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Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra strode closer to the boy. Though he’d looked nearly feral a few moment before when he struck out at Daemon, he seemed limp as a ragdoll now. He watched her approach with those sad purple eyes of his and made no move to stop her when she pulled the dagger from his belt.

“Where did you get this?” she asked, holding it up.

“It’s mine,” he said.

“Where did you get it?” Daemon repeated, shaking the boy a little.

He looked as though he wanted to cry, but he had looked like that for most of the time since they’d collided in that alley.

That first moment, when he looked into her face, he’d looked… She had no words for the expression. Surprised, unbelieving, hopeful, yearning. They were all too much for his young face. He could not be more than two-and-ten! For a moment, she had thought it was just that he recognized her, that meeting a princess had caused his awe. But that was not it.

He was of their blood. She’d known it the moment she got a good look at him in the light. He looked just like Daemon, but for his nose and bow of his lips.

Rhaenyra was not so ignorant of her uncle’s reputation as some thought her to be. She had known well he had… appetites that he indulged away from her father’s court even before his exile four years before. She knew too that was not uncommon for lords and princes to have bastards. But despite his love of the Street of Silk, the only rumor of bastard get that involved Daemon was one he’d created himself, three years before with his paramour Mysaria. But this boy… This boy was nearly her own age, a son of Daemon’s blood, kept from her? She was not such a fool to think he shared his secrets with her, but she thought he might not have lied when he said he had no children.

She swallowed hard, and resolved to think on that later.

“My father had that dagger this very day,” she said, examining the hilt and then pulling it from its sheath. The blade was, as she knew it would be, Valyrian steel. She pushed the blade back into the sheath. “How did you get it?”

The boy shook his head. “I didn’t even know it was there.”

Daemon lifted him up a little higher, so their faces were nearly level and the boy’s toes scraped along the floor. “I thought you said it was yours.”

“It is mine. I can’t… I’ll explain, I just can’t think, I can’t—” He broke off and he started to wheeze. Daemon dropped him back in his chair, but the boy slid out of it, bonelessly, and hit the floor.

He gasped for breath and sweat broke out on his forehead. He curled into himself, his knees tucking up toward his chest and his long, bony arms wrapped around them. She could see tears squeezing out from between his eyelids and before she even realized what she was doing, she was moving, crouching beside him even as Daemon said, “Rhaenyra,” in a low, warning tone. She ignored him. She was safe with him at her back, safer now in this room than she’d been since the day her father had named her heir. Some of her illusions about Daemon had burned away when he’d stolen her brother’s egg to gain attention, but she knew with bone-deep certainty that he would never allow her to be hurt.

Rhaenyra laid a hand on the boy’s forehead, brushing back his silky-soft hair. Targaryen hair, she thought. It was the same color as Daemon’s, a just a touch more silver than her own. “Shhhh,” she murmured, the way the nursemaids sometimes cooed at her half-siblings. “How can I help you?”

He gasped in a few more painful breaths, then opened his teary eyes and asked, “Sing?”

It was not what she had expected. Her own eyes widened, and her mind went blank. She could not think of a single song to sing.

“Six maids there were in a spring fed pool,” came a cool, clear voice from behind her, “six shy maids there were.”

Rhaenyra couldn’t recall ever hearing Daemon sing before. It was strange, to hear the bawdy song stripped of laughter or cheer. But as he sang, she could feel the tension begin to drain from the boy, and his lips moved, singing along almost silently.

“Six maids he spied in a spring fed pool, but one shy maid he caught,” the boy whispered as Daemon finished the song. They were all silent for a moment, the boy’s breath more even.

And then Daemon said, “Enough about Jonquil. Tell us who you are.”

She rose to her feet and stepped back to Daemon’s side. The boy pushed himself up until he was sitting on the ground, his back against the chair. He glanced at her and his lips turned up in a small smile that she recognized. He was Daemon all over, and her heart gave a pang at the thought.

“I am your son,” he said, his eyes on Daemon, which was what Rhaenyra was expecting. Then he looked at her. “And yours as well.”

That, she had not expected.

A crack of laughter came from Daemon. She didn’t have to look at him to know the wildness in his eyes at the claim. “You are lucky I do not strike you dead for that slander. You claim I despoiled my niece when she was, what? No more than eight? And that you resulted from this?”

The boy looked disgusted at that. “No! I did not say that! I—” He frowned, and the twist of his mouth was familiar in this way as well. Finally, a beat before she thought Daemon would start questioning the boy again, sharply this time, he said, “The dagger you hold.”

Rhaenyra looked down at it. “What of it?”

“You say you saw it today. That it is with your father the king.” She nodded, and so did he. “That dagger has not left my person in five days. Before that, it lay on the mantle in my chambers, where it has been since the day I took those chambers as my own. And yet it is the same dagger your father possesses, right now.”

Rhaenyra turned the dagger over in her hands. She did not understand. Nor did Daemon, who said, “Speak sense, boy. Plain talk, now.”

He took a deep breath. “I was sent back in time, through the magic of the Old Gods and those of Valyria, to stop great damage to our House. My name is Aegon, and I was the third of my name, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, son to Queen Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon.”

Daemon’s bastard was a madman. That was the only explanation.

The boy did not look as though he had expected to be believed. “I am not sure how to prove it, or even if I can. But I swear I speak the truth. I swear it, on the lives of my sisters.” His voice cracked a little on the word, and he looked like he was going to cry again.

Sisters. He had sisters. Had he made them up in this fantasy he’d created, or did he truly have sisters, more bastards that Daemon had kept hidden?

As though he could tell the direction her thoughts had gone, Daemon said, “He is no son of mine, Rhaenyra. I’ve never sired a bastard.” After a small pause, he shrugged one shoulder. “That I know of.”

“That you know of,” she repeated flatly.

“I am no bastard.” The boy’s voice angry and cold. Frozen fire, she thought, her eyes returning to him. He held himself differently at the word bastard. “My mother’s sons were all trueborn.” And then his shoulders slumped a little. “But none of them have been born.”

After he had calmed after his episode, the boy had seemed better for a few moments. His eyes had been clearer, steadier. They were clouding over again now, not with panic, but with that same sadness. He looked up at her. “How can I prove it to you?”

She was not sure he could, but then she looked down at the dagger and back to the boy. “You say this dagger is the same as the one my father carries?”

He nodded, and she stepped closer to the brazier on the other side of the room. The coals inside burned hot, and she unsheathed the dagger again and put the blade into the fire. The Valyrian script on the dagger would show when the blade grew hot enough. No replica, even one made from Valyrian steel, would be able replicate that.

Daemon was watching her, confusion on his face, and she realized that he did not know what significance the dagger held. He did not know of Aegon’s prophecy. Had her father not told him? Ten years the heir, and he had never been told? She looked back to the boy, who also watched her curiously. He didn’t know either.

She looked away from the two identical stares, and pulled the blade from the coals.

And there, etched into the steel, were the Valyrian letters spelling out Aegon’s prophecy. The prince that was promised, and his song of ice and fire.

She looked to Daemon. “This is my father’s dagger.” Daemon’s face went blank and cool, and she knew beneath the surface, his thoughts were churning. Hers did the same. What if the boy was telling the truth? What if—

She took a deep breath and pulled a chair over beside the boy. At her look, Daemon did the same. They both sat. “I am not saying I believe you,” she said, “but tell us everything.”

Chapter Text

Aegon didn’t know where to begin.

It occurred to him now that it would have been so much better for Rhaena to be here. She was so clever and calm; she had a way about her that made people listen even when they did not want to, and sometimes not even realize they were doing it. She would know exactly what to say, the order to lay things out so that their parents could stop the Hightowers before they ever stole his mother’s throne.

But Rhaena was not here.

“It is a long story,” he said, trying to figure out how to start.

“Great damage to our house, you said,” Daemon replied. “Start there.”

“When King Viserys died, there was a war for the throne.” He did his best to keep his voice even. He could recite the facts, he told himself. Plain and simple and true, like the maesters claimed their histories were. “The faction belonging to the Hightowers crowned Prince Aegon while my mother was on Dragonstone, before she even knew of her father’s death.”

Daemon’s hiss of anger was expected. “Usurping cunts.” Aegon should have known the best way to get his father to believe him was to malign the Hightowers.

His mother’s face was calm, but he could see his words had shaken her. “When?” she asked. “You are twelve namedays? Thirteen? How many years from now?”

“Twenty, I think,” he said. “He died when I was almost nine.”

“But we won?” Daemon asked. “You sat the throne?”

Aegon thought of Baela. You tell them we did not fail. “I sat the throne,” he confirmed, “but we did not win.” He looked down at his hands. “No one won.”

“For you to sit the throne, your mother must have died,” Rhaenyra said.

Aegon felt bile rise in his throat at the thought of telling her, and a shiver ran through him. He nodded, squeezed his eyes shut. “My mother. My brothers. My father.”

“Your sisters lived?” She was trying to cheer him. He remembered her trying to do that in the days after they took Kings Landing. Joff will be here soon, she had said, holding his hand with her own too-cold one. Mayhaps your father will return by your nameday. Joff had returned and then died. His father had never come back.

He thought of Baela. We did not fail. “My sisters lived. One of them now sits the throne, if all went as planned.”

“You left a girl child on the throne?” Daemon’s voice sounded exactly as it did when Aegon imagined it, unimpressed with his every action. It occurred to him now, hearing it, that his father had never actually spoken to him that way. Aegon found he did not like it.

Aegon opened his eyes and tipped his chin up, trying his best to sound the king they’d both left him behind to be. “Baela is soon to be one-and-twenty and the fiercest person I know. She is no child. She is married to the Lord of the Tides and our sister commands the only full grown dragon still known to live. And if none of that were true, Baela would still be well. She is the daughter of Daemon Targaryen.”

But as he spoke, the pride he felt when he thought of Baela did not fill their faces. Instead, horror dawned. He thought back to what he’d said, trying to figure out—

“Only full grown dragon?” Daemon demanded. “What do you mean by that?”

“Oh,” he said. “The dragons died.”

Aegon found himself being dragged through the streets shortly after that.

Whatever belief they’d held in his tale had died at the mention of the dragons. He had known he was not telling the things correctly. He wished for Rhaena again; he wished for Jace too, but there had not been a day since the Gullet that he did not wish for Jace. Jace would know what to say. Jace had been muña’s heir after all, and he and kepa had always understood one another so well.

But Jace was not here, and that was Aegon’s own fault, wasn’t it?

Aegon shoved the thought away. He imagined Gaemon’s puppet show he had put on for Aegon and his sisters a fortnight before. Gaemon, too, would be better at this than he was—he could act out the story of the Dance as a puppet show, and then his parents might understand.

“The boy has stolen this dagger of his from the king,” Daemon had declared, “and come to us with his wild tales.”

When he realized he was being taken to the Red Keep, he started to struggle. He’d been locked up after his mother’s death, kept in a dark room on Dragonstone. It had been cold but not drafty; he couldn’t hear or taste the wind, and his clothes smelled like smoke from the night they’d been taken. Dragonfire and smoke and… He’d had trouble with the dark since then; to be thrown in the Black Cells would be a fate much worse than the death he’d wanted.

But the princess had said, “Calm yourself. We’re taking you back to the Keep. Nothing will happen to you.”

She meant it, and even though Daemon gave her a sidelong look, he did not contradict her. Aegon had let them drag him along after that.

They led him up a familiar set of steps. This was the way to the passage Baela had used when she snuck out of the Keep to meet and marry Alyn. The thought brought a smile to his face, and he hoped they were safe and happy in that other world.

The smile disappeared when he realized where this passage led—the skull of Balerion.

He couldn’t stand looking at it. His sisters had gone to offer for their parents on their namedays, but he could not go, no matter how holy the altar was. The teeth, the black, empty eyes, the way the fire from the candles glinted off the bones… It reminded him of Sunfyre, of the bits of bone and sinew he could see through the dragon’s tattered flesh, and his teeth… the flames…

He yanked back against Daemon’s hold before they could drag him into the room. Daemon hadn’t been paying much mind to him as they walked, but he was a soldier with battled honed instincts; his grip tightened and he dragged Aegon closer.

“We said you’d be safe. That won’t be the case if you don’t stop.”

“I can’t go in there,” he blurted. “I can’t see Balerion. Take me in another way. Any way. Please.”

Daemon and Rhaenyra exchanged a look. “You know of Balerion’s altar?” she asked.

He nodded. “It’s through there. We could go around. We could go through the godswood. Or through the passage below the Tower of the Hand.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes widened, and Daemon’s narrowed. “You know the passages well,” he said, his voice mild, and Aegon knew he had made things harder for himself yet again.

They did as he asked, though he could tell Daemon itched not to, and the three of them went in through another passage, winding through dark tunnels until they reached a door.

“In the morning,” Daemon said quietly to his niece, “do you think you can check if your father has his dagger?”

Aegon felt a surge of hope. Perhaps he could still make them believe. If they were willing to check…

Rhaenyra nodded and passed Daemon the dagger. “It would not do for him to see me with its like.”

“Perhaps you would like to break your fast with me, Princess?” Daemon asked, looking down at her with eyes that had softened.

She smiled up at him. Four years since the war began, but Aegon still knew those looks. He started to back up slowly, not wanting to see these young, strange versions of his parents bid each other farewell anymore than he’d enjoyed watching the older versions do so.

Daemon caught his arm again before he could go farther than a step or two. He said nothing, just raised a brow and let go again, and then turned back to the princess. “Sleep well, ñuha darilaros.”

“Goodnight, uncle,” she murmured, then nodded to Aegon as well, and slipped into her chambers.

Prince Daemon turned on him once the princess’ door was closed, advancing until Aegon was forced to retreat. When his back was against the wall, Daemon spoke. “I cannot let an outsider who knows of these passages live. You must know that. Or are you a fool?”

Aegon’s jaw clenched and he met Prince Daemon’s eyes. “I am not. I speak the truth of who I am, and will use whatever I have to prove it to you. I learned these passages from someone who learned them from you. If you kill me at the end of it for knowing them, so be it. I tire of this disbelief.”

Daemon did not step away, but his head reared back a little. He stared down at him.

“What?” Aegon snapped.

“You remind me of her.” He said it more to himself than to Aegon, but he knew just who he meant. Rhaenyra.

Aegon felt the fire that had stiffened his spine die down, because no one ever said that about him. No one but his father. “Thank you,” he said, then looked away.

“Come,” Daemon said. “You know these passages so well? Take me to my rooms.”

On Dragonstone, his parents had shared their chambers. On cold mornings, the younger children would pile onto their bed, Joffrey and Aegon wrestling for the warmest spots, Viserys frowning at them in that serious way of his before curling into their kepa’s arms. In Kings Landing, in the short time his father had been there with them, he had kept his own rooms. His old rooms, he had said, and once Aegon had been named king, Baela had claimed them for herself. Rhaena’s rooms were the Princess’ now, and the route between them Aegon could have walked blindfolded, though he was so grateful he did not have to.

Daemon looked surprised when they arrived at his rooms, and again when Aegon knew the latch for the secret door with hardly a thought.

Once they were inside, Daemon tossed him a plain white shirt. “You can sleep in that,” he said and gestured to the bed, “and there.”

Aegon didn’t argue. He changed quickly in a dim corner. The shirt was nearly a nightshirt on him, no matter how much taller he’d grown in the last year or so. He used to think he would never be the height of the man in his memory, but standing near him now Aegon realized one day he likely would.

Aegon climbed into the bed. The mattress was more comfortable than Baela’s, but the bed itself was the same as his sister’s. Aegon pushed his face into the pillow. It smelled like nothing but whatever soap the laundry maid had used to wash it.

“I haven’t slept in that bed for four years,” Daemon said. When Aegon looked up, he was watching him.

“These are my sister’s chambers,” Aegon said. “I’ve slept in them more recently than that.”

“You said your sister was my daughter.” Not ours went unspoken.

He was too tired to explain. So instead Aegon nodded. “Baela. She is the most like you. Then Joff, I think. I just look like you. Those two…” Aegon let out a short laugh, though as always the thought of Joffrey made tears spring to his eyes as well. I should have stopped him, Aegon thought, for what must have been the thousandth time.

Daemon was still watching him. “If you could kill one person now, stop him from living into this future that might be coming, who would you choose?”

Aegon knew the right answer. Otto Hightower. But he hesitated before speaking. The right answer wasn’t his answer, and Aegon had never lied to his parents.

Daemon leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “You know your answer. Say it.”

“Ser Alfred Broome,” Aegon said, then buried his face in Daemon’s unused pillow and breathed in the smell of soap.

Chapter Text

It took Daemon until dawn to remember who Ser Alfred Broome was.

The name was familiar the moment the boy said it, like a tickle at the back of his mind. But though Daemon remembered the name, he was certain the man, whoever he was, was of no consequence. A sellsword in the Stepstones or a Valeman in the service of his Bronze Bitch or something else entirely, why had the boy picked him?

The boy—Aegon, he’d said his name was—had fallen asleep quickly. Daemon studied him carefully in the dim light of his chamber.

Regardless of his madness, the boy was Daemon’s son; there wasn’t any getting around that. Viserys, perhaps, had a by-blow here or there, from indulgences when his queen was recovering from one of her many miscarriages, but this boy looked too like Daemon to be his brother’s bastard.

And too like Rhaenyra, a small voice said again. Like Aemma, not Viserys. Daemon tried to ignore it, but it was impossible to do, with the boy tucked in his bed, at ease in his presence the way no one ever was. This was what a child of theirs would look like, Daemon thought, and the strange feeling that had churned in his gut since he’d watched Rhaenyra laugh in Flea Bottom settled.

He’d have to care for the boy, mad or not.

The “or not” was hard to believe. A child come from the future to warn them of danger. It sounded like a tale from a Volantene romance, where a maiden like Daenys had dreamt the end of the Freehold and managed to convince not just her father, but all Forty Families. And this… this was more than even Daenys’ dream. He did not hold much credence in the gods, or magics.

But he did believe Otto would usurp the throne.

Daemon crossed the room and lit the fire the servants had built up. Once the flames were hot, he drew the dagger and held its blade over the flames as Rhaenyra had done.

From mine blood come the the prince that was promised and his will be the song of ice and fire.

Daemon did not know what that meant, but he trusted Rhaenyra when she said this was his brother’s dagger. If the king had it with him, if this somehow proved the boy’s story…

The dragons died, the boy had said. He could not imagine it. He had lived his whole life upon dragonback, the feel of the sky around him and the thrum of power beneath him. How could all the dragons die? There was only one way, aside from another cataclysm. War. But even then… there were so many dragons, not just here in the pit, but unclaimed on Dragonstone.

At that thought, he remembered who Alfred Broome was. The son of Dragonstone’s old master-at-arms. A passable knight, wholly unremarkable. Daemon only remembered him because of an incident involving a septon and one of the girls from the village while he had been in possession of Dragonstone. Broome had claimed septons holy men who would never despoil maidens and Daemon had not laughed so hard since before his father’s death. How that man, frowning and pious, could earn more ire than Otto Hightower was beyond Daemon.

The strange choice made Daemon almost trust him more. The boy had not even wanted to say it. Another name was on the tip of his tongue until Daemon called him on it. He wondered what name that had been.

A whimper came from the bed. Daemon turned to see the boy’s head jerking from side to side, face drawn in anguish. Something horrible had happened to him; that much was true as well.

Daemon stood and crossed to the bed. The boy’s lips parted in a silent scream, and Daemon sat on the bed beside him.

“Shhh, it’s just a dream,” he said, as Viserys had to him in the days after their mother’s death. Those were Daemon’s earliest memories: tears and bloody nightmares and his lekia smoothing back his sweaty hair.

“Kepa, I dreamed that you died,” the boy said in a whisper, his eyes still closed.

Daemon carded his fingers through Aegon’s hair. “No one’s going to die.”

Except, he thought, the Hightowers and Ser Alfred Broome.

“Did you receive arms training, your Grace?”

The boy looked unimpressed at the address. Daemon chuckled.

“Yes,” he replied after a beat. “From my father at first, and my brother. From someone else, after.” His eyes were shadowed at that, but then he smiled a little; an uncommon expression, Daemon knew already. “One time in the yard Ser Luthor fought me and Joff and Alyn all at the same time, but I was the only one who got a hit in.” The smile died.

“Luthor Largent?” Daemon asked.

Aegon nodded. “I think you asked him to check in on our training. Mine and Joff’s. Not Alyn.”

“When Rhaenyra is here, you shall have to lay out a cast of characters.” Daemon remembered well enough that Joff was one of his brothers—Joffrey Targaryen, he thought, was a deeply silly name—but if the boy had explained who Alyn was, Daemon couldn’t recall it.

“Do you believe me?” he asked.

“No,” Daemon replied. “But we’ll listen anyway.”

Aegon was quiet for a beat, eyes averted. “I… I sometimes…” He took a deep breath. “Sometimes I cannot speak. Rhaena says that it will get better, but I…” He looked back up at Daemon, wry twist to his mouth. “I thought about just sneaking into the Keep and killing all the Hightowers. That might have been easier.”

Daemon laughed. It wasn’t as though the same thought had not occurred to him.

Daemon had called for breakfast to be brought to his rooms for himself and the princess, and the servants laid out breakfast for two. Aegon hovered awkwardly in a corner, clad in his clothes from the night before. He could be any highborn squire, and Daemon decided that was what he would be, if they did not deem him mad and send him to reside on Dragonstone, where his tales of being Rhaenyra’s son by him could not reach Hightower ears. However impossible his age made such a thing, the rumors would do no good to her claim, nor his own desires.

Rhaenyra arrived shortly after Daemon had dismissed the servants, her sworn sword trailing behind her. She bade him wait outside, which Ser Crispin did not like.

After the door was closed, Daemon beckoned Aegon to the table, but the boy’s eyes were fixed on the door. Rhaenyra looked at him quizzically but Daemon understood—the boy knew Criston Cole, or thought he did, and the association was not a good one. Interesting.

“Come sit,” he ordered, and as he had the night before, the boy obeyed.

“My father has his dagger,” Rhaenyra said, ignoring the food before them. “It does not prove what you say, but I cannot believe there are two. Not of that blade.”

Daemon wondered again what was special about it, but did not ask. “Young Aegon is going to tell us everything.” He turned his eyes to the boy. “Aren’t you?”

Aegon took a deep breath, and began to speak.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra slept little the night after their excursion to Flea Bottom. She kept thinking of the boy they’d found, his sad purple eyes, and the strange things he’d said.

He’d called himself their son.

Rhaenyra had never wanted children. She knew she would need to have them, one at least, and more to be certain of the succession. She’d known her fate was the birthing bed before she had been named heir, little though she liked the idea. She was not fond of the idea of marriage either, though the maidens at court all tittered and blushed when they thought of being wedded to some strong, handsome knight. There had only ever been one strong, handsome knight she’d blushed at the thought of marrying.

To wed Daemon had always been an impossible dream. An escape when her father would speak of suitors begging for her hand, a fantasy when she was alone at night, the same hand those unworthies wanted exploring places on her body that made her shiver and moan.

To think there was a future where she’d done it…

It was ridiculous, she told herself. The boy could not be their son. The future he spoke of—where Alicent’s son stole her throne, where her father died and she was not at his side, where she died leaving her children so alone —could not be real.

But to wed Daemon… that she wished were real. A great warrior to stand at her side, a handsome prince to father her heirs, but more than that, her uncle , the man who spoke to her in the language of their ancestors and who knew what it was like to ride a dragon and who had never once dismissed her out of hand like her father did. That was what she wanted, she realized. Not as a dream, but as her future.

If nothing else, she would thank the boy for that.

She thought she would find her father up in arms about his stolen dagger when she asked for a morning audience, but instead she found him breaking his fast with Alicent. The thought of them together abed soured her stomach, but Rhaenyra smiled best she could at them.

He was still unhappy with her, but Alicent’s eyes shined brightly when she greeted them, and she saw her father’s gaze soften. She did her best not to think of Aegon’s words about his death as they spoke.

She did not stay long in his chambers; her question was answered nearly immediately. The dagger was right where it should have been.

The boy’s dagger was not stolen. Not stolen but identical, where two of the same could not exist.

Rhaenyra did not know what excuses she’d made to leave her father’s side. She hoped whatever she said had not made him more wroth with her than he had already been. Criston walked with her to her uncle’s chambers, where the boy lurked in a corner like a ghost and plates of food she had no appetite to eat lay on a table.

When the boy began to speak, his voice was too composed; it gave Rhaenyra a chill.

“Prince Daemon asked for a cast of characters,” the boy who called himself Aegon said. “I suppose I will start there.”

He sat at the table, but his chair was pulled back, as though to keep his distance. His eyes focused on the rasher of bacon in the middle of the table instead of on either of them. There were shadows beneath his eyes, the same ones that had been there the night before.

“Between them, my parents had eight children. My mother three sons from her first marriage, my father two daughters from his second, and together, two sons and a daughter.”

Two marriages, Rhaenyra thought, and six babes, when she wanted none of either. She felt her stomach twist, and thought of her mother, dead trying to birth a living son.

“My brothers were Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey. My sisters are Baela and Rhaena.” He took a short breath. “Viserys and Visenya were my full siblings, but we were taught not to distinguish. We were all brothers and sisters, no halves, no steps.”

Past tense for some, present for others, no matter that they should all be in the future tense. Rhaenyra felt her gut twist tighter.

“I was raised on Dragonstone, away from court. I know some of what came before my birth, but not all.”

His mother married Laenor Velaryon, the boy explained, and his father Laena. Laenor was not the worst choice, she thought, though her stomach sank a little at the revelation. She cast a look at Daemon, to find his brows drawn together, a storm in his eyes that she wouldn’t have thought would result from hearing he’d be freed from his marriage to Rhea Royce. But the boy was going on, giving a rough sketch of events with a jumbled timeline: Alicent giving birth to more children, Viserys’ failing health, some vague disgrace that chased his mother and her family to Dragonstone to begin with.

“Laena died in Pentos and Laenor on Driftmark, and then my parents wed each other.” A smile cracked his cool composure. “We were happy on Dragonstone. We would play on the beach, and hide in Aegon’s Garden, make Jace look for us for hours. Rhaena and I would hide in a hollow in one of the walls, and Joff would climb a tree, and if Jace came close to finding us, Joff would pounce on him.”

Rhaenyra snuck another look at Daemon. He knew Dragonstone top to bottom, and sure enough, his face had gone still and expressionless again. The boy spoke of a place he knew . Part of Rhaenyra wanted to tell the boy to stop, but he had not even gotten to whatever horrors he had spoken of yet.

The smile was gone when the boy continued. “One moon from my ninth nameday, we all went to court. The king sat in judgment over slanderous allegations about my mother and brothers. He ruled in our favor, but there was a fight, Jace and Luke with Aegon and Aemond.” The boy stopped abruptly. “Is Aemond born already? Is he here?”

Rhaenyra shook her head. “No, Alicent has but one son yet.”

Aegon’s breath left in a whoosh and he laughed. He sounded like Daemon when he laughed. “Good,” he said. His voice was sharp. “Good.”

“There was a fight,” Daemon prompted.

Aegon nodded. “We left after that, for Dragonstone. We’d only been home for a day when Princess Rhaenys came with news. The king had died, and the Greens had crowned Prince Aegon.”

The king had died. Her father. He had said this the night before, but it did not matter. She felt the same rush of fear and sadness. They had lost their way, she and her father, clashed more than they agreed,  but she did not want him dead, not in two years or twenty.

“The Greens?” Daemon asked.

“Oh. Cast of characters,” Aegon whispered to himself. “The Greens were the faction of the queen, the Blacks of the princess. The Greens were led by the Hightowers, of course. Lord Larys Strong. Jasper Wylde. Ser Criston Cole.”

“Criston?” Rhaenyra’s voice was too sharp for her liking, but she could hardly believe her sworn sword—the man awaiting her now—would swear against her.

“They called him the Kingmaker,” Aegon said. “He put the crown on the prince himself.”

The metal of her rings bit into Rhaenyra’s fingers as she twisted at them, as she forced herself to listen. But… Criston was her friend . Was he not?

“At the news, my mother began her labors, and our sister… she came too early. Her name was Visenya, but I never got to hold her. Viserys was excited about not being the baby anymore. He cried when they burned her. He didn’t really understand.”

She wondered how much Aegon had understood. Rhaenyra remembered watching a baby sibling burn when she was but a child herself, clad in black and her mother too weak to stand. She wondered if this version of herself had been able to stand, or if she’d watched from a window as her only daughter burnt.

“Rhaenyra.” Daemon’s voice, softer than it usually was.

She didn’t dare look at him. “Continue,” she said.

Aegon swallowed. His lips were dry, but he did not reach for anything to drink. “This is when people start to die.”

His voice was hesitant, as though speaking of these people who did not exist might be harder to hear than of the death of her father.

“I said continue,” she ordered sharply.

Aegon’s eyes widened and his words tripped over themselves as he did as she bade. “Terms were brought but they were unacceptable. Jace and Luke were sent as messengers to the North and to Storms End, looking for allies in our cause. Luke… he and Aemond, they had… they did not care for each other, and Aemond was there. At Storms End. Lord Borros declared for Aegon and sent my brother away, but Aemond… he followed. On Vhagar. Arrax hatched in Luke’s cradle. They were both four-and-ten. No match for Vhagar.” As he spoke of dragons, a tremor shook his hands, and he clasped them in front of him. He wore a ring on one finger and he twirled it, and Rhaenyra looked down at her own hands, doing the same. She stopped.

“This Aemond killed Lucerys.” Daemon’s voice was cold and hard, as though he spoke of a real boy, and not a phantom.

Aegon nodded. “And the war began.”

The war. Horrible vengeance for the death of Luke, then Duskendale sacked, Rhaenys killed at Rook’s Rest, Daemon fighting in the Riverlands, and something called the Sowing of the Seeds, where bastard children with Valyrian blood dared to mount dragons and take them into the sky.

Aegon’s voice had slipped back into that composed tone—no, not composed, Rhaenyra thought, hollow . His eyes had returned to and did not leave the bacon, cold now and curled in its own grease. Rhaenyra wished it gone, its smell curling her stomach, but she dared not disturb the tale by calling for a servant.

“My brother Jace said war was no place for children,” Aegon said. “Joff and Rhaena went to the Vale, and Mother and Jace put Viserys and me on a ship to Pentos. Prince Reggio said he would foster us until the war was done.”

“Prince Reggio?” Daemon asked.

Aegon nodded. “The prince of Pentos. Baela said he was nice. They lived in Pentos once. Jace said he would make sure we were taken good care of, that you and he were firm friends. He was right, wasn’t he?”

From his tone, Rhaenyra realized he thought it impossible that this boy Jace was anything other than right. His shoulders visibly relaxed when Daemon said shortly, “He was.”

“We got on the ship. But we never made it to Pentos.” Aegon’s breathing picked up as he continued, and his voice shook a little. “There were ships in the distance and then all of a sudden they were attacking. There was so much noise. Viserys and I hid at first, but then the wall of our cabin splinters and water started to come in. So we run.”

It was not only the boy’s voice that shook now. His body trembled as well. She almost moved to comfort him, but like he could read her thoughts, Daemon’s hand curled around hers and stopped her.

“There was fighting on deck. Stormcloud got free from his pen, and loosed fire on any near him, but he calmed when we got to him. He was good, you know. Gentle with Viserys even though he was bonded to me. Viserys didn’t have a dragon. His egg hadn’t hatched. But Rhaena didn’t have a dragon either then. It doesn’t make him weak.” He said it as though daring either of them to argue. Neither of them did. Tears gathered in his eyes. “He had his egg with him. On deck. He brought it in a sack. But there were too many ships. They didn’t come for us . They came to attack, and I knew I had to warn someone. I hadn’t ridden Stormcloud yet. Kepa said he was too little. But I didn’t know what else to do. And he couldn’t take both of us. So I found Viserys a place to hide and left him.” The tears spilled. “I left him. I left him, but I had to get to Jace. Jace knew what to do. Jace always knows what to do.”

“Did you get to Jace?” Daemon asked, his voice quiet.

“I did,” Aegon said, and then it was like a light blew out in his eyes, and he shut down.

“Aegon?” Rhaenyra asked quietly. She reached a hand out to him, but he jerked away, then pulled his knees up to his chest and curled into the chair.

Daemon took her hand, and she rose to her feet, followed him to a far corner of the room.

Before he could say a word, she wrapped her arms around him and pressed as close as she could. He returned the embrace immediately, his arms so warm around her. She breathed him in—steel and brimstone and a hint of spice.

“Do you believe him?” She whispered the words against his chest.

“My friend Reggio is one of the very few people I would trust with those I care about. But he is not Prince of Pentos. Not yet anyway.” He seemed to realize he was prevaricating, and added, “The boy’s story is believable. That hollow in the wall on Dragonstone? I hid there from Viserys, when we were boys visiting our uncle. He never found me. Not once.”

She looked back to Aegon, whose head was tucked against his knees, his shoulders moving as he breathed. “Do you think he’s alright?”

“He warned me of this,” Daemon said. “That sometimes he stops talking. Rhaena thinks it will one day get better.”

His sister Rhaena. Like Daemon, Rhaenyra could not fully claim to believe it. But she could not disbelieve it. Not with a child who looked so much like both of them torn to shreds by a life that they had not yet lived.

“If it’s real,” Rhaenyra whispered, “then we died. We left them.”

Daemon’s hands came to her shoulders and he pushed her back a little. “Real or not, I swear to you, that fate will not be yours. No matter what I have to do, the Hightowers will not take your throne or your children or your life.”

His fingers dug into her shoulders, as though he could press the promise into her skin. She thought about the child Aegon’s father had killed in vengeance for his brother Luke. Such a thing should have shocked her; it didn’t. She had always known her uncle was capable of terrible things, and the thought had never scared her, just as she did not fear all Syrax was capable of. Dragons could wreak damage, or be the most loyal of companions. That one was true did not make the other false. So too with Daemon, and she had always wanted him beside her.

“You died, too, uncle,” she said. “That cannot happen either.”

His head dipped down and his forehead pressed against hers. His face was close enough that she could smell his breath, sweet from whatever he’d drank before she came into the room. She wondered how it would taste.

“Warriors die in battle, zaldritsos,” he said. “The important thing is to win.”

“No,” Aegon’s voice croaked from across the room. “No, you can’t die. You can’t win a battle and die and leave us .”

Rhaenyra looked back toward the boy. He stared up at them with wild eyes. Gods, she thought, he looked so much like Daemon. “No one is going to die, Aegon.”

He let out an anguished cry and sprang to his feet, his chair toppling over with a bang, and then the door slammed open, Criston looming in the threshold, his hand on the pommel of his sword.

The boy backed up a step, then tripped over the chair, and crashed to the ground.

“Ser Criston!” Rhaenyra cried at the same time as Daemon snarled, “Cole.”

Rhaenyra forced the alarm from her voice when she spoke. “All is well, Ser Criston.”

“Princess, I heard—“

Daemon cut him off. “My squire upended a chair. Do you think yourself up to the challenge of righting it, ser?” His tone clearly said he didn’t think Criston was up to any challenge.

Criston scowled, but did not argue when Rhaenyra sent him from the room.

She and Daemon approached Aegon together. He lay where he’d fallen, chest heaving, eyes closed.

“Aegon,” she murmured, kneeling beside him. “Lykiri, trezy.” Be calm, son. How many times had his mother said that? Eight children between them, she thought. Six births.

Aegon’s eyes fluttered open. “You’re wrong,” he said quietly. “Everyone’s going to die.”

Chapter Text

“No one’s going to die,” his kepa’s voice had said. The princess who would one day be his mother said that too, but Aegon knew they both were wrong.

Baela had told him—they wouldn’t exist. He had not listened, because that had sounded wondrous to him. He had not wanted to exist anymore. It was only now that he realized what she had truly meant—if he changed things, Baela and Rhaena wouldn’t exist, nor Jace, Luke, and Joff. Because what would warning them do, but drive his parents closer together? But his siblings had to exist. The throne was Jace’s by right. He would have followed their mother, and been a greater monarch than Jaehaerys even. To make it so he was never born, to exchange a Jacaerys for an Aegon? No. He’d doomed them all again by coming back.

He had watched them all die once. Left Viserys all alone. Sent Jace into the Gullet and down into the sea. It had been Netty and Addam who told them Jace was dead, and Aegon would never forget the sound of Baela’s cry. Watched as Joffrey snuck to the stables where Syrax was kept, told him he should not go, but did not sound the alarm in time. When they’d brought back a body instead of a prince, Aegon had felt something in his mother shatter.

But now they would not even live. He’d killed them all again.

“You need to eat something,” the princess said, and Prince Daemon hauled him to his feet.

Rhaenyra gave him one of the little cakes that were piled high on a platter. “They’re lemon and honey,” she said.

“I know.” He studied it before taking a bite. “You like lemon the most.”

Her face fell and her eyes filled with tears. “What happened? How did they leave you?”

Aegon nibbled on the cake. The ones on Dragonstone had been better, he thought. “There’s not much left to say. It was the better part of a year between Jace’s death and yours, but it did not feel so long.”

Rhaenyra’s breath caught and he realized his slip. “Her death, I mean,” Aegon said. He did not look at her as he said it.

After he finished the cake and the goblet of water Daemon poured him, Aegon took a deep breath and continued.

“We made it home. Jace and the others, the Dragonseeds, they went to stop the fleet. He said I did well. That we were very brave. But Stormcloud… he was too little and it was such a long way. He flew us through a battle. My mother sat with me while he died. He tried so hard to live, but…”

“He got you home,” Rhaenyra said. It was what his mother had said as well.

“Jace died that day too,” Aegon said. “Addam said he was trying to get to Viserys. He didn’t make it.” His mind searched for anything to take his mind off Jace’s face as he said goodbye. “Cast of characters!” he blurted. “The Dragonseeds. Nettles and Hugh and Ulf. And Addam and Alyn. They were Jace’s bastard brothers.”

Daemon’s brows went up. “Laenor’s bastard sons?”

Aegon nodded. “The queen legitimized them. Addam died, but Alyn married my sister Baela… after. I suppose he’s king-consort. He probably hates that. Alyn didn’t claim a dragon, he just wants to sail. He’s so much like Lord Corlys.”

Under his breath, Daemon murmured, “I’m sure he is.”

“Muña and Kepa took Kings Landing after that. But Aemond was still in the Riverlands, and he and Vhagar scorched whatever they came upon.“ A shudder went through him at the thought of dragonfire. “Kepa went to deal with him with Nettles. Addam stayed at court to protect the queen and city, and the other two went to secure Tumbleton. And then everything went wrong.”

Aegon didn’t really understand what came next anymore than he understood what had happened before his birth. He was not naive anymore, if he had ever been, but despite waiting for betrayals, he still did not understand them, these especially. Why trust usurpers to honor a promise? It had not surprised him at all to hear Peake boast of their plots against the two betrayers. His like followed only oaths that helped their own selves.

“Hugh and Ulf betrayed us, and my mother… She thought we could not trust any of the Dragonseeds. She ordered Addam and Netty arrested, but Addam ran and my kepa let Netty go.”

A small sound of disbelief escaped Prince Daemon. Aegon understood the reaction; Daemon Targaryen loved nothing but his family, now and then and in all times to come. To choose a bastard girl over the words of his queen? Aegon did not know what went on in the Riverlands. He’d heard some of Mysaria’s whispers, but he had not liked the way she spoke to his mother. She and Larys Strong, both twisting and twisting and twisting the truth, so that the simplest thing was treason and their ruler’s mind was tied all in knots. So all he said was what he knew. “Netty was Jace’s friend. I do not think she would betray us.” He lifted his shoulders in a shrug.

“Your father faced Aemond,” Daemon said.

Aegon nodded. He felt everything slip away as he spoke. He felt far away, like his mouth was telling the story but his heart was locked in a tower. It was better off there. “They died at the Gods Eye. All four of them. And then the people rioted. They killed all the dragons. Joffrey tried to stop them, but he fell from Syrax’s back. We could not hold the city so we left. Back to Dragonstone. The usurper was there. And then my mother was killed, but I wasn’t.” He looked up at them. They both stared at him. Baela looked at him that same way sometimes. He asked Rhaena what it meant, but she never answered.

“I miss Rhaena,” he said. “Can I go back to sleep?”

“Of course,” the Rhaenyra who was not his mother said. Aegon smiled at them both and climbed back into Daemon’s bed, his back to them.

“Daemon,” he heard Rhaenyra whisper, “what do we do?”

“We stop it,” Daemon said, like there was no other choice.

“What do we do about him?”

For that, Daemon gave no answer.

“Off to Gulltown to see a fair maid, heigh-ho, heigh-ho,” Aegon sang quietly.

He remembered Jace singing this the night before he and Mother walked them to the docks on Dragonstone. The night before his brothers died. “My voice is better than kepa’s, isn’t it?” He’d tickled Viserys when he said that, and Aegon had laughed at his brother as he squirmed.

“No!” Viserys shouted through his laughter.

Aegon had looked up as his brothers tussled, and saw his mother in the doorway, a small smile on her lips, the love in her eyes stronger than the anger he saw in her everyday since Luke’s murder.

Now he pulled the blanket on Daemon’s bed up over his head and tried to remember the feeling that went along with her smile.

The next morning, Daemon woke him before dawn. Aegon blinked up at him sleepily. In the shadowy light, he could almost believe it was his father, waking him early to go on some adventure.

“Get up,” Daemon said.

Aegon slid out of bed. He was still dressed in his clothing from two days before and he shifted uncomfortably as he trailed after the prince in the tunnels.

They were already entering the Dragonpit when he realized where they were going.

“No.” Aegon tried to pull away, but Daemon’s hand held fast.

He could not make Aegon go in there, not now, not with dragons, living dragons, fire-breathing dragons. Aegon threw himself backward, his breathing starting to come too fast, but he couldn’t make himself count like Rhaena had said, or think of anything but fire and teeth and the last time he heard his mother’s voice.

Aegon’s vision started to go black as he thrashed. He felt his knees go weak.

Singing broke through the sound of his heaving breath. “Off to Gulltown to see a fair maid, heigh-ho, heigh-ho.”

Aegon squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated on the melody.
“I'll steal a sweet kiss with the point of my blade, heigh-ho, heigh-ho.”

He sucked in a breath, then another. He remembered Jace’s voice, and for a moment it was like he could hear them both singing to him, Jace, whom he’d never see again, and his father, whose younger self might never be the man Aegon had known. Both men had been there the day of his birth and both had loved him each day after until they died.

When he opened his eyes, neither were there.

Daemon knelt on the ground in front of him, both of his hands wrapped around Aegon’s upper arms. He was still singing, and Aegon mouthed the words as his breathing calmed.

The song ended and they breathed together for a moment that stretched into the quiet of the pit.

“You were not afraid of dragons when you spoke of Stormcloud,” Daemon said. “But every other time…”

“I used to love dragons.” His voice sounded so weak, but he did not have the strength to pretend. “Kepa would take me on Caraxes, or muña on Syrax. My first memory was of Stormcloud, and I was so excited to ride like my siblings. Like my parents.”

His voice was soothing. Patient. “Tell me how your mother died.”

“We returned to Dragonstone at night. We were met by Ser Alfred. Something felt wrong. My mother’s nails dug into my hand. She knew it too.” Aegon did not dare close his eyes, lest he see it all again. He kept his watery eyes on Daemon’s. “He led us into a trap. They killed our guards and seized us, and took us to the Usurper. He waited with his dragon. Sunfyre. He burned my mother alive. And then… and then he ate her.” Aegon started to cry. “I tried to go to her but they held me back. She should not have been alone. I should have burned with her.”

Daemon pulled him forward, wrapping his strong arms around him, and Aegon buried his face in his neck. He could not stop the tears, but over them, he heard his father’s voice whisper, “No.”

Once he calmed, Daemon rose to his feet again and held out a hand. “There’s something we must do.”

Aegon felt tired and empty, but strangely well. He wrapped his hand around Daemon’s and they walked deeper into the Pit. The place they went was deep and cool, with eggs lining ornate shelves, but not in the braziers Aegon remembered from his childhood.

“Dragon eggs do not die,” Daemon said. “They petrify. There are ways to wake them, but nothing any should try without deep knowledge of dragonlore.”

Aegon nodded. Baela and Rhaena had begun looking into such things when they realized they could not get eggs to hatch as they should, though Aegon tried his best to ignore their plans. “Are these eggs petrified?”

Daemon nodded. “We’re going to pick one,” he said.

Aegon didn’t understand, but he trailed after Daemon along the long wall. Finally, he stopped, his eyes narrowing. He pointed.

“One of these two,” he said. “Choose one.”

“I do not want a dragon,” Aegon said. He did not think that was why they were here, but it needed to be said anyway.

Daemon’s lips turned up. “This egg is not for you.”

Aegon looked at the two eggs. They were similar, both with slim lines of gold running through the shell. He pointed to the one on the right, for it looked as though it had been there longer.

Daemon nodded approvingly. He slid the egg into a satchel he carried, then held out his hand for Aegon again.

They walked back down the tunnel, to the bottom of the steps that led into the wing of Maegor’s Holdfast that housed the royal family.

“Wait here,” Daemon said, and Aegon nodded.

Daemon returned quickly, the satchel still at his side. “Come,” he said, and the two of them wound their way through another of the tunnels.

This one came out over the water. A narrow ledge, sheer drop below them to the bay. Daemon lowered himself down, and so did Aegon. Their feet dangled over the side. The drop was long.

Daemon dug an egg from the satchel and handed it to Aegon. It was not the one they had collected, though they looked nearly identical. No, this one was alive . Aegon could feel it. Not ready to hatch, not yet, but he could feel the life beneath the surface. The threads of gold glinted in the sunlight.

“Sunfyre,” Aegon whispered. Taken from the prince’s cradle.

“It’s up to you what we do with it,” Daemon said.

Perhaps he would have said more, but Aegon did not know. Before he could speak further, Aegon threw the egg, hard as he could, sending it spinning through the air and then plummeting down, down, and crashing against the rocks. He watched the sea crash against the shore for a long time before he looked away, finally believing Sunfyre would not burst up from the surf and devour him.

“You have changed one thing for certain,” Daemon said. Aegon turned to look at him. “We know now that Sunfyre shall not kill Rhaenyra. But there are more things we have to change. More eggs to smash against the rocks. I’d have you stay with me, if you would. As my squire. Rhaenyra and I may have need of you.”

Aegon blinked and looked away. “You’re not my father.”

“I know.”

“Will you promise me something?”

“If I can,” Daemon said.

“We won’t let Aemond get Vhagar.”

Aegon didn’t have to look to know the smile on Daemon’s face was sharp. “That,” he said, his voice dark and cold, “I can promise.”

Chapter Text

“It would be easier if we could tell my father all of this,” Rhaenyra said.

Her hands were steepled in front of her on the table in his chambers. This was the second day in a row the Princess had broken her fast with them, though this day much more eating was taking place. Rhaenyra had even gotten the boy to eat a boiled egg instead of only lemon cakes. A mother’s touch, he thought wryly, taking a slice of bacon for himself.

She was not wrong about her father. Daemon even thought he might believe them; Viserys loved nothing more than tales of dreams and dreamers. He’d fancied himself one, once. Daemon still remembered the look on Viserys’ face when he had laughed at what his brother had said was a prophecy of a warrior king from Aemma’s womb. Daemon did not often feel shame, but he did regret that.

After hearing the boy’s tales of how weak and reliant on the Hightower vipers Viserys had become in the future he came from, however, Daemon was no longer certain they could rely on him even if he did believe. It made his heart ache in a way he thought he had put behind him the day he’d received his brother’s letter that day in the Stepstones. The best outcome would be an annulment, a betrothal, and the removal of Otto Hightower (or the removal of his head, though he hardly thought that likely). But Daemon no longer believed that such outcomes were possible from his brother’s will alone, not with a Hightower queen and a council that would one day betray all their oaths.

Across the table from him, Aegon had clearly come to the same conclusion. His brow furrowed, Daemon’s own face in miniature. “My kepa used to say the king could not see the ill-will of others unless flown as a banner before his eyes.”

Rhaenyra shot Daemon an annoyed look, as though he had been the one to say it. “And what did your mother say?”

“Talking about her father made her sad,” Aegon said. “And then once he died, she and kepa no longer spoke of him at all in private.”

Daemon wondered why that was, but the boy clearly did not know. He ignored it in favor of saying, “I think we must move forward without telling him.”

Rhaenyra did not look pleased at that, but she did not look surprised either. “What would you have us do, Uncle?”

A challenge more than a question. Daemon smiled. “First, we must decide who our Aegon shall be.”

“Your squire, I thought,” the boy said, as eager as Daemon had seen him since they found him in Flea Bottom.

“Yes,” Daemon said, casting a look to Rhaenyra. They had talked about this, but neither were sure how the boy would take his next suggestion. Not with his strange, violent reaction whenever the topic of bastards arose. “But the likeness between us cannot be hidden, and there are few Targaryens who could have sired a boy your age. You’ll be assumed to be my son.”

“Your bastard, you mean,” Aegon said. Daemon inclined his head. The boy shrugged his shoulders. “That is acceptable.”

“You’re certain?” Rhaenyra asked, her look of surprise mirroring Daemon’s own, he was sure.

“I can hardly be thought to be trueborn,” Aegon said, then added with a cheeky smirk, “unless Lady Rhea wishes to claim me.”

“My Bronze Bitch shall have no claim on mine children,” Daemon said, his voice a hint too sharp. The boy frowned again, to Daemon’s dismay. But he could not let even a rumor of a trueborn child between him and his wife arise. “I shall acknowledge you,” Daemon continued, his voice softer, if only just. “We need only decide on your history and your name.”

“Can I not just be Aegon? I had a bastard cousin named Gaemon, after the Glorious.”

A part of Daemon thrilled at the idea of parading a bastard son with the Conqueror’s name at court. Otto had his snot-nosed grandson, but his Aegon… well, he’d been a king, and it showed in his bearing and his voice, when he wasn’t in the midst of one of his fits. And he would be the elder. By the time mewling Prince Aegon came of age, their Aegon would have won his knighthood and mayhaps have taken a new name instead of just Waters. He would be the Aegon the court thought of, not this Hightower prince. Daemon imagined the look on Otto’s face…

“It would be wise if we called you something else,” Rhaenyra said, and Daemon felt his mouth settle into a frown, no matter that she was right.

“My mother named me Aegon,” the boy said stubbornly.

He was peculiar about his mother, Daemon thought, though perhaps it was to be expected, with how they had lived and how she had died. Daemon had little memory of his mother, but he imagined if he had spent as much time at her side as Aegon had his version of Rhaenyra, he too would refuse to give up anything she gave him.

“Aegon—” Rhaenyra said.

The door opened without warning. Daemon turned toward it, ready to give Cole a lashing with more than his tongue, but he stopped still at the sight of his brother, striding inside his chambers with the sort of smile Daemon was unused to seeing on his face. Daemon had never imagined Viserys would seek him out. This had not been the plan, but he had always been a drab hand at improvising. He hoped that continued.

“Daemon! Rhaenyra!” Viserys greeted warmly as the three of them hurried to their feet.

“Good morrow, Father,” Rhaenyra said, moving forward to kiss him.

“Come to join us, brother?” Daemon asked. “The kitchens have sent us a feast for our breakfast.”

“Yes, well, I—” Viserys stopped abruptly. “And who is this?”

Daemon looked over to Aegon. The boy had stepped back from the table quickly when Viserys walked in, and kept his head bowed. Had he not looked so Targaryen, Viserys may not have even noticed him, so used to servants they were at the Red Keep. But Aegon’s hair shone as bright as any of Valyrian blood, and though Daemon had found him a set of new clothes, these clothes were also the colors of their house. The boy looked like what he was born—a Targaryen prince.

“Brother, I had thought to request an audience formally for this, but…” Daemon glanced at Rhaenyra, who gave an almost imperceptible nod of her head. “Viserys, this boy is my son.”

“Your… Your son?” Viserys took a step forward, toward the boy, then snapped his head back toward Daemon, eyes narrowed. “Is this another of your tricks?”

“No,” Daemon said, “no trick. He is my son. My natural son, born on Dragonstone.”

Part of that, at least, was true.

“Your son,” Viserys said, his tone half full of wonder. “Well, boy, head up, let me see you.”

Aegon lifted his head and faced the king. “Your Grace,” he said, dropping his eyes quickly.

“He is your image, Daemon,” Viserys breathed. “What is your name, boy?”

Daemon knew what was coming before the boy opened his mouth. “My mother named me Aegon, your Grace. They call me Egg.”

Daemon bit back a smile and did not dare look at Rhaenyra. “Aegon Waters.” He walked closer to Viserys, put a hand on his arm to draw him away from Rhaenyra and the boy. “Brother,” he said quietly, “there is something of a sensitive nature to his birth that I would ask to speak to you of in private.” He inclined his head toward Rhaenyra, for Viserys would not want tales of Daemon’s paramours in his daughter’s ears.

“Of course,” Viserys agreed readily.

“May I come to you tonight?” Daemon asked. Viserys nodded and Daemon squeezed his arm before letting it go. “The boy is to be my squire,” he said as he and Viserys rejoined Rhaenyra at the table. “I shall see him to knighthood.”

“A fine idea,” Viserys said, taking the seat beside Rhaenyra.

“See to my sword, Egg,” Daemon ordered, for a bastard could not break his fast with a king, and Daemon could already see worry pulling at the corners of Aegon’s eyes. Had seeing his grandsire been the thing to do it? He would ask later, though Aegon only ever answered his questions truthfully half the time, it seemed.

His brother ate his fill as Daemon told both him and Rhaenyra tales from the Stepstones, and Daemon found himself feeling oddly at peace. Perhaps it was the thought of Aegon’s parents, made sad by the thought of Viserys, who did not speak of him after his death, or perhaps it was simply that Daemon missed the feeling of his brother’s affection. But whatever it was, he resolved to take it as it came, for his brother’s goodwill never lasted, and it always struck a worse pain than Drahar’s hammer when the goodwill was snatched away.

The king left with Rhaenyra after Viserys had eaten all the bacon. After he was gone, Aegon rejoined Daemon at the table, frowning at the empty plate.

“Oh, did you want some?” Daemon asked. “I had thought you ate only cake unless forced by a princess.”

Aegon swallowed hard. “Sometimes I can’t eat meat,” he said quietly, and Daemon did not need him to go on.

Daemon stood and clapped the boy on the back. “Let us sneak to the kitchens,” he said, “and get more cake.”

They took Maegor’s tunnels, and Daemon let Aegon lead again. He believed him, mostly, but each time he was with the boy brought further surety to what he claimed. He knew these tunnels, as well as Daemon, almost.

As they passed from one set of stairs to another, Daemon asked idly, “Do you know this Aemond’s nameday?”

Aegon nodded. “The fourth day of the second moon of the year 115.”

Daemon raised a brow, counting months even as he teased, “So quick to reply." A touch more than nine moons, he realized, until this Aemond was supposed to be born. Daemon smiled. "Do you know mine own nameday so well?”

Aegon smiled. “My queen would light a candle for him on the day. You should have seen how furious Baela was the first time she did it. She marched to the sept—Baela never went to the sept—and blew all the candles out. Ser Tyland was so angry, I thought he might banish her to Dragonstone.”

Daemon had opened his mouth to ask about the boy’s queen when he mentioned Tyland Lannister. “Ser Tyland?” Daemon asked, trying to keep his voice light. He succeeded, but that must not have worked with this boy, who had spent years with a version of his own self. Aegon’s low chuckles stopped at the sound of his voice. “Tell me, was Ser Tyland one of the Greens or one of the Blacks?”

Aegon stopped still and looked up at him, his eyes clear and steady. “I can no longer recall,” the boy said, then turned and hopped down the last two steps to the kitchens.

That night, Viserys received Daemon in his private rooms after dinner. He had not spent so much time with his brother since Daemon had been seven-and-ten and Viserys not yet heir to the throne. He thought back to his first night back in King's Landing, and wondered what might have been different, had Rhaenyra not crashed into the boy. Would he be pouring wine for himself and his brother at the hour of the eel? Would he be offering a sympathetic ear about his brother's histrionic son, who had not stopped sobbing all day and who had attempted to throw his dragon egg from his cradle? Daemon somehow did not think so, and wondered if this was better than how else things might have turned out.

"You said there was a sensitive nature to your bastard's birth?" Viserys asked after they had settled across from each other. Daemon was very nearly impressed; Viserys did not usually speak so plainly, so quickly.

Daemon took a long swallow of wine and leaned forward onto his elbows. This had a chance of working, he thought, if he could be sincere enough. "She was not a whore, his mother. I do not make a habit of bedding highborn ladies, brother,-" Viserys let out a snort at that, which Daemon had expected, even though he spoke the truth- "but in this case, I did. I did not know she was with child. With my child. I did not know the boy existed until I met him not one month ago."

"What happened to his mother?" Viserys asked, his eyes bleeding sympathy.

Daemon thought of Aegon's eyes at the Dragonpit, as he confessed everything about his mother's death. Rhaenyra's death. The quaver in Daemon's voice was real when he answered. "She's dead."

"Who was she?"

"Please do not ask me to tell you. She kept the boy a secret, and I would not have her maligned after her death."

Viserys' mouth set into a long, firm line. This was the riskiest part of this lie Daemon had concocted. He had not consulted Rhaenyra, and as the moment stretched, and Viserys did not speak, Daemon thought perhaps he had made a mistake in that. Perhaps she could have sold this story better than him.

But finally, Viserys said, "I will not ask you her name."

Daemon's shoulders slumped and he smiled a little, the reaction put-on but the emotion genuine. Had Viserys come to his own conclusion about the boy's mother? Did he think it that Celtigar daughter who had died of the pox, or a pretty blond daughter of Ser Brynden Quince on Dragonstone? "Thank you, your Grace."

Viserys was frowning again, and Daemon was not sure what he had done until Viserys said, "Do not call me that. Brother. Please. Can we not put the past behind us?"

Daemon looked at his brother's face, so searching, so hopeful. Daemon felt himself hoping as well, until he steeled himself against it. His brother would never choose him over the Hightowers. The hope of such had died the same day Baelon did, if it had even made it so long. Daemon felt like he was threading the eye of a needle, for he needed Viserys to believe him, and he needed to not believe in Viserys. Take the ease and friendship as it came, he told himself again, but do not trust it to last. "Of course, brother. I have missed you dearly after all, and I have," he said, with a smile and a sigh, "so much to tell you."

Chapter Text

Viserys had not spent time in the yard since his first years as king. He could swing a sword if needed, but he had never wanted to be a warrior king; if he had wanted it, he would only have been disappointed. Baelon the Brave had but one warrior son.

Viserys watched him now, his little brother, not from the balcony where his father and grandfather had once watched them spar, but from a colonnade, as hidden as a king might be with a Kingsguard at his shoulder. Daemon stood across from the boy, arms crossed as though assessing him as he went through training forms, then stepping in when he had a correction to make. They were not alone in the yard, but they may as well have been; few were doing anything but watching the prince they called Lord Fleabottom patiently correct his squire’s grip on a tourney sword, and Daemon ignored them all.

Viserys had suggested to Daemon they give the boy a few days before introducing him to the rest of the Keep, but Daemon had shrugged off the worry. Viserys never understood his brother, even in this. Allowing the boy some time to settle, letting word of his existence trickle through court, giving Viserys a chance to make sure his Hand and council knew his brother had his blessing in acknowledging his bastard and bringing him on as a squire… Were these things not all for the good? Daemon had thought not, and brought the boy to the yard the morning after their talk.

The boy—Aegon, Viserys thought, Daemon’s son—had already begun the basics of swordsmanship, so much was obvious, and Viserys himself could not see what was wrong in his grip or the stance Daemon also corrected with a knock of his hip against the boy’s. Aegon had a regal bearing, Viserys thought wistfully. Would that he were trueborn, what a lord he would have made.

“Ser Harwin!” Daemon called, and Harwin answered back quickly, striding across the yard toward Daemon and the boy. Aegon smiled up at Ser Harwin, though his happy expression faded quickly, and they exchanged quick greetings. Viserys realized Harwin Strong had like as not met his own nephew before he had. "Let us show the boy good swordsmanship, if you would?"

Ser Harwin drew his sword. "With pleasure, my prince."

The two were well-matched and drew stares away from the boy, but Viserys kept his eyes on Aegon. He looked so much like Daemon, Viserys could never have mistaken him for anything else. The child even stood like Daemon, bent at the knee with an air of confidence about him that belied the child's age. He had promised not to ask, but he wondered anyway- who was his mother? How had she died? When had Daemon come upon her, and why had he never said anything?

Viserys did not watch much longer. Long enough to see a couple more smiles from the boy, the grin all Daemon even in a mouth that must have come from the boy’s mother. The smiles never stayed long.

Would that he were trueborn, Viserys thought again as he listened to Ser Tyland’s accounting of the reopening of shipping lanes to Volantis in the Small Council that afternoon. Before they had began, Otto had choice words about Daemon’s bastard, as Viserys knew he would. “Aegon,” Otto had said, his brow furrowed. “Do you not see the insult, my king? To your own house as well as Prince Daemon’s lawful lady wife’s?” The others began to arrive before Viserys could reply, and the talk was put off another day. He wished Otto could put aside his dislike of Daemon, let him prove to him that he had changed, as he surely had. As he surely would, now that fatherhood was upon him.

Viserys supped that night with Rhaenyra, the two of them eating in an easier silence than he had expected, after her early return from her tour. That, too, would be a topic for another day.

It was Rhaenyra who brought up the boy. Egg, she called him.

“Excited to be a squire, is he?” Viserys said. “We shall have to host a tourney, let the boy run around the lists, chasing after Daemon.”

Rhaenyra laughed, but then said, “I’m not certain he is ready for a tourney. He’s… very sad, Father.”

Viserys had realized that, even seeing him as briefly as he had the day before. It had not come as a surprise when Daemon said the boy’s mother had died. Viserys recognized that shadow, had seen it in Daemon and himself, though Daemon had been too young to really remember. The poor child must have been left alone, until Daemon had claimed him.

“I think there is more to the story of his mother’s death than what he’s said,” Rhaenyra murmured, her brows drawn together in a frown. Her young cousin looked like her, Viserys thought, a pang of sorrow in his heart. If he’d not been a bastard, they might have been friends as they grew; Rhaenyra could not have been more than a handful of years older than the boy.

“I think Daemon might have loved her,” Viserys said cautiously, thinking of the quaver in Daemon's voice when he spoke of the woman. It was hardly a topic he wanted to speak of with his daughter, and not least because Rhaenyra could be prickly where Daemon was concerned.

But she looked only sad when she replied. “He did,” Rhaenyra murmured quietly. “I think he loved her very much.”

That night, Viserys did as he usually did when melancholy took him—he called for Alicent. She was a balm to his worries, soothing him when he felt guilt over Aemma, pain from strife with Rhaenyra, or the absence of his brother from his side. She was a good wife, if not the one he truly wanted, and he was glad for her. But when Daemon appeared at his chamber door before Alicent could arrive, looking as abashed as Daemon Targaryen ever could and seeking council on the topic of fatherhood… Well, Viserys could do naught else but send another message to his queen, bidding her stay the night in her own rooms, and welcome his brother inside.

Chapter Text

Before Rhaenyra knew it, a sennight had passed since Daemon’s return and Aegon’s arrival. Egg had been set up in rooms adjoining her uncle’s, and fitted with squire’s clothing. He mostly dressed all in black, which Daemon claimed the boy chose for himself. Sometimes, she went to the yard to watch them train. One morning, her father accompanied her, sitting up on the balcony, telling her stories of when he and Daemon had been young, no older than Egg. Daemon had been a menace even then, Viserys said, his voice fond.

Rhaenyra watched Egg mimic a move Ser Harwin made, the boy’s eyes wide and reverential, then watched Daemon correct the angle of his elbow and bid him repeat it. She had not seen Daemon so patient since he had worked with her on her High Valyrian. She had never thought of him as a father, perhaps because he was so strident in not getting his wife with child. But she could see the makings of a good one in him. The sight stirred things deep within her, both hot and cold, a desire to watch him with children of their own, like Egg said they had in some other life, and an old fear of dying on the birthing bed so some man could have a son.

She looked back at her father, but with the thought of dying in childbed so close at hand, she found she could no longer meet his eyes. Her mother’s face swam in her memory. Dead for a son.

“Your Grace, I fear I may have taken ill. May I take my leave?” she asked, and left him as soon as his words of acquiescence were out.

The Keep was crowded, and she found she did not want to be seen or spoken to on her way back to her chambers, especially not by Alicent, who had been seeking her out tentatively since her return. So Rhaenyra slipped inside one of the passages, walking up the passage that led to and through Maegor’s holdfast.

The tunnels had been meant for spying, Daemon had explained, and so most rooms had some way to listen or watch, even if there was no access to the tunnels. Rhaenyra found herself pausing to listen to Alicent’s gossiping maids.

“The king called for her,” one said, “and we did her all up in her best nightgown, and then he sent a message back to stay put.”

“Did he?” another asked.

“Hasn’t called her to his bed since the night his brother came back,” the first maid said. “Seems otherwise occupied.”

“Do you think Lord Fleabottom is bringing the king some of his whore’s wares to try?” a third maid asked, and the other two tittered.

Rhaenyra knew it was foolish, but she banged a hand against the wall, and heard the maids all fall into a scared silence at the noise. She smirked and continued on to her bedchamber, trying to avoid thinking of her father and Alicent, or of Daemon and his whore.

Daemon arrived to see her after she’d eaten her lunch, something close to a pout on his face when he heard she’d eaten without him. Criston lingered as they spoke, until Rhaenyra asked him to step outside, that she might speak to her uncle alone.

When she turned back to Daemon, he was sitting on her chaise and had pulled a dagger from his belt, examining it like he wanted to send it flying into Criston’s eye. Instead of flinging it anywhere, he pulled a whetstone out as well.

“I heard a rumor, uncle,” she said, sitting across from him on the chaise. “That the king has not sent for his wife since you’ve arrived back at court.”

“Ah, yes,” Daemon said. “I fear I have been occupying my dear brother’s nights. I have much to learn about fatherhood, you see, and a dead lady love to sigh about.”

The ease at which he joked of Aegon’s dead mother pricked her anger, though she was not sure why. “I imagine there is cause for this charade?” she asked.

“A somewhat lazy attempt to prevent the birth of the man who would one day kill me, niece. Though I shall have to leave for a day or two,” Daemon said idly, his eyes on the dagger he sharpened. “I would ask that you keep eyes on Egg while I’m gone.”

“Of course,” Rhaenyra replied, agreeing as easily as she could, though a piece of her was still nervous sometimes when she spent time with the boy. Her son, in another life. Her son with Daemon.

“Ser Harwin will be in charge of his training,” Daemon continued. “Egg has an affinity for him, though they never met in his other life. Perhaps it’s just sound judgment.”

That was not what he thought it was, Rhaenyra knew, but he did not speak further of it. “We shall take some meals together, myself and my cousin. My father seems indulgent enough of it, despite Otto’s complaints. Are you certain you can tear yourself from my father’s side in order to go?” she asked, smirking.

He met her smirk with one of his own. “I can afford a day or two away. Your father would not touch his queen while her monthly courses run, and they began this morning.”

“You paid someone to tell you of the queen’s courses?” Rhaenyra hissed.

Daemon gave her a look that said he did not understand why she found that distasteful. “Do you think the Hand does not do the same?” He snorted before she could reply. “No, I am sure she reports it herself, and then Mellos and Otto discuss it in detail each time the queen fails to fall pregnant with a spare prince.”

Rhaenyra’s nose curled in disgust, but likely he was right. A thought came, fleeting, but one that caused her stomach to clench. “You would not do anything to her,” she said. “Alicent. Would you? If she were with child?”

Daemon froze, and Rhaenyra knew he had at least considered it. Perhaps planned for it. She thought of what Aegon had said of Blood and Cheese and the man who sent them. Before Daemon could say anything, whether to lie and deny it, or excuse it, she said, “You mustn’t.”

Daemon was quiet for a long moment. “Rhaenyra,” he said finally, “her children might grow to kill yours. Is it not best those children not be born?”

Yes, she thought immediately. Viciously. She remembered the look on Aegon’s face as he spoke about Daemon’s death and the first of his brothers to die, the boy Luke, whose face she couldn’t even begin to picture. This son Alicent was to have would be the one to kill them both, and Rhaenyra would smother him in his cradle if she must. Only…

“It is a cruel battlefield we women have,” she said. “The birthing bed claimed my mother’s life, but it was not only the hands of the gods that made it so. It was the hands of men. I would not have our hands stained with such, not knowing the pain it caused. Not when Alicent is not the same queen Aegon speaks of.”

“Not yet,” Daemon replied darkly.

Rhaenyra wished she could say that it would not ever happen. But she thought of her dear friend, holding her hands as she mourned her mother, and then spending her nights comforting the father who would barely even look at her. It was Otto. Rhaenyra knew it was Otto who had planned it, yet Rhaenyra too had a father, and she could not imagine not fighting back if he told her to betray a friend so heartlessly.

“Please,” Rhaenyra said. “Continue on with your plans. If it comes to it…” She shook her head. “We shall decide then.”

Daemon’s lips thinned, but he nodded. “My visits with your father continue then. I care not for these manipulations.”

Rhaenyra laughed a little. “What did you think you did before? Striding back into our lives with your impish smiles and setting to work at whatever my father threw at you? Bringing extravagant gifts from wherever you went on your travels?”

His face went blank, a sure sign of hurt. With her father, he would have gotten angry, she was sure. With her, he just turned back to what he was doing, and if his strokes on the metal were a little rougher, she should have expected nothing else. “That was not a manipulation,” he said. “I did what I was bade to do because I am a loyal brother. I brought back gifts because I thought of you all when I was gone. Is it a manipulation to attempt to keep a place in fickle hearts?”

“My heart was never fickle,” she said, instead of answering his question.

“Nor were my gifts to you extravagant.”

A ridiculous claim. “You brought me Valyrian steel.”

“You deserve Valyrian steel. And that tiara, and the Myrish lace you gave half of to Alicent when you were ten.” Rhaenyra could hardly believe he remembered that. Before she could speak, he continued, his tone sour. “As to your father… I have never given my brother a gift he wanted. Not a book, not a dagger, not streets free of criminals or a fucking army.”

She leaned forward and he ceased his sharpening. She put a hand over his. “He seems to enjoy the gift of your time.”

Daemon snorted. “Viserys enjoys that I need him. Every time I have tried to make myself useful, he has sent me away as soon as Otto gives him cause. But to make myself useless? That he can countenance.” She was not sure what her face had given away, but Daemon laughed at whatever he saw there. “Do not take offense, Rhaenyra. It is not that I do not love my brother. It’s only that I see him clearly now. He is worse than weak. He will not allow himself to be strong.”

A rap came on her door before she could reply. “Come,” she said, annoyance surely coloring her voice.

Ser Criston opened the door, one of Alicent’s servant girls beside him. “Princess, a message from the queen. She asks for your presence tomorrow, to break your fasts together,” Criston said.

Rhaenyra nodded, and said to the girl, “Please tell the queen I shall attend her in the morning.” The girl curtsied and withdrew; Criston lingered again inside the doorway until Rhaenyra dismissed him. She did not miss the grudging look on his face as he closed the door behind him.

“I think,” Daemon said, his voice even sourer than before, “I should kill your Ser Criston.”

Rhaenyra had expected this from the moment Aegon spoke of her half-brother’s crowning. “Daemon.”

“Would you allow him to live to repeat the offense?”

“It would not be a repetition. Criston has done nothing. Not yet.”

“Do you see how he looks at you? How he looks at me? There are seeds of that betrayal there, even if we know not why it came.”

Rhaenyra wished they did know. Criston had been her friend for years. Why would he turn away from her? “Uncle, we cannot kill people for actions they have not yet committed! Even if it were not wrong—”

“Wrong?” He leapt to his feet, his dagger and sharpener crashing to the ground.

She pressed on. “Even were it not, we would turn the court against us if so. One cannot simply dispatch a knight of the Kingsguard. One cannot simply poison a queen.”

He loomed above her, his eyes on fire. “Why not?”

Her heart thundered in her ears. Why not? She thought of Aegon’s panic, curling himself into a tight little ball. She thought of some version of Daemon, twenty years from now, dying for a cause that no longer believed in him. Five children lost, two left behind, one broken. Why not?

“Princess?” Criston’s voice, from behind the door. “Are you well?”

Daemon broke their stare with a snarl and strode toward the door. He wrenched it open and shoved past Criston, his footfalls heavy as he stormed away from her.

Daemon left that same afternoon. Rhaenyra supped with her father, who said Daemon would be back within a day or two but did not tell her where he went. She did not ask. He would return, she told herself, and in the meantime, she would do as she said she would, keep an eye on Aegon.

Alicent had asked to break their fasts together the next morning, so Rhaenyra made her way to the Queen’s chambers early. She could hear the sound of two children crying as she drew close, and when she arrived, it was to a red-eyed Alicent holding her son, breakfast laid out in the corner table.

“Rhaenyra!” Alicent said. “I do apologize for this. He will not settle, nor will Helaena.”

Rhaenyra thought about this future Rhaenyra that Aegon had spoken of, who had a family of seven, and wondered if those children had been this loud. “Think not of it, your had Grace.” Rhaenyra hovered awkwardly, not wanting to leave Alicent alone and distraught, but unwilling to ask to take the squalling child.

Alicent bounced her son on her hip, as though he were still a babe and not near three. “I do not know what to do,” she confided. “He has been like this for days. And each time we put him in his crib, he tries to throw his egg out! I fear he will injure himself, but your father says the egg must be kept inside his cradle until it hatches. There was some sign it might hatch, the keepers said, but now it seems my son has gone to war against it.”

This Rhaenyra could help with. “Would you like me to look at it?” she asked.

Alicent thanked her, and the two of them went to the nursery, where Helaena lay screaming in her own tiny cradle. Rhaenyra was beginning to get a headache.

Aegon’s egg was threaded through with lines of gold, and she could see why her father had chosen it. A kingly egg, she thought bitterly. But when she put her hands on it, it was cold. Petrified. She lifted it from the cradle, turning it over in her hands. At the sight of it, her half-brother screamed louder and Alicent finally handed him off to a maid, then crossed to Rhaenyra’s side.

“Is something wrong?” Alicent asked.

An egg close to hatching would not have petrified so quickly. Something was wrong, she thought, then noticed a thin line of dust trapped between the scales of the egg. No warm, living dragon egg would gather dust. This wasn’t her brother’s egg. Someone had switched it. Daemon.

“His egg has gone cold,” she said, turning sympathetic eyes to her stepmother. “It happens, I’m afraid. Most eggs do not hatch. Not my father’s, not Daemon’s.”

“Oh,” Alicent said. “My father will be most displeased.”

“Your father?” Rhaenyra asked. “I did not think the Lord Hand was so fond of dragons.”

Alicent’s eyes widened, as though she knew by her admission she’d given something important away. “He… He merely wants what you have with Syrax for his own grandson.”

Rhaenyra nodded, but the nervousness did not slip from Alicent’s face. “Well, mayhaps one day Aegon can claim a dragon. There are some riderless on my holdings.”

Alicent looked even more upset at that, and Rhaenyra found her heart hardening, petrifying as the dragon egg in her hands. Alicent could tell her, right now, what Otto wanted. Why Otto wanted the boy to have a dragon, why he’d wanted him to have the conqueror’s name, why Lord Hobart had feted the boy as the second of his name on at the hunt. Alicent could tell her all of it. But it was treason, wasn’t it? To plot against the king’s decrees and desires? And she would not speak against her father, even if he committed the gravest crime. What did she think the result would be, plotting against the named heir even while paying lip service to the king’s wishes? Did she think Rhaenyra would gracefully bow to the wishes of Otto fucking Hightower, and let her half-brother have the crown? Did she think her mother’s kin would welcome the usurpation, or the Tyrells not begrudge their bannermen lording a crown over them? Otto knew there was a danger of starting a war, else he would not so want his grandson to have a dragon of his own. Was Alicent blind to it all?

The future Aegon had spoken of felt more real now, in this room, than it had even while watching the boy fall apart in the telling. Because here was a person she had dreamed of spending all her days with, hiding a secret that could one day kill her. Would one day kill her. It felt as though a part of her was dying, even as it was Alicent’s anxiety bleeding into the room.

Rhaenyra held the egg up once again. It was a beautiful thing, the gold sparkling in the light. “I shall send this back to the pit. Perhaps its absence will soothe my siblings.”

Two nights later, Rhaenyra awoke when the night was at its blackest, and for a moment she could not say why. There was no noise, nor light, nor movement in her chamber, yet something had woken her. She took a deep breath, shifting beneath her blankets. The scent of steel and dragonfire filled her nose.

“Uncle?” she asked into the darkness.

And then she saw him, solid black against the shifting shadows. “Niece,” he said, moving toward her bed.

Rhaenyra sat up, blinking in the darkness. As her eyes grew accustomed to the night, she could make out more of his face. There was a dark smudge across his cheekbone. She wanted to reach up and smooth it away. “You’re back,” she said.

He did not stop coming closer until there was nowhere left to go, unless he climbed into bed with her. She gave a shiver at the thought, and she felt his eyes trace the movement of her shoulders. “I’ve just arrived.”

“Did you have a productive trip?” she asked. She still did not know why he had gone, and he did not seem inclined to tell her even now, as all he did was reach a hand forward and smooth back her sleep-rowdy hair. If he had nothing to tell her, then why… “Daemon, why did you come here?”

“I just needed to see you, sweet niece.” His voice sounded strange to her ears. Thick, like the words could hardly leave him. Chilled honey, sticking in the jar. “Rhaenyra.”

“What’s wrong?” she asked, sitting up.

His hand left her head and he backed away. “Nothing,” he said, and his voice was nearly normal. “Go back to sleep, princess.”

She objected again, but he did not stop, and soon he was gone through the secret door in her wall, as though he’d never been there in the first place.

She was not entirely certain it had not been a dream when she awoke the next morning. She had been prone to fitful dreams of late, and dreams of Daemon, too, though generally not the unpleasant kind. Rhaenyra had dressed for the day in riding clothes—horse riding, for she had plans to join Ser Harwin, his two sisters, and Egg on a ride out to the Kingswood, with Ser Criston along as well—when there was a knock at her door.

“Come!” she called.

Criston opened the door, but it was Aegon who ran inside, his face flushed. He was shaking and looking everywhere but at the white knight that followed him into the room, even as Criston objected to the boy’s rude entry.

“Hush, ser,” Rhaenyra said. “Can you not see the boy is upset?”

“Princess! It’s Prince Daemon,” he said with a gasp. “He’s returned and being called before the throne. The Hand has accused him of murder.”

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra pushed her way into the throne room as her father was taking his seat on the Iron Throne.

The lords and ladies of court had assembled, though the room was not near as crowded as it had been the day of Daemon’s arrival from the Stepstones. It was early yet, and her father had not been expected to sit the throne. Still, a buzz traveled the room; she caught words like “madness” and “murder” and “treason” as she slid through those assembling to watch whatever might happen, Aegon a step behind her.

As she drew closer, she caught glimpses of Daemon, standing before the Iron Throne: his hair, shining silver even in the dim light of the throne room; his hand, curved around the pommel of Dark Sister, at ease; his shoulders, clad in a princely black doublet, his sleeves red as blood.

They had almost made it to the front when her father spoke. “Prince Daemon,” he said, and Rhaenyra could not quite place the tone in his voice, “you stand accused today of murder, and of actions taken against the crown.”

Daemon’s head was not bent, his shoulders not slumped, as he answered. “I stand accused, yes, and also innocent, Your Grace.”

“These gravest of accusations have been brought before me by the Lord Hand. What say you, Ser Otto?”

Otto Hightower stood on the steps to the throne, clad in a green doublet. Rhaenyra felt laughter bubble up inside, desperate laughter that she choked back. She wanted to reach for Egg’s hand, but knew she could not. She settled for a quick glance down at him, and found him staring at Otto, his eyes bright and angry, his face pale.

“Your Grace,” Otto said, his voice as grave as the accusations he made, “word came to me this morning, before the hour of the nightingale, of a terrible happening on Dragonstone two days past. Actions most foul, befalling two of the knights of your family’s ancestral holdings. Both were struck down in the village there, and though he tried to hide his true appearance, the men who came to tell their tale were certain that their murderer was none other than the prince.”

Gasps came from the ladies around her, and mutterings from the men. Otto and Daemon had long been rivals; it was no secret to the court who was behind the king’s decision each time Daemon had been removed from his position on the Small Council. But never had Otto declared such openly. He was cautious, Rhaenyra knew; Otto would not say these words if he did not have the means by which to confirm them. She found her hands were shaking.

Cool, thin fingers slid against her palm. Egg. She did not look down at him to acknowledge the touch, just squeezed his hand and held on. She would not pull away from him, no matter propriety. Were people to see her hand in hand with a bastard, well… Let them talk.

“I have witnesses here, who came as fast as the winds allowed, to stand before you, your Grace, and speak the truth of Prince Daemon’s misconduct.” Otto’s witnesses stood together near one of the household guards, white-faced and looking apprehensive to speak before king and court.

They still could see only Daemon’s back. Rhaenyra edged her way through the crowd a little, Egg still holding her hand, so they could see all three of them: Otto in green, her father holding Blackfyre with a white-knuckle grip, and the side of her uncle’s face, unsmudged, unsmiling.

“Prince Daemon,” her father said, “do you deny that you had a hand in killing these men?”

“I do not deny it,” her uncle said, and the court erupted, shouts and cries instead of gasps and mutters.

Otto called for silence once, twice, but it was not until her father thundered the word that people listened.

“You do not deny it?” Now, Rhaenyra could place the tone in her father’s voice—it was the same one he had when she did something he termed outrageous, something unfitting a princess, as though confessing to murder in open court was the same as refusing to accept Jason Lannister’s ridiculous suit. “What of your claim of innocence?”

“I do not deny having killed those men. I had not only a hand in it, but both, and my sword as well,” Daemon said. Scattered laughs came from around the room, one from Egg, Rhaenyra thought. He waited a beat, until the laughter settled, before continuing. “The Lord Hand has accused me of action against the crown and of murder, but tell me, your Grace, is it murder to have the head of a traitor? Is it murder to kill a man who stabs a prince of the blood? For that is what happened, whatever the Lord Hand may say.”

“Otto?” asked the king.

“Your Grace, the two knights killed by Prince Daemon were of the Dragonstone garrison. Ser Alfred Broome and Ser Marston Waters, both known to be good knights and true.”

At their names, Egg’s hand squeezed so tight against Rhaenyra’s she felt as though she could feel the bones of her hand shift and crunch together. She winced, but when she looked down at him, she could not bear to let him go. He’d gone whiter than the face of a weirwood, but it was not fear she saw in his eyes. She did not know what she saw.

Ser Otto was continuing, his focus all on the king. “You may remember Ser Alfred particularly, for his father was the master-of-arms and he was chosen to command the knights of the garrison shortly before the princess came of age. To call them traitors is slander of the highest order, against them and also yourself, who judged them worthy of their positions.”

“And now I am accused of slander. Ser Otto, are there crimes you do not think me guilty of?”

More laughter from around the room, and Rhaenyra could see a flash of anger on Otto’s face. “My prince, I think you capable of anything.”

“Shall I take that as a compliment?”

“Enough,” Viserys snapped. “I will come to the heart of this. My lord Hand, you spoke of actions against the crown. Is there more to this accusation than the murders you have laid at Prince Daemon’s feet?”

Otto hesitated, and Rhaenyra realized—he did not want to be here, before the court, spinning this tale. Why had he made such an accusation, if he was not ready to defend it? But he had made it, so much was clear when he continued. “He has acted against the knights of the Princess’ holdings unbidden. This should be seen as an act against the crown in and of itself, but when the prince’s history on Dragonstone is taken into account, I believe a more sinister picture can be drawn.”

“What picture is that, Ser Otto? Or shall we fetch you a canvas that you might sketch it?”

Otto ignored him, though Rhaenyra could see the annoyed twitch of an eye. “Not four years ago, the prince unlawfully occupied the island of Dragonstone and stole a dragon’s egg for a bastard child yet to be born. We all know of the natural son Prince Daemon has now acknowledged, and mere days after his arrival, the prince sneaks off to Dragonstone, where I’m told there are unclaimed dragons that he might have designs upon for his bastard.”

“Am I being accused of stealing a dragon? Was I to hide Vermithor under my cloak?” Daemon shook his head. “I myself can draw a picture, brother, but I would rather speak the plain truth.”

“Then do so, Daemon,” her father said, clearly nearing the end of his patience.

“I had asked the princess’ permission to visit her holding on Dragonstone, for a personal matter.” A lie, but not something Rhaenyra would contradict. Daemon cast his eyes up at the king as he spoke, and she saw Viserys’ face soften. He believed the matter to be about Egg’s mother then, the phantom woman her father believed Daemon in love with. “After that was concluded, I went to the tavern in the village for bread and mead. I believe Ser Otto has complained enough about my habit of going among the common folk that none here shall find that a surprise. The method by which I hid my appearance was a cloak. It was raining.” Rarely had Rhaenyra heard her uncle’s voice sound so flat, so unamused. “While I was in the tavern, someone called for toast to the Princess Rhaenyra. I would gladly have raised mine own cup to their liege lady when Ser Alfred interrupted, calling for his own toast. To Prince Aegon.”

“We do all know of your history where toasts to nephews are concerned, my prince.”

Rhaenyra could see the clench of Daemon’s jaw. That Daemon had not yet lost his patience with Otto was a marvel. Never had she heard him deign to banter with the man for so long. That Daemon found Otto’s accusations, judgment, and very presence distasteful and beneath him was as well-known as the Hand’s own mutual dislike. She glanced down to her uncle’s hand, saw it flexing on the hilt of Dark Sister, and worried he was about to lose that patience and take Otto’s head right here and now. Don’t do it, she wanted to say, for Otto bringing up the toast he’d made to Baelon was clearly calculated against both Targaryen brothers. A glance up to her father’s face saw the shadow of it there as well. Such a strike did not speak to the strength of his case, if he had to remind her father of the son he’d lost to win it.

Daemon’s hand slid away from Dark Sister and Rhaenyra breathed a sigh. She loosened her grip on Egg’s hand; it had been her turn to clutch him too tightly, and she feared her nails had broken the skin of the poor boy’s palm.

“I would gladly have drank a toast to the prince as well, but such was not what was offered. Ser Alfred called for a toast to King Viserys’ true heir, the Prince Aegon, in thanks that they would be spared rule by a dragon bitch.”

Gasps again throughout the hall, louder this time. Rhaenyra felt eyes all fall on her. She tipped her chin up, refusing to react to the insult. Egg’s hand had fallen away as soon as it became clear the toast was about her—a wise move, but one she wished was not necessary, for she found she wanted a hand to hold as whispers swirled around her.

“Your Grace,” Daemon continued, “I have been away from court and I confess, I have not kept up with the pronouncements sent forth from the Iron Throne while I was at war. But I believe I would recall if you had named a new heir. My niece, the Princess Rhaenyra, stands to inherit the throne, hers by right one day as Dragonstone is hers now. To name her no true heir is treason, is it not?”

Her heart picked up speed. The lords of the realm had sworn to her, yes, but that was before a half-brother was born. Jason Lannister had assumed a loss in station as Prince Aegon left his infancy, and while her father may have told him his assumption was wrong, he was not the only one to assume such. She thought of Lord Hobert again, openly calling Aegon the second of his name, her father only smiling. Tacit agreement. She’d thought then that her father would strip her of her title as heir, but even though he hadn’t, how many of the lords she’d met on her tour had assumed they would be bringing her to live in their castle, that her children would inherit their lands? It was all she had heard wherever she went, but for the Blackwood boy. How often had she stood in open court, acknowledged as heir despite her half-brother’s existence? How many times had her father spoken out on her behalf as heir, in public, not at her side? Not often enough.

It struck her in the beat before her father spoke that she was not sure what he was going to say.

“The vilest of treasons!” her father roared. She wanted to slump in relief, she wanted to let out the cry she’d been holding in, but instead, she kept her head high and eyes steady as her father continued. “It is my wish, my command, that the Princess Rhaenyra shall reign after me on the Iron Throne, and I shall countenance no talk otherwise. And to speak such insults against the future queen… I myself would have had their tongues.”

“I let them keep those,” Daemon said, and beside her, another laugh escaped Egg.

“What proof have we that the prince has the right of it?” Otto said, though it was plain to see he’d lost control of the room. “The men who came to me told a very different tale.”

“I was not alone in my defense of the rightful heir, Ser Otto!” Daemon pointed out a man at the front of the crowd, sandy-haired and plain faced. “I have with me Ser Rylan Quince, son to Ser Robert, both knights in the Princess’ household at Dragonstone. You’ll remember Ser Robert, of course,” Daemon said to Viserys. “He is… unmistakable.”

Her father held back a laugh, though Rhaenyra did not know the man they spoke of. “Ser Robert is a faithful knight, as is his son, I’m sure.” The young man in question ducked his head in a bow, to her father, her uncle, and then, turning, to her.

It was only then that her father saw her. “My daughter,” he said, climbing to his feet, “step forward.”

Rhaenyra did so, leaving Egg behind, until she stood shoulder to shoulder with Daemon. She dropped into a curtsey to her father. “Your Grace,” she said.

“There is no excuse for the words and actions levied by men of your own holdings. Have you anything to say on the matter, Princess?”

“Only to give my thanks to Prince Daemon, for seeing justice done to those who would speak against the king’s own decrees, and to swear to you, my king, that I shall see them replaced with leal knights who shall honor my holdings and your kingdom.”

Her father accepted that with a dip of his head, then turned his attention back to Otto. “My lord Hand, we shall speak further on this later, but I would have you know now—I shall countenance no such claims against mine own blood. And I would have you be certain of the character of those who pass you whispers before bringing such accusations to me.”

Otto dropped into a bow. “Of course, your Grace,” he said.

Her father shifted his grip on Blackfyre, then waved his other hand. “We are done here,” he declared, and stalked out of the room.

Daemon met her eyes for only a moment, before turning and following the king.

When Daemon entered her room that night, she was waiting for him, no matter the late hour. She sat in her nightdress, a thick robe belted around her. He was still in the clothes he had worn to court, a Targaryen prince from head to toe, though he’d left Dark Sister behind.

“Were you truly stabbed?” she asked.

“In the back even,” he replied. She could see it in the way he moved as he walked toward her, gingerly, in a way he had not seemed at court.

Because he trusted her, she thought, and that filled her with fire, though of what kind, she could not rightly say.

“You could have been killed.”

Daemon scoffed. “That bastard could barely work up the nerve to approach me, much less find the necessary strength to kill. I’ll be well in a matter of days.”

“Uncle, you could have died.” She could no longer sit still; anger pricked at her nerves and bade her to move. “And then what would I do without you?”

“Rhaenyra—” he said, softening a little, reaching the hand from his uninjured side toward her.

She was not ready to soften. “You cannot act on your own like this!”

“Why?” Daemon snapped, dropping the hand he was reaching to her, all of his gentleness gone from his face. “Because I am a rogue, because I am Maegor come again and will destroy you? Your father has never trusted me, and Aegon’s mother was the same in the end, was she not? And if you shall be too then I—” He broke off, and it was not only his voice that shook, but his whole frame.

“I trust you, Daemon.” She pressed a hand to his cheek and forced him to meet her eyes. “I do. But I want us to work together. I shall not be a queen as Alicent is, or even my mother. I shall rule, Daemon. And I want you beside me.”

“That is what I want as well.”

“Then do not make choices like this without me! You left without telling me your plan—”

“I did not have a plan—”

“You had a destination, and you did not tell me that either.”

His shoulders slumped. “I was angry. I—” He let out a breath. “I did not go to Dragonstone to kill anyone.”

“Why did you go to Dragonstone, if not to kill?”

“Something Aegon said, about Tyland Lannister of all people... And then of what you said of Ser Criston. That we must not kill him for actions he has not committed. There are no Blacks and Greens, not yet, and while we must act to rid ourselves of the Hightower threat, not all who turned traitor may be false in the end.” He ran a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated, as though he would rather take their heads with a single stroke of Dark Sister than contemplate winning their loyalty. She could believe that of him, and found she did not blame him. “I asked Aegon who he would choose to die. Of all of them, who. He chose Ser Alfred. It was his betrayal that led to your—” He cut himself off, but not quick enough. “To his mother’s death.”

“So you went to see him.”

“I did not plan on killing him, but the reverse is also true. I did not plan on letting him live.” He paced across the room, as though he needed some outlet for the fire prickling in his veins. “I do not like this… false knowledge.”

“False?”

He shook his head immediately at her question. “Not false. Half knowledge. Knowing where things might go, but not how they got there, not if we can stop them. I needed to see Broome. To do something. I did not provoke him to his slander. I merely bore witness and then I knew that he was best gotten rid of. Call it a nameday present to my newly-found son.”

“Is it his nameday?” Rhaenyra asked.

“I have no idea.”

She resolved to ask later and put that question aside. Instead she asked, “Did you call for the toast?”

“A toast to their liege lady is hardly a provocation,” Daemon replied. A beat, then he said, “I paid someone to do it. I wanted to see what he would do. And I did. The man was a traitorous cunt.”

“So he was.”

Daemon looked almost suspicious at her agreement and pressed on. “If you are not present, or able, I must know I can act without fearing your anger each time.” He said anger, but he meant disappointment. He had never feared anyone’s ire, after all.

“Not each time,” she said, lightly as she could. “Only when your decisions are the wrong ones.” She softened it with a wink.

He smiled a little. “This decision was not the wrong one.”

“No,” she said, for that was true enough. She reached for Daemon’s hand. “I thank you for it. For taking care of Broome, for wanting to protect me, for my father's words today too, for it was you that made him say them.”

“But?” Daemon asked, lacing their fingers together even as he looked as though he were awaiting another rebuke.

