble like a drunk.”

Viserys flushed but straightened in his chair. “I’ll do it again.”

“You will,” Vaegon agreed, dry as parchment.

For a long while, only scratching quills and the occasional cough broke the air. Viserys’s hand cramped, but he pushed through, glancing up now and then at his uncle, hungry for the faintest nod of approval. None came.

At last, Vaegon set his quill down, steepling his fingers. His gaze fell on Viserys with that same piercing look Alyssa had known well. “Do you think I enjoy watching you flounder, boy?”

Viserys faltered. “…No?”

“I do not. I’d rather you spare me the headache. Yet you come back every morning, eager to prove yourself.”

Viserys nodded, swallowing. “Because I must learn.”

Vaegon leaned back, his mouth curling in that same half-sneer, half-smirk Alyssa had endured. “You remind me of your mother. Always clawing for approval, scraping at every word I give, like a pup begging for scraps.”

Viserys flushed deeper, part shame, part stubborn pride. “And… is that so bad?”

Vaegon regarded him a moment longer, then gave a quiet grunt. “Persistence isn’t a flaw. But know this—” He leaned forward, voice low. “My praise is not coin to be tossed lightly. Earn it, and it means something. Beg for it, and it means nothing.”

Viserys bit his lip but nodded.

Then, after a long pause, Vaegon added with a dry twist of his mouth: “Oh well. Like mother, like son.”

Viserys blinked. “What?”

“Nothing. Back to your sums,” Vaegon said, waving him off as though bored. But the faintest glimmer of approval flickered in his eyes, sharp and fleeting as a falling star—enough to keep Viserys at the table, quill in hand, determined to wring another fragment of it from him.

The corridors of the Red Keep were never silent; the place breathed with the steps of servants, the clatter of distant kitchens, the rustle of skirts in passage. Alyssa Targaryen, princess of the realm and mother of two, moved through them with the ease of someone long accustomed. She had meant only to find her son and bring him to the gardens before midday meal, where Aemma and Gael were waiting.

But as she neared the solar where Vaegon kept his books and his lessons, she slowed. Voices carried through the slightly ajar door—one sharp as steel, the other young and earnest.

“You’ve written tax exemption where you should have written tariff deferral,” Vaegon’s voice bit out. “Do you know the difference, or are you merely guessing again?”

A pause, then Viserys’s flustered voice: “The difference is… exemption means the Crown forgoes revenue, while deferral means it collects later. I… I thought they might serve the same purpose.”

“They do not,” came Vaegon’s crisp reply. “One bleeds the treasury, the other merely delays its pulse. Try again.”

Alyssa stifled a groan, her forehead nearly pressing to the cold stone of the wall. Gods, she knew that tone. That merciless dissection, the way Vaegon wielded words as if every misstep were a mortal sin—it was her childhood all over again. For a moment she was twelve again, standing small before her sour-faced younger brother as he dismissed her poetry, her essays, her clumsy attempts at numbers.

Inside, she heard Viserys’s quill scratch, then his timid offering: “Would this phrasing be correct, Uncle?”

A silence. Then Vaegon’s dry voice, dripping with disdain and reluctant acknowledgment both: “Better. Still clumsy. Your words stumble like a mule in mud.”

Alyssa nearly barked out a laugh before clapping her hand over her mouth. Seven save her son—Viserys was enduring the same storm she had. She could picture him there, cheeks pink, eyes bright, hungry for any scrap of approval. And Vaegon, miserly as ever, doling out half-praise like a lord tossing stale bread to the poor.

Then came the line, sharp and cutting as ever:

“You remind me of your mother,” Vaegon said. “Always clawing for approval, scraping at every word, like a pup begging for scraps.”

Alyssa’s eyes flew wide. Seven bloody hells.

She pressed herself back against the wall, half-tempted to burst in and throttle him with her own hands. The nerve of that man—to insult her to her own son’s face, as if she weren’t still alive and breathing in these very halls!

Inside, Viserys hesitated, his voice small but steady: “And… is that so bad?”

A pause. Alyssa held her breath.

Then Vaegon, low and dry, with the faintest curl of his lips: “Persistence isn’t a flaw. But know this—my praise is not coin to be tossed lightly. Earn it, and it means something. Beg for it, and it means nothing.”

There it was—the same bitter medicine she had once swallowed, that mingling of scorn and stingy validation. And then, the barb that made Alyssa slap a hand to her forehead in sheer disbelief:

“Oh well. Like mother, like son.”

For a heartbeat, Alyssa considered storming through the door, wine goblet in hand, just to upend it over his sour head. She even pictured it vividly: Vaegon sputtering, his robes stained, his lectures drowned out in red. Gods, what a sight it would be.

Instead, she leaned against the wall, eyes fluttering shut as laughter bubbled in her chest, incredulous and weary all at once. Like mother, like son, is it?

Yes, she supposed it was true. She had spent years chasing the faintest glimmer of his approval, craving acknowledgment from the one sibling who never gave it freely. And now her son was walking the same path—quill in hand, cheeks flushed, carrying both awe and dread for the uncle who could crush him with a word and lift him with half a nod.

It was almost cruelly poetic.

Fourteen save us all, Alyssa thought, shaking her head with a rueful smile. The boy has inherited my curse.

She pushed away from the wall at last, deciding not to interrupt, not yet. Let Viserys have this moment, however barbed. He would learn, as she had, that Vaegon’s rare morsels of praise were worth their weight in gold—not for what they were, but for what they forced one to become.

Still, as she turned down the corridor, she muttered under her breath, “One day, brother, I’ll throw that wine at you.”

The Red Keep quieted after supper, its vastness settling into lamplit shadows and hushed voices. Alyssa found Viserys alone in one of the lesser galleries, sprawled on a bench with his lesson scrolls spread untidily about him. His quill dangled limp in his hand, his expression one of utter exhaustion.

She smiled faintly and approached, skirts whispering on the stone. “If you keep staring like that, the ink will dry before you manage to write another word.”

Viserys looked up, startled, and flushed. “Mother! I—I was only… reviewing.”

“Mm,” she hummed, settling beside him, gathering one of the abandoned scrolls. She scanned his crooked script, the blotched notes on tariffs and judgments. “Reviewing, were you? Looks to me as though you were preparing to throw these into the fire and be done with them.”

Viserys gave a weak laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “He’s… harsh, Mother. Stricter than I expected. Uncle Vaegon never lets a single mistake pass without reminding me of it twice over. Yet…” He hesitated, eyes bright. “When I get it right—even half-right—he notices. And it feels… it feels like winning a tourney.”

Alyssa’s chest tightened. She had heard that same hunger in his voice before, in herself, years ago. She leaned back, gazing at her son with weary fondness. “So my brother feeds you crumbs, does he? Makes you beg for every scrap of praise?”

Viserys grimaced. “He says I remind him of you.”

“Oh, did he now?” Alyssa laughed, short and sharp, shaking her head. “Seven save us, the man hasn’t changed. Do you know, Viserys, I spent half my girlhood clawing for that sour-faced brother’s approval. A clever word here, a neat stitch there, all to win so much as a nod. And when it came—it was always barbed. Never sweet. Never easy.”

Viserys looked at her closely, a mixture of curiosity and sympathy flickering across his face. “And did you ever… stop trying?”

Alyssa fell quiet for a moment, eyes turning to the torchlit shadows along the wall. “No,” she admitted softly. “Because somewhere beneath that stone face, Vaegon sees more than he says. He sees effort. He sees persistence. And that, more than talent or birthright, earns his regard. It is a miser’s gift, but all the more precious for it.”

Viserys frowned down at his ink-stained fingers. “Then I’ll keep at it. I’ll make him see I can be more than a bumbling boy.”

Alyssa reached out and cupped his cheek, her voice lightening. “You already are, my sweet. But remember this—do not lose yourself in chasing his regard. Approval should sharpen you, not chain you.”

Her son nodded slowly, though his eyes still carried that flicker of awe, that ache of wanting. Alyssa sighed inwardly—yes, it was exactly as she feared. He had inherited her stubborn curse.

Then, unable to resist, she leaned close and whispered conspiratorially: “And if one day you grow tired of his barbs, let me know. I’ve been tempted for years to toss another goblet of wine over his head. You and I could do it together.”

Viserys blinked, startled—then burst into laughter, the sound warm and boyish in the quiet hall. “Mother, you wouldn’t!”

“Oh, wouldn’t I?” she grinned, arching a brow. “Like mother, like son.”

And for the first time in days, the weight of Vaegon’s lessons felt a little lighter on Viserys’s young shoulders.

Chapter Text

The Red Keep’s training yard was alive with the crisp ring of steel, echoing against the high stone walls. Daemon’s thin sword glimmered in the morning light as he moved with the confidence of one already skilled—his strikes precise, his footwork fluid.

Baelon circled him like a hawk, eyes sharp, measuring every angle, every rhythm. “Good, Daemon, but faster here,” he said, gesturing toward a complex thrust combination. “Anticipate the counter before I even move, and blend offense with defense. Think two steps ahead, not one.”

Daemon adjusted instantly, weaving his blade through the pattern with careful precision. “Like this?”

Baelon’s lips twitched slightly, a rare trace of approval. “Better. But your grip—relax it, let the blade be an extension of your arm, not a tool you force. Advanced swordsmanship isn’t brute strength; it’s timing, leverage, and the ability to read your opponent’s intent.”

Daemon’s eyes lit up with exhilaration. “I see! So it’s not just about hitting, but guiding—controlling?”

“Exactly,” Baelon replied, nodding. “Every strike should dictate the flow of battle, every defense a subtle threat to their next move. You’re not merely reacting—you’re leading.”

Daemon lunged with renewed precision, parrying, feinting, and twisting his strikes with a strategic elegance that belied his age. Baelon met each move, testing and correcting, but never underestimating his son’s skill.

“You’re learning quickly,” Baelon said quietly, almost to himself, though Daemon caught the warmth beneath his stern tone. “And now we refine, elevate, perfect.”

Daemon’s grin widened. “I won’t disappoint you, Father.”

Baelon allowed himself a small nod, his gaze softening. “You already have, Daemon. Every day. But talent is not enough—you must temper it with patience, insight, and thought. Only then does the blade truly obey you.”

The morning sun climbed higher over the Red Keep, illuminating father and son in a silent rhythm of precision, strategy, and trust. Each clash of steel was not only a sharpening of skill but a deepening of their bond, a lesson in mastery and in life.

The clanging of steel faded behind them as Daemon sheathed his thin sword, sweat glistening on his brow. Baelon lowered his own blade and gestured toward the benches at the edge of the Red Keep’s training yard. “Sit,” he said gently.

Daemon obeyed, still breathing heavily from exertion. Baelon watched him for a long moment, noting the faint shadow behind his son’s eyes—the shadow of a past fight, of a rift in friendship with Rhaenys, of lingering guilt. “You’ve mastered the blade today,” Baelon said. “Fast, precise, thoughtful. There’s no doubt—you’ve earned that skill. But your heart… I can see it still carries weight.”

Daemon’s hand flexed unconsciously around the hilt of his sword. “I… I’ve tried to move past it. Rhaenys and I… it’s different now. I’ve stopped letting that fight define me.” His voice was calm, but Baelon recognized the tension beneath it.

Baelon exhaled, the weight of his own conscience pressing down. “Daemon, listen. You are not the sum of your past mistakes. Rhaenys is not lost forever to you—she’s your best friend. And this… this succession, it was never yours to shoulder. It was never yours to decide. That burden lies with your grandfather’s choices, with the way the realm shapes itself, not with you.”

Daemon looked up at his father, eyes searching, half-hoping, half-testing. “But… if I had been more sensitive, perhaps not go to driftmark atop Caraxes that time… if I’d done something differently, maybe she we wouldn’t have that fight. Maybe—”

Baelon shook his head firmly. “No, Daemon. None of this was your doing. You’ve been loyal, true, and honorable. You have nothing to forgive yourself for. That fight with Rhaenys, the succession… these are lessons, not chains. Time will mend the rift. Friendship, real friendship, endures far longer than momentary anger or pride.”

Daemon exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. “I wish… I wish I could stop blaming myself entirely.”

Baelon’s gaze dropped to his own hands, gripping the hilt of his sword out of habit. A pang of guilt stabbed him. If only it were so easy for me, he thought. I carry my own weight of guilt every day. He has his chance at forgiveness; I… I may never forgive myself for being heir instead of Aemon’s line, for the life I inherited while my brother’s memory lies in shadow. He looked at Daemon again, swallowing the bitter taste in his mouth. “You’ll have to, in time. And I… I’ll help you bear it. But I’m not perfect either. There are things even a father cannot absolve himself of.”

Daemon reached out and rested a hand on his father’s arm, feeling the rare vulnerability there. “I… I know you do what you can. That’s enough, Father.”

Baelon allowed himself a small nod, the first true sign of relief in a long while. “Good. Remember this, Daemon: you have the strength to wield a sword, but also the strength to forgive yourself, and to forgive others. That is what makes a warrior whole.”

Daemon leaned back on the bench, the late morning sun warming their faces. Silence fell between them, heavy but comforting. In that moment, the bond between father and son deepened—not through words alone, but through understanding, shared guilt, and the tentative hope for a future unmarred by the shadows of the past.

Baelon watched Daemon, the boy now tempered in both skill and spirit, and allowed himself a bitter smile. If only I could find the same peace for myself, he thought quietly, the echo of the succession and his choices lingering like a distant storm on Dragonstone.

The clang of swords and the heavy breathing of exertion faded into memory as the Red Keep settled into a calmer afternoon. Daemon and Viserys, still flushed from their earlier lessons and training, found themselves wandering into the open corridors and sunlit courtyards.

“Daemon, you’re getting far too confident,” Viserys teased, nudging his younger brother with a playful elbow. “Don’t think your victory over those squires means I’ll ever let you win at anything else.”

Daemon smirked, flicking a stray lock of dark hair from his face. “Confidence is earned, brother. Try harder tomorrow—maybe you’ll keep up.”

Viserys rolled his eyes, but there was laughter in his tone. The tension of Vaegon’s lessons—his uncle’s sharp gaze, his sour-faced corrections, and biting one-liners—still lingered, yet this moment in the corridors allowed them to breathe, to be simply brothers again.

Meanwhile, atop another wing of the Red Keep, Princess Alyssa convened with her ladies—Amanda Arryn, Lyra Mormont, Barbrey Dustin, Sabitha Vypren—and the septas Maegelle and Rhaelle. Scrolls, parchment, and ink sprawled across the long table, alongside detailed blueprints of the school they were building for lowborn women.

Alyssa tapped a quill against her wrist thoughtfully. “Two years, and the crown’s financing ends,” she reminded them, “and after that, the school must be self-sufficient. We need to consider how we can be sustainable by then” she announced.

Septa Maegelle nodded, smoothing the folds of her robe. “Perhaps the harvests from Garden from the School backyard can be used in the cooking class. So we can save coin from buying Vegtables, Wheat or Fruits.”

Rhaelle, delicate yet precise, added, “And the women enrolled in that same class, we can be an intermediary to sell their projects to the people of King’s landing or to nobles. Perhaps, in one of their final projects, they could cater to a feast within the noble houses in the crownlands for a price. The revenues will go to them and to the upkeep of the school. That is how they will earn respect and independence.”

Alyssa glanced around at her ladies, who were busy vetting Lords and Ladies who can be potential donors. “Let’s review the lords who have promised donations and see if their donations come with anything behind it.”

The room hummed with activity as the women discussed qualifications, checked references, and debated which candidates would provide stability for the school once the initial funding ran dry. Alyssa felt a familiar warmth, a quiet pride in the way her ladies and the septas moved in harmony—each woman contributing her skill, her perspective, and her dedication to this shared purpose.

Elsewhere in the Red Keep, Vaegon’s lessons were in full swing. Viserys sat hunched over parchments in the library, head bent under the weight of calculating tariffs, drafting judgments, and debating trade routes. Vaegon hovered behind him, his face as sour as ever, but his eyes flicked occasionally with the faintest trace of approval when Viserys’ calculations showed accuracy.

“Not bad,” Vaegon said curtly, tapping a quill against the table. “But you must consider the indirect tariffs as well. Trade is not simply profit—it is influence, leverage, stability. Learn this now, or you will fail the realm when it demands your judgment.”

Viserys bit back a groan, his cheeks flushed from concentration. “Yes, Uncle,” he muttered, dipping the quill once more.

An hour after Vaegon and Viserys’ lessons, Aemma practiced her High Valyrian under Vaegon’s guidance. Unlike Viserys’ grueling lessons, her uncle’s demeanor softened, though his tone remained firm. “Pronunciation must be precise, Aemma. Misplaced vowels change meaning entirely. Repeat after me—’Vezof jin azantys.’”

Aemma repeated the phrase carefully, her tongue twisting over the unfamiliar sounds. Vaegon’s brow furrowed slightly. “Better. But again. Five times.”

Despite the discipline, there was a warmth in the exercise—a thread of Vaegon’s old remorse weaving through the stern lessons. He could see glimpses of Daella in her—the cleverness, the spark of defiance, and the gentle courage in her bright eyes.

By late afternoon, the castle corridors were quiet but alive with a sense of steady purpose. Daemon and Viserys lingered briefly in the gardens after their training, teasing one another, while Alyssa and her ladies continued to plan and vet candidates for the school. In the library, Vaegon’s corrections shaped Viserys into a more thoughtful student, while Aemma’s Valyrian lessons gradually solidified her command of the language.

For a moment, the Red Keep felt almost serene, the usual weight of politics and courtly maneuvering replaced by the quieter rhythm of family, learning, and the small victories of daily life. The children were growing in skill and knowledge, the adults were shaping institutions and futures, and the faint hope of a more balanced, mindful generation seemed tangible in these domestic hours.

Chapter Text

The Red Keep had fallen into a rhythm over the last months. Lessons, training, and quiet familial routines stitched the days together, until time itself slipped swiftly forward.

Viserys, once hesitant and often browbeaten by his uncle’s sharp tongue, now sat taller in his studies. Tariffs, trade balances, and the intricacies of levies were no longer alien to him. Though Vaegon still found cause to jab him with one-liners sharp as a dagger—“If you think merchants care for your noble honor, you are a fool, boy”—Viserys’ answers came more swiftly, more confidently, and with a faint pride even the sour-faced maester could not entirely ignore.

Aemma, too, had blossomed under Vaegon’s relentless tutelage. No longer stumbling over Valyrian syllables, she now spoke with fluency, her tongue curling smoothly around the ancient language of her house. Today her quill scratched steadily at parchment, practicing glyphs under Vaegon’s scrutinous eye. “Your hand trembles. Again,” he would say, but beneath the sternness lay a glimmer of approval.

Princess Gael thrived in her own peculiar orbit, less drawn to books and governance than her nephews and niece. She spent long hours in the dragonpit among the keepers, her pale hair shining against their dusky Valyrian features. The girl had learned the songs of their forebears, and sometimes her lilting voice echoed against the stone caverns, soft notes of High Valyrian melody rising between the dragons’ deep rumbles. More than once, Daemon lingered there, sword-calloused hands folded behind his back, watching his sister with a strange quiet fascination he did not name. If she caught his gaze, she only smiled and played on, oblivious to what stirred faintly, unknowingly, between them.

Viserys and Aemma’s closeness, too, ripened into something unspoken. They sparred in words, shared stolen laughter in corridors, leaned a little too near in libraries, yet neither gave voice to what others might suspect. They were still only children, though nearly grown, and blind to the shape their affections had begun to take.

The small council chamber smelled faintly of parchment, ink, and warmed stone when King Jaehaerys entered, clad in the sober dignity of rule. Queen Alysanne followed, her calm presence softening the edges of the room. The lords rose as one before settling back to their places around the oaken table.

At the King’s right hand sat Septon Barth, quill ready. Across from him, Crown Prince Baelon leaned in quiet readiness. Lord Corlys Velaryon of Driftmark rested his rings upon the polished wood, dark eyes sharp as always. Beside him was Lord Albin Massey, Master of Laws, his expression severe; and Lord Alan Beesbury, Master of Coin, fussing with his accounts. Ryam Redwyne, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, gleamed in white enamel armor, while Grand Maester Elysar shifted his chains. At the table’s far end, hunched and perpetually sour-faced, Prince Vaegon lingered like a stormcloud, a scowl etched into his thin mouth.

The business of governance commenced.

“Reports of increased banditry along the Rosby road,” Massey began. “The gold cloaks are stretched thin.”

“Then stretch them thinner,” Vaegon snapped without looking up from his notes. “If you think a few cutpurses will unravel the realm, you are unfit for that chair.”

Massey flushed. Baelon cleared his throat. “The crown should send men to Rosby and Duskendale both. Banditry is the symptom, not the cause. The roads are unsafe, trade falters—”

“Yes, yes,” Vaegon cut in. “My brother can recite the obvious. Shall we crown him now and spare our father the tedium of listening to sense?”

A flicker of laughter stirred, though muted in deference to the King. Jaehaerys merely arched a silver brow. “Enough, Vaegon. Speak plainly.”

So they did, winding through reports of governance, the balancing of tariffs with Braavos and Pentos, whispers of discontent among the smallfolk. Talk soon turned to rumblings of the Poor Fellows stirring in the countryside, their zeal growing restless once more.

When the matter slowed, Jaehaerys gestured, and a page stepped forward carrying a small sack. The boy laid it on the table, and the King untied its cord. A spill of parchments tumbled forth, sealed letters from every corner of the realm.

“Marriage proposals,” the King said, voice calm but iron beneath. His eyes turned to Baelon. “For your son.”

Baelon’s jaw tightened. “Father, Viserys is but a boy still—”

“He is near sixteen,” Jaehaerys countered. “A boy, perhaps, but a boy who will be a man sooner than we blink. Lords clamor, each eager to tie their house to ours. I cannot keep them at bay forever.”

Baelon set his palms flat against the table. “I will not force my son into a loveless marriage. If he weds, let it be for love, not politics. The line will endure if the man is whole.”

“Romance is a poor defense for a dynasty, my son,” Jaehaerys replied coolly. “Yet we will not force the boy. Barth and I will speak with him—make him understand what is expected.”

Vaegon snorted. “Perhaps the boy can marry the Seven themselves. Love for all, obligations to none.”

The remark drew a ripple of chuckles, though Baelon’s eyes flashed with irritation. Jaehaerys silenced it with a glance.

“Enough. Next matter: Princess Alyssa’s school. It opens within three months. My queen would have all our house present.”

”Does that mean our sister from the other side of the narrow sea will be present?” Vaegon whispered to Baelon which earned a chuckle.

Alysanne, hands folded gently, nodded. “It would do the realm good to see the Targaryens united behind such an undertaking. Even… those who have kept their distance.” Her voice softened on the last, her thoughts unspoken but felt by all.

Lord Corlys’ lips curved. “Rhaenys is with child. Three months gone. By the time the school opens, it will be too dangerous for her to travel. I fear my wife must remain at Driftmark.”

The silence broke into warm congratulations. Baelon clasped the sea snake’s shoulder, the Queen offered blessings, even Barth set his quill aside long enough to murmur joy.

Vaegon alone muttered, “Another mouth, another schemer. May the babe prove less tedious than its father.”

“Vaegon,” Jaehaerys warned.

The sour-faced prince folded his hands. “I only speak what others think, Father.”

And so the council pressed on, with trade balances, whispers of revolt, and the quiet machinations of lords vying for influence over the future of House Targaryen. Yet beneath it all lingered the unspoken truths: Viserys was no longer a child, Rhaenys bore a new heir to Driftmark, and the realm itself bent ever so slightly toward change.

The council meeting broke at last, lords and maesters gathering their parchments, guards shifting their posts. Baelon lingered near the table, but when Jaehaerys dismissed him with a glance, he bowed stiffly and departed, his stride taut with frustration.

Only two remained behind with the King: Septon Barth, still scratching his notes, and Vaegon, who slipped out muttering that he had “a boy to torment with numbers.”

When the chamber emptied, Jaehaerys beckoned a page.

“Fetch Prince Viserys.”

The boy came soon after, tall for his age, shoulders broadening but face still soft with youth. He entered with a hesitant bow, pale hair catching the torchlight.

“You summoned me, grandsire?”

Jaehaerys’ gaze was heavy as he gestured him closer. “Sit. There is talk you must hear.”

Viserys lowered himself to the chair opposite, fidgeting slightly beneath the Iron Throne’s shadow.

Barth folded his hands, chains clinking. “The lords of Westeros are not blind, my prince. They see you now a youth of near sixteen summers, your future looming before you. Already, they send letters.”

Jaehaerys nudged the small sack upon the table, the same sack spilled before the council. Dozens of seals glimmered in wax. “Offers. Daughters. Alliances.”

Viserys stared at the heap, throat dry. “Marriage proposals?”

“Marriage proposals,” Jaehaerys echoed, his voice grave. “For you.”

Viserys swallowed, unsure whether to feel pride or panic. He had known, of course, that one day this would come. Yet to see the evidence, a pile of names and futures pressed upon him, was suffocating.

“I…” He faltered, searching for words. “I had thought—I had hoped—that love might—”

Barth’s laugh was gentle, but there was no mockery in it. “Love is a sweet thing, Prince Viserys, but rare in the marriages of kings and princes. The realm runs not on sweet words but on bonds of duty. To wed is to bind houses together, to secure peace, to strengthen your children’s claim.”

Jaehaerys leaned forward, his eyes, sharp as old steel, fixing on the boy. “You are heir to the heir, Viserys. Your line will one day be asked to hold the realm together. That weight begins with the wife you take.”

Viserys looked away, toward the shuttered windows, his thoughts tangling. Faces flickered in his mind—Aemma’s quick smile, the way she recited Valyrian phrases back to him, the warmth that bloomed when their laughter joined. Yet he dared not speak her name here, dared not breathe that yearning in this chamber of law and expectation.

Instead, he murmured, “I understand, grandsire.”

Jaehaerys studied him for a long moment, then spoke more softly. “You are young. None shall press you into vows before their time. But you must begin to think, Viserys. To look not only at what pleases your heart, but what serves your house.”

Barth added, “And in the serving, there may still be love, if the gods are kind. But duty comes first.”

Viserys nodded, though the knot in his chest only tightened. “Yes, Septon. Yes, grandsire.”

“Good,” Jaehaerys said at last, sitting back. “Go now. Return to your lessons. But remember this: the crown is not yours alone. It is every man, woman, and child in these Seven Kingdoms. When the time comes, your choice will bind them all.”

Viserys rose, bowed low, and departed, his heart a turmoil of pride and dread. Outside the council chamber, the corridors seemed colder, the Red Keep’s stones heavier than before.

As he walked, one thought circled endlessly in his mind—

What if duty and love cannot be the same?

The Red Keep’s library was hushed at this hour, the only sounds the crackle of torches and the faint rasp of parchment as Viserys turned a page without reading it. The book lay open before him—an old codex of the Free Cities’ tariffs, left half-marked with Vaegon’s notations—but its words blurred like river-water.

Marriage. Duty. Line. The words had been pressed into him as if with a branding iron.

He leaned back in the high chair, fingers tugging at his sleeve, his mind circling what he had not dared answer his grandsire and Barth: that he did not know what he wanted. Not yet. He only knew what he did not want—to be shackled to some stranger for banners and coin, while something restless and tender in him longed for something unnamed.

Footsteps padded over the stone floor. He glanced up, startled, to find Aemma slipping through the archway, a bundle of parchment clutched to her chest. Her hair was loose tonight, not bound for lessons, and the torchlight softened her face.

“You’re hiding,” she said lightly, though her eyes searched his as if she sensed the weight he carried.

Viserys gave a half-smile. “Studying.”

Aemma’s brow arched. “You’ve been staring at the same page since I entered.”

He closed the codex too sharply, the thud echoing in the chamber. “Perhaps tariffs are duller than even Vaegon admits.”

She set her parchments down and sat across from him. “Then you should read something else. A tale. A poem. Even Valyrian glyphs, if you dare.”

Her jest tugged something warm from him, and yet the warmth soured quickly, for here she was—easy, kind, near enough for him to notice the way the candlelight gilded her hair—and here was he, shackled by words about alliances and lines of succession.

“I think,” he said slowly, “that I prefer not to think at all tonight.”

Aemma studied him, her expression softening. She did not press. Instead she reached for her glyph practice and dipped her quill, the faint scratch filling the silence between them.

Viserys watched her, silent. The dread still gnawed at his ribs, but beneath it was something else—a yearning he did not know how to name, and perhaps feared to.

The silence between them was companionable at first, the scratch of quill and faint rustle of parchment the only sounds. Viserys tried to lose himself in watching the ink trail beneath Aemma’s hand, but the weight of his grandsire’s words pressed heavier for being unspoken.

At last, he shifted forward, elbows on the table. “Aemma…” His voice caught, too low, too rough.

She looked up at once, quill stilled, her eyes patient and curious. “Yes?”

The question he wanted to voice trembled on the edge of his tongue. Do you think it wrong, to be asked to bind one’s life for the sake of banners? Do you ever wonder what place love has in all of this? The words swirled and threatened to spill, but when he met her gaze—so open, so unguarded—the courage withered.

Instead he cleared his throat, fumbling. “Do you ever…think on the future? What it asks of us?”

Aemma tilted her head, the faintest crease forming in her brow. “Of course. But usually in glyphs and translations, not…whatever shadows are in your voice.” She smiled faintly, trying to tease the heaviness away.

Viserys managed a ghost of a smile back. “Perhaps it’s nothing. Just…a prince’s duties weighing too loud in my head tonight.”

Her quill tapped gently against the table. She did not press further, only said, softly, “You’re allowed to feel the weight, you know. Even if you never speak it.”

Something twisted in his chest at that, half relief, half longing. He leaned back again, retreating behind silence, yet the air between them seemed charged now, full of words unsaid.

Aemma bent again over her parchments, but her presence was anchor enough. Viserys watched her hand move across the page, and wondered if she guessed how near he had come to confessing the truth of his dread.

The late afternoon light slanted through the Red Keep’s tall windows, casting golden patterns across the tapestried walls of Baelon and Alyssa’s private sitting room. A quiet hush hung in the air, broken only by the occasional crackle from the hearth. Baelon leaned against the carved arm of a chair, hands folded, his brow slightly furrowed as he studied the last letter he had received from King Jaehaerys.

Alyssa, perched on a low settee nearby, picked at the edge of a delicate embroidered cushion, though her eyes were fixed on her husband with keen curiosity. “So,” she began, her voice low and measured, “your father has received…how many this time?”

Baelon exhaled through his nose, a mix of amusement and exasperation in the sound. “A sack-full. Lords from the Stormlands, the Reach, even the Riverlands—each eager to offer a daughter to Viserys. They write as though they were presenting livestock, rather than an heir to the Iron Throne.”

Alyssa let out a small laugh, but it was tempered with concern. “And you? What do you think, as his father?”

He paused, weighing each word. “I think…” he started, glancing at her, “…that I will not force him. That a marriage must come from the heart, or it will only hinder him when the time comes to rule. Love—true love—is rare enough, Alyssa. It’s better to wait, let it grow if it is there, rather than chain him to a duty he cannot bear in spirit.”

Alyssa’s gaze softened. “You mean…” she trailed off, though her meaning was clear. They both thought of Aemma—the quiet, determined girl who had somehow captured Viserys’ attention, though neither of them would admit it outright.

Baelon nodded slowly. “Yes. I see the way he looks at her in the library, the way he listens when she corrects him, teases him…there’s a closeness there, built from rivalry, curiosity…mutual respect. But I will not pressure him. Neither will you. We cannot force the matter. They must choose for themselves.”

Her lips curved into a small smile, one tinged with both amusement and tenderness. “And yet…don’t you feel the same flicker of hope I do?”

He stepped closer, taking her hand and pressing a soft kiss to it. “Of course. We hope, Alyssa, but hope must be patient. I will not manipulate their hearts for duty’s sake. Let them find each other naturally. If the gods grant it, then we will know the weight of a ruler’s burden lightened by love at his side.”

Alyssa’s fingers intertwined with his. “And Aemma? She deserves the same, doesn’t she? A life where she is seen for herself, not just for the weight she might carry in titles or marriages.”

Baelon’s gaze darkened with thought. “She does. She deserves to be cherished for who she is, not for what she might bring to a throne. And if the fates allow it…she and Viserys may discover that balance for themselves. We need only provide the freedom for it to flourish.”

There was a pause, heavy with unspoken understanding, the kind forged from years of shared ambition and devotion. Alyssa leaned her head against his shoulder, quiet for a moment, the warmth between them spreading like sunlight over a cold stone floor.

“You know,” she murmured, “it makes me proud. That you see it, and you let it be. Most would have tried to orchestrate it, to control it.”

Baelon pressed a kiss to the top of her hair, his voice gentle but firm. “Love cannot be commanded. Only nurtured. And we—” he paused, letting his thumb brush against hers, “we will guard it until they are ready. Let them find the courage to choose, and we will only stand as witnesses, not jailers.”

Alyssa’s lips curved in a serene, almost wistful smile. “Then we wait,” she whispered. “For love, for their courage…for what is right.”

Baelon drew her closer, resting his cheek against hers. “For love, yes. And for the hope that it will guide them, as it guides us now.”

They stayed like that for a long moment, the soft warmth of their shared certainty filling the room. Outside, the city’s hum continued, unaware of the careful, deliberate plans of hearts both old and young.

The Godswood of the Red Keep was serene the next afternoon, the sunlight filtering through the tall oaks and silver-barked trees, casting dappled shadows on the soft moss beneath. Viserys had spread a small blanket and unpacked a simple midday meal, his careful movements betraying a quiet nervous energy. Aemma sat across from him, her small hands neatly folding a piece of bread, her dark eyes flicking to him every so often with a mixture of curiosity and amusement.

“Here,” Viserys said, offering her a piece of cheese with an uncertain smile. “I…uh…thought you might like it.”

Aemma took it, her smile teasing but gentle. “You always bring the best cheese, cousin. I wonder where you find it.” She leaned back slightly, letting the cool breeze ruffle her hair.

Viserys laughed softly, a little breathless, as though speaking to her made his chest ache in the most peculiar, pleasant way. “I’m careful. I have to impress my tutor, after all,” he said, referring to Vaegon with a faint grimace at the memory of the sour-faced lessons.

Aemma’s eyes sparkled. “I think you’re doing very well for someone who spends half his time glaring at numbers and laws.”

He swallowed, cheeks warming. “I…thank you. That means a lot coming from you.” He paused, the words hanging between them, heavier than either realized. Then, in an effort to lighten the air, he added, “Though I must say, I’m far better at picnics than tariffs and trade agreements.”

Aemma laughed, the sound like wind chimes. “We shall see,” she said, nibbling her bread. “Perhaps I will assign you some imaginary tariffs tomorrow and see how you fare.”

Viserys groaned playfully, but there was a spark in his eyes, a reflection of the quiet thrill he felt in her company. They sat in companionable silence for a few moments, listening to the wind rustle through the branches, the distant clatter of the Red Keep behind them, and the soft calls of birds.

Unseen by the two children, the words spoken between Baelon and Alyssa in the sitting room last night—about patience, love, and freedom—seemed to linger in the air. Though Viserys and Aemma did not know it, their elders’ careful deliberations had shaped the invisible scaffolding around this afternoon: a time to grow closer without the pressure of expectations, to explore trust and camaraderie, even as the weight of succession and duty loomed in the distance.

Viserys glanced at Aemma, trying to articulate thoughts he could not yet name. “I…um…hope you like spending time here,” he said quietly.

Aemma tilted her head, her expression thoughtful. “I do. It’s peaceful…like the world stops for a little while, and it’s just us.”

Viserys nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. He wanted to say more, to express the mix of awe, admiration, and strange longing he felt, but the words faltered in his throat. Instead, he simply reached over to straighten the blanket, their hands brushing briefly. Aemma’s fingers lingered a moment, and the contact was electric in its subtlety, a tether of trust and budding affection neither fully understood.

Above them, the sunlight glimmered through the leaves, and the two cousins sat side by side in quiet camaraderie, each unaware that their private moments were being carefully watched over—not by eyes, but by the slow, deliberate planning of their parents. Love and loyalty were being nurtured quietly, deliberately, in the spaces between lessons, picnics, and the hum of everyday life in the Red Keep.

The air in the Godswood was hushed, filled only by the quiet rustle of leaves. Viserys had begun stacking their empty cups and wrapping the leftover bread, his fingers working slowly, as if he were deliberately trying to make the afternoon last longer. Aemma sat with her legs tucked beneath her, drawing shapes in the moss with one finger.

She was tracing lines that looked suspiciously like the curling Valyrian glyphs Vaegon had begun teaching her. Her brow furrowed in concentration, tongue poking slightly from the corner of her mouth.

Viserys leaned closer. “That one looks…almost right,” he said softly. “But the curl should bend more to the left, shouldn’t it?”

Aemma glanced up, surprised, then laughed. “Since when do you know the difference between Valyrian glyphs?”

“Since I could walk,” Viserys teased, though his voice softened at the end. “You’re better at it than I am with trade tariffs.”

Her smile was bright, unguarded, and Viserys felt the air between them shift again—something fragile, unspoken, but impossible to ignore.

The spell broke with the sound of footsteps crunching over the gravel path. A young servant, bowing his head, approached the blanket. “My lady,” he said politely, his eyes lowered, “forgive the intrusion, but Prince Vaegon sent me to remind you—it is nearly time for your lesson. He is expecting you in the library.”

Aemma blinked, startled. Then, with a soft sigh, she dusted her hands against her skirts and rose to her feet. “Already?” she asked, though the answer was plain.

“Yes, my lady.”

Viserys stood as well, brushing the moss from his knees. He tried to hide his disappointment, masking it with a faint smile. “Duty calls, cousin.”

