Beyond the Black Door - SeveDeChampagne (2024)

Chapter 1: Prologue: Sunset at Harrnehal

Chapter Text

Harrenhal

130 AC

For the first time in his life, Daemon Targaryen faced battle unprepared to die. What farcical irony then, that the chances of his seeing the next day’s dawn were the smallest they’d ever been.

As the sun began its lazy descent beyond the towers of old Harrenhal, Daemon watched as a black speck appeared in the horizon and grew ever larger. Vhagar and Aemond, come so fast at news that he was alone here amidst the ruins of this monstrosity.

From deep behind the breastplate of his armour, Daemon retrieved a faded handkerchief—nicked from Rhaenyra too many years ago to remember—and cleaned the blood of Harrenhal’s heart tree from Dark Sister. Carefully, he folded the silk that once touched her skin back into a neat square and tucked it, stained red, against his heart.

Then he sheathed his sword and made for the outer bailey.

“Well, old friend,” he murmured as Caraxes nuzzled his hot velvet snout against Daemon’s shoulder. “Shall we finish this, once and for all? One way or another?”

Above, Vhagar’s shadow loomed, blacker than a storm, and Daemon heard her familiar cry, hot on the wind. The hot wind carried, too, Aemond’s overflowing arrogance, and Daemon could not help his derisive smirk. Did his dear young nephew believe he could cow him, flying upon Vhagar to meet him in battle? Daemon knew what it was to fly upon Vhagar’s back, clutching his father’s leather doublet. Daemon knew what it was to fly through Vhagar’s flames, chasing Laena through the Pentoshi sky.

There was not a thing about either boy or dragon that could frighten him. He would meet Aemond and Vhagar in battle this eve, and he would make sure it was their last. Yet for the first time, Daemon was unprepared to die.

Two nights ago at Maidenpool, as he and Nettie supped after yet another day of fruitless searching, Lord Mooton’s young maester had arrived with parchment bearing Rhaenyra’s broken seal and a terrible look upon his face. Daemon had sat frozen as his eyes drank in the letter, feeling as if his chest was being ripped open by rough hands.

The queen commands the head of the girl known as Nettles, who has been charged with the highest of treasons.

Oh Rhaenyra…his dearest Rhaenyra…Rhaenyra who had only fortnights ago kissed Nettie’s forehead as they departed for the Riverlands.

By an unspoken agreement, they had taken in the little smallfolk girl with her spindly arms and blinding grin as the daughter the Greens had stolen from them. Yet now…

Gods, what horrors had this war inflicted upon his wife? How much fear must plague and torment her at night, that she felt need to send this command?

Daemon’s hand had crept to his doublet then, wherein he kept the two scraps of parchment Rhaenyra had written him since he left her to find Aemond: one after the betrayals at Tumbleton, one after the idiot Corlys had spirited Addam away when Rhaenyra summoned him.

There were but a handful of words in Rhaenyra’s rounded, sprawling hand, but every one stuck in his throat.

…I cannot bring myself to trust anymore, though my head tells me I ought not to doubt their loyalty…It is near impossible to stay sane with you gone…I am trying to be strong for you, I am, but my mind is a mess…

…I cannot sleep…the taste of fear is constantly coppery in my mouth…Sometimes I manage to doze when I imagine your arm around my waist, but then I startle awake to my empty bed, and I can still see every one of my dead boys in the dark.

And today, this secret command, cold and impersonal. That hopeful part of Daemon wished to believe the Greens had somehow forged Rhaenyra’s seal to drive a wedge between them, yet if that were the case, the letter would have called for his head too, would it not? Instead, it demanded that Daemon not be harmed.

He could hardly bear to admit it, but he could see in his mind Rhaenyra shivering alone in that iron chair, panic seizing her as one of her grappling advisors convinced her that even little Nettie would betray her. Calling for Gerardys to pen this secret command because she did not know how else to keep the clawing fear at bay.

His darling girl, and the horrors this war had inflicted upon her. Horrors he could have prevented if he’d only been quicker, smarter, fiercer and more competent—if he had done more to protect their children. She'd named him Protector of the Realm, but the Realm was Rhaenyra now, and their family, and he had done a sorry, pathetic job of protecting both.

Alone in the Harrenhal godswood, Daemon had allowed all his rage at his incompetence to boil over, taking Dark Sister to the weirwood tree. The bloody disbelief at news of Luke’s murder, the maddening fury as a wounded Egg had tumbled off his dying dragon wailing Viserys’ name, the despair that crumpled Daemon’s insides at news of Jace’s death at sea… His boys, each one…dead—and here he was, still breathing, nary a scratch upon him.

He had hacked his fury and grief into the weirwood until its trunk was mangled and bloody as his heart. He could not imagine the anguish that must plague Rhaenyra, to lose those sons who were made of her flesh and blood. And he could not blame her for this command.

Yet neither could he let Rhaenyra make this mistake with little Nettie. When she realised she was mistaken about the girl, Rhaenyra would never forgive herself—she who had slapped him so hard he saw stars when she learned he’d sent assassins to avenge Luke. Even when she wanted the blood of her brothers, she could not stomach killing children.

When Daemon returned to present the truth to her and put his sword through the rat who’d made her so afraid, she would remember herself, and all would be well again. When Daemon returned, he would make all right with her.

If Daemon returned.

Because before he returned to comfort and assure his wife, Daemon needed to be here, at Harrenhal, to finally finish this task he had vowed upon Luke’s pyre. He had taken Rhaenyra’s leave with promises to deliver her Aemond’s head, and he did not intend to break his promise. His troublesome nephew upon Vhagar was and always would be the biggest threat to Rhaenyra’s reign, and Daemon’s priority must be to eliminate him, before he did even more damage.

So he would force Aemond to leave his life here, amid the ruins of cursed Harrenhal and the bottomless waters of the God’s Eye. He must. Even though he had never been so desperate to cling to life and have the chance to set things to rights.

If he must leave his own bones alongside his nephew’s…well, Daemon hoped keeping this promise would be enough for Rhaenyra to forgive him the betrayal of sending Nettie into hiding. He hoped she’d forgive him, too, for breaking that first promise he ever made her, on Dragonstone, with their bleeding palms joining their souls. He’d told her he’d never leave her again, but being unprepared to die had never helped any soldier survive battle.

He could see Aemond upon Vhagar’s back now, and squinting into the orange sunset, he made out another figure behind him—a woman’s form, with long hair streaming behind them. For a ridiculous moment, Daemon wondered if this was how Vhagar appeared in the sky half a century ago, carrying his own father and mother. For though Alyssa Targaryen always kept half her soul with Meleys, there had been times when Baelon liked to fly with his wife tucked against his lap.

As Daemon himself had done with Rhaenyra, back when all had been right with their world in those six golden years, no matter the storm that loomed on the horizon. The memories splattered like hot honey in his chest, but Daemon brushed them aside.

This was no time for softness. No time for thoughts about his lover, his niece, his wife. Now he could only allow himself thoughts of his queen and their heirs, and what he must do to win her this war.

So when Aemond helped his pregnant lover off Vhagar amidst the dust stirred from the colossal dragon’s landing, Daemon felt inside his breastplate one last time, touching that handkerchief as if he touched Rhaenyra’s skin.

And when Aemond jeered,

“You have lived too long, Nuncle,”

Daemon threw his head back and allowed brittle, bitter laughter to harden every tender point of pain, until he was stone and steel, one with his sword and Caraxes’ blade-sharp scales.

And when they took flight, his ears full to bursting with wind and war cries, Daemon urged his dragon high into the clouds—letting the lashing air strip him of all humanity, all reluctant clinging to life.

With a bright shriek from Caraxes’s mouth or his own throat, he was not certain, they dove down toward Vhagar. The moment teeth tore into flesh, Daemon was all beast, all steel, no regret. Through the maestrom of agonised screams and the terrible ripping of scales and hide, through the tangle of fire and molten splattering of blood, he urged Caraxes on with his calls and his whip.

Never had they fought together so, and never had he felt, so vividly, the blood of this beast burning in his own veins. Caraxes’ every shriek of pain Daemon felt in his own body, and each urged him closer to that certainty—that there would be no returning from this day, this battle.

Everything they had, they would leave here, under this bleeding sunset, lake water rushing up to meet them as they brought down Vhagar, the oldest, largest being upon this earth. Vhagar and her rider, who, in truth, began this war that had taken so much from their family.

And so, when Caraxes sank his teeth into Vhagar and granted him that opening, Daemon did not hesitate. Perhaps he had always known this was how he must end it. Perhaps this was why he had left loose those chains that usually bound him to the saddle. He pulled Dark Sister from its sheath, stood, and ceased all thought.

When his sword sank into Aemond’s skull, all Daemon knew was triumph. When the cool lake engulfed him, all Daemon knew was satisfaction. When darkness closed in, all Daemon knew was that he had done his best for his love.

It had not been good enough, but it was all he could manage. With his last breath, he had removed this largest of threats and avenged their boys.

He regretted only that he could not stroke her cheek one last time.

Forgive me, Rhaenyra. I did my best.

Chapter 2: Part I: Your journey ends not

Chapter Text

Daemon had not expected the Afterlife to be quite so…wet. Nowhere in any Valyrian holy text did it mention that the journey to the land of shadows would involve wading through water and being carried upon currents, but here he was, submerged in the cold, water pressing against his ears and nostrils, his body drifting like a puppet.

And did the holy texts not say that death severs the soul from the body? So why was it, then, that Daemon still felt his armour encasing his limbs and his hair loose and flowing about his face?

He was blind. He was deaf. He did not know if he could speak, for nothing in his body was under his command. Perhaps this was what they meant, then, when they wrote of the soul separating from the body.

Yet slowly, sensation was returning to his fingers, cold and wet, and the blackness before his eyes seemed to lighten like the earliest morning. Only, it was not the velvet blue of dawn he saw, but a green so deep and true it seemed to pulse with old magic.

This was not an old magic that he knew—Daemon Targaryen, blood of Old Valyria, child of ancestors who arrived as strangers to this land. This was a magic bound to this land since the start of time, rooted in these waters and stones, these mountains and shores of Westeros. Yet, it called to him, no matter that the roaring silence of the waters still crowded against his ears. He heard his name tapping upon his bones.

He did not know when he regained use of his limbs, but when Daemon saw that fleck of something in the distance to pierce the endless expanse of green, he waded toward it without thought. Icy water fluttered through his fingers, but the journey was an easy one, and he spared a thought for the strangeness of it all, that his armour should weight nothing.

Onward he swam, and the fleck grew into a dazzling point of white-hot light. At once, it seemed to expand and engulf him, blinding him again, this time in piercing white that made his head throb. As the sensation waned, for a moment Daemon thought the brightness had made him see the veins in the back of his eyes. Yet in the next, he realised that the throbbing mass of blood-red lines were not veins, but roots, spreading out before him in an endless expanse.

And at the centre of this bloody tangle was the face of a heart tree. Daemon had been to countess castles in his lifetime, had seen numerous faces of heart trees in abandoned godswoods, their eyes closed, red sap seeping from the bark.

Yet the wooden face before him now was unlike any he had encountered, because its blood-rimmed eyes were open and piercing, and in its pupils was again that green that did not belong to man.

Daemon Targaryen. There it was again. That voice that sounded not through his ears, but ate directly into his bones.

Daemon Targaryen. Your journey ends not. Your house ends not. The Song of Ice and Fire ends not.

It was unlike any language he’d heard, unlike any speech that could be made by the tongues of man. It was raw and harsh and skittered over his body like a million rustling leaves, but Daemon understood every word.

The Song of Ice and Fire. He had known what that was, somewhere, some time ago. He could remember Rhaenyra’s voice speaking those words. Could remember that hollow fury that followed. The haze of blood-red rage.

Yet his mind had flooded as his ears and nose were flooded, and thought was impossible. All he could do was listen.

Make your choice here. Choose, and regret not.

And though Daemon did not blink, at once he was plugged back into that lake o deepest, truest green. Before him, two doors appeared, each of weathered, knotted wood. To his left, the door dripped with black ink that ate all surrounding light, and to his right, blossoms of flame sprouted to life upon the door, shooting up like weeds in the water, engulfing the wood until all was char.

Choose, the voice had urged in his bones. Daemon knew not why.

But he knew that he had seen enough of this realm alight in dragon flames. He did not wish to choose that door, not when the inky blackness of the other called to him, peace and calm and quiet. Carefully, he waded his way to the black door. Carefully, he reached out his fingers to press it open, the ink cool and thick upon his hand.

And it was only as he stepped through to the blinding light beyond that he saw—it was not ink upon his fingers, but blood, scarlet and fresh. Yet it was too late to turn back, for the bloody door closed behind him, and Daemon was drowned in the light.

He was not certain how long he hung there, suspended in white, his mind floating away from his limbs. Slowly, sounds returned first—voices, metal scraping, the distant sound of the sea—then sensation—his hand upon a familiar shape, his feet upon familiar gravel—then finally, sight. Daemon Targaryen returned to his body and eyes to see the glint of a sword hacking right at his face.

Decades of training and instinct took hold, his shield arm swinging up above his head. Fortunately, the blade slowed and wavered as it approached him. Unfortunately, his left arm bore no shield.

Huh, he thought, his mind a passive spectator to his body as he fell backwards, landing with a thud that seemed to dislodge his marrow. How very interesting. That blow could have killed him, but it seemed not to be the wielder’s intention.

The voices in his ears had pitched up an octave by now, laced with panic, but Daemon understood nothing save the grey-blue expanse of sky and clouds before his eyes, gilded with dark stone parapets.

Daemon would know that sky, those clouds, that horizon even in death. He was on Dragonstone, and someone had just knocked him over the head with a sword. By accident? His left arm was on fire now and his head throbbed, but nothing could compel him to move.

Suddenly, a shadow emerged from one side, leaning over him. By the glint of the sun, he caught the shine of silver hair and the glitter of purple on the eye.

“Rhaenyra?”

Of its own accord, one hand reached out for the outline of her face. Was this the doing of that old, unknowable magic? Giving him this last taste of sweetness before death overtook him? Letting him stroke her cheek again, just this once, just this last?

“Rhaenyra.”

And he was plunged back into darkness once more.

~*~

Dragonstone

129 AC

Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen stood upon the ramparts of Dragonstone with her hands digging painfully into the rough wall. The dull throbbing pain between her legs had started again, a reminder of her recent birth, pounding with each beat of her mangled heart. But she had grown used to pain of all sorts these few days past. Daemon might think her weak, but a little pain she could stand.

Footsteps emerged behind her, and she turned to see Luke coming up beside her, brow wrinkled with concern.

“Mother, shouldn’t you be sitting and resting?”

She squeezed his hand and tried to tug her face into a smile. By his deepening frown, she knew she failed.

“The air up here does me good.”

“But Maester Gerardys said—”

“Luke, really. I’m alright.”

He wanted to say more, her sweet boy, but pursed his lips instead and followed her example, gazing out over the wall at the beach below.

Daemon was training there with one of the castle knights, his black armour catching the sun cascading through the clouds. It was an old suit of armour, this, with detailing made to look like dragon scales. Rhaenyra could still remember that accursed tourney twenty years ago—the day her mother left her—and how she had followed every movement of Daemon’s limbs clad in the dull shine of black steel.

How strange. To see him like this, his armour covering all signs that he was older than her father had been that day at the tourney. It almost felt as if twenty years had not passed, that all was still the same. Yet the next moment, Rhaenyra caught herself and nearly laughed aloud at her passing, childish fancy.

All had changed. Alicent had stood beside her that day as they watched Daemon fighting Criston Cole. Cole had taken off his helm after and smiled up at her. Mother had been alive that day. And so had Father.

The grief washed over her for the thousandth time, like the constant lapping of the waves against the rocks—grief threaded with relief that finally he was free of his pain, yet what a disaster, what a mess he had left for her. In the end, it had not mattered that he’d dragged himself to that throne one last time for her sake. Otto and Alicent had taken her birthright regardless.

Rhaenyra could still feel the weight of her father’s crown upon her head, digging into her forehead where Daemon had placed it. What was she to do with it? After Otto and Alicent’s folded page on the bridge, after Daemon’s angry words the night before…What was she to do?

Daemon swung his sword low then, catching the knight off guard, and beside her, Luke made an excited little gasp that pulled Rhaenyra from the dark waters.

Watching Daemon so full of life and vigour just as he had been, Rhaenyra felt the ocean of grief draw back once more. It would come again, no doubt, but any relief was welcome. Perhaps Daemon was the only one truly unchanged in all these years, the one constant in her life, even when he had not been beside her.

Yet he had called her weak in the council chamber—dug his fingers into her shoulders so hard they left green marks and told her she was being weak, just like her father.

Would he have thought her weak back then, she wondered. Had she been weak, at four and ten? Perhaps it was Rhaenyra who had changed the most. But was it truly wrong, to want peace and a realm united? She did not like it any more than he did that her brother sat upon her throne and wore the conquerer’s crown, but the prophecy…

Rhaenyra knew that pain had been Daemon’s constant companion, too, in these few days since they lost their tiny daughter. He had retreated into himself, like some wounded sea creature into the inner most chamber of its shell.

And she knew she had added to his pain immeasurably with the revelation that Father had never truly considered his brother his heir. That shade of despair and fury falling over his eyes, the dull ache of his shaking hands on her flesh…

She could only hope now that Daemon would recover from his hurt. That she had not irrevocably damaged this whole and radiant thing between them.

The knight had managed, by a hair, to recover from Daemon’s attack, and he drew back his sword, making ready to form his own. Yet what was Daemon doing now, going still as if struck dumb?

Rhaenyra squinted into the brightness, not sure if she was seeing right. She knew little of sword-fighting, but surely he should not be standing so still. The knight raised his sword high. It caught a glimpse of sun peaking behind the clouds. Still, Daemon did not move.

And then the sword struck down, and the cry ripped from Rhaenyra’s throat before she understood what she saw.

Daemon raised a frantic arm against the blade—no protection save one sheet of steel—as if he was surprised to find himself facing it. The knight tried to pull back at the last moment, when he realised his prince was truly to make no defence, but he was too late to stop his momentum. The man stumbled forward, and the blade made contact with Daemon’s armour in a sickening screech that shocked the whole yard into silence.

Rhaenyra did not wait to see Daemon fall. She tore down the castle stairs and over the sand that tried to swallow her feet with each step, scrambling to reach his prone form. Perhaps she was screaming his name. Perhaps she could not make sound from her burning throat.

She bent over him, and with a relief that stung her eyes, she saw that he was awake, staring up at the sky in a daze.

Very softy, his voice the texture of the sand beneath her shaking hand, he said her name and reached for her cheek.

“Rhaenyra?”

His eyes closed. His hand dropped. And this time, Rhaenyra did scream his name.

Chapter 3: Trust your own mind, or his

Chapter Text

“Lord Corlys, there’s really no need to exert yourself so,” Rhaenyra said as she slowly made her way to her chambers, Corlys Velaryon hobbling next to her with the help of his guards. “Maester Gerardys assures me that Daemon will be perfectly alright.”

“If it’s all the same to you, your grace, I’d still like to see him.” Corlys shot her a small smile. “If for nothing else, I’d like to mock him later, for sleeping while I am up and walking after graver injuries.”

And Rhaenyra could not help smiling back. She did not know if he meant his words to comfort her—likely not, considering how little love he and Rhaenys must have for her—but she felt a rush of affection and gratitude regardless. Her throat had burned with tears in the council chamber when Corlys had presented her with the Narrow Sea, and Rhaenys had promised to patrol the gullet herself upon Meleys.

It mattered not that they still saw her as their son’s murderer. They had sworn their loyalty to her, and neither were people to break their oaths. They, who held so much animosity toward her person, still wished to stand by her claim. Somewhat ridiculously, it was this that reignited that flame in her belly. Perhaps she could do this. Perhaps she need not bend her knee to her usurping brother and the Hightower traitors.

Rhaenyra pushed open her chamber door quietly, putting a finger to her mouth when Maester Gerardys looked up from Daemon’s bedside and rose to greet her.

“Lord Corlys simply wished to see the prince for himself,” she whispered, and one of the maids brought a chair so Corlys could sit as they listened to Gerardys give an account of Daemon’s injuries.

This morning’s events felt like a nightmarish haze to Rhaenyra, and if Daemon was not lying unconscious in their bed before her, she could still not believe it had truly happened. The sheer terror of seeing Daemon fall was still coppery on her tongue.

“…the prince sustained some shock to the brain when he fell,” Gerardys was saying. “I believe there is also a mild bruise to his ulna bone where Ser Reginald’s sword struck him, but there was no fracture. The body needs sleep to heal, but the prince should sustain no lasting damage.”

“But how could he let himself be injured thus to begin with? By a common household knight?” Corlys asked, and inwardly, Rhaenyra gave a frustrated sigh.

She had asked Gerardys the same question, but he’d been able to offer no answer.

“That, my lord, we will have to ask the prince when he wakes,” the maester said. “But rest assured. I doubt he will be unconscious for long.”

As Rhaenyra saw Corlys off to take his own rest, she was glad for the relief in his eyes. No doubt Corlys was afraid that Daemon would be bedridden as he himself had been, crippling their cause from the first. As Rhaenyra watched Gerardys apply a new ice poultice to Daemon’s elevated arm, she could only thank the gods that the injury was no more serious than this, though the sight of him going still and dumb on that beach still sent a thrill of ice down her back.

She did not know how long she sat there afterwards, thinking through the council meeting and absently stroking Daemon’s hair. What would he say to her decisions in the council today, she wondered. The past days had felt like a storm spinning wildly out of her control, and Daemon had been the worst offender, pushing her to make decisions and laying out his own plans for assault. Rhaenyra’s heart had barely stopped racing.

Would he agree with her sending her sons with their dragons now to treat with Stark, Arryn and Baratheon? That was a show of force. Surely he would approve. Rhaenyra did not need to wonder how it was that Jace got the idea to be her envoy. A blind man could see the way he looked to Daemon’s example, even when he did it grudgingly.

You are queen, Rhaenyra reminded herself for the millionth time. Trust your own mind.

But she could not deny that she trusted Daemon’s instincts above all, sometimes even over her own. Always, she could not help looking for his approval and agreement, and since the moment they learned of Father’s death, Daemon had disagreed with her decisions more vehemently than he ever had.

When he’d looked at her after she stopped him killing Otto Hightower, she had seen something shattered and flinty in his gaze. A disappointment in her. And Rhaenyra never could bear that.

He, too, is mad with grief, she reminded herself, remembering his manic anger the night before. His judgement is clouded. Still, she could not decide once and for all that he was wrong in wanting violence and war. The same violent anger simmered in her own gut, and Rhaenyra still did not know if she should allow it to boil over. As always, the prophecy loomed, but hadn’t Daemon been right last night, no matter that he’d had his fingers clawing into her shoulders and a pained hysteria in his eyes?

‘Dreams didn’t make us kings. Dragons did,’ he’d snarled in her ear.

Oh, she had been angry at his violence, as if it was not this violence that called to her own and made her mad for him. She had thrown Father’s lack of trust back in his face, and she had liked that her words hurt him more than his grip on her flesh. But when she’d had the night alone to think…

For Aegon the Conquerer, for Father, those had truly only been dreams, no matter the dangers they portended—wisps of nothing that disappeared along with morning dew. What lay before her now was a choice so real she could feel it sharp in her hands. Does she fight for her rightful throne, or does she hand over her crown and acquiesce to usurpation and Hightower dominance? Should she truly let something so flimsy as dreams make that choice for her?

A light know came at the door. Elinda’s thin face peeked in.

“Your grace? The princes are just about ready to set off.”

Rhaenyra straightened, smoothing her skirts and taking one last look at Daemon. Despite Gerardys’ assurances, she could not shake the sinking feeling that when she returned, something might be irretrievably different. But she could feel Elinda’s concerned eyes upon her, so Rhaenyra gave Daemon’s cold hand another squeeze and followed her lady-in-waiting from the chamber.

~~~

Jace and Luke were whispering with heads bent when Rhaenyra emerged onto the high ramparts with Ser Erryk. They looked up like two startled gophers when she emerged, their cloaks flapping in the wind, and Rhaenyra couldn’t stem her amusem*nt.

“Talking about your mother behind her back, are you?”

Jace stood ramrod straight and refused to meet her eye, while Luke fidgeted with his hands. She coughed to hide her laugh.

“Well?”

“Are you…are you truly alright, Mother?” Luke said, hand going to the back of his neck. “With Uncle Daemon like this…we’re worried.”

“Oh, my dears.” She walked to him and placed a kiss upon his forehead. From the corner of her eye, she saw Jace trying to look as if he was unbothered and failing quite spectacularly at it.

“Everything will be fine,” she said. “You heard the maester. Daemon will be good as new by the time you return.”

Luke still looked concerned, but Jace stood even straighter.

“We won’t fail you,” he said, his jaw set. “We’ll return with oaths of loyalty, I promise.”

Rhaenyra looked into the dark, shiny eyes of her oldest boys then, really looked, letting the gravity of everything finally settle around them. The midday light caught the edges of Luke’s curls, gilding his serious face, and for the first time she saw him, too, as she was beginning to see Jace. Her two oldest boys indeed, though boys for not much longer. She gripped the scrolls she’d prepared for the lords and dropped her voice.

“It is said that Targaryens are closer to gods than to men,” she began, and her sons knew that she spoke no longer as their mother, but as their queen.

“If you take this errand, you go as messengers, not as warriors.”

Do you hear what I say? Do you truly understand my meaning? She held her pleas for assurance on her tongue. They were on the cusp of manhood now. They did not need her nagging and wheedling, did not need her questioning them at every turn.

“You must not take part in any fighting. Swear it to me now.”

She, too, must remember that she spoke to them as their queen, and so she continued to hold her tongue despite the disagreement she saw in both their faces. They knew her reasons for this. They might not agree, but her command was law. They knew that, her boys, so each put their hands on the Seven Pointed Star and swore to her without protest. Her boys, almost men.

Yet, when it came down to the last, Rhaenyra was unable to stop herself stroking Luke’s hand with her little finger, was unable to keep from squeezing his shoulder one last time. He almost called her ‘mother,’ catching himself and changing his words only when he remembered his brother’s example, and her heart was a puddle of honey in her chest.

She watched her sons fly off into the sun-streaked horizon with their grandmother, and as the afternoon deepened, she paced about the council chambers, trying to tamp down her growing sense of unease. She had nothing to worry about. Her sons had sworn to be only messengers, and Gerardys was confident in Daemon’s recovery.

But when Elinda came to whisper that Daemon was awake, Rhaenyra felt her heart leap into her throat then drop into an endless pit in her stomach. In an instant she was on her feet, ignoring the protests of her sore, tired body, rushing through the castle though she should have no reason to fear.

She burst into her chamber to see Daemon leaning against the pillows, Gerardys fussing over his arm. Awake. Just as Elinda said. A vaguely human colour had returned to chase away his powdery pallor from before, and his eyes were alert. He was here again, present and himself.

Yet.

Yet the way he looked from the maester to her, then scanned his eyes over the chamber…something was terribly, sickeningly wrong. There was an agitated confusion about him, a sort of panic that brought out the same in her.

“D…Daemon,” she stammered. Every fibre of her body screamed at her to rush to him, to hold his hands and feel for their warmth, but she found she was afraid to approach him in this state. A hysteria was humming from his body and building in the air, so thick that Rhaenyra was finding it hard to breath. She took one step toward him and froze again.

When he spoke, his voice shook, and Rhaenyra shook with it.

“Everyone out,” he said. Then, when the maids and maester all looked to him in confusion, the next words ripped from his hoarse throat. “Everyone out! I need to speak to the queen. Alone. Now!”

When she made no protest, everyone complied, and as the door closed behind her, Rhaenyra took another rigid step towards him.

“Daemon? Are you…what is…” What is wrong with you?

His eyes were wide as a startled beast’s, and his brow was painfully knotted.

For a long moment, she was unable to tear her eyes away as his frantic gaze skimmed up and down her body, as if devouring her like a starving man, though he had seen her only hours ago. Finally, finally, he said in a voice so brittle she was afraid it might snap,

“Luke?”

Rhaenyra drew back.

“What?”

“Luke,” he said again, and would not continue. She blinked. He was still frightening her, but the terrible fluttering in her stomach was dying down.

“What of Luke?”

He opened his mouth, as if unsure how to form words, his eyes darting about and studying her face.

“Where…where is he?”

Rheanyra bit the inside of her cheek.

“Are you certain you wish to talk about state matters now? You’ve only just awakened, and you should be—”

“Rhaenyra!” Her heart staggered and jumped a beat.

“He’s on his way to Storm’s End. To carry my letter to Borros Baratheon. I decided in council today—”

In a flash he was out of the bed, and the next moment Rhaenyra was folded in his unyielding arms, her body pressed so fast against his wildly beating chest that it was almost painful. But before she could make any movement, he had left her to burst out the door, his sword clinking in his hand.

“Bring my armour and riding leathers to the tunnels.” His voice boomed through the halls, and it held such certain authority that Rhaenyra found herself moving to obey even as she heard the servants doing the same.

“I am gone to saddle Caraxes.”

Chapter 4: Seven buggering hells

Chapter Text

Never in his life—in both his lives—had Daemon Targaryen flown as if his very soul depended upon it. For it did depend on it now, did it not? There could be no conclusion to this day save that he bring Luke back alive and unscathed to his mother’s arms. He would not survive losing that earnest, grinning boy a second time.

So he felt the dank, icy air skim the warmth from every inch of his exposed skin, felt his armour digging into his joints, felt his eyes stinging and his lips cracking from the wind. And he welcomed each discomfort, for it meant Caraxes was flying as fast as he could.

Still, he spurred his mount faster and faster.

“Forward!” He screamed into the whipping currents, though he could barely hear himself. Still, Caraxes always did seem to hear Daemon’s thoughts, and despite being roused unceremoniously from his day slumber and wrangled into his saddle, his old friend gave a low rumble and obeyed his command. Sharper the winds whipped, and the sting on his skin was good as fire, good as war. He must embrace it all now—the pain, the fire, the churning rage. He must do more than his best.

How could Daemon let himself forget? His best had not been enough to protect his family. In this strange chance at new life—if in truth it was real—he must do more, do better. He could not survive otherwise.

Daemon had extracted himself from a murky tumble of horrific memories and ghosts to see a leathery, lined face hovering above him, framed in daylight. Familiar, kindly, resembling a greying mouse as it always had. Daemon could only conclude that this, somehow, was the Afterlife, but really? The messenger of the Valyrian Afterlife took on the form of their maester?

It was only when Gerardys began to speak, asking Daemon if he remembered his fall—if he remembered his name and age and where they were—that confusion turned to panic, and his heart began flitting about his ribcage like a trapped bird.

His mind had been mired in sludge, slow and thumping with questions but no way to voice them. All he could do was lie there, dumb and staring at the chambers he shared with Rhaenyra on Dragonstone, as Gerardys recounted the month, the day, the year in his soothing rumble.

“You were not asleep long, my prince, but it is entirely normal to feel addled for some time,” Gerardys said, but all Daemon heard was one twenty nine, the year one twenty nine after Aegon’s Conquest.

Surely that was two years ago. Surely…but he’d fought an entire war, lost half his heart, driven Dark Sister into Aemond’s kinslaying skull, and now he was somehow…returned to a time when none of it had happened?

He’d wanted to mock himself for such a fancy, but how else to explain what he saw before him, what he heard and felt with his own senses—the fine texture of the sheets, the throbbing in his arm, the maester’s voice and this familiar room?

From the deep waters of his mind, those rustling words brushed his bones. Your journey ends not. Was this what they meant? That old magic in the deep green waters?

That was when Rhaenyra had walked in—dearest Rhaenyra—and his eyes had clung to her finely-wrought features and familiar figure as if to a lifeline. Yet when he’d bellowed and cleared the room, he realised.

The strain of her mouth. Her pallid skin and the blue smudges under her eyes. And that midnight-coloured gown…

He had not seen her in that gown in two years. For two years ago, she had clung to it as she’d sobbed herself hoarse—the gown she was wearing when last she’d held Luke to her bosom and kissed his hair.

In the grim days that followed, they had burned that dress along with Arrax’s torn wings and a fragment of Luke’s cloak—sent back to them from Borros Baratheon who, traitor though he was, feared Rhaenyra and Syrax would burn Storm’s End to the ground if he did not show them this sliver of goodwill.

There had been naught else to place upon Luke’s pyre.

So when Daemon saw that gown upon Rhaenyra, when he saw her haggard face and stiff gait that spoke of soreness after childbed…Daemon knew, and felt hysterical elation swell in his lungs. Even as he’d croaked Luke’s name to gauge her reaction, he’d known that despicable sorrow would not flash on her face. Not yet. Not yet. And not ever again, so long as Daemon could still draw breath.

No matter his questions and his throbbing arm and head, he’d torn out of bed. He’d crushed her to him, his strong, brave girl, then set off to saddle Caraxes. If this was the gift that old, terrible magic presented him with—this second chance to right his failings—Daemon would kneel and kiss its feet. After he brought Luke home to her.

They were flying into grey clouds now—storm clouds, dark as char—and the damp wind congealed on his lashes and slid down his neck. Good. Storm’s End was near, and from what he saw, there were no signs of dragons upon the air. Luke and Arrax must already be at the castle, and so must Aemond and Vhagar, and if Daemon could arrive in time to keep them all grounded—

Raindrops exploded around them amidst a flash of lightning, and Caraxes broke the air with a bone-lashing shriek. At once, Daemon realised he miscalculated. The next moment, he heard that distant bellow he knew so well. Vhagar.

It was like the freezing rain pelted right into his chest cavity and trickled ice into his gut. Never had he felt such terror upon the air, not even the first time he flew alone.

“Forward, Caraxes! Go, go!”

Towards that deafening roar they sped, lightning sizzling the air around them, thunder claps obscuring their direction. Rain spattered into his eyes, blurring further the shadowed movements of clouds and bodies.

Seven buggering hells.

Another bellow, somehow closer, and now Daemon thought he could hear two sets of flapping wings over Caraxes’ own. Hope rose, and he steered them toward the sound, squinting into the maelstrom. A shape shot up, then glided. There! Vhagar was there.

“Straight ahead,” Daemon cried, but even as he did so, a distant shot of flame illuminated the storm, its light piercing to the back of his eyes.

Even half blinded and too far away, he knew it was too small to be Vhagar’s flame. The old dragon’s roar of fury told him precisely what had occurred. Human cries drifted to him. Luke screaming his dragon’s name. Aemond’s sounding desperate for control. Damn. Damn. The boys were both too young, and Arrax too young besides, too hasty, not nearly enough command. f*cking, buggering hells.

“Forward,” he heard himself scream, “forward!”, sucking burning rain down his windpipe. He’d have to trust Luke to get himself away, for all he could make out was Vhagar’s looming form through the storm. Caraxes charged toward it, easily three times his own size, and Daemon hoped that darting blur of red he saw in the corner of his eye was Arrax. He guided Caraxes between Vhagar and where he thought Luke had fled, and that was when he saw Aemond, silver hair duly sleek in the storm, grappling for purchase.

A surge of savagery erupted in Daemon’s chest. Caraxes felt it too and turned his course, wishing to charge, wishing to engage. To tear and fight and make war.

Sense came just as quickly.

“No, Caraxes, calm!” he shouted, guiding his mount forward in diagonals to catch Vhagar’s attention. “Focus, don’t engage.” And keep your damn mouth shut. It was clear now that Aemond did not have half an ounce of control over Visenya’s old beast. The last thing Daemon needed was to anger her further with another shot of flame.

Still, she was furious, roaring and searching for Arrax as Aemond struggled with his reins. But Daemon saw the moment she spotted Caraxes. The moment Aemond aimed his face toward his.

Good. “Turn, Caraxes. Sharp, up!”

They shot high into the storm, lightning blinding, his limbs frozen stiff, but Daemon smiled as he felt the gushing swell from Vhagar’s wings chase after them. They were her new target now. They had done this but hours ago, he and Caraxes, over the God’s Eye. Vhagar had not caught up to them then.

If not for Luke, Daemon was almost certain they could take Aemond’s life this day. Aemond, who had not yet seen battle. Aemond who was still a boy. He could kill him and end this here.

But he had come here for one purpose, and almost certain was not sure enough. He must see to Luke first. So he urged Caraxes higher and higher, making no plans to dive. If he could turn when Luke had flown far enough, they could head back toward Storm’s End. He would make Vhagar chase them until she tired out or grew bored with the game—Caraxes knew how to ride the currents of a storm—and perhaps by then Luke—

The piercing shriek of a young dragon shattered the roar of the storm just as another lightning streak lit the sky, bright as day. In the distance, Daemon saw Arrax struggling to escape through the storm, saw Luke’s pale face clear as ice, terror etched in that speck in the distance. He looked down behind him. Vhagar had seen them too. And she turned her hoary head. And she opened her cavernous mouth.

No. No, no, no. Seven f*cking hells, please. No.

~*~

Luke knew nothing but wet, cold, pain. Terror. He’d probably bitten through his tongue. His whole mouth was salty. He couldn’t feel his hands or face anymore, and he thought a voice was wailing forward, forward in Valyrian. Who knows if it was his.

There were black clouds before him, swallowing him. Clouds were safe though. Clouds weren’t Vhagar. Arrax still moved under his feet, still flapped his wings, so Luke kept tearing the command from his throat and spitting out salty rain.

Slugs had taken over his brain. He didn’t know how to think anymore. All he knew was fly, fly, fly, though his mind flashed with the confused images of another figure dashing in front of him, blurring crimson, this way and that, letting him and Arrax flee.

Fly, fly, fly. Up they went, through the sizzling storm, and with each heartbeat Luke could feel himself returning to his body. Could feel his frozen hands and burning legs. That was good. Every flap of Arrax’s wings brought them closer to safety. Away from Vhagar.

Up. Up, up, up.

He was aware of himself shaking now. His hands slid and his feet scampered in the saddle, slick with rain. Every muscle was screaming. Even on his hardest training days it hadn’t felt like this. He should tell Arrax to slow down now. They were safer. He couldn’t hold on at this speed anymore.

“Slow!” he called, but Arrax would not listen. Instead, his wings beat faster, and a desperate shriek rang out that squeezed the air out of Luke’s lungs. He cried out too, doubling over, his hands slipping from the handles. Scrambling to hold on.

“Please, Arrax, slow! Serve me! Slow!”

Luke turned then, scanning the blackness below him. And that was when he saw her. Vhagar, with her sagging scales and mottled snout. Vhagar, opening her mouth that dripped with nightmare teeth. Luke felt the heat before he even saw the glow of dragon flame, and he turned to Arrax to scream.

And the next thing he knew, somewhere on his body was on fire, and he was tumbling down, down, down through the scorching fury of the black storm.

Chapter 5: Make a Harrenhal of your castle

Chapter Text

Until he fell no more. The terror of freefall congealed suddenly into fire around Luke’s throat. He had been screaming, but now all air was suddenly trying to burst out of his chest, and without thinking he struggled and clawed at his neck, gulping for breath. Rain lashed into his face and his leg was being dipped in fire and everything hurt hurt hurt. But vaguely, something was becoming solid in the middle of the storm. A voice above his head.

“…Luke if you don’t…stop…f*cking damn it all, Lucerys Velaryon, stop struggling!”

His body recognised that voice and obeyed before his brain had time to think. For a moment he stilled…just enough to see, below his feet, a glowing lump spiral down into the storming dark. A glowing lump with pale wings.

“NO!” And he was scrambling again, a part of him screaming—dying—to go after Arrax, but his limbs flailed against hard, hot scales, and the next instant he landed on something slippery and cold. And he could breath again.

“No! Arrax, no!” His very next breath ripped words like hot coals out of his throat. “No, I have to—”

“Lucerys Velaryon!”

And again he froze. By instinct, Luke knew that voice. Any time it spoke with that authority in the training yard, he’d learned to obey it without hesitation. Ask questions after. He’d had six years of Uncle Daemon’s instruction. Luke knew how this worked.

And as soon as he stopped struggling, by some weird mechanism, there he was—Uncle Daemon, hair plastered to his head, staring at him with bulging eyes, gasping for air like he was.

His hands were clamped like steel around Luke’s arms, and the next instant Luke screamed again as his uncle adjusted him upon the leather saddle. Fire was eating at his leg, and all other feelings of the wind and rain faded in comparison.

“Don’t look. Eyes up here, Luke.” He’d tried to scramble for a look at his leg, but Uncle Daemon’s icy hand yanked his chin back. Luke’s head swam at the sudden movement, his stomach churning like the storm. It felt like they were flying through a swamp, not rain, and suddenly even the burning seemed far away and muddy.

Luke didn’t argue about looking at his leg. Even now, he knew looking at it wasn’t going to make it stop hurting. Everything hurt—his throat, his leg, that sucking hole in his chest where Arrax used to live—but all of it was murky and swampy and far.

He squinted as his uncle wrapped him up in something wet and floppy. Huh. Where had his uncle come from? Wasn’t he supposed to be in bed? Did Mother know he was here?

Uncle Daemon pulled the wet, floppy thing tight around Luke’s leg, but now the pressure didn’t make him want to scream anymore. It was cold, actually. That was nice.

Something was odd, though. Shouldn’t the wind be blowing into his face? Why was it blowing into the back of his neck?

Then he saw a tale swish and flick before his eyes. Oh. Caraxes’ tail was in front of his face. That’s odd. And somewhere from the muddle of his brain, his question came out in Valyrian.

“Kepus? Why are we riding Caraxes backwards?”

Then sleep seemed to clobber him from the back of his head, and he slipped into sweet darkness.

~*~

Luke went limp in Daemon’s hands, and Daemon’s heart stopped and plummeted into his gut. In the next instant, he realised the boy still drew even, steady breaths, and his own body thawed once more, cold sweat mixing with the rain down his back.

Shock. From his leg, no doubt. It did tend to make one lose consciousness. Daemon could hardly see through the storm, but from what he’d felt with his hand, Luke was going to have serious scars there for the rest of his life.

But at least he’d have that life. At least it would not be cut short at fourteen. Not this time. And Daemon needed to bite his tongue so tears didn’t spill out with his shuddering breath.

When he’d seen Vhagar’s burst of dragonfire shoot straight for Arrax’s pale, struggling wings, it had been instinct that took control. Yet still, he had not been fast enough to catch up, not fast enough to put himself into the line of flame.

He’d heard with mute despair as Arrax wailed, and Luke with him, but the next moment Caraxes was darting down toward a fluttering blur. Before Daemon knew what he did, he was hanging off his saddle with his knees, arms screaming as he held onto Luke’s damp cloak, voice screaming at the boy to stop struggling so he could pull them both up.

Somehow—by some miracle or magic, Daemon did not care—he’d managed to haul them both back upon his dragon. And now, ridiculously, as Daemon kept a vice grip over Luke’s relaxed limbs and shifted them to face forward, he found himself quaking with laughter.

‘Why are we riding Caraxes backwards?’

Ah, gods help him, this guileless boy with his endless curiosity. How Daemon had missed him. Finally, now, he let himself admit the truth of it for the first time, monitoring Luke’s breathing and pulse to ensure he was not losing too much blood.

Rhaenyra loved all her children. All their sons. But Luke was her favourite—there was no use denying it. And in this moment, it was not hard to see why. The way he’d tried with such earnest bravery to escape. The way he’d howled his dragons’ name with his heart in his voice. The way he’d peered at Daemon’s face with that clear-eyed surprise, no matter his pain.

And this time, Daemon could bring him back to Rhaenyra, alive. There would be no pyre with her midnight gown.

But they were not out of danger yet. The storm had eased, but icy rain still soaked them both to the bone, and the burn on Luke’s leg would drop his temperature to a dangerous low. Daemon called into the wind for Caraxes to circle—once, twice—but it seemed Vhagar had decided that blast of flame enough to sate her anger. Daemon did not know where she and Aemond had disappeared to, but all he heard now was the roar of the wind. No more bellowing cries. No more lumbering flap of wings.

And he did not have time to wonder. If Vhagar no longer chased him, he’d pay her no mind for now.

“Up, forward,” Daemon commanded. Higher and higher they climbed, and Daemon unstrapped his breastplate and undid his doublet, so he could press Luke’s body against his chest to share his heat. Soon, the rain thinned to a mist, and in the next blink, they burst from the clouds into the golden rose of sunset.

The air stilled, and Daemon sagged against the silence, able to hear himself think once more. The orange sun was suddenly warm upon his face, and he turned them so Luke could soak up its heat. Good. This was good.

Taking a fortifying breath, Daemon pulled aside his rain logged cloak to examine Luke’s injured leg. Dragon-flame had skimmed the side of his left thigh and calf, but the material of his trousers had fused to the wound, obstructing any real view. He caught a whiff of charred flesh, made even murkier by the damp, and despite all the battlefield horrors that had dulled his senses, Daemon imagined his boy’s pain and felt his stomach churn.

He dropped the cloak back around Luke’s leg. It was not as if he could do anything for him on dragonback. Thankful that at least the leather of Luke’s boot had not been melted into his flesh, Daemon took another stuttering inhale and forced his mind to think.

There could be no flying for hours to Dragonstone, not with Luke like this. He needed a maester to clean his burn before the flesh started healing with the fabric imbedded, and soon fever would set in from the shock and the cold.

Borros Baratheon was no friend of Rhaenyra’s claim. If he’d awakened only hours earlier, Daemon could have prevented this entire mess. And even if he could intimidate Borros to offer them guest right, Storm’s End was the last place he wished to bring Luke in his current condition.

What did that leave him?

If he judged right, the encounter with Vhagar had occurred over the westernmost bend of Shipbreaker’s Bay. That meant the closest castle outside Storm’s End was Griffin’s Roost, but Connington had joined Borros in his Dornish campaign, and their previous heir was involved in some scandal or other concerning one of his aunts some decades ago. Perhaps not a trustworthy family.

Rain House was also out of the question—Jasper Wylde had his traitor head bent close with Otto Hightower at this very moment, contemplating how best to murder his family in their sleep.

Of Crow’s Nest and the Morrigens, Daemon had no recollection, but perhaps the fact they produced one of Grandfather Jaehaerys’ kingsguards…

But wait. Ah, he’d almost forgotten. It would be a marginally longer flight, to be sure, but high above the storm clouds in this balmy sunset, Caraxes could get them there in under the hour. Daemon had a distinct memory of reading one of Mysaria’s missives, detailing how the Evenstar of Tarth had not been among those to send men with Borros when he planned to march on King’s Landing. And had not Uncle Aemon, father to Rhaenys, given his life to save that of Lord Cameron all those years ago?

The Baratheons might have a short memory, but not all Stormland houses forgot so readily.

So Daemon turned Caraxes east, the setting sun warm on his back, and they set off to Evenfall Hall.

~~~

Yet, mere hours later, with Luke ensconced under Lord Bryndemere’s hospitality, Daemon found himself irritable and cold and soaked to the marrow once more. Oh, the Tarths had given them a most warm welcome, and the young lady of the castle had mobilised all her servants to fuss about Luke’s comfort.

Corlys had been at the castle but a sennight ago, and to tend his injuries, every wisewoman, surgeon and apothecary upon Tarth had been summoned. Thankfully, a few had not yet left and had begun the tedious task of cleaning Luke’s wounds.

Still, this was not some light burn from a candle. Luke needed a maester, but the Evenfall maester, it turned out, had been an adventurous sort. He’d experimented with some mushrooms on the island, disregarding all the warnings of local fisherfolk, and dropped dead only days before.

Naturally, the new one had yet to arrive from the Citadel.

Seven buggering hells.

So now, here Daemon was, circling the rounded tower of Storm’s End. He needed a maester. This was the nearest castle that might have one. Would this day ever end?

He landed Caraxes into the castle’s bailey yard, rainwater splattering up like a curtain amidst the twilight storm, and bounded off Caraxes, his joints stiff as wood and his left arm throbbing with such irritating regularity he wished to cut it off.

Instead, Daemon stamped through the puddles in the stone court, glaring at the startled men at arms who, no doubt, did not expect the arrival of a third dragon into their midst this day. He stood before the front gates to the castle, his arm resting upon Dark Sister, his face twisted with disgust.

Caraxes gave a thunderous screech. Terrifying, no doubt, but Daemon recognised annoyance in Caraxes when he heard it.

“Borros Baratheon!” Daemon called, pulling every ounce of volume from his bedraggled body. “Borros Baratheon! If you do not wish me to make another Harrenhal of your godsforsaken castle, send out your f*cking maester! Now!”

Chapter 6: To reach a bit higher

Chapter Text

It had been a most disagreeable day for Lady Cassandra Baratheon.

The morning had started off promising enough. Ser Byron Swann had arrived from Stonehelm the evening previous, claiming to have some Dornish news or other for Father, and in the middle of night, he’d used their usual tunnels to visit her rooms and tup her until she couldn’t remember her own name.

Gods, how long had it been—half a year?—since she’d screamed herself hoarse into the pillow, yet somehow, come morning, they’d both been well enough for another round of bedsport.

But soon after, Cassandra’s headaches had begun.

“You mean you truly do have news that Dorne might be making incursions?” she’d asked, handing him leftover wine from last night. In the morning sun, his shoulder flexed as he took the cup, and Cassandra reached over to squeeze it before reclining down beside him amidst the damp sheets.

If he told her he was planning to head to war, she might put her hairpin into his neck right then and there.

He gave her bare arse a pat and sipped the wine with a grin.

“Nothing but whispers and guesses thus far, but you know I take every opportunity to come see you.”

“And of our plan? Have you finally made up your mind?” His smile turned wistful, and he turned his gaze down to his cup.

“Give me just a bit more time. He is…he is not a bad lord, avarice aside. A very good one, in fact. I do not think I could do better. And he is my brother, after all.”

She tried to smile back, but it was a strained expression. Her impatience was rising.

Every time Ser Byron came calling, Cassandra hoped that, this time, he would finally tell her that he was taking over Stonehelm for himself. Yet in the four years they’d been carrying on this affair under her father’s nose, every time she brought up the question, he would become evasive.

‘Kinslaying is the gravest sin,’ he’d tell her. ‘I hate my brother for what he did to Johanna, but every time I set out to do away with him, something stays my hand.’

‘You needn’t actually kill him,’ Cassandra had told him countless times, rolling her eyes so far into her head it was a miracle they didn’t get stuck there. ‘You just need to incapacitate him. Cause an injury that would confine him to the bed and prevent him marrying again.”

Still, either Ser Byron was entirely spineless, or he was simply leading her along to get under her skirts. Neither boded well, but from what Cassandra could seen, he seemed genuine enough in his affections for her and his hatred of the current Lord Swann.

Four years ago, just as Father had begun looking to make a match for her, Ser Byron had ridden into the bailey at Storm’s End, and Cassandra had been unable to tear her eyes away. He wasn’t the tallest, perhaps, but he was burly and hard and brutal, and something about the way he worked his jaw set her blood on fire.

She’d inquired—secretly—into his circ*mstances then, and what she found had given her a giddy sort of hope. During those first years of the wars in the Stepstones, Ser Byron’s cousin Johanna had been captured by Lyseni pirates. His brother, the new lord of Stonehelm, had refused to cough up the gold required to ransom her. She’d been sold to a pillow house. That was a story everyone knew.

Yet what Cassandra found upon further digging was that Byron had wished to marry Johanna. They’d grown up together and developed affection for one another, and at thirteen, Byron had been helplessly torn from his first love by a brother who valued gold more than family.

And so, the plan had formed in Cassandra’s mind. She had no wish to be pawned off to some ageing, fowl-breathed old man for her father’s political interests. She wanted Byron Swann, and she wanted to be Lady of Stonehelm. It was not precisely the position of her dreams, but it seemed to be the highest she could realistically reach.

The matter should be simple enough. Lord Arctur Swann had married thrice and killed all three wives with his seed. If Byron conjured some convenient demise for his brother, he would be lord, and he could easily ask for Cassandra’s hand. At fourteen, she had outlined this to Ser Byron. Ever since, he had seemed eager to follow her plan, and even more eager when she’d coaxed him into her bed to hasten his resolve.

But not eager enough. She supposed she should be thankful that the man she wished to marry hesitated so long to harm his blood, but Cassandra was tired of waiting and fending off Father’s attempts to marry her off.

Borros Baratheon was in no hurry to choose sons-in-law at present, but who knew when he might sniff a most advantageous match amongst his lords and whisk Johanna off to the septon? Her nineteenth name day was only months away. Another reminder for her father.

And so, Cassandra had spent the morning stewing over her wine and glaring down at her father’s busy hall. If she could not bring Ser Byron up to scratch, she’d need to consider her alternatives. Who of the Stormland lords were not entirely objectionable?

It was then that they heard the ungodly screech echo through the tower of Storm’s End. It was then, that Prince Aemond had arrived upon the biggest living being to roam this earth. The king was dead, and Prince Aegon had usurped Princess Rhaenyra’s throne.

There had not been a moment in which Cassandra had thought Father would turn down Prince Aemond’s offer. The crown’s neglect of Storm’s End aside, Father had always made it clear that he intended to pass Storm’s End to his future son, non-existent though her little brother maybe. Oh, he kept Cassandra in his hall when he received his lords and asked her thoughts on kingdom matters, but she knew she was only a placeholder.

If only he had been more like the king, Cassandra had thought ten thousand times over the years, but alas, her ambitions were for naught. And look at what happened to Princess Rhaenyra, no matter King Viserys’ wishes. Perhaps this was how it had to be for every first-born daughter without an older brother. Perhaps it was for the best that Cassandra was not so deluded as the princess.

And so, she had put on her best gown and had her maid dress her hair to her advantage, then joined her sisters in the great hall to receive the prince. She’d caught a glimpse of him as Father welcomed him in. He did not light fires beneath her skin, but he was young and handsome. And besides. He was a Targaryen prince. Who rode upon Vhagar. It didn’t matter what he looked like.

Perhaps Cassandra was not so beautiful as Floris, but maybe Prince Aemond had more sense than to cave to a pretty face. That was what she told herself as she stood by Father’s chair and listened to Prince Aemond’s case. If she could become a princess…

But in the end, of course he’d chosen Floris. Floris who was fifteen and created in the image of the Maiden. Cassandra had bit the inside of her cheek to keep the scowl off her face, and even the slightly alarming episode of the young Prince Lucerys arriving and being escorted out had not distracted her from her black mood.

Was Father making a mistake? Cassandra could not say. No doubt most lords would not support the princess over Aegon, especially now that he held King’s Landing and had been crowned with every pomp. Yet even she knew that Princess Rhaenyra had many, many dragons at her disposal, and that most dangerous dragon of all—Prince Daemon, who would surely not let up on the chance to be crowned prince consort.

Cassandra could not say. And the matters of the realm had little bearing on her now, it seemed, with Prince Aemond’s disappointing choice. Truly, a great disappointment, the prince. The way he’d gone after his nephew had made her sneer. Still a boy, it seemed.