“We need a plan, Daemon. I do not know what to do.” She sank onto the chaise, pulling Daemon down beside her. “It would be folly to think Otto Hightower will lose more than inch of his standing, even with this, and he will not stop until his grandson is crowned. And... it is but a matter of time before the topic of my marriage arises again. Laena’s betrothal with the son of the Sealord came up again yesterday and I could feel all of their eyes on me, ready to barter the position of my consort to keep the Velaryons in check.” She closed her eyes and breathed deep. They had not spoken of this since finding Aegon in the street, no matter that she had thought of it, no matter the warm embrace he’d held her in, no matter his eyes as he watched her in the dark the night before. But it needed to be said. She opened her eyes and met his, steady as she could. “I do not wish to marry Laenor, Uncle. I would find my consort elsewhere if allowed to choose as I was promised.”

His throat worked, swallowing hard, while the rest of him was still. His voice was quiet when he spoke. “Your father has promised me anything I ask for, since I laid down my crown. I have been working toward asking for an annulment. With that settled, if he agrees…”

She nodded, but he did not continue. He would make her say it, then? “I would have us join together. With you at my side, my claim cannot be easily denied, and we can work to stop these Greens from ever rising.”

“My sword is yours, princess,” he said, as though she’d ever doubted it. He smiled a little. “And my hand, once it is free to give.”

She squeezed the hand he’d just promised her. There was one last thing she needed to know. “I have a question for you, and I would like the truth, Daemon. No prevaricating.” At his nod, Rhaenyra asked, “Why did you exchange my half-brother’s egg with one gone cold?” Daemon hesitated despite his agreement, as she guessed he would. “I care not for half-knowledge either,” she said.

Daemon’s voice was cool when he replied, as though saying the words as calmly as possible might make them less of a horror. “His egg was to hatch, and birth a dragon called Sunfyre. It was Sunfyre who killed our Aegon’s mother, the execution by dragonfire and devouring done before his very eyes.”

She had asked to know and now wished she hadn’t. She felt sick, and pressed a hand to her mouth, as if that could stop her from retching.

Ser Alfred Broome, betraying his queen to her usurper brother, perhaps even holding her son still as a dragon burned and devoured her. Daemon’s voice the night before, choked with some dark emotion, made more sense now, in the aftermath of his tale at court and this terrible truth. How much pain must this queen have been in when she died? What had her last thought been? Did she hear her last living son’s screams?

Daemon pulled her close and she realized she was crying. She breathed in the scent of dragon that never truly left him, and wondered how hard it must be for Egg to smell that every day, to hear Caraxes’ roar. No wonder he shied from Balerion’s skull. “I thought you did not need to know. Not about that.”

She pressed her ear near his heart to hear the thump of it, soothing. “I need to know everything.”

Daemon pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Then that’s what I shall tell you.”

Chapter Text

When he arrived on Dragonstone, Daemon went first to Aegon’s garden. It was summer, and the flowers were all in bloom, the greenery vibrant. He remembered running down these paths with Viserys and Rhaenys; though the latter claimed herself too old for childish games, she still was happy enough to chase her younger cousins when Daemon riled her up.

No Targaryen children had chased each other through this garden for years. It was mostly well kept, but Aegon’s gardens sprawled, and there were forgotten corners where the gardeners spent little time. He walked to the wall that ringed this part of the garden, pushing through tangles of vines until he found the hollow Aegon had spoken of.

There was enough room inside for two. He imagined a little Egg and a girl who looked like Laena with her arms curled around him, both giggling as they hid. But that was not the only detail Aegon had given. Daemon straightened and looked around for the tree that Aegon’s brother had once climbed.

For a moment, when he could not find it, doubt crept up again. The boy could be mad. Son to some whore Daemon had bedded carelessly in his younger years, and determined now to spread his insanity to the family of his father.

But before the doubt could truly take hold, he saw it. A seedling still, not quite reaching even to Daemon’s knee, but sturdy enough to be fighting for room with a mulberry bush. Its leaves matched those in the grove on the other side of the wall, but this small conqueror had staked its claim apart from its forbears.

It would be big enough to climb in fifteen years.

Daemon could hardly imagine this Jace Aegon spoke of so fondly. Did he look like Rhaenyra? Did he look like his father? He would be strong, Daemon knew, and spry, and he imagined the shadowy form of this boy lurking through the garden, and then another shadow son leaping down from the tree to his back. Joffrey. This boy who was apparently much like him.

(Joffrey Velaryon was nearly as silly a name as Joffrey Targaryen, and Daemon could not believe Corlys had countenanced Laenor naming one of the boys after Joffrey Lonmouth of all people, fine young knight though he was. Only Daemon found did believe it. He believed it all.)

He took a horse from the stables and wound his way down to the village by the Dragonstone docks, cloak pulled low to hide his face. It hadn’t taken much to find where his quarry spent his nights. The tavern was in an old building so near the sea that Daemon could hear the crashing of the waves even over the chatter of the patrons. A summer storm, he thought, rolling in from the East.

Ser Alfred Broome was a handful of years younger than Daemon, but had aged much harder. He had deep lines running from nose to mouth, lending him the look of a permanent scowl. He did not look pleasant, but nor did he look like a figure from nightmares. Daemon was not sure what he’d been expecting; perhaps that with the new knowledge Aegon had given him, he would see some terrible truth in the man’s face. But he did not. He was just a man—plain-faced and unpleasant with a voice too loud for his narrow, tight mouth.

He was the man who would lead Rhaenyra to her death.

As the days had passed, the thought surfaced in his mind more and more. He would see Ser Criston and think of his hands on Aegon the Conqueror’s crown. He would see Alicent Hightower and think of some faceless blond beast bringing his great-nephew to his death. But mostly he thought of Rhaenyra, the youngest dragonrider since the Doom, dying bathed in dragon fire. He could not let it happen. He would kill whomever he had to kill to stop it.

Daemon sat in the corner, shadows hiding the parts of his face the hood of the cloak did not. He stopped a patron with a half smile, and passed over coin and instruction quietly, then sat back to wait.

Ser Alfred’s companion was younger than he was, with a mop of dark blond curls and slick grin that he leveled at everyone. He was the one who bought their drinks, while Broome was the one who drank them. Broome’s companion laughed at some jape, and Broome himself cracked a smile. Daemon wondered if he smiled as Rhaenyra screamed her last.

Rhaenyra, who was safe in the Keep, and would remain so.

This splinter between present and future drove further and further into his thoughts. Maddening. He wished he were still the man who had laughed off his brother’s claims of a dragon dream. He found little of this laughable, not when he kept hearing phantom screams, or feeling the bone deep quaking in his arms as Egg sobbed.

He would kill whomever he had to to stop it.

But who was it he had to kill?

A drinking song turned into a round of toasts, as Daemon had guessed it would. Sober men called for toasts because it gave them an excuse to drink; drunk men did so for the same reason.

From a table across the room, a man shouted, “A toast to our liege, the Princess Rhaenyra, heir to the Iron Throne!”

Daemon’s eyes didn’t leave Broome. Not as he shouted out a toast to the Hightower whelp, not as he called Rhaenyra a dragon bitch, and not as he put Dark Sister through the man’s gut.

A consequence of that was that he hadn’t blocked the dagger that caught him in the back.

Daemon awoke sometime after killing Broome’s blond companion—who may have been smiling as he stabbed Daemon, but certainly hadn’t smiled as he lost his head—with the feeling of fire on his back.

He shifted immediately, trying to turn to face whatever was behind him, only to find strong hands holding his shoulders down. He started to throw them off, when he finally understood the words being spoken.

“My prince, please be still. I am nearly done with the stitching, and I would like to not have to do it again.”

The voice was familiar, somehow. “Gerardys?”

“Yes, my prince.”

Daemon looked around him. He was in Gerardys’ rooms on Dragonstone. It was not the maester’s hands that held him down, but those belonging to a vaguely familiar young man with sandy hair and eyes that belied his fear at laying hands on a prince of the blood.

Or perhaps he was just scared of Daemon.

At the thought, Daemon relaxed, and so did the grip on his shoulders. “You brought me here?” he asked the man.

“Yes, my prince. I was in the tavern. Ser Rylan Quince, son to Ser Robert.”

Ser Robert Daemon knew. A man far past tourneys or battles, affable but sharp, whose girth barely let him sit a horse and that, along with his bright red surcoats and snowy beard, made certain could never be mistaken for anyone else. It was that man’s pretty, dead niece he thought Viserys might assume was Aegon’s mother. Did that make them kin of a sort? The thought made Daemon chuckle, and he saw Ser Rylan send a wide eyed look to Gerardys.

“Don’t panic, I’ve not gone mad,” he said drily. He twisted his head around to look at Gerardys. “You said you’re almost done?”

“This is the second time I’ve had to stitch this wound.” His voice was even, but Daemon could see annoyance at the corners of his eyes. “You fought me, as did your dragon. He roared at my window and not even I can keep a steady hand when fearing the Blood Wyrm’s rage.”

The cloudiness in his head was surely not from the pinprick on his back. “Did someone hit me over the head?”

Ser Rylan nodded. “Another of Broome’s friends. That one I dispatched myself.”

“My thanks,” Daemon said. “How long has it been?”

“It is near sunset, my prince.”

Daemon had thought the light breaking in through the cloudy glass was that of the dawn. “What?”

“I had to give you milk of the poppy, to calm your struggles and your dragon’s,” Gerardys said. “Ser Marston was known for many things, among them that he took poor care with his weapons, and infection had begun to set in. I believe you have fought it off already. The blood of the dragon is a remarkable thing.”

Daemon trusted Gerardys more than he trusted any other maester in the Seven Kingdoms, but not enough to sit still beneath his hands when he was looking at him like that. Daemon pushed himself up. “You’re done,” he said.

“My Prince—“

“You’re done.” His mouth was dry and tasted as though something had died inside of it. He gestured to a pitcher of water across the room. “Ser Rylan, if you please.”

The man hurried to pour him a cup, talking quickly as he went. “After you were felled, my compatriots quelled the brawl. Those who had taken up Broome’s treasonous words as their own left quickly from the tavern, and it seems from Dragonstone.”

Left from Dragonstone? “What do you mean?”

“The knights in my father’s command looked for them. I had a thought that you might want to deal with them yourself, when you awoke. But they’ve gone.”

“Gone where?” he asked, but even as he said it, he knew. Kings Landing.

After he had ceased his occupation of the island, who had brought on more knights for the garrison? Who had built the household back up? Rhaenyra had not yet come of age, and Viserys surely had not done it, not while being so busy bedding his new wife. Otto. His creatures, lying in wait.

Daemon could see the scene before him, because he had lived it. Otto receiving some report of his wrong-doing. Technically accurate, but twisted to fit the tale he spun the king. He was a tyrant, enforcing the laws his own grandfather had set down; could the king not see mercy was needed for certain offences? He was a spendthrift, restoring monuments his own grandmother had seen built; could the king not see discretion was needed in matters of finance? He was a drunken braggart, giving a toast to the nephew of his own blood that his goodsister had been butchered to deliver; could the king not see all Daemon wanted was his own rise? Each time, the worm would sneak in before Daemon even knew to levy a defense.

And Daemon never had done so anyway. Was it not beneath him, to bandy words about with such a leech? Should his brother not see him as he was, grasping only to hold on to the legacy of their house? Should his brother not defend him?

But this time, the result would not only be that Daemon would be sent away. No, this time the result would be that Rhaenyra would be left alone, again. Alone, like he’d left her in some future where he’d died in the waters of the God’s Eye.

Not this time.

He could be wrong about the men going to Kings Landing, he reasoned, even as he pulled on his bloodied shirt and reached for Dark Sister. But he did not think so.

“My prince, you should not fly so soon.”

Daemon paused in buckling his sword belt to give Gerardys a withering look. “The blood of the dragon is a remarkable thing,” he repeated.

Ser Rylan stood before him, holding a cup of water. Daemon reached for it and gulped the water down, then handed the cup back.

“You,” he ordered, “are coming with me.”

They flew through the night, the ache from the stab wound easing as soon as he had laid a hand on the Blood Wyrm’s head. The dragon was fiercely angry at his pain and Daemon felt it down to his own soul, using that anger and his own to drive Caraxes faster and faster through the darkening night. How fast might those men reach Kings Landing with news of his actions? How might Otto spin his tale to see Daemon dismissed from his brother’s court? Murder, he guessed. Attempting to seize Dragonstone again, perhaps. Otto would see Rhaenyra isolated, hounded, brought to her knees, and—

Caraxes let out a roar and a flash of flame, and for once, Daemon flinched from it.

Ser Rylan vomited as soon as they touched ground in the Dragonpit, but Daemon did not blame him. That ride had been a harsh one for a first.

The man had kin in the city, so Daemon sent him off to ready for court. He was not certain it would come to that, but all for the best if no one knew he was in Kings Landing unless and until Daemon had need of him.

Daemon used the passage from the Dragonpit to reach the Red Keep. Dawn would come on quick. He could not see his brother like this, stinking of dragon and bloody from a tavern fight. Viserys would see only what Otto wanted him to, then. There was little time to spare, but Daemon found himself going to Rhaenyra’s chambers instead of his own.

She woke as soon as he entered the room and knew it was him with a breath. He wanted to fall to his knees before her and weep. He wanted to climb into bed beside her and hold her to him, make a home for himself inside of her so that she would never let him go.

She was alive, and she would stay that way. He would kill whomever he had to in order to assure it. He would do whatever he had to in order to assure it.

He roused Egg and bade the boy find him fresh clothes, suitable for court, and washed best he could as he waited.

By the time Daemon was finished dressing, the boy stood holding his sword belt out to him. “You did not clean Dark Sister,” he said, his voice shaking.

“I did not have time.”

“Who did you kill?” he asked.

“They’ll be time for that later,” Daemon replied, because he had not learned to anticipate Egg’s reactions to mentions of his past. It was like navigating a treacherous mountain pass; one could lose ones footing and fall into a pit, or loose an avalanche. “I must go to the king now.”

“Is something bad going to happen to you?”

The boy was scared for him. Such was rare. Daemon placed his hands on Aegon’s shoulders and looked down into his eyes. “I will not leave you. No man in this castle can cut me down, and that is what they’d have to do. We shall triumph together, no?”

Egg nodded, though Daemon wondered if he really believed him.

Otto Hightower beat Daemon to the king by mere moments.

Daemon could see Otto’s displeasure when Ser Steffon admitted him to the room. The tightening around his mouth, the slight narrowing of his eyes. He did not want him here, because the person with Viserys was always the one the king would listen to—a sad but true fact about his malleable brother. With both before him, who would win out? The worm or his own blood? Another sad truth—Daemon did not know the answer.

“Daemon,” Viserys said, his voice caught between disappointed and confused, “what is this about murders on Dragonstone?”

So it was to be murder then? “I stand accused of murder?” Daemon shifted his glance from Viserys to Otto and back.

“My prince, I received word this morning—”

“You did not tell me you were going to Dragonstone, Daemon,” Viserys broke in. “I will have an explanation.”

Murder and a treacherous plot. Was Otto feeling desperate? Daemon did not let himself smirk, no matter the urge. Instead, he snapped, “Am I to have it that Ser Otto has come to the king at dawn to accuse a prince of the blood not only of murder, but of some plot those murders were in furtherance of?”

Viserys’ brow furrowed. “Daemon—”

“Your Grace—” Otto said.

Daemon cut them both off. “Ser Otto and I have never seen eye to eye, it is true, and I am aware that in his capacity as your Hand he has an obligation to bring you information of all sorts, your Grace, but to accuse me thus? Behind closed doors, where I would not have been able to respond but for mine own desire to speak of such incidents?”

“Daemon, I am sure Otto did not—”

“Prince Daemon—”

Daemon held up a hand and both men fell silent, though Otto looked sour even as he did so. “Do you stand by this accusation of yours, Otto? Do you call me a murderer?”

Viserys had turned his attention to the Hand. “Well, Otto?”

“I have witnesses who will speak of your dispatching knights of the princess’ household, yes.”

“Then I demand to see them myself!”

“I hardly think the king wishes to host an inquiry within his rooms. Perhaps—”

“Not here,” Daemon snapped. “Before the court. If you want to accuse me of crimes, Otto, then have the courage to do so in open court.”

“Daemon…”

Daemon looked back to his brother. “I shall have no more of this, brother. No more of his dealings behind my back when I only seek to shield yours. I shall defend myself before the court, if you should allow it.”

Daemon could not read the look on Viserys’ face. Perhaps Viserys himself did not know his own thoughts. Such would not surprise him, Daemon thought sadly.

"Summon the court," Viserys ordered Otto, though his eyes were still on Daemon. "And we shall hear from both sides."

Manipulation, he had termed this game to Rhaenyra. If that was the game they had to play, then he and Rhaenyra, they would win it.

Chapter Text

“Today you’ll accompany me to the docks.”

A flat pronouncement, but Aegon knew why he said it. Daemon tried not to surprise him, after that day in the pit. “We’ll be accompanying Ser Harwin to the barracks,” he’d said one day, and another, “I must go to the Dragonpit,” followed by a searching stare and then an instruction to clean his armor by the time he returned. It helped; knowing what he was walking into gave him the ability to prepare, and to do the things Rhaena had taught him to do—deep breaths, steady in and out, finding something that he could clutch if he felt a wave of panic coming on, getting a song ready in his head that he could sing in his head if he needed to block everything else out.

In the days since Daemon’s appearance at court, they had begun to keep to a routine, outside of the outings Prince Daemon so carefully informed him about, much the same as the one Aegon and his brothers had before the war—training in the morning, lessons later while Daemon was occupied, and at least one meal with his family, or what passed for his family here. Daemon and Rhaenyra.

Aegon was not sure what drove the two of them from cautious belief to certainty. He did not dare ask, lest they rethink it. But ever since that morning at court, there was no doubt left when they asked him questions, no traps hidden in their words.

Well, no traps designed to discredit him.

Daemon would ask him some questions lightly and in the midst of some other topic, as though to conceal what he most wanted to know. Aegon had known his father well, and this was how he interrogated Joffrey when he suspected he’d laid jam-sticky hands on Dark Sister (guilty) or Luke when he’d suspected him of hiding a letter Baela had written to Jace (innocent—it had been Rhaena). It rarely worked on Aegon now, except when he was caught unawares, lost in faraway thoughts of people he’d never see again.

“Why the docks?” Aegon asked as they made their way through Kings Landing. The horse below him was a fine young colt, fit for a prince, and Aegon wondered what those nobles who saw them off thought about Daemon Targaryen’s bastard son riding a finer horse than many noble boys would ever ride. This Daemon, just as his father, loved to provoke a reaction.

“We’re meeting a ship from the Stepstones,” Daemon said.

They had nearly made it to the docks when Aegon saw a party of nobles make their way toward them, away from the docks. Four men ahorse, in crimson and gold. Lannister colors, Aegon realized. And not just any Lannister.

Ser Tyland.

Aegon hardly recognized him. Young and healthy, his golden hair full and bright in the sunlight. He was so displeased to see Daemon; he hid it well enough on his face, but the voice that said, “My prince. A surprise to see you here,” had the very same tone that he’d used to greet Baela each and every time she stormed into the Hand’s solar, or was brought there angry after some mischief. It made him want to smile, and yet at the same time, Aegon felt a strange pang in his heart. This felt different from the way it had felt to see the younger version of either of his parents, and different from the way it felt to think of Baela or Rhaena or anyone else he’d left behind.

“You told your false king to kill me,” he’d once snarled to Tyland, in a rare fit of Baela-like anger.

Tyland hadn’t simpered or shied away. He’d looked him in the eye and said, “That was good counsel, and I find myself pleased he ignored it.”

Aegon had thrown his royal seal at Tyland’s shrouded head, and hadn’t spoken for the rest of the day.

After he died, Aegon missed him every day, and yet here Tyland was before him, false smile on his face.

Another trap. Aegon looked to Daemon and found the prince paying little attention to him, but he had no doubt that he’d seen what he’d brought them here for. Aegon schooled his face back into a neutral expression, and wondered if Tyland had paid enough attention to Daemon’s bastard squire to note whatever had passed across his face when he saw him.

“I was speaking to the king on ways to fortify the Steps, to prevent a recurrence of the Triarchy’s occupation,” Daemon said. Aegon had clearly missed something he'd said before that, too busy staring at Tyland to hear the prince speak.

“I’d thought you left the island to be held by corpses and crabs, my prince,” Tyland replied.

“Certainly you can see the value in such as theater. You Lannisters are known for your lavish displays, after all.” Daemon’s voice was as dry as Tyland’s. His next words surprised Tyland as much as they did Aegon, if the look on his face was to be believed. “The king said you had some ideas of your own. I was hoping we could speak on it soon.”

For a moment, Tyland seemed speechless, but recovered quickly. “Certainly, my prince.”

Daemon nodded shortly, a clear dismissal, and Tyland bowed his head quickly, cursorily, and began to head back toward the Red Keep, his retinue in tow.

“Come,” Daemon said, and the two of them continued as well.

Daemon did not take him to meet a ship, but instead to a small tavern close enough to the docks that Aegon could just barely smell the salt in the air over the stench of the city. He left Aegon at a scarred table in the corner to order something from the barkeep, and returned with a serving woman only steps behind him, the tray shaking in her hands. Aegon wondered if it was from the honor of serving a prince, or from the rush the barkeep had put on her.

Daemon sat, and they were both served plates of food and tankards of ale. Daemon had a bowl of thick fish stew and Aegon a plate of beans, a hunk of buttered bread beside it. Aegon sniffed at his ale, then took a cautious sip. Weak to the point where it could almost be water.

When the woman had gone, Daemon folded his hands in front of him and just stared, waiting for Aegon to speak.

Which he did almost immediately. “You did that on purpose,” Aegon snapped.

Daemon shrugged. “I had to know.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table. When he spoke, it was in Valyrian. “I kept something back from Rhaenyra. Something you told me.” Aegon didn’t have to ask what it was, and Daemon didn’t wait for him to. “Even when she asked, I almost lied. But she said she needed to know everything if this was to succeed, and she was right. We need to know everything. So stop hiding things you do not trust me with.”

Aegon opened his mouth to argue, but stopped. He did not lie to his parents. He did not want to lie to this version of them either. “What if I’d reacted as I did when I saw Cole? What would you have done?”

“I did not think that was likely. You lied to protect him, after all. You thought I would kill him.”

“You plan to kill the rest. Larys. Cole. Wylde.”

“I do,” Daemon said easily, “as soon as the opportunity presents itself, unless there is a reason not to. Is there a reason not to kill Tyland?”

Aegon focused on the bread beside his plate of beans. Beans, no meat. Tyland had ordered the kitchens to serve him meatless meals as well. “He was a good Hand. He… He did his best to make sure the realm was secure, even though he had no love for my parents or my siblings. I mourned him when he died.”

“Then he lives,” Daemon said, “unless we’re given a reason to change that decision.”

“Kirimvose, kepa,” Aegon said automatically. Thank you, Father, words he’d said a thousand times when Daemon took that measured tone with him. Still reflexive. He looked up and said in Common, “Apologies, my Prince.”

Daemon looked discomfited, in that way most likely wouldn’t recognize. Tightness around his eyes. “You can call me what you’d like.” He took a drink from his tankard of ale, then pointed to Aegon’s plate of beans. “Eat.”

Aegon ate.

Aegon slept fitfully after their encounter with Tyland. He’d woken gasping, memories of Tyland’s weak voice as he died echoing in his ears. The man’s face had been a ruin of Aegon’s mother’s making, and he saw it in his dream, disappointed in him for running away, for leaving them, for forgetting—something.

He was sluggish in training. Annoyance drew the lines of Daemon’s face tight, and Aegon wondered how long it would take for the patience he’d shown to snap. As though he could read his thoughts, Daemon spun away from where he’d been correcting his block and shouted, “Ser Harwin!” The prince waved Aegon away and if his hits were harder than those common in a friendly spar, well, Ser Harwin did not seem to mind.

Aegon climbed up on the rail of a wagon, just in the shade from the colonnade, and watched them fight. Watching Ser Harwin always made him think of Jace and Luke, with his dark hair and kind face. Jace had grown his hair out during the war, so it had curled around his face like Luke and Joffrey’s had. Like Harwin’s did, Aegon could see now. Jace had been a good fighter, strong and quick and clever, though he’d never grown to his prime like the men Aegon watched now. They were of an age or close to it, Daemon and Harwin, and while Harwin was stronger, Daemon was faster and more skilled with a blade. And he had Dark Sister, of course. They were like as not to fight to a stalemate, but Daemon’s blood was up. Angry at him, Aegon thought, a frown drawing his brows together. He did not mean to make him so.

“A gold dragon says the prince claims victory,” said a voice from beside Aegon.

“Even if I had a dragon, I would not take that bet,” Aegon replied, turning his head to see the man who had spoke.

And then nearly fell in his rush to stand and bow to the king.

“Your Grace,” he said, eyes on the dirt.

“My brother is in rare form today,” Viserys Targaryen said, coming to stand beside Aegon, half hidden in the shade. His Kingsguard loomed behind him.

“I angered him, my king.”

His grandfather laughed. “Oh, it was not you who angered him,” he said, but did not explain further. “You are my nephew, young Egg; you are allowed to look at me. I would have us speak.”

Aegon flicked his eyes up to the king’s face, then away again quickly. When he’d met his grandfather—the first time, the last time—he’d already been half a corpse, eye socket empty, teeth broken or gone. This man was healthier, if clearly not completely well. Aegon wondered for the first time if something could be done about that. And then he wondered if something should. “You are very kind, your Grace.”

“How are you getting on in the Keep?”

“Very well, my king.”

“And with your duties?”

The questions went on for a few minutes, Aegon shifting uncomfortably under the king’s stare. The look was familiar. The old king, his grandfather, had looked at him like this, as though he were something of a miracle. Aegon had not liked it, shying back behind their nursemaid even as his brother Viserys had clenched his hands into fists at his sides and put up with the blackened fingers that ran through his silver-gold curls. Something about those glassy eyes did not seem to see him. Aegon did not know what he was seeing. A younger version of Daemon perhaps?

“And my brother? How are you finding squiring for Prince Daemon?” For your father, he did not say, though Aegon heard the shadow of the words in the king’s hesitation before his brother’s name.

This time, Aegon met the king’s eyes without prompting. “He is a great warrior. A good teacher. Patient with me. Fair.” Aegon could still remember Gaemon’s cries as he was whipped for Aegon’s lack of interest in the sword, and then for his lack of ability with one. He could still remember the blood. This yard smelled of sweat and hay and piss, a little, but it did not smell of blood and fear. “I’m lucky he took me on.”

Viserys leaned back a little, his eyes narrowing, his brow furrowing, and Aegon wondered what it was he’d given away.

Before the king could say anything further, Daemon called, “Viserys, what brings you to the yard?” in a tight voice. Both Aegon and the king shifted their attention to Daemon as he approached, and Aegon realized the king had been right—Daemon was not angry at him. He was angry at Viserys.

“I would speak with you, Daemon,” the king said, then lowered his voice a little. “I care little for where we left things last night.”

“I have a squire to train, brother.”

The king laughed a little. “You’re hardly training him. We were spectating.”

“Observing is important when one is learning. You might remember that from your days in the yard? Or were they too long ago?”

The king scowled at his brother. “Daemon.”

“Fine,” Daemon said, then looked down at Aegon. “Back to it. I want to see that block executed perfectly when I return.”

“Yes, ser.”

Daemon disappeared into the shadowy colonnade with the king, and Aegon wondered what it was that had made the prince so mad. But he wasn’t to know, not now at least, and he wandered back toward where he’d left his blunt-edged sword.

“Try again?” Ser Harwin said, smiling Jace’s smile, and Aegon nodded eagerly.

Daemon returned to the yard in what felt like hours to Aegon’s weary sword arm, but was likely less than one. The tightness was gone from his face. He didn’t tell Aegon what had happened with the king, even when he asked him later, but he did clap him on the shoulder when he showed his progress on the block.

“Well done,” Daemon said with a proud smile, and Aegon got the feeling he was talking about more than just his sword work.

The next day, their routine shifted, because the next day, Daemon was appointed to the Small Council.

Chapter Text

When the king came to the yard and pulled him away, Daemon had expected him to continue their argument from the night before.

The night had begun genially enough. They spoke of Egg’s training and of how the city had changed since Daemon’s return. He wanted to bring up the mood in the streets toward Rhaenyra, but things had gone wrong before he could.

It had been Tyland Lannister that did it. Daemon wanted to reconsider killing him merely for the rats’ nest he’d caused Daemon to trip into when the king brought up their meeting at the docks.

Daemon had not been lying when he told Tyland fortifying the Stepstones had been a topic he brought up with the king, nor when he said the king had mentioned Tyland’s own ideas. He had, however, removed the context, which had been Viserys telling him he sounded like Ser Tyland and that fortifications could surely wait. Daemon, who kept thinking of Aegon’s brothers—Rhaenyra’s sons—dying beneath the waves, cared not for that answer.

“Are you and Ser Tyland going to take turns lambasting me?” Viserys said, a genial smile on his face.

“No, brother,” Daemon replied, “I thought a joint barrage may be more successful.”

Viserys rolled his eyes and batted his hand as though Daemon’s thoughts were troublesome gnats. “Fine, fine, join forces and strategize. But do keep in mind, Daemon, that the treasury is not endless, no matter what you may believe.”

The jab was unexpected. It was the tone more than the words, so long suffering, as though Daemon had been a drain on his brother’s kingdom for decades. He had told himself he would play the courtly game and hold his temper, but he’d forgotten to gird himself against such hurts in the days after the victory after Dragonstone. The strike hit home, and Daemon snapped. “I believe that gold is most useful when used, Viserys, not horded.”

“But used well, Daemon.” His brother’s affability shrouded such condescension. Did Viserys think him a fool? Daemon had little love for his grandmother now, but he had learned at her knee as Rhaenys had, while Viserys had spent his days with Jaehaerys. Of the two, one had been the more able at governance, and it had not been the king.

“And is fortifying the borders of your kingdom not a good use of funds, your Grace? I know well your thoughts on fountains and sewers and—”

“This again?” Viserys laughed. Laughed. “You must learn to let go such petty grievances.”

It had not gone well after that.

The next morning, the king interrupted Daemon taking his ill-mood out on Harwin Strong, who certainly should be able to take it, and dragged him away from the yard to speak privately. Daemon readied himself to be polite instead of argue, but what Viserys said surprised him.

“I have need of you, brother.”

Daemon’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Of late, there have been strange happenings in the Riverlands, near Harrenhal. Thefts that make little sense, strange encounters on the roads.”

“Shall you send me looking for ghosts, my king?”

“Stop searching for an insult and listen to me, Daemon,” Viserys snapped. Daemon blinked, surprised, and listened. “Lord Strong is needed. He and his son head back to the Riverlands to see if they might find whatever band of thieves is behind the mischief.”

“You want me to take a place in the Gold Cloaks in Ser Harwin’s absence?”

Viserys scowled a little. “No, I told Lyonel that Harwin was needed here. He is taking his younger son.”

Daemon arched a brow. Harwin was among the best of the Gold Cloaks’ commanders, but certainly he was not indispensable. Had Viserys kept him back for Aegon? It was no secret the boy hung on Harwin’s every word. “So what do you need me for then?”

“Lord Strong is like to be gone for a moon or more. In that time, I shall need a Master of Law. I would have you sit on my council in the position until such time as he returns.”

Daemon had spent nine months as Master of Law, before his brother had dismissed him. It had been far duller than any other position he’d held, but Daemon said, “With pleasure, your Grace,” and meant it.

Viserys clapped him on the shoulder. “Daemon, I would have us be at peace. I have enjoyed these last weeks, having you at my side once more.”

“I have as well, brother.” He meant that too.

“I know that you are capable,” Viserys continued. More condescension, but Daemon held his tongue. “I wish only that you could learn moderation.”

Daemon ducked his head. He thought of Rhaenyra, of Aegon, of a future that might come if they did not win this battle of wills. “You will not regret your trust in me, brother.”

The hand still on his shoulder squeezed, and Daemon focused on that, on the position he was granted—however temporary—and on the boy waiting for him back in the yard. He would do this, no matter how his instincts screamed for him to kill all their enemies and be done with it. For their House, for the dragons.

For Rhaenyra.

That evening, he and Viserys were joined by Lord Strong, who told him of the matters he had been considering and the ones that would likely arise. Daemon still found the particulars dull, but that didn’t mean that his wits were dull, and he understood quickly the shape of things. Lord Strong was a good man, steady and stalwart, and his decisions were generally sound, though not always the ones that Daemon would make.

After Lord Strong left the king’s rooms, Viserys poured them both wine. And then, as though to drown any argument they might have otherwise had, he kept pouring.

After Daemon left, instead of going back to his rooms as he usually did, he went to see Rhaenyra.

He had drank too much wine. Not as much as his brother, whose attendants had come to pour him into bed as Daemon was leaving. But enough that he felt a little blurred at the edges, and warm. He drank enough to know the warmth was not from the sweetwine.

He slid into Rhaenyra’s chamber soundlessly, listening for her voice or her servants’, but all was quiet. Was his princess asleep? Daemon crept closer.

Rhaenyra lay in bed, but she was not asleep. A single candle burned in her bedchamber, but even in such bare light, her eyes caught him unerringly. He smiled.

“A happier visit than the last time you sought me out so late, Uncle?” she said.

He crossed the room and sat at the edge of her bed. “I have killed no men this night, nor have any tried to kill me, to my knowledge.”

She was curled on her side toward him, as though she’d been waiting. Her hair was back in a long, loose plait, and he wished that it was out of such confines, that he might run his fingers through it. He settled for stroking the back of his fingers along her silky cheek.

“Uncle, are you drunk?” Her girlish giggle made him want to giggle in response. He had drunk too much wine.

“Your father has named me to his Small Council.”

“Drunk on victory then,” she said with a smirk that he wanted to taste.

“It is but a temporary appointment.” No matter that, he found himself smiling at her.

“It is a step in the right direction.” Her face brightened, specks of light from the candle dancing in her eyes. “Imagine the look on Otto Hightower’s face when you arrive at Council in the morning. He shall hate this,” she said, her voice gleeful, and Daemon bent his head and kissed her.

She was not expecting the kiss. He had not been expecting it, and yet he could see no reason not to kiss her. Had they not made a marriage pact, here in this very room? Were they not promised to each other? Her lips were warm and already parted, and she kissed back eagerly as soon as she realized what he had done. His hand cupped her cheek as he deepened the kiss, and her own hands fought free of her blankets to slide into his hair. One of her hands curled into a fist, her nails scratching against his scalp, and he groaned into her mouth.

She shifted beneath him, turning from her side to her back, and he took that as the invitation it was to press closer to her, holding his weight with one hand while the other slid from her cheek to the back of her neck. Her mouth tasted like honey, sweeter than the wine he drank earlier, and he did not want to stop kissing her. If the way her hands clutched him was any indication, that was her preference as well.

But he had to.

He gentled the kiss before he pulled away, and after their lips parted, he did not go far. She looked up at him with wide eyes, pupils blown, and he could see a flush coloring her cheeks even in the darkened room.

“Princess,” he said, and his voice was breathless, “I should go.”

She carded her hand through his hair again and he leaned into her touch. “Goodnight, Uncle.”

He stood and backed toward the passage door, not quite ready to look away from her. She rolled to her side again, watching him go, and he wondered if she felt the same.

In the morning, Aegon polished his boots while Daemon dressed for the council instead of the yard.

“Ser Harwin will be seeing his father off this morning,” Daemon told the boy, “but you may still go to the yard.” Daemon was never sure what Aegon would choose. Sometimes he acted as though he were king of this castle, and others he would not go outside these rooms without him.

This day was one of the latter, Daemon thought, watching the boy shrink in on himself a little. No matter. “If you choose to stay here, I want my armor cleaned and polished.” The boy had cleaned the armor already, and Daemon did not think he would have a use for it any time soon, but best to keep the boy busy.

“You’re taking Dark Sister?” Aegon asked, looking up from Daemon’s boots. At Daemon’s nod, Aegon said, “Good,” in that dark tone that always seemed out of place on a child.

The last time Daemon had sat in his brother’s council, he had come in late, spattered with blood. This time he arrived early and the only red on his person were the house colors he donned. Ser Tyland was the only one who had arrived before him, and he greeted Daemon cordially enough, but not without suspicion.

The rest of Viserys’ council entered after that, and Daemon found himself weighing each one, wondering when he could get rid of them, and how. Mellos seemed close enough to dying; Beesbury had not been mentioned by Aegon at all, nor Ser Harrold, and Daemon wondered if those two also would die before what the boy called the Dance would begin.

Otto came in last, save the king, and Daemon watched as the Hand caught sight of him and it dawned on him what Daemon’s presence meant.

Daemon had not seen Otto Hightower since he publicly accused him of murder and treason. Under another king—a stronger king—accusing a prince of the blood of such would have been grounds to strip him of his status and perhaps even his life. But Viserys had a forgiving soul, and Otto’s pin of office remained firmly attached to the man’s doublet, much to Daemon’s chagrin. He had hardly tried to argue the point, for Viserys would only use such as evidence of Daemon’s unnatural hatred, no matter the humiliation his antics should have cost the Hand.

His time would come, Daemon reminded himself, as Otto’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again to say, “Good morrow, my prince.”

“Otto,” Daemon drawled. This, he thought, would be fun.

Chapter Text

“Uncle, is it true you took supper last night with Tyland Lannister?”

Daemon turned his head to look at her, surprise on his face. Though whether it was surprise that she knew about his dinner plans the night before or surprise that she wanted to talk about a Lannister during their only time together in nearly a sennight, she couldn’t say.

He was kept busy with her father’s council, she knew. It was not only her who had spent little time with him; Aegon trained in the mornings mostly with Ser Harwin since Daemon’s appointment. Her father alone seemed to still warrant visits from her uncle, not every night as before, but more often than not, if the maids’ gossip was to be believed. He still thought of her; Daemon would send notes and small gifts, sometimes with Egg as a messenger, sometimes left in her rooms. Once, she returned after dinner to find a small book of Valyrian poetry on her pillow, with a note that said “vaedar toma” in the careful script Daemon always used when he wrote in their native tongue. She had flipped to the fifth poem and her breath had caught as she read. She imagined her own hair down, his hands ripping the thin shift from her body, the afternoon sun spilling across their bare skin…

He still thought of her, but that night, though she wore a mere silk shift to bed, he did not come to her.

She had him with her now though, sitting beside her in the godswood. She hadn’t been expecting him, nor did she expect him to settle down on the ground beside her under the weirwood tree.

“I did,” he confirmed. “We spoke on the Stepstones. He has some ideas for tolls that could pay for the fortifications I had in mind. Trust a Lannister to wring gold from bare rock.”

Rhaenyra tilted her head. “Is that a compliment? For a Lannister?” she asked, then spoke in Valyrian. “Aegon knew him, in his other life. You mentioned him after Dragonstone.”

Daemon nodded. “He was his Hand, after the boy was crowned. He was one of the Greens, but Aegon said he treated him well.”

Rhaenyra looked back down at her book with a frown. They had spoken of needing a plan, but as far as they’d gotten was to settle the matter of their betrothal. Daemon taking a place on the Small Council would be of help, surely, but as they could not simply kill all of their enemies, more work would be needed. “You think we can turn him from Green to Black.”

“I think our goal must be to rip out every stalk of Green that springs from this poisoned field of theirs before any can blossom.”

“Jasper Wylde, Larys Strong, Criston Cole,” she said quietly. “Those ones we know. There must be more.”

He hesitated. Indecision looked strange on his face. “The night we met the boy. You remember his affliction.” She would never forget the way he curled in on himself, how he’d seemed about to break apart until Daemon’s voice brought him back. Daemon continued. “It was worse in the Pit. When I made him tell me… But we shall need to know. To question him more.”

“We should do it together.”

His face closed off. For a moment she was worried he had taken offense; he’d been so angry at the thought that she didn’t trust him. But before she could say anything, a voice behind her called, “Rhaenyra! And Prince Daemon.”

Alicent. Rhaenyra turned her head to greet the queen and felt her whole body go cold, because with the queen was her killer.

She had not seen her half-brother since Daemon told her how Aegon’s mother had died. She had been with him just days before that, the boy screaming with the breaking of his nascent bond with his now-dead dragon. Sunfyre, Daemon had called the creature. The boy looked better now, though his face held a melancholy she didn’t remember from him. He toddled at his mother’s side, a nurse close behind. He wore a tiny embroidered doublet of black and red, and he clutched a wooden horse in one chubby fist, his mother’s hand in the other.

This boy would grow up to murder her.

Daemon’s hand settled on her back, firm, steady. Rhaenyra took a breath. “My queen,” she said, climbing to her feet.

Daemon rose behind her. “Alicent,” he said, and Rhaenyra almost jabbed him with her elbow before he added, “Good day to you, your Grace.”

The show of respect was a minor miracle, Rhaenyra thought, though the flatness of his tone thrilled her. To have someone on her side! She’d missed it, since he left and Alicent married her father.

“Is this my nephew?” Daemon asked, taking a step forward.

She may not have seen it, were she not looking so closely at the queen and her son, but Alicent flinched as Daemon approached. She had not seemed afraid of him at the celebration following his arrival back to Kings Landing, nor when they were young. Something had changed.

Daemon crouched down before Alicent’s Aegon. The boy looked up at him, his eyes huge as he stared at their unsmiling uncle. “Hello, little boy,” Daemon said in Valyrian. Aegon’s face clouded at the words. He did not understand. Rhaenyra had barely heard the child speak in Common, much less Valyrian. “We won’t let you cause any trouble, will we?”

Rhaenyra thought of the man Daemon could be, the one who had killed this boy’s son, then thought of their Aegon, watching his mother die. “No,” she said, “we won’t.”

Daemon did not stay in the godswood long once Alicent and her son arrived. He pressed a farewell kiss to Rhaenyra’s hand and started to walk away. Before she could think better of it, she called after him. “Uncle, I nearly forgot. I read the book you left me. I took special interest in the eleventh poem.”

He knew the one she meant; she could see it in the way his eyes darkened, just a bit. A lover, asking to be called into the beloved’s arms. “I shall have to visit that one again,” he said, “tomorrow night?”

She inclined her head, and Daemon walked away, heading back inside the keep to plot with Tyland Lannister or perhaps against their enemies, Rhaenyra did not yet know.

Rhaenyra and Alicent took a turn in the garden after that, the younger Aegon held in his nurse’s arms now. It seemed the boy had grown tired.

Alicent was warm, eager to speak on court gossip, the book Rhaenyra had been reading, anything but the things of substance that lay between them. Rhaenyra found it maddening. How could she be so friendly, so kind, knowing the secrets she hid? How could she speak of their friendship with such fondness while being party to a plot to have her disinherited or usurped? Or killed? Alicent was no cold manipulator as her father was; the only conclusion Rhaenyra could draw was that both things were somehow true. She simply held her father’s secrets and also desired Rhaenyra’s love, just as she had held the secret of her visits to the king while claiming—believing—herself to be Rhaenyra’s closest friend. For a moment, Rhaenyra felt pity, for there was no one Alicent lied to as much as she lied to herself.

But was there room for pity in this game of thrones? Rhaenyra was not sure there was. Perhaps there would always be casualties, people caught in the middle crushed by the weight of forces larger than themselves.

Rhaenyra set her shoulders and took a deep breath. She would not be crushed. She would be no casualty. Perhaps Alicent thought herself a friend, but that was not enough.

Alicent paused in telling her of a book Lady Hightower had sent her to ask, “Rhaenyra, are you well?”

Rhaenyra smiled. “Yes, your Grace. Very well.”

The next day arrived and Rhaenyra caught herself spinning her rings and tapping her toes as her maid brushed and braided her hair.

She had things to report to Daemon: small details Alicent had let slip as she and Rhaenyra talked, things Alicent probably did not even realize were important. And perhaps they were not. Rhaenyra had spent years as cupbearer to her father, but since she had come of age, that position had been given to a young cousin of Alicent’s and Rhaenyra had been set aside from all court business in order that she might choose a husband. (If her father realized how little this spoke of his daughter as his heir, he never acknowledged it. His support at court a fortnight past seemed to indicate he simply had not realized, and probably still did not.) There was a chance that the bits of information she had for Daemon wouldn’t matter in the slightest. But that was not what had her anxious.

Tomorrow night, he had said. With the dawn, that had become tonight, and that was what plagued her thoughts.

Daemon would not hurt her. She knew that as she knew the color of Syrax’s scales and the sound of her mother’s voice. And yet despite the desire she’d felt when he kissed her, despite how eagerly she had pulled him close, she found herself afraid.

Eight children, she thought. Six births. This woman she had been in that other world… Had she been afraid each time? Had she wanted it? Aegon had said they had been happy on Dragonstone, but the tale he told was of siblings chasing each other through a garden. Where had she been? Trapped in her chambers while Daemon acted again as Prince of Dragonstone? Had she been content to bear child after child until the worst happened and one of them died? No, she thought, thinking of her mother’s bloody sheets, butchered body. That was not the worst thing that could happen.

Her stomach turned at the thought and she snapped, “Stop. Leave me,” to Annora. Before the maid could make it to the door, Rhaenyra said, “Please send for breakfast, and call Prince Daemon’s squire to attend me at my meal.”

If Annora thought such a thing was odd, she did not say. The maid curtsied and left the room.

Aegon arrived at the same time as the food. Ser Steffon was at her door today, and the man made no comment as he admitted the boy, nor gave her any judging glances. Criston would have, Rhaenyra acknowledged to herself. She wanted to believe the man could be turned as perhaps Tyland could be turned, but she did not know if it were possible.

After the servants laid out the food, Rhaenyra sent them away, and served them both herself. Egg would eat only sweets if allowed; she piled other things onto his plate instead—two boiled eggs, a slice of honeyed ham, fried mushrooms, and a sausage cooked in flaky dough. She served herself the same thing and watched him until he started eating. He frowned at her, but did so, starting with the mushrooms.

“Aegon,” she said as they ate, “may I ask you a question?”

“Of course, Princess,” he said, abandoning his poking at the ham to look up at her.

“Your parents…” Rhaenyra trailed off. It felt foolish to ask him questions, and also slightly surreal. She asked about herself, about a person she would never be. She finally settled on, “Would you tell me about them?”

He gave her a strange look. “What about them?”

How does one ask a child if his mother even wanted him? If she was happy? “What were they like? Together?”

His lips curved up in a smile, one of those little wistful ones he got when he was caught in happier memories. “Rhaena once called them twin flames.”

Rhaena again. Rhaenyra did not know who between the two Aegon referenced more, Rhaena or Jace. “Did they not mind? Your brothers and sisters? That your parents wed so soon after their spouses died?” It had bothered her, certainly.

Aegon looked as though that thought had never occurred to him. “They never said anything. And we did not keep secrets from each other, so they must not have minded.”

Sweet, that this boy thought there were no secrets hidden in his family. “And your mother… She ruled at Dragonstone when you were a child?”

Aegon nodded. “She would sit Aegon’s throne with Jace to attend her as her heir. She always made sure he was party to her decisions and had a voice in her council. She said he would make a very wise king one day.” At mention of Jace, his face started to fall, and she could see melancholy steal into his eyes.

She hurried to continue. “And what of your father?”

“Muña gave him charge of the garrison. He trained us too, but he liked spending time with the dragons the most.” Dragons. Another dangerous topic. Before she could change it, Aegon continued. “He and muña would go flying all the time. They’d take us sometimes, but sometimes they wouldn’t. It made Viserys cry when they’d go without us, but Baela said we’d understand when we were older.”

Flying with Daemon. Ruling her own keep, and giving voice to her own heir as her father did not give her. Surrounded by a family she trusted. It hardly sounded real.

She hadn’t meant for her next question to come out the way it did—her voice scared and hopeful both as she asked, “And she was happy? Your mother?”

Aegon nodded. “They sometimes argued, she and kepa. He said it was the blood of the dragon in them both. But she would come kiss us every night before bed, and when there were storms, Vis, Joff, and I would crawl in bed with them. We would all have breakfast and dinner together each night, and sometimes we would all go swim in the sea. Baela and Rhaena loved to swim. They said it was their Velaryon blood. Muña did not care for it. She said—”

The words came out without her even thinking about it. “That she was a dragon, not a sea serpent.” Her own mother had said that to her once, when Rhaenyra had not wanted to get inside a hot spring with the queen, no matter that the waters were said to be blessed and Aemma wanted the gods’ hands on her unborn child.

Aegon laughed. “Exactly! But kepa said—”

This time Rhaenyra said it with him. “That she just didn’t want to muss her hair.” That was what Daemon had told Aemma on the way back to Kings Landing that day.

Even though he’d laughed, Aegon’s eyes were shiny with tears. Rhaenyra scooted her chair closer to him and curled an arm around his shoulders. “Thank you,” she whispered. “For telling me.”

He nodded. “I miss them all,” he said.

I know, Rhaenyra wanted to say, but she didn’t. Her mother, she had lost, and a brother alive less than a day. She could hardly fathom what Aegon must feel. “I’m sorry,” she said instead.

Aegon pushed his plate away and stood. “May I be excused, Princess? Ser Harwin awaits me in the yard.”

“Of course,” Rhaenyra said. She watched the boy go, his shoulders slumped and tired, then looked down at his plate. He’d eaten everything but the meat.

Daemon came to her that night at the end of the hour of the eel.

She had blown out most of the lamps in the room, leaving only two small ones to burn softly against the dark. Rhaenyra sat on her chaise, her hair unbound, feet tucked beneath her. She wore the silk shift again, but beneath a damask dressing gown she’d belted tightly at her waist.

Daemon slid into her chamber quietly. He wore an untucked white shirt, the lacing at the throat loosened, and a lock of his hair fell across his forehead. He was beautiful, his hair and skin glowing in the half-light. His eyes found her immediately and he crossed to her, his stride unhurried.

“Princess,” he murmured in Valyrian as he came to stand before her.

Her heart ached at the sound of his voice, even as it loosened some other hurt deep inside of her. She thought of Aegon’s parents, that other Daemon and Rhaenyra, and wondered if she’d felt this way at her age, and if she had, how she had managed to marry another and bear someone else’s sons. She looked up at him, at the light and shadows dancing across his face, and held out a hand.

He took it, his fingers strong and calloused, and sunk down onto the chaise. “What’s wrong?” He started to pull her close, but she stiffened. He did not let go of her hand, but he did lean back against the arm of the chaise.

“I told you I desired solitude,” she began, and gripped his fingers tight, in case he took her words wrong and started to pull away. He didn’t; he simply watched her face as she spoke. “But that is not what I want. You were right, uncle. I am afraid.” His thumb stroked her palm soothingly, but he stayed quiet. “Aegon speaks of a woman who was happy with her lot, who bore children and loved them and ruled her own keep and…” His face grew blurry from her tears. “I wish to be a woman like her, but all I know of matrimony, of motherhood, comes from my mother. Or from Alicent. And Aegon’s mother, she lost her children and still could not keep her throne. Is not solitude better than such pain?”

But even as she said it, she knew solitude was no longer an option. Not with the way Daemon looked at her, the way he reached for her again and this time pulled her close when she allowed. They had already made their alliance, promising each other their hands; there was desire there too, and the love that anchored them as family. But the hands that skimmed along her shoulders and back, the lips that pressed so gently against her head, spoke of another kind of love. She sunk into it, into him, and breathed deep.

“Solitude comes with its own kind of pain,” he murmured close to her ear. She thought of the years he’d been at war, alone but for Caraxes and the men he commanded. “I fear we cannot escape it.”

“Aegon said we were happy.” Her lips brushed the skin of his neck as she spoke, and she could feel the skin jump and shiver beneath her touch. “On Dragonstone.”

“We will be happy,” he swore, his fingers sinking into her hair and tilting her face up to his. “I will make you happy.” He looked less sure as he made this promise than he had when he promised her a throne, as though he had no doubt he could fight her every battle but wasn’t sure how happiness could be attained.

But he had always made her happy, except when he left.

Rhaenyra smiled up at him and curved a hand around his neck. She drew him closer and this time she kissed him, his lips warm and softer than she remembered. He had tasted like sweetwine before, but this time she tasted only him. His other arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her closer as he deepened the kiss, their tongues meeting, his nose nudging against her cheek. She broke their kiss and her eyes flickered open—she hadn’t even realized she’d closed them—only to find his eyes open too, the look in them softer than she’d imagined.

He’d pulled her close, but not close enough. Rhaenyra rose up on her knees, her shift hiking up as she climbed onto his lap, one leg on either side of his own. His breath stuttered as she settled against him; her own did as well as she brushed against the hardness between his legs. But she did not move away.

She kissed him again, this time leaning down to do so, and the feel of him under her made something deep inside of her flutter and clench. Her hands left his hair to move to her belt, but his own met them there, stopping them.

She leaned back, but not more than a breath away. He was smiling at her. “There’s no hurry,” he said, and his hands moved from her waist up her torso, until they brushed the sides of her breasts. He leaned in and kissed her neck, once, twice. “We have all the time in the world.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

The Small Council almost came to blows when the topic of the Stepstones arose, and for once, Daemon was not involved.

He and Ser Tyland had a put together a sound proposal, one they thought might have even won over Lord Beesbury, if they had managed to get it out before Otto Hightower undermined them. Daemon had expected this. He sank deeper in his chair, let his annoyance show, but held his tongue as Otto spoke down his nose at Tyland Lannister and chipped further and further at his courtesies. A mistake, to be sure, and it was strange that Otto had not recognized it. Tyland was not of a sort with Lord Corlys, strong tempered but good natured, with a strong vein of ambition at his core. He had met Otto blow for blow, whereas Tyland seemed to absorb them and try again another way. Tyland was as Egg had said—a man who would do his job well. He would not think kindly of those who got in his way. By the end of his, his face was set in angry lines.

Daemon almost smirked when the king intervened between his Master of Ships and his Hand. Otto looked discomfited. Had Daemon’s deigning to play his game truly thrown him off so much?

“To another topic, please. We shall revisit the Stepstones later.” Much later, Viserys’ face said. Otto’s composure slid back into place and Daemon almost cursed him. “What else for today, my lords?”

Daemon waited until Otto’s lips were parting to speak himself. “Your Grace, I’ve had cause to look at the question of succession of Red Lake, and I would bring it to the Council.”

Viserys turned to look at him. “Did Lord Crane not pass two moons ago?”

“He did, brother, but he died with no issue. Vultures circle above his lands. His widow holds them now, and petitions the Iron Throne for a ruling, as does her liege Lord Tyrell. From the letter she sent to Lord Strong, she fears violence may come swiftly.”

Ser Tyland leaned forward again at the mention of the case. Daemon thought that he might. The best stones were the ones that could kill multiple birds, after all. Red Lake lay on the border of the Reach and the West, and since Lord Jason was not one to care about shifting political ties, that fell to Tyland.

The whole thing was a mess of blood ties and birth order and kinship degrees, the sort of legal quagmire Lord Strong found fascinating and that made Daemon want to claw out his eyes. Daemon dearly wanted to throw both claimants to the wolves and hand the whole lot over to the widow, who seemed the only one with any sense. Alas, that did not follow custom, and the king would never go along with it.

Daemon did not look to Otto Hightower, but he felt the man looking at him. “Your Grace, I too had cause to look into the matter.”

“Did you, Otto?” the king asked.

“I suppose his interest is natural,” Daemon said. “One of the claimants is a cousin of yours, no?”

Otto dipped his head in a nod and did not object when Viserys told Daemon to continue.

Truth be told, Daemon had barely paid any mind to the letter Lady Crane sent until Rhaenyra had mentioned Otto’s interest. Alicent had told her, speaking of a cousin who had written to the queen and the Hand in hopes they might help him claim his rightful inheritance. Was it rightful? Such things were not always easily solved, Daemon knew despite his disinterest. But after laying out the kinship degrees and the blood ties and the birth order, Daemon came to the crux of it, the thing he was certain drew Otto’s interest, and also his own.

“It seems quite clear that Lord Crane’s intent was for his sister’s son to follow him. The man acted as his squire, then stayed on as his right hand after his knighthood. He married the daughter of a neighboring lord, furthering relations between the Westerlands and the Reach, and was he not away from Red Lake when Lord Crane fell ill, he may well have acted as regent then.”

Otto cleared his throat. “Prince Daemon, while I am certain Lord Crane was a good and noble uncle to the young man in question, the law and precedent here is clear. His brother’s son stands to inherit.”

“His brother’s younger son is the claim they press, which does not follow precedent, my lord.” Otto could have argued that and possibly won, Daemon knew, but he did not give him a chance to do so. “Should not the lord’s intent guide our ruling where the waters are muddied? Any claim may be staked and fought for, but does not the lord of the land have a say? Ser Otto, did you not argue such when Princess Rhaenyra was declared heir to the throne? Surely that is as binding a precedent as any other.”

“A compelling case,” Viserys said. “Otto?”

How could Otto argue against his own argument, and condemn the very declaration that Viserys had upheld in the throne room not a fortnight past? Daemon watched his face as he realized he could not. He said, “I defer to you, your Grace, and to the acting Master of Law, of course.”

So gracious. Daemon smiled and dipped his head, in as princely a fashion as he could.

Grand Maester Mellos yammered on about something that Daemon paid no mind to, nodding on occasion and wishing his niece was in council so that he had something pretty to behold at least. Mellos finally ceased his drivel, and Otto brought to the king’s attention a dispute between Lord Tyrell and Lord Peake about the levying of troops and payments for fortifications at the Dornish border. Otto landed firmly on Lord Peake’s side, though the Tyrells were the liege lords of his own house. He finished laying out his reasoning to the king, who raised his brows and looked to the rest of his council for opinions.

“I agree with the Lord Hand in this matter,” Daemon said, and at his words the room went utterly quiet.

It was easier to say it because it was true—this was a matter of little consequence, but Otto was not wrong. And the part of him that hated giving even an inch of ground to the leech also delighted at throwing the entire Small Council into confusion.

Except his brother.

Viserys, gods help him, looked proud. Daemon wanted to rise from the table and shake him. To agree with Otto Hightower was no worthy thing. And yet at the same time, his chest filled with a strange warmth at the look, so rarely directed at him. For a moment, he felt he could understand Viserys, who always wanted to please everyone. What a feeling it was, to be looked at like that.

Daemon snapped himself out of his wandering thoughts. “Is accord between the Lord Hand and the Master of Law so uncommon?” he asked cheekily, as though he did not know what caused their astonishment.

“I thank you for your support, my Prince,” Otto said, his voice reedy.

Daemon inclined his head graciously. His brother was still beaming like a fool, and Ser Tyland—the opposite of a fool, to be sure—took the opportunity to say, “If we may return to the topic of the Stepstones…”

Viserys spoke before Otto had a chance, even though the man’s mouth had opened before Tyland even got the word “Step” out of his mouth. “Yes, yes, Ser Tyland. Your proposition is sound. Lord Beesbury, see to it they have what they need. Brother, may I request the fortifications you build be less gruesome this time?”

Daemon shrugged, insouciant. “If I must.”

Ser Tyland waited for Daemon outside the council chamber once the meeting ended, and at Daemon’s gesture, began to walk with him. “Cleverly played,” Daemon said as they went.

“I shall say the same.” He sounded almost surprised.

“Did you think me a lackwit, Ser Tyland?” Daemon asked.

The man shook his head, half-smiling. “Never lacking wits, my prince.”

Daemon laughed. “You merely thought I was unwilling to use them.”

Ser Tyland wisely did not reply to that. “I’m to see Lord Beesbury now. I look forward to discussing your less gruesome fortifications.”

“And I to seeing them paid for by means of your tolls.”

Tyland nodded and walked away. As he watched him, Daemon laughed again. He had not noted it before, but Ser Tyland was wearing black.

“Grand Maester Mellos.”

“Dead before my birth, I think. The Grand Maester was called Orwyle. Mother replaced him with Gerardys.” The boy swallowed hard and his eyes flickered away from Daemon’s. It was a tell he’d come to understand: something horrible had happened to Gerardys.

Daemon moved on quickly. “Lord Beesbury.”

“The first blood of the war. Cole killed him in council, when he called for my mother’s accession over the usurper’s.”

Rhaenyra made a dismayed noise, but did not argue.

None of them had yet eaten the luncheon the servants had brought, though Daemon intended to force the roast squash down Egg’s throat if he had to. Foolish boy, with his two eggs and four mushrooms. A wonder he’d kept up with his training in the yard.

But he was keeping up, and he was holding up under their questioning well thus far. The determination in his eyes was still clear and strong. Daemon, though he knew well the boy’s words the night before were true, was nonetheless as proud as he might have been of a son.

Not that Daemon knew what that felt like.

“You mentioned Lord Larys Strong,” Daemon said. “What happened to Lyonel and Harwin?”

Aegon’s eyes slid away from his and toward the food, then back as soon as he realized what he’d done. He was hiding something again. “They died in a fire the same year Laenor and Laena Velaryon died. Larys was lord of Harrenhal, but I do not think he ever held the castle himself. During the war, it changed hands three or four times. He was executed by Cregan. Lord Stark. He was my Hand for a day.”

“A day?”

Aegon nodded as though that was a commonplace piece of knowledge. “He was Jace’s friend.”

Always Jace, Daemon thought. “You said Baela was like me, and Joffrey. Who was Jace like? His mother or father?”

Aegon opened his mouth, then closed it again. Finally he said, “He was a bit like all of his parents.” All, not both. And no names given.

“We don’t have a painted table,” Rhaenyra said, ignoring Egg’s strange phrasing, “but we do have a map.” She retrieved the rolled-up parchment from across the room, then spread it out on the table meant for their food.

In place of the house standards used while strategizing, Rhaenyra brought out her cyvasse pieces. They came from a set he had given her when she was eight years old and interested in Aegon’s conquest. Viserys had not thought a cyvasse board made from satinwood, with pieces carved from alabaster and onyx, was a fitting present for a girl child. Daemon had ignored him, as usual, though now he wished he had gotten pieces made from jade instead of alabaster.

Aegon had started setting out pieces to show each house’s alliance when a knock came at the door.

“Come!” Rhaenyra called, and Ser Lorent opened the door.

It was a servant, who bowed to the princess, then to Daemon. “My prince, the king has called for you,” the servant said, bowing again.

“Very well,” Daemon said, dismissing the servant and turning to Rhaenyra. She nodded before he even asked if she would continue with the boy. He turned to Egg next. “If you’re set on not eating that whitefish, two helpings of squash. No arguments.”

Aegon scowled at him, and as usual when he did that, Daemon found himself struck by it: this boy was his blood, his very image. He shook off the strange, prickling feeling that caused, and went to speak to the king.

“Brother,” Daemon said as he walked into the room. Viserys had also been in the midst of lunch, though his capon was only half-eaten. Beside it was a loosely rolled scroll, the seal on it broken and unrecognizable. He did not know why, but the look in Viserys’ eye was strange. Searching.

“Daemon,” his brother said. “Sit?”

Daemon sat across from the king. Viserys seemed to need time to collect his thoughts, and Daemon racked his memory for things he might have said or done that Otto Hightower might have spun into insults.

Only… Viserys did not look angry.

After a long moment, he spoke. “I said I would grant you a boon in exchange for your crown, but you’ve asked for nothing.”

Daemon shrugged, smiling. “I thought you wanted me to be judicious in my dealings. Does not thinking through any request show the moderation you requested of me, brother?”

“You know what you want.”

Daemon let the smile slip from his face. Why was Viserys asking about this now? Daemon wasn’t ready. He’d planned on asking for his annulment once Lord Strong returned, so that the damned Hand couldn’t claim he’d bent some old Andal law to get what he wanted. He couldn’t very well explain that; one word against Otto Hightower, and Viserys’ good will always shriveled up. “I do know what I want. But I no longer can only think of myself, can I?” That much was true, even if what he said next was not. “I was thinking of Egg. That I might… help him, somehow.”

“You would request legitimization?”

Daemon shook his head immediately. “I am not so thick headed as some believe, Viserys. To legitimize bastards where there are trueborn heirs brings trouble, and no matter that I know my son would never seek to harm anyone, I would not add more complications to Rhaenyra’s claim.”

“More complications?”

Did he truly not know? Did Viserys have less of a memory than a mayfly had lifespan? “Brother, barely a fortnight ago, I executed a traitor who denied her right to inherit the throne. And lest you think Broome was alone in his beliefs, whispers run riot through this very keep: that a woman should not sit the throne when there is a male heir to claim it. Your court is split, Viserys, between your daughter and your son.” Between the princess and the traitors, in truth, but Daemon could not say such. Not yet. “I would not add to that, not with mine own claim or by requesting you legitimize my son.”

“Then what?”

Daemon did not know, for he only planned to ask for the annulment. He thought quickly. “A keep, perhaps. Somewhere…” He trailed off. Viserys raised his brows and gestured for him to continue. Daemon steeled himself and gambled that what he said next would not get him thrown from the room. Gambled that his pride would let him get it all out. “Viserys, it is but a matter of time before I am sent away again. What is the record of time between my exiles from your court? Seventeen moons, I believe. That is at least the number I’ve heard bantered about. I am not blameless, I know, but the truth of it is that I have no real home. My… wife would rather I sleep in the grave than in my quarters in her castle. Truth be told, I would prefer the grave to being near her as well. You exile me from your sight and into hers, until she casts me out again. But this can no longer be the case for me. I can no longer go from place to place with only my sword and my dragon. I have to take care of the boy. And if that means I give up my chance to escape my Bronze Bitch… Then that is what I shall do.”

It was not all a lie. Too much of it was true, in fact, and Daemon felt the shame of speaking it stick in his throat. In that moment, even as his brother’s eyes bled sympathy and love, Daemon hated him.

“You shall have your keep,” Viserys said.

Daemon closed his eyes, took a breath. He would find another way to rid himself of Rhea. He could kill her. It was not a new desire, he thought darkly, but he’d always held himself back.

But as Daemon readied himself to thank the king and do so as graciously as he could, Viserys continued. “You do not need an annulment. Lady Rhea is dead.”

Chapter Text

Otto brought Viserys the news, as he ate a quick noonday meal of capon and crusty buttered bread.

The raven had just come from the Vale; Rhea Royce was dead, after a spill from her horse and nine days of lying abed, injured. Viserys felt uncharitable, that his first thought at the death of his goodsister of sixteen years had been that his brother would be pleased.

Viserys set the letter down beside his plate without reading it. “I wish her peace in the light of the Seven,” Viserys said.

Otto nodded his agreement. After a long moment, he spoke. “I hesitate to speak of such things but the letter from her cousin Ser Gerold spoke of strange circumstances.”

“What sort of circumstances?”

“She was half a horse herself, they said, and her mount was true, yet the morning of her fall, the animal acted as though frightened. And then Lady Rhea showed great improvement for the five days before her death. There are whispers that the lady’s death was not… natural.”

“Not natural? Who would do such a thing?” Viserys asked, because surely Otto did not mean to accuse his brother of murder again.

He did no such thing, of course, merely shook his head, a grave expression on his face. “I know not, your Grace, only the rumors that come from the Vale. Ser Gerold has suggested a stranger to Runestone may have been the one behind it, yet when this hooded stranger was sought out, no one could find him, nor even could provide a description of the man.”

A mysterious hooded stranger. Viserys frowned. “Deaths are not always made to happen by men, Otto. My father was hale and hearty, and in a matter of days was lost to us.”

Otto’s brow creased. “That is certainly true, your Grace. Yet Ser Gerold is insistent in his claim.” Otto pressed his lips together in something that was not quite a frown. “Should we call for Prince Daemon, perhaps? As he was the husband of the unfortunate lady?”

Viserys’ eyes narrowed. Otto had not accused his brother, no, but the implication was there. And it would not be implied nor inferred by Otto alone. Daemon had hated his wife. No matter that he had not done it, that such a thing was ridiculous! His brother had been within his sight near every day since his trip to Dragonstone, and he would not hire some assassin to murder his wife. It mattered not. It would still be whispered.

“I shall send for my brother and tell him the news.”

As he waited, he turned it over and over in his mind. His brother had killed at war, and in the name of his king, but Daemon was surely no murderer. He had been married to Rhea for half his life; what cause would there be to kill her now, when Viserys was sure he was about to ask for an annulment?

But why had he not asked for the annulment? How many times had he asked for one over the last fourteen years, since their grandfather died and Viserys came to the throne? Viserys had lost count, though he was certain Otto would know the number. And yet, with the promise of anything in the king’s power in his hand, Daemon had not asked.

What else would he want?

That was the question that stuck in Viserys’ mind as he waited for Daemon. Because if he wasn’t asking for the annulment… was it because he knew he did not need it?

Daemon was in a fine mood when he arrived, as he had been at the Small Council. Viserys had been so happy to see him engaging with the rest of his councilors, instead his previous behavior, which consisted of snarking with Lord Corlys and poking at Otto. Viserys had wondered what put him in such a mood, and still did.

“Brother,” Daemon said as he entered.

Brother. His little brother, Viserys thought—strong and handsome, with a rakish smile and a warrior’s eyes. Would he send someone to murder his lawful lady wife? He was capable of cruelty, but that?

Viserys had to be sure. He held back news of Rhea’s death; he asked his questions and could hardly fathom when Daemon answered him honestly. This was all he’d wanted, all these years. For his brother to sit with him and tell him what weighed on him. Daemon was always so untrusting, but it did Viserys’ heart good to hear Daemon speak of not wanting to undermine Rhaenyra’s claim, little though his prickly caution would be needed. And to hear his brother—erratic, ill-tempered Daemon—speak of wanting to settle and look after the boy… Viserys felt his heart ache. Did Daemon not know he always held a home here? All he had to do was learn to leash his anger as tight as he usually held his thoughts and feelings.

Not that he was doing that now. Viserys could read the pain in his brother when he promised him the keep, and not the annulment. Then the confusion, quickly hidden, when he said he his wife was dead.

His brow smoothed out and his voice was cold. “You think I killed her.”

“No,” Viserys said, “I don’t.” And it was true.

Daemon did not relax, no matter Viserys’ assurance. “But you did.”

“Daemon.”

“You were testing me.”

This was not how Viserys had thought it would go. Daemon could twist everything into knots, damn him. “I knew you would not do it.”

Daemon’s eyes lit with malice. “Oh? You’re so sure? Tell me, your Grace, how did she die? Are you certain it was not me?”

“That is not funny, Daemon.”

“Do you think it’s meant to be?” Daemon stood and took two steps forward so that he loomed over Viserys. “You can keep your keep. I’ll make my own way. That is the lot of second sons, after all, is it not? I want no gifts or boons from you, your Grace. Your gifts are like your love—temporary and poisonous.”

Before Viserys could say another word, Daemon stormed out of his chambers, the door slamming behind him with a thump that was echoed in Viserys’ heart. That thump sounded so final.

“Daemon!” Viserys struggled to his feet—damn that sore that had erupted on his leg—and lurched after his brother but by the time he made it to the hall, Daemon was gone.

That damnable man. It felt sometimes as though his brother could disappear into thin air within his own castle’s walls.

Viserys strode forward, Ser Harrold trailing behind him. He ignored all he passed on the way to Daemon’s chambers. They would have this out. Daemon with his prickly pride… why could he never understand that he—

Viserys shoved the door to his brother’s quarters open. “Daemon, your king orders you to stop your—”

And then he stopped, because staring at him was not his brother, but an empty room.

Viserys heaved a breath.

He found himself at the doors to Rhaenyra’s rooms a few minutes later, not sure if he’d come for the reassurance of a loving daughter, or hoping that Daemon might also have come to Rhaenyra. They had always been so close after all.

When he entered, he found his daughter and his nephew together and Viserys’ heart lurched again.

“Father,” Rhaenyra said, at the same time as Daemon’s son said, “Your Grace,” and cast his eyes to the floor.

The two of them stood at a table, peering down at a map turned game board. He knew not the game they played. Cyvasse pieces crowded the Riverlands, black and white pieces on the shores of the God’s Eye. The white dragon had been crowned with a sapphire ring.

“Will the black dragon capture the jewel?” he asked, aiming for a jovial tone, little though he felt it.

“The object is to kill the white dragon, not capture,” Egg said.

“Your new game is a bloodthirsty one.”

“We are in the process of rewriting the rules,” Rhaenyra said, and kissed Viserys on the cheek. “Did Daemon not return with you?”

Viserys had not the heart to tell his daughter how they’d quarreled, but he thought she could see it on his face, for her own fell.

“No matter,” Viserys said, “like as not he has business in the city. Were you holding off on lunch for him, my girl? I can eat with you instead.”

Egg took a step back from the table. “I should be going about my duties, if Prince Daemon has left the castle.”

“Egg—” Rhaenyra said, then cast a helpless glance at Viserys.

“Good day, my king, princess,” Egg said, faster than Viserys could get his mouth open and tell him to stay. Like his father, Egg fled from the room. At least he had a lighter touch; the door fell closed with a snick, instead of the heartbreaking thump of Daemon’s own exit.

Your gifts are like your love—temporary and poisonous.

Viserys could not get Daemon’s face as he said those words out of his head. Little brother, he’d thought earlier that day. But the man who’d spat those words had been no little brother.

What had made Daemon so bitter? Certainly they’d had their differences, but had they not mended those? Viserys sat as the evening died and night came to life, drinking down Arbor gold, and thought about his brother. They had mended things. He’d welcomed Daemon back, embraced him before the court, asked him onto his Small Council. All he asked in return was that his brother act sensibly.

And not murder his wife, of course. That had gone without saying.

And Daemon had done it! Not the murder part, Viserys thought, his mind growing cloudier from the wine. But he had acted sensibly. He had even leant his voice in support of Otto Hightower!

How had this day gone so wrong?

Viserys drank the last sip of his wine and looked around the room. He was alone, but for the buildings of Old Valyria, carved in miniature and unpopulated.

He did not want to be alone.

Viserys called for a servant and sent him off with a message for Queen Alicent. The king had need of his wife tonight.

After all, he thought, staggering to his feet as the servant rushed to obey, it had been far too long since he had called her forth for a visit. Far too long.

Chapter Text

Flea Bottom was a pool of depravity, and Daemon sank in.

He had not been to the city since he had brought Rhaenyra. He had shrugged off his doublet in the tunnels, and now wore a black shirt far too fine for these streets. He’d found an old cloak of his in the tunnels to drape across his shoulders. It was a little short, and he wondered how old he’d been when he’d left it behind. He passed through streets much brighter than they usually were when he visited, afternoon sunlight beating down on beggars and skinny children chasing each other in play or maybe in desperation.

This sunlight little fit his mood; he felt he should have stayed in the tunnels, skulking in the dark. His grandmother had once accused him of that, when she’d caught him slipping out of one of the passages. He’d loved her, but she’d never liked him, had she? Else she wouldn’t have stuck him with his Bronze Bitch, the wife he couldn’t escape even in death.

How did it happen? Did her cousin kill her on a hunt? Did she trip on a visit to the Eyrie and fall out the Moon Door? Did the horse she loved more than anything finally have enough of the saddle and throw her to the ground? He supposed it didn’t matter. He was miles away and still somehow suspicion fell on him.

He’d thought of doing it for so long. A snap of the neck, and he’d be free of her. No more groveling at his brother’s feet for a decree, no more being bound in the sight of gods neither he nor Rhea even believed in. But he’d always stayed his hand, for what he’d lose could be worse than what he’d gain. He cared not about whispers. What did it matter if some lords thought him a killer? But he did care about Viserys, and Rhaenyra. They would have thought him a monster, and he did not want to be one in their eyes.

A ridiculous sentiment, proven so when Viserys had tested him as he tested twelve-year-old Aegon, when there was no trust between them and he couldn’t be certain of the boy’s judgment or allegiance. And then to deny it, as though such a thought had never entered his mind. Daemon’s fists curled tightly as he walked, and a man let out a mouse’s squeak in his hurry to step out of Daemon’s path. Did Viserys think him a fool?

Yes, came the answer to that question, dark and immediate. He always had.

The gambling dens of Flea Bottom never closed and Daemon slipped in a side door of one he used to frequent. Had it changed at all? He thought maybe even the people throwing dice were the very same.

The serving girls were different. Younger. Or maybe he was older. “Strongwine,” he ordered a girl with a dress cut low to show off the creamy skin of her chest.

“Yes, milord,” she said with a poor excuse for a curtsey.

The strongwine was terrible, but it was strong, and Daemon drank glass after glass. He was the prince of this city, and four years away or not, the smallfolk laughed along with him as he won their money. He splashed out coin for drinks for everyone, and when the serving girl slipped and landed on his lap, he played along, holding her there, splaying his fingers across her tightly laced bodice as she giggled and squirmed on his lap.

Daemon knew the fight was coming long before it started. He’d watched the man across the room get drunker and handsier and more agitated as he lost. It was no surprise when he grabbed at a girl less sanguine about wandering hands than the one in Daemon’s lap and got slapped for his trouble. He slapped back. One of the strongmen employed to keep the peace—better for profits if things didn’t get so out of hand the Gold Cloaks got involved—moved to throw him out. His friends intervened and chaos erupted.

Daemon stayed where he was, even as those around him scrambled to join the fight. A punch threw a man into their table; the girl on his lap squeaked and tried to escape, but Daemon held her tight.

“You don’t care for the entertainment?” he whispered in her ear. The curls that brushed against his cheek when he leaned in were too coarse, too dark, and she was shaking, afraid of a little fight. With a roll of his eyes, Daemon let her go.

He leaned back in his chair. One man broke another one’s nose, some weasel crawled under a table after dealing a sucker punch, and the serving girl who got slapped slammed the man who started it all in the head with a tankard full of ale. Daemon smirked.

The Gold Cloaks came rushing in shortly after, and the fighting ended in a whimper. Luthor Largent was the first to notice Daemon, approaching with a sincere but awkward bow. “Lord Commander,” he said, though Daemon hadn’t been that for four years.

“Captain,” Daemon replied, instead of correcting him. “Nicely handled.”

Ser Luthor preened. Some version of him had left some version of Luthor to look in on his sons’ training, if Aegon were to be believed.

Daemon stood and clapped him on the shoulder. “Good man,” he said, and left the ruined gambling den behind.

The streets outside were dark now, and filling with people of a different sort—fortune-tellers, fire-eaters, whores, for night in Flea Bottom was where these folk made their coin. In an alcove at a crossroads, a distressed juggling girl fought to keep her bags of sand all in the air while a well-dressed boy fondled her. She dropped one and the boy laughed and crowded her against the wall. Daemon caught him by the scruff of the neck.

“You know what the Gold Cloaks do to rapers here in Kings Landing?” he growled at the boy.

“Nothing, if they know who my father is,” the boy sneered.

Daemon slid his dagger out and pressed to his groin. “Do you know who my father was?”

The way he squealed and tried to run away when he realized who he was talking to should have been more fun. As it was, Daemon gave him a little prick of his dagger well enough away of the boy’s little prick that he’d have no long-term problem siring heirs for his papa’s plot of land, and shoved him away from the girl.

She started to thank him, but he found he was in no mood for praise either.

He was in the mood for more wine.

He had not seen Mysaria since she left Dragonstone—and him—more than three years ago. He found her tavern more changed than the gambling den, fewer whores, more drinkers, and Mysaria herself nowhere to be seen. It mattered not. She would come to him soon.

He sat at a corner table, the same one he’d sat at the night he’d given his toast to his dead nephew, and was served wine almost immediately. Strongwine, this time much better on the tongue, and he’d not had a chance to drink more than half his cup when Mysaria appeared.

She looked well. He gave her a half smile and tipped his cup toward her. “You’ve chosen good wine.”

She slid into the chair across from his. “I hear you have a son, my prince. Another made-up child to vex your brother?”

Daemon snorted. “No, this one is very real.” The thought of Aegon brought to mind the boy’s father, dying with his dragon and some Hightower in the deep, cold waters of the God’s Eye, untrusted at the word of the White Worm. He thought about ringing Mysaria’s neck, but she poured more wine into his cup and he shrugged off the impulse. What matter did it make anyway? It did not take Mysaria to kill trust between him and his family. It took nothing at all, it seemed.

“Have the pressures of fatherhood brought you back to your old friends?”

“Can fathers not indulge on occasion?” His certainly had, though wine had been his sole vice.

As though she could read his mind, Mysaria said, “Will my prince be wanting a girl too? I know one who would be to your liking. Petite. Silver hair. Her eyes are even almost violet.”

He had no want for almost violet. He wanted Rhaenyra.

She should have been closer than ever. No need for an annulment; they were both free to wed. They could do so tomorrow, but Viserys would never allow it. Rhaenyra thought her father would let her choose her own husband, and certainly that was true if her choice was Laenor Velaryon or a Lannister or another Hightower, but if the choice was him? Temporary and poisonous, he thought. He’d not been wrong.

Daemon didn’t know what look was on his face, but Mysaria clearly knew it. He was under no illusions that she cared for him in truth (though he’d always thought he could trust her at least so far as her self-interest went) but she knew him. She knew him almost better than anyone. She stroked a hand down his arm. “Daemon,” she murmured, “leave your cares back in the Red Keep.”

That was what he had always done, wasn’t it? Flea Bottom had been his kingdom, away from the one his brother was so desperate to save from him.

“Such heaviness on your brow. My prince, it is not meant to be such.”

Her hand caressed his leg, a familiar touch. Her fingers were nimble and clever. She knew him well in this too, knew what touches and words would rouse him even when he’d sunk so deep in himself his body did not always cooperate.

“You are Daemon Targaryen. What use have you of any of them?”

He caught her wrist before her hand reached its destination. Why had he come here? All this… it did not fire his blood as it used to. His anger had burned down to embers, smoldering and refusing to be roused to a flame by Mysaria or that serving girl or even a fight.

He shoved her hand away. “Go.”

She did, and he drank more.

He thought of Rhaenyra and Aegon. How long had they waited for him before realizing he wasn’t coming back? Would they wonder where he’d gone? It was well past time for dinner, and without him, Aegon would not have eaten. Foolish child. He needed a minder.

He needed a father, but his had died. Even the thought that he had done so while removing a piece from the board failed to bring solace. He wondered, staring into the depths of his wine, whether or not the older version of himself had wanted to die.

“My prince,” a voice said, and Daemon raised his head to see Harwin Strong.

Harwin waited for Daemon’s leave to sit, though not to speak. “I heard a rumor you and the king argued.”

Daemon snorted. Right to the point. “Did you hear why?”

“A raven from the Vale. Dark wings, dark words.”

“Fucking excellent words,” Daemon countered, “though the method of their reveal left something to be desired. How did you hear about that?”

“My brother is very good at knowing things.”

“Your brother is a petulant cretin,” Daemon said to Harwin.

The man’s jaw clenched and the corded muscles in his neck tightened. Did Harwin want to punch him? They had never sparred without weapons. The thought of brawling with Harwin Strong like Flea Bottom pit fighters made Daemon’s blood pump a little faster. But then Harwin’s anger smoothed out. This one was good at holding his temper. Daemon wondered what it would take to make him lose it.

But before he could ponder more than that, Harwin helped himself to Daemon’s wine.

“That is a disrespectful way to treat your prince,” Daemon snapped.

“Perhaps,” he said, “but a friend?”

He laughed. “You think we are friends? Where did you get such a fool idea?”

Harwin’s easy grin said he took no offense at that. “The petulant cretin calls me a fool often, so it is no surprise.”

Daemon laughed again, this time without the edge to it, and waved over a serving woman. “A cup for Ser Harwin and another flagon of wine.”

When his cup came, Harwin filled it. “To brothers,” he said, lifting his cup to knock against Daemon’s.

Instead of toasting, Daemon used his cup to push Harwin’s away, shaking his head. “I do not participate in toasts anymore. They cause nothing but trouble.”

Harwin snorted. “I’ll drink to that.”

The two of them stumbled out to the street sometime later. Somewhere in his cloudy head, Daemon realized he’d gained valuable information about one of the Greens—Larys is always the smartest person in the room. It matters not who is in the room, Harwin had said, along with some metaphor about how people were like cyvasse pieces to the cretin—but that same part of his mind despaired of any of it even mattering, so he tried his best to push it all away.

“Back to the Keep, my prince?” Harwin asked.

Daemon glanced down the street. There was another gambling den, and a fighting pit, and a brothel or two he might have liked to visit. After fights with his brother, he was wont to be gone for days, losing himself in violence, lust, and wine.

But there was truly only one place he found himself wanting to be.

He nodded to Harwin. “To the Keep.”

To Rhaenyra.

Chapter Text

No matter how she tossed and turned, Rhaenyra could not find sleep.

After Aegon had left, her father ate and talked about nothing for the better part of an hour. Her mind kept drifting back to the cyvasse pieces on her map. She’d left them as they were, even now, deep into the night. They would continue soon, she told herself. Her father had gone, finally, and Rhaenyra had tried to seek out Egg.

She finally found him in the yard, practicing beside Ser Harwin. Rhaenyra had hung back, unsure if she should interrupt. When Aegon’s face fell and sword arm slumped, she wanted to rush to him, put an arm around him the way Ser Harwin did, but she was a princess and he was thought to be a bastard and she could not do such a thing before so many eyes. Frustrated tears pricked at the back of her eyes. He was not so much older than she had been when her mother died, and she knew what it was like to be so alone. He had Daemon and he had her, but she couldn’t go to him and Daemon…

Rhaenyra had just decided to abandon the idea of sleep when the door to the secret passage creaked open. Only two could be entering from there, and Aegon would never come so late.

Sure enough, when she rose from her bed, she saw Daemon entering the room. His hair was mussed and his gait as he walked toward her was a little wobbly.

“Uncle,” she said warily. Daemon had his moods, everyone knew that, and even she was not exempt from them.

“Rhaenyra.” Her name was more breath than voice. He kept coming closer, and closer, and she did not retreat, even when he was a breath away and she knew all it would take was a push to send her back onto her bed.

“Where did you go?” she asked. An unnecessary question. She could smell where he’d been, the same smell as their night out in the city—cheap wine and smoke from the cheap oil of the lamps in Flea Bottom. Cheap perfume too. A wonder there were no smudges of rouge on his neck. “You’ve been drinking.”

He laughed and did not answer. Gods, he could be maddening. He leaned in, brushing his lips against hers, once, twice, and then tilting his head and kissing her properly.

Properly was the wrong word, she thought, before that thought and any other were lost in the feel of his lips and tongue. His arms slid around her and dragged her closer. She could feel him hard against her, and the bed pressing against the backs of her legs.

She broke the kiss, panting, her hand against his chest to hold him back when he moved in to kiss her again.

He let out a chuckle at whatever he saw on her face. “Don’t worry, little niece. I’m not going to fuck you yet. Not like this.”

“Who did you fuck?” Rhaenyra snapped.

Daemon rolled his eyes at her. “No one. You’re all that’s in my head now.” His kiss-bruised lips smiled sadly as he curled a lock of her hair around his finger. “And he’s never going to let me have you.”

Her father. She frowned. “He said I could choose.”

“If you try to choose me, he’ll just take that choice away.”

“I do choose you. It’s not a matter of trying.” She did not say it tenderly, for she wasn’t feeling particularly tender toward him. His eyes lit up at the words anyway, as though he’d expected her to turn away from him at the first moment of difficulty.

He probably did.

“Daemon, what happened?” she asked.

“My wife is dead.”

Rhaenyra had not expected that. Had he left the Keep to celebrate? She felt anger rise in her again, but no, he had fought with her father. Of that, she was certain.

And then she realized. “He accused you of killing her.”

Daemon’s laugh was broken. “Not in so many words.” He met her eyes. “Do you think I did it?”

“No,” she answered without hesitation. “You’d have told me.”

That look had not left his eyes—warm, bright. “I would.”

“You would tell me?”

“I would kill for you.”

He meant it.

This allegiance was not new; Daemon had killed for her father before, killed for their family, and he was not sorry for it. While she was certain Daemon had never looked at Viserys in the same way he looked at her, the prize he offered them both was the same—his loyalty, unwavering, and the force of his sword and his dragon and his love. And her father had thrown it back in his face for the ease and platitudes of Otto Hightower.

Rhaenyra loved her father, but never before had she been so certain he was a fool.

Her hand cupped his cheek. “I know.”

Daemon’s shoulders slumped and he bent his head, his forehead against her shoulder, and her hand slid to his hair. His words were muffled when he spoke low into the space between their bodies. “I cannot do this anymore,” he said. “I can hold my temper with the Hightower leech, politick with Tyland and Beesbury, read a thousand pages of ancient Andal law. But I will no longer play such games with your father.”

Rhaenyra held him until his shaking breathing evened out and he lifted his head. “Let me show you something,” she said.

He followed her to the map, where black and white pieces crowded out the land itself. She watched his face as he looked it over, his keen eyes taking it all in—black heavy horse coming from the north, white and black elephants meeting at Tumbleton, the crowd of pieces in the Riverlands. When he moved, it was to reach and touch the sapphire ring on top of the white dragon. He didn’t ask about it the way Rhaenyra had, but she could see the question in his eyes. But there would be time for that tomorrow.

“My father thought we were playing a game.” She moved the black king—a queen in this case—from Dragonstone to Kings Landing and back. “It looks like a game, but it’s not. He’ll never understand, will he?”

“No. He won’t.”

“We do what we must then, without relying on him.”

Daemon nodded. “We do what we must,” he said, and toppled the white dragon. The ring spun and knocked the black dragon into the painted lake, but he was already reaching for her and didn’t seem to notice.

She noticed, but she refused to think of Aegon’s terrible future as he kissed her again. Her hip knocked against the table as Daemon pulled her close, sending pieces scattering out of place and to the floor with a clatter. Daemon walked her toward the wall, his arms tight around her, and he didn’t stop until her back was pressed against it. The stone felt cold against her back even through her nightgown, and the places where Daemon touched her felt like they were on fire. He thrust against her and swallowed her gasp. She wanted to know what this felt like skin to skin, and she reached for the bottom of his shirt, untucking it from his trousers and letting her hands venture underneath. It was his turn to groan and he thrust again, harder.

“I thought you said you weren’t going to fuck me,” she teased.

Daemon chuckled and leaned back a little. “I’m not going to, not tonight, but there are other things I could show you. Pleasures I could give you.” He sunk to his knees and slid his hands beneath the hem of her nightgown. His hands wrapped around her calves, fingers pressing into the muscle, inching upward as he spoke. “Will you let me taste you, little dragon? Let me make you feel good?”

“You’ve been drinking,” she murmured again. The first time he kissed her he’d been a little drunk too.

He did not seem to notice her discomfort, leaning against her legs, his face nuzzling her thigh. “I’d rather drink from you than any tankard of ale.”

His fingers stroked the skin just above her knees, then moved up again, to the inside of her thighs, close to where she wanted them, close enough to be dangerous and not close enough. “Your thighs are so strong. I think about these legs around me all the time. A dragon rider’s thighs,” he breathed, and she could feel his words and breath against her skin even through the fabric of her nightgown. Without thinking, she tried to press her thighs together, shifting against the feeling inside of her. But his hands were there, blocking her motion. Without meaning to, she let out a low whine. “Oh, my lovely niece. No need for that. I’ll give you what you need.” The low rumble of his voice went straight to her core.

Her fingers had itched to reach for his hair since he’d sunk to his knees, and her hand made an aborted motion toward his head at his words. He caught the movement, and looked up at her. “You can,” he said and before she’d even realized, her right hand was in his hair, carding through strands that had no right to be so soft. His eyes fluttered closed as she did it.

She gave a tiny tug, to get his attention, and it worked, his eyes opening and lust flaring, like someone throwing oil into an already burning fire. “Do you really?” she asked, her voice breathy. “Think about it all the time?”

Something must have given her apprehension away, because he sat back a little on his heels, but not far enough away for her hand to slip from his hair. “More than I should, and for long enough now that it proves I am the rogue they take me for.”

She thought that perhaps that should discomfit her, but it didn’t. She tightened her hand in his hair again. “Stand up,” she ordered.

He did so, towering over her again, bending his head down toward hers so that their foreheads touched.

“I think about it too. I think about you. I want you.” There was something else she wanted to say, but it caught in her throat. Instead, she reached her free hand up to cup his cheek.

“You choose me,” he said quietly, the wonder in his eyes as clear as the lust.

She nodded and drew him forward for a kiss, then, after, pushed him backward toward the bed. She had made her choice, and she would let no one take that away. Not the king’s councilors, not her father, and not even her uncle’s own destructive bent. He was hers now, and she aimed to keep him.

Chapter Text

Aegon woke with a jumpy feeling in his belly and what felt like prickles of ice across his skin. He’d slept poorly the night before, his door open a crack, waiting for Prince Daemon’s arrival. He hadn’t been sure he was coming back, and now, as a beam of light fell across his face and roused him from his slumber, he wasn’t sure he had.

Aegon rolled out of bed quickly and walked to his door, throwing it open to see Daemon’s bed, unslept in, Dark Sister still propped on her stand beside it where he’d left her the night before, polished to a shine.

Aegon’s shoulders slumped. He would come back, he told himself. He’d never leave Kings Landing without his sword.

“You take care with my weapons and armor,” his father’s voice said from behind him. Aegon spun, to see Prince Daemon sitting at the table, a platter of food in front of him, an apple in his hand. “I imagine if all squires were as diligent as you, I might have taken one on sooner.”

Aegon blinked and watched him bite into the apple. Daemon kicked the other chair out and stared at him expectantly. Aegon hurriedly crossed the room.

“Eat,” Daemon ordered.

Aegon helped himself to some melon and then a boiled egg when Daemon arched a brow. He’d eaten all he could and was about to ask to be excused when Daemon spoke.

“Rhaenyra showed me your map,” Daemon said.

Aegon glanced over his shoulder at the bed, still neatly made, then back at Daemon, tidily dressed though his eyes were a little red. He opened his mouth to ask, then snapped it shut again. Nine years on Dragonstone had taught him better than to ask when exactly Daemon and Rhaenyra had seen each other since the day before, and what exactly had transpired. “I was telling her about the Dance. Since you did not return.”

The incline of Daemon’s head nearly looked apologetic. He took a long drink from his cup. Whatever was in there smelled earthy and sent curls of steam into the air. After a long moment, he said, “I need to ask you about the dragons.”