Aemma returned the smile, though hers carried the same reluctant weight. “Yes. Duty calls.” She glanced back at him before turning to follow the servant. For the briefest of moments, her eyes lingered on his, as though she, too, hated to let the quiet of the Godswood slip away into the world of glyphs, trade, and lessons.

Viserys watched her retreating figure, the soft sway of her braid catching the light. The Red Keep loomed beyond the trees, stone and duty and expectations waiting to close around them again. He let out a long breath, half-dreaming of the sunlight they had left behind.

When he finally gathered the basket and blanket, the moss still bore the faint impressions of where they had sat side by side, laughing and teasing—marks that would fade soon, as fleeting as the moments of freedom they stole between lessons.

Viserys walked alone through the corridors of the Red Keep, the muffled clatter of servants and distant chatter from the courtyards fading behind him. His hands were clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed on the polished floors as if each step might give him a hint of the future he was expected to navigate.

He replayed the Godswood in his mind—the quiet rustle of leaves, the warmth of sunlight through the trees, and the faint brush of Aemma’s hand as she had shifted to reach for the leftover bread. A small, unfamiliar pang tugged at him—a longing not yet named, but it made his chest tighten. The lessons, the duties, the endless petitions and expectations…all of it felt heavier now that he had felt even a fraction of what the world could be like outside of obligation.

He shook his head slightly, trying to clear the haze of daydreams. Duties awaited, lessons awaited, and he had to steel himself. Yet, somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that the quiet moments in the Godswood would linger, tucked away like a fragile, unspoken secret.

Meanwhile, in the library, Aemma was already seated at the polished oak desk, her hands clasped neatly before her. Vaegon stood across from her, his expression as sour and exacting as always, though the lines around his eyes betrayed the faintest flicker of patience.

“Let us begin,” he said sharply, drawing her attention to the neatly inked glyphs she had prepared. “Your progression has been…satisfactory. Not perfect, but satisfactory. At least more competent than your cousin, I dare say.”

Aemma blinked, her cheeks warming almost imperceptibly. “M-my cousin, uncle?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

Chapter Text

The afternoon sun poured through the open roof of the Dragonpit, catching on the scales of the dragons as they dozed lazily atop their perches. Daemon swung down from Caraxes, landing lightly on the stone floor. His boots echoed softly as he approached the dragonkeepers, who were bustling about with buckets of feed and scales of fish.

Gael was kneeling beside one of the elder female dragonkeepers, her hands carefully measuring portions of dried fish for the younger dragons. Her brow was furrowed in concentration, and she hummed softly under her breath, repeating the instructions the elder had given her.

Daemon leaned against a nearby pillar, pretending to be casual but unable to hide the fondness in his gaze. “So, this is what you’ve been up to, huh?” he called, a teasing lilt in his voice.

Gael jumped slightly, spinning around with a mock glare. “Daemon! You scared me! I didn’t hear you approach.”

“I didn’t make a sound,” he protested, though the smirk tugging at his lips betrayed him. “Clearly, my presence is just too intimidating.”

Gael rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched upward in a smile. “Intimidating? Me? Please. You’re lucky I’m busy with these dragons or I’d show you how intimidating I can be.”

Daemon crouched slightly to be at eye level with her, grinning. “Oh? And what exactly would that entail? Enlighten me, oh mighty dragon scholar.”

Gael’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “I’d make you clean the dragon dung again for an entire week. Without complaint.”

Daemon let out a dramatic groan, falling back on his heels. “You wound me, Gael. My heroic reputation is at stake!”

She laughed, and it rang out clearly in the cavernous space. “Then maybe you should earn it first, hero.”

He shook his head, still smiling, and crouched beside her. “Tell me what you’re learning, at least. I promise I won’t laugh… much.”

Gael leaned a little closer, whispering conspiratorially as she pointed to the charts and trays of food. “The younglings need specific portions of protein. Too much, and they get restless. Too little, and they get… grumpy. And some prefer the fatty part, some like the bigger ones. You have to remember their habits, or they’ll bite your fingers.”

Daemon raised an eyebrow, feigning awe. “So it’s like… babysitting, but with dragons?”

She nudged him playfully. “Exactly. And unlike you, I don’t bite.”

Daemon’s grin softened, and he leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Lucky for me. I’d be terrified if you did.”

Gael blushed faintly and looked back at the dragonkeeper to hide it, but Daemon caught the movement. He shook his head, pretending to be exasperated. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Maybe,” she admitted, a teasing tilt in her smile. “But you like it.”

“I do,” Daemon said, voice quieter now, a smile tugging gently at his lips. “Very much.”

They lingered there a moment longer, watching the dragons stretch and yawn in the warm sun. For once, the vast Dragonpit felt small, intimate, like a world made just for the two of them—two young hearts circling each other, slowly learning how to land softly without falling.

The sun had dipped lower, casting long shadows across the Red Keep as Daemon and Gael emerged from the Dragonpit. The scent of the sea mingled with the lingering warmth of the stone hallways. Daemon stretched lazily, tucking his hands into his belt, while Gael adjusted the satchel she’d been carrying, still full of notes from the dragonkeepers.

“So,” Daemon said, glancing at her with a mischievous grin, “are you going to make me memorize dragon diets too, or was that just a one-time humiliation?”

Gael smirked, elbowing him lightly. “Oh, you’ll memorize them. And then I’ll test you. I might even make a little quiz.”

Daemon groaned dramatically, but the sparkle in his eyes betrayed him. “A quiz? Really? I thought you said you were teaching dragons, not torturing nephews.”

“I never said I was your aunt today,” Gael shot back, the teasing lilt in her voice making his chest warm unexpectedly. “Consider me… a stern mentor.”

Daemon laughed, the sound echoing off the walls of the corridor. “Stern mentor, huh? Should I bow or kneel first?”

“Neither,” she said, rolling her eyes but smiling. “Just try not to trip on your own ego.”

He feigned offense, placing a hand over his heart. “My ego? I thought you were the one in charge here, counting fish and scolding dragons.”

“Maybe,” she admitted, ducking her head to hide a flush that crept up her neck. “But at least I don’t fall for every trick you try.”

Daemon leaned a little closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear. “Maybe I like that you do.”

Gael’s eyes widened ever so slightly, and she laughed nervously, bumping his shoulder as they walked. “Careful, Daemon. You’ll get me used to you being charming.”

He grinned, walking closer still, though he kept pace so it wasn’t uncomfortable. “I wouldn’t mind that. Not one bit.”

They passed through the outer courtyard, the sounds of the city blending with the faint calls of the dragons behind them. Daemon tossed a casual glance at her, a warmth in his chest that he hadn’t realized had been building for weeks. “You know,” he said, softer this time, “I never thought I’d enjoy being taught by my aunt. Especially one who makes me feel like a dunce half the time.”

Gael shook her head, smiling. “You’re not a dunce. Just… occasionally overconfident. And maybe a little reckless.”

Daemon’s laugh was low, rumbling in his chest. “Reckless? That’s a kind way to put it. But I’ll take it if it comes from you.”

Gael met his eyes, their steps slowing as the gates of the Red Keep grew near. There was a fleeting hesitation, a quiet warmth in the space between them. She tugged her satchel a little closer. “I guess even the most reckless nephew has his moments,” she said, half teasing, half sincere.

“And the most overbearing aunt has hers,” Daemon replied, his grin softening into something warmer, more genuine.

They walked the last stretch in a companionable silence, the teasing giving way to a gentle closeness, an unspoken understanding of the bond forming between them. Neither said much, but the way their shoulders brushed occasionally, the ease of their banter, and the shared laughter left them both aware of the sparks that had begun quietly, and perhaps dangerously, to grow.

As they stepped through the heavy doors of the Red Keep, the sound of their boots echoed softly against the polished stone floors. The corridors were quiet at this hour, the bustle of servants and courtiers still tucked away in their afternoon duties. Daemon tugged at Gael’s sleeve, stopping her for a moment in the shadowed hallway.

“You know,” he said, lowering his voice so only she could hear, “we could sneak past everyone and find a quieter corner. Maybe even pretend we’re still in the Dragonpit.”

Gael rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth tugged up in a smile. “You mean, like two unruly children playing dragonkeepers in the halls of the Red Keep?”

“Exactly,” he replied, mock solemnity in his tone. “Except… we’re not children anymore, are we?” His gaze lingered a little longer on her, eyes softer than usual, almost teasing yet carrying a weight he didn’t bother to name.

Gael felt her stomach flip. “I—maybe not,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. She glanced at him, noticing the faint grin that played on his lips, one that was unmistakably his own.

They moved down the corridor, side by side, shoulders occasionally brushing. Each touch sent a quiet warmth through her, and though she tried to focus on the practical—returning to their respective chambers, finishing the day’s duties—there was an undeniable electricity in the air between them.

They moved on, passing servants and guards who gave polite nods, entirely unaware of the quiet, playful intimacy growing between the two young Targaryens. The warmth between them lingered as they finally approached their chambers, the teasing fading into a gentle, companionable silence.

As the doors closed behind them, Gael turned to Daemon, her voice softer now. “You know… I like it, the way we are right now. Just… us, without everyone else.”

Daemon’s grin softened into something tender. “I like it too. Maybe we should make it a habit.”

And with that unspoken promise, they slipped inside, carrying with them the quiet heat of a bond that had begun to bloom—teasing, warming, and slowly edging toward something more.

A few moments later, the soft echo of footsteps pulled them back toward the reality of the household. They exchanged a look—half reluctant, half amused—and rose to follow the sound. The library doors opened to reveal Viserys, hunched over a large set of notes, while Aemma who decided to sit in on one of Viserys’ lessons, leaned close, carefully tracing through the intricacies of advanced laws under the watchful eye of Vaegon.

“Ah, there you are,” Daemon whispered to Gael. “My cousins look like they’re being tortured with all that law talk.”

Gael snorted quietly. “Don’t forget… you were a pain in the training yard yesterday. Let’s just watch quietly.”

Vaegon, ever sharp-eyed, barely glanced up as Viserys stumbled over a complex clause. “Not bad, boy. But your reasoning is sloppy here. You need to consider precedent, not just theory,” he corrected, his tone precise, leaving no room for argument.

Viserys nodded, cheeks tinged with the faintest flush of concentration—and pride when Vaegon allowed a subtle hint of approval. Aemma, meanwhile, scribbled notes carefully, glancing occasionally at her cousin’s work, her expression thoughtful.

Daemon and Gael sank into the corner of the library, sitting quietly on a bench, letting the studious energy of the room wash over them. Their hands brushed once, a fleeting, electric touch, drawing a small, shared smile.

“Look at him,” Daemon murmured to Gael, nodding at Viserys. “All serious and proper… like Uncle Vaegon’s shadow has fallen over him.”

Gael chuckled softly. “And yet, he’s still your brother. He’ll grow into it.”

The moment lingered, quiet and warm, the kind of intimacy that didn’t need words—two pairs of young Targaryens, quietly observing their family, simmering in feelings neither were yet ready to name.

Soon, Vaegon dismissed the session for a short break. Viserys stretched, rubbing at his eyes, while Aemma collected her notes. Daemon nudged Gael. “Think they’ll be like that forever? Nose in books, hair neat, serious faces…”

Gael laughed softly. “Probably. But it’s nice, watching them learn. And seeing you fidget every time you try to look busy.”

Daemon huffed, feigning offense. “I am perfectly busy. Just… enjoying the scenery.”

“If you want scenery, let us just wait for them in the courtyard. It looks like they are about to finish soon” Gael said and dragged Daemon, leaving no room for argument.

And so, the quiet warmth of their private moment carried them through the afternoon, the slow burn of their own bond simmering, while the younger targaryens continued their lessons in the background—two parallel threads of growth, learning, and unspoken connection weaving through the Red Keep.

The lessons finally concluded, Vaegon’s crisp dismissal leaving Viserys sprawled over his notes with a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead from the mental strain. Aemma carefully gathered her glyphs, tucking them neatly into her satchel, though her thoughts lingered on the subtle praise her uncle had given her.

Viserys pushed back his chair, rubbing his temples, and let out a long sigh. “I don’t know how he expects me to remember all of this,” he muttered quietly, though there was a hint of pride in his voice.

Aemma walked over, offering a small, sympathetic smile. “You did well today. Uncle Vaegon… he’s strict, but I think he’s impressed by your effort.” Her cheeks warmed as she added, “Not that he would say it plainly.”

Viserys chuckled softly, leaning back in his chair. “I think he enjoys watching me squirm. And you—of course, you get the easy lessons.” He grinned at her, teasingly.

Aemma swatted his arm lightly. “Easy? You’re just jealous I don’t have to calculate tariffs until my head spins.”

Their shared laughter echoed softly across the library, and outside, the teasing voices of Daemon and Gael carried in from the courtyard.

“They’re still in there?” Daemon called, leaning casually against a railing, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Yep,” Gael replied, nudging him with her elbow. “But they look serious. Let’s not ruin the moment too soon.”

Daemon, of course, couldn’t resist. “I say we ruin it just a little. Who’s to stop us?”

By the time Viserys and Aemma emerged from the library, Daemon and Gael were waiting, playful grins and mischief in their eyes. Daemon immediately pretended to scrutinize Viserys with exaggerated suspicion. “So… how much did Uncle Vaegon torture you today, hmm?”

Viserys groaned, holding up his hands. “Torture? He simply corrected my mistakes! And I’m learning, Daemon.”

Gael chuckled, looping an arm through Aemma’s. “Look at you two, already bickering like an old married couple.”

Aemma rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t suppress the smile tugging at her lips. “I’m not bickering. I’m… instructing him.”

Soon, the four of them fell into an easy rhythm, walking together toward the inner gardens of the Red Keep. Daemon kept up a constant stream of jokes and teasing, Gael countered him with her own sharp wit, and Viserys and Aemma, though quieter, gradually let themselves relax in their company.

At one point, Daemon grabbed a stray apple from a cart passing by and lobbed it gently toward Gael, who caught it deftly, tossing it back with a grin. Viserys and Aemma exchanged a glance, a private acknowledgment of the joy of simply being together without the weight of lessons or duties pressing down on them.

By the time they reached the fountain in the center of the garden, laughter had eased into softer smiles. Viserys leaned slightly toward Aemma, quietly reflecting on how strange and comforting it was to have someone understand him without words.

Aemma glanced at him, her eyes soft, and for a moment the teasing, playful world around them seemed to slow. Then Daemon nudged Viserys’s shoulder, snapping him out of the reverie. “Don’t get too mushy, brother.”

Gael laughed and jabbed Daemon lightly, while Viserys rolled his eyes, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “We’ll see about that.”

The four of them lingered together, warmth and teasing interwoven, forming a quiet circle of camaraderie and budding affection—a foundation that neither the pressures of the Red Keep nor the strictest of tutors could disrupt.

By the time the sun dipped low over King’s Landing, casting a warm orange glow through the Red Keep’s tall windows, Viserys, Aemma, Daemon, and Gael made their way back from the gardens. Their laughter echoed faintly along the corridors, carrying traces of teasing, playful shoves, and the quiet comfort of easy companionship.

Entering the Great Hall for supper, they were met with the familiar hum of the family already gathered. King Jaehaerys sat at the head of the table, his hand Septon Barth by his side, with Baelon and Alyssa poised on either side. Vaegon, as usual, sat farther down, shoulders stiff, face set in its perpetual sour scowl, but alert, every now and then shooting a sharp glance at anyone who dared speak foolishly.

Queen Alyssanne’s warm gaze swept over the room, taking in the children, the grandchildren, and the atmosphere of familial bustle.

Daemon immediately spotted the nearest empty seat beside Gael and plopped down with a grin. “I survived the gardens unscathed,” he boasted loudly, earning an eye-roll from Viserys.

“I wouldn’t call it surviving,” Viserys muttered, arranging his notes from the afternoon in front of him. “I was teaching her the finer points of governance, not throwing apples at each other.”

Aemma stifled a laugh at Viserys’s indignation. “You say that, but Daemon won both of us at catching and throwing. And you… you nearly fell into the fountain.”

Gael chuckled, leaning in to whisper to Aemma, “I think he enjoyed it.”

Baelon caught the tail end of the comment and shook his head, amusement lighting his face. “Ah, the joys of growing up Targaryen,” he said, exchanging a knowing glance with Alyssa, who let out a quiet laugh.

Vaegon’s eyes flicked toward the younger four, and he could not resist. “Do try to eat your supper without reenacting the war of the gardens,” he said flatly, voice like iced steel. “I would hate to see someone drown in their own enthusiasm before reaching adulthood.”

Daemon snorted, nudging Gael. “See? Even your uncle can’t resist joining the fun.”

Viserys, cheeks faintly red, mumbled, “He’s just sour because he doesn’t understand fun.”

Vaegon’s lip twitched, but no further comment came—though his gaze lingered on Viserys, sharp and assessing, as if weighing the boy’s potential against his own exacting standards.

The conversation at the table remained lively, with Baelon and Alyssa swapping fond recollections of their childhood mischief, both punctuated by Vaegon’s dry, biting commentary. “Ah yes,” Vaegon said during one particularly embellished tale, “the time my elder sister tried to poison a stableboy with her lemonade and succeeded only in ruining the stable’s garden. A lesson in incompetence if I ever saw one.”

Laughter rippled through the table, Alyssa nearly choking on her drink as she shot Vaegon a glare and whispered, “Some day, I swear, you’ll answer for that tone.”

Queen Alyssanne, sipping her wine quietly, let the scene unfold with soft amusement, her eyes lingering on the younger four. She noted how Viserys and Aemma had begun to mirror each other’s expressions in a subtle, almost imperceptible synchronization—an unspoken bond she found quietly endearing.

Septa Maegelle quietly answered any questions about Alyssa’s school from curious family members, her tone gentle yet precise, while Alyssa herself was caught in a brief back-and-forth of witty remarks with Vaegon, testing his barbed humor and trying to draw out a sliver of genuine praise.

Meanwhile, Daemon seized every opportunity to tease Viserys for the tiniest missteps in posture or expression, Gael adding her own teasing ripostes, keeping the atmosphere playful, warm, and chaotic in the most familial way.

As the supper wound down, the family lingered over conversation and light banter. Vaegon returned his attention to the more competent, disciplined members of the table, while the younger four drifted into whispers and shared smiles.

By the end of the evening, laughter still hung in the air, tempered by Vaegon’s occasional sharp retorts, Queen Alyssanne’s gentle watchfulness, and the comforting hum of family life. The Red Keep felt alive in that moment, a house bustling with lessons, laughter, and the slow, quiet forging of bonds that would endure long past supper’s end.

The hall had quieted considerably after supper. Candles flickered in their sconces, casting warm shadows along the Red Keep walls, and the bustle of servers cleaning and tidying had mostly died down. Yet in a tucked-away corridor near the western wing, the younger Targaryens were still very much awake.

Viserys and Daemon led the way, careful to muffle their footsteps as they ducked into a corner near one of the side balconies. Aemma and Gael followed, the four of them converging in a little patch of moonlight that spilled through the arching stone windows.

Daemon leaned against the wall, a grin tugging at his lips. “I still can’t believe you almost fell into the fountain today,” he whispered to Viserys, nudging his older brother in jest.

Viserys groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I told you, it was a tactical misstep, not a clumsiness. One of these days, you’ll appreciate strategy over raw strength.”

Aemma snorted quietly, hiding her laughter behind her hand. “And yet, you both keep falling over each other in the gardens,” she murmured.

Gael elbowed Daemon lightly, smirking. “Don’t let him lecture you, little brother. You still have much to learn in the art of subtlety.”

The teasing continued in low, playful bursts—pushing, elbowing, joking, but always careful, always warm. Their camaraderie was comfortable, effortless, the way siblings and close kin often found in each other when the world was quiet. For a while, the four of them simply lingered there, catching up on the day’s lessons, recounting minor garden mishaps, and trading whispered laughter.

Above them, on the balcony of the eastern wing, King Jaehaerys and Queen Alyssanne stood together, leaning slightly on the stone railing. The air was cool, scented faintly with the night-blooming flowers of the Red Keep gardens. Jaehaerys’s brow was furrowed as he unburdened himself to his wife.

“The letters, Alyssanne,” he said, voice low and tense. “For Viserys… they keep arriving. Lords, ladies, distant houses—their hopes pinned on him as though he were some prize, not my grandson.”

Alyssanne’s gaze softened, her hand brushing his arm in reassurance. She had been aware for some time of the growing closeness between Viserys and Aemma, and the careful precautions Amanda had taken to shield her half-sister from the court’s gossip. She knew the stakes—if the wrong person learned that Aemma had flowered, they would pounce on her like vultures.

He sighed, closing his eyes for a moment, letting the cool night air clear his mind. “I only hope I’ve chosen wisely in letting Barth and I speak to him first. A boy of fifteen… it is a cruel burden to place upon him.”

Alyssanne’s eyes softened further, and she leaned closer. “He has a good heart, and he has us to guide him. If that isn’t enough, we can have Vaegon speak his no nonsense talk to him”

Their quiet conversation was interrupted as they caught sight of the four younger Targaryens huddled together below, whispering and giggling in their corner. Jaehaerys’s eyes softened at the sight, seeing the joy and warmth between them. The tension of the world—the petitions, the political intrigue—felt momentarily distant as he watched the children enjoy these fleeting moments of childhood.

“Look at them,” Alyssanne murmured, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Even in the shadow of everything else, they find moments of joy. It is… comforting.”

Jaehaerys allowed himself a small nod, taking in the scene below. “Yes,” he said softly. “Let them be children tonight. Tomorrow, the world will return, but for now…” His gaze lingered on Viserys and Daemon, the brothers shoulder-to-shoulder, Aemma leaning close to her cousin, and Gael’s bright laughter ringing through the night air. “…let them simply be.”

From their hidden perch, the younger four remained unaware of the watchful eyes above, lost in each other’s company—the teasing, the warmth, the quiet intimacy of familial bonds slowly strengthening, all under the serene gaze of the moonlit Red Keep.

Chapter Text

The Red Keep corridors were alive with purposeful energy, though less the martial bustle of dragons or swords than the quiet hum of planning and preparation. Princess Alyssa, seated at a polished oak table in her solar, was surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting—Lady Amanda Arryn, Lady Lyra Mormont, Lady Barbrey Dustin, and Lady Sabitha Vypren—and the ever-practical Septa Maegelle and Septa Rhaelle. Scrolls, ledgers, and parchment-filled with notes were strewn across the table, while the ladies consulted lists, maps, and suppliers’ addresses.

Septa Maegelle and Septa Rhaelle, their brows furrowed in concentration, were in the final stages of drafting the school’s curriculum. “The morning sessions,” Maegelle explained, pointing to the parchment, “will be for the younger girls, ages five to twelve, learning letters, numbers, and basic accounting. We’ll also include gardening as part of their discipline.”

Rhaelle added, “And we’ll open it up to adult lowborn women in the same classes. Many have never had the chance to learn even the simplest letters or numbers. Mornings will be their time.”

Alyssa nodded, pleased. “Yes, that will give them a foundation. The afternoons can be for the specialized elective classes. Healing Arts, Herbs, and Birthing care, sword training, cooking, and household management, and clothesmaking—dressmaking, boots, winter clothes, inner clothes, night clothes. The older girls will then have skills they can use immediately.”

Lady Sabitha Vypren scribbled a note onto her ledger. “We’ll need supplies for each class. Cooking utensils, sewing materials, fabrics, bolts of leather, herbs, and tools for healing classes.”

Lady Lyra Mormont chimed in, “Seeds for the garden, tools and instruments for healing, and basic desks and chairs for the classrooms. Chalk and boards for the letters and numbers classes.”

Lady Barbrey Dustin added, “I can reach out to the suppliers in the city and the surrounding Crownlands. We’ll make sure the delivery is scheduled and the storage ready.”

Alyssa leaned back and allowed herself a small smile. “This will not only educate them but ensure the school can sustain itself after the crown’s two-year funding ends. Those enrolled in cooking can sell their products, those in clothesmaking will sell their creations. The revenue can maintain the school, pay the instructors, and provide for the girls themselves.”

Amanda Arryn raised a careful eyebrow. “And the graduates? Will they remain at the school?”

Alyssa’s eyes gleamed with resolve. “There will be a return service agreement. Those who finish specialized classes may choose to remain at the school as instructors, or take positions in the Red Keep, or serve in noble houses as skilled attendants or craftspeople. Their skills must continue to benefit them and the realm.”

Septa Rhaelle clasped her hands, nodding. “It is ambitious, but with proper oversight, it is entirely feasible.”

Septa Maegelle added, “And with the curriculum finalized, we can ensure that our teaching is consistent. I will take charge of basic healing, herbs, and first aid, while Rhaelle creates structured lessons for literacy, numeracy, and accounting.”

Alyssa rose from her seat, determination softening into a gentle pride. “Excellent. I will consult with Vaegon on the economic framework. He has the expertise to ensure our plan for sustainability works, and can advise on pricing and trade for the products produced by the school.”

Alyssa smiled at her ladies. “Logistics, supplies, safety—all of it must be prepared before opening day. Lyra, Sabitha, Barbrey, you take charge of the logistics and sourcing. Maegelle, Rhaelle, finalize your lesson plans and teaching schedules. I will speak to Vaegon personally regarding the financials. The opening must be seamless.”

Outside the Red Keep, the city seemed oblivious to the flurry of preparation within its walls. But inside, Alyssa and her team of dedicated women were quietly building a legacy—one that would lift lowborn girls and women into literacy, skill, and independence, while fostering opportunity and dignity.

It was ambitious. It was exacting. But in the eyes of Princess Alyssa and her confidantes, it was absolutely worth every ounce of effort.

Alyssa gathered her ladies and Maegelle, Rhaelle in a larger solar later that afternoon, with Vaegon seated across the table, parchment and quill at the ready. The sunlight slanted through the tall windows, catching in the dust motes that seemed to dance in rhythm with the urgency of their discussion.

“Very well,” Alyssa began, spreading her fingers over a parchment detailing projected income and expenditures. “With the crown’s funding for two years, the school can open, but after that, it must be self-sufficient. We’ve devised a system where cooking and clothesmaking students sell their products, and the proceeds go to the upkeep of the school, the materials, and the girls themselves. I need to know if it’s workable.”

Vaegon’s sour-faced scrutiny was immediate. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his pale eyes scanning every line. “Hmm.” One eyebrow arched. “This assumes the lowborn buyers will have enough coin to purchase your goods. Have you accounted for that?”

Amanda Arryn spoke up, careful but firm. “We plan to sell primarily within the city, to households and the Red Keep itself. The Crown could act as intermediary at first if needed.”

Vaegon nodded slightly, though his frown deepened. “Better. You will also need ledgers for daily transactions, someone to audit the accounts, and rules for how profits are divided. It is all very well to say the money goes to upkeep, but someone must ensure it does, or chaos will ensue.”

Septa Maegelle interjected. “I can take responsibility for overseeing the herbal and healing product sales. A structured ledger can accompany each transaction. The girls will learn to record their own accounts as part of their lessons.”

Vaegon allowed a faint, reluctant nod. “Hm. Not bad. But the cooking and sewing classes—you will need to assign pricing that accounts for both materials and labor. You cannot price too high, or no one will buy; too low, and you run at a loss. Math, accounting, and markets are not so forgiving.”

Alyssa smiled, unfazed. “I’ve anticipated that. We will pilot the first month, gauge demand, adjust pricing, and calculate profits based on lessons learned. Lyra, Barbrey, Sabitha—work with the guilds in the city for material pricing and market trends.”

Vaegon made a sharp sound between his teeth, a hint of grudging approval. “Hm. Good. But your supply chain must be airtight. Cloth, food, herbs—if anything is delayed, the whole system collapses. You have one chance to teach them sustainability; fail, and the project dies before it begins. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Brother,” Alyssa replied evenly, meeting his gaze. “That is why I am relying on my ladies to coordinate logistics, while you advise on the financials.”

Vaegon’s pale lips quirked just barely, like a ghost of a smile. “Very well. I will review your ledgers, suggest pricing, and audit the first month. Fail to follow the system, and I will personally make sure the lessons are… memorable.” He punctuated the sentence with a dry glance at his Sister, who merely inclined her head in acknowledgment.

Septa Rhaelle, always patient, added, “And I will structure the elective classes’ schedule so that production is predictable, and we can calculate profits accordingly. The students’ work will be both an education and an economic practice.”

Vaegon tapped his quill against the table. “Hm. You think too much about teaching and not enough about the market. If your goods sit unsold, all your careful planning is worthless.”

Alyssa leaned back, hands folded. “Which is why our proposal includes both immediate sales and potential placement of graduates in the city or noble households. That creates both immediate revenue and longer-term sustainability.”

Vaegon hummed thoughtfully. “Hm. Well… it is ambitious, but I cannot say it will fail. Not with this much oversight. I will still check the first three months’ ledgers personally. And mark my words: inefficiency will not be tolerated.”

Alyssa allowed herself a small grin, catching the subtle faintness of warmth behind his sharp tone. “Understood, brother. And thank you for lending your counsel.”

The rest of the afternoon passed in careful, meticulous planning. Alyssa and her ladies drafted schedules, divided responsibilities, and finalized lists of materials to purchase. Maegelle and Rhaelle adjusted lesson times and teacher assignments. Vaegon continued to punctuate every discussion with sharp, biting observations, yet beneath his sour-faced exterior, the faintest trace of respect gleamed whenever Alyssa countered his critiques with well-reasoned solutions.

By the end of the day, the plan was more than a vision—it was a practical blueprint. Alyssa leaned back, tired but satisfied. “The school will open in three months. If we continue at this pace, we will be ready.”

Vaegon allowed a small, almost imperceptible nod. “Hm. Efficient, even for you, sister,” he muttered. Alyssa, seated across from him, caught the faintest ghost of a compliment hidden in his words. She fought the urge to laugh outright.

Lyra, ever dutiful, simply gave a measured nod. “It will succeed, Princess Alyssa, with this level of planning and oversight.”

The solar settled into quiet productivity, punctuated only by the scratch of quills and the occasional hum of discussion. Outside, the city was unaware of the meticulous care being poured into the lives of its lowborn daughters and women. Inside, Princess Alyssa, her ladies, and the septas labored on creating a lasting legacy, one ledgers, lesson plans, and Vaegon’s sharp one-liners at a time.

The next morning, Alyssa led Vaegon and her ladies—Amanda, Lyra, Barbrey, and Sabitha—through the gates of the nearly finished school, their boots crunching on the gravel paths as dust rose in the sunlight. The building’s walls stood firm, scaffolding still clinging in places, but the energy of construction hummed in the air. Apprentices painted signs, hauled supplies, and measured plots for the garden class.

Vaegon’s pale eyes swept over the scene, lips pressed into a thin line. “Hm. I see you’ve decided that disorder is a feature, not a bug,” he remarked dryly, nodding at a pair of cooks tripping over a barrel of flour.

Alyssa tilted her head, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “I call it… character-building. Flour and chaos build character, do they not?”

Vaegon’s lips twitched in something dangerously close to a smile. “Character does not feed students. Efficiency does.”

Lyra Mormont snorted softly from behind them. Barbrey gave a little hum of agreement, while Amanda merely rolled her eyes, anticipating Vaegon’s next jab.

Vaegon moved forward, inspecting the garden plot. “And here you are, relying on weeds and luck to teach botany. Bold strategy.”

Alyssa tapped the edge of her apron, arching one brow. “And yet, I find it works better than relying solely on maesters who speak in riddles and theories.”

Vaegon gave a faint huff. “Hm. Well, we shall see if your weeds survive the students’ hands—or if your funding survives the city’s skepticism.”

“Ah,” Alyssa replied smoothly, “if it survives my ladies’ supervision and my patience, we will call it a triumph. Otherwise, we blame the weeds.”

Amanda suppressed a laugh, shaking her head at the back-and-forth. Vaegon’s sharp gaze moved to the scaffolding. “And what’s this? You intend to trust untrained labor with heights? Are you trying to give the city a reason to petition for an inquest?”

Alyssa stepped closer, hand resting lightly on a post. “I find the occasional near-fall teaches humility. And humility builds the student’s character.”

Vaegon’s lips twitched. “Hm. I suppose that is one way to justify chaos.”

Alyssa’s eyes sparkled mischievously. “I call it innovation, Brother. You should try it sometime.”

Vaegon gave a dry, flat hum, muttering under his breath, “Innovation is overrated. Competence, however, is not.” Alyssa’s smirk widened. “Ah, then I suppose we’ll have to let the students teach you a thing or two about both.”

They continued through the school’s interior, Vaegon commenting sharply on room layouts, furniture placement, and the logistics of student flow, each critique punctuated with his trademark, bitterly witty one-liners. Alyssa, never missing a beat, parried each jab with a lighthearted, clever retort that left him momentarily speechless, or at least momentarily off balance.

Outside, the garden plot was nearly complete, herbs and seedlings arranged in tidy rows. “Hm. I see someone has been ambitious enough to mix education with profit already. Bold,” Vaegon said.

Alyssa gave a mock bow. “I find ambition pairs well with practicality. Unlike sour faces paired with sharp tongues.”

Vaegon’s pale eyes flicked toward her, a glint of reluctant amusement in them. “Hm. Perhaps. But I will withhold praise until I see results. Words are cheap.”

Alyssa smirked. “Ah, then consider this a practice session, Maester Vaegon. The true test comes when the students arrive, and we see whose clever words survive reality.”

He gave a faint grunt, a low exhale that Alyssa took as a near-admission that her one-liners had landed.

By the time they returned to the Red Keep, Alyssa’s cheeks were slightly flushed from the exertion and the verbal sparring. Vaegon, still pale and stern, had said nothing overtly approving—but the glint in his eyes betrayed the faintest trace of grudging respect.

By the time evening fell, the Red Keep’s great hall glowed with torchlight, the long tables set with polished silverware and steaming platters. King Jaehaerys presided at the head, flanked by Queen Alyssanne, with Baelon and Septa Maegelle quietly seated nearby, hiding mischievous grins behind their goblets. Alyssa, Vaegon, and the rest of the family gathered, the younger four—Viserys, Daemon, Aemma, and Gael—lingering near the far end, barely containing their laughter and playful whispers.

As the conversation turned from school logistics to lighter topics, Alyssa leaned forward, her tone ready for battle. “Vaegon, I do hope you’re not still under the illusion that a straight line of desks makes a classroom functional,” she said, a gleam in her eye.

Vaegon’s pale eyes flicked to her, unamused. “A straight line does not, but chaos often produces more failures than learning. Are you trying to teach students to trip over their own ambition?”

Alyssa raised an eyebrow. “Better that than a sour-faced maester who cannot appreciate clever design.”

The younger ones stifled laughter, while Vaegon, for the first time that day, allowed a faint twitch at the corner of his lips.

At the far end, Jaehaerys stifled a chuckle, exchanging a glance with Baelon and Maegelle. A small side bet had become a ritual every family dinners: for moons now, just a month after Vaegon’s arrival, he and the two had quietly wagered on each round of Alyssa and Vaegon’s verbal sparring—predicting who would land the next jab, who would hesitate, who would laugh first. Each dinner, they discreetly counted their wins and losses, settling the bets afterward with small coin payouts or trinkets. 

Tonight, as Vaegon paused briefly to sip wine, Jaehaerys and Maegelle shared a knowing glance—another point for Alyssa.

Vaegon, sensing the faint amusement in the king’s eyes, gave a low, sarcastic hum. “Ah, I see the monarch’s amusement is purchased cheaply through wagers and whispers. Delightful.”

Alyssa smirked. “I assure you, Maester Vaegon, no amount of coin can purchase true cleverness. One must earn it, as I have.”

“Cleverness? I would call it… persistent distraction,” he replied, his voice dry, the corners of his mouth twitching despite himself.

Baelon hid a grin behind his hand, while Maegelle’s lips curved in a faint, delighted smile. King Jaehaerys merely nodded subtly, noting Alyssa’s point scored.

Meanwhile, the younger four were quietly observing, delighting in the clash of sharp minds. Viserys’s chest swelled with a strange pride as his mother’s wit parried Vaegon’s biting critiques; Daemon snickered softly at Vaegon’s rare slips; Aemma blushed faintly every time Vaegon complimented her progress, and Gael was quietly amused, taking in the family’s subtle games.

As the main courses cleared, Jaehaerys whispered a quiet reminder to Baelon and Maegelle about tallying their points, and the three shared a brief, stifled laugh behind their hands. Alyssa’s final retort to Vaegon had won her a small, secret victory, much to Jaehaerys’s private amusement.

Vaegon, oblivious to the ongoing wager, turned to Alyssa, pale eyes narrowing faintly. “Do remember, clever words cannot replace competence. Your students may survive your wit; your administration may not.”

Alyssa leaned closer, voice soft but teasing. “Ah, Maester Vaegon… like mother, like son, perhaps?”

For the briefest flicker, Vaegon’s stern expression faltered. Alyssa could have sworn she saw a twitch, a faint acknowledgment, and she suppressed a grin of triumph.

King Jaehaerys, Baelon, and Maegelle exchanged a secret glance, counting another small victory in their private game, while the hall continued its lively chatter. Around them, the warmth of family, the teasing, and the gentle rivalry wove an evening of quiet amusement and layered intimacy—the perfect blend of lightheartedness and subtle machinations.

The candles in the great hall had burned low, leaving only the soft flicker of torchlight bouncing against the stone walls. The younger Targaryens had been escorted away, and the clatter of dishes and chatter of servants had begun to fade. King Jaehaerys, Baelon, and Maegelle lingered discreetly near the end of the hall, their hands clasping goblets under the table as though hiding their amusement from prying eyes.

“Alright,” Jaehaerys murmured, leaning closer to his son and daughter, “let’s tally the scores before someone notices we’re still here.”