And so, now Cassandra lounged in her chambers, swirling her goblet and contemplating her next steps. Suddenly, the terrible cry of a dragon pierced through the howling storm, and she almost choked on her wine. Again? For the third time this day? Frowning, she wrapped a cloak around her head and peered out her window, only to hear an angry bellow, demanding their maester.

Matters progressed like lightning then, and the whispers travelled even faster. Prince Daemon was in their bailey yard, Prince Lucerys was gravely injured at Tarth, and Prince Aemond and Vhagar had disappeared into the night.

Father, despite his bluster and choice of allegiance, was not going to brave dragonfire to withhold his maester. At least he had that much sense. It had given Cassandra a perverse sort of pleasure, watching her arrogant father turn the colour of paste as he heard Caraxes roaring through the rain. The pleasure had infused into her fingers when his trembling voice had asked if Vhagar had truly disappeared, and Prince Aemond with him.

Her only concern had been for old Maester Conger’s health, so while Father paced and fretted and consulted his guards, Cassandra helped wrap Conger in layers of leather-backed furs against the rain. At Father’s nod of leave, she helped him into the storm.

“Do take care, Maester,” she said under her breath, slipping him a hand brazier she’d hastily had her maid prepare. “I know Father has chosen his side, but he is sending you out to Prince Daemon’s mercy. Your safety is paramount. Do what you must to come back.”

Conger chuckled under his breath.

“Come now, my lady, you don’t think I’d harm a boy, do you? And in this fraught weather, when so much is unclear? Surely I’ve taught you better than that. You mustn’t worry about me.”

Yet she could feel his old bones trembling under her arm, and Cassandra tried to look encouraging as Prince Daemon hauled him upon the back his own fearsome beast. And as she watched Caraxes fly off into the lightning-streaked dark, a plan began to form.

She would not be a princess. That hope had emerged and died a quick death. But neither would any of her sisters. Perhaps Cassandra could reach…just a bit higher than she’d given herself leave to do.

Chapter 7: Nothing personal

Chapter Text

Daemon put his pen to parchment intending to write ‘My Queen.’ Instead, the words that spilled upon the page were High Valyrian, and ones he rarely let slip even from his tongue.

My blood, my breath, my heart…

How easily the endearments came. How soft his heart turned, each time Rhaenyra’s face emerged in his mind’s eye. Each time he remembered how she felt in in his arms, in that second of indulgence he’d allowed himself before chasing after Luke.

He had truly touched her again, had held her warm body and basked in the lush sweetness of her hair for the first time in months—she who was not yet tormented by irreparable grief, and never would be again.

Daemon was sitting before the glowing hearth in the state chambers at Evenfall Hall, Luke’s small, sleeping form in the sprawling bed beside him. Morning sun reached in through the sapphire-stained windows, and by the jewelled light, he penned his hasty letter. His heart was afloat, lighter than it had been for two years. Yet he chuckled to himself and fed the parchment—with those words that flowed from his veins—to the coals.

He didn’t wish to startle Rhaenyra any more than was necessary. Or so he told himself, and reached for a fresh page.

My Queen,

Know first that Luke is safe and well and whole. Injured, but mending. He has woken once in the night, and despite his grief, his mind is clear and sharp as ever.

She would have questions, of course. But Daemon wrote only what he knew how to say. The why of things…he did not yet have the words to tell her, and even if he did, a raven was not the way to deliver them.

The maester tells me it will be a few days yet before I can move him, but I will bring him back to you as soon as I can…

Storm’s End’s maester had turned out to be sensible sort. The pink old geezer had likely twisted Rhaenyra’s letter into the worst possible tone—Borros Baratheon always did refuse to learn his letters—but Daemon had needed to do very little by way of threats. The man knew his life depended upon Luke’s speedy recovery and had worked through the night, cleaning the boy’s burns, mixing ointments and fever tonics.

Daemon had seen countless men—himself included—through the tedious journey of wound recovery, and as far as he could tell, everything Maester Conger did was intended heal. The Tarths were the perfect hosts too, tending to their every comfort and need as well as those of Caraxes, no matter that Daemon would have liked to send his dragon off to Storm’s End and force Borros Baratheon to feed him instead.

Still, Daemon preferred not to let Luke out of his sight. The boy had awakened in the night screaming for his dead dragon, and Daemon had gotten milk of the poppy down his throat only when he’d promised to be there when he next woke.

The loss of Arrax was indeed a blow, though more to Luke than to their cause, small and untried as he was. Daemon could not fathom Luke’s grief—it must be as if a hunk of flesh had been carved out of his chest—but he would recover. They were resilient, their boys. They took after their mother, and Rhaenyra had always been more like Daemon than Viserys. Luke would ride a dragon again. Of that he was certain.

As Daemon suspected, Luke would have serious scars for the rest of his life. His recovery would be tedious, and once his skin closed over, he would have many moons of painful rehabilitation to ensure the scar tissue did not stiffen and impeded his gait. But all this Daemon would help him through. Not only would Luke ride a dragon again, but he would be as good a swordsman as any, just as he wished.

Anything he wished, really. Daemon could not imagine him or Rhaenyra being able to deny Luke anything in future, their boy whom he’d snatched from the maw of charred death.

In a few short lines, he told Rhaenyra of Baratheon’s treachery. Yet when it came time to write of the encounter with Aemond and Vhagar, Daemon’s hand stilled, and not only for fear of giving her undue worry.

What had he seen amidst that storm? What had he heard in Aemond’s voice, seen in his grasping form lit by lightning?

In that past life, he and Rhaenyra had always been certain that Aemond had chased Luke down in order to take his life. What else could have been his intention? He had the motive, he had the means, and though Daemon had not seen the glint of murder in his nephew that last night in King’s Landing, there could surely be no other explanation.

Yet…in Daemon’s ears still rang Aemond’s panic-laced commands, so desperate they had fallen uselessly into the Common Tongue. Surely his nephew could not have been trying to rein Vhagar back. Surely…

But Daemon knew what he saw and heard. Could it be that last time, Aemond had not intended to kill Luke? Could it truly be that all had been a tragedy of Aemond’s incompetence at controlling his dragon, and Luke’s and Arrax’s youth and inexperience?

Yet in the next instant, Daemon ground his teeth and knew that it mattered not. In that past life and this one, Aemond had come after Luke on his mountainous beast, intending to terrorise, intending to harm. It had resulted in Luke’s death before. This time, had Daemon been a moment too late, had his hand slipped or his muscles given way, Luke would still be a crumpled heap upon the shores of Shipbreaker’s Bay.

And even now, Luke had lost his dragon and would carry scars for life. There was no excuse for intention. Aemond still committed crimes against his blood, and Daemon still intended to take his life for all his deeds, past and future.

Just his life, this time. As for the Hightower whelps…they could live. For now.

Yet he decided Rhaenyra need not know the intricacies of that encounter. He remembered her hesitation at the start of this war—that softness in her heart for Alicent Hightower, that clinging to his fool brother’s dreams—and though he trusted in her inevitable fury at Luke’s injury, but he was hesitant to mute it with Aemond’s hesitation.

He did not wish her to be strangled by grief, but it had been that grief that brought her out of hesitation and into the fire alongside him. He might have done many things wrong in that previous life, but this war…it had always been inevitable.

~~~

Daemon was hurrying back to Luke’s bedside from the rookery when he nearly tripped over the little body that materialised before him. A small blonde girl, no older than Egg, was staring up at him, her wide eyes a startling shade of blue.

“Are you the prince?” she asked.

He raised a brow.

“I am.”

“Mother says I have to curtsey when I see you, but I don’t know how to do that.”

Daemon felt his lip twitch.

“You’re under no obligation to do something if you don’t know how.”

The girl frowned at the word ‘obligation,’ but nodded sagely anyway.

“Mother also says the big dragon outside is yours.”

“He is.” Daemon felt something soften in his chest at the fearless interest in the girl’s gaze. “His name is Caraxes.”

“He looks like a jewel,” the child said, her eyes squinting up into crescents with her grin. “D’you think he’d let me pet him?”

Another lip twitch.

“Absolutely not.”

“Oh.” Her face fell. “Why?”

Instead of walking around her, Daemon gestured that she should walk with him him as he headed toward Luke’s chambers.

“Dragons are not pets,” he said. “They are unpredictable, dangerous beasts. Those without Targaryen blood hold their life in their hands when they approach a dragon.”

He looked down to see the girl with her whole head turned up at him, mouth agape, not at all watching where she was walking.

“Would he burn me?”

“Likely. Or bite, or scratch, or simply blow you into the sea with a flap of wings.”

Her eyes were huge.

“I believe that. I can feel the wind from his wings all the way in the garden,” she said, and there was nothing but an excited awe in her voice.

Did the child have no sense of danger, or did her curiosity simply overtake all self-preservation?

“These injuries I speak of are most grave, child. No doubt you’ve heard about my step-son’s burns, and he is a Targaryen besides.”

She frowned. “I have, but Mother says he will be all better soon. Did he get burned by his own dragon?”

“No. Another. But dragons often do harm even their riders, if only by accident.”

“Is that why your hands are scratched? From Caraxes?”

She shaped the name carefully in her mouth, savouring it like a sweet, still without a trace of fear. Daemon was suddenly reminded of Baela in his arms, eyes and chubby hands drawn to Caraxes’ garnet-red scales, her toddler’s tongue trying to form his name.

“I’m afraid these are from your castle ravens.”

Her nose wrinkled.

“The ravens have been so loud ever since Maester Mors got himself poisoned,” she said. “Do all princes like to handle ravens? Is that why you were with them?”

This time, Daemon couldn’t stifle his chuckle.

“Do you demand so many questions of everyone you meet?”

The girl shook her head, and her pale blonde curls tumbled around her shoulders in a whirl that made Daemon’s chest lurch. If Visenya hadn’t…

“Only if they’re interesting like you,” the girl said. “Most people who come here are boring. Is your step-son also interesting—”

“Edwyna!”

If possible, the girl’s eyes grew even rounder at the voice. The next moment, a harried-looking Lady Tarth burst from around the corner, bouncing a baby in her arms. Her free hand closed like a vice around her daughter’s shoulder and she bobbed Daemon a curtsey.

“I do beg your pardon, my prince,” she said, grimacing in apology. A tuft of her hair was standing straight up like a flagpole, and she had a smudge of something that resembled mashed carrot on her temple. “Edwyna tends to run off and ramble on with strangers, and I haven’t taught her how to behave with the respect you’re due.”

Daemon shrugged, still studying the little girl who was now pouting at her mother and mumbling something about interesting dragons under her breath. He didn’t remember hearing that money was so tight for Lord Tarth he hadn’t the means to hire nursemaids, but perhaps all their children were like his own girls had been—never ones to mind any save their mother.

“She’s but a child,” he told Lady Tarth. “And a charming one. You needn’t worry.”

The young woman bobbed another curtsey. Little Edwyna tugged at her mother’s skirt.

“Mother, I told you ravens were horrible. Look at what they did to the prince’s hands.”

“What?” The look of alarm was back on Lady Tarth’s face, and Daemon laughed, feeling something warm under his breastbone.

“But a few scratches,” he said, waving aside her concern. “I thought to send the queen a missive. My own fault for dealing with the infernal creatures myself.”

“Oh, I cannot tell you how sorry we are that Maester Mors…well, he did choose a most inconvenient time to expire. Did you manage to send your letter to Queen Rhaenyra?”

Daemon bit back a grin. Well. The Tarths had welcomed him and Luke into their castle and shown them every deference, but neither had called Rhaenyra queen until now. Daemon had not wished to press for a formal swearing of fealty at this juncture, but it would seem a night of consideration had made up Lord Tarth’s mind.

He had been right to come here.

In that past life, Tarth had spent the war keeping to themselves. Perhaps Lord Bryndemere deemed it wise not to incite the wrath of either side or his own liege. But now, Daemon was here in their castle. Perhaps the young lord thought he had no choice but to make his allegiances known, and he had chosen loyalty. Smart lad.

They had paid the Stormland houses little mind after Borros’ treachery, before, so none on their council had thought of House Tarth. But now Daemon knew differently. Now Daemon knew how far into Essos Otto would reach, how he would use Daemon’s past enemies to harm their sons and put Driftmark to torch and sword.

They would need the strength of every fleet they could get their hands on. And if memory served, this Lady Tarth had Lord Lucas Penrose for her father.

“I did,” Daemon answered, “I thank you for your concern. And it is no fault of yours that your maester was a fool. One can only hope they send you another with more sense.” Though he doubted it, with the way the Citadel shared a bed with the Hightowers. And from the strained expression on Lady Tarth’s face, she thought the same.

Ah well. Naught he could do about that. There always were consequences to taking a stand, though Daemon was not averse to sweetening their decision of loyalty.

“But speaking of maesters, I was in fact, coming to find you, my prince,” Lady Tarth said then, giving him a tense smile. “The Lady Cassandra Baratheon has arrived by ship with Maester Conger’s assistants. She begs an audience with you.”

Daemon’s eyebrows shot up.

“Does she now?” My, this day was becoming more and more interesting, and it was only noon.

“I believe it is time her maester changed the dressing on my step-son’s wounds. I’ll see her in our chambers.” Then he turned back to the girl.

“Lady Edwyna.”

“Oh! Yes?”

“‘Yes, my prince,’” her mother corrected under her breath.

“Oh.” She stuck out her tongue. “Yes, my prince.”

“Edwyna!”

Daemon grinned down at her.

“Think over what I said, little lady. About holding your life in your hands. About what injuries could befall you. And if you still think you’d like to pet Caraxes…come find me before we leave, hm?”

~~~

Daemon was lounging in his chair by the hearth when Cassandra Baratheon walked through the chamber doors. Two maester’s assistants followed, their hands laden with chest and trays and bottles of potion. The guard closed the doors behind them, and the girl curtsied low before Daemon.

“My prince.”

“Ah. Cassandra Baratheon, is it? Lord Borros’ oldest girl?” Daemon did not bother rising. “And to what do I owe this dubious pleasure?”

He did not miss the girl’s instant of exchange with Maester Conger, who was busy redressing Luke’s wounds. That was why she looked familiar. It was she who had helped the old geezer out into the storm last night. Curious, a lord’s daughter taking on the role of a pageboy.

“I’ve come bearing medicines and tinctures for the young prince, as well as Maester’s Conger’s assistants,” Lady Cassandra said, gesturing behind her. “No doubt Lord and Lady Tarth have offered you their best, but surely there is no such thing as too much medicine or too many skilled hands.”

“I see,” Daemon said, tilting his head to look at her. She was pretty enough—slim and tall with the Baratheon dark hair—and there was something sharp and zestful about her, like a little beast trapped in a cage, looking to jump out at the first opportunity.

He motioned with his wine cup, and the assistants hurried over to Conger with their wares, filling the room with the clinks of bottles, tools and murmurs.

“Can I assume then, too, that you come bearing news Borros has gotten his head out of his arse and had a change of heart?” Daemon asked, knowing full well her answer.

“If you mean whether my father will change his mind about his allegiances, I’m afraid I must disappoint you, my prince.”

“Ah.”

“I do hope you understand. It was nothing personal.”

“No? But no matter the drive, he is still a traitor.”

“My father himself did not swear an oath before—ahem, the Iron Throne.”

“Hmm. Then it seems Baratheon memory is short indeed.”

She smiled, looking entirely unashamed. “You mean that as an insult, but I do not take it as one. My father has always been driven by personal interest. We are the storm, my prince, and the wind blows every which way, ever changing. He has never made a secret of it.”

Daemon co*cked a brow.

“Refreshing,” he murmured, half sneering. “So, you admit your father is fickle with his loyalties if they do not serve him?”

The girl shrugged, not the least bit cowed.

“Was that not why you followed Prince Lucerys to Storm’s End? Because you realised the mere memory of my grand aunt will not be sufficient to sway my father?”

Naturally it was not, but Daemon was not averse to the girl coming to this particular conclusion. Perhaps there was room for negation here yet, if he could swallow his anger at crimes the Baratheons had yet to commit. He’d not count on Borros’ support, but if he could get Borros to hold his tongue about his allegiances for now…

“You seem a smart enough girl,” Daemon said, letting a corner of his mouth curl. “So tell me, why has your father sent you with these gifts and this show of goodwill, if he is determined to stay traitor? I can’t imagine my drunkard c*nt of a nephew will be happy with your visit.”

Lady Cassandra did not even flinch as his language, and instead glanced over at the bench before the hearth.

“May I?”

Now Daemon’s brows crept up. He made no affirmation, wondering if she’d truly have the audacity to sit without his leave.

She did.

“Truth be told, my prince, it was I who convinced him to let me come.”

“Oh?”

“My father thinks that so long as Prince Lucerys was not harmed under our roof, he cannot be blamed. But you know as well as I, my father could have prevented the prince’s injuries if he’d made half an effort to stay Prince Aemond. I’m here…as an act of good will, my prince. In hopes that Prince Lucerys makes a full recovery, and you will not begrudge our house. Despite my father’s allegiances.”

Daemon’s fist tightened in the folds of his doublet. If the little chit was trying to soften his anger towards the Baratheons, she was doing a sorry job of it. f*ck swallowing his anger, and f*ck negotiation. He had half a mind to get back on Caraxes now and show Lord Borros just how much he can blame him.

“And those are the words your father had you tell me?”

Lady Cassandra was watching him very carefully, Daemon realised, and at his words she straightened, setting her jaw.

“No, my prince. Those are my words alone. My father’s words were, ‘Princess Rhaenyra will see the error of her ways and bend the knee to her brother. As it should be.’ But perhaps that is not how it should be.”

Suddenly, the girl’s presence before him became clear as glass. Not a sorry job at all. She knew precisely what she did, inciting his ire. Daemon threw his head back and laughed.

She bristled, her affable demeanour cracking, and she sat even straighter upon the bench.

“I was not aware I made a jest.”

“Ah…Cassandra Baratheon…There is no need to speak in riddles now. Unless…” Daemon turned his head to toward her maester and raised a brow, but he suspected she did not come this far in her speech without knowing she could trust the man. Her mouth tightened and her dark brows lowered.

“I have no secrets from Maester Conger.”

From the corner of his eye, Daemon saw the man in question peer over at his name, but in the next instant his head was bowed once more over a pestle as his assistants poured in powder from a flask.

“Go on, then.”

Daemon caught the girl’s eye this time and held it, letting her see him studying her. Making a show of his assessment. Her face flushed, but she lifted her chin.

“Very well. No more riddles. I am my father’s firstborn child. I have been his heir apparent these years past in all but name. If Queen Rhaenyra supports my claim to my father’s titles and lands, I will support hers.”

The sound of mortar on pestle stopped for a breath, then continued its steady rhythm.

Daemon found himself shaking his head, a real smile spreading over his face. Borros Baratheon…unable even to keep his own house in order. If the fat brute only knew. Daemon would very much enjoy being a fly on the wall when he learned of his daughter and maester’s conspiracy.

“And what makes you think your situation can be compared to the queen’s? My brother named Rhaenyra his heir before all the realm. Lords paramount all swore their allegiance to her. Borros has never made such a proclamation about you, you said it yourself.”

“No, but if Rhaenyra is queen, then my father has declared himself a traitor by supporting Aegon. By law, he should be attainted. Stripped of his title. I’ve no male cousins who yet live. It only follows that Storm’s End be given to his oldest child who remains loyal to the crown.”

“Pretty words. Tidy sentiments,” Daemon said, leaning back into the cushions and peering at his goblet. “And I assume you’ve already made plans to…enforce this law against your traitor father without his knowing? Open rebellion can be such a messy affair.”

“Certainly. There will be little bloodshed. I’ve no taste for it.” Her eyes flitted over to the maester. “As I say, I’ve been Father’s heir apparent in all but name. I have allies in the castle. And I can rule as well as any lord.”

Oh yes. Yes, he had been right to come to Tarth.

“And tell me—how does a girl such as yourself, with no knowledge of war and swordplay, intend to rule over the Storm Lords and command their allegiance?”

He had asked the question out of pure curiosity. Already, he knew that what she offered was too good to pass up.

If Cassandra Baratheon could take Borros out of play in one efficient blow, Daemon didn’t care two figs whether she could hold Storm’s End or bring the Storm Lords to heel. For the duration of this war, so long as they had the loyalty of the coastal houses, it may even be best for their cause if the Stormlands caved in on themselves with infighting.

Yet her answer surprised a laugh out of him.

“Perhaps I am no warrior, but that is no obstacle.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve been secretly betrothed for years, my prince. Queen Rhaenyra isn’t the only one who knows to marry a second son who’ll kill for her sake.”

That made him truly laugh. This girl was becoming more entertaining by the minute.

“And who is this paragon of knightly virtue?”

“Ser Byron Swann. Brother to the Lord of Stonehelm.”

“You mean to tell me, enterprising young woman as you are, that you’d betrothed yourself to a second son?”

“There has always been bad blood between the brothers. I’d have ensured he was no longer a second son when we married.”

“I see.”

Lady Cassandra gave a gaelic shrug.

“But now…there needn’t be treachery in House Swann. It will be a relief for Ser Byron, and I’m sure Lord Arctus would be thrilled to have his brother sit the throne in the Round Hall.”

Daemon was not so sure, but he held his tongue. Lady Cassandra was all confidence, all arrogance about her plans. This was what he needed from her. One strike, quick and thorough, and he and Rhaenyra could toss worry over the Stormlands to the back of their minds.

He nodded then, looking as if to contemplate her offer. Instead, his mind turned to Rhaenyra’s council. Surely there would be elements—Corlys, for one—who would tell her she must make herself the exception. That no other daughters should inherit their father’s titles and lands.

When they had taken King’s Landing that first time, Rhaenyra executed Lords Rosby and Stokeworth for turning their cloaks.

Daemon had urged Rhaenyra to name their daughters as heirs to Rosby and Stokeworth, and marry the girls to the blacksmith and common soldier who had claimed Vermithor and Silverwing. But Corlys had advised her to pass over the two girls and give their younger, infant brothers the inheritance. Viserys had named Rhaenyra his heir, he’d argued, while Rosby and Stokeworth had done no such thing for their daughters.

And in the end, Rhaenyra had taken Corlys’ advice, fearing lords throughout the realm would balk at Rhaenyra overturning centuries of inheritance law and tradition. Daemon knew her fears, but it had been a mistake—the betrayal at Tumbleton had made that clear as blood.

Daemon did not know if he could stop the same from happening again—that was a bridge in the far distance for now—but this decision with Cassandra Baratheon was different. Borros had no son that Cassandra sought to disinherit. There would be no real laws to overturn.

No doubt there would still be arguments, but Daemon would not allow Rhaenyra to make such costly mistakes again. In that past life, he had not insisted forcefully enough on those choices he knew were right. And in the end, it had been Rhaenyra who paid the heaviest price for heeding the folly of others. He’d not allow that to happen, not again.

If he angered her by making this decision now, then he would simply have to placate his wife. But she was his queen, and this was the right choice. At Harrenhal, Daemon had sent Nettie into hiding, defying, for the first time, Rhaenyra’s outright command. Because he knew she was making a mistake she would regret.

Loyalty did not always mean blind obedience, even out in the public eye. Not between him and Rhaenyra. He knew that with certainty now, and he'd do well to remember it—to carve it into his palm. How much pain and loss he could have prevented if he’d realised this sooner, but by some miracle, he had this second chance to change his ways. And he’d not squander it.

“Well then, Lady Cassandra Baratheon.”

Daemon set down his own wine and poured out a second goblet from the side table. He held it out to her. For just a moment, she froze, taken aback by his sudden change, but recovered quickly enough. She took the goblet and straightened once more.

“If you can do away with the traitor Borros Baratheon, Queen Rhaenyra will support you as his heir. I am not Her Grace’s Hand, but I am her husband, and my promise in this matter is as good as hers.”

She stood then, her face flushed but her expression solemn and proud. And this time, Daemon stood with her.

“Take over the castle, marry your knight, and declare your loyalty to your queen. And you will have her support as Lady of Storm’s End and Lady Paramount of the Stormlands.”

“Yes. My prince.”

He tilted his goblet at her. She tapped the rim with her own, and they both drank their agreement. And not for a moment did Storm’s Ends’ maester cease his rhythmic pounding of his pestle.

“Do take care, my lady,” Daemon said as she took her leave. “We will await your good news, but you haven’t much time. No doubt your father will want to seal his alliance with Aegon and the Hightowers before he sends them men. Once your sister weds Aemond…”

“Oh, but you have not heard, my prince?” She turned in her tracks and her dark brows drew low. “Prince Aemond has disappeared into the night.”

“He flies upon a dragon,” Daemon said, though he felt a thread of ice down his spine. “Just because no one has seen him does not mean he’s disappeared.”

“But my lord father received a hasty raven in the night. From King’s Landing. Lord Otto Hightower is asking for the whereabouts of his grandson.” She took a step closer, her voice low.

“We all assumed you did damage to Vhagar during your encounter last night, my prince. We all assumed that Prince Aemond…In the small hours, my father sent out multiple search parties to the Rainwood and the Bay. Flocks of ravens to all his lords.

“When I left Storm’s End this morn, every one that came back found no sign of Prince Aemond or Vhagar.”

The thread of ice was spreading, tendrils creeping from his spine over his shoulders and into his gut.

“If they were dead, someone would have found Vhagar’s body,” Daemon insisted. “She’s the size of a mountain.”

“Perhaps. But I read Otto Hightower’s missive, my prince. I could feel the panic on the page. And you know better than I, how vast and deep are the seas. My father fears the worst. And I’m afraid he has written of his fears to King’s Landing.”

Chapter 8: The one we knew is gone

Chapter Text

Helaena Targaryen woke before the sun this morning, restless and unable to retrieve sleep. It was nothing terribly new. She was usually like this when Aemond wasn’t in the castle.

What was terrible, and new, was that Aemond had promised he’d return before twilight when he’d left yesterday. Yet Helaena had waited up until her eyelids were too heavy to prop open, and still, the blanket of rain sounds remained uninterrupted by Vhagar’s wings.

Mother said that perhaps Aemond had chosen to spend the night at Storm’s End. Helaena had not bothered trying to explain that Aemond had never broken a promise to her before—Mother could be thick about these things—but her words about Aemond had given Helaena a bellyache. She’d had a hot brick prepared and hugged that to bed, hoping, in the night, that Aemond would slip into her bed from some hidden passageway. He hadn’t. Every time she woke, she was alone.

For some moments, Helaena stared up at the hexagonal pattern of shimmery stars on the canopy above her bed, letting their regular repetition fill her eyes and wash like soft waves over her mind. In the milky light, not yet warmed by the sun, the stars took on a glint that reminded her of Dreamfyre’s scales. That was nice. They made Mother’s chambers—where they had made her move after they put the crown on Aegon’s head—less jarring and alien.

Grandfather had given her the cobalt fabric for her last name day—from Lys, he’d said, woven on their secret looms to reflect the light a thousand ways—and suggested she make herself a gown and matching cloak from it. Silly Grandfather. Why would she squander such a wonderful thing on a dress she could not wear every day?

She’d asked him if he would only give it to her to make into a gown. When he said she could do as she pleased, Helaena had it sewn into a canopy instead, so that every morning, it was the first thing to welcome her into the day.

Yet this morning, even the stars were of no help. Her bellyache from the night before was back, gnawing like a centipede. She tried lying very still and willing it to go away. It did not. She turned herself over and drew her knees up into her chest, her face pressed into her smooth pillow. Usually that made stomach aches better, but today it did not. It just made her too hot and too aware that a seam had opened on the back collar of her nightgown.

Helaena blew out a defeated breath and scampered from her bed, pulling the itchy nightgown off herself, calling for her maid to come dress her. Very well. She’d not let a silly bellyache ruin her day, and Aemond would come back when he came back. She had some jewel beetles that were active only in the small hours. Now was the perfect time to see what they got up to as their own little days wound to an end.

Some hours later, Serra brought her twins so they could take their midday meal together, and Helaena gave them each a quick kiss on the forehead, dodging Haera’s grimy hand. She always was glad it was not her job to care for the children. The idea of sticky hands on her skin made her shiver.

“Jaehaera wears sunshine, and Jaehaerys wears fire,” she murmured absently as they took their seats, just as she had a thousand times. From the moment they had been handed to her on the birthing bed, Haera’s entire face had been haloed in gold, and Jae’s laced with lively crimson.

That was how she’d always known who was who, but Helaena had learned long ago that no one else could see what was right in front of their noses—not even Aemond or Grandfather, much to her disappointment. Mother always said no one could tell her twins apart.

Yet when she looked up at the children today—truly looked—Helaena gasped. The cheese that was halfway to her mouth dropped to her plate with a splat.

“My queen? Is everything alright?” Serra’s voice came at her from a distance, but Helaena couldn’t answer her now. She couldn’t breathe right, the air whistling into her constricted windpipe. Burning. Her children…where had their little lights gone?

Now they stared up at her too, Jae still holding his child’s clay cup in his hand, two identical pairs of purple eyes blinking up at her. And they were as any others now. No halo of light. Nothing. Just…hair around their faces.

“Mother?”

What was happening? What was wrong? First Aemond promised—promised—he’d be back before twilight, only to disappear on her, and now this? Their little lights…Her windpipe was a harp string, and someone was turning the tuning peg ‘round and ‘round, stretching it painfully taut in her neck. Threatening to snap it.

“Your Grace!”

“Mother!”

Voices sounded in the distance, as if from the other end of those secret passageways Aemond had showed her—echoing and muffled, bouncing all around her head. Striking at her skull like little hammers, bang bang bang.

Something corrosive ate at her chest, burning like sulphur or the poison of a scorpion, and black dots were forming in front of her eyes. Where had Aemond disappeared to? Down which passageway? Could she follow? But her hands still clung to the wood of a table.

Her clothes were suddenly spider webs upon her every inch of skin, clinging and itchy and impossible to escape. Helaena beat at her arms and clawed at her collar, trying to draw air, trying to peel her skin off her body, trying…

The black dots swelled and overtook all light, and then, thankfully, Helaena was alone in the dark. At least it was quiet here. At least it was cool. Her throat had shrunk back to normal, and only smooth slipperiness touched her skin.

And at the end of a tunnel, she saw Aemond, finally. But he was gliding away from her, torchlight bouncing from his hair.

“You’re back,” she called after him. “Why did it take you so long to come back?” Had he chosen a girl to marry at Storm’s End, she wanted to ask too, but he’d asked her not to talk about that before he left. Had told her it upset him to think about. Helaena didn’t like to upset him.

Aemond stopped his gliding, but he didn’t turn around. The walls around them shifted then. No longer were the rough stone soot-black and streaked with the auburn glow of torches. Instead, it all turned deep, endless green—like Mother’s dresses, like Aegon’s doublets—and Aemond seemed to fade away into the liquid, velvet nothing.

“No, wait!” Helaena called after him. “Wait, come back! Did I upset you again?” Her feet fumbled beneath her, clumsy and stumbling, and she covered no ground despite her haste.

“Whatever I said, I didn’t mean it to upset you.”

He was a blur now, but at her voice, the rippling of his disappearing form seemed to stay its course. Slowly, he took on solid form once more, and Helaena felt a smile settle on her face, her breath whooshing out with relief.

He turned around then. He opened his eyes to look down at her. Both his eyes were sapphires, swarming with currents of deep, true green. Helaena froze.

“Aemond?”

But the Aemond she knew was gone.

~*~

“He’s gone.”

Alicent Hightower jerked to a halt in her pacing at the sound of Helaena’s voice. She snapped her head toward the bed.

“Oh, dearest love, thank the Mother you’re alright. You frightened me!”

Her daughter was sitting straight up amidst her tangled sheets, her hair a wild cloud of silver about her, and Alicent rushed to her side, arms outstretched to embrace her. Helaena shied away. Just as she always did.

No matter how many times her daughter evaded her touch, it always stung.

Alicent bit the inside of her cheek and forced herself back down into the chair by the bed.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, studying Helaena’s pallid face, but Helaena wouldn’t meet her eyes. Her gaze was fixed to something in a far corner that only she could see, and she barely acknowledged Alicent’s presence.

“Helaena?”

“He’s gone. Our Aemond is gone.”

Ice twisted like little knives into the bottom of her feet and tore up her legs.

“What…what have you heard?” Alicent breathed. “Whatever whispers you heard, they’re not true, do you understand me?”

Was that why Helaena had had one of her panic spells this day? Did some nosy servant overhear Alicent’s whispered conversations with her father and advisors, and somehow the news had made it to Helaena’s ears?

It was like Helaena hadn’t heard her.

“Our Aemond is gone,” she repeated. “Their little lights are gone, and our Aemond is gone.”

Alicent felt her eyes burn, and that familiar, panicked creature rattled inside her chest, shaking her ribs and trying to force an escape by clawing through her flesh. She had not slept a wink last night, worried to nausea over Aemond’s supposed disappearance.

Over and over, Alicent told herself it should be too early for her to worry. It was all Aegon kept saying last night, annoyed to be roused from sleep and made to sit in council.

“Aemond can take care of himself, and Vhagar is a mountain,” her son had drawled. “What danger could he possibly be in?”

But then came the news that Daemon had flown Caraxes to Storm’s End, demanding a maester. His very name had closed like a bear trap around Alicent’s throat. Even Aegon had sat up straight then, his lazy irritability fading. Somehow, Aemond and Vhagar had injured Lucerys Velaryon, and Daemon had encountered them both in the storm above Shipbreaker’s Bay. Daemon had looked to be out for blood, Borros had written. He’d taken their maester to tend to Lucerys’ wounds.

And still, no news or sign of her son. Mother have mercy. What had Aemond done? And how had that evil man retaliated?

Through the early hours, Father had sent out flocks of ravens—to Borros, to the other lords—and ordered search parties into the Kingswood and out on the Blackwater. He barely spoke two words to anyone, but Alicent had known his worry by the set of his mouth.

With each returning raven and fruitless search party report, the panic swelled closer to bursting in Alicent’s belly. One of her ladies had convinced her to take bread in the morning, and a half hour later she had thrown it back up into the gardrobe. And then, at noon, to hear about Helaena having another panic spell and collapsing…

Her daughter had risen from the bed now, wrapping a blanket around the nightgown the maids had changed her into.

“My love, are you well enough to walk?”

Alicent rose too, wringing her hands, wondering if Helaena would let her support her arm. She stumbled a bit, and Alicent caught her arm. Helaena stared at her white-knuckled hands. Alicent loosed her grip.

“Where is Maelor?” Helaena suddenly asked. “Is he with—ah!”

A loud pounding at the door cut off Helaena’s words, and she flinched out of Alicent’s grasp to shield her ears.

“Come,” Alicent called, but the door was already swinging open. Father emerged into the afternoon light, the purple half-circles beneath his eyes hollowing out his face.
He’d looked haggard since returning from Dragonstone with a single guard, bringing word of Rhaenyra’s consideration, but the last night seemed to have sapped all energy from him.

“More news?” In two steps, Alicent was in front of him, her nails digging into his sleeve. He gave her a short nod, his look grave. Nothing good then.

“How fares the queen?”

They both looked over at Helaena, but her daughter was staring up at the canopy above her bed now, fidgeting with her hands.

“She’ll be alright, I think.” She took a hesitant step toward her, then stopped. “I…I’ll send Maelor to you right away, my love.”

An imperceptible nod. Alicent hesitated another moment, but in the end, it was Aemond’s news that was most pressing. She gestured to her father, and they left Helaena’s chambers.

~~~

“He’s killed him, Your Grace, I’ve no doubt about it!” Ser Tyland Lannister was standing at the council table, both his hands planted into the wood, his whole body leaning forward with every word. “We always knew Prince Daemon would be our biggest hindrance in your ascension, and now he has proven himself a kinslayer too!”

Alicent watched Aegon’s face from the corner of her eye. It helped to focus her attentions upon her son. Kept her mind from wandering into the realm of unfathomable horrors. He had purple smudged beneath his eyes, just like Father, and his skin had taken on an unhealthy, pasty look that made Alicent’s chest ache.

He clenched his teeth but said nothing.

“Ser Tyland,” began Lord Wylde, “it has not even been a day—”

“But we have sent out nearly fifty ravens! You dispatched your own men to search your lands, did you not? Just like every lord between here and Dorne? And not a hint of news.”

“Well, yes, but—”

“His Grace was correct last night,” Ser Tyland cut in once more, his face the colour of liver. “Vhagar is the size of a mountain. If she is moving around the Crownlands or Stormlands, someone would have seen her. But nothing! No sign at all! I am telling you, Prince Daemon has done away with her upon his Blood Wyrm, and I fear Prince Aemond has not survived the night.”

“I cannot disagree, Your Grace.” It was Ser Criston who spoke now, his voice smooth and calming despite the words he spoke. “Perhaps Prince Aemond and Vhagar are not dead, but some evil has no doubt befallen them, courtesy of your uncle.”

Alicent felt the cold spread further up her limbs. If even Ser Criston thought it likely that Aemond was harmed…

Aegon’s fist upon the table made her jump in her seat.

“He is no uncle of mine, if he has harmed my brother!”

“Aeg—Your Grace,” Alicent tried, but her son did not hear her.

“This is an act of war! Treason!”

“And it is said that even now, Prince Daemon and Prince Lucerys are at Evenfall Hall on Tarth, Your Grace,” Ser Jason continued. “I do not believe for a second that he is not already vying for support for Rhaenrya’s false claim. Why else was Prince Lucerys at Storm’s End to begin with?”

Around the table, all the men seemed to agree. Even Lord Wylde, who had seemed so unsure only a moment ago, was murmuring something to the Grand Maester and nodding. The panic bloomed like ink in Alicent’s blood. Aegon’s anger was spinning out of control—she could feel it radiating off him.

“My lords, really,” she said, trying to make herself sound sure, “it has not been a day. I…if I, as Aemond’s mother, have hope that this was all a misunderstanding and he and Vhagar are well, then surely—”

“Mother, has lack of sleep addled your mind?”

“Aegon!”

All breath stopped in the chamber. Alicent blew out a shuddering breath.

“Your Grace. I assure you, I am perfectly lucid, but do you not think it is too early—”

“Good, Mother. If you are lucid, then surely you see this act of aggression for what it is!” An unnatural flush was spreading over Aegon’s cheeks, and his eyes were rimmed with a red that hurt her own eyes. Again, he pounded the table.

From Aegon’s righthand side, Father’s low voice broke in.

“My king. Dowager Queen. Let us not forget that I have only recently returned from giving Princess Rhaenyra King Aegon’s terms of peace. Most…generous terms. And though the princess promised she would consider them, I would remind you both that Prince Daemon was prepared to murder me on the spot.”

“But Father, if Rhaenyra did indeed promise she would consider, she would not then—”

“But Prince Daemon does as he wishes. He is her husband. No matter what Princess Rhaenyra might believe, she is a woman above all. Things are not as they used to be, Your Grace, please. You must remember that.” Father sighed then, and Alicent felt his eyes boring into her deepest, most tender memories. Prodding at them with his rough hands. Tearing.

“Whatever affections she once had, now she will heed the words of her uncle and husband.”

“The Lord Hand is right, Your Grace,” said Ser Criston. “Rhaenyra has given her answer in the form of an attack on Prince Aemond. They will not back down without a war.”

“Well f*ck them all then!” Aegon cried, shooting to his feet. “If it’s war they want, then it’s war they’ll have. And I want revenge for that c*nt harming my brother!”

“Perhaps, my king, it is time to reconsider our plans from the night of your father’s death.”

Alicent’s sharp inhaled struck fire into her lungs. “Father, no! I’ve said, that is—” But no one would listen.

“What plan was that?” Aegon asked.

“No, Aegon, your father would not have—”

“There needn’t be more bloodshed than necessary,” Father continued, ignoring her. “Dragonstone is as unprotected now as it ever will be, with Daemon and Caraxes on Tarth. Might I suggest we end Rhaenyra’s illegal rebellion in the cradle.”

“Father, I—no—that’s not—” In desperation, Alicent scrambled to her feet and clutched for Aegon’s arm. “Listen to me, Aegon, this is not what—”

“Mother, I don’t care what Father would have wanted. Daemon didn’t consider if Father wanted him to harm Aemond, did he?” Aegon shook her hand away—roughly, so that the dull pain of pulsed down into Alicent’s bones.

“Ser Criston!”

“Yes, my king?”

“No, please—”

“Send my best Kingsguard to Dragonstone. I want my sister’s head, and those of all her children. If my brother is dead, I want their heads to keep him company on his pyre.”

~*~

Dragonstone

A few days later

Rhaenyra stood at her chamber window, folding and refolding the parchments Daemon had sent from Tarth. She had near memorised his words by now, but again she read the hasty writing, then continued to pace.

Everything on her body hurt. Her beasts were full and aching despite the cold poultices and tight binding, the tearing sensation between her legs pulsed with her every heartbeat, and her head throbbed from exhaustion. And soaring above all that, the hole that had been ripped into her chest by the loss of Visenya was being slowly chipped at with each new thought of Luke.

Her sweet, brave boy. Her hurting, grieving boy. What had Daemon said in that second missive? That he would have scars for life? That all he wished to speak of was his dead Arrax? That initial red haze at what Aemond had done had cleared in the last day, and Rhaenyra was hesitant to revisit the the rage lest it make her do something irrational.

Instead, a dizzying wave of nausea rolled up from her core and doused her senses, and Rhaenyra clung to the smooth stone of a column to keep from crumpling. She’d barely slept since Daemon had flown off like one possessed, and any relief she’d felt at his first raven had been melted into a baffled, disoriented dread that simmered in her gut and refused to die away.

Twice, she had tried to hold council, thinking to plan their next steps, if only in theory. At the least, they ought to draft a response to Aegon’s terms, treasonous as they were. Otto’s men still waited in their ship off the island.

Yet Daemon had made no secret of his frantic departure, and each time she had been so pelted with questions about his wellbeing and plans that Rhaneyra had needed to retreat into solitude so she did not combust before her lords.

Gods, how had her life spun so entirely from her control in so short a time? Only a fortnight ago, she and Daemon had stood in this very spot, peering up at the stars on a rare, cloudless night, his hand absently stroking her belly. It seemed like a lifetime ago. A life—their life—slipping like so much sand through her grasping fingers.

And despite the torrents of worries and grief since, at the very core of her, Rhaenyra was most shaken by that moment Daemon had awakened from his accident.

What had he seen in his sleep, that he knew Luke would be in danger? And why could she not shake the creeping sensation that something had fundamentally altered between them?

A salt-laden breeze picked up from the sea then, and Rhaenyra took in a fortifying breath. Her stomach was settling itself for the moment, so she dug a knuckle into her temple and tried to turn her mind to practical matters. Daemon had wisely been vague in his second missive, but it appeared that Tarth, at least, could be counted on to support her, even if Storm’s End would not. That was good. She could bring that up in council next—

A scream shattered the air. Rhaenyra froze. Another scream, even more shrill, piercing down to her marrow.

Before she knew what she did, she was scrambling toward their bed, her hand grasping under the mattress for the dagger Daemon had slipped there the night they’d lit Visenya’s pyre. Now her legs propelled her into the hall, her mind blank as snow, her vision laced with rust.

For when a third scream set the air ablaze, Rhaenyra knew that it came from the nursery. Where her sons were taking their midday nap.

Chapter 9: Splash of blood

Chapter Text

Some moments earlier

Rhaena was tucked against a large cushion upon the window ledge of Dragonstone’s library, her nose nearly touching the yellowing pages of Queen Alysanne’s diary. Her ancestor had written in a neat, confident hand, but between the fading ink and the Valyrian hieroglyphs, Rhaena’s head was starting to pound from the concentration required to read it.

Ninth Day, Fourth Month, 61 AC

It is my belief now that dragons mate for life, though clearly, that mating bond is not always a necessity for a dragon to bring a clutch of eggs. Case in point: Vermithor, Silverwing and Quicksilver were all hatchlings from eggs brought by Meraxes, but by all accounts, it appears Vhagar was the one with whom Balerion shared a life bond.

Rhaena pinched the bridge of her nose and carefully lifted the fragile page to read the next. Though Father had spoken to her of Queen Alysanne’s diaries years ago, Rhaena had always felt, nonsensically, that to read these diaries was a silent sort of commitment to claim Alysanne’s dragon.

And she never could bring herself to give up on her egg—Meleys’ egg, given to Mother by Grandmother. The egg that Mother left her.

But things were different now—more urgent than ever. There would be a war—her grandparents, Father, Baela, Jace, and even Muña Nyra grew more sure of this with every passing hour—and Father’s news that Luke had been injured and Arrax slain had hardened Rhaena’s resolve.

Poor Luke. Rhaena did not doubt he would never again be the same. She might not yet ride a dragon of her own, but she’d been around her family enough to understand how one gave one’s dragon a part of the soul.

For the first time in six years, she felt that old, violent anger rise from her belly like molten bile. How dare that evil prince do this to her sweet, darling Luke? How dare the Hightowers do this to their kin? Was it not enough that they usurped Rhaenyra’s crown? Did they want all their lives as well?

There was no time left for sentiment. She would not be the only one left on Dragonstone with the children while her entire family rode their dragons into battle. That would drive her to madness.

The curiosity here, then, is how Meraxes came to bring those eggs. Did Balerion provide some form of male seed to fertilise them despite his bond with Vhagar? When I observe Vermithor curled around Silverwing as they sleep atop the high western mound, I find it difficult to believe either could find another dragon of interest.

But perhaps each mated pair behaves differently. Or is it possible for she-dragons to bring viable clutches without the aid of male?

There was something itching the back of her neck. Absently, Rhaena brushed it aside and continued to read.

In our early years on Dragonstone, Jae and I have not managed once to witness whatever dragon mating ritual might exist, either for affection or reproduction. This is a question requiring further examination and inquiry.

Perhaps she ought to skip this entry and try to find something actually useful. Dragon breeding was interesting, but what she needed was insight on Silverwing’s nature and habits…

The itch was back. She brushed it away again. Again it returned.

“What—Joff!”

She whipped her head around to see Joffrey standing next to her, that deceptively innocent grin on his face, his hands behind his back.

“What have you got there?” She had no doubt that whatever he hid in his hands was what had been tickling her neck.

“Nothing. What are you reading?”

Rhaena narrowed her eyes.

“I’m not going to tell you until you show me what you’re hiding.”

Joff looked thoughtful, then very quickly ducked his head to look at the cover of the diary. Rhaena carefully shut the tome and presented it to him, a smirk forming on her face.

“Here, have a look. See if you can make out anything at all.”

Joff might be precocious for a seven-year-old, but he was just learning to recognise Valyrian hieroglyph and didn’t stand a chance. Sure enough, he pouted.

“I can’t.”

“I know. So. Show me, what were you tickling me with?”

Another considering pause. Reluctantly, he stuck his hand out to her. On his palm was a very large, very much alive caterpillar.

“Joffrey Velaryon!”

“Sorry Rhen! I’m sorry!”

In a flash Rhaena was out of her seat, chasing after the little monster.

“Ooh you’re in for it now, you little beast!”

“I’m sorry! You’ll never catch me though!”

Damn, but Rhaena always forgot just how fast Joff could run. By the time she’d chased him around the centre trestle table and backed him into a corner, tickling him until he squealed for mercy, she herself was breathless, and sweat prickled against her shift.

“You…little…beast,” she panted, roughing up his hair. He ducked away, still grinning.

“I showed you the caterpillar. You have to tell me what you were reading now.”

Rhaena puffed out her cheeks, slumping down into a chair and making sure to stay well away from the furry green creature now inching lazily toward a wall.

“Fine. Do you know who Queen Alysanne was?”

Joff rolled his eyes.

“Duh, she was my great-great grandmother. Everyone knows that.”

Rhaena suppressed a snort.

“Right. Of course. Well, I was reading her diary.”

“Why?”

“She…wrote a lot about dragons. Silverwing and Vermithor in particular. And…I was curious.”

“Huh,” he said, his interest already drifting. Rhaena stood and tried to smooth down her hair.

“What are you doing down here in any case?” she asked. “Aren’t you supposed to be napping?”

“Napping is for babies,” Joff huffed, his nose in the air. “I’m not a baby anymore, so I don’t need naps.”

Rhaena arched a brow.

“Is that so? And what’s Nurse got to say about that.”

The pout was back.

“I’ve almost got her convinced.”

This time, she couldn’t stifle her snort.

“Well, until you have succeed, let’s get you back to the nursery, hm? You don’t want to be running around the castle in the coming days anyway.”

“Why?” he asked again.

Rhaena picked up his hand and guided him out of the library.

“Your mother is queen now, and all the adults are busy planning a war,” she explained. “There are going to be all manner of lords and knights and men-at-arms around, which means there’s going to be chaos everywhere. And besides, you saw how sad your mother was about our baby sister, didn’t you?”

“Oh. Right.”

Rhaena felt her own stomach sink at the memory of that tiny bundle on the pyre. Of Father’s and Muña Nyra’s faces as they burned the body of their last child. That day kept overlapping with Rhaena’s older memory—she and Baela and Father, standing upon their Pentos terrace, unable to look away from the charred bones of her own mother with her unborn babe—and for a moment Rhaena thought she was going to hurl up her midday meal.

She squeezed Joff’s hand instead and tried to keep her voice light.

“Don’t make her worry about you getting into trouble too, alright?”

~~~

They ran into Baela in the stairwell.

“I was just coming to find you,” said her sister, reaching out to mess up Joff’s hair. With practiced ease, she shimmied around Joff’s hand as he tried to slip his caterpillar up her sleeve.

“Grandfather says Muña Nyra wants to hold another council meeting soon, to agree on an appropriate rejection of Aegon’s terms for Otto Hightower’s men.”

“Come with me to bring this troublemaker back to his nurse,” Rhaena said, slipping her arm around Baela’s. “Then we’ll go down together.”

They let Joff swing between them from their elbows as they made their way back to the nursery, Rhaena telling her sister about Alysanne’s dragon theories, useless as they might be to her task. She’d yet to tell Baela about her plans, and if her sister had guessed, she made no mention.

“It must be that she-dragons don’t need another to fertilise their eggs,” Baela mused. “Else, how did Syrax bring the eggs for Vermax, Arrax and Tyrax?”

“That was my thought too, but just because Muña Nyra was in King’s Landing does not mean Syrax did not sometimes fly to Dragonsto—”

Someone screamed.

Joff landed with a thump upon Rhaena’s foot, but she felt nothing. Then she was tearing down the corridor toward the nursery from whence came the grisly sound, Baela a blur of silver in front of her. She shoved open the door, and Rhaena burst into the nursery just as an explosion of vivid blood splashed before her eyes.

Another scream, so close to her ear it burned away all other sound. For a moment, Rhaena’s body was stone. The nurse was draped across a chair, her head swinging from her half-severed neck, a spring of blood gurgling from her throat and splattering into a puddle on the stone.

A man in rough homespun with a scarf around his face had one hand in Viserys’ cradle, his head turned to stare at them. Eyes like flint. Daggar like ice.

The next instant, everything blurred into motion as Baela collided into the man and sent them hurdling toward the windows. Rhaena’s own limbs acted of their own accord, tearing toward Vis’ cradle and scooping her brother into her arms.

“Egg? Egg!” Rhaena’s voice ripped from her throat, panic spinning her head as she came next to Aegon’s bed—empty—her arm straining to keep the floundering Viserys clamped to her chest, his wailing stabbing into her skull.

Another cry shredded the air—Baela’s voice, doused in pain—but there! Rhaena spotted Egg’s silver hair in the corner as he tried to climb into a wardrobe. Yet the man had spotted her brother too. Before she could move, a red smudge was darting toward them, and Joff’s voice cut through all the din.

“Leave Egg alone, you ogre!”

“Joff!”

Rhaena’s legs were jelly and her arm screamed under Viserys’ weight. His little hands hand tangled into her hair, yanking at her head as she tried to set him down to reach Joffrey, his wails still hammering at her ears.

“No, Joff, come away!”

“AH!”

A thin arc of crimson shot into the air, and Joffrey’s shriek sliced right through Rhaena’s chest. Yet before she could draw her next breath, a rough bellow sounded behind her, manic footsteps carrying a silver form as it shot towards the man who grappled with Joff.

And then all sound died, save for the squelching of blade into flesh. The rhythmic splashing of blood upon skin. The panting, sobbing gasps...as Muña Nyra drove a knife again and again into the chest and throat and face of the man who had tried to kill her sons.

Chapter 10: Terror for terror

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra became aware of large hands on her arms—steady hands, pulling her out of the bloody sea in which she was struggling, floundering, gasping for breath.

Slowly, her own arm eased. Stilled. Slowly, her vision cleared. Slowly, she came back into her body—the violent humming in her chest and face…the dull ache of her arm…the blood—hot on her cheek, copper in her nostrils, salty and foul on her tongue.

Every stuttering breath she took stank of blood. It burned into her lungs and made her stomach twist. Voices whirled around her, underlined by the thumping of footsteps and rattling of armour, and still, the steady hands were on her arms.

She opened her fingers and let the dagger clatter to the red pulp of skin and hair beneath her. Had she…done that with…had she made a bloody mince of a human being…She grappled for those steady hands, the only things mooring her to sanity.

“It’s alright, Your Grace. All the princes are safe, and Lady Baela and Lady Rhaena are safe. You’re alright now, Your Grace.”

Her son. Her son. Joffrey, arm pouring blood through his open sleeve, teeth fastened upon the hand of the beast trying to slice his throat.

“Joffrey! Where is he?” Her voice did not sound human as she scrambled to stand, every one of her senses blurred with colours and cacophony and stench.

“Ow! Mother!” Her son’s holler broke through the haze, and at once Rhaenyra’s vision focused to that one clear point of Joff hurtling toward her, clutching his arm, face scrunched in pain.

“Mother! My arm hurts! He cut my arm!”

Rhaenyra found Joff’s head cradled into her chest, the sweaty damp scent of his hair cutting through the twang of blood, and finally, her heart dropped back into place, pounding now with a steady rhythm.

“There now, you’re alright. He’s dead now, my brave, darling boy.”

She stroked his back, feeling his warm, fluttering heartbeat against her palm, feeling her eyes stinging with blood and relief.

“You’re alright…you’re alright…”

Joff was crying now, his hot tears seeping through her gown and shift and branding her skin. She clutched him tighter. Then she lifted her head, her eyes darting frantically about the room.

Rhaena stood in the corner, softly bouncing a whimpering Viserys while Egg clutched her skirts with his mouth hanging open—all three stared at Rhaenyra with round purple eyes, all unharmed. Baela sat against the wall below the window…

“Gods, Baela!” A fine red line was carved into her cheek, the blood drops like garnets against her deep skin. Rhaenyra felt herself lunging toward her, but Joff yelped again and her limbs calcified.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry,” she gasped, looking down at her son whose hand had returned to his right arm. She crouched before him, ignoring the sudden wave of black that swept over her eyes, and pried his hand away from his wound.

“Mother, it hurts!”

“I know, love, just…let me see…”

A jagged, angry worm marred his arm through the tear in his sleeve, the ripped flesh pulsing dark blood from the middle, pink muscle glistening along each side. Rhaenyra couldn’t tear her eyes away even as her vision blurred again. She was going to be sick. Her small, quick babe…hurt so…marred like this…

“Your Grace?”