Nausea squirmed through his stomach like a worm at the thought. But Aegon had expected this. He’d expected it sooner, for all that Daemon had been busy going to Dragonstone and with the king. He took a deep breath and took a drink of his water, meeting Daemon’s gaze steadily. “What do you want to know?”

“You said the dragons all died. Some in battle, clearly. But you said the people rioted and killed the others. Explain that.”

And so he did.

The best he could, anyway. He knew about the Shepherd, about the calls to destroy the abominations, both the dragons and their riders. He knew about the treasury, hidden away and making his mother wring every coin she could from the people of Kings Landing (and if Aegon did not mention who was responsible for that plan, well… Daemon didn’t ask). He remembered Syrax’s agitation, there at the Keep itself where the queen had brought her, whining and growling and wanting to loose herself from her chains. Joffrey had done that, in the end. Aegon tried not to remember that.

“There were four dragons in the Pit. The people stormed it and killed them. Dreamfyre and Syrax put an end to the rioters, but they died as well.” Aegon had memories of Syrax beyond Joffrey mounting her, but he tried not to think about those either. His mother’s golden lady… He pushed her from his mind, the way he did each time he realized in this time, she still lived.

“Who rode Dreamfyre?”

“The usurper’s wife Helaena. She was dead by then, but there was no rider to claim her mount.”

Daemon looked pensive. He looked older, more distressed contemplating the death of the dragons than he did his own.

A rush of anger hit Aegon and he spoke without thinking. “We should let them die.”

Daemon’s eyes snapped to his. “What?”

“The dragons. They are monsters. They killed Princess Rhaenys. They burnt Tumbleton and Bitterbridge. Half of the Riverlands. They took Luke, and Joffrey, and my—” He squeezed his eyes shut to stop the tears and sucked in a shaky breath before opening them. “I’m not sorry that they died.”

Daemon leaned back, but he was not relaxed. Aegon knew the coiled strength in that form, knew when it was tensed and ready to strike. His father would never hurt him; he’d known that his whole life. He knew too that this man was not his father.

When he spoke, his voice was calm. “You say the dragons took your brothers. But they did not take me?”

Aegon shook his head. “You fought. You and Prince Aemond. It was a battle.”

“Did Rhaenys not fight?”

“Of course she did.” Aegon had little liking for Princess Rhaenys, who had always looked on his brothers with ill-hidden disdain, but she had been a warrior. “But the usurper and Aemond sprang a trap.”

“And the Riverlands—who burned the land?”

Aegon shook his head. “I see what you’re doing. You think it is not the dragons that kill, but the people who mount them. But if men did not have blades, there would be no way to stab!”

“If men did not have blades, there would be no way to fell a tree, or skin a deer.” Daemon shook his head. “But you miss my point. Dragons are dangerous. They beings of fire and magic, and nothing in this world can stand against them. But they are also part of us. When I fly with Caraxes, I am the most myself. We are one. You know that.”

Aegon closed his eyes again. He remembered the feel of Stormcloud’s fear pressed against his own, soul to soul. He had seen a bolt shot from a crossbow coming at them; without even a command, Stormcloud had shot up just enough that it winged the dragon’s stomach instead of burying itself in his own. The pain had reverberated through him even so. And when Stormcloud died, the light fading from his golden eyes, Aegon had felt the echo of his own hand pressed against the dragon’s snout just as he felt his mother’s hand stroking his hair.

His mother’s hand. The smell of her hair, the warmth and softness of her, holding him as he wept.

“A dragon took my mother.” His voice was as hard and cold as his father’s ever had been.

“And you took your revenge.”

Aegon shook his head. “I threw an egg. Sunfyre killed himself. He refused to eat. My mother was his last meal.” He stared at the boiled eggs on the table in front of him, the smell of them suddenly making him feel ill. “The usurper tried to hatch another. Again and again. But I think whatever magic was in our blood was already gone.” He met Daemon’s gaze again. “I will not be sorry for that.”

Daemon nodded. “And I will not be sorry when I stop it from happening again.” Aegon did not know what Daemon was searching for in his eyes, but after a long moment, Daemon’s shoulders relaxed a little. “Were you a squire? As a boy? To Jace perhaps?”

Aegon shook his head. “Jace was not a knight, though we all chased him around like we were his squires. He was a good teacher. Even when we failed, he would lift our chins and tell us to keep our minds clear and our eyes focused and go again.”

“Sound advice.”

“His father told him that once. He never forgot it.” Aegon wondered if it had been as clear in Jace’s memory as Jace was in his.

“He sounds like a good brother.”

“He was the best brother,” Aegon said. “Muña said he was the best of everyone: honorable like his father, kind like King Viserys, daring like Lord Corlys, and brave like you.”

Daemon arched a brow. “And what qualities did he get from his mother?”

“All the rest of them,” Aegon said with a laugh, because his father had asked the very same thing on Jace’s sixteenth nameday, when his mother had made that toast. That had been her reply, but the true answer was even simpler. “They both loved our family with everything in them.” It had been a quality they all shared, but none so much as his mother.

They both fell silent after that. Daemon finished his drink, no longer steaming, and stood. “Ser Tyland and I have a meeting this morning to discuss the Stepstones. It’s like to be long, as Lord Beesbury will also be in attendance. I’ll need a cupbearer.”

Aegon nodded eagerly.

The meeting was long, and Prince Daemon drank less than he wanted to if the tapping of his fingers against his cup was any sign, and Lord Beesbury seemed the only one truly happy when they finished. He left first, giving Aegon a kind, grandfatherly smile. Daemon and Tyland were silent in his wake until Tyland asked, “Do you truly think a Triarchy fleet could make it to Blackwater Bay with all caught unawares, or was that a ploy to increase support?”

Aegon’s head snapped toward Daemon. The Gullet. Daemon was trying to prevent it. The prince tapped the edge of his cup again and then took a long drink. “We live in times of strange alliances and uncertain enemies, Ser Tyland. I would have our borders, at least, be secure.”

“Uncertain enemies,” Ser Tyland repeated, and nodded slowly. Aegon wished he could read the look on his face. His Tyland—his Hand, that was, Ser Tyland—had been scarred so horribly that every expression on this man’s face looked different, from his smug Lannister smirk to the worry that sometimes creased his brow. Aegon missed the scarred face of his Hand, but hoped he would never have to see it again. “I was sorry to hear of the death of your wife,” Tyland said after a long pause.

Aegon dropped his head to hide whatever reaction he had at that news. Lady Rhea, dead?

Daemon snorted. “I assure you, I was not.”

“A fall from horseback on a hunt, surrounded by a party of riders, and yet still there are whispers even here of strange circumstances,” Tyland continued. “We do live in a time of uncertain enemies, when an accident can be witnessed by others and still bring such rumors.”

“We both know, Ser Tyland, that I am quite certain of my enemies.” Daemon gestured for Aegon to come forward and refill their cups. “I hope to be as certain of my allies, however strange they end up being.”

Tyland smirked. “To strange alliances then.” He tipped his cup and drank.

They left the chamber soon after. Once they were out of Tyland’s presence, Aegon felt a strange tension build in Daemon with every step. Something had made him angry. What was it? But before Aegon could ask, Daemon dismissed him, giving him no direction on what to do with the rest of his day, which was unusual. And then he was gone, slipping into a little used corridor that Aegon knew led to one of the passages.

He thought about heading to the yard, but instead, walked toward the princess’ chamber. Thinking about his mother had brought an urge to see her, one that was not unusual. It was easier to think of Rhaenyra as an altogether different person than his mother; this Rhaenyra was younger than his sisters, closer to his age than she was to his mother’s age when she’d died. She might not be his mother, but she was still Rhaenyra—clever and resilient and kind.

He thought better of his destination when he was almost there. He would be questioned by the Kingsguard at her door, if she were even in her chambers, and while he could lie and say he brought a message from Prince Daemon, the guard at the door might be Ser Criston and…

In the distance, he could see a cluster of the queen’s ladies coming closer, and Aegon made a sharp right turn to escape them. There was a narrow stairwell up ahead, red and gold glass staining the light that streamed down onto the stones.

Three steps down, a little boy sat.

Aegon’s steps stuttered to a stop.

The boy’s hair was Targaryen pale and he was dressed in red and gold. He was missing his trousers, bare pudgy legs dangling from the stone step.

He was crying.

Aegon took one step down. The little boy paid no attention to him, even when Aegon wedged himself beside the child on the steps.

The boy looked just like Gaemon. A tiny Gaemon Palehair, crying on the stairs of Maegor’s Holdfast, near twenty years before Gaemon would even be born.

Aegon knew who this was, even as his mind would not let him think it.

Finally, the child looked up at him. “Dragon,” he said, and pointed a pudgy finger down the stairs.

Aegon looked down. At the bottom, cracked in two, was a little wooden dragon.

“Dragon gone,” the baby usurper said, and started to cry again.

Dragon gone. Aegon remembered how it had felt when Stormcloud died. That piece of his soul had been ripped away. Had this Aegon already bonded with the creature that would now never hatch? Had he ripped that piece away?

Good, a vicious part of him thought.

He thought to continue down the stairs, to leave the child where he was and let him fall if that was his fate in this new time. But instead, Aegon heard himself say, “It is dangerous for you to be alone.” The boy ignored him, too busy crying. Aegon tried again. “Where is your nurse?” Again he was only met with tears.

Once, when they were newly returned from Dragonstone, the usurper had threatened to send a piece of him to each House that still flew his mother’s banner, so that they might each have a piece of their new king. And now he was a child so small Aegon could fling him like a dragon’s egg, if he so chose.

“Can you hold my hand?” he asked, reaching a hand toward the boy. “I am your cousin. My name is Aegon too.”

“Aegon two,” the little boy said, holding up two fingers.

No, Aegon thought, you won’t be that.

They made it to the top of the stairs before someone found them. Two women, harried and pale, rushed toward them, skidding to a stop when the little boy tried to run away from them. Aegon plucked the child up and into his arms, the way he’d never been able to do with a sibling. The way he’d wanted to hold Visenya.

“You should keep a better watch on your prince,” he said haughtily, then thrust him toward one of the nurses. “I shall tell Prince Daemon about the lack of care shown to his nephew.”

Both women babbled their apologies and Aegon turned sharply on his heel and started down the stairs again.

“Aegon too!” the little boy cried after him, his voice awash with tears. Aegon didn’t look back.

Aegon paused at the bottom of the stairs. The little broken dragon lay there in pieces. It would not be too hard to fix, he thought.

But instead, he kicked it away. The wood hit the stone wall, and broke even more.

Chapter Text

“You called for me, Your Grace?”

Alicent smiled to see her, and Rhaenyra smiled back, little though she felt like doing so. She had spent long hours the day before staring at the map of alliances she’d drawn with Aegon, imagining Vermithor and Seasmoke where two elephants stood face to face, or a grizzled Northman instead of heavy horse. “We’ve come to die for the dragon queen,” Egg had murmured while moving the horse from the north to face the Westermen. So many had died in this Dance Aegon spoke of. She did not want them to die again, not Roddy the Ruin, as Egg called him, and not Daemon.

Never Daemon.

But little though she felt like speaking with Alicent, they each had roles to play. Rhaenyra could be kind to her stepmother and play the friend even as the Hightowers plotted to usurp her. If they could stop this before it came to war, make it so there were no men marching to die for the dragon queen, no blood or cheese, no Riverlands lit aflame… Would not any role be worth that?

“Come sit, Rhaenyra, please,” Alicent said. Rhaenyra joined her on a chaise in the middle of the room.

The queen looked tired, shadows beneath her eyes and a tightness around her mouth. They were served tiny plum cakes and spiced wine, and then Alicent dismissed the servants with a wave of her hand.

“Alicent… What troubles you?” Rhaenyra asked, noticing Alicent’s bloody nail beds as she raised her goblet to her lips.

Alicent put her goblet down, and tore a plum cake in two before speaking. “Aegon ran from his nurses today.”

Rhaenyra raised a brow. She had done her fair share of running away as a child, chasing after her uncle when he was in the Keep, or seeking out her father with his councilors. But the squalling child that she had seen with Alicent not long before had not seemed an adventurous type. “He was not injured, I hope.”

“No, no. We have your uncle’s squire to thank for that, in fact.”

Rhaenyra’s breath caught. “Egg?” Why had he been near her half-brother?

Alicent nodded. “He found my son at a flight of stairs and returned him to his nurses. He’d run while they were dressing him, if you can believe it. He was never like this before.”

Before his dragon egg was taken. Before their Aegon had hurled the other boy’s egg into the sea.

“It will get better,” Rhaenyra said, though she was not certain of that.

“They both cry and cry,” Alicent said, something lost and sad in her eyes. Rhaenyra reached for her hand, and at her touch, Alicent’s gaze snapped over to hers, her sadness quickly hidden. Alicent squeezed her hand gratefully, then let it go. “I would ask you to give the boy my thanks, Rhaenyra. My father mentioned that you have spent time with him and his… and with Prince Daemon.”

Rhaenyra wondered what Otto had to say about her spending time with Egg and Daemon. Alicent picked at her plum cake as she spoke, a better habit than picking at her nails, at least, though it sent crumbs across the skirt of her burgundy dress. She was much more nervous of Daemon now than she had been. Was it Egg? The Seven frowned on bastards, Rhaenyra knew, thinking them wicked from the moment of their birth. Egg was no bastard, but he would live like one for the rest of his life here, little though he seemed to mind.

“I shall pass on your words, your Grace. I am sure both my uncle and his squire will receive them gratefully,” Rhaenyra said. Alicent nodded, some nervous energy still thrumming through her. “I am glad your son is safe,” she ventured. “That no harm came to him.”

Alicent looked as though she wanted to say more, but instead pushed that nervousness down, until she once more looked the calm queen she so strove to be. “One day you shall have children of your own, and you shall understand my strife,” Alicent said with a gentle chuckle.

Eight children, Rhaenyra thought. In that other life, they’d had eight.

Alicent nibbled on her plum cake. “We have not had more time to speak of your tour. There was truly no one who caught your eye?”

Not on the tour, she wanted to say, but held her tongue. Alicent was staring expectantly.

“No, your Grace. I fear the man who is to be my consort was not among my suitors.”

Alicent took a deep breath and smiled again. “We must needs go further afield then. I had a thought.”

A tourney.

Alicent wanted the king to host a tourney. Oh, no one would say that it was to present suitors to the princess. It would be in honor of her nineteenth nameday, a day swiftly approaching. But it would be clear to all that the lordlings of the realm would be parading themselves before their future queen, in hopes they might win the honor of her hand.

Rhaenyra could not be sure what ideas came from Alicent’s good nature and what ideas were planted there by the Hand, but this one seemed to be the queen’s own. It was exactly the sort of plan a young Alicent would have sighed over, in those days beneath the weirwood tree. The same Alicent who had blushed when giving a dashing prince her favor and who had been so scandalized when Rhaenyra tore a page from a book. How romantic: the knights of the realm flocking to pay honor to the princess. No doubt she believed the man who won the tourney would declare her his Queen of Love and Beauty, and then Rhaenyra would declare him her king. King consort, at least.

Rhaenyra thought it just might work.

Not to find her a husband. She already had found one, after all. But what better way to for Daemon to declare his intent? In front of lords and small folk, magnificent in his armor, offering her a crown? How could her father deny them then?

He could not. Not if she publicly accepted Daemon’s favor and his suit. The king had given her leave to choose, even if he had not known Daemon would be free to wed.

They had not spoken of it, how they would make the king see reason and agree to their match. Even without a plan, she had considered the matter settled. But clearly Daemon had not; his pain the night before had spoken the truth of that. He thought her father would find a way to stop their union. They would have to make sure he could not. She would have Daemon for her husband; she had not lied about her resolve the night before, and everything that had happened after had only strengthened it more.

Daemon had been true to his word; Rhaenyra was still a maiden, at least in the most technical sense. But even so, Rhaenyra felt her cheeks and body heat as she remembered Daemon’s fingers, lips, and tongue upon her. No matter the black and white figures upon the walls in the Red Keep, Rhaenyra had hardly imagined such things between a man and a woman. The septas had certainly made no mention of it in the cursory explanation of the acts between husband and wife she was given when she bled for the first time and marriage seemed an impending doom. She had known what pleasure kissing could bring, from nights where their tongues tangled and their bodies pressed together. But though her hands had ventured below his shirt, brushed the scarred skin of his back or the hard planes of his stomach, last night had been the first time his torso had been bared to her, when she’d nearly ripped his shirt off of him in her eagerness to feel his skin on hers.

He had laughed a little, before bending his head to kiss her again. She’d never thought the marriage bed would be a place for smiles.

But theirs would.

Once they got her father to agree.

It was to her father she went next. Ser Harrold stood watch at the door of his chambers, and Rhaenyra was admitted without being announced. Her father’s order, clearly.

“Daemon?” Viserys asked, his head coming up quickly at the sound of the door. He smiled at the sight of her, but the smile was tinged with sadness. “Rhaenyra!”

“Good morrow, Father,” Rhaenyra said, moving forward into his embrace.

They had taken lunch together the day before, her father not speaking of his argument with Daemon just as she would not speak of it now. They still had not spoken of her disastrous tour, though he’d been so distracted by Daemon’s return and Egg’s arrival that she could not be sure if he was avoiding the topic as he usually would or if he had genuinely put it from his mind completely. That could wait until Alicent broached the topic of the tourney, perhaps.

“I was visiting with the queen,” she said, and as she knew it would, her father’s face brightened. Daemon was right—nothing made Viserys happier than his family getting along with the Hightowers. “And so I decided to see if you had time for me as well.”

“Always, my daughter.” Viserys gestured for her to sit beside him. On the table before him, he had a plate of the same plum cakes she had eaten with Alicent and four scrolls, one open and pushed aside, two rolled but with their seals cracked, and one clearly the one her father had been reading. He noticed her gaze on the letters and let out a small laugh. “Petitions from lords. An issue with port taxes and wine, a dispute between feuding lords out at Cracklaw Point and Claw Isle…”

Cracklaw Point and Claw Isle. Rhaenyra leaned forward a little. “My sworn lords are feuding?”

Viserys looked surprised at that, as though he did not know House Crabb and House Celtigar were both sworn to Dragonstone. Such petitions should come to her; she had been Princess of Dragonstone in her own right for near two years now. “Lord Celtigar argues Lord Crabb has encroached on the waters claimed by Claw Isle, taking advantage of his being away at war to steal from the bellies of his smallfolk. It is a petty dispute, and one that would not exist had Celtigar not gone off to unsanctioned war.”

That war had won him a new crown and several islands, and freed shipping lanes from their enemies’ grasp, and he had done nothing at all to win it. Still, she could see the annoyance tight in his face, a reminder of Corlys Velaryon’s ambition and his brother’s wildness.

“How did such a petty dispute reach the ear of the king?” she asked, leaning in and stealing a plum cake from the plate.

Her father chuckled at her. “Most petitions for the king are gathered by the Hand and come to me as needed. I am not certain I am needed for this one,” he said, casting the letter aside in favor of his own plum cake.

Otto Hightower’s work. That explained it. The annoyance on her father’s face—that was the point. The reminder of the willfulness of the other Valyrian houses, carefully placed in front of the king. That such a petition circumvented her entirely was surely a bonus for the Hand, for undercutting her duties and authority as Princess of Dragonstone could only aid him in the future, when he declared his grandson king.

“May I take it on, Father?” Rhaenyra asked.

Viserys again looked surprised. “You would answer their petition?”

“I would. Their Houses are sworn to me, are they not? Is it not time that I act as Princess of Dragonstone? I’ve reached my majority, and there is much I need to learn if I am to be queen.”

“You will be queen,” her father replied, his voice clear and strong.

She smiled at him. “Then I must learn.”

Viserys nodded. “You shall help me then. With your feuding lords, and with those of the Vale, and these damn Blackwoods and Brackens.”

Rhaenyra took up the scroll while her father bit into his cake. She thought of what Egg had said about his brother Jace, how he learned at the side of his mother. Rhaenyra had thought that was what her father was doing, keeping her as cupbearer long after she had grown too old for such a role. But after her return, he had made no move to bring her back to council, made no move to prepare her. How much of that was his own lack of thoughtfulness, and how much was the Hand? She didn’t know. But she would be prepared to take the throne. She would see to it, starting now.

Chapter Text

When Daemon arrived at the Gold Cloaks’ barracks, Luthor Largent did not object to his joining their raid.

“Crime is rife in the city, my prince,” the man said with a frown. “Worse every year.”

Daemon had taken note of the feeling in the city. Even the debaucheries had an edge of anger to them, and that the Realm’s Delight herself was so derided did not speak well of the smallfolk’s feeling toward their rulers. He’d tried to show Rhaenyra, tried to tell her that the opinion of the people mattered if she was to rule, but even he could never have imagined the tale Aegon had told: riots, prophets, and the deaths of the dragons.

And if a step toward stopping that gave Daemon the opportunity to slate Dark Sister’s thirst outside the walls of the Red Keep, so much the better.

Daemon’s hand flexed against the pommel of his sword. “Then we must remind them what color to fear.”

This raid was nothing like the one he had planned before the Heir’s Tourney, a brutal round up of all known criminals. No, this was targeted, a squad of one dozen men with a particular goal in mind. Ser Luthor would lead them into one of the more hellish dens of Flea Bottom.

“There have always been fighting pits, and men betting coin on the fighters. But they’ve started a new sport of late.” Ser Luthor spat. “Children.”

Boys barely older than ten namedays, he explained, some paid a pittance to rip into each other, some held in cages. Starving children, to hear Luthor tell it, disgust plain on his face.

“It’s only a matter of time before they have toddlers gouging out each other’s eyes,” another man put in. “Or girls.”

Luthor spat again. “We cut the hands off thieves and the pricks off rapers. What do we cut off men like this?”

“Their heads sound good to me,” Daemon answered. As Master of Law, such was his to decide, after all. “If you know of such perversions, why has there been no action before now?”

“Their operation moves from dirty pit to pigeon-shit-covered rooftop. I fear they have a man in the Gold Cloaks who tell them of our plans, and they know just when we’ve found them.”

Daemon arched a brow. “But you’ve rooted out the spy?”

Luthor shook his head. “No, but I know full well it ain’t any of these boys. These are men you picked yourself, Commander, and the tale told of where they’ll be tonight comes from one of yours too. The White Worm. She’s changed her trade. Always knows everything about everything, your lady Mysaria.”

Mysaria hadn’t been his for a very long time. He had dubbed her Lady Mysaria, when he’d taken her to Dragonstone with him. He was surprised to see the name had stuck, with Luthor at least.

Always knows everything about everything, he thought. She’d known enough to get him killed, in some horrible future. He put the thought from his mind for now. There would be time enough to deal with Mysaria.

“Their heads will have to wait until their tongues have spoken, then.” Daemon stood. He did not wear a cloak gold like the men, but they looked to him anyway. These men were his, he knew, no matter who commanded them. That would be as important in this life as in that other one.

Daemon looked to Luthor Largent. “There is one more thing to arrange before we go.”

The fights were being held in the burnt out remains of a warehouse. At one time, it might have held grain to be distributed to the poor, but the only thing being given out this night was bitter ale, gold for the winners, and pain for the fighters.

Daemon and his men swept into the building like a wave. Gold Cloaks held the perimeter, and all had their instructions: the ones inside would clear the building; the ones outside would hold it. Some men fought, too deep in their cups to understand who it was they were fighting, or not deep enough to believe there might be some escape if they were taken. The sober ones and the very drunk, those were the ones Daemon killed, Dark Sister plunging deep into the guts of the revelers and the handlers, the men who shackled the children once they’d won or lost their bouts.

But the masters of these fighting pits, those were the ones they were truly after.

It did not take long to round them up. Mysaria, it seemed, had known just who they were. Four men, two with a greedy, savage look to their pale faces, and two whose hands were smooth and faces full, merchants by the look of them, who had clearly never known hunger like the children they paid to fight. Daemon and Luthor tossed them to their knees outside, shackling them and throwing them into the barred wagons that had rolled up as they broke into the warehouse. They’d be taken to the dungeons, along with some of their patrons, to be sharply questioned before being executed for their crimes.

As for the other wagons... Those were for the children.

They’d brought blankets, and Daemon had called for a maester to meet the Gold Cloaks and the children back at the barracks, to see to the injuries he was sure were present. Some, he realized as the children left the building, would not be able to be saved. But some would, with good meals and good care. Both awaited these children—and the girls they’d also found, being used as very different entertainment—at the barracks and in homes Daemon would make sure were found for them.

Just as he’d make sure it was known that such kindness came in the name of the Princess Rhaenyra.

There was a Small Council meeting scheduled just after the second bell of the day tolled. Daemon returned back to the Keep with no time to sleep, but enough time to wash the blood and grime of the night from his skin and don his House colors. Two nights without much sleep, but the fight had invigorated him, as had his night with Rhaenyra, albeit in a very different way.

It was she who stayed his hand and his tongue when he’d heard Ser Tyland’s account of Rhea Royce’s death. His words had nearly been enough to set his sights on Otto’s throat, much less his brother’s. His brother, his lekia, who believed he had sent an assassin to murder his wife. Ridiculous. If Daemon had decided to kill Rhea, he would have done it himself. And to believe it despite witnesses stating otherwise? One day soon, Daemon would have Otto’s head, no matter what his brother said about it. But however he chose to do that, he could not leave Rhaenyra alone.

Rhaenyra, who needed him, who chose him.

It had been harder than he’d thought, to leave her, after. He'd tasted her, watched her gasp in surprise and ecstasy, watched her eyes turn dark with hunger as they both learned how she wanted to be touched. She’d fallen asleep in his arms, trusting him to stay awake, to leave before they could be discovered. A part of him wanted to be seen—what choice would his brother have then but to wed them? But he could not disgrace her, not when she trusted him so. No, they would do this a better way, little though he knew how.

After dressing, Daemon sent Egg off to the yard, where he knew Ser Harwin would be, then made his way to the council chamber.

This time he did not beat his brother. He was the last to arrive, and when he entered, Viserys’ eyes snapped directly to him, the open surprise on his face almost as insulting as the murder accusation. Had he thought he would leave? Forsake his family and the duties he had sworn to do? Daemon had been many things, but when his brother had need of him, he’d never refused the call. “Daemon,” the king said.

Daemon nodded tightly. “Your Grace,” he said, and Viserys’ face fell.

Daemon took his seat and rolled his useless marble of office into place. Viserys was not the only one who had not expected to see him; Otto Hightower had taken to wearing as blank a face as possible whenever they passed each other, but he was not so good an actor that he could hide the surprise and faint distaste he felt at Daemon’s presence.

“Prince Daemon,” Otto greeted. “I was not sure we would see you this morning. Word came of your late night.”

A scandalized cough sounded from Mellos, who clearly had not heard of it. “Yes, well—”

Daemon cut him off. “Even a late night in service of the king would not warrant absence from his council, Lord Hand. Though I appreciate your consideration of my rest.”

“In service of the king?” Otto asked. “To hear tell of last night, the City Watch disrupted a gaming den with cudgels and swords. Is such the usual service of the Master of Law?”

“I believe it was you yourself who cautioned in my last tenure as Master of Laws that I needs must show mercy. What better way to see what mercy is needed than to walk with those who enforce our laws and the smallfolk they protect?” Despite the question, Daemon did not give Otto a chance to answer. “But the men at the gaming den, as you call it, deserved no such mercy. They were using children as pit fighters, children as enslaved as the pit fighters of Mereen.”

“Gods be good,” Beesbury gasped.

“The perversions of Flea Bottom know no bounds,” Mellos said with a sniff.

“Unfortunately,” Daemon said, though he doubted anyone would take his tone as sincere, “it seems the perversion was imported. Two of the men in question are merchants and hail from the Reach.”

The two had nothing to do with the Hightowers; Daemon was sure of that already. But how sweet, the look on Otto’s face when he said it. Daemon relished it, even if the connection were a coincidence.

“Worry not, Ser Otto,” Daemon said, leaning forward. “They shall be punished most harshly for their ignominy.”

“Excellent work, Daemon,” Viserys said, clapping one hand on the table. “My thanks to your Gold Cloaks.”

“I merely accompanied them,” Daemon said, “but I will pass your praise along, your Grace.”

The words stung just as much the second time if Viserys’ slight flinch was any indication. Daemon had so rarely called him by his titles voluntarily. You are brothers, his father had stressed to them whenever they fought. Nothing matters as much as that. Not lords, not dragons, not the throne. Daemon was not sure when that had stopped being true. Perhaps it never had been.

Daemon was quiet for the rest of the meeting. Beesbury and Ser Tyland spoke of their plans for the Stepstones, Daemon only filling in information here and there about Bloodstone and shipping lanes—he’d picked up more from Corlys’ damn ship chatter than he’d thought, it seemed. Mostly, he felt Viserys’ gaze on his face as he looked anywhere but at his brother.

At the end of the meeting, the king dismissed the council, but said, “Daemon, stay a moment?” and Daemon had little choice but to agree.

They sat in awkward silence for a moment, until Viserys finally spoke. “I had thoughts on what we spoke of, two days ago.”

“Thoughts on the apparent murder of my wife?” Daemon asked, before his mind could call it back from his tongue.

Viserys frowned. “Thoughts on lands I might grant you.”

Daemon held back his scoff, but barely. “My thanks, your Grace, but I believe I made myself clear on the topic.”

“Daemon—”

Daemon cut him off. “I may ask for anything, you said?” He barely waited for the nod of Viserys’ head before continuing. “Then I shall hold that favor until such time as I have need of the crown’s aid.”

“But—” This time Viserys cut himself off, mouth snapping shut. He looked perplexed.

“If I may take my leave, my king? My squire awaits me in the yard.” Daemon waited a long moment for Viserys’ leave to stand, but finally it came. “Good day, your Grace,” he said, but turned too quickly to see whether or not the title hit home that time as well.

The yard was crowded this morning. Aegon’s bright silver hair flashed like a beacon in the sunlight. Daemon headed toward them, then hung back a few paces, still in shadow, when he realized Egg was sparring with another squire. Aside from Harwin, the boy had shown little interest in speaking with others, and Daemon could not recall seeing him spar with anyone other than the two of them. An oversight, perhaps. The boy had grown up with brothers, after all, older brothers who trained with him in the yard, who taught him and teased him and picked him up when he fell down. What must it be like for him, without them?

This other boy was older by a year or two, burlier, with straw colored hair and buck teeth. A Massey, if Daemon recalled correctly. He was a clever young swordsman, clearly holding back against Aegon, who clearly knew it. Daemon could see the frustration building in Aegon’s face even though the boy tried to hide it. How could he not see it? It was like looking at his own face, after all.

The other squire sidestepped Aegon’s lunge, then brought his wooden sword down with a crack against Egg’s. The sword dropped to the dust, and Aegon scowled. “Well fought,” he grumbled at the other boy, who tipped his head genially. Aegon didn’t notice; he was too busy kicking at the dirt, spraying it atop his wooden sword. Harwin gave a jerk of his head and the Massey boy retreated.

Harwin scooped Egg’s sword out of the dirt and pressed it back in his hand. “Watch your grip with a move like that.”

Egg changed his grip even as he said, “I know.” Such a stubborn child, Daemon thought fondly.

“Losing a bout is how you learn,” Harwin continued.

Aegon rolled his eyes and swiped at an invisible enemy. Daemon wondered if he were imagining a real foe, or just the Massey boy who had bested him. “I know that.”

Harwin moved in quick, and Aegon flinched. The boy had no reason to fear Harwin, and he knew it, but flinches like those… Daemon knew what caused them. Daemon forced himself not to move closer, to let this play out.

Harwin clearly noticed the flinch and his next move was slower, more deliberate. He tucked his hand below Aegon’s chin and raised it. “Keep your mind clear, Egg, and your eyes focused, and go again.”

A smile wider than any he’d seen before broke out on Aegon’s face, even as his eyes grew a little shiny. “Go again,” he said, his voice tremulous.

Harwin nodded and let Daemon’s son go, smiling even though he clearly had no idea why Egg was almost crying.

But Daemon did.

His father told him that once, Aegon had said of his brother Jace. His father.

He’d known Laenor hadn’t sired those boys, known from Aegon’s reaction when he’d called him iliboños, a word that meant a whore’s bastard, known from knowing Laenor. He’d have believed Laenor had sired one son. But five? Including two bastards?

With that in mind, he should have known it was Harwin who fathered them. Aegon looked at the knight the same way he spoke about Jace—as though the man could take on all the Dothraki khals and the Unsullied and the armies of Dorne, and still have time for a morning spar. The boy was suspicious of his own grandsire, but had trusted Harwin as quickly as he’d trusted his own parents.

Because he reminded him of Jace.

Daemon had imagined shadowy children playing on Dragonstone, not quite able to call up the faces of Rhaenyra’s Velaryon boys. But now he could—strapping and Strong, with dark hair that curled over their ears and Rhaenyra’s bright eyes and crooked smile. Laenor would love them even were they not of his blood. Viserys would love them even if he knew them to be bastards.

And Otto Hightower… Otto would have loved it too, for it would give yet another excuse for him to grasp at the throne.

“My prince,” Ser Harwin said, pulling Daemon from his thoughts. He wondered how long the man had known he was there.

Egg certainly hadn’t, for he spun around, eyes wide, looking as though he’d given up the most precious secret. Daemon walked closer. “That was sound advice, Ser Harwin,” Daemon said, then clapped a hand on Aegon’s shoulder. He squeezed warmly, and smiled. “Sound advice.”

Chapter Text

“Today you will accompany me to the Dragonpit,” Prince Daemon said, and Aegon had backed up two steps before he even realized he was moving.

It had been two days since that morning in the yard. Aegon had expected questions after they left Ser Harwin, but Daemon said, “We will discuss this with the princess,” and since then there had been no time. The princess was oft engaged with her father, Aegon learned, and Prince Daemon was anywhere the king was not. He had spent his nights with the Gold Cloaks, and his days doing his duty as Master of Law, though once Aegon had accompanied him to Flea Bottom, where Daemon appeared to be overseeing some sort of charitable work in the name of the princess. Would such an idea have entered into his father’s head? Aegon wasn’t sure. His father was well-loved by the smallfolk, but not for his charity.

He could see his father in this Daemon’s face now, however, as he watched Aegon retreat with an implacable stare. He continued. “Our mounts have been too long on the ground. The princess and I shall go riding today.”

“I will stay here,” Aegon said, after swallowing the dry lump in his throat. “I’ll clean your armor.” It was bloodied, now, after whatever had happened last night with the Gold Cloaks.

“You will clean my armor,” Daemon said. “But first, you shall accompany the princess and I to the Dragonpit.”

“You cannot make me,” Aegon said sharply, even though he knew it was untrue. He was Daemon’s bastard son and squire, here in this life; Daemon could do as he wished with him.

“You do not have to fly,” Daemon said, his voice hard. “Not now. But you cannot be my squire if you cannot stand the presence of dragons. Caraxes goes where I myself go, where my squire will go, whenever we leave this place.”

Aegon’s eyes snapped to Daemon’s. “We’re leaving?”

“No,” Daemon replied. “But it’s best to conquer this now, before we’re forced to.”

Forced to conquer it or forced to leave? Aegon wasn’t sure. Talk of leaving the Red Keep brought to mind the Dance. His father had left Dragonstone for Harrenhal, only to return to take Kings Landing and then leave again. That whole year and a half felt like nothing more than family leaving, over and over, and more often than not never coming back.

“But you’d take me with you?” Aegon asked.

“Of course,” Daemon replied, his tone the same one his father used when his sons were being particularly thick. His next words were devoid of expression. “Unless you’d rather stay here.”

“No,” Aegon said quickly. “But we cannot leave Rhaenyra.”

Daemon’s face softened. “We will not leave Rhaenyra, Aegon. Not for any longer than we have to, and never for good.”

Aegon nodded. “Good.” Rhaenyra may not have been the woman who birthed him, not truly, but he would not leave her on her own in a nest of Hightowers. She was his blood, his family.

“Ready yourself for the Dragonpit,” Daemon said, and Aegon knew he did not mean by dressing.

The three of them rode to the Dragonpit, Aegon hanging back as Daemon and Rhaenyra spoke. She tried to make him talk too, but he could hardly keep his thoughts together, the closer they got to the Pit.

The gates opened for them as they rode up. He felt their creaking in his bones. He could almost see them as they were in his old life, scarred in places from axes, blackened from fire. He could almost hear the screams of the Shepherd’s storming, even though he’d been miles away when it happened. But then, as Daemon and Rhaenyra entered ahead of him, something else sounded, closer, realer than his own imaginations. A shrill whistle, and something in Aegon broke in two.

Caraxes.

Aegon could not remember the first time he rode atop Caraxes’ back. He had been less than a full year old, for certain, though his first flight had come on Syrax’s back, strapped to his mother. He had loved Caraxes, the blood red dragon hissing displeasure as though it were beneath his dignity to have little princelings press their hands to his snout, his claws, his teeth. As he grew older, Aegon knew better than to approach any dragon other than his own so closely, but Caraxes had never once done more than snap at any of them. Caraxes and his father were one, and Aegon and all his siblings knew their father would never, ever hurt them. Certainly that meant Caraxes would not either.

But Aegon would have said the same for Syrax, and it had been Syrax who killed Joffrey.

He could see both of them now, Syrax and Caraxes, saddled and waiting for their riders, huffing and chattering at each other, more distance between them than there had been when they nested in the Dragonmont. Syrax snapped her teeth at Caraxes, and Aegon felt a bolt of fear strike him. At the same time, for the first time, he hated himself for the fear. He had loved these beasts once. They had been his friends. Or so he’d thought. Perhaps beasts could not be friends. Perhaps it was all a lie Targaryens told themselves as they flew winged weapons through the sky.

Except…

Stormcloud had been his friend.

Hadn’t he?

“Aegon,” his father’s voice called from far away, then a string of words he could not quite place. Valyrian, he thought hazily. Why could he not understand it?

Finally, the words made sense. “Calm, son,” his father said. No, not his father, Aegon thought. His father was dead. “Come on, dismount.”

Aegon loosened his grip on the pommel and reigns, and let Daemon lift him down from his saddle. He was too old for this. Daemon laughed, and Aegon realized he’d said it out loud.

Daemon stood him on his feet and Aegon swiped a hand across his eyes. Tears. He didn’t remember crying. He swallowed hard, and forced himself to look back at the dragons. Red and golden yellow, watching him with molten eyes.

“They’re smaller than I remember,” he murmured.

“Dragons never stop growing,” Rhaenyra said quietly. “I imagine in fifteen years time, they’ll both be much larger.”

“They grow faster in the wild,” Aegon said. “And faster on Dragonstone than anywhere else in Westeros.”

“Rhaena tell you that?” Daemon asked.

Aegon shook his head. “Baela,” he said. “You taught her.” Daemon and Rhaenyra were silent after that, but Aegon couldn’t read the look on their faces, because his eyes hadn’t left the dragons.

The two beasts were close enough that they could douse them all in flames. Aegon’s stomach twisted in knots as Caraxes’ neck stretched toward the three of them, and his mouth opened. No fire emerged, just a click and a whine. Daemon walked to him, pressing a hand to his mount’s snout and whispering something too low for Aegon to hear. Whatever it was, Caraxes gaze shifted back to Aegon directly. His neck stretched further out, closer, closer, until Aegon could see the flecks of light in his eyes and smell the brimstone of his breath, feel the heat of it, and he could almost feel the flames, just as he had then, coming for them, for her, and his mother’s screams—

Syrax gave a shriek and suddenly she was there, her wing sending dust into Aegon’s already teary eyes. He was on the ground, hands and knees in the dirt, and Rhaenyra was beside him, her hands on his shoulders. Syrax and Caraxes were snapping at each other, whistles and clicks and growls. Aegon knew what it was when dragons danced, and this was not that, but it still made his throat close up.

“Lykiri!” Daemon ordered, as dragonkeepers rushed toward the dragons.

Caraxes gave a whine in Daemon’s direction and then backed two steps away. Syrax tossed her head, a victorious queen, and then looked back at Aegon and Rhaenyra. Only for a moment, and then she too moved away from them.

“Are you alright?” Rhaenyra asked him in almost a whisper.

He looked up at her face. Worry for him creased her brow, but she was not afraid. His mother had been afraid of many things in the end, but she had never been afraid of dragons, even when she was dragged before Sunfyre. A dragon queen, he thought. His parents had called them all their little dragons, and Baela and Rhaena had said it, to themselves, to him, in their darkest days. We are the dragons, Aegon, they said, and dragons fear no sheep. He’d hated that, but never told them so. Rhaena had figured it out anyway, and slowly his sisters had stopped saying it. He was sorry for it now. Because they were dragons, and so was Rhaenyra, and dragons did not fear.

He nodded and climbed to his feet. He dusted off his hands and knees. Rhaenyra was still watching him, concerned, and he tried to smile. He wasn’t very successful, but she smiled back.

Daemon strode toward them. He was scowling, but Aegon didn’t know if it was because of his mount’s curiosity, the spat between dragons, or Aegon’s own weakness. “I fear our ride shall be a rocky one, with the mood our mounts are in,” he said to Rhaenyra, then looked down at Aegon. He did not ask how he was as Rhaenyra had, but seemed to be assessing it himself. After a long moment, he gave a nod. “You will eat a midday meal before seeing to my armor,” Daemon ordered.

“Yes, ser,” Aegon said, head bowed.

His eyes narrowed, as though he thought Aegon were lying to him, but then looked to Rhaenyra, brows arched in a question. She nodded, and the two bade him farewell and walked to their mounts.

He watched them mount and watched them ascend, leathery wings flapping and powerful legs pushing off from the ground. Up in the sky, blue all around them, they almost looked bright-colored birds, like the ones from Sothyros that Alyn had brought back to court. From far away, they were beautiful.

And far away, he was safe.

Aegon’s shoulders slumped. It’s best to conquer this now, Daemon had said. Aegon had done no conquering. His knees felt like they were formed of aspic instead of sinew and bone, and his stomach still swam with fear. He looked back at the horses. He was to see to those of the darilarossi, and then take his own back to the Keep. But no one had ordered him to do so immediately.

A servant was approaching to help with the horses, and Aegon went along with him to the stables, but instead of stabling only two, Aegon had all three taken care of. He fed them all apples himself and dismissed the servant, and then cast his eyes toward the entrance of the pit.

Jace and Luke had trained their hatchlings here, with their princely uncles who had become the enemy. Aegon had heard stories of mornings with the Dragonkeepers, reciting commands in the shadowy pit. His own education in such things had mostly been done outside, on the slopes of the Dragonmont, Stormcloud chattering with Arrax and Tyraxes and Moondancer, his voice something like Caraxes’ own, though he looked like neither Syrax nor Caraxes in color. (He’d been the color of storm clouds, of course; at seven, Aegon had not had the biggest imagination, nor a good grasp on Valyrian gods.) But his brothers had been safe here, Aegon thought, and with a quick look around to make sure there was no one to stop him, he descended into the pit.

Aegon did not know what dragons sheltered here now. Dreamfyre, he supposed. She would not be Helaena’s mount yet, but he remembered tales of her living in Kings Landing before the princess claimed her. Were there others? Hatchlings or drakes? He found himself listening for the clack of claws or the snap of teeth in the distance as he walked. He watched for the flash of fire too, but all he could see was the warm glow of the torches on the walls.

The passages all looked mostly the same, but he thought this one looked familiar. From before? Or from his venture into the Pit with Prince Daemon two months before? He reached a junction between two passages. Taking the right fork would take him nearer the Keep; the left fork would take him deeper into the pit. His whole body told him to just turn back, but instead he started to move to the left.

He’d only taken two steps when he heard a rustle of sand behind him. Before he could turn and face the one behind him, a heavy hand fell on his shoulder and spun him around.

Aegon threw his hands up to struggle, but then realized before he threw a punch that this was one of the household guards of the Red Keep. He dropped his hands, making sure to keep the right one away from the small dagger he wore on his belt.

“Who are you?” the guard snapped. “You’re not allowed to be here.”

He didn’t give Aegon a chance to answer before dragging him down the passage. Aegon tried to explain, but each time he said anything, the guard gave him a rough shake. The guard dragged him back the way he came and then into a well-lit room, and tossed him to the ground.

The air was even hotter in here than in the other passages of the Pit. Aegon glanced up and around him. The room was full of the brazier-like incubators where keepers kept living eggs until they were to be hatched. Four keepers stood in the room, and two more guards. The guards stood beside a chest, handles at each end so two men could bear it forth.

“Is this brat one of yours?” the guard demanded of the keepers in the room.

The oldest keeper in the room spoke. “No, we do not know him,” he said in Valyrian, his eyes focused on Aegon’s face, as though he were trying to place him.

“Speak Common,” one of the other guards snapped.

Before any of the other keepers could translate, Aegon said, “He says he does not know me. You might ask me if you want my identity instead of them.”

The guard cuffed him upside the head. “Oh? Well, then, boy. Who are you?”

“I am Aegon, son of Prince Daemon,” Aegon said in Valyrian, and watched the keepers’ eyes widen. “The prince’s squire,” he said in Common.

“That gives you no reason to be skulking around the Dragonpit,” the third guard said. “Do you not know? This is property of the royal family. No one is allowed, but by their command.”

“Wait,” the first guard said. “You’re the bastard, aren’t you? Trying to claim yourself a dragon?” He let out a harsh laugh, then grabbed a handful of Aegon’s doublet and yanked him to his feet. “We’ll see what the Hand of the King has to say about that.”

Two dragonkeepers hoisted the chest, and they all left the chamber, the first guard shoving Aegon out the door. A wagon awaited. When Aegon protested that his horse was in the stable, the guards showed no care for that; they hoisted him into the back of the wagon, where he sat with his back pressed against the side, knees curled up against his chest.

The chest was hot to the touch. He realized that when his arm brushed the hard wood of it. He knew then exactly what was inside, why these guards mentioned the Hand, and why these keepers were heading with them back to the Keep.

Dragon eggs. They were trying to pick a new one for Prince Aegon.

Aegon hung his head, too warm from the heat from the chest. Would Otto Hightower convince the king he was trying to claim a dragon? Was it treason to do that? He felt like he should know that, as he had once been king, but he had no idea. A piece of him, a jagged corner that fear had never blunted, wanted to rage at these guards. He was a Targaryen. He could do as he liked in the Dragonpit. He could do as he liked in the city. His parents were Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen—who would dare tell him he could not claim a dragon?

Not that he could tell them any of that. He was not a Targaryen in their eyes. He was but a bastard, a Waters, and had no claim on any of it.

And he did not want a dragon anyway.

The wagon jolted when they hit a rough spot in the road, and the chest slid. One of the dragonkeepers caught the handle before it could jab into Aegon’s thigh.

“Thank you,” he said.

“You’re welcome,” the woman replied. She kept watching him after that, keen dark eyes holding a question.

He smiled a little. “You can ask.”

“You are the son of Prince Daemon? Were you searching for a mount?”

“No,” he said. “Just exploring.” She didn’t look like she believed him. But before she could ask anything else, he asked a question of his own. “These eggs… Are they ready to hatch?”

“Only Aegarax knows. You know of the little prince’s first egg?” Aegon nodded. He supposed everyone knew, with how gossip flew through the Keep. “We thought that one was likely to hatch. But there have been but two cradle eggs to hatch since those of the Old King and his Good Queen.” She gave a shrug.

Aegon had not known that. He wondered what had changed. Of his siblings, only Rhaena and Viserys had eggs that did not hatch, until Morning, of course. Aegon wondered if Viserys’ egg would have hatched, if he’d lived. He wished it would have hatched right there on the deck of the ship, fully grown, and borne his brother far away.

A hand touched his shoulder, and he looked over at the keeper, startled out of his thoughts. “These king’s men have no care for our ways,” she said, “only for the power they bring. They will not believe that you were not searching for that power also.”

Aegon swallowed hard. She was right. If it was treason… He closed his eyes, and hoped that Rhaenyra and Daemon returned from their ride soon.

The Hand himself awaited the wagon, a kingsguard at his side. Ser Harrold, Aegon thought, though he did not know the man in either life. The guard who had caught him dropped to the ground and gave a short bow to Ser Otto. “My lord, we have brought the Dragonkeepers with a selection of dragon eggs for the king and Prince Aegon.”

And then Otto’s eyes fell on Aegon. “And what is this?”

The guard gestured to one of his men. “We found the bastard searching the Pit for a mount of his own.”

One of the guards reached for Aegon, but he shrugged him off and glared the glare he’d learned from his father when the guard reached for him again. Prince or not in this world, he was a Targaryen. “I was not,” he said clearly, then after a short pause continued, “my Lord Hand.” He climbed down from the wagon on his own, and this time when the guard grabbed him, he did not fight. He was shoved forward to the Hand, but kept to his feet and bowed his head humbly, little though he wanted to. “I accompanied Prince Daemon to see him off on his ride, but I had not been to the Dragonpit before. I was only looking around.”

Aegon did not need to look up to know that Otto did not believe him. What had he said before the court? That Daemon was looking to smuggle dragons off of Dragonstone? For him, of course; Daemon himself had a mount, and could not claim another. Being caught in the Pit would not disabuse him of that notion. Aegon breathed deep and even. We do not fear sheep, he thought, trying to hear Baela’s voice in his head.

“This is a serious accusation,” Otto Hightower said, his voice grave. “You must know, of course, that the Dragonpit is forbidden to those not granted royal permission, and that none may claim a dragon or egg without leave from the king.”

“My lord—” he began, only to have one of his legs kicked out from under him by a guard. He dropped to the ground, wincing as his knees met stone.

“You weren’t given leave to speak, Waters,” the guard growled.

“My lord Hand, I think we should bring the boy to the king,” Ser Harrold said, and Aegon felt a bolt of fear go through him. Ser Harrold had served his mother, however briefly, but he had not done so immediately. His allegiance had been hard won, and he had little love for Prince Daemon. Did Ser Harrold mean to see him punished by the king as well?

Aegon chanced a glance up at the Hand’s face. His lips were pressed together and his eyes were flinty. Normally, Aegon had gathered, Otto Hightower would jump at an opportunity to bring complaints about Prince Daemon before Viserys. Why not now?

“The king shall be busy with the selection of an egg for his son,” Otto said. “The matter of trespass by a bastard should not infringe upon his time. We shall hold the boy, and I will tell him of this after a new egg is chosen.”

We shall hold the boy. Where? The black cells? Aegon’s breathing quickened. He could not go there. Not in the dark, not in that damp, closed-in space.

“I believe his Grace would want to hear of this now,” Ser Harrold said, his voice firm, and Aegon wanted to throw himself at the man’s feet in thanks.

Otto’s nostrils flared as a quiet huff of breath left them. “Very well.” He gestured for the dragonkeepers to bring the chest, and then for the guard to pull Aegon to his feet. “To the king.”

Chapter Text

When Otto Hightower broached the idea of replacing Prince Aegon’s dragon egg, Viserys granted his request.

The prince had been screaming and squalling and sullen since his egg had petrified. Viserys could not understand it. His own egg had grown cold in the cradle, and he did not remember making such a bother. Daemon’s egg had grown cold as well; Viserys remembered his brother’s sadness when he’d finally given up hope of its hatching, though Daemon had refused to speak of it, even at seven years old. He’d carted it around for a year after the keepers declared it petrified; it had been picked out by their mother, after all. Viserys did not know what had come of it. His own was among the relics of Valyria he kept in a small chamber adjoining his own. Neither he nor his brother, nor their cousin Rhaenys, had put up such a fuss when their eggs did not hatch. Viserys didn’t understand why Aegon was so volatile. His baby sister was as well, crying each time either of her parents went to hold her, though the egg in her cradle had not gone cold, though neither had it hatched. Temperamental children, he often thought, though he did not tell Alicent that. He’d always thought of Rhaenyra and Daemon as such, but neither of them had caused him the headaches his new wife’s children had.

And so Otto had sent guards to the Dragonpit for a selection of eggs, and Viserys had agreed to select one with his little son. The queen had made her excuses that morning, pale and queasy when Viserys saw her at breakfast. So Viserys waited alone for the Hand to come with new eggs to choose from, and he hoped at least one solved the problem of this wild little prince.

But when the doors to the king’s solar opened, it was not only dragon eggs that the Hand brought with him. His brother’s son was with him, a step behind, Ser Harrold beside him. They all bowed as they entered, the dragonkeepers only doing so once they had lowered the large chest they brought with them.

What was Egg doing here? With Otto? Such was not a duo he would ever think to see.

From across the room came a squeal of excitement. “Aegon too!” His son kicked until his nurse put him down, and then went running on his pudgy legs toward his nephew.

The boy caught him as he collided with his legs and scooped him into his arms when it looked as though he might topple over. “Hello, my prince,” the boy said quietly, that sad look on his face that he often had.

For a moment, Viserys wondered where the two boys had even met, before remembering that Otto had mentioned some incident at a staircase. Had such a short meeting been enough to cause such excitement? Egg looked as confused as Viserys felt, but then watching little Aegon look up at Daemon's son with a smile, Viserys' confusion melted into gratitude.

“Ser,” Otto said calmly, turning his gaze to Ser Harrold and gesturing to the boys.

“Unhand the prince, boy,” Ser Harrold said. Egg looked about to hand him over, when Aegon gave a squeal and tightened his arms around Egg’s neck.

“Leave them be, ser,” Viserys ordered, and Ser Harrold backed away with a short bow.

“Your Grace,” Egg said, bowing as well as he could with an armful of toddler. Viserys’ heart twisted at the title. Why must his family call him such? Was he not this boy’s uncle?

But he said only, “Good day, young Egg. What brings you to us today? Has Ser Otto invited you to watch our prince select a new dragon egg?” Such seemed impossible. Viserys considered bastardy to be an unfortunate condition, especially with boys like Egg, so bright and strong and princely, but Otto certainly held it as more than merely unfortunate. Sinful, the Seven proclaimed. And a son of Daemon? No matter that Otto tempered his dislike of Daemon as best he could, Viserys could see it well enough.

“May we speak, my king?” Otto asked, and Viserys bade him approach. “The guards found the boy deep in the bowels of the Dragonpit, alone, your Grace.”

Alone? Why would Daemon let his child go alone into the Pit? Only three dragons resided there, true, but Caraxes was a vicious beast, likely to snap the boy’s leg off if he got too close no matter who his father was.

Otto was going on. “He says that he accompanied Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon to the Pit and decided to venture in after their departure.”

Ah, of course. No child of Daemon’s would be less than willful and adventurous. Viserys chuckled fondly and cast his eyes away from his Hand toward the boy. Little Aegon had plopped down on the ground in front of the chest the keepers had brought in, and Egg sat beside him. Aegon was babbling wildly, his baby talk making little sense, but Egg seemed to follow along well enough.

“The guards brought him to the Keep once he was found,” Otto said, “and I told him of course that the Dragonpit was not somewhere just anyone could go without permission.”

Egg’s eyes drifted toward Viserys and his Hand, worry creasing his brow. He could not hear Otto’s quiet voice from where he sat, though from his expression, he knew they were speaking of him.

Little Aegon did not like being ignored. He slapped a chubby hand against Egg’s knee. “Aegon too!”

“Egg,” his nephew said, pointing to himself.

“Egg!” his son replied, pointing to the dragon eggs carved on the chest.

“No,” Egg replied, then huffed a strand of silver hair out of his eyes. “Yes. But I’m Egg too.”

“Aegon too!” Aegon cried with a smile on his face.

Egg scowled, the picture of Daemon at his age. “Aegon also.”

Viserys remembered his little brother frowning like that at Rhaenys when she would order them about in the yard, before she married Corlys Velaryon and their grandfather denied her the throne. Daemon had listened to her—something of a miracle, honestly—but never happily. Daemon never listened to anyone happily, not since their mother died. He’d scowled at Viserys too, following him around Dragonstone, angry that their father had forbade them going to the Dragonmont alone. Daemon had some idea of claiming the Cannibal when he was two-and-ten. Their father had forbidden that too.

“Your Grace,” Otto said, pulling Viserys from his thoughts, “I know I am not alone in wondering just what the boy was doing in the Dragonpit.”

Viserys looked over at his Hand. Otto’s face was serious, his mouth a flat line, and was that suspicion in his eyes? He had been suspicious of Daemon when his brother went to Dragonstone before. Suspicious that he was trying to hatch some plot to gain his son a dragon. He’d accused him of cold murder, too, and Daemon hadn’t been guilty of either offence. Was Otto now turning such suspicion to a child? Surely not.

Viserys frowned. “Well, my Lord Hand, there is one way to find out.” He turned back to the two boys. “Egg, I would ask you a question.”

The boy scrambled to his feet and bowed his head again. Viserys’ son copied him. Cousins, Viserys thought, looking between the two Aegons. They could almost be brothers, just like he and Daemon when they were this young. “Yes, my king?” Egg asked.

“Why did you venture inside the Dragonpit today?”

“I… I was curious, my king. I had not been inside the pit, and I wanted to see.” He was holding something back. Viserys raised a brow and Egg’s shoulders slumped a little. “I was afraid.”

Beside him, Otto let out a low breath. Viserys ignored him and leaned forward. “Afraid?”

Egg swallowed hard and closed his eyes. He was only a boy, a boy with his brother’s face. A Targaryen, if not by name, Valyrian by birth. Why should he have to explain his presence among the relics of their ancient homeland?

Viserys stopped him when he opened his eyes and then his mouth to continue. “You need not explain,” he said. Beside him, Otto stiffened. Viserys ignored him. “The pit is open to you as it is to my brother, young Egg. We shall make certain it is known.”

Egg dropped his head in a bow. “I thank you, your Grace. I apologize for the trouble.”

“No trouble! Stay with us, while we make our selection.”

Egg glanced at Otto and then down at young Aegon, and Viserys could swear he saw the boy’s lip quiver at the look his son gave him. He nodded quickly. “I would be honored, my king.”

Uncle, Viserys wanted to say. Call me uncle. But again, he did not.

Viserys approached, Otto beside him. The dragonkeepers came forward and unlatched the heavy wooden trunk. The lid came up, sending a cloud of hot air up toward their faces. Otto’s cheeks and nose reddened at the blast of heat and he flinched. Neither of the Aegons reacted; Targaryens were accustomed to heat.

The keepers had brought four eggs, each in their incubators. Viserys leaned down toward his son. “Now, Aegon, these people are going to show us eggs, and you and I shall pick one, alright?”

Aegon looked up at him, scowling, and Viserys held back a laugh. It was the same scowl Egg had worn, Daemon’s scowl, and it looked so out of place on the mouth Aegon had inherited from Alicent. “No eggs,” Aegon said. But at least he wasn’t crying.

Yet.

The keepers opened the first incubator, sending another shock of heat into the air. The egg revealed was black, shot through with gray, and brought Balerion to mind. One could not always tell the color of a dragon from the egg, but this one would be black as death. Viserys knew it.

“Morghul,” Egg murmured just as Viserys thought it, and looked as surprised at the rest of them that he’d spoken.

Aegon shook his head wildly at the egg, and the keepers moved on to the next.

By the third egg, Aegon was crying again. When Viserys tried to reach for him to bring him closer to the egg—a pleasant one, bright blue—he let out a shriek and threw himself against Egg, almost knocking the boy back with the force of his lunge.

“Close the chest,” Viserys ordered, the Valyrian sounding thin and creaky in his mouth. The closest keeper, a woman who was watching the proceedings with a frown, nodded, and she and her compatriot did as he said.

“Is something wrong with these eggs? Did they choose poorly?” Otto asked, strain in his usually calm voice.

The frown on the woman’s face deepened, even as Viserys tempered Otto’s question in his translation. “There is no flaw in these eggs? They are all warm and living?”

“Nothing is wrong with the eggs, my king,” the keeper said.

“Perhaps it is just not time for him to make a claim, my king,” Egg added, looking up from the toddler clinging to his legs. “I have heard each bond between dragon and rider is unique. They cannot be forced.”

Viserys responded in Common, for the sake of his Hand and the sake of his tongue, unpracticed as it had become in Valyrian. “And how do you know so much about dragons?”

“My mother told me that,” he said.

“Your mother knew of dragons?” Viserys asked.

“What she knew, Prince Daemon taught her, your Grace,” Aegon said.

Daemon told this boy’s mother about dragons. He must have loved her. Viserys could hardly imagine Daemon speaking to any woman about dragons, aside from Rhaenyra. He had taught her about such things from the time she was his little son’s age, coaching her to say muña and kepa, and winking at Viserys when she addressed him as such instead of her father. It had been their father Prince Baelon who picked Rhaenyra’s dragon egg, but Daemon—little more than Egg’s age now—had gone with him. All three of them had glowed with pride when Syrax had hatched, but it had been Daemon who taught Rhaenyra her first command. Dohaeras, he had said over and over to the tiny girl, until she was imperiously commanding not only the hatchling Syrax, but her grandfather and uncle as well. And serve they did.

When had everything gone so wrong?

Egg was watching him, his brow furrowed. “Is something wrong, your Grace?”

“No,” Viserys said. He looked to the keepers. “Thank you for your efforts. Return the eggs to the Pit. We shall not try this again.”

“Your Grace—” Otto began.

“Otto, I have every faith Prince Aegon shall be a dragonrider as his older sister is. There are more ways than one to claim a dragon. When he is old enough, perhaps Rhaenyra shall take him to Dragonstone where he may claim a mount. But for now…” Viserys watched the chest leave the room and then looked down at the prince, whose tears had finally stopped. “For now, we let it be.”

Otto bowed. “As you say, your Grace.”

“Now,” Viserys said, looking from the Hand to the guards he’d brought with him, “if you will all leave us.” Egg began to peel Aegon’s hands from around his knees, and Viserys realized he meant to go as well. “Please stay, Egg?”

Egg looked up, eyes wide. “Of course, your Grace.”

Otto and the guards left, and Ser Harrold waited for Viserys to dismiss him from the room before leaving, closing the doors behind him.

Viserys gestured for the boy to follow him and he sat in his chair, leaving the divan across from him open for the two boys. Egg hoisted Aegon atop it, then sat himself, back straight, posture perfect. Aegon tried to copy him and Viserys chuckled.

“You said you were afraid?” he asked.

Egg’s eyes settled on the small table between them and he took two large breaths before speaking. “I have a fear of fire, your Grace. And thus a fear of dragons. Prince Daemon says we need to conquer the fear if I am to be his squire.”

Daemon would think it so simple, to conquer such a fear. His fearless brother, demanding such from a child. Viserys leaned forward. “A fear like that is no easy thing to overcome.”

“I know,” Egg said quietly. “I saw Caraxes and Syrax today. And I shrank from them. I thought… I thought if I ventured into the pit, it might help.”

“So you were not looking to claim a mount?”

Egg scoffed, loudly. The look on his face reminded Viserys for a moment of Rhaenyra. “Your Grace, I would be the last of our blood to lay claim to a dragon.”

“Why do you fear fire?” Viserys asked. As fears went, it was a reasonable one, but something in the boy’s face made him think there was something deeper there.

Egg’s eyes lifted to meet his. “Did Prince Daemon tell you how my mother died?”

Viserys shook his head. Daemon had told him precious little about this woman he had loved.

Egg did not continue for a long moment. “My mother died in flames,” he finally said. “I was there.”

Viserys had not seen his own mother die. He’d seen her weakened, fading, and that image had never left him, nor the pain of it. How horrible, he thought, to see your mother die by fire? He wanted to crush the boy to his chest, hold him like he’d held his brother after the death of their mother, until Daemon had squirmed away. Viserys did not know what to say, so he said nothing at all, just holding the boy’s gaze and the silence, until Egg himself broke it.

“He will be well, I think,” Egg said, looking down at Aegon, who was kicking his legs, as content as he had been in two or three moons. He spoke quietly, sadly. “Perhaps the death of his egg was different. Perhaps it was more like losing a dragon than an egg.”

Viserys remembered the pain of that as well.

Viserys did not know how long had passed. He had read aloud for a bit from a book Maester Gerardys had sent from Dragonstone with hopes it might help Aegon. He’d long since lapsed into silence, the book open before him but his eyes not seeing the words. Dragonlore. It was not ever his passion, not like it was his brother’s.

Daemon. Why could the two of them not make peace? He missed his brother, and the pain that lanced through him each time his brother spoke to him so coolly had not lessened. It only grew. Daemon had never been indifferent to him. He would rather he rage at him and then return, head bowed and ready to try again, as he always had.

As though his thoughts had been a summons, the doors flew open, Daemon and Rhaenyra striding inside, both in their riding leathers, Rhaenyra’s hair a mess from the wind.

“Father,” Rhaenyra said, but before either of them could get very far into the room, they stopped still at the sight before them.

Egg had fallen asleep, curled in on himself. Little Aegon had inched closer to him, until his head lay on his cousin’s leg, like he wanted to get as close to the older boy as he could. At the sound of her voice, Egg startled awake, sitting up abruptly and rousing Aegon, who erupted into tears and scuttled behind his cousin.

“What is going on?” Daemon demanded, then seemed to remember a beat later to add, “Your Grace.”

Viserys wanted to throttle him. Did Daemon not understand his tantrums were useless? How many times had Viserys forgiven him for his mistakes? And now Daemon could not let this one go?

“Egg was found in the bowels of the Dragonpit alone. There was some confusion about his purpose there, and his right,” Viserys said. Daemon opened his mouth and Rhaenyra closed her eyes, the former ready to start a fight and the latter clearly ready to weather it, but Viserys cut his brother off before he could speak. “There will be no more confusion.”

Daemon blinked, silenced for once. He looked between Viserys and the two Aegons. “You would let my son claim a dragon?”

“Your son does not want a dragon,” Viserys replied.

Daemon scowled. Viserys remembered him as a child again, and wished that his brother would accept his embrace. “I know that. But you would allow it, if he did?”

“The boy is your son,” Viserys said. That should have been as good as an answer, but Daemon’s scowl did not lessen. Why must his brother never understand him? “Yes, Daemon, I would allow it.”

Daemon stared at him, his eyes dark and intent. Viserys stared back. Would this be enough to regain his brother’s good will? With a sinking heart, Viserys realized that it wouldn’t, as Daemon thanked him in a brittle voice, with a my king again, instead of brother. Damn you, Viserys wanted to snap at him, but didn’t. Instead, he watched as his brother collected Egg, whispered something in Valyrian to Rhaenyra, and strode away.

Chapter Text

Aegon began to shake as soon as the doors to Viserys’ rooms closed behind them.

Daemon stopped still when they were halfway to their rooms, and put his hands on the boy’s shoulders. The shaking did not stop. “Aegon.”

He looked up at Daemon, opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“Do I need to sing?” Daemon asked, narrowing his eyes. That startled a laugh out of Aegon, and the boy shook his head. Daemon gave an easy push to one of his shoulders to turn him around. “This way.”

They were close to an entrance to the passageways. Once they were inside, the door sealed safe behind them, Daemon asked, “Are you hurt?”

He did not look hurt. Dusty at the knees and pale, but uninjured. Daemon hadn’t been sure, from what the dragonkeepers had said, what Otto’s men had done to the boy. Manhandled him, surely, but Otto had no reason to be gentle to Daemon’s bastard get. Worse yet, he might have tried to convince Viserys that Daemon and the boy had some plot to win Dreamfyre to their side in order to overthrow him. Neither he nor Rhaenyra had known what they had returned to. An accusation of treason seemed as likely as a bloodied, chastened squire.

He had not expected to return to his brother reading to their sons.

Aegon answered, “No,” and Daemon nearly sighed in relief.

Instead, he asked, “Why are you shaking?”

Aegon leaned against the cool stone wall. Torchlight flickered on his face. He and Rhaenyra had taken these passages from the Pit, trying to get back as soon as they could, and left lit torches in their wake. Daemon was grateful for that now. Aegon did not look as though he were up to speaking to any more people than he had to, and the boy had a fear of dark, enclosed spaces.

“When the Usurper was alive, I would sometimes wake to find him standing over me,” Aegon said quietly. “Half of his Small Council said he should kill me. His mother said it too. He always stayed his hand, but I was never sure when that would stop. I learned to sleep lightly. I did not want to die in my sleep.”

Daemon felt something inside of him twist. He was no stranger to cruelty. He had done things that would turn this boy’s stomach, and would do worse before the end of it, of that he was sure. But he wondered if the cruelest thing he had done in this other world was leave his children to face these monsters alone.

“You’re safe now—” Daemon began, because it sounded like the right thing to say.

“You don’t understand,” Aegon snarled. “I fell asleep with him in the room. The usurper.”

Was that what plagued him? “He’s but a child. He is no threat.”

“He is the threat! He is the challenge! They used him to kill my mother, and my brothers, and—Without him, there is no war. I could have thrown him down the stairs, I could have ripped his little heart out! But instead I fell asleep.”

“Aegon— Calm, son,” he said in Valyrian, for it seemed to calm him best.

Not this time. “I am not your son!” He almost screamed it, the last word bouncing off the walls—daor, -or, -or. “You are not my father, and he is not my uncle. He’s just a baby. Everyone is different.” Tears spilled from his eyes and he had not stopped shaking. “Except for Otto Hightower. Why is he the same?”

Daemon didn’t know. “I can promise you one thing about him will change. Sooner rather than late, the Hand will be without a head.”

The boy’s head and shoulders drooped. Daemon slid an arm around him and pulled him close. Finally, Aegon stopped shaking.

Daemon made the boy eat a hunk of brown bread after they returned to their rooms, and then ordered Aegon to bed. It was early yet, but the boy did not argue, stripping off his doublet and his trousers, then walking toward his bed in his shirt and small clothes. As he moved, Daemon caught a glimpse of his knees.

“Sit,” Daemon ordered, then went to get water and a cloth to clean them.

His trousers were dusty at the knee, he’d thought before. Aegon had been forced to his knees, more than once, it looked like. A prince—a king—who was once a dragonrider, shoved to his knees by a Hightower stooge. Daemon carefully swallowed down his anger as he worked, cleaning dried blood from the boy’s skin. He didn’t complain, though it must have stung, and when Daemon finished, Aegon climbed into bed

“Who was it?” Daemon asked, pulling the blankets up to Aegon’s chin.

The boy did not have to ask what he meant. “A guard.”

“Which one? What did he look like?” Daemon asked.

“Red hair,” he replied quietly. “A scar beneath his eye.”

Daemon let out a quiet hum, then brushed Aegon’s hair back from his forehead. “Sleep well.”

Aegon’s eyes fluttered shut and Daemon started toward the door. Before he could make it far, Aegon spoke. “You are my father as much as you aren’t. I find it confusing.”

“Me too,” Daemon replied. “Go to sleep.”

The streets of Flea Bottom were filled with bawdy music and the smell of piss poor wine, even as late as it was when Daemon arrived. The streets were crowded but despite that, it didn’t take Daemon long to find his quarry.

The man was in good spirits. The Hand had paid him well for his services today, he told anyone who would listen—a small bag of copper and silver delivered to him by a maid just as his watch ended. It was unlike the Hand to be so open-handed, his fellow guardsmen would likely have told him, but it seemed as though the guard had taken his reward and went immediately to his favored tavern. Daemon watched him spend the coppers on ale and proposition a tavern wench with the silver.

But she’d already been given gold.

She did just what the hooded stranger told her to do, Daemon thought with a smirk. She palmed the silver, then whispered in the guard’s ear for him to meet her out back. Her eyes didn’t flicker to him as she did it; Daemon found himself impressed with the girl.

Daemon rose from his seat at the back of the tavern and tossed a piece of silver to the boy playing flute in the corner. “Play The Bear and the Maiden Fair,” he said, and the boy began it as Daemon slipped outside. He could hear a cheer go up behind him and drunk men start to sing.

No one heard the guard cry out when Daemon seized him and dragged him deeper into the alley.

He struggled. He squirmed enough to get a glimpse of Daemon’s face, and after a beat of confusion, he struggled more. A croak escaped his throat. It almost sounded like he was asking why. Surely that was obvious. A guard lay hands on a Targaryen? Force Daemon’s son to his knees? The man should have known it was a death sentence from the moment he touched Aegon. Daemon would have done this before the whole court, but for his brother’s damnable weakness where Hightowers and their cronies were concerned.

Daemon slashed the man’s throat open and blood spilled onto the dirty stones beneath their feet. He dropped the guard into his own blood, then cut free the purse from his belt. He dropped it into a beggar woman’s bowl three streets over from the place he’d left the corpse. At least it would not only be the rats and carrion birds who would get a good meal this night.

The next morning, the Small Council met to discuss the tourney the queen proposed for Princess Rhaenyra’s nameday four moons hence.

“Ah, Daemon, eager to charge down the lists again?” Viserys asked.

“We shall see, your Grace,” Daemon replied. Rhaenyra had mentioned she had a plan for the queen’s tourney, but not much more than that yet.

The king frowned at him. “You mustn’t tell me you’ve lost your taste for the joust!”

It was not only Viserys who was staring at Daemon. Otto, too, was looking at him curiously. Was it his disinterest in the tourney? Was it that he had made no comment on Otto’s questioning of his son? Daemon didn’t know.

“Years at war have left me little interest in playing games, your Grace.” He smirked. “Though I still do like to win them.”

As his brother laughed, Daemon lifted his gaze to meet Otto Hightower’s.

Whatever Otto saw there… he flinched.

Chapter Text

The fortnight after the incident at the Dragonpit passed quickly.

Alicent convinced the king a tourney for the princess’ nameday was a grand idea, and as the planning went forward, Rhaenyra and her father worked together on the issues of the realm. Lords Celtigar and Crabb were reconciled, both thanking their liege lady for her aid (Lord Celtigar with a little more salt than Lord Crabb). When one of their household guard—the same man who had manhandled Egg—was found dead in Flea Bottom, she made sure he was replaced by a man loyal to their house, not Otto’s.

No one believed the dead guard had been victim to some random cutpurse in the streets of Flea Bottom, save her father. But Rhaenyra had not had time to spend with her uncle alone to confirm her belief. They were both kept busy with their duties, and Criston had taken to guarding her door near every night. He could not hear through the door, she did not think, but he had started to gaze suspiciously whenever she and Daemon were seen together in public. She did not understand what had changed, but something surely had. She did not dare invite Daemon to her chambers at night, not with the man that Aegon called the Kingmaker just outside her door.

Since her father had begun to allow her to attend him in matters of state, she had spent more time at his side than she had since she was very small. But it was not only her that Viserys made time for. Rhaenyra wasn’t sure whether the king had taken a liking to their Aegon or if he just wanted to placate his own moody son, but he sometimes called both Aegons to sit with him while he read his books of history and lore aloud. He asked Rhaenyra to sit with them as well, but she had only come once, pleading her new duties or attending the queen or even a visit to the Sept for a blessing for her oft-sobbing half-sister once. The sight of the two boys confused her, set her stomach roiling. She was not sure how their Aegon could bear it, but when she asked, stilted, whether he would prefer to not attend the king, he had not given her a straight answer.

As fast as the time went, Rhaenyra often felt as though she awaited something. She did not know what. But while the suspicion in Criston’s eyes was heavy, the eyes she found most disconcerting were Otto’s. They were everywhere: on her, on Daemon, and on Egg as well. Alicent had let precious little slip about her father of late, and it seemed as though Otto was merely lying in wait.

But in wait for what?

That morning, Rhaenyra approached her father’s solar to eat a midday meal and discuss the tourney with the queen. However, when she arrived, Alicent was leaving the room, trailed by one of her ladies and a kingsguard.

“Rhaenyra,” she said, forced brightness in her voice. “The king has been called away.”

“Called away? But we were to eat together.”

Alicent clasped her hands together, but not before Rhaenyra caught a glimpse of a bloody nailbed on her right hand. “A meeting of the Small Council, I’m afraid. We shall speak soon, no?”

Since her return from her tour, Alicent had ever been happy to see her, to walk with her. But now, she was moving away as quickly as she could.

“Alicent—” Rhaenyra caught her hand. “What is it?”

Alicent shook her head. “Nothing, Rhaenyra. I—”

“What’s wrong?”

The queen pulled her hand back. “The king was called to council, Rhaenyra. That is all I know.”

It was plainly a lie. Rhaenyra felt anger rise up in her once again, but held it back and nodded. “I shall see you another time then, your Grace,” she said, and let her go.

Rhaenyra had not had a chance to learn all of the passages. She could make her way between her chamber and Daemon’s, and out to the city and the Pit, but beyond that, she did not know enough. There was one that let out at the council’s chambers, that much she knew, but she didn’t know how to get there.

But Egg would.

Rhaenyra rushed through the halls of the Keep to her chamber, Criston behind her. He called out for her to slow down once, but she ignored him. Once she reached her chamber, she said, “I shall not be disturbed, save by the king himself,” and closed the door and locked it.

She made it to Daemon’s chambers as quickly as she could. She couldn’t be sure Egg would be there, but she was in luck. He sat upon the divan, his long legs sprawled in front of him, reading through some book, and he startled when she entered the room.

“Princess,” he said, hopping to his feet, even though no one else was there to see.

“I need your help,” she said.

Egg knew his way to the council chambers unerringly. As they approached, he whispered, “From here on, you must be silent. They can hear you if you speak.”

She saw what he meant as they stopped. There were holes in the wall. She’d always only thought this a decorative screen, but the secret tunnel let out right behind it. They crept as quietly forward as they could.

The meeting had plainly just begun. The full council was not there; Daemon was missing, and Ser Tyland. As she and Egg arrived, her father asked about them.

“Your Grace, they are seeing to issues involving the Stepstones fortifications,” Lord Beesbury said.

“This meeting was urgent, your Grace. I had not time to send for them.” Otto Hightower paused, and took a breath. “And I believe once you hear why I have called it, we might be grateful for their absence.”

“Oh?” her father asked, a skeptical cant to his mouth.

Otto began quickly. “Your Grace, we have discussed over the last months the impending betrothal of Laena Velaryon and the son of the Sealord of Braavos. Word came today that the pact has been sealed. The marriage shall take place within the next six moons.”

“My congratulations to them both,” the king said. The council had been unhappy with the pact between the Velaryons and Braavos ever since the rumor began, and Viserys had been putting off doing anything to prevent it just as long. Congratulations now that someone else had moved forward was an expected response, Rhaenyra thought.

But Otto’s next words were not expected. “Word also came today that the Lady Laena has claimed the dragon Vhagar.”

Vhagar. A war dragon, the oldest and largest left alive, its rider married off to another power… Rhaenyra felt the same worry swirl in her gut that permeated the council chamber.

Beside her, Aegon had begun to shake. Was it the mention of Vhagar? The dragon whose rider had killed Daemon, she remembered. Was this another change, then? She reached for Aegon’s hand and squeezed. He squeezed back.

“A great gift, to claim a dragon,” the king said, but his voice was pale.

“A great gift to her family, and to the land she will marry into. It is also believed that Lord Corlys has begun to search out a bride for his son. There are rumors he seeks a match in Pentos, or one… closer to home.”

“Closer to home, you say?”

“Among the Baratheons,” Otto said, “or the Lannisters.”

“All Houses who have felt themselves slighted by the throne,” her father said, and it was true enough: Laena, spurned by her father when he announced his marriage to Alicent; the Baratheons, whose kinswoman was passed over for the throne; the Lannisters, whose lord had been chastened when attempting to court Rhaenyra. The Throne had made no friends among the northern Free Cities with his refusal to act against the Triarchy, either.

Otto’s hinting was not subtle: he was all but saying the Velaryons were setting up a play for the throne.

“Your Grace, this is worrisome news,” Grand Maester Mellos said. “We must end this coalition before it begins.”

Her father nodded. “We must act to bring the Velaryons back into the king’s peace. Otto, what do you suggest?”

“We bind the Velaryons to the crown in the most lasting of ways—with marriage.”

Rhaenyra had known this was coming for weeks, and still she felt the blow.

“You would have Rhaenyra marry Ser Laenor,” the king said.

“A dragonrider himself, close in age to the princess, a fine young knight by all accounts… Ser Laenor is the most suitable choice even without taking these circumstances into consideration.”

“A fine young knight, true, but your Grace…” Lord Beesbury’s voice was cautious. “I have heard tale of his tastes.”

“As have we all, my lord. Such hardly matters,” Grand Maester Mellos replied. “I do not care for the taste of fish, but if served fish, I partake.”

Her father was silent while the men spoke. Finally, he said quietly, “I gave my word that my daughter might choose her own consort.”

Otto’s head dipped, and sympathy dripped from his voice when he spoke. “Your Grace, the welfare of the kingdom comes before all of us. You have always shown that in your own actions. The princess understands that as well. Certainly, she must, if she is to be as fine a queen as we all believe.”

Rhaenyra held her breath while her father considered the Hand’s words. Finally, his head dropped in a nod. “My lord Hand, send word to the Velaryons that their king has an offer for them. I shall speak with Rhaenyra at dinner. She will understand.”

Egg’s hand was warm around hers as he pulled her back into the tunnel. She hardly paid attention as she went. She will understand. She understood well enough. Her father had spurned Laena to marry Alicent, and now Rhaenyra was expected to pay for his actions. Her father had spurned Lord Corlys’ appeals for aid, and now Rhaenyra was expected to pay for his inaction. She was to soothe those her father had angered, for the good of the kingdom. But it had not been Viserys to suffer when the kingdom demanded heirs from her mother's body, nor Viserys who sacrificed when he chose the daughter of a second son as his bride. Why must she?

Egg, when she finally looked at him, looked as lost as she felt. “It’s all happening again,” he whispered.

She thought of Aegon’s haunted face as he told her about her own future. “No,” she said, her voice firm and clear. “It’s not.” She waited until Egg’s eyes were back on her before asking, “Do you know where Daemon is?”

Egg nodded quickly. “He is at the docks with Ser Tyland. I’ll get him.”

“By yourself?”

“Faster that way.” Whatever he saw on her face made him smirk a little. “You need not worry. I’m the son of Prince Daemon. Few are safer in a city full of Gold Cloaks.”

Criston was at her door. Her sworn shield. She let out a shaky breath. “I’ll await him in his chambers.”

“You know the way?” Egg asked.

She was certain she could figure it out from here, now that he’d shown her the way. She nodded. “Tell him nothing of the meeting, only that I needs must see him immediately.” Aegon gave her a nod and a small, sad smile before rushing the opposite direction.

It did not take long to get to Daemon’s chambers. She sat on the divan where Aegon had been reading. A little book of Valyrian fairy tales, impossibly old. Had Daemon brought that for him? She felt a pang in her chest, and barely stopped a tear before it fell to the yellowed parchment.

She had not wanted to marry at all, but now she found she did want it—with Daemon. She wanted to have him by her side, father to her children, to ride with him through the skies the way Aegon’s parents had. They had each wed others, perhaps loved others for all she knew, and in the end, they had found their way to each other.

But Rhaenyra wanted them to be together now.

Her tears dried as her breathing calmed. She put the book aside and instead set herself to planning.

Daemon arrived as the sun slipped low in the sky. She had opened the doors to his balcony to let in the afternoon sun, and his hair glimmered in the light as he strode toward her. “Rhaenyra,” he said. “What happened?”

She rose from the divan and faced him. “My father’s council believes the Velaryons might be plotting to take the throne. To stave off war, my father has agreed to wed me to Ser Laenor.”

Anger filled his eyes, only to be snuffed out quickly, and his face went cautiously blank. “He told you this today?”

“My father has told me nothing. He bade Ser Otto to send word to the Velaryons and said he would tell me at dinner.”

His lips lifted at the corners, a proud smile she’d seen all her life. “You were eavesdropping.”

For once, she was not interested in his pride. “I knew there was something wrong. I could see it in Alicent’s eyes and I—I could not wait and see what it was my father had to say. He has gone back on his word to allow me a choice, and instead has decided for me.”

“Laenor is a good man,” Daemon said cautiously. “Your father would not give you to a bad one.”

“I should not be a thing to be given!” she cried. “I am not a prize to be won or a boon to trade for a castle. I am the heir to the Iron Throne.”

Daemon came forward and wrapped her in his arms. She closed her eyes and leaned against him. He had expected this, that night he came to her drunken and despairing. He had known her father would take away her choice. She had told him then that he could not. That she had made her choice. That had not changed.

She could hear Daemon’s heart beating and feel the warmth of him. Targaryens always ran hot. She had no wish to know if Velaryons did as well. Laenor, she suspected, had no desire to know anything of her warmth, either.

“I think Aegon’s half-brothers were bastards,” she said quietly, then glanced up at his face.

Daemon did not look surprised. He was quiet for a beat, then said, “Laenor does not appreciate the company of women. But I’m certain he loved them as though they were his.”

“Do you think they were yours?” she whispered into the darkness falling around them. Even as she asked it, she knew they were not. She could not imagine Daemon standing aside while another man laid claim to his sons, especially one who would one day be king.

Daemon knew it too, though he did not say so. Instead he said, “I think when we wed, it was as Aegon said, and they were all our children. I’m certain I cared for them just as Laenor did.”

Rhaenyra pulled back and looked up at him. She could not read the look on his face. Resignation, perhaps? It suited him ill. “I will not marry Laenor, uncle. As such, we have few options. We can throw ourselves on the king’s mercy. I can explain that I have chosen my husband, as he promised me, and ask his permission.” She took a breath and said, “Or—”

His gaze snapped to hers.

“We leave now. We fly to Dragonstone and bind our blood in the tradition of our house. Once consummated, the marriage cannot be undone. I take you as my husband and my consort, and we ask forgiveness, not permission.” She saw the brightness stealing back into his eyes, but before he could answer, she continued. “A warning, uncle. My father may never forgive us. He may disinherit me as he did you. If he does, if he names Aegon his heir… I shall not be a usurper as my half-brother was in that other time. I have no wish to start a war, and I shall not be a kinslayer, not unless our very lives are threatened. Can you swear to that? Will you stand by me even if my crown is stripped from me?”

He stepped forward, wrapped a hand around the back of her neck, and pulled her closer. “I will abide by all you say, but for one thing. I will not apologize for marrying you, Rhaenyra. Dragons should not apologize for taking what they want.”

She could feel her heart pounding, hear the blood rushing through her veins. His fingers pressed firm and hot at the nape of her neck, but she felt as though they were everywhere. “Then we are agreed.”

“We are agreed.” His lips turned up and he leaned closer, their noses almost brushing. “Let us go to Dragonstone, princess. Make me your husband.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

By the time they landed at Dragonstone, the night was its blackest.

The dragons set down in the yard, which was big enough to hold both Syrax and Caraxes, and no stranger to either. Rhaenyra climbed down from her mount and whispered praise and the promise of a fat sheep for her girl, then turned her attention to her companions.

Daemon and Aegon were both still in the saddle, though Daemon had already loosed the chains. He spoke quietly to the boy, who was pale and windblown and looked so much younger than he had just hours before, smirking at her in Maegor’s secret passageways. Her heart gave a thump in her chest to see him so shaken and she crossed toward them before she could think better of it.

She caught only a couple of words from Daemon—Valyrian words, something about action and fear—before he noticed her approach. “The princess shall give you a hand down, alright, Aegon?”

Egg nodded and dismounted clumsily. She caught him as he stumbled. She had seen him ahorse; his seat was as fine as her own, and he had a grace of movement that was not unlike hers or Daemon’s. He showed none of that in his scramble off of Caraxes.

But then, just when she thought she’d have to encourage him to straighten, to put himself back together, he did so. He offered her a tiny smile, a silent thank you, then turned back to the dragon.

“Thank you, Caraxes,” he said in Valyrian, even though she saw a shiver go through him as he turned.

Daemon dismounted and ordered the Blood Wyrm into the sky. Syrax followed him, both dragons heading for the Dragonmont, where there were keepers to feed them, no matter their unannounced arrival.

Their own arrival was unannounced, and yet by the time the dragons were leaving the yard, men of the household were pouring into it. Rhaenyra recognized Ser Rylan, who had come with Daemon to court the day Otto had accused him of murder, and Maester Gerardys, but no others, though they knew her, of course, and all bowed.

“My Princess. Prince Daemon,” Maester Gerardys said, approaching them quickly. He bowed to them both. “We were not expecting your arrival.”

“The decision to come was made but tonight, good maester, else I would have sent a raven.”

“Your rooms shall be made ready, Princess, and yours, my prince. And a chamber for you as well, young squire?” Gerardys looked from Aegon to Daemon to Rhaenyra, a question on his face.

“This is Egg, the prince’s squire. Please make certain his room is next to Prince Daemon’s,” Rhaenyra commanded.

“It shall be done,” the Maester replied. “Shall we call for a meal?”

Rhaenyra was about to say no—she did not think she could eat a bite, not with the thoughts swarming in her head, thoughts she had had too much time with on the flight from Kings Landing—but then she thought of Egg, who ate so sparingly. She glanced over at him, only to see him staring at Gerardys with wide eyes, as though he were an old friend and it had been years since he had seen him.

Because of course it had.

“A meal would be welcome,” Rhaenyra said, her voice a little shakier than it had been only moments before. “Please have it brought to my solar.”

The truth was, Rhaenyra had spent little time on Dragonstone. It was her seat, and yet she had spent no more than a fortnight here since she was but one-and-ten. Then, she had not been the lady of the castle, and the rooms that were hers by right now had belonged to no one. But she knew the way despite that, and the three of them headed into the castle. Though she had spent so little time at her own seat, she did not occupy herself looking around as they went; instead, she found herself glancing constantly to Aegon.

The boy looked from person to person and thing to thing. It was a homecoming of sorts to him. She wondered how different this place was to the Dragonstone of his youth. He had spent his early life here. His mother had met her death here, she remembered with a shudder.

Ser Rylan walked with them, and stayed with them even after Gerardys slipped away to speak to a group of sleepy looking servants.

“My Princess, it is an honor to meet you,” the young man said. “I shall send someone to rouse my father if you—”

“No, ser,” she said. “Our arrival should not keep him from his sleep. I will see him on the morrow and be most glad.”

Ser Rylan nodded, and stayed silent until they reached the doors of the solar that was her own, though she had never set foot inside. “An honor,” Ser Rylan repeated, then bowed to her and to Daemon, and slipped away.

Daemon knew the room better than she did, and showed no wonder at the dragons carved into the top of the stone walls as though they flew circles around the room, or at the furniture that she could tell was crafted in an old Valyrian style—or was perhaps of Old Valyria itself. Egg sat on a wooden chair whose arms were also carved into dragons, curling his long legs up to his chest, and drank in the room as he had everything else they had passed.

She took the seat beside him and offered a smile. “You did very well.” Her voice sounded too tentative in her own ears.

She was not always sure how to act around him. Her son-not-son, this boy that she looked at and didn’t understand. She was too close to his age to be his mother, even if she had wanted to take the role on, but she wanted to be close to him somehow. They were cousins, in the eyes of court—and cousins by blood as well, no matter that another version of her had birthed him—but in those same eyes he was a bastard. They could not be seen to be close, not like Aegon and Daemon. The injustice of it burned through her. If she were a man, she could spar with her cousin in the yard every day, and no one would think it strange. But a princess ought not be sullied.

Thoughts of bastardy brought back thoughts of his brothers, bastards born to her, but she pushed the thought away for now. Time enough to think of them later, and to ask Aegon the questions that simmered in the back of her mind.

Aegon smiled back at her. “After his first ride upon Seasmoke with Addam, Alyn heaved up all his breakfast. I did better than him.”

“Did you have breakfast?” Daemon asked sharply, and Aegon’s head dipped low. A no, then.

Their food arrived then, as if on cue. Rhaenyra wondered if Daemon had whispered a word to Gerardys when she didn’t notice, for it was all fruits and bread and three different kinds of cheese. The servants left after setting out the platters, and Daemon did not let up his glare until Aegon had served himself a pile of apple slices, a hunk of brown bread, and the lion’s share of the hard yellow cheese.

“There are things we’ll need for tomorrow,” Daemon said, his tone matter-of-fact. She wondered if this was what he was like when he led men into battle: face expressionless, voice calm. The only thing that gave away what he must be feeling was the grip of his hand on Dark Sister’s hilt.

Rhaenyra plucked a slice of the crusty white bread from the platter. It smelled of lemon and rosemary, and tasted as good as it smelled. “Things needed for the ceremony. Do you know where the robes are? The chalice?”

Daemon paused before answering, and she watched his throat work as he swallowed, hard. “I believe such things are kept in Visenya’s chambers. I’ve not had occasion to look.”

“Not even when you attempted to wed your paramour?” She quirked a brow at him.

Aegon sputtered. “You wanted to marry Mysaria?”

“I wanted my brother to come stop me,” Daemon admitted. He lifted his hand from Dark Sister and folded his arms across his chest. “No, I did not seek out what is needed for the ceremony. You two will find that tomorrow.”

“Will we? Where will you be?”

He smirked. “We shall also need a witness, shall we not?”

“Ser Robert—”

“I do not trust your knights here,” Daemon said baldly. “Some report to Otto, and I’d rather him not have the chance to spin a tale to your father.”

She scowled at him. “Ser Rylan saved your life.”

Daemon shrugged one shoulder. “I do not trust all of your knights here. And besides, we need someone of higher standing, if we needs must prove our commitment to your father.”

She opened her mouth to argue more, when it hit her: he had thought about this. Thought it through in a way that few believed him capable of. Instead, she smiled. “So you shall retrieve us a witness of high standing and impeccable loyalty? While Aegon and I search for relics?”

Daemon nodded, his eyes warming. “I should not be gone long.”

There was but one place he could be going to find a friendly witness of high standing, but she trusted him with the decision. “We wed at dusk?”

He swallowed hard again, and his fingers gripped his own forearms. “At dusk.”

By the time he finished his bread, Aegon looked as though he might fall asleep with his apples as a pillow. Daemon roused him and took him from the solar, giving her a last look as a maid hurried inside.

She had no wardrobe on Dragonstone and had not packed much into a travel bag. The maid asked if she would like a bath, but Rhaenyra said she would have one the next day—before her wedding, she thought, with some disbelief—and so the maid brought her a basin of warm water, and an armful of clothing the woman thought might fit her, left by the ladies who had lived at Dragonstone before: two shifts of soft linen, a long-sleeved nightdress of soft-spun blue wool, a warm goldenrod robe lined with fur, and a nearly sheer nightgown of red silk.