Maegelle, her lips pursed in concentration, tapped a finger against her goblet. “Vaegon had that last sharp jab—‘cleverness cannot replace competence.’ I called that one,” she whispered proudly.

Baelon shot a look at his father, smirking. “And Alyssa’s retort—‘like mother, like son’—that was mine to bet on. I’ll take credit for her quick wit.”

Jaehaerys chuckled softly, the sound muffled against the stone. “Hah. I knew that one would land. Your sister nearly made him twitch. I say that’s a win for our side, Baelon.”

Maegelle raised an eyebrow. “Hmm. I don’t think you’re counting my points fairly, Father. Vaegon had that moment where he acknowledged Alyssa’s cleverness—barely—but it was still his acknowledgment. That counts, yes?”

Jaehaerys grinned. “Fine, fine. We’ll give you half a point for that. But Alyssa still earns the round’s full credit.”

Baelon leaned closer, lowering his voice even further. “So… does this mean I win the coin this round? Or do we divide it three ways?”

Jaehaerys shook his head, mock serious. “No, no. The winner takes the pot, child. And tonight… the pot goes to the house of Baelon Targaryen.” He tapped a small pouch in his belt, letting the faint jingle of coins confirm the secret prize.

Maegelle huffed, though her lips twitched in the faintest smirk. “Fine. You may have the coin, Baelon. But Vaegon’s sharp eyes will return, and next round, I call it now—he’ll best her yet.”

Baelon laughed quietly, trying not to draw attention. “We shall see, sister. We shall see.”

Jaehaerys clapped them both lightly on the shoulders. “Alright, enough scheming. Let’s get these coins stashed before anyone notices we’re betting on your siblings’ verbal sparring.”

The three slipped their hands beneath the table, exchanging small pouches with quiet giggles. Even in the midst of the politics, councils, and weighty responsibilities of the realm, they found time for a simple, private amusement—an echo of youth and camaraderie that no lesson in governance could teach.

And somewhere above, in the high windows, the quiet flicker of torchlight seemed to wink in agreement, bearing witness to the smallest, most human of royal conspiracies.

The hall had emptied except for the quiet scrape of servants clearing dishes, leaving behind the lingering scent of roasted meat and sweet wine. Viserys, Daemon, Aemma, and Gael lingered near the far corner, glancing at each other with mischievous eyes.

Daemon leaned in first, whispering, “Last one to the balcony is a goose.” He darted forward, long legs eating the distance in two bounds.

Viserys scowled but grinned, giving chase. Aemma and Gael exchanged amused looks before racing after them, their laughter soft and careful, mindful not to draw attention.

By the balcony, the city lights of King’s Landing twinkled faintly through the mist. The four of them huddled together, leaning against the cool stone, catching their breath.

“You fight like you’re trying to outrun a dragon,” Aemma teased Viserys, cheeks flushed.

“And you talk like you’ve read every book in the Red Keep,” Viserys shot back, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Daemon laughed, brushing his hair from his eyes. “And Gael—don’t think I’ve forgotten your cornered-sparrow face when you try to hide your grin. You’re up next.”

Gael shoved him playfully, her hair catching the moonlight. “Careful, little nephew. You’re going to end up in the fountain if you keep that up.”

They laughed together, the bonds of cousin, sibling, and aunt/nephew-like connection deepening with each teasing shove and whispered joke. Even in the midst of their lessons, their responsibilities, and the ever-present eyes of court, they found moments like these—small and fleeting, yet entirely theirs.

Viserys lingered at the railing for a moment, staring out at the sprawling city below, lost in thought. Aemma, noticing the distant look in his eyes, gave a quiet smile and nudged him gently. “Stop thinking so hard, cousin. You might twist yourself into a knot before you notice it.”

He looked at her then, a flicker of warmth and appreciation in his gaze. “Perhaps you’re right.”

Daemon and Gael exchanged sly looks, leaning closer to whisper jokes that made the two teens snicker softly. The night air was cool, carrying the scent of the sea, and for a few stolen moments, all the weight of duty, lessons, and expectations melted away.

A servant’s quiet cough in the corridor reminded them that the world outside was still waiting, and with one last shared glance and small, conspiratorial smiles, the four reluctantly began to return to the castle, the warmth of their camaraderie lingering like a soft glow against the chill of the evening.

Chapter Text

The sun had barely climbed above the Red Keep walls when Alyssa was already moving briskly through the corridors, a stack of ledgers and scrolls tucked under her arm. The school’s opening was only weeks away, and she had made it her mission that everything—supplies, staff, classrooms—be ready for the first students.

Vaegon followed at a measured pace, sour-faced as always, though the faintest twitch of amusement betrayed him whenever Alyssa offered one of her sharp comments.

“Make sure the desks for the youngest girls aren’t taller than their knees,” Alyssa said, lifting a pair of tiny chairs to check their height. “Unless you plan on having them master advanced acrobatics alongside letters and numbers.”

Vaegon’s brow lifted. “Acrobatics might do them good. Strengthen their spines for the tediousness of bureaucracy later in life. Though I suppose I’ll leave that lesson to you, sister, given your evident talent in sarcasm.”

Alyssa feigned inspection of a chalkboard. “Ah, so you’ve noticed. Indeed, sarcasm is my specialty. Perhaps I should offer it as an elective—vital for surviving Targaryen family dinners.”

Vaegon’s lips twitched. “Noted. Yet I fear my brand of discipline—punishing incompetence rather than indulging it—will leave a stronger impression.”

From the corner, Sabitha Vypren quietly recorded each quip and barb on a small parchment, her eyes darting between the two. Alyssa and Vaegon were oblivious to the fact that she had been discreetly tasked by Queen Alyssanne to tally one-liners from both of them—an amusing monitoring of their verbal sparring rather than a competition known to the participants.

The morning continued, filled with practical work—stacking desks, organizing supplies, reviewing lesson plans—but punctuated by a playful, razor-sharp back-and-forth between the two, completely unaware that a quiet observer was noting each verbal jab and clever rejoinder for later amusement by the Queen. The school preparations marched on, but the air hummed with their wit, setting a lively tone for the day ahead.

By mid-morning, the first batch of applicants arrived at the Red Keep, neatly lined up in the courtyard near the entrance to the school. Princess Alyssa, Vaegon, and a few of her ladies—including Sabitha, poised quietly with her parchment—stood ready. The sunlight glinted off polished swords and the sharp edges of discipline met only by Alyssa’s cheerful but cutting wit.

“First in line,” Alyssa announced, gesturing to a stout, flour-dusted woman carrying a large basket of kitchen implements. “Cook, I presume?”

“Yes, milady. I’ve worked in noble households before,” the woman said, bowing.

Vaegon leaned slightly forward, narrowing his eyes. “Noble households? Or just the ones willing to survive under incompetent oversight?”

Alyssa’s lips twitched into a smirk. “Take care, brother, your own wit might burn hotter than the ovens here.”

Vaegon’s eyebrow arched, and he gave a faint shrug. “If that is so, I am confident the kitchen will survive. Perhaps just.”

The woman coughed nervously. Alyssa pressed on, questioning her about ingredients, timing, and how she would handle a kitchen full of children eager to taste every sauce. Vaegon interjected occasionally with sharply pointed questions, forcing the applicant to think quickly on her feet.

Next came a younger man, clearly the candidate for the cooking instructor role. He carried a small notebook, his hands steady but his expression uncertain. Alyssa’s grin widened.

“So, you’re to teach the girls to cook. Tell me, what would you do if they burned the bread?”

“Explain the science of heat and gluten, milady,” he answered earnestly.

Vaegon tilted his head, lips pressed into a thin line. “Ah, using science to save dinner. Admirable, if slightly optimistic. Not all disasters respond to theory.”

Alyssa shot him a look. “Take note, Mr. Instructor: if theory fails, sarcasm can always be an ingredient.”

As the applicants shuffled forward, Sabitha’s pencil scratched quietly across the tally sheet. Alyssa and Vaegon exchanged jabs, one-liners flying almost unconsciously:

“You seem to underestimate the patience of children,” Vaegon remarked to the gardening instructor, a wiry woman with sun-browned hands.

“And you seem to overestimate your ability to grow them as trees,” Alyssa countered, twirling a strand of hair.

The seamstress instructors arrived in turn—two women, one with a sharp tongue herself, the other meek but skilled. Vaegon observed their stitches and precision, Alyssa quizzed them on teaching techniques.

“Can you handle girls who prefer mischief to measurement?” Alyssa asked the first woman.

“Depends on whether their mischief is better threaded than their hem,” Vaegon quipped, catching the response before Alyssa could retort.

Alyssa laughed outright, but shot back: “Then I suppose we’ll have a competition of stitches and wit. May the best tongue win.”

Finally, the numbers instructor approached, a thin, scholarly man with spectacles perched on the tip of his nose. Vaegon scrutinized him, Alyssa peppered him with practical scenarios involving basic accounting and teaching strategies.

“Can you correct mistakes without discouraging the pupils?” Alyssa asked, smiling.

“Of course, milady,” he said.

Vaegon muttered under his breath but loud enough for Alyssa to hear: “We shall see if he can survive my calculations without crying.”

Alyssa leaned in, whispering conspiratorially: “Or mine without a sigh.”

Sabitha, hidden just beyond the candidates’ sight, diligently tallied each cutting remark, sly grin tugging at her lips. She would deliver her results discreetly to Queen Alyssanne later, though for now, the morning unfolded as a parade of wit, assessment, and the first stirrings of the school’s life.

By the end of the session, most of the positions were filled, and Alyssa turned to Vaegon with a triumphant smile.

“See? Efficiency, competence… and a bit of banter. Our students will thrive in such an environment.”

Vaegon only tilted his head, lips pressed thin. “Yes. And they will learn that discipline comes with a sting—and a laugh, if tolerated.”

Each candidate was carefully assessed, with Alyssa’s charm balancing Vaegon’s scrutiny, their barbed humor creating a surprisingly effective interviewing duo.

Meanwhile, Sabitha scribbled furiously, noting every quip and clever retort. This morning’s tally alone promised another profitable round of bets for King Jaehaerys, Prince Baelon, Queen Alyssanne, and Septa Maegelle, though Princess Alyssa and Maester Vaegon remained blissfully unaware.

Before midday, all the key staff positions had been filled:

• Cooking Instructor: A stern but capable woman named Maelyra.
• Cook: A cheerful, talented man named Torven.
• Scribe: An elderly but sharp-eyed man named Elric.
• Gardening Instructor: Young, energetic woman called Lysa.
• Assistant Healing Instructor: A kind-hearted healer named Miri.
• Two Seamstress Instructors: Skilled twins, Rynn and Syra.
• Numbers Instructor: A quiet, meticulous man named Benric.

Sabitha Vypren moved through the Red Keep’s corridors with all the caution of a smuggler transporting illegal contraband. The folded parchment under her arm contained the painstaking tally of one-liners exchanged between Princess Alyssa and Maester Vaegon that morning. Every sharp retort, barbed joke, and subtle insult had been dutifully recorded, each entry carrying the potential for both amusement and wagers.

Reaching the Queen’s solar, Sabitha knocked lightly. “Your Grace… the tally,” she whispered, holding the parchment as though it were a dagger.

Alyssanne, King Jaehaerys, Crown Prince Baelon, and Septa Maegelle were already gathered, concealing their mischievous anticipation behind composed faces. Jaehaerys raised an eyebrow.

“Finally,” he muttered, reaching out like a conspiratorial child. “I was beginning to think she would never finish her calculations.”

Sabitha passed over the parchment with a slight bow, and the four leaned in as though sharing state secrets rather than mere wagers over playful sparring. Alyssanne glanced at Maegelle, their eyes meeting in quiet excitement.

“Alright,” Jaehaerys said, the corners of his mouth twitching, “let’s see whose champion—or victim—won today.”

They began counting, voices low but punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter.

“Ah! Vaegon has 17 points before midday meal,” Maegelle declared, a triumphant glint in her eye. “Alyssa only managed 14 sharp retorts.”

Alyssanne nudged her daughter with a smile. “Well, it seems my wager on Vaegon was wise. Not that I expected anything less.”

Baelon’s jaw tightened in mock frustration. “This is preposterous! How did he get so many points? I swear my wife’s wit could split a castle in two.”

Jaehaerys leaned back in his chair, trying to maintain regal composure, but failing. “Baelon, it appears your pride has blinded you. Alyssa is excellent, but Vaegon… Vaegon is… well, he is Vaegon.” He shook his head and chuckled, tossing a few coins toward Maegelle.

Alyssanne laughed, covering her mouth. “Septa Maegelle, your winnings. You have earned them fairly—and most mercilessly.”

Maegelle grabbed her coins with glee. “Oh, and I intend to savor every one of them.”

Baelon leaned toward his mother with mock indignation. “You cheated! You both knew he had that sarcastic streak. It’s unfair!”

Alyssanne wagged a finger, mock stern: “Cheated? I simply bet on talent, my son. Perhaps you should have weighed your choices more carefully.”

Jaehaerys groaned, waving a hand. “Enough bickering. Let us savor our spoils and hope tomorrow brings a new battle of wits. I suspect Alyssa will have her revenge.”

Maegelle giggled, clinking her coins together. “Oh, she will, Father. She will. And when she does, we shall all be watching—and recording.”

They all chuckled, the solar filled with a rare mixture of familial warmth and conspiratorial glee. Outside, the Red Keep carried on with its duties, completely unaware that within those walls, a royal side-bet over one-liners was both fueling laughter and sharpening tongues for days to come.

And then—disaster, or perhaps perfect comedic timing—Daemon, returning from training, passed by the Solar’s slightly ajar door. Curiosity piqued, he peered inside.

His eyes widened. “Wait… what are they doing?”

He pressed closer, realizing the shocking truth. “Grandfather… grandmother… Father… Aunt Maegelle… you’re betting on… their verbal sparring?!”

He staggered back a step, hands to his face in mock horror. “I… I can’t believe these adults! And Grandfather! Oh, the king of Westeros is gambling on insults!”

Jaehaerys’ head poked from behind Maegelle’s shoulder, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Ah, Daemon. Welcome to the inner workings of the Red Keep. Care for a coin?”

Daemon’s jaw dropped. “No… I… This is insane! And brilliant!” He paused, trying to wrap his head around the absurdity. “I can’t believe I’m related to these maniacs!”

Maegelle giggled. “Now you know the secret of why mornings here are never dull.”

Jaehaerys gave her a winning smile. “Splendid. Another ally in the cause. Now, let’s see how this morning’s round shapes up… and Daemon, you’d better keep your mouth shut or risk a wager for yourself.”

Daemon rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath, “I can’t believe this… I love this family.”

The midwifery classroom was quiet except for the shuffling of supplies and the faint scratch of pens on parchment from the ladies arranging lesson plans. Beds had been set up along the walls, bundles of herbs and jars of ointments neatly stacked on low shelves. Septa Rhaelle and Lady Barbrey Dustin were further down the hall, ticking off the final items for the basic letters and numbers classrooms, while Sabitha Vypren and Amanda Arryn moved between tables, counting fabrics and cooking utensils for the electives. Lyra Mormont oversaw the placement of guards and custodians, giving instructions in clipped tones, ensuring the school’s security protocols were tight.

Alyssa lingered near the center of the midwifery classroom, where Septa Maegelle was checking the jars of dried herbs against a ledger. She hesitated for a moment before speaking, her voice soft, almost reverent.

“Maegelle… I’ve been thinking,” Alyssa said, brushing her hands over the edge of one of the low wooden beds, “I haven’t… I haven’t decided on the final name for the school yet.”

Maegelle glanced up from her ledger, a small, teasing smile tugging at her lips. “Well… you could always call it the Princess Alyssa Targaryen School for the Lowborn and the Downtrodden. Rolls off the tongue nicely, don’t you think?”

Alyssa snorted, a bitter-sweet laugh escaping her. “You’re impossible. No… it has to mean more than that. All these months planning… organizing… preparing… sometimes when I work on this school, all I think about is our sister Daella.” She paused, swallowing hard. “She died giving birth to Aemma. And Rhaenys… all the miscarriages in the past two years. And of course, mother… she lost some of our siblings too. This school… especially the healing and midwifery class… it’s for them. It’s for the women who never had the care they needed. I want to dedicate it to them.”

Maegelle’s smile softened, and she stepped closer, placing a gentle hand on Alyssa’s shoulder. “Alyssa… I can’t speak for Rhaenys, but I know Daella would be proud of you. Proud of what you’re doing here. She would have loved this school. Loved helping these women, loved the healing… she would have been here, guiding us, teaching, helping, every step of the way.”

Alyssa’s gaze dropped to the floor, her hands curling into fists at her sides. “I want to dedicate the school to her. To Daella. Especially since this school will train women in healing arts and midwifery. Helping lowborn women… it was one of her charities when she was alive. It’s only fitting that it carries her name.”

Maegelle’s eyes glistened as she squeezed her sister’s shoulder. “Alyssa… that’s… that’s perfect. Truly perfect. She… Daella… would be honored beyond words.”

Alyssa straightened, a steady fire burning in her chest. “Yes. It has to be in her memory. It has to carry her name.” She paused, thinking for a long moment, then spoke with quiet finality, “We will name it the Princess Daella Memorial School for Women.”

Maegelle’s lips trembled, and her throat tightened. “Alyssa… that’s beautiful. She would be proud of you. Every woman who comes through these doors will carry a piece of her legacy with them.”

Alyssa exhaled, a tear slipping down her cheek, a mix of grief and purpose etched on her features. “This school… these lessons… every skill we teach… every woman we train… it will be for her. To honor her. To give the care she couldn’t give, and the knowledge she would have wanted shared.”

Maegelle, holding her sister’s hands gently, whispered, “And we’ll make sure she’s remembered. Always.”

Alyssa nodded, her resolve firm. “Always.”

Behind them, in the background, the ladies continued their work quietly. Sabitha measured and stacked fabrics for the clothesmaking class. Amanda counted and labeled the jars of herbs. Lyra directed the placement of guards and custodians. The room hummed with activity, yet within the midwifery classroom, time seemed to stand still for Alyssa and Maegelle, two sisters bound by memory, grief, and purpose.

Finally, Alyssa drew a steadying breath and straightened her shoulders. “Let’s finish the preparations. There’s much to do, and Daella would want this school to open on time.”

Maegelle nodded, brushing away a tear she hadn’t realized she was holding back. “Then let’s make her proud, together.”

The afternoon sun poured into the school’s main hall, glinting off the polished wooden floors and casting long shadows of neatly arranged desks and shelves. Princess Alyssa stood near the center, straight-backed and poised, a quiet air of authority enveloping her. Septa Maegelle hovered nearby, clipboard in hand, while Septa Rhaelle arranged the supplies for the younger students, and Lyra Mormont patrolled the room with a sharp eye, flanked by two female Mormont guards and a former gold cloak who will come as guards for the school.

A distant clatter announced the first arrivals. One by one, the staff stepped forward, bowing politely to Alyssa and her sister, though each carried their own air of competence.

First came Maelyra, the cooking instructor, her posture rigid but confident. “Princess Alyssa, Septa Maegelle,” she said, voice crisp. “I am ready to begin instructing your students in the culinary arts.”

Next was Torven, the cheerful cook, juggling a basket of fresh ingredients. “Morning, m’lady! I hope you’re ready for the smells of bread and stew to fill your halls!” His grin was infectious, and even Alyssa couldn’t suppress a small smile.

The scribe, Elric, shuffled in slowly, leaning on a carved staff, eyes sharp as they scanned the room. “I suppose I will be teaching the young ones to read and write, yes?” he said, his voice firm but not unkind, carrying the weight of decades of experience.

The gardening instructor, Lysa, bounded forward with energy, her eyes bright and cheeks flushed. “I can’t wait to get the gardens growing! We’ll have herbs and vegetables ready for the kitchens in no time!”

From the side, Miri, the assistant healing instructor, followed, her presence calm and soothing. “I will assist with the midwifery and healing classes, and ensure that the children learn with care and compassion,” she said, nodding to Alyssa.

The seamstress twins, Rynn and Syra, entered next, moving in perfect synchronicity. Their hands were deft, their eyes calculating, already scanning the materials laid out for their classes. “We’ll have these girls stitching like pros before you know it,” Syra said, while Rynn merely nodded, smirking faintly at her sister’s words.

Benric, the numbers instructor, was quieter, his movements meticulous as he laid out ledgers and abacuses. “I’ll ensure they learn not only to count but to calculate, to think logically,” he said softly, almost to himself.

Finally, Ramonda, the Summer Islander assistant midwifery instructor and distant aunt of Lord Corlys, arrived with an easy grace, the gentle sway of her presence commanding respect. “I look forward to sharing the knowledge passed down from my homeland,” she said warmly, her accent carrying a lilting melody.

Alyssa stepped forward, her voice steady, authoritative. “Welcome, everyone. Today is the first step in making this school a place of learning, safety, and opportunity for all who enter. Septa Maegelle, Septa Rhaelle, and Lyra Mormont will help you with the orientation. I expect each of you to know your responsibilities and to guide the students with care.”

Septa Maegelle piped up, her tone firm but encouraging. “Each of you has a role, and it is vital that we coordinate our efforts. We will walk you through the classrooms, introduce you to the materials, and ensure that the rules of the school are clear.”

Lyra Mormont added, voice like steel, “Security and discipline are equally important. We expect obedience and respect from every student, and I will work with you to ensure that the school is safe and orderly at all times.”

Alyssa glanced over at Vaegon, who had accompanied her to observe the staff, arms crossed, his sour-faced expression unmistakable. “I expect your input, Maester Vaegon,” she said, teasing lightly. “Don’t hold back with your critiques.”

Vaegon’s lip twitched in what could almost be called a smile. “If incompetence hides itself among this group, I will find it. But… I see promise already. Don’t let the cooks burn the house down, and the numbers man—if he miscalculates the first lesson, I will personally lecture him on compounded errors.” His words were sharp, but beneath them was a hint of warmth, an acknowledgment of their competence.

Alyssa arched an eyebrow, fire in her eyes. “And if the cooks do burn the house down, Maester, it will be you cleaning it up.”

Vaegon’s eyes flicked to hers, unamused but entertained. “Noted. Let’s see how long you last before you regret saying that.”

In the background, Sabitha Vypren quietly moved between the staff, her eyes darting toward Alyssa and Vaegon, scribbling discreet tallies on a small parchment—a silent record of the sparring one-liners that flew between them.

The orientation continued, with Alyssa, Septas Maegelle and Rhaelle and Vaegon each taking charge in their own way—Alyssa, Maegelle and Rhaelle managing organization, introducing staff to the students’ curriculum, and Vaegon critiquing plans, suggesting improvements, his barbed humor keeping everyone on their toes. The staff adjusted quickly, impressed by the princess’s energy and the Maester’s exacting standards.

By mid afternoon, the hall hummed with activity. Tables were labeled, instruments arranged, kitchens inspected, and security protocols drilled. Alyssa and Vaegon stood side by side, watching the staff interact, the princess beaming faintly at the competence of her team, and the Maester secretly approving, if only in a sour-faced, one-liner-laden way.

Alyssa shot him a sharp glance. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

Vaegon’s eyebrow twitched. “I tolerate it. For now. Don’t let that inflate your ego too much.”

Alyssa smirked, muttering under her breath, “Oh, it’s inflated enough already.”

Vaegon’s eyes flicked toward her. “Careful. That sort of attitude may require correction.”

Alyssa shook her head, smiling. “Bring it on, Maester.”

And in the background, Sabitha scribbled furiously, hiding her parchment as though it were contraband, the secret tally of one-liners between the princess and the Maester growing ever more absurd.

The morning air over King’s Landing carried a crisp chill, tempered by the excitement that radiated from the courtyards of the newly completed school. Banners of soft crimson and Black, the colors of House Targaryen, flapped lightly in the breeze. Crowds gathered—highborn and lowborn alike, students dressed in their finest, staff standing proud in orderly lines, and a scattering of lords and ladies from across the realm filling the terraces.

Princess Alyssa stood beside Septa Maegelle at the entrance of the school, her hands resting lightly on the polished ribbon stretched taut across the grand doors. Beside them, King Jaehaerys and Queen Alyssanne watched with subtle smiles, Crown Prince Baelon leaning slightly forward, pride visible even in his composed stance. Prince Viserys and Lady Aemma stood nearby, both fidgeting slightly under the weight of the crowd’s gaze. Prince Daemon and Princess Gael lingered near the periphery, whispering comments back and forth, while Vaegon observed from the side, arms folded, brow furrowed in his usual sour-faced appraisal, though a faint glimmer of pride softened the edges. The rest of the Small council members and the kingsguards flanking them all the side.

A hush fell as Alyssa straightened, drawing a deep breath. “Today,” she began, her voice clear and firm, “marks the culmination of months of effort, planning, and dedication—not only by myself, but by all who have worked tirelessly to bring this school to life. We stand here not for glory, but for opportunity. For knowledge. For every young woman who will walk through these doors, seeking a better life for herself and those she loves.”

A ripple of applause followed, respectful and warm. Septa Maegelle stepped forward, her hand brushing Alyssa’s lightly. “And now,” she said softly, “the name of this school… a name to honor those who inspired it, and those we wish to remember every day we open its doors.”

Alyssa’s hand tightened on the ribbon. “It is my great honor to declare this institution: the Princess Daella Memorial School for Women.”

For a moment, silence reigned, as though the weight of the name itself hung in the morning air. Then, in unison, the crowd erupted into warm applause. King Jaehaerys felt a rare catch in his chest, while Queen Alyssanne’s hand went to her heart, emotion shimmering in her gaze. Even Vaegon’s brow furrowed further as his jaw tightened—a faint sheen of moisture betraying the pride he tried to mask.

Baelon, visibly moved, whispered, “She would have been proud, all of this…” His eyes swept the assembled staff and students.

Lady Aemma’s expression softened, and Lady Amanda Arryn’s hand found Aemma’s shoulder. “For my mother?,” Aemma asked, with wide and watery eyes.

Her half sister nodded.

The modest ribbon was cut by Alyssa and Maegelle together, and the doors opened to reveal the classrooms and workshops inside. Lords and ladies murmured their admiration, praising the effort, the vision, and the diligence of Alyssa, her ladies, and the Septas.

While the ceremony unfolded, Vaegon remained in the background, overseeing the practical side of the enterprise. He instructed the Castellan and Benric with precision. “When the clothesmaking and cooking students complete their projects, we must ensure the accounting is exact,” he said, voice clipped but authoritative. “The revenue will be divided: part for the upkeep of the school, part as payment to the students. Transparency is key. Track everything.” He paused, scrutinizing the ledgers. “If these girls are to earn their own way, they must learn that the reward comes only from diligence. Nothing less.”

Meanwhile, Daemon, Gael, Viserys, and Aemma wandered through the school quietly, eyes alight with curiosity. They peered into the sewing rooms, the kitchens, the herb gardens, and the small classrooms for numbers and letters, whispering observations to each other. Daemon nudged Gael playfully as she studied the layout of the gardens, while Viserys leaned close to Aemma, whispering points about how they might advise students in trade and management in the future.

Septa Maegelle and Alyssa moved among the gathered lords and ladies, responding to inquiries with graceful composure. A generous donation here, a pledge of resources there—the pair answered with the quiet confidence of women who had meticulously prepared for every question and eventuality. Their exchanges were calm, efficient, and precise, yet each carried warmth, demonstrating not only their competence but the heart behind the school’s mission.

The ceremony continued with music, laughter, and quiet applause. The day marked both a culmination and a beginning: a school ready to teach, a legacy remembered, and a family quietly proud of what they had built together.

Daemon strutted through the Red Keep’s corridor like a sellsword fresh from looting a caravan, a coin purse jingling with every exaggerated step.

Gael spotted him immediately from her embroidery seat by the window. Her eyes narrowed. “You look insufferable. Which means you’ve done something foolish.”

Daemon tossed the coin purse in the air and caught it with flourish. Jingle, jingle. “Not foolish, aunt. Profitable. Very profitable.”

Gael blinked at the noise. “Is that coin? You? With coin?” She tilted her head, suspicious. “Who did you rob?”

“No robbery,” Daemon said, puffing up his chest. “A wager, cleanly won. And since I am feeling generous, I shall treat you. Honeyed strawberry milk and pastries from the finest shop in the Streets of Flour. All on me.”

Gael put down her hoop, staring. “You? Treat me? You never even let me take the last honeycake at supper.”

“Well, today I am overflowing with benevolence,” Daemon declared, already sweeping her toward the doors.

They slipped into the city with two white-cloaked Kingsguard shadowing them discreetly, their silver hair and Valyrian features drawing stares as they went. The Streets of Flour smelled of warm bread, honey, and fruit jams; the air was sweet and heavy with spice. Children darted between the legs of merchants, and bakers shouted out their fresh wares.

Daemon led Gael with a swagger into a busy pastry shop, where they took a booth near the back. The Kingsguard stationed themselves by the door, impassive. A serving girl brought over chilled strawberry milk crowned with honey and two plates piled with golden pastries dusted in sugar.

Gael sipped slowly, studying her cousin across the table. “All right, Daemon. Out with it. What’s going on?”

Daemon leaned in, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, his eyes gleaming with delight. “A secret. One you’ll not believe. There’s a betting pool in the Red Keep.”

Gael blinked. “A… what?”

He nodded, grinning like a fox. “A betting pool. Wagers on who’ll win the day in the verbal insult sparring between my mother and uncle Vaegon. I just won Twenty gold dragons off their latest quarrel.”

Gael almost choked on her milk. “No. No, that’s absurd. My father—my father, the King—would never allow such foolishness.”

Daemon’s grin widened. “Not only allow it. He started it.”

Gael’s jaw fell open. “You lie.”

“I do not. I stumbled on it myself, after sword practice one afternoon. Grandfather, Grandmother, Father, even the pious aunt Maegelle were tucked away, laughing like conspirators in some Lysene gambling hall. Placing wagers on whether Uncle Vaegon would outmatch Mother’s tongue or be skewered by it.”

Gael set her cup down carefully, at a loss for words. “My mother. My father. The rulers of the Seven Kingdoms… gambling on insults as though they were pit fighters in Meereen?”

Daemon nodded cheerfully. “Exactly so.”

“And my sister Maegelle—my solemn, holy sister Maegelle?”

“She was there first,” Daemon confided with relish. “She and father began with Grandfather, a month after Vaegon arrived. They’ve been at it for a year now, maybe longer.”

Gael pressed a hand to her brow, utterly astonished. “How in the Seven Hells have Alyssa and Vaegon not noticed?”

Daemon shrugged, tearing into a sugared pastry. “Too busy sharpening their tongues, I suppose. They’d never dream their own family turned their bickering into sport.”

Gael stared at him, still reeling, while Daemon sat there smug and giddy, licking sugar from his fingers. He leaned in, lowering his voice again. “But you must swear to secrecy, Gael. This is our family’s greatest amusement. If mother and uncle ever discovered it…”

Gael, still dazed, gave a faint laugh. “They’d burn the whole Red Keep down.”

Daemon clinked his cup of strawberry milk against hers, eyes dancing. “So then, to secrets, my sweet. And to pastries.”

Gael shook her head, half in disbelief, half in reluctant amusement. “I’ll never see Father the same way again.”

Daemon only smirked. “Good. That makes two of us.”

Chapter Text

Dinner began peacefully enough. Candles flickered, wine was poured, and roasted lamb was carved with ceremony but Gael, remembering Daemon’s outrageous tale, kept her eyes sharp. She wasn’t eating so much as spying. And it didn’t take long. Across the table, her father, King Jaehaerys the Conciliator, leaned toward his son, Baelon with all the stealth of a thief. Their hands brushed briefly under the tablecloth, and Gael swore she saw the flash of a gold dragon being passed. Baelon smirked and tucked it away, then gave the barest nod toward his sister Maegelle. She, in turn, calmly folded a bit of parchment on her lap, marking something down with a charcoal stub.

Seven hells, Gael thought, nearly dropping her fork. They really are doing it.

And then it began.

“Of course you would insist on double-checking the ledgers, Vaegon,” Alyssa was saying sweetly, cutting her lamb. “The last time you managed coin, you miscounted so badly the fishmongers nearly starved.”

Vaegon sneered. “At least I can count beyond ten without removing my shoes, dear sister. Shall I fetch you a slate for your sums, or will your son Daemon lend you his?”

Daemon tried—and failed—to hide his grin. He nudged his grandmother Alyssanne, who slid a coin across to him beneath the table.

Gael’s eyes widened. They’re paying him at the table like it’s Flea Bottom dice.

Alyssa’s eyes narrowed, her knife glinting in the candlelight. “Careful, Vaegon. The last man who questioned my sums was a gold cloak—and he now lives in blissful retirement, with no teeth left to complain about the pay he miscounted.”

“Ah, yes,” Vaegon drawled, sipping his wine. “A proud legacy. Beating numbers into submission since the Cradle.”

Under the table, Baelon’s hand shot out again, another coin exchanged. Jaehaerys nearly choked on his wine trying to smother a laugh, covering it with a cough. Maegelle calmly tallied on her parchment, face saintly as ever, as if she were keeping score of hymns.

Gael’s jaw dropped. This is not happening. They’re wagering like sellswords at a tourney!

Meanwhile, poor Viserys was watching the exchange between his mother and uncle with narrowed eyes. He leaned toward Aemma and muttered, “Does it not feel… strange? Everyone’s staring too hard.”

Aemma nodded, brow furrowed. “It’s like they’re watching a mummer’s show only we can’t see the stage.”

Gael nearly spat her wine at that. She had to look down at her plate, shoulders shaking with laughter she dared not let out.

Then Alyssa delivered another blow, leaning sweetly across the table: “Do take care, brother. One day, your sourness may curdle all the milk in the realm, and then what will you drink? Vinegar?”

Vaegon didn’t even blink. “Better vinegar than the watered wine you call wit.”

Jaehaerys slapped the table so hard the goblets jumped, and disguised it with a grand cough—“Ah—yes—excellent lamb tonight!”—before passing another coin to Maegelle under cover of the commotion.

Gael, aghast, covered her mouth with both hands. Her parents, her saintly sister, her brother—the royal family of Westeros—were acting like gutter gamblers, betting on snide remarks while pretending to discuss lamb and wine.

And only Daemon looked perfectly at home in the madness, smug as a cat fat on cream.

Later that night, when the last servants had cleared the table and the torches in the hall burned low, Gael dragged her Father, Mother, Baelon, Maegelle, and Daemon into a smaller solar. She shut the door firmly behind them, arms crossed.

“You are all mad!” she burst out, her silver hair trembling as she shook her head. “Seven hells, I thought Daemon was jesting when he told me. But no. I saw it with my own eyes! Passing coins like dice players in Flea Bottom, while Alyssa and Vaegon sling insults across roasted lamb!”

Jaehaerys blinked at her, the very picture of innocent majesty. “Daughter, really—”

“Do not ‘daughter’ me, Father!” She answered. “You are the King of the Seven Kingdoms, and you’ve turned my elder siblings’ quarrels into… into a pit fight! A side bet! Like some Braavosi gambler at the mummer’s show!”

Daemon leaned casually against the wall, arms folded, smirking. “She’s not wrong, grandsire. It is exactly like that.”

“Quiet, you,” Gael snapped at him, though her lips twitched. “You encouraged this madness!”

Daemon grinned wider. “And profited from it.”

Gael threw up her hands. “Poor Aemma and Viserys, they don’t even know! They sit there wondering why everyone’s staring, while the rest of you—” She pointed to each in turn: her mother, her father, her brother Baelon, her pious sister Maegelle, and finally Daemon. “—sit like smug cats wagering over scraps of fish!”

Baelon coughed, clearly hiding a laugh. “Scraps of fish? Hardly. There’s been a tidy profit this moon.”

“Baelon!” Gael cried, scandalized. “You’re supposed to be the Crown Prince, heir to the realm! And you, Mother—” she whirled to Alyssanne, “—I thought you were the voice of wisdom here!”

Alyssanne pressed her lips together, as if she were caught between laughter and shame. Finally, she said primly, “I only joined to keep them honest.”

“That’s not better!” Gael exclaimed, half laughing despite herself.

Septa Maegelle, hands folded as serenely as if she’d been at prayer, spoke at last. “Sister, it is merely a harmless tally. I have kept ledgers all my life. This is no different.”

Gael nearly screamed. “You’re a septa! You’re meant to guide us to the Seven, not— not gamble on family squabbles!”

“I don’t call it gambling,” Maegelle said serenely. “I call it… structured observation.”

That did it—Gael doubled over laughing, clutching her stomach. “You’re all incorrigible. Every last one of you. The most powerful family in Westeros, reduced to side hustles on Alyssa and Vaegon’s wit. Gods help us.”

Jaehaerys, trying and failing to look grave, reached for her shoulder. “Daughter… would you like in on the next round?”

Gael gaped at him—then snorted so loudly Daemon actually wheezed.

Gael had every intention of putting her foot down. She crossed her arms, lips pursed, while her father leaned on the table with an expression that was far too pleased for a man who’d just been accused of running a gambling den under his own roof.

“You are all mad,” she said again, slower this time, as though repetition might hammer sense into their skulls. “Mad, the lot of you. Do you know what this looks like? Secret tallies at supper? Gleeful wagers behind poor Vaegon’s and Alyssa’s backs? And while Aemma and Viserys sit there—gods above—clutching their spoons and staring at each other like hostages to some family conspiracy they cannot name!”

Baelon only grinned, the grin of a man caught red-handed but still convinced he would talk his way out. “Sister, you exaggerate. It’s just a harmless diversion. Keeps the suppers lively.”