A clink of armour, and suddenly a face appeared over Joff’s shoulder. Dumbly, Rhaenyra looked up at Joff’s flushed, tear-streaked face, then over at Ser Erryk.

“Your Grace. The prince needs Maester Gerardys, and Lady Baela does too.”

“Oh.” She had not realised she held her breath until it whooshed from her lungs. Her vision cleared as she drew in new air.

Rhaenyra felt herself nod.

“Yes. Yes, you’re right. Yes, Maester Gerardys…”

“Can you stand, Your Grace?” The steady hands were back at her elbow, and Rhaenyra stood on boneless legs, fingers still digging into Joffrey’s shoulder.

“Mother?”

She loosened her grip. Joff’s voice was shaking.

“Come, my darling,” said Rhaenyra, trying to keep the whimper from her words. “Let’s get your arm to stop hurting.”

~~~

“You’ve caught the others?”

Ser Robert Quince bowed at Rhaenyra’s chamber door as he entered, then approached where she sat, looking grave.

“Yes, Your Grace. We’re interrogating them more thoroughly now, but it appears Ser Marston was working only with two others in the assassination attempt.”

All the children were in Rhaenyra’s chambers with her. As Maester Gerardys stitched up Joffrey’s injured arm and his apprentice tended to the cut on Baela’s cheek, Elinda had passed around tankards of Gerardys’ calming draft.

The twins, having returned from Corlys’ chambers to ensure him of their wellbeing, were now tucked against one another on the window seat, Rhaena feeding her sister sips of the steaming brew. Rhaenyra herself was curled up at the end of her chaise, one hand holding Joffrey’s uninjured one as the maester finished putting in his stitches, the other hand stroking Aegon’s hair as he lay sleeping in her blood-splattered lap.

One of the remaining nurses had pulled Viserys’ cradle near, and Rhaenyra absently rocked it with her foot, listening to the even breathing of her sons, her limbs weak with relief.

She’d let Elinda take a cold cloth to her face, but she’d refused to leave the children to wash and change. She could not bear to let any one of them out of her sight. A thick blanket was draped over her shoulders instead, but Rhaenyra still felt the cold damp of the island chilling her very marrow.

The only thing that could warm her in this moment was Daemon’s hands, Daemon’s breath, Daemon’s solid, steady chest and the slow thump of his heart beneath, but Daemon was away protecting her other son, and Rhaenyra had no choice but to shake away the longing ache.

“Tell me, then,” she said, voice low, as Ser Robert came to stand by the cradle.

The captain of her guards nodded.

“Ser Marston was sent to Dragonstone to take your head and those of your sons, Your Grace. He enlisted the help of his uncle and cousin—known in the town as the Two Toms—and it was the one called Tom Tanglebeard who showed him a tunnel into the castle kitchens.”

Rhaenyra swallowed, her throat so dry she felt it sticking closed. Ser Marston was the man whose face she had turned into an unrecognisable mess of flesh and hair and the whites of eyeballs. She had known that face for the majority of her life, recognising his thin, angled features among Father’s Kingsguard.

Once, Rhaenyra remembered asking Father why he’d let a bastard into his retinue. Father had smiled and said, simply, that bastardy did not determine a man’s bravery or loyalty. A stab of grief lit her chest at thought of Father and how wrong he had been, yet again, and Rhaenyra bit her tongue to tamp down the unwelcome sting.

“Whose order was it?” Rhaenyra croaked. “Did the words come from Aegon’s mouth or Otto Hightower’s?” Or Alicent’s, she wanted to ask, but bit her tongue once more. Did it truly matter? Once, she had told Daemon she did not believe Alicent capable of cold murder. But that very night, she’d had Father’s dagger pointed in Rhaenrya’s face, trying to cut out Luke’s eye.

Did it truly matter? And when would her heart accept that she no longer knew the woman Alicent had become?

“The Toms don’t know, Your Grace. All they know is that Ser Marston promised them ample gold to show him into the castle and guide them to the nursery. The plan was to do away with the children first, then hide until they could find an opportune time to get you alone.

“When they realised Prince Joffrey was not in the nursery, Ser Marston sent the two Toms to look for him before he showed himself and killed the nurse.”

Rhaenyra took cool, steadying breaths, trying to tamp down the molten rage that had been simmering in her belly since she’d come back to lucidity. Joff flinched as Gerardys snipped the thread on his last stitch.

“Mother, it hurts,” he whimpered.

Rhaenyra brought his clammy little hand to her lips.

“I know, my love. Be brave for me, just a little longer. It’s almost over.”

She turned back to Ser Robert, making sure she stared him square in the eye, then turned to do the same with Ser Steffon, Ser Erryk, and Ser Loren in turn.

“Look around this chamber, sers. Prince Joffrey has a wound on his arm longer than my hand. Lady Baela has a cut on her cheek that will likely be there for the rest of her life.”

A knot pulled painfully in Rhaenyra’s chest. Gods, how was she going to look Daemon in the eye and explain to him that, while he was off saving one of her sons, his daughter was scarred protecting another?

“My sons only have two nurses now,” she continued, teeth clenched, “because the third one had her neck cut to the bone, and all of my children here saw her head swinging by her spine. And I am still covered in the blood of Marston Waters because I had to kill him myself.”

The uneasy clinking of armour was the only sound in the room.

“Tell me, my captain, my Queensguard. How the f*ck did this happen?”

In a rattle of metal and steel, all four men were on their knees, and now it was their jumbled apologies that filled the air.

“Please. Sers. You’ll wake my sons.” Silence once more. Rhaenyra smothered her urge to rageand sighed instead.

“I am not looking for self-flagellation. I want answers. I want to make sure this doesn’t f*cking happen again.”

“There are no excuses, My Queen,” came Ser Steffon’s raspy voice. “We have failed you. But with your permission, we will be sure to locate every entrance, hidden or otherwise, and place sentries in every weak point. I swear, danger will not infiltrate the castle again.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Ser Steffon,” Rhaenyra said, massaging her temple, for she just remembered that Daemon was the one who was overseeing Dragonstone’s protection. Gods, it made her want to laugh like a madwoman that, but days ago, she had been vexed with him for jumping to such tight security without her leave.

Surely Daemon would know where every weak point and hidden entrance was, but maybe he’d not had the time…

“I doubt we can fully secure the castle until Prince Daemon returns,” Rhaenrya sighed again, “but do the best you can with what knowledge you have of Dragonstone.”

“Yes, Your Grace. Each and every man will be on his highest alert.”

“And when they learn that this attempt has failed, they might well send another.” Rhaenyra felt cold sweat break out on her neck. “Otto Hightower is not one to give in, and he will only think of a more foolproof plan the next time.”

Her gaze fell on Ser Erryk then, and the cold creeping up Rhaenyra’s back descended into a lump of ice in her gut. She gasped.

“Gods, I can all but guess who they’d send next.”

“My brother…” Ser Erryk murmured. Yes. His brother. This time, they had sent Ser Marston because he had kin on Dragonstone who knew of hidden tunnels. Next time, if they sent Ser Erryk’s twin brother to confused her guards—

“You needn’t worry on that front, Your Grace.” Ser Erryk stood. In one motion, he produced a hidden blade and slashed it across his own cheek.

“Ser!”

“There will be no confusing us now, Your Grace,” Ser Erryk said, the faint grin on his face distorted by the fresh wound.

“Ser, there was no need—”

“There was every need, Your Grace. You are right. Without Prince Daemon, perhaps we cannot fully secure the castle, but I shan’t let myself and my brother be a source of your worries.”

“I…but…”

Rhaenyra could only breathe a resigned sigh. The thing was done, after all. She did so wish it was not in such a permanent way, for the thought had only occurred to her that, if the Greens could use Dragonstone’s underground tunnels, they could use those in the Red Keep. Those that Daemon knew better than surely anyone else.

But by the looks of it, Ser Erryk would have been a poor candidate to send, disfigured face or no. Rarely had Rhaenyra encountered honour and earnest loyalty distilled into such purity.

Gently, she shifted Egg off her lap and tucked a cushion under his head. Then she stood.

“I thank you for your loyalty, Ser Erryk,” she said, laying a brief hand on his cool armour.

“And the rest of you, sers, please. Rise. Your task is not an easy one, I know, and it will only become more fraught in the coming days. I thank you all for your loyalty and your service.”

She took a fortifying breath then, and when she straightened, she allowed that simmering rage finally to boil over, to fill her veins and burn her heart to steel. For a moment, she considered sending Joff out of the chamber. But then she looked down at his wide eyes, shiny like grapes, then over at the thick bandages Gerardys was wrapping around his arm.

He was already exposed to violence. She could only protect his sensibilities for so long. She squeezed his hand and let him stay.

“Ser Robert?”

“Yes, Your Grace?”

“When the men have wrung every last bit of confession from those two assassins, I want them hung upside down, one in the square of the main town, and one at the port. And I want their throats slit while all the smallfolk watch. I once killed a boar the same way I killed Ser Marston. His cronies should die the same way, like pigs.”

Joff made a choked gasping sound, but no one spoke a word. Not one of the four men flinched. Not one even changed expression. Rhaenyra felt her stomach threaten to flip itself inside out at her own words, but she let the anger wash over her core once more, and all was well again, scalding and cleansing and right.

“Keep their bodies up and their blood pooled in the dirt until they are naught but bones. I want it made clear what happens to traitors who dare to harm my children.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“As for Ser Marston himself, put whatever remains of him in a crate. Face up. And prepare the crate for travel by boat.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Now. Do I understand that the galley Otto Hightower came in is still anchored offshore?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” said Ser Steffon. “It appears that Lord Otto and Maester Orwyle left soon after their meeting with you and Prince Daemon upon the bridge, but the majority of their guards await your response to the Usurper’s terms. I believe Ser Rickard Thorne of King Viserys’ Kingsguard is in command upon the galley.”

Rhaenyra dug her nails into her palm. Another man whose face she had known nearly her entire life. Another of Father’s trusted men, betraying his daughter and heir at the first opportunity.

“Very well,” she said, wishing her voice did not crack, but unable to help it. “Send for one of the Usurper’s men-at-arms to come to the castle—I don’t care which, just let it not be Ser Rickard. I don’t wish to see his face. Then call all my lords and every man at arms not on duty. It is time we gave King’s Landing an answer.”

“In the Chamber of the Painter Table, Your Grace?”

“No. One flight up, on the wide ramparts atop the Stone Drum.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

When Ser Steffon and Ser Robert had gone to their tasks and her remaining Queensguard left to take their spots outside her chambers once more, Rhaenyra looked down at Joffrey.

“How are you feeling, my love?”

Whatever answer he was about to make was swallowed by a huge yawn. Maester Gerardys rose then and bowed.

“Your Grace, the best medicine for Prince Joffrey now is rest. I will make a mild sleeping tonic.”

Joff pouted and stuck out his tongue, but Rhaenyra could see the droop in his eyelids.

“But I don’t want to sleep, Mother, I want to see how you send the Usurper your rep—aahhh.” Another yawn, and despite the upheaval of the day, Rhaenyra found her face melting into a smile.

“You are not quite old enough for council meetings, Joff. And if you want your arm to stop hurting sooner rather than later, you’ll listen to Maester Gerardys, alright?”

Joff narrowed his eyes in thought. Finally, he nodded.

“Fine, but can I sleep in your bed, with Egg and Vis?”

“Of course.”

His nurse Maude approached then, and Rhaenyra kissed him on the forehead before letting Maude guide him through to the dressing room to wash and change. Halfway there, Joff ran back for another kiss and embrace, and Rhaenyra felt her heart turn back to water.

The silver linings of the afternoon were paltry indeed, but Rhaenyra could be thankful at least that it was Viserys’ nurse, not Egg’s or Joff’s, whom the children had seen draped over the chair with blood gurgling out of her throat.

Vis was not yet two. It would be much easier for him to forget her, though she knew she’d never be able to erase that image—that terror—from any of the children’s minds. And again, the fury rose like a tidal wave, sweeping fire into her limbs. She would repay the Greens in kind—terror for terror.

“Girls, go get changed,” Rhaenyra said then, for they still looked the worse for wear, their gowns rumpled, their hair a mess, Baela’s sleeve spattered with blood.

“And if you’re feeling up to it, go help your grandfather up the Stone Drum. I think he’d take to that better than one of the knights escorting him.” They came to her, and Rhaenyra pressed a kiss on both their foreheads too.

“Thank you,” she murmured for the tenth time since the horror. “My fierce girls, thank you.” Rhaena smiled, shaking away her thanks, while Baela embraced her once more, and whispered in her ear,

“Muña Nyra, I don’t mind having a scar on my cheek for the rest of my life. Every woman in my family has been a fighter, and so am I.”

And somehow, it was those words that finally broke the dam on Rhaenyra’s tears. They spilled burning down her face, and Rhaenyra hastily brushed them aside with her thumb.

“Thank you,” she whispered once more, because there was naught else she knew to say.

Elinda guided her maids in then, laden with pitchers for her bath, but suddenly Rhaena turned.

“My queen.”

“Rhaena?”

“Don’t…don’t wash. Don’t change. We won’t either.”

Every eye in the chamber flew to her, but Rhaena only straightened and tucked an errant lock of hair behind her ear.

“Let the lords see what has happened this day. Let them see how you’ve shed the blood of your enemies.”

Oh, they were both Daemon’s daughters to the very core, and a savage love burst in Rhaenyra’s chest.

“You’re right. Just bring me my cloak then, Elinda. We shall let them see.”

And as Elinda clasped her cloak around her throat and set her crown upon her blood-caked hair, Rhaenyra looked down at her table, to the place Joff had laid his arm as Gerardys tended his wound. Blue caught her eye. Nymeria’s name. That page she’d torn from a history book and shoved into Alicent’s hands, that sun-drenched afternoon many lifetimes ago.

She had absently laid the torn page upon her desk after Otto had handed it to her on the stone bridge. Then she’d not been able to bear touching it to move it.

Now, upon the faded blue paint, drops of Joffrey’s blood bloomed like cursed flowers, unfurling their poison. And suddenly, it was no longer afternoon sunshine that drenched her memory, but the blood of her sons. Rhaneyra lifted the old page, feeling the paper burn her fingers, and slipped it into her sleeve.

Chapter 11: Screams and blood

Chapter Text

Tarth

Earlier that morning

“That was the funnest time ever,” sighed Edwyna Tarth as Daemon handed her to her white-faced father before descending from Caraxes’ wing. They had landed back upon the beaches below Evenfall Hall, and by now, nearly half the household had gathered either along the shore or the ramparts to watch their little lady fly upon dragonback.

“Not a trace a fear, even as we dove through the clouds,” Daemon murmured, more to himself than anyone else. He gave Caraxes a hearty pat on the neck before joining the Tarths on the path back to the castle, watching the couple surreptitiously squeeze every inch of their daughter, checking for injuries while trying not to offend him.

The previous night, Maester Conger had declared Luke’s injuries stable enough for a few hours travel, and in the dawn hours, little Edwyna had found Daemon on his way to prepare Caraxes’ saddle for their return.

“Does your mother know you’re here?” Daemon had asked, co*cking a brow at the child who’d clearly stolen from her chambers. She’d had her blanket wrapped around her head like a cloak, and one pink cheek bore the imprints of a pillowcase.

An image of Rhaena had come to him then, ten-years-old and creeping through the halls of Dragonstone in the night, soot smeared on her face—and Daemon had been unable to keep a smile at bay.

“No,” the little girl said. “You didn’t say I needed to tell Mother. You just said to come find you if I wasn’t scared. And I’m not scared. I want to pet Caraxes.”

Again, her mouth slowed around the name, savouring it as her eyes squinted with a grin. In the days he and Luke spent on Tarth, the inkling of an idea that had arisen upon first meeting the girl had begun to take form in Daemon’s mind. Looking at her hopeful eyes now, Daemon decided to test whether it was viable.

“Well then. A girl who knows what she wants and isn’t afraid to take it. Come with me, Lady Edwyna.”

And Daemon led her to the beach where Caraxes had made a temporary nest of sorts, instructing her most gravely to seat herself behind a large rock until he returned. The last star was just setting beyond the horizon, and the balmy, salt-softened dawn was still as satin around them. A perfect backdrop, not only to touch a dragon, but to take a first flight. If the girl had it in her.

When he had awakened Caraxes and ensured he was calm and in good humour, he’d picked up the girl and walked slowly back, murmuring soothing Valyrian under his breath.

“Don’t make any sudden movements,” he instructed Edwyna, “and don’t raise your voice. He is like any wild animal. You must not startle him.”

The little girl had nodded solemnly, her sapphire eyes fixed unblinking upon his dragon, and when they were close, Daemon took her hand and placed it gently before the dragon’s snout.

“Oh, it tickles,” the girl whispered, staying obediently still. Hearing Caraxes rumble with benign interest, Daemon took her hand and pressed it firmly to the dragon’s muzzle.

She gasped, gossamer-light wonder.

“He’s warm!”

And her dimpled little hand caressed the garnet scales with that fearless awe Daemon knew only too well.

“If your father does not object, child—what would you say to flying?”

Later, after he had half convinced, half strong-armed Lord Tarth with promises for his daughter’s safety, Daemon had swung the girl up into the saddle as he’d done a hundred times with his children and taken off into the sunrise.

It had been a quick, leisurely flight—a few circles above Tarth, a small dive through fine-wrought clouds—but when they descended once more in a gust of wind and sand and Edwyna’s delighted laughter, Daemon had his answer.

He had been right. The girl would do. And he saw no reason Rhaenyra should disagree.

So before they took their leave, Daemon pulled Lord and Lady Tarth aside.

“The queen and I thank you for your hospitality. And your loyalty, my lord.” He inclined his head, and beside him, Luke, despite his stony blankness of the past days, also struggled onto his uninjured foot to nod his own thanks. Daemon gave his shoulder a quick squeeze.

Bryndemere Tarth bowed low.

“I pledge all our fleet and men to Queen Rhaenyra, my princes. And though I hesitate to speak for my goodfather, I’ve no doubt he will do the same. We will prepare our men for war, if need be. Our liege may have turned to treason, but House Tarth remembers our debts and our loyalty.”

“Good man,” Daemon said, resting a solid hand on the young lord’s shoulder. “And I suggest you keep one of Maester’s Conger’s assistants to tend to your ravens. Who knows what quality of maester the citadel will send you now.”

“Of course.”

Then Daemon looked over the man’s shoulder at his daughter, clutching a nurse’s skirts, pale hair a cloud around her head, blue eyes still upon Caraxes.

“I think you’ll find, my lord, that it was wise to allow your daughter her flight this dawn. There may well be countless more in her future.”

And Daemon carried a silent Luke up onto Caraxes’ back, feeling the baffled looks of their hosts upon his back.

~~~

Luke had slept through most of each day on Tarth. Yet in the hours he awoke, his countenance had remained pale and unmoving, as if the loss of Arrax had frozen over all his buoyancy and mischief.

He spoke only one-word answers in response to questions, and by his bedside, Daemon could feel the grief rolling from him like the frost off a block of ice.

Yet now, as the black tower of Storm’s End emerged lazily on the horizon, Luke suddenly shifted his splinted leg and turned to stare Daemon right in the eyes, his grip like a vice.

“Kepus?”

“What is it? Is your leg—”

“No. It’s not the leg.” The boy swallowed, and for the first time in days, Daemon saw something fierce roar to life in his face.

“Will you tell me the truth? Was I wrong to put out Aemond’s eye?”

Daemon let the question sink into his skull, and for a moment he was thankful for the reprieve given by the howling wind. Somehow, he knew he must be careful of his words in this moment.

“Did you lie when you said Aemond was coming at Jace with a rock that night?”

“No! He was going to kill Jace, I know it!”

“Then how can you ask if you were wrong? What else should you have done, if not defend your brother?”

Daemon watched Luke’s face carefully, saw as his words took hold, saw as that ferocity settled into something solid and scalding and firm.

“I want revenge,” Luke said then, voice so low Daemon could hardly hear him, but he knew he did not misunderstand.

“They killed Arrax,” Luke said. “Vhagar and Aemond and even Borros Baratheon. I told them I was only a messenger. I told Aemond I would not fight him. But he killed Arrax anyway. And I want revenge.”

Those last chips of Daemon’s trepidation since waking in this second life thawed into relief. He had seen men with naught else to live for push forward and thrive on lust for revenge alone. Luke was young. Luke had Rhaenyra and his siblings, and Luke had him.

This thirst for revenge would carry him through grief until he was ready to mend. And Daemon could truly say he returned him whole to Rhaenyra’s arms.

“Good,” he said. “Revenge is good. And I will help you.”

Below them, the crags and rises of Shipbreaker Bay gave way to the blind, dropping walls of Storm’s End, and a thought occurred to Daemon. Perhaps Lord Borros’ household could use a little incentive to find sympathy with Cassandra Baratheon’s cause.

“Luke?”

“Kepus?”

“You might have to wait to confront Aemond and Vhagar, but tell me, what say you to taking some interest for Borros Baratheon’s crimes?”

Despite Lady Cassandra’s predictions, Daemon was certain that Aemond had flown off somewhere to hide and lick his wounded pride. He would show himself eventually, but Storm’s End was right here, open to the sky. And to his dragon.

And for the first time in two years, Daemon saw Luke smile.

They landed atop the outer wall of the castle to bellows and screams. Ignoring the din, Daemon turned to Luke.

“Have a look at the rooftops of the outbuildings. Where would you say the granaries are?” Luke squinted into the bailey, scanning over the buildings that looked like children’s play blocks.

“There. With the red clay roofs.”

“Very good. And don’t forget, often large grain carts used on campaign will also have roofs of similar material. Now, you’ve met Lord Borros. Would you say he could use a bit of reducing around the middle?”

“Hah! Yes. More than a bit.”

Daemon grinned.

“Men of Storm’s End!” he called, and many looked up, cloaks shielding their faces as Caraxes flapped his wings.

“Prince Lucerys believes your traitorous c*nt of a lord needs some reducing in his diet! Watch now! This is a taste of the price for his treason!”

Then he leaned forward to place a staying hand on his dragon’s neck.

“Easy now. Just the red ones.”

Caraxes gave a faint rumble.

“Dracarys.”

And the clay roofs erupted with dragon flame.

“Incidentally Luke,” Daemon said as the fire began to roar and shatter, and the shouting grew to fever pitch, “do you know why granaries are built with clay roofs?”

Luke nodded, though his eyes never left the burning buildings and the men rushing like ants with wheelbarrows and buckets.

“Maester Gerardys says they best absorb damp, so the grains stay dry as possible and don’t rot.”

“Smart lad.”

Luke’s face went pink, but he shrugged.

“Though they needn’t worry about damp grains at Storm’s End any longer.”

Daemon threw his head back and bellowed with laughter.

~~~

The moment they landed in the Dragonstone bailey, Daemon could sense the unnatural tension vibrating in the air. At once his insides seized. Luke had fallen back asleep midway through the journey, and gingerly he carried the boy off Caraxes, every muscle on alert. He looked up at the jangling of armour.

“My prince!” called the fresh-faced guard. “Thank the Seven you and Prince Luke are back!”

“What’s happened?” Daemon demanded as they passed through the side gate. The guard stopped at the entrance.

“There’s been an assassination attem—but all is well, my prince!” For he must have seen the fury that exploded over Daemon’s face.

“The queen, the princes and your daughters are all safe now! A nurse was slaughtered, but the men have been caught!”

Daemon found he could breathe again, the hot panic settling into something more dangerous.

“Why is it so quiet,” he asked, voice dark. The guard shivered but answered quickly.

“The queen has summoned all her lords and the men-at-arms to the top of the Stone Drum, my prince. We who are on duty are not to leave our posts.” The guard bowed then. “Truly, it is a relief that you are back.”

Daemon bounded up the steep steps of Sea Dragon Tower two at a time, near running toward Luke’s chambers. At the corner, he paused. Best to bring Luke to the nursery with the younger children—safer to have them all together. The guard had said they were all safe now, but Daemon could not settle his pounding heart until he saw them in the flesh.

As he bounded down the hall, a dark head popped out from the chambers he shared with Rhaenrya.

“Joff?”

“Kepus! Luke!” He hurtled towards them, inciting a female shout from within, and Daemon had to dodge aside before he launched into Luke’s leg, feeling a sharp twinge in his low back. His nurse came running then, gasping and curtseying and gripping Joff’s shoulder.

“Oh, Prince Daemon!…Prince Joffrey, you mustn’t—”

“What’s wrong with Luke, Kepus, why is he sleeping?”

His head was beginning to pound.

“Inside the chamber. Now, Joff. Let me set your brother down.”

As Daemon laid Luke upon their bed, removed his boots and drew the covers over him, Joff’s head emerged once more in his vision.

“Kepus, do you want to see my arm? A bad man cut it open but Mother killed him and Maester Gerardys gave me thirteen stitches and it’s stopped hurt—”

“What?”

Daemon’s blood froze. The pounding in his head grew to a fever pitch, and he scrambled for the chaise at the end of the bed. When the black faded from his vision, he saw Joff’s concerned face peering up at him.

“You look really scary, Kepus.”

Daemon’s eyes swung around the room, taking in the two familiar nurses, Aegon’s sleeping form on the couch, and Viserys’ little body tucked into his cradle. Then he turned back to Joffrey.

“Let me see your arm, then.”

Eagerly, the boy shimmied out of his right sleeve and held up his bound arm like a trophy. The bandages made it nearly twice as thick as his other, and Daemon’s gut twisted.

“Maester Gerardys says I can’t unwrap it until tomorrow,” Joff was saying. “Else I’d show you. It’s definitely going to leave a huge scar, just like yours!” Black bile ate at Daemon’s insides.

Feather-light, Daemon traced his fingers over the bandages. Even thick as they were, he could feel the fevered heat of a fresh wound radiating from them. It was becoming hard to breathe.

“Are you hurt anywhere else? Your mother? Your siblings and cousins?”

“Not me. Only Baela has a cut on her cheek because she saved Vis. And Mother was like a warrior!”

And the black bile gushed straight to Daemon’s head, roaring like poisonous fire in his ears. Blindly, he reached for the nearest chair and broke it into the empty hearth.

There was a moment of silence before Viserys burst into wails and Aegon yelped, bounding straight up from his nap. Still struggling to breathe right, Daemon laid what he hoped was a comforting hand on Joff’s stunned cheek, then moved to scoop up Vis and draw Egg onto his lap.

Viserys, warm and brimming with life in his arms once more. Alive once more.

His youngest son’s wailing softened to whimpers, and Egg looked up at him, eyes round.

“Kepus? Why is Kepus angry?”

“Were you frightened today, Egg?”

“Mmm, a bit. But Mother said the bad man won’t chase after me again.”

“Egg was really smart,” Joff put in, coming to sit next to him and wiggling a finger at Viserys until he forgot his whimpering. “He went to hide in the wardrobe.”

“Did you now?” He should be relieved. Where was the relief? Why did it still burn to draw breath?

Egg nodded. “Kepus? You’re not going away again, are you?”

Daemon clasped both their silky heads to his hammering chest. Viserys gurgled.

Gods help him, what did any of this mean? That damn, old magic…why let him return to this life only to rain this terror upon his family? Should he not have gone after Luke at all? Surely not, surely this was…ah, f*cking hells. His head would not stop its infernal pounding. What did they bloody want from him?

“No,” Daemon said, “I won’t leave you again,” though he could not imagine how he’d keep that promise.

~~~

Daemon emerged onto the wide rooftop of the Stone Drum amid throngs of armed men. The air was crisp here, but it was not until he saw his daughters’ shocks of silver hair that he found it easier to draw breath.

Now if he could just find Rhaenyra…but she was nowhere amidst the crowds, and Daemon could only cling to Joff’s words that she had not been harmed.

Skimming along the battlements, ignoring the surprised bows of those men who noticed him, he came up behind the girls and laid a hand on each of their shoulders.

Both jumped.

“Father!”

“Is Luke alright?”

“Shh. Luke will be fine. Let me look at you.”

They were both bedraggled, and even Rhaena’s hair was sticking up in strange places. Rhaena looked him head on, trying for a small smile, but Baela had her head half turned away and would not meet his eyes.

“Bee,” Rhaena whispered, nudging her. “It’s not as if you can hide your face from Father forever.”

Baela turned to him then, a hand over her left cheek. There was a splatter of blood on her sleeve, and Daemon felt poisonous fire rip up his chest once more.

“Let me see your face.”

“You must promise you won’t make a fuss,” Baela said. “It was so shallow it didn’t even need stitches, and like I told Muña Nyra, I don’t regr—.”

“Baela. Let me see your face.”

His daughter sighed and dropped her hand. A clean crimson arc curved along the hollow of her cheek, already beginning to scab. Yet the sight filled Daemon’s chest with rattling, furious creatures, urging him to do violence, to draw blood a thousandfold for hers.

“The man who did this,” he said, and he heard murder in his voice. “Where is he? Where is his body?”

“Muña Nyra stabbed him until he didn’t have a recognisable face anymore,” Rhaena said, slipping her thin fingers around his elbow. “She had him put into a crate.”

Baela shrugged. “She probably intends to send it back to King’s Landing. Would serve them right, getting a gift like that.”

They told him them of the afternoon’s happenings, and slowly, Daemon felt the murderous firestorm cool to something sharp and still. And when he learned what Rhaenyra had ordered done to the other two men, despite his fury, something satisfied and proud landed in his stomach.

“She told us to come up here with Grandfather,” Baela was saying, pointing her chin at where Corlys and the other lords stood toward the front, facing the bay. Beyond them, in the distance, the galley that Otto Hightower had arrived in then left floated serenely upon the sea. Daemon dug his nails into his palms and drew a cooling breath.

“And that’s one of the Hightower men from the ship,” Baela said. “Muña Nyra had him brought up here to take her reply back to King’s Landing.”

Daemon narrowed his eyes. Surely, after today, Rhaenyra wouldn’t…

“But where is she?”

Baela shrugged.

“She said she’d meet us here.”

Frowning, Daemon scanned the beaches below, then peered over to the skybridge that led to Sea Dragon Tower, squinting. He thought he saw a smudge of gold above the tower, bright against the dark smoke of the Dragonmont. In the next moment, a breeze picked up, carrying with it smoke and sulphur and the faint call of a dragon.

Syrax.

Another cry quaked through the air, and the dragon’s unmistakeable form drew near, drawing every eye up to the skies. And at last Daemon saw her, only a dot upon Syrax’s back, pale hair streaming like a war banner behind her. The sun peeked out from behind clouds, and Daemon caught the glint of Jaehaerys' crown—his brother’s crown—Rhaenyra’s crown.

Dragon and rider circled overhead once, making no move to land. Then, with a bone-shattering screech, Syrax dove toward the bay.

A sword of fire shot from the dragon’s golden mouth, bathing the galley of traitors in blood red flames.

And Daemon smiled.

What did it matter, what that old, strange magic wanted? Daemon Targaryen had never caved to anyone’s will but hers.

The firestorm stirred to life once more within, but this time he welcomed it, for he felt her step into the flames alongside him.

That was his niece, his wife, his Rhaenyra—his little dragon, down to her core. Harm a dragon’s hatchlings, and pay the price in screams and blood.

Chapter 12: Glad to be home

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra bore dried splatters of blood upon her neck and in her hair. Under her cloak, Daemon saw the dark blossoms of it staining her gown. As she walked toward them along the sky bridge—chin lifted, shoulders square—Daemon soaked in each little movement of her familiar body and face, searching for hints of stiffness, of pain.

“You’re sure Rhaenyra was not harmed when she slew the assassin?” he heard himself ask, voice unsteady. Rhaena’s fingers tightened around his elbow.

“We’re sure, Father,” said Baela. “All the blood on her is from Marston Waters, and it was Rhaena who suggested she come to her lords without washing it off.”

“So all might see what the Greens have done,” Rhaena said. Daemon squeezed her hand and nodded.

Yes. Let them see, and let all sear into their minds the image of their queen, adorned with the blood of their enemies, scorching their pathetic attempt to usurp her crown. A brutal pride roared in Daemon’s chest—laced with sudden hot lust.

What was it they said in the North? The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword? Despite the fear, he’d have liked to see her driving his dagger into Marston Waters.

His queen had the protection of knights and guards and lords, of their dragons and of his own body. But Daemon knew now that she would not be a queen in her high castle, sending her subjects to war while she sat cloistered away. Not this time.

In that previous life, Rhaenyra had wished to fly into battle alongside him, but every one of her lords—and Daemon himself—had convinced her to hide herself away. For her safety, they’d said, for she and Syrax had never before seen combat.

Yet he saw now that he’d been wrong. This was what Rhaenyra needed—to watch burn all those who wronged and betrayed her. To let savage fire to eat away her grief and fears and temper her resolve to steel.

As Rhaenyra took her place at the front of the ramparts, framed by the burning galley behind her, every man bowed their heads, and Daemon did the same. Syrax let out a rumbling purr

“My lords. I have said that if war’s first stroke is to fall, it will not be by my hand. But that stroke has come fast upon my family.

As Rhaenyra spoke, her voice mixed with sharp smoke upon the breeze from the sea.

“Prince Lucerys was saved from certain death at the hands of Prince Aemond upon Vhagar only by my husband’s hasty intervention. My son, who swore to be naught but a messenger, lies abed with grave injuries, his dragon slain above Storm’s End.

“Prince Joffrey—but a child—has also been injured this day, his arm cut open to the bone. Lady Baela—” She turned to where his daughters stood.

Daemon saw the moment she spotted him. For a heartbeat, her bottom lip quivered and her eyes swam like the violet sea at twilight, but he nodded at her, hoping she saw assurance in his face, and her features stilled again to queenly marble.

Every eye turned to them, and amid the soft intakes of breath at Daemon’s reappearance, Rhaenyra extended a hand. Baela joined her, head held high so all present could see her wound.

“Lady Baela, who will one day be queen consort, will forever bear a knife scar for trying to protect him. And I stand before you all with the blood of Marston Waters upon me.”

A murmur purled through the men.

“A knight of the Kingsguard who had sworn loyalty to my father, my family,” she continued, “yet this morn he snuck into Dragonstone, seeking to slay me and my sons. At command from Otto Hightower, no doubt, but he would not dare act without leave from Aegon.

“I had hoped the Greens would see reason. I had hoped to avoid ripping apart my family and my realm. I was wrong, for they do not see me and mine as family.”

Daemon watched her throat tighten—knew these words were the hardest for her force from her throat. His resilient girl. Alicent Hightower would pay for every ounce of Rhaenyra’s hurt.

“These were acts of vile kinslaying, my lords, and these were acts of war! My usurping brother and the Hightowers who whisper in his ear have left me no choice but to respond in kind. Ser Steffon?”

The Kingsguard stepped forward.

“Your Grace.”

“Where is the man who will carry my message?”

~*~

Rhaenyra walked toward the lone guard who stood between her men. All the lords held their breath, she knew, to see what their new queen would say to this final traitor. And perhaps Daemon did too. She could feel his eyes boring into her cheek.

“You came with Otto Hightower and your band of traitors, offering…terms, if that is what you choose to call your insults. Otto had the audacity to tell me that no blood need be spilled. I should have known traitors can have no honour.

“I have made clear my answer this day, but I am the queen. I am not a murderer of children, and I am not a kinslayer. I keep my word. Here are my terms. You can bring them back with what is left of Marston Waters.”

She stole a glance at Daemon then—just one. Rhaenyra was unsure what she hoped to see in his face, but his brow was smooth and his eyes seemed sure of her. If he trusted her, she would too. She raised her voice.

“I will grant that it was Otto Hightower who led my brothers astray. They should be thankful that my sons yet live. If Aegon and Aemond come to me within the week with Otto Hightower’s head, kneel before me and beg my forgiveness, I will let them keep their lives at the Wall. If Queen Alicent does the same, she may spend the rest of her life at peace within the Faith.

“Prince Daeron, Princess Helaena and her children—they will be allowed a place in my court, and I promise they will be honoured and unharmed, so long as they condemn the usurper and swear me their loyalty.”

She stepped toward the lone guard then, so close she could see the thin film of sweat that had formed on the man’s trembling forehead. Could hear the faint clank of his armour. Could see his wild eyes darting between her and the burning wreckage of his fellows beyond her shoulder.

Feeling nothing at all, she retrieved that folded book page from her sleeve, stained with Joffrey’s blood. Upon the bridge, Rhaenyra had shed tears over it, longing somehow for those golden days of their shared youth, when her father yet lived, and she had been carefree and wild. Foolish girl. Had those days ever been true?

In this moment, Rhaenyra swore she’d never shed another tear for Alicent—or the girl who used to love her.

“Bring this back to Alicent Hightower,” she said, softly now, tucking the page into his breastplate. The man shook against her fingers.

“Tell her I’ve no need of it anymore, now that it’s splattered with the blood she drew from my son. Tell her, I wish I’d sent it back days ago, soaked in her father’s blood instead.

“And tell her what you saw today. What I did to Otto Hightower’s men. If she has any sense left, she will abandon this mad course of treason. Otherwise, she can be sure I will do the same to her children. I will not hesitate just because they are my father’s blood, not anymore. Just as she did not hesitate with mine.”

The words tore something in her chest as she spoke them, but just as fast, that jagged tear scarred—tough and silvery and stronger than before.

As guards led the man away, Rhaenyra addressed her lords once more.

“All you present, I thank you for your loyalty. Join me in council this eve. There is a war to plan.” She turned then.

“Oh, and Ser Robert?”

The captain of her guards stepped forward.

“Yes, my queen?”

“Send a detachment of men to survey the shores and port. If any of Otto Hightower’s men wash ashore, ensure they are dead, and hang them up alongside the two who tried to kill my sons.”

Later, as Rhaenyra hurried back from seeing Syrax returned to the Dragonmont, Daemon found her upon the sky bridge. For several breaths, they stood an arm’s reach away, both frozen, Daemon’s eyes raking over her as if it had been years and not days since she last stood before him.

“Leave us,” she croaked to her guards, and as soon as they clanked past Daemon he lunged at her and pulled her into him—enfolding every bit of her in his heat and his deep scent, sharpened by the smoke of Caraxes.

“Luke?” she managed to breathe into his shoulder. “Is he—”

“He is well.” His voice rumbled against her chest, and Rhaenyra did not care that her breasts ached from the pressure. “All is well. He is still sleeping in our bed, and I’ve sent Gerardys to redress his wounds.”

Her whole body went numb and limp then, releasing the last dregs of stringent fear that had been her constant companion since he’d chased after Luke, and she let his arms support her weight.

“Joff…and Baela—”

“I know. Rhaenyra.”

He leaned back to look at her, eyes blazing.

“The Greens were fools, thinking to anger dragons.” He traced the dried blood caked along her hairline and down her throat. His breath was ragged. Rhaenyra shivered.

“You showed them that. And you are magnificent.”

She gasped when he crushed his mouth to hers, and the wild bite of him broke every dam she had erected to keep herself sane this day. Tears poured like molten glass down her cheek, salty on her tongue, and he licked them away, devouring her, clutching at her waist and the back of her neck as if he wished to pull her wholly into his body.

He hadn’t felt this desperate for her in longer than she could remember—it had only been a fortnight since they’d touched thus, she wanted to remind them both—but there had opened a chasm between them since news of Father’s death, and this, now…she felt the chasm closing once more, and whatever was between them mended whole again, despite his strangeness.

Arousal roared anew, foreign in her body that had been cold with grief for so many days. She kissed him back—ravenous, pillaging, desperate for more—for she remembered how his fire felt and craved it.

They broke away both gasping for breath, their foreheads pressed together. His eyes had gone stormy, his brow shading his features, but for the first time in too long, Rhaenyra felt truly safe.

“Come back to the castle then,” he said. “Luke will want his mother when he wakes.”

~~~

“I think it’s best you not look, Mother,” Luke said, grimacing. “You too, Baela and Rhaena.”

Rhaenyra was propped against the pillows on her bed, Luke tucked against her shoulder, and despite his obvious embarrassment at being coddled so, she had taken one look at his pale face and splinted leg, and could not bear to let him go.

Now she leaned down and kissed his hair for the tenth time, wishing to smother him with every ounce of her affection. Between them, Egg, who’d fallen asleep with his head on his brother’s stomach, made a mumbling sound, and Rhaenyra absently drew the blanked around his neck.

“Nonsense. I am your mother, and I’m no stranger to wounds.”

Leaning against a pillar, Baela rolled her eyes.

“We just saw Muña Nyra make mince out of a man’s face this morning,” she scoffed. “I don’t think your injury’s going to scare us, Luke.”

In the corner, a round of coughs sounded between Daemon and Corlys, but their faces were grave, and the twins too looked tense, despite Baela’s bluster. Rhaenyra’s hand clenched into a fist, but she turned to Gerardys.

“Maester, please, go on.”

The man nodded and began to unwrap Luke’s bandages. Luke sighed, grimacing again, and on his other side, Rhaenyra saw Rhaena’s hand tighten around his.

“It’s doesn’t hurt so much anymore, really,” Luke said, eyes darting around at every worried face gathered by his bed. “And it’s healing very quickly, isn’t that right, Maester Gerardys?”

The maester’s brows were furrowed tight as he carefully lifted the last layer of dressing, and Rhaenyra’s stomach clenched at the wet sound of it peeling from the wound. Rhaena and Baela both gasped, and Rhaenyra had to bite her lip to keep from doing the same.

Masses of angry pink bloomed along Luke’s thigh and the side of his knee, the grainy texture of exposed flesh glistening in the light. In some places, puddles of pale yellow were visible, dotted with the dark red of muscle showing through.

“Oh, my poor boy,” she heard herself whimper, gripping Luke to her even tighter. Yet even now, she did not forget that the burns could easily have eaten up his entire leg, his entire torso…charred him to the marrow and taken his life…

Black spots were starting to form before her eyes, and again Rhaenyra bit her lip, hard, letting the sting of it bring her back to clarity.

“This whole section was completely yellow a couple days ago,” Luke was saying, gesturing at the side of his knee. “The maester at Tarth said the pink means it’s getting better. Right, Maester Gerardys?”

Gerardys sighed, his face pained, but he nodded. Rhaenyra’s stomach settled, if only slightly.

“That maester did a fine job, Your Grace. The prince is right. This is excellent healing for a sennight after serious burns, though it will be many days before scabs form, and even longer for the skin to close.”

From the far end of the room, Corlys gave a brittle chuckle.

“Ah, the blessings of youth,” he said. Daemon huffed a laugh in response, and the heavy air of the room seemed to disperse somewhat. Corlys limped over to the bed then, and Rhaena helped him into her chair by Luke’s side.

“Have I told you? I’ve got burns like that on my leg too.” Luke’s eyes grew wide, and Rhaena gasped again.

“Really? How?”

“Oh, I made your grandmother angry once. While out hunting—just her, me, and Meleys. We were shouting at one another, and out of nowhere, I feel this gust of heat right as she shoves me into the sea. Next thing I know, I’m lying on the beach, staring up at the sky thinking I’d lost my leg. But she had been quick enough. It was just flesh wounds.”

Daemon truly laughed this time, catching Rhaenyra’s eye and co*cking an eyebrow. Rhaenyra couldn’t help grinning back. The bond of dragon and rider always emerged strongest when emotions ran high. No doubt Corlys had made Rhaenys so angry that a part of her had wished to see her husband charred to a crisp in that moment.

For an instant, Rhaenyra wished to tease Lord Corlys for being so flexible with his stories. When Corlys had told Laenor of the incident in his youth, he’d meant it to scare him into behaving, and Rhaenys had come across much fiercer.

But she held her tongue. Somehow, she did not think it would aid this new thawing between them to bring up Laenor’s name.

“I was only thirty, and I was putting weight on that burned leg by the time the moon turned,” Corlys went on, shaking his head. “Not like this recent injury. I’m still hobbling about a sixmonth later.” He gave Luke’s arm a pat as Gerardys applied new salve. “You’ll be up and about again in no time. You’ll see.”

Luke nodded.

“I know. I keep saying—it’s not so bad.” He managed a smile up at Rhaenyra then, and it was so sweet that it made her heart ache. Her brave son. The loss of Arrax was like a sore that none in the room would touch, but if Luke wished to put on a brave face, she’d not prod at his grief.

“Besides,” he said, his smile turning mischievous. “I may have a burned leg, but Borros Baratheon has a whole torched granary to contend with now.”

“What?”

Daemon laughed again, and Rhaenyra glanced between him and Luke, brows raised. He shrugged, his eyes dancing at her in the deepening light.

“We made a small detour on our way back from Tarth. I thought Borros might pay us some interest for his treachery. A taste of the cost to forgetting his father’s oaths.”

Corlys and Luke were laughing now too, and Rhaena asked, eyebrows creeping up to her hair,

“So you went and burned Storm’s End’s outbuildings? Just like that?” Daemon shrugged again.

Baela pounded a fist into her open palm, a wide, lopsided grin lighting her face.

“Serves him right! Breaking guest right by letting Aemond go after a messenger.”

Rhaenyra felt her mouth pop open. Only days ago, perhaps she would have been angry. Frustrated that he was pulling them headlong into violence. Now, all she felt was a childish sort of satisfaction. Baela was right. Borros Baratheon deserved much worse than having to rebuild his granaries.

As evening fell, guards carried Luke back to his chambers, and Rhaenyra had supper brought in so the family could keep him company. In the flickering candlelight, Rhaenyra watched as the children laughed and teased one another.

Vis was stealing the carrots off Egg’s plate when their nurses had their heads turned, Baela held Luke’s cup out of reach as she urged him to drink out of Rhaena’s, and Joff had Corlys’ rapt attention as he went on about battle scars, jabbing animatedly at his bandaged arm.

And despite her injured children and the upheaval of the day, for an instant it felt as if the overturn of their entire lives this fortnight past had never happened.

But then she noted Jace’s absence by Baela’s chair and felt an ache in her belly. Daemon had assured her Jace would be safe with such certainty that she could not help believe him, no matter that she’d not yet had the chance to question him on how he could know.

Yet she knew she’d only fully settle her heart when she had all her children under one roof again, and her mind went to counting the days it would take Jace to fly his mission north.

Would he have left the Eyrie by now? If all was successful with Jeyne Arryn, he should be on his way to White Harbour—

Daemon’s calloused hand covered hers beneath the table. She turned to him, and there was such a sad warmth pouring from his gaze that Rhaenyra felt her throat ache.

“What’s the matter?” she asked thickly.

He shook his head, smiling at her with a tenderness he so rarely let show when they were not alone. Again, she felt that strangeness about him she’d first sensed when he’d woken from his fall—as if he’d seen too much, lived too much in a matter of days. But before she could ask, he looked toward the children, taking in their laughter with a hungry sort of joy.

“Nothing’s the matter,” he murmured, his rolling Valyrian settling like honey in her stomach. "I’m only glad to be home.”

And he brought her hand to his lips.

Chapter 13: Don't be a fool

Chapter Text

Daemon entered their chambers just as the maids finished dressing Rhaenyra for council.

“Thank you. Leave us,” she said as he came to stand behind her, their eyes meeting in the looking glass. He’d bathed after supper, and now his clean, woodsy scent enveloped her, slowing her heartbeat and warming her down to her fingers.

“I’ve finished drawing up the map of the underground tunnels into the castle for Ser Robert and your Queensguard,” he said. “And the guards all have a new schedule of watch now. Such an infiltration won’t happen again.”

Rhaenyra nodded, drawing a deep breath.

“You were right to fortify the castle as soon as we got news of Father,” she said, her throat aching. A hint of a smile appeared.

“I should have ensured all was secure before I left. Today should not have happened at all.”

She turned to him, studying his face—the lines etched into his brow by the years like the grains upon stone. Yet there were fine lines spreading from the corners of his eyes and bracketing his mouth too, reminding her he had laughed as much as he’d worried.

She reached up to trace along his hard jaw, his chin, and his head tilted to lean into her hand. She had that odd sense again that she was seeing him after a long absence, like when he came back after his years in the Stepstones or Pentos. There was something older about him, and more staid, and she could not decide if it was from seeing Luke nearly fall out of the sky, or…

“How did you know?” she whispered. “Why did you fall that day on the beach? And how did you know Luke would be in danger?”

Now he was the one studying her face, his expression unreadable, his eyes still. After a silence, he said,

“I don’t know what came over me on the beach. Perhaps Corlys was right. I am not so young anymore.”

She raised a brow, not believing it for a moment.

“Daemon.”

He only shrugged.

“It won’t happen again. I was…agitated, from all that was happening, but I’ve found my wits.”

Rhaenyra pursed her lips, wondering if she should push. Instead, she asked,

“And Luke?”

“And Luke…” He broke from her touch and began pacing before their windows, the twilight glowing though his hair.

“When I was unconscious, I…saw Aemond upon Vhagar, chasing after him. I saw him falling. I…I don’t know, Rhaenyra. I just woke with the certainty that he was in danger.”

Now both her brows shot up.

“You had a dream?”

“I would not say it was—”

“You told me a week ago that my father’s dreams were folly. You were so angry that I’d even consider—”

“It was not like that! Not some unreadable prophecy that came to me amidst the smoke of fantasy,” he said, stopping his pacing but still turned toward the sea. His next words were careful.

“It was…clear. And real. As if I…lived it.”

“And that’s it? You saw him falling, and you knew?”

He shrugged again.

“I also realised that the Greens would try to garner the support of the lords paramount as soon as they put the crown on Aegon’s head. And who would they send if not Aemond upon Vhagar? We should have considered Borros Baratheon’s fickle nature before sending Luke to Storm’s End alone.”

A bottomless hole opened up in Rhaenyra’s stomach, and she grasped the back of the table against the sudden, terrible weight of guilt.

“You mean I should have considered. Before sending my son into the mouth of the beast.”

Daemon shook his head.

“You had a whole council of lords—and Rhaenys above all—who should have known better. I…I should have been there too.”

That was as close to an apology as she’d get from him, Rhaenyra knew.

“Yes, you should have,” she said, “but what’s done is done. And in the end, it makes no difference to the grand scheme of things. The Stormlands are lost to us either—”

“Not precisely.” He finally turned to her, and now his lip curled in a dry grin. “Bryndemere Tarth is not so forgetful, and neither is his goodfather Lord Penrose. We will have their fleets to add to Driftmark’s.”

“Oh.” A warm lightness drew a smile to her face. “That is a comfort. But, will we have need them? Already Corlys’ fleets control the Gullet into Blackwater Bay.”

But Daemon’s face had grown grave.

“We will. Otto has no doubt taken into account the power of Driftmark. It is certain he will try to align himself with the Triarchy, who have little love for me or Corlys.”

Rhaenyra sucked in a cold breath.

“We will need every galley we can muster, then.”

“Yes. But you needn’t worry. We will be prepared for them. And as for the rest of the Stormlands…I had an interesting visitor while at Tarth.”

“Oh?”

He was smiling fully now.

“It would seem Borros Baratheon’s daughter Cassandra is tired of her father’s rule over the Stormlands.”

Rhaenyra drew back in surprise, and Daemon came to sit before the table.

“She is planning a quiet coup of sorts. She already has the castle maester in her camp, and she plans on marrying the brother of the Lord of Stonehelm. Soon, I expect we shall have news that Borros has been met with some terrible accident.”

“And…she will declare her loyalty to me? As Lady of Storm’s End?”

“That was…the agreement we came to, yes. You will support her claim as the rightful ruler of the Stormlands, and she will declare you her queen.”

“Daemon! You agreed to such a thing without—” He reached for her hand. Rhaenyra gave a frustrated sigh but did not pull away.

“I had to give her an answer right then. There was no time for ravens. And it isn’t as if she’s rising against her father in open rebellion. You are queen. Why should one of your lords not be a firstborn daughter as well?”

“Daemon, you cannot go about making decisions like this alone,” she said before she could consider the blow her words might be to his pride. Yet he did not seem ruffled, his thumb keeping a rhythmic stroking over her knuckles.

“I may have been forced onto this path of war,” she continued, “but surely it would be wise to consult the other lords with every decision we make—”

“No, Rhaenyra, not in this.” She frowned.

“So you are aware that they will all disagree with this course.”

“Yes. Which is why I am telling you now, and not in council.”

“I—Gods, as it is, there will be lords all over the realm who will chafe at bending the knee to a woman. If I support another woman—a girl, really—as lord paramount, there isn’t a man alive who won’t fear I’d also give support to their sisters should they wish to overthrow them!”

But Daemon was shaking his head.

“Borros has no sons, no brothers or cousins who could challenge Cassandra Baratheon. You would not be favouring her over a man. At worst, the Stormlands will be divided on whether or not to accept her as their lord, but that would be to our advantage.”

She did pull away then, throwing up her hands.

“More chaos! I’ve told you, it is my duty to keep this realm united—”

“We are already in a civil war!”

He rose and shoved his chair into the desk, following her to the window.

“And what of the lords who will oppose me for this alone!”

“You just burned an entire galley today! We ride dragons, Rhaenyra! If they insist on finding reasons for treason then we will simply burn them too—”

“And you’d have me rule over a kingdom of ashes? Do you hear yourself!”

“Damn it Rhaenyra! It is useless to talk of unity until you are seated upon the Iron Throne and the Hightower threat done away with!”

Rhaenyra squeezed her eyes shut and felt his hot grip on her arm.

“What did you say only hours ago? It is the Greens who are tearing apart this family and this realm by usurping what is rightfully yours. You cannot cling to this lofty fantasy of honour when they will not.”

She let out a shaking breath. He was right, in the end, was he not? After Luke, after Joff and Baela and the sensation of her dagger driving into a man’s face…he was right. They had to win this war first, before she could think of the prophecy.

“Very well. I won’t lie and say the knowledge that we needn’t worry about Borros Baratheon’s armies is not a comfort.”

She opened her eyes to glare at him then.

“But I mean it, Daemon. In future, you mustn’t make promises like this on my behalf.”

“Fine, but if we are to win this war, you cannot keep wavering.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Rhaenyra—”

“Daemon! I’d have your word on this!” He tried to turn away again, but she clutched at his arm to keep his gaze. He made a sharp grunt of pain.

Rhaenyra released him as if burned, her eyes growing wide.

“Your arm,” she whispered, reaching for him again to roll up his sleeve.

“It’s nothing to concern—”

“Oh, gods.”

Dark purple bruises bloomed where the sword had struck his armour a sennight ago. How could she have forgotten…

“Oh, gods,” she gasped again, “and you pulled Luke up out of the sky with your arm like this…”

“It’s nothing,” he said, pulling away and wrenching the sleeve back down. “You heard Gerardys. It’s only a bruise.”

Suddenly, Rhaenyra felt her shoulders sag. Infuriating, stubborn man, but had he not done every infuriating thing these past days only to protect her claim and her children? To protect her?

“Thank you,” she heard herself murmur. “Thank you.”

His head snapped ‘round, and a deep crease appeared between his brows.

“What?”

Her voice was shaking, but she forced herself to steady it.

“Thank you. For…for putting yourself in harm’s way, for saving my sanity, for…for Luke…” The tears threatened again, aching in her throat, burning behind her nose.

“Gods, and Baela! Did Rhaena tell you? She lunged at Marston Waters without a single weapon on her…You and your daughters, Damon. How could I ever...”

Daemon was looking at her as if she was speaking a language he did not recognise.

“Did you just…thank me for not letting Luke fall out of the sky? And Baela for saving her brother?”

Silence. Then he said, voice so low she could barely hear,

“Would you thank me so if it had been Egg or Viserys I had saved?”

She had not even considered it. It was different, surely, no matter how he—

“Rhaenyra.” He sounded brittle, like flint, and when she met his eyes, the dark intensity there made her breath catch. In a step he was before her, hands locked around her forearms.

“You do not think the older boys are just as much sons to me as Egg and Viserys? After all these years, you doubt—”

“Daemon—”

“Have I not…” he shook his head, a frantic sort of disbelief etched into the lines of his face. “You...have I not made myself clear that boys are as my own, Rhaenyra? How could you think I would not—”

He let go of her and clutched his head, pacing frantically before the hearth.

“Ah, but of course you thought…that was why…gods, I’ve truly been a fool.”

“Well, I’d hoped,” she stammered. “I’d thought, perhaps…seeing the way are with them, but…oh, you value blood and family so, and as they’re not of your blood—”

“Damn it all, Rhaenyra, they’re your blood! It is the same!” She drew back, his words like a blow.

“It is the same.” Slowly, he shook his head, and a darkness shadowed his eyes with a dejected sorrow that landed like lead in her belly. Rhaenyra stepped toward him, hesitant. Realisation began to settle, and with each breath her heart ached so sweetly her eyes blurred.

“Is that so,” she heard herself whisper in Valyrian, and her fingers crept to the tiny ridge of their marriage scar on her other palm. His gaze followed, and then he was before her again, taking that hand with his answering one, pressing their palms together as they had that day.

“Your blood is my blood,” he said, eyes blazing.“It always has been, my niece, my princess, but then we cut open our palms and merged our souls, wife. Your blood is mine. Those boys are mine.”

He reached to cup her face then with a steady strength that made her knees buckle.

“Every one of the children…and you…there is not one I would not give my life for. Don’t ever forget that.”

She studied the dark purple of his eyes, basking in his words—like a balm, like an embrace.

“Alright, Daemon. Alright.”

He shook his head then, a brittle sort of laugh escaping.

“And by the gods, I never thought I’d say this Rhaenyra, but even Baela has more sense than you on this matter.”

“What?”

“Don’t say what you did about Baela again, not to me and certainly not to her. She was protecting her brother. She should be proud of that cut on her cheek, and so should you. Rhaenyra, do you think Jace, Luke or even Joff would hesitate to put themselves between the girls and a blade?”

“Well, no, but—”

“And would you blame Baela and Rhaena for it?”

The very thought hollowed her out with cold, but Rhaenyra couldn’t help her little smile.

“No. Of course not.”

“Don’t be foolish. There is no ledger amongst the children.”

She offered a soft laugh then, the knotted guilt in her chest loosened at last.

“I shall pretend I did not hear you calling your queen a fool.”

Daemon chuckled.

“My queen? Never. But my niece…sometimes she gets such strange notions in her little head.”

Chapter 14: I've never wanted anything more

Chapter Text

In council later that evening, they laid out the plans for the Riverlands.

“There needn’t be bloodshed at Harrenhal,” Daemon said, turning the little iron piece in his hand. “The castellan will yield the castle the moment he sees a dragon on the horizon.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Rhaenyra’s mouth thin at the implication, but she knew there could be no alternative. Harrenhal was the toehold on the mainland they needed, before and now.

“The rest of the Riverlands will not be so clean,” he continued. Beside him, Corlys nodded.

“House Blackwood have declared their loyalty, but the Brackens have ignored our ravens. I’ve no doubt there will be civil war in the Riverlands.”

“I have faith in the Blackwoods, or at least their commitment to their ancient feud,” Daemon said. “That kingdom has always simmered with tensions, but it will be a short conflict before we have the Riverlands in hand, even without Riverrun’s support.”

Daemon glanced at Rhaenyra’s rapidly whitening face then, hoping she believed his certainty. Despite their argument, he did not particularly wish to see the realm burn, either.

“It is the Crownlands that concern me more. Rosby, Stokeworth. Duskendale.”

Daemon looked pointedly at Ser Steffon Darklyn over Rhaenyra’s shoulder, and all eyes around the table followed suit. The knight stiffened.

“If I am not mistaken,” Lord Celtigar said, “Lords Rosby and Stokeworth are currently in King’s Landing, Your Grace. I fear they have declared for the Usurper, if only to keep their heads.”

Maester Gerardys bowed.

“The ravens I have sent to Rosby and Stokeworth have garnered no reply,” he said. “It would seem Lord Celtigar has the right of it.”

Ser Steffon stepped forward then.

“Your Grace, I can swear on my honour that my brother will not be swayed to the usurper’s side. Duskendale will remain loyal—”

“I had not meant to question the loyalty of your house, Ser,” Daemon interrupted. “But make no mistake. The moment Aegon realises just how much support the queen has behind her—once he feels the pressure from our taking of Harrenhal—he will take the offensive and march north. Is Lord Gunther prepared to take on such a host?”

He placed one of Rhaenyra’s iron pieces upon Duskendale.

“So quickly?” asked the young Lord Massey. “Where will he find the men?”

Corlys shook his head.

“They sit upon the realm’s treasury, my lord. The men they cannot call in time, they will buy instead.” He traced his finger up the Rosby Road. “Prince Daemon is right. They will march north, and if Rosby and Stokeworth add their men to the army, a sizeable host can amass below the walls of Duskendale in a fortnight.”

Sharp intakes of breath around the table, and Ser Steffon looked at Corlys with wide eyes. In that previous life, Criston Cole’s forces had taken Duskendale entirely by surprise, leading the way to the disaster at Rook’s Rest. Daemon did not plan to allow them such a chance again.

“My prince, Your Grace,” Ser Steffon said, shaking his head. “We could send word to my lord brother this very evening, but he simply does not have close to the number of men to counter an attack from King’s Landing.”

Daemon nodded.

“Then we must concentrate what men we can muster in the Riverlands in defending Duskendale. And we needn’t rely solely on the lords. The queen has always enjoyed popularity among the lesser knights and smallfolk.”

Lord Massey was shaking his head.

“But again I ask, my prince. Where will we produce the men in time to amass at Duskendale, if the usurper will act so quickly?”

Rhaenyra caught Daemon’s eye then. She glanced down to where he had been—at Claw Isle, at Sharp Point and Stonedance. Then she looked to Rook’s Rest. Daemon gave a small nod and tried to hide his smile.

“You have ships, do you not, my lord,” Rhaenyra asked. “And Lord Celtigar, Lord Bar Emmon?”

The lords bowed, murmuring ‘of course, Your Grace.’ Rhaenyra nodded.

“If I recall, Lord Staunton has the command of nearly twenty knights and five times as many men at arms. Lord Mooton at Maidenpool has nearly the same.

“It would be impossible to unite such a host and march them south through fields and farmland, but if my lords could transport the men by galley, both from Maidenpool and Rook’s Rest—they can reach Duskendale in a matter of days.”

A moment of silence.

“That is a fine plan, Your Grace,” Lord Celtigar finally wheezed, clearly trying to cover his surprise. “But even adding on Lord Darklyn’s men and whatever of ours are capable of ground warfare, we would still be outnumbered.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Corlys put in. “By my estimate, Aegon should have immediate access to at least a hundred knights and five times as many man at arms, not to mention whatever sellswords he will buy.”

Cetigar stroked his beard and shook his head.

“I had a look at the accounts yesterday, Your Grace. We could hire sellswords in turn, but the Dragonstone coffers…”

Daemon gave a dry laugh then, and heads turned back to him.

“Lord Celtigar, what was it you said that first day,” he asked.

“My prince?”

“We have dragons. You had the right of it. We will not char the Rosby Road, but once we have them herded into place along the stoney beaches of Duskendale, they will be like sheep to the slaughter.”

Daemon met Rhaenyra’s eyes, and this time, he found no disagreement in her face. He picked up the little iron piece and tapped it against the metal of the table, letting the low ring echo in the chamber.

“They will think to take us unawares, but it is we who will have the element of surprise. With Vhagar and Aemond gone gods know where, Aegon will not leave King’s Landing with only Dreamfyre to defend it. Not if he does not know our plans.”