Rhaenyra touched the silk with the tips of her fingers, then pulled one of the linen shifts from the pile. “Please hang these in the wardrobe. I would welcome a dress for tomorrow as well, something fit for exploring the castle.” She smiled as she said the last part. The castle. Her castle. Her own holdings, hers by right and by decree. Who would tell her to shun the company of her bastard cousin here? Who would watch her as she walked in the gardens with her uncle?

With her husband, come tomorrow.

The maid hung the other nightclothes and Rhaenyra dismissed her idly. She changed from her riding leathers and washed the smell of travel and dragon from her skin as best she could. The linen shift was slightly musty from age, but soft against her skin.

Daemon slid into the room silently as she brushed out her hair. She hadn’t been sure he was going to come. He walked to where she sat at the dressing table and pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. He did not ask her if she was sure about tomorrow, for which she was glad, because she had been sure of this for moons now.

“Aegon will have nightmares tonight,” he murmured into her hair, “but he did what he had to do. A true dragon.”

She craned her neck to look back at him. “Does he have nightmares often?”

“Most nights.”

She had nightmares often after her mother died. She would see herself torn open for a squalling baby boy while her father looked on. She could only imagine what dreams would come for Aegon, who had seen his own mother’s death first hand.

“You should go to him,” she said, though she wanted Daemon here with her.

“In a moment,” he replied, and his hands came up to curve around her shoulders, skin on skin.

“We shall have to return to the Keep the morning after we wed,” she said, leaning back into him. He knew that already, of course, had known it before her. Her father needed to hear it from them, if there were any chance of their marriage to be accepted. To let the Hand bring the news would be tantamount to disinheriting herself.

Daemon’s hands slid down her arms, taking the straps of the shift with them until the tops of her breasts were bared. He kissed her shoulder. “You should sleep,” he said quietly. When she made a questioning noise, she could feel his lips curve in a smile against her skin. “I fear you shall not have much time for sleeping tomorrow night.”

She laughed and turned her head to kiss him.

After he broke the kiss and stepped away, he hesitated before leaving. She watched him think something through, then he said, “You should ask Aegon about his brothers tomorrow. There is more he has to tell you. I thought we’d speak on it together but… But you should know. Before.”

Before what, she wondered, but didn’t have time to ask before he slipped out of the room.

The next morning, Daemon was gone before she and Aegon broke their fasts. Again, there was no meat with the meal, only fried eggs and batter bread drenched in honey butter. There were dark circles beneath Egg’s eyes, but he ate well and said he slept fine when Rhaenyra inquired.

“And you, princess?” he asked.

She had slept fitfully, the sound of the waves outside of her bedchamber loud even from that height. “Well enough,” she replied.

Gerardys came as they finished their meal. “Prince Daemon said there might be something I could help you with, Princess?”

Rhaenyra took a breath. “I require the raiment and relics necessary for a Valyrian wedding ceremony, maester, as well as a discreet messenger to bring a priest of the Flames from the village.”

Gerardys hid his surprise well, if he had any. “And when shall the wedding be, princess?”

“Today at dusk.”

He did not ask who the groom was. It must have been obvious, she thought. Gerardys smiled at her and said, “I shall send Ser Rylan’s squire to the village with the message. As for the raiment, I can search for—”

“No,” she said. “I should like to search myself, with mine cousin.”

Gerardys bowed his head again. “As you wish, princess.”

No one had truly resided at Dragonstone for thirty years, save Daemon in the months he held the castle, and no one of their family had wed in a Valyrian ceremony for more than fifty, so far as Rhaenyra knew. The maester had said the same as Daemon, that what they sought was likely in Visenya’s chambers in Sea Dragon Tower, the same tower as Rhaenyra’s own apartments.

Both she and Aegon stepped into the room as though it were hallowed ground.

“We were never allowed in here,” he said, a touch of awe in his voice. “It was Joff’s fault. Once he broke—”

She looked over at him when he stopped talking. His eyes were on a figurine on a shelf across from them. Tyraxes, she thought, goddess of reason and strategy.

“He broke that,” Aegon said quietly.

A chill spread across Rhaenyra’s flesh, and she wondered if it would ever be commonplace, these hints of a future that would never be. She shook it off best she could and said, “Well, I am the Princess of Dragonstone, and I give us both leave to search.”

A smile broke across Aegon’s face, a true smile, and she knew the wide smile she wore was its reflection.

And then the two of them began to search.

Carefully, so carefully, they searched through Visenya’s chambers. They found the chalice they needed at a stone altar in a small side chamber, along with the dragonglass knife. The robes were hidden away in a wardrobe, draped with thin coverings of sheepskin, as though to keep away the damp.

She touched the fabric carefully. Rough spun and so old, but something about them almost seemed to shimmer beneath her hand. Or perhaps that was only her own anticipation of donning this robe, of binding her blood with Daemon’s. She wasn’t sure. But Aegon seemed to feel it too, for he had grown quiet and still beside her.

Quiet and still but solid and here. Her son, brought back to them by gods of blood and fire. Her father believed in dreams and dreamers, her uncle in dragons and steel, but Rhaenyra thought their house words were where their truest power lie. Fire and blood.

“We have what we came for,” she murmured, and looked to Aegon. “Will you show me around the castle?”

They spent the rest of the morning exploring. The maidservant had done as she asked, and Rhaenyra wore a sturdy dress of black wool, with yellow accents that made her think it had once belonged to Jocelyn Baratheon. It was too long for her, and she had to keep it rucked up above her ankles as she and Aegon ran up and down steps carved of black stone, and into dusty rooms that had not seen visitors in years and years.

They ended up in the gardens, sitting across from each other in the grass beneath a shade tree, its branches dipping down around them.

“Rhaena would read to us here sometimes,” Aegon said quietly. He pointed to a place at the base of the tree. “She would sit there. Luke would sit beside her with Viserys. He liked the pictures when he was little, and he’d sometimes grab at the pages. Joff and I would lay here.” He gestured to where the two of them sat. “When he was not with Muña or Kepa, Jace would lay here with us.”

“And Baela?”

“She was fostered on Driftmark. When she visited, she and Jace would go to the rose garden on long walks.” He was quiet for a moment, then said, “They were to be wed. Jace and Baela. They were to be king and queen one day.”

She reached a hand out and clasped his hand. He looked a little less haunted than he usually did when he spoke of his family, though clearly he did not grieve any less.

“What we heard about Ser Laenor,” she began, then started again. “Your brothers. Their father was not Laenor, was it?”

Aegon shook his head. “They did not have the Valyrian look, though they were dragonlords each one. They had brown hair and brown eyes. The Strong boys, the Usurper and his brother like to call them. After the man thought to be their sire.”

The Strong boys. Ser Harwin. A flush rose on her cheeks, and she hoped it was hidden by the shade of the tree. She would be lying if she claimed her eyes had never strayed to him in court or in the yard. And he was honorable, and kind, from all she knew of him. He had been good to Egg since Daemon had taken him on. He would be a good father, she thought, and then a little stab of pain for him and her own other self as well—he would not have been their father, would he?

“But no matter their birth, they were not bastards. Not truly. Ser Harwin sired them and cared for them, but Ser Laenor claimed them as his own. He loved them too. Lord Corlys wept at Luke’s death, and Jace’s, and…” Aegon seemed to run out of words. “I would not have you think ill of them. Or of yourself.”

“I will not,” she said. “I shall not judge a woman for doing what she must, and your brothers… I am sorry that you lost them. I hope…” She trailed off. There was still so much she was unsure of, so much she feared. Six births, she thought once again. Eight children. “I hope that the children I bear in this life are as worthy as your brothers were. As you are.”

Aegon ducked his head. She thought it might be to hide his tears. She reached out and ruffled his hair. He pulled back, his nose crinkled in distaste, and she laughed.

“Princess,” Maester Gerardys’ voice came from the edge of the garden. “I have had word from the priest, and luncheon is ready. Ser Robert also requests to meet with you, if you would be so good.”

“Yes, of course, Maester.” She climbed to her feet, dusted off the grass, and she and Aegon walked back inside.

Chapter Text

Daemon alighted at High Tide at low tide. Laenor and his Joffrey were on the beach, kicking up sand as they ran. Laenor stopped still when Caraxes cried a greeting, then threw his hand up in welcome.

Corlys greeted him with less enthusiasm, but Daemon thought that might have been whatever drink he’d indulged in the night before.

“Daemon,” he said shortly, but held a hand out for Daemon to clasp.

“I hear congratulations are in order for your daughter.”

Corlys’ face soured. “More like condolences.”

“Is she not to wed the son of the Sealord?”

Corlys snorted. “You have old information, my friend. The betrothal is holds, it’s true, but the Sealord’s power does not. He was deposed within a sennight of our sealing the agreement. It seems that the Braavosi have held firm in their hatred of Valyrians. Her intended escaped safely.”

Daemon smirked. “Gods be praised.”

“He is here now. He asked Laena to take Vhagar and set Braavos aflame.”

Daemon cackled. He had met the boy once, when he was not more than fourteen, but he expected Laena would find him much the same as Daemon had: sour and stunted, like the fruit from the lemon trees grown in the Sealord’s too-cool gardens.

“Laena laughed too,” Corlys said, and Daemon laughed louder.

“And how has my dear cousin taken this turn of events?”

“She has proven herself the true grandchild of the Good Queen.”

“She left you?” That was a surprise. Rhaenys and Corlys were a true love match, and between the two, Rhaenys did most of the ruling at High Tide. She had indulged her husband’s grievances and ambition—and perhaps his infidelity, if Aegon’s Addam and Alyn were who he thought they were—for twenty years now. Had the folly of tying Laena to this idiot Braavosi boy been the thing to destroy her patience with him?

“She has gone to visit her good kinsman Boremund.”

It was not so dire then. “I would give it but a fortnight before her return, my friend.”

“You think her so devoted to me?”

“I think she, like all beings of good sense, will not be able to countenance being in Borros’ presence for longer than that.”

That made Corlys crack a smile. “What brings you to me? I’ve heard tell that the king begins fortifications in the Stepstones. Your doing?”

They spoke a bit of his projects with Ser Tyland, and his antipathy toward Viserys clearly did not escape Corlys, though the man wisely did not comment on it.

“Have you come for my aid in the Steps?” he asked instead.

“I came to borrow your son.”

Corlys raised a brow. “For?”

“I need a witness for my wedding.”

“Ah yes, I heard of Lady Rhea. Condolences.”

“More like congratulations.”

“Is this another stunt to gain the king’s attention? His wrath? My son will not be drawn into such.”

“This may well gain the king’s wrath, but it is no stunt.” Daemon drew a breath. “I’m marrying Rhaenyra, Corlys.”

Corlys reared back. “Fuck.”

There was disappointment in his eyes, and Daemon realized that whatever overtures to other houses for Laenor—if any existed—had been a ploy. Corlys had wanted the very marriage the king had attempted to command. Daemon had thought that was the case.

Corlys narrowed his eyes. “The Princess was given leave to choose her husband. Why do you need a witness when you should wed in the sept of Kings Landing?”

Daemon’s lips curled. “Do you imagine my brother the same as your goodfather?” Prince Aemon had given Rhaenys leave to choose her match, and she awaited Corlys’ return from the far end of the known world to make her choice, no matter the Targaryen prince but a year her junior at court. Daemon remembered their grandfather grumbling that Viserys would have made a fine choice of husband.

Corlys looked as though he wanted to grumble the same of his son. Instead he said, “You ask to drag my son into your Targaryen madness.”

“As if you did not want the very same?” He arched a brow. There was little reason not to speak it plain. “You desire a path to the throne. To make right the slight to Rhaenys.”

“Her blood should sit the throne. The Great Council—“

“Should never have been called. Why should the king bow to the lords in the matter of his heir? The king rules. The king names his heir.”

“And if this king names a new one?”

“Then my brother is more a fool than I thought.”

He had sworn to Rhaenyra he would not go to war for the throne—and even without such, Corlys should know him better than to think he would betray Viserys—but he could see the Sea Snake measuring the shift in the winds of power and would let him come to his own conclusions. It wouldn’t matter regardless; Viserys would not disinherit Rhaenyra. He loved her more than he loved any other, no matter his fickle temperament and tepid support. He did not understand the fire that burned in Rhaenyra anymore than he understood that in Daemon, but Viserys’ love for her burned brighter than anything else in his milk-and-water spirit.

Corlys did not want Daemon as an enemy. Corlys was not a fool, after all. A heavy silence filled the air for a moment before Daemon leaned forward. “Come, Corlys. Think—would a woman who chooses me as her husband be suited to wed Laenor?”

Corlys knew him well enough—and knew well his opinion of Laenor, who was one of the few Daemon would not hesitate to call a friend—to take that in its intended spirit. “Fine,” the man ground out. “I will send Laenor to you. But I will require my good will to be reciprocated somewhere down the line.”

Daemon imagined whatever good will he would required would involve making Laena a widow—or preventing her from ever becoming a wife. Daemon nodded. “We wed at dusk.”

Corlys shook his head, but he’d already warmed to the idea at least a little. He had little love for Viserys, after all, and less for the Hightowers.

When Daemon returned to Dragonstone, Rhaenyra was holding court.

She had Aegon as her cupbearer, behind her right shoulder as she, Ser Robert, Ser Rylan, and Maester Gerardys sat in the Chamber of the Painted Table. Rhaenyra smiled charmingly at him as he entered.

“Uncle,” she greeted, and the men turned to greet him.

“My Prince!” Ser Robert thundered, his face red and jolly. “Truly the gods have blessed us with a visit from the Realm’s Delight and our beloved prince both.”

From Ser Robert, Daemon actually believed the sentiment. “The gods have blessed you also with a worthy son. Ser Rylan was a great help to me on my last visit. My thanks, ser.”

Ser Robert grew even redder with pride and his son stumbled over his thanks as Daemon approached Rhaenyra. He bowed his head, then reached to take her hand. “Princess,” he murmured, then let his lips linger against her skin a beat too long when he kissed the back of her hand.

Her eyes sparkled. “Prince Daemon. How fared your errand?”

“It was a success. And yours?”

“Also successful.” Rhaenyra looked back at the Quinces. “I would speak upon these matters again soon, but for now, I must speak with my uncle.”

Both men stood and bowed as Rhaenyra rose, each assuring her they were eager to speak again whenever she wished it. Daemon offered his arm, and the two left the painted table behind, Aegon trailing behind them.

“Aegon,” Rhaenyra said as they walked through the halls of the Stone Drum, “will you ensure everything is in place in Prince Daemon’s chambers?”

“Yes, Princess,” Aegon said, his bowed head not quite hiding the knowing smirk on his face. Cheeky brat. Daemon ought to clout him in the ear. That was what knights did to their squires, was it not?

Aegon slipped away quickly, though, and Daemon was left with Rhaenyra, who tugged him further down the hall until they came to a darkened alcove. She gave his chest the lightest push and he sank into the shadows, until his back was up against cool stone and Rhaenyra’s warmth was pressed to his chest. She opened her mouth, but before she could speak, he leaned down and kissed her.

She tasted of sweetwine, sweeter from her lips and tongue than from any cup he’d sipped from. Her hands reached up, one wrapping around the back of his neck and the other tangling in his hair, and his own landed on her hips, the wool of her gown warm and sturdy beneath his fingers. He wished it were gone, that there was nothing between them, not wool, not leather, not even air.

She whimpered into his mouth and he realized he’d gripped her too tight and pulled her flush against him. He let up his hold and she broke their kiss long enough to breathe, “No, don’t stop,” against his lips.

Who was he to argue?

Eventually, he did stop and leaned his forehead against hers as they both caught their breath. “Dusk is but hours away,” she murmured, “yet I do not wish to wait.”

What reason was there to wait? They would be wed in no time at all; what matter if he had her here and now?

But he tucked a stray lock of her hair behind her ear and said, “There is not much waiting left.”

Rhaenyra leaned into him, her head on his chest. “They waited a decade. I don’t know how they stood it.”

Aegon’s parents. He knew not how they stood it either. He did not care to know. Daemon was fond of Laena, though he’d not seen her since she was but two-and-ten, a slip of a thing who only wanted to talk about dragons. Aegon’s father might have loved her. But Daemon himself wanted only Rhaenyra.

“Dusk,” he said quietly, gazing down at her silvery hair, bright even in the shadows.

Aegon awaited in his chambers. He had brought the robes they had found and a tub was being filled for a bath. The steam rose off the water and Daemon nodded his approval.

After the servants left the room, Daemon paused before undressing for the bath. “Another dragonrider will arrive today,” he finally said.

Aegon’s shoulders stiffened, even as the boy nodded. “I thought that might happen.”

“Seasmoke is so mild a dragon you wouldn’t think him hardened by war. His rider has him well in hand.” Daemon paused again. Aegon was holding himself still, but his eyes had gone wide at the mention of Seasmoke. Excited, not scared, at the prospect of meeting Laenor, Daemon guessed. “Were it not ill-advised to return to Kings Landing, I’d have gone to get Ser Harwin. You could have had both of Jace’s fathers here together.”

There was a risk Aegon might have wept at the jest, feeble as it was, but instead he barked a laugh. The stiffness in his form didn’t leave, but loosened, and Daemon breathed a little easier.

“Get ready,” he ordered, gesturing to the door.

Aegon nodded. He paused halfway through the door and turned back to say, “Jace had three fathers, you know.”

Before Daemon could reply, Aegon was gone.

The afternoon was dying, the sun sinking to the horizon, when Aegon returned. He was dressed head to toe in black, which was always his preference, with newly buffed black boots.

The boy smiled at the sight of him. “You look like a dragonlord of Old Valyria. A priest of Melyes!”

Daemon smirked at the comparison as he finished fastening the belt around his waist. The Valyrian robes were heavy, old silver beading running along the edges of the neckline, and the red dye on the hems and shoulders speckled and streaked like blood. “The goddess of love, not war?”

“These are wedding robes,” Aegon said as though his reasoning was obvious. He walked to Daemon’s side. “I’ve never seen these before today.”

Daemon hesitated, his hands finished with their task but still holding still on the belt’s clasp. Finally, he let go. “You were wed under the Seven?”

Aegon’s jaw clenched and he nodded once. “I was ten,” he said quietly. “She was but eight. We were never man and wife in truth. But she was my queen.”

The girl had died. That much was plain. The daughter of the Usurper, he’d gathered from what Aegon had said of her. Daemon raised a hand carefully and placed it on Aegon’s shoulder. He squeezed. “You may wear these robes one day,” he offered cautiously. “If you so choose.”

Aegon looked startled at that, as though he’d never thought about it. Before he could say anything, a dragon’s roar sounded from outside the window, and the boy’s face drained of color.

“It is but Laenor arriving,” Daemon said quickly, though even as he said it, he knew that roar did not belong to Laenor’s mount.

“That’s not Seasmoke,” Aegon whispered. He cast his eyes toward the window, and sure enough, in the distance, Daemon could see the hulking form of Visenya Targaryen’s mount, the largest dragon alive. Vhagar.

It was left to Rhaenyra to greet their guests. Daemon sat with Aegon until his shivering subsided, until he could breathe easily again, until he could explain the words he’d choked out as he had been in the midst of the fit.

Not that they had needed much explaining. Laena’s dragon had been the one to kill his brother and his father, after all, and the specter that haunted the Blacks during the war.

After Aegon had composed himself, Daemon once again laid his hands on the boy’s shoulders and looked him in the eyes. “No enemy shall ride Vhagar into battle against us. I swear it.”

Aegon smiled a little, but sadly. “Some promises can’t be kept.”

“This one will be. No matter what I have to do, that will not happen.”

Daemon was not sure if a war could be stopped; Otto Hightower certainly expected one, and wanted dragons on his side when it came to it. Daemon could not stop Laena from dying and leaving her dragon free to claim. But he could make certain whoever claimed Vhagar after her was either an ally to them, or dead.

Daemon met Rhaenyra at the altar.

Aegon left his side to join the witnesses—Laenor and Laena, Maester Gerardys, and Joffrey Lonmouth for some reason—and Daemon heard quiet introductions being made. He’d wanted to see the boy’s face as he met Laena, wanted to know if she looked as much like these daughters he’d had as he’d imagined, but found he could look nowhere else but his bride.

The priest had lit the candles, their flames bright and thick and burning sweetly into the salty sea air. The light made the gold of Rhaenyra’s headpiece sparkle. Her hair was left loose but for braided strands pinned back behind her head, and in the humid air tendrils had begun to curl. She looked ethereal, a goddess of flame made flesh and somehow brought before him. He wanted to reach out and touch her to prove that this was no dream, that she was no spirit come to tease him on a long cold night in the halls of Runestone.

And she, he realized, watched him just as hungrily. It was not only the flames that gave her eyes a glint, and her lips turned up in a pleased smirk that he wanted to devour.

The priest’s low voice brought Daemon back to himself. The man held a dragonglass knife out to him, whispering a prayer as Daemon took it.

Daemon pressed the dragonglass to her lower lip and bright blood welled up. Rhaenyra didn’t flinch, and nor did he when the blade pierced his skin. He hardly looked away from her, not when he drew the knife across his palm, nor when the priest began to recite the vows, nor when their hands were joined. Their blood, bound now as one, flowed into the chalice, and when the priest handed it to her, Rhaenyra brought it to her lips. It passed to him next. The bloody wine that filled his mouth tasted rich, dark and sweet, and right.

She reached for him as the priest finished his vows, and Daemon bent his head to kiss her, wrapping the hand that was not bound to hers around her neck, drawing her closer.

She was his now, and he was hers. He had kissed her but hours ago, only this was different. He could feel it down to his bones. He was not a godly man, no matter the gods, but he felt touched by them as he kissed her, the blood that bound them together now tying them tighter together. She flowed through his veins now, and he in hers, and he drew her even closer. Her tongue was hot against his, her fingers digging into the back of his neck. He could feel the press of her nails and wanted to tell her to press harder if she wished, to break skin. His blood was hers now, to do as she wished with it.

When they finally broke apart, his breathing had grown heavy and he was hard and wanting. Rhaenyra looked at him as though she knew, even though their bodies had not been pressed so close, their bleeding hands lashed together between them. He wanted to pull her close again for another kiss, but before he could, a cheer went up from the Velaryon siblings, their voices bright and loud after the hushed silence that had fallen as the priest spoke.

Maester Gerardys bandaged their hands as Laena explained her presence, Laenor offered hushed thanks that Daemon assumed were more for taking away the looming prospect of marriage for himself than for the invitation, and Joffrey spoke cheerfully with Aegon. The boy’s eyes rarely left Laena, which Daemon could see Joffrey smirk at. Little could the man know it was less likely to be due to Laena’s great beauty and more because she clearly reminded him of his sisters.

A feast awaited them, the maester said. Daemon was not hungry for whatever it was the kitchens had prepared. Rhaenyra’s glance at him told him she knew well what he hungered for, but still, she called for their guests to join them for dinner. No matter his impatience, no matter his desire to lift her onto the altar itself and partake of a true feast, he walked at her side back up to the castle and to dinner.

The candlelight flickered and its reflection danced on the dark, smooth stone of Rhaenyra’s chambers walls when he came to her after the feast.

They had changed from the Valyrian robes before eating, he into a black doublet that had been his uncle’s and Rhaenyra into a red damask gown, gold piping down its sleeves. At the end of the feast, Rhaenyra left the guests to him, slipping away to her chambers with a whispered direction to come to her soon. He had ordered Aegon and Maester Gerardys to see to the Velaryons, a duty the maester accepted with grace and Aegon with another smirk, and escaped from the dining room not ten minutes after his wife.

His wife.

For long years, the word had meant bronze shackles.

Now it meant Rhaenyra.

He stripped off his doublet as he walked deeper into her chambers, leaving him in but a loose red shirt and black trousers, his boots left behind at the door. He could hear the howl of the wind outside as it whipped around the tower, a summer storm arriving as sudden as the night.

Rhaenyra sat at the edge of her bed, her hair loose around her shoulders, still wearing her gown. “I dismissed my maid,” she said. “Might my husband help undress me?”

He smiled. “I am your humble servant, wife.”

Rhaenyra stood, her stocking-clad toes poking out from beneath the dress, and then turned her back, where gold lacing ran from her neck to the curve of her behind. She swept her hair away and he stepped forward, placing a soft kiss on the nape of her neck. He felt her shiver beneath his lips.

His fingers unlaced the gown and pulled it open, exposing the pale, flawless expanse of her back inch by inch. He kissed between her shoulder blades, and as he finished the laces, he slid his hands beneath her gown for a moment, his fingers curving around her waist. Then he pulled them back.

“Turn around,” he said, and she did.

The gown drooped at the front now, exposing the skin of her chest. His hands came up to her shoulders and smoothed the sleeves down her arms, the gown slipping lower and lower as he moved, exposing her breasts, then her flat stomach and the flare of her waist. As soon as her hands were free, she reached for him, but he took a playful step backward.

“Now, wife,” he said, “would you have me fail in my duty to undress you?”

Her eyes narrowed, but she dropped her hands back to her sides.

He pushed the dress down past her hips and then she stood in her small clothes and stockings, damask pooled around her. His eyes swept down her body, from her rosy face to the curve of her breasts, to her thighs, lean and strong and waiting for him to slide between. His hands went to her hips, pushed the small clothes down her legs as well, and then he bent to his knees.

Her breath caught and he smiled again. She’d liked it when he used his mouth on her, biting down on her pillow to keep her guard from hearing her sob her release. He had liked it just as much, the feel of her thighs tightening around him, the way her body had shivered and bucked at the feel of his lips and tongue and fingers. He couldn’t resist a tease, dipping his head close enough to see the wetness glistening between her legs but only brushing a kiss against her inner thigh. Rhaenyra let out a whimper.

He brought his hands up to her left leg and plucked the knot of her garter free, then slid the silky stocking down her leg. She lifted her foot at the tap of his finger, then lowered it once her leg was bare. He ran his unbandaged hand back up her calf and squeezed, then changed to the other leg.

When she was completely bare, he stood and offered a hand. She took it and stepped out from the clothing at her feet.

“Get on the bed,” he ordered.

She quirked a brow. “Does my husband not need help undressing?”

“My clothing is far less interesting than yours. I’ll demonstrate,” he said, stripping off his shirt.

“I see your point,” Rhaenyra said. This time when she lifted her hands to touch him, he did not stop her. “What is beneath is far more fascinating.”

Her hands skimmed across his chest, her palms warm and soft against the rough burn scars. She slid her hand down his chest until her fingers rested on the waistband of his trousers. His hands came up to his waistband as well, side by side with hers.

“On the bed, princess,” he said again.

She smirked and removed her hands. “As you say, uncle.”

Rhaenyra climbed onto the bed languidly, on all fours, stretching like a cat, and then she turned and lay back onto the pillows. Someone had turned down the bed already and she lay amidst pillows and bed clothes of soft, bright whites, as though she were resting among the clouds that parted for them as they rode their dragons. She watched him, eyes bright, as he unlaced his trousers and pushed them down. He had never before stood nude before her; he had not trusted his self-control to hold.

And now, he had no need for it.

Well, but for the slight apprehension that flickered in her eyes as her eyes dropped to his cock. She had been scared, he knew, scared of many things but mostly ending up but a brood mare. There would be time enough to show her she had no need to fear such from him. It was time now to show her other things. Daemon followed her onto the bed, settling beside her, not atop her, and kissed her for the first time since the priest had finished speaking the vows.

He felt the coppery taste of blood bloom in his mouth, though he knew not if it was from her lip or his or both. He ignored it, and so did she, their tongues tangling and their hands grasping, her silky fingers skimming down his back and his leg sliding between hers. They gasped into each other’s mouths as she pressed herself against his thigh.

When he pulled back from her, her lips were red with blood and her eyes were full of fire. He wanted to kiss her again, to keep her here in this bed and damn the kingdom and the throne. Dragonstone could be their kingdom, and he would kneel at her feet whenever she desired.

Before he could bring his lips back to hers, she shifted, turning so she was on her back. Her hand wrapped around his shoulder and drew him close again.

“Don’t make me wait any longer,” she demanded, her lips brushing against his ear as she spoke.

He slid a hand between their bodies, his fingers pressing into her. She threw her head back with a moan as he readied her, and he leaned into the crook of her neck, his mouth kissing any skin he touched, heedless of the streaks of blood he must have been leaving behind.

When he finally sunk into her, his breath rushed out with a hiss. All words left him; there was only the feel of her around him, beneath him. Rhaenyra clutched him tighter, her hand dipping below his waist to urge him closer, harder, and Daemon did as she bade until they both had found their pleasure and lay tangled together on the bed.

She pressed a kiss to the skin above his heart. “I love you,” she whispered in Valyrian.

His breath stuttered. His heart may have too. They were family; they loved one another—such had always been true. But that was not the confession she whispered now, and they both knew it.

Daemon whispered, “And I love you.” His words escaped on the barest breath, but she heard them. She always heard him.

Chapter Text

When Viserys called for Rhaenyra, she was not in the Keep. It seemed she had taken Syrax into the skies, he was eventually told; he sent the same messenger back with word that she should come to him upon her return, still hoping she might return for supper.

He did not begin to worry until dinner had been served in his private rooms and there was no sign of his daughter.

Alicent worried as well, twisting her hands in her lap. He had hoped that her being with them would ease the telling of Rhaenyra’s soon-to-be engagement. They had recently been at peace with one another, close as ever, he thought, but even before he told her the decision, Alicent’s anxiety had been high. Was she worried still about their son? In truth, Aegon had done much better since the boy had started spending time with Egg, and Viserys was happy to see it, watching the two boys play with wooden knights and clay monsters much as he and Rhaenys had done when he was a boy, before Daemon was old enough to run wild through their field of battle.

Rhaenyra’s sworn sword was no help; he claimed to have no idea where she had gone, and that he had not left his post outside her room. Viserys glowered at him when he said that and sent the knight from the room. Otto followed behind, speaking too quietly for anyone to hear the reprimand he was surely offering.

He had called for Daemon next, when night had nearly fallen and Rhaenyra had not returned, only to be told that Daemon and Egg had gone with the princess on her ride. That thought soothed his worry about Rhaenyra’s safety, at least, though Alicent and Otto were not put at ease.

“Think what you will of my brother’s wild spirit, Otto, but he would hardly take his niece and his son into danger.”

Otto did not look convinced. Nor did Alicent. Both had remained as wary of young Egg as they did his father.

As the night grew darker, Viserys found himself unconvinced as well. In truth, Viserys worried over Egg as he did Rhaenyra as he waited for word with his wife and Hand. The boy did not like dragons, and Daemon had dragged him onto one? That was foolhardy, make no mistake. Ever hot-blooded, Daemon, caring not for caution or for feelings. He cared for naught but what he wanted, truly, and dragged Rhaenyra along. Viserys felt anger rise up in his belly, the kind he had not felt at Daemon since before his return.

The servants had just taken away the cold remnants of dinner when Ser Harrold entered the room, bowing and apologizing for his interruption. Viserys leaned forward. “News of Rhaenyra?”

But Ser Harrold shook his head. “No, your Grace. Ser Harwin Strong is waiting outside, in hopes that he may speak to you. He says it is of an urgent nature.”

Ser Harwin was a frequent companion of his brother and nephew. Could there be some connection? Otto was already offering to speak with them man himself, but Viserys cut him off. “No, no, send him in.”

Ser Harwin had no news of Daemon or Rhaenyra. Still in his gold cloak, its hem was spattered with mud, Harwin brought a different sort of news.

Harrenhal had been set aflame.

His father lived when the message was sent, Harwin said, but he was badly injured and two of his siblings as well. He sought leave to depart at first light for Harrenhal. Viserys granted the leave, along with his prayers that Lord Lyonel would recover, and dismissed the man.

By that time, true night had fallen. As Viserys watched the sky from the balcony, lights guttered out, and then the castle slept.

“You should both sleep,” Viserys said to his queen and his Hand. Alicent had felt poorly lately. Possibly with child, the maester believed. “Otto, please make sure a watch is kept and a rider is dispatched when they return.” He would know his daughter was unhurt as soon as possible, and his nephew as well.

Harren’s curse seemed to follow him to his bed that night. He tossed and turned, thinking of fire and falling and all manner of things that could befall a dragonrider. In his dreams, he saw a black-eyed woman in the corner of the room, her face aglow with ghostly light. Her lips twisted as she spoke but he could not understand her. Echoing words came from a distance: you would damn us all. But the voice was Rhaenyra’s, and he did not understand why she would say such a thing. I need—nothing, Daemon’s voice bit out, close enough to believe his brother stood right beside him. You are a plague! his own voice cried, and then he heard the sound of Rhaenyra’s screams.

He awoke with the echo of them in his ears, everything else cloudy, the world still dark around him. The woman in the corner was gone. Of course she was, he thought, for she had never been there at all.

The next morning, Kings Landing was awash with a summer rain, blown in from the direction of Dragonstone. Viserys felt some of the coils of fear inside his gut unwind. Caught in a storm, he thought. Nothing more than that.

He had slept poorly, and had little patience for Alicent, who brought the children to him after he broke his fast. Aegon asked after Aegon Too, as he insisted on calling Egg, and Helaena began crying at the sight of Viserys and would not stop. He sent them all away with the excuse of business to attend, but the words on the parchment before him swam like the thoughts in his head had the night before.

The morning edged into afternoon, and Otto came to him.

“Your Grace, dragons have been sighted over the city. I dispatched riders to the Dragonpit.”

“My thanks, Otto,” Viserys said. By the time he went to his balcony, the dragons must have already landed.

Were he a younger man—a healthier man, a voice that sounded like Daemon’s whispered in his mind—he would have ridden out himself to greet them. Were he a rasher man—a bolder one, said Daemon’s voice again—he might have claimed another dragon after Balerion died, and perhaps he would have ascended with them, the sons of Baelon the Brave together in the skies, their children beside them. But that was not the man he was. A king must think of more than his own reckless desires.

As the fear over her safety subsided, Viserys turned again to the matter of telling Rhaenyra of the decision about her marriage. She would understand. She was fond of Laenor. The two were both dragonriders, both blood of Old Valyria, and family already. It would be a good, strong match. Rhaenyra would be happy, even if she chaffed at first.

He would tell her on his own, he decided, and have Alicent go to her later, perhaps. Daemon he would save for last, when the anger he still felt simmering had cooled.

When the door to his solar opened, he expected his visitor to be Rhaenyra. Instead, Otto strode inside, his lips drawn into a frown, his eyes downcast. “My king, there has been an incident in the Pit.”

Viserys shoved himself out of his chair. “Is Rhaenyra safe?”

“I know not, your Grace. She is being taken to her chambers now. The grand maester has been called.”

The grand maester? What might have happened in the Dragonpit to injure her? “And what of my brother?”

“He is also being brought to the Keep.” Otto hesitated after that, as though he dreaded the words he must say.

What had Daemon done? “Speak, Otto.”

Otto swallowed hard. “Your Grace, one of the Kingsguard is dead. Slain by Daemon.”

Chapter Text

When Rhaenyra opened her eyes the next morning, Daemon was the first thing she saw.

He sat at the small table by the balcony, his hair glowing in hazy morning sun. His eyes were soft as he gazed back at her. A cup sat on the table in front of him, steam rising from it. Daemon did not move to drink.

Rhaenyra pushed the blankets off, chills rising as the air hit her skin. Daemon stood as she did, the robe the servant had found already waiting on the back of a chair. He wrapped it around her and then she wrapped her arms around him, drawing him close. His mouth was as soft as his eyes as she pulled him down for a kiss. He had spent the night taking her apart with that mouth, and with the hands that cupped her cheeks, until she couldn’t even cry out her pleasure anymore, and yet still, she was hungry for him.

“Good morning,” she murmured, “husband.”

He tucked her hair behind her ear, a half smile on his face. “Wife.”

Daemon led her to the table. They sat across from one another, only the steaming drink between them. It smelled peculiar, earthy and bitter, with the touch of mint.

“Do you know what this is?” Daemon asked with a nod to the cup. She shook her head and he nodded again, more to himself, it seemed. “It’s moon tea.”

Moon tea. She’d been so angry when she heard servants whisper of it—a concoction that could prevent a woman from getting with child or make certain her womb is emptied if what grows there is unwanted, but one that she would never be allowed. She thought of her mother, telling her they had royal wombs; what she truly meant was that they were royal wombs, that it was the only part of them that mattered. She understood that she would need an heir of her own, but the idea of carrying a child, having to force it out of her, of some man—any man—waiting to decide if her her life was worth the chance of a son? It made her sick.

Daemon clearly knew she did not need an explanation for the tea’s use. His voice was quiet as he continued. “I asked Gerardys to brew it. I have sources in Kings Landing and I can procure it there as well. But it is your decision. If you want a child now, you need not drink. If you do not…”

She stared at the cup. “You do not want children?”

Daemon shrugged his shoulders. “You will need an heir eventually, and I will welcome any children we have. But it should be yours to decide when we have them.”

“And if a decision must be made between my life and the child’s?”

Daemon’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I know what I would choose, but that decision too should be yours.”

He would choose her. Rhaenyra knew it in her bones. And if the maester told him he would have to butcher her to retrieve a child, he’d let the child burn with her if she died. She thought of the look on his face when Aegon said his father chose to disregard his queen’s word to save a girl’s life. Whatever choice that man had made, this one would not make the same one. She was not sure that should make her feel as warm as it did.

Rhaenyra reached for the cup and brought it to her lips. It tasted woodsy, with honey cutting the bitter edge. She did not speak as she drank, and neither did he.

When only the earthy dregs were left at the bottom of the cup, she said, “Thank you.”

Outside, she could see Seasmoke, Caraxes, and Syrax spinning through the air, a dance much more friendly than that Aegon had described. It still gave her a chill, thinking of them locked in war with Vhagar, whose bulk could have blocked out the sun streaming inside. That could not happen, she told herself. She would not let it.

“We’ll have to return to Kings Landing today,” she said, little though she wanted to. Daemon nodded once, his face blank. “We will make my father understand. We will, Daemon.” He did not look convinced.

There was more she wanted to say, much more, but in the light of day it was harder to say aloud than it had been the night before, curled in his arms. So instead she rose and walked to him, then carded her fingers through his hair. She hadn’t realized how tense he had been holding himself until he melted into her. His arms came up to wrap around her, one hand curving around her side and pulling her even closer. They stayed that way a long while, before she moved to dress.

Breakfast was nearly finished by the time they appeared in the hall. Another cheer went up from the Velaryons when they saw them, and Rhaenyra accepted Laena’s embrace when it was offered.

Laenor and Joffrey were regaling Aegon with tales of Daemon’s prowess. Aegon listened eagerly, but Rhaenyra thought that he was less excited to hear the stories than to listen to the men telling them.

After they had eaten, the Velaryons made ready to bid them farewell, and the six of them walked to the gate that led to the Dragonmont, Aegon still staring at Laena with his awestruck eyes. Rhaenyra drew the Velaryons aside before they parted, leaving Joffrey to draw Aegon into a conversation that sounded like it was about the treasure of the Crabfeeder.

“You never said you had a son,” Laenor said when they were out of Aegon’s hearing. “Imagine my surprise when Rhaenyra said you were attending to your bastard.”

“Shall I report all such things to you, ser?” Daemon asked.

“Yes.” Laenor gave a sharp nod, then softened his mock offense with a smile.

“I doubt the princess and her prince wanted to speak with us about secret children, brother,” Laena said, eyes bright with mischief, “though secret weddings are near as scandalous.”

More scandalous, in fact, if they knew the truth of it. “I would ask a favor, dear cousins,” Rhaenyra said quietly. “We would ask that you stay quiet of the purpose of your visit for now, and not let word of our marriage leave the island until we are ready.”

They were both quick to agree, but Laenor added, “You did not ask for our presence so that you might keep this secret. What is your gambit, cousin?”

“The hope is that my father takes this news with alacrity, and announces our betrothal. Better for all if we are seen to marry in Kings Landing.” A quick engagement might raise brows, but nothing Rhaenyra could not handle, with Daemon by her side.

“You don’t think that will happen,” Laenor said, looking from Rhaenyra to Daemon and back.

“We don’t,” Daemon said, voice clipped.

“In that case, we shall need you both to stand as witnesses.”

Laena took Rhaenyra’s hand. “I shall be ready to tell all who listen of your elopement. It’s almost a tradition now, like dragon riding.” She winked and Rhaenyra leaned against her, laughing.

The Velaryons left soon after, leaving them with Aegon, who stared after them sadly.

“She looks so much like Baela,” he whispered when Daemon put a hand on his shoulder. Had that caused the shadows beneath his eyes? And then he looked back at Rhaenyra. “And my brother was named after Ser Joffrey, you know. He died.”

Rhaenyra had wondered why it was that his mother had a son called Joffrey Velaryon, but the knight’s death made such a thing more understandable.

Daemon had started to laugh until Aegon mentioned the man’s death. “How?” he asked in a deceptively light tone.

Aegon shrugged. “Someone killed him.”

Rhaenyra was not sure she had heard him speak of a single person who died of illness or accident or age, aside from her father. What horrors did their future hold if they could not stop it?

As though he could read the fear swirling in her gut, Daemon stepped closer, until she could feel the warmth of him at her shoulder. She breathed a little easier with him there.

“And my brothers always said Laenor—” Whatever Egg was going to say was cut off with a yawn.

He did look tired. Daemon had spoken of nightmares. Had they plagued him last night too? “What’s wrong, Egg? Did you sleep poorly?” Rhaenyra asked.

The boy looked away, frowning, a light flush on his face. He nodded.

“Bad dreams?” she asked quietly. When he didn’t reply, she continued, “You can tell us.”

Egg’s frown deepened. “My parents,” he muttered, “were never that loud.”

He turned away before he saw the flush rise on Rhaenyra’s cheeks, and ignored the laugh that Daemon barked into the air.

When they landed at the Dragonpit, they dealt with their dragons themselves.

Egg had handled this flight better than the first. Rhaenyra was not sure if it was their wedding—a definitive shift in the events of Aegon’s own past—or if it was that Dragonstone was a place built for Targaryens, but Egg seemed a little more at ease. She smiled to see it. But even so, he moved quickly away from Caraxes once he’d slid down from the saddle.

“See to our horses,” Daemon ordered.

“Yes, ser,” Egg replied, another smirk on his face, as though he knew exactly why Rhaenyra wanted to accompany Daemon into the dark.

Daemon as often as not was the one to lead his dragon into the pit and see to him while the keepers brought him a nice fat sheep. Caraxes could be a moody creature, even before three years of war, and her Syrax was gentle in comparison, but still Rhaenyra followed her uncle’s example and brought Syrax below herself.

They held hands as they descended. Daemon stayed as close as he could, closer here than he could stand in the Keep. The Dragonpit was a place meant only for them, where prying eyes would not judge them and loose lips would not gossip. She was sure the Dragonkeepers spoke among themselves, of course, but their loyalty was to House Targaryen alone, to the blood and fire of Old Valyria. So when Daemon’s lips brushed her ear as he whispered, she leaned back into him, and when his arm wrapped around her waist, she laid her hand atop his and squeezed. This would be the last they could touch openly, be it for a few hours, or a day, or however long it took for a public wedding to take place, she knew, and squeezed harder.

Their dragons curled together in the cave Caraxes claimed just as Daemon and Rhaenyra had curled together the night before, Caraxes casting a baleful look the keepers when they ventured to ask if the two should be separated, as though he knew just what they were saying.

“You think you can keep them apart?” Rhaenyra asked the keepers with a quirk of her brow. She could feel Daemon’s eyes on her as she spoke. “Dragons do as they please.”

Dragons do as they please, she thought, as they left the dragons’ cave and Daemon pressed her against the wall in a darkened alcove. She clutched him close as he kissed her, his body shuddering as she opened her mouth to his tongue and tightened her grip on his hair. His hand moved down to grip her thigh, lifting her leg so that it wrapped around his hip. She could feel him hot and hard against her, and he swallowed the moan that escaped her.

His head dropped to her shoulder as he thrust against her. “I should fuck you right here.” His voice was low and rough and all she could hear, save her own breath. She tilted her head back so that he had better access to her throat, and he did not disappoint, his teeth skimming across her delicate skin, and then his mouth pressing kisses there. “Rip these leathers from your body and take you now.”

He did no such thing. Instead, he slipped his hand inside her trousers, his fingers toying with the damp curls at the junction of her thighs before pressing between them.

“Daemon,” she breathed, her eyes closed, hands falling from his hair to press against the wall. “Uncle, don’t stop. Don’t—”

And then his hand was wrenched away from her with the sound of tearing leather.

Rhaenyra opened her eyes in time to see Daemon crash against the opposite wall of the passage, before the cape and armor of a white knight came to stand between them.

Criston.

“You dare defile her?” Ser Criston demanded, slamming a fist into Daemon’s face.

“Stop!” she ordered, even as Criston went to deliver a second blow.

This one Daemon blocked. “I’ll touch her as I please,” he replied, and landed a blow of his own.

Criston did not seem phased, by the hit or by her second order to stop. Why was he here? Why was he not listening  to her? He got inside Daemon’s guard, grabbed for his head, slammed it back against the stone wall. “You have no honor. You would dishonor your niece. You abomination!”

He was not listening to her. Rhaenyra threw herself forward, grabbed Criston’s shoulders, and opened her mouth to scream another order—

Only to find herself flying backward and hitting hard and…

And then the world went dim.

She could still hear yelling, but it all felt so far away. All the air had been sucked out of her lungs, and no matter how hard she tried to breathe, she couldn’t. Spots swam before her eyes when she opened them, white and black blurring in the torchlight, and then she squeezed them closed again. Pain shrieked like swords through her head and roared like a dragon, or were those real swords, a real dragon? She couldn’t tell and she squeezed her eyes closed tighter. There was a reason she should open them, something she had to do, but everything but the pain felt fuzzy and remote.

A hand to her cheek. Warm, lightly calloused. Not Daemon. But the voice that spoke was one she loved; she knew that even if she couldn’t quite make out the words. It hurts, she tried to say. It—

There was more yelling, and then there was Daemon. She would know his touch anywhere, know his smell, his voice. He whispered that she would be well, and then she was being lifted into someone else’s arms. The roaring around her felt like it would split her skull.

And then everything went black.

She remembered the next hour in slivers.

A carriage ride, Aegon beside her, holding her steady and covered in blood.

Being carried through the Keep, a voice yelling for the maester.

Sinking into her own bed, but it did not feel a comfort, with Mellos hovering over her and the clanging of armor and was that Egg crying out?

“Bring me my son,” she ordered, but no one obeyed. It took her long moments to figure out why—she had spoken in Valyrian. Even Mellos did not know the language well and—

And no one knew Egg to be her son.

Rhaenyra slowly came back to herself.

She’d hit her head. Criston had hit her head, throwing her backward in his anger. In his zeal to protect her. She wanted to laugh, but moving her head too much made her nauseous. Mellos was speaking, did things look blurry, could she count to ten, did she remember what she had done the day before. Of course she remembered the day before; she had married Daemon the day—

Daemon.

“Where is Prince Daemon?” she demanded, pushing herself up until she was sitting, no matter the pain that screamed at her to stop.

Mellos’ voice quavered a little as he answered. “The prince is with the king, Princess.”

The king. Her father. All their plans had been ripped away—going to him together, explaining their feelings, making her case that Daemon was the best possible consort to strengthen her claim. What had he been told? Why had Criston been there?

“And Ser Criston?” she asked.

Mellos shook his head and she looked to Ser Steffon, who must have been the one to carry her through the Keep.

“Ser Criston is dead,” Steffon said.

“Gods have mercy,” Mellos murmured, his face paling.

“Prince Daemon certainly didn’t,” Steffon replied.

Criston dead, slain by Daemon. What would her father think? What had he been told?

“Did you see what happened?”

Ser Steffon did not meet her eyes as he answered. “Criston and the Prince were fighting when I arrived. I saw but the end of it. Heard but a little.”

But whatever he had heard was damning enough that he did not want to repeat it in her hearing. But damning to whom?

“I must go to them.” Rhaenyra stood, shakily, her stomach churning like a stormy sea.

“Princess—” two voices said in concert but she held up a hand and they both ceased.

“I will go to my father the king, and neither of you shall stop me.” She looked around the room as it stopped swaying around her. “Where is Aegon?”

“The prince, Princess?” Mellos asked.

Why in the world would she want him? “The squire. Egg. Where is he?”

“The Hand ordered him to his chamber, Princess,” Steffon replied. “He is to be questioned.”

He was safe at least. But again the Hand had dared order her blood. Sought to question Daemon’s son. Otto would have her disinherited, her uncle exiled, have the House of the Dragon torn to shreds, and her father would allow it. Her body still felt shaky but her spirit swelled, angry and hot, like flames coursed through her veins with her blood.

“He will not be,” she snapped. “I will put answer to any questions the Hand might have. You will accompany me to the king, Ser Steffon. Now.”

Chapter Text

Daemon wrenched Dark Sister from her sheath the very moment Rhaenyra hit the wall.

She landed in a slump on the ground, her face screwed up in pain, her lungs struggling for breath. Wind knocked out of her, he presumed, along with a knock to the head. There was blood in her hair. He wanted to scoop her up and bring her out of here, but that would have to wait until Cole was no longer a danger.

Cole had not even noticed what he’d done, Daemon realized, as the white knight pulled his sword and met Daemon’s. He did not spare a glance behind him, probably knowing, rightly, that if his eyes left the Valyrian steel leveled against him whatever he looked at would be the last thing he saw. The man’s eyes were wild in the torchlight of the Pit, his mouth curled up in disdain. Daemon had never cared for Cole, no matter his prowess on the tourney field or the glimmer of spirit he’d shown when he came to Dragonstone. But despite what Aegon had told them of the Kingmaker of his time, Daemon had only seen the seeds of such hate in him.

His hate was seed no longer. “You would turn your princess into a whore,” he snarled.

Criston Cole was not leaving this tunnel alive. That had been decided the moment he’d laid a hand on Rhaenyra. But his words meant that death would hurt.

Steel met steel, neither giving much ground. Daemon’s feet slid on the sandy ground as Criston pressed his assault, but Daemon shoved his blade back and swiped at the knight, nicking his neck. Blood soiled his white cloak.

Though anger thundered in his ears, and a reedy whine that likely came from the blow to his head, Daemon had a commander’s awareness of the battlefield around him. From deeper in the Pit came shouts and a roar; from the tunnels above, the sound of clanking armor. He could not let himself be distracted by either, but as a second bellow sounded, Criston did, the merest shift of his attention.

Daemon used the distraction to press his own assault, wounding Cole’s leg before the man brought his sword down and slammed it against Dark Sister. His eyes were even wilder now, wide with fear as well as anger.

“You know what that sound is,” Daemon said. Of course he did. Cole had been the princess’ sworn sword for three years now. He must have known Syrax’s roar.

“Cole, put down your sword!” A shout from the tunnel. Another kingsguard, Daemon knew, though he did not move his head to see which one.

“Gods above. Princess Rhaenyra!” A second man shouted.

Criston’s eyes went to Rhaenyra then and they widened even more. Daemon dared a glimpse himself. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her breathing too fast, her face drawn tight in pain. “What?” Cole breathed. “How—”

“Rhaenyra!” came Aegon’s cry. Daemon heard him crash between the other kingsguard and the second man, and then he fell to his knees beside Rhaenyra.

“Don’t touch her, you bastard!” Cole snarled.

And Daemon lunged.

Cole blocked that strike, but not the one that followed. The blade plunged into his groin and he cried out, falling to one knee even as his hand tried to keep hold of his sword. Daemon twisted, then wrenched his sword free. Blood poured into the sand, Criston’s cries swallowed up by the sound of another of Syrax’s roars. She was closer now, the keepers too, their panicked shouts of “Calm!” and “Obey!” clearly unheeded as the dragon screamed her fury.

“You—” Cole clenched his teeth and raised his sword toward Daemon. “You dishonored her. You destroyed—”

Daemon didn’t wait for him to finish his accusation. He slammed the man’s sword out of his hand and raised the blade to his neck.

“No,” Daemon said, leaning in close, “I married her.”

And then he swung the sword and both head and body crashed to the ground.

“Prince Daemon,” came the shaky voice of the kingsguard. Daemon turned to him. Ser Steffon, his sword out, but not pointed at Daemon. “My prince, lower your sword. The king… the king needs must hear about this.”

The king. Daemon started to laugh. One of the king’s own guard had wounded his heir, and another stood, his blade at the ready to fight him—Daemon Targaryen, a prince of the blood—for what cause? For his defense of the woman who would be his queen?

Ser Steffon looked as though he knew not what to do with a bloody, laughing prince, and before Daemon could tell him what to do, Aegon’s voice sounded from the ground.

“Kepa!” The boy was half draped over Rhaenyra, his eyes focused on something deeper in the tunnel. “Syrax!”

Daemon turned again. He could see the outline of Rhaenyra’s dragon, black against the smoky darkness of the Pit. She was close now, and Daemon could see fire in her lungs as she opened her mouth, ready to defend her rider with all the might of Old Valyria. She felt her rider’s pain, Daemon knew, and would bathe Ser Steffon, the guardsman, and anyone else down here in dragon fire to aid Rhaenyra.

He would do the same if he could.

Daemon blinked, shaking off the sudden dreaminess, and looked again down at Aegon. His eyes reflected the light from the torches, but for a moment Daemon could see all too clearly how he must have looked as he watched his mother die.

“Syrax!” Daemon called, sheathing Dark Sister. “Lykiri, Syrax!” Caraxes’ whistle echoed his own voice, as the other dragon approached as well, calling out to her as Daemon did. They chattered to each other, Syrax still bellowing displeasure, and then she let out a stream of fire against the roof of the tunnel.

Daemon knelt beside Rhaenyra and Aegon. He was ready to repeat his command to his son, but he did not have to. Aegon looked up at him with determined eyes, a swipe of Rhaenyra’s blood across his face from when he had draped himself across her.

Foolish child, he thought, impossibly fond. As though he could protect her from dragonfire.

“My prince,” Ser Steffon said, his voice still frightened. His sword was sheathed and he approached cautiously. “The princess must be seen to.”

Daemon glanced back down the tunnel. The dragons, too, needed to be seen to, and without a dragonlord to calm them… He envisioned Syrax bursting up through the floor of the Pit, searching for Rhaenyra, and the carnage she would leave behind. Rhaenyra would want no such thing. “Take her. Fast as you can back to the Keep. I will be there as soon as I can.” He raised a brow. “Since the king needs must know about this.”

Daemon leaned in and cupped Rhaenyra’s face. Her eyes were cloudy, but she half-smiled at the sound of his voice. “All will be well, niece,” he whispered. He lifted her as gently as he could, and placed her into Ser Steffon’s arms. She winced as he did, and behind him, Syrax roared.

“You go too,” he ordered Aegon. “Stay with the princess.”

“My prince,” Steffon said, hesitating a beat as he started to leave. “You will be well?”

Daemon smirked. “There is one very good way to calm a dragon, ser,” he said, then bent down, gripped Cole’s gambeson, and dragged him toward Syrax. He kicked the man’s head out of his way as he went.

Daemon strode into the throne room streaked with soot and speckled with blood and came face to face with his brother the king.

Viserys was alone in the cavernous chamber. The king had been pacing. His eyes were bright with worry, his mouth twisted in anger, and his hand gripped the dragonbone hilt of his dagger, the same one Aegon had returned with. The last time Daemon had faced Viserys in this room, his brother had taken his side, after a fashion. The time before that, he had embraced him. It was past time then for his ire, Daemon thought, and stopped before he laughed at the thought.

“Is something funny, Daemon?” Viserys demanded.

Daemon supposed he had not tried hard enough. “No, Your Grace, nothing at all.”

“My daughter is injured and a kingsguard is dead. What have you to say for yourself?”

“The latter was done at my hand because he is responsible for the former. Your Ser Criston Cole struck the princess against the wall.”

Surprise flashed across Viserys’ face. He’d been told some, not the rest. But then Viserys’ eyes narrowed. “He challenged you, with a claim of dishonoring the princess.”

This time Daemon did not hold back his laugh. “I see Otto has been here.”

“This is not about Otto, Daemon,” Viserys spat. “Where were you? What have you done?”

“What I have done is killed a traitor. Or would you have had me let him go? Is that one of the laws your Hand would see softened by mercy?”

Viserys waved a gloved hand. “He has nothing to do with this.”

“He has everything to do with this. Or did you send two kingsguard and four other guardsmen to the Dragonpit to fetch us at our return?”

“I ordered riders to bring you back here, yes.”

Daemon pursed his lips. He would not admit it then, not to Daemon, that his Hand had been the one to send an escort armed as if for an arrest, not to greet. Fine.

Before he could reply, Viserys continued, his voice getting louder and louder as he spoke. “You were missing all night! My daughter, gone without a word, out of the Keep for two nights and a full day! How was I to know she was safe?”

“She has a dragon, Viserys.”

“As though dragons can assure one is unharmed. You know better than that. She lies abed right now, bloody and dazed!”

“Put there by your own man!”

“Where were you? Where did you take her?”

“I took her to Dragonstone.”

Such was not an unusual destination. Rhaenyra’s own holdings, their ancestral home, and the home they’d claimed for Aegon. But Viserys narrowed his eyes. “Why? Did you dishonor her as Criston claimed? Is your heart so black?”

“What would it matter if I did? You and I fucked our way through the Street of Silk when we were her age. She is no child.”

“She is a girl. It is different, you know that. What man will have her, dishonored so by you?”

Daemon’s lips curled up. “You will not have to worry about that.”

“What did you do?” Viserys asked. For the first time, he seemed to realize the cut on Daemon’s lip might not be from fighting. “You didn’t.”

They had planned to tell him together, but no plan survived contact with the enemy. “Yesterday on Dragonstone, I took Rhaenyra to wife.”

“No!” Viserys moved more quickly than Daemon had seen him move since they were boys, dagger suddenly in hand, then against his throat. “I will not have her shackled to you.”

Shackled, as though he were a weight to hold her down. “There is nothing you can do,” he replied. Daemon did not move to disarm Viserys, though he could have. He felt the steel of his brother’s hate against his neck and let it cut. “We are wedded and bedded, bound by blood in the way of Old Valyria. There is no septon to undo it with a piece of parchment.”

Viserys sneered. “You wed her in some sham ritual with but stars standing witness. You think I will acknowledge it? I cannot undo it because I say it never happened.”

“We had more than stars standing witness, Your Grace.”

Viserys’ eyes widened and his grip on the dagger faltered a little. “What?”

“Laenor and Laena Velaryon were with us as we wed. They both gave their fondest congratulations, and are both ever so eager to speak about a true Valyrian wedding.”

Viserys let out a growl and wrenched his blade away. It sliced at the base of Daemon’s throat, a clean, bright burst of pain. “How did you know? How?” Before Daemon could answer, Viserys continued. “You truly are a plague on this house.” He sounded as though he were recalling what someone else had said. Otto, likely, Daemon thought. His eyes looked far away.

“Give us your leave,” Daemon pressed, “and we shall wed here, again. When I gave up my crown, you said I could have anything. I want Rhaenyra. Let us be together, Viserys, and we will bring the House of the Dragon back to its proper glory.”

Viserys’ eyes shot back to him. “All you have ever wanted is the throne, and you would manipulate my child to find your way to it. When was it that you began to seduce her, Daemon? When you returned from the Stepstones? Before?” His lip curled in disgust. “You will leave, now, and never return to the Seven Kingdoms. You are exiled, in perpetuity, from any land that calls me king.”

His brother had exiled him before. From Kings Landing, from the Crownlands, sending him out to make his way in the Free Cities or in the Stepstones. Daemon often argued, but he never had refused. This time he did. “I will not leave her.”

“I will not acknowledge your marriage.”

“The Velyarons—”

“If the Velaryons say one word, I will have you executed for treason and I will disinherit Rhaenyra.”

Daemon took a step back. There was fire in his brother’s eyes now, dragonfire, and it was aimed squarely at him. He loved Rhaenyra more than any other, yes, but what Daemon had somehow underestimated was how little Viserys thought of him. How he must hate him, to threaten this. The knot in his gut cinched tighter and tighter. A plague. He’d called him a plague.

And then the doors swung open, and Rhaenyra was there.

She strode toward them, her hair shimmering silver in the gloomy light, streaks of her own precious blood running through it. A dragon queen, he thought, looking from the set of her chin to the gold embroidery on her riding coat to the black leather that hugged her legs.

“Father,” she said, her voice steady but tight with anger, and came to stand beside him. “Uncle, you’re bleeding.”

Daemon followed her gaze. He could see where the blood had dripped down, staining his leathers. The wound on his neck. He had forgotten.

“Is it ‘uncle’ still?” Viserys asked before he could reply. “Not husband?”

Rhaenyra’s eyes darted to him and he dipped his head. A confirmation or an apology—he would let her decide which. “He is no less my uncle because we are wed, Father,” she said.

Viserys’ lips pressed tight together. But it was not their relation that disgusted him, Daemon knew. It was him. The fire in his veins sparked again. “You’ve come in time to hear of the order for my execution, wife. For treason.”

Rhaenyra’s face went slack with disbelief, and then she turned her eyes to the king. “Treason? What treason?”

Viserys’ glare shifted from him to Rhaenyra. “He absconded with the heir to the throne and wed her without my permission, and killed a kingsguard sent to retrieve him.”

“You sent Ser Criston? Then I have you to thank for the injuries he dealt me?” Viserys opened his mouth to argue, but before he could, Rhaenyra continued. “And Daemon did not abscond with me. It was I who proposed the union to him.”

“Rhaenyra. Why would you do such a thing? Do you not understand—“

“Do I not understand what, Father? That as heir I have a duty to the throne? I know well my duty—to marry to strengthen our house and further our line. To ally with one who will bolster my claim and who will be a loyal consort when the time comes for me to take the throne.”

“And you think Daemon will do that? Any of that?”

“I think Daemon is the only one who will do all of that! What is the alternative? To marry a man of the West, and disfavor the those in the East? To wed a Blackwood and cause ire with the Brackens? And who among them would die for House Targaryen if need be? Who among them would die for me?”

“And Daemon would?”

The question was not addressed at him, but he answered. “Yes.” He would have died for his brother, too, once.

Viserys had not believed it then and he did not believe it now, shaking his head violently as he paced away from him and Rhaenyra.

“It matters not what you think,” Rhaenyra called out to her father’s back. Viserys turned slowly. How often did anyone dare say such a thing to the king? “You granted me leave to choose my consort myself. Would you break your word to me?” She tipped her chin up, as though daring him to admit he had sought to do that very thing.

Viserys slammed his hand against one of the pillars. “You will both be the death of me! And the ruin of this kingdom. You rip all plans asunder with the whirlwind of your chaos and—”

“We will be its ruin?” Rhaenyra strode toward him. “You want peace, and so you ignored a war that threatened your own waters. You wish harmony, yet you spurn those who you should keep close. You say we must make sacrifices as rulers, and yet you are never the one to do so! You have a wife of your choosing and you’d have me have a husband of your choosing as well, would you not? No, Father, we will not be the ruin of our house. You—you would damn us all.”

Viserys stumbled back a step. “What? You—”

“Disinherit me if you must. Exile us both from your kingdom. But Daemon and I are wed, and naught shall come between us.”

Viserys stared at her as though she were a figure from a nightmare, but Daemon had never seen anything more glorious. He stepped up until he was right behind her, then laid his hands on her shoulders. She leaned back into him, just barely, but Viserys’ eyes followed the motion, clouded with confusion.

“I need to think,” Viserys said. The anger had bled from his voice, and Daemon did not understand why. “I need time.”

Rhaenyra nodded, stiffly. “Then we shall retire, my king.”

“No,” Viserys replied, his voice a little stronger. “I need time. I don’t— If you want this marriage of yours to stand, you will give me that.”

“What do you mean?” Rhaenyra asked.

“There has been a fire at Harrenhal. Many were injured, including Lord Strong. Ser Harwin has taken his leave, to find the man responsible. I would have you go with him, Daemon.”

A fire at Harrenhal. That was what had killed Lord Strong in Aegon’s time, Lord Strong and Harwin. But this was years before that. What could have caused such a change? What—

Rhaenyra’s voice broke into his thoughts. “You would send him away? Did you not hear a thing I said?”

He could feel the shiver that ran through her body. So mad she was shaking, he thought for a moment, then realized it was more than that. The wound on her head had gone untreated and yet still she stood before her father, arguing for him. Ready to give up her throne, for him. His brother despised him, but Viserys had never felt that way about Rhaenyra. Speaking about her father made her sad, Aegon had said of his mother. Would that be her fate here?

“I will do it,” he said, before Rhaenyra could say anything else. She twisted around to look up at him, her eyes wide. He brushed the back of his fingers against her bloodstained cheek, then looked back to his brother. “I will go with Ser Harwin to the Riverlands and find this criminal of theirs. We will bring him to justice and then I shall return.”

Viserys nodded sharply. “Now both of you,” he said, “out of my sight.”

Daemon slipped into Rhaenyra’s chambers two hours after leaving her with Mellos.

The sun had only just begun to set, but the room was dark even so, the doors to her balcony closed, the lights put out, save one. Rhaenyra lay on the bed, her hair clean and spilling across her pillow. Her eyes were closed, but as he approached, she murmured, “You’re leaving me again, uncle.”

He knelt beside her bed and took her hand, warm and steady inside his. He kissed her palm. “No.”

She opened her eyes. “But you are. Is it the throne? Is it—”

“No,” he said again, and meant it. “There is no way back for my brother and me. But you… I would not have you lose your father, Rhaenyra. You should not have to choose between us.”

“He is so blind.”

With that, he could not argue. But it was not only about Viserys. “There is something wrong in the Riverlands. Something is different from the world Aegon told us about. So I will go with Ser Harwin and we will find out who is setting fires and changing things. And then I will return.” He smiled. “In time for your tourney. I shall crown you Queen of Love and Beauty once again.”

She nodded. “The tourney. That is the time my father gets. After that, I care not what he says. I am your wife, and you my husband, and everyone shall know it.” Her voice—resolute, fiery—send a wave of desire through him. She smirked at whatever the look was on his face and scooted over on the bed. “Come join me, my prince. Let me share my bed with my husband, even if only for a little while.”

He settled beside her on the bed and drew her to him carefully. It was she who kissed him, her fingers carding through his hair. Soon, he told himself, he would be with her like this every night. Soon.

Chapter Text

The guards pulled Aegon from the room before Rhaenyra’s bleeding stopped.

He’d been holding Ser Steffon’s white cloak against her head on the way back to the Keep. The wound bled sluggishly, but did not seem to want to stop. Rhaenyra drifted in and out of wakefulness, once asking for Daemon and once for her father and holding on to Egg’s free hand tightly. Ser Steffon carried her to her chamber, Aegon nearly running to keep up with the man’s stride. Once the Grand Maester arrived, he gave a flick of his head and Egg was grabbed by one of the household guards before he could even object. He wanted to plunge his dagger into the man, but his arm was twisted behind his back and he could not reach it.

Rhaenyra called for him as he was pushed through the door. “Bring me my son,” she ordered in their native tongue, but no one obeyed.

Bring me my son.

He couldn’t leave her, not bleeding and scared and calling for him. He fought like he fought Broome, all those years ago, all those years from now, kicking and scratching as he was forced down the halls, but he was still a child and couldn’t break free. He was never strong enough, why was he never strong enough? Tears of frustration squeezed between his eyes as he was shoved through a door. He grabbed for the frame, his nail tearing as the guard wrenched him away.

“Calm down, bastard,” the man snarled, throwing him to the floor.

Aegon shot to his feet, then realized where he was. His chambers. Why…

“The Hand has ordered you kept here until you can be questioned,” the guard said and slammed the door behind him.

Otto Hightower had ordered him locked inside the chambers he shared with Daemon. Aegon almost laughed.

If Aegon wanted out of these rooms, he would be gone. There were few places in the Keep he could not find his way out of. This castle had been his, and his sisters’, and their parents’ before.

Tyland had known better. Whenever he was locked in his rooms, those first months, Tyland had ordered a kingsguard stay inside. His Hand had never underestimated the Targaryens’ knowledge of their castle. But King Viserys did not seem to know it well, so perhaps it was not Otto who was the fool.

Aegon was halfway across the room to the door to Maegor’s passages before he stopped. He could slip into the passageway and get back to Rhaenyra. He wanted to do that. But that would do little and less, Aegon knew. Rhaenyra was with the maester and her maids and Ser Steffon. She was safe—or as safe as anyone was with a gray rat in attendance, as his father had said once. He could not simply appear through a door in her wall, could he?

He slid to the floor, back to the wall, eyes on the door as his breathing settled. The Hand had ordered him questioned. The Hand ordered those guards to the Pit too, he’d wager. It was his fault that Cole had come for them, his fault that Rhaenyra was hurt and that she and Daemon were separated when they had been so close to confronting the king.

And now the Kingmaker was dead.

The Hand would have to be next.

Aegon didn’t know how long he’d been sitting in his chambers when the doors opened.

He jumped to his feet, ready to run or fight or whatever else he’d need to do, then realized it was Daemon. Blood spattered and soot streaked, but uninjured. The guard was arguing with him, a rush of nervous words that Aegon did not listen to as Daemon’s gaze fell on him. Relief was evident in his eyes, if one knew to look.

The prince turned to the guard and snapped, “The matter is closed. Does the Hand’s order countermand the king’s?”

With that, the guard dipped his head in a bow and stammered apologies, backing away quickly. Daemon watched him go, then shut the door and turned back to Aegon.

“I—“ Daemon began but before he could say anything else, Aegon threw his arms around him, squeezing tight.

Daemon smelled of steel and leather and dragon. The smell had made his stomach turn when he first arrived here, but now… now he felt like he had as a child, rushing to his kepa when he came home from a rare journey. He buried his face in Daemon’s chest and though he held back tears, he was sure Daemon knew how close they were.

The prince’s hand came up to Aegon’s head, smoothing over his hair. “Are you well?” he asked in Valyrian.

“Yes, Father,” Aegon replied automatically, and did not bother to correct himself when he realized what he’d said. He pulled back. “Is Rhaenyra alright? They made me leave her. I tried to stay but—”

“Rhaenyra is well. I saw her but a moment ago.”

“Did you see the king? What did he say?” The matter was settled, Daemon had said. Did that mean Viserys had taken their marriage better here and now? It seemed unlikely.

And sure enough, Daemon’s lips pressed together in a thin, annoyed line. “The king remains against the match.”

“But—”

Daemon held a hand up and Aegon’s mouth snapped shut. “Our marriage cannot be set aside. Neither of us will stand for it. But neither am I willing to watch Rhaenyra be set aside, not if I can help it. The king has asked for time, and for me to complete a task. I will do so.”

Aegon narrowed his eyes. “You said we would not leave her. You said—”

“We are not leaving her. Not for long.” Daemon’s voice was hard. Cold in a way it rarely was with him anymore. Aegon made himself take a deep breath and listen. “I will go. You can stay, if you’d like.”

Aegon swallowed. “A squire’s place is with his knight.”

Daemon nodded, but then said, “But a son’s place is with his mother, when he fears danger lurks. You were afraid for her, at the Pit.”

“I knew Syrax would not hurt her.”

“But you did not believe it, did you?”

Aegon shook his head. He had seen the yellow-gold of the dragon’s scales and the fire building in her throat and all he could think of was Sunfyre. He would have been no shield at all, he knew, even as he threw himself atop the princess. When he closed his eyes, he still saw the glow of Sunfyre’s flame—no, Syrax’s flame, Sunfyre was dead, he reminded himself. But dragon flame was dragon flame: he’d seen her coming and knew death came with her.

But it didn’t.

Rhaenyra was safe. Daemon was safe. He was safe, even.

And the Kingmaker was dead.

Aegon took a deep breath, held it, then breathed out slowly, the way Rhaena had taught him. Syrax was not the enemy. The dragons were not the enemy. He knew that. But Daemon was right: he knew it, but he needed to learn to believe it.

“You would die for her, without a second thought.” The ice had melted from his father’s voice.

Aegon looked up at him. “She was not only my mother. She was my queen. We all would have died for her—Jace, Addam, Baela, Father.” Aegon thought of his father and Caraxes sinking into the cold depths of the Gods Eye. “Most of them did.”

Daemon’s hand came up to squeeze his shoulder. “Perhaps we will live for her instead. She’d probably prefer that.”

Aegon smiled a little. His mother, even brittle and bitter at the end of her reign, would have preferred that as well.

“Where is the king sending us?” he asked Daemon after a pause.

“There’s been a fire,” Daemon said, and Aegon felt something creep up his spine before he even said the next words. Some dread, cold and slithering. “At Harrenhal.”

Harrenhal. The place had burnt a year before Aegon was born, killing its lord and its heir. That fire was not due to happen for years yet, and Ser Harwin—

As though he could see the question forming, Daemon spoke. “Ser Harwin left at first light to aid his father. Lord Lyonel is injured, it seems, though still lived. We are to meet him on the road and continue on to the castle.”

Perhaps there had been a fire in the years before the one that killed Lord Lyonel and Harwin, Aegon thought, even as his mouth opened to say, “This did not happen in the other time.”

Daemon nodded. “The fire happened later, I remember. I have more questions, but for now, we must ready ourselves to leave.” His eyes drifted to the door to the passageway, as though of their own volition. “And we both have goodbyes to say.”

“When do we leave?”

“Dawn.” Daemon unstrapped his sword belt and handed it to Aegon, who stared at it, dumbfounded, for a long moment. He could see blood smeared where Dark Sister’s hilt met the sheath. The Kingmaker’s blood. “I expect I’ll need a new scabbard. See to it,” Daemon ordered, and went to bathe.

Aegon tried, carefully, not to think of the day his father left for the Riverlands as he cleaned the blood from Dark Sister. But no matter what he tried to think of instead, no matter how hard he tried to picture Gaemon Palehair tumbling across his Myrish carpets, the only thing that came to mind was the way his parents looked at each other. Did they know it would be the last they would see of each other? Something in his mother’s face had wanted to soften, Aegon could tell, and his father… He’d sank to one knee as he had the morning they burned Visenya. “My queen,” he'd said, but not goodbye.

When Daemon emerged and headed for the passageway, Aegon knew he was going to see Rhaenyra, and wondered if his father had done so the night before his departure. “This is where I last kissed your father,” his mother had said while they walked through the godswood. Had his father stolen his queen from her chambers for a midnight sojourn? Aegon hoped so. He hoped they gotten to say goodbye.

When Daemon left, Aegon left for a farewell of his own.

No one questioned him when he arrived at the chambers of Prince Aegon. The king’s doing, Egg knew. The nurses paid him little mind, not like they would have in his own time, when he was a prince and then a king. One of them merely bobbed her head in greeting, and another narrowed her eyes. He wasn’t sure if it was bastards she didn’t like, or him in particular. He didn’t suppose it mattered much.

The little usurper sat on a rug in the middle of a sunny room, frowning. But as soon as he looked up and saw the other Aegon, a toothy grinned blossomed on his face. “Aegon Too!” he shouted at the top of his little lungs.

Aegon winced, but sunk to his knees beside the little boy anyway. “Egg,” he said once more, pointing to himself.

The prince scowled, the same scowl he’d borrowed from him, and finally relented. “Egg.”

He smiled. “I brought you something.”

Prince Aegon’s eyes widened. “Me?”

The nursery was full of toys, yet to look at his face, one might think the usurper never received a present. “You.” Egg reached to the bag he carried and dug around inside of it until his hands closed on a smooth piece of painted wood, and then from the bag, he pulled a dragon.

He didn’t know how old the carving was. He’d found it in a room on Dragonstone when he was six or seven, hiding on a rainy day while Luke’s voice echoed through the castle. He’d counted down from sixty—in Valyrian, Kepa had ordered when he allowed them to skip their last lesson of the day in favor of a game—and then come after them. He’d found Joff first, of course, then Rhaena and Viserys, and it had taken all four of them to find him, under a dusty bed, holding a shimmery blue dragon that looked a bit like Stormcloud.

It was his mother who told him the dragon’s name.

“This is Gaelithox, named for the god of the moon and stars,” Aegon said to the little usurper, swooping the silvery blue dragon through the air. “He belonged to a woman named Daenys. She was very special.”

“Den-ise,” the little prince said.

“Dae-nys,” Egg corrected. He flew Gaelithox through the air again, then brought him to land on the little prince’s pudgy leg. “Can you say his name?”

Prince Aegon’s little hands curled around the wooden dragon, one around his tail, the other his neck. “Galifox,” he said confidently.

Egg nodded his head. “Close enough.”

He’d gone to find Gaelithox after Daemon and Rhaenyra’s… activities… made it impossible for him to sleep. The dragon was right where he had been all those years from now. He really did look like Stormcloud, or at least Aegon’s recollections, which sometimes seemed dim, even of the creature that had once been his best friend.

“Mine?” Prince Aegon asked, looking up at Egg.

“Yours.”

The boy hugged Gaelithox to his chest, eyes bright with tears. Egg knew the next part would not be as easy.

“Little prince, I have to go away.”

His eyes turned alarmed in an instant. “Go? No!”

Gods, he really did look like Gaemon, he thought, and reached out to ruffle the boy’s hair. “I’ll be back. I promise.”

“No,” the prince repeated. “No, no, no, no.”

The usurper had liked telling him no as well, but it had never made Aegon smile. “My father and I are going on an adventure,” he whispered, as though it were a secret. “We’re going to a big, ruined castle next to a huge lake and a dark forest, and we will stop a bad man and save the realm.”

“With dragon?” Aegon asked, holding Gaelithox out to Egg.

Egg smirked. “The one we’re taking is a little bigger.”

“You do not have to go.”

The king’s voice. Egg jumped to his feet, only to bow his head deeply; out of the corner of his eye, he saw the maids to the same, all looking flustered, as though they never saw the king. The little prince beside him climbed to his feet as well, copying his bow.

The king waved off their deference and came closer. “You could stay, young Egg. You have a home here, always, no matter what Daemon does.”

A bolt of anger shot through Aegon and he met the king’s gaze head on. “Prince Daemon is my father, Your Grace, and I am his squire. I want to go with him.”

The kindliness in Viserys’ face curdled a bit. “I have long thought my brother drags those around him into mischief, but it isn’t so, is it? Those around him follow him willingly.”

“We do,” Aegon said. Viserys must have known that was always true, be it in the streets of Kings Landing, on the rocky beaches of the Steps, or through the Riverlands. People loved and hated Daemon in equal measure, Aegon had once heard someone say, but above all else, people followed him.

“Why?” Viserys asked, but it seemed to Aegon that he did not want an answer. The king heaved a sigh. “I wish you both luck in your endeavors.”

“Papa,” the little prince said, holding his dragon up to show his father. “Galifox.”

Viserys seemed to notice his son for the first time. “Gaelithox? Is that from Dragonstone?”

Egg nodded. “Rhaenyra said I could bring it to him.” A lie, but Aegon Waters could not remove family objects from Dragonstone on his own, could he?

“Nyra?” the prince asked loudly, another toothy smile forming.

Egg flicked his eyes to the king, then back to the prince before him. He thought of his siblings, of Jace whose steadfastness had won him a crown even after his death, of Baela and Rhaena who refused commands to leave his side, of Joffrey who had tried to storm off on Tyraxes to challenge Aemond and Vhagar after Luke’s death. Each of his siblings would have died for any of the others. That was no accident, he knew, but the way their parents had raised them.

He knelt beside the boy. “Rhaenyra, your sister. You must be her friend for me while we are gone. Can you do that, please, my prince?”

The little prince nodded solemnly and before Egg could say anything else, the toddler threw himself into his arms, one hand and the wooden dragon crushed between them. Egg held him carefully. His brother Viserys had not been so much bigger than this when he was lost to the waves.

The door to the nursery opened and a servant came in with a large silver tray. The prince’s supper. This servant too looked surprised to see the king here. Viserys did not come to see his son, Aegon realized, looking down at the silvery head tucked into his chest. No wonder he was lonely.

“I have to go,” Egg whispered, and the younger Aegon pulled back and looked up at him with tears in his eyes. “I will see you soon, my prince. I promise.”

“Soon, Aegon Too,” Prince Aegon said, and this time, Egg did not correct him.

They bade farewell to Rhaenyra at dawn.

Her hair was washed of blood, her color better, and if her smile was wan, Aegon thought it was due to sadness and not pain. Few were about near the gate of the Keep as they said their goodbyes, and so Aegon dared to give the princess a hug.

She clasped him to her tight for a moment. “Be careful, Egg,” she whispered.

“I will,” he whispered back. “You as well.”

They separated. Rhaenyra looked to Daemon then, and he to her, and Aegon took a step back, well aware that when his parents wore those looks, no one else existed.

Aegon could hear the hint of whispers between them, and then, in a louder voice, Rhaenyra said, “I expect your return by my nameday tourney, Uncle.”

Daemon grinned. “Of course, Princess. On that day, I shall crown you my queen.”

“You best do so,” Rhaenyra replied, then offered her own smile and a wink to Egg.

The two of them climbed onto their horses and started away from the Keep. They were halfway to the Dragonpit before Daemon spoke.

“Your father left for the Riverlands and he never returned,” he said, then looked over at Aegon. His eyes were steely and resolved. “We will.”

Aegon believed him.

Chapter Text

They caught up with Ser Harwin before the sun reached its zenith.

Four men were with him, wearing the colors of House Strong. They were riding at speed up the Kingsroad, but at the sound of Caraxes’ whistling greeting, all five stopped, wheeling to face him. Their horses shied and bucked, except for Harwin’s. He kept his mount moving, keeping control of his horse as he called back directions for his men.

Caraxes landed in a field beside the road, crushing a hedgerow beneath a back leg. Daemon swung down from the saddle, then reached up for Aegon. The boy had done well on the ride, though the hands that sometimes clutched at him had given away the fear he still held. It was not the height; he had seemed the most at peace then, with the air rushing around them, Caraxes diving through clouds. Daemon did not understand what it was that triggered the boy’s moments of terror, only that they seemed to come at random. The pits of memory in his mind, Daemon thought. He would have to find his own way through it.

He settled Aegon on his feet. The boy was paler than usual, but met his gaze steadily. Daemon narrowed his eyes. That did not always mean that he was doing well. But there was nothing he could do about that here and now.

“Come,” he said, and they walked to where Harwin and his men waited.

“My prince,” Ser Harwin greeted with a bow. His men did as well. “Egg,” the knight added, and Daemon could almost feel the boy beside him brighten.

“Ser Harwin,” Daemon said with a nod to him and his men. “My squire and I have come to aid you.”

“Aid us?” Harwin asked.

“The king has sent us to help you find your answers. Lord Strong is a leal vassal, and a friend to the throne.”

Harwin looked between them skeptically. Daemon had expected as much. Harwin was a smart man. But he was also discreet; Daemon also expected what he did next, which was nod without further question. “I thank his Grace, and the two of you for coming.” He looked back to his men, then beyond Daemon to Caraxes. “However thankful I am, I don’t believe our mounts, fast as they are, can keep up with yours, my prince.”

“Of course not.” It took a fortnight to ride to Harrenhal—twelve days, the way Harwin had been riding—but took a dragon only that many hours. Daemon looked back to the dragon as well, then to Harwin with a smirk. “Would you like a ride?”

The sun was about to set when they arrived at Harrenhal. From above, the castle was a garish sprawl of black in the green of the Riverlands. As Caraxes descended, details became clear: the drip of the melted stone towers, the broken bits that had never been finished, and the smell of scorched wood that still lingered, some four days after the fire.

Harwin had taken well enough to the skies. Some never did; even Aemma, with her Targaryen blood, had never cared for dragons. When they landed in Harrenhal’s massive yard, Ser Harwin dismounted and thanked them, but stumbled on his first few steps away. Daemon snickered.

When he glanced down at Aegon, hoping the boy might share his amusement, he found the boy staring around him with wide, wounded eyes. Daemon bit back a curse. Of course this place would wound him.

“Aegon?” Daemon asked, laying a cautious hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“I’ve never been here before,” he murmured in Valyrian. “They speak of its size in the tales of it, but I’ve never seen a castle like this. And the lake…”

The lake was where his father died.

“Can we go to the godswood?” Aegon asked before Daemon could say anything else. “Later?”

Daemon nodded, though he did not know why the boy wanted to go. Aegon smiled back at him, a small, tight smile. And then they followed Harwin into his father’s castle.

They were met by a maiden in blue and white, though the white was dulled by ash. She had the same curly brown hair as her brothers and father, the same look about the eyes and mouth—the Strong look that Aegon’s brothers must also have had.

“Harwin,” she breathed, and tucked herself into his side, her shoulders slumping as though she could let down the weight of the world now that her brother was here.

“Lynesse.” Harwin pulled the girl close and kissed the top of her head.

She only allowed him the embrace for a moment before she pulled away and turned to Daemon and Aegon. She set her shoulders again and dropped into a curtsey. “My prince,” she said. “Harrenhal is yours. Shall I send for meat and mead?”

Before Daemon could respond, Harwin said, “Never mind that. What happened, Lynesse? Where is Larys? Leonora? Father?”

The girl opened her mouth, then closed it again. It took her a long moment to collect herself to say the words. “Father… the maester thinks he will recover. Leonora is in the nursery with Bethy. Larys…” She lowered her head. “Harwin, Larys is dead.”

Lord Strong had been abed the five days since the fire, dosed with milk of the poppy, for his burns were said to be severe. Harwin’s face after he had gone to see him confirmed that; the state of Lyonel Strong left Harwin looking shakier than the dragonride had, shakier even than news of his brother’s death.

Lynesse was the elder Strong sister, a maiden seven-and-ten. She was the only one of the family uninjured, and since the fire had been acting as lady of the keep. While Harwin visited their father, Lynesse called for supper for them and for Caraxes too, after asking Daemon what it was that dragons ate.

“Whatever they want, my lady,” Daemon said, then added, “but Caraxes is partial to fat, sheered sheep.”

She ordered it seen to, then led Daemon and Aegon to the lord’s solar. Harwin joined them soon after, and the four of them sat and were served food and drink, three of them with mead and Aegon with hot cider. Though Aegon sipped his cider, none of them were eating. They all waited for the answer to the question Ser Harwin repeated to his sister once they sat: what happened?

“I know not.” Lynesse looked near tears. “Father pulled me from my bedchamber and everything was on fire.”

It was the wing that housed the family’s bed chambers that had burned, and when the cries of his youngest girl roused him from his sleep, Lyonel had set about evacuating his family himself.

“The servants were nowhere to be seen,” Lynesse said.

“Were they ever found?” Daemon asked.

Lynesse shook her head. She looked to Harwin, her face shadowed. “Raymun is one of those missing. Brother, I know it seems as though the servants may have set the fire, but I cannot believe it of them.”

“Lady Lynesse,” Daemon said, before Harwin could reply. “Can you tell us from the beginning what has happened since you left Kings Landing?”

The girl nodded and began the tale from the beginning.

After word came of the strangeness around Harrenhal, Lord Strong had taken his younger son, two daughters, and the guardsmen of their household back to the Riverlands. They encountered no hooded strangers on the road, but as they grew closer to Harrenhal, more came forth with complaints.

“Some of the thefts made sense. A loaf of bread. A coin purse lifted from a belt. But others… Iron nails, too rusty to use. A hairbrush belonging to a knight’s wife. Our half-sister, even, said some things were stolen from her workshop. A charm, some flowers.”

Daemon had not known there was a third Strong sister. He wondered if her name, too, started with an L. He did not ask. “There was talk of a hooded stranger.”

Lynesse nodded. “He was seen at most of those places. And at the Two Crowns Inn, and Harroway after that. Lord Tully is wroth, blaming the ghosts of Harrenhal for a missing stone from the crossroads.” She was clearly trying very hard not to roll her eyes; Daemon, having dealt with Lord Tully a time or two, thought she was putting far too much effort into her politeness. He said no such thing, and before he could, in any case, her shoulders slumped. “Our lord father found no trace of him, this hooded stranger, but reports kept coming. A horse was spooked, throwing its rider as he passed through our lands, and the stranger… he was right there. The heir to House Bracken will never walk again. Lord Tully is wroth about that as well.”

“Our father finally had enough. He ordered a party of men to search the woods, the fields, any place a man might hide. He would flush him out, he said. But then, the night before, the fire happened. I don’t know where the servants went. I had barred my chamber door, but it was unbarred when Father came to rouse me. And Larys… Father could not get to him. A beam fell. Hit Father. I tried to drag him from the hall, but he was too heavy. Finally someone came to help.” She took a deep breath. “I left our sisters and niece with our father and the maester in the godswood and went back to help. The fire would not stop burning. It seemed to come from everywhere. They thought it would spread; the winds were high, but then they… died. The fire burned down near dawn. When the men could get inside, they found Larys in his chamber, half crushed by the roof.” She dissolved into tears at the last words, wrapping her arms around herself.

Daemon leaned forward. There was something she did not want to say. “That is not all there is.”

She shook her head. “I saw him. The stranger. That night, as I returned from the godswood. Only it was no man. It was a woman, just watching as the castle burnt.”

“A woman?” Daemon asked.

Lynesse nodded, then looked up at Harwin, her brown eyes worried. “The woman… She looked just like Alys.”

Beside him, Aegon jerked his head up. Daemon shifted his eyes toward him, only to find the boy wide eyed and gape mouthed.

“Alys?” Daemon asked, looking back to Lynesse.

But it was Harwin who answered. “Alys Rivers, our bastard sister.”

Chapter Text

Ser Harwin was still speaking, but Aegon could not hear a word he said. It was as though all the bees in the Riverlands had come to buzz in his ears. He couldn’t hear a thing over them.

Alys Rivers. He knew that name. Aemond’s paramour. She had haunted Harrenhal, after the war, until she’d disappeared. He’d never paid her any mind. Why would he have? Everyone thought she died in the very same plague that killed the Green queen and Ser Tyland.

But she hadn’t.

She was here.

A hand landed on his shoulder and Aegon jerked away from it. Daemon dropped his hand and watched him, face impassive.

Aegon sucked in a breath, held it, let it out. Alys Rivers. She was here. How had he not known, how had he just listened to her, how—

“Egg?” Harwin asked. “Are you—”

Aegon shot to his feet and ran from the room.

Harrenhal was a maze of cold stone and silent servants, and the smell of ash and smoke hung in the air. Aegon took each turn he came to, running, running, until he burst out of a door into a courtyard. Even the cool air of the evening tasted of fire.

And he’d done it. He’d caused this fire, hadn’t he? Somehow, by his being here, things were different and Lyonel Strong might die and Alys—

Aegon heard voices behind him. A man, a woman, maybe Harwin and his sister chasing after him, maybe Daemon. Aegon swept his gaze along the horizon, half-melted crenellations and spikes of stone and then the tops of tall green trees nearby. The godswood.

Aegon started to run again.

The godswood was much larger than the one in Kings Landing. It stretched long and wide, full of pines and sentinels, the sharp, peppery scent of their needles thick enough to mask the smell of the fire. His feet crunched on fallen needles and twigs as he slowed his pace. Night had fallen, but the moon was rising, huge and yellow. The trees cast strange shadows all around him. In the distance he could hear the burble of a stream. He walked toward it, toward the center of the godswood.

He could see the weirwood from a distance. It seemed as tall as the castle itself, its red leaves almost black in the moonlight. As he approached, clouds drifted in front of the moon, casting the godswood in even deeper shadow. All he could see of the weirwood’s face was the darkness of its eyes, its gaping mouth.

Aegon dropped to his knees before the heart tree. Jace had told them about the North, about its fierce warriors, its deep dark woods, and about the traditions House Stark kept. They worshipped the Old Gods, spirits found in all of nature, who watched the world through the eyes of the faces in the weirwood trees. It had been the magic of the Old Gods that brought Aegon back here, the old gods of the North and the old gods of the Freehold.

The gods and Alys Rivers.

He’d tried not to think about that night since he’d come back here. That first night. Seeing Jaehaera’s face, her bloody body, standing in the place his parents had kissed for the very last time, the feel of the steel at his throat. He’d been ready to die. Happy to die. And then the witch had come from the shadows to offer him something else, something priceless, and he hadn’t even questioned why.

What had he done?

He did not know much about prayer. His family did not do much of it. On the way home from Kings Landing—perhaps as the king was dying, perhaps as the usurper’s crown was being polished to a shine—his older siblings had spoken of the strangeness of the Green Queen’s prayers. Baela had folded her hands and mocked Alicent’s words, until their parents had stepped into the ship’s cabin and she had quieted.

Folding his hands did not seem right. Aegon leaned forward and placed a hand against the weirwood’s trunk.

“Please,” he said, but that was all he could get out.

He’d changed things. He had to believe he could fix it. He’d given up Jace, and Rhaena, and Baela and Luke and Joffrey, and his parents were together now, early, and the Kingmaker was dead—

And what if it wasn’t enough?

“Please,” he said again, this time in Valyrian. He couldn’t do it, he couldn’t wait and wait and wait for his father to return, couldn’t watch his mother die. Not again.

Something sticky and wet, viscous, touched his fingertips. He pulled his hand back as the moonlight broke through the clouds. His hand was covered in blood.

His breath caught, and he looked back to the trunk of the tree.

Not blood, but sap.

There, below the weirwood’s horrible face, were bloody gashes in the heart tree’s throat.

His father had spent thirteen days at Harrenhal before Aemond and Vhagar had arrived. He’d come to the godswood every day, they said, and Dark Sister marked each one with a slice into the heart tree. He counted the slits in the weirwood’s flesh. Thirteen.

How—

A voice sounded from behind him, though he had not heard someone approach. “They appeared three months ago.”

Aegon twisted to face her, almost losing his balance as he did. He climbed to his feet as the woman approached. He recognized her immediately—Alys Rivers. Her eyes were the same, velvety and dark, but her face was younger, her body slimmer, and the sardonic twist of her mouth wasn’t as pronounced. She looked younger than Ser Harwin, perhaps twenty or so.