“Lively?” Gael’s voice pitched up. “It looks like a council of plotters at the table of the Realm’s King and Queen! And the wagers—”

Daemon, who had been lounging in his chair with all the smugness of a cat in cream, piped up. “They’re not wagers. They’re… predictions. Very noble. Very scholarly. I’m certain Aunt Maegelle can argue the theological merits.”

“I cannot,” Maegelle admitted at once, though the corner of her mouth twitched.

“You are all incorrigible,” Gael said, pacing now. “Father, Mother, Baelon, Maegelle… Daemon. You shame yourselves. You shame me. This is beneath the dignity of—”

Her father cut her off with a chuckle that carried far too much mischief for a man of his years. “And yet, daughter, you seem more animated about this than I’ve seen you in weeks. Perhaps you secretly enjoy it?”

“Enjoy it?” Gael whirled, scandalized. “I do not—”

“Ten silver stags she’ll give in by week’s end,” Baelon muttered loudly enough for everyone to hear.

“Put me down for fifteen,” Daemon chimed, smirking at her.

Her hands flew up in protest. “No! Absolutely not! I will not—”

But they were all looking at her with the same infuriating blend of smug amusement and patient inevitability, like hounds who knew the fox was already cornered. Even her mother’s expression, gentle and kind as ever, was expectant.

Gael let out a groan so long and despairing it rattled the rafters. “Fine! Fine!” she snapped, throwing up her hands. “If it will silence your endless badgering, then yes—yes—I’ll put in a tally. Once. Once only! And let it be known this is under protest.”

“On whom?” Daemon asked gleefully.

She jabbed a finger toward the air as if skewering her own shame. “Alyssa. Because she’s twice as quick with her barbs as Vaegon is with his books, and because Seven help me, I’ve watched you vultures smirk into your cups too many nights to doubt it.”

There was a pause, followed by a ripple of satisfied laughter around the room. Baelon clapped her on the back like she’d just won a joust. Her father winked. Maegelle murmured, “Welcome to the madness.”

Gael slumped into her seat, muttering into her hands. “I despise you all.”

Daemon, grinning ear to ear, leaned close and whispered, “Next time, wager on Mother and suggest a handicap. That’s where the clever coin is.”

She groaned louder.

The next dinner began innocently enough. Stew steaming in bowls, bread passed hand to hand, Viserys poking at his peas as if they might roll off the table. Aemma sat very straight, as if good posture could protect her from the chaos she now half-expected nightly.

And then, right on cue—like thunder heralding a storm—Alyssa and Vaegon’s voices rose in perfect counterpoint.

“I notice,” Alyssa said sweetly, carving her meat with unnecessary precision, “that someone forgot to air out his chambers again. No wonder the scribes keep fainting.”

Vaegon didn’t even blink. “Better fainting from wisdom than choking on perfume and poor arithmetic, sister.”

The table tensed. Everyone knew the game had begun.

Baelon leaned back, trying and failing to hide his grin. Daemon’s eyes glittered like coins in a purse. Jaehaerys cleared his throat with great solemnity, which in this family was code for keep tally, we’re on. Even Alyssanne coughed delicately, covering her smirk.

And Gael—poor, doomed Gael—sat rigid with her goblet halfway to her lips, because for the first time she had a stake in this madness.

She tried very hard to ignore her mother’s subtle nudge beneath the table. She tried not to see Daemon mouthing, Mark it, mark it. She tried not to notice her brother Baelon scratching invisible notes into his napkin.

But when Alyssa fired back, “At least I know how to count my blessings—Vaegon needs an abacus to tally his socks,” the table vibrated with muffled laughter, and Gael’s eyes darted to her imaginary betting slip.

Fourteen save her, she thought, that’s another for Alyssa.

Her fork clinked against her plate as she set it down a little too sharply. Viserys looked up, suspicious, and narrowed his eyes. Aemma, too, was glancing between her elders with furrowed brows. They knew something was afoot, though not what.

Meanwhile, Vaegon retorted: “If wit could be woven, sister, you’d still manage only uneven stitches.”

Daemon snorted wine through his nose. Baelon buried his grin in a loaf of bread. Maegelle pressed her lips so tight she looked ready to faint herself.

And Gael—Gael pressed her palm to her forehead, trying not to groan aloud as she tallied in silence. One for Vaegon. Damnation.

It was agony. She wanted to roll her eyes, to scold them all for turning supper into a spectator’s sport. But each insult landed like a coin clinking into her own private purse, and the shame of her complicity weighed heavier than her mother’s jeweled rings.

At last, Alyssa landed a blow so sharp even the servants snorted. Vaegon sputtered, cheeks flushing, and Baelon whispered, “That’s three in a row, Alyssa takes the round.”

Gael nearly dropped her goblet. Because in her mind she whispered too: Three in a row. Gods, I’ve become one of them.

Viserys tilted his head at her. “Gael?” he asked, suspicious. “Why do you look like you swallowed a lemon?”

“Because,” Gael muttered, low enough only Daemon heard, “I have wagered my dignity, child. And lost it at this very table.”

Daemon nearly fell out of his chair laughing.

After supper, when the elders dispersed (and Gael nursed her guilty conscience like a fresh bruise), Aemma and Viserys lingered near the hearth. The fire cracked, shadows swayed, and the hum of voices from the next chamber—where their parents and kin were still “talking”—floated through the door.

Aemma’s arms were folded, her sharp eyes fixed on the carved wood. “They’re hiding something.”

Viserys leaned closer, lowering his voice as though the flames themselves might carry word. “You think so too? Every time Grandmother and Grandfather look at Alyssa and Uncle Vaegon, it’s like… like they’re watching a mummer’s play.”

Aemma’s lips twitched. “And trying not to laugh. Did you see your father nearly choke on bread?”

“I did.” Viserys frowned, rubbing his chin. “It’s unnatural. Every dinner ends the same—Mother jabbing, Uncle Vaegon parrying. The rest of them pretending it’s just another quarrel. But they’re… invested. I can feel it.”

Aemma’s eyes glinted with determination. “We’ll find out. If they think they can play games under our noses, they’re mistaken.”

Viserys perked up, whispering conspiratorially, “So what’s our plan? Sneak into Father’s solar? Spy from the galleries?”

“Something subtle,” Aemma murmured. “We’ll watch, we’ll listen. They’ll slip eventually.”

Through the half-open door, laughter echoed—Daemon’s loud, Uncle Baelon’s booming, and even the measured tones of their grandfather, which was rare enough to freeze Aemma in place. And then came the familiar spark:

Alyssa’s voice, sharp as a dagger. “If my wit is uneven stitching, then yours is threadbare cloth—full of holes and easily torn.”

Vaegon’s dry reply followed instantly: “Better threadbare than gaudy, sister. At least mine does not unravel in the rain.”

The chamber erupted with muffled amusement.

Viserys and Aemma exchanged a look.

“There,” Viserys whispered. “They’re waiting for it. They want it to happen.”

Aemma nodded, her expression somewhere between suspicion and awe. “It’s deliberate. All of them complicit. And Aunt Alyssa and Uncle Vaegon don’t even see it.”

Viserys grinned slyly. “Then we’ll uncover it. Expose their secret sport.”

Neither noticed Gael lingering just down the hall, hand pressed to her face in horror. Because she, more than anyone, knew the truth: they were already too far down the rabbit hole.

And still Alyssa and Vaegon—utterly unaware—kept sparring, like flint and steel striking sparks no one could look away from.

Dinner that evening began as any other—platters of roast fowl, honeyed carrots, and steaming trenchers of bread. Yet for all the rich food, the air was tense with unspoken anticipation.

For once, Aemma and Viserys were early. They had staked out their seats with deliberate care: Aemma at her Grandmother's right, where she could watch him closely; Viserys across from his father, in plain view of every twitch or smirk.

Daemon shot them both a suspicious glance. “You two look like cats waiting at a mouse-hole.”

“Hungry,” Aemma said sweetly, reaching for the wine.

“Starving,” Viserys added, overly casual.

Gael nearly choked on her drink, smothering a laugh. She knew what they were about, but she dared not warn the others.

As dishes clattered and servants withdrew, Alyssa struck first, voice cutting through the hall like a blade. “Vaegon, I see you’ve brought your usual charm to the table—did you polish it, or is that simply dust clinging to you?”

Vaegon didn’t look up from his trencher. “If dust, dear sister, then at least it’s more substantial than your thoughts.”

Snap. A clean hit.

Baelon coughed into his hand, poorly hiding a grin. Alyssanne’s eyes twinkled as she dabbed at her lips. Jaehaerys adjusted his goblet with excessive focus. Even Septa Maegelle let out the faintest hum.

Aemma and Viserys leaned forward in unison, hawk-eyed.

“Did you see that?” Viserys hissed. “Father’s trying not to smile—he never does that unless something’s afoot.”

“Grandmother too,” Aemma murmured back. “He’s covering it. They’re covering something.”

Daemon shifted uncomfortably. Gael gave him a sharp look—say nothing.

Another volley:

“Tell me, Vaegon,” Alyssa purred, “do you practice these sour replies in solitude, or is dourness simply the only friend you’ve ever kept?”

Vaegon set down his knife with surgical calm. “Unlike you, Alyssa, I’ve no need to rehearse. My words cut sharp without embroidery. Yours unravel like one of Mother’s old gowns.”

This time, the muffled coughs and smothered chuckles were almost too loud.

Aemma’s eyes narrowed. “They’re enjoying this. Why are they enjoying this?”

Viserys stabbed at his chicken, glaring across the table. “I don’t know yet. But I’ll find out.”

Meanwhile, under the table, Daemon was practically kicking his father's boot to keep him from laughing, Maegelle was silently mouthing a prayer to hide her grin, and Queen Alyssanne was sipping her wine as though it were a mask for her mirth.

King Jaehaerys, for his part, kept his face carefully stern… but his hand brushed ever so slightly against the tally stick hidden beneath the tablecloth.

Aemma and Viserys saw none of this—only the growing suspicion that their family was caught in some conspiracy of mirth.

When dinner ended, they exchanged a meaningful glance.

“They’re hiding something,” Aemma whispered as they rose.

Viserys nodded grimly. “And we’ll catch them in the act.”

Behind them, the conspirators exhaled in relief.

The feast had only just ended when Aemma tugged at Viserys’s sleeve.
“They always vanish after dinner. Always the same few. Grandfather, Grandmother, Uncle Baelon, Aunt Maegelle—and Daemon skulks after them. Even Gael.”

Viserys’s eyes gleamed. “Then we follow.”

The cousins slipped away, ducking behind a pair of servants burdened with trenchers. The laughter and chatter of the hall faded, replaced by the muffled creak of doors and the soft scratch of parchment. They pressed themselves against the wall beside the smaller chamber that adjoined the dining hall—one usually reserved for storing wine and linens.

But tonight, it was alive with whispers and the jingle of coins.

Inside:

“Seven hells, Alyssa landed the sharper cut tonight, admit it,” Baelon said, slapping his palm on the table.

“She did not,” Maegelle hissed back. “Vaegon’s retort was clean and unadorned, like a butcher's blade. Alyssa’s was a tangle of thread.”

Daemon laughed so hard he nearly dropped a pouch of coins. “You’re just bitter because I picked Mother and she flayed him!”

“Flayed?” Jaehaerys’s voice cut in, firm but amused. “She grazed him, nothing more. A queen’s wit should have teeth, not feathers. Vaegon held the line.”

“Held the line?” Alyssanne interjected. “Husband, your ears grow dull. That last remark about embroidery—sharp as needles. You simply refuse to concede.”

There was the distinct sound of coins being shoved across a table.

“Count again!” Daemon demanded.

“I did count,” Gael retorted dryly. “And if you jingle those coins any louder, half the Keep will know.”

Outside, Aemma and Viserys pressed their ears tighter to the wall.

“Are they—” Aemma whispered.

“—gambling?” Viserys mouthed, eyes wide.

A roar of laughter from inside made them both jump.

“I cannot believe you, all of you!” Maegelle’s voice rose in half-exasperated prayer. “What does it say of the realm that its King, Queen, Crown Prince, and myself are reduced to wagering on insult contests at supper?”

“—That we’re winning,” Baelon crowed.

“Speak for yourself,” Jaehaerys muttered.

Aemma clapped a hand over her mouth, scandalized. “Gandmoother? Grandfather? Septa Maegelle?!”

Viserys was frozen, wide-eyed. “They’re… they’re betting on Mother and Uncle Vaegon insulting each other like smallfolk at a cockfight!”

Inside, another burst of coins clattered against wood.

“Double or nothing at the morrow’s dinner,” Alyssanne declared.

“Done,” Baelon shot back.

“Done,” Jaehaerys echoed, voice grave as though delivering a royal decree.

Aemma and Viserys stumbled back from the wall, near choking on shock and laughter all at once.

“By the Seven,” Aemma whispered, pressing a hand to her forehead. “Our family—the most solemn people in the realm—are gamblers.”

“On insults,” Viserys added weakly.

The two of them scurried away down the corridor before their laughter could give them away, the sounds of bickering, coin-counting, and Daemon’s crowing still ringing from the chamber behind them.

They cornered Gael the very next morning in the gardens. She had been sitting beneath a myrtle tree with a book in her lap, serene as ever, when Aemma and Viserys came marching toward her like a pair of conspirators about to stage a coup.

“Gael,” Aemma began, lowering her voice though her cheeks were flushed. “We saw something last night.”

Gael did not look up. “Did you?” she asked mildly, turning a page.

Viserys nearly burst. “Don’t play coy! We heard Father, Daemon, Aunt Maegelle, Grandmother, Grandfather—and you—all of you—in that side chamber after supper!”

Gael’s eyes flicked up now, calm but wary. “You shouldn’t go eavesdropping on grownfolk.”

“So it’s true!” Aemma exclaimed. “You were gambling—gambling!—on Aunt Alyssa and Uncle Vaegon’s arguments!”

Gael set her book down with a sigh, studying their faces. Aemma looked half-scandalized, half-betrayed. Viserys was practically shaking with the effort of keeping his voice down.

“You two mustn’t breathe a word of this,” Gael said firmly.

“You admit it?” Viserys gasped. “The King and Queen, my father, Septa Maegelle—a Septa,—all of you treating supper like some Flea Bottom cockfight?”

Gael pinched the bridge of her nose. “Fourteen save me…”

Aemma folded her arms. “It’s mad. It’s… it’s indecent! Poor Aunt Alyssa and Uncle Vaegon, they don’t even know their sparring is being wagered upon like… like jugglers at a fair!”

Viserys leaned in, whisper-shouting, “I thought Grandmother was serious. And Grandfather! Grandfather! He looked us in the eye just yesterday and spoke of duty and dignity!”

“He is serious,” Gael said, her voice dry. “Serious about his coin purse.”

Aemma let out a scandalized little shriek, covering her mouth. “This is wrong. Wrong!”

Gael raised an eyebrow. “Yet here you both are, whispering in corners, desperate to confirm the rumor. If it were truly so abhorrent, you’d have turned away from that door.”

Viserys blushed, caught out. “Well—well—we had to know!”

Aemma huffed. “I still think it’s madness. And poor Aunt Alyssa! If she finds out—”

“She won’t,” Gael cut her off smoothly. “Not unless one of you decides to play the little whistle-blower.”

They fell silent at that, exchanging guilty glances.

Gael leaned forward, lowering her voice. “Look, I didn’t want to join either. I protested. Loudly. Do you think I want to be skulking about tallying quips like a drunk septon at a puppet show? But… they roped me in. And now I’m stuck.”

Viserys muttered, “So the whole family’s mad.”

Gael gave a humorless little laugh. “Welcome to being a Targaryen.”

Aemma groaned and sat heavily beside her aunt. “We can’t let them keep doing this forever. They’ll get caught. And when Mother and Uncle Vaegon find out…”

“…they’ll kill us all,” Viserys finished.

For the first time that morning, Gael smiled faintly. “Exactly. So, if you’re both wise, you’ll pretend you never heard a thing.”

But the glint in Aemma’s and Viserys’s eyes suggested otherwise.

Aemma paced, her skirts swishing, while Viserys slouched on the bench, sulking.

“We have to tell them,” Aemma hissed. “It’s cruel! Aunt Alyssa and Uncle Vaegon think their arguments are private. They’re being mocked, wagered upon like—like—”

“Like mummers,” Viserys muttered.

“Exactly! And when they find out, oh Seven, the humiliation! Uncle Vaegon will never forgive it, and Aunt—”

“—Mother might laugh,” Viserys cut in, though he didn’t sound convinced.

Aemma spun on him. “Do you truly think so? She’ll feel betrayed. By everyone.”

Viserys rubbed his face. “Yes, but… think of it this way. What if we joined in?”

Aemma gaped. “Joined them?”

“Well, it’s not as though the betting pool will stop because we pout about it. Grandfather runs half the realm—if he says it continues, it continues. And honestly…” He smirked a little despite himself. “It is funny.”

Aemma groaned. “You’re hopeless.”

Viserys leaned forward. “Come now, cousin. We’re already in the know. We could profit from it! Think of the Cloaks and books we could buy—”

“Viserys!”

“Fine, fine,” he sighed. “But if we expose it, we’ll be the ones they curse for ruining their fun. And Grandfather will glare at us for moons.”

Aemma faltered, biting her lip. “So what then? Do nothing?”

Viserys spread his hands. “That’s the safest course.”

She muttered darkly, “Or the coward’s.”

The chamber smelled of parchment and candlewax, and Viserys sat stiff as a board while Uncle Vaegon droned from a heavy tome.

“Now,” Vaegon said sharply, “compare the restrictions on wagering codified under the First Dornish Wars with those found in the Free Cities. In Braavos, gambling is regulated through guild charters. In Volantis, outright banned in certain districts. Westeros, however…” He gestured impatiently. “Speak.”

Viserys swallowed hard. His throat was dry. Fourteen help me, why must today’s lesson be about illegal gambling?

“Well, um,” he began, studiously avoiding eye contact. “In Westeros, uh… wagers between smallfolk are often tolerated unless… unless they lead to violence. Whereas among the nobility, uh… public wagers can be seen as, um, dishonorable.”

Vaegon arched an eyebrow. “You ‘um’ too much. Where did you learn that hesitation? Certainly not from me.”

Viserys flushed crimson. “I—just—”

“Compose yourself, boy,” Vaegon snapped. “If one cannot look a man in the eye while speaking of laws, he has no place interpreting them.”

Viserys still could not look him in the eye. Instead, his gaze darted everywhere else—the candle, the inkpot, the crack in the plaster. Each word Vaegon spoke seemed to echo in his skull: illegal gambling, dishonorable wagers, unlawful sport.

Viserys thought miserably: If only he knew… if only he knew the entire family was gambling on his every quip at supper.

Vaegon sighed, pinching his brow. “Hopeless. Next time, bring me a written comparison. Word for word, law for law. At least parchment won’t tremble.”

Viserys nodded stiffly, all the while thinking: Balerion above, please don't let them find out. Or kill me quickly when they do.

Viserys was sulking in his chambers, parchment still spread before him from Vaegon’s last lesson. He hadn’t dared look his uncle in the eye once, not when the entire lecture had been about the statutes forbidding unlawful games of chance across the Free Cities and the Seven Kingdoms. The irony had nearly killed him.

Aemma breezed in, as she often did, with a smirk tugging at her lips.

“So,” she said, perching on the arm of his chair like a cat ready to pounce, “did Uncle Vaegon teach you the difference between a wager and a lottery?”

Viserys groaned into his hands. “Do not remind me. Every word sounded like an accusation. He looked straight at me when he spoke of punishments for repeat offenders. Straight at me!”

Aemma cackled, utterly unsympathetic. “Gods, that’s perfect. You’ve been suffering through gambling law while the rest of them are… well, gambling.”

Viserys shot her a wounded look. “You find this funny?”

“Of course I do,” Aemma replied, eyes dancing. “At least I would stand to profit from this nonsense, rather than squirm through a lecture about how many lashes are dealt in Lys for dice-cheating.”

He tried not to laugh but failed, shoulders shaking. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re too serious.” She slid down into the seat beside him. “So, cousin, what do you say? Shall we stop pretending we’re the reasonable ones? We could both use some coin for sweetmeats and cloaks. Why let Gael and the rest have all the fun?”

Viserys hesitated, then gave in with a sigh that sounded suspiciously like defeat. “Fine. But we speak to Gael first. If anyone’s keeping this lunacy in order, it’s her.”

Gael pinched the bridge of her nose as she led Aemma and Viserys into the side chamber where the family’s “sessions” took place. The long table was already littered with scraps of parchment, half-empty cups of wine, and far too many coins for anyone’s comfort.

Her father, mother, Baelon, Maegelle, and Daemon all looked up expectantly.

Gael cleared her throat. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. We have… new applicants.”

Viserys grinned broadly and gave a cheeky little bow. Aemma, on the other hand, looked as though she’d been dragged to an execution.

Jaehaerys chuckled, beard twitching. “So the younglings have come to play at their elders’ game.”

Alyssanne’s eyes gleamed with unholy delight. “Oh, I knew curiosity would get the better of them. Welcome, children. Sit down, don’t hover like spies in the doorway.”

Baelon snorted. “Aemma looks like he’s being marched to the Wall.”

“I should be so lucky,” Viserys muttered under his breath.

Septa Maegelle folded her hands primly, though the corners of her mouth twitched. “I suppose we must ensure the next generation is properly instructed in the finer points of… harmless wagering.”

“Harmless?” Gael hissed. “You’re all mad. And I’m madder for agreeing to this.”

Daemon, sprawled comfortably in his chair, tossed a copper coin in the air and caught it. “I like them already. Especially my brother. He looks like he’ll raise the stakes.”

Viserys grinned like a cat that had found the cream. “You’ve no idea.”

At that, Alyssanne clapped her hands once, sharply, like a queen calling court to order. “Enough chatter. Tonight’s rule: double or nothing. No excuses, no hedging, no backing out.”

The chamber erupted in mutters, groans, and gleeful laughter as purses were tugged open and coins clinked against wood. Viserys leaned forward eagerly to place his first wager, while Viserys swallowed hard and fumbled with her pouch.

Gael sank into her chair with the weary dignity of someone resigned to her fate. “Fourteen save us all.”

The long table of the Red Keep gleamed with silver platters and goblets of wine, but no one at the “pool’s” end of the table was paying the slightest attention to the roast capon. Their eyes were discreetly — very discreetly — fixed on Alyssa and Vaegon, seated across from each other like knights about to tilt.

Alyssa carved her meat delicately, then smiled with the sweetest venom. “My dear brother, you always lecture the children on logic, yet somehow your own arguments tend to collapse faster than Oldtown’s privies in a storm.”

Vaegon didn’t even look up from his plate. “An apt comparison. You’re certainly well acquainted with privies, sister. You’ve been talking nonsense since you were five.”

A muffled snort came from Baelon’s direction. Daemon nearly choked on his wine.

Aemma leaned in close to Gael, whispering, “They sound like two septas squabbling over the last candle stub.”

“Shh!” Gael hissed.

At the head of the table, Alyssanne lifted her goblet in a way that, to the untrained eye, seemed utterly casual. But everyone in the know recognized it: the tally marker. Coins were already being discreetly slid beneath the table from one hand to another.

“Vaegon, that’s harsh,” Alyssa shot back with a mock pout. “Though I suppose one cannot expect a man to recognize wit when he sees it — not when he spends his evenings in love letters to his books.”

Vaegon’s reply came sharp as a dagger: “At least books answer back with sense, unlike certain sisters who confuse volume with virtue.”

This time, it was Aemma who broke. She burst out laughing so loudly that several servants jumped. Everyone turned. She coughed, waved her hand, and muttered, “Choked on the wine. Don’t mind me.”

Viserys kicked her under the table, face burning as he tried so hard not to laugh.

Daemon, meanwhile, was gleefully tallying in his head, mouthing numbers and smirking. Baelon caught his son’s eye and winked. Septa Maegelle tapped her knuckles against the table, serene as ever, but her sleeve twitched where she discreetly slipped coins towards her brother.

Aemma nudged Gael with her elbow, whispering, “This is glorious. Worth every copper.”

Gael whispered back through gritted teeth, “Stop enjoying it. We’re all damned.”

Across the table, Alyssa leaned back, triumphant. “Another point to me, brother. Admit it.”

Vaegon arched a brow. “Admit that your wit has merit? That would require it to exist.”

Half the table collapsed into very suspicious coughing fits.

At the far end, young Aemma and Viserys exchanged wide-eyed looks. They’d thought they were prepared for the madness. They had not been.

And as the servants cleared the dishes, Alyssanne’s cool voice cut through the ruckus like a command in battle: “Double or nothing stands. Tally after dessert.”

The conspirators nodded gravely, as though she’d just issued an edict of war.

Aemma slumped back in her chair, muttering under her breath. “Seven help me, I’m part of this now.”

The dinner dishes had scarcely cooled before the “faithful few” slipped into the solar. The moment the doors closed, the masks of royal dignity dropped like stones into Blackwater Bay.

King Jaehaerys himself was already fishing coins from his pockets. “That last blow about the books settled it. Vaegon clearly carried the field.”

“Carried the field?” Baelon barked a laugh. “Father, did you not hear my Wife's privy remark? Half the table nearly choked!”

“That was vulgarity,” Vaegon’s camp sniffed in unison. Alyssanne raised her brows with pious calm, Maegelle nodded serenely, and Aemma — who had only just joined this circus — looked around as if she’d stumbled into a pit of madness.

“It was effective vulgarity!” Daemon crowed, tossing his gold dragon onto the pile. “And effective vulgarity wins the purse.”

“Your definition of effective,” Jaehaerys countered, “is as flimsy as your sword grip. The point went to Vaegon.”

Viserys, flushed with mischief, slapped the table. “It went to Mother, and you all know it!”

Everyone turned to him — the usually sober student, suddenly aflame.

“I told you,” Gael muttered at his side, face in her hands.

Baelon clapped his son on the shoulder. “That’s my boy. Loud and reckless — you’ll bankrupt those who bet on your uncle yet.”

Aemma, poor Aemma, was sitting between Alyssanne and Septa Maegelle. She leaned back slowly, whispering, “What have I done?”

Maegelle, serene as a statue, slid another coin toward the Queen’s hand. “Placed a wise bet, child. For the Seven surely favored Vaegon’s sharpness tonight.”

“Sharpness?!” Aemma squeaked. “He compared her to a privy wall!”

“That was Mother,” Viserys corrected, grinning like a devil.

“See?!” Aemma flung her hands up. “I can’t even tell anymore! This is lunacy!”

Daemon leaned across, smug as ever. “You just don’t like losing. Welcome to the pit, cousin.”

“I’m doomed,” Aemma muttered into her goblet. “Doomed to watch my family turn into Flea Bottom gamblers.”

“Not doomed,” Alyssanne corrected, her tone regal even as she pocketed her winnings. “Initiated.”

And with that, the coins clinked and clattered, the sides argued, and the royal family of Westeros — the most powerful house in the realm — squabbled like dockside gamblers over a pot of gold, all because Alyssa and Vaegon couldn’t eat dinner without stabbing each other with words.

Aemma slumped lower in her chair, muttering, “Seven save us all.”

The next day, the library smelled of parchment, ink, and stern disapproval. Prince Vaegon stood at the front, hands clasped behind his back, his voice flat and precise as he lectured.

“Today’s topic: unlawful games of chance. Gambling, though tolerated in certain corners of the realm, is strictly forbidden in septs, guild halls, and places where order must be maintained. Tell me, Prince Viserys, what is the Crown’s position on the matter?”

Viserys froze, quill halfway to the page. He could feel the heat rising in his ears. The Crown’s position? That my father, my grandparents, my septa-aunt, are running an underground gambling ring on your verbal spats with my mother, Uncle.

He swallowed. “Ah… the Crown… disapproves?”

Vaegon blinked, owlish. “Disapproves? That is a child’s answer. Be precise. Does it prescribe fines? Imprisonment? Public penance?”

Viserys stared desperately at his notes. The words blurred together — fines, imprisonment, outlawed dice dens — all meaningless against the image of his austere uncle being turned into the main act of a family betting pool.

“—fines,” he muttered at last. “Yes. Fines.”

“Correct,” Vaegon said, turning to the chalkboard. “Though in Braavos, the penalties are harsher. Some families have been stripped of guild privileges for sponsoring dice houses. Recall that, for your essay.”

Viserys nodded stiffly, gripping his quill so hard it squeaked across the parchment. He could not look Vaegon in the eye. If he did, he’d see not a stern tutor but a man whose every insult over dinner was worth two silver stags in the royal betting pool.

“Your writing is uneven today,” Vaegon observed without looking. “Is the lesson too complex?”

“No,” Viserys squeaked. “Perfectly clear.”

His voice cracked on clear.

Vaegon arched a brow but said nothing more.

Viserys, meanwhile, was silently praying: Fourteen above, strike me down before I laugh in this man’s face.

The tally sheets were tucked away for the night, coins still clinking softly in their purses, when Viserys entered the Queen’s solar. He had meant only to fetch a book, but he walked straight into the trap: King Jaehaerys, Queen Alyssanne, His Father, Septa Maegelle, Gael, Aemma, and Daemon all gathered in a semicircle with the air of conspirators who had been waiting for him.

Daemon grinned first. “So, Brother. How was your lesson with Uncle Vaegon today?”

Viserys turned scarlet. “It was… fine.”

“Fine?” Aemma cackled, clutching her stomach. “You mean you sat through an entire lecture on illegal gambling while trying not to imagine this lot wagering over supper!”

She gestured at the King, who for once was not grave and kingly but smirking like a boy with a frog in his pocket.

Queen Alyssanne leaned forward, eyes twinkling. “Did you keep your composure, sweetling? Or did you stammer like you used to when Ser Joffrey Doggett caught you sneaking honeycakes?”

Viserys groaned. “Grandmother!”

“Oh, I would’ve paid double to see that,” Maegelle said, surprisingly smug for a septa. “Our serious dour-faced brother, lecturing on dice pits, while his student silently joins our little pastime.”

Baelon clapped his son on the shoulder, nearly knocking him forward. “Fourteen save me, Viserys, you should’ve told him the Crown’s punishment was confiscating wagers and redistributing them to the nearest prince. Would’ve been worth a bag of dragons just to see Vaegon’s face.”

Even Jaehaerys chuckled, beard twitching. “You did manage to answer correctly, though?”

Viserys gave him a tortured look. “I said fines. Which was correct.”

Daemon burst out laughing, slapping the table. “Fines! Oh, by the gods, if only he knew! Imagine him levying fines on us for his own insults.”

Aemma was wiping tears from her eyes. “Viserys, your face must’ve been priceless. Did you squeak? Tell me you squeaked.”

“I did not squeak!” Viserys protested.

Gael tilted her head, lips twitching. “You squeaked.”

“I did not!”

Everyone roared with laughter. Viserys groaned again, burying his face in his hands while the royal family — monarchs, heirs, septa, and troublemakers all — howled at his expense.

Jaehaerys leaned back, utterly delighted. “This pool has brought me more joy than half the tourneys I’ve ever held. Truly, the Gods work in mysterious ways.”

“And apparently,” Aemma teased, “with illegal gambling lessons as their punchline.”

Chapter Text

The servants whispered first. In the scullery and the buttery, where the clatter of trenchers and flagons masked loose tongues, they gossiped of the nightly sport that had somehow eluded its stars. A miracle, they called it, that Princess Alyssa and Prince Vaegon, so keen-eyed in their own quarrels, were blind as owls at noon to the wagers being placed upon their every barb. Some of the servants had begun their own quiet pool, betting not on who would win the next spar of wit, but on how long it might be before the two combatants discovered the jest made of them.

That night, the conspirators gathered again in their hidden chamber: King Jaehaerys, Queen Alyssanne, Crown Prince Baelon, Princess Gael, Septa Maegelle, Prince Daemon, Lady Aemma, Prince Viserys, and the newly sworn Septa Rhaelle, the torchlight gleaming off the little chest that held their coins. They argued over rules in hushed, rapid voices, still shaken by how close Alyssa had come to stumbling upon them. New cover stories were drafted: if caught exchanging coin, they were to claim it was for alms to the poor; if tallying aloud, they must pretend it was scripture. Signal words were chosen too—The King requires more wine was agreed upon as a universal alarm from their previous meeting, though all were still laughing nervously at how clumsily Baelon had blurted it earlier that evening.

It was there, as they debated whether to move their hoard to a safer hiding place deeper in the Red Keep’s forgotten passages, that the door creaked open.

In stepped Septon Barth, the King’s faithful Hand.

He did not storm nor frown, but looked about the chamber with a calm amusement that unsettled them more than anger might have done. “So,” he said softly, “this is where the true governance of the realm occurs.”

A silence fell heavy. Even Daemon, ever quick with mischief, had no quip. Barth, however, only folded his hands in his sleeves, and his eyes twinkled with quiet mirth. “I have heard whispers,” he continued, “that His Grace, Her Grace, and Prince Baelon themselves are counted among this fellowship. I thought to myself: what better way to serve my King and Queen than to stand beside them in their chosen sport?”

At that, Alyssanne arched a brow, and Jaehaerys chuckled into his beard. Gael groaned aloud, knowing too well what was coming. They had set a rule early on: no new members unless admitted by unanimous voice. And now the Hand of the King stood before them, asking entrance into their secret society of wagers.

Whispers broke out—Rhaelle fretted of sacrilege, Daemon smirked at the thought of Barth tallying coins, and Viserys muttered darkly about what lesson in law this would become. Aemma’s shoulders shook with laughter, delighted by the absurdity of it all.

At last, Alyssanne spoke with finality: “Very well. But only if every voice says yes. This is not a game for half-measures.”

One by one the voices answered, until all eyes fell upon Gael, the lone holdout. She pressed her palm to her brow, half in disbelief, half in resignation. “Seven save me,” she said. “We are admitting the Hand of the King into a gambling ring about my sibling's quarrels.”

Daemon grinned from ear to ear. “Aye. Glorious, isn’t it?”

So it was that Septon Barth, scholar and sage, became the newest member of the most unlikely fellowship in the Red Keep, swearing secrecy as coins clinked and laughter filled the torchlit chamber. They wasted no time in testing their newest member. The chest was opened, coins tallied, and the wagers declared for the next dinner to come. Daemon, ever bold, dropped his dragon into the pool first with a smirk. “On my mother, of course. She will cut Uncle Vaegon to ribbons before the soup cools.”

Baelon, already rifling in his purse, nodded gravely. “Alyssa as well. She has her moods, and tonight she will not be patient.”

Alyssanne, with that quiet glint in her eye, placed her bet on Vaegon, as she so often did. “For all her fire, Alyssa sometimes burns herself out too soon. Vaegon waits, sharpens, and strikes clean.”

At last, it came to Septon Barth. All leaned in with unholy glee, curious how the Hand—so careful in law, so measured in word—would stake his first coin in such folly.

Barth set a single golden dragon upon the chest, his expression as solemn as if he were passing judgment in the throne room. “On Vaegon,” he said firmly.

Daemon nearly toppled from his stool laughing. “You’ve not even seen a match yet!”

“I have read enough,” Barth replied, straightening his robes. “In disputes of rhetoric, the one who provokes least often wins most. Vaegon’s mind is sharpened like a scholar’s quill, Alyssa’s like a sword drawn too quickly. She scores points with ferocity, aye—but the man who waits for the opening, who chooses the precise word, will cut deeper.”

A silence hung for a heartbeat before Baelon snorted, Alyssanne smiled, and Jaehaerys barked a booming laugh that shook the chamber walls. Even Gael, who had sworn to herself she would never indulge in this madness, was biting her lip to keep from grinning.

Daemon thumped the table, wheezing with mirth. “By the Fourteen, he’s lecturing us on rhetoric while he gambles on insults!”

Viserys whispered to Aemma "Is it just me or is it that Septon Barth has now made our amusing side hustle boring with his lessons in rhetoric?", to which he received an elbow to his side. 

Barth only inclined his head, utterly unruffled. “Even folly has its patterns. And I intend to study them closely.”

So the tally was made, the wagers recorded, and the conspirators prepared for another night of “study.”

By the morrow, the conspirators had gathered once more in the hidden chamber off the passage, coins glittering faintly by torchlight. Yet instead of wagering, they had convened for something far more necessary: rehearsal.

Queen Alyssanne, of all people, began the session with the air of a commander drilling raw recruits. “We must practice restraint. Too many smiles, too many glances exchanged, and Alyssa will smell mischief. She always does.”

Daemon scoffed, lounging in his chair like a cat. “I can keep a straight face. It’s the rest of you who look like guilty children caught with sweetcakes under your cloaks.”

Gael folded her arms. “That’s rich, coming from you. You’re the first to choke on your wine whenever Alyssa calls Vaegon a sour lemon.”

“Only because it’s true!” Daemon shot back, grinning.

“See?” said Alyssanne with exasperated fondness. “That grin alone would betray us.”

Septa Maegelle cleared her throat, hands clasped primly in her lap. “I suggest we all practice our ‘serious faces.’ When Vaegon and Alyssa spar, we must appear as though listening with dignity, not… tallying.”

Baelon groaned. “Gods help us. Next you’ll have us reciting prayers to keep from laughing.”

At that, Septon Barth adjusted his spectacles and spoke with ponderous gravity. “Discipline is essential. A neutral expression may be cultivated through practice. Observe—” He promptly arranged his face into a look of utter stoicism, as if contemplating the mysteries of the known world.

Daemon lasted all of three heartbeats before bursting into laughter. “You look constipated, not neutral!”

Even Jaehaerys chuckled, beard shaking. “Barth, if you keep that face at table, Alyssa will send for the Grandmaester thinking you’ve suffered a seizure.”

Barth, entirely unshaken, replied, “Better she thinks me ill than suspects the truth.”