~~~

Daemon spent the next hour with the coastal lords, planning their transport of men from Maidenpool and Rook’s Rest. By the time he returned to their chambers, the torches in the corridors were burning low. He opened the chamber door to see Rhaenyra reclined on the chaise, her lady-in-waiting putting steaming linens to her bare chest.

An iron hand closed over his insides. In the upheaval of this second life, Daemon had nearly forgotten…damn it all, how could he have forgotten…

“Your Grace,” he said, and it hurt to speak.

Both looked up, and at Rhaenyra’s nod, Elinda curtseyed and left the chamber, shutting the door behind her.

“Are you…still in very much pain?” Daemon managed when he found his voice again. Rhaenyra’s face was in shadows, but in the candlelight, Daemon took in the rounded curve of her arms and breasts, fuller than usual. From recent pregnancy.

“Some,” she said, her voice raspy. “The milk has nearly dried up, but I am still tender.”

Daemon took two steps toward her, then felt his joints seize and his feet root to the ground.

He was close enough now to see the stark grief she still wore for their daughter, and beneath that, for his brother too. It called to his own, which Daemon thought had faded like sun-bleached tapestries in the long months of the war, but now sprung into vivid, terrible color behind his ribs.

In that past life, they’d not had the chance to speak of Viserys or of the stillbirth—the loss of this babe, their only girl. Death of Luke’s news had drowned the old pain with new grief a thousand fold.

Now Daemon could not form words.

For he had not forgotten that horrific day, not truly. He remembered every sharp, cutting detail, imbedded into his body like iron splinters, festering.

He had not been able to bear standing helpless as she laboured, had needed to be doing something, to make himself useful as she screamed from their chambers.

Yet her cries had echoed in his mind as they had through Dragonstone for months afterward, and that image of her sitting by the window, covered in blood, hair matted to her face damp from sweat and tears, cradling their daughter…

It was seared into the flesh of him, and now it rose with cloying agony.

He’d crept to her side in the brilliant sunset, had put a hand on her shoulder as if that could ease any of her pain. She hadn’t looked at him, hadn’t moved at all, only sat upon the cold floor and rocked their dead child in her arms.

“We have to burn her,” she finally croaked, her words shredding him bloody.

“Do—” He swallowed. “Do you want to name her—”

“Visenya.”

The last bit of air was crumpled out of his lungs.

“Rhaenyra.”

“That’s the daughter I hoped my mother would have. That’s the daughter I hoped I would have.”

He’d thought losing Laena had taught him what it was to grieve an unborn babe, but to see the perfect, bloody little body in Rhaenyra’s arms…it had been indescribably worse.

He hadn’t been able to stay, hadn’t been able to curl his body around her to soak up her grief when his own was threatening to drown him. He’d left her to embalm their daughter alone—had needed air and sea and the cool embrace of solitude, to escape into himself lest the pain of it make him mad.

Perhaps this was another blessing of this new life, then. That time had tamed his own mourning, even if it did not lessen it. That he could bear to remain with hers.

“Here. Let me,” he said, finding movement in his limbs once more. He stripped down to his shirtsleeves and eased himself down into the chaise, and though she started with surprise, Rhaenyra let him pull her to rest against his chest. The warmth of her bare skin seeped through the linen of his shirt.

The wet cloths had cooled somewhat, and Daemon lifted them off her to gently cupped her breasts, remembering that she liked the heat of his palms to soothe the full aching when she had nursed their sons.

Her nipples were hard and swollen in his hand, and she moaned when he applied soft pressure to them.

“Is that alright?”

“…yes.” Her eyes closed, and a trembling sigh escaped her parted lips. “It’s better when you do that.” And she slid her hands over his, her thumb sketching slight circles against the pulse at his wrist.

For some moments they stayed suspended thus, Daemon breathing in the soft musk of her skin mixed with the floral oils from her bath, his lips skimming the silk of her hair, the velvet of her ear.

When her nipples softened against his palm, she sighed again, and finally he felt the last strands of tension leave her body.

“Help me bind them,” she murmured, and before the glowing fire he wrapped the linens snuggly around her chest. She lifted her hair up out of his way. That was when Daemon saw the bruises.

His heart stopped. There, on the rounded curves of her shoulders that he had dreamed of on countless cold nights, murky green spots bloomed. In the shape of his fingers.

“What is it?” she asked, turning with her hair still held up in her hand. She followed his gaze then, watching silently as his hand skimmed shaking over her marred skin.

When had he—

“They’re almost faded now,” she said, eyes returning to his face. She must have seen the horrified confusion there, for she added,

“From the night I told you of Father’s dreams. You…were angry.”

“I didn’t realise…”

Now that corrosive memory surfaced, but all he recalled of that night was the blinding, primal rage of a wounded beast. How his heart had clawed like a mad creature at the realisation of Viserys’ betrayal, merging with his rage that she would be so…weak, when they sought to usurp that crown that his bother never meant to give him.

He had called her weak. He had gripped her shoulders and snarled in her ear that his brother had been a fool. And he had left bruises that had not faded in a fortnight. He hadn’t known that.

Daemon’s mind raced, trying to remember, for how he could have forgotten these marks that now stung his eyes? But he had flown to Harrenhal not long after Luke’s death, and they’d not shared intimacy until he returned months later.

“I hurt you.”

If he thought it hurt to speak before, now it was torment.

Impossibly, she was looking at him with a mild sort of humour on her face.

“You’ve hurt me before. Much more than your hands could.” She dropped her hair over her shoulder and tucked in the ends of the binding linens under her arm. When he met her eyes again, he found something sharp and savage there.

“Rhaenyra, I…”

“You didn’t frighten me, if that’s what you are worrying over. I know you’d never do anything to truly harm me.” The corners of her mouth curled, and a laugh emerged, laced with a wry sort of triumph.

“Besides—I hurt you too, did I not? And worse.”

She stroked along his jaw then, fingers not entirely tender, and Daemon was vaguely aware that the suppurating wound of his brother’s mistrust must even now show on his face.

He never told you, did he? Rhaenyra always did know precisely where his seams ran. And how best to rip him open.

The mocking, satisfied smirk from that night was back, raking like a kitten’s claws at his chest, shredding his cold guilt and replacing it with something hotter, wilder.

Gods, she thought it’d only been a sennight. How she’d gloat if she realised those words still carved at him two years hence. Daemon did not know if he wished to slap the smirk off her face or bite it from her lips.

“I’ve always known who you are, Uncle. I took a dragon into my bed. I expected burns from the first.”

Without warning, she pushed aside his shirt and sank her teeth into the tender spot where his shoulder met his neck, sharp and unrelenting.

I’ve always known who you are. She had always been the one person who could flay him open. He’d not known until this exact moment that she truly wanted everything she saw.

A firestorm erupted in Daemon's head and snaked right to his co*ck. Only when he felt a warmth trickling down his chest did he realise she’d broken skin, and when she came away with his blood like rouge upon her lips, all coherent thought ceased

Flames burst under his skin—from fury or animal lust for her…they were the same.

“But don’t forget, husband. I am a dragon too.”

He’d called her weak that night. He hadn’t truly meant it, Daemon thought now, but when he saw her this day with a man’s blood splattered on her skin, he knew in his bones that she was anything but.

“Thank the gods you’ve remembered,” he growled, and the next instant his lips were devouring hers, tasting his blood, his hands frantic and clawing at her back, her jaw, her hair.

Her hands were greedy upon him, seeming to grasp and cling to his neck and shoulders all at once. She was like flame in his arms, untamed and feral. The rough moans emerging from her throat were driving him to insanity.

She yanked his shirt from him, the fabric tearing somewhere as it left his body, and now she raked her nails up his stomach and down his hips. Slipping into his smallclothes and digging fingers into his buttocks.

Daemon broke from her mouth—tilted his head back and groaned, overwhelmed by her scent now sharpened with the burn of blood. She leaned into him and pressed her damp lips to his throat, scraping her teeth over the swell there.

“f*ck, Rhaenyra. You’re going to kill me.”

“So soon?” she panted, pinching his nipple, and the bright sting of that exploded in another guttural groan.

They fumbled with their smallclothes, both desperate for the intoxicating feel of skin upon bare skin.

“I’ve dreamed of your sweet flesh in my hands,” he said into her open mouth, squeezing at the supple curve of her hip, moulding the plump weight of her bare arse.

“More, Daemon,” she gasped. “Tell me how much you want me.”

“I’ve told you…I’d die for even a taste of you…All of you is glorious, and all of you is mine.”

She keened, the sound needy, and urged him on with little nips at his lip, pushing against him to trap his hardening co*ck against his belly.

The sweetness of the friction was almost pain, but Daemon didn’t care. Everything she gave him he’d take—hoard like a ravenous beast—and he’d return it all in kind.

So in the blinding pleasure of her hand closing, pulling around his shaft, he raked along her hip and dipped his fingers between her legs.

They both turned to stone.

It had only been two weeks. Since…

And guilt and grief doused Daemon’s red haze like the winter sea. She must still be in pain, and he’d thought to…he still wished to…

He pulled his hand back, her slickness cold on his fingers. Rhaenyra was staring at him with wide, searching eyes, her chest rising with her heavy breaths. The bindings over her breasts were suddenly so stark Daemon could see the texture of the cloth in the firelight.

“Rhaenyra, I—”

Her fingers flew to cover his lips. She swallowed, the shadows in her throat trembling.

“Whatever you were about to say, don’t.”

Her voice quivered, and so did her bottom lip, but as her eyes darted over his face, then closed, she took in a steadying breath and seemed to come to some decision. When she looked at him again, all he saw in her eyes was a molten need.

Slowly, almost tentative, she caught his hand. She parted her lips and sucked his fingers into her mouth, lapping off her arousal. The velvet stroking of her tongue pulled a reluctant moan from Daemon’s throat, and he felt his co*ck jump, pulsing with his erratic heartbeats.

Then she pressed that hand to the base of her throat, and he felt her own heartbeats pulsing into his flesh.

“There’s something still mangled in me, but…I want you. I want…” And her next words slipped out in a sigh of Valyrian.

“For a fortnight, all I’ve known is this hurting. In my breasts, in my heart, between my legs. I don’t want to hurt anymore.”

She laced her fingers through his, pressing her body flush against him, and it was as if his heartbeats bled into hers. Melded with hers.

Her eyes was laid bare and achingly vulnerable, and Daemon bent his head to her, pressing their foreheads together, sharing warmth to ward off the cold.

“Please, Uncle,” she breathed. “Make it stop hurting. I just…want to feel good again. Just make me feel good again.”

Daemon never could deny her anything.

He led her to their marriage bed, laid her across the sheets and himself beside her, never letting space come between their skin.

His hand smoothed over the linens on her chest, slipped over he exquisite softness of her stomach and hips, brushed through the damp curls between her legs and found the tumid heat at the top of her folds.

Rhaenyra whimpered, head tilting to search for his mouth, and this kiss was languid and honeyed and endless.

He knew the rules to lovemaking so soon after childbed, and his fingers swirled around the bud of her cl*tor*s—never breaching her entrance, only dipping along her folds to gather the hot wetness that seeped from her and dripped upon the sheets.

She moaned into his mouth and kissed along his jaw, her hot breath feathering over his face. Her hand caressed every inch of his skin, then followed his arm down to join him between her legs.

“Do you know how good you make me feel,” she breathed, and she closed her palm, slick with her pleasure, around his aching shaft.

Daemon gasped, his mouth parted in a mute cry as she stroked him in rhythm with his fingers, pulling liquid flame from his marrow to settle thick in his belly.

Lightly, he pinched her swollen nub and basked in the arch of her back in response.

“Oh…do that again,” she pleaded, and when he did, she rewarded him with a silken thumb along the seam under the head of his co*ck, blindingly sensitive.

They were both shuddering now, clutching each other tighter and tighter, their mouths erratic as their lips sought to drink the other in. The pleasure bubbled hot in his core and in his groin, closer and closer to the brim of his endurance.

His own fingers never ceased their movement, craving the feel of her growing impossibly hot and plush under his touch, craving the feel of her squirming wet against them, begging for more.

“Don’t stop, please, Uncle. I’ve never wanted anything more than I want you.”

Her hand stroked faster with each slide and pull of his shaft, the pressure of her thumb in the most sensitive place growing ever deeper.

All at once the blinding joy of it broke open in his body, spilling over with his raw cry, white hot upon her hand and over his abdomen.

Purging him of pain—Rhaenyra with her divine body and her pleasure and her intoxicating touch.

Rhaenyra heard herself groan as Daemon’s seed spilled over her hand, scalding and cleansing. It dripped down the inside of her wrist as she pulled the waves of org*sm from him, and with the next swirl of his unrelenting fingers her own dam shattered.

And in that moment, she forgot that she was a mother who had failed to breathe life into her child. Shed that all-consuming identity like a hatchling shaking free of its shell.

She was a girl again—seventeen, untried, her body humming with excited wonder as her uncle cupped her cheek and tasted her tongue and shot stars into her belly with every flick of his calloused fingers.

His every touch and shiver and groan against her ear plied her with new delights, opened the gates to new galaxies of feeling…made her blood shimmer with new fire…made her body feel, again, like a vessel not for mourning, for loss, for death—but for their joy.

Thick pleasure flooded through her veins—down into her legs, up into her chest—engulfing her in relief sweet like honey, sweet down to her bones.

Chapter 15: Sand, and sea, and fire

Chapter Text

For the first time in months, Aemond Targaryen saw Helaena standing before him. Loose ripples of wheat-blonde hair framed her lovely face and spilled over her soft shoulders, and her golden slippers peaked from beneath her hem. Yet his sister’s eyes were not clouded, not wild, not shocked through with constant fear as they had been since she watched her son’s head fall from his neck.

They were clear like coloured glass, and when she saw him, there was recognition there once more. That was how Aemond knew he was dreaming.

Yet he smiled at her nonetheless. If this was a dream, why should he wish to wake? She returned his smile, and Aemond cared not how he came to this place, this darkness where Helaena was the only light.

“Come away with me,” he heard himself say. It was the first time he’d allowed himself to speak such words—the first time, really, that he’d even dared think them.

How long had he carried those heavy words of duty and family upon his shoulders as he strove to keep Aegon on the throne? How long had he let them smother what he truly wanted? Yet now, with her standing before him whole and healthy and her once more, that deep, base desire slipped from his lips.

“Come away with me. Bring the children. We’ll fly our dragons to Yiti if need be. Let Aegon and the f*cking Hightowers soak in the mess and blood they made. They needn’t dirty your skirts.”

Yet Helaena only smiled, walking toward him, shaking her head. Was she saying she did not wish to leave? Or that they could not? Aemond heard himself laugh.

He was being a fool. His sister deserved to be a queen. She deserved to be honoured above all others upon this earth, deserved to sit atop a throne with all below her kissing her feet.

Or…kissing near her feet. She did not like strangers to touch her, he knew. But Helaena never minded Aemond to touch her. Even now, she approached him and tilted her head expectantly until Aemond relinquished her his hand. Her warm, silky palm cupped his knuckles, and from her pocket she retrieved an iridescent beetle.

“Look what I found for you,” she said, eyes creasing into lavender crescents as she smiled. “My favorite blue. It matches your sapphire. Do you like it?”

“Yes.” He liked everything and anything she would deign to give him. “Yes I do.”

The beetle crawled hesitantly over Aemond’s hand, tickling his fingers.

Tickling his fingers…Something was tickling his fingers…

And Aemond was pulled cruelly from his dream to a poisonous sun beating down upon his face. He heard himself groan—his throat was dry as bark—and rubbed the grit from his eye to peer groggily down at what was tickling his—

Stranger’s sagging ballsack, was that a scorpion? Blind, Aemond jumped to his feet, hands flailing. The scorpion landed a yard away, skittering round in frantic circles, and Aemond tried to breathe a sigh of relief only to choke on the gravel in his mouth.

He coughed up clumps of white sand, his chest tearing, his throat on fire. His eye watered, and the tear that escaped burned as it slid down his cheek. He brushed at it with his ashy hand. It came away with flakes of dried blood.

Where the bleeding hells was he?

Aemond looked from the retreating scorpion to the barren stone rises that lined the horizon. His head swam, but carefully, he scanned over his surroundings, stumbling slightly as he turned.

To his left, perhaps a hundred yards away, a flat spread of blue sea rushed up to the shore in thick lines of foam. Before him, white sands stretched into the distance, broken only by those stone rises. And to his right—

“Vhagar!”

Half running, tripping over his feet, Aemond rushed toward his sleeping dragon. She seemed to stir at his crackling cries, her movements rippling through her dark body like wind. She raised her head then, and let out a slow, thunderous roar. A wakening cry.

A war cry.

And the memories returned to Aemond like the onslaught of a savage host.

He had gone to Harrenhal hoping to die. Hoping to pull Daemon and Caraxes with him as he did. For weeks, he had scorched the Riverlands down to the bedrock, wavering, wondering, slating his fury and gnawing grief by watching the traitors burn. Waiting for his uncle, though part of him still clung to this life.

Yet that day, as the sun began its lazy descent, Alys lit a fire in the woods and peered into it the same way Helaena had so often peered into the air around her, seeing what mere mortals could not.

“My prince,” she told him. “Prince Daemon is at Harrenhal. Alone. And in King’s Landing, the queen has jumped from her chamber window.”

The pain of it had stolen Aemond’s body so that his mind seemed to leave it for a moment, watching from afar as he writhed upon the mossy undergrowth. Yet there was treacherous relief threaded through the agony.

Helaena had told him, once, not long after he lost his eye, that she thought she’d jump from the window and fly free as a bird one day. Aemond had frowned at her and said they could fly already. Upon their dragons.

Helaena had made no response save, ‘birds are different from dragons. Beaks are not a dragon’s jaws.’

Had the sorrow finally been too much for Helaena to bear? Had she finally found that lightness—that freedom—in the moment she’d leapt from her sill?

Since Daemon had Jaehaerys slaughtered, the vital part of Helaena had left her. She had stopped saying Aemond’s name, and her eyes no longer lit with sparkling attention when they came to rest on his face. She had looked upon him like a stranger. Like they were all strangers. For the Helaena he loved had gone.

This end…this was for the best. Perhaps the gods would be kind, and Aemond could join her—whole and laughing again— in whatever afterlife she now walked.

And so Aemond had gone to Harrenhal, had soared against Caraxes upon Vhagar, intending to kill his kinslaying whor*son of an uncle who had stolen all of Helaena’s light. And through the hot symphony of battle, through the rush of panic as Dark Sister flashed like black ice before his eye, Aemond had hoped to die.

Yet when the inky black of death descended, it was not long before it seemed to dissipate into rain. And Aemond opened his eye once more to see a dash of murky white through a storm. To hear a high-pitched cry of a young boy screaming ‘Arrax!’ into the wind.

And Aemond knew where he was.

Was this the gods’ punishment, showing Aemond where it had all gone wrong? The moment his incompetence had lit the fuse of Daemon’s fury that swallowed little Jae and the vital parts of Helaena’s mind?

Cruel creatures. Thought they that Aemond did not regret this moment with every drop of his stinking blood?

Rain lashed at his face as Vhagar sped through the air, memory stirring with sensation, yet he could barely move, as if he was a puppet with the strings snapped loose.

In the distance, he thought he heard a lower cry, thought he saw a lithe shadow too long to be Arrax, but his head throbbed and the world spun, and his stomach wished to turn itself inside out.

Yet when Vhagar opened her hoary mouth and Aemond felt the rising heat of her fire beneath his feet, suddenly he found his voice and still wailed his protest, no matter that it was too late. Too late, he found use of his hand and still yanked at Vhagar’s reins, even though it was useless.

Someone screamed in the night, and pure darkness stole over him. That was it then. That was the last thing he knew. Before Helaena in his dreams. Before the scorpion.

So again, as Vhagar beat her wings and cried out amidst the gust of sand-laced wind, Aemon narrowed his eyes and looked at the barren, sandy landscape around him. Where the bloody hells was he?

But then his mind cleared, and in that clarity, a thought sprouted like a poisonous flower. What if…what if that was not a vision, not a dream he had in his death throes? For this did not seem to be any sort of Afterlife. The grit of sand was real as rock between his teeth, and the pulsing dryness of his throat was too vivid, too alive.

What if…he had truly lived that storm above Shipbreaker Bay a second time?

Could it be? Could it be? The more the idea bloomed, the more its vines took hold of his mind. And that was when the dread overtook his limbs, for if he had killed Luke once more…

Helaena and the children.

Blundering forward, he scrambled upon Vhagar’s wings, clinging as his dragon rumbled and shook Aemond down to his joints. King’s Landing. He had to get back to King’s Landing.

He had not a clue how long he had been here, unconscious in this stretch of sand by the sea, but if this was truly a second chance at life, he would not allow his sweet nephew to be butchered, would not allow Helaena to be torn from his arms.

They took flight, Vhagar seeming to sense that Aemond was no longer that bumbling boy who could not command her obedience. Yet as they soared into the sky, Aemond still had not a clue where they were.

“Forward, up,” he croaked, his throat tearing with every word. He pulled the hot leather of his eyepatch from his face, trying to brush the gritty sand from the tender flesh. His entire eye socket stung and felt puffy under his fingers, but he could hardly worry about that now.

The higher up they flew, the clearer their location should become, he decided. The white sand blurred beneath him, and Aemond squinted as he scanned over the horizon.

There was the sea…and beyond it, there seemed to be more land. Greener land. On the other side, a vast orangey expanse stretched beyond the barren rocks.

Like a desert.

Surely…

His eye traveled up then, following the blazing sun. Had it grown bigger since he’d wakened? Cooler? If so, it must be afternoon sinking into evening. If the afternoon sun travelled in the southwest, then away from it was surely northeast, and if there was a sea north of him, and sand to the south…

Dorne?

But he did not need to guess, for in the next moment, he spotted, below his right knee, an expanse of caste on the distant ground. Despite his height, he could clearly see the layout of the structure—the rectangular courtyards framed with thick walls, the monstrous fountain in the middle, the slope of the port—and Aemond squeezed his eye shut as he bade Vhagar circle in the sky, trying to remember his lessons.

He knew the layout of that castle. Had seen it drawn in a diary or a history book somewhere…but where..

Oh.

Damnation.

For the moment he realised that it was the Dornish castle known as The Tor beneath him, he also realised that twin pillars of smoke rose from two towers, charred black as if recently burned. Vhagar gave another bellow—another war cry—and Aemond had to rip a shout from his scorched throat so she did not dive toward it.

f*cking. Hells.

He knew where he was now.

The mass of ocean before him was the Sea of Dorne. That was The Tor, the seat of House Jordayne, sprawled under his knee. And the smoke…

Vhagar was old. Vhagar’s glory days, as much as Aemond hated to admit it, had been in the Dornish Wars, when Visenya had bid her dragon burn every Dornish castle for their slaying of her beloved sister.

And it would seem that, when Aemond had been in the throes of black unconscious, his dragon had done the same once more.

Yet he had no worry to spare for that, not now. Not when his nephew’s life hung in the balance, and Helaena’s sanity and his own balanced upon a knife’s edge.

But even as he urged Vhagar northeast, faster and faster, he could not help feeling, under his urgency, the cold murkiness of dread that he had done something even more irretrievable than killing Luke. If he’d truly returned to the start of this blasted war…nothing would be the same.

~*~

Yronwood Castle

Later that evening

Lord Cletus, Bloodroyal of Yronwood, paced his charred bailey yard as the last dregs of twilight were eaten by the star-dotted night. Around him, by torchlight, men hurried to and fro like desert ants, his steward’s voice rasping from the shadows.

If the sharp stench of smoke did not still burn his nostrils, Cletus would think that this day had been a nightmare, but the reality was clear as the Dornish sky before him.

Frantic shouts had startled his family from their morning meal, and they’d only managed to stumble out to the courtyard before that wing of the castle had erupted into flame.

Through the bewildered frenzy of smoke and heat and shouts, Cletus had been able to make out a single word—dragon.

He was a Dornishman. He knew the histories, and knew even better the heroics of his forebears as they stood against the Targaryen flames at the orders of Princess Meria Martell. And so he had bellowed,

“Underground! To the Tunnels!”

through the haze of ash and inferno, snatching his smallest daughter to his chest as they ran toward the ancient trap doors. And all around him was hotter than death.

Yet, when they emerged hours later, when all was quiet above them, Cletus had been shocked to see that his castle was not a heap of smouldering rubble. Yes, the east wing and inner bailey were blackened and crumbling, but the majority of his home was intact. And not a single shadow of a dragon was visible against the stark blue sky.

As his men set to dousing the remaining flames and cleaning the blackened stone, he’d penned hasty letters to his neighbour and to Sunspear, confused and frantic. It had to have been a dragon that set flame to Yronwood castle—what else could it have been—but what possible provocation could he—Cletus Yronwood, vasal to House Martell—have given any of the Targaryens? And why had the dragon not fully laid his castle to cinders?

“Which dragon was it?” his lady wife had asked when their family had time to settle their nerves. Yet every sentry and guard who’d witnessed the shadow in the sky could not say—only that the dragon had been large and sprawling. But if reports from Westeros were to be believed, several large dragons resided on Dragonstone, and Kingslanding was home to two that could also fit the description.

It was only into the evening that rage began to take hold. Cletus knew there had long been strife within House Targaryen, that the Hightowers had long sought to overtake the crown princess with their own grandson.

Yes, all was not well in King’s Landing, but even if this attack had been an unfathomable result of Targaryen infighting, how dare they set their sights on Dorne? On Yronwood?

“My lord?”

Cletus turned, massaging his throbbing temple, to see his head scribe picking through the rubble toward him.

“What news? Have all the letters to our bannermen been sent out?”

The man bowed.

“Yes my lord. No doubt they are readying for possible war as we speak. I come to you with a reply from Lord Jordayne.”

He nodded gravely.

“Go on.”

“This morn, they, too, were attacked suddenly by dragon flame. Some of their guards reported seeing a lone dragon that covered the sun approaching their caste. But like here, the dragon only turned their two towers, then flew off. Lord Jordayne has sent scouts into the dessert, and has promised to apprise you of further news.”

“And the others? Skyreach? Kingsgrave? Hellholt?”

“Skyreach and Kingsgrave were left unmolested, my lord. No news yet from Hellholt.”

Cletus nodded his dismissal.

He had been Lord of Yronwood since his thirteenth year. In all the decades hence, never had he been met with something so terrible and strange. What did it all mean?

But now the rage had grown from a simmer into a roaring storm in his belly. Whatever the provocation, the burning of his castle and The Tor was surely an act of war from the Targaryens.

They must retaliate, somehow, if this was a prelude to yet another attempt at conquest from the Iron Throne.

Yet days later, when the response arrived from Sunspear, Lord Cletus upended his council table in fury.

“What do you mean, Sunspear commands we cease amassing our knights? What the f*ck does Prince Qorenmean, that he will not act without further evidence of aggression! Does it mean nothing to him that a f*cking dragon torched our castles!”

News had reached them by then that King Viserys had died, and a civil war of sorts was simmering in Westeros between Rhaenyra and Aegon, his son and his daughter, both of whom had crowned themselves monarch.

“My lord, it would seem Prince Qoren has received letters from both factions of Targaryens,” said his head scribe. “The prince does not wish to embroil Dorne in another war, not when there are so many dragons involved.”

“So he will command we do nothing to avenge ourselves! Forty of my household and men died in those flames, and we still don’t even know which f*cking dragon it was!”

His scribe could only bow his head.

“That was the prince’s answer, my lord.”

Cletus ground his teeth until his head pounded.

“Then Qoren Martell is a spineless fool.”

So once agin, he sent out ravens, but this time in the secret dead of night. To The Tor, to Skyreach, to Kingsgrave, Hellholt, and many others who had, a millennium ago, opposed the invasion of Queen Nymeria. And two more ravens. One to Dragonstone. One to King's Landing.

Once, the Martells had commanded that Dorne stand fast before the Targaryen invasion. They had commanded that every house follow their words—to remain unbent, even if their castles burned and their smallfolk died in the thousands.

Cletus had always read his family histories of resistance with pride. But now…when he’d heard the screams of his family and household, when he’d lived so many days among the charred stones of his castle…

And today, to hear that they were not even allowed to retaliate, even when Cletus knew that this could not be the last of the Targaryen attacks. Could not be.

If the Targaryens would come to Dorne again, the Martells would order them to repeat their history. To let the dragons burn their homes and lands while they hid in their tunnels.

But Yronwood was not desert. They had fruit groves and fields and abundant harvests. Their smallfolk had bounty to live for, and their lands could not be reduced to ash once more.They had too much to lose to allow the constant threat of destructive flame to loom over their lands and lives.

If the were cursed again to face dragon flame raining from the skies, Cletus could not simply hide away with his family until the Targaryen once more grew tired of their invasions.

Do nothing, his prince had commanded. And for that command, Qoren Martel would be prince to House Yronwood no more. House Yronwood had been a vassal for a thousand years. What difference did it make, to whom they bowed their heads?

If the Martells were happy to let Dorne burn once again, perhaps it was time that another house should rule over these lands.

Chapter 16: A swarm of flies

Chapter Text

Alicent could not make herself stop shaking. She dug her fingers into her palms, but she’d torn her nails into stubs in the past days, and there was no clear sting of pain in her hand to dissipate the sick daze that clouded her head. In the council chamber, Father was giving orders in that urgent low voice he used when truly concerned, and beyond him, Aegon’s silvery head caught the failing sun as he paced and raged.

At midday, guards had spotted a small dingy approaching the port, and all had gathered in the throne room to receive the single guard who had come back from Dragonstone, his face the colour of a fish’s belly, his lips and under-eyes blue. He’d prostrated himself upon the floor before the throne, armour clinking as he trembled, while men had brought in the crate he’d had with him in the boat.

“What is the meaning of this,” Aegon had demanded. “What’s in the box?” The man had been unable to form words, and despite Father’s and her cautions, an impatient Aegon had motioned for Ser Willis Fell to pry open the crate.

A swarm of flies emerged first, and at once Alicent had clutched at her neck, feeling faint. Yet it was not until she’d drawn near to see the bloody mass of what used to be a human face that she’d truly stumbled, her stomach clenching, her throat seizing. Her knees buckled, and Ser Criston had needed to steady her and pull her away from the carnage.

“What is the meaning of this!”

Aegon’s voice had torn through the room, though to Alicent’s ears it had sounded far away, as if from the end of the tunnel. She knew what this was. For Dragonstone to send back a body like this…she knew what had happened.

The full of it came out in trembling bursts then. Ser Marston Waters’ assassination attempt had failed. The poor guard seen a bloody Rhaenyra with his own eyes, had heard her say with her own tongue that she’d dispatched the knight herself, and despite Aegon’s angry retorts of disbelief, Alicent had no trouble believing her capable of overcoming a seasoned knight.

If anyone sought to murder her own children, Alicent knew she’d turn into the Warrior himself to protect them.

“She—she burned the whole…galley, Your Grace, they—they—she gathered all her lords and rode on her dragon and burned them all!”

Rhaenyra had hung Ser Marston’s kin by their feet in the town, the guard told them, and made him watch as their throats were slit like pigs. Alicent couldn’t see anymore. Black spread like ink before her eyes, her breath coming in gasps, and all her limbs were useless as she sagged against Ser Criston’s armour.

They should have known. They should have known.

“Qu—queen Alicent?” Through the nauseous haze, Alicent heard her name. She heard footsteps approaching, and her vision cleared enough to see Ser Willis before her, a worn piece of parchment in his hand. Alicent focused her gaze. That book page she’d given Father, only now, it had spots of blood marring its faded text.

“Your—your Grace,” the guard stuttered, “She—the queen—I mean, the traitor—she said to…to give you that. She said she has no need of it anymore, now that—you’ve spilled her son’s blood upon it. And she wishes…she wishes she’d returned it with Lord Otto’s blood instead.”

Of its own accord, Alicent’s hand grappled for the page, stiff now with dried blood.

“She said that you and the king must go to her begging forgiveness and swear your loyalty to her. With…with Lord Otto’s head. If you do, she will send His Grace and Prince Aemond to the Wall, and let you join the Faith, and Princess—Queen Helaena and the little princes and princess and Prince Daeron can have a place at her court…and…and if you do not…”

“Speak man!” Father’s sharp command sliced into her ear. “Get it out! What did the traitorous princess say!”

“That if you do not, she will not hesitate to burn you and your children like she did that galley!”

“Oh, gods have mercy. This is what I feared.” Her remaining breath escaped her in a rush, and Alicent sunk into murky darkness, sick with dread.

When she’d awakened to the singe of ammonia in her nose, all Alicent could see were her children, facing Rhaenyra’s golden beast as they’d face Meleys at Aegon’s coronation. And when Syrax opened her cavernous mouth, it was not a roar that escaped, but a white-hot jet of death.

She’d burst into the council chamber like a madwoman, wishing her eyes could bore holes into every man of that room who’d convinced Aegon upon this folly.

“I told you all! I told you it was mad to send an assassin! I told you this kinslaying could not happen!” She’d screamed at them, and in their shock, none had interrupted. Seized by terror that bordered on derangement, she’d clutched at her chest and cried,

“Look what you’ve done now! We have done naught to advance our cause, and now every one of my children are in danger, every one! They will call Aegon a kinslayer, and you think Rhaenyra with Daemon at her side will not retaliate beyond burning that ship? They will—my children—”

In an instant, Father had taken up her entire vision, clutching her face so hard her teeth ached.

“Listen to me,” he hissed. “Alicent, you need to put aside your hysterics. Now. It is not helping keep your children safe, do you hear me?” And his voice had been so menacing that Alicent’s murderous fear had faded into cold char, congealed in the pit of her stomach.

So now she sat in her chair, listening to Father give his commands, trying to ignore Aegon’s shouting and dashing of chairs against the wall. And despite it all, Alicent felt relief thrumming below all her panic and terror.

At least Rhaenyra had not lost any of her children. They were injured, yes, but Ser Marston had only succeeded in injuring Joffrey, and by the little guard’s account, Lucerys had returned from Storm’s End alive and able to walk as well.

Perhaps…perhaps there was still room for negotiation. For Rhaenyra to come back into the fold. She might be angry now—that book page Alicent had tucked into her copy of the Seven Pointed Star, hoping the gods could temper the gnawing in her stomach that felt so much like guilt—but there is no lasting damage, surely.

And despite Aegon’s and Father’s surety, Alicent was certain Aemond was not harmed, not truly. He was her most resilient, most brave child. He was likely somewhere gathering his wits after having faced Daemon and his bloody beast, but he would return, soon enough. She was sure. She had to be sure.

Alicent remembered that last night before Viserys’ passing, how she’d held Rhaenyra’s hand and she hadn’t pulled away. How Rhaenyra had promised to return on dragonback before things spun so quickly out of their control. If Rhaenyra would just listen to reason…

But how could she get Father and Aegon to talk peace now?

“Make sure your ravens detail the cruelty of the burning,” Father was saying to Grand Maester Orwyle. “Every lord in the realm must know that the traitorous princess is willing to burn innocents for no reason than to sate her anger.”

“Right away, my lord.”

“That whor*son killed my brother!” Aegon was shouting. “And my sister has the audacity to threaten me?”

Lord Tyland Lannister approached him tentatively, trying to sooth him, and narrowly dodged Aegon’s flailing fist. He bowed, his voice still calm.

“Lord Otto is right, Your Grace” he said. “Fortunately for us, Rhaenyra has sent back the body of Marston Waters. There is no evidence that we have sent assassins. All the lords will know is that she burned a galley offering peace terms. You have the right of it. With the addition of Prince Daemon’s kinslaying…”

“Precisely,” Father said, stopping Maester Orwyle’s retreating figure. “You must emphasise that point as well, Grand Maester. Prince Aemond has likely met with danger, if not death at the hands of his own uncle. That is another thing the lords must remember. King Aegon is no kinslayer, but they…they have committed every crime.”

Were they all mad?

The guard had told them all of Rhaenyra’s lords had witnessed Baela Targaryen with a slice upon her cheek. That they all knew Joffrey Velaryon had a bone-deep cut on his arm, and Daemon had returned that very day with Lucerys in tow, terrible burns on his leg. His dragon slain. By Aemond, by Vhagar.

Did Father and these lords think they could simply twist the truth of it?

The bump of a cane brought her from her thoughts. Lord Larys came up beside her, a clammy hand upon her elbow, and seemed to read her thoughts.

“The truth, Your Grace, is what we choose to make it,” he said softly. Alicent frowned at him and surreptitiously pulled her arm into herself. He smiled that sick little smile of his, entirely unperturbed.

“Those lords on Dragonstone may have seen, but who else? When they send out their ravens, it will be our word against theirs. And most will be wiling to believe an ordained king than his sister who has no legitimacy save some stale oaths.”

“But—”

“This is but a small obstacle in our plans, Your Grace. Do not worry yourself. I will make sure talk is always on King Aegon’s side.”

A fine shiver snaked up Alicent’s back, yet she could not help believing he would do as he said. Larys Strong had always done as he said he would, had he not? And Alicent was beginning to learn that, no matter how she misliked his methods, in the end, he gave her what she needed.

“My children, Lord Larys,” Alicent said. “Daemon will retaliate—”

“The Red Keep is a fortress, Your Grace. Ser Criston is…competent enough. Have no fear. You must turn your mind to greater matters, for now we are truly at war.”

And true enough, Father and Ser Criston had now calmed Aegon enough to sit at the head of the table, tapping his goblet impatiently upon the wood as they detailed their plans for battle.

“The Velaryons are our biggest threat at present, Your Grace,” Father was saying. “They have sealed the Gullet, cutting off our supplies by sea. We can, of course, withstand such a siege for some time, but they must be dealt with post-haste.”

Aegon scoffed.

“Even I know our ships are no match for the Velaryon traitors’, Grandfather.”

Father smiled.

“Indeed, you are right, Your Grace. But Prince Daemon has made many enemies in his time. We needn’t sacrifice our own ships. I intend to write to the Triachy for their assistance. They will be most willing to oblige.”

Aegon waved his hand.

“Do it then. Those c*nts take forever to make even a single measly decision, you said it yourself.”

Father nodded.

“Of course, Your Grace, and—”

“But you also say that we’re able to hold out against the blockade. What I want to know is how we’re to punish those houses who’ve decided to turn against me.”

“Your Grace,” Father said, “I believe many can still be convinced to our side. With this new round of Black cruelty and kinslaying—”

“More ravens!” Aegon pounded the table. “I’m sick of this diplomacy! Traitors don’t deserve to be persuaded to our side!”

“You’ve the right of it, Your Grace,” said Ser Criston, and Alicent jerked her head up.

“I believe a show of strength is needed, my king.”

“Ser Criston,” Alicent began, but again Larys put a hand on her elbow, and before she could continue, Ser Criston was ploughing ahead with his speech.

“I believe it is time to make an example of some traitorous houses. Once they see what consequences will be had for their treason, Your Grace, the other lords will fall at your feet and beg your mercy.”

“Now, Ser Criston—” Father, too, was frowning at his belligerence, and Alicent remembered with a shiver Ser Criston’s blow that killed Lord Beesbury upon his orb. He was loyal to her, she reminded herself. He was only doing what he thought best for Aegon’s reign.

Aegon held out a hand.

“No. I want to hear what Ser Criston suggests. He is right. I’d make an example out of those who still oppose me.”

Ser Criston bowed, then pointed to the map upon the table.

“Your Grace, Rosby and Stokeworth have declared their allegiance to you, but the Darklyns of Duskendale remain with Rhaenyra’s cause, as does Mooton of Maidenpool. If we march up the Rosby Road and compel Rosby and Stoekworth to join their men with ours—”

A thunderous quake shook them where they stood. The table skidded painfully into Alicent’s ribs. The room burst into mayhem, but before Alicent could feel the panic settling in, a ragged roar ripped through the air. A dragon.

But Alicent knew that deep roar by now. Vhagar.

~*~

Aemond landed Vhagar upon the rooftop of Maegor’s Holdfast and dashed in through the rooftop doors, leaping down the spiral stone steps no matter the burning in his lungs.

He near tore the doors of Helaena’s chambers off their hinges as he burst in, the guards standing watching barely registering his presence. He’d have to remedy that, said the rational corner of his mind amidst the exclamation of the nurse, but his attention was already drawn to the twin silver heads shooting up at his entrance.

Haera. And Jae. Whole and smiling and alive.

“Uncle Aemond!” Jae cried, leaping from his blanket and hurtling toward him like a little jet of dragon fire, crashing into his legs before Aemond lifted him up. “Mother has been looking for you for days!”

His nephew clung to his neck, his vital warmth settling Aemond’s erratic heartbeats. The bedchamber door opened then as Helaena stepped through.

“What is the—oh.”

She looked visibly shaken—no doubt his noisy entrance had startled her—but here she was before him, his Helaena once more—her cheeks rosy, her hair braided and thrown easily over her shoulder, her eyes…her eyes…

Ice shards formed in Aemond’s blood.

His Helaena was there, beyond the shifting purple of her eyes. Yet…the way she was looking at him…

He let Jae slither down his torso to the floor once more, his joints stiff, his throat closing. There was no delight in her eyes. Hardly any recognition. Only a weary sort of hesitation. She blinked at him, still standing yards away, her arms coming to circle protectively around her body.

And when she looked at him once more, Aemond could almost see her heart weeping through her gaze.

“Helaena?” He fumbled a step toward her.

“Sister—” She retreated a step back.

“He’s gone,” he heard her whisper. “My Aemond is gone. Drowned in blood. Drowned in fire.”

“No! Helaena, I’m back, don’t you see? I’m sorry that I—I’m not gone, I’m—”

But she was shaking her head now, her eyes wild, and every twitch and retreat from him sent tendrils of panic through his bones.

“Please, Helaena, why—”

The door burst open once more, and Helaena flinched away entirely, scurrying back into her bedchamber. Before he could chase after her, voices enveloped him, and Aemond turned to see his mother, followed by Aegon and Grandfather, all coming toward him with expressions so fraught they jumbled in his head, unreadable.

“Aemond!” His mother was before him, her eyes near bulging from her head, and then she was patting his arms and down his torso, a tremor rattling through her as she took him in.

“M—mother.” She straightened again, a deranged fire blazing in her gaze, and her slap came so fast he didn’t even feel the sting on his cheek.

In the next instant, her arms were around him, clutching him to her so tightly Aemond was forced to draw shallow breaths. On his neck now he could feel her hot tears dampening his grimy hair.

“They thought you were—I thought you were…” Her voice in his ear was raw as his own throat.“You cruel boy, how could you make me worry so?”

“Ah, mother,” he murmured, voice raspy from the sand. “I’m alright. A bit scratched up is all.”

His mother loved them, her children. Aemond had always known it, in his head. Had always been baffled that Aegon did not know it, but then again, Aegon did have a thick skull.

But it was only in rare moments like this one that Aemond could actually feel it, could sense her love radiating like heat from the hearth, seeping from her clinging embrace, sneaking between his ribs to settle like syrup in his chest.

She finally pulled away, cupping his face, thumb tracing over a stinging scrape on his jaw.

“What happened, my love? Where did you disappear—”

But her words were cut off by another body crashing into him, and the next thing Aemond knew his chin was buried in Aegon’s unkempt hair. His brother squeezed him so fiercely his ribs creaked, thumping his back until his Aemond was sure his gallbladder was going to burst from the pressure.

“You’re not dead, brother! You’re not dead,” Aegon kept saying into his shoulder. They had thought him dead? Not just Mother, but Aegon too?

“As…as you see,” Aemond stammered, unable to remember any time his brother had ever shown him this sort of affection. “I’m perfectly well.”

On his ride back, when his mind was not racing with worry for Helaena, Aemond had run though a thousand ways he wished to pommel his brother into the floor of the f*cking throne room. How dare he be so careless, so unfeeling, so unconcerned over his own throne. Every wrong he had wrought upon Helaena, every neglect, Aemond had wished to make him regret a thousand fold.

He had decided upon Vhagar that, if this was indeed a second chance, a new life, he would not yield and scrape behind the useless king that was his brother.

He would not hold back in loving Helaena as she deserved, would not deny his own desires for some mutilated sense of brotherly duty that was never returned. He would not restrain himself and come up second-best, not anymore.

Yet now, with Aegon’s hearty embrace still vibrating in his bones…Aemond felt a rush of affection overtake him.

His brother was looking at him with a wet, sunny sort of smile—rather stupid in an endearing way, Aemond thought. Did Aegon truly shed tears for him? Did he truly mean so much to his brother?

“f*cking gods be damned,” Aegon was saying, shaking his head. “I sent an assassin to avenge you! I was sure our co*cksucking c*nt of an uncle had killed you!”

It was a moment before his meaning set in.

“You thought Daemon—but how would he’ve—wait, you sent what?”

His mother was actively weeping into a handkerchief now, and Aegon sniffled, wiping his nose with his silk cuff.

Grandfather stepped forward then, looking him up and down with an assessing sort of gaze. He placed a heavy hand upon Aemond’s shoulder.

“We are all…so glad you are alive and unharmed, grandson,” he said, looking not at all glad. In fact, Aemond thought Grandfather looked as if he would have preferred Aemond actually be dead. Oh, buggering hells. And he hadn’t even told him about Luke yet, in this life.

“Come,” Grandfather said as he squeezed his sandy eye shut, trying to think past the pulsing itch behind his patch. “Servants! Draw Prince Aemond a bath. We’ve much to discuss. Now that you’ve…returned.”

“Wait!” Aemond said, remembered urgency thrumming back to clear his daze. “Wait. There must be guards put up. There are entrances to rooms from secret passages all around this castle, and there must be guards set to seal them. The danger from the Blacks now…”

His family stilled, all turning to him once more. Aemond turned his face to the window.

“I…I may have…” He cleared his rasping throat. His eye avoiding their faces, he spotted the pewter cup Haera had been drinking from and downed the sweet pomegranate juice in one gulp.

“On the way back from Storm’s End…Lucerys Velaryon was there. Trying to convince Lord Borros to join Rhaenrya’s cause.”

Another cough. Why was this more difficult than it had been that first time? That first time, when he’d been so shaken and frantic at what he’d done, yet had lied through his teeth as if he’d meant to cleanse the world of bastard blood.

“I killed him,” he finally managed to rip from his throat. “Or, Vhagar did. Bit into him and tore traitor and dragon to pieces.”

Silence.

Well. That was still the same.

“Daemon will retaliate. He knows unsavoury men in the city. He knows the passages into the castle. He’ll come after Helaena and your sons, Aegon, and—”

“But Luke isn’t dead,” his brother said. Aemond’s head shot up so fast a sharp sting thrummed down his neck.

“What did you say?”

Aegon was looking at Grandfather now, while Grandfather was studying Aemond the way Helaena liked to study her insects. Her…dead insects.