He said nothing, and she continued, “I came one night to pray, and the tree was whole, unharmed. I came back the next morning, and it bled. It has not healed.”

Perhaps it would not heal, he thought. He had brought the future back with him, and maybe the future would not let go.

“It is not often a stranger prays at the heart tree. What do you want, a boy so young, to plead so earnestly?”

His eyes narrowed. Was she playing some game? “You don’t know who I am?”

“You are the prince’s bastard. You came on his great red wyrm. Aegon Stone?” Alys’ lip quirked up. “No. Aegon Waters.”

“Egg,” he said. “But you don’t know me?”

“If we’d met, I think I’d remember. Bastards we both may be, but a bastard dragon? That is something quite different.”

“Why did you do it?” he asked.

There was something wary even in the curve of her smile. “What do you imagine that I did, Dragon Egg?”

“The fire. Why did you set it?”

She took a step back from him. “Set it? You think—”

“Why?” he demanded, taking his own step forward. “Why did you come back, why kill—”

“Aegon, stop.”

His mouth clicked shut at his father’s command, as sharp and clear as an order to Caraxes. Daemon marched toward them, the shadows painting him gray as the sentinels’ needles.

“Leave us,” Daemon ordered Alys, who looked between them, her dark eyes confused but still sharp. She hesitated just a beat, then dipped into a curtsey and hurried away.

“Why did you do that?” Aegon demanded. “She did it! Lynesse said—”

“Lynesse said Alys was caring for the younger girls with the maester when she went back to the castle.”

Aegon’s brow furrowed. “But she saw her.”

Daemon shook his head. “The woman she saw was older. Double their sister’s age.” His head tilted to the side. “You did not hear her say it. You were sitting beside me when she did.”

“I couldn’t—I didn’t hear it. I—” Aegon looked back to the trees, to the weeping wounds. “It was Alys. Alys set the fire.”

Daemon cast him a skeptical look. “She could not—”

“Not this Alys.” He reached for the weirwood again, traced his finger across the top cut. His father had made this cut, not the man beside him but the one who had raised him and left him behind. His father, from his time. The time he’d left behind. “My Alys.”

Aemond’s Alys.

“I did not know who she was.”

Daemon glanced around the room, then said, “Harren the Black may well have had his own secrets,” in quiet High Valyrian.

Aegon nodded. Passages like Maegor’s or not, he misliked this place already. He could believe the walls had eyes like the heart tree did outside, and ears as well.

Lynesse had given them spacious quarters, plain but serviceable. Daemon had made him drink more hot cider before making him speak. Aegon had not wanted to do either, though he knew he had to.

He could not look at Daemon as he spoke. He stared down at his hands instead. He’d washed the blood-sap from them, but some had stayed under his nails, a red reminder.

“The night my queen died, Alys found me alone in the godswood and said I might be able to undo it all. I did not ask who she was, or why she wanted to help. The only question I asked was what she needed from me.”

“Your blood, little king,” the witch had said.

“Five days later, we completed the ritual, with dragonglass and weirwood, Valyrian steel and a glass candle. And kingsblood. She said it would lend power to the spell.”

Aegon had hardly felt the blade, to tell it true. The cut the witch had made was gone, and when Rhaenyra had found the dagger on his belt, the blade had been clean. It was like it never happened.

“You think she has come back as well. Why?”

Aegon shrugged his shoulders. “I know little of what happened in the Riverlands during the war, save for battles and deaths. I know Aemond took her for his lover, and after Larys Strong’s execution, she took Harrenhal for herself, and for her bastard son. She proclaimed him the king and was said to kill men with her magic. Tyland worried about it, wanted to send men, but my regents overruled him, and then the Winter Fever hit. So many died and Alys Rivers was forgotten.”

“She was Aemond’s lover? So a Green?”

“I suppose.” Aegon stopped toying with the ring on his finger and made himself look up at Daemon. “They say she was there when you died.”

“I did not die here, Aegon. I will not die here.”

Aegon wanted to believe him. But… “Those slashes on the weirwood tree… Those came back as well. My father put them there with Dark Sister, one for every day the kinslayer kept him waiting. How are they here?”

Daemon looked calculating, but Aegon did not know what conclusions he was drawing. He himself understood none of it. Did the thirteen cuts on the weirwood mean it was all fated to happen? Was Daemon Targaryen always going to die at God’s Eye? Was his mother always going to burn? He could not accept that. He would not accept that.

Daemon shook his head. “We must focus on the matter at hand. Alys Rivers brought you here, and likely came herself, and we do not know why.”

When he spoke, Aegon’s voice was shaking. “My parents did not raise a fool. I know that few do things for nothing, or for loyalty, or because it’s right. But I couldn’t—I could not question why she would do it. I needed it to be true. I needed it to work. I couldn’t live in that world anymore.”

“Aegon,” Daemon’s quiet voice asked, “what were you doing alone in the godswood?”

“I just went for a walk,” he lied, holding his father’s gaze.

Daemon nodded once. His hand came up to cup back of his head. “What she did worked. You are here and you are safe, and we will change things. Whatever she wants, whatever she’s done, we will deal with it.”

Aegon felt as though his bones, his muscle and sinew, could no longer hold him upright. He collapsed into Daemon’s arms and didn’t try to stop the tears.

The next morning, they broke their fast with Ser Harwin and his two trueborn sisters in Harrenhal’s Great Hall, the younger sister, Leonora, sporting a burn on her cheek and a bandaged left arm. Lynesse shot him strange, sympathetic looks, and Harwin tried to make him eat a cranberry-lemon muffin. Aegon picked at it to humor him, then shoved a large bite into his mouth when Daemon cleared his throat pointedly.

Daemon hardly spoke as they ate, until Harwin broached the topic of their search for the hooded stranger.

Aegon’s shoulders tensed, even as Daemon’s face gave nothing away. “The person we seek steals crossroads stones and iron and charms,” Daemon said. “All items a woodswitch might want. What place might someone go, if their aim was to practice some low magics?”

“For that,” Harwin said, “you would need knowledge beyond mine.” He scanned the room, until his eyes caught on someone across the hall.

Aegon followed his gaze. In a dim corner sat the young Alys Rivers.

She was staring right at him.

Chapter Text

Had Rhaenyra not been Princess of Dragonstone, heir to the Iron Throne, the Grand Maester may have locked her in her chambers after she escaped to see Daemon and Aegon off.

As it was, he told her she was to spend two more days abed, apparently to make certain her head wound had not addled her thoughts. The king’s trust lied with the maesters, Mellos reminded her, though he did not go so far as to say her father had commanded her to obey. Rhaenyra thought more likely that her father had encouraged such rest because he didn’t want to see her.

Rhaenyra did not listen. She was well enough, barring an ugly, scabbing wound on the back of her head and a persistent ache all over. She would not be kept abed by such, as though she were delicate as a flower. She was a dragonrider. After Mellos departed her chambers, once he checked her wound once again and proclaimed it healing well, Rhaenyra went straight to her father’s rooms.

Only to be denied entrance.

“My father has never denied me, ser,” she said to Harrold Westerling, who had the watch at the king’s door.

“It is not only you, Princess,” the kingsguard said. “The king has disallowed entrance to all.”

“To all?” A frisson of unease crept up her spine as Ser Harrold confirmed it: her father had locked himself away.

Rhaenyra did not return to her chambers after that, instead winding her way toward the godswood. Annora had pulled the sides of her hair back and into a loose plait that covered the wound. But even so, she felt as though it were still bright with blood, the way people stared as she walked through the Keep. A few murmured their good wishes for her health, but even more merely ducked their heads in a bow and only watched, breaking into whispers once she’d passed by.

What a scene they must have caused, she thought, Ser Steffon bringing a bloody princess into the castle in his arms. Even his presence now, a stride behind her, was evidence of what had happened, for her guard and companion at this time of day had usually been Ser Criston.

And now Ser Criston was dead.

She had been ready for the rumors that would fly as soon as her betrothal to Daemon was announced. An engagement so short like as not meant dishonor was propelling the match. But she had not been ready for this—her father in seclusion, Daemon sent away, a man she’d thought a friend dead after some madness. And her left behind. At least, she thought wryly, no one knew what truly happened. No one but them.

The branches and leaves of the weirwood almost seemed to whisper as the wind whipped through the godswood. She liked its whispers better than those of her father’s court. A weirwood kept its secrets; nobles never did.

Behind her, Ser Steffon’s armor clanked, as though he’d jerked to attention, and Rhaenyra turned around. She knew who she would see behind her.

Sure enough, Alicent was rushing forward, quick as she could with any sort of dignity, clad in a gown of black and gold.

“Rhaenyra,” Alicent said. “Are you well? I heard—oh, the most awful things.”

Rhaenyra took her offered hands, squeezed. Alicent’s fingers were icy. “I am well. As well as can be.”

Alicent turned Rhaenyra’s hand over in her own, revealing where her palm was bandaged from the cut from her wedding, then reached her other toward Rhaenyra’s face. Rhaenyra shied away before Alicent’s fingertips could brush the cut on her lip. It felt wrong, the idea that another would touch her there.

Alicent pulled her hand away quickly, something wounded in her eyes.

Rhaenyra smiled tightly. “Stings.”

Alicent took her own hand back, folded both of them in front of her. “This happened in the Dragonpit? I heard… Ser Criston?”

Rhaenyra nodded slowly. “He came upon Daemon and I as we were leaving the Pit, and he… It was as though he’d gone mad. He attacked Daemon, shoved me against the wall when I tried to stop him.”

“Daemon killed him?”

Rhaenyra misliked the way she said that. “Criston drew steel on a prince of the blood, Alicent. He injured me gravely.”

Alicent ducked her head as though in her beloved prayer. “Oh, Rhaenyra, what madness came upon him to do such a thing? I can hardly believe—“

“And yet it is true.”

“Your father was so terribly worried. And now…” Alicent twisted her fingers together, then looked up at her. “I went to him at supper last night, and he would not see me. And again this morning. He will not even see my father.” The unspoken question lay heavy between them—why?

Rhaenyra did not know. Could news of her marriage have so thrown him that he locked himself away? Telling nothing more to queen nor Hand nor heir?

“I saw him yesterday.”

“When he sent Daemon away.” There it was once more, that fear around her eyes when she spoke of Daemon. Rhaenyra misliked that, too.

“He sent Daemon to the Riverlands, to aid Ser Harwin.” That was the truth, after a fashion.

“I heard about Harrenhal. What a horror. It seems as though all manner of them have come upon us.” Alicent swallowed hard and squared her shoulders, as though steeling herself for a battle. “We were so terribly worried for you. Where were you? You were gone for days.”

Rhaenyra felt a swell of anger in her gut. This question came not from a friend. No, Alicent did not ask for herself. She asked for Otto. For if the Hand had not access to the king, then he likely knew as little about their trip to Dragonstone as anyone else in Kings Landing—that is to say, nothing.

“We went to Dragonstone. Myself, my uncle, and his squire. Our return was delayed.”

“It is hardly proper, Rhaenyra, for you to be with an unmarried man, unchaperoned.”

She sounded then so like the same prim Alicent who complained at Rhaenyra’s dismissal of their septas and who told her it was unbecoming of a lady to wish to wield a sword that Rhaenyra almost smiled, almost cried.

“He is my family, Alicent,” she said. She did not add the rest of the truth: that neither of them were unmarried anymore.

“Well, you Targaryens do have queer customs.”

Rhaenyra pressed her tongue against the edge of the cut on her lip, evidence of one of those customs. “My uncle and I are two of the last dragonriders in the world, Alicent. I would not expect you to understand that bond. Perhaps one day your children might try to explain it to you, if they ever claim dragons of their own.”

The blow hit, and her shoulders slumped. “Please, Rhaenyra, I’m sorry. I do not wish to argue.” Alicent wrung her hands, then pressed them to her stomach. “Especially now.”

She had been ill, Rhaenyra remembered. She had been ill, and Daemon had given up his quest to distract her father, and now…

“You’re with child,” Rhaenyra said.

Alicent nodded. “The maester only confirmed it this morning. I have not even told your father.”

She did not look pleased. She looked afraid. She had not looked afraid before, with either babe, though hers was a nervous temperament. What had she said, the day of Prince Aegon’s nameday? That childbirth was not that difficult? But of late, she had been more nervous, more fretful, even as she seemed happy the two of them had been speaking more.

“Alicent, what is wrong?”

She shook her head. It took a moment, but the queen collected herself. “This is a difficult time, Rhaenyra. I worry for your father. And there is talk in the Keep, of your absence, rumors of you and Daemon. Whatever happened with Criston shall not help. I am doing what I can to help find you a good match. The tourney…”

Whatever fear that lurked inside of the queen had nothing to do with the tourney. Rhaenyra was not the only one avoiding the truth today.

This time, it was Rhaenyra who reached for Alicent. She smiled, the pull of the cut on her lip a welcome reminder. “My match shall be announced at the tourney. I’m sure of it.”

That, she knew, was true.

Rhaenyra sank onto her chaise when she arrived back at her chamber, body aching and mind spinning. Her uncle’s departure, her father’s seclusion, her conversation in the godswood.

Alicent was with child.

For the first time, she was glad Daemon was not here.

What would he do? When he knew? They had not settled on an answer. A part of her wanted to let him do as he pleased, rip the child from Alicent’s womb with the same tea he’d used to present her with a choice. He had the right, did he not? The child she birthed would as like as not be his killer. Should such a child be allowed to be born?

But she thought of the steaming cup of tea on the table in front of her. No one had ever offered such a choice to her mother. She had heard the servants gossip, those months after her mother’s death, heard tale of her screams as the maester literally ripped Baelon from her womb, with the same hands he’d used to care for Rhaenyra’s head. Aemma had not been offered a choice then either. No one had to tell Rhaenyra that for her to know it, deep in her bones. Daemon’s voice came back to her. That decision too should be your choice.

It should be her choice. It was not some gift Daemon offered her when he gave her the moon tea. It was a right she should always have had, that her mother should have had, that Alicent should have. Why should men decide what was done with their bodies? Because that was the way of things?

No one had given Alicent a choice of whether to bear her children, Rhaenyra knew. Could she take that choice away from her as well? But knowing it could cost her Daemon in some shadowy future… could she live with that?

As quick as she realized she was glad he was gone, Rhaenyra wanted him back. He would like as not be wroth with her decision—for she had made the decision, she realized, that they could not bring such harm to Alicent—but she wanted him there even so. She trusted him to listen. She trusted his support. She wanted to curl her fingers in his hair, wanted to feel the weight of him beside her. They had slept only one night beside one another; how could she miss it so much?

Before she knew it, there was a rap on the door. She called for the knocker to enter. Servants with the evening meal. Ser Steffon admitted them, then they set it up on her table.

After they left, Ser Steffon lingered in the open doorway. He did not have the pinched look to his face that Criston had had of late, but there was something he wanted to say.

“Ser,” she called, gesturing him closer.

He closed the door carefully before he came, as though he wanted to assure no one could hear them. She sat up taller in her chair.

“What troubles you, ser?” she asked. “Is it Ser Criston?”

He did not speak immediately. She could almost see him weighing what he was about to say, deciding whether or not to speak. She was near to ordering him to say whatever it was when he started to talk.

“I heard Prince Daemon, down in the tunnels,” he said. “Criston accused him of ruining you, but the prince…”

Rhaenyra had little memory of what happened in the tunnels. She recalled Daemon’s fingers sliding between her thighs, then the sight of him being slammed against the wall. She could not recall a word he said. “What did he say?”

Ser Steffon breathed deep. “He said he married you.”

Her breath caught. Her father required them to keep the secret, if they wanted a chance at his approval. A part of her thrilled at the idea of everyone knowing, at not having to keep it a secret, yet more of her knew the danger such a rumor could cause. “Have you told anyone?”

“No, princess. The Hand asked me what happened, and I told it true. I only left a few details from the tale.”

The thought of their marriage being related to the king by Otto Hightower… What might such a tale have sounded like? Would Daemon already be dead?

“Thank you, ser, for your discretion.”

He dipped his head in a bow. “I am a kingsguard. I do not serve the Hand.”

Something about the way he said that gave her pause. “Ser Criston… Had he been serving the Hand?”

Ser Steffon hesitated for a beat. “Not serving, perhaps. But the Hand had called for him, when Criston’s duties were light or even when he was free for the day. It seemed he grew more and more worried, each time the Hand spoke with him. He started to ask whether the time you spent with Prince Daemon and his son was proper, if they might not have inappropriate intentions. And then when you slipped from your chambers with him on watch… He feared for you, princess. Feared where it was the prince had taken you.”

She thought of the fear on Alicent’s face too. Otto’s doing, she realized. He had spilled his poison to her sworn sword just as he did to his own daughter.

“I went of my own choice,” she said, little thought a princess needed to explain herself to a knight of the Kingsguard.

Ser Steffon smiled, a rare sight. “That I did not doubt, Princess.”

Five days passed. Rhaenyra’s head stopped aching as much, and the scab itched as it healed. Daemon would be at Harrenhal by now. She wondered what he was doing, whether Egg was eating well, whether they had found trace of whatever was haunting the Riverlands.

She wondered if he missed her.

On each of those days, Rhaenyra went to her father’s chambers, and on each day, she was denied entry. But so was Otto, and Alicent, and even the servants, for the most part. She wondered when he might break and see one of them, wondered who it would be.

On the morning of the sixth day, Rhaenyra heard the roar of a dragon from outside her window, then a second. She rose from her dressing table and hurried to her balcony.

There, in the distance, was the hulking form of Vhagar, big enough to block out the sun. Laena. And flying beside her, red wings slicing through the warm morning air, was Meleys, the Red Queen.

Rhaenys Velaryon had returned to Kings Landing.

Chapter Text

You would damn us all.

Rhaenyra’s words echoed in his head after his daughter and brother left the throne room. He had heard those very same words in his dream, spoken in that very same voice.

A coincidence, he told himself. Nothing more. But he did not believe it.

Viserys had once thought himself a dreamer. He remembered too well the sound of the dragons roaring and the look of the Aegon’s crown on the brow of his son.

His son. How he’d wanted a son. The gods had promised him one, he’d thought. Was not the dream proof that he was meant to take the throne? Proof that his was the line that would carry out the prophecy his grandfather had whispered to him?

That dream had died with Aemma.

A son he had, but not the one he’d dreamt of. An heir he had, but not the one he’d thought.

He had wavered once in his choice. Thought that his daughter was too reckless—too like Daemon—to be allowed to ascend the throne. Yet come that morning, watching her stride into camp, bloodstained and regal, he’d known how wrong he’d been the night before. No, it was Rhaenyra who was meant for the throne. It was from her line that the Prince That Was Promised would come. Viserys had ceased to believe himself a dreamer, but he still believed that.

You would damn us all.

After Ser Harrold escorted him back to his chambers, Viserys gave him but one instruction: no one was to be admitted. Not the Hand, nor the queen, nor Princess Rhaenyra. He needed time. He needed to think.

Sunlight spilled into the streets of his Valyria. Viserys sat beside the model, idly rocking the statue of the goddess Tyraxes on her plinth. Daemon had helped him build when he first began the model, or at least had pretended to. He had been not quite six-and-ten, then, with too much energy in his whipcord frame to stay still for long, but willing to offer his eyes and hands as Viserys built the Anogrion and the temple complex around it himself. At least until Aemma returned to their chambers with Rhaenyra. Then Daemon would whisk her away. Aemma had laughed at whatever look crossed his face, every time. “Let the children play,” she’d say, though she was Daemon’s own age.

Let the children play. Viserys reached for Aemma’s ring. What would Aemma have to say of this? Would she be wroth with both of them? Would she scratch Daemon’s eyes out?

Wedded and bedded, Viserys thought, stomach turning. Daemon had bedded his daughter. He’d found a way to crawl his way back to the throne. Viserys had thought his brother changed. Had it been his plan all along? Had he returned to Kings Landing with hate in his heart and vengeance in mind? But he’d sat with him in this very room, speaking of fears and worries for his son, plans for the Stepstones, his thoughts on inheritance law! He had even agreed with Otto a time or two. Had it all been a ploy? Or had it been the business with Rhea’s death that had done it, pushed Daemon back down the road of hatred? To seduce his daughter. And on the eve of his requesting an alliance with the Velaryons… They had known, somehow. They must have known. Now would they have a war for the throne, Targaryen against Velaryon, dragon against dragon? Surely Daemon could not be blind to the devastation that would cause.

The servants brought his evening meal, but Viserys let it grow cold, imagining Vhagar’s claws curling around his little girl, her teeth ripping into his little brother. “Who among them would die for me?” Rhaenyra had asked. Would Daemon have to die for her, in the end?

The dreams came again that night. He fell asleep with ghostly lights dancing all around him; he knew not from whence they came. And then he was in a cave, walking deeper and deeper underground. In the distance, he heard a Valyrian lullaby, sung in a haunting voice. Fire breather, winged leader, but two heads to a third sing.

An old man’s voice croaked, The dragon must have three heads. Viserys spun and spun but all he saw was blackness, no old man to be found.

Why could he see nothing in these dreams? Where were the visions spoken of by Daenys, by Aegon? Why was he alone, in the dark, in the cold?

The blood of the dragon runs thick. Daemon’s voice spoke next, though still, Viserys could not find him. He saw nothing in this darkness. He reached for the cavern wall, but stumbled, no wall to be found. He opened his mouth to call out, but found he had no voice as well.

I won’t fail again, a boy said. Viserys could not place his voice, though it was achingly familiar.

From deeper in the cave, deep down, came a melancholy voice, echoing. His is the song of ice and fire… ice and fire… ice and fire…

You and I are made of fire, Rhaenyra said in Valyrian. We have always been meant to burn together.

He burned my mother alive. I should have burned with her. The boy’s voice, once again. No, Viserys thought desperately just as Daemon’s voice said it.

We have come to die for the dragon queen, a thick Northern voice said.

On that much, said his brother, we agree.

There’s a place for you in my court, if that’s something you should need. His own voice, but not from his mouth, and then Daemon’s reply, the same as in his dream the night before: I need—nothing. He’d been about to say something else, but Viserys didn’t know what, couldn’t see his face, could only hear the hate dripping from Daemon’s words like slather from a dragon’s teeth.

I need you, uncle. Rhaenyra, her voice more mature. Sadder. Then in Valyrian, she said, I cannot face the greens alone.

He could not find her in the dark. His Rhaenyra. Where was she? Why could he not see her?

Another voice echoed through the cave, once as familiar as Daemon’s, as his own. They force you to your knees and I must stand alone.

Rhaenys’ voice.

Rhaenys.

Viserys woke up.

He wrote the letter himself, in Valyrian script he had not practiced in an age. He hardly knew what to say. He forced the words to the page anyway. After it was done, Viserys sealed the letter, ordered it sent, and changed the instruction at the door. Only one was to be admitted: the Princess Rhaenys, when she arrived.

If she arrived.

He dreamed again that night, and the next, and the two after that. One moment awake, the next asleep, those strange lights still flashing in his eyes even after they were closed. Rhaenyra’s screams, Daemon’s laugh, Rhaenys’ voice. The dreams left him exhausted, waking nearly as dreamlike as sleep. He sometimes heard Otto Hightower outside his door, and thought perhaps that was a dream as well.

When he woke on the sixth day, it was to Meleys’ cry. He could never mistake the sound. She had been his mother’s dragon first, after all, and he had flown on her back more than he had Balerion’s. He felt something tense inside of him give way at the sound. Rhaenys had come. She had answered his call after all.

It did not take long for her to arrive from the Pit. She came still dressed in her riding leathers, her hair back in a thick, neat braid.

“Your Grace,” his cousin said, and he wanted to weep.

Instead, he gestured for her to sit. “Wine?” he asked, and then poured it himself before she could even answer.

“I am not here for wine, Viserys,” she said. “Your letter…”

His letter had called her to his aid, as she was the eldest of their house and he was in dire need of her counsel. He had very nearly begged; such a thing would like as not have been required if he were petitioning her husband for aid.

But Rhaenys had come without it. She watched him now with a furrowed brow. “Tell me what is wrong.”

He knew not where to begin. “What do you know of dragon dreams?” he asked finally.

Her brows went up, but she answered. “A rare gift. Dreams sent to warn us of danger.” She leaned forward. “Have you been dreaming, cousin?”

Could she see it in the shadows beneath his eyes? The shadows in them? “They began six nights ago. Each one is longer, each one more horrible.” He reached over and seized her hand. “I heard your voice saying you had to stand alone. We have all been divided, haven’t we? Alone. The grandchildren of the Conciliator, broken apart.”

A spark of understanding lit her eyes. “Is this about Daemon and Rhaenyra?”

“You know?”

She nodded. “My husband sent word to me at Storms End, though Laena claims herself sworn to secrecy until the princess says otherwise.”

Lord Corlys knew of this? And he was not angry? Viserys did not understand. He’d thought them on course for war with the Velaryons, but…

He looked up at Rhaenys. “I’d thought to join our Houses once more.” His voice sounded as wilted as his spirits were, these days.

“Rhaenyra was given leave to choose her consort, and choose her consort she has. My son has naught to do with it.”

Anger flared inside him. “Daemon is no fit consort.”

“Daemon is your brother, Viserys. He fought alongside my husband and son for three years in a war you and I both wanted no part of, and without him, they would still be toiling on those bloody rocks. He is reckless and foolhardy and too proud by half, but he is a prince of the blood. Would you rather her marry a Lannister?”

The answer had once been yes, until that fool Jason Lannister opened his bloody mouth. “I would rather her marry someone nearer her own age! Someone not known for bedding whores and humiliating his lady wife.”

“My lord husband is more than ten years my senior, Viserys, and I chose him when I was younger than Rhaenyra.”

Viserys waved his hand in dismissal. “Corlys Velaryon—”

“Is a man of Valyrian blood, daring and brave, a leader of men who brought strength of arms to my side. Whose loyalties aligned with mine own. Ambitious, yes, but devoted.” She raised a brow, as though daring him to refute the comparison. “I did not choose a husband, cousin; I chose a consort, to stand at my side at the throne I believed would be mine. Can you blame Rhaenyra for doing the same for the throne she still believes will be hers?”

He had opened his mouth to argue, until her last words registered. He reared back. “Still believes will be hers? Believes?” His voice rose with each word.

Rhaenys did not look bothered by his anger. “I know better than any the ugly truths that await a woman who seeks to rule these Seven Kingdoms. If there is a man, she will be passed over for him. I had a cousin; she has a brother. I was passed over, and I accepted it. Rhaenyra will have to as well.” She gave him the same wry smirk he had seen her exchanging with Corlys during tourneys, as men and boys bloodied themselves for sport. “Though… Corlys didn’t have a dragon.”

“You believe Daemon would start a war?”

“Do you not remember the Great Council, cousin? Daemon was ready to start a war for your throne against me, his own blood. He would start a war against the Hightowers for the promise of a lemon cake.”

“He does not care for lemon cakes,” Viserys said absently, his mind on the dragons screaming in his dreams. Dragons fighting dragons, of that he was certain. If not the Velaryons… He squeezed his eyes shut. Such an ugly thought.

“Rhaenyra does,” Rhaenys replied sharply. “Let us speak of your dreams, cousin, not your brother.”

“They are one and the same!”

“If you’re having dreams about Daemon and Rhaenyra fucking, I hardly think those are sent by the gods.” Her voice was sharp. Imperious. Viserys thought, not for the first time, that it truly should have been her to wear the crown of their grandfather.

“No. No, it is not that.” Viserys ran his good hand through his thinning hair. He felt strands catch on his fingernails, pulling away from his head. “War. Death. So much death, cousin. I hear children whose voices I do not know dying yet my heart hurts like they are mine own. I hear my daughter screaming, as though…”

“As though what?”

He shook his head. The thought was too terrible to speak aloud. “The first night, I thought them just nightmares. But then Rhaenyra and Daemon returned. I was wroth with them, and Rhaenyra said—”

She had said many things, his girl. That it was his fault she was injured, that he spurned those he should keep close, that he refused to sacrifice for the realm. That last made his blood burn—he had sacrificed Aemma for the realm, for a son to succeed him. And still…

“She said I would damn us all.” He looked up at Rhaenys. “The same way she said it in my dream the night before.”

“And you think there’s truth to it.”

“I think a war is coming, Rhaenys. Coming for my daughter. And if it is of my making… then I need to stop it.” He swallowed hard. “We have each been alone, cousin. But I would no longer have the House of the Dragon be divided. I would have your aid, if you would give it.”

Rhaenys folded her hands in front of her and studied him. What did she see? A man haunted? Or a king resolute? He found, in the long moments before she spoke, he did not want to know. He was not sure he could bear the answer.

Finally, she nodded. “Tell me everything.”

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra met Rhaenys and Laena as they arrived at the Red Keep. They both wore riding leathers and Velaryon sea green, and Laena’s curls were a windswept halo around her head. She smiled when she saw Rhaenyra.

Rhaenys did not look as happy to see her.

“Princess Rhaenyra,” they both said, dipping their heads respectfully.

“Princess,” she said. “Lady Laena.”

Rhaenys spoke first. “His Grace has sent for me, Princess. I would see him as soon as possible.”

“Of course,” she replied, and gestured for them to walk with her.

The nobles watched them as they moved through the Keep, whispering behind raised hands and giving each other pointed looks. Rhaenyra had heard some of the gossip that surrounded the incident in the Dragonpit and her injury and her father’s seclusion, but not all of it. What would they say now, with members of House Velaryon striding through these halls at her side?

“My father is within his chambers, Princess,” Rhaenyra explained as they walked. “Laena and I can accompany you—”

“No need,” Rhaenys said, cutting her off somehow with both authority and grace. Rhaenyra was reminded again that Rhaenys had been raised to be queen someday, a ruling queen, and she felt a frisson of anger at herself for not trying to win her over years before, at her father for alienating the Velaryons—and at Rhaenys herself. Men would rather see the realm burn than a woman on the throne, she had said. A warning? A taunt? A statement of fact that could never be changed? Rhaenyra still wasn’t sure why she had said it. But she’d been right, in the end, in some other world at least.

But not, Rhaenyra thought, this one. She tipped her chin up and smiled. “Then Laena and I shall part with you here.”

Rhaenys raised her pale brows. She hadn’t expected that. She gave a smile to Rhaenyra, then a pointed look at Laena, and then strode away.

“Come, let us walk,” Rhaenyra said to her cousin.

Laena linked their arms, eyes bright. “Yes, let us walk. And you can tell me everything.”

It was Laena who spoke first, though, filling Rhaenyra in on why she was in Kings Landing with her mother. A letter from the king had come to Driftmark, and Corlys sent Laena along to Storms End as messenger. Daemon had told her of their fight, Corlys and Rhaenys, but a thin thread of fear coiled in her stomach; what would her father make of it, when he learned where Rhaenys was? Would he take it as confirmation that the Velaryons were a threat to the crown, that it was necessary to wed her to Laenor? Anger followed swiftly; he had put them in this position, had he not? He would punish his kin for a problem he had not only created himself, but one that did not even exist.

“Caraxes was not in the Pit,” Laena said, her tone searching and her eyes a little less playful. “Did the king send Daemon away?”

Rhaenyra had been strident with Alicent that Daemon had been sent to help Harwin, and not as any sort of punishment. But with Laena, who had cheered as they wed, she found she could not muster the same will. “It is more complicated than that. He said he needed time.” And then he’d taken it, locking himself away.

“My mother knows,” Laena said quietly, leaning her head close to Rhaenyra’s. “My father told her of Daemon’s visit, that he sent us off to bear witness. I think he thinks it will win her back, if she knows he has given up his ambition to make Laenor your consort. She was wroth when he set up my betrothal without consulting either her or me, and even more so when it became clear such a match brings us nothing but a chain around my ankle.”

Rhaenyra wondered if she would have been so glad to see Laena marry a handsome prince for both love and advantage if she had been stuck with a marriage that brought neither.

Perhaps that question showed on her face, because Laena squeezed her arm and continued. “His letter hinted that he thought he had found a way around something or other, so I hold out some hope.”

“You read it?”

“Of course. I have little desire to sit back while they decide what my fate will be. We are dragonriders, cousin. We should make own fates, just as you did with Daemon. I may have done the same, had you not laid your claim first.” Her eyes twinkled, warm.

Rhaenyra gave a playful smirk, pushing away the thought that in another life, she had not. “Then I’m very glad I did. If your father’s solution does not work, perhaps we can find another.”

“Start looking,” she said with a sidelong look. “Who knows what plan my father has conceived?”

They had made it to the godswood before Rhaenyra asked, “Your mother’s reticence to my marrying Laenor… is it his preferences? Or something else?”

Laena gave her a searching look. “My mother knows better than most that the throne brings danger and uncertainty, Rhaneyra. Especially for a woman who seeks to rule.”

Had it been so obvious to everyone, that war would be the result of her being heir? She had worried that her father would waver, hand over her throne to her brother, but she had not thought war would result. Not until Aegon had told them of his past did she see the cracks that had already begun to appear. “Of course, she would want her son well away from danger.”

“It is not only him that the match would endanger,” Laena said. “Laenor’s preferences are well-known. There is no certainty that he cannot father children anyway, but my uncle Vaemond has already made grumblings about the Velaryon line’s end with him as heir. Even if you bore him sons, their paternity would be questioned. Your fitness to rule questioned.” She paused, then said, “And you must know the danger your half-brother poses to your ascent as queen.”

Rhaenyra knew it well.

Laena did not let the topic linger. “Now I must ask you—why has the king sent for my mother? Do you know?”

“You didn’t read that letter?”

Laena laughed at her tone, though sobered quickly. “My mother burned it. Reason enough to believe it was of import, and our hurried journey is another.”

“My father has been in seclusion since Daemon and I returned from Dragonstone. There was… a problem.”

Perhaps she would tell Laena more, later, when they had more of a chance to speak. When she had more of a chance to learn to trust her cousin, also. Daemon trusted the Velaryons, though, and Daemon trusted so few.

Laena did not comment on the vagueness of her explanation, though Rhaenyra could tell she dearly wanted to. “And he called for my mother to solve it?”

“We shall only know why when they emerge,” Rhaenyra replied. “Until then… Shall we call for some cake?”

Laena grinned. “Indeed.”

They were halfway back to her chambers when they passed a rushing Tyland Lannister. He stumbled at the sight of them—at the sight of Laena, Rhaenyra thought, biting her lip on a chuckle—and bowed when he recovered. “Princess, Lady Laena,”

“Ser Tyland,” Rhaenyra said. Egg may have been the cause of Daemon’s attempt to sway Tyland to their side, but Daemon did not suffer fools and he thought higher of Tyland than near anyone else at court. She would act accordingly. “A pleasure to see you. My uncle Prince Daemon speaks highly of the work you are doing toward securing the Stepstones.”

“We of the Narrow Sea welcome such things,” Laena said. “I’d not like to see my lord father off to war again.”

“We shall do all we can to prevent it. I hope when your uncle returns, he will be pleased at our progress.” A hint of annoyance colored his voice when he spoke of Daemon, the kind that was almost fond. Had Daemon not only swayed him toward their side but befriended him? Rhaenyra almost laughed at the thought. Tyland’s next words darkened her mood quickly. “Deepest apologies, my ladies, but the Lord Hand has called for the members of the Small Council to convene.”

Rhaenyra tilted her head. “Has he?”

“We were not made aware of the subject, but I believe it has to do with the king being so suddenly indisposed.”

“You think he wants to find out what any of you know,” Laena said bluntly.

“My lady, he has tried to wheedle information from everyone since the moment the king locked his doors. But I do not believe he believes the king has seen none of us.” He looked between them, his eyes troubled but keen. “And unless I am mistaken, you did not arrive alone, Lady Laena.”

“The king is with princess Rhaenys now,” Rhaenyra confirmed.

“Ah,” Tyland said as though that explained something. “Ser Otto fears a shift in the winds that will knock him off his chosen course.”

“I believe the Master of Ships reads the tides correctly,” Rhaenyra replied. She might not know much of Tyland Lannister, but she recognized already one trait they had in common—this man despised Otto Hightower.

It was on the tip of her tongue to declare she would go with Ser Tyland to the Small Council meeting. She envisioned herself bursting into the Council chamber and putting Otto Hightower in his place. Only her father had put him in his place—Hand of the King—and he’d done little and less to shore up her own.

But that did not mean she could not listen.

“I wish you good fortune in your council meeting, Ser Tyland,” Rhaenyra said, and he bowed to her and offered another smile to Laena before going on his way.

Once he was out of earshot, Rhaenyra turned to Laena and clasped her hands. “Cousin, there is something I must do. Will I be forgiven for leaving you on your own?”

“There is nothing to forgive. I shall leave you to your intrigue and find cake myself,” Laena said. She squeezed Rhaenyra’s hands before letting them go, her face gone oddly solemn. “Be careful, Rhaenyra.”

Rhaenyra nodded and turned toward her chambers.

Only when she arrived, she was not the only one approaching. A maid was hurrying closer, wringing her hands in front of her. Rhaenyra did not recognize her; one of the queen’s household perhaps?

The girl dipped into a curtsey when Rhaenyra approached. “Princess,” she said, her voice thin and afraid.

“Yes?” she asked. When the girl hesitated, Rhaenyra huffed a breath. What would she miss while Alicent’s maid wasted her time? “Go on.”

“Princess, the prince… Your brother the prince has asked for you.”

Rhaenyra had not expected that. She leaned back a bit. “My half-brother asked for me?”

“Yes, Princess.”

The surprise burned off quicker than mist in the summertime. “He shall have to wait,” she said and started to turn from the girl.

“Please, princess!”

Rhaenyra turned slowly. The maid was white faced from fear, and for good reason. To argue with the heir to the throne? Rhaenyra raised a brow and waited.

The maid stumbled over her words, pushing them out as quick as she could. “The queen has ordered us to bring the prince whatever he wants. He’s been so horribly—that is, he has been quite sad and we all wish him well, but—”

“Out with it.”

“Since Prince Daemon’s squire left he won’t stop crying. Again,” she blurted. “The queen says we must give him whatever he wants, and he has asked for you, and if you don’t come—”

An order from the queen and a rebuff from the princess. No wonder the maid looked so afraid.

Much of Rhaenyra wanted to turn away from the girl, slip into the tunnels, and listen in on Otto’s council meeting. Would that be the shrewder thing to do? But she had worked hard to keep Alicent close enough, even when the woman revealed herself a fool at best and an enemy at worst. And if one of her household was beholden to Rhaenyra…

“What is your name?” she asked the girl.

The maid’s head shot up at the question. “Alayne, princess.”

“And you care for the children?”

“Yes, princess. I do my best to care for both. I have a daughter of my own, you see, near the same age as the little princess and—” She snapped her mouth shut as though she knew she had started to ramble.

“Good. It is good for children to have those who care around them,” Rhaenyra said. Alayne just stared at her, clearly with no idea what to say to that. Rhaenyra smiled a little, and the woman smiled back, even more tentatively. “I will go with you to see my half-brother.”

Alayne’s shoulders slumped. “Oh, thank you so much, Princess.”

Rhaenyra accepted her thanks and then walked with her toward the royal nursery, where her murderer awaited her.

Prince Aegon was red in the face when she arrived, but not crying. He’d cried himself out, Alayne whispered as they walked inside. The boy did not look up at the sound of her voice. He sat on a plush carpet that had been in the royal nursery since she was only a little older than Aegon was. Daemon had brought it back from Qarth, and she remembered laying on it with him and tracing the lines of the embroidered stars as they streaked across the carpet, woven in colors of the hazy pre-dawn sky. They’d made a story for each shooting star. She’d left the carpet behind so that she could do the same with her brother, but he’d been born already dead.

Aegon’s pudgy hands gripped a wooden dragon, painted silver-blue, and he moved it from star to star like it was flying.

He looked so terribly sad.

She didn’t know what to say. She had felt awkward and bitter around Alicent’s children to begin with, and that was before she knew that one of them would grow to kill her—might grow to kill her, she corrected herself, for their future was not written yet as Aegon’s parents’ was. How did one speak to a child? How did one speak to this child, a squalling, angry brat? One whose soul had been torn when his dragon egg died?

Rhaenyra opened her mouth but no words came out.

And then Aegon looked up.

His entire face lit up when he smiled. “Nyra!” he screeched. He climbed to his feet and lurched toward her unsteadily, still clasping the wooden dragon. “Nyra! Nyra, Galifox!” He shoved the wooden dragon into her stomach as he reached her.

“Ow! Aegon!” she snapped, and his little face fell.

Rhaenyra heaved a sigh. “It’s alright, little prince,” she said. “Come sit with me.”

She did not sit on the carpet. She could not make herself do that, not when she remembered being not yet seven years old and telling Daemon everything she would teach her baby brother as they sat together in this very room. Instead, Rhaenyra climbed onto one of the divans in the corner, wide and cushioned.

“These are better pillows than mine,” she muttered to Aegon and the boy dropped his dragon to pick one of the smaller ones up and shove it at her. She laid it on her lap and rested her hands atop it. “Who is that?” she asked, gesturing to the dragon.

“Galifox,” Aegon said, picking it back up again and swooping it through the air.

Gaelithox, she almost corrected, but didn’t. “Where did he come from?”

“Aegon Too,” he said. “Egg. He gave it.” That at least got him to smile again.

Egg had given the little usurper a present. Rhaenyra wanted to smile at the thought of Egg and also frown. Where was he right now? Where was Daemon? Were they safe? She pushed the thought away. “A very nice present.”

“Egg is my friend,” Aegon said, clearer than anything she’d ever heard him say before.

“Me too,” she replied. Aegon landed his dragon on her leg and she bopped it on the nose. Her half-brother giggled. “I miss him,” she admitted quietly.

“We friends,” Aegon said. “Egg said I’m your friend.”

“Egg said what?”

Aegon nodded and did not repeat himself. “Galifox of Moon and Stars!” he cried and leapt off the divan, flying his dragon across the room and looking back every few moments to see if she was following.

So she did.

It was her half-brother who did most of the playing. Rhaenyra listened to his chatter as indulgently as she could, while in the back of her mind wondering what Egg had meant, telling the prince to be her friend. Was he trying to change things? Win the usurper to her side? That could not possibly work, Rhaenyra thought helplessly, watching the little prince walk so carefully at the edge of the carpet’s border. If he slipped off, he would fall into the sea, he’d told her seriously, with a fearful look in his eyes that made her wonder just what part of the unborn Sunfyre’s death he’d felt.

She had not been there long when Alicent entered the room.

The maids all hopped to attention, bowing their heads low. Aegon stopped his play, falling off the carpet into the sea and dropping his dragon to his side. “Mama!” he called loudly.

But Alicent barely spared him a glance. “Rhaenyra?” she asked, looking between her and her son. “What are you doing here?”

There it was, that fear in her eyes again. Why, Rhaenyra wanted to ask. Why are you afraid of me when it would be your son to kill mine, your son to kill me?

“Prince Aegon asked for me,” she said, trying to keep her voice as even and pleasant as she could.

The queen looked down at her son. “Why…” Whatever thought she had, she thought better of speaking it, for instead she looked again to Rhaenyra. “Thank you for indulging him, Rhaenyra, but really, it isn’t necessary.”

This from the woman who had ordered his every whim indulged? “Alicent—”

“He is spoiled enough already. He hardly needs you as a role model.” As soon as the words were out, Alicent looked as though she wished to call them back.

“Spoiled?” Rhaenyra asked. She almost wanted to laugh. She had been called such before, of course, and it was true enough. Daemon had always encouraged her greedy desires, her hot temper, for they were dragons, after all. Her father had complained her uncle spoiled her rotten, but he had done his share as well. He had given her whatever she wanted, except his support and his honesty, just as Aegon was given anything he screamed for, except, apparently, his sister.

“I did not mean—”

“Did you not?” Rhaenyra asked.

“It has been a hard day,” Alicent replied. That much was not a lie. She looked gray with weariness and her nails were bloodied. “My father—”

She cut herself off. A part of Rhaenyra wanted to offer her comfort, both to glean information of Otto’s thoughts and also because it was still instinct, somewhere deep inside, to care for Alicent. She wondered if that had ever left Aegon’s mother, if perhaps birthing a dead daughter had purged her of the remnants of this stupid, stubborn love? She hoped it took less than that. Because loving someone so oblivious to the damage she caused did nothing but hurt her inside.

She thought of Daemon’s words about her father. He will not allow himself to be strong. Perhaps he and Alicent were more suited for one another than she had thought.

“Yes, your father must be quite worried with the king indisposed.”

Alicent’s eyes snapped back to hers. “He is with Princess Rhaenys. Why… Do you know anything, Rhaenyra?”

Rhaenyra reached out and ran her fingers through her brother’s silver-gold hair, then patted him on the top of the head. “No,” she said to Alicent, a truth she hoped sounded just like a lie. “Good day, my queen.” Rhaenyra dipped her head respectfully and left the room.

Chapter Text

“The dreams begin with lights,” Viserys said, “and then they all go out.”

Rhaenys watched him with clear, focused eyes. There was no trace of mockery within her, but still he almost shrank from her gaze. She was weighing every word. He thought of Daemon, who so often seemed to judge him weak, and realized that Rhaenys like as not felt the same.

He took a breath and tried to still the tremor in his hands. “Each of them is different, but in all of them, I can see nothing. I believe I’m in a cave, deep underground, but I don’t know why I think that. Some voices I know: Rhaenyra’s, Daemon’s, yours. Mine. Some I don’t. There’s a man from the North, an old man, children. Ten children, at least.” His still-shaking hand reached for his wine and almost knocked it over. He gulped the rest of it down. “And then I hear them die.”

“What do they say?”

“A girl speaks of spools of black and spools of green. A boy screams for Arrax in a storm.”

“The god, or a dragon?”

“A dragon. He is running from another boy.” He hesitated before saying the rest, but he made himself say it, little though he wanted to. “One who commands Vhagar.”

There was only one way for that boy to claim Vhagar—it meant Laena was dead. Rhaenys needed only an instant to understand. He let out a breath. He tried to think of something to say to comfort Rhaenys, but her eyes were even steelier now.

“Go on,” she ordered, and the king obeyed.

“Some of it is clearer than others. There are voices from far away, the old man, a sad prince, someone saying to burn them all, whatever that means. Rhaenyra and Daemon are always the clearest. It’s as though he’s right next to me. I hear his final breath. And she…” He faltered.

“What about Rhaenyra, Viserys?”

He shook his head, her screams still echoing in his ears. They never went away, no matter how long he’d been awake. “There’s another boy. I swear I know him, but I don’t know how. He says his mother was burned alive in front of him.” He looked up at Rhaenys and could hardly see her through the tears welling in his eyes. “It’s Rhaenyra. His mother is Rhaenyra. She burns, Rhaenys. And I think it’s my fault.”

“Viserys.” Her hand reached for his and squeezed. “You’ve been given a warning. We shall heed it, together.”

He nodded, and with his three-fingered hand he wiped away his tears. “I don’t know when any of this happens. Why can’t I see anything?”

“I would think that was obvious, your Grace,” she said with a pointed look.

Put that way, it was. “I cannot see because I fail to see. But what do I fail to see?”

“That I do not know. Not yet.” Though she had said she had not come for wine, she reached for it and poured herself a measure. “What else do they say in the dream? Daemon and Rhaenyra?”

“‘The blood of the dragon runs thick,’” Viserys quoted. “And yet he also says he needs nothing from me.”

“Daemon is prickly when slighted.” Her tone was mild. She’d done this countless times in their youth, speaking to one for the other, trying to make Daemon see reason, trying to make Viserys understand Daemon’s chaos, as though he did not understand it better than anyone else.

He ignored her. “Rhaenyra says she needs him.” Oh and how that burned, to hear her beg her uncle for aid, as though he, her father, had abandoned her. Why would Rhaenyra think she would have to stand alone against—“The greens.”

“The greens?”

“Rhaenyra says to Daemon that she cannot face the greens alone.” He repeated her words in the same Valyrian she’d spoken them in the dream, his pronunciation a little stilted. He looked over at Rhaenys, clad in leather, silver, and sea-green. “Is there another translation for that? ‘Kasta’?

“You think it is us,” Rhaenys said instead of answering. Her voice was hard, angry—a colder anger than most of their blood, but ready to be unleashed. She plucked at her shirt. “The Greens Rhaenyra had to face. You believe them my family.”

“I don’t,” he argued weakly, only half a lie. He was not certain what to think. Rhaenys had come; why would she come if her husband and son were plotting war? Why would Lord Corlys have conspired with Daemon to lend his children as witness to his marriage? If the seeds of war were sown, what sense did that make?

“But you did.”

“Rhaenys…”                                                                                                            

“Is that why you called for me?”

“No,” he said. “I called for you because we must be united against… whatever comes. My council speaks of alliances your husband makes and of his moves in this game of thrones, but I know you are not my enemy. In the dream, you also stood alone. I would not have that for you, or for Rhaenyra.”

She kept her eyes level with his for a long moment. This time he held her gaze.

Finally, she gave a sharp nod. “‘Kasta’ could also be ‘Blues’.”

But even as she said it, he knew that was wrong. “It’s Greens. Spools of black, spools of green.”

“Two factions.” Rhaenys sipped her wine. “Rhaenyra leads the Blacks.”

“If not the Velaryons,” Viserys said, “then who are the Greens? Do the Tyrells somehow claim dragons before my death? You can see why I thought… what I did.”

“It is not my family alone who might strike against Rhaenyra. Have you thought of that?”

In truth, he found the possibility too ugly to contemplate. “They are but babes,” he said, “and one yet unborn.”

“Ten children in your dream, you said. Many of those too are yet unborn.”

“Rhaenyra’s children,” he murmured. At war with mine, he thought, then shook his head rapidly. “It cannot be Alicent’s children. Aegon shuns anything to do with dragons that is not the toy his cousin brought him. And why green? Such is not favored by their mother’s house, nor ours.”

“Still, what I said about a male heir supplanting a woman remains true. The largest threat to Rhaenyra’s reign is not from my children, but from yours. My husband does not have a dragon. And plot though he may, all he plots is our daughter’s marriage, to strengthen our ties with the Free Cities in case the Triarchy rises again. He would have liked to see me on the throne, and our son after me. But what man wouldn’t want his blood on the throne? As for my children… I know not what the future will bring, Viserys, but I tell you true—my children would not strike against Rhaenyra. Not at all, but especially not with Daemon beside her.”

“If Daemon is to be beside her,” Viserys muttered.

Rhaenys rolled her eyes. “You say you want her to rule after you, but what have you done to ensure it? Does she sit in your council? Does she rule at Dragonstone? Did those lords who sought her hand pay obeisance to you heir, or did they seek a lady for their keeps? Rhaenyra is a woman grown, who was given leave to choose her consort, and you would take that choice away. What sort of queen do you believe she’ll be if she cannot even decide who to wed and bed?”

“They are too much the same, Daemon and Rhaenyra,” Viserys argued. “They are reckless, chaotic. I would have a steadying influence beside her, not one wont to flood my streets with blood.”

“If there is to be a war, you want Daemon at her side, little though you like it. Accept it,” she demanded, her words clipped and icy, “and move on.”

“You do not understand,” Viserys snapped. “You do not have a brother.”

“If I had a brother, he’d be on the throne.” She arched a brow, and let the not you go unspoken.

“And you would not vex him the way Daemon vexes me.”

“Do you believe it a coincidence that your dreams began the very night they wed? Why was it that Rhaenyra said you would damn us all? To what was she responding?” Rhaenys demanded. He did not have to answer. She clearly already knew. “Viserys, it is not Rhaenyra alone who is at stake if the Iron Throne is threatened. A Targaryen must rule in Westeros, else you know what one day will happen. These dreams are given to us for a reason. They are warnings from the gods.” She had said that twice—that their dreams were warnings. He opened his mouth to reply, but she continued before he could speak. “Do you want her on the throne after you?”

“Of course I—”

“Do you? Even if it means Daemon is beside her? Perhaps that is what the dreams warn—that you disinherit her and it is Daemon who starts the war at your death, as Maegor rose up against his own nephew Aegon. That is what your council calls him, is it not? A Second Maegor?”

Faced with that so baldly, Viserys found he could not believe it. Daemon would go to war for the promise of a lemon cake, he thought, but that did not feel true to the dream. And to disinherit Rhaenyra? He had wavered only once in the years since he had named her his heir, and he believed still what he believed then: she was meant for the throne. But if it would cause a war…

“I—” He stopped speaking as quickly as he’d begun. “I do not know.”

Rhaenys frowned. She looked disappointed, though he did not understand why. “Regardless. Princes yet born cannot wage war. You have time, as Aenar had before the Doom. Perhaps things shall become clear.”

Viserys wanted to argue that could not wait, not with the voices of his family screaming in his ears every night. Rhaenyra… How many nights would he hear her die? He wanted to clutch his little girl to him now, even as he wanted to rage at the woman she had become for her recklessness. And Daemon…

Daemon had died for his dragon queen. Viserys knew it down to his bones, somehow. His brother. Dead.

The fight went out of him. His shoulders slumped and he nodded. “Time,” he said. It was what he’d asked for, after all. He looked up at Rhaenys. “You will stay?”

Her lips pursed. “As long as you bathe.”

She excused herself when the servants came with a tub of hot water, but she did not go far. After he bathed and dressed, Rhaenys entered his chambers again.

“Your Grace, it seems your council is meeting.”

“I called no meeting.”

“I have heard tell that your Hand is greatly alarmed by your refusal to see anyone during the last few days. He called the meeting.”

A frisson of annoyance shot through Viserys. The Hand could call the council to order, surely, but he should do so to complete the work of the kingdom, not fret about the king. “Shall we join them, my lady?” Viserys asked her, sliding his glove onto his three-fingered hand.

“I would be glad to, your Grace.”

His council was most surprised when he announced Princess Rhaenys would be joining them as an advisor. Otto smoothed his look of confusion quickly, but Mellos could not, gaping at him. Viserys wondered if Ser Tyland had spent too much time around his brother of late, for the man’s green eyes seemed to glimmer with amusement at the upset Viserys had caused. The meeting did not last much longer.

After the councilors left, Rhaenys said, “You should see your daughter, your Grace.”

Viserys swallowed hard. He wanted nothing more than to see Rhaenyra. But still… “How am I to face her? With her screams in my mind? With no answers to give her?”

“Answers can wait,” Rhaenys replied. “She needs her father.”

But when he looked for her, he could not find her. He would try again on the morrow, he told himself, and pushed away the thought that he was a coward. He had done this before, after the death of her mother, shied away from her when he did not know what to say. They had never overcome the harm. Yet still, he could not bring himself to do more. Not today.

That night he dined with Rhaenys. He kept picking at his capon until the hour was late and his eyes were heavy, but he had no want to sleep. Rhaenys surely knew it, but finally she stood to leave the table, no matter that the king had not given his leave to go.

Rhaenys squeezed his hand. “Goodnight, dear cousin.”

He opened his mouth to say goodnight, but instead he asked, “Do you think I will dream tonight?” Even to his own ears, his voice sounded pitiful.

Rhaenys let his hand go and left without an answer, for in truth, they both already knew it. He would dream that night, screams of pain and death following him into his waking world.

The king dreamed his dragon dreams for the next twelve days, and then never again.

Chapter Text

Aegon sat crossed legged on the ground, facing the bleeding weirwood tree.

Autumn had almost come to the Riverlands. The wind swept through the trees with a little more bite than they did farther south, as though warning the pines and sentinels that winter was on its way from the North. The acolyte who was charged with aiding his lessons had said the Citadel thought the autumn would be a short one. Aegon cared not for maesters other than Gerardys, but he knew in this they were right. Jace had been born the last moon of autumn, nearly one year hence.

Aegon closed his eyes and listened to the whispers of the trees. He didn’t understand way they were saying. He wasn’t sure he ever understood much of anything.

When he opened his eyes, tree still bled.

Had his father marked the tree in anger? The marks looked so deliberate, tick marks counting the days the same way Jace and Luke had counted each of ones victories against the other, carved into a pole in the yard. But Daemon Targaryen’s anger was just like the dragon he had ridden—perfectly controlled until violence was needed. Aegon would give anything to ask his father about these slashes that had followed him back in time. But then he had given everything to be here, hadn’t he? Here where he had a Daemon, if not his own. A father, if not the one who raised him.

“I think they will never heal. I think they’ll bleed until the darkness comes and takes us all.”

He’d heard her walking toward him this time. Just a crinkle of fallen pine needles, but he knew. “Lady Alys.”

She moved into his field of vision, watching him with her dark eyes. She half smiled. “I’m no lady.”

“I was being polite.”

She raised her brows and smiled fully. “You’re very polite when you’re not accusing me of arson and kinslaying.”

“Apologies,” he said, dipping his head. “That was ill done.”

“I am a bastard and a witch, or so they say. Many thought it. You were the only brave enough to say it, Dragon Egg. It did take me aback.”

“I know it wasn’t you.”

“Your lord father has assured me of such. In his way, that is.”

Aegon would like to have listened to that conversation. But Daemon had spent the day without him, questioning Alys and looking through the newly-ruined halls of the old ruin Harrenhal. Leonora had whispered to him that Daemon had asked to see the bodies of the dead. That made chills prickle up and down his arms, and had come here rather than speak of such gruesome things with a girl that reminded him too much of Joff.

Alys settled beside him. “You know why they’re here. Those wounds.”

“I don’t,” he said, and he wasn’t lying.

“You know something.” She would take his silence as confessions, but he stayed quiet anyway. “The prince had questions for me. He asked about where a witch might conduct her craft. Places she might find powerful. What she might want with the objects she stole. He asked the questions but hardly believed anything I said.”

He believed. Aegon knew he believed, for Aegon himself was proof. But it went against Daemon’s nature to believe in anything he could not feel or see.

Alys continued. “I told him he should be careful. And I told him he should leave you here.”

“No!” Aegon snapped. “I have to go with him.”

“He thinks the same. But listen to me, Dragon Egg. The person you’re dealing with is no healer. No harmless woodswitch. Those rusty nails mean nothing good, and the flowers she stole from me are from a ghost tree. Do you understand?” He shook his head. She sighed, clearly frustrated. “She’s killing people, Aegon. Or plans to.”

He swallowed hard. “What do you think she wants?”

“I couldn’t say.”

He narrowed his eyes. “There’s something you’re not saying.”

“A secret for a secret?” she asked. He nodded. “The day these wounds appeared, I saw her. The hooded figure, here in the godswood. I didn’t know who she was, so I went after her, but my labors began and—”

“Your labors?”

“I gave birth that day. To Bethany, my daughter. Too early, but she lives. And then after… I saw her again. Watching me. I could only see her eyes.” Alys cocked her head. “Your turn.”

“I’m very afraid of what will happen when we find her.”

“I don’t think that’s a very good secret, Dragon Egg.”

He shook his head. She didn’t understand. He didn’t fear the magics the other Alys cast. No, he had been on the other end of that already. He wasn’t afraid of what she would do. It was what she would say that he feared. “It’s the biggest secret I have.”

“I think your father will protect you,” she said. “He does have a dragon.”

Aegon wondered the laugh he gave sounded broken to Alys. “He does, that’s true.”

Alys leaned back on her hands and cast her eyes to the swaying branches above them. “A dragon prince. You know, I never met a prince before. I don’t suppose I’ll meet another.”

He hoped, deeply, that she was right.

“We’re leaving tomorrow.”

Aegon looked up from the blade of his dagger as Daemon entered the room. He would not have a dull blade on hand for this hunt. He’d know they would be leaving soon; they had tarried two days longer than he’d thought they would. Daemon did not say it directly, but Aegon suspected he’d been waiting for Lord Strong to die. But he’d be left to wait years longer, it seemed; the entire castle’s mood had lifted when Lyonel Strong had awoken and the maester determined him near certain to live. And now…

“We go to Riverrun,” Daemon finished.

“Will Ser Harwin be with us as well?”

“He will, and ten of the household’s knights.”

So many men could not fit upon Caraxes’ saddle. “We go ahorse?”

Daemon nodded. “Viserys wanted me to settle things in the Riverlands. A royal visit will go a way toward mollifying even Lord Grover, and after we will find him his culprit. And our own quarry while we’re at it.”

They left at dawn. It was nine days to Riverrun on horseback. Daemon had a fine seat and Harwin had provided them good horses, but Aegon nearly laughed at the frustration Daemon had at the end of each day with how slowly it took to get anywhere. He could not remember ever seeing his own father on horseback for more than short stretches in training.

“I don’t think your father finds your amusement very amusing, Egg,” Harwin said the third night at dinner, in a theatrical whisper. His comment won him a baleful look from Daemon’s narrowed eyes. For a moment, sitting between Daemon and Harwin, Egg found he could shake off the worry that plagued him and he giggled.

But the moment did not last. That night, he dreamt of his father—his true father—and when he woke, Aegon remembered all the things he’d said in the dream, all the ways Aegon had disappointed him, from not taking into account what Alys might gain for her aid to the reason he stepped into the godswood that night to begin with to abandoning the throne his dead family had won for him.

He woke at a touch from Daemon’s hand. “Aegon,” he said quietly, the question obvious if unsaid.

Aegon gave a short, sharp nod as though to answer that he was well, but curled into his blanket rather than rise, even though he could see the gray-blue of the dawn creeping up into the sky.

He was not a Dreamer, as Daenys had been, but he knew regardless that his dream was true. His father would never forgive him his weakness if he were here to see it. Daemon Targaryen had died in battle, fighting to his very last breath. If not for Alys, Aegon would have breathed his last breath in the godswood of the Red Keep, and still he was not sorry for it.

He dreamt of his mother the next night. One of the men japed that he must have been dreaming of the ghost to cry so loudly in his sleep. Aegon thought about telling Daemon, who wipe the ugly smile from the man’s face, but in the end he didn’t. The man wasn’t wrong; Aegon had plenty of ghosts to dream about.

As they went, smallfolk emerged to cheer Daemon’s name and tell them their tales of the ghost. A boy claimed the ghost took his mother’s good red shoes, and a girl that she saw her flying on a broomstick across the moon. One woman said the ghost stole her infant daughter’s soul and left a rotting body behind, and a farmer that he saw ghostly lights dancing on a high, windswept hill.

When they made camp on the fifth day of their journey, Aegon did not join Daemon at the fire, instead curling up beside a long hollow log, his back to the flames even though the sound of it spitting and hissing made his stomach roil. He didn’t think he could see it. Not after—

Daemon settled beside him. Aegon knew it was him from the steps that brought him close and the fading smell of dragon on his riding clothes. He craned his neck back to look at him. “Do you miss Rhaenyra?” he asked.

Daemon nodded. “Do you?”

“Both of them,” Aegon said, then turned away again.

That night in his dreams Tyland Lannister said he was a coward, and his mother and father agreed. Egg woke to the sight of his father slipping away into the night, his hair made of moonlight and his face cast in shadow. Aegon wanted to cry for him to take him with him, but his father had died a hero’s death and would always leave a craven like him behind.

At Riverrun, Lord Grover Tully feasted them as though they had come on a royal procession, not due to whatever specter he had grown so angry about. Egg was originally seated far from the high table, as a bastard and a mere squire. He wouldn’t have minded so much if he stayed there, but Daemon would allow no such thing, demanding his squire be sat beside him and Harwin with Lord Tully and his heir. Lord Tully was as gracious as a pinched old man could be, his heir Lord Elmo flat and dry, but Egg marveled when his great-grandson Kermit was presented. A babe a mere nine months old! Aegon remembered his clever grin, the way he and Ser Oscar had honored their murdered queen no matter who was looking on or what peace was being brokered, and wondered if he’d grow up the same.

It was not long before talk turned to the ghost.

“It terrorizes Fairmarket now,” Lord Grover said, even as Elmo looked like he wanted to shush his father. “Such wickedness spreads out from Harrenhal.”

Beside him, Harwin tensed. Aegon nearly laid a hand on his arm to calm him, but before he could, Daemon did instead.

“That,” he said, raising his voice above the din in Riverrun’s great hall, “is why Ser Harwin and I have come.” The knights and ladies crowded into the hall were quieting now, turning their eyes toward the prince. “The crown heard of your troubles, my lord. Ser Harwin is foremost among mine own Gold Cloaks, his men all knights of great renown, and I… I was bade come by the Princess of Dragonstone herself, who holds each of these Seven Kingdoms as dear to her heart as she does her own kin. We shall rip those terrorizing your lands out root and stem, for what is a ghost when faced with a dragon?”

“To the dragons!” one of Harwin’s nights shouted and the rest of the room echoed him.

“And to Princess Rhaenyra!” Lord Elmo called, his shoulders only relaxing when his toast received an approving nod from Daemon. As they cheered the princess, Aegon heard the echo of his father’s voice, speaking to Jace and Addam at the Painted Table. A Tully is always most biddable when a dragon is near. He hid his snort with the tankard of ale someone had passed him and picked at the carrots around the roast boar he was served.

They slept at Riverrun that night. Daemon was given rooms befitting his standing, and Aegon sprawled out on his fine feather bed, tired of sleeping on the ground.

“Why did we not ride Caraxes?” Aegon asked as Daemon scrawled a missive at the desk.

“A dragon attracts attention. I wanted to be able to be unnoticed, if desired. Our men will ride hard for Fairmarket in the morning, waving the banners of House Targaryen and House Strong.”

“But we shall not go there?”

He shook his head. “Our ghost is not in Fairmarket. It is a group of bandits there, using the ghost to strike fear. We will find the true ghost." A roll of his eyes showed what he thought of that appellation. Alys spoke of likely places a witch might make her lair. We passed the right one already.”

Aegon scooted closer and rose to his knees. “You found her?”

“I scouted a few nights ago, and saw strange lights on that hill. The one that farmer mentioned.”

He had not dreamt it then, Daemon’s shadowy form sliding from camp. Egg didn’t understand. “But how do you know it’s her?”

Daemon sealed his letter then leaned toward Egg. “Dragonglass and weirwood, you said. The magic of our gods and the gods of the First Men. The hill that farmer spoke of is sacred to the Old Gods, for there is a ring of weirwood stumps there. It’s long been thought to be haunted.” He shrugged. “Now I suppose it is.”

Egg shivered at that. They would find her soon, then, Alys. His Alys.

Daemon misunderstood his fear. “We are in no danger. Caraxes might not ride with us, but he is not far.”

Aegon was better with the dragons now, but he was not sure he would ever be the sort to think the presence of a dragon made one safe. He nodded anyway.

The next morning, a mile out from Riverrun, Ser Emmon Darry took charge of the knights and rode for Fairmarket, pledging to bring back any who broke the king’s peace.

“I do not require the whole of them,” Daemon said, “only their heads.”

And so Ser Emmon promised his prince heads.

Daemon’s party—made up of himself, Aegon, Harwin, and two men Harwin vouched for with his life—rode southeast, toward the hill Daemon thought Alys Rivers had made her own.

Without banners and with a cloak over Daemon’s hair, no smallfolk came out to greet them as they rode. They kept a quick clip, but it was still well past dusk on the third day when they arrived at their destination.

The hill rose high into the sky. They’d been able to see it for miles, the only hill in acres of flat, green land. And at its summit, Aegon saw what the farmer had spoken of, a sennight before. Ghostly light in the dark of the night. But he recognized that light.

“A glass candle,” Aegon murmured.

Daemon’s eyes shifted to him and he nodded, his mouth tight. “All of you,” the prince ordered, “wait here. See to our horses.”

“My prince,” Harwin said quietly, “I would come with you if you would allow it.”

“I said, wait here.”

Harwin did not back down, even at the coldness of Daemon’s voice. “You do not know what that thing will do.”

“You do not know what that thing is.”

“I would still come with you.”

Their eyes stayed locked for a long moment. Aegon wanted to tell Daemon to make Harwin stay here, that Harwin couldn’t know what it was he and Alys had done, but before he could figure out how to say it, Daemon gave a short nod.

The three of them climbed.

The top of the hill was crowned with weirwood stumps, just as Daemon had said. He thought he could nearly sprawl out on each one the way he did on the bed back at Riverrun, and only the tips of his toes would hang over. No other trees had grown at the top of this hill, as though all the other trees knew no simple sapling could replace such a grove that some wicked men had felled.

In the middle of the ring, the glass candle burned.

A woman sat beside it, her head bowed low. She murmured words to herself, but Aegon could not hear them from where she was. Close beside her, there was the remains of a firepit, something spitted across it, as badly burnt as the wood in the pit.

Slowly, slowly, the glass candle burned out, and Aegon took a step forward. Daemon’s breath hissed a warning and Aegon swore he could hear the shifting of his hand on Dark Sister’s hilt, but he did not try to stop him.

Aegon approached slowly. Whatever she was cooking had been charred to bone and the smell made Aegon’s stomach cramp and heart pound, but he did not stop until he stood before her.

Alys Rivers looked up at him. She looked the same as she had before, more herself somehow than the younger version of her, her black eyes keen and dark. She tipped her head in a bow that did not seem entirely mocking. “Your Grace,” she said, then her eyes slipped past him, to Daemon and Harwin. “It’s about time.”

Chapter Text

The morning they left Harrenhal, Alys Rivers had crept into his chamber before first light.

She looked like a ghost, clad in a thin gray shift and sticking to the shadows. For a moment, Daemon thought she meant to seduce him. In days past, he would have eagerly been seduced, but he found his mouth opening to send her away.

Before he could, she said, “You did not listen to me before. About the danger you face.”

“Did I not?”

“Not well enough. Only a fool doesn’t listen to good counsel.”

He was a prince of the blood; he could have killed her for that. "What is your counsel, my lady?”

“Take your dragon and your son and leave the Riverlands.”

“Your king has charged me to put a stop to this ghost.”

Her thin lips pursed. “There’s something different. There’s something… wrong.”

“That is why we’re here.”

“No. It’s not that. I see things sometimes. Glimmers, like a reflection on the God’s Eye.” She walked closer to the bed, her hair a dark cloud around her pale, worried face. “Your son—”

Whatever flashed across his face stopped her words. She sucked in a shaking breath instead, her eyes full of the caution she should have had when she entered the room.

After a long pause, Alys said, “Be careful with him, my prince. I fear this witch will bring naught but harm to him.”

He had listened to her words before, but those last ones haunted him. They rang in his ears as Aegon walked toward the witch. Dark Sister was solid and sharp at Daemon’s side, his hand too tight on her grip. You’ll lose movement if you hold your sword that tight, his uncle’s voice murmured in his memory. He’d said those same words to Aegon, not a moon past.

He would let no harm come to him.

The witch lifted her head from the candle’s dulling glow and Daemon felt as though a fist had slammed into his gut. Alys Rivers. It was her. Older, surely, but she had the same thin lips, the same dark hair. She did not look so fearsome, just a comely woman sitting on a stone in the moonlight, wearing a neat blue dress and red leather shoes.

Until he looked in her eyes.

Daemon opened his mouth to speak, but the witch beat him to it. “Your Grace,” she said, bowing her head to her king. She looked past Aegon to Daemon. “It’s about time.”

“Alys?” Ser Harwin asked. “But—”

“Harwin. I almost forgot your face,” the older Alys said, sounding almost fond, then gestured to the stones across from her. “Come closer, you two. There’s much to say, and I’m not going to yell.”

When Aegon sat, Daemon started toward him. Beside him, Harwin hissed, “Daemon, who is she? What—” Daemon ignored him and walking. After a beat, Harwin did too.

“You tricked me,” was the first thing Aegon said.

“No, I didn’t. You were desperate and asked no questions. A very foolish thing for anyone to do, much less a king.”

“A king?” Harwin asked.

“Aegon Targaryen,” Alys replied, her voice a little playful and her eyes on Aegon, as though she were sharing some private joke with the boy, “Third of His Name. Protector of the Realm.”

“I thought you claimed my titles for your son.” Aegon’s voice was sharp as glass.

“My son is dead. Thus his kingdom is yours. You outlived them all, didn’t you? Though not anymore. Or does it count still as outliving if none of them will ever be born? This could drive you mad, couldn’t it?” Alys shrugged her shoulders. “I suppose we’re both already a little mad.”

“What do you want?” Daemon demanded, tired of her smile already.

“First of all, to be thanked, my prince. It was no simple thing to kill your wife. I was surprised; you seemed to do it with ease in our time.”

To kill your wife.

“Rhea died from a fall.”

She gave him a pitying look, like she found him a fool to believe such a thing. “It was not difficult to spook her horse, but even with a crushed skull the woman lived on. Killing her after that was more complicated. A stubborn woman, your Bronze Bitch. A shame to kill her, honestly. But I needed to get your attention.” She huffed a breath. “And not even that did it. I’ve learned it’s is no small thing, getting a Targaryen’s attention. Aemond was much easier than you or your brother, Daemon.”

He felt cold all over suddenly. “My brother?”

Alys laughed. “Oh, you look as though you want to strike me dead. I’ve done nothing to harm Viserys. I swear it.”

He did not believe her. But before he could say anything else, Aegon was speaking. “I don’t understand. Why does this matter to you? Sending us back, killing Rhea, why do any of it? Is it because of your son? Did… did you want Aemond back? I don’t—” Aegon’s voice broke. Daemon wanted to pull him close, but his son held himself as tight and still as Daemon himself did, and would not welcome the touch.

“You really are a child, aren’t you? It’s all about the ones you love. You would have done anything for a chance to see them again. I could have asked for your crown. For a castle. For a dragon. And you would have found a way to give it to me.”

“I had no dragons to give,” Aegon said.

“That’s the problem, Aegon. The dragons were dead.” The witch rose to her feet and stretched, black hair spilling down her back. Daemon and Harwin both moved to rise as she did but she held a hand up to them. “Stay where you are.” She walked toward the firepit and crouched before the burnt meat. She hmmed at something she saw as she poked at it, then glanced back over at them. “It’s a rat. I think I overcooked it.”

Daemon was beginning to think that she had not been lying when she said she was a little bit mad.

She spoke as she worked the rat corpse off the spit and tossed it away. “This did all begin with my son. He died of the Winter Fever, at the very end of it. I couldn’t believe he even fell ill. Targaryens do not get sick, Aemond said. And he was all Targaryen, my son. Aemond wanted the boy named for his kin, bastard get though he was. So I named him Maegor when he was born.” She smirked and whispered, “Aemond would have hated that.”

Daemon had lived with tales of this dreaded future in his head since the night the three of them had found Aegon in Flea Bottom. He and Rhaenyra believed the story; they had for months now. But there was something different in hearing it all in Alys’ voice. It sent a shiver up his spine, and he straightened it as though that could ward off the chill.

“I’ve always been talented in the healing arts. I saved many children from the sweats and women in the birthing bed with my skills. With my spells. But Maegor… I couldn’t save him. I hadn’t realized until then how different things were. It was like treading through mud to make a simple charm. I did not know why. So I began to look for answers, and I found them.”

“My prince,” Ser Harwin began, “I don’t—”

“Of course you don’t understand.” All of the warmth was stripped from her voice. She strode back to them, sitting and folding her hands in front of her. “They don’t understand either. Not one of them. I watched Aemond burn the world around me, but the fire’s not what we should fear. It’s the ice.”

From my blood comes the prince that was promised, Daemon remembered. And his shall be the song of ice and fire.

“This is madness,” Harwin said, looking back and forth between Aegon and Alys, and then to Daemon. “There is no Targaryen called Aemond and my sister is back at Harrenhal and Egg—”

“Aegon was a king. One who gave up everything to save his parents.”

Harwin’s mouth snapped shut and he leaned back. He still looked between the three of them. Daemon could not blame him for the confusion on his face or the alarm in his eyes. Madness, Daemon thought. Harwin wasn’t wrong.

“When the dragons began to die, so did magic. And the more I learned, the more I saw… We need that magic.” She looked down at her hands. “I need it.”

“So you came back with him,” Daemon said.

“Stopping the war saves the dragons, and I’d rather Rhaenyra the Cruel on the throne than Aegon the Drunken. I thought there were even odds that the boy would sneak into Keep and murder everyone with Hightower blood. I would have preferred that. Faster than whatever it is you’ve been doing.”

“How do you know what we’ve been doing?”

“I see things.” She tipped her head back, looking up into the bright, starry sky. “So much more now. It’s like the world is alive with the power of dragons.”

“What do you see?”

“Anything I want to. The Old Gods see all—all of the past, all the future.” She gestured to the glass candle that sat between them. “Your brother’s not much of a dreamer, but I did what I could. Showed him. Little good it did. The fate of the world rests with the Targaryens. Do you know how terrifying that is? You can’t even stop a baby from being born.”

A noise escaped Aegon, tiny, broken.

Alys looked back to the boy. “You didn’t know? The queen is with child.”

Daemon hadn’t known either. What had he called it, his distracting Viserys every night? A lazy attempt to prevent the birth of the man who would one day kill him? Too lazy, he thought as he watched Aegon’s breathing pick up speed. He should have done more. He could have done more.

“I’m not afraid of some Hightower whelp,” Daemon said.

“That Hightower whelp killed your stepson, burned half the Riverlands, and nearly ended the male line of my family. I had hoped he might be avoided.”

“Why did you want us here?” Daemon snapped.

“Because you need to know what it is you’re meant to prevent. It’s not the death of your princess, or House Targaryen succumbing to Andal blood, or your pets dying out. It could mean everything dying out.” She huffed a laugh just before Daemon opened her mouth to speak. “You wouldn’t care about that, would you? You wouldn’t believe me if I spoke of prophecy. But I know what you do care about,” she said, and her eyes flicked to Aegon.

“What of him?” Daemon asked, following her gaze. He misliked the alarm flashing in his son’s eyes.

“I needed him for the spell and I needed him willing. I was not certain he would help. His uncles certainly wouldn’t have, not to bring back their parents anyway. I found him in the godswood, alone.”

“Don’t listen to her,” Aegon said, sharp, commanding. That was what he sounded like when he was king, an idle part of Daemon’s mind realized, even as he disobeyed.

“He had a Valyrian steel dagger in his hand. I needed Valyrian steel to do the work. It was…fate.” She smiled again. “And then he held it to his throat.”

He’d suspected. I just went for a walk, Aegon had said that night at Harrenhal, but Daemon had heard the lie in it. The boy had wanted to die. Bright and strong and born to a queen, with so little hope he’d been ready to spill his blood into the mud. Daemon’s chest felt so full of pain he wished he could tear it open, as if that might cause some relief. His son had wanted to die.

“But as I told him, there are better uses for kingsblood.”

That drew his gaze back to her. Aegon had said she’d used his blood to send him back, but the way she said it… “Better uses?” he asked.

“Kepa, please make her stop,” Aegon begged, but Daemon did not listen.

“The strongest magics need blood. Kingsblood is the most potent. And for a spell like this, I needed a great deal.”

“What?” Harwin asked. His voice sounded miles away, but Alys’ voice was clear and ringing in his ears.

“Aegon didn’t fight. His sister was screaming but he didn’t even flinch. I picked up the dagger and I sliced it right across his throat. He was just waiting—wanting—to die.”

Daemon’s hand was around her throat before he even knew it was moving.

Her voice wheezed a little as she said, “What can I say? Like father, like son.”

Daemon’s hand froze, fingers still gripping tight around her neck.

“What?” Egg’s voice was tiny, then a little bigger when he continued. “What does that mean?”

Alys mouth opened but no words came out. He could feel her throat work beneath his hand as she struggled for air, but the light in her eyes seemed to be amusement more than fear.

He let her go.

She sucked in air, let it back out with a broken laugh. She looked right in Daemon’s eyes as she spoke. “It was whispered everywhere. Not of the battle. That’s a thing for the singers and songs—two princes meeting to fight, neither ever leaving the God’s Eye. But the whispers… Prince Daemon, off in the Riverlands with his whore. Prince Daemon, humiliated again by his ruler, called to heel like a cur. Prince Daemon, whose last act for his queen was to die—and who wanted it that way.”

“No. No, you’re wrong.” Aegon’s voice was heating.

“Egg—” Harwin cautioned, and was ignored.

“My father didn’t want to die. He wanted to come back to us, he promised he’d come back to us!” Aegon was nearly shouting now and Daemon’s hands shook harder at each word he said. “He told Joff that he would let him hold Dark Sister and he was going to take me to see Baela and Rhaena and he told my mother he would come back!”

“But he didn’t come back,” Alys said. Aegon let out a broken cry at her words.

“Stop,” Daemon ordered.

Alys raised a brow, unafraid though she’d have bruises on her throat come morning. “Do you doubt me, my prince? You know, I was at Harrenhal when the castle fell to the Greens. All those loyal Black knights, eager to die rather than face the consequences of their allegiances. They locked we women up in the great hall, pledging to return once the battle was won. Not one of them believed they would live, and not one of them did. Every man of House Strong died that day and all I ever saw of them was bones. They had the same looks on their faces as you did when you mounted Caraxes. When we arrived, Aemond said that you had lived too long. Do you know your reply? You agreed. And then you rose into the air with your chains loosed. When you had an opening you took it, knowing you would die, and I’m sure you hit the water with a smile on your face, you craven—”

“Stop it!” Egg cried, shoving Alys back. She tripped backward, clearly not expecting a hit from the side. “You’re lying!” But he no longer sounded as if he believed that.

And Daemon knew she wasn’t.

He was not the man who read whatever orders his queen sent, just as he was not the man who left loose his chains as he went into battle. But he knew that man, had been that man just the same. He remembered the pull of his scar tissue as he rowed closer to the Crabfeeder, remembered the play of light on his brother’s words. Death or victory, he’d thought. If he’d thought both were an option, would he have taken that instead?

Aegon spun away before anyone could say anything else and darted away, running into the darkness down the hill.

Alys jabbed a finger in the direction his son had run. “That’s what your complacency caused, my prince. Hiding on Dragonstone with your wife and your children and your dragons. Letting your weak brother be led around by Green strings attached to his poxy cock.”

“I didn’t—”

“You might as well have. What have you done since you learned the truth? Killed a knight? Fucked a maiden? As if that’s enough.”

Dark Sister was half unsheathed when a hand wrapped around his forearm, stopping him. “My prince,” Harwin said. For an instant, Daemon considered killing him. Then he said, “Aegon needs you.”

Daemon pushed Dark Sister back into her sheath, though he’d rather plunge her into Alys Rivers’ heart. But Harwin was right, at least partially—Aegon needed his father.

And Daemon had never been so certain that man was him.

Chapter Text

Aegon ran down the hill, tripping with each step. Brush caught at him as he went, like it was trying to stop him, and he fought it, yanking one leg free of a thorny bush and then another from a noose made of vines. The moon in the sky looked as dark as Valyrian steel, but the stars twinkled at him, as though laughing at some private joke.

The last time he saw his father, he had been in armor. No one looked more fierce than Daemon Targaryen, clad all in black, his eyes bright and dark as he swore his sword to their queen. Even the Daemon he knew now—the one with horror on his face, with shame in his eyes—was not the man his father had been.

Good, he thought viciously, and hurdled over a jagged stone and hit the ground hard.

He had said no farewell to his father that day. Their farewells had been the night before, when his kepa had been the one to bid him goodnight instead of his muña. She had stood watch in the doorway as his father had kissed his forehead and smoothed back his hair and charged him to keep his mother safe.

“Ao kivio ñuhe tepan,” he had sworn, in the language of their ancestors. I give you my word.

He’d failed. He’d failed badly.

But so had his father, who promised to come back.

Egg felt like he was cracking in two, like if he didn’t keep running he’d break apart, like the only thing keeping him from shattering was the pounding of his feet against the ground. Another thorny branch tried to slow him and he yanked his foot away from it—

And started to fall.

He could feel the ground rising to meet his face, and his cartwheeling arms were not enough to stop it, but before he could tumble down the hill, strong hands caught his shoulders. Righted him.

“Aegon,” said his father’s voice. It was the last thing he wanted to hear.

He jerked himself away and turned to face Daemon. In the dark, this Daemon could almost be his father, but for the short hair. Aegon focused on that, instead of the familiar face.

“I’m not going back up there,” Egg said.

“You don’t have to.”

“She’s a madwoman and a murderer and you should strike her head from her shoulders.”

“I still might.”

“Why are you waiting?” Egg demanded.

He didn’t expect an answer. He already knew it; they could not yet kill Alys, not when she knew things that might help them, not when her powers were this great. That did not stop him wanting to see her dead.

“Aegon,” Daemon said. His father’s voice from his father’s mouth.

Aegon hated it.

“You know she is telling the truth, don’t you? About my father?” Egg demanded. Some dark expression flickered across Daemon’s face like a shadow, then disappeared back into the night. “I thought he would hate me. For being so craven. For trying to die and leave my sisters alone. Maybe he would. I hate him for it.”

Daemon opened his mouth, but Egg cut him off before he had to hear that voice again.

“He was so brave, my father. He would cut down a whole army, they said, if it stood between him and something he wanted. Prince of the City, King of the Narrow Sea, Daemon fucking Targaryen. But he was just a coward.” His lips tasted of salt; he was crying, he realized, and swiped his tears away roughly. “He chose to die and let her burn. He could have stopped it! Do you know how much pain she was in? And he died such an easy death. He probably was smiling.”

Daemon reached a hand out. “Egg—”

“I have no need of your comfort,” Aegon snapped, slapping Daemon’s hand away. “My father comforted me. My father loved me. And then he left me. He left us. No, what I need from you, my prince, is to do your duty to your wife. Strike down her enemies. Be the sword you promised her you’d be. That is why she married you, is it not? To secure her throne?”

Daemon’s eyes were bright and dark in the starlight. “The throne will be hers.”

“Good.” Aegon tipped his head up and forced himself to hold Daemon’s gaze. “That is why I’m here. To save her. Nothing else matters.”

Daemon nodded. “As you say,” he said and turned away.

Aegon held himself still until Daemon disappeared into the darkness, and then dropped to his knees.

“Ao kivio ñuhe tepan,” he whispered into the dark, but there was nobody to hear.

Egg dreamed he was young again.

He and Viserys chased each other around their parents’ chamber, bare feet slap-slap-slapping across the cold stone floor. They were not supposed to be in here alone, had run from their nurse to play at being dragons while their siblings were out with their own. Their laughter was why they were caught, shrill and joyous and Aegon could never remember laughing so freely when he was awake.

It was their father who found them, dressed in his riding leathers and stinking of dragon. He scooped them both up, one in each arm, and tossed them on the bed. Egg laughed and laughed and then woke up alone in the night.

He stayed where he was until the sky lightened to gray. And then he climbed, slowly, to the top of High Heart.

Ser Harwin sat where Egg had left him, sitting across from the witch, a skeptical look on his face. But he hopped to his feet when Egg came into view, rushing forward to clap a strong hand on his shoulder. “Egg,” he said. “Are you alright?”

Aegon nodded and looked over to Alys. She watched them with an expressionless face. He hadn’t expected it, but he found disappointment curling through his gut at the proof that Daemon had not killed her yet.

Daemon.

Egg looked around the hilltop. Weirwood stumps and stones and the three of them, nothing else.

Daemon had left him.

No, he thought, even as he knew he was gone.

“Where is—” My father, he almost said, but his mouth wouldn’t form the words. “Where is Prince Daemon?”

Alys Rivers answered before Ser Harwin could, first with a laugh, and then with words. “The prince has flown away, your Grace. I suppose you’re stuck with us.”

Chapter Text

“You cut a child’s throat.”

Those were the first words Harwin said directly to the witch with his sister’s face. He wasn’t sure what she’d expected him to say, but that wasn’t it. She tilted her head back and to the side. Her eyes were bright and curious the way Alys’ had been when they were children. “I did.”

He did not speak to her again until Prince Daemon returned.

Harwin had wondered what sort of state they both would be in when he came back; Egg had been devastated and Daemon had been shaking so strongly with anger Harwin knew if he could breathe fire as Caraxes did, the whole of High Heart would be aflame.

That Hightower whelp burned half the Riverlands, Harwin remembered the witch saying. He took a deep breath, smelled the good, clean summer air, no smoke or ash other than the remnants of the witch’s rat fire. The Riverlands had not burnt. Not yet.

Not yet, he thought. Madness.

It was all madness, though, wasn’t it? He sat and waited with the woman who had set fire to his father’s castle, who had killed his brother, the ghost who had haunted the Riverlands for two moons. And now he was to believe she was his sister, but from a time that had not yet come to pass? Alys, a murderer? He could not believe it. And yet this witch had her face, and neither Daemon nor Egg had seemed to disbelieve her.

Daemon returned alone not long after he’d left. Harwin crossed to him quickly. He could feel the witch’s eyes on them both. He had a feeling if he turned around, she’d be smiling.

“Where is Egg?”

“Halfway down the hill.” The prince’s voice was cool, controlled, as though he saw nothing amiss with leaving the boy in the dark.

Harwin opened his mouth, then closed it when Daemon’s gaze settled on him. He had not known Daemon well when he commanded the Gold Cloaks, but he remembered well enough the look in his eyes when he was determined to see a thing done. He remembered too the consequences of challenging him. Only a fool would not fear Daemon Targaryen, but it was not fear that stilled his tongue. It would do no good to press, not when the prince was in this sort of mood. And Daemon would not have left Egg if he thought him in danger. Instead of objecting, he said, “Is he well?”

Daemon’s eyes flickered away from his. “As well as can be expected. Better come morning.” He took a short breath. “You have questions.”

Of course he had questions. He had spoken his questions, after all, and been ignored. “Several.”

“Aegon will answer them. You will not want to believe what he says, but it is the truth.”

Harwin did not find it so hard to believe there was something different about the boy. There had been something off about him from the time Harwin had seen him in that alley, clutching the princess as though even being in her presence was a gods-sent miracle. But the things the three of them had spoken of not an hour past…

“You give him leave to tell me?” Harwin asked.

Daemon arched a brow. “Why would the boy need my leave to speak?”

For several reasons, but Harwin spoke the foremost among them. “You are his father.”

Daemon’s lips thinned. “I’m sure it is apparent, given what you heard, that I am not.”

The prince didn’t wait for a reply. He continued walking toward where the witch sat. Harwin followed.

He’d been right. She was smiling.

“The Alys back in Harrenhal,” Daemon said, his voice clipped and sharp, “said that you were like as not planning murders with your ghost flowers and rusted iron. Who were you going to kill?”

The witch’s smirking mouth looked as likely to talk back as answer directly, but when she replied, her voice was oddly serious. “Some of them I killed already. No one you would know now, and no one our little king would ever have heard of. The deaths I’d planned that you would know… Raymon Vance and Adrian Tarbeck. For now.”

Daemon gave a nod. “You let the Bracken boy live.”

She shrugged a black-clad shoulder. “He may yet die. We shall see.”

“Did he see you? Amos Bracken?”

“He saw a figure in a cloak. That is all.”

Daemon nodded again. His eyes were far away, but the fire in them had not dimmed. “I will have your cloak and your candle,” he said. “Now.”

The witch laughed. “You think to command me? Or do you think to strike me down? And what magics do you hope to do with a glass candle?”

“None. I seek to keep it from you.” Her laughter stuttered to a stop at that. Daemon continued. “You’re a useful creature, Alys Rivers. I will take you into my employ and under my protection. For now.”

She sneered. “You think I want to be brought to heel by some swaggering dragon prince? Again? I brought you here to tell you things you need to know, things the boy cannot, but do not presume—“

“Presume?” Daemon’s head tilted to the side. He looked almost amused. “You say you would prefer Rhaenyra to a Hightower? That is as it should be. The fires of Valyria burn in her blood, and whatever prince was promised to save this wretched kingdom shall come of that blood. Hers and mine.”

Above them, a flock of birds shrieked as they soared frantically east. Harwin felt gooseflesh prickle on his skin and his hand went to the hilt of his sword. Something was wrong, something…

Daemon’s arms were still relaxed at his side as he spoke. “You wanted the dragons to survive so much that you would end lives to see it done. This is the way. Rhaenyra is the way.”

Harwin felt the click and crunch of claws on stone before he heard it. Some place deep inside of him knew to fear, and he turned just as Caraxes crested the hill. The dragon came out of the darkness like a monster from legend, his molten eyes glittering even in the low light of the moonless night. Harwin’s hand dropped from the grip of his sword as the dragon’s gaze landed on him and then slipped away, focusing instead on the witch. Caraxes’ jaws opened, his teeth pale and dripping with slather.

Daemon reached down and picked up the glass candle. “We are the dragons. You’re on our side now.”

The witch stood and took two steps forward. Caraxes let out a whistle-click warning. And the witch smiled. “I’ll get my cloak.”

The cloak was not for traveling. Daemon bade her hand it over, then he packed it and the glass candle away in Caraxes’ saddle bags. He did not answer when Harwin asked what he would do with it. He’d gone cold and quiet after he gained the witch’s agreement.

“You’re to see Aegon and Alys back to Riverrun,” Daemon finally said as the sky began to lighten above them.

“My prince?”

“Take them and your men and await me there.”

Harwin was a captain of the Gold Cloaks and the son of a lord. He was used to both the giving and following of orders, but anger flared to life at Daemon’s flat words. “She set fire to my home. Killed my brother and nearly my father.”

“She did.”

“She crippled the heir to Stone Hedge. She plans to kill the lord of Atranta.”

“She does.”

“And you will have me take her back to Riverrun, under your protection?”

“Yes,” Daemon replied simply, holding Harwin’s gaze.

Harwin wanted to hit him. Fucking Targaryens, he thought. “As you say, my prince,” he ground out.

The edge of Daemon’s mouth quirked up. Harwin’s fists clenched. Daemon noticed, of course, but said nothing, only turned to the witch. “You will hold on your… plans until I say otherwise.”

She raised her brows. “As you say, my prince.” Harwin’s fists clenched tighter at her mocking tone.

Daemon was gone before the sun peeked out of the fog in the east.

Egg returned not long after. The boy was pale and moved as though he were still half-caught in a dream. He nodded when Harwin asked if he were well; it was clearly a lie. And when the witch said Daemon had left them, Harwin thought Egg might collapse.

He didn’t. But Harwin made him sit beside him anyway, while the witch packed her meager belongings.

“Before we leave,” Harwin said, “there are things I must know.”

“Daemon did not tell you?” Egg asked. At the shake of Harwin’s head, he frowned. “You will think me mad.”