“Signal words, then,” Alyssanne declared, cutting through their laughter with a regal wave. “If any of us falters, we cough—or drop a spoon—so the rest may cover. No one laughs alone.”

“Cover stories,” Baelon added, warming to the game. “If Alyssa asks what we whisper of, we say we are discussing her students, or the harvest, or the repairs to the Dragonpit. Anything but the truth.”

Gael leaned back, sighing as though she could hardly believe herself. “We are a family of Royalty and septas… plotting like cutpurses in a tavern. Fourteen save me.”

The candles guttered in the stale air of the secret chamber, their light glinting off coins that had bought not power, nor armies, but laughter. And so the greatest minds and loftiest rulers of Westeros rehearsed the fine art of pretending not to care, even as they cared far too much.

In the lower halls of the Red Keep, where kitchen smoke mingled with the tang of lye soap, servants and guards whispered over their trenchers of bread and broth.

“I swear to the Seven,” muttered one scullion, wiping his hands on his apron, “I’ve seen less theatrics in a mummer’s farce than what goes on at royal supper.”

A grey-haired maid cackled into her cup. “The way the King and Queen try not to laugh! And Prince Baelon—always leaning forward like he’s waiting for the punchline.”

Even one of the castle guards, a broad-shouldered knight polishing his gauntlet, allowed himself a smirk. “The worst is young Prince Daemon. He near chokes on his wine every night. If Princess Alyssa or Prince Vaegon don’t notice soon, I’ll eat my helm.”

“Don’t you think it strange?” asked a younger servant, lowering her voice. “How none of them say a word to Princess Alyssa or Prince Vaegon? As if their sparring were… sport.”

“Aye,” said the grey-haired maid with a knowing look. “Mark me, there’s some mischief afoot. And the whole royal brood’s in on it but the ones being mocked.”

The guards laughed, shaking their heads. “Oblivious, the both of them. Seven blessings it stays that way.”

The next supper in the Red Keep began innocently enough, the royal family gathered at the long oaken table as platters of roasted capon and trencher bread were set before them. The hall was filled with the clatter of knives, the muted shuffle of servants, and the occasional yawn from Prince Daemon, who had been dragged to the table despite preferring the freedom of the training yard But beneath the surface—beneath every polite inquiry after health, every passing of a dish—tension shimmered like heat on stone. The conspirators were all on edge. Septon Barth’s first wager was in play tonight, and though he had couched it in terms of philosophy and probability (“Vaegon’s temperament, when measured against Princess Alyssa’s provocations, will surely incline toward detonation within the span of this meal”), he was nonetheless subject to the same rules as the rest of them: keep your face straight, or lose your coin.

The servants had already noted the strange stillness at the high table. “They look like mummers on a stage,” one scullion whispered as he passed wine. “Staring at the princess and her brother as though a jest were about to begin.”

“Aye,” said a knight of the Kingsguard at the doorway, arms folded. “I’d swear the King and Queen are watching a play. What do they know that we don’t?”

“Better question,” a kitchen maid muttered with a grin, “is when Princess Alyssa will notice it herself.”

At the high table, the play was indeed underway.

Princess Alyssa, bright-eyed from her day after riding Meleys, spoke animatedly about a hawk she had seen near the city walls. “A fine creature, swift as a dart. I should very much like to tame one,” she declared.

Vaegon, ever the dry scholar, did not even look up from his trencher. “Hawks cannot be tamed. They can only be broken.”

Alyssa scoffed. “You speak of books again. You would know naught of taming beasts, brother.”

The first ripple went through the conspirators. King Jaehaerys’s hand tightened faintly on his cup; Queen Alysanne kept her lips firmly closed, though a smile tugged at the corners. Prince Baelon nearly choked on his wine, masking it with an over-loud cough. Even Daemon, small though he was, leaned forward with avid interest, waiting for sparks.

And Septon Barth—poor Septon Barth—folded his hands, eyes darting between the two young combatants with all the intensity of a man studying the outcome of a sacred ritual. “It begins,” he murmured under his breath, which was just loud enough for Prince Baelon to hear. Baelon nearly collapsed into his trencher from suppressed laughter.

Across the table, Lady Aemma Arryn, cheeks rosy with mischief, bit her lip till it nearly bled. Princess Gael pressed her little hand over her mouth, giggling soundlessly. Septa Maegelle and Septa Rhaelle both bowed their heads in exaggerated piety, though one could see their shoulders shaking.

The servants, meanwhile, were exchanging glances. “What in the Seven Hells is wrong with them all?” one whispered.

Barth tried, truly he did, to hold himself with clerical dignity. But as Alyssa and Vaegon’s words sharpened, his composure began to fray.

“You call it breaking, I call it training,” Alyssa shot back. “A hawk learns to trust its handler.”

“Trust? Foolishness. The hawk hungers, therefore it returns,” Vaegon replied with clinical finality.

Barth made a strangled sound, halfway between a laugh and a cough. All heads turned slightly—too slightly, too unitedly—toward him. The mask cracked. His lips twitched. His shoulders trembled.

And then, with the solemnity of a man making confession, Barth whispered, “It is exactly as I predicted.”

The effect was disastrous.

Baelon slammed his fist into the table to cover his wheeze, rattling the cutlery. Daemon howled outright, and Aemma dissolved into giggles so loud that Alyssa turned toward her with suspicion. Even Jaehaerys’s beard shook with suppressed mirth, though he tried to mask it with a feigned cough.

“Is something amiss?” Alyssa asked, narrowing her eyes.

“Nothing, dear,” Alysanne said sweetly, dabbing her lips. But her eyes darted sideways at Barth, whose face was now crimson from the effort of holding in laughter.

Vaegon, as ever, was not fooled. His sharp gaze swept the table. “You are all staring again. As though some silent jest passes over my head.”

That set off another round of stifled coughs and rustlings. Gael gave a little hiccup of laughter, which she tried to smother in her napkin. Aemma’s cheeks were wet with tears of suppressed mirth. Even Barth, who had been so desperate to join, now seemed to regret it, sweat shining on his brow as he attempted to school his features into neutrality.

Alyssa’s eyes narrowed further. “I should like to know what this jest is.”

The table froze.

“Indeed,” Vaegon said softly, suspicion curling in his voice. “I should very much like to know.”

The silence stretched, brittle as glass. Then Jaehaerys raised his goblet with kingly gravitas, as though the whole affair were beneath his notice. “Your Son's hawk is a fine beast, Alyssa,” he said smoothly. “A nameday gift from Aemma, is it?” the king asked.

He was met by murmurs of agreement from Baelon, Daemon and Aemma. It was enough. The tension broke, Alyssa sat back—though not entirely convinced—and the table resumed its measured clatter. But a seed of doubt had been planted.

Alyssa’s gaze lingered on her siblings, her children, her parents. On the way they looked at her, quick and guilty, their mouths twitching with secrets.

Something was off.

And Princess Alyssa Targaryen meant to find out what.

When the last trencher had been cleared and the servants dismissed, the conspirators lingered in the king’s solar under the pretense of a nightcap. No one dared speak of it until the doors were firmly shut and the chamber quiet save for the crackle of the hearth.

Baelon was the first to break. He collapsed into a chair with a gust of laughter, rubbing at his eyes. “Fourteen save us all, Barth, I thought you would split your seams. ‘It is exactly as I predicted,’ you said! Loud enough for half the table to hear!”

“That,” Gael added through her giggles, “was the most transparent thing I have ever seen. I nearly told Alyssa then and there just to spare you.”

Barth, grave and beet-red, lifted a hand as though in lecture. “I did not laugh. I merely… voiced an observation. One that happened to coincide with Princess Alyssa’s suspicion.”

“You near ruined us,” Alysanne said, though she could not keep the smile from her lips. She flicked her napkin playfully at the Hand. “Another heartbeat and Vaegon would have demanded answers.”

Viserys, who had been uncharacteristically silent, piped up with youthful alarm. “What if mother asks me about it later? She always does! I cannot keep secrets from her—she pulls them out of me like a fish from water!”

Aemma gave him a sharp look. "She won't"

Daemon, sprawled smugly on the rug before the hearth, snorted. “Then we need rules. Proper ones. To keep the game hidden.”

The idea caught like wildfire. Within moments they were all talking at once, voices overlapping, until Jaehaerys raised his hand and the room stilled.

“Calm yourself,” Maegelle said in her pious, maddeningly serene way. “All we need are stricter measures.”

“Yes!” Jaehaerys brightened, seizing upon it. “Rules. A new cover story. Perhaps—signal words! Yes, if one of them enters unexpectedly, we speak in code.”

“Signal words?” Gael asked, incredulous. “What, like ‘roast goose’?”

“Something natural,” Baelon agreed, nodding gravely. “We must choose carefully. A word that won’t raise suspicion.”

“‘Duck,’” Jaehaerys declared, pounding his fist with a touch too much pride. “If I say ‘duck,’ you all know to—”

“Duck under the table?” Daemon interrupted, grinning.

“No, you dolt, to stop wagering and look respectable!”

Alyssanne sighed, pressing fingers to her temple. “From Royalties to furtive gamblers in a rat-hole. What has become of us?”

Jaehaerys, unrepentant, only smiled. “Unity, my dear. That is what has become of us.”

The next morning’s meal was a quieter affair than most. Sunlight filtered through the high windows of the breakfast hall, and the scents of honeyed oats, fried trout, and fresh bread drifted across the table. Princess Alyssa Targaryen sat straight-backed at her place, her Green and Violet eyes sharper than a falcon’s. She spread clotted cream across her bread with delicate precision, though her attention was elsewhere.

“You were in high spirits last night, husband,” she said suddenly, her voice mild but her glance keen as a knife. “Laughing so freely at supper—was there some private jest?”

Prince Baelon stiffened slightly, nearly spilling his cup. He cleared his throat. “Only our father telling some—ah—musing about… the way Grand Maester Benifer used to snore. A harmless memory.”

Alyssa’s smile was thin. Her gaze slid, ever so smoothly, to Daemon, who had been halfway through stuffing a honey roll into his mouth.

“And you, my son? You laughed loudest of all. What tickled you so?”

Daemon blinked, crumbs clinging to his lips. His eyes flicked nervously from his mother to his father. “Uh… sauce. Yes. The sauce on the roast was… thick.”

Baelon pinched the bridge of his nose.

But Alyssa’s gaze turned last, and most piercing, upon poor Viserys. “And you, Viserys? What of you? Your mirth shook the table.”

Viserys froze, his fork clattering against his plate. His mouth opened, then shut, then opened again. “I—I was—ah—thinking of a… jest Grandfather made weeks ago. About… a goat. Very droll.”

His voice cracked on the last word.

Alyssa tilted her head, studying him in silence long enough for sweat to bead on his brow. She did not accuse, nor press further, but the silence itself felt damning. Then, with the faintest hum, she returned to her bread. Daemon smirked around his cup. Baelon muttered a curse into his wine. And Viserys, pale as milk, sagged in his seat, utterly undone.

The solar smelled faintly of parchment and dust, warmed by the sun that slanted through high, narrow windows. Shelves sagged with scrolls and tomes, their spines cracked from long use. Prince Viserys sat at the long oaken table with his quills, inks, and ledgers neatly arranged before him, though his hand shook as he reached for the parchment.

Across from him, his uncle Prince Vaegon perched with rigid poise, his pale eyes cool, unblinking, and entirely unamused.

“Today’s lesson,” Vaegon began, adjusting his spectacles, “concerns illegal gaming, gambling, and wagering, and the disparate treatments of such practices across Westeros and Essos.”

Viserys felt his stomach lurch violently.

Vaegon continued, voice clipped as ever. “First, the general statutes in the Crownlands: by royal decree, betting on games of chance, dice, cards, or contests of strength is outlawed, punishable by heavy fines. Yet, paradoxically, exceptions exist for wagers placed during festivals sanctioned by the Faith, such as the Maiden’s Day tourneys. Note that hypocrisy.”

Viserys scribbled, though his quill blotted ink in great nervous splotches. His mind screamed: Gods be good, he knows. He must know. He can see it on my face—

“And in the Reach,” Vaegon went on, oblivious to the torment he inflicted, “coin-wagers are technically unlawful, yet ignored if the event is hosted by a noble house. Hence, lords gamble freely, while smallfolk are punished for the same act. Typical.”

Viserys swallowed hard. He thought of the coins his grandfather had pressed into his palm only two nights past, Baelon’s booming laugh, his grandmother’s raised brows, Septa Maegelle’s careful tallying of points like a scribe at prayer.

“Uncle—” Viserys croaked, then faltered. “That is—ah—how curious.”

Vaegon’s gaze sharpened. “What is curious?”

Viserys nearly fainted. He scrambled, words tripping from his lips. “Only—that nobles are free to—ah—indulge where others are punished. Yes. Curious. Ha.”

“Ha?” Vaegon repeated flatly.

Viserys wanted to melt into the floor. Viserys’ quill stuttered again. He imagined his devout Aunt Maegelle presiding over ledgers with her serene piety, redistributing coins from her siblings’ jests, and he nearly burst into nervous laughter. He covered it with a cough so violent it rattled the inkpot.

Vaegon peered at him, brows knitting. “Have you taken ill, nephew?”

Viserys waved both hands, pale and frantic. “No, no, merely—merely a tickle in the throat! Quite fine, quite fine.”

“Then focus,” Vaegon said, unimpressed. “To conclude: though gambling remains, in most cases, unlawful, men and women of every station continue to indulge. The law, as ever, struggles against the will of men to make sport of chance. This hypocrisy is fertile ground for corruption, smuggling, and—”

He paused, squinting. “Viserys. Why are you avoiding my eyes?”

Viserys froze, his quill snapping in his grip. Ink bled into his fingers.

“I—I thought to concentrate on my notes,” he stammered, hastily shoving his parchment forward as evidence. “See? Detailed. Thorough. Very thorough.”

Vaegon leaned forward, studying the smudged, half-legible script. At last he leaned back, unimpressed but appeased.

“Sloppy,” he judged. “But sufficient.”

Viserys nearly wept with relief.

“Now,” Vaegon said briskly, “compose me a five-hundred word treatise on why the hypocrisy of gambling laws undermines the very justice they pretend to enforce.”

Viserys groaned inwardly, his hand already aching.

“And remember, nephew,” Vaegon added coldly, “cheating one’s family in wagers is the lowest form of dishonor.”

Viserys nearly toppled from his chair.

Viserys staggered out of his uncle’s solar as though he had just survived a battle. His hands were stained with ink, his doublet clung damp with sweat, and the words “cheating one’s family is the lowest form of dishonor” echoed in his skull like a curse.

He descended the stone steps, nodding too fast to passing servants. “All well, yes, all well,” he assured one maid who merely asked if he’d like water. His grin was so strained she dropped into a hasty curtsey and fled as if he’d gone mad.

At midday meal, he barely touched his plate of roasted chicken. Aemma noticed at once, eyes dancing.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she whispered, nudging his arm.
“I’ve seen something far worse,” he muttered darkly. “A lecture.”

Later, during sword practice, Daemon clapped him on the shoulder with boyish vigor. “What’s got you skulking about like a whipped dog, brother?”
Viserys flinched so hard he dropped his practice blade. “Nothing! Nothing at all.”
Daemon narrowed his eyes, then grinned wickedly. “You’re hiding something.”
Viserys turned scarlet, stammered, “I am not,” and tripped over his own feet in retreat, much to the amusement of the squires nearby.

The next dinner in the Red Keep began innocuously enough—platters of roast duck, honeyed turnips, and spiced wine being passed beneath the glittering light of a thousand candles. The family gathered as they had so many times before, the great, long table lined with silver dishes and dragon-sewn banners fluttering faintly in the draft of the hall. Yet beneath the warmth of kinship, there hung a tautness so fine it could have been mistaken for nothing at all.

For every conspirator at the table knew the stakes: their little game, their secret wager, rested on silence. And now, of all men, it was the King himself who threatened to unravel it.

Jaehaerys Targaryen, in his wisdom and his age, had carried himself through wars, councils, and debates that might have unmanned a lesser king. Yet here, faced only with his children, grandchildren, and a supper of duck and root, he found his tongue slip, traitorously, toward ruin.

“—Well, let us hope Alyssa and Vaegon do not come to blows tonight,” he began, offhanded, a smile tugging faintly at his lips. “Elsewise, I would be forced to—”

A silence fell so sharp the servants froze in place, holding ewers of wine mid-pour.

Around the table, every conspirator moved as one:

Queen Alyssanne fixed her husband with a stare that could have gutted a dragon, her delicate hand tightening on his wrist beneath the table. Not another word.

Prince Baelon, ever quick with a jest, stuffed a piece of bread in his mouth so forcefully he nearly choked, his jaw clamping shut to smother the laugh that wanted to come.

Septa Maegelle crossed herself and bowed her head into her lap, murmuring prayers, though her shoulders shook suspiciously with mirth.

Princess Gael leaned so far over her cup of watered wine that her nose nearly dipped into it, her lips pressed tight, her cheeks burning scarlet with the effort not to giggle.

Septa Rhaelle’s fingers turned white against her rosary, her eyes darting between her uncle and cousin as though sheer will alone might keep them all from damnation.

Viserys, poor boy, paled as if the Stranger himself had brushed his cheek. He looked ready to faint, the horror of impending discovery written plain across his face.

Daemon smirked like a cat that had just stolen the cream, daring fate to strike them all down.

Lady Aemma covered her mouth with both hands, feigning a cough that fooled precisely no one.

And at the far end, Septon Barth, hand of the king, leaned forward with grave solemnity and intoned, “A most… insightful observation, Your Grace.” His tone dripped with such careful earnestness it might have fooled a council of archmaesters, though sweat gleamed along his brow.

The look the others gave him—every man, woman, and child—was near murderous. Not a glance of loyalty, not even camaraderie. It was the silent, urgent scream of hold, hold, do not break, if we falter now we are lost.

Meanwhile, the two objects of all wagers sat unknowing, though not entirely blind.

Princess Alyssa’s eyes narrowed at her father. “What do you mean by that, Father?”

And Maester-Prince Vaegon, his fork paused midair, studied the room with that sharp, cutting intelligence that left no stone unturned. “Indeed,” he said, his voice like the cold scrape of a quill on parchment. “There seems to be some… amusement here. Shall we share it, or is this yet another jest kept private at my expense?”

If ever the hall had held its breath, it was then.

Jaehaerys, with all the dignity of a dragonlord, cleared his throat and reached for his goblet. “Merely a father’s hope, my children,” he said, his voice steady though Alyssanne’s nails dug crescent moons into his palm beneath the table. “That the meal might pass… peacefully.”

Alyssa’s suspicion lingered, but she turned back to her plate. Vaegon, though, was not so easily soothed. His gaze swept the table—lingering on Barth’s false piety, on Viserys’s trembling lip, on Gael’s downturned face—and though he said nothing more, it was plain that a seed had been planted.

Later, when the family dispersed, Alyssa caught her brother in a quiet corridor, their steps echoing against the stone. For once, her words bore no sting.

“They’re hiding something,” she murmured.

Vaegon adjusted his robes, his mouth tightening in thought. “Yes. For once, sister, I find myself in agreement with you.”

Neither spoke more, but the air between them was heavy. For the first time in many suppers, no insults were traded. Instead, suspicion bound them together, where rivalry usually kept them apart. The game had gone on too long. And though the conspirators still laughed in their hidden corners, the board had begun to shift beneath their feet.

The conspirators convened in their accustomed chamber that night, The King's solar whose windows opened onto the dark sweep of Blackwater Bay. The sea wind crept in to stir the rushes on the floor, but within the room it was stifling, thick with the tension of near-ruin.

Queen Alyssanne wasted no time. As soon as the door was barred, she rounded on her husband with the fury of a woman who had kept her composure far too long.

“Do you mean to bring us all to ruin, husband?” she hissed, voice sharp as a drawn blade. “Of all men in the realm, you, who should know better than any, nearly threw the game to Alyssa and Vaegon with one careless tongue!”

Jaehaerys, normally unassailable, stood very much like a boy caught sneaking tarts before supper. He smoothed his beard with regal dignity, though his eyes darted to the others as though for support. “It was but a jest,” he muttered. “Nothing more.”

“A jest?” Baelon barked, pacing like a caged wolf. “A jest that near had Alyssa’s claws in us and Vaegon’s suspicion turned full upon our table! By the Fourteen, Father, I near choked on my bread trying to cover for you.”

Viserys, who had indeed turned pale enough to faint, slumped into a chair, still ashen. “I thought we were doomed. He was looking at me, Uncle Vaegon was looking at me as if he already knew!”

Daemon clapped his elder brother hard on the shoulder, grinning in that reckless way of his. “And yet you lived, didn’t you? Seven save me, Viserys, you near shat yourself at the table.”

“Daemon,” Alyssanne snapped, though her lips twitched despite herself.

Princess Gael had stuffed her fist in her mouth to keep from laughing earlier; now she let it out in a muffled giggle. “He did look as if the Stranger were seated at his elbow…”

“Enough,” said Septon Barth, stepping forward with that calm gravity that lent weight to every word he spoke. “Her Grace is correct. We skate upon thin ice, my friends. The game is delightful, aye, but we must recall that its players—Princess Alyssa and Prince Vaegon—are sharp of wit, especially the latter. One slip more, and we may find our harmless diversion turned into scandal.”

Jaehaerys harrumphed, but he did not meet his wife’s eyes. “A king is not accustomed to holding his tongue.”

“Then learn it, husband,” Alyssanne shot back, folding her arms. “Elsewise you shall have no supper wager left to spoil, for our children will put an end to it themselves.”

Baelon sank into a chair with a heavy sigh, rubbing at his temple. “He is right, though. Vaegon’s stare—it cut through me like steel. If he suspects us…” He trailed off, then gave a crooked grin. “Seven hells, but I never thought I’d fear a brother of mine more than the Dornish.”

The conspirators fell into uneasy silence, the laughter that usually buoyed their secret gatherings stilled by the brush with disaster. Then, at last, Daemon snorted and leaned back, lacing his hands behind his head.

“Well,” he drawled, “if we are all doomed, I pray at least we have one more supper to see Mother and Uncle Vaegon claw each other’s eyes out. Elsewise, what was the point of all this?”

Even Alyssanne cracked a reluctant smile at that, though she shook her head. “One more supper, perhaps. But not if my lord husband cannot keep his tongue behind his teeth.”

Jaehaerys, though thoroughly chastened, managed a faint, guilty grin. “I shall be as silent as the crypts of Dragonstone, wife. You have my word.”

But the conspirators exchanged looks among themselves—looks that said plainly they were not so sure.

The chamber was quiet, save for the faint pop and hiss of logs burning low in the hearth. Alyssa sat at the edge of the bed, unpinning her silver hair with slow, deliberate motions. Her eyes, sharp even in half-shadow, followed Baelon as he tugged off his boots with a grunt that was perhaps a little too forceful.

“Tell me, husband,” Alyssa began, her tone deceptively mild, “why is it that at supper, whenever my brother and I speak, half the family looks as though they are hiding laughter?”

Baelon froze mid-boot, one foot half in, half out. His face tried for innocence, but managed only a shade too much sweat. “Laughter? What, laughter? I—no, no, you must have imagined it.”

Alyssa arched one fine brow. “Imagined? Father dropped his spoon. Daemon choked on his wine. Gael turned scarlet. And Viserys looked as though he were about to faint dead away.”

Baelon yanked the boot free with an exaggerated huff, avoiding her gaze. “Well, you know Viserys. He’s soft of stomach. Daemon is a fool. Father… his hand slips more often these days. And Gael—well, she’s always flushed, isn’t she? Like a—like a boiled lobster.”

“A lobster,” Alyssa repeated flatly.

“Yes!” Baelon seized upon it with sudden vigor. “A lobster. And as for me—well, I was concentrating on the roast duck. Fine duck tonight. Excellent bird. Cooked just so.” He nodded to himself, as though he had solved the puzzle by sheer force of duck.

Alyssa narrowed her eyes, studying him. He gave her his most winning grin, the one that usually worked to smooth quarrels. For a long moment, her suspicion sharpened. Then, with a sigh, she relented, shaking her head.

“Seven save me, Baelon, you are hopeless. Go on, then. Sleep, before you talk yourself into another hole.”

Baelon all but collapsed onto the bed in relief, rolling to his side. Alyssa extinguished the candle, though her thoughts lingered. For the moment, his alibi held—but only barely.

When the family gathered again in the Dining hall, the conspirators had sworn amongst themselves that this time, they would be perfectly normal. No wide-eyed glances. No suppressed snorts. No strangled coughing. Just dignified, composed royals at supper.

And so they were—too much so.

Queen Alyssanne held her spoon with the stiff precision of a septa at prayer, lifting it to her lips as though demonstrating table manners to a crowd. Jaehaerys chewed slowly, thoughtfully, far too thoughtfully, nodding at nothing in particular. Baelon sipped his wine like a man trying not to drown. Maegelle smiled so serenely it bordered on madness. Gael blinked furiously, willing herself not to laugh. Daemon whistled under his breath until a sharp look from his grandmother silenced him.

Even the septas Rhaelle and Barth sat bolt-upright, expressions blank as stone. And poor Viserys—he sweated, dabbed his brow, and stared firmly at his plate, refusing to so much as glance at Vaegon.

The effect was uncanny.

Alyssa’s fork clinked against her plate as she set it down. “What,” she said at last, her voice cutting through the silence like a knife, “in the Stranger’s name is wrong with all of you?”

Vaegon, across the table, adjusted his maester’s chain with deliberate calm. “At last,” he said, eyes narrowing, “my dear sister speaks the truth aloud. They are acting as though seated in a mummer’s farce, all stiff faces and strangled coughs. It is most unnatural.”

Every conspirator stiffened.

“We are perfectly natural,” Jaehaerys declared, a shade too quickly.

“Perfectly,” echoed Alyssanne, her smile brittle.

“Natural as the sun in the sky,” Baelon added, wiping his brow.

“Mm,” said Alyssa, eyes sharp as dragonsteel.

Vaegon’s gaze swept the table. He tapped his goblet once, lightly, a scholar’s gesture marking emphasis. “Then why is it,” he said slowly, “that whenever my sister and I exchange words, you all watch us so intently? As though waiting for… something?”

A silence fell, heavy and dangerous.

Daemon coughed. Gael pinched his arm beneath the table. Viserys nearly dropped his cup.

And for once, Alyssa and Vaegon did not trade barbs. Instead, they looked upon their kin with dawning suspicion—two sharp minds aligning in the same unease.

Elsewhere, in the quiet of the library, Alyssa and Vaegon sat opposite one another at a long oak table, a single candle guttering between them. For once, no insults passed their lips.

“You saw it too,” Alyssa said at last, her voice low.

Vaegon steepled his fingers, eyes glinting. “Indeed. Their composure was… too precise. As if they were players upon a stage.”

Alyssa leaned back, crossing her arms. “And they only grow stranger when you and I quarrel. Father avoids my eyes. Mother smiles too tightly. Baelon sweats like a man under interrogation. And the rest—snickering, twitching, as if suppressing… something.”

“Something,” Vaegon echoed. “But what?”

She tilted her head, studying him. “You are the clever one, brother. What do you suppose they are hiding?”

Vaegon’s lips pressed thin. “A jest, perhaps. A plot. Some… diversion at our expense.”

Alyssa smirked faintly, though it did not reach her eyes. “At our expense, you think?”

He met her gaze. For once, there was no sharpness, only suspicion shared between them.

“Yes,” he said simply.

The candle burned low, its flame bending in the draft. Two sharp minds, for once united, turned toward a single truth: their family was hiding something. And whatever it was, it circled them.

The Red Keep’s great hall glowed warmly that evening, torches throwing flickering light across silver goblets and trenchers heaped with roast fowl. It should have been like any other family dinner: laughter, chatter, and—most crucially—the familiar, barbed exchanges between Princess Alyssa and Prince Vaegon that had, for nearly a year, been the highlight of every meal.

But tonight, when Alyssa swept into the hall in a gown of Black and Red and took her place opposite her brother, she merely inclined her head. No comment about his robes. No sigh about his lectures.

Vaegon returned the gesture, eyes steady, lips closed.

And silence fell.

At first, it seemed harmless—just a pause before the evening’s usual theatrics. But as the moments ticked by, the silence stretched taut, like a lute string ready to snap.

Daemon, usually first to stifle a snicker, coughed into his goblet. Gael pressed her lips tight, as though forcing herself not to break. Baelon shifted in his chair, cleared his throat, and then reached for the bread trencher with far too much force, scattering crumbs.

Jaehaerys, the King himself, suddenly found the need to study his wine as though it held the answers to dragonlore. Beside him, Alyssanne forced a smile so brittle it looked ready to shatter.

“Lovely… lovely roast tonight,” the Queen ventured.

“Indeed,” Maegelle said too quickly, seizing upon the thread like a drowning woman clutching driftwood. “The seasoning is… most precise.”

Across the table, Aemma’s brows knit. She leaned toward Viserys, whispering behind her hand, “Do you see them?”

“I see everything,” Viserys whispered back, eyes wide in horror.

But it was the Hand, Septon Barth, who betrayed the first true crack. He shifted in his seat, opened his mouth as though to quote some learned passage, then abruptly shut it. His fingers twitched toward the tablecloth, tapping nervously.

Alyssa noticed. So did Vaegon.

The meal dragged on. Dishes were passed, wine poured, polite words exchanged—all with the air of players who had lost their script. The two siblings said nothing, and every heartbeat of their silence turned the conspirators’ composure into farce.

By the time dessert was set down—sugared plums and lemon cakes—the entire table looked as though they’d run a gauntlet.

Only Alyssa and Vaegon were calm.

Later, in the stillness of the library, they met again.

Alyssa closed the heavy door, pressing her back against it. “Did you see them?”

Vaegon, pacing before the hearth, gave a short nod. “They could scarcely contain themselves. The moment we withheld our usual exchanges, they unraveled.”

“Father could not look up from his cup.”

“Mother smiled like a mask.”

“Baelon fumbled the bread.”

“Daemon,” Vaegon added with disdain, “looked ready to burst.”

Alyssa chuckled despite herself, though her eyes gleamed with intent. “But the one who cracked first—”

“Barth,” Vaegon finished. “The Hand of the King, tapping at the cloth as though tallying sums.”

Alyssa folded her arms, leaning back against the shelves of books. “Then we agree. He is the weakest link.”

“Too scholarly for guile,” Vaegon said. “Too honest for deceit. If we are to uncover this plot, we must watch him.”

Alyssa smiled faintly, though her mind burned with suspicion. “Then let us shadow him, dear brother. And see what truths spill from our good Hand’s lips.”

For once, there was no sting in her words—only conspiracy shared.

And somewhere, deep in the Red Keep’s hidden passages, their family’s “secret society” had no idea that the game had just shifted against them.

The very next day, the Keep was already buzzing. Servants with feather dusters paused mid-sweep to whisper; washerwomen bent over basins to exchange knowing smirks. Even the guards outside the royal apartments had coins tucked into their palms, wagering not on who would win the next tilt or tourney—but on how long it would take Alyssa and Vaegon to uncover the truth.

“They’re sniffin’ round already,” muttered one kitchen boy, slapping dough.
“Princess Alyssa’s sharper than the lot of ‘em,” replied a maid, “but Prince Vaegon’s got the nose of a hound for books and secrets. Together—Seven save us—they’re unstoppable.”

By mid-morning, the gossip had reached the very guards sworn to silence. Two of them stood at the door to the solar, muttering as they passed coins back and forth.
“Three hours before they catch the Hand.”
“I’ll say less than one. Barth sweats like a hog when he’s lying.”

And so it was, with half the Red Keep already laying meta-bets of their own, that Alyssa and Vaegon fell into step, shadowing Barth like hawks on a rabbit.

Vaegon, naturally, insisted on strategy. He spoke in hushed tones, cloak pulled up to his chin.
“Observe the gait,” he whispered. “Deceptive calm. He thinks he appears pious. But note the twitch of the left hand—classic sign of guilt.”

Alyssa rolled her eyes but followed, amused despite herself. “He’s just old, brother. The man’s joints ache.”
“Achy joints do not lead one to sneak toward the Queen’s solar with eyes darting like a thief,” Vaegon retorted.

They ducked behind pillars, wove through servants, and nearly toppled a tray of roasted capons in their pursuit. At last, Barth, muttering prayers under his breath, slipped through the door to the solar. Alyssa and Vaegon exchanged a look, nodded in unison, and pressed close to the carved oak panels—ears straining.

Inside, chaos reigned. The solar, usually a sanctuary of light and order, was now filled with a dozen royals and septas all talking at once. Baelon paced, running a hand through his hair; Queen Alysanne wrung her hands; Daemon and Gael squirmed at the corner, stifling laughter at the adults’ frantic faces.

“They know!” hissed Aemma, cheeks blotched red.
“Nonsense!” boomed Jaehaerys, though his eyes were wider than usual. “We remain calm. Proceed as normal, else we look suspicious.”

“But the Princess Alyssa is already looking at me oddly,” Barth wheezed, dabbing his brow with a kerchief.
“She always looks at you oddly,” muttered Baelon.

“Quiet, all of you,” snapped the King. “We do what we have always done. We open the wagers.”

At once, the solar erupted in renewed chatter. Alyssa’s name and Vaegon’s flew about the room like shuttlecocks in a game of battledore.

“Double or nothing!” cried Daemon, a little too eager.
“I stake mine on Mother,” Daemon piped up with a grin.
“And I on Vaegon,” declared Alyssanne primly, as though it were a holy decree.

When the dust settled, the sides had been drawn:

• Alyssa: Jaehaerys, Baelon, Daemon, Viserys, and Gael.

• Vaegon: Alysanne, Maegelle, Barth, Aemma, and Rhaelle.

The door burst open at that very moment. Alyssa and Vaegon strode in, eyes blazing. For the first time in years, they stood shoulder to shoulder—not against one another, but against the absurdity before them.

“YOU?!” Alyssa’s voice cracked like a whip. “All of you—every last one—betting on me and my brother as if we were… were hounds in a pit!”

“My love, wait—” Baelon began.
“Don’t you My Love me, Baelon Targaryen,” Alyssa snapped. “You, of all people—my husband—daring to stake coin against me while I carried your sons in my belly?!”
Baelon flinched, stammering, “I—I always bet on you, never against—”
“Oh, well that makes it noble, does it?!” Alyssa shot back.

Vaegon turned, eyes narrowing at his father. “And you, Father. High and mighty King Jaehaerys, lecturing on propriety, dignity, the good of the realm—yet here you are, wagering like a Flea Bottom drunkard on dice.”
The King, uncharacteristically flustered, tugged at his beard. “It was… to lighten the mood.”
“To lighten the mood!” Vaegon thundered. “Do you write that in your codices, Your Grace? ‘On Matters of the Realm: Chapter Nine, The Lightening of Mood by Gambling Against One’s Own Children’?!”

Jaehaerys blinked, stunned. “I… I—”
“No excuses!” Vaegon cut him off. Then he turned to the Queen. “And you, my Queenly Mother, who so often admonish us for folly, do you really believe that covering your coins with a prayer cloth absolves you of your complicity? Do the Seven Gods bless wagers made at the expense of your family?”

Daemon, Gael and Viserys snorted so loudly they nearly toppled from their chairs.

Vaegon then gestured at Daemon, Aemma, and Gael, the little rascals who had been caught with coin in hand. “And you three—who taught you to bet? Did your Kingly Grandfather taught you?You are children! Do you practice law before you gamble?”

Alyssa whipped around to Daemon, voice full of mock fury. “You! Do you understand the concept of honor at all? Or were you merely hoping to earn coin off your mother’s wit?”

Then Vaegon’s gaze snapped to Viserys. “You.”
Viserys froze, guilty as a cat with feathers on his lips.
“Have you learned nothing under my tutelage? I have taught you volumes on the codices against illegal gaming, and here you are—placing bets on whether my tongue might lash your mother!" Viserys muttered, “It was Father’s coin…”
“Do not drag your Father into this, boy!” Vaegon roared, though Baelon flushed, caught red-handed.

For a long, stunned moment, no one spoke. The accused looked like children caught dipping into the sweets jar, while Alyssa and Vaegon stood triumphant, though barely containing their bafflement.

“Unbelievable,” Alyssa muttered, pressing a hand to her brow. “The King and Queen of Westeros, reduced to gamblers in their own solar.”
“And the Hand,” Vaegon added mercilessly. “A scholar who preaches temperance, yet sweats over coin like a hedge-witch over her charms.”

Jaehaerys cleared his throat. “We… may have let it get out of hand.”
“May have?!” Alyssa and Vaegon chorused.

And though they raged, though they scolded, though Aemma prayed for the ground to swallow her, there was no hiding the truth: half the room was struggling not to laugh, and the other half—Daemon, Viserys Gael especially—were already plotting the next round of bets. Aemma buried her face in her hands, mumbling, “I regret every decision I have ever made.”

And Alyssa’s fury was not done. She whirled on the septas, skirts swishing.
“And you—Septa Maegelle, Septa Rhaelle! Guardians of virtue, defenders of propriety—you should be ashamed! Chanting prayers by day and placing wagers by night. Do you bless the coins before you lay them down, or after?”

Maegelle opened her mouth. “I—I—”
Rhaelle’s voice squeaked, “We thought—”
“We thought what?!” Alyssa thundered. “That virtue is for show while the coin rules in shadow?”

The room had barely settled from the storm of verbal lashes when Alyssa straightened, her hands on her hips, eyes narrowing like a mother dragon spotting a scrawny hare. “Enough,” she snapped. “All of you. You thought you could make sport of my words and you thought you could profit off it?” She gestured at the pile of coins, still scattered across the table. “I have one simple demand.”

The King blinked. The Queen froze. The conspirators all stared, unsure whether to flee or faint.