“Isn’t that what the guard said? That Daemon returned to Dragonstone with Luke?” Aegon made a face and shrugged. “By all accounts, you didn’t kill him at all.”

And those shards of ice that had formed the moment he’d seen Helaena’s eyes seemed to pile into an avalanche through his veins.

“It would seem, Aemond, that Daemon rescued Lucerys after Vhagar slew his dragon,” Grandfather said slowly. “Do you not remember? Did you not have a fight with Caraxes in the skies above Shipbreaker Bay?”

“No…I…don’t recall…” Aemond heard himself whisper from very far away. Daemon was there…Daemon had come after Luke and rescued him? They had fought in that storm? Surely that could not be—

But then Aemond remembered that shadow he’d see etched in lightning—that long neck too large to belong to Arrax, that shout too deep to be Luke’s.

Daemon had been there. How had Daemon known?

Chapter 17: No mere mortal

Chapter Text

Some days later

In the early hours, Daemon lifted Rhaenyra upon Caraxes before seating himself behind her, circling her soft waist to grip the reins. She was recovering well her strength to ride alone, going for longer and longer flights on Syrax each evening, but it had always been their particular joy to fly with their bodies pressed as one.

And since his return, Daemon had sensed a heightened desire in her to spend as much of their hours together as they could manage amidst a war. He was not certain the reason, but indulging her was far from a hardship.

She smiled over her shoulder, settling into his chest and tilting her chin up to kiss the side of his neck. Then her smiled took on a wicked edge. Without warning, she wriggled herself flush against his lap.

Daemon gave a surprised grunt, his co*ck jumping at the sudden, supple warmth of her.

“Naughty girl,” he hissed into her ear. She chuckled, her voice still breathy from sleep, and tried to sound innocent.

“I don’t know what you mean—oh!” He’d given her plump arse a not entirely gentle pinch, and as Caraxes took off from his perch, Rhaenyra’s sweet laughter dispersed into the crisp dawn breeze.

Above them, Syrax gave a joyful little yip before diving into a circle around Caraxes, their tails brushing in the air. The first fingers of a pink sunrise gilded their dragons’ scales as they soared—one crimson, one gold, two gems parting the thin wisps of clouds— and the speeding air blew fresh and dewy against his skin.

“There is nothing better than flying,” Rhaenyra sighed. “And it is best like this.”

Daemon steered them into the rising sun, nuzzling the slope of her neck.

“Really? Nothing better?” He leaned closer still, and Rhaenyra hummed with pleasure as he swirled a tongue around her silky earlobe, then sucked it into his mouth.

“Well…perhaps I spoke too soon…”

He felt her shift in his arms. Suddenly, he was jerking at the reins, making Caraxes shoot straight up into the pale sky, for she’d run a hand up along the inside of his thigh and given the bulge of his stones a firm squeeze.

“Behave,” he growled, flame licking up his belly. Rhaenyra laughed again—husky and intimate—and the sound settled like hot embers below his skin.

Caraxes gave an annoyed little rumble, dipping his wing and turning toward the open sea. Reaching down, Daemon gave his mount a soothing pat, then transferred the reins to one hand so he could trap her mischievous hands against her stomach with his other.

Again she nudged deliberately against him, and Daemon couldn’t help a strangled groan, sure he was half hard already.

“And if I don’t?” she asked, squirming now in a half-hearted attempt to free herself, driving him out of his mind.

“Careful, niece. Keep this up and I’ll have to punish you.”

“Mm. I’m counting on it.”

The rest of the flight Daemon spent in half ecstasy, half torment. Rhaenyra took advantage of his imprisoning her arms to wriggle and grind against him until he grew lightheaded from the blood rushing to his groin.

But when they landed amidst the hidden clearing atop the Dragonmont, she seemed to take pity on him. The moment he hopped down beside her, she was pushing him down into the cushion of dried moss—clever fingers untying his riding leathers, laughing her breathy laugh that scratched like her nails against his chest.

In an instant, she had his aching co*ck enfolded in the wet honey of her mouth, sinking down onto him until his head hit the plush resistance at the back of her throat. And any coherent thought burned away into lust, scorching and primal and red.

Later, when the morning had grown from deep orange to a tawny haze, and Daemon had exacted sufficient payment for Rhaenyra’s teasing, he laced up her gown as she lounged against a rocky outcrop.

A part of him could not quite believe he was here, steeped in the warm musk of Rhaenyra’s skin, feeling her solid heat against him once more. To think, all he’d had for months had been the cold silk of her handkerchief and her distressed words upon parchment.

This, now…Daemon might fear he was dreaming, if he did not know his pathetic imagination could never conjur her with such vivid reality.

“We should head back soon.” He skimmed his lips over her shoulder before drawing the silk over it, glad the bruises his fingers had left no longer marred her creamy skin.

“Hmm.” Rhaenyra made no move to rise. Remnants of her climax still lingered in her voice, and she turned to tuck herself into his chest.

“Just a bit longer, away from all the chaos.” He breathed a contented sigh, craving her weight, drawing her close.

She peered up at him then. “You were asleep before I could tell you last night. We received Jace’s raven last night. He’s headed to Winterfell.”

“Finally managed to wheedle an agreement out of Desmond Manderly, has he?” Daemon asked, knowing full-well the answer.

“By promising that Joff will marry Lord Manderly’s youngest daughter, yes.” Her eyes narrowed. “It would seem he’s learned too much from you over the years. Both of you, betrothing my sons without my leave.”

A little thrill of pride emerged in his chest. Jace might have had two fathers, but it was from Daemon that he learned how to manoeuvre politics.

He chuckled.

“Well, now, I haven’t promised anything to the Tarths.”

Rhaenyra made a scoffing sound.

“You took their daughter riding on Caraxes and promised she’d have more dragon rides in future. I’m not certain you could have made your intentions any more clear.”

“And would it be so terrible? It will ensure us the unyielding loyalty of both Tarth and the Parchments, and as I keep telling you, that little girl is fearless. And besides, they have Targaryen blood from marriage with the Velaryons. I can’t think of a better bride for Egg.”

They both fell silent. Rhaenyra’s breathing had grown shallow, and Daemon clutched her closer to him, hoping to ward off the tendrils of cold in his gut. For left unspoken between them was the aching truth that, had their daughter lived, she would have been the best bride for Aegon.

But the Greens had taken her from them with their treachery, and if Daemon were honest, he did not think he could bear seeing Rhaenyra through another birth. It was something he’d decided even in that past life, and the hope that he could win this war for good this time did nothing to waver his resolve.

He never again wished to hear Rhaenyra’s screams while he stood helpless. Once, when they were newly married, he had let her convince him into relinquishing his fears that he would lose her in childbed. When Aegon and Viserys had come without complications, Daemon had let those fears fade into the back corners of his mind.

But now, he had stark, lurid experience of her agony. The danger she’d been in. Rhaenyra aside, every woman who had ever meant anything to him at all had left him because of childbirth. He could not endanger her thus, not again. And this time, he’d have to convince her.

“Very well,” Rhaenyra finally said, very quietly. “If you are so sure of her. I will send word to Tarth, and perhaps we can take their daughter to ward when all is settled, and I have my throne.”

“You will, soon enough. I promise.”

He bent to kiss her lips, featherlight, and by silent agreement they let the surge of grief die back down into their bones.

“Speaking of messages,” she said, “have you reached your contacts in King’s Landing? Will—” She swallowed. “Will they be able to sneak into the castle?”

Daemon blew out a long breath, turning to look up at the cloud-streaked sky.

The night Rhaenyra had burned Otto’s galley, they were abed when he had asked, softly,

“Did you mean them? The terms you gave that little knight on the ramparts? For Alicent and her children?”

“Daemon.” She’d frowned at him, clearly still weary from their argument during the day. “I’ve already agreed that I will not shy away from violence, from war. I burned all his fellows and sent him back with a mangled body.”

“So you did. Still, you told him Aegon had a sennight to come with his siblings and mother to beg your forgiveness. What if they do? Do you truly intend to honour your terms?”

She slid her eyes to look at him, then closed them, sighing as if something heavy sat upon her chest.

“If, by some miracle, Aegon’s ship appears in the harbour with a white banner on the mast, then yes, Daemon, I do. But you’re being cruel to ask me. We both know it will not.”

“No.” Daemon sighed too, despite his relief, and in his arms he could feel Rhaenyra’s moment of stiffened surprise. “It will not. I am glad, at least, that you know this now, finally.”

She turned, her eyes glistening in the moonlight as they studied him.

“Why do you sound as if you regret it as I do?”

“Perhaps not quite as you do, but I do regret it, Rhaenyra.”

She frowned.

“From the moment Father—from the moment Father died, you have been pushing me toward war. You’ve been saying for years that I should harbour no more softness toward Alicent. And even this afternoon…I do not understand. Now you talk of regret?”

Ah, but of course, how was she to know? Daemon knew to his bones that war was necessary. Knew that blood and destruction and the scorching of castles and fields could not be avoided. Knew, too, that Aegon and Aemond deserved their heads on spikes. Had done everything he could to drag Rhaenyra into the fire alongside him

Yet he had seen, in those two years, how war had ripped apart the realm—her realm. And though he never thought he’d admit it, he had grown weary of destruction. Perhaps he really was growing soft with age.

Once, had he been given that choice in the murky green of the God’s Eye, he would have swum toward the burning door without hesitation. Yet he had chosen the other, for somewhere in his marrow, he no longer truly wished to see all around him burn.

He’d shaken his head then.

“I only mean that you were right in some ways. Where innocent lives can be spared, we should spare them.” He’d propped himself up on his elbows then.

“Perhaps, if we can rid the Greens of Otto and Larys Strong, we will be one step closer to victory without shedding needless blood.”

In that last life, livid with grief and hatred and guilt at Luke’s death, Daemon had sent assassins into the Red Keep to kill one of Aegon’s sons.

A son for a son. There had been poetic justice in that, especially as he’d seen the way Aemond looked at Helaena and her children that last night in King’s Landing. Daemon had wished nothing more than for Aemond to taste an ounce of the heartbreak he’d so carelessly meted upon Rhaenyra.

Naturally, Rhaenyra had been beyond furious when she’d found out. She never could stomach the killing of children, much less her own blood. Daemon could still remember the ringing in his ears when she’d slapped him.

Could still remember her breaking into sobs upon his shoulder afterward, demanding why, despite the cruel crime of it all, the knowledge that the Greens now suffered as she did felt so right, so good.

But now…now he would let Aegon’s whelps live, if only because he had no need to incite Rhaenyra’s ire. Those passages into the castle could be put to better use. His head was sufficiently clear now to realise the mistake he’d made in his furious rampage.

Aegon himself—and Aemond, when he’d deigned to return to King’s Landing—would be too well protected. And as for Alicent Hightower…a quiet, devastating voice told Daemon that, if he were to kill that self-righteous c*nt without Rhaenyra’s leave, she would truly never forgive him, no matter the pain the woman had caused her.

But Otto and Larys Strong, who had caused wreaked so much damage to their cause in that previous life…they he could do away with.

And so, the very next morning, he’d sent word to Mysaria in King’s Landing.

Now, as they lay atop the Dragonmont, Daemon nodded in answer to Rhaenyra’s question.

“Yes. I’ve gotten word that the men have scouted out the passageways leading to the Tower of the Hand. All was as I’d left it. We should have word soon, and Otto’s head on a platter.”

“Good,” she said, pushing herself to standing. “Good.”

As she brushed off her skirts, Daemon saw a sort of resolve settling in her body. He followed up and raised a brow.

“And I’ve decided, Daemon. When you ride to Harrenhal, I will go with you.”

For a moment, he didn’t know what to say. He’d known she would wished to come, just as she’d wished in that previous life. But to hear her speak the words…

Taking his silence for disagreement, Rhaenyra began pacing upon the soft moss.

“Soon, I’ll be well enough for the flight. I know you might say I should not put myself in harm’s way, but no doubt Aegon will ride into battle when he is certain of King’s Landing’s safety.”

“Rhaenyra.”

“Already many doubt my strength for being a woman. I mustn’t appear weak by hiding myself away. And if I expect men to die for me, the least I could do is appear—”

“Rhaenyra.”

She drew up short, head snapping to him. In a step he was before her, cupping her face and kissing her so hard she made a surprised yip before melting against his lips. When they broke apart, both breathless, he smiled down at her bemused expression.

“You needn’t convince me. Of course you’ll come to Harrenhal.”

“My fierce little dragon, my queen. And all will understand that a Targaryen queen is no mere mortal.”

~*~

Rhaena returned from Luke’s chambers with her arms full of old tomes. She dropped them by her bed, dodging the cloud of dust that erupted from the impact, and Baela jumped an inch off the windowsill.

“Gods, you scared me. You know, we have servants for a reason,” her sister said as Rhaena crouched to organise the books into neat piles. “You needn’t scurry about the castle like some maester’s apprentice.”

“We also have a castle full of guests,” Rhaena scoffed. “My arms aren’t for show. I can carry my own books.”

Baela rolled up the little piece of parchment she had been reading and rose to sprawl on her bed.

“So, find anything useful today?”

“More on dragon temperament, so that should help,” Rhaena said, making to look focused on her task. “Luke found a passage on what Alysanne fed Silverwing when she was in a grumpy mood, but nothing helpful on Vermithor.”

She let out a breath, failing to keep the exasperation from her voice. Despite what she’d said, they had found very little of use today, and that was nothing new.

That first night of Luke’s return, when everyone else had left his chambers after supper, Luke had gripped her arm so desperately it’d actually stung.

“Rhaena,” he’d said, his eyes going nearly black with intensity. “I’ve seen you hiding away in the library before I left. I know you’ve been planning to claim Silverwing.”

Rhaena had felt her stomach drop then. She was not exactly surprised her cousins and siblings suspected, but none had confronted her about it yet. Luke’s plain words suddenly made her relinquishing of her mother’s egg Mother feel all to stark, too real.

“I…maybe,” she’d said, coming to sit on the edge of his bed. “I’m still researching—”

“There’s no time!” She’d drawn back, startled, but Luke seemed not to notice. “Look, I know you’ve been hoping your egg will hatch, but let’s not pretend anymore, Rhaena. It won’t.”

It felt as if he’s slapped her.

“Luke—”

“Already, we are at war. Even if your egg is to hatch now, what use will a hatchling be?” Finally seeing her flinch, his voice softened.

“Isn’t that why you’ve been reading Alysanne’s diaries? You know as well as I do. There’s no time to dally.”

“I…fine. Yes.” An idea crept into her mind then, but surely, Luke did not mean to claim another dragon, not now. From what Rhaena knew, riders could rarely bear to bond with another dragon after the death of their first. Was that not why King Viserys did not claim another after the death of Balerion, no matter that he’d only ridden him once?

“But Luke,” she said, “you can’t mean to join me in this. So soon after…”

Luke had given a firm shake of his head, his mouth thinning, his face clouded with a terrible expression she’d never before seen on him—hard and ferocious.

“Can’t I? They slew my Arrax, Rhaena. Vhagar burned him to a smouldering clump, and even now he lies somewhere at the bottom of Shipbreaker Bay. And I want revenge.”

“Oh, Luke…” She gripped his hand, wondering if she should hug him, but he didn’t want her comfort.

“I want to ride a behemoth into battle, and I want to make them pay. Will you help me? Please.”

And so, every morning since, Rhaena had broken her fast with her cousin as they poured over every volume on dragons she could find in the library. Luke could stand on his injured leg now, and they’d agreed that, as soon as he was able to run, they’d make their attempt together.

Only…for the first time in her life, Rhaena felt slightly betrayed by the lack of help she could find in books.

“Rhen?”

She looked up to see Baela frowning at her. She’d been staring at the tome she held in her hand, she realised, and quickly set it atop the pile by her bed.

“Don’t be discouraged,” Baela said quietly. Rhaena could feel the sympathy bleeding from her gaze, and she hated it.

“I’m not,” she said brusquely. “But Luke isn’t well enough yet, so it isn’t as if we can do anything now besides read.”

“Perhaps…perhaps that’s not true,” Baela said. Rhaena frowned at her.

“Look, I know it’s dangerous, but it couldn’t hurt to approach the dragons now. Before you’re ready to claim them.” She rolled over to pick up Alyssane’s diary again. “You know what Silverwing liked. Why not start bringing presents to her, so she grows used to you?”

The fear spread like ink. As much as she was loath to admit it, a small part of her was relieved that Luke wasn’t yet well enough. Baela was right. It was dangerous. And no matter how Rhaena tried to talk herself out of it, the fear remained.

Tentatively, she eased herself down onto her bed, staring at her hands.

But then her sister’s grip was warm upon Rhaena’s shoulder, and she looked up to see not pity, but an encouraging sort of resolve.

“We’re blood of the dragon, you and I,” she whispered. “I know you’ve always had more doubts than I—”

“Nonsense, I’ve not doubted—”

“Don’t lie.” Rhaena’s mouth shut with a click.

“I know you’ve always been afraid that somehow, our Targaryen blood went wrong with you. But listen to me. Mother claimed Vhagar at the same age we are now. Father claimed Caraxes only a year younger. And Grandmother was already nearing twenty when she first rode Meleys.”

She squeezed her shoulder, and Rhaena felt something loosen in the pit of her stomach.

“There’s nothing wrong with you. If there’s anything holding you back, it’s always been fear, always in your head. I believe you can do it. Luke believes it, and Father believes it most, I know he does.”

Baela waved Alysanne’s diary in her face again, seeming to sense that her words had taken effect.

“It’s time.”

And she was right. Baela was frustratingly wise when she wished to be.

“Fine. I’ll sneak out tomorrow morning. That young dragon keeper seems to like me, and maybe she’ll keep it a secret from Father.”

A wide smile broke over Baela’s face.

“That’s my baby sister,” she crooned, flattening Rhaena upon the bed to slobber a kiss into her neck.

“Stop—ahh—that tickles! Bee, stop!”

Rhaena wrestled her sister off her, panting and laughing.

“Enough of this business,” she said finally, keeping a safe distance. “What were you reading so intently when I came in?”

Baela shot her a smirk.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Huh. Don’t tell me then. See if I care.”

“Fine, fine, no need to get all bothered. Jace wrote. He’s left the Eyrie for Winterfell.”

“What? Let me see.” Rhaena tried to lunge for the little scroll, but Baela jumped up and held it out of her reach.

“Oi! He wrote to me. My letter.”

Rhaena pouted up at her.

“How come he only wrote to you?” she grumbled. “Jace always says I’m his favorite cousin.”

Baela smiled, looking so pleased with herself Rhaena wanted to pinch her cheek.

“That’s because you’re the only one he sees as his cousin.”

“Huh? Then what are you?”

Her sister’s smile turned very sly then, and her entire face flushed coral pink. She unfurled just the start of Jace’s letter and held it up to Rhaena’s face. On the parchment, in Jace’s very proper hand, he’d written the words,

My Love.

“Ah Gods, Baela!”

But her sister had already skipped off her bed, giggling and prancing around the room like some unhinged crone.

And though Rhaena laughed along, she couldn’t help feeling, under the brimming delight for her sister, a twinge of something uneasy.

The last time Baela had come home to visit from Driftmark, Rhaena had run into Father and Muña Nyra tangled up together in some darkened corridor. Too common an occurrence, and it was no less disgusting for its frequency.

Rhaena had burst into their shared chamber, hoping to commiserate with her sister as they had in their childhood, only to find Baela and Jace doing precisely the same thing against a window.

Her hands had been all tangled up in Jace’s hair, and Jace—reserved, shy, proper Jace—had even had his hand on Baela’s backside.

Rhaena loved Luke, and she knew he loved her. But…it had always been in that way she loved Joff, or Egg and Vis. Not once had she and Luke even attempted to kiss each other, not even after their engagement, and Rhaena had tried and failed to imagine ever wanting to be tangled up so with him.

Even during their mornings together these days past, not once had she felt anything but affection for her cousin. Her betrothed. It felt strange even to think it.

But perhaps in this, too, she was slower than her sister. Perhaps it was because Luke was still four and ten. Perhaps with time…Rhaena could only hope.

As they sat laughing, Rhaena trying again to read the rest of the scroll as Baela dodged her attempts around the chamber, a knock came at the door.

“Lady Baela? Lady Rhaena?”

It was Ser Erryk’s voice outside their chambers.

“The queen has called the lords to council, my ladies,” he said. And Rhaena exchanged a puzzled look with her sister. Father had not said there’d be a full council this day. From what they knew, all the lords were busy with their own tasks as they prepared for the battle at Duskendale.

Baela yanked open the door then, and the knight bowed.

“Has something happened?”

“Yes, my lady. There has been a letter from Dorne.”

Chapter 18: Unspilt blood, rotting cheese

Chapter Text

To Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, First of Her Name, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Realm.

Your Grace,

For nigh on a millenium, House Yronwood has served House Nymeros Martell with loyalty, bravery and competence. We have put our blind faith in our prince for many generations, yet now, the time has finally arrived to acknowledge the hard truth—House Martell is has long been unfit to rule over the lands of Dorne.

When your ancestors sought to conquer Dorne with fire and blood, the Martells left every house to their own defences and chose to allow all around them to burn, rather than bend the knee. Even now, they refuse to avenge us, their bannermen, though dragons have once again darkened our skies and our castles.

It would not surprise me that our humble castles have escaped Your Grace’s notice. Your Grace should know, therefore, that your brother has sent word to Dorne as you have, courting the favour of House Martell in his quest to usurp your throne.

When House Martell refused, in his anger, Aegon sent a dragon to burn our castles. Yronwood was one such victim. The Tor of House Jordayne was the other.

Yet House Martell refuses even now to join your cause and avenge us against your usurping brother. They wish us to swallow the bitter bile of hatred and stay our hand.

But to this we say, too long have we suffered under their stubborn neglect.

House Yronwood has always counted on the devoted friendship of our neighbours, even long before the Conquest of Nymeria and the Rhoynar. Those friends cannot bear to suffer under the yoke of House Martell any more than we can, though we remain committed to the Rhoynar traditions with which Princess Nymeria has blessed this kingdom.

By their faith and trust, Houses Jordayne of The Tor, Wyl of Wyl Castle, Blackmont of House Blackmont, Qorgyle of Sandstone, Manwoody of Kingsgrave, and Vaith of Vaith, among many others, have joined House Yronwood in ridding Dorne of the tyranny of House Martell.

Lend my house your support, Your Grace, and we shall lend you ours. My oldest daughter—my heir—is of an age to be betrothed to your youngest son, Prince Viserys. A Targaryen prince consort of Dorne would be most advantageous to your cause and ours.

We eagerly await your reply as we open this new page in Dorne’s glorious history.

Yours Sincerely,

Cletus Yronwood, Prince of Dorne

“Your Grace, we cannot endorse open rebellion in Dorne!”

In the silence after Maester Gerardys finished reading the message from Cletus Yronwood, Lord Massey’s voice ran crisp in the council chamber. Daemon could feel Rhaenyra stiffen beside him, could almost hear the erratic pulse in her neck.

Silence fell once more, heavy upon their shoulders. Finally, Rhaenyra asked,

“What do we know of this…burning of Yronwood Castle and The Tor? Who was it?”

“No doubt it was Vhagar,” Daemon said, frowning, his mind racing, a squeezing sensation too close to panic closing in around his lungs. He had known, when he’d learned of Vhagar’s and Aemond’s disappearance, that something was not entirely right. But never in his wildest dreams could he have imagined that Dorne was where Vhagar had headed too after their encounter above Shipbreaker Bay.

“And his reason?” Rhaenyra asked. “Even Aegon and Aemond would not be so rash as to burn Dornish castles simply because an independent kingdom so far away as Dorne refuses to join their cause.”

Daemon could feel her questioning gaze on him, but he avoided her eyes, for he, too, could think of no reason, nor how to proceed.

What in seven hells was Aemond playing at? And how was it that events had deviated so far from his previous life?

“But Your Grace,” Lord Celtigar said. “This is a most advantageous proposal from House Yronwood! House Martell insists on neutrality, but those Dornish houses willing to join us would be most beneficial to our cause.”

He made his way to the Dornish end of the Painted Table and pointed along the Prince’s Pass.

“Look here. Blackmont, Kingsgrave, The Wyl…they are all strategically placed to move into the Dornish Marches.”

Corlys was peering at the map, nodding slowly.

“Lord Celtigar is not wrong from a strategic standpoint, Your Grace,” he said quietly. “The Westerlands aside, it will be the treasonous Reach lords who prove to be most difficult to quell, especially from our faraway toeholds on Dragonstone and at Harrenhal. And even more so if the Stormlands join in with their men.”

Lord Massey, however, was huddled over Gerardys’ shoulder, peering at the scroll.

“But my lords,” said the young man, “this letter makes no mention of Starfall, High Hermitage, or Skyreach.” He scurried over to displace Celtigar before the Painted Table, tracing up the Torentine, then tapping over at the Reach.

“The Usurper’s greatest support comes from Oldtown and the Arbor. Those houses along the Prince’s Pass will be of little help—”

“Nonsense,” said Celtigar, pointing an iron piece along the Mander. “If they can march through the Marches and block the path of Oldtown’s advancing armies, we can cut off Hightower’s host before they make it north. At the very least, they will be a buffer so the Stormlands armies cannot join with Lord Hightower’s.”

Corlys shook his head.

“On the other hand, Lord Celtigar, we may not have need of Dornishmen for that. Lord Tarly of Horn Hill and Costayne of Three Towers have declared support for the queen, and though Lord Beesbury remains in King’s Landing, I know it is not in his character or that of his son’s to fall to treason. Their armies might be sufficient to hold off an attack from Oldtown, or at least to delay them.”

Daemon thought then of the battle at the Honeywine in that past life, of how Tarly, Beesbury and Costayne would have held off the Hightower host if not for the arrival of Daeron upon Tessarion. Yet only barely.

If they could add belligerent Dornshmen to their cause, perhaps they could fully overtake Oldtown…

Rhaenyra’s gaze was fixed upon the Painted Table, eyes darting back and forth between Dorne, the Dornish Marches and the Reach, a line forming between her brows. Daemon felt her drawing close to him, and in his ear she murmured,

“How certain are you that the Stormlands will not oppose us with their full strength?”

A cold gust swept up through his legs and into his gut. All he knew for certain were what had come to pass in that previous life, but even those lived events he was beginning to feel slip from his control. Cassandra Baratheon’s proposal, and now this Dornish invitation…Gods, but he did not know, and his head was beginning to pound.

“I can only be certain that there will be a coup at Storm’s End,” he whispered back, feeling his confidence thinning for the first time since he’d awakened. “I cannot say what each individual house will do when Cassandra Baratheon takes over.”

Rhaenyra sighed, her breath unsteady, but Daemon could feel her resolve settling in.

“That will have to be enough,” she said.

“Rhaenyra…perhaps we ought to give this time—”

But she was already addressing the chamber.

“Lord Massey is right. No matter the advantage to us, I cannot be seen to support open rebellion against the lawful ruler of Dorne.”

In the silence that fell once more, she made her way to the head of the table.

“What difference is there, my lords, between what Aegon and the Hightowers are attempting, and what Lord Yronwood proposes? House Martell have been the rightful rulers of Dorne for more than nine hundred years. Yronwood seeks to rebel against his liege with no legal right and barely any provocation. If I lend a usurper my support, what right will I have to expect loyalty from my own lords?”

“Your Grace,” Corlys said with a bow, “so much remains unclear. To start, what provoked Prince Aemond to attack? Perhaps we need more time to consider, to learn the facts…”

“There isn’t any time, Lord Corlys. Not if Lord Yronwood is already amassing his armies.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes drifted once more to meet Daemon’s, yet through the mess of confusion in his mind, he could not bring himself to lend her his confidence. He felt more blind than he ever had in this war, more helpless than ever to control the outcome. And Aemond…he could not shake the feeling that something had gone terribly awry.

“Maester Gerardys?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Send a raven—no, send three—to Sunspear at once. The Martells may have rejected our first forays into an alliance, but perhaps they will reconsider when they learn of their own bannermen’s treachery. If there is to be a civil war in Dorne, then we must support the side with the legal claim to power.”

Corlys caught Daemon’s eye then, and he could not help returning his weary concern. And from the corner of his eye, Daemon saw Lord Celtigar’s frustrated shake of the head.

Later, left alone with Rhaenyra in the council chamber, she paced before the hearth, wringing her hands.

“You should send word to Tarth as well,” she said, worrying her lip. “Have them send a messenger by boat to Sunspear, in case our ravens are intercepted.”

“I will,” Daemon said, staring unseeing at the Painted Table.

This was the only course she could take, he tried to remind herself. For Rhaenyra had been right. She could not be seen to support a usurper in Dorne whilst making war against Aegon’s own usurpation. It might cause Stark and Arryn to waver in their support of her, and push the Tullys and Tyrells further still from their cause.

Yet his stomach churned nonetheless, and listening to her pacing steps, Daemon knew Rhaenyra did not like this position the Yronwoods had placed her in any more than he did.

“At the very least, the Yronwoods will not join the Greens,” Rhaenyra was saying now, “not if it was Vhagar who burned their castles.

But Daemon shook his head.

“I do not know if we can be certain of that.”

Her head shot up.

“What?” She held up Cletus Yronwood’s letter. “He said it himself! They are rebelling because the Martells will not take revenge for their castles burning.”

“Perhaps,” Daemon said. “But that cannot be the only reason. There must have been long-simmering resentment of the Martells for all the houses to join such a rebellion so quickly. Only Yronwood and The Tor were burned. Those other houses…Rhaenyra, if you do not lend them support, I would not be surprised if those other houses push Yronwood to ally with whatever power he can.”

“You voice this concern now, after I’ve already—”

But they were interrupted by the doors once again creaking open. Ser Robert hurried in then, sketching a hasty bow.

“Your Grace. Prince Daemon.”

Annoyed, Daemon glared at him.

“What is it,” he snapped.

“A rowboat has arrived in the hidden cove, Your Grace. There is a man aboard, claiming he has urgent news for Prince Daemon. From King’s Landing.”

Daemon narrowed his eyes at the haggard little man brought before them in the council chamber.

“And who are you,” he said, eying his torn grey cloak and the blood still crusted on his hands. Yet Daemon knew. He had seen this man before, he realised now. Could this mean…

The man raised his head, his eyes wide and shiny with remembered shock.

“The name’s Cluther,” he said, Fleabottom strong in his accent. “I be a rat-catcher at the castle. The White Worm sent me and the Oaf on a mission. Paid not too shabby neither.”

The ice that had swept up his legs had started once more, and Daemon felt Rhaenyra’s cold hand cling to his wrist in the folds of her skirts.

“I see. And you have succeeded in this mission, you and…the Oaf?”

He looked behind the man then, but there was no sign of a parcel or package—no sign of the heads he’d asked for. His stomach churned once more.

“I be scouting the tunnels a week ago, and there weren’t no one there, just as I told the White Worm. But when me and the Oaf turned up two nights ago to kill the Hightower lord and the cripple…” he shook his head.

“There be guards at the passage doors! There be no guards before, but now there be guards all over the Tower of the Hand! The Oaf cut them down and went right for the high lord, but alls them guards were alerted by then.

“Don’t know how the Oaf fared. I creeped to find the cripple and done slashed his legs bloody, but I had to run for it when the guards start chasin’ me. Sorry I couldn’t cut his head off. Just ‘bout made it out with me skin still on me bones.”

Rhaenyra made a strangled sound beside him. For some moments, Daemon could hear nothing save the blood pounding in his ears.

Guards? At the entrances to the hidden passageways? There had never been guards before. How else could he have succeeded in that past life?

So this time, how did the Greens…

And then he remembered the report that Aemond had returned to King’s Landing upon Vhagar only days ago, and the ice in his limbs roared to a full blizzard within his marrow. He could not move. He could barely see.

Daemon had been so sure he was the only ones who knew fully the extent of those secret passageways. But now…his mind flew again to Aemond’s strange behaviour that night in the storm above Shipbreaker Bay, to his unexplained sojourn into Dorne. If Aemond knew of those passageways into the Tower of the Hand, he would have set guards there to protect his family the moment he returned.

And the only way Aemond could know…was if he, too, had once lived this war. Just as Daemon did.

~*~

King’s Landing

That same day

To King Aegon Targaryen, Second of His Name, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, King of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Realm.

Your Grace,

For nigh on a millenium, House Yronwood has served House Nymeros Martell with loyalty, bravery and competence. We have put our blind faith in our prince for so many generations, yet now, the time has finally arrived to acknowledge the hard truth—House Martell is has long been unfit to rule over the lands of Dorne.

When your ancestors sought to conquer Dorne with fire and blood, the Martells left every house to their own defences and chose to allow all around them to burn, rather than bend the knee. Even now, they refuse to avenge us, their bannermen, though dragons have once again darkened our skies and our castles.

It would not surprise me that our humble castles have escaped Your Grace’s notice. Your Grace should know, therefore, that your sister has sent word to Dorne as you have, courting the favour of House Martell to press her illegitimate claim to your rightful throne.

When House Martell refused, in her anger, Rhaenyra sent her dragon to burn our castles. Yronwood was one such victim. The Tor of House Jordayne was the other.

Yet House Martell refuses even now to join your cause and avenge us against your usurping sister. They wish us to swallow the bitter bile of hatred and stay our hand.

But to this we say, too long have we suffered under their stubborn neglect.

House Yronwood has always counted on the devoted friendship of our neighbours, even long before the Conquest of Nymeria and the Rhoynar. Those friends cannot bear to suffer under the yoke of House Martell any more than we can, though we remain committed to the Rhoynar traditions with which Princess Nymeria has blessed this kingdom.

By their faith and trust, Houses Jordayne of The Tor, Wyl of Wyl Castle, Blackmont of House Blackmont, Qorgyle of Sandstone, Manwoody of Kingsgrave, and Vaith of Vaith, among many others, have joined House Yronwood in ridding Dorne of the tyranny of House Martell.

Led my house your support, Your Grace, and we shall lend you ours. My oldest daughter—my heir—is of an age to be betrothed to your second son, Prince Maelor. A Targaryen prince consort of Dorne would be most advantageous to your cause and ours.

We eagerly await your reply as we open this new page in Dorne’s glorious history.

Yours Sincerely,

Cletus Yronwood, Prince of Dorne

To Prince Cletus Yronwood of Dorne,

It is with great pleasure that I accept your poposal of alliance. The Martells are weak and indecisive, and you have our full support in your cause. It is time that Dorne is ruled by the worthy.

Rhaenyra’s aggression knows no bounds, but do not forget that I command powerful dragons of my own. We will rain down fire upon the traitors, and with the help of your fierce Dornish fighters, we will soon put her rebellion to rest, just as our dragons will secure your rule over Dorne.

By the blessings of the Seven, I hereby betroth my son Prince Maelor to your daughter and heir. May our alliance prove most fruitful, now and into the far future.

Yours Sincerely,

King Aegon Targaryen, Second of His Name, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, King of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Realm

Chapter 19: Part II: Made for this

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra dreamed of Father—his face reduced to muddy teeth and exposed bone, wheezing in the night, agony in every breath. Rhaenyra dreamed of Visenya—blue-grey skin streaked in bloody afterbirth, her fingers and toes perfectly formed and stiff with death.

Rhaenyra woke to the clean blue of early dawn, tears still scalding on her pillow. For a moment she lay unmoving, unseeing, feeling the cold grief creep up her fingers and toes. Then she turned, in search of warmth, and found it, as always, in Daemon’s sleeping form beside her.

He was turned toward her, one arm pillowed beneath his neck, the other laid across the sheets, his hand hanging off the far side of the bed. Rhaenyra reached out to stroke a light finger over the glowing strands of hair spilled over the pillows, then over his brow, his cheek, the small dimple on his chin.

Face softened with sleep, chest laid bare and open to her, Daemon looked younger, almost vulnerable—so beautiful it made her heart ache.

The most beautiful man in the realm. She’d thought so at fourteen, and now, at four and thirty, she still knew it true as day.

Rhaenyra felt a little smile tug at her lips, revelling, even after six years of marriage, in the miracle of her girlhood fancies becoming her reality at last. No matter who else left her, she would always have Daemon now. He’d promised that, once, in this bed, and each day she let herself believe it just a bit more.

Gently, her fingers traveled along the sinewed scars spreading over his neck and shoulder, down his muscled chest to where half his nipple had been burned down to a silvery web.

Over the years, she had learned every line and divot and brick-red bloom of these scars.Despite their reminder of his pain, Rhaenyra would not have him any other way.

It had been years since he returned to her, yet she’d never fully forget that decade of yearning dreams and waking alone in her bed. Every familiar mark and texture of his skin under her palm now told Rhaenyra that it was Daemon she clutched to her body in the dark—no one else.

Despite his recent strangeness, despite the feeling that he was keeping secrets, Rhaenyra had never felt so close to Daemon as she had in these days since he’d returned with Luke. There was something more open about his affection, and it made her own spill forth like a spring.

Unable to resist, she leaned down and pressed her lips to the dense patch of knife scars above his collarbone, feeling his heat against her mouth, inhaling his clean soapy scent softened by his skin overnight. Then, for good measure, she did the same to his unscarred side too, fingertips skimming the faint marks left from when she’d bitten him there

He stirred, a low sigh rumbling beneath her hand, before stilling. Eager to repeat the sensation, she smoothed down his chest and over the velvet of his stomach, drinking in his warmth. Then she slipped her hand lower, beneath the sheets, and found his co*ck through the springy hairs. Very gently, she traced along the silky skin, revelling in the softness of him here.

It was not often she got to feel him thus, unroused and pliant in her grip. In their usual lovemaking, he was nearly always hard by the time her hand closed around him, but on rare mornings like this, when she woke before him, Rhaenyra loved the incongruent fragility of him in her hand—entirely unguarded from her, no defenses.

Slowly, she stroked him, fingers caressing the fine texture of his scrotum and back up the satin of his shaft, feeling him swell and stiffen under her touch. She pressed her lips to his sternum and felt the tremors of a deep groan. Then his body shifted, waking, and in the next moment his arm was solid against her back as he pressed her into his chest.

“Can’t remember the last time I woke this hard,” Daemon murmured into her hair. His voice was raspy from sleep and arousal, and Rhaenyra could hear the smile in his words.

It was nonsense, of course. The last morning before they’d left for King’s Landing, he had been so soundly asleep that he’d not awakened until she’d eased herself onto his erection, impatient for the feel of him. That had been the last time she’d taken him inside her, and Rhaenyra felt a hot rush between her legs at the memory.

Gods help her, how was she to wait another fortnight?

“Oh?” She turned her face up to him, eyes narrowing. “Your memory must be failing in your old age then.”

He laughed, but the laugh turned into a groan as she tightened her hand, stroking him now in earnest.

“By now you should know better than to call your husband old,” he growled, gripping her jaw to press a hungry kiss to her mouth. The taste of him washed flame over her skin, and when he nipped at her tongue the sting of it shot white-hot into her belly.

Rhaenyra pushed up against his chest, swinging her leg over his hip and guiding his co*ck to nestle in the slick folds of her sex. He groaned again, his head dropping back upon the pillows. Rhaenyra leaned down to him, sighing at the feel of him thick and burning against her swollen flesh, raking her nails up his shoulder and along the defenseless expanse of his neck.

“Should I know better? I seem to have forgotten too,” she whispered, then ran her tongue along the inside ridge of his ear. He shuddered. She grinned.

“Perhaps we both need a little reminding.” And she ground her hips against his shaft, coating him with her arousal. The ridge at the head of his co*ck pressed into her cl*tor*s, relief for the aching that had built there, and a low keen escaped her throat entirely without permission.

Daemon’s hands were everywhere upon her thighs and waist and buttocks, kneading as he groaned his appreciation. His eyes were half shut and his mouth opened on a hungry sigh, and Rhaenyra was drunk on her power over him, dizzy from knowing it was she who made him lose all semblance of restraint.

Finding a rhythm with their hips, she rode him as he thrust up against her, the wet, primal sounds of their bodies bringing a flush to her cheeks. Rhaenyra nipped and licked her way along his jaw to his lips, and Daemon kissed her greedily, pillaging, ravenous, tongue dragging along the sensitive roof of her mouth.

Damn, but she wanted him to do that with his co*ck in her c*nt. Another molten rush filled her belly and seeped between her legs, and she clenched her intimate muscles, feeling a frustrated emptiness.

“I want you inside me,” she whimpered, interlacing their fingers so she could grind deeper against his hard length. He leaned back to look at her, eyes gone nearly black, and Rhaenyra could see herself reflected there—cheeks flushed, lips full and parted with need.

“Whatever you want,” he breathed, “once you’re recover—f*ck.” For she’d broken their rhythm to swirl her hips, and his co*ck jumped against her at the new sensation, sending pleasure fluttering through her.

His fingers dug into her hand and he moaned, voice raw.

“But any way you’ll have me, Rhaenyra, I’m yours.”

This was nearly as good, she decided then. Nearly as decadent and maddening as his co*ck filling her, stroking her secret, sensitive places—just as good, when he looked at her thus and spoke her name like a prayer. That familiar, divine sensation was swelling, molten and sweet in her belly, and—

A heavy pounding at the door, yanking Rhaenyra from her haze of pleasure.

“Your Grace? Prince Daemon?”

Ser Erryk. Who knew better than to disturb them—unless with something truly urgent.

With an angry sob, Rhaenyra forced herself to still and fell atop Daemon’s chest, her body screaming in protest. Daemon’s threw his head back and growled.

“What the f*ck do you want!”

Ser Erryk coughed.

“Beg pardon, my prince. Dragonkeeper Moordyne is here. He says he must see you at once.”

Daemon let out a sound of frustration as Rhaenyra pushed herself off him, his hands lingering upon her skin. Unsated need still throbbed between her legs, but she wrapped the sheet around herself and sat up to look at him. Scowling, Daemon rose with her and rubbed his temple.

“Do you think it’s Luke and Rhaena?” Rhaenyra asked, nails digging into her palm to clear her head.

“Must be.” Daemon sighed. For a second, they lingered, eyes clinging to one another. Then Daemon gave her leg one last squeeze before reluctantly withdrawing his hand, rising and tossing Rhaenyra her dressing gown as he shrugged into his. If the children had chosen this morning to act, there could be no returning to that enclosed world of their lovemaking, at least this morning.

Rhaenyra worried her lip.

For some days now, they had know of their children’s plans. Rhaenrya tried to tell herself that they were meant for this, that she could not shield them entirely from this war. Still, the anxiety began to gnaw.

“And…you’re sure I should not come with you?”

“They’ve tried to hide it from us for a reason. They’ll only be more nervous if you’re there too.”

Daemon shot her a small smile over his shoulder.

“Go consult with your lords. Don’t worry yourself. I’ll be there, and I’ll see that harm comes to either.”

Rhaenyra sighed too, but she never could doubt his words. And so she let him reassure her with his certainty, just a little.

~*~

“Today is the day?”

As Rhaena dressed in the milky morning light, Baela’s groggy voice drifted over from her bed.

“Mhm,” Rhaena murmured as she laced the heavy linen shirt down her front. “Luke managed a whole lap around the Round Tower last evening. Today is the day.”

“And you’re sure you don’t want me to—”

“I’m sure.” She popped her head out from the collar of Baela’s riding wool riding tunic, trying to sound self-assured. “Wouldn’t want to confuse the dragons with more people than necessary.”

That had been what she told Luke as well, last night, when they’d decided that they would try to claim Vermithor and Silverwing this day. No one needed to know that, the more people present, the more real this severing of the past felt to her. No one needed to know that she did not wish for more people than necessary to witness her fear.

For more than a fortnight, in the secret of early morning, Rhaena had followed the young dragonkeeper Goraya up the Dragonmont, dragging slaughtered calves and fat pheasants in wheelbarrows. She had worn Luke’s clothing so the dragons would get used to his scent as well as hers, and they had fed Vermithor and Silverwing their favourite animals.

Rhaena could not be sure of either dragon’s sentiments, but at this stage, she liked to think they knew her. That first morning, Silverwing had shot a blast of flame around their cave entrance at sight of Rhaena’s approach, but now both dragons seemed to await her arrival, coiled around one another and sniffing curiously as she neared with the bloody animals still warm in her arms.

Still, the fear remained. As did the dull pang of loss when she thought of her mother—and her egg, forever resting in the little warming brazier by her bed.

Now, as she plaited the thick ropes of her hair, she wandered over to the brazier out of habit, keenly aware of Baela’s sleepy eyes following her every move.

“Don’t,” her sister whispered into the still room. Rhaena turned.

“What?”

Baela pushed herself from her pillows then, coming to take Rhaena’s hair from her and binding the ends tightly with a leather thong.

“Don’t look at the egg,” Baela said, concentrating on her hands. “Not this morning. Look forward. Mother won’t fault you for that.”

Rhaena bit her lip. Sometimes, she hated it when Baela was right.

“Do…do you think Mother would be proud of me? For doing this?” Her sister’s hands stilled.

“Silly. What do you think?”

Rhaena gave a little laugh.