Harwin cast his eyes to the witch. She flicked a strand of hair from in front of her eyes with the last two fingers of her right hand, just as Alys always did. “I won’t.”

And so Egg told him the truth.

Harwin was silent that day on the road. It was two days to the River Road and then a third to the Tully’s castle. His men—Ser Arlan Stone and Ser Brynden Roote, both young knights eager to serve both Lord Strong and a prince of House Targaryen—both looked confused at Daemon’s absence and the presence of a strange woman, but neither dared question the heir to Harrenhal or Prince Daemon, even if the latter was not present.

It was easier to imagine Aegon as a king than it was any of the rest. Harwin looked over at the boy. He had as fine a seat as he had manners, and he never had spoken like a bastard, even a castle-educated one. Aegon Targaryen, Third of His Name, Harwin thought, watching the boy stare into the distance. Targaryens all looked alike, it was true, but there was something in his face that had always reminded Harwin of the princess. Harwin’s eyes had lingered on both Daemon and Rhaenyra enough to note that Egg’s jaw was all Daemon, his cheekbones too, but his mouth was more Rhaenyra’s. His expression, too, was uncannily like the one the princess wore as she strode through the hunting camp the year before, wearing blood like another queen might wear a crown.

That the boy would not have been born for more than a decade… That was harder to believe. There were tales of dreams and dreamers, Harwin knew, and it was sad that the Old Gods could see anything through their trees, but to travel from one time to another? It seemed impossible. As whenever he was confronted with some great oddity, Harwin thought of Larys. What would his brother say of travel through time? Harwin would never know, because the witch had killed him.

“The act took a great deal of power,” she said that evening at their campfire. Harwin had sent Arlan and Brynden out to hunt game for their dinner, more as an excuse to hear more from Aegon than for want of fresh meat. But the boy had spent most of the day silent, and seemed inclined to continue that into the evening. “Time is not meant to be punctured the way we did. It took the power of the Old Gods and the Fourteen Flames both to bring us through.”

“It took blood,” Harwin said, unwilling to forget the image that flashed in his mind’s eye when the witch told her tale: Aegon, already too pale, his blood staining his skin and his hair and his clothing instead of rushing through his veins.

“It did,” the witch said. “Your Grace, I have a question.” Egg cast a baleful look at her over the dagger he was sharpening and she chuckled. “Did you tell Prince Daemon about the Strong Boys?”

The boy’s voice was ice. “Don’t call them that.”

“You did tell him, didn’t you? A wonder he trusts our Ser Harwin so much with that knowledge.”

Harwin bristled. “Are you accusing me of some sort of treachery?”

“According to some, perhaps. I don’t care what side of the blanket a child is born on—”

Aegon stabbed his dagger into the log he sat on. “My mother’s sons were all trueborn, witch. Another word and I’ll have your tongue.”

“Your kepa wouldn’t like that.”

“My father is dead.” Egg’s voice was as pale as the boy looked in Harwin’s imagination. He wrenched the dagger from the log and stood.

Harwin watched his silvery head disappear into the forest. Keep eyes on the witch or follow the boy?

“Oh, go after him. I’ll not go anywhere. I’m not a prisoner after all.”

Under my protection, Daemon had said. Harwin frowned, and he did what she said even though it rankled.

Egg had not gone far. He sat at the base of a strange, stunted willow, his eyes on a stream burbling by, even though Harwin did not think he even truly saw the water. Harwin sat beside him.

“I had four brothers,” Egg said finally. “Three were from my mother’s first marriage. Velaryons.”

Not Velaryons, Harwin realized. The Strong boys, the witch had said. The inference was clear.

His boys.

Harwin felt a hundred questions rush through his mind. How had it happened? He could imagine well the act itself, but not the circumstances around it. Why had the princess chosen him? Had he stayed with her, once she married again? He could not fathom leaving, not for any reason other than death.

Of one thing he was sure: Aegon had not known him, not before they met that night. He’d treated him strangely, true, but as one would treat some storied knight, not one already known.

He had died, then. Her sons, at least, had still had Laenor, as long as he lived. Had Daemon. Those boys would have learned swordsmanship from the man who wielded Dark Sister and learned to ride dragons from the youngest dragonrider of House Targaryen. An illustrious fate.

A splash from the stream pulled him from his foolish thoughts. He had no sons yet, and never would he father those of the princess. No, her children would be fathered by Daemon alone. The boys Aegon spoke of did not exist. He should put such thoughts from his mind.

“What were their names?” Harwin asked instead.

“Jace, Luke, and Joff,” Egg said, with the same reverence Harwin’s mother had used when she spoke of the gods. “Not properly, of course. Jace would have been Jacaerys Targaryen, First of His Name, had he come to the throne.” Harwin did not speak the question that came to mind at that, but Egg answered it anyway. “They died in the war.”

Aegon said nothing else for a long time.

The night before they reached Riverrun, Harwin took the first watch. Their fire spat sparks into the darkness and Harwin shivered as he imagined them spreading through the whole of the Riverlands.

It will not happen, he reminded himself. That was what they were here to prevent.

“I was nearly certain he would not die.”

Harwin turned his head to find the witch watching him. She slept closest to the fire every night, while Aegon slept farthest away. “You cut his throat.”

“A sacrifice was needed. Kingsblood, and a lot of it. But if it worked, if the sacrifice was accepted, I knew it would send him back whole. Unharmed. And if it didn’t… I would not have only been killing him. The gods would not have sent me alone. If he had died before the spell took hold, then I would have been left with a dead king and an angry queen.”

The sister Aegon left to rule in his place. Harwin wondered if she’d been left with a pool of her brother’s blood. No matter that the witch had seemed to want to placate him with her words, he could hardly stomach speaking to her. How could this be his sister? She cut the throat of a child. She murdered their brother.

“There are rats out tonight,” she said suddenly.

He heard nothing, no squeaks, no little claws. “They won’t come near the fire,” Harwin said, though he did not know why he bothered to reassure her.

She grinned, vicious and sharp. “I know.”

The next day, as they rested their horses in the hot summer afternoon, nearly a dozen mounted men went past, bearing the orange banners of House Lychester. Harwin did not recognize the face of the man who led them, but he thought it must be Ser Jon, the heir to their lord. He nearly called out, but stopped himself before doing so. Daemon had said nothing of keeping their movements secret once they had their quarry, but his hooded cloak and lack of banners—and lack of dragon—made Harwin hold his tongue.

They reached Riverrun before sunset. If Elmo Tully wondered why Harwin returned without the prince he had left with, he made no mention of it when he greeted their party. He did so with more welcome than his father had shown Harwin himself; Lord Grover blamed Harrenhal’s curse for all the Riverlands problems, when convenient. Larys had whispered once that Grover resented that his own bannerman had a larger castle than he did, but their father had put a quick end to such talk.

Riverrun was far more crowded now than it had been a sennight before. Harwin saw Lychester orange once more, and Bracken banners, and the white towers of House Vance of Atranta. Beside him, Egg stiffened as he too picked out the banners.

“Kasta azantyr,” the boy murmured and nearly leaped out of his boots when Harwin put a hand on his shoulder.

He pulled his hand back quickly, wincing. Egg had been better with touch of late and Harwin had gotten careless. “What was that, Egg?” But Egg didn’t repeat himself, in Valyrian or in Common, just kept close to Harwin as they walked.

“Is there a tourney no one told us about?” Ser Arlan jested as they made their way to the great hall.

“No tourney,” Elmo answered seriously. “They have gathered here on order of our prince.”

“What?”

Elmo Tully looked affronted at Egg’s sharp demand, and Harwin hurried to intercede. “Prince Daemon called them here, my lord?”

“Lord Vance bore a letter the prince himself wrote my lord father,” Elmo said, puffing himself up. “We await his return two days hence.”

The lordling excused himself from their party as soon as he could, the warmer welcome gone cold. The knights each lord had brought with him— numbering just shy of fifty, if Harwin’s count was correct—would sleep in their tents outside the castle, but Harwin and Egg were given the same chambers they had slept in a sennight before. Egg’s adjoined the rooms Daemon would occupy on his return, a squire’s place; Harwin’s were of a lower station, though not far off. The witch was given a room too near his for comfort, though she declared her intent to make herself scarce while under the Tully’s roof.

Egg had nightmares, Harwin knew. He’d chastised Ser Brynden for teasing the boy about them and he was glad he’d done so; they’d been worse in the nights since Daemon left them. The words the witch spat out and the tale Aegon weaved were near enough to give Harwin himself nightmares. He kept thinking of boys who looked like Egg dying in battle, of the Riverlands bathed in fire, of Rhaenyra and Daemon bathed in fire. He hoped they had not died that way. It had seemed too cruel to ask.

Egg begged off dinner. Harwin allowed it, though he would have a plate sent to the boy. He would need to make ready to dine himself; he would be expected at the high table, little though he cared to go.

“If you need me, do you know where my rooms are?” Harwin asked. Egg nodded. Harwin reached a hand out, as careful this time as he’d been back when they’d first begun training, and laid it on his shoulder. This time, Egg did not flinch. “Come to me,” he said. “I do not mind.”

Egg nodded again, but Harwin was not surprised when he did not come.

Egg did not come down to dinner the next night as well, and Harwin again had a plate sent up. He sat at the high table with Lord Tully and his family, Lord Vance, Lord Bracken, and Ser Jon Lychester, wondering why Daemon had called them all here and wishing he had not. Why were they here? The Vances, the Brackens, Harwin and Egg even? He drove his knife into the fat trout he’d been served. What did it say about the Tullys that they served up the fish in their sigil for all their guests to pick at? The Lannisters would never serve their guests a lion.

Dinner went on and on. The ale the Tullys served was plentiful, robust and sweet. He drank too much of it. Lord Tully spoke of the coming harvest; Ser Jon spoke about his father’s new mill; Lords Bracken and Vance grumbled together about what befell Amos, son to one, nephew to the other. It matters not, Harwin wanted to tell them, if the Riverlands burn.

Without warning, the doors to the great hall slammed open. Everyone jumped to their feet before Harwin could even see what was happening, stumbling a little as he rose. Those seated below the salt saw the new arrivals first and slammed their cups of ale against their tables, shouting greetings so garbled it took Harwin a moment to understand what they were saying.

Daemon.

Daemon had returned. He strode into the hall as the men shouted his name, flanked by two men wearing black and red, just as he was. He stopped in the middle of the room, clad in his trim black riding leathers, Dark Sister at his hip, and a sack in one hand. He walked forward until he stood before the high table, the room around him still buzzing.

“Silence!” Harwin found himself bellowing to the men below. “Your prince will speak!”

Daemon’s lips quirked, though he did not spare Harwin a look. “My lords,” Daemon said, and the room quieted more to hear him better, “I was called to the Riverlands to right a wrong. To deliver justice.”

He laid the sack at his feet and it fell open. Not a sack, Harwin realized. A cloak. The witch’s cloak, stained now with blood.

“Lord Bracken! A hooded figure came upon your son and heir, and stole his legs from him.”

Harwin glanced at Lord Humphrey, whose eyes were bright and riveted on the prince, and then back to Daemon. The prince leaned down, lifting something from the cloak. A man’s head, gaping mouth, filmy eyes. Some of the women let out little cries at the sight of it and Harwin heard Jon Lychester let out a small sound of distaste.

“In return,” Daemon continued, “I stole the man’s head, though I let it stay hidden under its hood. I deliver that head to you, Lord Bracken, for the king’s peace shall not be broken without consequence.” He dropped the head back to the cloak, then turned to face the assembled knights. “Men of the Riverlands! Your liege, Lord Grover, hears rumors of ghosts from the small folk! But it is no ghost who haunts the Riverlands! It is bandits, broken men, such as that one. I called you here to make a proposition.”

Harwin leaned forward, for he didn’t know what Daemon was going to say anymore than anyone else at this table.

“Little more than one moon from now, a tourney shall be held to celebrate the Princess of Dragonstone! Let us bring swift justice to any who would flout your liege lord’s rule and then I invite you to join me in Kings Landing, to show our king and our princess the pride of the Riverlands! Who will ride with me, to restore the king’s peace along the River Road?”

If Harwin was not mistaken, the answer to that was everyone.

By the end of the night, Harwin had drunk far too much ale to effectively avoid the attentions of Lord Tully’s widowed daughter Amerei. When he had the chance, he slipped from the hall as subtlety as he could. Instead of going back to his chamber, he found himself on the battlements overlooking the river.

Daemon found him there not much later.

“You looked as though you were enjoying yourself.” Daemon’s voice was too dark to be wry. “Is there to be a new Lady Strong?”

Harwin scoffed loudly. “She would not be of my choosing. I favor blondes.” Daemon’s brows rose, and Harwin remembered what the witch Alys had said about it being a wonder Daemon trusted him. “My prince,” he said, stepping forward, “I would never. You must know I—”

Daemon raised a hand and Harwin stopped still, even though his heart thundered. “If that witch killed my brother, I could not be stopped from striking off her head.”

That same anger from that morning at the camp flared up inside of him. “You bade me escort her.”

“I know. And you did.”

The anger died. He could not quite read Daemon’s tone. Perhaps if the ale hadn’t muddled his thoughts…

Daemon laughed at whatever dumbfounded look Harwin gave him, that sharp cackle that said he thought everyone around him was a fool. “If anyone else had heard the things you had, I would have killed them.” He walked closer, until he was so close that Harwin could smell the steel and brimstone of a dragonrider, so close he could feel the heat of him. “You live because I trust you. That is what you must know.” Daemon curled a strong hand around his shoulder, squeezed, but before Harwin could say anything else, he was gone.

When Harwin returned to his rooms, Egg was curled in the chair in the corner.

“You know Prince Daemon is back,” Harwin said cautiously, stepping into the room. “If you wanted to see him…”

Egg shook his head. “He is angry with me.”

It was on the tip of Harwin’s tongue to deny it, as he had when Larys or Lynesse worried their father was angry with them. But he did not know what had passed between them, only that Daemon had left the boy behind. Instead, he said, “You Targaryens are a dramatic bunch.”

Egg frowned, as though to prove the point.

“He brought a severed head to the feast,” Harwin went on, “and Lords Bracken and Vance looked as though they wanted to weep for joy.”

Aegon’s brows drew together. “Bracken and Vance?”

“They are like as not still down there, toasting to your father.” Harwin only got a glimpse of Egg’s face falling into a frown before his neck bowed as his arms curled around his knees tighter. “Egg…”

“You said I could sleep here,” the boy said without looking up.

Harwin sighed. “Of course.” Somehow, even the top of Egg’s head looked sad.

Fucking Targaryens, Harwin thought again, and tossed the boy a blanket.

More men arrived in the morning, including Ser Emmon Darry arriving back from Fairmarket, with a sack of heads of his own. Daemon walked among these knights the same way he’d walked among his Gold Cloaks. Confident, stone faced, quiet unless he had something sharp as his sword to say.

Egg had come down with him to meet Daemon, but all the prince offered was a nod of his head. His son returned it, and kept his head low as they walked. When they made it halfway through the camp outside Riverrun, Caraxes appeared, swooping low over the camp and whistling a greeting to his rider, then flying back up into the clouds as the knights gaped. Most had not left the Riverlands before, which meant most had never seen a dragon.

Harwin sent a quick prayer to the Warrior that they never faced one in battle.

Egg had shrunk into Harwin’s side when Caraxes appeared and Daemon did look angry at that, Harwin realized.

“Egg, see to our horses. And find one for Alys as well,” Daemon ordered when they were back at the castle. His voice was clipped. “We must be ready to ride tomorrow.”

Egg muttered something that might have been a “yes, my prince” or might have been terribly rude; he spoke too low for Harwin to make it out. He sped away after that, striding across the yard toward the stables. Daemon and Harwin watched him go.

“What does ‘kasta azantyr’ mean?” Harwin asked, thinking of Egg’s words and of the men camped in front of Riverrun. Vances and Brackens, and newly arrived Blackwoods and Rygers. All setting off to hunt bandits he was not sure existed and to compete at a tourney Daemon would surely win.

“Green army,” Daemon answered.

The Greens. He thought of Egg's eyes as he saw those banners. The men Daemon had rallied had been their enemies. But they were no Green army now. Now they were Daemon’s army.

Chapter Text

“And I have received word from Ser Hugh Sunglass that the signal beacons between Bloodstone and her smaller sisters have been tested and found wanting in some areas.”

Rhaenyra rarely understood Otto Hightower, and almost never agreed with him, but in this she did: she was very tired of hearing talk about the Stepstones. Ser Tyland’s report had dragged on—and on, and on. Troublesome islands. If this did not represent a victory for their side—for the Blacks, Rhaenyra had taken to calling them in her head, little though she wanted such factions to officially begin—she may have joined the Lord Hand in his visible frustration.

But as it was, she said, “Ser Tyland, have any solutions come to mind?”

“One, princess,” he said. “Before he left for the Riverlands, Prince Daemon had the idea of recruiting the alchemists to bolster the flames. Not with wildfire, but with some cousin to the substance.”

“Your Grace, the expense—” Lord Beesbury began.

Viserys let out a small huff of breath and all eyes turned to him.

Her father looked so tired.

He had not spoken much after ending his seclusion. Not to her; not to any, truly, save Rhaenys. For nearly a fortnight, he had called Princess Rhaenys to his side each morning for a long conference, and that was when Rhaenyra realized he must be having dreams. Dreams he thought were prophetic, like Daenys and the Conqueror himself. She had tried to speak to him of it, but he had refused. She had hardly seen him since the day they returned from Dragonstone, other than at council.

But at least she knew he spent much of that time with Rhaenys. She was usually at council, but three days before she had flown to Driftmark, officially to aid in her household’s journey to Kings Landing for the tourney, but Laena had whispered to her that she was actually going to attempt a reconciliation with Lord Corlys. While Rhaenyra had spent little time with Rhaenys since her arrival, it was clear from the time they did spend that Rhaenys wanted the tourney to be a show of strength for the Valyrian houses.

Of what her father wanted, Rhaenyra knew little.

She felt as though a sword of judgment hung above her head. Would her father disinherit her due to her marriage? Would he hand the throne to Aegon and the Hightowers? And if so… what would they do? She was not sure anymore, who she was without the mantle of heir.

“Your Grace,” Otto said, clearly reading the weariness on Viserys’ face as easily as Rhaenyra had, “perhaps I could arrange to meet with Lord Beesbury and Ser Tyland after the meeting to discuss the expense? Surely we have more to discuss than signal fires.”

Tyland Lannister’s lips pursed and even Lord Beesbury looked sour at that, even as her father began nodding his agreement.

“Might I join them, Father?” Rhaenyra asked. “As Princess of Dragonstone, I have an interest in these fortifications.”

Before her father could give his judgment, Otto asked, “Are there not preparations for the tourney to be finished, Princess?”

She opened her mouth to say others had it well in hand, but her father spoke before she could. “Yes, Rhaenyra, there is much for you to do. There is no cause for you to add to those duties.” He did not look at her as he spoke and she felt frustration rise up in her throat once again.

“As you say, Your Grace,” she said, and wondered if Daemon felt this same bitter satisfaction each time he made her father flinch.

“Now that we have moved on,” Otto said, “I must address a concerning letter I received from the Riverlands.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes shot to him. Too quickly, too obviously, she thought, frustrated with herself. But in more than a moon, she had not heard from Daemon. He’d sent her a letter from Harrenhal, and then one from Riverrun, and then no more. He was safe, she told herself. He would not be brought down by bandits or petty Riverlords or ghosts. It would take a dragon to kill him, she thought, and tried not to think of the swell of Alicent’s stomach, the child inside growing every day.

Otto noticed her glance and his eyes narrowed ever so slightly. She did not speak, did not react, but she’d already given herself away.

Her father spoke next. “From the Riverlands? I thought that was being dealt with.”

“Your Grace, the situation there is… disturbing. It seems Prince Daemon has rallied the knights of the Riverlands to take on bands of petty thieves, and all branches of the river run red with their blood.”

Before the Hand could continue, Ser Tyland spoke. “Is that not what the king sent Prince Daemon to do, Lord Hand? Stop the madness that had flowed through the Riverlands?”

“Of course, but it seems that some of the Riverlords are concerned with the ways in which the prince has marshalled their men.”

“Which Riverlords?” Tyland pressed. “I too have received word of this, from my cousin Ser Gerold Brax. He was fostered with Lord Vance and was knighted with the heir of Atranta. He rides with the prince now, with both houses Vance, with Blackwood and Bracken, to find these bandits who have preyed on lords and smallfolk alike, and says each lord speaks the highest praise for the prince.”

“No one has ever slighted Prince Daemon’s ability to command, Ser Tyland,” Mellos said, “but you were not on this council when his Gold Cloaks instituted their… policies of slaughter on our city streets.”

“Policies that aligned with the laws of the land,” Rhaenyra replied.

“Nevertheless, the king commanded Prince Daemon not take such actions again. A command which has now been ignored.” Before she could reply, Otto continued. “But it is not only bandits that the letter spoke of. No, it has been reported that now this army of knights the prince has rallied comes toward Kings Landing in a show of force.”

“A show of force?” her father asked. He leaned forward, his eyes widened in what Rhaenyra thought was alarm. “Are you saying they aim to attack us?”

“They come for the tourney, or so they say,” Otto replied, though his disbelief rang clear.

“My lord, knights of all seven kingdoms come to compete in this tourney,” Rhaenyra said. “Would you say each arrives in a show of force? I certainly remember seeing Hightower banners and mounted men at our gates yesterday. Are we under siege?”

“Princess—”

“Ser Otto, you complain when Daemon doesn’t fulfill his duties, and you complain when he fulfills them too well. You complain that he has no support in my father’s court, and then complain when he finds support among the lords. Tell me, if Prince Daemon were to raise his sword in defense of the king, would you find fault with that as well?”

Ser Otto only stared at her a beat then found his words and opened his mouth. But before he could speak, the king stood. “This meeting is at an end,” he said, and strode from the room.

This time, Rhaenyra did not try to follow her father out and speak with him. She tired of his rebuffs, no matter that she wanted to hear of his dreams, no matter that she had some idea the shape they took. It could hardly be a coincidence, Aegon’s arrival from a time that would not be and her father’s sudden dragon dreams. But she did not know what they might show him, she did not know what they might mean, not without some details. She wished more than ever that they’d simply told him when Aegon had arrived. But even as she wished it, she remembered the man who tossed away his promise to let her choose her own consort as though his word meant nothing, and knew they’d made the right choice. Daemon had spoken the truth of Otto Hightower for years and been ignored; Rhaenyra had spoken the truth of Daemon to her father and he’d shunned her since. He would come to truths on his own or not at all. It was near enough to make her weep.

“Kings are fickle because men are fickle,” Rhaenys told her one morning, after her father had wrapped her in a strong embrace and then walked away with hardly a word. “But a woman must not be seen to bend to such emotion.”

She did not say a queen, but Rhaenyra heard the echo of the words. And Rhaenys knew better than any how fickle a fate that could be.

A fate that would soon be decided. The day of the opening joust drew nearer and so did Rhaenyra’s nameday… and the day Daemon promised to return. There was not even a sennight until then. She had made her choice.

And her father would make his.

“Tell me, princess, have you decided on a dress for the opening day of the tourney?”

Rhaenyra loved dresses and jewels as much as any other, yet to be sitting at luncheon outside in the godswood instead of joining Ser Tyland and Lord Beesbury rankled a bit. Otto, as always, trying to set her opinions aside by foisting some other matter onto her. He had done it when he sent her to choose the Kingsguard that day so long ago, and though she’d felt smug that it gained her an ally, that had all turned to smoke with Criston’s betrayal and death.

She felt it unlikely that this gathering of court ladies would end in such a manner. It was Lady Myranda who had asked the question, the daughter of Lord Staunton. Laena had befriended her. Laena, it seemed, had the gift of befriending anyone. In the time since her arrival, she had created a nice court of young ladies to surround Rhaenyra. “Like our great-grandmother Alysanne,” she’d said pointedly when Rhaenyra had not immediately warmed to the idea.

It was not that she did not enjoy the company of other women, or found their duties beneath her. She had thought so when she was a girl, when Alicent’s dislike of adventure had frustrated her or her mother’s gentle admonishments to be more ladylike made her angry. But she understood the import of running a household, of good works, of their own sort of politicking. It was just not for her, the gathering of ladies around her, not least because it made her think of days when she thought one lady was all she needed, and then that lady had betrayed her.

But Laena built her a women’s court whether or not she wanted it, and at least there were always lemon cakes.

“I have, Lady Myranda. My final fitting is tomorrow. I must say I am quite pleased.”

“I am so excited to see it. I’m sure you will outshine even the sun, princess.”

“And all of the knights shall vie for your favor before the tourney even begins,” Laena added with a sly smile. She knew quite well which knight would be receiving Rhaenyra’s favor.

Myranda’s betrothed would compete in the melee, the girl shared, and then Lord Beesbury’s granddaughter Joy spoke in a whisper of the knights already arrived in Kings Landing she fancied.

“Perhaps I shall find my betrothed at this tourney as well, princess,” Lady Joy said with a sly smile of her own.

“I wish us both the best,” Rhaenyra said.

They were not alone in the garden. It was a fine day, even as summer died, and it felt as though the entire court circulated in the godswood. Their circle of six was always noticed; Rhaenyra was noticed no matter where she went, and Laena too, but the tenor of such attention shifted like the wind.

The first days after Rhaenys and Laena’s arrival, after her father’s seclusion ended, all anyone had spoken of was Criston’s death, of the rumor that Daemon had fed his corpse to Caraxes, and of the Rogue Prince finally driving King Viserys mad. Her virtue had been among the rumors discussed, but she’d weathered the storm with her head held high. What did she care what the gossipmongers said? The storm had died down, but she still saw people send looks her way, as though they could somehow see whether or not her maidenhead was intact by tilting their heads this way or that. Ridiculous.

Laena caught her eye after Rhaenyra huffed a sigh and her lips quirked up, as though Laena knew just what she was thinking. Rhaenyra tried not to smile back, but found she couldn’t help it. When the two of them collapsed into laughter, the other ladies followed, little though any of them knew what was so funny.

“Laena,” Gaela Sunglass sing-songed after their bout of giggles had ended, “your admirer is back.”

Laena and Rhaenyra glanced up at the same time. Ser Tyland stood close by, idly nodding along as a lordling in Peake orange spoke animatedly. His eyes, like so many others, were on them. He had finished his meeting with Otto and Lord Beesbury, then. He gave her an imperceptible nod, then glanced back to Laena more obviously, though Rhaenyra had no doubt the interest and affection in his gaze was in fact real, little though the man would admit it.

Laena leaned into Rhaenyra. “Princess, this one is persistent in his suit. What should I do?”

Rhaenyra thought about it a moment, theatrically. “Is his persistence a nuisance or a gift? If you say the word, Lady Laena, I shall have him fed to my lady Syrax for bothering you.”

Laena huffed a sigh. “I suppose such a fate would be impolitic.”

“Then a turn about the godswood might be a suitable alternative.”

“Fine, fine,” Laena grumbled, climbing to her feet. Her smile as she approached Ser Tyland looked as genuine as the pleasure on his face as he gave her a short bow and Rhaenyra wondered how Lord Corlys would take the idea of such a match.

As her gaze followed Laena and Tyland, she saw three newcomers to the godswood in the far end of the gardens, and began to stand herself. “I must leave you, my ladies,” she said as the other women hurried to their feet to curtsey.

As Rhaenyra left them, she heard Myranda say something about seeing a rat outside of her bedchamber, to a chorus of shrieks from the others. Rhaenyra sighed at their over-dramatics and wondered if the Keep employed a ratcatcher.

Aegon was in the corner of the garden, plucking little yellow flowers from the grassy ground and thrusting them at his nursemaid. Had it been even five moons ago, there would have been hangers-on grasping for the attention of even a boy of two, but Aegon was known to be moody and easily startled these days, and Ser Lorent’s glower kept most well away. But he bowed to her as she approached.

Her half-brother gave a shriek as he saw her and came toddling forward. His arms were thrust out, and one pudgy hand held his carved dragon, as always. “Nyra!” he said as he collided with her legs.

She scooped him up into her arms. “Hello, little prince.”

He snuggled into her arms, careful this time that his wooden dragon was not between them. A clever boy, she realized, when he was not screaming and crying. He started to babble about what he and Galifox had been doing that day in the godswood and she tried to follow as best she could. She wondered if she had babbled like this when she was a babe and if her mother had been able to understand it. She wondered if she would be able to understand it, when she had babes of her own.

As mad as it sounded, she wished often that she could speak to Egg’s mother, to ask her questions like that one. Sometimes the thought of birthing so many children still made her skin crawl. To give over a piece of yourself for growing a new being who would tear out of you with such violence… The thought made her shudder. But as his mother had decided who would father her children, she must also have decided to birth them. She must have loved them, to be loved so in return.

She had gotten lost in her thoughts, and did not know when it was her brother had stopped talking. He was walking the dragon down his stomach and then up her arm, looking content just to be playing with his Galifox.

She looked over at his nurse. It was Alayne, who was always the one most likely to bring Prince Aegon near Rhaenyra. “Princess,” the nursemaid said, dipping into a curtsey.

“Alayne,” she replied. “How fare my siblings?”

Helaena cried often, Alayne said, and Aegon missed their cousin. Rhaenyra knew both of those things, even with the little time she spent with them. At the end of her telling, Alayne’s eyes shifted down to the boy in Rhaenyra’s arms, then back to Rhaenyra’s face, so obviously furtive a look Rhaenyra could almost believe it put on. But Alayne had little guile. In the last moon, Alayne had been her ears among Alicent’s servants, wanting little more than a better place than she had for her little daughter Dyana, when the time came. Such was not hard to promise, even though she had only offered dribs and drabs of information, and seemed fearful even of giving that.

Rhaenyra bopped Aegon on the nose with her finger, and the boy giggled. “Aegon, would you pick me some flowers too?”

Aegon’s eyes widened and he scrambled back toward the little patch of flowers, Ser Lorent shadowing him as he went. He plopped down beside the flower patch and sat Galifox beside him, instructing the wooden dragon on flower picking with a set to his chin that reminded Rhaenyra of Alicent.

“I heard the queen and the Lord Hand speaking this morning,” Alayne whispered.

Rhaenyra’s attention sharpened. Alayne had given her slips of information since their first meeting, but never had such included Otto himself.

“He summoned the queen to a meeting tonight. In the tower of the Hand. He said Lord Hightower would dine with them. He sounded… He did not sound himself.”

Hobart Hightower had accompanied the knights of his household to Kings Landing. He had greeted Rhaenyra courteously enough, but though he’d sworn his obeisance to her, she had no doubts that he was one of the foremost who wanted her half-brother on the throne instead of her. And to summon the queen? Generally, Otto observed the formalities better than that.

Alayne gave her a few more bits of information, but Rhaenyra found her attention wandering back to the meeting that night. She had to hear what was said.

“Thank you, Alayne,” Rhaenyra said, when the woman’s report had finished.

“Of course, princess,” Alayne replied.

Rhaenyra left her then, walking back to her half-brother, who had decimated the field of flowers and created a pile of yellow and red blooms for her. He thrust two handfuls at her when she approached. Her plan had been to take them and go, meet Laena and figure out a way to overhear the Hand’s meeting, but she found herself settling onto the grass beside the boy.

By the time she left the garden, she was garlanded with wilting flowers and so was little Aegon. Laena met her on the way back to her chambers.

“What did Ser Tyland say?” Rhaenyra asked quietly, tucking her arm under Laena’s.

“That I am the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen,” Laena said. Rhaenyra arched a brow at her and Laena rolled her eyes. “Fine. He said that Ser Otto blocked his efforts once again, even over Lord Beesbury’s objection. His frustration was nearly tangible. I fear he’ll go for his sword the next time Otto says the words ‘useless endeavor’. And I do believe Ser Tyland misses your lord husband as much as you do.”

Rhaenyra hushed her, though not as much as she might have if another guard were at their backs. Ser Steffon was the only one in the Keep save Laena and her father who knew of her marriage to Daemon. Rhaenyra nodded a thanks to him as they passed into her chambers and he stayed at her door to stand watch.

Rhaenyra dismissed the two maids within the room, then poured her and Laena both a measure of hippocras and sank down onto her chaise. She pulled the flower crown from her head. Red and yellow intertwined, the colors of their dragons, little though the baby usurper had known that.

“I do miss Daemon,” she said quietly. It was hard to admit as much. It was hard to trust, even Laena, who had kept her secrets and witnessed her wedding and had helped her greatly at court of late. “But I worry for his return as much as I desire it. I do not know what my father will say, when all is revealed. We are firm in our plans but…”

“Your father supports your claim and wants your happiness,” Laena replied, squeezing Rhaenyra’s forearm. “You must believe that.”

Rhaenyra nodded idly, wishing that she did.

Laena left her soon after, and Rhaenyra bade her tell Ser Steffon that she had a headache and was to be disturbed by no one save the king. Little chance that he would come to her, of course, Rhaenyra thought a little bitterly, then shoved the thought from her mind. The afternoon was already dying. She had tunnels to figure out.

Rhaenyra was sure of two or three passages by now. She could make her way to the king’s council chambers and the throne room, and to the Dragonpit, and felt confident enough in making her way to the city. The Tower of the Hand stood partway between Maegor’s Holdfast, where her chambers lay, and the Small Council chambers, but the passages were a warren of tunnels. Daemon knew them, Egg knew them, but Rhaenyra herself had little practice navigating them. She would have to do it, she realized. She could not miss whatever meeting of Hightower minds that would happen in that tower this evening.

She had lived in this castle nearly all of her life, she reminded herself. She could walk it blindfolded. She would have to do that now, or close enough; the passages were dark enough.

Rhaenyra changed from the gown she’d worn to court to an old dress she’d used for lounging, a slim-fitting gray dress that only reached her ankles now. She pulled on her leather riding boots, then gathered the small lantern she’d used the last time she’d passed through these tunnels, a sharp dagger, and the smallest log from last night’s fire, charred at one end.

And then she headed into the dark.

Rhaenyra followed the same path she and Egg had followed when they went to the council chambers. This she knew well enough. She passed two passages that split off from the one she walked; one was narrow and looked full of spider’s webs; the second went east, and she wondered if it went all the way to the castle wall, and then out to the sea. She could see up ahead the stairs that climbed up to the throne room and then to the council chambers, and took the turn before it, the third passage she came to, one that led west. She marked it first, dragging the charred end of the log down the stone wall. (Next time, she though, she would steal some of her half-brother’s chalk before exploring.)

She took a wrong turn that led her to the castle library, and she pulled the door shut quickly enough that she did not think she was seen by a passing squire, and then another that led her to a dead end. Each time, she marked a Valyrian glyph on the wall to assure she would not be lost down here forever if she lost her way.

Finally, she climbed a steep set of stairs and heard servants speak the Hightower name through the walls, and realized she had found the Tower of the Hand.

Now to find the Hand himself.

It look longer than she’d thought. When Rhaenyra arrived, the three were already speaking. She could not see into the room, but their voices carried well enough.

“And she’s found nothing else?” Lord Hightower’s voice, Rhaenyra realized. She wished she had arrived earlier, for she knew not of whom he spoke.

“Nothing,” Otto said.

“What makes you so certain there is something to be found of the boy, Otto?”

“You have not seen him. There is something—”

“Enough about the bastard,” Lord Hightower snapped. Egg? They had been talking about Egg? That Rhaenyra had not expected. “It is due to your fixation on Prince Daemon that we must play these games. Had you not pressed the issue of inheritance, it would not have even entered the king’s mind to name that girl his heir and Aegon would be Prince of Dragonstone now.”

Rhaenyra imagined the dark look that must have passed across Otto’s face at that, but his voice was controlled as he said, “Very well.”

Lord Hightower let out an indignant sniff. “This tourney of yours, your Grace… Do you think there is a chance to sway the princess toward choosing a consort more agreeable to our plans?”

Rhaenyra held back her chuckle. Alicent had tried, speaking of this lordling or that, ones who fit Alicent’s old dream of a chivalrous knight for her husband. Many were from the Reach, some from the West, but none were to Rhaenyra’s taste.

“The princess has kept her own council since I wed the king, even into our recent amity,” Alicent said quietly. There it was again, that sadness in her voice.

Ser Otto seemed as impatient with it as Rhaenyra had found herself of late. “Your amity matters not. She will choose her consort at the tourney, and what we have feared will come to pass. Daemon is returning, and the princess awaits him eagerly.”

Had he come to that conclusion from her words at council earlier? From the rumors? Or had one of her ladies been talking? Which one? It was no secret that Rhaenyra may well choose her consort at this tourney; she and Alicent had designed it as such, so that the eligible men of the Seven Kingdoms might come to her, rather than the other way around. She had spoken of Daemon occasionally among her ladies, and Laena had brought him up once or twice when they debated which knight might stand victorious at the end of the jousting. Rhaenyra’s fondness of him was even less of a secret than the plan for her to choose a consort, with the rumors flying about.

Alicent spoke next, saying nearly what Rhaenyra had just been thinking. “Rhaenyra has always thought highly of her uncle, you cannot be certain—”

“I am certain,” Otto said firmly. “Rhaenyra and Daemon act in concert. They have plans. Plans they shall reveal at the tourney. She has said it herself.”

She has said it herself.

She had said it, mere hours before, sitting in her own chambers with only Laena to listen. Had Laena…?

No. She had found it hard to trust Laena, but she did trust her, she realized. Laena had not been the one to speak those words to Otto. So someone else had.

Someone had been listening to her in her chambers, the same as she listened now. The thought turned her stomach. How long had Otto been watching her? And how? She wanted to run away, but instead held herself as still as she could, forcing herself to listen.

“And whatever plans they have, Your Grace, shall mean the death of your children when Rhaenyra takes the throne. You have love in your heart for the princess, I know, but do you think Daemon would hesitate for one instant before taking the lives of those who stand in his way? The king is as blind in this as he is in his steadfast refusal to see the truth of his daughter. Daemon seduced her on Dragonstone no matter what tale she told you, Alicent, and once he has won her hand, the game we play has ended.”

“How can you speak of it as a game?” Alicent said. Rhaenyra wondered if she was crying. “My children—”

“I am trying to save your children, you foolish girl,” Otto snapped. “Aegon sits the throne or he is dead; that is the end of it.”

Alicent was crying now; Rhaenyra could hear her little sobs. A door opened and closed, and Rhaenyra realized the queen had left the room when Lord Hightower said, “You push her hard. Don’t you fear she might break?”

“She bends with the wind, now fearful of Daemon and Rhaenyra, now wanting nothing more than to bend the knee to that rotten girl. If she broke, I might mold her into something more useful. A tool that might help us win.”

“You are different, Otto,” Lord Hightower said, his voice almost suspicious. “Different than even nine moons ago, when we celebrated our prince’s nameday. Have things here changed so?”

“They have. I know you care not for tales of Daemon and his bastard, but their appearance… It changed things. Daemon always brings with him chaos, but this… This is different.”

“If the princess declares her uncle her chosen consort and the king agrees… What will you do then?”

Otto Hightower did not hesitate. “Whatever I have to.”

Rhaenyra waited until the two men left the room before she started back down the tunnels.

She couldn’t get the sound of Otto Hightower’s voice out of her head as she walked. Whatever I have to… She had not thought about it of late, but his brother was right. Otto had changed. First, bringing charges he could not substantiate before the king; then speaking what Rhaenyra knew now were falsehoods about Lord Corlys’ hunt for a bride for Laenor. She thought of Criston’s turn against her, and Alicent’s greater and greater fear. What poison had Otto dripped into their ears of Daemon, of her, for months in order to bring them to such states? Daemon would have killed him months ago, if she’d bade him do it. She wondered now if she should have asked it of him, and damn the consequences.

She stumbled and threw a hand out to catch herself. She nearly lost her grip on the lantern then, and the flame flickered as the lantern swung. For a beat, she thought she would be lost here forever in the dark, but then the flame kept burning and Rhaenyra dropped to her knees below the Tower of the Hand, sucking in gulps of cold, dusty air and trying to calm herself.

She would go back, wash the dust from her body, and think through what she had heard. Once she was back in her chambers—

But they listened to her in her chambers.

The churning in her stomach returned. She did not know how. Or for how long. She had seen no signs of someone else outside of her chamber, and that door was not made for spying, unlike the passages near the council chamber or the Tower of the Hand. No, the passages in Maegor’s Holdfast were made for family to move swiftly and secretly. But how else? Could someone sneak inside her chamber? Was she not safe there?

Rhaenyra stood and continued through the tunnels, but when she neared her own chamber, she heard a noise coming from down the passage and took the next turn she came to. She pressed herself against the wall, the stone cold at her back, hilt of her dagger cold in her hand, and breathed as quietly as she could, listening. There was someone there, moving farther away from her, closer to her chamber. Was it the same person who had reported her words to Otto? Was he only there to listen? Or did he have something else in mind?

Rhaenyra moved through the passage, cursing the boots she’d worn instead of slippers. Could someone else hear her, or was the noise only so loud in her head? The metal hilt warmed in her grip even as she shivered.

She’d turned without thinking, but she was almost certain this was the way to Daemon’s chambers. She’d been there only once through these tunnels, but it seemed right. His rooms would be safe. There was no reason to spy on an absent man.

She made it to and through the secret door in his chambers not long after, pressing it closed and then leaning back against it. One breath, two, and then she righted herself and walked further into the room.

When she was a girl and he was gone on his trips—exiles, more like, she knew now—Rhaenyra would sneak into his chambers and pilfer books from his shelves or trinkets from the table beside his bed. He must have known, for the books she found were never too scandalous, and the trinkets never things that might hurt her. She felt like that now, running her fingers along a mostly empty bookshelf. He did not have many things here, her uncle. She wondered if Egg’s father had felt more at home on Dragonstone, those years before her father died and war broke out.

She sank onto the bed. Whatever I have to, Otto had said. She would do the same.

Her heart had stopped its racing and she had just set about making a plan to return to and fortify her chambers when there was a noise at the door. The secret door. Someone working the latch.

Rhaenyra’s eyes shot to the main door and her hand went to the dagger at her side again, but even as she thought of running, the door was creaking open and she saw—

A familiar head of silver-gold and a much-loved face.

“Daemon,” Rhaenyra breathed, and dropped the dagger to the floor.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra’s arms were around him before he could speak.

“You’re shaking, princess,” Daemon murmured.

He was the one returning, but the sound of his voice, in their language… It felt as if she were the one coming home.

“You’re back. I thought it would be days, yet.”

His hand snaked into her hair. “You’re afraid. Why are you afraid?”

She did not answer, just as he did not explain why he had returned early and snuck through the passages. And she did not care. There would be time for explanations, but she could not bring herself to pull away, even to ask what gave his voice the edge of darkness she heard. She breathed his name into the curve of his neck and felt him shiver. She pulled him even closer, her hands clutching the supple leather.

She wanted it gone. Rhaenyra tired of distance between them, of hiding their marriage, of his mission to the Riverlands, of even pretending other men might stand worthy of being her consort, of the very clothing that kept her skin from his. She pulled back from him—but not away—and her fingers went to the fasteners on his doublet, fighting with them until they let go their hold and she could slide her hands beneath and push the sleeves down.

Daemon let the doublet fall, then reached up to cup her face with his hands. His eyes caught the sparse light of his chambers, so warm when they looked at her, but not tender. There was something wild in those eyes. His thumb pressed down against her lower lip, the same place the dragonglass had cut during their wedding. “Abrazyrys.”

She found she did not mind being called wife if it were Daemon doing that calling. “Valzyrys,” she replied, and kissed him.

His hands slid around to her back and clutched her closer as he deepened their kiss. He hungered for her the same way she needed him, and she could feel that wildness in his kiss. Rhaenyra slid her hands beneath his loose white shirt, running her hands up his back, then skimming her nails back down. He groaned into her mouth and she could feel him hard against her. She nipped at his lip before she broke their kiss, but before he could lean in for another, she grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled it up and over his head.

Rhaenyra reached for his hand and tugged him back toward the bed. When they were standing beside it, she gave him a push. He fell back easily, but snatched her wrist as he went, yanking her down on top of him. His kiss was just as hungry as before, and she found herself getting lost in it again, in the feel of his tongue against hers, the taste of him. She shifted on top of him, moving until she straddled him, her dress hiking up around her hips.

Daemon’s hands went to her bare calves, squeezing her legs just above the tops of the boots she still wore, hard enough that she wondered if she’d bruise. “Planning on fucking me with your boots on, princess?”

She grinded down on him and his smirk melted as he moaned. “I plan on fucking you as soon as I can,” she said. “After all, what sort of wife would I be, if I did not welcome my lord husband home?” she asked, and stripped off her dress.

She unlaced his breeches and he shoved them down, freeing his cock. She reached for it, wrapping her hand around him tentatively. She’d never done this before, even though she’d taken him inside of her. He let out another moan and his head tipped back as his breathing sped up, but he did not take his eyes from her. He had made her peak on his fingers and with his tongue. Could she do that? What would it taste like?

Daemon groaned, like he could read the thoughts in her eyes, and then, though she could hardly say how, flipped them, so that he lay atop her, their faces close. “My body is yours to explore, princess, but right now, I need to feel you around me.”

She wanted that too. Rhaenyra reached between them, slid her fingers around him, and guided him to her entrance, then wrapped her legs around him and urged him forward.

When he thrust inside, it stung as it hadn’t the first time. She let out a hiss and he kissed her, not quite gently, not quite apologetically. He had no need to apologize. Even the sting and burn felt good. She clenched around him and he moaned, thrusting again.

“You needed to feel me around you?” she asked, hardly aware she was going to speak before she did. She tightened her legs around him, mindless of the boot leather that must have been digging into his skin, and raised her hips to meet him. “I needed the same. To feel you inside. Daemon,” she moaned as he clutched her thigh and somehow pressed deeper inside of her.

She couldn’t speak anymore, could only breathe and whimper, his lips close to hers. She wanted to touch him everywhere at once: his hair, his back, the dip and curve that led to his behind. Her hands couldn’t settle, didn’t settle, not until he’d driven her to the peak of her pleasure, and they both sank, breathless, into each other’s arms.

“I would think you’d aimed to surprise me,” he said lightly as they lay together after, “waiting in my rooms dressed as a thieving chambermaid. What a game that might be.” He nipped her shoulder and she laughed a little.

But the question behind his jest was real enough: why was she here for him to find? Why was she dressed in a dirty, simple gown? She took a moment and collected her thoughts. “Are there other ways into my chamber? Or ways to listen to what goes on in them?”

Daemon stiffened. “Rhaenyra,” he said, and she could hear the anger simmering in his voice.

“Please, uncle. Is there?”

“No,” he said. “Some passages in Maegor’s were made for escape, not spying. Yours is one of those. I made certain of it. There is but the one passage, and no man—or woman—could find their way inside the walls elsewise.”

She wasn’t sure if that was what she had wanted to hear or not. How had Otto known what she’d said then? Had she spoken so candidly of having plans some other time? Did he have a maid in his employ? Certainly it wasn’t Laena, she knew, and not Ser Steffon either, for if either of them reported to him, he would have much more to be fearful of than a possible marriage between her and Daemon. She had been certain he had someone watching her…

Daemon was watching her, patient, but with anger already glimmering in his eyes. She pressed her forehead against his and took a deep breath in.

When she pulled back, she told him what she’d heard in the Tower of the Hand.

At the end of it, he started to rise, but she pulled him back down beside her. They both yet had things to share, and plans to make.

“Scheming cunt,” he snarled. “I will kill him tonight if you wish it.”

It was absurd, how warm such promises made her. How safe the danger radiating from Daemon made her feel. He would do it if she said the word. Sneak into the man’s chambers and cut his heart out. But still…

“No,” she said, though she dearly wanted to say the opposite. “You will be suspected, no matter where you are known to be, just as you were with Rhea. We can give my father no reason to act against us. He’s… he’s been so strange, Daemon. Dreaming, I believe.”

Daemon let out a short laugh and ran a hand through his hair. “Dreaming, yes, but not dreams sent by the gods. The ghost I hunt? She is the one who did it.”

Alys Rivers. Rhaenyra had given little thought to the witch who had sent Aegon back through time to them. And to find that she had traveled with him, had spent the moons since targeting those she thought might make this dragon-less future come to pass? That she had been the one to send dreams to the king?

“What did she show him?” Rhaenyra asked.

Daemon shook his head. “I’m not certain. I’m not certain even she knows. Visions from this future of hers, and any such might be terrible. Mayhaps she showed him Aegon’s parents’ fruitful marriage. That would do wonders to scare him.” There was a deeper bite to his words than there usually was even when speaking of her father.

“But she’s stopped?”

“She was using a glass candle to steal into his dreams, or some such nonsense. I’ve taken it from her.” He smirked. “She did not care for that.”

“But she’s on our side? You trust her?”

“I tolerate her. I’d rather have her on our side than trawling the Riverlands committing murders.” Daemon paused, then added. “Unless we’ve sanctioned them.”

“Of course,” she said drily.

There was something else that he wanted to say, but could not bring himself to. She could see it in the distance that had grown in his gaze. She raised a hand to his cheek and pressed her own thumb into the small scar the dragonglass knife had left behind. “Tell me,” she whispered.

“When Aegon’s father fought Vhagar and her rider, he had no intention of surviving the battle.”

It took her a moment to get his meaning. “How did she… Why?”

“He said he’d lived too long.” Daemon’s voice made something in her shiver, but it wasn’t cold. It wasn’t anything, just pale and devoid of feeling. “His queen no longer trusted him. She’d sent him away.”

She'd sent him away. As Viserys had, trusting others, banishing him from her sight. She had been angry with Daemon before, but she'd never wanted him gone. She could hardly fathom it. She didn't try to. That woman was not her, and that Daemon was not hers, not as this one was. Not if she could send him away.

 “I’m here,” she said. “I will not send you away.”

She wasn’t even certain he’d heard her, so lost was he in his thoughts. “She sent him away and he went, and then when he had the chance to fell their enemy, he took it. Singers sang of the battle. But he wanted to die. He planned to die and he did. He left them alone.”

“Daemon…”

“He left them alone, and then she died. And then Aegon—” He stopped abruptly, and his eyes went vacant.

She slid her hand around the back of his neck, pressed her fingers against his skin hard, so he could feel it. “It won’t happen again. Whatever it was. It won’t happen again.”

“He tried to kill himself, Rhaenyra. Our son.” The pain flooded those last two words like a dam had broken.

He’d tried to kill himself? The horrors of this world of his never stopped. He was only a boy, she wanted to protest. But he was a boy, and he’d been king, and he’d seen nearly his entire family dead. He’d watched his mother die in flames. Rhaenyra couldn’t imagine the pain of that. Our son, Daemon had said. And he was, wasn’t he?

She pulled Daemon forward, pressed their foreheads together. “He is safe now. He is with us, and we will not make their mistakes.”

His hand came up to clutch her wrist and his eyes burned bright. “I will never leave you. If it comes to battle, I swear that I will fight until my last breath to return to you.”

His early return suddenly made more sense. He had come to her as soon as he could, but without being seen to break the ruling of the king to not return until all was settled in the Riverlands.

“And I swear to you that I shall not send you away. I cannot promise we will always agree, but I trust you, Daemon. You shall be at my side.”

He kissed her fiercely, as though he could press his vow into her skin, and she returned it. “I don’t want to leave you,” he said after the kiss ended.

She threaded her fingers thought his hair. “You’re not leaving me. You’re doing what you must so we will be safe, and together.”

“I should kill Otto tonight and damn the consequences. To spy on the heir to the throne… No one would have dared, when the heir was my father or Aemon before him. We will find whoever his creature is, and then I shall bring you both their heads.”

To spy on the heir to the throne, she thought. They did spy, and knew things no one should, even if she did not know how. “Daemon,” she said, “you said before you could procure moon tea from someone in the city if I wished it.”

She felt his hair brush her bare shoulder as he nodded. “There is a healer I know in Flea Bottom. One without connection to Mysaria, in case she already cannot be trusted.”

“I would have you send her to me in the morning.”

He kissed her temple. “As you say, my queen.” His kisses trailed down her neck as his hand trailed down her side. “Whatever it is you’re planning, all will be as you say.”

At the hour of the wolf, Daemon walked her to her chamber through the passageways. He kissed her before she opened the door.

“You shall send your healer to me?” she asked, running a hand through his hair. They had spoken of all of this at length as they lay abed and as they dressed, and yet she said it again, if only for the chance to keep him with her a little longer.

“I shall, with all to your exact requirement.”

“And you will return two days hence?” she asked.

“Two days.” Daemon kissed her once more.

And then he was gone.

As promised, the healer came to her near dawn. The maids admitted her and then Rhaenyra sent them away. They were alone.

“Do you have it?” Rhaenyra asked.

“Yes, my Princess.”

“Properly prepared?”

The woman pulled a waterskin from her basket and pulled out the stopper. Steam swirled up, along with a nutty scent. “As you asked, princess.”

Rhaenyra watched her pour it into a small cup. “Good.”

When it came near time for the council to meet, Rhaenyra did not leave the way she normally would. No, this time—after dismissing her maids with tales of feeling ill and telling Ser Steffon to allow no one within—she slipped back into the passages, dagger at her side. She trusted Daemon to know the Keep better than anyone else living, but though he was certain no person could spy on her from the walls or passages, something rankled. Otto had been certain she had plans made, and she had not spoken of such with anyone but Laena. There was always a chance to be overheard in the open areas of the Keep, true enough, but there was something…

Rhaenyra made it to the small council chamber just before the meeting was due to begin. Otto had arrived, something strange glimmering in his eyes. She wasn’t sure what it was, and it set her teeth on edge.

Her father arrived last. He took his seat, then looked around the room. For her, Rhaenyra realized.

Otto realized it too. “Your Grace,” he said, “I fear the princess is indisposed.”

“Indisposed? What ails her?” Her father sounded alarmed. Did he fear so much for her safety? “Mellos?”

“I have not seen the princess today, Your Grace,” the Grand Maester said.

“My king, this is a sensitive matter…” Otto murmured.

“You’re all dismissed,” Viserys said quickly.

From where she stood, she could see the annoyed line of Tyland Lannister’s mouth, and the affront apparent even from Mellos’ profile. But the other councilors rose and left the room at her father’s command.

“Tell me,” Viserys ordered after the door closed behind them.

Otto was quiet for a beat before speaking. “It is no easy thing to tell a father of his daughter’s exploits. I had considered saying nothing, but...”

“Go on.”

“This morning, I received word that your daughter has been engaged in behaviors unbecoming of a maiden... of a princess.”

“What behaviors?”

“Your Grace,” Otto said, and swallowed hard. “This morning Rhaenyra sought out and was given moon tea.”

Such a statement was damning for a maiden. Treason, if a lie. There was but one reason to drink moon tea—unwanted pregnancy. To avoid one. To end one.

Her father looked stricken. “This is a lie. You have been lied to.”

“I only wish that were true, Your Grace.”

“Who is responsible for this gossip? Have this rumormonger brought before me at once. And I will take their eyes.”

Otto’s eyes bled sympathy. False, of course, but even Rhaenyra could almost believe it. “As your Hand, I must maintain trusted sources of information. This one came to me fearful of discovery if it were known who spoke the princess’ secret. And yet there is no doubt. This morning, after the hour of the nightingale, the princess admitted a visitor to her chambers, a woman, who brought her a certain tea. The princess gained assurance the tea was properly prepared before partaking in it, and shortly after… Shortly after, she began to show its effects.”

He knew.

How, she did not know, but he knew every step of what she had done that morning. She felt anger burst through her veins, hot as the molten rock beneath the Dragonmont. Somehow, Otto Hightower had eyes and ears on her in her chambers. In the castle her ancestors had built.

She did not douse the flames, but she controlled them, tipping her chin up. It was time.

Rhaenyra slipped from the passage into the main halls of the Red Keep, then started toward the entrance of the council chamber. She was nearly upon it when she met Alicent, pacing down the hall with her hands clasped in front of her.

“Rhaenyra!” she said, her eyes wide.

Alicent knew as well. Had her father called her here to assuage her father’s sorrow, after he broke the news? Was Alicent supposed to kiss away the king’s tears at being made to disinherit his disgraced daughter? Or was she merely supposed to show off the swell of her pregnant belly, a good and decent woman when compared to the harlot who broke her fast with moon tea?

“Your Grace,” Rhaenyra replied. Her voice was cold despite the anger that raged within, and Alicent’s brow furrowed at the tone. Before she could say anything, Rhaenyra swept by her and into the council chamber.

“Your Grace, surely you—” Otto was saying when Rhaenyra entered. He broke off at the sight of her, and Viserys turned and saw her as well.

“Rhaenyra.” He took two quick steps toward her, and then faltered. “Are you well?” he asked, and she realized he believed it. Should she be angry, that he so easily believed his Hand’s gossip? Or should she be grateful, that he’d threatened to cut out someone’s eyes for a thing he believed true?

“Well enough,” she said, casting her eyes around the room. “Does the council not meet this morn?”

“Princess—”

“Rhaenyra—”

Two Hightowers, speaking in concert. She looked from Alicent, who had followed her in, to Otto. “Have I interrupted some matter?”

“I had heard you were ill,” her father said.

“Heard I was ill?” She feigned surprise. “I had but a small imposition this morning. Hardly enough to bring to the king’s attention. Or the Hand’s.”

“You’re not—” Her father broke off, looking her up and down.

Rhaenyra was not certain what the effects of moon tea were, but she had seen the effects of her mother’s miscarriages often enough. But her father saw none of that in her, and he turned his head toward Otto, something suspicious sparking in his eyes. “Otto?”

“Perhaps the queen and the princess might step out, Your Grace. Such talk—”

“What talk?” Rhaenyra asked, just as Alicent’s hand curled around her elbow. She pulled away. “What is going on?”

“Someone,” the king began, even as Otto opened his mouth, likely to dismiss her question, “has made a claim, Rhaenyra. A claim against your virtue.”

Rhaenyra looked again from Otto to Alicent, then back to her father. “A claim against my virtue? What claim?”

“Princess, this morning you were seen procuring and drinking a certain tea,” Otto said quietly.

Beside her, Alicent inhaled sharply. Too sharply, Rhaenyra thought. Was she truly so bad a mummer?

“A tea?” Rhaenyra asked. “Do you speak of moon tea, my lord Hand?”

“What do you know of such a substance, princess?”

“Something of its use, little of its composition, and nothing of its taste,” Rhaenyra lied. “This accusation is the vilest of treasons, my lord, and I demand to confront whosoever brought this to the king.”

“Princess—”

“Was it you, Ser Otto?”

Otto looked back to the king. “Your Grace, I believe it would be more proper—”

“I believe it would be more proper if you show me the proof of your accusation.”

“Princess, it is no mere accusation that you fled unchaperoned from the capitol with your uncle two moons ago, spending two nights in his company. It is no accusation that you and Prince Daemon were seen in an inappropriate proximity in the Dragonpit moments before he killed a knight of the Kingsguard. Each of those things are facts.”

“My uncle and I were accompanied by his squire, ser, and Ser Criston Cole laid hands upon two of royal blood. When he did his life was forfeit. Neither of these things speaks to your accusation today.”

“You did receive a visitor this morning, did you not?” Otto asked. “A woman, bearing with her items concealed in a basket?”

“I did. And the woman did bring me tea, that much is true. But I did not drink moon tea. I have not been with child. Have you grown so sick with ambition that whispering to my servants and sworn sword is no longer enough? You must spin stories from these thin threads? I received a visitor, I was indisposed before council, I await my uncle’s return. And you would turn this into a vulgar accusation against my virtue. That is treason, is it not?”

“Not,” Otto said, “if it is true.”

If there had been any doubt, with the look on his face it was gone. He was secure in his knowledge of what had happened in her chambers this morning. He did have a spy, one that saw things that Daemon said no human could possibly see or hear. The anger flowed again and she let it, stepping closer to him.

“Well, then you have admitted treason, ser. For it is not true. My courses ended but four days ago, as my maids can attest, and my tea from this morning remains half drank in my chambers. Barley tea, with honey, brought to me as a gift. Send for both my maid and my tea, and I shall show you the lie in your claim. Who attests your story, my Lord Hand?”

Otto did not answer. “And the woodswitch you called to you at dawn?”

“A woodswitch? The woman is a healer of Flea Bottom. She cares for the children damaged in the fighting pits the Gold Cloaks broke up three months past, the ones who may never be able to care for themselves. I have offered her my patronage after my uncle Prince Daemon extended aid from mine own coffers to the people. It is the duty of the royal family to care for our people, Ser Otto, little though you and yours have cared to do so.”

“That this woman is associated with Prince Daemon is hardly surprising, princess.”

“Oh, of course, since indiscretions involve him as well." She did not give Otto time to reply, turning sharply to her father. “Father, you know there has been nothing improper between Daemon and myself. Do you not?”

Know he did, for how could indiscretions exist between husband and wife? Otto could see Viserys’ answer on his face. “Your Grace,” Otto began, just as Alicent said, “Husband.”

Rhaenyra said nothing, merely staring up at her father. He could ruin her now, if his aim was to see her disinherited. He could do as he had done in the first years of his reign, when Otto and Daemon clashed—placate them both unsatisfactorily, leaving the two of them to clash again before the moon turned.

Or he could be the dragon he was meant to be, and act.

She held out little hope for the latter.

But she had to try.

She broke eye contact with her father and turned once more to Otto. “Tell me, ser. How did you come to know that my visitor brought me tea to drink? And how did you know that I was ill this morning?”

“As the Hand of the King, I have many sources of information—”

“You mean you have spies in my rooms,” Rhaenyra snapped. Another sharp inhale from Alicent. Shock that her father had been found out? Rhaenyra didn’t know. She pressed on. “The healer and I were alone, and I told no one but my closest maids and Ser Steffon that I felt ill. It is no secret, ser, that you would see your blood on the throne over mine own mother’s, but to resort to sending your creatures into the chambers of the Princess of Dragonstone? And then accuse me of impropriety?”

Otto looked back to her father. “Your Grace, I would ask—”

“Answer her.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes snapped back to her father as well. Viserys was staring at Otto, his eyes narrowed.

“How did you know she was ill? How did you know what she was drinking?”

Otto opened his mouth but no words came out. “My informant—”

“Your spy,” Viserys hissed. “I asked for their name before, so I might take out their eyes. I ask again.”

“Your Grace, I beg of you—”

“No!” Viserys’ voice cracked in the middle even as it rose. “Your interests no longer align with those of the realm. Your honor has been compromised.”

“Viserys—” Alicent said, reaching for his arm. The king allowed it, but did not pause before continuing.

“You were a faithful servant, Otto. But I can no longer trust your judgment. You are no longer my Hand.”

Tears had begun to drip from Alicent’s eyes. “Husband, please!”

The king paid her no mind. “We will hold off on such announcements until the after the tourney, at which time you shall accompany your brother home to Oldtown, where you will stay unless summoned back to court.”

“My king—”

“My mind is made up, Ser Otto. Your pin,” Rhaenyra’s father ordered, and held out his whole hand toward his dismissed one. “Now.”

Chapter Text

The prince’s party hunted outlaws for a fortnight before Lord Tully’s son and heir Ser Elmo declared the Riverlands cleansed of its scourge.

He toasted their prince, their princess, their king, and the great hall of Castle Darry echoed with the cheers of the other knights, men-at-arms, and followers who’d joined them. Aegon had seen little of the Dance itself, but he couldn’t imagine the camps of his father and brother and Ser Elmo’s own son being so joyful after slaughter. Maybe they had been. He thought of the satisfaction he’d felt in sending Sunfyre’s egg spinning to the bottom of Blackwater Bay. Maybe he would as well, depending on who he was slaughtering.

He couldn’t see much satisfaction in killing a bunch of thieves.

Egg did see the utility of it. With this hunt, Daemon had strengthened the bonds between the lords of the Riverlands, tightened their hold on their land and the loyalty of their people, and reinforced that loyalty to House Targaryen. To Princess Rhaenyra, who was toasted nightly, for it had been her who sent her princely uncle to the Riverlands, where his great red beast flew over forests and flushed out thieves like a hound flushed rabbits.

And now they would move toward Kings Landing, an army that was not divided, but solely Black.

Egg hadn’t seen it, when he challenged Daemon to act for his—for Princess Rhaenyra. All he’d heard was that his father had left his mother behind willingly, just as this Daemon left Rhaenyra for the Riverlands… left her behind with Aemond growing in the Green queen’s belly. What was the use of trying, if everything just happened again?

But then he’d seen the lords Daemon collected. He’d seen Bracken offer his hand to Blackwood, when it came out that it was Blackwood men who rode beside Daemon to capture the bandit who crippled Amos Bracken. That might have been a lie, but that handshake wasn’t. Nor was the sight of the heirs to both Lords Vance drinking together at the same fire, singing a song of a dragon smashing a crab. He’d seen one knight introducing himself to Daemon as a cousin to Ser Tyland Lannister and be received as in as friendly a fashion as Daemon received anybody, and it hit him once again that they were allies. Tyland Lannister, whose treasury ploy had destroyed his mother’s hopes of ruling Kings Landing peacefully, could no longer be counted with the Usurper’s creatures.

Things were different, things were going to be different. He could almost make himself believe it. Egg wanted to tell Daemon his thoughts, wanted to explain to him how different things already were…

But he could not do it, for Daemon had listened when Egg said he wanted nothing from him, and listened well.

They’d stopped at Darry for tonight, after Daemon and a group of men had rousted a band of thieves hiding near the Ruby Ford that day. Lord Darry had sent several of his men to meet them on the road and hosted them joyfully.

Egg usually sat beside Daemon when they feasted. It was near the only time they were together these days, when some lord hosted them in his castle or the rare times Daemon called for his squire’s assistance. Daemon was always moving this way and that on the road, busying himself with things more important than Egg. That was what Ser Harwin said anyway—though he said it kindlier—but Egg knew he was wrong. The reason was simpler: Daemon knew now what a craven he was. What use did he have for such a disappointing squire, much less such a disappointing son?

But tonight, Lord Darry’s children crowded around the High Table, a curly-haired girl near Baela’s age as the war began and a boy near Aegon’s and two little ones who must have been twins. The girl hooked an arm around her brother’s neck, mussing up his golden hair, and they all laughed, and Egg felt his loss so keenly he thought it might choke him. He slipped out of the room before Daemon could see him, not that Daemon ever seemed to see him anymore.

Egg wandered until he could still hear the revelry but see little of it, and then settled in an alcove, perched on a white wooden bench carved with snarling wolves. He curled a hand over the head of one of the wooden wolves, thinking of Cregan Stark, who had fought to honor a promise made to Jace even after Jace’s death. Cregan Stark, his brother’s friend, who had like as not been as ashamed of him as Daemon was now.

Alys found him there soon after and sat beside him without a word.

When they’d set off from Riverrun a fortnight hence, Prince Daemon had offered to send Alys to travel with another party, far from Harwin and Egg both, but Harwin had said it was unnecessary.

“She killed your brother,” Daemon said.

“And I’d rather keep her where I can watch her.”

Daemon had conceded with a tip of his head, then looked at Egg, a brow raised in question. Egg had nodded, little though he wanted the witch anywhere near him, and Daemon nodded back. And then he’d strode off, the first of many times he’d absented himself without saying goodbye.

“Larys killed you, you know,” Alys had said that night at their fire. Egg’s head snapped toward her. Harwin was already looking at her, his eyes disbelieving. Her lips curved up and she let out a sharp, mocking cackle that somehow reminded Aegon of his father. “You don’t believe me? He hired tongueless men to set Harrenhal aflame, and it killed you and Lord Lyonel both.”

Harwin looked to Aegon as if he could confirm or deny it. Egg shrugged helplessly. Harwin Strong had died before his parents wed. “Why would he do that?” Harwin demanded of Alys when Egg had no answer for him.

“The boy told you he was one of the Greens. I’d say you were the target, protector of the princess that you were, but I think it more likely he was after our father. He was Hand of the King, then, and with his death… Lord Otto got his pin back. But Larys didn’t mind any of the others he killed with his fire.”

“Like you?” Harwin replied, his voice angry but even.

Alys looked almost discomfited. “The fire I set was meant to kill one and one alone.”

“I suppose fire isn’t likely to die on command,” Harwin said.

“You think it was an accident so much more was consumed?” She arched a brow that said she didn’t.

Harwin hadn’t answered. Neither had Egg, though he’d wondered several times since what she meant. Not enough to bring the topic back up again, not when it would upset Ser Harwin.

Since leaving Riverrun, the three of them had a cautious peace among them, though Egg often wondered just what it was that Alys was planning to do, and what his father—what Prince Daemon would ask of her.

Egg had not expected the witch to seek him out at Castle Darry. He ignored her as best he could, watching as a harried nursemaid tried to shepherd the Darry twins to bed and listening to drunken knights sing some unintelligible song.

“This Lord Darry has a son called Damon,” Alys said.

“I remember,” Egg replied. The boy had been named for Aegon’s father, though he did not know why. He did not even know if the boy had yet been born.

“He’s just there,” she said, as though answering his question, pointing to one of the twins being ushered to bed. The little boy stuck his tongue out at the nursemaid and took off running. With his pale blond hair, Aegon could almost imagine he truly was a Targaryen. Alys let out a soft sigh. “He tried to take Harrenhal from me. Did your Hand ever tell you about that?”

“Ser Damon sent a message to court about your sorcery. Lord Peake laughed at Tyland when he wanted to send more men.”

“Did you truly not know it was me?” she asked. “A witch called Alys, who came to you with spells calling upon the Old Gods?”

He truly hadn’t. “You were right. I would have done anything for a chance to save them. I would have ignored anything that would dissuade me. I couldn’t live there anymore.”

Alys hummed, her voice low. “I felt the same. But I’m not sure I have much living left here either.”

“Why?” he asked, turning to look at her. Her eyes were focused on some point in the distance, but he wasn’t sure what she was seeing. “Did you see something with your glass candle? Some future you’re not telling us about?”

“No, Your Grace.” Her voice was not as mocking as her words. “It’s just a feeling.”

Egg followed her gaze. Some drunken knights had spilled out of the Great Hall, tankards of ale still in hand. He recognized none of them, but he expected most of them had died in the Dance, along with most of the men of the Riverlands. Had Alys known any of them? Had she watched any of them die from Vhagar’s back as Aemond One-Eye scourged the Riverlands?

“It’s like seeing double, isn’t it? Damon Darry, four years old; Damon Darry, five-and-twenty, that towhead covered in blood. Daemon Targaryen, two-and-thirty, slim and full of fire; Daemon Targaryen, forty-nine and ready to die. And if I think about the Kinslayer, I fear my mind will rupture.”

Pain clenched his heart at the thought of his father—forty-nine and ready to die, it made him so angry—and at this Daemon too. It was like seeing double. Sometimes, when Aegon woke in the middle of the night and Gaemon Palehair slept beside him, he’d keep his eyes open only at a squint and he’d pretend that Gaemon was his brother Viserys, that they slept peacefully on Dragonstone and none of it had happened. Living here was like that all the time, Egg thought. He thought of Rhaenyra laughing at supper after her wedding. His mother, if he didn’t look hard enough.

This wasn’t his place, was it? And this Rhaenyra and Daemon were not his family. Perhaps Alys was right. Perhaps they had not been sent back for living, but for completing their task. He curled his fingers into the wolf’s wooden mouth, its teeth blunt against his skin. Completing the task would be good enough.

Daemon was late to bed that night. Egg heard the door to their rooms creak open, half-asleep though he was. Something inside of him relaxed, hearing the familiar footsteps. This new army might have been Daemon's, but in some other world, many of them had been traitors to his mother’s crown. He misliked seeing Daemon amongst Brackens and Atranta Vances, little though he had a choice.

The footsteps did not go to Daemon’s own bed, though. Instead, they crossed toward Egg’s. Egg stayed still, his chin curled toward his chest, eyes closed even as Daemon pushed his door open a little further and dim light spilled across his face.

Daemon did not say a word, merely set down something heavy onto the table by the door, and retreated from the room. As he left, Egg opened his eyes, just a little, and watched his father walk away.

The next day, Egg traveled alongside Harwin and Alys, as had become his custom. The three of them were near the front of their party as they set out from Darry. Small folk came out to watch them go, a parade of knights with banners of Tully blue and Lychester orange and Darry brown. There were Targaryen banners too, but they hardly needed them, with Caraxes making an appearance above them time and again, the red dragon of House Targaryen come to life.

“You didn’t break your fast in the hall,” Harwin said to him as the sun began to climb.

“I ate in my room.” It was mostly true. There had been a dish of fruit waiting for him. He’d managed the berries, but shoved the apples in his bag for later.

Harwin made a skeptical sound, but the next words he spoke were, “My prince!” as Daemon rode up from behind them.

He’d been at the head of their procession when they set out, and Egg had no idea where he’d come from. It had been a month of traveling, and it was still odd to see him ahorse. This horse did fit him though; the stallion tossed his head with an annoyed snort, fine black mane flaring dramatically. Egg wanted to laugh, but didn’t. He didn’t think Daemon would appreciate such from him.

“We will be passing the road to Harrenhal before we stop for the night,” Daemon said without greeting any of them.

“We will,” Harwin said when Daemon didn’t continue.

“You and your men should ride for the castle, then join us again on the Kingsroad three days hence. I would return to the king with news of his Master of Laws.”

“You’re sending me to see my father?” Harwin asked.

Daemon did not answer that. Instead he said, “Aegon, you may go with Ser Harwin.” His tone was neutral, as though he didn’t care what Egg did. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe Aegon had already disappointed him enough and Daemon could find no more room for the feeling. It didn’t matter anyway, Egg told himself. Daemon wasn’t his father.

“Daemon—” Harwin said, and Daemon gave him a chilly look. “My prince—”

He looked equally unimpressed with the correction. “The witch stays with the rest of us,” Daemon said, and rode away.

“What if I want to see our father?” Alys muttered.

“Then you shouldn’t have nearly killed him.” Harwin’s voice was as sharp as Egg had heard it. Their peace was even more cautious for the rest of the day.

Egg did go with Ser Harwin, Ser Brynden, and Ser Arlan as they turned toward Harrenhal. If they rode hard they’d make it before dark, Harwin said, and when they got closer, he sent the two knights ahead to let his sisters know of their coming. Harwin and Egg continued alone, the woods eerily quiet around them, though Harwin did not seem to mind.

“I used to hunt in these woods when I was a boy,” Harwin said. The late afternoon sun broke through the trees and danced on his hair and face as he spoke. He pointed. “I brought down my first deer just over that rise. I must have been your age, or close enough.”

It was unfair that he got to hear this story and not Jace, Egg thought. Unfair that he got to ride at Ser Harwin’s side when Jace would never even be born. Jace would forgive him for it, even if Egg did not deserve forgiveness, because Jace had been the kindest person Aegon had ever met.

“That is a no, then?”

Egg had missed what Harwin had said entirely. “My apologies, ser. What did you say?”

Harwin laughed and leaned back a little in his saddle. “How did I ever believe you bastard-born? You’re such a little princeling.”

Egg frowned. “It’s just words. Posture.”

“It’s in your blood.”

He shook his head. “They made me a king, and I shouldn’t have been.”

Harwin didn’t ask who should have been. “I’m sorry that they left you. My mother died when I was not more than five, and I miss her still. And I try every day not to think about Larys, because there is not yet time for grief. In some future he may have killed me, but to me he is—he was my brother.”

Seeing double, Egg thought again, thinking of the Larys who killed Harwin Strong and the Larys whose burnt body had been crushed beneath a falling beam. He could not bring himself to be sorry that Harwin had lost his brother, no matter the pain in his voice. He was Daemon Targaryen’s son, not Harwin Strong’s; he was not kind enough for that.

“But you have us now, Egg. We will protect you. You know that.”

Egg nodded. He had not come here for protection. But he knew that they would, even  Daemon who was too ashamed to look on his face for long.

The angry caw of a crow sounded from the brush ahead of them, and then a trio of vultures burst into the air, escaping the crow’s wrath. Egg craned his neck, trying to see what they were after, and caught a glimpse of blue.

“Harwin,” he said, even as Harwin pulled at his own reins to halt.

The woman sat at the base of a tree, the crow perched on her shoulder. She had hair nearly as black as the crow and it spilled to her shoulders. Her skin was very pale, and had a blueish tinge, like her dress.

“Benna?” Harwin asked, swinging down from his horse. Egg followed, his hand on the hilt of his dagger. “Benna, is that you?”

Benna did not answer. Her eyes stared at them, unseeing, unblinking, the gray film of death over them. The crow screamed at them as they approached, but flew to an upper branch when they did not halt as the vultures had.

“Egg, stay back,” Harwin ordered, but by then Egg was almost to his side, no matter the smell.

“You know her?”

The woman looked near twenty, though her skin had started to bloat a little and it was hard to be certain. Her dress was faded and dirty, but still whole. The woman smelled of death, of rot and piss and feces, but Egg saw no blood, no wound, no marks upon her skin.

“She was a servant at Harrenhal. One of the maids who served in the family wing… She went missing the night of the fire.”

Egg’s eyes swept over the dead woman. “How long has she been dead? And… how?”

“I do not know.” Harwin knelt beside her and closed her eyelids. “Perhaps she was injured in the fire.”

“She does not look injured.” Egg knelt too, trying not to wretch at the smell. Her hands were folded in her lap. She looked as though she’d sat down and simply… stopped.

“There’s soot on her dress,” Harwin said. Egg was amazed he hadn’t noticed, and almost thankful for the rotten smell. He’d rather smell rot than char any day. “Perhaps the smoke…”

The crow screamed at them again. Egg could almost believe it was speaking words, something almost near enough to understand.

“The smoke,” he repeated, and Harwin seemed to remember who he was with.

“Egg, back to your horse,” he said. Harwin stood, backed away from the corpse that had once been a woman called Benna. “We’ll send someone for her. Give her a proper burial.”

A proper burial, Egg thought as he mounted his horse. That was better than some people got. He glanced back. The crow had flown back to Benna’s shoulder and as Egg and Harwin rode away, Egg would have sworn the crow was watching him.

Chapter Text

When Aegon didn’t return the day Daemon had told them to meet him, he almost left straightaway on Caraxes to find them.

There were plenty of reasons for them to be delayed, Daemon knew, but knowing that did little to quell the pins and needles inside of him. He’d left Egg and Harwin off and on throughout the last moon, but it had been him leaving. He’d known he would return.

He knew Harwin would as well. He’d trust no one else in this makeshift army with his son, no matter how many children Lord Darry named for Targaryen warriors, no matter how true Ser Elmo’s praise of Daemon himself rang now. The Riverlands had fractured when their queen had needed them; Daemon would rather put them all to the sword to prevent it, if he thought it would work. But the Riverlanders hadn’t been the only ones to break when their queen needed them, had they?

“A rider, my prince,” one of the Tully men said, pulling Daemon’s attention toward one of the men who’d been with Harwin when he left with his son.

They’d found a corpse in the woods and Harwin was needed to sort out whether said corpse had anything to do with the fire, when she’d still been alive. He’d get better answers from the witch than he would back at Harrenhal, and he should have known that. Daemon dismissed the messenger without another word.

They came two days later, Egg walking toward him in Harwin’s shadow. He looked unharmed, and steady enough, and Daemon almost reached a hand out to clap him on the shoulder. But then he looked at Aegon’s eyes, shadowed and downcast, and turned to Harwin. “We ride for Kings Landing on the morrow,” Daemon said, and walked away.

Harwin found him later, sitting in a clearing tending to Dark Sister.

“The boy thinks you’re angry,” Harwin said, his voice tight.

Daemon looked up at him. “I am.”

Something angry sparked in Harwin’s eyes at that. “You’re not angry at Egg. You’re angry at—”

“You should learn to hold your tongue, Ser Harwin,” Daemon said, turning Dark Sister this way and that, so the Valyrian steel caught and reflected the late afternoon sunlight. “Else one day you might lose it.”

Harwin huffed something that almost sounded like a laugh. “At least I use it now and then, my prince. To speak to my father, whom I would not have wonder whether his son loves him. To speak to your son, who is a fine boy and deserves not the burdens on his shoulders. To speak to a friend, whom I’d like to wallop for his words and his silence.”

Daemon pushed Dark Sister into her sheath and stood. “Wallop?” he asked with a raised brow. “Come then. Strike me.” Daemon could do with a good fight.

Harwin didn’t hesitate. He closed the space between them and punched. Daemon slid away from his fist, more out of training than out of desire to stop the blow from landing. The two of them traded blows, quick and fast and hard, until Harwin caught Daemon in the mouth and reared back at the sight of the prince’s blood.

Daemon lifted a hand to his lip and smiled.

Dusk fell around them as they sparred. In the shadows, Daemon could see little more than the shape of Harwin—the straight bridge of his nose, the slope of his forehead, the curl of his hair—and he thought of Jace. This man’s son, the best of all of them if Aegon was to be believed, who’d died trying to save his brother. He didn’t give up, Daemon knew, without knowing how he knew. He fought the water he crashed into, until he couldn’t fight anymore, until it took him like it took his little brother, like it took his dragon.

He'd fought like a Targaryen should.

He’d fought like Aegon’s father should have.

He died for her, he wanted to shout, but all he could hear was Alys’ snide voice. Prince Daemon, whose last act for his queen was to die—and who wanted it that way. He’d let himself go, let himself die when his niece—his wife, his queen—needed him. That wasn’t me, he wanted to say… But wasn’t it?

Anger pulsed through Daemon. He took the hit Harwin aimed at his jaw, feeling the pain ratchet through him, but kept moving in close. A quick punch to the gut and a shot to the jaw, and he grabbed Harwin’s jerkin before he could fall.

Daemon pulled back his arm, ready to slam his fist into Harwin’s face and bring the man down. Harwin could take it if anyone could, he knew… But he looked into the man’s face and couldn’t do it. It wasn’t Harwin he wanted to hit.

Daemon let go and Harwin dropped to the ground.

“Go. Find someone else to fight.” He looked the knight up and down—his bright eyes, his heaving chest— and added, “Or fuck.”

Harwin climbed to his feet. “Daemon,” he said.

“Go.”

Harwin went.

After he was gone, Daemon drew Dark Sister and slashed into a nearby tree, letting out a yell through clenched teeth. He did not know what to do. He’d slaked Dark Sister’s thirst on outlaws for a fortnight, used his fists and feet to bring men down, fought until he was dripping with sweat and exhausted, and nothing dulled this rage. Daemon wanted to kill Otto Hightower. He wanted to strike his brother across his smiling, well-fed face. He wanted to hold his son without feeling such shame for what the boy’s father had done.

He wanted Rhaenyra.

And why shouldn’t he have her, he thought angrily, driving Dark Sister into the ground. She was his wife, bound to him in blood as he was to her. And yet though they’d been wed for two moons, he’d slept beside her but once. He promised to fight for her, to do whatever he could to uphold her claim, but still his brother had sent him here, the same place that he’d died in some other life. He was not sure he could ever forgive him for it, even if he did not know it all. Viserys should have known him.

But then he thought of Aegon’s father, sinking into the endless waters of the Gods Eye with a smile on his face, and of the half-formed plan he’d made as he watched Rhaenyra laugh in the streets of Flea Bottom. He did not know what he might have done, if they had not stumbled upon Egg. Maybe Viserys did know him, better than he knew himself.

Daemon dropped down beside his sword and bowed his head, listening to the men chatter and bellow and sing as they ate their supper. Would Harwin know the boy liked roast mushrooms better than anything else they had on the road? He’d sent men to forage for them, when Egg had returned. The boy had likely eaten only sweets back at Harrenhal, with no one to force eggs and squash and turnips on him.

Just like his mother, Daemon thought, who sometimes still wanted to eat only cake.

Gods, he wanted Rhaenyra. He needed her.

Daemon climbed to his feet, then wiped the sandy soil from Dark Sister’s blade and sheathed her. They would return to Kings Landing five days hence, marching at top speed, but that was not quick enough. He needed her, and so he’d get to her, sooner than that.

If Ser Elmo Tully found it strange that he left command of their makeshift army with him and rode south himself, it was not his place to say so. On his own, Daemon managed in one day what would take the knights four, pressing the horse beneath him almost too hard. He’d have called for Caraxes, but he wanted his arrival to go unnoticed, and a dragon never did.

He passed through the gates of the city just after dusk. The Gold Cloak at the King’s Gate was one of his men, and would stay silent at his word. He slipped into the Keep using one of the passages and made his way toward Rhaenyra.

When he’d found her chambers empty, he’d made his way to his own. He hadn’t expected her to be there, and the sight of her, even in a dusty, too-small dress and riding boots, made his heart clench in his chest. Her arms had wrapped around him before he could even speak. She was shaking, he realized, pulling her somehow closer. She could not be close enough. He breathed her in, the soap she bathed with, the dust clinging to her from the passages, the smell of dragon that never completely faded from a dragonrider. He never wanted to let her go, not now that he’d made it back to her.

He’d come home from the Riverlands, like that other version of him never had. He hadn’t realized until he saw her that that was what he’d needed to do.

She was like fire, surrounding him with her heat, pressing him into the bed, clutching him until the both fell apart. The Red Keep was not his home, nor Dragonstone; she was his home, and always would be, and he would come back to her, always. Daemon had let their son down, in some other life; he’d left him so alone he’d been ready to die. He’d left Rhaenyra so alone she had died, in the maw of a monster. But he hadn’t.

Rhaenyra said the same. It won’t happen again.

It wouldn’t. They wouldn’t let it.

Leaving her at dawn was harder than he’d expected.

He’d left her so many times before. When she was but a tiny child, Viserys would send him off to the Vale, still hoping he would find the same marital contentment that Viserys shared with Aemma. A fool’s hope, and Daemon would leave Runestone near as soon as he set foot there. After that, Viserys would send him away each time he stripped him of whatever role he’d given him. And then came Baelon’s birth and the longest of his banishments. Four years, he’d spent away from court. Away from a brother he’d grown to hate as much as he loved him and a niece who had grown from budding beauty to his own twin flame. He thought back to what he’d told Viserys, the day he’d found out Rhea died— that he could no longer go from place to place with only his sword and his dragon. That had been true enough then, and even truer now. He’d found his home. He would keep it.

After bidding Rhaenyra goodbye, when Daemon reached the passage that would take him to the Tower of the Hand, he paused. He could do it. Slip into Otto’s chamber and end him. It would be easy to do so; the man may not have even risen yet. Daemon’s finger’s danced along the hit of the dirk at his belt. He could slide it into his throat and Otto would barely even know he was dying.

But he’d told Rhaenyra he wouldn’t. He’d told Aegon he would do whatever he had to do to secure her reign. That meant killing Otto, eventually—but not today.

He continued through the passages, stopped in Flea Bottom, and then slipped out of the city, with only three people even certain that he’d come.

He met his men on the Rosby road near dusk, two days after he’d left them. They’d enter the Iron Gate the next day and he would lead the knights of the great houses of the Riverlands to meet king and court.

But first, he would see to his son.

“Baela’s just like you,” the boy had said once. But no matter if she was, this son of his did not only look like him. Daemon understood this boy. He had so much anger and nowhere to put it. He had so much pain. Daemon found that mirror painful, because he no more knew how to soothe Aegon’s pain than he knew how to soothe his own.

But he would try.

Egg dropped his eyes as Daemon approached. He was sparring with another squire, this time Lord Blackwood’s younger brother Willem, who backed away quickly as Daemon appeared. Egg looked like he wanted to back away too, but before he could, Daemon beckoned him forward.

He laid a hand on his son’s shoulder, carefully as he could, and waited until the boy met his eyes. “Come,” he said. “Let us speak.”

Chapter Text

Daemon led Aegon to a place outside of camp, a rocky outcropping that looked down on a stream as it rushed out toward the bay. Daemon settled on a wide, flat rock, and Egg sat beside him when it became clear Daemon expected him to. Egg kept his eyes downcast, even as he could feel Daemon’s own on him.

Let us speak, he’d said, but Daemon didn’t speak. Egg sat beside him, spinning the ring on his finger and dreading what he would say when he did speak.

“Do you know the story of how I killed the Crabfeeder?”

That wasn’t what Egg had been expecting.

“I’ve heard it a time or two,” he said. That was an understatement. He’d heard it from his father’s men before the war, and from Luthor Largent during the war, and he’d heard it from Baela once, when she was deep in her cups on their dead father’s nameday. Daemon Targaryen, standing against all enemies, not backing down until he cut Drahar in two.

“It was Laenor’s plan. Did they tell you that? When he proposed it, Vaemond Velaryon said only a madman would do what he proposed. But Laenor knew I’d do it. I think he thought it was because I was brave. But it wasn’t.”

Aegon lifted his eyes to Daemon’s face. Daemon wasn’t looking at him. He didn’t seem to be looking at anything—or anything Aegon could see at least.

“I did what I did because it did not matter to me if I lived or died. If I won, I won, and if I lost… I had nothing to lose anyway. My brother could not understand what it was to be a second son, cast out again and again. My niece had been given the last claim I had to my family’s legacy, then faced me down and called my bluff. I had a dwindling army led by men who would sooner than not cast me out same as Viserys did, and a wife with whom the only bond I would ever share was hatred. What did it matter if I died? But if I lived… If I lived, it meant I’d won.”

That was not the story he’d been told. He remembered Baela’s voice, a little slurred. “When it was over, he stood bloody on the beach. Nothing could touch him. Nothing.” She’d been right and wrong both.

“I have not been angry with you, Aegon. I was angry at me. At him. Because he did have something to lose. You. Your sisters. Rhaenyra.” He looked down at Aegon for the first time. “I know not if Alys has the right of it, and your father meant to die. None of us can know what was in his heart as he fought. But the two of us, we know what was in ours, do we not? You said once you just looked like me, that Baela and Joffrey were the ones who were like me. You’re wrong. They mayhaps got my temperament,” he said with a brief smirk, “but, Egg, we’re also alike.”

“I thought…” Egg took a deep breath. “I was never supposed to be king. They put a crown on my head anyway, but everything kept falling apart. I couldn’t bear it anymore. It was just too hard. And then Alys… She said she had a way to fix it. It’s just like you said. If I died, I died. But if it worked…”

“Tell me about your queen? The girl who died?”

Aegon closed his eyes and saw Jaehaera, broken and bloody on the ground, violet eyes sightless and filmy. He wished he could call up an image of her smiling, but he didn’t think he’d ever seen it. Instead he imagined her on Aemond’s birthday, little chin tilted up defiantly as she murmured a prayer to the Warrior, eyes bright from the candle’s flame. That was how he’d rather remember her.

He met Daemon’s gaze when he opened his eyes. “She was the last living child of the Usurper, two years younger than me. Jaehaera. Her father killed my mother, and my father killed her brother, and they thought by wedding us they’d stop further war. We could hardly look at each other. Tyland said once that we didn’t need to look at each other to make an heir. Baela almost scratched his eyes out. He, uh… apologized later.”

Daemon’s lips quirked up. Aegon wanted to tell him more about his sisters, wanted to tell him about Baela’s elopement and Rhaena’s first dragon ride, but that wasn’t the story he’d asked for. Why had Egg not told him such stories before?

“When Tyland died, Unwin Peake became Hand and Lord Regent. Ser Tyland had once told my uncle to kill me, but when I was king, he never betrayed me. He was trying to teach me to be a good king, best as he could. Even when I hated him, I think I knew that. Peake… Lord Peake wanted to be king himself.”

He’d never said the next part out loud. “He killed her. He had a kingsguard do it. My Hand. My guard. Her guard, for the kingsguard protects the queen. She should have been able to trust him. She should have been safe. There were only four Targaryens left in all the world, and Unwin Peake killed one of us so that his daughter would be queen.”

He didn’t realize he was crying until Daemon’s arm came around him, pulling him close. He pressed his face into his shoulder until he could speak again.

“A king who cannot even command his guard, his Hand… what use is that?”

“You’re young, Aegon. You were alone.”

He shook his head. “She was alone. Her parents died same as mine. Her brothers. I had my sisters. I had Alyn. She should have had me, but I couldn’t even look at her.“

He knew what his father would have said to that: that the Greens were no true kin. That they were Hightowers with dragons. Aegon waited for Daemon to say that now, but instead what he said was, “This time things will be different. It will not bring back your queen, but I swear it will not happen again.”

Egg jerked his head up and met Daemon’s gaze. It was hot and bright but steady. Aegon wanted to believe him. He wanted so badly to believe him.

Daemon must have seen his hesitation in his eyes, but instead of growing angry, he smiled. “You’ll see,” he said. “Rhaenyra and I? We shall prove it to you.”

Aegon nodded. Things were different already. Maybe they would be better.

“One more thing,” Daemon said. He shifted so they faced each other. “I know I am not the man who raised you, nor Rhaenyra the woman who bore you. But we both care for you very much. I may not be the father you remember, but you are my son, Aegon, even so.”

Daemon’s face blurred, and Aegon blinked the tears away quickly. Daemon’s face was still, his eyes cautious and vulnerable. Egg wasn’t sure what Daemon thought he might say, but in the end, Egg said nothing. He lunged forward and wrapped his arms around him. Immediately, the embrace was returned, Daemon holding him tight, his forehead pressed to the top of Egg’s head, and Daemon whispered two words into Aegon’s hair.

“My son.”

They entered Kings Landing two days later.

Daemon led a group of knights and lords through the city to the Red Keep. The people lined the streets, crying out their welcome, throwing fall blossoms from windows and rooftops, all gleeful to see their favorite prince. Above them, Caraxes flew, his shadow falling over them. The people screamed louder.

They dismounted in the yard and made their way to the throne room, where the court was assembled. Egg started to move toward the back, the place more proper for a bastard, but Daemon’s hand came down on his shoulder before he could move.

Egg stayed at his side as they walked through the crowded throne room. Harwin and Elmo Tully flanked them, and Lords Blackwood and Bracken and the Vances walked behind. The Iron Throne loomed before them, King Viserys upon it. To his right stood Rhaenyra, wearing black and red velvets, and a bright smile lit her face at the sight of them. He wanted to run to her and embrace her, but knew he could not dare; he settled for a quick smile himself, though he made sure to keep his gaze cast down from her eyes.