“You will donate every single gold piece, every single coin, that you earned in this… this farce, to the Princess Daella Memorial School for Women,” Alyssa announced. Her voice was sharp, relentless, and underlined with a kind of maternal fury that left even the most stoic of courtiers quivering. “You profit off my verbal clashes with my brother. The least you can do is ensure it serves a good cause.”

Jaehaerys, ever the diplomat, tried to soften it. “A clever suggestion, daughter,” he said, clapping slowly, “one might even applaud your—”

“STOOOP” came a chorus from Daemon and Viserys, nearly simultaneously, their faces contorting in horror. Alyssa’s eyes snapped to her sons. “You two,” she said, her voice dropping an octave, “do you hear yourselves?” The glare alone could have set the Iron Throne aflame.

Vaegon stepped forward, the rare smile of triumph tugging at the corners of his mouth. “And I will add one more measure of penance,” he said, voice firm. “You—all of you—will dedicate two hours each day for the next fortnight to the school.”

Viserys’ jaw nearly hit the floor. “Two hours? Every day?” he stammered.

“Yes,” Vaegon confirmed, gesturing at King, Queen, the Hand, Princes, princess, septas, and Lady Aemma. “Cleaning. Garden duties. Teaching. Overseeing. And when anyone asks why you are there, your reply is simple: ‘We would like to volunteer two hours of our time to the school.’ Nothing more, nothing less. Alyssa and I will ensure no one in the public knows the real reason.”

The conspirators exchanged wide-eyed looks. Jaehaerys muttered something about “teaching humility in the royal family,” while Barth, ever the scholar, tried to nod in solemn approval, though he couldn’t hide a faint smile.

Daemon whispered to Gael, “This is… actually humiliating.”

Gael snorted, but her amusement was tempered with admiration. “And well deserved,” she muttered under her breath.

Alyssa’s tail of fire didn’t waver. “This stops now. The Royal Gambling Society,” she spat the words as though they were bitter herbs, “is dismantled immediately.”

Vaegon swept an arm over the remaining coin, now trembling in the hands of the groaning conspirators. “And let it be known that any attempt to recreate this… enterprise… without our unanimous knowledge will be met with twice the volunteer penance.”

The conspirators groaned in unison, some sitting down with theatrical despair. But there was no arguing. Alyssa and Vaegon had the upper hand, and the room knew it.

Meanwhile, outside the private chambers, the servants and the kingsguards were scurrying, paying off their own bets. Whispers of Alyssa and Vaegon’s triumph raced through the Red Keep like wildfire. The betting pool had been caught, the secret exposed, and for the first time in moons, the chaos of the royal wagers was truly, completely, dismantled. Meanwhile, Sabitha Vypren who acted as Queen Alyssanne's secret agent is tallying insults exhaled in relief. Thank God they did not rat me out.

The sun rose bright over the spires of King’s Landing, but in the courtyard of the Princess Daella Memorial School for Women, it rose on a sight so absurd the servants whispered it would be retold for generations. For the first time in living memory, the King of Westeros was not seated upon the Iron Throne, nor even in his council chambers, but hunched on a little wooden stool before a gaggle of girls no older than ten.

“Now then,” Jaehaerys began, squinting at the wax tablet in his lap, “when one levies a tax upon grain, one must ensure…”

The girls stared up at him with wide, blank eyes. A few yawned. One was braiding her seatmate’s hair.

The King of the Seven Kingdoms cleared his throat, trying again. “Ahem. The basic principles of governance—order, justice, and balance. Can anyone repeat that back to me?”

A hand shot up. “Your Grace, when do we get to play outside?”

Jaehaerys pinched the bridge of his nose. “Seven save me.”

From the next chamber came the drone of Septon Barth’s voice, patient and methodical as he scrawled letters across a slate board. “This,” he intoned, “is the letter A. Repeat after me. Ahh.”

“Ahh,” the children chorused.

“Now B.”

“Beeeee.”

Barth looked like he was delivering a lecture to the Citadel, his back ramrod straight, his tone grave. “Remember, a society without literacy cannot thrive. You, my dear pupils, are the foundations of—”

“Septon?” piped up one girl. “Can we have honeycakes after?”

Barth froze, eyes darting to the wall that separated him from Jaehaerys, as if begging his King for rescue.

Meanwhile, in the kitchens, Queen Alyssanne herself was elbow-deep in flour. Her task: kneading dough beside the cheerful cook Torven, who looked one blink away from fainting.

“My Queen,” he stammered, watching her dust her hands with flour, “I never… never dreamed I’d see the day you’d… er… fold dough like that.”

“I am perfectly capable of kneading bread, Torven,” Alyssanne replied, cheeks flushed from the heat of the ovens. “Though may the Fourteen help me, the yeast is proving more stubborn than half the lords of the realm.”

Torven’s jaw nearly unhinged in awe. “The Queen of Westeros… in my kitchens!” He whispered it like a prayer. “Wait until my mother hears—she’ll think I’m lying!”

Alyssanne shot him a look. “If you breathe a word of this outside these walls, cook, I will personally see to it you spend the next fortnight scrubbing pots with my grandsons.”

At that, from the far corner, came the groans of Prince Daemon and Prince Viserys. Both princes were on hands and knees, sleeves rolled up, shoulders aching as they scrubbed the blackened bottoms of enormous cooking pots under the hawk-eyed watch of Maelyra, the school’s stern cooking instructor.

“Harder, lads,” Maelyra barked. “There should be no stain left. Do you think a stew fit for feeding twenty girls will simmer in a pot you’ve half-cleaned?”

Viserys muttered, “I study advanced law and Trade, not advanced pot-scrubbing.”

Daemon grinned, flicking soapy water at him. “Law won’t keep you from scrubbing, brother.”

“Enough chatter!” Maelyra snapped. “Prince Daemon, elbow grease! Prince Viserys, less sighing, more scrubbing.”

In the dormitories, Septa Maegelle and Septa Rhaelle were bent over fresh linens, tugging at corners of mattresses, their brows damp with sweat.

Maegelle grumbled under her breath, “Septas of royal blood, reduced to folding sheets…”

Rhaelle sighed, adjusting a pillow. “Perhaps it is good penance, cousin. Humility.”

Maegelle huffed. “Humility smells of stale straw.”

Not far away, in the sewing classrooms, Lady Aemma Arryn and Princess Gael were sweeping scraps of fabric and dusting the spindly sewing machines while the twin instructors, Rynn and Syra, supervised with arms folded.

“You missed a corner,” Rynn said, pointing.

“And that machine is still dusty,” Syra added.

Aemma groaned, hauling up a bin of scraps. “I am a Lady of the Vale! I was not meant to sweep like a scullion.”

Gael, grinning despite herself, flicked a bit of thread at her cousin. “You are meant to volunteer, remember? Unless you’d rather Alyssa tell all the court about the gambling pool.”

Aemma glared at her, cheeks red. “I curse the day Aunt Alyssa and Uncle Vaegon discovered it.”

In the gardens, the punishment had taken on a different shade of irony. Broad-shouldered Prince Baelon was stripped to the waist, tilling earth under the hot sun. Sweat rolled down his arms as he worked, the muscles of his back glistening.

And there, leaning against a fence post with folded arms, Princess Alyssa watched her husband like a cat eyeing cream.

“Harder,” she said, her voice low, almost teasing.

Baelon grunted, driving the hoe into the soil. “I till as well as I fight, woman.”

“I’ve noticed,” Alyssa murmured, eyes lingering far too long on the flex of his shoulders.

From the hedges, a group of giggling students whispered behind their hands. “Is that the Crown Prince? He looks like a farmer.”

“He looks better than any farmer I’ve seen,” another whispered back, blushing.

Baelon caught the sound and groaned, shooting Alyssa a look. “This was your idea, wasn’t it?”

Alyssa only smiled wickedly. “Consider it my reward.”

By afternoon, the school bustled with unlikely volunteers: the King teaching governance to children who only wanted sweetmeats, the Queen elbow-to-elbow with common cooks, septas wrestling with linens, heirs of the realm scouring pots, a Hand of the King teaching the alphabet, and lords and ladies sweeping fabric scraps.

And in every corner, servants whispered, kingsguards smirked, and the students giggled. The greatest punishment was not the work itself, but the sight of royalty humbled—reduced, for a fortnight, to the simple labors of common folk.

When asked why they were there, they all answered with gritted teeth:

“We would like to volunteer two hours of our time to the school.”

And though their pride stung, though their dignity smarted, no one could deny the truth: the Princess Daella Memorial School had never been so well-staffed… or so well-entertained.

Chapter Text

The Red Keep had not been so alive with rumor in years. For a fortnight the sight of the King of Westeros lecturing a class of ten girls on “basic governance” or the sight of Prince Daemon, cheeks flushed and hands raw, scrubbing kettles in the school kitchens had been the delight of every servant’s tongue. No tale spread so quickly as that of Queen Alyssanne herself, flour-streaked and elbow-deep in dough, or of mighty Prince Baelon bent shirtless beneath the sun with spade in hand, his wife watching like a hawk (or, as some whispered, a dragon with hunger in her eyes).

The tales grew legs, running from the Red Keep to Flea Bottom, from King’s Landing to Oldtown and White Harbor. None outside the family knew the true reason for the spectacle. To the wider realm, it seemed the royal family had, in some strange wave of piety, chosen to humble themselves with service.

What began as gossip soon became myth: proof, said the smallfolk, of a dynasty closer to the people than ever before. Among the higher circles, the tales carried other weight.

In the Reach, Riverlands, Stormlands, even as far as White Harbor and Gulltown, the noble daughters of great houses blushed and whispered of Viserys Targaryen, the young prince so good and noble he would stoop to volunteer at a school for women. “A husband both kind and dutiful,” declared one proud lady of the Reach. “If he would wash pots, he would keep a household well.”

And in court, it bore fruit.

One morning, as King Jaehaerys sat upon the Iron Throne, he found himself confronted not with petitions of land or law, but with the parade of lords bringing forth their daughters—bright-eyed girls in silks and brocades, cheeks flushed with hope. They curtsied deeply, some stealing glances at Viserys, who stood at his father’s side, trying with all his strength not to wilt under the collective weight of their stares.

The King, who had thought the clamor over his family’s public “penance” would end in laughter, now felt the old, familiar stone of duty pressing against his heart. Marriage. Succession. Legacy.

It was one thing to make light of wagers and chores. It was another to be reminded that his sons and daughters were the future of House Targaryen, and the realm would not let him forget it.

That night, after court had adjourned and the last petitioner had gone, King Jaehaerys slumped in his chair before the hearth of the Queen’s solar. His crown lay heavy on the table beside him, his hand rubbing the bridge of his nose as if he could massage away the years.

“I knew,” he muttered darkly, “I knew starting that wretched side hustle would bite me in the ass.”

Alyssanne smirked. “Side hustle?”

“The gambling society!” Jaehaerys groaned, throwing up his hands. “We could have been left well enough alone. But no, we had to make sport of Alyssa and Vaegon’s squabbling, and now—now half the realm believes we are saints humbling ourselves in kitchens and schoolrooms! And because of it, lords line up with their daughters, each with doe eyes fixed on Viserys. All because he scrubbed pots.”

Alyssanne smirked, but her eyes softened at her husband’s weariness. “It could be worse, my love. Better they offer their daughters to your son than their swords against your crown.”

“Perhaps,” Jaehaerys sighed, “but I tell you true, Aly. I thought I had a reprieve. For a fortnight, I was a man ridiculed for attempting and failing to teach in a classroom filled with a gaggle of girls, not a king pressed to secure the line. But now…” He shook his head. “Now I am cornered again. Duty never relents. Even comedy must bow before it.”

Alyssanne set her goblet aside and reached across the table, clasping his hand in hers. She didn’t tell him what weighed on her—that Aemma had flowered, that Viserys’s future was closer than he realized. Some truths could wait. For now, she let her husband vent, listening as she always had.

The next morning in the Great hall of the Red Keep, the spectacle still continued.

“May I present my daughter, Lady Merys of House Redwyne,” Lord Redwyne announced, beaming. A pretty girl stepped forward, curtseying low. She looked up through her lashes at Viserys, lips parting in what she thought was a coy smile.

Viserys shifted uncomfortably beside his grandfather, his palms damp. He bowed stiffly, muttering some awkward pleasantry that made Daemon snort aloud.

Next came a Florent, then a Fossoway, then a girl from House Manderly with hair the color of Chestnut. Each looked at Viserys as if he were already half theirs.

Daemon leaned toward Gael, who stood beside him. “Seven hells, he looks ready to faint.”

Gael muffled a giggle behind her hand. “He is redder than the Red Keep walls.”

When one bold daughter of House Wylde pushed forward and dared wink at him, Viserys nearly tripped over his own feet in bowing. The hall rippled with laughter.

It wasn’t only Viserys who drew eyes. A cluster of girls whispered and giggled when they spied Daemon, their stares lingering too long. “So handsome,” one dared to whisper audibly.

Daemon scowled at them and turned away, jaw tightening. Gael looked secretly satisfied. He was no knight to be ogled like a market horse.

And Aemma? Aemma stood silent, her face unreadable, eyes fixed somewhere beyond the procession of hopeful brides. If she felt anything, she gave no sign.

The sun is high during midday with the pillars and arches of the Red Keep casting long shadows across the corridors as Viserys and Aemma walked back from the hall. The echoes of the morning’s court session still lingered—lords and ladies, one after another, presented to Viserys with bright smiles, hopeful eyes, and subtle flirts.

Viserys shook his head, trying to suppress a grin. “Honestly, Aemma,” he said, glancing at her with mock exasperation, “if I had known that all these noble daughters had been trained in subtle eyebrow flicks and flustered curtsies, I would have brought a notebook to take notes.”

Aemma scoffed, folding her arms. “And yet here you are, blushing like a milkmaid caught stealing butter when they look at you.” Her tone was teasing, but her eyes flicked sharply at the memory of those girls lingering just a little too long near his shoulder.

“Milkmaid, am I?” Viserys shot back, smirking, trying to hide how deeply the memory of their eager gazes had unsettled him. “Funny, coming from you. Did you enjoy scrubbing the floors and dusting the sewing machines so much that you now feel qualified to lecture me?”

Aemma’s lips quirked into a smile. “Don’t think I didn’t notice how you practically flinched when you were elbow-deep in that cauldron of boiling water. Two weeks scrubbing pots, Viserys, and you still tried to maintain that princely posture of yours. It was… amusing.”

Viserys huffed, trying to appear dignified. “And you, A Lady of the Vale, looked as though you might drown under a mountain of scraps and fabric. How do you expect anyone to take you seriously if you wield a broom like it’s a sword?”

Aemma laughed, a short, clipped sound, but her eyes were sharp. “You’re just jealous that I didn’t flinch. Perhaps I was superior in my task, hmm? Maybe my royal rigor inspires fear in even the heir of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Viserys grinned, feeling the tension in him ease. “Fear? Perhaps. But if I’m honest… I was trying to remember how to survive a second without tripping over my own pride.”

For a beat, their teasing softened into something quieter. Their laughter slowed, and Viserys dared to glance at her more directly. Aemma noticed, and there was a flicker of warmth in her chest she didn’t want to show. Behind her teasing mask, she had felt a spark of anger when the other young ladies had fluttered around him, tried to catch his attention. She hid it quickly, pretending to adjust the sleeve of her gown as if nothing mattered.

“And yet,” Viserys said, voice dropping slightly, “you never once flinched, did you?”

Aemma’s cheeks warmed. “Unlike you.” Her tone was still light, but the corners of her lips betrayed the faintest smile. “Though I must admit… it was kind of satisfying watching you suffer.”

Viserys chuckled, then leaned slightly closer as if sharing a secret. “It’s… oddly comforting, isn’t it? Knowing that no matter how grand the hall, no matter how many ladies parade before me, at least I can suffer… and be teased… by someone who actually sees me clearly.”

Aemma paused, heart thumping. She looked at him sideways, hiding the flush on her cheeks. “Clearly, you still need lessons in humility. And perhaps in choosing who teases you.”

“And clearly,” Viserys replied, eyes locking with hers for a fraction longer than necessary, “I have someone whose teasing I don’t mind enduring.”

Aemma felt the smallest warmth of something soft and new, even as she steeled herself. She laughed, a quiet, almost reluctant laugh, and shook her head. “You’re hopeless.”

“Perhaps,” Viserys said with a small, self-satisfied grin. “But you’re learning to endure me.”

The teasing had softened now, but beneath it lingered the unspoken: a slow, careful blossoming of understanding, of rivalry turning into companionship, and perhaps something more. And while the other young ladies of the realm might have tried to catch his eye, Aemma’s gaze remained sharp, possessive, and quietly triumphant in its subtle jealousy.

From a shadowed corner of the corridor, just out of earshot, Daemon leaned lazily against a pillar, arms crossed, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. Beside him, Gael tried—unsuccessfully—to look indifferent, though the corner of her mouth betrayed amusement.

“Honestly,” Daemon drawled, glancing sideways at her, “I couldn’t help noticing how you were positively beaming when those other girls tried flirting with me back in the hall. Admit it—you don’t like them at me.”

Gael shot him a pointed look, raising one eyebrow. “Me? Interested in your… antics? Please. I was… merely observing. For, uh… tactical purposes.”

Daemon grinned, clearly not buying it. “Tactical, huh? Right. So, the moment I scowled at those desperate little butterflies of noble breeding, your tactical… uh… strategy succeeded?”

Gael’s lips twitched, betraying her struggle to stay serious. “Maybe it did. Or maybe you’re imagining things. That’s the problem with you, always assuming people are thinking about you.”

“Always assuming?” Daemon’s grin widened. “That’s rich coming from the girl who just spent the past five minutes trying to hide her pleasure from my glare.”

Gael’s blush was faint, but real. She swiped at her cheek, looking elsewhere, muttering, “You’re impossible.”

“I know,” Daemon said smugly. “And yet, somehow, you enjoy it.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice, teasing but not unkind. “Come on, admit it. You like it when I get annoyed at other ladies. You don’t like sharing, do you?”

Gael finally met his gaze, a spark in her eyes that mirrored his mischief. “Perhaps I don’t,” she said, her tone quiet but pointed, “but don’t flatter yourself too much. I merely… prefer my attention to be… focused.”

Daemon chuckled softly, leaning back against the pillar. “Noted. Focused, huh? I can live with that. As long as I get to annoy you in the meantime.”

Gael’s lips quirked into the smallest, reluctant smile. “You always will,” she said, voice softening. “And… I suppose… I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

From the corner of the corridor, they both stole glances at Viserys and Aemma down the hall, the teasing rivalry-turned-softening-affection playing out between the cousins. Daemon smirked. “Look at them. 10 stags say one of them confesses their feelings before the moonturns”

Gael snorted.”What is it with this family and Gambling?”

And with that, they melted back into the shadows, quietly enjoying the chaos of the Red Keep while their own playful tension simmered under the surface.

As they lingered near a fountain in the royal gardens, the murmur of voices drifted from the colonnade. A small group of the noble ladies who had been paraded at court earlier came into view, their silken gowns trailing over the marble as they laughed among themselves. Their eyes lit up when they noticed Viserys.

“Prince Viserys,” one of them sang, dipping into an overly demure curtsey. Another giggled, brushing an invisible strand of hair from her brow as if preparing for a portrait. “What a blessing to chance upon you here.”

A third leaned in with a practiced smile. “We were just saying how noble it was of you to give your time to that school. Such… humility is rare in a prince.”

Viserys shifted uncomfortably, fumbling for words, his ears burning red. “Ah, well, it was… penance, really. Nothing noble about it.”

The ladies tittered, as though he had just uttered a poetic verse. One of them leaned forward with a boldness that made Aemma’s jaw tighten. “Still, few men could look so dashing while scrubbing pots.”

Viserys sputtered, caught between mortification and protest. Before he could gather himself, Aemma stepped smoothly to his side, her hand brushing deliberately against his arm as though staking a silent claim. Her smile was polite, but her eyes gleamed with sharpness.

“Dashing?” she repeated, her tone sweet enough to mask the steel beneath. “You must not have seen the way he nearly jumped when the head cook shouted at him. I thought he might leap into the cauldron just to escape.”

The ladies blinked, caught off guard, their smiles faltering. Viserys coughed, choking back a laugh.

Aemma tilted her head, voice lilting with feigned innocence. “Still, I suppose it’s a sort of… charm, if one finds flinching princely.”

The ladies exchanged glances—some awkward, some dismayed—before retreating with half-hearted courtesies. As their figures disappeared down the colonnade, silence settled between Viserys and Aemma, broken only by the trickle of the fountain.

Viserys turned to her, incredulous. “Did you just—scare them off?”

Aemma lifted her chin. “I was only helping. You looked like you might faint.”

“You were jealous,” Viserys accused, though his voice wavered between teasing and hopeful, testing the thought aloud.

Aemma’s lips curved in a small, knowing smile. “Perhaps I simply couldn’t bear the thought of you tripping over your words again. For the sake of the realm, of course.”

Viserys studied her, the heat rising in his chest no longer from embarrassment. “Of course,” he echoed softly, though the smile tugging at his mouth betrayed his disbelief.

For a heartbeat, their eyes lingered on each other—something unspoken sparking quietly between them—before Aemma turned briskly toward the fountain, tossing back, “Come, Your Grace. Best we find somewhere you won’t be ambushed again.”

Viserys followed, still smiling despite himself, realizing with a start that for the first time, he didn’t mind the teasing at all.

Just a few steps behind them, the ladies who had drifted past Viserys now cast sidelong looks at Daemon. His reputation was murkier, but his striking Valyrian features—and the way he carried himself like he owned every inch of the path—made him a target nonetheless.

“Prince Daemon,” one lady purred as she walked by, “I hear you train harder than any man twice your age. Such dedication.”

Another fluttered her fan, eyes raking him over. “You must be dangerous with a sword.”

Daemon tilted his head, lips curving into a smirk that was equal parts invitation and mockery. “Dangerous enough,” he said. “Though perhaps not with swords you’d care for.”

Just a few steps behind them, the ladies who had drifted past Viserys now cast sidelong looks at Daemon. His reputation was murkier, but his striking Valyrian features—and the way he carried himself like he owned every inch of the path—made him a target nonetheless.

“Prince Daemon,” one lady purred as she walked by, “I hear you train harder than any man twice your age. Such dedication.”

Another fluttered her fan, eyes raking him over. “You must be dangerous with a sword.”

Daemon tilted his head, lips curving into a smirk that was equal parts invitation and mockery. “Dangerous enough,” he said. “Though perhaps not with swords you’d care for.”

The ladies gasped, then dissolved into delighted laughter. One even dared touch his sleeve before retreating with a giggle.

Behind him, Gael’s hands balled into fists at her sides. Her face was perfectly schooled, but her eyes burned hotter than dragonflame. She tried to keep walking, chin high, but Daemon was watching her now—not them.

He let the silence draw out, enjoying the faint tremor of her breath before he leaned in. “You saw that, didn’t you?” he murmured.

“I saw you acting a fool,” she replied crisply.

“Oh no,” Daemon smirked, “you saw them flirting. And you hated it.”

Gael’s nostrils flared. “You think too highly of yourself.”

“Do I?” He slowed his pace just enough to block her path, forcing her to look at him. “Admit it—you don’t like them looking at me.”

Gael’s composure cracked for only a second—a faint flush creeping over her pale cheeks—but it was enough.

“You’re insufferable,” she muttered, brushing past him.

Daemon followed with a wolfish grin, not pressing the point but savoring the truth her silence had given him. “And yet,” he said softly, almost to himself, “you keep watching.”

Gael’s step faltered, just slightly, before she marched on, her braid swaying behind her like a whip.

Daemon, smug as ever, let the ladies chatter fade into nothing. It was Gael’s reaction that had been the true victory.

Later that afternoon, Viserys sat slumped on a stone bench beneath an olive tree, his face buried in his hands. The echoes of giggling ladies still clung to his ears like gnats he could not swat away.

Seven save me, do they all have to smile like that?

But worse—much worse—was the memory of Aemma’s face when she teased him about it. Not her smirk, nor her sharp tongue, but the faint flush in her cheeks when he asked if she was jealous.

Jealous. Of him.

He lowered his hands and blinked into the sun. His chest felt strangely light, as though he’d swallowed a warm wind. He should’ve been mortified. Instead, he was smiling, and could not stop.

In her chambers, Gael paced like a caged cat. She tugged her braid loose and redid it three times before throwing the ribbon aside.

“That insufferable, smug—” she hissed. She kicked the leg of her stool. “Letting them paw at his sleeve as if he were some mummer’s darling! And then looking at me—”

She stopped, fists clenching. The memory of Daemon’s wolfish grin was seared into her mind. He had known. Of course he had. He wanted her to bristle, wanted her to admit it.

Gael bit her lip, muttering under her breath, “I’ll not give him the satisfaction.”

But even she knew she already had.

That evening, Gael went to Aemma’s chambers, bent over a basket of embroidery she was pretending to finish. Aemma glanced up, saw her aunt’s stormy face, and shut the basket with relief.

“We should speak in High Valyrian,” Gael muttered, dropping into the chair beside her. “So those perfumed butterflies won’t know what we’re saying if they overhear.”

Aemma’s lips twitched. “Good idea.”

They switched tongues with ease, the words flowing sharp and musical between them.

Gael wasted no time. “He did it on purpose. Daemon. He let one of them touch his sleeve—touch his sleeve—just to spite me.”

Aemma’s brow rose. “Wait. You don’t like it when they flirt with Daemon?”

Gael crossed her arms. “That’s beside the point.”

“It very much sounds like the point.”

Gael huffed, color rising in her cheeks. “He looked at me afterward. Smug. As though he were daring me to say aloud, Yes, you dumb dolt, I don’t like it when those ladies flirt at you. Can you stop being stupid now?”

Aemma burst into laughter, clapping a hand over her mouth. Gael glared, but that only made her laugh harder.

“Oh, don’t you start—” Gael grumbled.

“You should have seen his face,” Aemma giggled, “all proud of himself, like he’d won a tourney. Gods, you’ve given him his prize already.”

Gael groaned into her hands.

When Aemma calmed enough to breathe, she leaned back and sighed. “At least yours looked smug. Mine looked like a terrified stag in a hunter’s sights. Every time one of those ladies so much as curtsied at Viserys, he flinched like they’d tried to stab him.”

Gael tilted her head, curious.

Aemma leaned in, voice sharper now. “And it’s infuriating. They circle him like crows, simpering and fluttering their lashes, and he doesn’t even know what to do with his hands. It’s obvious he’s uncomfortable. Anyone with eyes could see it.”

Gael smirked faintly. “Except you hated it more than he did.”

Aemma’s jaw tightened. “I just—don’t like them making sport of him. He deserves better.”

Her voice softened without her meaning it to, and Gael’s smirk widened knowingly.

For a heartbeat, they sat in silence, both nursing the bitter taste of their own jealousy. Then Aemma said in a low murmur, “Perhaps we ought to start a new betting pool. On how long it takes before either of us admits it to them.”

Gael snorted. “Never. I’d sooner drown myself in the Blackwater Bay.”

But the faintest, traitorous smile curved her lips as she said it.

The clang of steel still rang faintly as Daemon stripped off his gauntlets, tossing them carelessly to the dirt. Viserys leaned against the fence, drenched in sweat, chest heaving.

“You saw it,” Daemon crowed, still breathless but grinning wide. “Don’t pretend you didn’t.”

Viserys arched a brow. “Saw what?”

“Gael’s face. When that Westerlands girl touched my sleeve? Gods, she looked like she’d swallowed a sour apple whole.” Daemon mimicked her scowl, earning a reluctant chuckle from his brother. “Jealous,” he added smugly. “She was jealous.”

Viserys shook his head. “You’re insufferable.”

“I’m right,” Daemon said, smug as a cat. “Which is worse.”

Viserys, fiddling with the strap of his vambrace, grew quieter. His voice was hesitant when he asked, “Daemon… when a lady’s jealous, what does that mean? Truly?”

Daemon blinked, then leaned back against the fence, grinning like a wolf. “Sometimes it means she hates you. Sometimes it means she wants to fling a goblet at your skull. And sometimes…” His grin sharpened. “Sometimes it means she cares more than she’ll admit. That one usually hurts the most.”

Viserys flushed, staring hard at the dirt. “I thought as much.”

“Ah,” Daemon said, grin widening. “So this is about your butterflies.”

“They aren’t mine,” Viserys protested, voice tight. “They’re there because of what marrying me could bring their houses. Father’s favor, Mother’s approval, the promise of royal blood in their children. They don’t want me. Not truly.”

Daemon snorted. “Hah. You’re not wrong. But it hardly matters. Mother would sooner cut off her own foot than let one of them into the family. She once punched Lady Redwyne in the boob, remember?”

Viserys choked on a laugh, nearly doubling over. “She did! Gods, she did.”

“And deservedly so.” Daemon smirked, dropping down beside him. They sat shoulder to shoulder, their mirth easing into a gentler quiet.

For once, Daemon’s tone softened, serious in a way that startled his brother. “Listen. If you marry, marry for love. Look at Grandfather and Grandmother. At Father and Mother. They bear the weight of crowns and duty, but it doesn’t crush them. Not because the burden’s lighter, but because they carry it together.”

Viserys turned, eyes searching his younger brother’s face. “You think I could have that? Truly?”

“If you’re clever enough to know your own heart, yes.” Or if you and Aemma finally figure out your feelings for each other. Daemon gave him a crooked smile. “Don’t let them foist a butterfly on you when you’re longing for something else.”

For the first time, Viserys felt something loosen in his chest. Hope, fragile but real.

Daemon ruined the tenderness with a grin. “But if you do marry someone from the Reach, I’ll set Gael on her until she flees screaming from the Red Keep.”

Viserys groaned, shoving him lightly. “Fourteen save me from you.”

“You’re welcome,” Daemon said, smug as ever.

Later, in the privacy of the Queen’s solar, the inner circle gatheredr: Jaehaerys, Alyssanne, Baelon, and Alyssa. The air was heavy with the unspoken.

“They come in droves now,” Jaehaerys said, pacing. “Every lord with a daughter thinks Viserys is ripe for plucking. They smell opportunity like wolves. A few even flutter around Daemon too!”

Alyssanne folded her hands. “You cannot fault them, husband. They see a future king. They see a boy whose deeds—however small—paint him as dutiful, humble, kind. The realm adores that story.”

Baelon sat back in his chair, expression mild but eyes thoughtful. He thought of the way Viserys’s eyes softened when they lingered, however unknowingly, on Aemma. But he said nothing. Better not to feed the fire before its time.

Alyssa’s mouth quirked into a faint smile. She too had noticed—the way her son brightened in Aemma’s presence, though Viserys himself seemed blissfully ignorant of it. Alyssa held her tongue. No good could come of naming it yet.

Instead, she leaned forward. “Whoever his bride, she must be vetted meticulously. Viserys is no ordinary boy. He is the heir.”

“Agreed,” Jaehaerys said grimly. “The choice must be flawless. Alliances, temperament, virtue—it all matters. I will not see the future of House Targaryen squandered for beauty or charm alone.”

“Then we must be patient,” Alyssanne said gently. “Let the girls parade, let their fathers bluster. But we choose the path. Not them.”

Jaehaerys exhaled heavily and lowered himself into a chair. He looked around at his wife, his son, his daughter, and knew that though the comedy of the last fortnight had passed, the true game—dynasty, succession, marriage—was only beginning.

Chapter Text

Gael lay sprawled on her bed, hair loose around her shoulders, twirling a ribbon between her fingers. Aemma sat cross-legged on the floor beside her, still flushed from their venting earlier.

Gael’s eyes suddenly lit with a dangerous glint. “I have it.”

Aemma blinked. “Have what?”

“The perfect way to turn the tables.” Gael sat up abruptly, almost bouncing. “Daemon thinks he can sit there smugly while ladies flutter about him just to needle me? Well, two can play at that game.”

Aemma narrowed her eyes. “Gael…”

“I’ll make him jealous.” Gael said it as if it were the simplest solution in the world. “And not just jealous. Seething.”

Aemma stared. “How?”

Gael leaned in conspiratorially, lowering her voice like she was plotting treason. “What do you know of Bennard Stark?”

“The northern squire?”

Gael’s grin widened. “Yup. Fifteen, tall for his age, muscles starting to come in, and that voice that sounds like it was carved out of ice and stone. Has the alluring Stark Air about him. And most importantly—Daemon hasn’t beaten him in the yard yet. Oh, he hates that.”

Aemma clapped a hand over her mouth, horrified and delighted. “You’re going to make Daemon jealous with Bennard Stark?”

Gael nodded smugly. “I’ll make sure Daemon’s watching. I’ll ‘eye’ Bennard, maybe hand him a handkerchief when he’s sweating, strike up a little talk. Nothing truly improper. Just enough.”

“You’re wicked.” Aemma half-gasped, half-laughed. “How do you come up with these… these masterful schemes? Won’t it backfire?”

Gael shrugged, utterly unbothered. “Maybe it will. But it’ll be worth it to see his face. Have you seen how insufferable that sod is? I have to contend with it, you know.”

Aemma shook her head, torn between awe and terror. “You’re going to get yourself killed.”

“Maybe. But I’ll die victorious.” Gael flopped back on the bed dramatically, then sat up again with a spark in her eye. “And why should I have all the fun? It’s not fair you feel angry every time my nephew is surrounded by those perfumed butterflies. You can do something about it too, you know. Make it even.”

Aemma snorted. “Really? Like what? Vis only trains in the yard four times a week, and two of those he looks like he’s being dragged there.”

Gael leaned forward, conspiratorial again. “Well… I heard Edric Oakheart, Heir of Old Oak is in King’s Landing. Seventeen, tall, stalwart, courteous, sings like a bard, and his family sent him to speak with Alyssa about donating gold to the school. The perfect bait. His manly, gallant presence will rattle Viserys, I’m certain of it. He’ll flee those perfumed chits just to sulk over you.”

Aemma’s cheeks went crimson. “But I—I don’t—”

Gael waved her off with a flick of the ribbon. “Relax. Didn’t we already admit we’ve both fallen—unfortunately—for Daemon and Viserys? That’s beside the point. The point is, we’ll catch them unawares and play their own game.”

She gave a grin so devilish it made Aemma shiver.

Aemma leaned back against the carved post of Gael’s bed, listening half-distractedly as her aunt rattled off details about Bennard Stark’s brooding northern voice. Her mind was elsewhere—stuck, as if her thoughts had hit a snare.

Because Gael had said it so easily. We’ve both unfortunately fallen for Daemon and Viserys.

And the words had landed in Aemma’s chest like a hammer.

She almost wanted to laugh. Her? Fallen? For Viserys? No. Impossible. He was the most insufferable boy she had ever known—loud when he should be quiet, sulky when he should be gracious, endlessly teasing, smug with that crooked smile of his. She’d sworn, sworn at twelve years old, that she’d never let him get under her skin the way other girls let boys do.

And yet—

Her memory betrayed her. Little moments rose unbidden, threading together like some cruel tapestry. Her early days in the keep when he would win their one-upmanships. All those times he thought her High Valyrian in the library and him being so smug when he successfully thought her a phrase. The way he had groaned and splashed water everywhere when he'd been forced to scrub pots kitchens after their penance, and how his misery had made her giggle despite herself. His quiet, almost shy way of asking her questions when they studied alone in the library, as if he actually cared what she thought.

And Dragonstone. Gods, Dragonstone. That storm that had shaken the walls, when she’d hidden her face in her hands like a child though she was nearly grown. And Viserys had been there—fumbling, awkward, but refusing to leave. Sitting beside her all night until dawn broke, telling her little stories until she’d calmed enough to sleep against his shoulder.

Her stomach turned over.

No. No, no, no. Not him.

He was supposed to be her rival. The boy she bickered with, teased, plotted against. Not… not someone she thought about when she lay awake. Not someone whose smile she noticed more often than she should.

Aemma pressed her fingers hard against her temples. Seven help me. I cannot believe this. I cannot believe I—

She hated it. Hated that she was starting to want his attention. Hated the flutter in her chest when she remembered how flustered he got when the court ladies fawned over him, hated how she wanted to scream that they didn’t see him, not the way she did.

And yet… deep down, a tiny, treacherous part of her warmed at the thought.

If Viserys ever looked at her the way those perfumed butterflies looked at him—if he ever realized—

“Aemma?” Gael’s voice jolted her back. Her aunt was watching her with a knowing squint. “You’re awfully quiet.”

“I—” Aemma fumbled, heat rising in her cheeks. She scrambled for composure, for her usual dry wit. “I was just… thinking through the logistics. Of your dreadful plan.”

Gael’s grin widened, sly and all too perceptive. “Mhm. Logistics.” She tossed the ribbon into Aemma’s lap and leaned back. “Well, at least you’ll have motivation.”

Aemma clutched the ribbon, heart pounding, trying to smother the storm inside her.

She had not meant to fall for Viserys Targaryen. But somewhere along the way—between their rivalries and their punishments, their banters and their late-night talks—she had. And gods help her, she didn’t know what to do with that.

That night, Aemma asked Amanda Arryn if she could sleep over in Gael’s chamber. Amanda, thinking her sister only wanted to try on gowns and chatter with her aunt/confidante, agreed.

But once the door was closed and the candles were low, the two conspirators bent their heads together. Plans and counterplans filled the night air—when to strike, where to stand, how to angle a smile or a glance.

The two girls whispered and laughed until dawn crept at the window, plotting not war, but the sweetest kind of battle: how to make Daemon Targaryen and Viserys Targaryen stew in their own jealousy.

The morning after their impromptu sleepover, Aemma woke tangled in one of Gael’s spare blankets, her head thick from too little sleep and too many thoughts. She sat up, smoothing her hair, and caught sight of Gael already bustling about, braiding her silvery hair before the mirror with an expression that looked far too self-satisfied for so early an hour.