“Besides,” Baela sighed. “She’d be proud of you regardless. You always were her favorite.”

~~~

Rhaena met Luke at the top of the landing. She offered a small smile, which he returned, but just barely.

“Here, hold onto my arm,” she whispered as they started down the steps.

“I can walk just fine now,” he protested.

Rhaena slid his crutch away and gripped his forearm.

“I know, but the wood is loud on the stone. Take my arm.”

Slowly, they made their way to the bottom of the tower, and Rhaena flashed a confident grin to the guards as they bowed their heads.

Outside, the morning air was fresh and crisp, full of sweet hope like biting into an apple, easing the anxious fluttering in her stomach.

“They haven’t been questioning where you’re headed every morning?” Luke asked when they were out of earshot. Rhaena shrugged.

“Why should they ask anything? The island is secure enough, and we’re just out for a walk.”

Luke raised an eyebrow.

“That’s one way to put it.”

“Relax,” Rhaena said, giving his cold hand a pat and trying to sound confident. “It’s not as if we’re doing anything wrong.”

Luke grinned.

“Exactly. Nothing wrong. Just…in secret.”

They met Goraya at the base of the Dragonmont. The diminutive woman stood only as tall as Rhaena’s shoulder, but there was something leathery and staid about her manner, despite her youth. As always, her short hair was braided into a tiny tail at the nape of her neck, and her worn robes fluttered free around her bony frame.

Today, instead of the wheelbarrow, she held a live pheasant and calf on lead ropes.

“My lady. My prince.” She bowed low, her face hard as ever, but Rhaena caught a glint of excitement in her eyes. “On this day, I thought it best if you slaughtered the beasts before the dragons.”

Rhaena stiffened, eying the dagger at the dragonkeeper’s belt. Now it was Luke’s turn to pat her hand.

“It’ll be quick, you’ll see,” he said. “Can’t expect to claim dragons without getting our hands a little bloody.”

She shot him a sideways look.

“You speak as if you’ve ever slit an animal’s throat,” she muttered as they started their climb along the narrow path.

“I haven’t, but if we’re going to ride into battle, it won’t just be animals we’ll kill.”

Her empty stomach did a swooping twist at the thought of hot blood running down her fingers. The air suddenly felt clammy and damp on the back of her neck, but she took a bracing breath and walked on. Luke was right. She couldn’t be scared of a little death, not now.

It became quickly evident that the climb was no easy feat for Luke in his condition. Twice, when his breathing became so laboured Rhaena could hear it more loudly than her own, she called up to Goraya that she was tired and wished for a rest. The young woman looked at them with her brows knit but said nothing, and neither did Luke, who urged them to continue despite the growing strain lining his face.

“Perhaps…perhaps we ought to wait another sennight,” Rhaena murmured to him as they started out the third time. “Perhaps today you can just feed the dragons with me, and—”

“…No…not necessary,” Luke said, eyes boring into the path ahead. His teeth were clenched and his entire face had gone red, but he made no sign of stopping.

“We’ve already…waited too long…I’m strong enough today.”

Rhaena felt her chest squeeze. What could she say to him save,

“Alright Luke. If you’re sure.”

They came to a stop at the mouth of the cave. Beside her, Luke gave a small gasp at they saw shadows shifting within the darkness, drawing closer. One of the dragons let out a rumbling breath, and then they were close enough for the light to bounce off their scales—one silver as moonlight, the other like beaten bronze.

Rhaena became aware of the pulse bounding in her neck. Drawing herself up, she stepped forward.

“I’ll go first,” she said, and at once a part of her wished she hadn’t. Stop that, she scolded herself. Be brave.

Luke nodded, giving her a small smile, and Goraya unstrapped her dagger and tied it about Rhaena’s waist.

“You know how to kill the pheasant, my lady?”

Her jaw went slack. Beside her, Luke muffled a cough that sounded too much like a laugh.

“No,” Rhaena said, glaring. “Why don’t you show me how, Luke?”

Now Luke’s face was the picture of innocent infirmity.

“I would, cuz, but…” he gestured to his crutch. “I’m injured, remember?”

Goraya nodded, ignoring their exchange. Reaching down, she plucked up the squawking pheasant as if it weighed nothing and produced a rope from somewhere to tie its legs together. Holding it upside down, she placed a hand at the base of its neck.

“It is simple. Hold the feet with one hand, the neck with the other, finger and thumb on either side of the pulse. Tilt the head up and back.” She mimed the motion with her right hand.

“Pull down quickly and firmly. The neck bones will separate. Then you can slice open the breast so the dragon smells the blood.”

“Right. Alright.”

Forcing her hands to still, Rhaena grasped the rough boney legs and struggling neck, trying to keep the fluttering beast sturdy against her torso. Stepping slow, she approached the cave mouth.

“Silverwing!” She called into the shadowy dark, unable to keep the trembling uncertainty from her voice. Another low rumble sounded in response. The next moment, the ground shuddered with the clumping steps of dragon feet, and both dragons emerged into the sunlight. Silverwing snaked toward them, elegantly lumbering, the glare of her silver horns so bright it was almost blinding.

And behind her, Vermithor’s giant bronze form followed before rounding around Silverwing to approach her, scaly lips drawn back to reveal rows of ivory teeth, mottled and lined with age.

She heard Luke’s strangled gasp. Against her, the pheasant made a shrill squawk and fluttered its wings in a desperate bid to flee, sending bits of feather fluff into her eyes and up her nose.

And in that moment, Rhaena felt rather at one with the poor bird. No matter how many times she’d seen the dragons in the past fortnight, their presence still shot primal panic through her bones.

Silverwing approached then, sniffing the air, taking in the humans before her before setting her sky-blue eyes upon the animal, her great wings stretching and closing and sending gusts of pebble-strewn wind. Rhaena made herself take another step toward the beast, her clothes and hair rippling against her skin.

She turned her attention back to the pheasant. Tilt the head up and pull down, Goraya had said. Easy enough. She inched her hand down along the matted feathers on its neck. Then a shout broke the air behind them.

“Rhaena!”

She froze. Father? Stiffly, she turned to see her father approaching with old Master Moordyne. In her surprise, her hands let go of the bird, who skittered away, half flying, half tumbling on its tied feet.

“Kepus?” Luke’s mouth was hanging open, and the shock on Goraya’s face was unmistakable. In two steps, Father was before them, taking in both their faces then glancing at the calf and scampering pheasant, his own face unreadable. Finally, he glanced toward the dragons, and again the ground shook as Vermithor thudded toward him around Silverwing, baring his awful teeth once more, sniffing roughly.

“Fine morning, isn’t it?” Father said, his voice even. Rhaena wanted to squirm. Beside her, Luke straightened, and Rhaena saw that his face had gone the colour of a dead fish’s belly, though she was not sure if it was his leg paining him, or if he feared Father would stop them.

“Have you come to see us claim the dragons, Kepus?”

Father’s gaze returned to them.

“Yes I have,” he said. He stepped closer then, and in a voice only Rhaena could hear, asked,

“And you, daughter? You are finally ready to do this?”

For just an instant, Rhaena’s eyes stung. Then she straightened too and met Father’s gaze.

“Yes, I…I’ve been reading Queen Alysanne’s diaries, just like you said. And…I’m ready. To try with Silverwing.”

Father’s eyes narrowed, his gaze assessing.

“I see,” he finally said. Then he looked over at Luke.

“Do you know, dragons needn’t always match the sex of their riders? I believe Aemond proved that to you both.”

Rhaena frowned, and from the corner of her eye, she saw Luke do the same.

“What do you mean?” Luke asked.

“I mean,” Father said, eyes returning to Rhaena, “that you, Luke, need not claim Vermithor. And Rhaena, you need not claim Silverwing.” He gazed up at the dragons who had now taken a keen interest in the calf in Master Moordyne’s hand.

“No, in fact, I do not think Silverwing will do for you at all.”

Rhaena’s mouth went dry.

“What?” Her voice was very small and flimsy. “But didn’t you say to read Alysanne’s diaries so I might—”

“I did once, didn’t I?” A shadow of a smile appeared and was gone just as quickly. For the first time in years, that faraway expression appeared on Father’s face—the one that loomed like a raincloud of grief. He shook his head, and that look, too, passed.

“But I was wrong. I have come to see the dragons since this war began, and Silverwing…she is not meant for you. I am sure of that, and if you give yourself a moment, Rhaena, you will see it too.”

Panic was beginning to claw up Rhaena’s chest.Did he doubt, after all? Was he truly here to stop her because he knew she could not do what he and Mother had done? Shelooked over at Luke, only to see her cousin nodding with a considering expression on his face.

“Father, how can you know—”

“Rhaena.” Luke shuffled over to her and gripped her hand, his skin ice-cold and clammy. Alarmed, Rhaena glanced down at his fingers, but he just shook his head.

“If Kepus says so, we should listen.” He tried for a smile, but all Rhaena could see was the way his bloodless lips near disappeared against his skin.

“Luke, we’ve been planning—”

“No, Rhaena, listen. Kepus knows more about dragons than anyone else,” he said, voice low.

“When did you become so biddable?” she hissed.

“I’m not. It’s only…” he snuck a look up at her father, but he was already walking slowly toward Vermithor, hand outstretched, humming something under his breath.

“It’s only,” Luke continued, “don’t you think there is something strange about your father these past weeks? He showed up at Storm’s End just as I was about to fall out of the sky, and now he is so certain about you and Silverwing. I don’t know what’s going on, cuz, but I believe him. We should do as he says.”

Rhaena scowled, but more from the mess in her brain than anything else. The panic at abandoning their long planning still flared, yet she could not deny that Father knew more about dragons than anyone—maybe even Queen Alysanne.

Silverwing was not meant for her, Father said. Then he must mean that…

Her racing mind combed through her memories of the past fortnight—how nearly every morning save this one, it was always Vermithor who emerged from the cave first, Vermithor who approached her to sniff the air, Vermithor who first launched his flame at her offering. Rhaena had thought it was a sign of protection for his mate, but now Father’s words cast a new light.

Perhaps it was no coincidence that only today, with Luke present, did Silverwing emerge first from their cave.

She looked towards Father once more. Behind him, Vermithor’s crimson-ringed eyes swung toward her, amber pupils fixing upon hers. And Rhaena saw herself reflected there, a thin line topped with silver—saw herself for the first time as this great beast did—and somehow, the fluttering panic that had dogged her all morning seemed to flee.

She had been so wrapped up in Queen Alysanne’s words and the theories of dragon and rider that she’d ignored entirely her instincts. Without the clutter of inky words and her analysing mind, something confident and clean settled neatly in her belly.

Father had never been one to explain himself to anyone save Muña Nyra, but Rhaena could not remember a time when he’d ever been wrong. She squeezed Luke’s hand and let it go. She let the tart, fresh air fill her lungs. She gestured for Master Moordyne to hand her the lead rope of the cal. And she walked toward the dragon.

Vermithor’s shining eyes never once left her as she neared. When she came to stand beside Father, she felt his gaze upon her face, his strong hand at her elbow, but did not turn.

“Now…now you are sure. You are frightened still, but now you are sure.”

Truly, Father did know everything. Rhaena nodded, her confidence swelling as if by magic.

“You needn’t cut the calf’s throat,” Father continued, and her relief that she need not bloody her hands only built her certainty.

“Just lead it toward Vermithor. See how he is watching you? Present it to him, and step out of the way. Approach him when he is done.” His hand tightened on her arm, comforting and staid, and warmth spread like roots over Rhaena’s chest and down her limbs, grounding and sure.

“Yes, Father.”

“That’s my girl. This is your birthright. Claim it.”

And he stepped back. All else fell away with him, all else save the hot amber of those great eyes pinned upon her. Craning her neck but unwilling to look away, she led the calf forward. It let out a thin mooing sound. Vermithor broke away from her, and just as she stepped out of the way, he let out a guttural bellow and shot brilliant flame toward his prey.

Rhaena shut her eyes, feeling the heat of dragon fire roll over her skin in waves, enfolding, embracing,. And when he swallowed the calf in one scoop of his cavernous maw, she walked toward him once more, her feet steady upon the rocks.

The fear remained, especially as he turned back to her, exhaling a deep rumble that smelled of sulphur and charred meat, bearing his ancient teeth, sharp as ever. But it was a cool, calm sort of fear, gilded with the realisation that she had been made for this.

She pulled off Baela’s riding glove and reached out her hand. Vermithor’s eyes narrowed as he turned his mighty neck and swung toward her. Close enough for her to touch his leathery snout.

One last step, and she pressed her bare palm to the dry heat of his scales.

And Rhaena laughed, giddy surprise bubbling up her throat. Slowly, she stroked along the wide expanse of his pebbled cheek, and a soft clicking not unlike a purr shook his neck beneath her touch. His scales glittered dully as he shifted into her hand, at once beautiful and awesome and unlike anything of this world.

Steadily, she walked toward his front claw, keeping contact always. With her other hand, she stroked along the tan membranes that stretched over his wing, finely roughened with age. Once, he had been the mount of a king, but now he was hers. Rhaena felt that in her marrow as if she’d always known it.

It was still a harrowing climb, but it was as if Vermithor knew her intent. He stretched his claw toward her, and Rhaena’s feet found purchase. Her hands gripped his stony skin, then reached to the spine at his shoulder, marvelling again at this new sensation of ivory smoothness. Her arms shaking with effort, she hauled herself up, shuffling her leg inelegantly over the base of his neck.

Vermithor roared then, the sound crowding into her ears, and Rhaena scrambled to keep her balance, her limbs trembling. But soon the beast stilled beneath her, and she leaned down to embrace his neck, pressing her entire body against him, letting the jagged ridges of his spine dig into her flesh.

Her breath was uneven and her heart thumped painfully in her chest, but she would not trade anything for the scorching ecstasy of this—of feeling herself mould to this mountainous creature, hot and alive and hers.

The Valyrian rolled from her tongue as if it was all she knew.

“Sōvēs.”

Sand and little stones swarmed around her as Vermithor let out another roar, rattling her bones, stinging her eyes and lips. As he flapped his ancient wings and lumbered ahead with pounding feet, Rhaena squeezed her eyes shut and clung to his spine, every muscle on fire, fighting to hold on through the endless jostling.

But in the next moment, the ground beneath them shifted and her stomach swooped, and then all was lightness as they left the earth behind.

It was long moments, interspersed with the quaking flap of wings, before Vermithor stilled into an easy glide beneath her. Wind gushed over every bit of her exposed skin, tingling even against her scalp, and she held even tighter to Vermithor’s solid heat, her body shifting with his every movement.

Finally, finally, she opened her eyes to the vibrant blue of morning sky. Clouds rushed by—threads of damp softness on her cheek—and when she chanced a look over her shoulder, she could see the Dragonmont blurring away to a slate-grey mass, Father and Luke and the dragon keepers shrinking to little white smudges upon the rocks. And behind them, those imposing walls of Dragonstone looked no bigger than play blocks, nestled tidily between mountain and beach.

The sea stretched before her, its ripples fine as the texture of linen from so high up. The golden light set aglow Vermithor’s burning bronze scales, and for a moment, Rhaena fancied that she rode upon the sun itself.

Her dragon let out a stringent cry, and Rhaena laughed again, exhilaration filling her and bursting from her throat, not caring that she swallowed gulps of rushing air. For she could feel her dragon’s joy infuse every fibre of her being.

Father was right. Vermithor was her birthright, and she had been made for this.

Chapter 20: Ready at last

Chapter Text

Daemon squinted up at his daughter soaring upon Vemithor, trying and failing to keep the stupid grin from his face. The great bronze dragon dipped his glowing wing toward the sea, and as Rhaena disappeared into the clouds, Daemon let the pride and relief flow through his fingers and toes.

This was how it should have been, back then and now. Rhaena was his child, and Laena’s. She should have been able to claim a dragon. And as Daemon had long suspected, it had always been a problem of which.

In that first life, Daemon had not wished to push the issue with Rhaena, not when she’d locked herself in the Dragonstone library for weeks, mute and hollow with grief over Luke’s death.

By the time she had decided herself ready, Daemon had long left for Harrenhal, and it was only after receiving a hastily-penned note from Baela that he learned Rhaena had tried to claim Silverwing. And failed.

Back then, Daemon had written to her, trying to lay out his assurances on parchment, urging her to try again with another—perhaps Vermithor, perhaps Seasmoke, (for by then, they’d had confirmation of Laenor’s demise in Essos).

Yet her failure with Silverwing had entirely shattered Rhaena’s already-thin confidence, and when Rhaenyra had given her three of Syrax’s eggs and sent her to Gulltown, Daemon could only be resigned to hoping one of those would hatch.

Long had Daemon been aware how like Rhaenyra his younger daughter was in nature. Even from the first day after the twins’ birth, Daemon had seen a shadow of his infant niece in the babe he held by Laena’s bed, and the suggestion to name her after Laena’s mother had tumbled out, though he knew even then that it had been a lie.

For the first decade of her life, every time Rhaena sank into a steely silent contemplation, every time she tilted up her chin in quiet defiance, or blurted out her thoughts without heed to the consequences, or lashed out with black, hidden ferocity when pushed, Daemon had seen Rhaenyra’s shadow in her.

For brief instants, he would imagine, to his shame, that Rhaena could be the daughter he had with Rhaenyra in some misty dream of another, happier life. And when reality crashed back in, he could never bear to look at her, reminded as he was of what could have been—had he been a bit more selfish at Rhaenyra’s wedding and done as she bid him, damn all that she might lose as his wife.

And just like Rhaenyra, Rhaena was prone to ignoring her instincts over her overwrought reason. He should have known, before he’d gone to Harrenhal, that Rhaena might ignore that old Targaryen calling in her blood when it came time to claim a dragon.

It was Daemon’s fault, of course. He had thought the natural dragon for her to be Queen Alysanne’s old mount, and even in her childhood had guided her toward his grandmother’s diaries, hoping to inspire her. He should have known that it would plant inflexible ideas in her mind.

So, when the dragonkeeper Moordyne had come to him this time with news of what Rhaena and Luke planned to do, Daemon had been determined to steer his daughter right. He had not been certain that it would be Vermithor who called to her, but at the very least, he could dissuade her from trying and failing to claim Silverwing.

Yet this morning, when he had looked into Vermithor’s red-ringed eyes, even Daemon had known that this was the dragon meant for his girl. And Rhaena was, after all, made of old Valyrian magic, just as he was.

All she’d needed was someone to pull her from that mire of overthinking and doubts, and Daemon had felt certainty drape over her when she’d come to stand beside him, nothing by Vermithor in her eyes.

And see now? How she soared? As it was mean to be.

A dragon screech pulled Daemon from his thoughts. At the cave’s entrance, Silverwing tilted up her slender neck and called into the sky. In a great cloud of sand, the silver beast shook the ground with her pounding steps, and the next moment, she had taken off after her mate. Leaving even her intended prey behind. Leaving Luke behind.

Luke’s crutch made a scraping sound on the stone then, and Daemon snapped his head around to see that Luke’s face had gone pale as bone. His hand flew out to grip his arm, and the boy looked up at him, his attempt at a smile morphing into a grimace.

“Your leg pains you,” he said, not asking. Daemon knew how Luke had been pushing himself to recover, insisting on rising from his bed and practicing to walk even as Gerardys tried to make him wait every step of the way. And now the climb this morning…it would not surprise Daeomon in the least if his still-healing body had been pushed to its limit.

Luke looked away, his features darkening, and Daemon sighed. Oh, his leg did pain him, that was clear. Yet Luke had always heard better than any of the other children that old instinct in his blood. And when his eyes swung back to meet Daemon’s, there was a wilted sort of resignation there.

“I sensed it as you did, Kepus,” Luke said, voice like dust. “Between Rhaena and Vermithor.”

Daemon could only nod.

“But you do not hear that same calling.”

“No. Not at all”

Luke pulled away from Daemon’s hand, adjusting his balance with his crutch. A breeze picked up around them, whipping Luke’s tunic snug around his thin shoulders and chest—greatly reduced from his injury.

“I had thought that perhaps it was because I cannot let go of Arrax,” Luke said, faze fixed to the disappearing silver dot as Silverwing glided toward the sea. “But look how she tore after Vermithor. Not once did she spare a look at me this morning, not once.”

His eyes squeezed shut.

“You said Silverwing is not meant for Rhaena. Silverwing is not meant for me, either.”

Daemon’s chest pricked. If he had flown Caraxes just a bit faster that day, perhaps Arrax, too, could have been saved. How small, how forlone the boy looked now, and Daemon had clench his fists to keep from drawing his meagre form into an embrace.

Like Jace, Luke would be a boy for not much longer. Even Rhaenyra had told him so. He must start treating him like a man.

And so, he only said,

“Then that is that. But don’t forget, Luke. You will not be the first Targaryen to claim another dragon after the death of their first. It is documented in the histories.”

Luke inclined his head, but Daemon thought perhaps he heard him without truly listening. There was naught else Daemon could say or do.

He still knew in his core that Luke was mean to fly once more, but it was always the lot of second sons—for better or worse—to find their own way in the world.

“Come, then,” he finally said. “That is enough walking and standing for the day. No matter what you wish to do in future, come to me first. But you cannot do anything if you are not fully healed.”

Daemon knew his daughter. No matter how her sore her body became this day, she’d not wish to relinquish the unmatched exhilaration of first flight for some time yet. And so, after leaving instructions with the dragonkeepers, he ushered Luke back down the Dragonmont, walking in heavy silence the entire way.

They met Rhaenyra upon the skybridge.

“We heard dragon roars,” she said, rushing toward them in a swirl of dark skirts. “Did you—“

She took in Luke’s stumbling figure then, and her own face drained of colour.

“What is it, my darling? Are you unwell? Was the climb too much?”

Pulling a weakly protesting Luke into her arms, she frowned up at him. Daemon gave his head a small shake then, and Rhaenyra understood.

“Let’s get you back to bed,” she murmured into Luke’s hair, and as they made their way back along the stony walkway, Daemon watched Luke draw himself up and cloak himself in that nonchalant cheer that used emerge from within him—so that his mother would not worry.

So he and Rhaenyra played along, letting Luke detail how Rhaena had claimed Vermithor, and Daemon could only squeeze Rhaenyra’s trembling hand behind his back.

When they’d seen Luke returned to his chambers, Rhaenyra herded him back into theirs.

“What happened?” she asked, beginning to pace before the hearth. “I know you said that perhaps Rhaena could not claim Silverwing, but did Luke try too? And…”

“No. Nothing so serious.” Daemon pinched the bridge of his nose and tossed himself down upon the chaise.

“Silverwing took off after Vermithor, and Luke said he knew she was not meant for him.”

Rhaenyra frowned.

“He can just know? Without trying to claim the dragon?”

“That was the magic our ancestors worked into our blood,” Daemon sighed. “No Targaryen in written memory has ever died trying to claim the wrong dragon, but if one truly listens to instinct, there will be a calling toward the right one.”

Rhaenyra had stopped her pacing and was now chewing on her lip, her brows knotted.

“But if not Silverwing, then which? Or do you think Luke is like my father—”

“No,” Daemon interrupted quickly, rising to rest his hands on her shoulders. “He will claim another. I’m certain of it. We still have many grown dragons. He will try again when this disappointment has passed.”

But Rhaenyra was shaking her head.

“The other dragons are feral, Daemon, not to mention that one is addled in the head, and another never shows itself in the light of day. No one has ever claimed them. I cannot believe my fourteen-year-old son will be the first.”

“Age means nothing. Look at Aegon with Sunfyre, no matter that he’s half Hightower.”

He smiled then.

“And there is always Seasmoke.”

Rhaenyra’s frown settled into a glare.

“We both know that Seasmoke cannot be counted. I cannot believe you’d even mention him at council.”

His smile grew wry.

“Do not be so sure of that. It has been six years. Who can know what has happened to Laenor. If he still lives.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes grew wide.

“What?”

Daemon’s jaw tightened, and he chastised himself for saying too much. In his haste to reassure, his tongue had slipped. Soon, Daemon knew, Driftmark would be filled with Seasmoke’s mourning cries. In that past life, Laenor had picked an opportune to die in Essos, though Daemon had never uncovered the how behind his demise.

But it was not as if he could tell Rhaenyra now.

“Just a thought,” he told her, ignoring her searching gaze. “We cannot know what will happen. All I mean is that we need not leave Seasmoke out of our plans.”

Daemon guided her toward the chaise then, sitting her down and cupping her face to stroke a thumb over her cheek.

“No use worrying over things outside our control, my heart” he said, hoping the Valyrian would distract her. The endearment drew a reluctant smile, and Daemon returned it.

“Tell me, what news with the coastal lords.”

For another moment more, Rhaenyra’s searching gaze raked over his face. Then she heaved a sigh and sank back against the pillows, tugging him down beside her and playing absently with his fingers.

“Very well. They are ready at last.”

Daemon straightened.

“Truly? Bar Emmon finally has his household in order?”

Rhaenyra nodded.

“All their ships are primed, and Gerardys received news from Maidenpool that the last of their bannermen have arrived in the night.” She met his eyes, her own hard as gems.

“We can set out for Harrenhal on the morrow.”

For some days after realising that, more like than not, Aemond, too, had been subject to the same old magic that gave Daemon this second chance at life, his mind had been a tangled mess of worry and planning and doubt.

But quickly, Daemon had come to his senses. So what if his nephew also knew, now, of what was to come?When they had died above the God’s Eye, Aemond had grown battle-hardened and shrewder than before, but he had still been no more than twenty. Still green. Still prone to the irrationality and hot-blooded impulses of young men, and addled by a healthy dose of arrogance, no less.

Daemon would simply have to outsmart him. How difficult could that be? In taking King’s Landing that first time, he had done it without effort.

With Aemond’s knowledge, however, Daemon feared he’d see through their ploy to trap the Greens at Duskendale. At the very least, he’d know they would be prepared for Cole’s trap at Rook’s Rest. He’d urge Aegon not to send men north as Criston Cole would suggest.

But luck was on their side still. Daemon would not need to guess how Aemond might choose to make his first move if he could force his hand.

News had trickled to him from King’s Landing that, though his assassins had failed to kill either Larys or Otto, they had managed to damage Larys Strong’s legs so severely that he now required a wheeled chair, and Otto…Otto Hightower still lay abed, sleeping more hours than he woke, so feeble he could barely speak.

Aegon was quick to temper and stubborn in the worst ways. He might listen to Aemond’s placation for a time, but all he needed was a reminder of his precarious position to push him into reactionary mistakes. So far, all the Greens knew was that various Crownlands and Riverlands houses had declared loyalty for Rhaenyra. Ink on parchment. Paper dolls for threats.

But once they took Harrenhal—once Aegon had tangible proof of their advantage before him—the little twit would be unable to descend from his fear-fuelled panic long enough to hear Aemond’s reasoning any longer, and Otto was still too weak to exert control over his grandson.

And so, in the past days, the coastal lords had quietly readied their ships to transport the men that gathered secretly at Maidenpool and Rook’s Rest—making every preparation they could keep hidden from Green spies.

For Daemon had no doubt that, despite Aemond’s protests, Criston Cole was even now gathering and buying men in preparation for the attack north. Once the Greens learned of Harrenhal’s fall, the coastal lords would need to make haste in their transport, for Cole would waste no time in moving up the Rosby Road.

Before flying to the Riverlands and laying their advance out in the open, they needed to wait for the lords to be as ready as they could be.

And now they were.

“Excellent,” Daemon said, and in a surge of excitement he pressed his lips to Rhaenyra’s hand. “Excellent.”

She gave an exasperated sigh as he sprung up to pace upon the Myrish carpets, plans already churning in his head.

“You needn’t look so excited for war,” Rhaenyra said, but after all that had happened, Daemon knew she was just as eager for action.

He turned back to her, catching her glittering eyes.

“Will you call council tonight then? And we will leave at first light tomorrow?”

She nodded, rising to lace her fingers with his.

“I’ll need to write out instructions for Jace when he returns. Let’s hope he does before Corlys is needed at Duskendale.”

“He will. He’ll find nothing but success at Winterfell.” Rhaenyra arched a brow at his certainty, but Daemon ploughed on. “Write to Rhaenys as well. The Gullet will be calm for some time yet, and we will need every dragon we can have at Duskendale.”

Rhaenyra’s lips thinned.

“And you still believe, truly, that the plan for Duskendale will be to our advantage? Even if Aemond flies with Cole’s army upon Vhagar? And what if Aegon joins upon Sunfyre too?”

Daemon shook his head.

“Did you not see the way Aemond looked at Helaena that entire evening?”

“What?”

“Aegon cares for no one save himself, but Aemond would never leave Helaena and Dreamfyre to be King’s Landing only defence.”

Now both Rhaenyra’s brows crept up.

“Truly? You think he loves her that way?”

Daemon scoffed.

“I’d prefer not to think too long on any of their sordid feelings, but yes. Either Aemond will come himself, or Aegon will. Not both.”

Not if Aemond remembered the humiliating way Daemon had taken King’s Landing from them in that past life. He’d not leave the city unguarded, just as he had not left those passageways unguarded. And Daemon could use this caution against him

“But if they call Daeron back from Oldtown?” Rhaenyra was asking now. “He and Tessarion are young still, but—”

“That is why I say, we will need every grown dragon we can muster.” No matter what, Duskendale would prove to be bloodier than Daemon had first imagined. Just as well. The sooner they cut away at the Greens’ strength, the quicker this war would end.

Seeing her deepening worry, Daemon cupped her cheek and tilted her chin up to him.

“Rhaenyra.” She met his eyes.

“It will be alright,” he murmured. “Trust me. One step at a time. And we will be prepared.”

She closed her eyes and blew out a shaky breath.

“You know I trust you.”

Something hot and sweet as syrup spread over Daemon’s chest and settled in his stomach. The certainty that saturated her voice was so true he ached with it. Had she ever sounded so certain of him in that past life? Certainly not in the years of the war.

He pressed his forehead to hers, basking in the familiar soft scent of her hair and skin, revelling in the smooth lines of her palm under his fingers.

“In your instructions to Jace, make sure to tell him that no one outside our families is to be allowed near the dragons,” Daemon finally said.

“What do you mean?”

“Only that he might get some strange notions when he learns that Silverwing remains riderless.” To his relief, Rhaenyra gave a small nod against him, accepting his white lie.

“Go on then. And if you’ve need of me, I’ll be in Corlys’ chambers.”

“To see about his sons?”

“Yes. It’s time he brought them to our cause.”

“And Rhaenys?”

“Corlys dug his own grave there. I’ll not give up on the advantage of two capable ship captains to save him from a marital spat.”

And more, if they needed. Addam Velaryon upon Seasmoke was another advantage Daemon intended to garner again for their cause.

Slowly, Rhaenyra nodded, then looked up at him from beneath her lashes, her gaze suddenly so piercing Daemon felt it slice right through him, probing to the most hidden corners of his mind. He stiffened.

“You must tell me how you found out about them,” Rhaenyra said, stubborn command lacing her words. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten any of my questions. How you came to know these great many things, Daemon…you’ll tell me, and soon.”

He laughed, the sound nervous even to his own ears. Instead of replying, he slid his fingers through the thick waves of her hair and kissed her, hard, holding her firmly against him in hopes that he could make her understand his silence.

Rhaenyra did not deserve to live with his burden—his knowledge and the pain and grief that came with it, trailing like ink blots upon his soul.

She sighed softly against his mouth and let him taste her yielding lips, wrapping her arm around his neck—in surrender or temporary concession, Daemon was not certain.

When finally they broke apart and he headed toward the door, she said his name. Daemon stilled. There was something impossibly young and tender in her voice that squeezed at his heart.

“I…I would be entirely lost without you. You know that, do you not? Husband?”

Her words washed like the finest wine through his limbs, and for a moment Daemon’s head swam with the blinding ecstasy of her meaning. She needed him. She’d told him that once before. But each time she voiced it, the joy of the realisation hit him anew. Intoxicating.

“You won’t ever be without me, Rhaenyra. And there isn’t a thing I’d not do for you.”

Chapter 21: Friend

Chapter Text

It had been a great many years since anyone had backed Corlys Velaryon into a corner. The fact that it had been his erstwhile goodson—who more likely than not was complicit in Laenor’s murder—made the poison that much harder to swallow.

This evening, Corlys sat before the fire in his chambers, nursing a mug of some hideous healing brew the maester insisted he down twice a day. Before him lay two blank scrolls of parchment. After supper with his grandchildren, he’d come to sit alone, intending to write upon both. That had been two hours ago, and still, he could not make his mind form words.

That morning, Targaryen men-at-arms had set off for Harrenhal under the leadership of Ser Erryk Cargyll, following the soaring forms of Daemon and Rhaenyra upon their dragons.

At last, the gears of this war were grinding into motion, and soon, Corlys would be in the midst of naval battle once more. No matter the promises of retirement and rest he’d given Rhaenys, a part of his heart always sang at the prospect of war at sea.

Yet he could not summon the least bit of joy.

For the day before they left, Daemon had arrived in his rooms, wearing entirely too bright a grin. He and Rhaenys had decided to bury their suspicions about Laenor when they’d declared for Rhaenyra, but the niggling resentment would always be a thorn stuck in his flesh. Daemon was never a welcome presence, and this day was no different.

Immediately, Corlys had known he would not like whatever Daemon was about to say, but the urge to punch that bottom-feeding smile from his face only arose when the whor*son had leaned against his wall and said, breezily,

“So then. Her Grace believes it time you called your sons to join us in putting down the usurper.”

“How did you know,” Corlys had wheezed when he’d managed to pick his jaw up from the floor. But of course, Daemon would reveal nothing. The c*nt.

“You don’t precisely keep them hidden away. I’m only surprised Rhaenys hasn’t had Meleys burn you to a crisp all these years.”

Corlys scowled.

“I make next to no contact. It was one mistake, one night of folly. Rhaenys does not know, and I would keep it that way.”

Daemon’s smile had only grown wider.

“That’s unfortunate, then,” he said, the apology in his voice sounding almost genuine if not for his expression. “It’ll be a bit hard to keep two bastard sons a secret when they’re commanding your ships—”

“Absolutely not!”

Corlys had hauled himself to his feet then, wishing his glare could bore holes in Daemon’s swollen head.

“You have the entire Velaryon fleet at your disposal. All the wealth of my house. Those twin boys are the only sons I have left. I will not throw them into needless danger.”

Yet Daemon only shrugged, undaunted. And when he offered his terms, Corlys could not bring himself to refuse.

“Upon Dragonstone, four grown dragons remain without a rider,” Daemon had told him. “Upon Driftmark, Seasmoke is the same. You are always going on and on that it is names, not blood, that matters in the end. How would you like the histories to write that House Velaryon boasted half a dozen dragon riders in our time?”

Corlys had told Rhaenys that his dogged chase of legacy and glory was at an end. Had believed it himself, when he’d learned how his brother had blundered himself into an early grave.

Yet old instincts died hard. And when Daemon further promised Rhaenyra would give Addam and Alyn the Velaryon name so long as Driftmark still passed to Luke and Rhaena, Corlys had agreed to call his sons to join this war.

So now here he sat, debating which letter to start first—the one to Driftmark, or the one to Rhaenys—and failing to set quill to either blank page. Gods damn Daemon Targaryen. He’d known Corlys could not refuse such a legacy.

Grudgingly, Corlys had to admit that Daemon seemed to know a good many things in the wake of Rhaenyra’s coronation. He’d always understood Daemon to be more scheming and intelligent than his brash exterior would suggest, but he seemed to have grown shrewd and cunning in the six years Corlys had been away.

The way he correctly deduced Luke’s danger at Storm’s End when everyone else had been so sure Borros would not abandon his blood, the way every one of his suggestions in council had been thoroughly considered and rational…and above all, the way he’d orchestrated the entire overthrow of Borros Baratheon.

In less than a sennight, while tending to Luke’s injuries no less, somehow, Daemon had removed entirely the threat of the Stormlords, even if it did require Rhaenyra to confirm a mere girl as the lady of Storm’s End.

If Corlys were honest, he himself could not have done such a thing. No matter Daemon’s many (aggressively noticeable) faults, Corlys could not deny that he was shaping up to be a formidable force in Rhaenyra’s camp. And the girl seemed more than willing to listen to her uncle’s council. That in itself buoyed Corlys’ own confidence in his choice to declare for her.

But now, having declared for Rhaenyra, this was what he must do. Heaving a deep sigh, Corlys took another sip of the maester’s ghastly brew, stalling, trying to think. Then he set his quill to writing to Merida, for at least in that missive, he need not agonise over each and every word.

Would Rhaenys ever forgive him? Likely not in the near future. And the knowledge that it had been one night of drunken folly would only infuriate her more.

Perhaps his passing the twins off as Laenor’s get and not his own would placate her wounded pride, but even if she did choose to be magnanimous, she’d not forget this transgression for the rest of their lives. And she’d not let him forget it either.

His wife always did have a vengeful streak. That brought a wry grin to his face, despite it all.

Corlys was halfway through the letter when a knock came at the door.

“Come,” he called absently, and looked up to see Baela’s silver head pop out from behind the open door.

“Grandfather? May we come in?”

Surprised and glad for this timely distraction, Corlys swept parchment and quill into his desk drawer and ushered her in. Rhaena followed, near glowing still from her recent success with Vermithor, and behind them, Joffrey tumbled in with his good arm around a very large stuffed doll shaped like a dragon.

“What brings you all here at this late hour?”

Baela arched an eyebrow at him while Rhaena set a small dish of candied plums by his chair.

“We’re here,” Baela said, stretching out on the chaise opposite him, “to make sure you’re drinking Maester Gerardys’ tonic.” She tilted her chin at the plums. “I know it doesn’t taste great, Grandfather, but it’s best to toss it all back in one go and then have some sweetmeats to get rid of the bitterness.”

Now both girls were grinning expectantly at him. He should have known their purpose this evening, for since his return, they’d taken to near draconian measures in making sure he followed the sad*stic maester’s every command.

Corlys shot them both a narrow look, but then sighed and gave in, draining the foul brew and reaching for a candied plum. The girl nodded in unison, Rhaena joining her sister on the chaise.

He could not decide which one of his granddaughters was more like Rhaenys and which more like Laena, but it was no wonder that his wife, who was usually so fussy about his health, had left for the gullet without overt worry.

Another tendril of guilt wound through his chest, mixed with that old guilt over consenting to Laena’s match with Daemon all those years ago, and a part of him was glad Rhaenys would not make earning her forgiveness easy in any way.

Joffrey came then to perch on his armchair, and a smile tugged at Corlys’ mouth entirely of its own accord. Though he knew the boy was not of Laenor’s blood, and though he’d only met him less than a moon ago, Joffrey had called him Grandfather in his spritely, earnest voice the very day they met, and Corlys could not help warming to his youngest grandchild.

Now Joff hauled his oversized toy dragon up beside him, and Corlys had to steady his still-bandaged elbow so the boy did not jostle his wound.

“Careful,” he murmured, but Joff was entirely unbothered.

“Do you like my dragon, Grandfather?”

Corlys laughed.

“I do, yes. Is that supposed to resemble Tyraxes?”

Joff nodded dramatically. From the chaise, Rhaena let out an indignant huff.

“What do you mean, ‘supposed to’, Grandfather? I’d say that is a perfect replica.”

Baela snorted, and Joffrey beamed.

“Rhaena made him for me! After Mother said that I’m not allowed to keep Tyraxes in the castle anymore because he’s gotten too big.”

Something warm filled out behind his ribs—more than simple amusem*nt at the image of Joffrey hauling his deadly beast about the castle like a lapdog.

“Well, I did not know it was Rhaena’s work,” he said, winking at his granddaughter who ducked her head and blushed. “You know, the more I look, the more lifelike it is.”

As he took in the laughing children, Corlys felt something bitter sink in his gut. How he wished they could remain thus always, young and innocent of war and violence, but he knew that was a foolish dream.

Children grew up, eventually, and they would wish to make their own marks upon the world. He would not deny such an opportunity to his bastard sons, and he could do no less for his grandchildren.

And did Luke not show them all that, no matter how much one wished to protect the young, the dangers of the world would find them if that was their lot?

“Where are your brothers,” he asked, plucking up another candied plum, craving its sweetness. Joff rolled his eyes.

“Well, the babies are asleep,” he said, as if the very idea was abhorrent. “And Luke said he had to go on a walk to exercise his leg.”

Corlys frowned, catching Rhaena’s eye. But she shook her head.

“He’ll be alright,” she said very softly. “He just needs a bit of time.” Though Corlys did not miss the absent bouncing of her knee, or Baela’s reassuring hand on her forearm.

Yet before he could ask anything more, the deep, cloying roar of a dragon broke through the still air. As Joff and Baela bounded toward the window, Corlys turned his head to see a thick stream of blinding crimson rip through the night.

~*~

He should probably head back in, Luke thought as he trudged through the thick sandy beach behind the Dragonmont. The night was growing too frosty for comfort, and sharp spasms were starting to shoot up his injured leg.

And besides. Mother always misliked when he and Jace ventured to this far side of the island alone. Just because she’d gone off to Harrenhal this morning did not mean she would not find out.

But he could not bear the enclosure of stone walls and others’ voices, not yet. Only out here in the open air, the moon-cast sky far above him and the lapping waves constant in his ears, could he manage to draw breath.

And no matter how his leg pained him, it was nothing compared to the Arrax-shaped hole that gaped and festered somewhere beside his heart.

When he squeezed his eyes shut, Luke could still picture the precise colour of Arrax’s egg—like spiced milk with honey, pure white gilded in the thinnest veil of sunshine. He could still picture that curious co*ck of his hatchling head when he first broke from his shell, ruby eyes darting about until they settled upon Luke’s and would not look away.

Luke had been only four, but that image was branded into his mind. As were those exhilarating moments of his dragon’s life—the first time he delighted Luke with a puff of smoke, the first time he shot cheerful flame over the scattered leaves in the Dragonpit courtyard, the first time he roasted a coin-sized piece of veal.

For a few years, they had gone everywhere together through the halls of the Red Keep, Arrax making a pale, shimmering scarf of himself around Luke’s shoulders, bringing the toy blocks he needed to build his castles and forever playing the protagonist of those little farces he used to put on with his model knights.

Even now, Luke could summon the swooping exhilaration of their first flight together, at once terrifying and ecstatic—free and light and endlessly thrilling, and so unlike those times Mother had taken him up upon Syrax. They had glided over the Gullet, watching Dragonstone shrink into a grey black dot, and every worry about bastardy and Driftmark had disappeared from Luke’s world.

Yet of all those memories, it was that last one—Arrax reduced to nothing but a burning clump with jagged wings, spiralling down into the violent storm—that seared itself deepest into Luke’s brain. And no matter how hard he’d tried these weeks past, he could not escape its horror.

That familiar rage was back, bubbling bile like lava in his belly. Borros Baratheon might have broken both his legs and lost the ability to speak after his hunting accident, but what of Aemond? What of Vhagar? Arrax’s murders still roamed, at liberty and carefree, and here Luke was—grounded with no way for revenge.

The rage rose into a hideous gremlin behind his sternum then, scraping at his flesh from the inside, gripping his ribcage and rattling in frantic panic as it made to claw itself out of his body. Luke scrambled to pick up a rock from the beach and hurled it, with a sobbing grunt, at a scraggly seagrape tree that sprouted behind some boulders.

The rock made a satisfying thunk against the bark. For a moment, Luke stood, rooted to the slipping sand, chest heaving.

That had felt good. But not nearly enough. And in the next moment, he’d drawn the dagger that Uncle Daemon had bid him start carrying always, charging at the helpless tree and hacking at its thin trunk as if he were cutting into Aemond’s smirking face, as if he could dig out that stupid sapphire he wore in his empty socket.

With every strike, Luke let the poisonous, helpless fury spill out from his every screaming pore and wrenching yell. How long was he to be trapped upon Dragonstone, forever flexing his injury, while his entire family left to take the revenge that should be his? Aemond deserved to die, and Luke thought he himself might burst open at the seams if he was not the one to cut out his black heart.

Yet here he was. Dragonless. Useless.

Oh, Luke still remembered how it’d felt to drag that knife over Aemond’s eye. It had been an act of desperation back then, but this…As bits of bark flew from the tree, catching the moonlight like little white blades, scratching at Luke’s own cheek, he imagined it was blood from Aemond’s mottled face. And the unbridled violence of it felt so good that a brittle laugh ripped from his mouth.

When at last his limbs were trembling and his throat was hoarse, that cloying creature in his chest had calmed, if only for now. Suddenly drained, Luke tossed down the dagger and slumped beside it, not caring that grassy sand mixed with his hair and stuck to his sweat-soaked neck.

He managed a heaving breath. Then two. That was when he felt the wayward gust of wind, scented with sulphur and smoke.

Pure instinct drove him to scramble to his feet, yet already the shadow loomed before him—ropey neck thick and mottled, spiked wings pointed in jagged angles against the silver moonlight. A low rumble shook him right down to his bones, and in the darkness, two glassy eyes bore into him, chillingly blue—just like Aemond’s sapphire.

A scream died in his throat before it could escape. The sand seemed to swallow his feet, and for long moments, Luke could only shiver in his frozen body as those eyes grew larger with the advancing shadow. Yet it was not fear that he tasted hot on his tongue.

As that giant shape loomed toward him, something ferocious roared to life in Luke’s blood, scorching through his frozen veins. Singing as it boiled. And instead of futile flight, Luke’s legs found movement once more only to bring him toward the beast.

Moonlight gilded the dragon’s soot-black body now. Up close, it was truly the size of a mountain, and the silver light dipped into the ancient scars and crevices upon its stony skin, shining like stars through the punctures upon its wings.

There was only one dragon of this size on Dragonstone.

“The Cannibal,” Luke heard himself whisper, a thrill of terror shooting like frost up his spine. How could anyone forget the stories of the way this creature had swallowed dragon eggs whole and torn hatchlings to pieces with its bloody maw?

Yet in the next instant the dragon’s hoary head was before him, that single horn upon his snout like a curved blade as it caught the light. The acrid pungency of its scalding breath enfolded around his body, and from his simmering blood Luke knew there was no cause to fear.

One step. Two steps. Before he knew it, his hands were pressed firmly to the stony heat of its muzzle, and from that burning, jagged flesh Luke could feel an answer to the mad rage he’d come to know so well.

He dragged his fingers over those rough scales, basking in the sting of them scraping his flesh, hoping, wildly, that he bled from the contact. This beast knew his own anger. Had come to him when it called, carrying its own.

The climb up its wing was perilous and steep. Every contact with the bony lines of its body felt like a slice into Luke’s exposed skin. Yet on he climbed, for something in his core would not allow him to cease. And when he was firmly seated—saddle-less upon a dragon for the first time in his life—the command to fly shot straight from his primal core and tumbled out of his parched mouth.

Luke had thought he’d known what it was to fly. Yet upon this mountainous creature, the sensation was entirely alien. Every one of the dragon’s movements felt as if the entire earth quaked below his legs, but somehow, as they glided out toward the blinding moon, Luke realised he had not felt this right in a very long time indeed.

That ancient singing had started once more in his blood, stringent in its cries for murder, for death.

Arrax had been Luke’s brother. Had been the keeper of part of his soul. But this dragon, this cavernous behemoth of a creature, so ancient that no living being could know his age…this dragon was something different. An ally in his quest for blood.

“Raqiros,” Luke called into the wind, and the mount beneath him shuddered with a booming roar, answering to this new name. Friend, it meant, no matter how terrible this beast. And with it, Luke would have his revenge.

“Dracarys! ”

The command near disappeared upon the lashing wind, but heat rushed through the dragon’s body beneath his clinging limbs. The sky was dyed crimson by the firestorm, and a smile stretched across Luke’s face.

Chapter 22: Underestimation

Chapter Text

King’s Landing

Aemond wound his way back to the Red Keep through the narrow alleyways of Flea Bottom. The grasping hands of a crone darted out from near his feet, and he gasped, his already erratic heart leaping painfully into his throat.

Annoyed to be so easily startled, Aemond twitched his cloak away and hurried his footsteps, pulling his hood further over his head to ensure his hair remained hidden, his mind never once stopping its racing.

He’d barely taken a moment’s rest since his return from Dorne—a sojourn which, as it turned out, had been more blessing than curse. Yet despite Aegon’s new alliance with Yronwood, Aemond had not allowed himself to celebrate, for if he was going to win Aegon the crown for good this time, there was much he needed to do.

Upon his return, after an hour in the bath (trying his hardest to put Helaena’s accusing, distant eyes from his mind), Aemond had come to the inevitable hypothesis that Daemon had been given another chance at life, just as he had. How else to explain his uncle’s presence over Shipbreaker Bay? How else to explain that Luke was not dead this time?

Over the next days, every new report that flew into the rookery—first that the previously neutral Tarth and the Parchments had declared for Rhaenyra, and second that Borros Baratheon had somehow managed to get himself bedridden and usurped by a girl younger than Aemond herself, all after Daemon’s extended stay upon Tarth—only added to Aemond’s suspicions.

And for many days now, from the moment he woke to the moment he slept, black terror gurgled relentless in the hidden depths of his gut. Even his dreaming hours were dribbled with the secret fear, for Dark Sister slicing into his skull had taught Aemond how his arrogance had blinded him to what his uncle could do. The lengths he’d go to get his way.

If Daemon had truly returned, with all those memories of lost battles and sons, he would use his ruthless knowledge to torch their cause to the ground. If his family fell under Daemon’s mercy this time, it would not only be Grandfather’s head on a spike.

It was lucky, then, that Aemond was armed with foreknowledge too. Constantly he reminded himself of this, and that helped ebb the gnawing fear.

Though Luke still lived, Aemond had wasted no time in convincing Aegon to guard every door to the hidden passageways he knew of. And just as he’d predicted, Daemon’s assassins had come on that moonless night. Though his preoccupation with protecting Mother, Helaena and the children had led Larys Strong to lose his feet entirely and Grandfather to be confined to his bed, at least both men kept his lives. At least they would still have their scheming counsel going forward.

Aemond would need it to rein in Aegon’s raging impulses and the blood-thirsty broken heart of Criston Cole.

Yet it was not until today that Aemond had his true confirmation, and though he’d been prepared for it, the knowledge still made his heart pound painfully against his sternum. Skirting around a foul puddle and ducking into a familiar alleyway, Aemond played for the tenth time the events of this morning.

He’d found one of the sell swords he’d engaged during his time as Prince Regent to spirit Alys Rivers out of Harrenhal the moment his suspicions about Daemon had arisen, and this morning, he’d come to meet her at the inn where he’d installed her.

Aemond had told Mik Sixfingers that he might need his minions to drug or take Alys away by force, but he should not have underestimated her visions in the fire. When Mik’s men had told her it was he who sent them, Alys had come eagerly, and this morning, when Aemond walked into her rooms, his former lover had greeted him as an old friend.

If Aemond had been unsure whether he had truly died and returned to his past, this day would have cleared all doubts.

“Do you know me, my lady?” Aemond had asked her, and a slow smile had spread over her finely-wrought face.

“Ah, I do not, my prince, but I think you knew me. Once.”

She’d placed her silky-smooth hand upon his elbow, and every memory of her lithe body tangled with his in those nights at Harrenhal had surged in Aemond’s mind, entirely unwelcome. He’d yanked himself away from her touch amidst velvety laughter.

Alys Rivers was a haunting beauty—snowy skin set with features of coal. That much Aemond had never denied. Yet it was not until he’d realised, before his death, that she seemed to have that same otherworldly sight Helaena had been blessed with that he’d felt an inkling of attraction. He’d been unable to stay away from her afterwards, for it was only with her that he could feel a tiny sliver of Helaena’s sweetness.

Stolen so mercilessly by Daemon’s kinslaying.

But if Alys was starlight, then Helaena was the moon. When the moon still shone full and silver, there could be no place for the elusive twinkling of stars. And this time, Aemond was determined that Helaena’s light never left her.

Alys seemed to sense this too, for she made no more attempts to renew their former affair. Instead, she’d bade him sit before her hearth, and said,

“I see it on you, my prince. Your past. Your would-be future. All those whose lives you’d take with Vhagar’s flame. The blood and hellfire adorn your hair and shoulders.”

So. That was why Helaena had shrunk from him that day of his return, Aemond realised. That was why she still frowned each time she saw him, still looked at him as if at a stranger.

“Is there no way to rid myself of it? I am changed, but I remain myself.”

The question had slipped out, and at once he regretted his loose tongue.

Another laugh answered him, grating no matter its smoothness.

“Oh, you need not worry, my prince,” Alys crooned. “Your little queen shrinks from the armour of murder you now wear. If you wish her to see you once more, you need only shed it for her.”

Aemond waited, silent, expressionless, but Alys would say no more. He shook his head. Alys, like Helaena, had always spoken of visions in riddles. It would have to be enough to know that Helaena was not lost to him entirely.

And it was this knowledge, too, that finally calcified his new resolve.

In those moments when he first awoke in Dorne, Aemond had let himself indulge in the fantasy that perhaps he could take Helaena and the children and fly far away from this brewing war. Had tried to convince himself that he’d be content like that, with her, living out their lives in quiet anonymity.

But he’d forgotten about his mother, about his brother. He’d forgotten that beneath their calculation and folly, he still mattered to them. Aegon had shed tears for him, had sent assassins to avenge him, and in the past days, his brother had brought him into his council, looking always to Aemond for his opinions, and his mother had clung to his every word whenever he spoke.

Perhaps they finally saw Aemond for the asset he was. Perhaps it was the knowledge that it was Aemond’s doing that prevented Grandfather’s assassination. No matter the reason, already they valued him more than they ever had, and with each passing day, Aemond found it harder to imagine himself abandoning his family when they had need of him.

And in his bed at night, as he stared at the shadows of his canopy, Aemond found himself deciding that perhaps this was the reason he was given this second chance. It was a second chance for Aegon and Mother too, not only for Helaena and his sweet niece and nephews.

Perhaps the gods intended all along for Aegon to rule as king. For Helaena to take her rightful place as queen, to be worshipped and adored and remembered into eternity.

And would it truly be so terrible, to carry on as they always had? Aegon seeking his pleasures elsewhere while Aemond was free to love Helaena in the dark? If he were honest with himself, what other way could there be to exist within his family?

It had been thus for years, and maybe the fact that, if he asked it of her now, Helaena would not run away with him was enough proof that that path was one of folly.

Aegon was not made to be king, but he would have Grandfather’s council as well as his own. Aemond would make sure of it in this new life. And in time, he would learn to be a good king. He was his brother, after all, and now he seemed primed to listen to Aemond’s council.

No matter how much Aemond knew he himself was more suited to sit the Iron Throne, the gods had seen fit to make Aegon the oldest. Perhaps this was the way it was meant to be.

Aemond would secure Aegon’s rule. He would rip Daemon and his dragon limb from limb and see Rhaenyra’s head on a spike, and when all was settled, he and Aegon would both do their duty to family and realm. As things stood, he could not seem to make Helaena happy. The next best thing he could do was ensure she remained queen.

And so Aemond had set about his purpose in coming to Alys this day.

“What of Daemon Targaryen, my lady? Is he like me? Armoured now with murder and war?”

Alys’ smile was sly.

“You ask me questions, but already you have the answers. All that you have lived, Prince Daemon has too, and terrible old magic runs through both of your bones.”

And though he’d expected them, her words still dropped like cold lead in his belly.

“I see,” he murmured, staring into the hearth. “And can you see in the flames, my lady, what my uncle plans?”

“I am no goddess, my prince. Just an old crone the gods have cursed with another eye upon my forehead.” She had joined him by the fire then, staring at the little blaze there, features unmoving like carved ice.

“But I will tell you what I do see. Waves as tall as the Wall, crashing upon Duskendale. Waves the colour of dragon flame, and just as scorching. It will drown thousands there in blood and screams.”

Aemond had frowned. Duskendale. But of course. Daemon would take Harrenhal soon enough, and when he did, Cole would march north along the Rosby Road at Aegon’s bequest. If Daemon knew their plans, he would not allow them to take Duskendale and spring their trap upon Rhaenys at Rook’s Rest. He would ambush them beforehand, and who knew what preparations he was making in secret.

As Aemond climbed the back ways of Aegon’s Hill and slipped through a hidden doorway into Maegor’s Holdfast, he tamped down the rusty fear and turned his mind to untangle the threads of his calculations.

Did Daemon know that Aemond had also returned? He must, if news of his failed assassinations had gotten back to him. But did Daemon suspect that Aemond knew about his foreknowledge? His uncle had always treated Aemond as a boy, even as they faced one another at Harrenhal. More than likely, he thought Aemond too thick to realise.

And for the first time since his return, a calm certainty washed over him, muting the fear. Daemon thought he knew Aemond. Thought he could plan his attacks around Aemond’s weaknesses. Aemond would make his uncle pay dearly for that underestimation.

~*~

Some days later

****

Alicent clutched the stone basin of the gardrobe, coughing as the contents of her morning meal splashed out from her throat. Tears stung her eyes and her lips felt swollen and raw, but as her stomach released its burden, the sick panic seemed to fade, if only a touch.

It had been a great many years since she’d indulged this repulsive instinct, but since Viserys died and events exploded out of her control, she’d found herself needing the comfort of this girlhood habit, especially as it would be quite unseemly for a dowager queen to have fingernails chewed to bloody stumps.

****

Before breakfast this day, news had arrived that Daemon and Rhaenyra had flown to Harrenhal. Ser Simon Strong had yielded the castle without so much as a word of protest, and even Alicent had felt thrumming anger at the old man’s betrayal.

As she’d always known, Lord Larys was the only Strong who was worth anything at all. And despite his faults, Alicent thanked the Seven that they would not be deprived of his help in the coming struggle.

Yet when Aegon had near broken the small council table in his fury, crying for Criston Cole to ready his army to march up the Rosby Road, Alicent’s fury had frozen to dread.

When Rhaenyra had allowed Daemon to send assassins for her father, Alicent had known there could be no reconciliation. Had even been glad that she’d not tried and made a fool of herself. Rhaenyra was lost to her, turned against them by Daemon’s vile influence. And there would be war.

Yet the thought of true battle now still made her cold. How Viserys would turn in his grave, knowing that his children would tear the realm open so soon after his death. And with Father absent to curb Aegon’s violent response, Alicent had only been able to sink into her chair as he and Ser Criston planned their advance.

“Is this truly wise?” she’d whispered to Aemond, clutching at her son’s hand. “Should we not do as your grandfather says and wait for the Triarchy to send their ships?”

Since his return from Dorne, Aemond had been a great reassurance to her. It had been he who’d saved Father’s and Lord Larys’ lives, and now she looked to him, hoping he could calm his brother—for Aegon, too, seemed more willing to listen to his counsel.

But Aemond only shook his head.

“Wise or not, Mother, Aegon will not change his mind on this,” he said under his breath. “Don’t you see? It terrifies him to know that the Blacks have the Riverlands in hand. The rejections from the Vale and the North, not to mention news of those Reach houses who have turned traitor…Aegon feels the threat now, and he will make his advance.”

He offered her a small smile then.

“But don’t worry. Perhaps it will be to our advantage.”

Alicent had let his words take the edge off her fear. It had been Aemond’s words, too, that had convinced her it would not be entirely foolish to ally themselves with the Yronwood usurper, though Father had protested the alliance in the few hours he’d awakened after his injury.

Aemond had been right about that, she reminded herself. Aegon had sent two fast ships with gold and sellswords to Dorne, skirting around the blockade in the night.

News had come only recently that Yronwood’s host had swiftly taken Sunspear, and surely the advantages of having the Prince of Dorne as their ally would outweigh any bad feeling in the realm that Aegon had supported a lord in usurping his liege.

Yet later that morning, by her father’s sickbed, Alicent’s doubts had once again arisen, bile burning up her throat.

“You must stop him,” Father wheezed, struggling to sit up against the pillows. Alicent hurried to lift his shoulder, careful not to upset his bandages.

The lumbering assassin had put two bloody holes into his shoulder and abdomen that night before he was cut down by the guards, and despite the Grand Maester’s assurances that he was recovering at a miraculous speed for his age, Father’s feeble state still made Alicent’s stomach roil.

How could Rhaenyra do this to her? Did she not know, first hand and fresh, what it was to lose her own father?

“It is too soon to act,” Father was saying, “and what good will those few Crownlands houses be to us if they have the Riverlands in hand?”

“It…it will be a show of force, Father,” Alicent had tried. “We will take Duskendale by surprise, and it will be good to show the other traitorous houses what their treason will bring them.”

“No…the risk…did you not say that girl of Daemon’s has claimed Vermithor—” A hacking cough cut off his words, and Alicent pressed her hand to his chest to ease the pain that must jostle his wounds. Father patted her arm.

“I’m alright. But listen to me Alicent. This march north…we will only be throwing valuable men at dragon flames. Daemon will not leave the host unmolested. You must make Aegon wait.”

But Alicent could not make Aegon do anything, not anymore. Her son had slipped so easily from her fingers when Ser Criston had placed the crown upon his head, and now she was entirely helpless to control the direction of this war. She’d excused herself from Father’s bedside then, her stomach churning, her neck prickling with cold sweat.

****

And now here she was, leaning over the gardrobe with the rough stone digging into her ribs. Again she plunged two fingers into her throat, feeling down the spongy expanse of her tongue until she pressed on that flap of skin that made her abdomen heave.

It was acrid yellow liquid that shot up her throat this time, her stomach already empty. Again she coughed, shuddering at the slick feel of saliva on her fingers and dribbling from her lips. But as she rinsed her mouth and washed the remnants of sick from her hand, Alicent could not deny that she felt lighter and steadier than she had only moments ago.

The back of her throat still burning from the foul acid of her stomach, Alicent made her way back to Father’s chambers.

****

She pushed open the chamber door to see Aemond sitting by the bed, her father looking at him with a considering frown on his face.

“What is it,” she asked, approaching them in two quick strides, her heart lifting to her throat once more. Aemond reached absently for her hand, and it settled back down into her chest.

“I was only telling Grandfather my plans, Mother,” he murmured, rising so she could take his chair.

“Your plans?”

“It would seem,” Father said, his breathy voice calmer than it had been, “that Aemond has thought through how we might deal the Blacks a blow should they defend Duskendale.”

Alicent looked up at her son then, finding herself calming at his composed certainty.

“Cole is hoping to take Duskendale by surprise,” Aemond said, “but Daemon will be ready for this attack. He will have taken Harrenhal knowing we will respond.”

Alicent chewed the inside of her cheek.

“Then Ser Criston is marching into an ambush.”

“Not if we are likewise prepared. I cannot speak to the number of men they will have there, but no doubt Daemon will arrive upon Caraxes, and he will recall Rhaenys from her patrol of the Gullet blockade.” Aemond turned to look her in the eye then.

“We must call Daeron back from Oldtown, Mother. They will have two dragons at the very least. Maybe three, if Daemon is willing to allow his daughter into danger upon Vermithor. I doubt Jacaerys will have returned in time from the North, and Baela Targaryen’s dragon is not big enough to be of any threat.”

Alicent’s chest was seized then in a vice.

“But…but your brother is only four and ten. And Tessarion—”

“Four and ten is plenty old,” Father said. “Daeron has always been a precocious boy. And if his last letter is to be believed, Tessarion has been growing quickly. Almost as large as Sunfyre, and more than capable of battle.”

Her youngest boy. So tender in her memory. Was he truly a man now, ready for war as his brothers were?

“We cannot be certain…” she said, her brows knitting, and she felt her fingers dig into Aemond’s calloused palm.

He did not pull away, instead squeezing her hand in response.

“Trust me, Mother,” Aemond said. “Daeron will not disappoint us.”

“So…so it will be you upon Vhagar, and Daeron upon Tessarion. Yet we are still outnumbered, and Vermithor is so big…”

Aemond nodded, then looked back to Father.

“That is what I was telling Grandfather. I have my doubts about whether Vermithor will be at Duskendale, particularly if they think we will have no dragons to counter their ambush. And besides, he is only newly claimed. Who knows if he will listen to the commands of a girl.”

“I see. So…” Alicent looked between Father and Aemond. “So, you believe this move up the Rosby Road can become a victory for us after all?”

Father’s brow had cleared, and Alicent knew that satisfied expression on his face. Aemond had convinced him.

“But to be safe,” Aemond continued, “Aegon must be prepared to join us at Duskendale. He need not follow the host, naturally, but on the day of our attack, he should fly out upon Sunfyre.”

Alicent gasped.

“And leave King’s Landing undefended?”

“We will not be undefended,” Father said. “Dreamfyre is well as ever in the Dragonpit, and Helaena—”

“Father! Helaena is not made for war!”

“No, she isn’t.” Aemond let go her hand, turning his back on them to face the window, his shoulders stiff. Yet his voice was still steady as he continued.

“Daemon thinks he knows us, Mother. He believes we will not leave King’s Landing with only Dreamfyre for its defence. This we will use to our advantage. The Blacks will focus all their dragons and resources upon this ambush, and they will have no window to attack us here with just a day or two of Aegon’s absence. Three dragons will always be safer than just two.”

Her heart was racing, Alicent realised, but Father’s confident expression did not fade, and Aemond’s words held only certainty.

She dug her nails into her palm, breathing out a long breath and feeling her head clear. She knew nothing of war and strategy. If both Father and Aemond were sure, then perhaps this was the best way.

All her children would be upon their dragons, she reminded herself. Soaring above all the bloodshed. Vhagar was the largest living creature upon this earth, and each of her boys were fierce fighters besides, even Daeron. It would be alright.

“Fine then,” she finally said. “No doubt Aegon will be eager to ride into battle wearing his crown. If you both think this the fastest way to end the war, it will have to do.”

Aemond returned to her side then, giving her shoulder one last comforting squeeze.

“You will see, mother. We will deal the Blacks a crippling blow at Duskendale.”

He headed to the door, but then turned to address Father once more.

“Oh, and I’ll have need of your seal, Grandfather, as Hand of the King.” he said, a calculating curl playing at the corner of his mouth.

“I will pen a letter to Prince Cletus Yronwood. It is time they repaid us for our support, now that they have Sunspear’s resources firmly in hand.”

Chapter 23: Calm before the firestorm

Chapter Text

Some days prior

They arrived at Harrenhal a sennight after leaving Dragonstone.

Just as Daemon had predicted, when they flew above those crumbling towers upon Syrax and Caraxes that evening, the Strong banners were quickly replaced with white sheets. By the time their men rode to the gates on horseback, Ser Simon Strong had thrown open the gates, bowing and scraping despite his trembling.

They had ridden non-stop for days, and for the sake of speed, their small host had packed little in the way of creature comforts, which meant Rhaenyra had spent each night sleeping outdoors with only cloaks and Daemon’s arms to cushion her against the hard earth.

Yet Rhaenyra had given instructions for Syrax’s care and left Daemon to see to assigning their men their guard posts. Before ought else, there was one place she needed to visit, no matter that her every muscle was stiff and leaden.

It had been six years since Rhaenyra had given this accursed castle even a glancing thought. Perhaps that had been wise. For now, in the patch of Godswood that had overgrown into the charred ruins of what used to be the lord’s tower, the unexpected twist of loss and guilt seized around her chest and crushed at her lungs.

That was how Daemon found her—collapsed against a young tree, hand clutching at her loose linen shirt, staring unseeing at the jagged rises of ancient stone. Hearing the imagined flames roaring in her ears. Struggling to draw breath.

“You did not wish to change out of your riding clothes?” His voice came soft upon the breeze—a whisper of comfort. Rhaenyra shook her head, her eyes unmoving.

“Later,” she whispered. “I needed to come here first.”

He paused to look around the barren patch of wood before easing himself down beside her with a sigh. For some moments, they sat there in the twilight, listening to the emerging chorus of nightingales.

“I believe you now,” Rhaenyra finally said, “when you say this fire was lit not by curse or gods, but by the grasping hands of man.”

She had told him then that she did not believe Alicent capable of cold murder. But those were vipers Alicent surrounded herself with, and their black poison had long ago bled into her heart.

“Hm. And how convenient it was for them. One clean blaze that made Larys lord and Otto the Hand.”

Rhaenyra shut her eyes. The lengths men would go to hold power in their hands.

“It is a shame your assassins did not manage to take either of their heads,” she said. “Larys Strong above all. To participate in the murder of his own father and brother, I…even wolves do not eat their kin.”

Daemon laughed then, a brittle, mirthless sound.

“Only man is capable of sinking to such depravity. And don’t worry about Otto and Larys. We will have them at our mercy soon enough, to do with as you please. As Jace and Luke please.”

Rhaenyra had not the energy now to question his certainty. It was another long silence, scattered with cicada song and the blinking of fireflies, before she said, very softly,

“He would have died for me, I think.” And she knew Daemon understood she spoke of Ser Harwin.

“He was honourable, and good, and brought me a sliver of joy in those years when my heart was dust. And I let him leave to his death.”

“How could you have known?” His hand slipped around the smooth bark and found hers. A glancing touch, before he withdrew it to rest upon the patchy moss beside her. There if she needed.

He was right, of course. She could not have known. And what could she have done then, when Lord Lyonel insisted Ser Harwin accompany him back to Harrenhal? Draw more attention and credence to the rumours by making a fuss and insisting he stay?

Rhaenyra knew this perilous game of what could have been. Each time she allowed her mind to travel down the treacherous path, she only emerged beaten and bruised with guilt.

“What have you got there?” Daemon asked now, glancing at the bundle by her feet. She retrieved it and untied the rough linen on her lap, revealing an ivory candle nestled in a painted old shirt. When she held it up to him, she could see Daemon frowning as he examined the deliberate tears, the careful paint—stripes of blue, red and green upon a backdrop of white.

“Luke gave it to me before we left,” she told him. “This…this is Jace’s shirt. Jace’s handiwork. It’s Faith custom to tear one’s clothes in mourning.”

In the golden dawn on the morning of their departure, Luke had come into Rhaenyra’s chambers with the bundle, his eyes darting about the room, looking anywhere but at her.

“Jace left this,” he’d mumbled, setting it upon her desk. “He knew you’d be going to Harrenhal. He asked…he asked that you put this where Ser Harwin died.” Luke shuffled his feet, then drew a breath and finally met her stinging eyes.

“I put a candle in there too. Would you light it for us, Mother?”

For a moment, Rhaenyra’s heart had plummeted. Of course Luke knew too. Not once had they spoken of Ser Harwin in the years they’d lived on Dragonstone, but she should have known that Luke would realise, as Jace did. And Joffrey? Would she have to tell him one day, or would his brothers?

That selfish part of her heart would prefer it if none of her sons ever found out the truth, but perhaps it was better, this way. With everything out in the open, as much as it could be. So Harwin could have sons to mourn and remember him.

She’d clutched Luke to her chest then, kissing his soft hair.

“I will,” she’d promised. “And you must promise me that you understand…there is no shame in any of this. Do you hear me? No shame, especially not for you and your brothers.”

Now, amidst the charred ruins smelling of moss and death, Rhaenyra rose slowly to her feet. Beyond the stiff tiredness, she felt raw and fragile, as if someone had scrubbed steel wool upon every inch of her skin, and she flinched at Daemon’s hand on her elbow before letting herself sink against his steadying touch.

Without speaking, he helped her lay out Jace’s torn shirt, setting Luke’s candle upon the painted colours of House Strong. Daemon blew upon the Essosi flame stick* he retrieved from the bundle, and Rhaenyra touched the smouldering tip to the wick until a flame sprung to life.

“I’m glad you had his company,” Daemon said, voice very low. “I’m glad you had someone to rely on in that vipers’ den. And I’m glad for the sons he gave you.”

Love swelled so warm and tender in her chest that it drew a whimper from her throat. How grey, how unbearable her life would have been had Daemon not returned to her when he did. He knew her down to her marrow, and loved her boys like his own, and now he stood here with her, lending her his strength, chasing away the shadowing tendrils of loss.

They stayed until the last whispers of twilight had sunk away beyond the trees, watching the flickering flame eat down the candle until there was naught but a puddle of wax upon Jace’s mourning shirt. Daemon dug a shallow grave with the sheath of his sword, and together they buried the remnants beneath the new moss that grew over that charred earth.

They returned to the looming castle, following the steward into the lords’ chambers that had been prepared for them. Daemon waved away the old man’s offer to summon maids and nodded to Ser Erryk standing guard as he closed the door, and then they were alone. Servants had lit a large blaze in the hearth and hung heavy tapestries upon the stone walls, but the cavernous room had yet to lose the chill of its disuse.

A screen had been placed to one side of the hearth, and behind it Rhaenyra saw the steam rising from the tub, its undoubtedly hot water beckoning enticingly to her. Daemon guided her to sit in the chair before the screen, then sank to his haunches before her, reaching for her foot.

Rhaenyra breathed a laugh, but even that movement made her ribs ache.

“Why did you decline Ser Simon’s offer of maids?”

Daemon raised his brows up at her, hands working at the laces of her riding boots.

“You trust strangers of unknown loyalties to attend you? I don’t.”

She sank her teeth into her lip.

“So, you’ll play my handmaiden, will you?”

He made a triumphant sound as he pulled the boot off and started on the other.

“Why shouldn’t I? I’ve had a lot of practice.”

Rhaenyra laughed again, giving his shoulder a prod with her aching toes. He pulled her other boot off, then caught her foot in his hand, the warmth of his palm seeping into her skin.

“I see you’re not too worn out,” he said, grinning up at her. Rhaenyra peered down at him through her lashes—on one knee before her, silver hair gleaming in the firelight, unrolling her stocking and running his calloused fingers up her leg. A hot shiver shot up her belly despite her fatigue.

“I’m alright,” she murmured, pulling her foot away before things could get out of hand. “But…but the water’s going to get cold. If you’re going to be my handmaiden you’ll have to be faster than this.”

It was Daemon’s turn to laugh, and from his expression, he knew precisely what he was doing to her. Rhaenyra pushed herself up off the chair, stifling the groan as her stiff muscles protested the movement, and quickly undid the laces of her riding tunic and leather breeches as Daemon kicked off his own boots.

In the dancing shadows, Rhaenyra stepped into the steaming tub and sank into the blessed heat, sighing as her body relaxed against the smooth linens that lined the basin.

“Come join me,” she called, hearing the rustle of his clothes as he undressed. She unbound her hair and sank her head below the water, emerging to see him stepping around the screen—gloriously naked, firelight draping the wide expanse of his shoulders and chest. Not bothering to hide her gaze, she watched the taut flexions of his legs as he stepped into the tub, the slight movements of his unroused co*ck, the bob in his muscled throat when he hummed at the water’s heat.

He was watching her too, now, sitting across from her, rough calves bracketing her hips. When Rhaenyra reached for the soap by the basin, she could feel his gaze sliding along her arm and collarbone and dipping to where her nipples floated in and out of the water.

She dipped the fragrant cake into the water and lathered it into her scalp, unable to keep the grin from her face when she caught his eye.

“Glad to wash properly at last, are you?” he asked, grinning back. Elinda had neglected to pack her gentle soap, and she’d had to make do with bathing with only the water from the streams where they’d camped.

Rhaenyra gave him the smallest shrug, trying to avoid engaging those muscles that ached. She’d voiced none of her complaints, not wishing Daemon or any of her men to think her precious or soft.

“Are you not?” she said now, tilting up her chin and handing him the soap. He only made a humming sound, running it over his torso and down into the water, brushing along her hips and thighs as he leaned forward to slide it down his legs.

Daemon settled back against the tub, dropping the soap back in its dish.

“Now, there’s no need to be stubborn with me.” He reached below the water and plucked her foot up to rest on his firm thigh. Rhaenyra’s hands paused in her hair.

“What are you—”

“Go on. Wash your hair,” he said.

Then he pressed his thumbs into the aching sole of her foot. A surprised groan escaped her throat. Entirely unprepared for the exquisite relief that rolled up her tired leg, she let her eyes close and her head loll back against the wet linens. Gods, had anything ever felt this good?

Daemon chuckled, hands working their magic down her tender arch and up her tight calves, kneading away the tension with just the right depth of pressure.

“You think I can’t see you’re hurting and stiff everywhere?” he asked as Rhaenyra languidly resumed rubbing soap suds into her scalp. “You’ve never flown so long in your life, and I hardly think you’ve ever slept on the forest floor, princess.”

Rhaenyra had, in fact, spent one night in her life sleeping with her head propped up on a log, but speaking of that would necessitate bringing up Criston Cole—always a distasteful subject, and especially now, when her whole body was purring with warm, satisfied contentment.

“You always did know what I needed, uncle,” she murmured instead. Daemon reached for her other foot, and she flexed her toes and traced up the slippery skin of his abdomen, giggling like a girl at his sharp intake of breath.

When she deemed her hair sufficiently clean, she sank once more below the water, shaking her head to disperse the soap. Daemon rose half out of the water to reach for the pitcher, and when she emerged, he poured clean water over her hair to rinse out the remaining bubbles.

Rhaenyra piled her wet hair atop her head, then tugged Daemon down into the water again, this time to sit between her legs with his shoulders pressed into her breasts.

“Mmm. What are you doing?”

“Seeing you get a proper washing too,” Rhaenyra said.

She ran her hands through his hair, slowly pulling apart the little braids she’d put in to keep it out of his face while flying. Gently, she pushed down on his shoulders so he submerged his head in the tub. When he rose again, she began lathering up his hair too, fingers massaging his scalp.

He relaxed against her, his rigid muscles softening, and a thick sigh rumbled against her chest.

“Damn,” he whispered. “Don’t stop.”

She could feel his tension melting under her hand. His body might be more used to the rough demands of campaign than hers, but she had not missed the frequency with which he’d frowned and rubbed his temples these past weeks. Worrying about the war. Worrying on her behalf.

Rhaenyra smiled to herself, happy to return the favour.

When the water grew tepid, they dried themselves before the fire and dressed, and Daemon ushered her down into the chair once more so he could knead her stiff shoulders and neck. Lulling her with soft, persistent pressure. Her eyelids grew heavy, and her limbs felt like they could sink into the cushions.

“Rhaenyra.”

“Hm?” She sounded tired even to her own ears, her hum melding into the relaxed haze.

When he spoke, his voice was very close to her ear—very low, very warm.

“There are endless men who would gladly die for you. Who will die for you.”

She tilted her head to look at him. A wry grin quirked at his lips.

“Even now, they’re arriving by the dozens. Smallfolk and petty knights and lords. To fight for your throne.”

Rhaenyra drew a quick breath, his words rippling like balmy waves through her chest.

Endless men, was it, who would die for her? But it had only ever mattered that Daemon would. And she knew that now. Had always known, had she not?

Rhaenyra smiled sleepily up at him. Tomorrow, she’d worry about the responsibility—the countless lives—that now weighed as her crown did upon her head. Tomorrow. Now, she just wanted one last night of stolen peace.

“Take me to bed then. I’ll need to receive them all in the morning.”