Two steps down from the throne, four people stood. On one side stood Rhaenys and her husband Corlys, looking so like he remembered them from the beginning of the war Aegon almost could not believe it. On the other Otto and Alicent.

And Otto wasn’t wearing his pin.

Egg almost tripped when he noticed, and Daemon’s hand on his shoulder tightened. Still, Egg didn’t look away.

Otto looked pinched and pale, even as he clearly tried to hold his usual impassive, careful mien. His chest, where his Hand pin usually so proudly resided, held only the crest of his House. As Egg stared, Otto’s eyes slid from Daemon down to him. His lip curled as their eyes met, and a shiver passed through Egg. Otto Hightower was looking at him the same way Aegon had seen him look at Daemon: like he hated him.

Egg was so distracted by Otto that he almost missed it when Viserys started to rise and the knights around him began to kneel. He dropped to his knees quickly, leaving only Daemon standing to face the king. Slowly, he knelt as well, though he did not look away from the king.

“Prince Daemon,” Viserys said, “I sent you forth to the Riverlands with a purpose. What have you to say on your return?”

“Your Grace, with the aid of the men beside me, we have quelled the bandits terrorizing the Riverlands. Lord Blackwood’s men hunted down the craven attacker of Lord Bracken’s son, and Lord Bracken stood beside me as we thwarted a band of men who terrorized the Blue Fork. Ser Elmo, heir to Riverrun, fought bravely with his father’s bannermen, a worthy future lord paramount.”

As though on cue, Ser Elmo spoke. “Your Grace, my father sends his tidings and his most sincere thanks for sending Prince Daemon to aid us in our time of trouble. Now we rivermen come triumphant to celebrate the nameday of your heir, the Princess Rhaenyra, and match our steel against the knights of the Seven Kingdoms to honor her.”

“My thanks, Ser Elmo,” Rhaenyra said, her voice clear and lovely. “I’m honored by your presence. I have no doubt you will be as successful in our tourney as you were on the battlefield with my dear uncle.”

“Rise, all of you,” the king said. Egg wondered if the slight sourness he heard in his voice was due to Rhaenyra’s description of Daemon as ‘dear’. “Be welcome in Kings Landing. Tomorrow, our tourney shall begin. Tonight, we feast!”

The king swept from the room while the lords and ladies of court applauded, and Rhaenyra followed, giving Egg a small smile and nod as she did.

Aegon turned and looked around the crowds in the throne room. Some of the nobles he recognized from before they’d left and some from that other time, faces decades younger than the ones he’d known. He spotted Lord Rowan, who looked much the same as he had when Aegon knew him, and Lord Moonton, who looked worlds different.

And he saw Unwin Peake.

His hand went to the dagger at his belt without him even realizing it. He wanted to drive it into the man’s heart, and thought he might even be able to do it before anyone stopped him.

He took a breath and let his arm fall to his side. Things would be different this time. Daemon promised.

A hand landed on Egg’s shoulder again. He looked up at Daemon. “Did you see Otto?” he asked in Valyrian.

“The Hand without his golden hand.” Daemon smirked. He must have had some idea of how that came about, but it was clearly not the time for Aegon to ask. The smirk slipped off his lips as he followed where Aegon’s gaze had been. “Another one who will be dealt with.”

“Soon?”

“Well, he’s come all this way,” Daemon replied, squeezing Egg’s shoulder. “You won’t have to suffer him for long.”

Daemon navigated them out of the throne room without speaking with anyone, a skill Aegon had not learned in two years of kingship. He supposed the Valyrian steel sword and sharp tongue to match were the key to it, and matched Daemon step for step as they walked through the Keep.

"Must I attend the feast?" he asked as they entered their chambers.

Daemon didn't ask him why he did not want to attend. He imagined it was obvious enough. He shook his head. "You may skip it, but only with the promise that you'll eat the supper I send you."

Aegon scowled at him, but the look did not last long. "Agreed."

"After the feast," Daemon said, switching back to Valyrian, "the three of us shall meet. You, me, Rhaenyra. Harwin as well, perhaps. I think we each have much to share, don't we?" Aegon nodded, but before he could reply, Daemon continued. "One more thing. Remember what I said about Harren's walls having ears? These may as well. Be cautious in what you say for now."

Egg felt discomfort prickle at the back of his spine even as he nodded. The only ears this castle should have were Targaryen ears, and he misliked fearing others here. "I understand."

"Tomorrow shall be your first tourney as my squire," Daemon said, back in Common, then stopped abruptly, as though realizing something for the first time. "You've never seen me joust, have you?"

"No," Aegon replied. He had not even thought of that. "There were few tourneys, when I was a boy."

A smile grew across Daemon's face and he hummed in satisfaction. "Well, tomorrow you shall see what true victory in the lists looks like. And at the end of it? A crown for Rhaenyra. Not the first time I've crowned her, and not the last." He clapped Aegon on the shoulder before he turned to leave. "You'll love it."

Another promise. Egg nodded, and chose to believe it.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra followed her father from the throne room, not stopping to look back, though she dearly wanted to.

It had been but two days since she had seen Daemon, but even in those two days, things had changed. Otto stripped of his office—it filled her with a heady triumph. She’d beat him at his own game. She wasn’t fool enough to think he was defeated. Not after hearing Aegon’s stories, not after hearing the man himself speak of his ambitions. But she’d dealt him a mighty blow. They would do the rest together, now that Daemon had returned.

Otto had not named his spy. Oh, he’d given them a name—a lesser maid in the royal household, one Rhaenyra barely knew. She was certainly not guilty of the crime, though Rhaenyra could not explain such to her father. Not without explaining how she’d trapped Otto with the snare he’d laid himself. The maid was locked in the Black Cells for now, but at least she’d kept her eyes. Rhaenyra had begged mercy for the girl until after the tourney, when she could sort out for herself if the maid was one of Otto’s creatures or an innocent.

There were few hours until the feast to welcome Daemon home. Rhaenyra had taken great care to choose her dress and hurried toward her chambers to change after leaving her father, Ser Steffon trailing behind.

But before she could make it to her own chambers, she saw Alicent.

The queen stood in the door to her solar, watching her approach. Rhaenyra slowed as she did but did not stop until Alicent said, “Rhaenyra.” She gestured. “Join me.”

Rhaenyra took a deep breath and followed the queen into her solar.

Alicent did not look well. Rhaenyra had hardly looked upon Alicent in the throne room that morning, but here, so close, it was impossible to miss. Pregnancy had always been easy on her, as though to rub the misfortune of her mother in Rhaenyra’s face. But this pregnancy was different, and Rhaenyra did not think it was her body that was struggling. It was her spirit. She had been scared for months, afraid of Daemon, nervous and suspicious of Rhaenyra, too. Hearing Otto’s words had made that at least make sense—she feared Daemon would have her children murdered, and she feared Rhaenyra would let him.

But what sense did it make that Alicent would believe it of her?

Rhaenyra shook off the hurt that still somehow caused. “Your Grace?” Rhaenyra asked, clasping her hands behind her.

“May I… I need to speak with you.” But instead of speaking, she paced alongside the divan in the center of the room. Rhaenyra knew what was coming before Alicent gathered herself to say it. “I would ask that you stand beside me while I entreat the king to allow my father to remain in Kings Landing by my side.”

“Your father made a grave accusation against me, my queen, using information he says he received from one in mine own household. Would you have me forget such?”

“I would have you believe me when I say it was a misunderstanding, nothing more. My father wants only to serve the throne. Is it not important for him to report to the king all that comes to his hearing?”

“If the information is ill-gotten and ill-intentioned, then is he not lying to the king?”

“He is not a liar.” Alicent looked as though she were trembling. “Rhaenyra, he… if someone told him a lie, should it not be enough that he has lost his position? Must I lose him as well?”

“It was the king’s decision to send him away,” Rhaenyra said, biting back a sharper retort.

“A decision he would not have made had you not accused my father of spying.”

“An accusation I would not have made had it not been true, Alicent.”

“And are you certain my father did not believe the same?”

Rhaenyra tipped her chin up. “You believe him, don’t you? You believe Daemon got me with child and sent a healer to me with moon tea to hide it.”

Alicent dropped her eyes. “Your uncle’s perversions know no bounds, Rhaenyra. That is no secret.”

Perversions. As though the passion he touched her with was wrong. As though the moon tea Daemon had offered her was anything less than what she was due, as though her body did not belong to her but to whatever creature might grab hold and grow in her womb.

Perversions. And it was not only Daemon Alicent believed such of, was it?

“It is no business of yours what I drink or what I do with my uncle, Alicent. I am a dragonrider and the heir to the Iron Throne. But despite that, I tell you true—your father was wrong.”

Before Rhaenyra could leave, Alicent grabbed her hands. The queen’s nailbeds were bloody, her fingers ice cold and bony. “How did you know?”

Rhaenyra wrenched her hands away. “How did I know what, my queen?”

“You know what! You knew what my father was telling the king. I don’t know how but somehow, you knew.”

“How could I have known what sort of story he would spin, Alicent?”

“My father has done naught but serve this kingdom since he came to Kings Landing. Honestly, nobly!”

“And when he sent you to my father’s bed? Was that honest? Was that noble?”

Alicent took a step back, her hands fluttering in front of her before twisting into the fabric of her skirts. “I don’t know what you—”

“Oh, come, Alicent. I had much time to think in my solitude, once you had married my father. It had escaped me, how quickly you began wearing dresses more suited for a woman than the unpromised maidens we yet were. Days after my mother’s funeral, if even that. How you were not always there with me, to read in the godswood or even in our lessons with the septas. Your father sent you to the king. He must have.”

“I… There was no impropriety between us. We—I—”

“You were but a girl, and you listened to your father. Your father, who convinced mine to disinherit one heir and would have him disinherit a second, all to get a son he conceived as much as you did onto the throne.”

“It is the way of things, for men to wish to be ruled by a man,” Alicent said, her voice shaking. “It is not my father alone who thinks Aegon should be king.”

“Your father pledged to uphold the king’s will, and it has ever been my father’s will that I succeed him. What is the saying? The Hand dreams the king’s dreams? What does Otto Hightower know of a Targaryen king’s dreams? Less even than you, I would warrant.”

Alicent’s eyes were full of tears. “I was your friend.”

The truth felt heavier then than it had in months, but Rhaenyra spoke it anyway. “You cannot be my loyal friend and your father’s faithful daughter. You can be only one.” Rhaenyra took a step back. “Good day, your Grace,” she said. This time when she went to leave, Alicent did not stop her.

When Laena came to her chamber not much later, Rhaenyra hurriedly brushed her tears away. She glanced quickly in the mirror before calling for her cousin to enter. No matter that she trusted Laena with some of her secrets and some of her plans, she could not bring herself to trust her with her tears. Not yet. Perhaps not ever, Rhaenyra thought cynically, as Laena smiled brightly at her and asked her if she was ready to dress for the feast.

“I saw your father by your mother’s side in court,” Rhaenyra said as Laena tightened the laces on her dress. “It must be a relief to have them both here in the capitol.”

“Indeed,” Laena said, “though they’ve brought along a great deal of baggage I’d have liked them to leave behind.”

Rhaenyra snickered. Laena’s betrothed. He’d stood beside Laenor at court, his face handsome enough but far too sullen.

“A shame it was not lost in the sea,” Laena muttered, then apologized when she pulled the laces too tight. “Are you excited for the feast, Rhaenyra?”

Laena knew better than to ask her real question. Rhaenyra had told her of her suspicions that Otto’s spy still roamed whatever holes he’d found in the walls of the Red Keep, and she knew to watch what words she spoke, even here, in the princess’ own chambers. But even if she did not say the words, Rhaenyra knew well what she was asking: was she excited to see Daemon again?

“Terribly,” Rhaenyra replied, her hand going to the Valyrian steel necklace she wore. Only two days, it had been, and yet she missed him.

She missed him still, somehow, when they met at the feast. Daemon was seated at the High Table, along with Alicent and Otto, Rhaenys and her family, and the other members of her father’s Small Council. Rhaenyra sat to the king’s left, Alicent to his right, the council on Alicent’s side of the table and the Velaryons on Rhaenyra’s. Rhaenyra could hardly bear to hope that this would be the last meal she must share with Otto, and yet hope it she did. The man looked as sour and pinched as he had at court that morning.

Daemon was sat beside Rhaenyra, and she wondered whether or not her father had made the gesture to placate her, or if it had simply been protocol, seating him closer to the king due to his high status. She did not know, but after he settled into his seat, she stretched her arm back and bumped his elbow with hers, happy even to have him close enough so that their arms might brush. Daemon bowed his head as she did it, as though to hide the pleased little smile she saw curve the corners of his lips.

No matter that he tried to hide it, her father seemed to see, for her rose abruptly to merely say, “We feast!” though Rhaenyra knew he had planned to speak for at least a little longer.

“Cousin,” Rhaenys said from Daemon’s other side as the room began to dine, “I’m told you have a son.”

She spoke no question, but it was clear anyway. Daemon deigned to answer. “Indeed. Two-and-ten and looking forward to squiring on the morrow.”

Rhaenyra had known Daemon would not bring Egg with him to the table; he might be able to bring a bastard before the king at court, but he could hardly seat him at the king’s own table. As Daemon answered Rhaenys’ questions about the boy—as honestly as he could, she noticed, surprised—Rhaenyra cast a glance around the room to look for him. Ser Harwin sat beside the young Lord Blackwood, but Egg was nowhere to be seen. Was he ill? He had not looked sick or injured that morning. He had looked well, in fact, color in his cheeks, spine straight, something a little lighter in his eyes, even.

Before Rhaenyra could even turn to Daemon, she felt a hand on her left arm and a small squeeze. Daemon, reassuring her. She moved her right hand to lay atop his, brushing her thumb across his wrist only for a moment before she moved her hand away again.

“Mother, the boy is all Daemon. As though someone created him in miniature.” Laenor mimed what she imagined was supposed to be a sculptor squashing her uncle into smaller form and Laena laughed, leaning against her brother. From the further down the table came the clatter of a falling knife, and Rhaenyra wondered if it came from her father, if he had seen their small intimacy.

“Is there none of his mother in him?” Rhaenys asked, not laughing along with her children.

“His kindness comes from her,” Daemon said, “for the gods know he did not get it from me.”

Laenor and Laena laughed again, and this time Rhaenys did as well. Rhaenyra wanted to take Daemon’s hand again, but didn’t.

As the first course was cleared and the wine was drunk, the nobles rose from their tables, to mingle with one another and to dance, and of course, to pay homage to the king.

Ser Elmo spoke again of his thanks for Daemon’s aid; Lord Redwyne asked after the queen’s health and expressed his hopes that she carried another strong son; Ser Robert Reyne offered her a rose and claimed her beauty outshone the sun itself.

Beside her, Daemon shifted, stiffening, and Rhaenyra turned her head, wondering for a moment if he was jealous, only to see him staring beyond the handsome young knight to an older lord in orange and black as he approached.

“Your Graces,” Unwin Peake said, bowing to Viserys and Alicent, and then turning toward Rhaenyra. “Princess.”

“My lord. We are happy to welcome you to the capitol,” Rhaenyra said.

Beside her, Daemon certainly wasn’t.

“My thanks, princess, and my thanks for bringing together such knights as this for your nameday tourney.”

“Yes, my lord, it will be quite a show for you to watch,” Daemon mused while turning his goblet by its stem.

Lord Peake’s chin jutted up. “To watch? Prince Daemon, I assure you, I shall be competing.”

“I’d have thought it would be your son to compete. Old enough now, isn’t he?”

“My eldest is but a squire. Soon enough, he’ll be knighted.”

“I pray he has as much success in the lists as his father,” Alicent said.

“And such a long career in them.”

Daemon’s tongue was sharp by nature, but he’d landed that blow with precision. Unwin Peake’s color was rising, clashing against the orange of his doublet. He was not so old as all that, Rhaenyra thought, but he did not look a fit man and much of his hair had gone. Rhaenyra’s eyes flicked toward Daemon. He seemed to be hardly paying attention to the man.

Unwin Peake spoke through gritted teeth. “I must not end my days in the joust before crossing lances with you, my prince.”

Daemon let out a low “hmm” which could have been either agreement or skepticism. Lord Peake took it as the latter, and excused himself in a huff.

“What are you up to?” Rhaenyra asked.

“Later,” Daemon said, then rose to his feet and offered her a hand. “My princess, might I have the honor of a dance?”

She took his hand in hers. “Of course, my prince.”

Daemon led her to the floor as the court musicians began to beat their drums. They bowed, then began to dance, passing close to each other with a flourish, then turning away. As the flutes whistled a faster melody, Daemon came in close, his hands on her waist as he lifted her and then set her back to her feet. And then they whirled, and the cycle began again.

“Where is Aegon?” she asked as their shoulders brushed.

“I would not make him break bread with those he knows as murderers,” Daemon said as he came back around, giving a quick, dark glance at the long table that held the Reach lords, including the glowering Unwin Peake. Who had Unwin Peake killed, in this future of their son’s?

“But he is well?”

“You’ll see soon enough,” he said as he lifted her. As he lowered her back down, he pulled her closer, so there was barely a breath between them. He murmured, “Be ready tonight,” his lips nearly brushing her own.

They turned as Daemon pulled back to an acceptable distance, and she saw a look of annoyance flit across her father’s face, while Alicent’s remained impassive. Rhaenyra was sorely tempted to drag her uncle’s face closer and kiss him, no matter the crowd.

She did not.

Beside them, Laena joined the dance, Ser Tyland her partner, and Rhaenyra could hear Laena, speaking as always of dragons. “And word has come from Dragonstone that the Cannibal has chased off the other wild dragons! Poor Grey Ghost. I thought to take Vhagar and—” was all Rhaenyra heard of that before Daemon spun her away just before she lost control of her laughter.

Later, Laena sat down beside her with a frown.

“Cousin?” Rhaenyra asked. “Is it the Cannibal who has you frowning?”

Laena swatted at her beneath the table where no one could see. “It matters not what I say, Ser Tyland has an interest in the subject! And an opinion. Do you know he read Septon Barth just to speak with me about dragons?” She shook her head with a glare across the room toward the Lannisters. “I think I may want to marry him.”

Rhaenyra carefully did not look toward where Laena’s betrothed sat. Her cousin had not acknowledged the man all night, and the reverse was true as well. Rhaenyra wondered if he knew that Corlys was searching for an honorable way out of the match. Laena might find her own, less-than-honorable way if it came to it. Rhaenyra could hardly blame her.

Before Rhaenyra could reply, Laena seized Rhaenyra’s hand. “Come, let us dance, cousin.”

Rhaenyra laughed and let Laena tug her toward the floor, letting herself forget—if only for a moment—the schemers watching, waiting for a stutter in her step. More fool them, Rhaenyra thought, looping her arm through Laena’s. She was an excellent dancer.

After the feast, Rhaenyra changed into her sleeping shift, then sent her maids away. Once they were gone, she pulled the shift back over her head and dressed quick as she could in riding leathers. She knew not where Daemon might take her, but she did not want to be caught prowling the passageways in boots and a too-small-shift again, though she had hardly disliked the results of Daemon finding her dressed in such. Her maids had let down her hair from the elaborate braids she’d worn to the feast, and Rhaenyra re-braided it quickly in one long plait over her left shoulder.

And then she waited for Daemon.

Only when the door to Maegor’s passages opened, it was not Daemon who came through, but Aegon.

“Egg!” Rhaenyra exclaimed, crossing to him quickly and embracing him.

For a moment, he was still in her arms, and she worried she’d surprised him, upset him. He often stilled when touched without warning, or flinched away. But only a moment later, his arms raised and he hugged her back. No matter that he was taller than her, he tucked his head down against her shoulder, just as Daemon did when he embraced her father. She held him even tighter.

“I missed you,” he said in Valyrian, pulling back to smile at her.

For the first time, when he looked at her she thought he was truly looking only at her, not the ghost of his birth mother in her smile or her eyes. She smiled back. “And I you. You look well.” She raised a hand and brushed her fingers across his cheek. “I think you’ve grown an inch.”

“Are you sure you didn’t shrink?” He laughed a little at her playful glare. “Come, princess; we have a meeting to attend.”

While the walked through the passages, Egg filled in a little more of the happenings in the Riverlands, avoiding the very topics Daemon had come to her to speak of—the witch who had sent her father’s dreams, his own decision to take his life before she sent him back, the truth of his father’s death. Instead, he spoke of a shrieking crow at Harrenhal and a boy called Willem who sparred with him and how Ser Harwin’s youngest sister Leonore teased him for wearing all black. She’d never heard him speak so much, not since the day he’d told them about the Dance. This was not the boy she’d expected, not with how shattered Daemon had seemed when he’d come to her.

Daemon had done something, Rhaenyra realized. She’d have to ask him about it, later.

Rhaenyra realized halfway there that Egg was leading her toward the Dragonpit. But when they arrived in the building, he did not lead her toward the dragons’ caves, but rather to a small door set into rough hewn stone. He closed it behind her and locked it with a rusted key.

After locking the door, Egg didn't move for a long moment. She was about to say his name, when he turned toward her abruptly. "How did you do it?"

He wanted to know about Otto Hightower. She hadn't missed the look that passed between Egg and the former Hand in the throne room. "He was trying to snare me, but I turned the trap back on him," she said. Best to leave talk of moon tea and the reasons for its necessity from Aegon for now.

"For most of my life, Otto Hightower was Hand of the King. It was him that arranged the Usurper's crowning, though he put no crown on his head. It was him who wrote to the men who killed Jace and Viserys, inviting enemies to our shores."

She was not sure what he was saying, not completely, not until he said Jace's name. Then she knew. "He is no longer Hand, but only half the work is done. He will crown no kings and write no letters."

"Good," Aegon said, and they started to walk again.

“What is this place?” she asked.

“I know not,” he replied. “I don’t even think Daemon knows.”

They finally reached a long, narrow room, full of shadows and bare of windows. A small black door was set in the far side of the room, barred with a beam of weirwood. Aegon closed the door they’d come in behind her, but she hardly paid attention, because by then, her eyes had landed on Daemon.

He was already looking at her, and they moved toward each other quickly. His arms went around her and she leaned in close, tipping her face up for a kiss. His lips had only brushed hers when a woman’s voice said, “I’d heard tell of you two performing for an audience, but I’d thought it only rumors.”

Rhaenyra spun. She hadn’t seen the other two people in the room, a woman sitting at a small table and a man leaning against the wall. The man was Ser Harwin. Like Daemon, he was still dressed in his fine clothes from the feast, and he bowed his head when she caught his eye.

The woman was the witch Alys Rivers. She could be no one else.

Alys rose to her feet and came closer, her head cocking to the side as she looked Rhaenyra up and down. “Rhaenyra the Cruel,” she said. “The way you’re looking at me, I can see it.”

“Show the princess the proper respect, witch,” Harwin snapped.

“Of course,” she replied, and curtseyed, poorly. “My princess.”

Daemon stepped so he stood beside her and she cast a look toward him. He did not look alarmed, not at the two seeing them kiss, not at Harwin hearing Alys speak rumors from another life.

Before she could ask, Daemon said, “Harwin knows everything. We may speak freely.”

“Everything?” Rhaenyra asked, flushing a little as she thought of the other Rhaenyra’s long affair with Ser Harwin. Harwin, too, was looking down, almost bashfully.

Daemon laughed. “Well, he hardly knows all of what his other self knew, but I’m certain we could—”

Egg made an affronted squeak, and Daemon laughed again. Rhaenyra was grateful for the dim light, for a deeper flush had risen on her cheeks at Daemon’s suggestion. She nudged him with her elbow.

Daemon’s voice was devoid of humor when he spoke again. “The five of us are the only ones who know the truth. We must make clear Rhaenyra’s path to the throne and see her seated upon it securely, else we know what may come to pass.”

There was no painted table in this little room, no cyvasse pieces or map, but in truth they did not need it. There may be battles in the future, and certainly there would be power plays beyond the walls of Kings Landing, but what they planned for now would need but one piece: how to land the final blow against Otto Hightower.

“Two days ago, he was stripped of his office and told to leave the city,” Rhaenyra explained, though she would keep the full story for Daemon. “He is permitted only to stay for the tourney.”

“Do you expect him to act before he is forced to leave?” Harwin asked.

“If he has planned something, he has not told his daughter,” Rhaenyra said. “The queen is desperate. Her father will be gone in days, her support weakened.”

“He was away from the capitol for years and years in our world,” Alys said. “Biding his time in the Reach. He may plan the same now.”

Rhaenyra could not imagine Otto waiting long years to become Hand again. Not the same Otto who had found a way to send spies into her chambers. But she said nothing of that. Daemon might trust this Alys’ intentions well enough, but Rhaenyra didn’t yet.

“The Otto my parents spoke of would never have accused Daemon of murder, not with such poor evidence,” Egg said. “Things have changed.”

Alys snorted. “I’m beginning to see that.”

“Change or no, an exile may returned, in a two moons or twenty. There is but one course we must take.” Egg's eyes were burning bright, even in the shadowy room, as Daemon spoke his next words. "Otto Hightower will not leave Kings Landing alive."

Neither would, it seemed, Unwin Peake.

“Unwin Peake?” Alys asked. “He was on no list of mine. Why?”

Daemon glanced at Aegon quickly. “Because it must be done.”

“As you say, my prince,” Alys said, even agreement mocking in her voice.

Daemon’s plan for Peake was simple, and had already begun. “He will challenge me on the morrow. I will make certain of it, if I have not already.”

“I thought we had no want for my father to think ill of you?” Rhaenyra asked with an arched brow.

“I shall not kill him. He shall be injured, badly, in the joust, and though a maester shall attend him, I fear his wounds will fester.” The look he cast to Alys gave little doubt to what would cause the festering. She acquiesced with a nod.

The matter of Otto was not so easily solved.

“Hastily made plans run the risk of going awry,” Harwin murmured.

Daemon’s lip curled in a sneer. “There is little that can go wrong with a sword to his neck.”

Rhaenyra wished he was right. But even he knew he wasn’t. They could plan little else that night, but the tourney would span three days, culminating on her nameday itself.

“By the end of it,” Daemon promised her later, when the two of them were alone at the door of her chamber, “all shall know we belong to each other and Otto Hightower will be dead. I swear it.”

He sealed his oath with a kiss. Though she did not fully understand the feeling swimming in her gut, she knew, somehow, that he was right.

Chapter Text

The first day of the tourney was bright and clear, and Viserys knew better than to trust it. The day Aemma had given birth to his son had dawned like this. He’d seen the blue skies and believed them an omen of his good fortune. That day had brought anything but.

He’d slept well after the feast, and cursed the feeling. His dreams had frightened him greatly, but now that they had ceased, he found himself even more unsettled by their absence. He understood so little, even after going over and over the things he’d heard and felt with his cousin. Who were these Greens that killed Rhaenyra? What could bring a war so terrible when not even Maegor had done that? Viserys had lit a candle and prayed to the Fourteen, but the dreams had not visited him again, and it mattered not how many times he asked his biggest question, he received no answer. How could he stop it?

“You have to make a choice,” Rhaenys said that morning as they broke their fast.

She was right. Bless Rhaenyra and Daemon’s marriage and keep them close, or disinherit his daughter. He had told them he needed time, and Rhaenyra had been quite clear of the time she allowed him—until her nameday. That was three days hence. A part of him rebelled at being given such a limit. Him, the king! When she had wed her uncle without his leave. But he knew well his daughter. She was like Daemon, full of the blood of the dragon. They were both restless, chaotic. And yet they had not given into chaos here, no matter how he railed against their decision in his own mind. She had made a choice.

He knew he had to make one too, little though he liked either choice.

“It is not a simple thing, Rhaenys,” he said. She knew that. He had named Rhaenyra his heir to keep the throne from Daemon. Would this now hand it back? If he chose to set aside his daughter, would his brother start a war? He had no more answer for these questions than he had two moons before.

Daemon had done as he bade, settling things in the Riverlands, though as bloodily as possible. Furious though he was at Otto, Viserys could see why his former Hand feared his brother had brought back an army. The lords of the Riverlands had spoken so highly of his brother, he might have been their king.

But they had spoken so of Rhaenyra as well.

He wished again that the dreams would come again. He felt as though understanding was just outside his grasp and if he could only reach a little farther…

“I will choose,” he told Rhaenys. “Soon.”

“Daemon’s son. Who is his mother?” Rhaenys asked.

An abrupt change in topic. Viserys was not sure if she had grown tired of his indecision, or if she merely wanted to know. “Daemon did not tell me her name,” he said. “A noblewoman, who kept the boy a secret until her death.”

Rhaenys raised a brow. Did she find it hard to believe he had not pressed to learn more? Or perhaps she, like Otto, didn’t believe Daemon had not known of the boy? Viserys knew better than to think that. Little though he knew his brother these days, that he knew. He’d caught Daemon staring at the boy in those early days with something skeptical, confused, in his eyes. The look of a new father, no matter that Egg was two-and-ten. That look was gone now, Viserys had noticed the day before.

“There is something familiar about the boy,” Rhaenys said.

Viserys laughed, before realizing she was not japing. “He is a Targaryen, Rhaenys, bastard born though he may be. You see in his features your own, and mine, and Daemon’s most of all.”

“Not all of his features,” Rhaenys said.

That was true enough. “He is a good boy,” Viserys said, the same thing he’d said to Otto when the man seemed suspicious about Egg.

Rhaenys made a non-committal noise. “I’d like to meet him.”

Viserys would have liked Egg to come sit with them in the royal box. He remembered the tourneys when Rhaenyra was a girl, the front row of the box given over to smaller chairs, Rhaenyra and Alicent sitting side by side, Laena clutching Laenor even as she could not look away, the four of them arrayed on either side with other children, the box full of a joyful babble. But Egg was squiring for Daemon, and Viserys was not sure if the lords would take offense at his presence. Daemon might not care about such a thing, but as king, Viserys had to.

When the king arrived at the tourney, the crowds already filled the stands, buzzing with anticipation. The royal box held fifteen. Viserys sat at the front, a chair for Rhaenyra on his right, one for Alicent on his left. His small council had seats, though none had yet arrived when he did. The royal box held mostly Velaryons on one side—Corlys and Rhaenys, and Laena’s betrothed beside them—and mostly Hightowers on the other—Otto and his brother Lord Hobart, and the latter’s wife.

They all bowed as he entered, and he heard whispers come from the corners of the box. Were they whispering about his queen’s absence? His daughter’s? At the empty place on Otto’s chest that had once borne his pin? Or about the inappropriate closeness between Rhaenyra and her uncle the night before?

Before the jousting began, Rhaenyra arrived, arm in arm with Laena. They both took their seats quickly. Viserys did not have to ask where they had been: with Daemon and Laenor, certainly, down near the tents where the knights armored themselves.

From then, there was little time to wait before the tourney began.

Viserys welcomed the lords and ladies, the small folk, the merchants and the knights, and they all cheered him when he did. After he was done, he stepped back to his chair, trying to ignore the empty seat beside him, and wondering where Alicent was even so.

In the first round, knights chose their own opponents. The first to choose was Unwin Peake, who hardly hesitated before choosing Daemon as his first to meet in the lists.

A foolish choice, Viserys knew, without ever having seen Unwin Peake joust. Though Viserys had much cause to take issue with his brother, in truth, there were few who could stand against him in a tilt. Swift, bold, deadly—Viserys had never seen Daemon at war, but he imagined it looked much like this, his brother striking at his enemy with vicious aplomb.

Unwin Peake had not even the whisper of a chance against him.

Viserys winced as a blow glanced off Peake’s shield and instead slammed into his shoulder. He could hear the shriek of the metal caving in and Peake flew from his horse to the ground.

“I do not think that is what he wanted to prove,” Laena muttered quietly, and those around her hid laughs.

Moments later, Daemon approached still ahorse. Blood was smeared across his cheekbone, but he did not seem to mind.

“Well done, uncle,” Rhaenyra said, rising from her seat to speak with him.

“Thank you, niece,” Daemon replied with a smirk. “I would ask for your favor, Princess, so that I may have something of yours as I compete these next days.”

Rhaenyra lifted her wreath of black and red roses, as though she were going to slide it down his lance, then paused, playfully. “And you will keep my favor close, then, uncle? Fight to crown me as your queen of love and beauty?”

“Until I am the last man standing, darilaros,” his brother swore, and in that moment, Viserys believed him.

A blush bloomed on Rhaenyra’s cheeks, and Viserys’ anger came flooding back, drowning out all else. Daemon had wed and bed her, his blushing little girl. Otto had called Daemon perverse, more than once; at times like these, Viserys found himself in agreement.

As the day went on, Viserys tried to push Daemon from his mind. He did enjoy a good tourney, and this had the makings of one. Ser Joffrey Lonmouth unseated young Lord Blackwood, and Laenor beat a Lefford, though they each broke five lances before he did so. Borros Baratheon called for his sword after he and Ser Steffon Darklyn both ended up on the sand. Borros was the one to yield that fight, after Ser Steffon rang his helmet like a bell. But even so, Viserys could not keep his mind on the riders before him.

Until I am the last man standing.

In his dreams, Daemon had died.

His brother made him angry like no other, it was true. And Viserys often found himself disliking him. Daemon was bold where Viserys was cautious; violent where Viserys only ever sought peace; so gods damned stubborn, and that was a trait they sometimes shared. But he loved him. He would fight to the death for Rhaenyra… And Viserys did not want him to have to.

But he did not know the course to take to stop it.

Each rider jousted two tilts on this first day, winnowing the competition down. Daemon’s second tilt was against the heir to Lord Dondarrion, a strong knight in his prime.

“But no match for our rogue prince,” Laena said teasingly as the two lined up to ride against each other.

“As you say, cousin,” Rhaenyra agreed with a laugh.

It was Hobert Hightower who spoke next, the first words he’d spoken to Rhaenyra all day. “Even a dragon might be struck down,” Lord Hightower paused, ever so briefly, “by lightning.”

Rhaenyra raised a brow. “I assure you, my lord, it is not so easy to fell a dragon.”

Before anything else could be said, the wayward members of his small council arrived—Lord Beesbury and Ser Tyland, slipping into the royal box as though they might come in unnoticed.

“Ser Tyland, how goes it?” Viserys asked, glad to break the tension between Lord Hightower and his daughter.

Ser Tyland bowed his head. “Apologies for our late arrival. But your Grace, I believe Lord Beesbury and I have come to a compromise, regarding the watchtowers on the Stepstones.”

Viserys held back a sigh. He had little want to listen to more talk about the Stepstones, not this day, not with his brother riding his last tilt of the day and his wife absence and his daughter’s blushing cheeks. But he smiled, a smile he was sure did not convince. “I am most glad to hear it.”

Ser Tyland smiled back and continued. “We spoke with the alchemists Prince Daemon suggested and settled on something much less expensive than wildfire, but something not only to bolster the flames but to brighten them.”

The alchemists Prince Daemon suggested. Viserys nearly asked Ser Tyland what it was about his brother that had caused this new alliance. He had seen them together last night at the feast, Daemon and Tyland, speaking cordially. He’d seen Daemon with the Sea Snake, clinking their goblets together, and with Ser Harwin as well. Men flocked to Daemon, true, but he had never been the kind to gather supporters like these, ones that might even be called friends.

“It’s quite ingenious,” Ser Tyland said. Viserys only nodded along, his eyes on Daemon as his lance crashed into Dondarrion’s shield and the man was thrown from his horse. A cheer went up from the crowd as Daemon wheeled his horse around for a lap of victory. Behind them, Viserys could hear chairs scraping against the ground as Tyland continued. “It’s very similar to the substance used at the Hightower itself, when they light the beacon to call their banners. But in this case the flame would be red, not…”

Ser Tyland trailed off as everyone in the box fell silent. Beside him, his daughter’s breath caught, and Viserys turned his head, following Rhaenyra’s gaze until he saw why.

Alicent had finally arrived.

She wore a gown of emerald green, gold fastenings on the sleeves and at the neck. She walked toward them with her head held high, her auburn hair braided and piled atop her head. She wore a crown, a slim golden circlet that he had scarce seen her wear.

“Green,” Viserys whispered.

Everything went quiet and still inside of him as he finally understood. Why green? he’d asked Rhaenys. It was not a Hightower color after all.

Except when they declared war.

That was what she was doing, calling her banners to make war on his daughter.

Alicent took her seat beside him, emerald silks shimmering in the sunlight. “Your Grace,” she said, her voice cool.

Viserys looked from Alicent to Rhaenyra, then back again. Rhaenyra was staring at Alicent, horror in her eyes. Did she know what he had scarce remembered? She must, for she seemed to understand exactly what that dress meant. Spools of black and spools of green. His daughter was wearing black, accented with red, the colors of House Targaryen. This was it then—the Blacks and the Greens, the princess and the queen, his daughter and his son. He could not let it happen. He would not let his daughter die in flames.

You have to make a choice, Rhaenys had said this very morn.

He made it.

Viserys climbed abruptly to his feet, staggering forward a step before he caught himself.

Daemon had stopped in the middle of his victory lap, his horse stilled below the royal box. His face was icy cold as he stared up at them, as though he, too, knew the meaning of Alicent’s sartorial declaration. Viserys looked away from him and spread his arms wide.

“Such valiant warriors!” he called out. His voice was shaking. He took two breaths and the next words came out stronger. “A fabulous first day! And I crown it with a joyous announcement—in the new year, my daughter, your future queen, shall wed the Prince of the City, Daemon Targaryen!”

The crowds cheered, waving scraps of fabric, flowers, or their arms in the air. He could hear the bang of swords on shields, he could hear the ladies and lords behind him murmur and shift. He could feel Daemon’s eyes on him, but couldn’t bring himself to look.

The cheers picked up volume and Viserys felt someone come to stand beside him. Rhaenyra.

Her, he couldn’t help but look at. She smiled graciously, the practiced smile of a princess, but her eyes… they gleamed. Happiness? Triumph? It was hard to tell, for she wasn’t looking at him.

She was looking at Daemon.

Viserys followed her gaze again. Daemon’s face was soft as he looked back at her, despite the blood spattered on his cheek. Was it his blood? Viserys suddenly wondered. He hadn’t even thought about that when he first saw him. Had his brother been injured in the lists? In the Riverlands? In the Stepstones? Had he ever even asked? He’d accused Daemon of so many failings—many of which he was guilty of—but he’d hardly considered his own.

A hand landed on his arm. Rhaenyra, her fingers strong even as her touch was light. He looked back at her. Her eyes were still bright. Her smile was still there. If it was still practiced, even for him… how could he blame her?

He kept his eyes on her as he continued. “With Prince Daemon at her side, when it is time for her to rule, Princess Rhaenyra shall see the age of dragons continue and the kingdoms prosper!”

He stepped back and to the side as the crowd cheered his daughter and his brother. The noise had not dimmed when he made it to Ser Harrold’s side.

“No one leaves this box without an escort,” Viserys said to the Lord Commander. “I will be convening the Small Council, and I bid you and your brothers bring the Hightowers to the throne room.” He glanced sidelong at Alicent. All he could see was Green. “Including the queen.”

Chapter Text

The morning the tourney began, Aegon woke to bright sunlight.

It would be hours yet before the jousting began. Daemon was gone before he rose, and there was a note left that instructed him to break his fast with Rhaenyra before meeting Daemon at the tourney grounds. The armor that had stood in the corner of the room for as long as Egg had been in these chambers was gone, presumably with Daemon.

Egg had some time yet before he was due to meet the Princess, so after he had dressed in his finest clothing, he went to see the other Aegon.

But when he arrived at the door, the guard did not let him pass as they had before he left for the Riverlands. It was a kingsguard at the door, instead of the usual household guards, and he said the queen was within, visiting with the children as they broke their fast. Aegon found himself oddly disappointed.

“Thank you, ser,” he said, backing away, his hand on the smooth river stone he’d found and brought for the prince. A foolish thing anyway, to bring a gift for the usurper. But he didn’t throw it away, even when he reached the godswood, where Daemon had bade him meet Rhaenyra for a morning meal.

“I’ve had the kitchens make my new favorite,” Rhaenyra said as the servants laid out their meal. Squares of honey bread with lavender and lemon was the new favorite she spoke of, and Egg ate not one helping but two.

“Egg, I have been thinking,” Rhaenyra said. Egg brushed crumbs from his chin quickly and focused on her. “If my father chooses to disinherit me, I think we must tell him the truth.”

He was still not sure whether that was a good idea. “Do you think he would believe us?”

“More now even than before, since Alys sent him those dreams.”

“Can we trust him?” Egg asked.

Here, Rhaenyra faltered. “He dismissed Otto in my defense, yet allows the man a seat at our table not to cause him further dishonor. He has not had me turned out for wedding without his permission, but he has yet to acknowledge the marriage.” She sighed. “A long-winded way to say that I know not.” Rhaenyra took a second piece of the honey-lemon cake. “I was not a good queen, was I?”

Aegon reared back, gaping. “I did not—“

She laughed. “Alys called me ‘Rhaenyra the Cruel’. I take it that was not merely her personal opinion.”

“My mother ruled Dragonstone fairly and well. She was loved by her people, and by her bannermen. She was loved by many. More than half the land rose to follow my parents.”

“But?”

His shoulders slumped. The fried eggs on his plate were half drowned in their own ruptured yolks and he shuddered, pushing the plate away. “The war was hard on everyone, but on my mother most of all. If she was cruel, it was because they forced her to be.”

Rhaenyra was quiet for a moment. “I did not want to be queen as a girl, you know,” she finally said.

Egg lifted his head. “You did not?” He could not imagine his mother without also imagining her as either heir or queen.

“I had some daydreams of being queen consort when I was very small. I wanted to have ladies bring me cakes and soaps and dresses like they did my mother. Daemon was heir and I thought if we were king and queen, we would ride dragons every day and he would give me jewels.”

That had been nearly exactly the case for the first eight years of his life, Egg thought. He almost told her that, but she continued.

“But as I grew older, I began to see the gilded cage my mother was in, all for want of a son. I did not want that. I wanted adventure. And that was all I wanted, until my father told me he believed me meant for the throne. The throne, not a place beside it. It is a heavy burden. I know that now. But if the Greens take it, will we ever be safe?”

“No,” he answered instantly, thinking of Baela’s skinny frame after she was finally released from captivity on Dragonstone, of the sword constantly held over his own head while the usurper lived. Of Luke, a sworn messenger, and the scraps of him his parents had found.

“I thought not,” Rhaenyra said quietly.

“You will be a good queen,” Aegon offered. “Just… be cautious in the matter of taxes.”

She let out a small laugh. “I shall heed your words, good Egg.”

“I didn’t want to be king,” he said, before the moment passed. “Not for a single moment. I did what they wanted because otherwise it would not have been my mother’s blood on the throne. But I hated it.”

Rhaenyra reached out and carded her fingers through his hair. “I know.”

Not long after, breakfast was cleared away and Laena approached. They were to go to the tourney grounds together, Rhaenyra explained, but neither had expected Laena to arrive in the gardens with her mother.

“Princess Rhaenyra,” Rhaenys said with a tip of her head.

“Princess Rhaenys,” Rhaenyra replied. “Good morrow. Are you looking forward to the tourney?”

“They do always bring some entertainment, do they not?” She looked between Rhaenyra and Egg. “And you, young Aegon? You must be excited?”

Egg started. He hadn’t expected Rhaenys to turn her eyes on him.

“Yes, Princess.”

“My children tell me you know much of Dragonstone.”

“I was raised there,” he said, trying to remember the details of his life that Daemon had crafted for the king. He hadn’t had to speak of them for at least two moons.

“Yes, I heard your mother died. My deepest condolences.” Her voice was kind enough, but probing too, as though she were weighing the story they’d told.

Rhaenys had been Baela and Rhaena’s grandmother, deeply beloved, but she had also been a figure Jace and Luke shrank from. She had loved warmly and deeply, and yet held cold disdain for those she did not care for. This Rhaenys was much the same, and he did not care for the look in her eyes as she watched him.

“My thanks, Princess.”

Rhaenys’ mouth opened and Egg knew the question she asked would be one he could not answer. But before she could speak, Rhaenyra said, “We ought to be off! Princess, Laena and I shall join you in the royal box after we deliver young Egg to Prince Daemon.”

“Yes, of course,” Rhaenys said. Egg had the strangest idea that she knew why Rhaenyra had stopped her from asking him anything else.

Ser Lorent accompanied Rhaenyra, Laena, and him to the tourney grounds. A big open space outside the walls of the city had transformed into something that looked half war camp, half Flea Bottom theater. Tents rose into the air, sigils from most of the Seven Kingdoms emblazoned outside. He saw the Rivermen he had grown to know, and some Reach lords he had known too well in his other life, and houses from the West, the Stormlands, and the Vale. He even saw a tent bearing the Manderly mermaid, which he pointed out to Rhaenyra and Laena as they walked.

“The North is not home to many knights,” he told them, “though that does not mean their warriors are not honorable or fierce.”

Rhaenyra’s smile was soft when she said, “No, of course not.”

He wondered if one day he might meet Cregan again. He would be but Prince Aegon’s age now, a strange thought. Egg wondered if he had been as burly and serious as a baby, and almost laughed at the thought.

There were not only knights and squires at the tourney grounds. Men and women cried out about all manner of wares to sell—hastily sewn banners to wave, small fans to wave off the heat of autumn’s last gasp, and salves and tinctures that some knights would certainly need come later in the afternoon.

The four of them walked along the row of stalls. A woman gave a lavender rose to Laena and to Rhaenyra, one that looked like fire. She wouldn’t take payment from the princess, but Egg ran back a few minutes later and left a few silvers for her, just for how wide she’d made both women smile.

“Did you have a grand adventure in the Riverlands, Egg?” Laena asked, nudging him with her elbow.

“I did, my lady.” He supposed it was true—a witch that traveled through time, a corpse with a cawing crow on her shoulder, traveling with knights he’d known only from songs. “Prince Daemon kept me far from battle, though.”

“I should hope so,” Rhaenyra muttered.

“And you went to Harrenhal! Is it as ghastly as it seems?” Laena used the word ‘ghastly’ as though it were a compliment.

Egg tried not to think of bloody slashes in the weirwood, or the flat, dark expanse of the lake. “It was,” he said, then nodded, too solemnly to be taken seriously. “Haunted for certain.”

The two women laughed, and Egg laughed along with them. The sun felt warm on his face, and their voices pleasant in his ears.

A puppet show was ongoing at the crossroads of two makeshift streets, children crowding around it. He stopped, thinking of Gaemon’s pale little face, so similar to Prince Aegon’s. Gaemon had never been to a tourney. Like as not Prince Aegon hadn’t either. He’d enjoy this puppet show, though, Egg knew. Just like the bastard son he probably wouldn’t sire had enjoyed making his own.

Someone stepped up beside him. He’d expected it to be Rhaenyra, but instead it was Laena, her eyes shining bright as she watched the show.

Egg didn’t know the story they were playing, but a golden-haired princess leaned down from a tower, waving floppy arms at an approaching knight, the silver of whose armor was painted onto stiff cloth. The knight slew the monster guarding the princess, and Egg laughed when instead of guts, the monster spilled brightly colored sand from its mortal wound.

The man narrating the puppet show asked all of them if the brave knight should win the heart and hand of the princess, and the children—well, most of them—shouted back yes. Both he and Laena turned to look at Rhaenyra at that, who crinkled her nose and strode away in a mock huff, Ser Lorent trailing her.

“I suppose you are my knight then, Egg,” Laena said. He walked beside her, if a small step behind, as they followed Rhaenyra to the tents belonging to the combatants.

Daemon’s flew his personal sigil, red on black, the three headed dragon bordered with gold. He was within, Harwin beside him, and they stopped speaking as the three of them entered.

“Princess,” Daemon said, “and Lady Laena, a pleasure.”

“Uncle, we have delivered your squire to you,” Rhaenyra said, her warm hand resting on Egg’s shoulder.

“My thanks for it. I must needs be armed and armored if I am to win this tourney.”

“So assured of your victory?” Laena asked. “Ser Harwin might take offense, my prince.”

Harwin laughed. “I’ll leave the jousting to him. I shall compete in the melee.”

“He shall win the melee,” Daemon replied, “though in part because I am not entering.”

Egg laughed at the look on Harwin’s face at that.

“My brother will be sad to learn you have already decided there shall be no victory for him or Ser Joffrey,” Laena said. “Princess, we should go deliver the news before joining our family.”

Rhaenyra and Daemon did not draw closer to say goodbye, but their eyes were bright and fixed on each other. Egg heaved a sigh, said an unheard farewell, and headed for Daemon’s armor. He’d make sure it was buffed to a shine before Daemon donned it for the joust.

It was a squire’s duty, but this was the first time he’d performed it. Daemon had worn leathers mostly in the Riverlands, or light armor he donned and removed himself. After the ladies took their leave, Harwin in tow, Aegon helped Daemon put his armor on. His father’s armor had been different than this. Simpler. Still black, still fine, but with less detail, less ornamentation. Daemon looked a true dragon knight in this armor—sleek and deadly.

“It’s time,” Daemon said. He handed Egg his scabbard, Dark Sister’s hilt warm in his hand when he grabbed it. “I shouldn’t need this, but you keep it close. Be ready if I call for it.”

Egg nodded rapidly.

Daemon had been right. When Unwin Peake won the right to choose his opponent firstly, he chose Daemon. And Daemon didn’t need his sword.

Alys came up to Egg’s side as he watched. “That’s the man I’m to kill?” she asked quietly.

Egg only nodded.

Aegon had dreamed of this. Of his father, riding into Kings Landing and removing Peake from the office he’d claimed. Even before Jaehaera, when Peake undid his appointments, or tried to banish his sisters, or mocked him for his quiet, Aegon had dreamed of his father coming home and striking Peake down. The splinter of the wood, the crunch of the metal, the thump as Peake hit the sandy ground… Egg’s eyes drank it in greedily. It was only a beat after Daemon’s victory that Egg realized he should cheer. Everyone else was.

Aegon smiled.

“Did you enjoy that?” Daemon asked when he’d ridden back to Egg. He smirked down at him.

Egg took hold of the warhorse’s reins. “I did.”

Daemon nodded, then dismounted. He laid a hand on Egg’s shoulder and squeezed.

“You’re bleeding,” Egg said after Daemon pulled off his helm.

He lifted a hand to his cheek. “So I am.” He shrugged. “Not as much as Peake.”

“He is your son,” Alys said, rolling her eyes. “Look at that feral little grin.” Daemon looked pleased at that and Alys rolled her eyes again.

Back at the tent, Alys went for a cloth and basin of water wipe the blood away, but Daemon waved her away before she could touch him. “See to Lord Peake. I’ll care for this myself.”

“Your pretty face could scar.”

“Better a scar than whatever you could do with my blood.” Kingsblood. Daemon had not forgotten what she could do with it.

Alys left without comment, gathering up whatever she needed to assure Lord Peake’s wounds would fester.

The first rounds of jousting went on—Laenor and Joffrey were both victors, and set to joust Ser Steffon and Ser Elmo in their next turns in the lists.

“Joffrey will best Elmo,” Daemon said to Egg, leaning against a rail on the sidelines, “but Steffon is more than a match for Laenor.”

Daemon’s next bout was against a Dondarrion. He was more of a foe than Peake was, certainly, but Daemon’s lance struck true. As Egg cheered, he found himself wondering who his father might face next—one of the Vances had done well earlier, and if Ser Steffon bested Laenor, that might make a fine challenge, or—

It took Egg a moment to realize the crowd had gone quiet. His eyes darted around. The Dondarrion knight had stopped midway in his climb to his feet, the announcer was japing, slack mouthed, and Daemon had stopped his horse, staring up at—

The Green Queen.

Alicent Hightower stood in the royal box, a gold crown glinting on her brow, the emerald green of her dress glowing in the sunlight.

A declaration of war.

It was never going to end. Egg had spent the day playing squire at a tourney, and Alicent Hightower had been planning this. He’d thought… he’d thought it would be better, he’d thought they could stop it, he’d thought…

The king was speaking but Aegon couldn’t understand his words. There was a roar in his head. He felt off balance, and his chest was burning.

You have to breathe, Egg. Rhaena’s voice, as though she were right beside him. Breathe with me, valonqar.

But she wasn’t there to breathe with him, and everything was so loud. Egg turned and stumbled away from the crowd. He fell to his knees as soon as he made it out of the arena itself, dropping down in the shadow of the stands.

First—breathe. He tried to breathe as Rhaena had taught him, imagining her curled around him. Breathe with me, valonqar. He sucked in a breath, held it, then let it out, then repeated. Slowly the burning of his chest receded.

Still, he could hardly think. His head felt stuffed full of cotton. Visenya’s doll, he remembered, and tears stung his eyes. Was it all happening again? No, he told himself. Daemon had said they’d stop it. Rhaenyra had said they’d stop it. Neither of them had lied to him, and whatever the faults of his parents, they would do as they said—

Or die trying, a voice that sounded like Alys Rivers said in his head.

No, he told her. They would win.

Egg staggered to his feet. If he could get to the tent, if he could get away from this noise, then maybe he could think.

He heard someone call out his name behind him, but he didn’t stop. He kept walking, fast as his shaking legs could take him, until he burst into their tent.

Someone was waiting for him.

“Who—“ he started to ask, and then arms wrapped around him, one arm around his neck, the other holding his right arm.

Egg’s hands went up, grabbing at the forearm locked around his neck, and he bent forward and twisted. The man was stronger than he was—Egg could feel the cords of his muscle beneath his fingers—but Egg was spry and put through his paces every day by the two best knights in all Westeros. He broke the hold, but couldn’t quite get away, slipping as he twisted out of the grip and landing on the ground.

One of the men came at him and Egg kicked upward, his boot connecting hard between the man’s legs. His mouth opened in a wordless cry.

He had no tongue.

Tongueless men. Where had he heard that before? Why was one after him?

He’d faltered, confused, for just long enough for the second man to close the distance between them. He cried out for help, but who would hear him? Who could hear? He grabbed for the nearest object—the basin Daemon had used to clean the cut on his cheek this morning. He swung it, but the man batted it away. He grabbed for Egg’s hair, dragging him into the middle of the room and then slamming his head against the table.

Egg fought after the first hit, though his hands grappled only with air. And then the second came, and he couldn’t fight even that. The man dropped him to the ground, and everything went dark.

Chapter Text

When Alicent Hightower strode into the box in green, Daemon’s first thought had been to take the dagger from his boot and throw it, sink it into her heart and see if she bled green too. He had held back, and he was glad of it, for he doubted his brother would have rewarded such an action with announcement of his union with Rhaenyra—though it would be warranted for killing a traitor.

Instead, he found himself newly betrothed—even though he and Rhaenyra were already wed—and on his way to the throne room, where his brother had called for his council to assemble.

On his way out of the tourney grounds, Daemon grabbed a passing squire he recognized as trustworthy enough—the Massey boy, Egg’s sparring partner. “Find my son and Ser Harwin. Tell them to come to the Red Keep, immediately.” He had no need to grab Ser Steffon, as the man fell into step with him as soon as he passed him.

Inside the throne room, Daemon found the small council, Corlys and Rhaenys, and the Hightowers crowded around the throne, where Viserys sat. Rhaenyra stood at her father’s right. Their eyes met as he strode forward. They had had no chance to speak since the king announced their betrothal, but the looks they had shared said enough—they sent heat curling through him, lust and victory both, even as they gathered here with these nascent Greens.

Daemon bowed his head to the king and then to Rhaenyra. “Your Grace,” he said. “My princess.”

“Daemon,” Viserys said. “Now we shall begin.”

Daemon stepped back. Viserys would have to be a fool not to see the two factions that had formed—the Velaryons, Lord Beesbury, and Ser Tyland literally on Rhaenyra’s side; Otto, Mellos, Lord Hightower, and the queen on the other. Daemon had long thought his brother a fool. But perhaps not today.

“And what shall we speak of, husband?” Alicent asked. “Your declaration? Are congratulations in order?” Her gaze went to Rhaenyra.

“My thanks, your Grace,” Rhaenyra said, her voice cold. “I am quite pleased with the match.”

“We are not here to speak of Rhaenyra’s marriage,” Viserys snapped. “We are here to speak of treason.”

Even Daemon was surprised at that.

“Treason?” Hobart Hightower sounded affronted. “And who do you accuse of such, your Grace?”

“Tell me, Alicent,” Viserys said, ignoring him, “what meaning the color green holds for you?”

Green. Daemon's eyes flicked to Rhaenyra, who looked back at him. Why had the color so alarmed Viserys? It must have been in the dreams Alys had conjured. What did Viserys know?

The queen met Viserys’ gaze, only the hint of a quaver to her chin. “I do not take your meaning, husband.”

“Do you not? Green is a peculiar color for you to wear. It has never been favored by you, and it is not a color of my house, nor yours.”

“Your Grace, do you mean to say you have called us here to discuss the queen’s gown?” Grand Maester Mellos asked. Corlys too looked confused at Viserys' question, though Rhaenys, Daemon noted, did not. “Her Grace dons the most handsome of clothing, of course, but I must ask why—”

“Must you?” Rhaenys cut in, her tongue as sharp as Dark Sister. Daemon did nothing to hide his smirk.

“Ser Tyland, we were just discussing signal fires,” Viserys said. “Will you tell the Grand Maester the significance of the color green?”

Tyland shot a sidelong glance to the queen as he answered. “When the Hightowers call their banners to war, the beacon atop the Hightower glows green.”

Otto spoke next. “Your Grace—”

Viserys ignored him. “What meaning should I take from this, Alicent? Your arrival, so late, so pointed, to the tourney to celebrate the nameday of my chosen heir, wearing a call to arms? What might declaring war on the heir to the Iron Throne be, if not treason?”

Alicent looked from her father to her uncle and then back to the king. “I—” she began, but before she could say more, the clank of armor and clomp of boots sounded from the door.

“Daemon!” Harwin’s voice was pained and too loud, and he hurried forward without bowing to the king until he’d nearly reached Daemon’s side. He was bloodied—his lip split and a jagged cut down his right arm, doublet, shirt, and skin sliced through—and had no cause to be, for he had not competed today. “Your Grace, my Princess, my prince.”

Laenor rushed in after him, out of breath and still half in armor. “Your Grace,” he said, bowing quickly, then joining Harwin at Daemon’s side.

“What’s happened?” Daemon asked. Harwin hesitated, just a beat, looking from Daemon to Rhaenyra and back. There was only one thing that might mean. “Where is Egg?”

Harwin took a breath, hesitated again. He was less practiced at hiding truths in front of those who did not know of Egg’s true story, and Daemon had no time for the mincing of words. He grabbed Harwin’s arm and dragged him to the side, throwing a hand up to stop Laenor from following. “Speak. Now.”

“After the queen came out, Egg was upset. Had one of his episodes. I saw him from far off, but before I could get to him he made it to your tent. I was only a minute behind him, no more than that, but when I got there… Daemon, someone took him.”

“What?”

“One of them had him, and two more came at me, one from behind. I fought them both, killed them, but the third… he has Egg.”

Daemon felt a rush of fire in his chest. Somewhere far off, he felt Caraxes shift and roar. They had taken his son. He started to turn, to head to the pit where his dragon waited for him to burn everything in their way.

“Wait,” Harwin said, grabbing his arm. Daemon tried to shake him off, but Harwin was strong and he did not let go. “Listen. The men I killed. Neither of them had tongues.”

“So?”

“Alys. She told me…” His words were stilted, but he forced them out quickly enough. “When Larys had Harrenhal burnt in her world, when he killed…me, he used men without tongues to do it.”

Larys Strong. Could he have already had tongueless men to do his bidding, before leaving for Harrenhal? Could he have left them in Otto’s service? He had been the Green’s Master of Whispers in Aegon’s other life. A man who drove Alys to kinslaying, a man who had been nearly inhuman in his spying…

“He is dead, but—”

“Is he?” Daemon asked sharply.

Harwin bristled a bit, then looked thoughtful. “The missing servants.”

“You found one dead at Harrenhal. Not the other.”

“You think it was the servant. His body—”

Daemon was already turning away from him. He strode back toward the gathered men and women, bypassed Corlys, who was reaching out a concerned hand, and walked right to Otto.

The worm’s throat fit his grip perfectly. Daemon squeezed. “Where is he?”

Shouts erupted around him. He felt hands on his shoulders, trying to pull him away. He ignored them and then they were gone.

“This will not get easier,” he snarled.

Otto’s mouth worked but no words came out, and in his eyes… was that satisfaction?

“Daemon!” Rhaenyra’s voice.

Daemon let go.

He turned toward her as Alicent and Mellos rushed to Otto’s side. Hobart was beside Harwin, glaring at him, and Tyland and Corlys stood halfway between where they had been and where Daemon now stood. Rhaenyra had started toward him, but she had stopped only one step down from the Iron Throne.

Viserys was standing, glowering down at them all. “What is the meaning of this?”

“That leech has taken my son.”

He heard the catch of Rhaenyra’s breath, saw it too, in the ways her lips parted. “Egg has been taken? When?”

Harwin stepped forward. “From Prince Daemon’s tent, my princess, not an hour ago. I failed to stop them.” Harwin bowed his head in an apology he could not say to her, because Rhaenyra was naught more than Egg’s cousin here, was she?

The fire that flashed through her eyes spoke to more than that. “Men attacked and stole a child in mine own uncle’s tent? Father, this cannot stand. We must find him, immediately.”

“We shall, Rhaenyra,” Viserys said. “Daemon, why do you think Otto sent them? Ser Harwin?”

Daemon did not give Harwin time to answer, for he would have no answer that pleased the king. Neither would Daemon, but he cared little and less about that now. “Were the Hightowers not called before you just now for their treachery? Who else?”

“What use would I have with a bastard, your Grace?” Otto asked. “Even a royal one?”

The thing of it was that Daemon didn’t know. But had he not known Otto was guilty already, then this would have done it—the way he asked his question, calm, concerned, but with the hint of affront. Otto had sounded that way a dozen times over when bringing claims to the king. A calculated way of speaking that it had taken Daemon too long to fight back against.

But that would be no proof to his brother. And the proof he did have—what was he to say? That a dead man had secret ways to spy on Rhaenyra and his tongueless brutes had seized Daemon’s son for reasons Daemon did not even understand, all under the order of the Hand?

“The Hand has spoken strongly against the boy, has he not?” Rhaenyra asked.

Hobart answered her, his voice nothing but a bug’s chittering in Daemon’s ears, then Otto spoke again, and his words too were lost to the thrum of his blood. Rage built inside of him, more for each moment his brother did not trust him. There was something in Viserys’ gaze that Daemon did not recognize, something that he had not seen before, and he hated it, hated that he no more understood his brother than his brother did him.

“Of course he has no liking for the bastard! That hardly means he stole him!” Alicent cried, her shrill voice breaking through Daemon’s thoughts. “Bastards are sinful creatures, and this one is beyond that. From the moment he arrived at court, things have been different. Daemon has lied about his circumstances. He knew of the child well before the boy arrived at court. Everyone can see it. Why would a woman hiding her child’s parentage teach him dragonlore, unless he’s meant to use it? Even trueborn, noble children are not fluent in High Valyrian! There is some dreadful plan around him. You must see it, your Grace! Daemon even has Rhaenyra calling him her own son! The Grand Maester heard her say it, the day Prince Daemon murdered Ser Criston! I know not what perversions the child sprang from but Lord Fleabottom’s certainly know no end!”

Rhaenyra strode down from the throne, that fire sweeping through her. He would not have been surprised had she bathed the Green bitch in it when she opened her mouth.

But before she could say another word, Viserys bellowed, “Silence! All of you!”

A hush fell on the room. Viserys sounded stronger than he had in a decade. He sounded like a king.

The king stepped down from the throne and walked to his daughter. That new look in Viserys’ eyes shifted as he stared at her. Daemon still could not read it, and neither could Rhaenyra from the look on her face. And then Viserys turned to Rhaenys.

“You were right,” he said in Valyrian, after a broken-sounding laugh. “There was something familiar.”

“Your Grace—” Otto began.

“Ser Otto, you will tell us where you have taken the boy. Now.”

A chorus of Green voices objected. Rhaenyra still stared at her father, and so did Rhaenys, their expressions so similar—confusion. But Daemon did not have time for confusion. His son was out there, taken by men who had nearly bested a knight like Ser Harwin, and Daemon could not bring himself to even think that he might be—

He threw off the thought and started for Otto again.

“Daemon Targaryen.”

Daemon stopped at his brother’s voice. Daemon turned, holding back the rage that roared through him still. Why was his brother trying to stop him from doing what needed to be done?

Viserys’ eyes were steady on his. “Today, you speak with my voice, brother, and if you would accept, you act as my hand.”

Daemon had not even realized he’d extended his arm, not until he looked down and saw the gold pin in Viserys’ palm.

His Hand. It was what Daemon had wanted for nearly a dozen years. It had meant much to him—the love of his brother, the respect of his family, the pride of all knowing he was chosen to stand beside the king, dragons united as their father had always wished.

But now, it meant that Viserys was enabling him to do all he must to save his son. Daemon would have done it anyway. But that hardly mattered as he took the cool, metal hand from his brother and pinned it to his chest.

“No.” The noise sounded punched out of Alicent. “Husband, please, no.”

“The queen is overcome,” Viserys said. “Ser Willas, please escort her to her rooms.”

The kingsguard walked to her side, a gentle hand to her arm to prod her along toward the doors. Daemon waited until she was gone to turn to Harwin.

“And you, Ser Harwin,” said Daemon Targaryen, Hand of the King, “shall escort Otto Hightower to the Black Cells.”

Chapter Text

“It would be best for everyone,” Daemon said, “if you tell me now.”

Otto said nothing. Daemon hadn’t expected him to. Not yet.

For all that he had commanded the Gold Cloaks, Daemon had spent little time in the Black Cells. His work had been on the city streets after all. Those had their own share of misery, but misery of a different sort to this dungeon, cold, wet, dark, where the most common sound were the wailing of those being put to question. But Daemon had never felt uncomfortable in these depths, no matter the smell of blood and shit that permeated it. Warriors must need have strong stomachs, after all.

Otto lay on the floor of the cell, where Harwin had thrown him. There was rotten straw strewn across the stone, but Daemon knew worse things lay beneath it. The leech was unused to such places. Daemon wondered if he were scared. He couldn’t tell by the look on his face. Daemon found himself almost impressed.

In war, Daemon had gotten practiced at knowing who would break quickly and who wouldn’t. Everyone broke under torture eventually. Otto would take time to break, Daemon thought, watching the man collect himself, brushing stray straw from his doublet. He would have enjoyed the breaking, if he had the time.

Daemon did not have time.

After he had ordered Otto to the cells, he sent Laenor and his Joffrey to gather a dozen guards of the Red Keep—ones Rhaenyra knew were loyal to them, not the Hightowers—and begin a search of the tourney grounds, with the aid of the Riverlords. The bond he shared with Caraxes clawed at him for fire and blood right now. But though a dragon would be of help in the taking of a city, the same could not be said of searching one, so he sent the knights to search- for now. If Egg was in the city, he would find him, no matter how bloody the streets became. But it would be easier if Otto simply told him what he knew.

“I think you know that you are never leaving this place,” Daemon said. “But I do not think you know you’ve lost.”

“My prince, I do not have your son.”

“No, of course not.” Daemon gave Otto a half smile. “Right now the Tullys and the Blackwoods are tearing apart the tents flying the Hightowers’ banners. Your brother has two sons who jousted today, does he not? And there’s Gwayne, of course. I wonder if they’ll resist.”

“They won’t find him there,” Otto said.

“I know that. Do you think I believe you’ve hidden my son in your rooms? Or in your pocket? No, you don’t have him yourself. Larys Strong’s men took him.”

The hint of surprise in Otto’s eyes, so subtle Daemon might have taken it for a flicker of light if he hadn’t been looking for it. He hadn’t thought Daemon knew about that. “Larys Strong is dead.”

“The most effective spies are the ones no one thinks to look for. I wonder if he was selling you his services before or after his death.” Daemon lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “You need not tell me that. But you will tell me where my son is.”

“I do not know where he is.”

Otto sounded so long suffering. Daemon backhanded him, sending him to the ground.

“That’s what you expected, isn’t it?” he asked once Otto had risen back to his knees, and then he hit him again. He felt Otto's nose crunch beneath his fist. “I love nothing but violence. Maegor come again.”

Otto was breathing heavily through his mouth by the time he got to his knees again. “What have you done to dissuade me of my expectations, my prince?”

Daemon ignored him. He reached down into his boot and pulled out a deadly little dagger. The blade, which Egg had polished to a shine, glinted in the torchlight. He’d wanted Hightower blood on this blade once today. He would get his wish after all. “Do you expect me to torture you now? I could. I learned much in the Stepstones, but even more on my last trip to Qohor. I got this dagger there. It’s as close as one can get to Valyrian steel.”

“I’m sure its very sharp,” Otto said.

Daemon stepped close to him, raised the blade, and swiped a quick line across Otto’s cheekbone. He’d barely flicked his wrist and the cheek was nearly flayed to the bone. Otto let out a hiss once the pain caught up with the cut, but hardly flinched at all. No, Daemon thought again, Otto would not break quickly. Not if the price was his own flesh.

But his own blood?

Daemon stepped back and studied the blood painting the edge of the dagger. Red, of course, just like Otto’s daughter’s would be. Just like his grandson’s. “One more chance. Where is my son?”

“I do not know.”

Daemon nodded, turning the dagger over in his hands. He took a breath. “Well, shall we send for the boy then? For your little princeling?”

That got a reaction. “You wouldn’t.”

Daemon didn’t try to hold back his laugh. Otto Hightower had spent months convincing his daughter that Daemon would put her children to the sword and now—this? He wouldn’t?

“I would,” he said, and no matter what squirmed in his gut, it was true. “A son for a son, Otto.”

Otto’s eyes went from Daemon to Harwin, who stood behind Daemon in the shadows of the cell, then back to Daemon. “This is monstrous.”

“With how long you’ve called me a monster, I can hardly believe your surprise.”

His mouth opened and shut again. And then he said, “Your brother would never forgive you.”

That blow hit home, little though Daemon would let him see it. Otto was not wrong, not in this. Rhaenyra might not even forgive him. His own Aegon certainly wouldn’t. Daemon steeled himself. He’d be alive to hate him, and that was what mattered.

“Ser Harwin!” Daemon ordered. Harwin stepped forward. His face was hard, but something pleading was in his eyes. Foolish man. Did he think Daemon wanted this? He wondered what that other version of him had thought about, before sending a butcher to murder his own kin. He wondered what he’d felt. Perhaps something like this. “Bring me Alicent Hightower’s whelp.”

Harwin moved to obey, but before he could go farther than a few steps, one of the gold cloaks approached at a run.

“Prince Daemon,” the man said. “A message for you. From the White Worm.”

A message from Mysaria. “What is it?”

“She says she has information about another stolen egg.”

Harwin had paused when the guard appeared, and looked back at Daemon. His face wasn’t difficult to read—what do you want me to do?

Daemon looked down at Otto, who watched him with sharp, calculating eyes. He should send Harwin to get the whelp anyway, he thought, and bloody his dagger and the straw further. He should make certain Otto Hightower knew he was every bit as monstrous as he'd said he was.

This time things will be different, he'd told Egg.

“A temporary reprieve for the boy, then,” he said, and slammed his fist into the side of Otto’s head.

The door to the cell clanged behind them, and the three ascended from the Black Cells.

“Daemon,” Harwin said after they were safely out of earshot of any prisoner or guards, the Gold Cloak trailing well behind, “this could be a trap. She could send you into an ambush.”

Mysaria, the woman who would go on to twist Rhaenyra against him in Egg’s horrible future, happening upon information just as he needs it? “Of fucking course it is a trap, Harwin.”

“Then what are we doing?”

“I’m springing the trap.”

Daemon paused only to send the Gold Cloak to Luthor Largent, telling him to await Daemon in Flea Bottom, before going to the council chamber. He shoved open the doors and strode inside, Harwin waiting outside.

Viserys, Rhaenyra, and Rhaenys were inside, his brother sitting, the two women standing. Tyland had been sent to his brother and the Westermen, to quell worries of the abandoned tourney and the search of the Reachmen. Mellos had been confined to his chambers, as had Hobert Hightower, with orders that no one was to come in or out of their rooms. Daemon would deal with them both later.

Rhaenys gave Daemon a skeptical once over as he entered. Did she expect him to be dripping with blood? Swinging Dark Sister like a madman?

“What did he say?” Viserys asked, half rising as he entered.

Daemon gestured for him to remain sitting as he came to stand at Rhaenyra’s side. “He has said precious little. Enough to confirm what we already knew—it is his doing that Aegon was taken.”

“Why?” Rhaenys asked.

“Did you not hear the Green queen?” Daemon replied.

“You have formed some plot to steal the throne for him. I heard.” Rhaenys did not sound as though she believed their reasoning.

Daemon did not believe it either, not entirely. But he had no time to think it through. “It matters little at the moment. I’ve received word from someone else who claims to have information.”

“Who?” Rhaenyra asked.

“Mysaria.”

His brother sputtered and Daemon was almost glad of it—he could hardly understand this Viserys who had made him his hand and announced his match with Rhaenyra. Had he not been outraged at the mention of the whore, Daemon might have believed he was an impostor.

Rhaenyra did not sputter. He saw her thinking it through. She knew he had hardly seen Mysaria since his return, and they both had already realized that it might not have been only in the future that she betrayed him.

“Go to her,” Rhaenyra said. “Find out what she knows.”

And then she reached a hand to his cheek and she kissed him.

His right arm wrapped around her waist and he pulled her close. He must have stank of blood, of sweat, from the tourney and the Black Cells, but Rhaenyra did not shrink from him, no matter the smell or the hard steel of the armor he still wore. He was not certain he could stomach it, if she ever did.

The kiss was short, too short, but there was too much to be done to keep her in his arms for longer. They pulled apart, their gazes still locked.

“Go quickly,” Rhaenyra said, “and come back to me.”

Daemon nodded and started for the door.

Outside of the council chamber, Corlys and Laena stood with Harwin, all three with grave looks on their faces.

“Daemon—” Corlys began.

“I have to go,” he said. “Information may await us in Flea Bottom.”

Corlys nodded and clasped Daemon’s shoulder. “I hope you find him.”

Daemon nodded. There was no other option.

Laena’s betrothed loitered in the corridor as well, a sword strapped to his side. He must have been the same age as Laenor, but there was something spoiled and childish in his face that made Daemon almost say no when he offered his sword to Daemon’s cause. But then Daemon glanced back at Corlys, whose brow quirked, and he said to the Braavosi boy, “Your sword is welcome if you know how to use it.”

Harwin made to follow them and Daemon stopped him with a shake of his head. “You will stay with the princess,” he said. Harwin’s mouth opened to argue, but Daemon cut him off. “There are precious few that I trust in this Keep tonight. Stay with Rhaenyra.”

Harwin bowed his head and followed Corlys and Laena into the council chamber. Daemon disliked having this Braavosi boy at his back instead, but that, at least, would be temporary.

Luthor Largent waited as they entered Flea Bottom with a half dozen Gold Cloaks.

“My prince,” he said with a bow, then fell into step beside him without another word.

“Did you do as I said?” Daemon asked.

“Yes, my prince. There are men near both entrances of the tavern. At our signal, they will allow no one in or out.”

“Good,” Daemon replied. He would not have Mysaria sending one of her messengers to ready an ambush.

He strode inside the tavern. She had done well for herself in his absence. He knew already, from Luthor, that she’d gotten out of the skin trade and deeper into that of secrets. It was lucrative, it seemed, from the building. Though not from the crowd. The tavern was nearly empty.

That put his hackles up as he walked deeper into the room. Three men, drinking on the other side of the room, by a door that must have led to the stables—the back way out Luthor had mentioned. All three wore leather armor, and hardly lifted their heads as he came inside, flanked by Gold Cloaks. An almost empty tavern in the late afternoon would not have been so notable on a tourney day, nor one with armored men, but then there was the second thing: Mysaria was not there to meet him.

He knew what was happening a moment before it began: Mysaria was not sending him into an ambush. Mysaria had created the ambush.

The men were armed with decent steel and knew how to use it. Daemon drew his sword as the first approached and cut him down before their swords could even meet. He cut the second down nearly as quickly, though the third took more work.

In the end, Dark Sister was bloody, but he was not. A score of bladed men had been set upon them, but Luthor had chosen his men well. In the end, only one of the Gold Cloaks was dead, and all of the sellswords. Daemon cast his eyes up the stairs to the second story.

“Secure the tavern,” he said to Luthor. “You, with me,” he said to the Braavosi, and the two of them started up the flight of steps.

On the way up, they ran into only one man, who slashed at Daemon’s head and then died at the end of his sword. “You Westerosi go down so easily,” the Braavosi boy said with a snicker.

Daemon turned and buried Dark Sister in the boy’s gut. The smirk was still half on his face as he died.

He continued up the stairs alone.

At the end of the hall was an open door. He walked to it, mindful of any of the closed doors that lined the hall, but he heard nothing. Even under these circumstances, it nearly made Daemon laugh: Otto Hightower, renting out an entire tavern.

He caught up with Mysaria in what must have been her private chamber. She stood by a long, polished desk. A flagon of wine was the only thing upon it, and she held a goblet out with a smile.

“Care for a drink, my prince?” she asked.

“Arbor gold?” he asked.

She dipped her head in a nod. “As sweet as summer on the Mander.”

“I think you know I care not for the Reach,” he replied. He took one step closer. “Why don’t you drink it?”

Mysaria smiled at him and took a sip. “Perhaps too sweet.”

“You need only get used to the taste. A second sip,” he ordered.

She tipped her head again. This time, she drank the rest of the wine down. “A little bitter, at the end,” she said.

“Salty, like tears?” Daemon stepped close to her and brushed the backs of his fingers down her cheek. The time for lies was over. “How long? Was it from the beginning?”

“Close enough that I do not think you would see a difference.”

He nodded. She did know him well. “You said you did not come to me for gold, but you sold my secrets for it.”

“Do you not want to know why?” she asked. He could see pain already tugging at the edges of her eyes and mouth. There had been enough poison in that goblet to kill, and quickly.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “The message you sent. It was a lie. You don’t know where my son is.” He’d known it the moment he’d stepped inside, if not before.

“No,” she said. Her hand went to her belly, fingers digging into the white silk she wore. “The Hand is clever like that.”

“He is no longer Hand.”

“For now. I believe he has a plan to change that.”

“And you will not tell me what it is?”

“Do you think he would tell me everything?” She let out a laugh and blood dribbled from the side of her mouth.

“Does the White Worm know only what she’s told? I thought you better at your trade than that.”

Her breathing was coming harder now and her eyes were glassy with tears. “I am very good at my trade. I could find nothing of your bastard’s mother. I believe it drove the Hand a little mad. It is no wonder the first step was to get rid of him.” The tears in her eyes spilled out and she crumpled to the floor.

He crouched beside her. He had trusted her once, as much as he trusted anyone not of his blood; now he would never know exactly how foolish he had been to do so. That, like her death at his feet, was probably for the best.

Anger flashed in her eyes as though she knew the direction his thoughts had taken. “You won’t arrive in time to stop the rest of it,” Mysaria said. “These are not the only Tears at work tonight.”

Daemon froze. His son taken, an ambush planned for him, more Tears of Lys at work in the city… Rhaenys’ skeptical voice asking why Egg had been taken came back to him. This was why: it was a distraction.

“You could run,” she said. She closed her eyes and a slight smile turned up the corners of her lips. “But you’ll probably still be too late.”

Daemon ran.

Chapter Text

After Otto Hightower was taken to the Black Cells and his fellow Greens sent off to their chambers under guard, the king dismissed everyone else from the throne room.

Before Rhaenyra could move to follow them, Viserys said, “Rhaenyra.”

She looked up at her father. There was something dark and shadowed in his gaze, something she’d seen since he’d begun having dreams. She wondered what he’d seen. She'd asked. He would tell her nothing, and that, more than anything, made her think he’d seen something of Egg’s terrible future.

And now this: his action at the sight of the color green, his strange words to Rhaenys about Egg looking familiar. Could he know somehow? It was not possible, was it?

But the first thing he said after they were left alone was, “Do you know who Egg’s mother was?”

Rhaenyra opened her mouth to lie. A noblewoman, dead now, who had hidden her son on Dragonstone. But the words caught on her tongue. She did not want to lie to him.

“We have no time for stories,” Rhaenyra said, “and it is not my story to tell if we did. Please, Father. Wait.”

Viserys nodded, seeming half in a daze. “We will get the boy back,” he said. “I promise you.”

She knew they would. Daemon would burn the city if he thought it might return the boy to them without perhaps harming Egg himself. But what condition would they find him in? Would he be injured? She could not bear to think of the alternative to that. Could her father see her fear? He must have, for he stepped closer. After two months of awkward silence between them, the hand that took hers and held was more than welcome.

“What did you see?” She whispered, her words so quiet they were nearly lost in the small space between them.

“I saw nothing,” her father said. His hands came up to frame her face. “Rhaenyra, I’ve been so blind.”

At that, he pulled her into an embrace, clinging with a strength she’d feared he was losing. She clutched him back, burying her face in his shoulder, letting the fabric of his doublet soak up her tears. She was still angry with him, could feel it burning somewhere deep, but he was still her father, and it had been so long since he'd held her like one.

When she pulled back, he let her go and offered her a half-smile. “Come,” he said, and she followed him to the council chamber.

Daemon returned from the Black Cells sooner than she’d thought to see him, and then left the Keep only moments later. She hadn’t expected Otto Hightower to give up the information they wanted, but she hadn’t expected Daemon to leave him alone without it. But they could not turn away an offer of information, no matter how little she trusted the good will of Daemon’s whore.

Daemon clutched her to him when they kissed, and the hard feel of the armor beneath her was a comfort. He was a warrior, her uncle. He would come back to her, just as he always had before, here in this world. Even so, she did not want him to leave her. She wanted to go with him, to stride with his men through the city streets, sword in hand to look for their son, and she felt an old anger rise up that she could not. The birthing bed is our battlefield. Her mothers words. And then they were supposed to let their sons out into the world to be killed and do nothing to stop it? How Egg’s mother must have hated it, watching from a castle as her sons died one by one.

When I am queen, I shall make a new order, she had told Rhaenys once. And she would.

After Daemon was gone, Rhaenys spoke. “I do not understand why they would take the boy. Even if Daemon was raising him from birth to take the throne, it makes little sense to take him now.”

She was right. Rhaenyra had known it from the first time she’d said it. There was no sense in it. Why take Egg? But she did not doubt for a moment that it was Otto who was behind it. Only why.

Corlys and Laena entered a few moments after Daemon left, and Harwin right behind them.

“Prince Daemon bade me stay, princess,” he said when she gave him a confused look.

Stay with her, he meant. She would much rather him be at Daemon’s side. She did not argue, little though she liked thinking of her uncle alongside men she did not know nor trust in the warren of Flea Bottom’s streets.

“Someone call for food and drink. I could use some wine.” It was Laena who went to do so, as the king folded his hands together atop the council table. “We hold both Otto and Hobart Hightower here. Whatever plan they had can hardly go further, can it?”

“Mayhaps you surprised them, cousin,” Rhaenys said. “Spoiled whatever plan your wife’s call to arms lit the way for when you left the tourney early.”

“But whatever they planned already involved Egg. Ser Harwin, you said he was taken right after the queen arrived in the box?”

Harwin nodded. “Just moments after, Princess. I went after him as the king was announcing your betrothal.”

“There is something else at play,” Corlys said. Rhaenyra’s eyes jumped to him. “They took Egg, and assuming there had been no reaction to her Grace’s wardrobe, we might only have discovered his absence. What squire does not run off for a little fun at a tourney?”

Egg was hardly the sort to run off, but it wasn’t as though those plotting his kidnapping would know that. Had Mysaria’s message had been meant to lure her uncle away not from his questioning of Otto but from something else? Or, if not lure her uncle away, lure her uncle to?

Rhaenys seemed to come to the same conclusion she did at nearly the same moment. “Taking the boy was a ploy. Or a distraction.”

“Whatever it is they’re planning,” Corlys said, “we must be ready to meet it.”

“I believe my brother has already sailed into the storm, Lord Corlys.”

Corlys raised a brow. “I was not aware you were listening to that, your Grace.”

Her father bowed his head.  “I listened, Lord Corlys. But I cannot say that I heard. Not then.”

How were they to meet a storm when they did not know what was coming? When they did not know who might hide in the storm clouds? There were precious few they could trust beyond doubt. The Kingsguard, along with men she knew were loyal, held their prisoners and her half-siblings. That left the rest of the household guard, whose loyalties were more dubious. Lord Caswell might be castellan of the Keep, and he entirely loyal to the Targaryens, but they all knew how much Otto had taken on for years. He had answered petitioners and Small Councilors alike in the name of the king. In the matter of the household guard, Rhaenyra had known he chose men who were loyal to him, no matter that their castellan was loyal only to them. She had been working to weed them out without her father knowing just what she was up to, but such was a slow process without Daemon to merely cut them down. How many were the Hand’s men? How many were men who could be swayed to treason for a handful of gold? Mayhaps she should bring Syrax to settle in the Godswood.

But that was a thought for later. Rhaenyra turned to Lord Corlys. “How many men do you have in the city that you trust?”

“Fifty,” Corlys said without hesitation.

“Get them,” the king ordered, and Corlys obeyed.

The four of them were left in silence, the three Targaryens around the council table, and Harwin a silent shadow behind her.

“Damn them,” her father growled suddenly, slamming his fists on the table. “I should go to the Black Cells and make Otto talk myself.”

“Daemon doesn’t think Otto will break. Else he would never leave him there so quickly.” Rhaenys’ cool voice seemed a balm to her father’s anger. “Hobart Hightower must be put to the question as well.”

Though he clearly misliked her words, Viserys nodded, his mouth pinched. “Little though the other lords of the Reach shall appreciate it.”

“There may be another way,” Rhaenyra said, dropping her hands to her side. “I will go speak to the queen.”

“Rhaenyra,” her father said, half standing, caution in his eyes.

Alicent might have declared her war, but she would not be the one to fight it. Rhaenyra would be safe enough with her. “We were friends once,” she said. “Perhaps I can convince her to speak of what she knows. She must know something.”

Viserys nodded, though he looked reluctant. “Go quickly and carefully, daughter.”

Rhaenyra kissed his cheek quickly and left the room with Ser Harwin just behind her.

"Where is that wine?" her father demanded as the door closed behind her.

Ser Steffon stood guard at the door of the council chamber, with Ser Harrold and two members of the household guard. Ser Steffon fell into step with Harwin as they walked.

The halls were clear of all but servants and soldiers and Rhaenyra felt tension gripping her spine like angry fingers. The journey to Alicent’s chambers, even though it was not too far to Maegor’s Holdfast, felt too long to be in these halls, even flanked with guards. This was her home. A rush of anger pushed the fingers from her back. They had taken her privacy in her rooms and now her safety in her home.

By the time she pushed open the doors to Alicent’s chamber, leaving Ser Willas, Steffon, and Harwin without, Rhaenyra felt as though fire licked through her veins.

Alicent was sitting on her chaise when Rhaenyra entered. She had been crying, so much was clear. She looked up at the door when Rhaenyra entered. “Rhaenyra!” she cried, climbing shakily to her feet. “Rhaenyra, please—” Whatever was on Rhaenyra’s face stopped Alicent before she could get out whatever plea was coming.

“Where is he?” Rhaenyra demanded, striding toward her.

Alicent shrank back, her face confused, her eyes afraid. “The bastard? How should I know?”

She was still clad in green. Rhaenyra wanted to rip it from her and have Syrax set it aflame. “How should you know? Did the king not make it clear that we understand your treason, your Grace?”

“You call it treason to uphold the peace of the realm? To protect the lives of my children? Am I to just stand by as you flaunt your depravities on your way to the throne?”

“And what depravities are those, your Grace? Marrying for love and alliance? Is that not what you dreamed of as a girl? Or marrying one of my blood? Tell me, Alicent, how old was Helaena before your father brought you the idea of her marriage to her brother?” Alicent flinched and she knew the accusation had struck true. “Or is the real depravity that I would dare act on my own?”

“You flaunt common decency, Rhaenyra! All I have ever tried to do is what was asked of me, what was required of me, as daughter, wife, queen. And you… you would grind it all down beneath your pretty foot.”

“You’re wrong,” Rhaenyra said, advancing a few steps. This time, Alicent did not shrink away and met Rhaenyra’s gaze. “I’ve never wanted to grind anything down. It was my father who chose me as heir, not mine own ambition seizing the title. I’ve wanted only to make my own choices, live my own life. I told you what I wanted, so long ago.”

“To fly on dragonback and eat only cake,” Alicent said. “A child’s fantasy, Rhaenyra.”

“I wanted to do that with you.” Rhaenyra felt tears prick at her eyes, even now, for the girls they’d been and the love she’d held. “But I have grown up, your Grace. I know better now the way of things. I am the blood of the dragon, Alicent, and I will not let myself be pushed aside by the likes of your father.”

“My father is a good man, who has done all he could for the good of the realm. You would tear the kingdom apart, Rhaenyra, can’t you see it?”

“If he cares only for peace, then why was he so upset when your son’s egg did not hatch? Because it would make it that much harder to claim the throne? Or because he’d need dragons when he started a war for it?” Alicent tried to look away, but Rhaenyra’s hand shot up and held her there. She would not let Alicent hide from this. “I am not plotting a war, Alicent. And I was not the one to harm a child today.”

Alicent broke.

“It was Larys Strong,” she said, tears streaming down her face. “He came to me a moon ago, threw himself at my feet and said he had information to offer in exchange for his safety. He’s worked for my father since then. He is unnatural, but he knows things, and I know not how.”

“What does he know?” Rhaenyra demanded, letting go of her face.

“He knew you drank moon tea. He knew you had plans with Daemon, that you and he were loud on Dragonstone.” Alicent’s lip might have curled up in disgust at that a moon ago, or perhaps in amusement back when they were girls gossiping, but now all she did was force it out through her tears.

Rhaenyra remembered the comment about their coupling. It had been Laena who said it, under her breath, teasingly, when she and Rhaenyra were alone a fortnight past. How had Larys heard her? It was impossible, even if he stood in the secret passage. They had been well away from any door or window.

Rhaenyra shoved the thought away. The how was not important. Not now that they had at least the who for certain.

“He took Egg too?”

Alicent nodded. “I know not why, only that the boy needed to be taken this day. And…” Alicent trailed off, but whatever she saw in Rhaenyra’s face made her hurry to continue. “Larys wanted him. He arranged it all and took the boy with him.”

“Where?” Rhaenyra demanded. “Is he in the city somewhere? In the Tower?”

“He is not here,” Alicent admitted in a whisper. “Not in Kings Landing. Not in Westeros, even, by now. He was taken to a ship that was to sail before the sun began to set.”

Rhaenyra turned her face toward the queen’s window. Outside the sky was turning scarlet. “What ship?” she demanded. “Where are they taking him?”

“I do not know what ship,” Alicent said, “only that it is going to Braavos.”

Rhaenyra started to turn from her, and Alicent caught her hand. “Please,” Alicent begged, “please do not hurt my children.”

Rhaenyra ripped her hand away. “You truly believe I would hurt your children? My half-siblings?”

“Rhaenyra…”

“Of the two Aegons who live in this Keep, only one is in danger. Remember that, Alicent, while you beg me for mercy. It is not I, nor my uncle, who have put a child’s life at risk. Your father sold a child of my blood. And you want me to believe you a victim?”

“My father is trying to protect—“

“I somehow hardly think you would find that excuse as compelling were it my uncle inflicting the harm. Would you?”

Alicent flinched and kept crying, and Rhaenyra walked away.

Harwin and Steffon waited just outside, beside Ser Willas.

“I know where he is,” she said to them, then turned to Ser Willas. “Ser, I need you to get a message to my father and to my uncle immediately. Tell them that Egg is on a ship bound for Braavos and that I ride for the Dragonpit.”

Chapter Text

Egg woke a queasy stomach, a hard floor, and something rocking from side to side. His head ached. He heard a whimper, and realized it was coming from him.

“Move slowly, Aegon,” a woman’s voice said. “Can you open your eyes?”

He wasn’t even sure he had eyes anymore. His eyelids felt pasted shut. But he tried. His left eye opened halfway, then he closed it again.

“They conked you on the head and gave you sweetsleep,” the woman said. “It will take a bit for you to wake fully.”

Who conked him on the head? What had they give him? He knew he knew the voice speaking to him, but he couldn’t place it. It was not his mother’s voice. That was all he knew.

“Where—” was all he could manage to say before the nausea caught up to him and he retched. Nothing came up save hot bile. He spat it out best he could.

“We’re on a ship. I don’t know where they’re taking us.” The woman paused, then said, “I need you to roll to your side, Egg. I don’t want you choking if you pass out on me again.”

“I’m awake,” he said, though his voice hardly sounded it. He did as she asked, and slowly, slowly rolled to his side, toward the voice.

He tried opening his eyes again once he was done. They opened a bit easier this time.

The room they were in was dark. A ship, she’d said. Alys, he remembered. It was Alys who was beside him in the hold of the ship, her back against the curving wood of the hull, her arms and legs tied with thick rope. He glanced down. His were tied as well. No wonder it had been so hard to move.

He didn’t know how he’d gotten here. He remembered the queen in her Green dress, remembered running from it right into men who had tried to capture him. Men who had captured him. There had been something odd about them, but he couldn’t remember what.

“Where are we?” he asked, then remembered that she’d said she did not know. “Who brought us here?”

“My brother.”

Egg shook his head, then realized it was a bad idea when pain slammed into his head as though someone had stabbed his skull with a dirk. “No.” It came out a gasp, though he didn’t know if that was pain or disbelief.

She snorted. “Not Harwin. The other one.” Her eyes left him and fixed on the other side of the ship. Egg craned his neck to see, but there was no one there. “Larys.”