“You look like you slept,” Aemma grumbled.

“I did,” Gael said airily. “Because unlike you, I don’t spend half the night staring at the ceiling asking myself why I find your cousin’s scowl attractive.”

Aemma choked. “I—I wasn’t—”

Gael turned, eyebrow arched like a sword raised. “Oh, weren’t you?”

Heat flared across Aemma’s cheeks. She waved her hands, desperate to change the subject. “This is about you making Daemon jealous, remember? Not me.”

Gael smirked. “Mhm. Which is why you agreed to join me in this little game, and why you’re now responsible for baiting Edric Oakheart into rattling Viserys. Do try to keep up.”

Aemma pressed her lips into a thin line. She couldn’t admit—wouldn’t admit—that beneath her determination to play along, her chest felt like it was full of wild wings. If she thought about it too long, she’d crumble, so she shoved it down, smoothed her dress, and declared with false bravado:

“Fine. If it’s a game, then I’ll play it. But if I make a fool of myself, I’m blaming you.”

“You won’t,” Gael said with maddening confidence. “And even if you do, Viserys will be so rattled he won’t notice.”

Aemma groaned. “Seven save me.”

By midday, Gael was in her element, weaving through the Red Keep’s halls with Aemma in tow like a commander leading her troops. They moved with calculated nonchalance, as if strolling aimlessly, but Aemma noticed her aunt’s gaze flicking like a hawk’s, searching for something.

“Are you sure about this?” Aemma whispered, twisting her fingers together.

“Of course.” Gael’s eyes gleamed. “The yard is full of squires this time of day. And if I am not mistaken—” She stopped, pretending to admire a tapestry. “Ah. There he is. Right on time.”

Aemma followed her gaze and nearly tripped over her own feet.

Bennard Stark was crossing the yard, tall for his age, dark hair falling into his solemn face, his tunic damp with sweat from drills. He paused to drink from a jug of water, his movements unhurried, as if nothing in the world could rush him. His deep northern voice carried faintly as he called something to another boy, and even Aemma—who had sworn she’d never swoon over anyone—had to admit there was a certain gravity to him.

Gael’s lips curled. “Perfect. Daemon hasn’t beaten him yet, which makes him the ideal candidate.”

Aemma hissed. “The ideal candidate to what? Get us both killed?”

“To make Daemon furious,” Gael corrected sweetly. “And look, the boy’s practically glistening. All I have to do is offer him my handkerchief, and Daemon will combust.”

“You’ve lost your mind,” Aemma muttered, though a nervous laugh escaped her.

“Niece please, try growing up in a keep with Daemon and Viserys. I lost it years ago,” Gael replied. “Now, watch and learn.”

She swept forward with the grace of a cat, and Aemma, panic rising, hid in one of the columns. Gael angled herself so that Daemon—lounging across the yard with a sword balanced on his knee—would see everything.

Gael paused just as Bennard wiped his brow with the back of his hand. With perfect timing, she drew a small embroidered handkerchief from her sleeve and extended it.

“You’ll ruin your tunic that way,” she said smoothly. “Here.”

Bennard blinked, surprised but polite, his deep voice rumbling. “My thanks, princess.”

He accepted the cloth with the kind of earnest dignity that only a Stark could possess, inclining his head slightly. Gael smiled, a faint, mischievous thing, then struck up easy conversation. “Your drills look brutal. Do they treat all northern sons this harshly, or just the second ones?”

Bennard chuckled, a quiet, genuine sound. “Just the second ones, I think.”

From the corner of her eye, Aemma dared a glance at Daemon. His jaw was clenched, eyes fixed on Gael with a fury that could have melted stone. She almost clapped her hands in delight—Gael’s plan was working.

And then Gael leaned closer, lowering her voice so Bennard had to dip his head to hear. “Tell me, is it true you Starks never break a vow once made?”

Bennard met her gaze seriously. “Always.”

Gael’s smirk sharpened, and Aemma thought, Seven hells, she’s actually enjoying this.

Across the yard, Daemon lounged on a bench, his sword dangling idly on his knee. He should’ve been bored. He told himself he was bored.

Until he saw Gael hand that Stark pup her handkerchief.

His knuckles whitened around the sword. What is she doing? His chest burned hotter than the sun overhead. The boy’s dark hair, the way he inclined his head to her like some noble knight—it made Daemon’s stomach twist.

Then she leaned closer, speaking low enough that Bennard had to dip his head toward her. Too close. Far too close.

Daemon’s jaw clenched. He could hear himself sneering in his mind—Stark, of all oaf she could approach in the training yard, she chose him. A walking snowdrift. He probably smells of wet dog and pine resin. And she—she’s laughing.

When Bennard chuckled again, something ugly and unfamiliar curled in Daemon’s gut. He’d spar that boy, and not just spar—break him. Smash that smile off his face.

Gael, damn her, looked right across the yard at him then, lips curved just so. She knew. She knew. And she was reveling in it.

Daemon forced himself back against the bench, scowl carved deep, but his thoughts churned like wildfire. She’s mine to torment. Not some Stark’s.

When Bennard returned to his drills, Gael drifted back to the cloister. Aemma popped out from behind her column, eyes wide.

“You nearly gave me heart failure,” Aemma hissed. “Did you see his face? Daemon looked like he wanted to murder someone!”

Gael preened. “Precisely the desired effect.”

“You’re insane.”

“Effective,” Gael corrected smugly. “You saw how quick he was to anger. That’s the trick—you pull just enough to make him boil, then let him stew. It’ll gnaw at him all day.”

Aemma covered her face. “I can’t believe you. He’s going to challenge Bennard to a duel, and then what? We’ll have Stark blood on the stones!”

“Please,” Gael said. “Dumb as he is, he's not that dumb to fight him just yet. He’ll wait until he can humiliate him publicly. Until then, he’ll sulk like a child denied a sweet.”

Aemma shook her head, still half in awe, half in horror. “Seven save me, how do you even come up with this?”

“Survival,” Gael said with a smirk. “Do you know how many years I’ve endured Daemon’s smug face? This is long overdue.”

The bells tolled, and Aemma gasped. “Seven hells—I’m late for my High Valyrian glyphs with Uncle Vaegon.”

Gael wrinkled her nose. “Have fun. He’ll lecture you about stroke order until your eyes bleed.”

“Don’t remind me.” Aemma groaned, gathering her skirts before hurrying off.

Uncle Vaegon was, indeed, as merciless as ever. For two hours he made her copy glyph after glyph, correcting her grip, her curves, the angle of each mark. His voice was as flat and sharp as slate, and by the end her hand cramped, ink smudged over her fingers.

“Discipline is the soul of knowledge,” Vaegon intoned as she left, and Aemma muttered under her breath, “And the death of joy.”

When she slipped into Gael’s chambers later, her aunt was sprawled on a chaise with a wicked gleam in her eye.

“Perfect timing,” Gael said. “I’ve observed our gallant Oakheart. He likes to stroll the gardens in the afternoon. So here’s what we’ll do…”

Aemma sat, wary.

“You will go to the gardens and ‘accidentally’ bump into him. Begin with harmless conversation: how fine it is that his house is endowing gold to a school dedicatd to your mother's memoryl. He’ll lap it up—knights adore speaking of duty.”

Aemma blinked. “That… actually sounds plausible.”

“Of course it does.” Gael smirked. “But that’s only the beginning. Beforehand, I’ll approach dear Viserys and ask him to join me for a stroll. He can’t refuse me.”

Aemma’s eyes widened.

“At the perfect moment,” Gael continued, “we’ll ‘bump’ into you and Oakheart. By then, Viserys will already be simmering. But we want him seething. So here’s the pièce de résistance: you will ‘trip’ on the uneven path. Oakheart will catch you—before Viserys can. Then you act as though your ankle is sprained, and the gallant fool will help you walk back to the keep, while Viserys has the exquisite torture of following behind.”

Aemma stared, open-mouthed. “You want me to fake an injury?”

Gael nodded. 

Aemma is in disbelief "You are diabolical"

Gael grinned. “Thank you.”

“This is going to backfire.”

“Maybe,” Gael said, eyes glittering. “But imagine his face.”

Against her better judgment, Aemma felt a giggle bubble up. “Seven save me, I’m in.”

Viserys had just emerged from another long session with Prince Vaegon—scrolls of ledgers and stiff talk of tariffs still buzzing in his mind—when Gael intercepted him in the corridor. She was waiting, arms folded, one brow cocked in her usual look of sly amusement.

“Ah, my dutiful nephew,” Gael greeted, sweeping into a mocking half-curtsy that made Viserys flush red. “Tell me, has Vaegon beaten the joy of numbers into you yet?”

Viserys gave her a sheepish smile. “He tries. I am… not certain I am the right vessel for his wisdom.”

“You are. Just not today,” Gael said breezily, then looped her arm through his before he could protest. “Come, you’ve had enough of books. Walk with me in the gardens. The air is sweeter there, and your face could use some color before you wither entirely into parchment.”

Viserys hesitated—he still had a quill behind his ear, he realized—but Gael’s eyes glittered with something that told him resistance was useless. “All right,” he said finally, almost relieved for the excuse.

Meanwhile, at another corner of the gardens, Aemma lingered by a column, fingers nervously twisting the hem of her sleeve. She spotted him: Edric Oakheart, tall, broad-shouldered, his sandy hair caught by the light as he strolled among the rosebushes, every movement stiff with chivalric training.

This was it. The plan. Her heart thudded like a war drum.

She forced herself forward, eyes downcast until she “accidentally” collided with him.

“Oh!” Aemma gasped, stepping back quickly. “Forgive me, my lord.”

Edric steadied her instantly, his hand gentle yet firm. “The fault is mine, Lady Aemma. I should have been more watchful.” His voice had a courteous warmth, the kind that rang clear and careful, as though each word had been polished.

Aemma bit her lip, then remembered the line Gael had drilled into her. “I wished to thank you, Lord Edric,” she said, glancing up at him. “For your house’s endowment to the School. It was named for my mother, Princess Daella. It means more to me than I can say.”

Edric’s eyes softened. “The honor is ours, my lady. House Oakheart holds your mother’s memory in high esteem.” He inclined his head in a knight’s half-bow.

Aemma’s cheeks grew hot—half from nerves, half from the game—and she tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “You are too kind. Would you… walk with me, a little?”

“It would be my privilege.”

From the far path, Gael and Viserys strolled closer. Viserys was halfway through a complaint about Vaegon’s endless lectures when Gael slowed suddenly, tugging him around a hedge.

“Oh my,” Gael purred. “What fortune—look who it is.”

Viserys’s words dried in his throat. Ahead, in the sunlight, walked Aemma… with Edric Oakheart at her side. She was laughing softly at something he said, her eyes bright in a way Viserys knew too well.

Something coiled sharp and ugly in his stomach. His hands, usually restless, clenched hard at his sides.

They met, as planned, on the intersecting path. Gael greeted Edric with airy politeness, and the four of them fell into step together, the Red Keep rising above them in the background like a looming witness.

Viserys could barely hear the words being exchanged; his ears rang with the pounding of his pulse. He watched how Edric bent his head courteously when Aemma spoke, how she tilted her face toward him. How her sleeve brushed his arm.

It was like swallowing vinegar with every breath.

And then—perfectly staged—Aemma stumbled.

“Ah!” she cried, clutching her ankle as she pitched forward.

Before Viserys could lunge to her side, Edric had already caught her. Strong hands steadied her waist, his concerned voice rich with gallantry.

“Are you hurt, my lady?”

Viserys froze. Fury and fear crashed through him in equal measure.

Gael gasped dramatically. “Oh no, Lord Edric. My poor niece cannot walk all the way to the Red Keep, to my sister, Maegelle who is gifted with the healing arts. Not with such a limp.”

Viserys opened his mouth, desperate to offer himself, but Edric was quicker.

“Allow me, my lady,” he said, bending slightly. “Lean on me. I will see you safe.”

Aemma hesitated—just long enough for Viserys’s heart to split—then nodded. She slipped her arm into Edric’s, leaning against him with feigned delicacy.

Viserys’s jaw tightened so hard it ached. His vision narrowed to the sight of Aemma’s fingers curled against Edric’s sleeve, the way she let her weight rest on him.

Jealousy struck him like a spear through the ribs. It was not just bitterness—it was wildfire, raw and consuming, roaring in his veins. He wanted to rip her away, to snarl that she belonged nowhere but—

No. He swallowed it down. His face remained stiff, pale, unreadable, though inside the storm howled.

He walked a step behind, silent, each crunch of gravel beneath his boots grinding like broken glass. To his eyes, every movement ahead of him was salt rubbed into an open wound: Aemma’s slight limp, Edric’s steady hand, Gael’s oh-so-smug little smirk at the corner of her mouth.

He was dying by inches, and no one but Gael seemed to notice.

Viserys and Gael trailed a step behind, his fists clenched so tightly his nails bit into his palms. Every time Aemma leaned into Edric’s arm, it was like being stabbed with a dagger made of ice. Her laugh, soft and obliging, felt like a betrayal aimed squarely at him. And Edric—seven hells, Edric was enjoying this far too much, striding forward with all the solemn courtesy of a knight from a song, his profile infuriatingly noble in the light.

Viserys felt as though the world had tilted against him. His blood burned like molten metal, yet he was trapped—bound to silence, forced to play the part of the dutiful prince while his heart was wrung between his ribs like wet cloth.

Gael, of course, noticed everything. She leaned closer, her voice sly as a dagger slipping between ribs.

“Mm, Edric Oakheart has quite the gallant air, doesn’t he?” she whispered. “Strong, courteous… and such steady hands. One could grow used to that.”

Viserys’s head snapped toward her, eyes blazing. “Enough.”

Gael only smiled wider. “Oh, don’t scowl so, nephew. If you furrow your brow any harder, you’ll look older than Vaegon.” She tilted her chin toward the pair ahead. “See how tenderly he supports her? One might almost think it was fate.”

Viserys’s throat worked as he swallowed down the fury boiling inside him. His jealousy was a wildfire caged in glass: crackling, searing, threatening to shatter through the thin veneer of his composure. He wanted to shout, to tear Edric away, to snatch Aemma back to his side. Instead, he walked stiffly, each step heavier than the last.

Ahead, Edric’s voice drifted back toward them. “My lady, I fear I’ve kept you too long in the sun. When you are mended, might I tempt you to another stroll through these gardens? Perhaps when the roses are in fuller bloom.”

Aemma’s laugh—sweet, unsure—reached Viserys’s ears, and he nearly stumbled. The words tasted like bile in his mouth: another stroll.

Gael pressed the wound deeper. “Ah, did you hear? Another stroll! How romantic. You ought to thank him, Viserys, for keeping your cousin so well entertained.”

Viserys nearly growled.

By the time they reached Septa Maegelle’s study, Viserys’s mood had sunk into something dark and stormy. The septa, alarmed, swept toward her niece the moment she saw her.

“Seven above! Aemma, child, what happened?” Maegelle cried, bustling for herbs and cloths. She turned her sharp gaze to Edric. “Set her down there, quickly—on the chaise.”

“Yes, Septa,” Edric said, all dutiful gallantry as he guided Aemma with care. He bent, ensuring she was comfortable, before bowing his head. “I wish you swift recovery, Princess. And if I may be so bold, I hope you grant me that stroll, when you are able.”

Viserys nearly snapped the quill still tucked in his pockets.

Edric turned, unbothered by the storm brewing in the prince’s eyes. “Prince Viserys, I wonder—might you direct me to the library? I should like to find something to read while I am here in the capital.”

For a heartbeat, Viserys fantasized about sending him to the dragonpit instead. But duty—and Gael’s watchful smirk—left him no escape. He managed a stiff nod. “This way.”

With every step out of the room, his fury grew heavier, like a stormcloud dragged by his heels.

The door closed. A silence stretched—then Gael collapsed into laughter.

“Oh, gods,” she wheezed, holding her ribs. “His face! Did you see it? He looked as though he’d swallowed a lemon whole and it lodged in his throat.”

Aemma sank back on the chaise, cheeks hot, her own laughter bubbling despite herself.

But Septa Maegelle only stared, sharp eyes narrowing as she took in the miraculously uninjured ankle. Slowly, deliberately, she crossed her arms.

“You are diabolical girls,” she said at last, her tone somewhere between censure and amusement. “Plotting jealousy like gamblers with dice. Next time, at least have the courtesy to warn me. The keep hasn’t been this lively since father created a betting pool on Alyssa and Vaegon’s verbal insults to each other.”

Gael clapped her hands over her mouth, snorting with laughter. Aemma’s giggles spilled over in earnest.

And in the midst of Maegelle’s scolding, the three of them dissolved into conspiratorial mirth—the Red Keep echoing with the rare, dangerous music of their laughter.

The library was cool and quiet, the smell of vellum and ink hanging in the air like incense. Viserys stalked ahead, every step clipped, his jaw set so tightly it might crack. Behind him, Edric Oakheart followed at an infuriatingly calm pace, hands clasped loosely behind his back, the picture of knightly ease.

“You’ve a fine collection here,” Edric remarked, voice low and warm as if they were old friends. “Does your family often read histories or prefer the more practical arts? My own tastes lean toward the songs, I confess—though I’ve been told my voice is better suited for listening than singing.”

Viserys did not answer. His knuckles whitened on the railing of the stair as they climbed toward the upper shelves. His chest was tight, his stomach sour. All he could hear was another stroll through the gardens—spoken in that rich, reach-bred courtesy, and Aemma’s soft laugh in answer.

From a long table by the window, Vaegon looked up. The maester-prince’s quill paused mid-scratch, dark eyes narrowing in mild curiosity. It was rare to see Viserys in such a state: his usually open, almost boyish face now clouded, flushed with the color of a storm brewing too close to shore.

Vaegon did not call out, but he leaned back, folding his arms across his chest, observing like a natural philosopher who’d stumbled upon some odd, combustible reaction.

Viserys cleared his throat, forcing civility into his voice. “The histories of the Conquest are on the eastern wall. Trade records, there. The songs and poems are kept on the west end.”

“Ah,” Edric said with a nod, smiling as though Viserys had done him some grand courtesy. “Then I shall trouble the west. Perhaps when I’ve found something of worth, you and I might share a passage. It is rare to find one’s peers who also take to reading.”

Viserys’s lips pressed into a line so thin it nearly vanished.

Vaegon’s quill scratched again, a smirk tugging faintly at the corner of his mouth. His nephew was learning the first bitter taste of jealousy, and by the gods, it was more entertaining than any debate over tariffs or treaties. For once, Vaegon thought, he might actually enjoy lingering in the library.

Viserys slammed the door of the library behind him harder than he meant to, the echo carrying down the long stone corridor. His face was still flushed, his hands flexing and unflexing at his sides like he’d dearly like to hit something—preferably Edric Oakheart’s perfect, courteous face.

“Fourteen save me,” came a lilting voice from the shadows of a pillar. Gael leaned against it, arms folded, a cat’s grin spreading over her lips. “You look like you swallowed a lemon whole.”

Viserys shot her a glare. “Why are you here?”

“Why?” Gael drawled, falling into step beside him as he stalked down the hall. “Because I knew you’d storm out. You’re as easy to read as a page in Vaegon’s ledgers. Tell me, nephew—was it worse when Edric bowed over Aemma’s hand or when he invited her for another stroll?”

Viserys’s teeth clicked. “He’s—he’s just a singer with a sword, puffed up because some Reach maidens swoon at his voice. He—”

“—is taller than you, broader at the shoulder, and courteous enough to remember to ask about her mother’s school,” Gael supplied with wicked cheer. “Yes, yes, I saw it all.” She nudged him with her elbow. “Face it, you’re jealous.”

Viserys growled low in his throat. “I am not—”

Gael cut him off with a laugh that trilled down the hallway. “Oh, you are, and it’s delicious. I daresay it suits you.”

Viserys stopped dead, staring at her like he’d like to strangle her on the spot. Gael only blew him a kiss and swept past, her skirts swishing like banners in victory.

Back in Septa Maegelle’s study, Aemma was propped on the chaise, her “injured” ankle now comfortably bare as her septa aunt dabbed it with a cool cloth to clean her ankles—though they knew as well as Aemma that there was nothing wrong with it.

Gael breezed in a moment later, eyes dancing, and flopped into the chair opposite. “He stormed out like a dragon denied his supper,” she announced. “Jealousy positively pouring off him. My, Aemma, you really must be proud.”

Aemma flushed, half hiding her face in her hands. “I wasn’t that convincing—was I?”

“You were magnificent,” Gael crowed. “Edric looked like he’d won a tourney just escorting you three steps. And Viserys looked like he wanted to throw him into the Dragonpit. It was beautiful.”

Septa Maegelle gave a very dry sniff but did not look up from her work, her mouth twitching with the faintest smirk.

Aemma groaned softly, sinking back against the chaise. “This is ridiculous. It’s only a game.”

“Of course,” Gael said sweetly, leaning forward with a conspirator’s gleam in her eyes. “And tomorrow, we raise the stakes.”

Her niece gave her a wary look. “How?”

“Well,” Gael said, tapping her chin in mock thought. “Perhaps we stage another encounter between you and Edric. Then me and Bennard. All we need is another well-timed ‘encounter.’ Perhaps one with even more gallantry involved.”

Aemma hid her face again, muffling a groan. “Gods you’re insufferable, no wonder you and Daemon suit each other”

“And you love me for it,” Gael said, smug as a cat with cream.

Across the room, Septa Maegelle finally did allow herself a small laugh, the sound like dry parchment crackling. “You two are diabolical. Baelon will howl with laughter when I tell him.”

Both girls turned to stare at her, scandalized.

“You wouldn’t!” Aemma burst out.

Maegelle only folded her hands serenely. “I make no promises.”

That broke the dam—they all laughed, conspirators and septa alike, their voices echoing through the quiet stone chamber.

After Gael left Viserys outside the Library, his jaw so tight it was a wonder he didn’t crack his teeth. Every step echoed like a hammer against stone, sharp, measured, furious. By the time Edric excused himself with a courteous bow and departed, Viserys’ rage had nowhere left to go but inward, smoldering like a coal.

He marched across the corridors, through a set of high doors, and down the slope that led to the training yard. The clang of steel on steel rang out—squires drilling in pairs, their youthful shouts peppering the air. And at the center of it all, Prince Baelon, bare-armed and gleaming with sweat, moved through his squires like a storm—correcting a stance here, smacking a wooden sword there, barking encouragement with all the fire of the Spring Prince.

Viserys didn’t hesitate. He strode straight across the yard, tugging at his outer layers until they fell behind him in a crumpled heap. Left in only his white undertunic, he pulled on a quilted sparring vest, his hands moving rough and graceless. A nearby squire gaped at the sight of Prince Viserys, usually seen with scrolls in hand, yanking on a training helm like he was preparing for war.

“Father,” Viserys barked, voice tight and brittle. “Square up. I want to spar.”

Baelon turned, blinking in shock. For a moment he wondered if his ears had failed him. His eldest son, the one who’d sooner debate coinage reforms with Vaegon than touch a sword, stood before him with flushed cheeks and wild eyes, practically vibrating with restrained fury.

“…You want to spar?” Baelon repeated slowly, as if clarifying a jest.

“Yes,” Viserys snapped, shoulders stiff. “Now.”

Baelon’s brows rose—but then the corner of his mouth curved into the faintest smile. The yard had gone quiet, all squires craning their necks. He picked up a blunted practice sword and nodded. “Very well. Let’s see what’s lit this fire in you.”

Steel rang as they clashed. At first, Baelon thought his son would fold in three minutes as usual, his swings collapsing into sluggishness. But not today. Viserys’ strikes, though sloppy, came harder, angrier, fueled by something deeper than muscle. His cheeks flushed red, breath tearing in and out—but he did not stop. He lasted not three minutes, but Seven, driving himself against his father’s guard with dogged fury.

Baelon parried easily, yet every blow reverberated with strange conviction. Gods… is this the same boy? Or have I been struck blind? The Spring Prince thought. He felt, absurdly, as though Daemon’s restless fire had taken root in his bookish heir.

When Viserys’ arms finally drooped with exhaustion, Baelon lowered his blade, grinning. “You’ve lasted twice as long as you ever have, son. What’s this about, hm? What’s set you alight?”

Viserys yanked off his helm, sweat clinging to his brow. He didn’t answer—he only scowled, for the first time in his life, at his father. A look full of heat and storm, not words.

Then he turned and drove his practice sword into a straw dummy, hacking again and again, each thud of wood on straw an outlet for all the venom boiling inside him.

Baelon folded his arms, half worried, half marveling. Daemon’s fire. Daemon’s very energy. Gods, what’s become of my boy?

And sure enough, at the far edge of the yard, Prince Daemon had appeared, half hidden in the shadows of the stone wall. He had come, still stewing from his own bout of jealousy, expecting perhaps to cool his temper in solitude. But what he saw froze him in place—Viserys, the brother he teased as soft, striking the dummy again and again with eyes aflame, as if the entire world had wronged him.

For once, Daemon did not mock. He only stared, shock flickering in his dark violet eyes.

From the shadows of the training yard wall, Daemon leaned idly against the stone, arms folded across his chest. At first, he’d come to brood, chewing on the bitter rind of his own jealousy—but the sight before him stopped his sulk short.

Viserys, his bookish brother, his gentle brother, was hacking at the dummy with the same rabid intensity Daemon himself often carried into the yard. Each strike was clumsy, too wide, too high—but it was rage that drove them, not technique. Rage that gave weight where none should exist.

Daemon’s brows arched high, his lips curving into a smirk he didn’t yet let loose. Well, well, brother. What’s this? Fire in your belly at last? He wanted to laugh, to jeer—yet a small, strange shiver crept down his spine. It was… unnerving, seeing Viserys aflame with something so unlike him.

He imagined half a dozen quips to toss across the yard—each sharper than the last—but held them, savoring the moment. For once, the squires’ eyes were not on him, the Rogue Prince, but on his elder brother who swung as if the entire realm had spurred him.

Daemon circled slowly, hands clasped behind his back like a cat toying with prey. He still burned from earlier—Gael, of all people, daring to hand Bennard Stark her handkerchief as though the Northman were worthy of her notice. The memory scratched at him, raw and stinging, and now here was Viserys, his brother, lashing out with a fire Daemon had never seen.

He couldn’t resist.

“Tell me, brother,” Daemon purred, tilting his head, “Did you finally snap from the weight of Uncle Vaegon’s lessons?”

Viserys’ practice blade snapped up too high, the strike clanging against the dummy’s post with a jarring crack. His breath came hot through gritted teeth, but he refused to look at Daemon.

Daemon grinned wider, sharp as a knife. “Or perhaps—” his voice dipped lower, slyer “—you’re finally learning that the realm is a dangerous place. That if you don’t guard what you want, some other gallant fool will take it from right beneath your nose.”

That hit its mark. Viserys froze for the barest heartbeat before swinging again, harder this time, the straw bursting free in tufts. The squires whispered, wide-eyed, not sure which spectacle to gape at more: Viserys raging, or Daemon baiting him.

Daemon leaned in, close enough that only Viserys could hear his last taunt. “Careful, brother. You keep glaring like that, people might think you’ve a heart worth breaking.”

Before Viserys could whirl and answer, another voice cut through the yard.

“That’s enough.”

Baelon’s tone was calm, but it carried weight like steel. He stepped forward from where he had been drilling the squires, eyes flicking between his sons. There was both pride and wariness in his gaze. Pride that Viserys had lasted this long in the yard, that he had found some hidden reserve of strength. Wariness because he could see it wasn’t skill guiding him—it was something darker, simmering hot.

“Daemon,” Baelon said mildly, though his glance was sharp, “if you’ve energy to taunt your brother, you’ve energy for a proper spar. Else keep your tongue.”

He turned to Viserys, who was flushed, sweating, his hands trembling on the wooden blade. Baelon frowned, studying him. “And you, Viserys. This temper—where has it come from?”

For a moment, it seemed Viserys might scowl again, or worse, speak some cutting word. His lips pressed thin, his jaw tight. The fire still burned in him, wild and unfamiliar.

Baelon folded his arms, patient but unyielding. “Both of you—cool your blood. The training yard is for discipline, not whatever storm you’re carrying inside.”

Daemon smirked faintly, masking the pang of recognition—that their father had seen right through them both.

Chapter Text

The yard had thinned after Baelon dismissed the squires, leaving only the brothers in the lingering twilight. Viserys yanked at the straps of his sparring gear, muttering curses under his breath, when Daemon slouched against a post nearby, arms folded, smirk firmly in place.

“Well,” Daemon drawled, “that was quite the display. I thought the dummies had wronged you personally.”

Viserys shot him a glare, half feral. “Don’t start.”

Daemon tilted his head, savoring. “Oh, I’ll start. Because I want to know what has my bookish brother snarling like a hound with a bone. Was it Aemma?"

That snapped the leash.

Viserys spun on him, words tumbling like wildfire sparks. “I saw her—Aemma—walking with that Reach oaf, that lordling Edric Oakheart. And then—then I had to endure trailing behind them with Gael, like some tag-along fool, while Aemma tripped—tripped!—and that blubbering dolt caught her!” His hands clenched into fists. His voice cracked with fury. “I almost had her, until that fool laid his hands on her!”

Daemon blinked once, then let out a low chuckle. “Ah. Of course Gael would stage something like that.” His smirk widened. “Diabolical, really.”

But Viserys wasn’t done. He raked a hand through his sweat-damp hair, pacing like a caged dragon. “We dropped them off to Aunt Maegelle’s study, so she could fuss about the sprain. And then—if that wasn’t enough—he had the audacity, the sheer audacity, to invite Aemma on another stroll in the gardens! When she’d just been injured walking the gardens with him!” He jabbed a finger into the air like he was accusing the gods themselves.

Daemon lifted a brow, amused. “Or maybe it was an accident. But sure, brother, let’s say this is part of Oakheart’s ornery little plan to spirit your lady away. I’ll even back you on it.”

Viserys whirled, his face red, his words rushing faster now. “And as if that wasn’t enough indignity—do you know what he did next? That dumb dolt asked me to accompany him to the libraries! The libraries! While talking about Aemma! Can you believe it?”

Daemon actually staggered, doubling over with laughter, the sound sharp and ringing against the stone walls. “You—oh gods—you had to trail after him into the library?” He clutched his side, wheezing. “Viserys, your face must have been worth a dragon’s ransom!”

Viserys glowered, near trembling. “He fancies himself a learned man, when he prefers songs and poetries! He’s not even half as learned as me! He’s a mummer who likes making music at best! Preferring songs and poetries—I know simpletons more advanced than him.”

That finished Daemon. He slid down the post to crouch on the ground, cackling like a mad thing. “Seven hells, brother,” he gasped between laughs, “if this is how you rage over a Reach songbird, I dread to see you when you’re truly in love.”

Viserys scowled at him, but his face betrayed the truth—he already was.

Viserys stood taut, chest heaving, while Daemon was still half on the ground, cackling at his brother’s tirade. The sound grated on Viserys until his scowl deepened into something sharp.

“Enough!” Viserys barked, the word cracking like a whip. “You think this is amusing? You think it’s funny that some… some perfumed Reach fool dares to—” His voice broke off, strangled with fury. He turned away, fists knotted, before he said something he couldn’t take back.

Daemon, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes, finally sobered enough to grin up at him. “Oh, I do think it’s funny, brother. Gods, you should’ve seen yourself. You look fit to throttle him with his own harp strings.”

Viserys’s jaw clenched, teeth grinding. He spun back, eyes blazing. “Keep mocking me, Daemon, and see how long before I strike you instead.”

That only widened Daemon’s grin. He leaned lazily back on his elbows, unbothered, savoring the heat roiling off his usually placid brother. But then, suddenly, his smirk faltered, replaced by a stormier look.

“You will not believe the day I’ve had,” he snapped, the words edged with venom.

Viserys blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

Daemon pushed off the post, stalking closer, his voice low and livid. “That hulkling oaf Bennard Stark—you know him.”

Viserys nodded automatically.

“Well,” Daemon bit out, “our dear Aunt Gael thought it wise to stride across the training yard and offer him her handkerchief. Her handkerchief. Then she lingered—laughed with him, spoke with him.” His lip curled, his voice rising. “With him!”

Viserys’s lips twitched, his anger briefly slipping as he let out a snort, then a laugh—loud and unrestrained. The sound startled even him. “So that’s it. You mock me for Oakheart, but you’re gnashing your teeth over Stark!”

Daemon bristled, scowling like a cat doused with water. “It’s not the same.”

“Oh, it’s precisely the same,” Viserys countered, suddenly relishing the rare chance to turn the blade back.

Daemon’s fists flexed at his sides, his voice dropping into a growl. “Stark is a hulking brute. A second son hardened by snow and steel. Even I’ll admit he’s above average in the yard—and that alone makes my blood boil. He’s strong, steady, decent—exactly the sort of dull northern rock Gael would find amusing just to spite me.” His scowl deepened, shadowing his face. “I cannot abide it.”

Viserys’s laughter rolled out again, freer this time, the heat of his own jealousy momentarily forgotten in the glow of his younger brother’s misery. “You see? You’re no better than me. The mighty Daemon, undone by a Stark with a sweaty brow and a square jaw.”

Daemon’s glare snapped to him, sharp enough to cut. “Careful, brother.”

But Viserys only grinned, shoulders shaking with mirth, the two of them caught in the same web of jealousy, tangled and thrashing.

Viserys was still laughing, clutching his side, when Daemon shoved him in the shoulder. Not hard, but enough to jolt him.

“Wipe that grin off your face,” Daemon snapped. “You look like a mummer.”

Viserys caught his breath, smirking. “Says the boy gnashing his teeth over a Stark. Gods, if the North ever learns you lost your wits over one of their spare sons, they’ll never stop howling.”

Daemon’s nostrils flared. “Better a Stark than a Reach fop who writes poetry with his sword hand. At least Bennard doesn’t prance around like some bard in armor.”

Viserys stiffened, his ears turning red. “Edric Oakheart is not—” He stopped, realizing he was about to defend the very man he despised, and scowled harder. “That’s not the point. The point is that Aemma ought not to be wasting her time with him.”

“And Gael ought not to be laughing with Stark,” Daemon retorted, pacing a step. “She did it to spite me, I’m sure of it.”

Viserys barked a laugh. “Or perhaps she enjoyed it.”

Daemon’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Say that again.”

The air between them bristled like clashing steel. For a moment it seemed they might truly come to blows, but then the ridiculousness of it—their mirrored fury—began to settle in.

Viserys exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “Seven hells.”

Daemon folded his arms, glaring, but his lips twitched despite himself. “We’re fools.”

Viserys shot him a sideways glance. “Speak for yourself.”

“Oh no, brother. You’re as tangled as I am.” Daemon jabbed a finger at him. “You raved like a madman over Oakheart, nearly broke your own teeth grinding at the sight of him helping her.”

“And you,” Viserys retorted, “sputtering over a handkerchief, as though Gael had given him her heart instead of a square of cloth.”

They both fell silent, the absurdity of it gnawing at them, until Daemon let out a sharp, humorless laugh.

“They played us,” he muttered.

Viserys’s brow furrowed, but slowly, reluctantly, he nodded. “Aemma and Gael.”

Daemon shook his head, still smirking. “Two clever girls with devilish schemes.”

Viserys let out a weary sigh, though his lips quirked upward despite himself. “And two Targaryen fools dancing on their strings.”

“Never again,” Daemon swore.

Viserys gave a low, doubtful chuckle. “You say that now.”

For the first time all day, their anger softened into a rare camaraderie, the sharp edge of jealousy dulled by the begrudging knowledge that they’d both been made pawns—and that they were, in truth, no different at all.

Viserys and Daemon’s voices softened after their laughter subsided, the sparks of their spat fading into the low crackle of shared humiliation. Both were still raw, though neither would admit it.

Viserys leaned back against the stone wall, arms folded, his lip curling in distaste at his own foolishness. “We have been played, brother,” he muttered. “And by girls no older than dragonlings.”

Daemon gave a bitter little huff. “Clever little snakes, the both of them. You fume at Aemma, I at Gael, and in the end—” he gestured vaguely, fingers slicing the air— “we look like clowns in the court fool’s motley.”

They exchanged a glance—resentful, grudging, but tinged with reluctant kinship. For a heartbeat they saw each other as fellow victims of the same trap.

Viserys smirked, dry as parchment. “So. What is to be done?”

Daemon’s eyes lit with mischief, his sulk transmuting into dangerous play. “Next time they pull their little game, we do not rise. We do not burn. We act as though their barbs are nothing. We laugh at them instead.”

Viserys nodded, though still wary. “And if they press further?”

“Then,” Daemon said, eyes gleaming with a boy’s wicked spark, “we turn the knife. We’ll have visiting ladies enough in the Keep—daughters of lords, cousins, handmaidens—ripe for the choosing. We let them see us dote, charm, perhaps even smile at another pretty face or two.”

Viserys chuckled, picturing Aemma’s frown, Gael’s narrowed eyes. “A counter-game, then.”

“Exactly so.” Daemon’s grin widened. “Let us see if they still laugh when the fool’s bells are on their own heads.”

Meanwhile, in the quiet hush of Septa Maegelle’s chamber, the air was thick with conspiratorial laughter. Aemma lay sprawled across a chair like a queen victorious after battle, while Gael perched primly on the edge of Maegelle’s desk, swinging her slippered foot with deliberate grace.

“Did you see their faces?” Aemma burst out, clapping her hands. “Viserys went red as a Dornish sunset!”

“And Daemon,” Gael added sweetly, “looked ready to throttle Bennard Stark on the spot. I thought he might burst a vein in his forehead.”