~~~

In the following days, so many men trickled into Harrenhal to declare their loyalties that at times Rhaenyra felt dizzy with the reality of it all.

At first, she had stood atop the watchtower, awed by the stream of single knights on horseback riding through the gates, and even more by the little groups of smallfolk—arriving on foot with axes, pitchforks and even clubs slung over their shoulders.

As Daemon had promised, it was not only lords who rallied to her call for arms.

“They’ve put their whole livelihoods aside to risk their heads for my sake,” she’d murmured, something hot swelling in her chest, threatening to brim over.

She’d known she’d have supporters in the Riverlands—had expected loyalty—but to truly see each individual man arrive, often with only a parcel and a weapon and the clothes upon his back, was a different matter altogether.

Ser Errky had made a brisk bow, his heavy armour clinking on the wind.

“No doubt the promise of riches and glory in battle drive them also, but the smallfolk have honour, Your Grace, and they’ve not forgotten that you are your father’s true heir.”

Rhaenyra had turned to look at him, and when her gaze settled on the silver glint off the pink scar he’d carved into his cheek, her eyes had stung.

And so, each morning, (despite Daemon’s raised eyebrows), Rhaenyra had summoned new arrivals into the cavernous ruins of Harrenhal’s Great Hall. Under the shafts of sunlight streaming in through the makeshift wooden roof, she called every man forward, no matter his station.

Determined to hear the name of every man who might die for her sake before Daemon organised them into detachments led by those wandering knights not sworn to any lord.

By the third day, the Riverland lords had begun to arrive. Freys of the Twins, Pipers of Pinkmaiden, Rootes and Darrys and Mallisters and Vances…some arrived with small companies of household knights, pledging their swords to her on bended, while others led entire hosts behind them and camped in the woods around Harrenhal.

Those latter lords no doubt wished to avoid the financial burdens of providing lodgings for their hosts out of their own purses, but Rhaenyra saw nothing amiss in using Harrenhal’s significant wealth to provide for these armies.

They were here to fight for her claim, after all. Rhaenyra had no doubt Lord Lyonel would have wished his family coffers to aid Father’s rightful heir, and Harwin…well, the throne was the birthright of their son too, was it not?

It was not long before an entire world arose in and around Harrenhal—lords filling the empty chambers, knights and smallfolk camped in the bailey and surrounding woods. Ready to march south.

If they could deal a significant blow to Aegon’s army at Duskendale, the time would be ripe to march on King’s Landing, cutting the city off from the Westerlands and the Reach before the Greens had time to rebuild their forces.

Yet despite Daemon’s words to Rhaenyra that first night, the Riverlands were not united in their support of her claim. As the days passed, Rhaenyra felt keenly the Tully absence at Harrenhal.

“They are the Lords Paramount of the Trident,” Rhaenyra told Daemon after dinner one evening. These days, the Godswood the only quiet space open to the fresh night air, and now they strolled slowly over the moss-cushioned humus, Daemon carrying a lamp in one hand.

They had received word only this morning that Cole’s forces had set out up the Darry Road. The encounter at Duskendale loomed like a bloody sunset on the horizon.

“I fear, once you and I leave Harrenhal, that the lords here will descend into chaos without any natural leader amongst them,” Rhaenyra continued. “Already I fear some here quietly question my legitimacy if their liege lord refuses to declare for me.”

Daemon shook his head.

“I don’t expect the host here will need to mobilise until after we’ve returned from Duskendale. No real decisions need be made in our absence.

“On smaller matters, Lord Petyr Piper is the oldest amongst the lords. Fortunately, he has Samwell Blackwood for a goodson. The other houses will naturally defer to their joint judgement.”

Rhaenyra huffed a laugh.

“That is if Blackwood’s host ever makes it here.”

Every other day, they’d received ravens from Lord Samwell, reaffirming his loyalty and detailing the inching of his large host along the River Road. Progress seemed to be…slow, if one were being generous.

Daemon shot her a wry smile in the flickering lantern light and slipped his hand over hers, lacing their fingers together.

“It seems your presence here has inspired every able-bodied man on Blackwood territory to join this war, and the fact the Brackens seem to have declared for Aegon is only more fire on the fuel.”

Rhaenyra felt her cheeks heat. No matter that her eyes had grown used to the throngs of men here, all to fight for her claim, the thought that she could inspire such fervour was still surreal.

She gave his hand a quick squeeze.

“As for legitimacy, I am not too concerned, either,” Daemon continued.

“The Tullys are upstarts. Before the Conquerer, Blackwood and Bracken had long been the dominant forces in the Riverlands, and even now, their deference is only a thin veil.”

Rhaenyra worried her lip.

“But you cannot be sure that Aegon will not somehow convince the Tullys to join their side. I know you say it unlikely, but still…And how would that look if they did join the Greens alongside the Brackens? Not just to the Riverland lords, but the rest of the kingdoms as well?”

Daemon fell silent then, his thumb absently running over her knuckles in that way he did when mulling over new thoughts.

“Daemon?”

When he looked up at her then, there was a curious lift to his brows.

“Perhaps you’re right. The Tullys seem determined to stay neutral, but perhaps they are like Tarth. Once a dragon lands in their bailey, they might change their minds.”

Rhaenyra stopped and took in a sharp breath.

“If Aemond or Daeron flies to Riverrun before us…we might not even know they’ve declared for the Greens until they decide to ambush us somewhere.”

Daemon was nodding now, eyes fixed to their joined hands.

“Right…of course…Aemond…” He sighed then.

“I will need to make a trip posthaste, then. See if can’t convince Elmo Tully that our superiority in dragon numbers will protect them from the Greens.

Rhaenyra frowned.

“Should I not go? Won’t my personal promises carry more weight?”

Daemon grinned then, the shadows highlighting the rare dimples that bracketed his mouth.

“You are queen, Your Grace. Queens need not go to her subjects and try to convince them. Let your subjects do your negotiating for you, hm?”

He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to her fingers. Rhaenyra felt her own lips curl into a reluctant smile.