Septa Maegelle, silent until now, gave a knowing hum, her smile hidden behind the cup of watered wine she nursed. “Brothers at war with their own pride, outwitted by girls half as practiced. I shall have to tell Rhaelle—she will laugh until her lungs give way.”

Aemma leaned forward, conspiratorial. “We must not let it rest here. They will lick their wounds and plot. But we must always stay two steps ahead.”

Gael’s eyes glimmered, sharp as her mother’s. “Next time, we prod them just enough to make them stumble, not enough to make them think we wanted it. That is the trick. A laugh here, a look there—and they’ll unravel themselves.”

Aemma smirked. “And if they try their little revenge, dangling ladies before us—”

Gael’s brows arched, the picture of serene arrogance. “Then we laugh harder. We play along. Let them think we are unbothered. Nothing will vex them more.”

The girls dissolved into quiet giggles, their triumph ringing as sweet as any hymn.

They turned it, then, into a war of wits — not the hot, ugly brawl that had left both of them raw the day before, but a slow, careful campaign: a map drawn in glances and placements, a Cyvasse game played across the courtyards and corridors of the Red Keep. Both camps — the girls in Maegelle’s study, the boys in the practice-yard alcove— sketched their moves, named contingencies, and practiced the faces they would wear when the other side tried to strike.

I. The Boys’ Board: Daemon & Viserys’ Counter-Play

They spoke in short bursts and long silences, patching wounded pride into strategy. The training yard smelled of sweat and leather; the sun was low and the wooden dummies stood like silent jurors as Daemon paced and Viserys listened, hands on the pommel of a practice sword.

“First rule,” Daemon said, blunt as a practice blade. “No more sputtering.” He tapped Viserys’s temple with the flat of his hand. “You do not show the fracture. Not in your face, not in your voice. Calmness is a mask; wear it well.”

Viserys tried on the mask, found it heavy, but nodded. “If I don’t burn,” he said, “I can observe. I can learn where they place themselves. Then we respond.”

Daemon counted off on one hand: “Step one — the Stoic. We do nothing when they prod. We smile like the King’s crier and say nothing. Step two — the Bait. If they puff themselves up — let them. We will be seen to admire another. Not to hurt them, but to let them feel the pinch.” He grinned at the last, wicked and boyish. “If Aemma trips into Edric’s arms, we will ‘accidentally’ accept a passerby’s joke, we will make small talk with some daughter of the Reach or the Westernlands. We will make them see ease where there should be heat.”

Viserys winced, then found a kind of amusement in the cruelty of the plan. “And if they double back with some counter?” he asked. “If they try to press further, to humiliate us publicly?”

Daemon’s jaw tightened into something like a promise. “Then we switch to the Mirror. We reflect. A small jest in return — clever, not cruel. We never point, never name. That’s the trick: make them think they lost their footing themselves.”

They drew contingencies like lines on a map.

• If Gael seeks to provoke Bennard or another great-souled youth in view of Daemon, Daemon will not glare; he will casually show interest in a workman’s brawl or a carpenter’s knot to distract observers, then slip away and let the chatter swell into nonsense.

• If Aemma trips into Edric and the court smells something, Viserys will not charge in; he will appear later, cool and composed, and ask some practical question — about books, about the weather — anything to unbalance the melodrama. The less he shows, the more the court fills the silence with their own guesses.

• If the girls arrange a staged scene — false injury, staged rescue — they will have a prearranged signal: three clipped knocks at the outer gate. The boys will treat it as random coincidence, giving the girls a win that is meant to sting when later denied.

Daemon tapped the final line of the map: “We learn. We adapt. And when the moment is right, we strike with humor. Let them be the fools who think themselves clever. Let them have the sting at first. The last laugh will be ours.”

Viserys, who until then had only suffered through unrefined feelings, felt the faint stir of something like pleasure. “We will make it a lesson,” he said. “Not just for them but for us. Keep pride in check. Keep wit handy.”

Daemon grinned, the old mischief bleeding back into him. “And if they ever go too far? We make them jealous back. Not cruelly — but enough so they feel what they gave.”

II. The Girls’ Board: Gael & Aemma’s Counter-Play

Maegelle’s little study was warm, smelling of ink and boiled herbs. Aemma had a plan written in tiny, almost childish handwriting; Gael’s was a list of conditions, bold and daring. They spoke briskly, like conspirators who had rehearsed once too often, their voices low so the oaken door could not understand.

“We want irritation,” Gael said, “but not collapse. We poke. We do not strike. Think of it like oil on a tile — a slick that makes them slide but not fall.”

Aemma chewed the inside of her cheek, surprise at herself still soft on her tongue. “I keep thinking—this is childish, but…” She looked up at Gael and found the other girl’s eyes bright. “It’s working.”

They drew their own lines.

• The initial maneuver had been Bennard: Gael would use a public, polite kindness — a handkerchief, a trimmed bow, a passing word — to put a visible barrier before Daemon. Important: not flirtation in earnest, but the look of casual attention that a lad like Bennard would notice and answer in a way that made Daemon see an apparent rival.

• Aemma would be the lure for Viserys: an accidental stumble, a need for assistance, a conversation with Edric — everything plausible but not dangerous. The point was to give Viserys a moment where he might help or be there for aemma and therefore be denied — the denial to be engineered so that he felt a true, private pang.

• They agreed on a code: should Daemon or Viserys come to harsh words in public — no answer. Silence, then a small, deliberate act of charity. Make their anger public, let people look on. Pride left in the open is much more humiliating than a private chastening.

Gael’s list, more practical: “We arrange three types of ‘encounters’ — accidental in the gardens, staged by a servant in the outerfold; public in the halls where visiting ladies might see; private in a corridor where a passing squire will be forced to pass by. We prepare fallback signals: two coughs for ‘retreat,’ one quick hum for ‘stay.’”

Aemma, whose nerves still braided around honest feelings, hesitated at that hum. “And if we break them?” she asked. “If we wound them beyond play?”

Gael’s face softened. “Then we stop. We are not monsters. We let them see the stitch. That is the danger and the lesson. They are boys. We must not make lifelong enemies.”

They rehearsed their steps like dancers. Aemma prided herself on the Valyrian phrases she could murmur under the hedgerows — soft vowels meant to annoy, to beguile, to sound like an inside joke. Gael took on the theatrics: a faux-moan here, a fainting step there, the well-timed toss of a handkerchief. Both girls tested tonalities, the exact spacing between “Oh!” and “help.”

Their contingency list, quieter:

• If Daemon tries to strike a public blow (snide remark to a lady), Gael will smile, clap, and loudly praise him for his manners — insincere, teasing praise that will have the onlookers wondering who is joking and who is earnest.

• If Viserys becomes openly threatening, Aemma will pull back and send a servant on a false errand, creating a public pause that makes Viserys’s anger seem like a private flame and their silence the cold water that makes it sputter.

III. The Pawn Moves — Logistics, Allies, and Timing

They placed allies on the board like pawns. Servants were useful ears; squires were judges; the dragonkeepers were, to their surprise, humane and amused and promised to break no confidences if small courtesies were observed. Gael bribed a stableboy with stories; Viserys arranged with a page to “accidentally” spill a note near the gardeners.

Timing became the secret ingredient. The coroners of the plan — the girls — favored festival days, when the Keep’s bustle could disguise contrivances. The boys liked the quiet afternoons, when a single embarrassing moment could be savored like a rare jewel.

• A public parade (or small tourney) gave room for spectacle, where a single look could travel.

• A rain-swept afternoon turned whispers into private concerts; fewer eyes made humiliation sharper and more personal.

• Library hours offered cover for whispered maneuverings in Latin phrases, where the very obscurity of books gave them time to practice looks without being watched.

IV. The Endgame: What Winning Looks Like

They argued — laughing and flaring — about what “winning” should be. None wanted a broken friendship. Pride, they agreed, tasted worst when it consumed you. So “victory” came to mean:

• For the boys: to be able to sit with the girls, unflustered, and converse as if nothing had happened; to turn an attempted sting into a private joke.

• For the girls: to see the boys display restraint and humor; to know they could provoke and then be met with wit instead of fury.

• For all: to learn, and to enjoy the small theatre of it. If a single blush or a single true, private, unforced smile could be pried out of the other side, that would be enough.

VI. Rehearsal and Practice

The rehearsals were ridiculous and earnest. Viserys practiced narrow smiles in the mirror; Daemon practiced indifference while juggling pebbles. Aemma and Gael walked the corridors nodding at passing squires and timing the cadence of their footfalls as if they were actresses pacing a stage. Maegelle watched from her armchair, shaking her head but writing small notes that would be gift-wrapped as advice.

When they met again — boys and girls — the air between them hummed with new electricity: not the raw embarrassment of the first day, but the refined, dangerous pleasure of children who had learned the rules of a game and were now certain they could win.

Daemon, on the walk home that evening, thought about how different it all felt: the sting he had had at Driftmark still weighed on him, an old bruise, but this contest? This was not that. This was teeth and tongues, not swords. He liked that better. It meant the heart could stay whole.

Viserys felt something else — a secret, private warmth — when he saw Aemma laughing with Gael by the fountain. It was a new kind of want: a frightened, gently hopeful thing that he did not have words for yet. He kept it in the hollow of his chest like a small coin, turning it over when he had to bear Maester Vaegon’s impatience in their lessons.

Gael, watching Daemon’s jaw tighten at a passing look, felt a fierce, protective pleasure, and on impulse she plotted more — not to injure, never to injure, but to tug at that stubborn boy’s pride until he admitted, perhaps to himself first, that he noticed her.

Aemma, alone in the dormitory that night, surprised herself by not only rejoicing that their scheme had worked, but by the private, guilty thrill that her heart beat faster when Viserys’s name passed her lips. She told herself sternly — it was a game. She would repeat that until the words settled into truth. For now she rested with the satisfaction of a plan that had gone to script.

VII. The Rules They Swore By

They made a list and pinned it in their heads like a septa’s prayer:

1. No true cruelty. No lasting harm. This is sport, not war.

2. Retreat on the knock. Safety first.

3. Keep the family: if an adult is about to be hurt, stop — the family comes before the game.

4. No secrets that could ruin a life. If a thing is likely to become scandal, it is off-limits.

They swore it on wine or on sweetmeats or on the promise of a shared pastry; the sanctity of the list mattered to each of them in different ways. For Daemon, it was revenge. For Viserys, it was prudence. For Aemma, it was the line that kept a joke from turning to a wound. For Gael, it was the rule that allowed her to be mischievous without becoming cruel.

So the Cyvasseboard was spread: knights and bishops, pawns and rooks all waiting for their turns. They practiced openings and gambits, learned which pieces to hide and when to let one be taken, and discovered, in the slow hours between lessons and lessons, how much they enjoyed the game itself — the blend of wit and restraint, the small triumphs of a perfectly timed look, and the comfort that, whether they won or not, the family around them would still be home at the end of the day.

The alcove leading to the gardens was a narrow space, its archway half-draped in climbing roses. It was the perfect choke point: anyone heading to the training yard or gardens had to pass through. Gael had chosen it carefully, even instructed a maid to sweep petals across the stone that morning so it looked charmingly accidental. Aemma lingered a step behind her, feigning fascination with a sprig of lavender. She had been primed, coached: her role was to look innocent, maybe a touch flustered, as though she were dragged along rather than plotting.

And right on cue, Bennard Stark — the northern second son, broad as a gate and steady as the mountains — came striding from the opposite end, his hair damp from a wash, his tunic half unlaced at the throat. A spectacle without even trying.

Gael’s smile bloomed. “Lord Bennard! What fortune.”

The boy blinked, unused to being accosted by princesses in shadowed alcoves. “Good Morrow, Princess Gael,” he rumbled, bowing his head, “and Lady Aemma.”

“Tell me,” Gael said, stepping neatly into his path so he had to slow, “how fares the Red Keep in your eyes? It must be… well, different from Winterfell.”

Witnesses arrived right on cue: two young squires dawdling with pails, pretending to fetch water but actually instructed by Maegelle’s maid to linger. They slowed, whispering, so when Gael laughed lightly — too lightly, deliberately so — it echoed with more power than it should.

Aemma clutched her herbs tighter, hiding her nervous grin.

Bennard’s ears pinkened. “It is warmer, my lady. And taller. The stones do not… bite with the cold. I… suppose that is fine.”

Gael tilted her head, a cat batting at a mouse. “And how did you find yourself here? A northern second son seems an unlikely squire for King’s Landing.”

The squires’ ears twitched at that. One nudged the other, already preparing to tell the story in the yard later. Perfect. The bait was working.

Viserys and Daemon arrived almost together — Daemon with his swaggering step, Viserys a pace behind, tight-jawed and unreadable. Both stopped at the edge of the alcove.

Daemon’s eyes narrowed, fire sparking already at the sight of Gael leaning so close to Bennard. But before he could flare, before the match could catch, Viserys lifted a hand.

“Don’t,” he muttered, low enough only his brother heard. “Remember the plan.”

Daemon gritted his teeth — then smirked, masking rage in mock amusement.

They strode forward together.

Viserys, surprising himself, was the first to act. His voice was measured, smooth as poured honey.

“Ser Bennard,” he called, stepping into the circle like a chess piece sliding across the board. “I was just telling my brother you have a poet’s build. Strong arms, broad chest — perfect for carrying lutes about the Keep.”

The squires tittered. Bennard’s brows knit.

Viserys clasped his hands behind his back, the image of calm. “You favor songs and stories, do you not? I heard it said you know a dozen ballads of the snow. Perhaps you could sing one for my Grandfather’s hall someday.”

Gael’s laughter hitched — she recognized the ploy. It was subtle mockery, making Bennard look soft, fanciful, while Viserys kept his dignity.

Daemon, emboldened, slipped in the second blow. He grinned lazily and clapped Bennard’s shoulder. “Careful, Stark. The Keep’s halls are filled with ladies eager for northern tales. But beware — sometimes a princess’s laughter is less for the tale and more for how the teller stumbles.”

Gael’s cheeks flushed — half with irritation, half with delight that Daemon was watching her so closely.

The squires whispered louder. One muttered, “The princes are circling him like hounds.”

Perfect. The counter had turned Gael’s staged encounter into something sharper — Bennard the clumsy pawn, the princes holding the board.

Gael smiled, too wide, covering her irritation. “My nephews, how bold you are to waylay a Stark so.”

Aemma, hiding her face in her herbs, nearly burst into laughter at the sheer absurdity of it all.

Bennard, poor soul, stammered, “I— I was only passing through—” and made his escape toward the training yard, shoulders tight.

The witnesses dispersed too, chattering already, the story growing wings.

The girls had planned the gambit.
The boys had parried with the counter.

And now the game was truly underway.

The study smelled of parchment and dried lavender, a room that usually hummed with quiet devotion but had, in recent days, become something else entirely: headquarters of mischief, court politics, and the heart of a growing war of pride.

Aemma sat perched on the edge of a chair, cheeks flushed with the kind of indignation that was half genuine and half hilarity. Gael paced in front of the hearth, still in the silks she had worn for her “attack” in the alcove.

Septa Maegelle was pouring herself tea, hiding a smirk behind the rim of her cup. Septa Rhaelle, older and sterner, sat beside her, folding her hands piously over her lap — though the twitch of her lips betrayed her amusement.

Gael finally burst out: “I had him. I had him!” She spun, pointing dramatically at Aemma. “Bennard Stark was about to be wrapped in my handkerchief and good will like a goose in pastry — and then those two clowns arrived.”

Aemma tried to hold her laughter but failed, clutching her side. “Viserys called him—” She wheezed, unable to finish. “A poet’s build! The same Viserys, the Prince Paragon of Courtly Sobriety! Did you see Bennard’s face?”

“Stone turned to porridge,” Gael muttered, though the corner of her mouth twitched despite her anger.

Septa Maegelle hummed into her cup. “So the young wolves parried the young dragons. Delightful. The gods themselves must be laughing.”

Aemma wiped her eyes, still giggling. “And Daemon! Careful, Stark, he says, like he’s some sage of hearts. Oh, he meant it to wound, but all I could think was—he looked as though he’d rather strangle him than clap him on the shoulder.”

Gael threw herself into the chair opposite, groaning theatrically. “Which means, of course, they were ready for us. They smelled the trap before Bennard even opened his mouth. We underestimated them.”

Septa Rhaelle sniffed primly but could not hide her grin. “Princess, Lady Aemma — you are playing cyvasse with boys who have at least learned the rules. Did you think they would simply stand aside and watch you toy with them?”

“That was the hope,” Gael said tartly. Then she sighed, slumping back, arms crossed. “No, this means war.”

Aemma, still bright-cheeked, shook her head. “It’s absurd. I should be furious, but instead—” She broke into another laugh. “Viserys’ face, Gael. He looked so… so pleased with himself. As though he’d just outmaneuvered the Grand Maester at sums.”

“Which is why it stings!” Gael declared. “Daemon was practically glowing with smugness. They think they’ve won the day.” She straightened suddenly, eyes alight with renewed fire. “Which means we need a countermove.”

Septa Maegelle set down her cup and arched a brow. “Girls, girls. Do you not see what you are building? This is less a courtship and more a campaign. Keep at it, and soon the entire Red Keep will take sides.”

“Good,” Gael said without hesitation.

Aemma groaned, dropping her face into her hands. “We are doomed.”

“No,” Gael corrected, leaning forward with a wicked grin. “We are just getting started.”

Septa Rhaelle chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Seven save us. I see Saera and Viserra's mischief has found new heirs.”

Septa Magelle huffed. "And it landed on Daella's daughter and to my youngest sister"

Daemon sprawled across a bench, tugging at the ties of his jerkin with the air of a man who had just won a battle worth singing about. His smirk was infuriatingly wide.

“Did you see her face?” he crowed, kicking at a loose rush on the floor. “She near dropped that sweet tongue of hers when I stepped in. And Bennard—” he gave a snort of triumph—“reduced to a block of northern ice, silent as the Wall itself. Gods, I had him.”

Viserys, perched more neatly on the edge of the table, clasped his hands like some smug lordling. “Had him? Please. It was my quip about the the Poet's build that disarmed her. You looked ready to draw steel; I looked amused. That was the winning stroke.”

Daemon rolled his eyes. “You? Amused? You laughed like a goat choking on straw.”

“And yet,” Viserys said, lifting a finger as if sealing a contract, “it worked. Aemma fled first, Gael lost her thread, Stark stood there stammering. That is victory, brother.”

Daemon leaned forward, dark eyes glittering. “You’re forgetting who cut the moment. I made sure Stark walked away alone. I left her fuming. And the more she fumes, the more she’ll slip.”

Viserys shook his head with mock pity. “Fourteen save us, you’re already drunk on your own drama. Think bigger, Daemon. This was but a feint. The true game is not to stop them once—it is to leave them with no safe ground to play on.”

Daemon grinned despite himself, liking the sharpness in his brother’s tone. “So? What do you propose, oh wise tactician?”

Viserys tapped the table like it was a war board. “Next feast, I’ll keep Aemma busy—ask her about her embroidery, or her poetry, something that binds her tongue to mine. While she’s cornered, you make some gallant noise with one of the Tyrell girls. Loud enough Gael hears.”

Daemon snorted. “Tyrell girls? Soft as pudding. I’ll do better—Redwyne’s daughter. She laughs at everything. I’ll have her in stitches before the roast is carved.”

Viserys’s smile was sly. “Good. And Gael will see. And Aemma too, from across the table. Then we watch them bristle.”

Daemon leaned back, triumphant. “And then we laugh. Together. No more snapping like curs over scraps.”

For a rare moment, the brothers’ eyes met in a spark of shared mischief. They were still rivals, still ridiculous, but now allies in a game that promised endless sport.

“Let them think themselves clever,” Daemon said at last. “We’ll be cleverer.”

Viserys fought the urge to correct Daemon's grammar. “And louder,” Viserys added, with a chuckle.

And so the war continued, two fools congratulating themselves in the afterglow of a battle neither had truly won.

The great hall that night, glittered with light: gold candelabras on every table, banners draped from the rafters, the air thick with the scents of roasted boar, honeyed wine, and fresh-baked bread. The King, Queen, Septon Barth, Prince Baelon and Princess Alyssa sat at the head table, conversing amongst themselves. This feast was thrown by King Jaehaerys and Queen Alyssanne to pacify lords who brought their daughters as potential bride for both princes. Lords and ladies chattered, courtiers angled for favor, and in the midst of it all, two brothers enacted their newest stratagem.

Viserys struck first, gliding into a seat beside Aemma as if by accident. “You sew as finely as you speak, cousin,” he said with a mild smile, referencing the half-embroidered cloth at her side. “Tell me, did your Septa in the Eyrie teach you that stitch, or is it your own invention?”

Aemma blinked, caught between preening and suspecting. He had never once cared for her needlework before. Still, with half the hall listening, she inclined her head sweetly. “My Septa in the Eyrie, of course. But it’s easy enough once you learn patience.”

Viserys leaned closer, lowering his voice just enough. “Then you must teach me patience. Daemon swears I have none.”

Across the hall, Daemon made his move. He had chosen the daughter of Lady Redwyne—tall, freckled, with an easy laugh that rang like bells. Her mother has once been the subject of Princess Alyssa Targaryen’s infamous temper, struck square in the breast in when she uttered whispers of Baelon being King after her brother Aemon's Funeral, but Daemon either did not know or relished the provocation.

“Did you know,” Daemon said loudly enough for the nearest three tables to hear, “that your laugh is brighter than the Arbor’s finest wine? Gods, if I were half as merry, the septons would have me canonized.”

The Redwyne girl giggled helplessly, clapping a hand over her mouth. “You’re terrible, my prince.”

Daemon leaned back in feigned languor, but his eyes flicked sideways to the dais where Gael sat. She was stiff as a spear, her fingers whitening around her goblet. Beside her, Aemma was twisting her embroidery thread so tightly it snapped.

The trap was working.

Viserys pressed on, asking Aemma about her favorite poets, each question a silken tether drawing her in. He never let her pause long enough to look toward Daemon, though she tried. “Tell me,” he murmured, “if you were to write a verse about the sea, would it be storm or calm? I wager storm—it suits you.”

Daemon, meanwhile, raised his cup high. “To the Redwyne harvest!” he declared. “May it never sour, even if Lady Gael’s smile could outshine every cask of Arbor gold.”

The hall laughed. The Redwyne girl beamed. And Gael all but ground her teeth to dust.

From the high table, Alyssa Targaryen sat like a thunderhead ready to break. Her eyes narrowed on her son, lounging so carelessly beside the daughter of the very woman Alyssa had once struck. To see Daemon—her wild, prideful boy—parading his charm on that girl was enough to make her grip her knife as though she meant to drive it into the boar instead.

“Daemon,” she muttered under her breath, low enough only Baelon beside her could hear. “Of all the maidens in this hall, you choose her? Have you no loyalty to your own mother?”

Baelon chuckled, though it came as a grimace. “Better her laughter than her tears. Let them play their games. They are young.”

But Alyssa’s frown deepened, her knuckles white. She had not raised sons to make mockery of her grudges. So she drank a her glass full of wine in one gulp.

Back at the tables, the girls’ composure cracked. Gael whispered furiously to Aemma in High Valyrian, “Do you see? He planned this. He flaunts her at me!”

“And Viserys,” Aemma hissed back, “will not stop talking—he’s trying to trap me!”

Maegelle, across the table, hid a smile behind her cup. She alone seemed to enjoy the ridiculous cyvasseboard unfurling before her.

By the feast’s end, both sides thought themselves triumphant: the boys smug in their clever feint, the girls seething but already imagining their retaliation. Only Alyssa sat fuming in silence, her pride pricked deeper than any of them realized.

The feast was finally winding down, the hall buzzing with the aftermath of laughter, whispered gossip, and clinking goblets. Daemon leaned back in his chair, satisfied with the day’s little gambit—the Redwyne girl laughing at his jokes, Viserys snickeing somewhere across the hall, and Gael and Aemma glaring at them from their seats. He was just reaching for another slice of roasted pheasant when a shadow fell across his table.

“Daemon!”

He froze. The voice was low, dangerous, and unmistakably maternal. Alyssa Targaryen. Her eyes were narrowed, her jaw set like iron, and her hands clenched at her sides.

Daemon rose immediately, the grin fading. “Mother, what—?”

“What?” Alyssa echoed, stepping closer until her hand brushed his shoulder. “Have you no shame? Walking around with the Redwyne girl as if you own the hall? As if you’ve no sense of propriety at all?”

Daemon blinked, caught off guard. “It was just—”

“Just what?” Alyssa cut him off sharply. “Do you even remember what that family did to me?” Her voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. “I PUNCHED HER MOTHER IN THE TIT ONCE when she provoked me! Once! And you… you waltz around, charming her daughter as if that history means nothing?!”

Daemon’s mouth opened, then closed. He hadn’t actually considered the legacy of his mother’s wrath when he picked his pawns for this game. “I… Mother, I—”

“You think I raised you to flaunt your flattery at enemies’ daughters?” Alyssa continued, pacing a small circle around him, her voice rising for emphasis. “I should ground you, or worse. The audacity— the audacity!”

Daemon, used to her ferocity but secretly amused, held up his hands in mock surrender. “I didn’t know, Mother! I swear—”

“You didn’t know?” Alyssa’s eyes practically burned holes in his chest. “Daemon, you chose her knowing nothing of propriety or the Targaryen family grudges?!”

Daemon swallowed, trying not to laugh at how ludicrously serious she looked. “I only wanted to… annoy Gael. It—it was strategy, Mother, I swear!”

Alyssa stopped pacing, one hand on her hip. “Strategy? You call flirting with the daughter of a woman I once pummeled strategy?!”

Daemon grinned sheepishly. “It is… courtly strategy?”

Alyssa shook her head, exasperated. “Daemon, I should be furious, and I am—but I can’t help noticing that you’ve learned from your grandfather—crafty, scheming, and infuriating all at once. You leave me no choice. Go. Reflect on your sins. And next time, remember: family grudges are sacred, and mothers’ fists are remembered for decades!”

Daemon bowed dramatically, hiding his amusement behind a mask of chastised respect. “Yes, Mother. I shall meditate upon my sins, preferably while avoiding Redwyne girl entirely.”

Alyssa spun sharply and stalked off, muttering curses and expletives in Old Valyrian under her breath. Daemon let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Well,” he muttered to himself, “at least she hasn’t grounded me… yet.”

Chapter Text

The smell of dried lavender and parchment filled the air. Aemma sat perched on the window seat, her feet swinging slightly, cheeks pink from suppressed laughter. Gael lounged on Maegelle’s chaise with her chin in her hand, her smile feline and satisfied. Maegelle herself was at her writing desk, quill in hand, pretending to be disapproving but clearly listening, while Septa Rhaelle sat in the corner with her hands folded, trying very hard not to laugh outright.

“Well,” Gael said smugly, “I do believe we’ve rattled their cages thoroughly.”

Aemma grinned. “Daemon nearly split his goblet glaring at Bennard Stark, and Viserys…” she trailed off, hugging a pillow to her chest, “he hasn’t stopped fuming since Edric escorted me. He’s probably scowling in his sleep.”

Rhaelle gave a little tsk, though her eyes twinkled. “You are both shameless.”

“Necessary,” Gael corrected. “They think themselves master players. What they do not understand is that we own the board.”

“Until they flip it over,” Maegelle muttered dryly, though her lips quirked.

Aemma leaned forward, her eyes gleaming. “Then let’s up the stakes. A Redwyne girl was clever, yes, but it was too obvious. Too shallow. Viserys won’t be shaken by feasts and dances alone.”

“No,” Gael agreed, “for him it must be blood, books, and heritage.” Her smile curved like a drawn bowstring. “Strike where he lives—his pride.”

Aemma shocked. “The library.”

Maegelle looked up from her parchment. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” Gael purred. “Imagine it: poor Viserys trudging out of one of Uncle Vaegon’s monstrous lectures on laws and economics, only to find his precious alcove—his holy shrine of dust and tomes—occupied by Lady Aemma… and Lord Edric Oakheart. His lady. His spot. All claimed"

Aemma laughed, half-nervous, half-thrilled. “No way.”

“And you’ll even read for him, won’t you?” Gael teased.

Aemma nodded, the mischief twinkling in her eyes. “I’ll show Edric my favorite Valyrian poem—translate it, explain its meaning. And all in High Valyrian. None but us Targaryens understand it. It will drive Viserys absolutely mad.”

“Diabolical,” Maegelle sighed. “I should lock you both in the sept for a week.”

“Do it after,” Gael said sweetly, “once we’ve won.”

Rhaelle finally burst into soft laughter, shaking her head. “Oh, Seven preserve me, this keep hasn’t been so entertaining in weeks.”

The chamber was hushed, sunlight streaming through tall windows, dust motes dancing in the beams. In the secluded alcove where Viserys always read after his lessons, Aemma sat with Edric Oakheart. She leaned close, her voice soft and melodic as she traced her finger over a page.

“Āeksio ānogrose bē issa.” She spoke in High Valyrian, then glanced up at Edric, who blinked at her, rapt with attention.

“What does it mean?” he asked eagerly.

Aemma smiled, letting the moment linger. “It means… the sea is our cradle. A line from an old Valyrian poem. Someone very special shared this to me.” Her tone softened on the last words, and Edric’s face lit with gentle admiration.

“You speak it beautifully,” he said. “Like music.”

From the shadows between shelves, Gael stifled a giggle behind her hand.

Then—

Thud.

A heavy tome fell to the floor. Aemma startled, Edric twisted around—both catching sight of Viserys, frozen in the archway, books clutched to his chest, his jaw tight, eyes stormy.

“Viserys!” Aemma said brightly, far too brightly. “Join us. We were just reading.”

He stalked forward, setting his books down with a pointed slam, and sat stiffly across from them.

For twenty torturous minutes, he endured it: Aemma leaning close to Edric, translating lines, laughing softly when Edric tried to mimic the words; Edric gazing at her as if she’d strung the moon. Viserys occasionally muttered a correction, a sharper pronunciation, a tidbit of history—but it came out bitter, brittle, almost sulky.

Inside, he was molten, every heartbeat pounding with jealousy. His lady. His spot. His poems. Claimed by an Oakheart who preferred songs and frivolity. It was as if someone had pulled the rug from beneath his carefully built dignity and left him squatting on the cold stone, a trespasser in his own sanctuary.

Aemma noticed, oh she noticed. The way his fingers drummed too hard on the table, the way his lips thinned when she laughed, the fire in his eyes when Edric praised her voice. She basked in it, enjoying every flicker of his torment.

From her hidden perch, Gael all but wriggled with delight. “Check,” she whispered to herself, barely suppressing her glee.

Viserys lasted exactly twenty-three minutes. At the twenty-fourth, he couldn’t bear it anymore—the sight of Edric’s rapt eyes, the sound of Aemma’s soft laugh, the way she tilted her head when she explained a verse. It was as if the very air of his sanctum had been stolen from him. His sanctuary turned into a stage for his humiliation.

He stood abruptly, his chair scraping so loudly the other two jumped. “Enjoy your poetries,” he bit out, voice dripping with scorn. He snatched up his tomes with a graceless fury and stormed out, cloak snapping behind him like a banner of wrath.

Viserys was pacing the corridor, cheeks flushed, muttering under his breath, when Daemon appeared from around the corner. He took one look at his brother’s thunderous face and smirked.

“Well, someone looks ready to declare war.”

Viserys rounded on him. “Do you know what I just saw?” He nearly vibrated with rage. “Aemma. Reading my Valyrian poem. In my alcove. To that simpering dolt Oakheart! My lady, my spot—all claimed by a slack-jawed oaf who fancies himself clever because he can strum a lute!”

Daemon’s smirk deepened into a grin. “Seven hells, brother. You really are jealous.”

“That’s beside the point!” Viserys snapped. “My point is: how dare they? In my spot, in my library, where I’ve sat since the day I began to walk. It’s sacrilege.”

But as he spat the words, something inside him cracked open, raw and unbidden. The anger wasn’t only about the spot, or the poems, or even Edric. It was about her.

He remembered that first week, when Aemma had arrived from King’s Landing, a sharp-tongued girl who sparred with him in words as deftly as Daemon did with swords. She had been insufferable, infuriating—yet he had looked forward to every encounter, every barb exchanged across the solar. Then the quarrels softened into debates, debates into laughter, laughter into those quiet evenings where she sat across from him by the hearth, reading in companionable silence.

He thought of the way she wrinkled her nose when she teased him, the spark in her eyes when she bested him in an argument. The way her eyes sparkled everytime he taught her High Valyrian.  How she always made him feel seen—challenged, yes, but seen. He knew the shift chnged after that fateful night in dragonstone, where the girl who he's been his rival in a way, became somewhat of a friend, a confidante. And the way his chest tightened when she leaned close, when her laughter spilled free, when she looked at him as though he were more than just a dutiful heir who buried himself in ledgers and laws. He dreaded admitting it, but the truth roared through him now: Aemma had become the person he waited for, the thought that brightened every dull hour of Vaegon’s lectures, the reason he wanted the day to move faster. And he hated it. Hated that the girl who had once been his rival, his irritation, had become the center of his waking thoughts. Hated that he wanted her laughter for himself, her poems for himself, her time for himself. That was the wound—seeing her give it, so freely, to someone else.

Daemon folded his arms, his grin wide and wicked. “Well, well. The mighty heir to the realm, undone by a girl and a poem. You’ve gone from ledgers to longing. Tell me, do you want me to fetch Oakheart’s lute so you may duel him in song?”

Viserys glared. “This isn’t amusing.”

“Oh, it’s hilarious,” Daemon countered. “You swore we’d not give them the satisfaction. Act aloof, you said. Do not let them see us jealous, you said. And now look at you—storming out of the library like a scorned bard because Aemma recited a verse to another boy.”

Viserys scowled deeper, but his voice cracked with the rawness of it. “I almost had her. She was supposed to be mine—to sit with me, to share those poems with me. And instead… instead—”

Daemon clapped him on the shoulder, still smirking but with an edge of mischief-softened fondness. “Face it, brother. You’ve been played. And worse—you’ve gone and caught feelings for our cousin. This is all Gael’s design.”

The fire in Maegelle’s study was burning low, throwing a red glow against the shelves. Gael had kicked off her slippers, sprawled on a chair like a conquering general surveying her spoils. Aemma sat primly, though her lips could not quite hide the grin tugging at them. Septa Rhaelle, quill in hand as if pretending to mind her own notes, watched them with that maddeningly amused serenity of hers.

Gael clapped her hands together once, sharp with delight. “Oh, it worked. By the Mother’s mercy, it worked.” She leaned forward, eyes shining. “Did you see him? He nearly burst into flames standing there, watching you with Ser Edric. His ears went as red as his cloak!” She giggled so hard she had to press a hand to her mouth.

Aemma, trying and failing to keep her composure, gave a little shrug. “I only read to him a stanza. That was all.” Her voice carried mock innocence, but her cheeks were warm with the thrill of it. “But yes… Viserys’ expression was… rather telling.” She let the words hang, savoring them.

“Rather telling,’” Gael echoed with mock solemnity, before bursting out laughing again. “He stormed off as if you’d struck him. Gods, Aemma, he all but wrote the admission across his face—mine, not his, and in the library no less.”

Septa Rhaelle finally looked up, eyes dancing. “Cruel little things, the pair of you. It was only a poem.”

“It was a poem,” Gael agreed, lifting her chin smugly, “read in his sacred spot, to a gallant boy who listens with wide eyes. Tell me that wasn’t a masterstroke. We salted the wound, sweet Aemma—salted it well.”

Aemma couldn’t help laughing now, soft but radiant. “Perhaps. Yet I almost pity him…” 

Gael snorted. “Pity? No, no. Let him stew. He set himself up as the great rival, the indomitable lord of that alcove. Well, today we pried his fingers off it. One stanza of Valyrian verse, and he crumbled.”

And Septa Rhaelle, still smiling as she shook her head, murmured under her breath: “Seven save us all, if this is only the beginning.”

The Red Keep was alive with clattering preparations for the evening feast, but Viserys Targaryen heard none of it. His boots carried him through the torchlit halls and out into the chill of the dusk air, jaw tight, fists curled. He could still see it—Edric Oakheart’s boyish smile, his eager face bent toward Aemma as she recited the Valyrian verse. His verse. His spot. The little corner of the library where their voices had tangled so many times, half in quarrel, half in laughter. That alcove had been theirs.

The memory twisted like a knife. He remembered Aemma’s furrowed brow as she struggled over the strange syllables, how he’d bark at her for mangling a consonant only to relent when she laughed at him. He remembered the time she had fallen asleep against the shelves, the book sliding from her hands, and how he had carefully marked her place. And now—now she sat there with a simpering knight, as if all of that meant nothing. As if he meant nothing.

Jealousy and hurt tangled into something unbearable, and Viserys knew if he stayed another moment indoors he would do something foolish. So he sought the godswood, the only place he could think to brood in silence, to let the cold night air cool the heat boiling in his chest.

But when he entered the godswood, beneath the pale, weeping boughs, he stopped short.

She was already there.

Aemma sat cross-legged beneath the heart tree, its carved face frowning down upon her. She lifted her head at the sound of his approach, and for the briefest heartbeat their eyes met. She looked stricken—guilty even—and the sight only deepened the storm within him.

Viserys forced a sneer to his lips, though his chest was aching. “I thought you’d be with Ser Edric Oakheart here,” he said, voice sharp, bitter. “You seem to want to be around him in the Red Keep.”

Aemma blinked, her frown deepening, though not at him—at herself. “No. Do I look like his minder? I don’t know where he is.” She hesitated, then looked at him again, really looked at him. His shoulders were rigid, his mouth twisted with scorn, but behind his violet eyes she saw it—anger, yes, but wounded anger.

Her own heart clenched.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “For what happened in the library earlier.”