“I’ll leave at dawn on the morrow, and I’ll be back in a day or two.”

~~~

Yet on the day Daemon was set to return, as Rhaenyra held midday meal with the Riverlords, the young Harrenhal maester scurried up behind her chair.

“What is it,” she asked under her breath.

“Your Grace.” He bowed. “We’ve received another raven from Lord Blackwood. It seems they’ve been engaging the Brackens in skirmishes as they passed by their lands, and this morning, a host of Bracken and Vance men have surprised them along the River Road.”

Chapter 24: On the banks of the Red Fork

Chapter Text

Daemon had met a great deal of men in his forty-eight years upon this earth. He fancied that he’d seen his share of difficult characters—had dealt with a plethora of unyielding lords and knew how to manoeuvre around them.

Yet never in his life had Daemon encountered a man quite so cheerfully slippery as Elmo Tully.

He had guided Caraxes down into the triangular bailey of Riverrun, ignoring the exclamations of the men to take in the castle’s unique engineering, and soon the young lord had emerged without the smallest trace of trepidation about his person.

“My prince,” bowed Lord Elmo, guiding Daemon into the castle. “You honour us with this unexpected visit.”

“Not enough to warrant a welcome from Lord Tully himself, though,” Daemon said lightly, knowing full well Lord Grover was confined to his bed as Borros Baratheon now was.

“Ah, seven thousand apologies, my prince. My grandsire is entirely indisposed from his illness, though I am certain he would be most honoured should you wish to meet him in his chambers.”

Daemon made a noncommittal sound and followed Lord Elmo into the Great Hall, plucking up the chunk of salted bread offered him. As Tully led the way up a set of grand stairs to a private audience chamber above, Daemon studied the man who ruled Riverrun in all but name.

Elmo Tully was of an age with Rhaenyra, with a sturdy build and unremarkable features, though his hair was a shockingly garish red. (Gods, Daemon knew red hair was an ancestral trait, but Lord Elmo’s colouring bordered on outrageous—almost as outrageous as the peculiar names the Tullys liked to give their sons.)

Yet the most notable thing about the man was that, since spotting Daemon and Caraxes in his bailey yard, not once had his affable smile slipped from his face.

Now, ushering Daemon into the seat of honour at an ornate walnut table, Lord Elmo poured wine into a goblet and turned that smile to Daemon once more.

“Please, my prince. How can House Tully be of service to you this day?”

Oh, was this how Elmo Tully wished to play his hand? Inwardly, Daemon sighed.

He’d have preferred the man voice outright his desire to remain neutral. Open the way for discussion, at least. He had little patience for sitting here and talking in circles when his time could be better spent organising the Riverland host and planning for Duskendale, but for Daemon to breach the subject of their declaration first would only suggest weakness and desperation.

Daemon had not intended to make this trip to Riverrun at all. He had learned over the course of the war, before, that Grover Tully raged day and night within his castle walls, wishing to send men in support of Aegon, for the throne was no place for a woman. It was only his infirmity that allowed his grandson and heir to maintain neutrality.

And since Daemon’s return, this had been of no real concern. In that past life, they had secured the Riverlands without Tully involvement.

Yet when Rhaenyra had mentioned Aemond, it occurred to him that his troublesome nephew might decide to force Tully’s hand this time. Riverrun could not rival even the combined forces of Raventree Hall and the Twins, but Rhaenyra had the right of it. It would be quite the political nuisance if the Lord Paramount of the Trident publicly sided with the Greens.

Annoyed at being roped into this farcical dance, Daemon sipped at his wine, buying himself time to think. He could simply threaten the man outright—Caraxes was just outside—but Riverrun did command a significant number of skilled soldiers. If he wished to be secure in their assistance later in this war—perhaps to march into the Westerlands—he’d need to allow Tully to declare for Rhaenyra of his own free will.

“Actually, I have heard of your grandsire’s illness,” Daemon began. “Lord Grover always was a great friend to my late brother, and since Her Grace and I are recently arrived at Harrenhal, I thought to make a visit. See that Lord Grover is well.”

He raised a brow. “I’d not expected his illness to be so…advanced, that he could not even greet me at your door.”

For the first time since his arrival, the smile disappeared from Tully’s face, replaced by a dramatic frown of concern.

“Alas, my prince, my grandsire’s condition is indeed dire.” He inclined his head. “I thank you for thinking of us, and of course, you have my deepest condolences on the passing of King Viserys.”

“Hm. Kind of you,” he said, examining his silver goblet. “If your grandsire is truly unwell, I’ll not disturb his rest. But since I’m here.” Here he gave Tully a pointed look. “You might as well show me around your castle. I’ve long heard of Riverrun’s…brilliant engineering.”

Only a brief silence betrayed Elmo Tully’s surprise. In an instant, he recovered himself, leading the way from the audience chamber with that increasingly grating smile plastered back on his face. As they returned to the courtyard, Caraxes raised his head with a deep rumble, and Daemon was gratified to see Tully flinch, no matter how slight the movement.

They made their way around the keep, Tully pointing to the pulley systems that closed the river gates, the moat that had been allowed to fill and make an artificial island out of the castle, the water wheel that facilitated the gate mechanisms.

Though by far the least imposing seat of any great lord of the realm, Riverrun, Daemon would gladly admit, was a work of resourceful ingenuity. Tullys of old had recognised their lack of military superiority, choosing to build their seat at the confluence of two rivers and using the natural geography to create near impenetrable defences against attacks by land and water.

It should come as no surprise that the descendants of such builders would be far from knuckleheads. Daemon only needed to make Elmo Tully see that the danger of aerial attacks his ancestors had not planned for would be best avoided by declaring for Rhaenyra.

“Your forebears were clever men indeed, to build a castle with such thorough understanding of your…circ*mstances,” Daemon finally said when they returned to the bailey once more. Caraxes dozed now in the yard, and clusters of Tully men-at-arms milled about, some attending to their duties, some simply gawping at the dragon in their midst.

He raised his voice to be sure all could hear him clearly.

“I wonder, Lord Elmo, if you have inherited your ancestral intellect in these turbulent times.”

“Well, you flatter me, my prince. I cannot boast to any intelligence—only a duty to protect what has been entrusted to my keeping as future lord.”

“Hm. Just so. And does that protection take into account the open sky above your castle?” It was as close to a threat as Daemon would make, he decided. This young lord would prove to be a most useful ally, if only he would come somewhat willingly.

Finally, that affable smile wavered on Tully’s face. Some of his men had turned their heads, clearly listening in on their exchange.

“Perhaps you’d like to return inside, my prince,” Tully said. “Have some wine after our trek about the grounds.”

“No, I think I prefer to stand out here for now,” Daemon said, shrugging. “Fresh air, you know?”

Tully sighed, his face an expressionless mask now. For some moments, he seemed to consider his words. Then he said, voice also raised.

“I will not deceive you, Prince Daemon. My lord grandfather is adamant that we fly Aegon’s banners from our towers. No matter my…disagreement with his opinions, he is still the Lord of Riverrun. My liege lord. It would not do for me to act directly against his wishes. I can only choose not to act at all. Let neutrality protect us.

“To speak plainly, my prince, both sides of your family are dragon riders. As you so rightly say, we have naught but open sky above our castle.”

Daemon smiled. It was then that he finally recognised that nagging familiarity that had sprung in the back of his mind from the moment he had encountered Elmo Tully. Truly, the Tullys were a peculiar bunch in their naming habits.

“If I am not mistaken, Maester Conger of Storm’s End is a relation of yours.”

Tully frowned.

“I…uh, yes, of course. My granduncle Conger is the Maester at Storm’s End.”

“Then no doubt, despite your self-imposed isolation, you know of the goings on there.”

A pause.

“Well, yes. Quite the unfortunate thing, the accident that befell Lord Borros.”

“Quite. Despite Borros Baratheon’s folly in treating with the usurper, his daughter has taken her father’s unfortunate injury as a chance to guide her house and the Stormlands upon the path of loyalty.”

He allowed his smile to deepen.

“It appears your granduncle has lived up to his clever heritage. Every step, he has been a great aid to Lady Cassandra. He understands that when it comes to the dragons of House Targaryen, it will, in the end, be a game of numbers. You’re a smart man, Lord Elmo. Surely securing protection for Riverrun is preferable to closing your gates and hoping both sides forget about your existence.”

He stepped very close then, dropping his voice to a low whisper.

“Because believe me, neither will for long.”

Daemon had expected Elmo Tully to capitulate right then. Had seen the cogs churning in his mind. Instead, the man had pasted that blasted smile back onto his face and somehow wriggled himself out of an outright commitment.

Trout indeed. Elmo Tully lived up to his sigil, Daemon would give him that much.

The rest of the day, Tully had used lordly duties as an excuse to shut himself into his chambers with his steward and knights, and Daemon had been forced to spend the night at Riverrun.

In the morning, he descended the stairs hoping the night had made Tully see reason. But in the audience chamber, Lord Elmo greeted him with a troubled expression. Riverrun’s maester stood with him, and as Daemon approached, Tully handed him a small roll of parchment.

“This came for you but minutes ago, my prince. From Harrenhal.”

Frowning, Daemon unfurled the raven note, feeling tendrils of cold creep up his feet at sight of Rhaenyra’s hasty Valyrian hand.

A Bracken and Vance host have surprised the Blackwoods on the River Road ten miles west of Castle Lynchester. Samwell Blackwood is pleading for immediate assistance. I will fly out shortly—join me as soon as you can.

The cold spread like frost through his veins.

In that past life, the Blackwoods had arrived unmolested at Harrenhal not long after his own arrival, and not with nearly so many men as he seemed to lead now. In council with the other Riverlords, they had concocted a plan to goad Amos Bracken into leaving his castle with the majority of his army. Lord Blackwood had then routed that host at some mill along the way, and Daemon had arrived with a sizable army to overtake Stone Hedge in Bracken’s absence.

That had been a planned ambush, executed with control. What was the meaning of this attack now?

Was it Aemond’s doing? A trick with the shadows of what the Greens had once done at Rook’s Rest? Or did the Brackens see Blackwood’s much-larger host this time and decide to thin out their numbers?

Daemon could not be certain, and his mind was mired in muddy panic, for Rhaenyra’s last words sank into him, corrosive with their poison. Even the fastest horses at Harrenhal would take many hours to reach Castle Lynchester, let alone a substantial host. Rhaenyra intended to fly into the midst of this battle entirely alone, upon a dragon with no experience of war. f*cking hells.

Without another thought for Elmo Tully, Daemon gripped Dark Sister, turned on his heel, and charged out to the bailey.

~*~

“Perhaps I should find you some armour made of steel, Your Grace. Any knight or lord would be honoured to lend theirs to you.”

“I don’t doubt that, Ser Erryk,” Rhaenrya said, holding the borrowed leather breastplate to her chest as one of Daemon’s squires buckled the straps under her arm.

“But I’ve never worn armour in my life. I hardly think flying to meet an army is the best time to learn how to manoeuvre a suit of steel.”

Rhaenyra shrugged her shoulders, trying to adjust her body to fit the stiff enclosure of leather. As it was, her movements felt restricted and tense, and the squire had not even fitted on the sleeves yet. Blacksmiths on Dragonstone had begun work upon a suit of armour for her as soon as she’d decided to fly to Harrenhal, but amidst the myriad preparations for war, that armour had yet to be completed.

“There’s no need for concern, Ser,” she said now, giving the frowning knight a smile over her shoulder. “I’ll take care to fly out of range of arrows. If regular men can charge into battle with cured leather for protection, I’ll be safe enough on dragonback.”

She could tell from his stiff expression that he was not convinced, but there was nothing to be done.

Lord Blackwood had outlined his dire straits in his message this morning. As his unwieldy host snaked into Bracken territory, some of his companies had begun making unsanctioned raids into Bracken keeps and villages, driven by ancestral enmity.

To fit along the River Road, Lord Blackwood had spread his army into a long, thin column—a formation intended for travel, not defence—and by the time he’d learned of the attacks and put a stop to them, the damage had been done. The Bracken retaliation came in the night, cutting Lord Blackwood and his small group of personal knights and banner lords off from the rest of his army with a wall of cavalry.

Had he not awakened before dawn and spotted the advancing men, he might even now be lying in the field with a sword in his chest. Lord Blackwood had sent his only raven to Rhaenyra, pleading for aid, before he prepared to force his way through the blockade.

There was no time to waste if she did not wish the formidable Blackwood army decapitated before this war even began. No time to consider how her heart pounded painfully against her ribs at thought of flying into a battle with only stiff leather and Syrax’s flames for protection.

Before any preparations, she’d penned a hasty raven to Daemon at Riverrun. He would meet her along the River Road, she told herself, and she would not have to face this alone.

In the outer bailey, Syrax looked up from her charred goat, purring as Rhaenyra neared. Trying to take the stiffness out of her leather-bound gait, Rhaenyra walked beside her and stroked a hand over the fine velvet of her nostril.

“We’re to have quite the adventure this morn,” she murmured, trying to let Syrax’s warm breath soothe her fear. “Won’t that be fun, sweet girl?”

Syrax nudged into Rhaenyra’s neck, sniffing restlessly at the leather covering her shoulders. Behind her, Rhaenyra could feel the eyes of every lord and knight present, boring into her neck.

When she had read out Lord Blackwood’s letter, more than half the lords had urged her not to go. They spoke reason, of course. Rhaenyra knew she and Syrax were ill prepared for battle, and this would be nothing like burning an unsuspecting galley. But she had no other choice.

She had held up her hand, and in the silence that followed, she looked from face to face, attempting to settle her own nerves.

“I must go, my lords. As queen, I cannot leave Lord Blackwood to the will of the gods. If it were any one of you in his place, I would do the same.”

And that had been the end of any discussion. Had Daemon not said only the other evening that endless men would be willing to die for her? Would that still be the case if she would not even answer their pleas for aid?

Rhaenyra climbed atop Syrax, trying to hide how clumsy she felt in the armour. Upon the saddle, she carefully secured her legs and hips with the fine bronze chains, unused to the sensation of being so fixed to the seat under her.

She gave her mount a bracing stroke along her neck, then called for her to fly.

Upon the air, Rhaenyra felt her heartbeat finally slow. Her head cleared, taking in the sharp, piney smell of morning, and her mind set to planning as she flew north. The Bracken and Vance armies must have come from the southwest to surround the head of Blackwood’s host, so if she approached from the north to avoid detection…

The dense forest thinned, giving way to the River Road as it snaked alongside the glittering waters of the Red Fork. The road was empty—no doubt a result of recent troop movements—though as she flew over the river, Rhaenyra could see the wooden barges that still drifted lazily east toward Lord Harroway’s Town.

She soared west, following the wide water beneath her left knee. Past the patches of farmland and little stone mills dotting the countryside, past the tiny dots of smallfolk tending to their livelihood—families whose lives may not remain unmolested for much longer.

And for what? What did it matter to the smallfolk below who sat the Iron Throne?

Rhaenyra’s hands tightened on the reins, nails digging into her palm through her gloves. Even a moon turn ago, this sight might have made her waver. But no matter her duty to the realm, did she not have that same duty to her family? To her sweet children, who would never be safe so long as the Greens held power?

Otto, Alicent and Aegon had forced her into this war. Any blood and destruction, any tragedy…it was upon their hands.

The sun emerged behind her then, hot on her scalp, its light bouncing off the water in a blinding sparkle. Rhaenyra squinted, shielding her eyes. That was when she saw the host.

In the distance, across the river, the tree-dotted fields were crowded with the brown-black specks of men and horses topped with sharp, glinting silver. She had no notion how to estimate soldier numbers from the air, but the mass swelled to more than half a square acre at the widest.

To the far west, a long line of men stretched into the distance. The rest of the Blackwood army no doubt, with men funnelling slowly toward the front, pushing, in vain, at the edge of the Bracken host that had cut them off from their lords.

And as she drew near, Rhaenyra could see that the Bracken and Vance army was closing slowly around a point by the river. Around Lord Blackwood with his knights and lords. For their small cluster pushed back at every advance of the hoard around them, though despite their efforts, even from up high Rhaenyra could see their group retreating in on itself.

She was near enough to hear the screeching friction of blades rising from the battle now, rounded by the shouts of men. Her heart sped once more, jumping to her throat, and Syrax gave an agitated rumble.

She scanned the western horizon. It was lined with clouds and still as ice. Of course Daemon could not get here in time. Had her raven even reached Riverrun?

But that could not matter now. She had no other choice. Men loyal to her were dying by that river, and she was the queen they’d put their faith in. Rhaenyra was a Targaryen. Dragonfire ran in her veins. Her ancestors had been warrior queens, and this little battle would not cow her.

“Up, Syrax,” Rhaenyra called, “and silent now,” guiding her mount north as they wheeled high to use the clouds for cover. The Blackwood men were engaged in too close of combat for her to burn those Bracken men at the front of the hoard, but perhaps if she set flame to the lines behind, that would relieve the direct pressure for Lord Blackwood’s small band.

Rhaenyra straightened in her saddle and turned Syrax south. She took one last breath of clean air and gave her mount a reassuring pat. Then she ordered Syrax to dive.

As they shot through the wispy clouds, beads of dew lashed at her cheeks, but soon the air cleared into a relentless tunnel of wind, drying her skin and eyes until they stung. Rhaenyra’s hands were frozen stiff to the reins, her toes unfeeling. All the better, she thought distantly, to keep her body stiff as they dove.

Before her, larger and larger that hoard of men grew, their human shapes upon horses coming into focus—the rise and fall of swords, the twisting movements of helmets and pauldrons…the crimson arcs that shot skyward before figures crumpled.

The river stretched eighty yards beneath her. Seventy as she approached the south bank. At sixty yards above the ground, the line of battle passed under her feet. The sounds of death drowned by the wind.

Every fibre of her body pounded with her speeding blood. Syrax let out a strident scream. Men halted in their tracks and turned up their heads, and even from her height she could see their shock. Their human fear.

You’ve done this before, came a voice from her bones. They are traitors. They would harm you. Let them burn.

Rhaenyra wrenched the command from her throat.

“Dracarys!”

Those panicked faces were the last she saw before all exploded with golden flame.

Blazing air rolled up to engulf her, shot through with screams. She drove Syrax skyward, giving her the right rein to double back. Rhaenyra breathed in acrid smoke to cry again for dragonfire, and brilliant crimson bathed the swaths of men below.

Again they climbed, and over her shoulder Rhaenyra saw the shadows of men writhing within the flames. Useless shields still raised as they burned. She gasped, gulping at the damp, fresh air within the clouds, before crying out

“Dive!” once more.

And this time, Syrax needed no command to launch her pillar of fire. As they swooped towards the river again, the squalling of men and horses pierced at her eardrums, and her vision filled with struggling bodies, roasted alive in their steel cages. Amidst the dark char searing into her nostrils, she thought she could smell their roasting flesh. Could scent the agony amidst the miasma of smoke.

Her dragon’s body was hot beneath her knees, infusing into her limbs. Another mass of flame. Again the answering screams of men. And that terrifying pleasure thrummed to life within her blood, just as it had when she burned Otto Hightower’s galley. Euphoria pounding through her veins.

Smouldering air bloomed toward her in waves, hot enough to melt mortal flesh, but Rhaenyra was a Targaryen, and Targaryens were more gods than men.

Through the whipping wind, Rhaenyra became aware of scattered voices now.

“Archers! Archers!” someone was calling, and she squinted her watering eyes, searching for the source. She guided Syrax east along the river, making out the cluster of Blackwood lords pushing their enemy back into the remnant flames. And to their southeast, Rhaenyra spotted the lines of archers behind a wall of brown-red shields. Wooden shields. Wooden arrows.

She yanked at her reins, and they climbed skyward. As the air under them speckled with a silvery volley, Syrax reared up and closed her wings, sending a whooshing gust that dispersed the steel-tipped cloud.

“Dracarys,” Rhaenyra commanded, voice crackling and raw. And wooden shields were no protection against the inferno that rained atop those archers.

Back above the clouds, Rhaenyra guided Syrax west. Through the black haze, she saw the back column of Blackwood men pushing to reach their lords. The Bracken hoard in their way yielded slowly, yet their numbers were still thick.

“Right, Syrax,” she rasped, her throat dry as ash. Thus far, she had concentrated dragonfire on the southern mass of Bracken men, not wishing to accidentally harm Lord Blackwood’s small band by the river. But now, if she could break that western line and allow the rest of the Blackwood men to reach them…

They swooped low, over the scorched field scattered with running men and smoking corpses. Through the haze, Rhaenyra caught glimpses of roasting, thrashing torsos blur by, saw steel bubbling into struggling flesh, smelled the nauseating sweetness of cooked bodies and heard the unbroken symphony of pain.

Swallowing the sudden bile that foamed up her throat, she urged Syrax lower still. Fifty feet. Forty. She would need precision with this next burst of flame. Just enough to break the Bracken line.

Rhaenyra hitched her reins, pushing for speed, and Syrax’s wings closed in great gusts that echoed through her bones. Wind lashed at her cheeks, stinging at the tears drawn by the smoke, but on they glided and—

Sudden impact jolted through her marrow. Forced a scream from her lungs. Syrax shrieked. They tumbled sideways.

Blinding pain sliced through Rhaenyra’s chest, and it took a heartbeat to realise it was not she who had been hit. Syrax folded in on herself, dipping her right wing. The world spun in a swirl of green and black and orange, and the chains around her bit into her hip under the leather armour.

Grappling to regain balance, jerking the reins up for height, Rhaenyra heard her hoarse cries of

“Calm, calm!”

vaporise unheeded into the speeding wind. For how was Syrax to stay calm when Rhaenyra’s heart threatened to tear a hole through her ribs?

Syrax struggled up through the clouds, and at last Rhaenyra found her bearing upon the saddle. She flattened herself against Syrax’s neck then to see a spear sticking out from that patch of unprotected hide below her left wing.

Again, the unbearable pang of pain seared through her. Rhaenyra gritted her teeth and inched forward upon her struggling mount until her fingers closed stiff upon the shaft.

She pulled. Syrax screamed.

“Calm, sweet girl, let me help you,” Rhaenyra sobbed, struggling to hold on amidst the erratic thrashing. The wooden shaft was embedded at an awkward angle, and she could not levy her strength to dislodge it. Panic was beginning to claw, churning her stomach, but that spearhead would only tear deeper into Syrax’s flesh the more she moved.

Rhaenyra bit down hard on her tongue, tasting salt, letting the sting clear her head. She took a bracing breath then, fresh and dewy, and unhooked the chain from around her waist.

Her dragon had settled into a wobbling glide now, and free of her binding, Rhaenyra rose in the saddle and very carefully draped her body over Syrax’s shoulder until she could plant both hands on the wooden shaft. Gritting her teeth once more, Rhaenyra pulled. Once. Twice. Her head spinning.Her arms on fire.

Syrax cried out again, writhing, and Rhaenyra squeezed her trembling legs to hang on. At last, with a squelching pop, the spearhead came free of the smoking flesh. She fell back into the saddle with a rasping sigh, fumbling to re-chain herself to her seat.

“It’s alright now, Syrax, you’re alright now…”

The blither of Valyrian spilled from her lips, and for long moments Rhaenyra slumped against her saddle, drinking greedily at the damp air. Yet each breath was tinged still with smoke, and at her dragon’s next pain-laced cry, Rhaenyra felt herself bolstered once more. This time with rage.

She leaned forward, wrapping her arms around Syrax’s neck, pressing her raw cheek to her burning scales.

“I know it hurts, my darling. Just a bit more,” she croaked. Then the reins were back in her hands, and they were plunging again into the charred chaos below.

Rhaenyra spotted her intended column of men once more and fixed her eyes to their glinting heads. Seeing nothing else. Thinking nothing else.

Beautiful flame. Embracing flame. Scorching heat roared up to enfold them, and at last Rhaenyra’s heart settled back into place.

And that was when another dragon call broke through her fire-red haze. Rhaenyra whipped her pounding head around, but Syrax knew that cry, and already she was darting toward the sound, a yip of delight passing through her body.

There, through the pillars of smoke, Caraxes’ slender form approached. Even from many yards away, Rhaenyra felt the gusting currents of his wings, and they washed over her quivering body like Daemon’s hand across her skin. Smoothing her nerves. Expanding sweetly in her chest.

Their dragons met mid-air, circling each other with pleased roars, and an unfettered laugh burst from Rhaenyra’s throat. Daemon’s eyes were fixed to her body—she could feel his fervid gaze even from yards away—and when he drew Caraxes forward so they flew wing to wing, she drank in his wind-blown hair and wild expression.

“Are you unharmed?” he called, hand stretched toward her. Something furious and primal seemed to vibrate under his skin, radiating out so that even from a distance, Rhaenyra felt the lightning of it crackle in the space between them.

“I’m well,” she answered into the wind. “All is well!” There was no need to mention Syrax’s injury now, upon the air, hidden as it was below her wing.

Beneath them, the rest of the Blackwood army broke through the simmering flames of her last assault. Bracken and Vance men dispersed frantically south, pulling away from the River Road, many stumbling as blazes ate at their bodies before crumpling.

Blackwood men swarmed forward, some charging after the retreating foe, but most coming to surround their battle-worn lords, forming a half-circle around them by the riverbank.

“That’s my girl,” came Daemon’s scattered voice, and Rhaenyra threw her head back and laughed again, the intoxication of battle—-of torching those who wronged her—-pooling molten in her belly. The sky above her was vibrant even through the smoke, and now the sharp wind against her cheek filled her with radiant intoxication.

Suddenly, she could not wait to land, could not wait to launch herself at her husband and take him into her burning body. Revel in that firestorm that seemed to rage from his person.

Had he seen her burn that last column of men? She could still feel his fevered gaze upon her, and she felt her blood alight.

But though the battle wound down, their day was far from done, and now Daemon pointed south over the fleeing Brackens and Vances.

“Rest!” he called. “Let Blackwood bend the knee! Meet me back at Harrenhal tonight. I have castles to burn.”

Stone Hedge, he meant, and Atranta. Back on Dragonstone, they had decided to allow any traitorous castle that would surrender to do so unmolested, but it would seem Daemon had changed his mind about the seats of Houses Bracken and Vance of Atranta.

His words should have shocked her. Truly, she should protest this impulse to violence, for were they to be the first to raze castles in this war? Even earlier this morning, Rhaenyra would have stopped him.

But that was before someone in this host had put a spear through Syrax’s shoulder. The barely-contained rage grew again to a boil in her belly. Her dragon’s pained shriek still rang in her ears, and something terrible purred in her at thought that Daemon would make them pay for it.

With fire. With blood. The price of making war on dragons.

Rhaenyra raised a quavering arm in assent, and Daemon urged Caraxes southward, leaving her to savour the memory of his blazing eyes.

Chapter 25: It's been such an exciting day

Chapter Text

When Caraxes disappeared upon the horizon, Rhaenyra and Syrax circled above the battlefield littered with smouldering lumps—of helms, of weaponry, of flesh. Strands of smoke drifted lazily up between the frantic, staggering men, and everywhere, little blooms of flame still dotted the earth.

When the retreating host—if one could still call the gaggle of escaping men a host—had cleared enough blackened ground below, Rhaenyra guided Syrax down.

They landed with a thud that rattled her bones, stirring a cloud of ash and char. As she unchained herself with clumsy fingers, Syrax let out a thundering cry. It sounded like victory, but underneath that, it sounded like relief.

Gingerly, Rhaenyra eased her humming body from the saddle, awkward in her movements as she slipped down Syrax’s right side to avoid knocking her wound.

Her boots landed with a crunch upon a charred lump, and Rhaenyra had no desire to know what it used to be. Legs like a newborn foul carried her toward Syrax’s horned head, and Rhaenyra wrapped her arms around her dragon’s dear, dear, neck, nuzzling at her snout. Every fibre in her was shivering still with overbrimming vitality.

“Your Grace!”

A shout drew her attention. Those Blackwood lords who’d kept their lives were gathering tentatively around her, and one among them lumbered toward her. Lord Samwell Blackwood, then.

“Your Grace!” he cried again, his voice like bark peeling from a dead tree. “You—you really came!”

Rhaenyra offered him a half smile as he came to a stop before her. Mud and blood caked every inch of his skin, and he lilted to one side, a hand supporting the broken shaft of an arrow sticking out from his chest.

Little remained of the gawky boy who’d proposed marriage to her nearly twenty years ago, but the earnest set of his jaw remained, as did the ferocity with which he’d slain that Bracken son right in Storm’s End’s Great Hall.

“You’ve promised me your protection, not once but twice, Lord Samwell. Least I could do is return the favour.”

To her alarm, the man looked about to burst into tears. In the next moment, he’d regained control of himself, staggering to one knee before her.

“My life is yours, and my sword is yours, my queen!”

Behind him, the other haggard men also stumbled to kneel, their calls of ‘my queen’ and ‘Your Grace’ filling the still air.

“Rise, please!” Rhaenyra called, feeling her cheeks heat and her lungs expand too big for her chest. “You have awed me with your bravery this day.” She offered a hand to Lord Samwell then.

“And you, my lord. Thank you for your loyalty. Best to get that injury seen to, sooner rather than late.”

As the clearing began to fill with the rush of Blackwood men, Rhaenyra returned her attention to Syrax, curled now by the river and licking at her shoulder. She made a pitiful whining in her throat as Rhaenyra approached, and cautiously, Rhaenyra inched toward the wound, murmuring comforting words under her breath.

Up close, the torn flesh still smoked, and crimson stained the bright yellow of Syrax’s scales. The puncture was only the size of a small plum and did not look deep, but the sight of deep red flesh still tore at her own chest.

Very gently, Rhaenyra ran her bare hand up and down her neck, pressing her lips near the wound and feeling her nose burn with the smoking tang of blood, trying to give comfort. She imagined Daemon even now bathing Bracken’s castle with Caraxes’ flame and felt her pain ebb.

She seated herself on a boulder then and brought Syrax’s golden snout into her lap, stroking at her quivering scales.

“I’m sorry, my darling,” she whispered, her eyes beginning to sting. “I’m so sorry I let them hurt you.”

Syrax whined again, giving her what could only be called a baleful look, and Rhaenyra sighed. They were not made for violence and war, she and her dragon, but war was what they had now. Syrax would have to learn, and so would she.

When medics had bandaged Lord Blackwood’s arrow wound, he led his banner men back to Rhaenyra, once again swearing their fealty. Rhaenyra invited Lord Blackwood to sit with her by the river, and he complied with a bow, though he gave Syrax a cautious glance and a wide berth.

“I should have been on alert the moment we entered Bracken land,” Lord Blackwood began, shaking his head. He had cleaned the worst of the bloody grime from his face, and with his wet, curly hair sticking to his forehead and neck, he almost reminded Rhaenyra of Luke after a dunk in the sea. Impossibly young.

“When I put a stop to my rogue companies raiding Bracken keeps, I should have known there would be retaliation. But I told myself Bracken could not summon any sizable force so quickly.”

He looked up at Rhaenyra with a wry smile.

“I set out from Raventree Hall with a tidy host of mostly cavalry, Your Grace. Respectable, but fit for quick travel. But as I moved through my lands, nearly every village and keep I passed produced dozens of men who wished to join my army. When they heard I marched to fight for Queen Rhaenyra’s throne.”

Again Rhaenyra felt a warm flush rise in her chest and creep to her cheeks. The wonder. The gratitude. She should expect this loyalty, she knew, but the knowledge that men would die for her sat differently after seeing what battle death looked like. Sounded like and smelled like.

“House Blackwood has always held to loyalty and nobility. I think you do your ancestors proud, my lord.”

“You honour me, Your Grace. I only fear…” He sighed. “I fear I am too young still. I was careless and arrogant. It had crossed my mind that the Brackens might attack, but I thought they could not possibly stand up to this great host that had amassed behind me.”

“You were not wrong, Lord Samwell. Had your host faced the Bracken and Vance men here today in open combat, they’d not have stood a chance. I know little of battle, but I can do simple figures, and your men are known through the kingdoms for their ferocity besides.”

“Yet it did not even occur to me that they would ambush me as they did.” He dropped his head into his hands.

“I led eight of my best knights into death this day, and three of my banner lords too. Had you not come, Your Grace, I, too, would be a corpse on the riverbank. My oldest son is only ten.”

“I only wish I’d come sooner then, though no doubt your son is as fierce as you were as a child.”

She smiled at him, hoping she was being encouraging, and he returned it faintly.

“I knew you’d make a great queen one day, even at twelve, Your Grace. I guess I should have known you’d be just as formidable before offering you my paltry protection.”

“Not paltry. You fought and were wounded alongside them, and your lords trust you still. And next time, you’ll know to expect ambush.” She shook her head.

“I am not many years older than you, Lord Samwell. We will both make mistakes in the coming months—I have made mistakes already—but there is naught to do but learn and carry on.”

Before her eyes flashed Luke’s burned, weeping leg. Baela’s bleeding cheek and that rope of pink scar that snaked up Joff’s arm. All because Rhaenyra had thought the Greens still had blood and flesh for hearts. And was her mistake not worse than Lord Samwell’s, for it was always a fool’s gambit to expect humanity of one’s enemies when they’d proved to her there would be none.

She was a slow learner, perhaps, but she’d not soon forget the lessons taught her by the blood of her children.

It was a heavy silence before Lord Blackwell heaved another sigh and inclined his head.

“I thank you, Your Grace.”

“No, my lord, I thank you. You’re clear-headed, brave and honourable, and I’ve no doubt I’ll have great need of your service in the war to come.”

“Brother! The oafish clot is dead!”

A cheery voice broke through their conversation, and Rhaenyra turned to see a dark-haired girl bounding toward them. She resembled a young tree—thin, tall and sinewy—and a wooden bow was slung easily over one shoulder. Though she was dusty and windblown, her eyes glittered like dragonglass when she caught sight of Rhaenyra.

“You Grace,” she said, bowing as a soldier would, but her gaze had already drifted toward Syrax. “You atop your dragon was the most magnificent sight I’ve ever beheld. Thank you for saving my lord brother from his folly.”

Lord Samwell gave a pointed cough, but the girl seemed unfazed.

“My sister Alysanne, Your Grace. Who was clever enough to suggest I not spread my army out so thin, but apparently has yet to learn manners.”

Lady Alysanne bowed again, cheerfully ignoring her brother, and Rhaenyra smiled at her to hide her surprise that such a young woman seemed so at ease on a battlefield.

“Who’s dead?” Lord Samwell asked, frowning.

“Amos Bracken. Who else?” Lady Alysanne pulled herself up even taller then. “I was vexed that I didn’t hit him in the throat, but the medic said I shattered his collar bone, and he’s just bled out like a slaughtered ass.”

“Aly!”

“Oops. Beg pardon. Only, it’s been such an exciting day.”

“My deepest apologies, Your Grace. Aly commands my archers and has spent so long among soldiers that she’s forgotten how to speak like a lady.”

But Rhaenyra heard herself laughing, and soon Lord Samwell joined in. Lord Humfrey Bracken had only two true-born sons—one slain by Lord Samwell at Storm’s End, and the other by his young sister this day. All that was left of House Bracken’s male line were children and a bastard knight, fate yet unknown.

Though Rhaenyra knew it was politically unwise to show no mercy to the lords who opposed her, she stroked Syrax’s now dozing head and could not help the bubbling satisfaction.

“You must be skilled indeed to lead your brother’s archers,” Rhaenyra said. The young woman beamed, accepting the compliment without any shyness. Just like Baela would have, thought a distant part of Rhaenyra’s mind, and her own smile deepened.

“Tell me, Lady Alysanne. Do you likewise have news of the Vance command?”

She shook her head.

“Some of the knights told me Lord Vance and his sons stayed home, the cowards. We’ve found some pieces of a few of their commanders though. Most of them still have somewhat discernible features.”

And Rhaenyra found she felt…nothing at all, though her stomach should have roiled. Was it so quick then, growing accustomed to the human destruction she’d wrought? And suddenly she was cast adrift in her mind, needing urgently to return to Harrenhal—to return to Daemon and hear him tell her that it was a good thing, this hardening of her heart.

After he was done burning castles, likely driving children from their homes. Gods help her, but that thought, too, did not pull any feeling from her chest. For the Greens had not given any hesitation before hurting her babes.

She rose, stroking softly along Syrax’s cheek until her dragon stirred and made a deep rumpling in her throat.

“I’d best return, Lord Samwell,” she said, “and I hope by the time I see you at Harrenhal, you’ll have made a full recovery.”

~*~

Nothing took the edge off fury so well as the burning of castles. That was the curious thought swimming through Daemon’s mind as he steered Caraxes north toward Harrenhal, the towers of Atranta Castle smoking behind him.

That morning, he had followed the road east from Riverrun, for the second time in mere weeks urging Caraxes on as if his life depended upon it. Which, of course, it did.

Horrific images dogged him the entire way—Rhaenyra being struck by arrows and spears, Rhaenyra chased by Aemond and Vhagar who had come to ambush her, Rhaenyra falling, lifeless upon a limp Syrax, into the Red Fork.

And Daemon had been dizzy with pounding rage.

How dare those Bracken and Vance men force Rhaenyra to fly into her first battle thus, alone and vulnerable?

And how dare Rhaenyra walk right into it?

Had she no thought for the danger she placed herself in? No thought for what might happen to the children and the realm should something happen…but Daemon could not even bear to finish that sickening thought.

Yet when he saw her through the clouds of smoke—darting down from the heavens with her braids streaming behind her, bathing men with golden death—he had been spellbound.

Rid of all thought. Calcified and dumb.

And when his blood came alive again, Daemon knew it was lust, not fury, that truly scalded his veins.

He’d needed to hear from her own lips that she was unharmed, but after that…

If he’d stayed a moment more, taking in her triumphant laugh and the ash-gilded shine of her skin, he might have steered both their dragons to the ground and taken her right there amidst the smouldering carcasses of their foes.

Daemon had flown to Stone Hedge instead, that violent beast in him intending to reduce the castle and every man, woman and child within to ash. But his head cleared as he flew, soothed by Rhaenyra whole and smiling upon her mount, and he had reined in the worst of his murderous impulse.

At Stone Hedge, Daemon had circled overhead, allowing Caraxes to fill the air with stringent roars. He dove slowly through the clouds, setting alight first the walls, then the outbuildings and granaries, directing dragon flame away from directly engulfing the people who scattered about the bailey like frantic ants.

He gave them sufficient warning—run or die screaming—and only when he’d worn thin his patience did he allow Caraxes to rain fire upon the highest towers. Then he left the castle thus—burning and damaged, but still standing—and flew south to visit the same upon Atranta. Both castles were fortified strongholds at strategic crossroads, and besides, Daemon had no desire for Rhaenyra to be accused of massacre.

And whether the lords within lived or died—that was up to the gods and their own two feet. There must be consequences to treason. A price to be exacted for forcing Rhaenyra into danger thus. He hoped the Hightower c*nts and all who followed them heard of what he did this day and shook in their beds.

Daemon landed in Harrenhal’s outer bailey as the sky was deepening to bronze beyond the high ruins. Men had seen him from a distance, for gathered around the periferie were lords and knights, shielding their eyes from the dust of Caraxes landing.

He swept an icy glare over all their faces. Lords and knights who’d let their queen fly off to battle alone. They should have stopped her, even if it meant kneeling at her feet and gripping onto her ankles. He’d have to find out who protested her decision most adamantly and give the others a good thrashing in the yard.

His squires rushed out from the crowd, unbuckling his breastplate and guards, and Daemon narrowed his eyes down at them.

“Which one of you helped the queen into her armour this morning?” he asked, not bothering to keep the menace from his voice. The one called Darrel froze in his movements, his entire face turning the colour of lobster.

“Ah. Well done, Darrel. I know you seem particularly fascinated by dragons. You can help the dragon keepers tend to their charges for a fortnight. As a reward of sorts.”

The lad’s face grew redder still, but he only bobbed his head and scurried off with Daemon’s helm.

The sound of gravel turned his head, and there Rhaenyra was, dressed now in a simple burgundy gown, freshly washed hair loose save for silver braids that framed her face. Her eyes were clear as lake water, fixed to him and refusing to look away.

“Husband,” she said, walking toward him. The dimple on her right cheek came in and out of focus as she tried to contain her smile. The sight scratched like kitten claws inside his ribs.

He sank to one knee so he was not tempted to sweep her up and haul her inside right this moment, to punish her for her recklessness or worship at her feet, he was not certain.

“My queen,” he murmured. “I think you might expect messages of surrender from Stone Hedge and Atranta. Though, it may be some time. I fear their ravens have been roasted alongside half their castles.”

Rhaenyra beckoned for him to stand, and amid the low chuckles and murmurings at his words, they returned to the castle, their arms a hair’s breadth apart by tacit agreement.

They were so close Daemon could feel the humming restlessness in her blood, calling out to his own, echoing in his marrow.

In charged silence they climbed the steps. Walked through the cavernous halls. In silence they stepped into their chamber, and Rhaenyra shut the door.

Then her hands were in his hair and her mouth was seared to his, and she was dragon flame in his arms. Something savage sprung up in his core, a feral thing that wished to imprison her into his body so he could be sure he’d never lose her.

She undid his doublet, covetous hands slipping over his pounding chest. He heard himself groan, unable to help it—felt his fingers dig of their own accord into the silk at her soft waist, struggling to get closer still to her. Aching for it—in his chest, in his co*ck, in his every fibre.

But never satisfied, never enough. He could never have enough of her to be sated, and it made him wild with fury.

Damn her for driving him so far out of his mind. Damn her for risking her life and looking like a Valyrian goddess of old as she did.

He wrenched himself away from her, dizzy from the pride and lust and that other, murky thing that ate at his gut. Clinging to the anger to keep himself sane.

Instinctively, she chased after him, lips searching, and it took a moment for her eyes to open in question.

“What is it? My courses ended just yesterday. You needn’t hold back.”

His mind went blank as her meaning sank in.

“Your…courses…”

Her fingers returned to wrap behind his neck, pulling him back into her.

“And Maester Gerardys made me a whole flask of moon tea,” she murmured against his mouth. “Just in case we're not careful. I know now’s not the time to start another child, don’t worry.”

She…she agreed with him? In that past life, it had taken days of convincing before Rhaenyra agreed they’d not try for another babe, at least until the war ended.

Rhaenyra was kissing him in earnest again, sucking on his bottom lip, muddling his thoughts. Had battle changed her mind this time? She truly knew the danger of what she did now, riding alongside him into this war. Dangerous enough not to carry a child into it, but she wished to dive headlong regardless.

Wished to wreak violence upon the usurpers and claim her birthright. No matter the risk to her safety.

Gods help him, had he ever wanted her more?

That scorching thing expanded in his chest again, turbulent and thunderous. He felt himself trembling as he clung to her, clawing at the laces of her gown, needing the feel of her bare skin—more than water, than breath.

And for the first time in a long, long while, Daemon could not stand how much he needed her. It threatened to burst from him—shred his flesh and flay his soul.

The fury returned. At her? At himself? But he clung to it regardless, for that was the only thing he held any control over.

Again he tore himself away from her, panting and manic and raw.

Chapter 26: Uncontrollable

Chapter Text

Rhaenrya heard herself whine like a petulant child as Daemon shoved away from her once more.

Gods, what was the matter with him? Why was he so hesitant, and now ? She could feel him iron-stiff against her stomach, but he would not match her fervour, her urgency. Fiery frustration pounded in her temples, driving her near madness.

But in the next moment, he had her wrists enclosed in his hard hands, pinning them by her ears to the soft wool of a tapestry on the wall.

Rhaenyra’s sharp breath burned down her throat, and a hot thrill shot between her legs.

“Bleeding hells, listen to me!”

Some of the red haze cleared, and she frowned.

“What?” she breathed, fingers even now curling to search for contact with his skin.

“What the f*ck were you thinking today? Do you know how terrified I was when I realised you’d gone into battle alone ?”

She drew back against the wool, too surprised at his vehemence for annoyance.

“Terrified?”

When had he last admitted to her that he felt any fear? Never, surely, and her head began to swim.

For a moment he froze, the word seeming to shock him too. In the next moment his face grew darker still, and he pounded a fist into the wall.

“Yes, damn it, Rhaenyra, terrified! You and Syrax have never seen anything close to battle. And without steel armour? Any wayward arrow could have—”

“What other option did I have!” At last Rhaenyra’s own frustration swelled, alive and furious now at his anger.

“Should I have sat here and waited for news that every lord on Blackwood land had been slaughtered? All because I did not go to their aid?”

“You sent me that raven! I would have made it in time! You once told me you needed me, Rhaenyra. What did you need me for if not to fight your battles?”

Her eyes widened, his words vaguely shocking to some distant, misty part of her mind. But her irritation pushed through, bright and keen.

“Daemon, by the time I arrived, Samwell Blackwood had already taken an arrow to the shoulder. He’d already lost near a dozen men. You’d not have come in time!”

“Then you should have left them to their fate! What would you have the children do—and the f*cking realm —if something happened—?”

“You f*cking agreed to this!”

She grappled against his imprisoning hands then, pushing them both from the wall and thumping the heels of her palms into his chest.

“I told you I wished to fly into battle. What did you say then? That you did not need my convincing?”

“I meant with me beside you! Not alone without protection, not when you and Syrax have no notion of war! You should have let me do my duty by you—”

“And do I not have a duty to protect those who’ve sworn me loyalty! A duty every lord out there will hold me to? How would they look at me if I’d left Blackwood to his fate? Would any still be willing to risk their lives for me? In their place, I certainly would not.”

“Hells, Rhaenyra, none of that would f*cking matter if you were hurt! No matter the reason, you should not have endangered yourself!”

In the swarming silence, Rhaenyra struggled for breath and gripped, unyielding, at Daemon’s shirt. And even through the linen her nails bit into her palm.

She was trembling, she realised, and so was he as his fingers sank into her arms and his chest rose in erratic bursts against her knuckles.

Slowly, his last words sank it. And then, despite it all, a smirk curled at her mouth.

“Even you are not so arrogant as to think you can ensure my safety in every battle, Daemon. Yet you agreed so easily on the Dragonmont.”

She tugged him closer so she could clearly see her flushed face in the growing dark of his pupils.

“I saw how you were looking at me in the air. You can’t hide from me.”

She scoffed a laugh.

“I think the truth is, you liked that I was willing to ride into danger for that throne. And you liked it when I burned that army.”

Rhaenyra’s words came like a blow. There it was, that truth so close to his tongue but unvoiced, to himself above all.

The beast that had emerged finally broke free of restraint, roaring to life and setting alight his every drop of blood. f*ck, if she did not speak truth, and the realisation writhed and scorched in his gut.

Rhaenyra ripped him right open and saw past his every shield. She was wild and dangerous and reckless to her marrow, and she owned everything he was. There was no escape, for he needed her to hold him together.

Why fight it?

He shoved his body into hers, pressing flush against her soft warmth, the blinding glitter of her eyes making his co*ck ache.

“Well?” came her challenge.

“You want the truth?” A primal snarl escaped his throat.

“Yes, I f*cking liked it. I saw you burn men who’d harm you and I’ve never been so f*cking hard in my life.”

He leaned in close, craving her uneven breath on his cheek, coveting her soft, dark scent.

“Is that what you wanted to hear, hm, Rhaenyra? That I saw you fly headlong into danger and I wanted to f*ck you until you screamed yourself hoarse?”

She shivered. Then she smiled.

“So what are you waiting for?”

And at once his mouth was on hers, their lips grappling, tongues tangling, teeth nipping. She kissed like she wanted to devour him, and he feasted upon her hunger that stoked his own.

They shed their clothes in blurs of fabric and humming desperation. At last, the silk of her body pressed into his chest and hips and throbbing co*ck, and Daemon clasped Rhaenyra’s face up to him, staking claim to her mouth.

Her hands skimmed down his back and hips, squeezing, clawing. Tugging him back toward the wall.

“You want it like this ?” he breathed, one hand upon the wool to trap her against the tapestry.

“Are you well enough? It’s only been—”

Her hand shot to his mouth, her eyes steely, and he understood. She wanted no grief brought into this space of wild carnality.

Rhaenyra lifted her chin and gave him a hard, provoking grin.

“I’m queen now. Haven’t you sworn to do as I say?”

Daemon laughed, a fevered roar starting in his ears. Without warning, he reached between her legs and cupped her sex. She groaned, grinding against his palm, already slick and hot, just as he’d hoped.

He stroked along her folds, then found her mouth with his and slid two fingers into her, gasping against her lips as she pulled him in. She was always ripe like this after childbirth, opening so easily to him, gripping him with her swollen flesh.

He peered down at her through half-open eyes. Her scarlet mouth was plump and parted, and when he hooked his fingers up to that spot she liked, white teeth flashed to sink into her lip.

“Is this what you wanted, hm?” he asked, his other hand sliding up to roll her nipple between thumb and forefinger.

“You like my fingers in your c*nt, Your Grace? Was it war that made you all soaked here for me?”

Her fingers clawed into his shoulder, dragging fire over his skin.

“Yes,” she purred, rolling her hips and pressing her belly into his shaft. “ Yes.”

Daemon grunted at the sharp delight of it, and Rhaenyra laughed, the sound breathy and decadent.

“You think you’re the only one aroused from that battle? I’ve been aching and so wet for you it’s been making me mad.”

A thought singed.

“Were you now? Did you touch yourself while you waited for me?”

His thumb found her sensitive little bud, grown hard with her arousal. She gasped.

“Ah…I…maybe…”

“You were thinking of bathing those men in flames, of me burning those castles, and pleasuring yourself like this, weren’t you?”

He swirled his thumb around her cl*tor*s, spurring on her pleasure with his hand, and she convulsed around him, mewling.

“So close already? Did you come like this before? When you touched yourself thinking about war?”

“Gods, yes !”

A devilish scheme emerged. Daemon stilled his movements.

“Good. You can wait a little longer then.”

She gave an incredulous keen.

“Daemon!”

Though loath to leave her inviting heat, Daemon withdrew his hand with a slick sound, then held up his glistening fingers. She slung him a baleful look. Then she sucked them into her mouth.

Daemon breathed a thick sigh at the return of exquisite warmth. Rhaenyra hummed as she stroked her tongue over his knuckles, the satisfaction clear in her voice, and then she had her velvet hands on his co*ck, pulling and kneading and forcing a groan from his throat.

How easy it would be to sink into the bubbling honey of sensation she wrought then—how easy to lift her up and bury himself in her.

But she was frantic for it, he knew, and the fires eating at his belly still raged with as much anger as lust. He pulled out of her grasp and spun her to face to wall, pushing her shoulders into the thick wool as her breath wooshed in surprise.

He refused to cede her control. He intended to punish her a little for driving him so near insanity.

Covering her body with his, hands running over the plush curves of her waist and hips, he started at that delicate spot behind her ear and kissed his way down her neck.

It started slow, gentle even, but soon he was drawing her silk skin into his mouth and sucking until she cried out—leaving dark blooms upon her shoulders.

One of her hands reached behind her, seeking to grip his body, but Daemon caught it and pinned her arm over the two little dimples above the swell of her buttocks.

For a moment she struggled and made an infuriated little noise that made his co*ck leap. He dragged her hips back with a growl.

“Be good,” he warned.

“And if I’m not?”

“I suppose I’ll have to make you. He took himself in hand and pressed the tip of his co*ck to her entrance. Molten flame seeped there, so enticingly close.

A short, guttural sound escaped her, and Daemon smirked despite his own pounding need. Her body was hungry for him, hot and tempting. But he didn’t push inside, instead circling her slippery folds and dipping his co*ck down to rub into the exposed bud of her cl*tor*s.

“What are you waiting for,” she groaned, wriggling back into him, slick c*nt eager to pull him in. Daemon drew a bracing, trembling breath, grappling at control.

“Have you decided to be good for me then?”

Another groan.

“If you wanted a biddable wife, you shouldn’t have married me.”

Daemon laughed, but still he tortured her, rubbing her slit and nub, holding her fast against the wall.

“I married a queen, a goddess. I don’t want biddable, but I think I’d like to hear you beg, Your Grace.”

She made a mewling sound and his co*ck twitched again, the ache near unbearable. But he was determined to make her plead.

“What was that? I couldn’t quite hear.”

“Damn you!”

He tutted.

“That didn’t sound like begging, Your Grace.” He reached for her cl*tor*s and rolled it between thumb and finger.

“Gods, please, husband! f*ck me. I need your co*ck in me. Please .”

And his control shattered. He slid into her in one motion, up to the hilt, drawing a ragged gasp. He groaned against her ear, voice raw from the pleasure so acute it was nearly pain.

How long had it been since he’d been inside her thus? Melded as one with her body?

Slowly he withdrew, then pushed back in, firm and barely clinging to restraint. f*ck but it was intoxicating inside her.

“See, that wasn’t so hard,” he panted, feeling a feral grin spread over his face.

“If you wanted me to fill you, you just had to ask.”

“You…cruel…man…” she moaned between his slow thrusts.

“I’m cruel?” he snarled, that turbulent, untameable thing beginning to thrash behind his ribs once more. He quickened his pace, revelling in the way his fingers made pink dents in the plump flesh of her hips.

“You…flew into danger…alone…Left me with nothing but two lines on a raven note…and I’m… cruel? ”

Rhaenyra made a low humming sound, pushing back against his hips with each thrust. She turned over her shoulder, smirking.

“You just told me you liked it.”

Daemon’s hand came down hard on her buttocks, and Rhaenyra yelped, the sound melting into a groan as his palm smoothed back over the smarting skin.

“I don’t care how much I liked it,” he growled, not once slowing his pace. "Don't scare me like that again. Do you hear me?"

"I did what I had to and I'd do it again," she panted, gratified at another stinging smack on her other cheek. Her breath caught, the burn of it unfurling through her hips and stomach.

"Careful. Now you're just goading me."

Oh, she knew.

His words delighted her—flooded her veins again with that heady, drunken thrill she’d felt as heat from Syrax’s flames engulfed her.

“I told you, I can do as I please— f*ck , Daemon !"

For he'd reached around her and pinched hard at her nipple. His rough hand kneaded at her breast—a cloud of round, swelling sensation crackling with the lightning from his fingers—and she arched into him, craving more.

He complied, giving her breast another hard squeeze. Then his hand dragged fire over her back and neck before he yanked her head back by her hair. The sting in her scalp shot white-hot straight to her swollen sex and Rhaenyra cried out, her intimate muscles fluttering with a new wave of want.

"And does it please Your Grace when I pull your hair and take you like a common whor*?" he asked, words scalding against her ear, pounding harder still into the tender, open spot deep in her belly.

Her knees gave out and she slumped shaking into the tapestry, clawing at the wool.

“Tell me, does it?”

“Yes!” she gasped. “Yes, yes, more.”

He drove into her, fast and constant and relentless, and her elbows and cheek burned against the wool. Each thrust wound the agonising pleasure tauter and tauter deep in her belly, so full and expansive it was almost pain.

She was close, her every fibre swelling toward that precipice, so close she could almost taste the sweet release.

“More, Daemon, more…”

“Greedy little whor*, aren’t you? More what?”

“Yes, oh, harder ! f*ck me harder. I’m so—“

Impossibly, he gave one last deep push into her and stopped.

“And why should I do that, hm?”

Rhaenyra sobbed her protest, yanked cruelly once more from relief. Aching and manic and so, so desperate.

“Daemon,” she pleaded, squirming back against him, desperate for any friction, but his fingers clawed into her hips to hold her still.

“Tell me why.” His command was dangerously dark, deliciously primal. “Why’re you so needy for this, hm?”

Gods, he really wanted her to say it? Her whole body flushed and her head grew light, but he’d reduced her to pure need, pure feeling, and she’d say anything he wanted.

“Damn it Daemon, because I’m your whor*.”

She heard him draw a ragged breath, and again she whimpered.

"You are, aren't you?" His voice was jagged. "Look at you, a pleading mess and so desperate to come just from fire and war and my co*ck in you."

"Yes, yes,” she whimpered, clenching around his infuriatingly still shaft, scrambling for that sensation just out of reach.

“f*ck me like your whor*,” she pleaded, “I can’t stand it, please just f*ck me, or I swear I’ll go mad.”

With a growl he slammed into her once more, blessedly pounding at that deep, tender place. Flame burst back to life, creeping beneath her skin, and the burning ache expanded, a firestorm in her core.

She was gasping, crying out with every thrust. Faster, faster, and all she was he scorched away to pure sensation, surging, waxing, yearning and infinite. Then Daemon pressed a finger into the gathering point of that ache, and the dam shattered into sparks.

Rhaenyra screamed. And then she could make no sound—her head thrown back, her back arched, her body but trembling flesh in his arms, slave to the crashing waves of pleasure, urged on by his erratic, frenetic thrusts.

Liquid flame exploded in her with his climax, and somehow her hoarse throat formed another cry, for that sensation had an unrivalled sweetness all of its own.

He slumped over her, buried impossibly deep—nestled so securely against her womb she could not believe they were not one being.

For long heartbeats they stood thus, his body draped over hers, both slick with sweat and grappling for breath. He shifted forward to rest his head into the crook of her neck, still half-hard inside her throbbing flesh, and the movement made his seed seep over her sex and down the inside of one thigh.

Rhaenyra leaned her head back and mouthed along his cheek, sinking into the arms and chest that enfolded her.

“Don’t be a fool, Daemon,” she murmured. “You know that when I said I need you, I meant far more than just to fight for my throne.”

Later, as they lay with bodies tangled in the sheets, Rhaenyra closed her eyes and let her limbs sink into the bed. Her body felt so drained and sated she never wished to move again.

“Daemon?” she murmured, barely moving her lips.

“Hm?” His voice was languid, and it dribbled like sweet wine in her ears. She hated to break the spell, but now was as good a time as any to deliver unpleasant news.

“I just thought…well, you should know. During the battle. Someone threw a spear before you came and hit Syrax in the shoulder—”

“What?”

He sat bolt upright, his hand like a vice around her wrist. She rubbed at it lazily, keeping her face nonchalant.

“Everything is fine. The wound’s the size of an egg and it had scabbed over by the time we got back to Harrenhal, and—”

“f*cking hells, Rhaenyra! You told me you were unharmed—”

“And I was,” she said, meeting his frantic eyes, tugging gently at his arm.

“I am unharmed. And Syrax will be fine. It was just a spear some soldier threw, not a scorpion bolt. I was flying too close to the ground. I won’t in future.”

It was another tense breath before he loosened his grip and fell back down onto the pillows. He threw an arm over his eyes.

“Damn it, spear or no, it could easily have flown right into your leg—”

“But it didn’t. All is well. I wouldn’t even have told you if I didn’t know you’d ask about Syrax’s injury—oh!”

In a blur he’d tumbled her to her back, hovering over her and pinning her shoulders into the mattress.

“Don’t you dare,” he snarled. “No matter what happens, you tell me, do you hear me?”

Startled, she could only nod.

The kiss that followed was punishing, and by some sorcery his bruising mouth and clawing hands stirred the embers in her belly once more, chasing away any exhaustion.

“But you’ll not be able to hide any more dangers from me,” he growled, dragging his lips down her throat and chest and scraping his teeth over her nipple. Pulling a cry from her rasping throat.

“I’m never leaving you alone again.”

Chapter 27: Dragons on the mind

Chapter Text

King's Landing

Helaena had recently decided that her new chambers were not completely without their merits. Tucked away into a far corner of Maegor’s Holdfast, if she shut every round of doors, the mayhem and cacophony of the goings on in the rest of the Red Keep could be kept far away and muffled.

Of late, it felt as if her entire skull had been scraped bloody—one big open wound that constantly throbbed and gnawed. Even previously small annoyances were amplified, reverberating in sharp tendrils to the backs of her eyes.

Since those little lights around her children had disappeared, Helaena walked about the world as if in a fog. Everything was misty and unsure and jumbled, and any time she tried to think too hard, the pain grew nauseating and unbearable.

A knock came at her door as Helaena was trying (and failing) to complete her most recent embroidery of a snow-dipped moth. It was a soft knock—a rounded knock. Only Aemond had known to knock like that.

Helaena frowned.

“Come,” she said, and the door creaked open. Helaena caught sight of black leather boots but could not bring herself to look up further. The boots stayed still for a few breaths, and then a sigh emerged in Aemond’s familiar, velvet voice. The feet made their way around her and toward the window, disappearing from her eye-line.

Helaena heard the whisper of fabric as he sat in the window-seat—behind the back of her chair, where she could not see him.

After a silence during which Helaena’s head swam, Aemond’s voice came again like a minty balm.

“And how are you feeling this morning, sis?”

“Fine,” she said, eyes closed, imaging that those words emerged from the mouth of her Aemond, the one she’d always known. “I’m trying to get the very fine fur on the moth wings just right.”

“Ah.” He made no move to approach her, made no request to see her work. Aemond would have, but this new owner of his voice knew by now that Helaena did not like him standing too close.

Instead, Aemond’s voice asked, “I’m not disturbing you, am I?”

For many days now, every morning, this new and horrific…spectre who used to be her Aemond had come into her chambers, tentative and quiet. Every time, he had asked if he disturbed her. Helaena wished to tell him that yes, in fact, he was disturbing her, that he should leave her alone to her gnawing headaches, but every time, she had said, as she did now,

“No. Speak to me, if you want. I like hearing your voice.”

The spectre had burst into her chambers days after Aemond was meant to return, claiming that he was her brother. Yet what stood before her had only been Aemond’s bones, caked with char and rusty old blood, reeking of agony and grief and roasting flesh. Where Aemond’s sapphire used to glitter like the sea at midday, there now gaped a murky hole, glowing with terrible, ancient green.

Only his voice was familiar. Only his voice managed to sooth the wound that had become her entire skull. And so, after her initial panic, she had no choice but to welcome the spectre’s visit each day. She’d rather have Aemond’s voice than nothing at all.

“Mother is beside herself again,” the voice was saying now. “And Aegon is more furious than ever. Have you heard the news?”

Helaena said nothing, letting the words roll like little foam waves over her mind.

“Of course you haven’t. Just as well. This war should not worry you.”

She picked at a silver thread that she’d placed astray.

“Tell me,” she heard herself say, not wanting him to stop speaking.

In truth, the war did not worry her. It wrought death and fiery destruction, but there was no stopping the inferno. That Helaena had always known—had always seen it flaring in the distance, spun by hoary hands into sharp threats of gold and green. In truth, that far-away fire worried her less now. That was the one blessing after those lights around her twins had disappeared. They no longer burned as the horizon did, and surely that was a good sign.

The voice sighed.

“Lord Bracken and Lord Vance organised a host to attack the Blackwood army as they marched to join Rhaenyra at Harrenhal—the imbeciles. They thought they were so clever, that they could trap and kill Lord Blackwood before the dragons arrived. But Rhaenyra came in time with Syrax, and now the Brackens have lost a good chunk of their men, Amos Bracken is dead, and Caraxes burned their castles.

“Any real stronghold we had in the Riverlands is gone now. Turned to ash because of their stupidity and petty feuding.”

Helaena frowned.

“Nyra flew to battle upon Syrax?” That did not seem right. She did not remember seeing her sister clad in steel—only in blood that ran dark and syrupy like ink.

But when Helaena squeezed her eyes shut, she saw now a golden blur darting through the sky, topped with silver, shrouded in smoke. She had never seen that before, but since the spectre’s return, Helaena had seen many a new, strange thing beyond her eyes.

The voice laughed. Helaena could tell the laugh was not meant to hold any humour.

“It seems I underestimated Rhaenyra. We all did. Who would have thought Daemon would let his precious wife fly into battle on her lapdog. But lapdog or no, dragons will rain death. Bracken learned that the hard way.”

“Hand works loom, weaving shrouds of fire, weaving shrouds of ink,” Helaena said. “The earth falls quiet when all is silver ash.”

The voice was silent, and the silence gnawed at Helaena’s head.

At last, the blessed voice spoke again.

“It will be they who become ash. Don’t you worry, Helaena. You are meant to be queen.”

Helanea’s hand reached absently for her hair. In the mirror, she had always been crowned thus in this cage of fine gold about her face. She wondered absently whether, if she tore out each strand of her hair, she could escape the gold noose that hung always above her head.

“Grandfather seems rather delighted,” Aemond’s voice was saying now. “And so does Larys Strong. Even now the cripple is spinning tales all over the kingdom of Rhaenyra’s brutality, and those stories will ring true with the lords. The Blacks have become the true first aggressors in they war, burning those castles and killing nobles. I’m inclined to agree with Grandfather. More will turn on them now.”

“Bells,” Helaena marvelled, seeing bronze glinting below a poisonous sun. “Bells ringing, tolling of treachery, tolling of secrets.”

Again the voice sighed.

“Treachery, is it? For them, Helaena, or for us?”

Who was them? Who was us?

“No dragon can see the flower upon its head. No dragon can see the fish within its belly.”

A laugh, sweet and known to her, precious like honey drops. Helaena wanted to taste it again on her tongue, but joy never came in bouts for her, only trickles.

A rustle of clothes told her the spectre now stood. Helaena turned her head to stare again at those boots. The laces were a deep blue, the way twilight melted into the sea.

“How long has it been since you’ve been out to ride your dragon, sis?”

How long? How long?

Each night Helaena heard Dreamfyre’s gentle cries lulling her into unsettled sleep.

“Too long,” she said. “A bird cannot take flight when its feathers have been plucked.”

“Come riding with me then.” A pause. “Don’t fear. I’ll…fly behind you so you needn’t look at me. Some air would do you good.”

Did she dare follow the spectre who lured her with Aemond’s voice?

Yet Dreamfyre was on her mind now, and perhaps the wind through her hair could shake away that golden noose tightening about her throat.

~*~

Jacaerys Velaryon hoped never to see another hard-boiled egg in his life.

Seven days ago, he had set off from Winterfell, eager to return home and report of his successes to his mother. When Cregan had heard Jace intended to camp and hunt in the woods with Vermax to avoid the time delays of being received at castles along the way, he’d sent Jace off with a pack full of bread, hard cheeses and eggs.

And a good thing he did. As it turned out, Vermax was only adept at hunting for Vermax alone.

The first night, they had found shelter in the dense forests somewhere in the Barrowlands. While Jace built himself a little pellet with fallen leaves, Vermax had caught sight of some deer. Excited at the prospect of roasted game, Jace had been tremendously disappointed when his dragon had returned with two carcasses in his maw, charred entirely to the bone.

As Vermax happily chomped away at his burnt deer, nudging the other at Jace with his wing, Jace had looked forlornly down at the blackened lump by his foot. The scent of roasting meat had been so rich it made his mouth water, but he’d pried open the animal with his dagger to find that even the marrow had turned black.

And so, every night, while Vermax had his fill of various woodland and mountain game—ibex goats, young bears, and even, as they passed the Neck, a crocodile taller than Joffrey—Jace had been forced to pick berries and ration his dwindling supplies. The bread had run on on the third night, the cheese the fifth, and for two days Jace had eaten nothing but mountain cowberries and hard-boiled eggs.

Now, as they soared over the emerald green of Crackclaw Point, Jace could almost taste the herb-roasted beef and crabmeat stew that the cook on Dragonstone made to perfection. Just a couple hours more, he told himself, and then he could take a warm bath and eat his fill. And never have to touch another egg again.

The grey towers of Dragonstone crested upon the horizon, and Jace gulped down the damp sea air. Below him, Vermax made a rumbling chirp, just as happy to be home. Gods, it had been nearly two moons, and he hadn’t thought it possible to miss his family so much—Luke’s belly laugh, the soft tapping of Rhaena’s quill, Egg’s curious gaze and Viserys’ mischief smirk—even Joff’s incessant jabbering.

And what was Baela doing now, he wondered. Running those secret war drills with Moondancer she’d started before he left, the silver crown of her hair getting tangled with the salt breeze? And what of Uncle Daemon at Harrenhal, and had Mother—

A deep screech tore the air, and his head snapped toward the noise. Vermax made a high-pitched scream, jostling Jace with his suddenly frantic flapping.

“Calm,” he called into the wind, but his own heart was stuffed in his throat. Squinting into the sun, Jace could make out a black mass above the open sea, growing rapidly larger as it approached, wings spread wide.

A black dragon. Another thundering roar.

But…the only black dragon Jace knew of was Balerion, who had been dead for decades. What…

And then his stomach roiled and flipped, and sour berry juice from that morning bubbled up his throat. There was another black dragon upon Dragonstone. And that one ate its own kind.

“Forward, Vermax! Go, go!” Jace did not have to tell his mount twice. He could feel Vermax trembling as they darted toward the burnt peaks of the Dragonmont, zipping so quickly that the salt-breeze stung his cheeks and burned at his eyes.

Gods, but the Cannibal was never known to fly so brazenly about the bay during daytime, not with so many adult dragons about. Syrax and Caraxes were absent, but hadn’t Daemon always said Vermithor and Silverwing alone were enough to scare away the deranged beast?

Jace whipped his head back as Vermax scrambled forward, only to see the shape coming directly toward them, close enough now that he could make out the mottled black skin, the protruding yellow teeth, the keen sapphire eyes. Cold sweat soaked his back.

For an unhinged moment, Jace thought perhaps he and Vermax should turn around and fight. Get rid of this feral monster that had so long plagued Dragonstone. But that notion shattered as soon as it emerged, for this dragon was easily five times Vermax’s size, and faster too, for now it was close enough for Jace to feel the gust of its terrible wings on his damp back.

“Please, come on, Vermax! Faster, faster!” He could hear the pleading desperation in his voice, but Vermax was exhausted after so many days of flight, and Jace knew—with his eyes squeezed shut against the wind and his limbs stiff from holding onto the saddle—that his mount was already pushed to the limit.

What a ridiculous way to die this would be, thought a distant part of his mind as his entire world shook from the Cannibal’s approaching roar. How the Greens would mock his mother—the bastard heir, eaten by a feral dragon, no true Targaryen—

“Jace!”

His breath hitched. And now he was hallucinating? Was this what true fear did? Make one hear things—

“Jace! Damn it, slow down!”

Someone was definitely calling his name! Someone…Luke?

This time, when he turned, Jace saw there was someone upon the Cannibal’s back. Dark hair flopping, arms swinging. Before he understood what he did, he had pulled at Vermax’s reins, calling for him to slow. Gradually, reluctantly, his mount eased his pace enough that Jace could fully open his eyes.

And there, upon the deranged black beast, sat Luke upon a saddle, waving at him with an infuriating grin.

Jace’s mind exploded into complete blankness, and the only words he could form were the filthy ones Mother always smacked Daemon for.

“What the bleeding, buggering f*ck?”

Impossibly, the grin grew even wider.

“Careful, brother!” Luke’s cheery voice floated into his ears. “You’re lucky Mother isn’t around to hear you use language like that!”

Chapter 28: Meanwhile, back at the ranch

Chapter Text

As soon as they were on solid ground, Jace reached over and thwacked his brother on the back of the head.

“Oi!” Luke ducked away from a second blow, arms over his neck. “What’d you do that for?”

“What’d I do that for? You almost made my heart stop up there! And what the f*ck is going on? How could you possibly ride—”

And Jace felt all his irritation frost over like exhaled breath in winter. Behind Luke, the Cannibal made a low rumbling sound before stalking off, and Jace could sense Vermax drawing closer to his shoulder. On instinct, he pressed an icy hand to his scales, though whether to give support or seek it, he was not certain.

“Where…where is Arrax?”

Luke wasn’t looking at him anymore. The berry juice from that morning rose once more, acrid in his throat, and his vision began to blur.

“Luke?” Blindly, he scrambled for his brother, fingers digging into his arm. “Luke, where’s Arrax?”

“At the bottom of Shipbreaker Bay.” Luke’s voice came from faraway. “Aemond was at Storm’s End. With Vhagar. They came after us. Tore up Arrax’s belly with flame. I’d be a charred body in the sea too, if Uncle Daemon hadn’t hauled me out of the sky.”

Salt flooded Jace’s mouth, but he sank his teeth deeper into his tongue so he would not scream. Luke being chased by the mountainous beast that was Vhagar. Arrax set alight on its unprotected young belly. Luke tumbling through the sky…

Beside him, Vermax seemed to understand, and a desolate, wrenching howl emerged, scraping painfully at Jace’s ears.

“I’ll kill them,” he heard himself say, tugging Luke into a vice-grip, needing to make sure his brother was still warm and breathing. “I’ll kill them all for this—”

“No.” Luke’s voice was hard, cold and lifeless like the black rock of the Dragonmont beneath their feet. “No, I’ll kill them. Raqiros and I. We will have revenge for Arrax.”

“Raqiros…”

Luke stepped back and tilted his head toward the Cannibal.

“My ally in this. Don’t you worry about me, brother. I can fight my own battles—”

“Jace!”

Suddenly, a shrill voice drew both their heads toward the sky. Jace had two seconds to take in the blur of pink and yellow before he was thrown back by a noisy, sandy gust of wind. He’d just managed to rub the grit from his eyes when a little body launched into him, and the next instant he was staring up at the sky, Joffrey planted like a boulder on his chest.

“You’re back!” Joffrey was clapping his hands above his head, his wild hair making a lion’s mane about his head. “Jace is back, Jace is back!”

Over his shoulder, Tyraxes was hopping about Vermax in a bright pink dance, and Vermax swatted a wing at the small prancing dragon, half affection, half annoyance.

Jace sat up and lifted his brother off with a laboured breath, though his cheeks were sore from his smile.

“And where’d you come from? Out flying alone?”

“Not alone, silly. I was flying with Luke and the Cannibal! But they ditched me when they saw you.”

Joff made a face and shot Luke a baleful look, but Luke leaned in and poked Joff’s ticklish spot under the arm.

“Ah! Luke! No fair—”

“For the last time, it’s Raqiros, not “the Cannibal”. How would you like it if I called you Custard, huh?”

Joff rolled his eyes all the way into his head, and Jace choked back a laugh as he stood. Joff turned his face up to him.

“Jeez, you got tall up North. But you missed so much! It’s been so exciting at home! Did you know we have older brothers! Two of them—”

Now Jace really did choke.

“We have what—”

“And they look exactly the same! Oh, and I almost forgot.” He hiked his tunic sleeve up to his shoulder, revealing a ghastly pink scar the size of a centipede.

“I got a battle scar! Isn’t it just huge?”

Yes. Yes it was huge. And imagining what could possibly have caused the horrific thing to appear on Joff’s arm—and for his brother to call it a battle scar—made black dots appear before Jace’s eyes. He took two steps and stumbled right into Vermax, who caught him by the collar.

“Jace?” Again Luke’s voice came from very far away. “Are you alright?”

“I…uh…has Cook made dinner yet?” was all he could mumble. “If I don’t get some food in me soon, you and Joff will have to carry me back to the castle.”

~~~

Never had Jacaerys Velaryon attended such an uncomfortable meal in his life. Even that last King’s Landing supper before Grandfather Viserys’ death had not been as shrouded in awkwardness as dinner was at present. For the tenth time, he stared down at the letter Mother had left for him, for nothing else than to avoid making eye contact around the table.

Grandfather made some inane comment to Luke, and Baela’s fingers bit into Jace’s hand at his voice.

His brothers had brought him straight to the kitchens, and Jace had cut himself two thick slices of roasted beef on bread and wolfed it down as he listened to Luke’s and Joffrey’s alarming account of events during his absence.

Yet whether it be the assassination attempts or the new claiming of dragons, it had all happened in the past. Terrifying and infuriating, but they were over now, and in truth not entirely illogical, given the nature of war.

What had truly baffled Jace—enough to stifle his appetite—was Joff’s mention that they had older brothers.

“You cannot be serious.” Jace had hissed as they climbed the back stairs, his eyes bulging out of his head. “Father had bastard children before he married Mother, and somehow no one ever thought to mention it to us? Even Father himself?”

Jace didn’t believe it for a second.

Aside from the fact that Father would never have abandoned natural children he’d sired, Jace knew by now why it was that he, Luke and Joff did not truly have Velaryon blood. For a long time, he could not comprehend why Mother had chosen to mar their parentage with scandal and shame. He had let that incomprehension grow into resentment, but in recent years, Jace had come to see his true parentage anew.

He remembered Father’s endless stream of friends—Ser Qarl Correy above all—with whom he had seemed extraordinarily affectionate. Some men did not wish to take any woman to bed, Jace had learned, and what choice did his mother have back then? For she needed heirs to secure her claim to the throne, and Ser Harwin had been the only one she trusted to provide them for her. Heirs and other comforts she needed, perhaps, in those years when she had been very much alone.

Jace understood that now, after Baela and all the magic he found with her.

And he knew Luke understood too, which was why the words coming out of Luke’s mouth were entirely incredible.

“You are sure they’re our blood?” Jace had continued, voice low. “I don’t see how, and you know why. Are you certain Grandfather isn’t a bit addled in the head from his injury?”

But Luke had only glanced over at Joff, cheerfully leading the way, and shaken his head.

“Oh, they’re our blood alright. You’ll see.”

When they emerged upon the landing that led to their chambers, Grandfather was there alongside two tall figures with silver hair, purple eyes and skin darker than their cousins’. And Jace did see.

Gods help them all. He’d never seen Grandmother truly angry, but he had a feeling he’d witness it soon enough.

“Welcome home, my boy.” Grandfather’s face had stretched into a tense smile as he drew Jace into an embrace. Numbly, Jace let himself return it, murmuring how glad he was that Grandfather seemed much recovered. And all the while, his gaze did not once leave the two men behind him.

“Ahem, well, let me make introductions,” Grandfather had said then. “This—” he motioned to the taller of the two—“is Addam, and this is Alyn. Of Hull. They are your father’s natural sons. Your brothers.”

The two men had bowed, murmuring ‘my prince’ under their breaths. They were clearly twins and looked to be no older than twenty. Both were lean but solidly built, speaking to a life of physical exertion, and Jace had returned their bows, though he’d been unable to call either of them ‘brother’.

“Welcome to Dragonstone,” he’d mumbled instead. What else could he say?

And so, now here they all sat around the dinner table—he, Luke, Joff, Baela, Rhaena, Grandfather and his two…brothers—bathed in the light clinking of cutlery on porcelain. Grandfather had asked Jace about his journey north, and after Jace had recounted his dealings with Arryn, Manderly and Cregan, they had fallen into this tense quiet.

The only one who seemed entirely unaffected was Joff, who had showered Jace with questions, and now peppered Addam and Alyn with inquiries into growing up in the shipyards on Driftmark and their lives at sea with their mother. Bless his little brother and his innocence.

Both the Hull twins were stoic and staid, though Alyn seemed the more talkative of the two, answering Joff’s questions with serious detail. Addam sat mostly still, quietly focused on his stew, though every once in a while, Jace saw him glance up and meet Rhaena’s eyes across the table before hastily looking back down. Luke, in his seat next to Rhaena’s, stuffed spoonfuls of stew into his mouth as if it was he, not Jace, who’d spent the last days eating nothing but eggs and berries.

And Rhaena herself…she had not taken her eyes off Addam of Hull from the moment she had entered the room.

“What on earth is going on,” Jace whispered to Baela through his teeth. Baela only closed her eyes and exhaled roughly through her nose, her hand tightening around his as Grandfather’s voice sounded once more.

“Jace, Alyn and I will set out for Duskendale on the morrow,” Grandfather said from the end of the table, that tense smile plastered back on his face.

“You have your mother’s instructions. I will leave Dragonstone in your capable hands. And Addam’s.”

“Oh. Right. Of course.” Jace scrambled for words. “Uh, Addam, I assume you will take command of the ships that will stay to protect Dragonstone?”

“Yes, my prince.” For the first time since dinner began, Addam spoke, his voice gravelly and careful. “Many of the men from Driftmark know us from the yards. I know you’ve no reason to trust my abilities yet, but I swear to you, no enemy shall grace these shores on my watch.”

Jace cleared his throat. It felt wrong to let either of them call him ‘my prince,’ but Jace was hardly going to ask that they call him ‘nephew’ instead. The table fell into uncomfortable silence once more, and again Jace looked down at his mother’s letter.

Daemon bids me remind you that no one outside the family is to approach the dragons, she’d written. She and Daemon must have known the Hull brothers would arrive in their absence. And Jace suddenly understood precisely what Uncle Daemon intended for them.

“I’m certain you are more than capable,” he said. Again he cleared his throat. “And while you are here, perhaps you can make yourself known to the dragons who reside here. You uh, do have Targaryen blood, after all. And we can never have too many dragon riders to aid our cause.”

From the corner of his eye, Jace saw Grandfather beam.

~~~

“Does it hurt still?” Jace asked as he traced the fresh scar curving along Baela’s cheek, feeling a thorn tug sharply in his chest. Gods, he should have been here to protect his family, to protect her. Instead, she had been the one to face the assassin’s blade with nothing but her unprotected skin.

“It’s just a scratch,” Baela murmured, nestling deeper into his lap and tracing absent circles on his knee. “It stopped hurting ages ago.”

They had flown their dragons up to their hidden clearing on the Dragonmont, Jace desperately needing air and distraction after the stifling awkwardness of dinner. Baela had been more than eager to provide said distraction, launching herself into his arms the moment their feet hit solid ground, and now Jace sat against a rock with Baela’s head pillowed on his legs, stroking her cheek and catching his breath.

Absently, Jace licked at his chapped lips, tasting the memory of her fierce kisses.

“It very easily could have been much worse than a scratch,” he whispered. He imagined Baela hurtling toward the assassin and felt his insides freeze over.

Baela opened one jewel-coloured eye to look at him.

“But it wasn’t. Thinking about what didn’t happen won’t do anybody any good, Jace.”

She frowned then.

“You don’t mind, do you?”

“Mind what?”

“The scar. Maester Gerardys says it’ll probably never fade entirely.”

“Why would I mind?” He frowned too. “Do you mind?”

He’d heard the squires and guard talk about girls not liking scars on themselves, but Jace had once asked Mother whether she minded that scar on her forearm, and she’d told him no.

Baela shrugged.

“I quite like it, actually. Our ancestors were warriors, and this scar means that so am I.”

Jace laughed despite himself.

“Good. Then I like it too. I like everything about you.”

“That’s what I thought you’d say.” Baela grinned up at him. “But I just wanted to make sure.”

She stretched then, coming dangerously close to where Jace had just managed to calm his ardour. Her arm skimmed his riding trousers, making blood rush back to his groin, and her smile grew mischievous.

Now blood rushed to Jace’s cheeks and ears too. He cleared his throat.

“So. Our uncles?”

Baela seemed to deflate, puffing her cheeks and blowing out an exasperated breath.

“Ugh, I know. How could Grandfather do that to Grandmother?”

“Well, what explanation did Grandfather give?” Jace asked, for he’d no doubt Baela had voiced that precise question the moment the Hull twins had set foot on Dragonstone.

“It was a terrible mistake,” Baela said, dropping her voice and pulling down her upper lip in a not inaccurate impression. “I don’t expect you to understand, Baela, but I have always regretted it. And if your father had not pressed, I’d have taken this mistake to my grave.”

Jace heaved a sigh.

“You think it was just the once, then?”

“Perhaps. But does it matter?”

“Doesn’t it? Everyone makes mistakes.”

Baela narrowed her eyes.

“What’s that supposed to mean? You think it wasn’t a betrayal just because it only happened one time?”

“No, but surely one mistake one time is not nearly so deplorable as having a mistress or going out whoring—”

“Are you defending him?” She pushed herself up in a storm of silver curls, her eyes huge and blazing.

“I—I’m not!” Jace protested, stumbling on his words. “I’m just saying—”

“Jacaerys Velaryon, if you dare take another woman into your bed, even just the once, I’ll take Father’s sword and geld you with it. Don’t think I wouldn’t just because you’ll be king one day.”

“Woah, hold on!” His face and ears had gone the shade of boiled crabs, Jace was sure of it. “That’s not even—we’re speaking of Grandfather. What’s that got to do with you and me?”

“You’re speaking as if his straying isn’t a big deal! What am I supposed to think?”

Jace threw up his hands.

“No, I—come on, Baela, that’s not what I mean.” He tugged at her arm. “And you know me. I’d never do that to you, and I’d never want to.”

Baela was still glaring, but she didn’t pull away.

“I bet that’s what Grandmother thought about Grandfather too,” she muttered darkly. “That she knew him.”

How was he supposed to respond to that? Jace had always tried to live with honour, but Grandfather was an honourable man too, wasn’t he?

“I…but…” He let out a frustrated breath. “I don’t know how else to make you believe me. But I love you, Baela. And I swear—on…on the graves of both my fathers, I swear I’d never be unfaithful to you.”

For a moment she was silent, blinking down at him. With relief, Jace saw her eyes soften.

“I love you too,” she sighed, settling back down onto his lap. “I didn’t mean to question your honour or accuse you of anything. I’m just…I’m so angry at him. She told me that he’s the love of her life, and this is how he loves her back? By bedding with a much younger woman and siring two sons on her?”

Jace pursed his mouth. He couldn’t really summon any anger at his grandfather. Shock, yes, and a hollow feeling at the realisation that he’d break his marriage vows thus. But Jace had never been close with Grandmother the way Baela and Rhaena were. It only made sense that they would be furious on her behalf.

“You’re right to be angry,” he finally said. “If Uncle Daemon did what Grandfather did, I’d probably wish to open his throat.”

Baela made a scoffing sound.

“Father would never.”

It was Jace’s turn to grow indignant.

“Oi, so you’re sure your father would never stray, but you’re not sure about me? You do know that he whor*d his way around King’s Landing in his youth, right?”

She shot him a reluctant smile, reaching up to stroke his cheek.

“I know, I’m sorry. I didn’t actually doubt you. I know you’d never.”

Gratified, Jace settled back against his rock.

“Good. Don’t forget it. And I wasn’t defending Grandfather. I was only saying, maybe Grandmother would be more inclined to forgive him if this was a one-time mistake. That would be best for all of us.”

“Hm.” A crease appeared between her brows. “I don’t know, Jace. Did you know Meleys burned Grandfather’s leg once because he made Grandmother angry?”

“What? Gods have mercy…”

“And if Father did what Grandfather did, you wouldn’t have the chance to slit his throat. Muña Nyra would do it herself. I don’t think we Targaryen women are very good with forgiveness.”

Well, Jace couldn’t argue with that. Baela sighed.

“But you’re right. Though part of me doesn’t want her to ever forgive him, it would be terribly inconvenient if Grandfather was burnt to a crisp at this juncture.”

Jace offered a small smile, though it tasted bitter on his tongue.

“Aye. We…we’re truly at war now, aren’t we? After those assassins…and now Mother and Uncle Daemon are at Harrenhal, preparing to meet the Greens at Duskendale. There’s truly going to be a war.”

Baela was quiet for a long while. Then, in a thin voice that did not sound at all like her, she said,

“Jace. I’m scared.”

His stomach dropped. It was not like Baela to admit any fear, even to him.

“Not…not for myself,” she continued just above a whisper, staring at some spot up in the clouds. “But…Rhaena’s claimed Vermithor, and Luke has the Cannibal now. Even Joff has been talking incessantly about battle. Our brothers aside, everyone I love is going to fight in this war, and people die in war, Jace. And I’m…I’m so, so scared.”

Jace felt his heart turn to water. This was always who Baela was. Every ounce of feeling in her she gave to those who held her love. And she had so much love that sometimes Jace could truly feel it brimming over, effervescent and hot as flame. Flooding over him and sinking like syrup into his bones.

He wanted to comfort her. Wanted to tell her that all would be well, that their family would remain unharmed and whole. Be the hero who gave her reassurance and strength.

But already she had a knife mark upon her cheek. Already, Luke had lost Arrax and gained ghastly scars on his leg, and Joff was marred by a cut as long as his own hand.

And Jace was never very good at lying.

“I…I don’t think any of us are going to let Joff and Tyraxes fly into war,” he finally said, rather pathetically, for it was all he could think to say.

Baela surprised him with a laugh that tinkled like tiny bells. The next moment, she’d thrown her arms around him, face buried in his neck, surrounding him in the sweet berry scent of her hair.

“I love you, Jace,” she murmured, breath hot on his skin. “I love you so much I think I might burst from it.”

She kissed him then, hard, sucking his lip into her mouth, and Jace heard himself groan at the sudden onslaught of pure, blinding pleasure, like mulled wine shot into his veins.

He cupped her face and kissed her back, suddenly starving for her touch, her scent, her taste. Gods, it had been so long that he’d nearly forgotten how much he missed her. His tongue slipped into her mouth to lap at the silky texture there, and she nipped him lightly, laughing with delight at his grunt of surprise.

That familiar fire came alive in his belly, pounding in his groin, and his hands slid down her back to find the firm plumpness of her buttocks, squeezing through her leather riding clothes. Jace didn’t think there was anything so marvellous as Baela’s round arse in his palm.

She hummed against his mouth, then pulled back just enough so he could drink in her glittering gemstone eyes.

“Now then,” she murmured, and Jace felt the urge to lick the sly smile from her lips. Her clever fingers slid down his stomach and began working at the ties on his trousers. He grunted again when she made contact with his co*ck, throwing his head back and seeing white sparks.

“I know you’ve missed me,” she purred, the sound maddening in its velvet smoothness. “Why don’t we see just how much, hm?”

And she pulled him free of his trousers, leaned down, and drew her molten tongue up his shaft. Gods help him, he was going to die, and gladly.

~~~

A few days later, as Jace was in the middle of mediating a dispute between two fishmongers from one of the villages, a guard hurried into the Great Hall, his helmet askew. Jace frowned.

“What’s the matter?”

Beside him, Ser Loren tensed, drawing himself up and stepping closer in a clink of armour.

“My prince, my prince,” the guard panted, bowing low. “There were three ships spotted offshore. I’ve never seen that kind of ship in my life, and Master Addam’s gone on one of our galleys to meet them.”

Jace exchanged a troubled glance with Ser Loren, then set off after the guard, his hand gripping tight to his sword.

Up on the ramparts, Jace shielded his eyes from the rare, full sun, squinting out into the water. There, behind the familiar Driftmark galley that glided toward shore, followed three small ships. Their sails were torn in places, Jace realised, and sunlight glared through the small ragged holes.

And as they approached, he could make out the orange banner that flapped atop one mast. A blood-red sun, run through by a golden spear.

And then he remembered his mother’s letter.

House Yronwood in Dorne attempted to garner our support in an uprising against House Martell. I have sent word of the treachery to Sunspear, but since then, there has been no news. Make certain you attend immediately to any messages from Dorne.

“Martell,” he murmured into the wind, a damp chill creeping into his blood. “What in the world has happened in Sunspear?”