But Larys was dead. Alys herself had killed him. “Alys, we have to get out of here. Rhaenyra. My parents, they’ll—”

“Quiet, Egg.”

“I’m fine,” he said, struggling to sit up. They’d tied Alys’ arms behind her back, but Egg’s in front. Could he crawl to her, get her hands untied? “Did you see the queen? There is something happening in Kings Landing, I have to get to—”

“Be quiet,” Alys snarled. “We are not alone.”

Egg jerked up and turned his head right and left. It was dark in the belly of the ship, but he could see no one else in the room, just coils of rope and barrels and a rat with pale, beedy eyes staring right at them. Had she gone mad? “Alys—”

“I said be quiet, boy.” She was staring right at the rat. “If he wants answers, make him come get them himself.”

The rat let out a squeak of alarm and then scurried away, as though it had been held pinned in the open and wanted nothing more than to get back to his hidey hole.

The door creaked open not one minute later.

Larys Strong was much as Egg remembered him: tall and thin, with a gaunt face and a leg he struggled to walk on. His shoulders hunched as he leaned on a rough-hewn cane of pale wood. His eyes were lighter than those of his siblings, but darker somehow too. Whatever lay inside of them made Egg want to shrink away, just as he always had from the version of him he’d known before.

“You both truly are unnatural,” Larys said, his voice almost dreamy. “The rat can smell it.”

Egg’s eyes darted to Alys, whose lips curled a bit at the corners. Was Larys the rat? He thought of the night they’d found her. She’d been roasting a rat down to char, viciously gleeful about it. Had that been Larys? Was Larys different rats? Egg felt his skin crawl as he thought about it and couldn’t help the shudder that went through him.

Both siblings ignored him. “I always thought there was something about you,” Alys said. “I’d watch you pray in the godswood and wonder what it was the gods had given you. I knew there was something. The blood of the First Men is strong. A skinchanger.”

“I always thought it was payment. In this body, I could never run. But in others…”

“I’d hardly say rats run. Scurry. Scrabble. Crawl.”

“It’s not only rats whose skins I can change,” Larys said. “I have you to thank for me figuring that out, you know. I was dying in that room. Fire all around me. And I cried out for help, and then I was somewhere else. Someone else.”

“The girl,” Egg blurted. “Benna.”

She had been missing since the fire, he remembered, until they found her in the woods. No one had been able to say how she’d died. It had been Larys who’d done it, he knew suddenly. And the other servant must have taken his place in the fire. His body had been burnt and crushed, Egg remembered Daemon saying. Burnt and crushed badly enough that no one had known he wasn’t really Larys Strong.

“She nursed me back to health. I knew I had to be dead, of course. I knew whatever you were, you’d be looking for me.” Larys still had his eyes on Alys. “You’re so different, but you look so much the same. How are you here? What are you?”

“You’d question the will of the gods?” Alys asked.

His lips turned up in a smile. “I hardly think the two of you are here only by the will of the gods. There’s something more to it. When I was near death, I called out to the Old Gods. There was no heart tree, not where I hid, but I found a weirwood. It was enough. I saw… I don’t know what I saw. You were there, Alys, your face lit up with some ghostly light. There were dragons dancing, flames in the sky, and so much blood. Everyone was screaming. He was there.” Larys gestured to Aegon. “And I saw myself die. I do not want to die.”

“We all die, Larys.”

He laughed. “Valar morghulis. That is what they say, isn’t it?”

The Valyrian sounded awkward on his tongue, and his laugh sounded half-mad. Egg sucked in a breath. “If you let us go, I promise you will not die by any hand but the gods’. I will make certain of it.”

“If I let you go now, you’ll drown in the bay. Is that what you want?” Larys did not wait for an answer. “You’ll tell me what you are. There’s power here. His is the blood of kings. And they just let me have you. The boy, that is,” he said, pointing at Egg before turning his eyes back on Alys. “I don’t think they even know you exist. There’s a tear in the world around you, but no one even sees it.”

Alys smirked. “Two things no one ever wants to pay attention to: bastards and women past forty.”

“Where are you taking us?” Aegon demanded.

Larys looked over at him. “Far away, unlucky child. Far away.”

The boat creaked as Larys shuffled away. Egg heard the sound of a bolt slamming into place on the door behind him after it closed.

“I do not think we will like wherever it is we are going, your Grace,” Alys said. “We may be better off in the bay.”

Egg was not sure how long they sat in the hold after that.

The rat returned to them twice. Alys cursed each time she saw it, perched on that same barrel, its eyes shining in the low light. It did not try to hide its presence or that it was no normal rat. Once, it scurried so close that Egg kicked it away, cursing at Larys. At that, Alys laughed.

“That’s just a regular rat, Egg. Come to investigate whether or not we’re tasty enough to eat.”

That wasn’t a comforting thought.

He scooted closer to Alys, and she laughed a little. “Are you afraid, little king?”

He glared at her, though he did not think she could tell in this light. “I’m trying to untie you,” he whispered. “Unless you’d rather let the rat eat you.”

But he could not get Alys’ ropes unbound any more than he could untie his own. The ropes were wet, the knots swollen, and she was tied to the wall of the ship, to an iron ring that did not budge when he pulled at it. It was so dark he could see but a little, the only light coming through gaps in the boards above them. As that too dimmed, he realized night had fallen.

Egg could feel fear nibbling at the edges of his mind as though it were the rat trying to taste them. He tried to take a deep breath to stay calm, only for the taste and smell of the sea to send him right back into the Gullet, the day he’d lost Viserys. The day he’d left Viserys. He’d close his eyes to try to forget the dark they were trapped in, and then all he could see was the Green queen in green silks, lighting the way to war. He’d try to think of where Larys might be taking them, only to realize no matter where it was, they might never be found. Daemon and Rhaenyra would know, surely, that he had not left on his own. Wouldn’t they? But he’d left Viserys, and he’d left Baela, hadn’t he? Left her and Rhaena to deal with the vultures and the rats.

Tears burned in his eyes. He tried to think of a song to hum, to take his thoughts from such thoughts, but the only one that came to mind was “The King Without Courage”.

He pushed that thought away as well. Instead, Egg tried to think only of Daemon in the joust, the way his lance crashed into Unwin Peake and threw him to the ground. Daemon would do more than that, if anyone tried to harm Rhaenyra. Daemon had killed Ser Alfred; Daemon had killed Ser Criston. He’d kill Otto too, and Alicent, and even if they never found him, at least he knew they’d be safe.

Thoughts of Peake reminded him of Alys, what she had gone off to do before she’d been captured like him.

“How did they get you?” he asked. Before she could shush him again, he said, “Certainly that he already knows, even if he’s… here.” It had grown too dark to make out which shadows were from swaying ropes and which were from scurrying rats.

Alys snorted. “I was on my way back from seeing to Lord Peake.” He could almost hear her smirk. “His wounds looked most worrisome. I fear they may fester, even overnight.”

Aegon’s lips curled up. Alys had called his grin a feral one, but Egg found he didn’t mind the idea.

Alys continued. “I was taking the long way around Lord Bracken’s tent when they grabbed me. One threw a sack over my head, dosed with something much less sweet than sweetsleep. It did the job though. When I woke, we were both on board this ship.”

“Did you know he was alive?” he asked, thinking again of the charred rat.

“I was not sure. At first I thought… perhaps. But then the days passed and I stopped feeling his eyes upon me. I let myself believe I’d killed him as surely as I killed Rhea Royce.”

“He’d gone to Kings Landing.” Egg had not heard the full tale of Otto Hightower’s fall, but he knew it had something to do with a spy. It must have been Larys. The idea of him watching Rhaenyra with his beedy rat’s eyes made Egg’s stomach turn.

“And he could not watch me from there. No skinchanger’s power stretches so far.”

Egg thought of the crow on Benna’s shoulder and the insistent way it cawed at them. “Are you certain?”

He heard Alys shift a little in the darkness. “No,” she finally admitted.

Egg could feel her unease bleeding into him. Surely she was right, no matter her uncertainty. But he heard himself say, “There was a crow near Harrenhal. It led us to Benna’s body. Larys would not want us to find her, but there was something…”

“You didn’t tell me about the girl,” Alys said, a hint of accusation to her tone, as though if he had, they might not be on this ship. “How did she die?”

Egg shrugged, though of course she could not see him. “No one could tell for certain. The maester thought she may have died from thirst, but we were not a mile from a spring. It was like she sat down and waited to die.”

“Your crow was just a crow, Egg,” she said, but she was silent for a long time after that.

Egg was not sure if he slept. He would close his eyes and something monstrous would bloom behind his eyelids, and then he would force them open again. Eventually, the room lightened, at least a little; dawn must have been approaching.

His mind felt clearer now than it had, and he whispered to Alys that he was going to try again to get the ropes loose. He scooted close again, but even though his fingers weren’t as clumsy, he still couldn’t get the knot to slip. He grunted, annoyed, dropping his bound hands back to his lap.

Alys didn’t seem as displeased with his results. He could see the hint of her thoughtful expression in the dim light.

“Come close again,” Alys murmured. “Give me your hand.”

Egg scooted closer. “Are you afraid now, witch—Ow!”

He tried to pull away but her nails had sunk into his hand. He could feel the blood welling up around them.

“Shh,” she hushed, as harsh as such a sound could be. “And be still.”

He’d opened his mouth to ignore her command, but her nails sunk deeper in and he bit his lip on a cry of pain. Blood dripped from his hand onto the ropes and onto the rough floor of the hold. Beside him, Alys was whispering words he could not understand. The Old Tongue, he thought. She was working magic.

The strongest magics need blood, she’d said, back on that windswept hill. And his was the blood of a king.

Finally she let him go and he yanked his hand back. “What are you going to do?” he whispered.

“Wait for the rat,” she said. “He’ll smell the blood.”

Egg cradled his hands to his chest. He was sure she was right.

It was not only his blood he could smell, and not only the salt of the sea. He could smell something burning, like the smell of logs still hissing when water was thrown atop them. He twisted, about to ask Alys what it was, when he looked down and saw the ropes around her wrists had withered and decayed to husks, as though they’d been in this hull for hundreds of years. His blood was still glossy red upon them.

“How well do you think rats can see?” Alys murmured. Her hands were still behind her, near the ruins of the ropes. In the dim light, they could almost still be binding her.

Depending on how well rats could see.

Alys swept her hand through the blood that had dripped onto the floor, then stared at the darkness that spread across her palm. “You best be ready, Aegon,” she said quietly.

He was still tied hand and foot, but he nodded anyway.

Egg heard the rat chitter and then let out a high-pitched, aborted squeak. Was that Larys, taking it over? Unease prickled all over as he listened for the scurrying of little feet or the swish of a tail.

He did not have to wait long.

The rat climbed up the barrel, the same vantage point Larys had used before. Its eyes weren’t pale, he realized, they were completely white.

And then Alys began to speak.

At the sound of the Old Tongue, the rat’s ears twitched, but then it went rigid, as though it were being held by some invisible trap. Alys’ bloody hand, Egg realized, squeezed into a fist.

As she spoke, she stood, the ropes falling away not just from her legs, but from him. He scrambled to his feet as she approached the barrel.

“This might not kill you like you killed Benna,” Alys said, bending to face the rat’s bulging eyes and bared teeth, “but I think it’ll probably hurt.” And then she squeezed her fist tighter and twisted, and the rat’s neck snapped.

Alys wiped her bloody hand on her skirt. “Time to go.”

Chapter Text

No one even attempted to stop Daemon as he rode up the castle steps and into the Red Keep.

He nearly ran down a manservant who was not quick enough to get out of his way. In the end, he escaped the hooves of Daemon’s horse by mere inches.

Outside of the Small Council chamber, Daemon leapt down from his horse. Ser Harrold stood at the door of the council chamber, alongside two Velaryon men that Daemon vaguely recognized from the Steps and Joffrey Lonmouth, who bowed his head as Daemon approached.

“My prince, we did not find—” he began, as Daemon strode right past him.

He shoved open the door, walked straight to his brother, and knocked the cup from his hand.

“What is this?” Viserys demanded, even as Daemon grabbed the flagon of wine to see how full it was.

“Poison,” Daemon said tersely.

Rhaenys pushed her cup away at that and stood. “Who—”

“Egg was a distraction,” Daemon said. “To separate us while they acted. Poison in your cups, an ambush laid at Mysaria’s tavern.” He looked around the room. “Where is Rhaenyra?”

“She went to question Alicent,” Viserys said, pushing himself to his feet. “We must—” He faltered before he even took a single step. “Daemon—” His brother grabbed his arm.

“How much did you drink?” Daemon demanded. The flagon had been nearly full, but if it had been laced with as much poison as the cup at Mysaria’s…

“Not more than three sips, cousin,” Rhaenys said, suddenly at his side.

That could be enough to be fatal. Or not. Daemon did not know.

But he knew who would.

“Where is Alys?” Daemon demanded, then realized none in the room even knew who Alys was. He grabbed Joffrey. “A woman, a woodwitch, near forty. Has the look of the Strongs. She was in the party that arrived with me in the city and I saw her on the tourney grounds this morning. Find her,” he demanded, then shoved the knight away.

“I am well,” Viserys said, but Daemon could see in his grimace that he was not. “I do not understand. Why would they poison me?”

Daemon glanced to Rhaenys, then back to his brother. “They’re trying to seize the throne.”

“No,” Viserys said. He clutched at Rhaenys’ hand. “No, we were supposed to have years. The children—they were men grown. I did not die this early, I know I did not die this early.”

Daemon took a sharp breath. The children were men grown. Alys had shown him the war. His own death.

His death.

No. Viserys would not die this early, not when they had been so close to fixing things, stopping the horrors of Aegon’s time.

“I will get the maester,” Daemon said, the words curdling in his gut, for Mellos and the other gray rats were as like as not behind this treason as much as the Hightowers were. But who else might know poisons well enough to keep his brother alive? The maesters learned to kill just as they learned how to heal. Before he left, he grabbed Rhaenys’ arm. “Where is Corlys?”

“He gathered our trusted men and is giving them the king’s orders.”

“Good,” Daemon replied and went for the maester.

The Gold Cloaks that had flanked him on his ride here had caught up by then, and they flanked him once again as he strode to the maester’s chambers. He slammed Mellos’ door open. The man was not alone; he sat with another maester, whose name Daemon did not know. But Daemon could see a silver link on his chain, and a lead one as well. Healing and poisons. It was him Daemon went to.

“You,” he said. “Your name.”

“Orwyle,” the maester said, bowing his head.

“Prince Daemon, I—” Mellos began.

Daemon did not spare him a look. “If you want to keep your tongue, then bite it, rat.” He leaned in toward Orwyle. “Tell me, are you loyal to King Viserys?”

“Of course, my prince,” the younger maester said.

“You would do anything in your power to save him?”

The man swallowed hard. “Yes.”

“Good,” Daemon said. “Because if my brother dies tonight, so do you. And you will not die alone. Do you understand?”

Orwyle nodded. Daemon heard an inhalation and turned to find Mellos’ mouth opening, but a look silenced him. Daemon thought about taking his tongue anyway, but there would be time for that later. He gestured for Orwyle to leave the room, closed the door behind them, then pulled his dirk from his belt and plunged it into the heart of the guard at the door. The man let out a choking cry and then collapsed to his knees.

Daemon looked at one of the Gold Cloaks who had followed him through the Keep. “No one in or out. Do you understand that better than him?” he asked, gesturing to the dead man.

The Gold Cloak nodded. “Yes, Commander.”

By the time Daemon brought the maester, the king was abed in his chambers, his brow creased with pain. Rhaenys was still beside him. She had always been hard to read, but he could see the worry in her as she clasped Viserys’ hand and spoke so quietly Daemon could not hear. Viserys’ eyes closed at whatever she said. His forehead was beaded with sweat. At his side, the maester’s step stuttered as his eyes fell on the king and Daemon knew well the shiver that went through him. Fear.

He thought the king was going to die.

Daemon turned to leave the room, to get Rhaenyra, to kill some Hightowers, to do anything but stand here while his brother died.

“Daemon,” Viserys croaked. Daemon ignored him, halfway to the door. “Brother, stop!”

Valyrian did not fall often from his brother’s tongue. Daemon stopped. Slowly, he turned and walked back to the king.

“Daemon,” Viserys repeated, reaching for his hand with both of his own. Rhaenys took a step backward.

“Viserys,” he said. “I’ve brought you one of the gray rats you’re so fond of. Don’t let this one cut off more fingers.”

Viserys laughed a little, breathlessly. “I’m sure you’ve already told him that if he cuts any bits from me, he’ll lose them himself.”

“Such is the prerogative of the Hand,” he said.

“Yes,” Viserys said, squeezing his own. “Brother, I—” His voice seemed to fail him then, though Daemon wasn’t sure if it was because of the poison or another sort of pain. His eyes looked very sad.

“Tell me later,” Daemon said. “I will bring you wine without poison and we will talk. Later.”

Viserys nodded. “Later.” He looked back toward the door. “Rhaenyra. Where is she?”

“I will find her,” Daemon said. He let go his brother’s hand. “I will bring her to you.”

“Keep her safe,” Viserys charged him. For once, it did not sound as though Viserys expected him to fail.

“I will,” Daemon promised.

Orwyle had set up his tools and tinctures and strange little jars on a table beside the model of Valyria. Daemon stopped beside him on the way to the door.

“Remember what I said,” he said to Orwyle, “and have no doubt in your mind that I mean it.”

The maester nodded and set to work, grinding his foul-smelling seeds with renewed vigor.

There were four guards on his brother’s door, two Velaryon men, Ser Harrold, and Ser Lorent. Harrold started to send Lorent with Daemon, but Daemon waved the command away and started for the queen, the second Gold Cloak still trailing him.

When Daemon came in sight of her chamber, he stopped. He held up a hand for the man at his back to slow, and moved quietly forward.

There was no guard at the queen’s door.

His brother had commanded a Kingsguard on the door, and had not recalled him. Had Ser Willas gone inside the room when Rhaenyra arrived, to keep the princess safe? Or had he gone inside to see to the safety of the queen? Or was it something worse?

But when Daemon slid the door open, he saw neither Rhaenyra nor Ser Willas Fell. There was only Alicent.

She leapt to her feet at the sight of him, then crumpled to her knees. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “Prince Daemon, no—”

“Get up, you stupid cow,” he said, then reached a hand down to drag her to her feet. He pushed her back onto her chaise. She sobbed and cradled her stomach as though he’d come to put a sword through both her and her unborn whelp. Maybe he should. “Where is Rhaenyra?”

Alicent looked up at him, confused. “She left.”

“When? Where?” he demanded. When Alicent only stared dumbly up at him, he advanced a step and she shrank backward. “Where did Rhaenyra go?”

“To Braavos!” Alicent cried.

“What?”

“Larys Strong put your bastard on a ship to Braavos. They sailed before sunset. I heard Rhaenyra say she was going after them.”

Braavos. Why would Larys Strong be taking their son to Braavos? Daemon started to turn and leave the room, but Alicent’s voice stopped him.

“Where are my children? Where is my father?”

Daemon laughed. “Your father remains in the Black Cells, Alicent. As to your children…” He trailed off and watched her pale.

“You cannot do this. Keep me here, harm my family. You cannot…” She squeezed her eyes shut, more tears spilling onto already wet cheeks. “Are you going to kill him?”

He shrugged a shoulder. “What else suits a traitor?”

She opened her eyes and fixed her gaze on him, even as a quiver went through her lower lip. “I am the queen! I demand to see the king! I demand to see my children. I will not be held here as a prisoner.”

He huffed out a laugh. “There wasn’t even anyone guarding the door,” he said, and left the pathetic queen behind.

He left the Gold Cloak on the door, then went to find Rhaenyra. She would not have taken the secret passage to the Dragonpit; she was not yet familiar enough with them to ensure a quick arrival. No, she would go to the stables. How long had it been since Rhaenyra left Alicent? Could he catch up with her there? Why had she not sent a message to her father? He retrieved his horse from the council chamber on his way, but hadn’t swung up into the saddle yet when he saw Laenor running toward him.

“Daemon,” he said, breathless, “fighting has broken out.”

“Well, the knights did come for fighting, did they not?” Daemon said, brushing by Laenor to get to the Velaryon men behind him, rushing at double time toward wherever Corlys and the king had told them to go. “You two,” he said, pointing at the two on the left. “Guard the queen. She does not leave her chambers and no one is to enter, save myself, Princess Rhaenyra, or the king. Understood?” Twin agreements came from their lips without hesitation, and at that Daemon felt a sliver of tension leave his shoulders. He did not doubt Corlys’ loyalty—much, anyway. To a third, he said, “Ser Harrold Westerling guards the king’s chambers. Tell him that Fell has abandoned his post. Now go.” Then the Velaryon men were off, and Daemon was turning back to his horse. If there was fighting in the streets, he might get to the dragonpit quicker using the tunnels, since it seemed a slim hope that he had not missed Rhaenyra. He could meet her there and…

And what? That he did not know. He did not know if Alicent spoke the truth about their son, he did not know if his brother would survive.

Laenor’s voice broke into his thoughts. “Daemon.” Daemon would have ignored him, but then Laenor snapped, “My lord Hand, would you stop?” Daemon rounded on him and Laenor shrunk back, but only a little. “Fighting has broken out on the tourney grounds, and near the Dragon Gate, and perhaps just west of Flea Bottom too. It seems to be Reachmen, but they’re not flying banners.”

Fighting in disparate places in the city. Trying to draw them out? Daemon could see the threads of a plan in all the things that had happened this day, but he could not see how Otto had planned to weave it together.

But then perhaps that was the answer. Otto had not been there to weave it together, and so it was unravelling.

“The Hightowers are trying to take the throne,” Daemon said. “The fighting is a distraction. Secure the Red Keep and let them all kill each other.”

Laenor did not look certain of his commands, but he nodded. “Yes, my prince.”

Daemon turned away again only to stop as Laenor’s words came back to him. “Fighting west of Flea Bottom?” he asked, looking back at Laenor.

The other man nodded. “At the base of Rhaenys’ Hill.”

The Dragonpit lay west of Flea Bottom, at the top of that hill. Where Rhaenyra would have been heading. Could she have been caught in the flighting? “But you’re not certain of it.”

“I’m not certain of anything. It’s all chaos.”

As a rule, Daemon did not mind chaos. He could watch it unfold with a smile, or bring it to heel with the steel of his sword. But he felt their future balanced on the edge of a knife tonight, as though they could rise or fall with but a shift of the wind.

But dragons did not fall, Daemon thought. They flew.

“I have a better idea,” Daemon said. “Secure the Red Keep and then we kill them all.”

“Daemon—”

“Go to the king and the Lord Commander. Make certain the Red Keep is secure. The queen, the Hightowers, the queen’s whelps—no one gets to any of them. Then rally the Rivermen and the men of the Crownlands, and the Westermen if you trust them, and take them to where the fighting is. Raise a Targaryen banner and then kill everyone who raises a sword against you. They’re all traitors. They die tonight.”

“And the Gold Cloaks?”

“They,” Daemon said, “will be with me.”

Chapter Text

After leaving the wing with the queen’s chambers, Rhaenyra rounded on Ser Steffon.

“I must have your word, ser, that anything you see here will not be spoke of nor shown to anyone, even your sworn brothers,” she ordered. Ser Steffon looked confused, but agreed without hesitation. Rhaenyra gave him a soft smile. “This way,” she said to both of the men with her, and made her way to the closest entrance to Maegor’s tunnels.

Steffon gaped as the wall opened for them. Rhaenyra did not know what Daemon had told Harwin of the tunnels; clearly enough that he hardly reacted as she opened the way into the passage. Or perhaps secret passages were not as surprising as travelers through time.

She led them quickly through the tunnels, until they came out near the stables. She would rather have gone straight to the Pit. One day, she would know these passages as well as Daemon and Egg did, but not yet. She would not risk getting lost, not when the ship carrying Egg grew further away by the minute.

Ser Steffon strode to the stables, muttering about missing stableboys and carriages. Rhaenyra stopped him. “We will go ahorse, Ser Steffon. I will not be slowed down by hitching a carriage.”

Steffon’s brow quirked. “You intend to ride in that, Princess?”

Rhaenyra looked down at her dress. She had ordered it made specifically for this tourney, black silk and myrish lace that was a deep, deep red. It was not made for riding, but she did not care. “I intend to find my— cousin, ser.”

Steffon cleared his throat. “Then you will need at least a cloak to hide your hair and gown,” he said, and strode away to find one.

That left Rhaenyra and Harwin to see to the horses, for the stable boys were in fact missing. Had they run off to see the tourney, she wondered, or was there something more sinister about their absence? She saw plots everywhere tonight.

Harwin finished saddling his horse quickly, then came to stand beside her, taking over for her with the straps.  She turned to watch him as he worked.

He did not look at her, even when he started to speak. “Princess, I owe you an apology. I could not stop them from taking Egg. I did all that I could but…”

“It is not your fault, Ser Harwin.”

“If something happens to him… It is my error, and my brother, that put him aboard that ship.”

“Nothing will happen to him.” Her voice was sharp as a knife and Harwin reared back a little, as though she’d slashed it right at him. “We will get him back, Ser Harwin. Your brother’s ship is no match for our dragons.”

He nodded, face solemn, then ran a hand down her horse’s neck. He seemed about to say something further, but instead excused himself to see to Ser Steffon’s horse.

Steffon returned as Harwin had just cinched the straps on the third saddle. He wore a dark, threadbare cloak over his white plated armor, and held out a larger, black cloak for her. It smelled of the damp and of slightly rotting hay, but she flung it over her shoulders and raised the hood over her braid.

She mounted as quickly as her skirts allowed. Ser Steffon lingered beside her and she was about to slash at him with her sharp tongue too, but he said, “Are you armed, princess?”

She had a dagger, but she had not brought it with her to the tourney. Steffon seemed to read the answer on her face and pulled his own dagger, still sheathed, from his belt. “I don’t suppose you have somewhere to keep it in that dress,” he said, almost blushing, “but that cloak has deep pockets.”

Rhaenyra took the dagger from him and tucked it away. “Thank you, Ser Steffon.”

“You should not need it,” he said, “but best to have it in case you do.”

She could hardly feel the weight of it, sunk deep in the musty fabric, but it was a comfort nonetheless as they rode out into the twilight.

They rode as fast as they could. Rhaenyra saw armed men marching to the Keep; they wore Velaryon colors—the men Corlys had called for—but still it gave her a chill, to think that these men were needed to keep her home safe, potentially from the same men who were supposed to guard them. She pushed the worry off and pressed her heels into her mare’s sides. Her father and the Velaryons would see to the defense of the castle. She needed to come to the defense of her son.

The streets felt wild tonight. Rhaenyra misliked the look of it, angry people shouting at them as they rode, others pulling doors and windows closed as though they were about to weather a storm. She could hear yelling from somewhere, but she did not know where.

Daemon was like as not to be right behind her, she told herself, as they swung west onto the Street of Sisters, toward Flea Bottom. He would meet her at the Pit and the two of them would take their dragons and bring back Egg, and all would be well.

Yet despite what she told herself, she could not dismiss the pit in her stomach as they rode, and so a part of her was not surprised to see the crowd of men at the base of the Hill of Rhaenys, armed and armored and waiting for her.

Rhaenyra pulled back on the reins, slowing her horse, just as Harwin and Steffon did the same. “Princess,” Steffon said, and Rhaenyra caught her breath, realizing what he’d seen: men coming toward them from the right and left and—

“Behind us,” Harwin said, wheeling his horse to face those who had blocked them in.

What do we do? She almost asked, before realizing the men beside her had as little an idea as she had. There were at least thirty men, flanking them, surrounding them from all sides. An ambush. How had they known?

Ser Steffon saw him before Rhaenyra did, a sharp hiss and then a curse escaping his usually proper mouth. “Fell.”

Ser Willas Fell was one of the men ahorse in front of them, waiting at the base of the hill. He did not wear his kingsguard armor; like his fellows, he was armored in plain steel and old brown leather. But he did not wear a helm to hide his features, from her or from anyone else.

He had known where she was going. She’d sent him to her father with a message, for him and for—

Daemon. Daemon wasn’t coming.

“Princess,” Fell called out. “You must come with us.”

Rhaenyra felt a rush of anger at the order. She looked from Fell to the man beside him, and realized she recognized him—one of Lord Ambrose's men. Her eyes scanned the faces of those who faced her. A Peake, a Fossoway. Men from the Reach. “Are we under siege?” she’d asked Otto. And now she was.

Rhaenyra bit down on her lip. Her tongue pressed against the edge of the scar there, a reminder of her wedding vows. Blood of two, joined as one. She would not leave Daemon, would not let these traitors take her from him, take her from her father, or from the boy who needed her to get to him. She would not allow it.

Her blood burned in her veins. She could feel Syrax, so close, could feel her rage at the chains holding her when Rhaenyra needed her. Rhaenyra almost thought she could hear her roar. She could feel that roar building in her own throat. These men would trap her, they would corner her and capture her, kill her perhaps and—

“Harwin,” she commanded, “lead the way. We need to get to the Pit.”

He did not stop to say it was not possible, nor hesitate in deciding how. He wheeled his horse around again, drew his sword, then kicked his heels into his horse’s side and plunged into the smaller line of men coming at them from the north.

Rhaenyra followed after him, Steffon behind. Someone grabbed at her leg, but she commanded her horse to rear and he lost his grip. And then they plunged into the warren of Flea Bottom’s streets.

She could hear them behind her as they raced through the narrow alleys, hooves thundering. How many of the men had been ahorse? A score perhaps; perhaps fewer. The others would come on foot, but it would certainly take them longer to catch up.

Ser Harwin took a sharp left, then another, then a wide right around a building that stank of piss—a tannery. Out of the corner of her eye, Rhaenyra saw Steffon slash at a man who had nearly pulled level with her. Something fell from his grip; Rhaenyra thought it was his sword at first and then realized Steffon had chopped off the man’s arm. But more came behind them, and they were gaining on them quickly.

The buildings here rose so tall and so close together that Rhaenyra could scarce see the sky, much less the hill she wanted to get to and the Pit where Syrax was, bellowing her displeasure. Rhaenyra could feel it, she was sure of it now, could almost hear the links of the chains snapping as Rhaenyra’s heart thundered in time with Syrax’s. Rhaenyra saw heads poke out of windows, then retreat, alarmed. Unlike the last time she’d been in Flea Bottom, there was no revelry. Not tonight.

Harwin took another sharp left and Rhaenyra pulled on her reins to follow, and then Harwin let out a yell. Too late—Rhaenyra couldn’t stop her turn in time. For just a moment, Rhaenyra thought they’d made it—she could see the rocky hill rising up to the pit.

But then realized the problem. She could only see the hill because the building that should have been blocking its view had half collapsed, blocking the alley they were riding through.

Rhaenyra yanked hard on the reins. Her horse gave a sharp, annoyed whinny, but slowed quickly from a gallop. Rhaenyra wheeled her toward Harwin.

“Run,” he told her. “If you go on foot, you can—”

“No,” Rhaenyra said. “I’m not running from them.”

“Princess,” Steffon said, “we can hold them off, but not for long. Ser Harwin is right. Run.”

Rhaenyra closed her eyes for a moment, breathed in deep, and felt the fire inside her, calling. She opened them and saw dim figures coming toward them, ahorse and on foot. “We will not have to hold them off for long.”

She reached into the cloak pocket and pulled out the dagger Ser Steffon had given her, then shrugged the cloak off. She would not hide who she was if she was to face them.

It was Fell who lead the mounted men who had given chase. The alley was narrow, letting only two men abreast down it. They slowed as they approached. Behind them, Rhaenyra could see a crowd of men on foot.

“Surrender yourselves and you won’t be harmed,” Fell said. “I give you my word.”

“Oathbreaker,” Steffon snapped at him. “I’d sooner believe the word of a worm than a false knight like you.”

“Is that your choice, Princess?”

She shifted her grip on her dagger and tipped her chin up. “A dragon does not surrender to sheep.”

Fell sneered, and charged.

It was Steffon who met him, their swords slamming together, sending sparks into the darkness. As they fought, the men on foot surged forward, but before they could come near her, Harwin rode into them, knocking two over before he was engaged by the other rider.

Steffon and Fell dueled in the dark, their shadows dancing on the sides of the buildings. She heard the scream of a wounded horse, and turned her head in time to see the other rider fall from his horse and Harwin leap from his own, the horse’s neck gushing blood. Rhaenyra tucked herself in a corner, so she could not be flanked and reached again for that fire building inside as another man pressed past the men ahorse and came for her.

He rushed toward her, a dagger at his belt, and rope. Did he think to catch her and tie her up? More of a reward for him if he brought her alive, perhaps. He was big, bigger than Daemon, but she was quick. She sidestepped when he lunged at her, and before he could make another try of it, Harwin was there, burying his sword into the man’s gut.

Noises of battle came from close by, clanging metal and men yelling and groaning, but she did all she could to block them out, slashing the dagger at the next man who lunged for her. She caught him near his throat, blood spurting up at his collar bone, and she felt a surge of vicious satisfaction at the sight. But the next one who came made it nowhere near her blade; Harwin struck him down easily. Even so, they were made to retreat a little more, Harwin shielding her.

Fell and Steffon were locked in combat, and both fell from their horses, crashing onto the ground as their horses bolted. Steffon’s leg twisted unnaturally beneath him as he landed, and the kingsguard let out a pained cry, but did not drop his sword, slashing at Fell even as the other man rolled clear of the strike.

With the mounted men no longer mounted, space was cleared for more of the men afoot to flood the alley. They came running forward, their steps eating the distance between them quickly, and Harwin stepped so that he was covering her completely, his sword raised to fight.

And then the men rushing at them faltered.

Rhaenyra smiled.

Rhaenyra’s dress billowed around her as Syrax’s wings beat the air into a storm as she descended, and the princess stepped out from behind Ser Harwin to face their attackers. Syrax landed on the collapsed building, its wood and stone groaning and snapping beneath her. Her roar drowned out the sound quickly though, and she came toward Rhaenyra, stretching her head so she was level with her rider. When she looked over at the dragon, Rhaenyra could see the glow of fire building in her throat.

“Lykiri, Syrax,” Rhaenyra murmured to her girl, then took a step forward. “You have two choices,” she called to their attackers. “Drop your swords or die.”

Some listened. She could hear the clatter of swords and boots both, as some dropped their swords and turned to run.

Fell climbed to his feet. He looked steady enough, but Rhaenyra could see the fear in his eyes. He glanced upward, where Rhaenyra did not have to look to know Caraxes circled, then back at her and Syrax. “I do not take orders from women such as you, Princess.” He spat her title like a curse.

“I did not give you an order. I gave you a choice.” She turned her gaze to the dragon. “Syrax!”

“You will burn the whole city!” Fell screamed. “You are monsters, just as your beasts are monsters! Abominations!”

“A dragon has teeth as well as fire, Ser Willas,” Rhaenyra said. “Angotas, Syrax.”

Bite.

And Syrax bit, her jaws opening and closing on Ser Willas Fell, his armor crumpling like paper beneath her girl’s jaws. He screamed, but it was short and strangled. A better death than he deserved, though fire would have been quicker still.

Above them, still circling, Caraxes gave a whistling shriek, and Syrax turned her head up toward him and answered back.

Some of the men who had not listened before turned and ran, still gripping their weapons, but more of them dropped their swords, staring in terror at them. The sound of clashing swords and dying men came from the street they’d come from, and then through the evening dim came Daemon, Dark Sister in hand, flanked by men in bright gold cloaks. He barely gave a glance to the mangled corpse of what had once been Willas Fell as he strode toward her.

“Princess,” he said, and knelt. “My men are at your command.”

The Gold Cloaks knelt as well, and then the men who had surrendered. They filled the alley, men with bowed heads, some who had come here to kill her, some to save her.

“Rise, my prince,” she called to Daemon. If her voice shook, it was only a little.

Daemon rose and approached her, sheathing his bloody sword.

“Egg hates it when you do that,” she said. “More of a mess for him to clean.”

“He’s my squire. It’s his job.”

Before she’d taken another breath, she was in his arms.

Daemon pressed his forehead to hers, his eyes closed, breathing her in. She watched his face, the relief bleeding through it, and reached a hand up to his chin, her thumb brushing against the small scar that matched her own. His eyes fluttered open. “They tried to kill you.”

“I expect they tried to kill you as well,” she replied, for what madness would it be to kill her and leave Daemon alive to wreak vengeance?

He nodded, his face solemn. “And your father. He’s been poisoned.”

“Is he—”

Before the bolt of fear was even finished striking at the thought, Daemon was shaking his head. “He yet lives, and there is some hope he might survive. He asks for you.”

Rhaenyra wanted to go to him. But she could not. Not yet. “We must find Egg. Then we will return.” Daemon nodded, but she could see the shadow of her same fear in his eyes and she pressed her hand more firmly against his cheek. “The blood of the dragon is strong. I think my father has remembered that. He will live.”

“Then we ride,” Daemon replied. As though his thoughts had come with a command to Caraxes, the dragon landed on the rocky hillside close by.

Rhaenyra looked from Caraxes to Syrax then back to her uncle. “They are already saddled.”

Daemon smirked. “I wanted to abscond with you from the feast. It has been months since we have ridden together.” He did not wait for her to reply, only turned to call out to Harwin. “Ser Harwin! Command of the Gold Cloaks is yours.”

“Yes, my prince,” Harwin replied, climbing to his feet.

“Round up these men,” Rhaenyra ordered. “Take them all to the Black Cells. The ones who surrendered shall not be harmed. Any who did not are to be executed.”

“Yes, my princess.”

Beside Harwin, Steffon had struggled to his feet, leaning hard on a Gold Cloak who had come forward to help him.

“Go with them, Ser Steffon,” Rhaenyra said. “See to your leg.”

“But Princess—”

“My uncle and I shall be well, ser,” she said, and the knight did not argue again.

Rhaenyra and Daemon circled the city before they headed out to sea. The moon had risen, nearly full and bright. She could see remnants of fighting by the Dragon Gate, but it seemed quelled, and a Targaryen banner flew above the ramparts. Targaryen banners flew over the tourney grounds too and bright fires lit the field. Some of the tents were burnt out, but most of the fighting had ceased. Rhaenyra saw a white head that she was certain belonged to Laenor striding about giving orders, and saw the men in the colors of the various Riverlords, the lords of the Crownlands, and the Lannisters obeying. When the Rivermen caught sight of the dragons, they let out a cheer. Caraxes roared, and they cheered louder.

When they flew over the Red Keep there was no sign of fighting, and their banner still flew.

Rhaenyra looked over at Daemon, only to find he was already looking at her. He had blood on his face, same as her, and his eyes burned with devotion.

She smiled, her heart beating in time with the dragon below her and with the ones at her side. “Faster,” she ordered Syrax. “Find him.” And the dragons winged their way east.

Chapter Text

Dawn had just begun to break by the time they snuck out onto the deck. Behind them, the sky and sea were dark, and though he knew that somewhere west lay Westeros, he could not tell the land from the sea or sky. To the east, the sun made the sea glimmer, but the sky above it was dark, full of clouds. Egg could see dark shapes rising up from the water, some close, some far, and he couldn’t tell how big any of them were.

But he knew where they were.

They would soon enter the Gullet.

The nausea came back, hard. But this time he knew it wasn’t from the knock on the head, or the sweetsleep, nor the rocking of the ship. He was on a ship going into the Gullet.

He was near where his brothers had died.

He couldn’t move. The smell of the sea, the feel of the wind on his cheeks, the sound of the sailors moving about the deck… It was like he was back there, on that day, standing on deck with Viserys.

Viserys, whom he’d left.

“You have to breathe, Egg.”

“I can’t, Rhaena,” he almost said, but he bit down hard on his lip to stop himself. He couldn’t give away where they were, and he couldn’t lose himself either. Not now. He sucked in a breath, held it, let it go, then did it again.

“Good,” Alys whispered.

“How long do we have before he can sound an alarm?” Egg asked her quietly.

“Not long. He’s powerful.” Alys rucked up her skirts and reached beneath them, and retrieved a slim, short blade. She’d had that the whole time? He supposed neither of them could have gotten to it, so it didn’t matter much. She started toward him with the blade. He shied back. The last time she’d been this close with a blade, she’d cut his throat.

Her lips curved in a smile, and he thought she was thinking the same thing as him. “I’m going to need more blood. Not much, but some,” she said quietly. “And a lock of your hair.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to get us off of this ship. For that we need to keep them busy.” She cast her dark eyes up to the cloudy sky. “The winds will only need a whisper of encouragement to blow a storm our way.”

Egg was not sure he liked the sound of that.

Quick as they could, they found a place to hide while Alys prepared her spell. There was a second ship alongside, the two clearly traveling together. Both were not large, but they were well-outfitted, and seemed to be moving fast. On the deck of this one, Aegon could see barrels of fresh water, some sort of strange-looking wooden winch, half covered by a large oil cloth, and three men standing about while others did the work of sailors in high winds.

Egg nudged Alys and gestured to them. She nodded. Larys’ men. Or Otto Hightower’s. They could not know, could they, until they opened their mouths.

They found a place to shelter behind more barrels, these ones empty. They could not remain hidden there for long. Egg cut the lock of hair himself, and wound a scrap of fabric from the bottom of his tunic around it to hold it tight, then held out his hand to Alys. She sliced across his palm quickly, then pressed the lock of hair to the wound. Quickly, his silver-gold hair turned rusty red.

Alys had just taken the lock of hair back when they heard Larys’ voice, hoarse, yelling that they had escaped. She swore under her breath and looked around.

“Look for something we can use as a flint. I’ll need fire for this.”

Egg’s hand went to his pocket. There, still inside, was the stone he’d brought for the little prince. He pulled it out and offered it to Alys, who took it almost suspiciously. “Why do you have flint?” she asked, staring down at the stone.

It was the same color as Galifox, the same color as Stormcloud, and he’d thought it might make the other Aegon smile. He said none of that, and Alys didn’t seem to expect him to. Instead, she struck her knife against the flint, and spoke again in the Old Tongue as his bloody hair caught fire and the ashes caught on the wind.

They did not have long to wait for the storm.

He and Alys found a pinnace lashed near the stern, and set about lowering it as the sky darkened above them. The sun almost seemed to retreat behind the clouds. They did not have long, Egg knew. The men seemed to be searching below for them. Had they gotten lucky?

“You first,” Alys said, once the pinnace hit the waves. She nudged him toward the rail and he started to climb over. Beneath him, the sea roiled, fingers of white-gray-blue reaching for him. He hesitated for a moment, eyes caught on the water, fingers gripping the wood. Blood rushed from the cut on his palm and his hand slipped a little.

Alys’ hand came up to cover his own. “We’ll be alright,” she said and he looked up at her.

Too late.

Before he could say a word, the man behind Alys slid a knife into her back. “Goodbye, sister,” the sailor said, Larys’ words in a foreign mouth, and twisted the knife.

Alys’ hand spasmed where it lay atop his own and her breath, wet, bloody, caught in her throat.

“No!” Egg shouted, and started to climb back over.

Her eyes lifted to his. He could see the spark already dying there. “I’m sorry, your Grace,” she choked out, then blew a strong, sharp breath out at him.

A gust of wind slammed into his middle, sending him back into the sea.

He hit the water hard. But even though it felt like hitting stone, the sea yanked him under. Water rushed into his nose and mouth and eyes and he couldn’t see or hear and all he could taste was salt and cold and death.

Egg kicked as hard as he could, his mind empty of everything but the need for air. For a moment, he wondered if he was going the wrong way, fighting the waves to dive deeper into the sea, but a moment later he broke the surface. He spat out as much water as he could before a wave closed over his head and pushed him back down again.

When he surfaced again, Egg managed to stay up for longer, swiveling his head until he got his bearings best he could. The ship was still too close, and he could see men pointing down at him, and someone slung a leg over the rail, starting the climb down to the boat he and Alys had lowered.

In the other direction, Egg could see rocks jutting up from the sea. Blackwater Bay and the Gullet were full of them, too small to be called islands in truth. One of them seemed close, pale gray stone stretching out along the water, bright even beneath the cloudy sky. If he could make it there…

Larys and his men would still come for him.

Egg looked up at the sky above him, angry clouds churning. A wave pushed him under again and he fought it, and the next one, but he could feel despair tugging at his boots, pulling him lower.

This was how Jace and Viserys had died.

The thought stabbed into him like the cold.

They had died just like this, in these same waters, sinking, only enemies around them. Jace, clutching a fallen mast. Viserys, lost to the waves. It was fitting that he died like them, he thought as a rush of water and guilt filled his mouth. It was his fault they died at all. He’d gotten Jace, sent him right to his doom. And he’d left Viserys. Left his valonqar, all alone, in the middle of a battle. He should have stayed and died with him. Or with their mother. But he had not, and now he would die alone, here in the waters of the Gullet.

His lungs were burning. His muscles too. He’d asked a maester once what drowning was like, and the man had said that no one could tell him, because no one had died and come back to life again. That wasn’t true, Baela had countered. The Iron Men did. The maester hadn’t like that, not at all. But he’d needed to know what their last moments were like.

Now he would, wouldn’t he?

He’d tried so hard not to think of when he’d left Viserys behind that he almost couldn’t remember his brother’s face that day. Had he been crying? He’d slid into a gap between… something, and stared up at Aegon’s face. He’d said something. What had he said? Aegon hadn’t heard him, it was too noisy, but he tried to remember the shape of the words on his little brother’s mouth—he’d looked more like their mother, Viserys, but his mouth had been Daemon’s, just as Egg’s was Rhaenyra’s and…

Go.

Viserys had been telling him to go.

He’d clutched his egg and told Aegon to go, because his little brother had known what he’d needed to do. He’d needed to go. And now he needed to fight. To fight like Jace had.

Aegon did not want to die.

His lungs still burned, but he reached for strength. Help me, he prayed, perhaps to the gods, perhaps to the memory of his lost family, all so strong. He felt some warmth blossom in his chest as he fought his way to the surface.

He kicked hard and broke out of the water, gulping in air. He could do it. He could make it. He kicked again and swam as hard as he could in the direction he somehow knew was right.

And then he felt hands on grip his shirt and yank him up.

No. No, they’d caught him. Egg struggled.

Help me, please, he thought again, his heart crying out for the gods that had sent him here. Kostilus, kostilus, baelas.

The man threw him to the bottom of the pinnace, but before he could say a word, his face changed. Fear. Egg tried to drag himself up to see what it was he saw, but before he could, a wave hit the side of the boat. The two men in the pinnace both toppled out into the water, and Egg barely had the chance to take a deep breath before he too was plunged back into the bay.

Chapter Text

When they left Kings Landing, Daemon left his saddle chains unfastened.

He thought of Aegon’s father as he did so, then shoved the thought from his mind. He had no plan to die victorious in these waters, but bringing dragons to bear against ships was not usually fought to retrieve. Usually, it ended with ships burnt and sinking. So too would this battle, but he would have their son first, even if he had to board the ship himself to take him.

Rhaenyra flew beside him, and if she had any worries about flying into battle, he could not see them on her face. And why would she worry? She had already been victorious this night, standing down the mob sent to take her, as glorious as Visenya herself in battle. Her dress was torn, her intricate braids fallen from their crown to rest at her neck, and there was a line of soot on her cheek, and Daemon had never seen a more beautiful sight than her at Syrax’s side, the men before her all on their knees.

The sun showed itself in the East, but as it rose, the clouds blotted it out. An unfriendly sky for sailors, but they would be able to see their deaths well enough, when their masts and sails were lit up by dragonfire.

It was Rhaenyra who saw them first.

“Daemon!” she called, her voice nearly getting lost in the rushing wind, and gestured to the northeast.

Two ships, not one. A complication. The two were clearly together, but only one ship held Egg, and how could they know which one?

He thought of the small boys being sent off to Pentos, how they’d made their way to the deck when fighting started. They had been passengers, not prisoners, but surely Egg would do his best to do the same once it was clear dragons had arrived?

The dragons weren’t sighted right away as they approached, the clouds and dim light doing as much to hide them as whatever distractions were going on aboard. As they got closer, Daemon could see figures scrambling about on one of the ship’s decks, and an overturned pinnace in the water, but before he could do more than wonder what had happened, a shout he was exceedingly familiar with went up.

“Dragon!”

Time to say hello, then.

Daemon gestured for Rhaenyra to stay high, then he and Caraxes swooped low. As the ship rocked beneath them, Caraxes let out his high-pitched roar. Egg would hear that, no matter where they had him stashed, and he would know they were there.

As he pulled up, climbing to return to Rhaenyra’s side, Daemon saw two sailors yanking back an oil cloth. He knew what the wooden contraption was beneath even from a glance, and before his mind could even form the words, both he and Caraxes screamed an alarm.

Scorpions.

The sailors fired at Rhaenyra first, and Daemon could feel the fire in Caraxes’ throat, waiting to spill down on these ships, these sheep who would dare fire on dragons. Syrax darted out of the way with ease, no matter the surprise, and let out a roar of her own, spurting fire into the air as if in warning.

But it was a warning that the sailors weren’t heeding, for Daemon could see the sailors reloading.

Go back, he wanted to call to Rhaenyra, but she could not hear him even if he did, and she certainly wouldn’t listen. Egg was on one of these ships, and Rhaenyra would not leave without him. Rhaenyra had hoped to force the ship toward Dragonstone; Daemon and Laenor had forced a ship carrying supplies onto the rocks once during the war, and so he’d thought it might be possible, but the scorpions changed things. Too late, Daemon saw his foolishness in not coming with one of Corlys’ damn ships, no matter the delay it might take.

He shoved the thought aside. What use were regrets? He had fought for three years against the Triarchy. Two ships crewed with Otto Hightower’s cronies would not defeat him now.

Both ships were armed with scorpions, he could see now. They’d been prepared for them to come after them. Otto had known that Alicent would break like a twig when questioned, clearly. If he or Rhaenyra had escaped the traps set against them, they were meant to die here, to fly into a battle to save the boy, just as Jace had in that other life.

The second scorpion let loose a shot, this one in his direction. The wind buffeted it off target, and Daemon stayed on his own course, banking left to circle the ships, Rhaenyra going right. They could not burn the ships without hurting Egg, true, but if he could disable the scorpion…

Daemon threw a hand up, a signal for Rhaenyra to hold her course, then swiftly maneuvered Caraxes into a dive. The ship drew close fast, and Daemon could see the sailor’s faces shift as the dragon hurtled toward them. Some ran, some froze, and then they were upon them, Caraxes right foot coming down on the scorpion and squeezing.

Wood splintered beneath the dragon’s claws. Daemon hissed as the barbed tip of one of the scorpion’s bolts sliced across the dragon’s leg as though the iron had touched his own flesh. Caraxes let out a roar and ripped the scorpion from the ship, dropping it into the water, the chains attached to it pulling two sailors into the sea as well.

The chains.

The scorpion had been chained to the ship, to a mast, and that mast broke with a crack at the force of Caraxes yank. It fell toward them. Daemon yanked the reins back, but even before he could, Caraxes was pulling backward, and the heavy mast missed the blood wyrm’s head by scant inches. The sail caught on a wing, and Caraxes beat them both hard as he could to pull free.

The mast hit the deck of the ship with another loud crack, and the force of Caraxes struggles sent the ship rocking even more than the roiling sea did. The sailors were shouting, and two loosed bolts from their crossbows up toward them. Both hit Caraxes and fell away harmlessly, but Caraxes roared down at the men anyway, smoke and anger streaming down at them.

Daemon pulled up, trying to get his bearings, trying to see some evidence of Egg in the chaos-silver hair, black clothes, but he could see nothing. Beneath him, Caraxes vibrated with anger, anxiety, something as close to fear as dragons ever felt, and Daemon could not tell where the dragon ended and he began.

“Daemon!” Rhaenyra called. He was not sure he could actually hear her voice as much as he could feel it and Caraxes shifted in the air so he could see her. She flew above the second ship, circling too close to a working scorpion for his liking. Her golden lady had no experience in combat—Syrax was fierce, but could hardly do as Caraxes had in the midst of this chaos.

Stay high, he wanted to urge her, even though he knew his voice would not reach her.

Even as he thought it, he saw her shift her grip on Syrax reins and start to go into a dive, toward the stern of ship he’d just damaged. Caraxes shot forward before Daemon could even think a command, rushing toward the other dragon, but before he could get there, Syrax was climbing again, spinning through the storm dark sky to avoid the bolt the working scorpion got off.

Daemon looked up at Rhaenyra, her face flushed and damp. She was pointing down at the ship’s deck, and his gaze followed her direction.

There was a woman on the deck of the damaged ship, propped against the side, her blue dress stained red and her dark hair half covering her face.

Alys Rivers.

He hadn’t seen her since he’d sent her to see to Lord Peake. He’d sent Joffrey Lonmouth to find her, but he hadn’t stayed for her arrival; he hadn’t given her a single thought since commanding the boy to go. Larys must have taken her as well. Why? What was the man after?

It mattered not. She had been taken near enough the same time as Egg. Had she been captured, and injured trying to escape? Or had Alys joined with her brother and betrayed them? Did her presence mean Egg was on that ship? Larys might well be the sort to keep his valuable prisoners separate, so as not to lose both if the worst occurred. He’d seen men of both kinds, and he could not remember Larys Strong well enough to hazard a guess.

He couldn’t tell whether Alys was alive or not. She’d made it to the deck; had Egg done so as well? He could not see him. Caraxes let out a shriek as he banked suddenly to the right. A bolt sliced through the air not a foot from Daemon’s head. Fucking scorpions.

If Egg was down there, Daemon would have to board the ship. It was going down, buffeted by waves that almost seemed to target the ship itself. He could see sailors throwing themselves over the side, swimming for the pinnace he had seen earlier, no matter that it was capsized. Others were working at the rigging, as though they could stave off the inevitable. Alys had moved, either her corpse toppling to lay on the deck or she was alive and summoned some strength to crawl. He couldn’t tell from up here.

Daemon urged Caraxes lower. Another crossbow bolt zinged toward them; this one would have hit him, had Caraxes not flung out a wing to block it. In his saddle, Daemon rocked back violently at the movement.

Caraxes flew over the deck of the ship once, turned and headed back. Daemon took a deep breath and dropped the reins, readying himself for the jump.

Above them, Syrax screamed.

At the sound of Syrax’s cry, Caraxes jolted forward the same as Daemon did, both of their hearts speeding up. Daemon nearly lost his grip on the saddle, his thighs tightening to hold him steady.

A bolt had hit Syrax. Slashed across her torso, Daemon thought from the wound he could see, and the young dragon beat her wings, still crying in pain. She wanted to flee, but Rhaenyra held her as steady as she could. Flee, he wanted to tell Rhaenyra. He would not survive it, if she died here. It would all burn, and him as well.

He would have to take the other scorpion out first, and then he would find their son.

Daemon had let the reins loose, but gripped the pommel of his saddle and urged Caraxes around. They had already reloaded, the soldiers operating the scorpion cranking the mechanism back. They would fire any moment, and Syrax shone bright among the dark clouds, moving slower now with a wound in her side. A target.

He wouldn’t make it in time to take out the scorpion without setting the ship aflame.

Egg was on the other ship, he told himself, a command on the tip of his tongue. Save Rhaenyra.

Save one, endanger the other. He knew what Rhaenyra would want him to do, and what Aegon would want him to do, and something deep inside of him screamed at the obscenity of the choice. Caraxes screamed with him and together they bolted forward, spinning and then shielding the smaller Syrax with the bulk of his torso and wings as the scorpion released.

The pain ratcheted through Daemon as the bolt hit Caraxes wing. It ripped through and Caraxes plummeted downward, but caught himself before they hit the waves. Daemon felt himself slipping from the saddle, but Caraxes shifted and that swung him back up.

Caraxes’ flight was a little off kilter as he beat his wings and began to climb to Rhaenyra’s side. Caraxes was fast and lithe, and could maneuver in tight spots—something a bulkier dragon could not always do. But with one wing injured, so was his precision. Could he still pull that scorpion from the ship’s bow? Or would he merely make them a bigger target in the attempt?

He looked to Rhaenyra, white faced, her eyes burning with anger—at him, most like—and he smiled. Daemon shifted in the saddle, ready to command Caraxes back down into the fray, when the sailors below started to shout and point. Daemon felt a frisson of something go through Caraxes’ mind, and as one, they turned toward whatever was coming.

The dragon skimmed along the water, gray and white as the foam upon the waves. Smaller than Syrax, but big enough to ride, for as the dragon grew closer, Daemon saw that he had a rider.

It was Egg.

Egg. How…? He did not know. It did not matter. It was their Aegon, atop a dragon. His hair blew back in wet clumps and his skin looked paler than Daemon had ever seen it, but he gripped the dragon’s back and flew higher, higher, coming to meet them in the skies.

The pain in Daemon's leg, his arm, felt distant now, muted. And for a moment, all he could see was his son: a prince of the blood, a king, a dragonrider. And safe.

He smiled again, then brought his attention back to the battle.

“Caraxes,” he called. “Dracarys!”

Chapter Text

Egg woke with his face pressed against cold sand. Icy waves lapped at his feet. He’d lost a shoe, he realized, wiggling his left toes in the water.

And then he realized he was alive.

He spat out the sand in his mouth and pushed himself up to his knees. He’d left Alys on the ship, dying. She’d thrown him into the water. Or had that been the wind? Where was he?

He was on an island. Egg climbed to his feet shakily. This rock, like many others in the bay, could hardly even be called islands. He’d woken on a tiny spit of sand and in front of him, black stone rose up out of the water, then slid back down into it. In the distance, he could see the two ships, and he ducked down, hoping no one had seen him.

There had been two men in the boat. They’d had him, but he’d gotten away. How had he gotten here? Egg rubbed his head. He couldn’t remember. How long had it been? Not long, he thought grimly, for no one had come after him yet, and this little island was the only place he could be.

No, he thought, there was the one he’d seen. That had been pale gray and smoother and—

The same color as the dragon approaching.

The dragon landed on the stony islet with hardly a sound. Pale gray, with eyes of molten silver, and a head the same shape as Syrax’s.

Aegon knew him, he realized. Grey Ghost, the dragon that had haunted Dragonstone when he was a boy. He, his siblings, and his parents had caught glimpses of him sometimes, as they walked along the cliffs and craggy beaches. Once his father had said he thought the dragon was a hatchling of Silverwing’s, separated from the Targaryen dragons when the Cannibal had dared attack the nest Silverwing had made on the slopes of the Dragonmont. Then he had been near the size of Jace’s Vermax.

Now, he was not too much larger than Stormcloud had been when Aegon had ridden him to his doom.

Grey Ghost stretched his neck toward Egg, sniffing curiously at the air. Egg flinched back on instinct, and so did Grey Ghost, his claws clicking against the stone, the first noise Egg had heard him make. He was afraid, Egg knew. He’d saved the strange, wet creature from the sea, and did not know why.

“I will not hurt you,” Egg said. The dragon cocked his head. He had grown up wild and did not understand the words the boy before him spoke, even if something in his blood smelled of dragon and something in his speech drew him closer again.

Egg’s hand was halfway to Grey Ghost’s snout when he realized what he was doing. His hand stopped in midair. This dragon had saved him? How did he know that? He remembered nothing after hitting the water, but he knew it was true, somewhere deep inside.

The dragon inched closer, but did not touch Egg’s outstretched fingers. His mother had once told a tale of compensating fishermen for a catch lost in the misty morning. She’d been surprised the two fishermen had come away unscathed and with their boat unharmed after an encounter with a wild dragon. But the fishermen had told her that the Ghost would never hurt them, not as long as they did not seek to harm or hunt him. A strange creature, Aegon’s father had said, a smile playing on his lips. But that Ghost had come to save him. Had something in him heard Egg’s pleas to the gods?

“Thank you,” he said and let his fingers brush Grey Ghost’s scales.

He was warm, even in the cold sea air, and Egg’s hand slid along his scales as they would the smooth stone of this isle. The dragon pressed his head into Egg’s hand and Aegon felt a warmth spark inside of him that he almost didn’t recognize.

When Stormcloud had died, some flame deep inside of him had gone out. He’d felt it. If he had not already been on his knees, it would have brought him down. Theirs had been a bond he’d known all his life, for Stormcloud had hatched when he was but a babe and he’d never been without him.

This flickering he felt now was in the same place, somewhere in his heart or soul or spirit. A dragonrider’s bond. His spirit wanted to step forward, his mind to step back, and his body froze. Stormcloud, the boy inside him thought. How could he bond with another dragon when his brave mount had carried him from this very bay? Had given his life for him?

But that was a different life, a voice that sounded very like Daemon’s said. This dragon is here. This dragon saved you.

A strange creature, his father had said. Aegon wondered if Daemon Targaryen—the one he’d known in that other life—would say the same thing about him.

Could he do it? Could he mount Grey Ghost, fly home to the Red Keep, fly back to his family? Would Grey Ghost let him?

Before he could make a decision, Grey Ghost pulled away. Egg stepped back, his hand falling back to his side. The dragon did not fly away, though. He crouched low, his head angled up, silver eyes on the sky.

Egg saw why not a moment later. From the west, two dragons approached—red and yellow. Caraxes and Syrax.

Daemon and Rhaenyra.

They’d come for him. He felt tears stinging his eyes and a smile grow as he saw them winging their way toward the ships. Caraxes swooped low, let out a roar as the force of his dive rocked the ship Egg had just been on.

“They are friends,” he said to Grey Ghost. Egg hoped that he could feel the truth of that, the way that Egg could now.

Grey Ghost was not convinced, but he did not leave Egg alone on this spit of sand and rock to swim back to the boat, at least.

Before Egg could think of a way to signal Rhaenyra and Daemon, he saw a bolt of wood and iron shoot toward Syrax. A scorpion. Not a winch, he realized. It had been a scorpion. Few weapons could fell a dragon, but those could. Just after the scorpion bolt missed its mark, Egg saw Caraxes swoop down to the ship, yanking at something with force enough to break the mast. It started to fall and Egg felt sick. Jace, he thought. Viserys. Rhaenyra and Daemon could not die like them, sinking beneath these waves, lost to him once more.

Beside him, Grey Ghost’s tail was lashing and Egg could hear a tiny, plaintive growl coming from the quiet dragon.

The mast crashed to the deck of the ship and Caraxes flew high above the ship again. Egg watched the dragons as they circled, feinted, but did not set the ships aflame.

Because they thought he was aboard.

He felt sick at the realization. They could damage the ships, yes, but they could not destroy them, not as long as they thought he would be hurt. He had to tell them. He had to get to them.

There was but one way to do that.

Egg turned toward Grey Ghost, holding out his hand once more. “Lykiri,” he whispered, as the dragon shied away from him. “It’s alright.”

He had been taught how to do this. He could remember lessons with his father, speaking high Valyrian to a small Stormcloud. Dohaeras, he’d said. But that did not feel right here.

Instead, as he touched Grey Ghost’s neck, he said the same thing he’d said in the water. “Help me please,” he whispered. “I have to go to them.”

Grey Ghost did not flinch this time as Egg ran his hand down his flanks, soothing him as he might a horse. He allowed him to touch, watching him with his strange silver eyes. Egg looked to the dragon’s back. No saddle, he thought. But he had done this once before. Surely he could do it again.

From above, Syrax let out a scream of pain.

Egg’s head spun toward her. He could not see well enough from here to know how badly she was injured. She did not go down; Rhaenyra kept control of her mount, and Syrax did not even retreat. Caraxes was coming around, quick but not quick enough, for Syrax was bright in the sky and surely they would take aim again. Burn the ship, Egg urged his father. Save Rhaenyra.

But instead of doing that, Caraxes darted in front of the scorpion bolt and took the hit himself.

No.

Egg felt panic shoot into him as though he had been the one to take the hit. No, no, he could not lose them here. Now. No.

Aegon took a deep breath, and he swung himself onto the dragon’s back. He wrapped his hands around the spikes on Grey Ghost’s back, and hoped he could hold on tight enough.

“Grey Ghost,” he said, remembering what it felt like to fly through the sky on Stormcloud’s back. No matter how scared he had been, no matter what it had cost him, it had been right. “Soves.”

Grey Ghost began to fly.

At first they skimmed across the water. Egg could feel the spray of the waves along his mount’s belly, cool and comforting as his mind tried to understand this new creature lodged in his spirit and perched on his back. Egg rubbed the same spot behind his ear that Caraxes liked rubbed, only to feel a spike of secondhand annoyance. He took his hand away, whispering an apology.

Egg knew the moment Daemon saw him, because a beat later, Caraxes set the ship that had shot at them aflame. He passed along its decks once, twice, and by that time, Egg was close enough to see the other ship—the one he’d been on—was already sinking. The waves were higher here, buffeting the sinking ships, and the clouds above seemed to threaten lightning.

He passed over the ship, searching for a sign of Alys. She would like as not be dead, he thought, for the wound she’d taken was mortal, but he looked for her anyway.

And found her.

Alys was on the ship’s deck. She still lived, standing amid crashing waves and panicked sailors. Her blood drenched her dress as much as the waves spraying over the tilting deck did, and her wet hair was plastered to her head and neck as though someone had poured darkness itself over her. Kneeling in front of her, his throat in her grip, was Larys Strong.

Had he been trying to abandon ship? Or even abandon his body? Egg wondered if a good, strong swimmer might be able to make it to Dragonstone from here. Perhaps Larys had thought so and set about taking one, and Alys had survived her wound to stop him.

Her eyes found him unerringly. There was no confusion in them as his dragon passed above her. Had she known this would happen? He thought of her sitting beside him at Darry, weirwood warming beneath him. She had said she didn’t have much time left in this world. He remembered the sound she made as the knife went in. She had been right.

But still she held Larys, the hand upon his neck not the true thing holding her prone brother. No, what held him was the power swirling around her. Kingsblood, dragonsblood, and her own too, blood of the First Men that had spoken to the trees and opened their veins to feed them. Her eyes were as dark and deep as the Gods Eye as they looked up at him. Her lips twitched up in a smile.

A shiver built inside of him, for he knew what he had to do, and still had no want to do it. He thought of his mother's screams, of the smell... But the pain of it had been at the Usurper's command. He had been the enemy, not the dragons. He understood that now. Dragonfire burned hot. Their deaths would take but an instant. And Alys knew it too. Her smiling lips, pale as milkglass, mouthed a word.

Aegon took a breath. He could feel Grey Ghost beneath him do the same, heat rising into the throat Egg clutched tight. It was his will that prompted Grey Ghost, not the word that the dragon did not yet understand, but Egg spoke it anyway.

“Dracarys,” he said, and pale fire enveloped both friend and foe, and burned to wet cinders the magic that had brought him here.

Wet as it was, a dragon’s fire was hot enough that the ship caught aflame. The sailors that had not already abandoned the ship did so, diving into the water as Egg flew higher to join Rhaenyra in the sky, as she circled above the ships. Below him, Caraxes swooped down, plucking two of the sailors from the sea, then dropping them from a height that would surely see them dead. Two more blasts of flame and an angry shriek from the Blood Wyrm and the deed was done. Caraxes’ flames were hot enough, strong enough, that the ships were blasted apart and sank beneath the waves quickly.

Aegon looked to Rhaenyra. She looked less a princess than a warrior queen, like one of the Conqueror’s sister-wives as she rode to war. Syrax had not seen battle before this day—had never seen battle in his world, until the day she’d crashed into the one that killed her—and now her yellow scales were bloody from a slash on her belly. That must have been when he heard the cry from her. But she still flew, and Rhaenyra atop her looked unharmed. She smiled at him, something in her eyes bright, and he found himself smiling back.

When the ships were both mostly sunk beneath the waves, and the men sailing them were too, Caraxes began to rise to meet them, his flight a little wobbly from the tear in his leathery wing. Egg could feel Daemon’s eyes on him, intent, and could almost hear the hundred questions his father would pepper him with as soon as they landed.

But for now, Daemon gave him only a nod. Caraxes let out a whistle-click greeting to Grey Ghost, and then turned north. He and Rhaenyra urged their mounts to do the same.

Above them, the clouds began to part, and below them, the sea calmed. The morning sun washed over them, and three dragons flew toward Dragonstone.

Chapter Text

When they landed on Dragonstone, Rhaenyra dismounted as quick as she could and rushed to Egg.

He’d landed at nearly the same time she did, and while she was unfastening the chains that held her on her saddle, he slid from the back of the dragon he’d claimed like water sliding down a rock. He was wet, and too pale, but he was alive.

Rhaenyra ignored the huff of warning Syrax gave her as she grew closer to the unfamiliar dragon—no dragon of her son’s would ever harm her—and gathered the shaking boy in her arms. This time, his arms did not hesitate before coming around her, and he held her as tight as she held him. Neither had any desire to let go and here, on Dragonstone, who was to argue it was not proper? Let someone try, Rhaenyra thought, running a hand through his wet, tangled hair. They would mislike her response.

She opened her eyes to find a silver eye staring at her. Egg’s dragon. Where had Egg found a dragon? But she did not ask, holding him tighter still and sending a silent thank you to the unknown dragon who had brought their boy back to them.

She not let go of Egg until a phantom ache bloomed in her chest. Syrax.

Rhaenyra squeezed Egg’s hand, then moved to her lady’s side. Her chest bled, the scorpion bolt having sliced through her scales. She’d dodged enough that the bolt had not rammed home; Rhaenyra thanked the gods for her golden lady’s quickness and agility.

Caraxes had not yet landed beside them. Daemon had gone on to circle the island, tear in the blood wyrm’s wing or not. Rhaenyra did not have to wonder why. Traps lain for them throughout Kings Landing and out at sea… and Egg’s mother had died on Dragonstone, betrayed by her own men.

But the men Rhaenyra saw hurrying toward them were not of that sort. Gerardys and Ser Rylan had both come from inside the castle. Gerardys reached them first, despite being older than Rylan and in a maester’s robes and chain.

“Princess,” Gerardys greeted, then added, “Gods be good, your dragon.” He sounded horrified, either at the idea of his Princess mounted on injured dragons or perhaps at the very idea of the injuries themselves. Gerardys stepped as close as he dared, much closer than most not of their blood. “Septon Barth says the greatest healer for the dragons is the fire in their blood, Princess. I am sure she will be well.”

Rhaenyra smiled softly at the man. Septon Barth was like as not right, but she hated seeing Syrax’s scales rent by iron and Caraxes’ wing torn like parchment. If it hurt this much to see them injured, she thought, what must it be like to feel them die?

She pushed away the thought. “Ser Rylan,” she said. “Please call for food to be brought and baths to be drawn for all three of us.”

“The prince is with you then?” Gerardys asked, a note of relief on his face.

“Prince Daemon shall alight in but a moment, I’m sure.”

“Princess, have the three of you been in a battle?” Ser Rylan’s gaze went from Egg’s wet clothing, to her tattered dress, then to Syrax’s wound. “Shall I call for the garrison?”

“No,” Rhaenyra said. “The battle is won. The food and baths, please, ser. We are all the worse for wear.”

Ser Rylan headed back inside the castle to do her bidding. A few moments later, a shrill whistle let them know Caraxes too had arrived.

The Blood Wyrm landed without his usual sinewy grace. Syrax gave a lilting call in his direction, even as Egg’s dragon shied away from the newcomers. Egg spoke quietly to him, then left his dragon’s side to come to Rhaenyra’s, and they walked to Daemon and Caraxes together.

Daemon leapt down from his saddle without hesitation. An advantage to flying unchained to the saddle, Rhaenyra thought sourly as she realized what he’d done.

Caraxes gave his injured wing a warning flap, whistling displeasure in Daemon’s direction as he approached, and Rhaenyra could see him shifting, readying himself to fly. Daemon backed up from Caraxes, speaking in Valyrian too low for her to hear, and then Caraxes was in flight again, calling down to Syrax, who joined him in the sky a moment later. Egg’s dragon alone remained in the courtyard, warily watching all four of them that remained, even Egg.

“Is that Grey Ghost?” Daemon asked, turning toward them.

Instead of answering, Egg barreled into him, and Daemon’s arms came up and around the boy without hesitation. Rhaenyra thought of the night they’d found him, the anger on Aegon’s face as he slammed into Daemon. Rhaenyra could not see his face, buried as it was in Daemon’s chest, but she knew there was no anger there.

Daemon’s hands went to Egg’s shoulders, and he pushed the boy back. He had a small, proud smile on his face as he spoke. “You claimed a dragon.”

“We claimed each other,” Egg replied, with a look over his shoulder at the small, pale dragon.

Daemon cupped the back of Egg’s head. “That,” he said, “is as it should be.”

The three of them ate before bathing, and as they did, Rhaenyra dictated a letter to her father, to be sent immediately to the Red Keep. They would have to stay the night at Dragonstone, for the only one of them whose dragon was not injured was Egg’s, and neither Rhaenyra nor Daemon would let him go alone back to Kings Landing, not yet. Rhaenyra prayed it was her father who would read the letter, that he was king still and she a princess, not her a queen and him a corpse. Daemon reached for her as though he could hear the thought as it flickered through her mind, and she squeezed his hand tightly.

“I shall send this myself immediately, princess,” Gerardys said, bowing his head and heading to the rookery.

Though she and Daemon were wed—and though most of the staff at Dragonstone likely knew it—their chambers were still separate and so Rhaenyra peeled her ruined dress off and climbed into a large, steaming tub alone. She would be borrowing more of Jocelyn Baratheon’s clothing, she thought ruefully, and was glad she had left a few pilfered outfits in the wardrobe when last she was here. A maid had laid one out before Rhaenyra dismissed her. The dress was black, with white laces darkened by age. They looked like bone, Rhaenyra thought, staring at it from across the room. Her muscles, wound tight for near a full day now, tightened more at the thought, no matter the hot water around her. She splashed water on her face to get rid of the salty spray of the sea on her skin.

Daemon had not fastened his chains.

She remembered the first time she had ridden Syrax. Daemon had told her soon she would be able to fly herself, not just with him on Caraxes. Her mother had misliked that. “Seven is too young,” the queen said. Daemon had conceded easily. (It occurred to her now that he had meant “soon” in a much vaguer way than her seven-year-old self had understood… and relayed to her mother.) But then he argued with her father again; Rhaenyra had not known the substance of their argument, only that it gave her father a scowl not even she could remove, and it was the cause of her uncle’s leaving, again. She hated when he went away. (She still did.)

Daemon had said goodbye that morning, then headed to the Pit. He was off to the Free Cities this time. The last time he had left, it had been for more than a year. Was she to wait to fly Syrax for the first time? Who else would fly with her? Laenor’s dragon was much too small, and Princess Rhaenys had never seemed to care much for Rhaenyra. And besides all that, she wanted to fly with Daemon, Rhaenyra thought, pulling on the riding leathers her uncle had made for her then hiding them beneath a long brocade coat. Not just with him, but beside him. Today.

She commanded a young dragonkeeper to saddle Syrax and then to secrecy. She brought her golden lady up from the Pit herself, for Daemon said a dragonlord needs must know how to care for and command their dragon from Pit to air, without aid from others.

Daemon was readying his saddlebags when Caraxes gave an alarmed whistle. Her uncle turned and saw her, just as she climbed up onto the saddle. “Rhaenyra,” he said, but before he could say more she cried, “Soves, Syrax!”

And her lady lifted her into the air.

The feeling of flight was like nothing else in the world. The skies were where Targaryens belonged, truly. And to have her own dragon beneath her? Rhaenyra would never forget how her heart beat in time with Syrax’s as they flew above Kings Landing, their joy mingling together. Rhaenyra let out a jubilant laugh into the crisp spring air the same time as Syrax let loose a gust of playful fire.

They were not in the air for long before Caraxes rose up beside them. Rhaenyra looked to her uncle with a grin. He smiled back, though the pride in his face was mixed with something else, something she did not understand.

They circled the city once and then Daemon gestured for her to return to the Pit. Rhaenyra did not want to—she could fly to the Free Cities with him! They could go to the Wall! They could fly their dragons to Asshai-by-the-Shadow, a place not even Daemon had gone.

But she landed. Not a very good landing, of course. She nearly fell from her saddle. Hardly a moment went by before Daemon was there beside her, plucking her off the saddle and setting her on the ground. His eyes roved over her face, her body, and then over Syrax and the saddle. He hadn’t spoken but it was then that she knew: she’d scared him. She recognized the look of fear from her father’s face.

“You forgot your chains,” he’d said, his voice tight.

Wasn’t the point of having a dragon, of being a Targaryen, to be free of chains? But she did not say that, though she’d heard Daemon say its like before. “I had my saddle. I was holding on!”

“A rider who flies unchained will soon find themselves flying alone through the air. But not for very long and in only one direction,” he said, his eyes locked on hers. “Do you understand me, Rhaenyra?”

“I understand.”

Fear did not belong on her uncle’s face. It gave way to pride again and he’d tugged her close. “Seven years of age. The youngest dragonrider since the Doom.”

She’d preened.

Daemon did not leave for the Free Cities that day. It had been two more moons before the brothers fell out again, and she had flown near every day beside her uncle. But she had never left herself unchained again.

Egg’s father had, the day he died.

And Daemon had done so last night.

She ducked her head beneath the hot water, and when she rose up, Daemon was watching her.

He had not yet bathed, his hair still windswept and salty, his clothing the same shirt and gambeson he’d worn beneath his armor. She did not speak as he drew closer, just watching him, brows raised.

Daemon knelt beside the tub and brushed his fingertips along her hairline. “Your first battles. How do you feel, darilaros?”

She did not answer.

He dipped his fingertips inside the bath, trailing them through the water. She wanted him to trail them over her skin, through her hair, and at the same time wanted him gone.

How did she feel? She did not feel as she had in the streets, as even Daemon knelt before her, or in the air, as their enemies burned. Something bright and hot had poured through her then, as though dragon’s blood truly did run through her veins and with each beat of her heart she could feel the thrum of it inside of her. Her blood had chilled the moment she’d seen Daemon leap down from Caraxes, unchained.

The fear had been bad enough when the scorpion’s bolt hit Syrax’s chest. Rhaenyra had felt as though her own flesh was tearing, her hands going to her own breast, reins nearly falling from her hands as she clawed at her already tattered dress as though searching for a wound. Sense had come back quickly; she steadied Syrax as best she could but by then the men below were ready to fire upon them once more. She’d been about to command Syrax to breathe her flames down at them. It would not have reached, but the force of it would like as not have sent the scorpion bolt off target.

But then Caraxes was there, and somehow the fear was worse.

She had seen her uncle’s scars, and seen him compete in the lists, and watched the glee that violence brought him. It had not occurred to her until Egg’s tale that one day perhaps he might die.

His glee, his bravery, his chaos, those things did not come because the same had not occurred to him. No, he’d always known death stalked his path. “Warriors die in battle,” he had told her, moons ago, as though it were a fact that ought not concern her.

It did.

The bolt had struck Caraxes’ wing and she’d seen the dragon pitch to one side, shrieking in pain and anger. She’d feared for them, of course she’d feared for them, but it had not been until he leapt from his saddle that she’d realized how easily he might have been lost.

“I have displeased my wife,” Daemon said. She could see in his eyes that he did not tease, despite the lightness in his voice. It felt forced, strained. Did he not know how he had displeased her?

“‘A rider who flies unchained will soon find themselves flying alone,’” she quoted.

“How else was I to board the ship?” Daemon asked.

“You took that hit deliberately,” she continued.

His brow furrowed. “For you.”

He did not understand. She was not sure she understood. Her father would have called him reckless, foolhardy, but that was not it, was it?

“We are victorious,” he said into the silence between them, as if that was all that mattered.

“Caraxes could have died.”

Daemon’s laugh was little more than a breath. “It would take more than a bolt to the wing to kill such as him.”

“What if you had fallen?”

“I did not.”

“But if you had? What then, Daemon?”

His face might have been carved from a block of pale stone. She thought of her cyvasse pieces back in Kings Landing—carved stones waiting to be moved this way and that. “You would have survived. You would prevail. Be queen one day and—”

“I would survive,” she said, “and be queen one day. But my heart would turn to ashes when I burned your body. I need you, uncle, true—to be my sword and shield, to stand at my side, to father my heirs. I cannot deny that. But it is more than that. I want you there. With your sharp tongue, and your vices, and that strand of hair that always falls across your forehead.” Her hand moved to it as she spoke. His hair was soft between her fingers.

His eyes were glassy and devotion swam deep in their depths. “I swore that I would fight until my last breath to return to you and I will,” he said. “But I am a sword and shield, Rhaenyra. Would you have me stand aside while you perish?”

“No,” she said, for wanting such would be folly. She would sooner get a stone to bleed, or Otto Hightower to bend the knee to her and Daemon. “Only do what you can to safeguard your life. It is most precious to me, uncle.”

“I told Egg once that you would rather us live for you than die for you,” Daemon said, taking her hand in his own. He kissed its back, and then its palm, where the cut from their wedding had scarred. “I would rather that as well.”

“Good.” She smiled up at him. “I think it’s time you bathed, Daemon.”

He rose, but he’d only taken one step backward when she reached out and caught his hand again. “Space enough for both of us here, don’t you think?” she asked with a wink.

The three of them landed at the Dragonpit early the next morning. Egg rode with her; Grey Ghost was not ready for saddle or Pit, he’d declared. They’d passed the small dragon as they flew back toward Kings Landing, shimmering like a pearl in a patch of sunlight. Syrax had trilled a greeting, and though Grey Ghost had not answered, his bright silvery eyes had watched them as they flew by, calm and steady.

Egg was calmer, steadier, now. She was not sure if it had been passing through the crucible of battle or if claiming a dragon had done it, but the boy seemed more at peace. She was glad for it. He mounted Syrax uneasily, true, but settled in quickly, and even laughed a little when they flew fast through a puff of morning fog.

Ser Lorent and Harwin Strong waited for them at the Dragonpit, along with a score of Gold Cloaks and a carriage.

“Princess,” Ser Lorent said, bowing to her. Rhaenyra’s knees felt weak with relief at the address. Princess, not queen. She smiled shakily as he turned to Daemon. “My Lord Hand.”

Harwin echoed him and then said, “Egg. I’m glad you’re safe.”

Daemon bade Harwin ride with them in the carriage, as Ser Lorent headed up the column of guards.

“The king lives,” was the first thing Harwin said. Rhaenyra already knew that, but the confirmation was welcome indeed. “It was a close thing, the maester said.”

“Lucky for him that his talent held,” Daemon said wryly.

“We quelled the uprising before noon. There are two-score prisoners in the Black Cells, and more in a stockade on the tourney grounds. Some have been shouting about their lordliness, but Ser Laenor ordered that they be held all together until you returned to sort them out, my prince.”

“I fear they will like even less my method of sorting than Laenor’s method of holding.” There was a brightness in Daemon’s eyes that spoke of violence soon to come.

“Was there fighting within the Keep?” Rhaenyra asked.

Harwin gave a grim nod. “Not much. Without the Gold Cloaks and Lord Corlys’ men, who is to say, but as it was, the traitors were brought down quickly. A handful of your household guards turned their cloaks to Green, princess, and Lord Hightower’s men led them to their doom.”

But no more of the Kingsguard at least, Rhaenyra thought. “How fares Ser Steffon?”

“The break was bad, princess, but if the gods are kind, he shall recover.”

If the gods were kind… Rhaenyra thought on that as they finished the trip to the Red Keep. The gods had been kind, had they not? After a fashion at least. Sending Aegon back to them, keeping her father alive, sending Grey Ghost to Egg when he might otherwise have perished in the same waters as his brothers had.

Or perhaps the gods had naught to do with it. It had been Aegon and Alys who had wrought the magic that sent them back, and Daemon who slapped the poison from her father’s hand before he could drink more of it. Rhaenyra did not know the answer, but she sent a prayer of thanksgiving to the Fourteen anyway, and squeezed her husband’s hand in equal thanks.

Egg, sitting across from them beside Harwin, gave a roll of his eyes when he saw their hands interlinked.

“Too much like his father,” Rhaenyra whispered to Daemon, clicking her tongue playfully. Both Daemon and Egg looked pleased with that, little smiles curving their lips.

Rhaenyra sighed. Perhaps their first babe—their next child—would be a girl. She could only hope.

As soon as they arrived at the Keep, Rhaenyra went to her father.

Daemon shadowed her, but hung back before reaching the bedcurtains. Rhaenyra stepped to Viserys’ side alone.

He was sleeping but did not look at peace. His face was gaunt and gray, and had the maester not rushed to assure them before they entered that he was certain the king would survive, Rhaenyra would have thought him dying still. She did not feel certain that he wasn’t, looking down at him.

She reached for his hand, wrapped her own warm, strong fingers around his thin, cold ones. Nearly as soon as she touched him, his eyes opened.

“Rhaenyra,” he wheezed. “My daughter.” Frail as they seemed, his fingers tightened around hers, strong.

“Father,” she said. “What a fright you gave us.”

“The dragon will not be felled by some foul poison,” he said. His eyes flickered up and focused on something behind her, and he smiled.

Daemon’s hands came to her shoulders then. She leaned back into him. “No,” Rhaenyra said, “it takes more than that to kill a dragon.”

Chapter Text

“Are you ready for this?”

Rhaenys’ voice was calm. Viserys did not understand how she could be so damnably calm all the time.

She’d been like this since the night he’d nearly died. He remembered too much of it for how close to death Orwyle had claimed him to be—remembered Daemon entering the room like a whirlwind and promising to bring his daughter back, and the distant noises of fighting, and Ser Harrold and Lord Corlys bowing and telling him and Rhaenys that it was done. At the time, his veins so full of poison, Viserys had little idea what they spoke of. He almost wished now that that remained true.

The smallfolk had taken to calling the attempted coup the Rats’ Revolt. Daemon at least seemed amused by that, though he’d more often called Otto Hightower a leech. Those rats had tried to kill him and take his throne. The madness of it! Viserys could hardly believe it. Daemon’s sharp questioning with the aid of his Gold Cloaks pried some of the tale out of prisoners’ mouths with their teeth; Rhaenyra and the Velaryons coaxed other parts from those whose claims to know little rang as false as their outrage. Rhaenyra and Daemon had pieced the story together like a quilt: Egg had been taken as a distraction, a way to lure Daemon to Flea Bottom. Viserys’ wine had been poisoned. The culprit was supposed to be caught just after the act, and place the blame on Daemon’s Lyseni whore. Place the blame on Daemon. After all, all knew that the prince and the princess had already engaged in their unnatural carnal relations. Once the king was gone, the throne would be Rhaenyra’s—Daemon’s in truth, of course. Daemon was meant to die in Flea Bottom at the hands of Hightower men, and Rhaenyra would either be attainted for his murder or lost in the roiling waters of the Gullet. The chaos throughout the city was perhaps meant to cover for whatever lapses in the timeline of events there were—after all, who could say whether one Targaryen died before the others?

Some of it was only supposition, and Otto would not talk, no matter how many visits Daemon paid him. His brother had started to tell him how Otto had nearly bit off his own tongue to stop from spilling secrets, but Viserys had to bade him stop. Viserys could not stomach it.

Otto, he once thought, had been his friend.

Viserys turned his attention back to Rhaenys. She was clad in black and teal, both Targaryen and Velaryon today.

“I have dismissed the maesters’ concerns about my ability to leave this damned castle. Must I dismiss yours as well?”

Rhaenys cocked her head. “That is not what I meant.”

He knew that, of course. Was he ready to stand before the court and smallfolk of Kings Landing and command the deaths of those who had tried to kill him? Tried to kill his brother, his daughter? That he was ready for. That he’d trusted one of those men for so long, that he was grandfather to Viserys’ own son? That was harder.

“Do you—” Viserys stopped. He did not want to know the answer to his question, and yet he asked it anyway. “Do you think they would have succeeded?”

Daemon would like as not tell him no, no matter his true opinion. Rhaenyra would tell him the same, though it would be from a kinder place than Daemon’s bluster. Rhaenys would tell him the truth.

“If you had not known to be wary of your queen’s green dress? If you had not made Daemon Hand and sent Otto to the Black Cells?” She arched her brows in thought. “You would be dead, surely. Mayhaps Rhaenyra too. And if Rhaenyra and you had died and Daemon lived… Well, there would not have been an Iron Throne to sit on come today, cousin. And no Targaryens with Hightower blood left to claim it anyway. Otto should have been more effective in killing Daemon, if he wanted to survive this.”

So damnably calm! Viserys wanted to rage at her. They were her kin! How could she speak of Daemon’s death so easily? Of his own?

“Otto Hightower did not used to be so incautious,” Rhaenys continued. “I wonder what changed.”

Viserys did not have to wonder. “It was the boy. Daemon’s son.”

Rhaenyra’s son.

How was it possible? What sense did any of it make? They had spoken little of it. His health could not be trusted yet, if the maesters were to be believed. And whatever the tale was, Viserys knew, was a harrowing one. His health gave a convenient excuse to avoid the subject, until this mess was all done with at least.

“When he arrived, things started to change,” Viserys went on. “I had always thought Daemon a blunt instrument, in contrast to Otto’s precise workings. How could one be matched against the other? But it was not that Daemon did not know how to play Otto’s game. He simply refused to. Until Egg.”

Silence fell between them for a long moment. “Are you ever going to tell me the truth about the boy?” she asked. “Where did he come from, Viserys?”

Viserys felt his mouth grow dry. “It is not my story to tell,” he said, as Rhaenyra had told him. It was Egg’s story to tell, and Viserys was not sure he would ever be ready to hear it all.

“Perhaps I’ll ask him.” Rhaenys smiled thinly. “Though I do not think he’ll tell me.”

Instead of replying, Viserys straightened his spine and answered the question she’d asked at the beginning of their conversation. “I am ready.” It was a lie, but he told it well, at least, he thought.

The night before, Viserys had seen his queen.

He had dithered on what to do with her. He could see the pinched, cold anger on Daemon’s face when he dismissed the topic for later not once or twice, but three different times. What did it matter, when nothing could be done before the birth of her child? The penalty for treason was death, but for the mother, not the babe. And he was not certain he could do it, sentence Alicent to die, not when so much of what had happened had been due to his own blindness. Not when she had slept beside him and bore his children. But a decision must be made, he knew, and who but the king to make it?

Ser Harrold had asked if he wanted the queen brought to him. It was the wiser choice, but Viserys had shaken his head and gone to her himself.

“Viserys,” she’d breathed, rushing toward him once he entered. Alicent had changed from her green gown into a plain, severe gray dress. The hands that clutched at his were bloody. She looked from him to Ser Harrold, who stayed stationed inside the room, and then back. “Viserys, what has happened?”

She did not seem surprised to see him living. Had she not known that part of the plan? Had her dress been a signal to all, with her as unwitting beacon? Had it been coincidence? Or had she been just as guilty as her father, lighting the way to murder?

“Sit,” he said, guiding her to her chaise, as much for himself as for her.

She clung to his hands. “Daemon said my father was still in the Black Cells. And my children—Viserys, you must not let him harm the children.”

Harm the children? “The children are well, Alicent.” In truth he had not seen them since before the tourney, but Daemon and Rhaenyra had made certain they were safe and secured each day. “Daemon would not harm them.”

Alicent leaned away from him at that, as though she could not believe what he was saying. “He has imprisoned my father in the Black Cells and ordered me held in this chamber, husband! I prayed nightly for you to come to me—seven nights, and now you have come, thank the gods.” She smiled a little, a pale and nervous smile.

“It was I who ordered you brought to your room,” Viserys reminded her, “and I who gave Daemon leave to do as he would to any who acted against my family.”

“Because of the bastard? My father—”

“Why did you wear the dress?”

Alicent took a sharp breath. “My dress?”

“I asked before, in the throne room. I did not get an answer. A call to arms, is it not? Green?”

“I…” She set her shoulders and looked him in the eye. “You have great love for your eldest daughter and your brother, I know. But could you not see the tear they will rend in this very kingdom? They do as they will, while my children are to be tossed aside, at the mercy of the one they call Lord Fleabottom. A call to arms? No. A call for aid.”

“A call for aid? Reachmen rose up that very night against mine own family. Poison was placed in my cup and an ambush set to murder my brother. The ships you sent Rhaenyra after were armed with scorpions to kill a dragon. That was your aid.”

Alicent’s mouth opened but no sound came out. She shook her head, rapidly. “I did not… It was not me, Your Grace. And my father—”

“Your father dies in the morning.” She let out a choked cry. He made his voice as strong as he could as he continued. “Both he and your uncle will be executed for treason.”

Tears spilled from Alicent’s eyes. “Your Grace… My father… Husband, he was a friend to you.”

“A false friend. Worse than a bitter foe.” It was Viserys’ voice that was bitter. “No, Alicent. No tears will sway me. He shall die.”

“Viserys…”

He stood. “You shall not be harmed,” he told her, his voice firm. Relief flickered across her face, but died as quickly as a candle in a drafty room when he continued. “But you are attainted and our marriage is at an end. Once your child is born, you shall be sent to the Silent Sisters. Before you go, you may say farewell to Aegon and Helaena, but after that, our children shall hear no more from you.” Nor would any other.

“Viserys. Husband, please.” She followed him off the chaise and sunk to her knees, clutching at his legs. “I beg you to reconsider. I never meant—”

Viserys reached down and untangled Alicent’s fingers from the material of his robes, as gently as he could, and then took a step back. “You meant to see your son on the throne. You meant to set the lords of this realm against my chosen heir. My daughter, who you once said was dear to you.”

“I did not know what else to do.” Alicent sobbed into her hands. Even great with child, she looked so small.

His fault, he thought again. He had wrought this fate for her the moment he’d let her soothe him in his grief.

“You will find comfort in your gods and your new sisters,” he said. The words sounded cold, but he knew not what else to say. The sounds of Alicent’s sobs followed him out of her chambers. He was not certain they would ever leave him. They certainly hadn’t the next morning, as he watched the crowds gather to watch the bloodshed.

The executions were done by the Hand.

Not all of them. They had near one hundred men held in the Black Cells and on the tourney ground, all judged guilty of treason. Daemon had sent a fair number to the Stranger himself; Laenor and Ser Harwin had been the Hand’s hands, Daemon had japed, and helped coordinate the rest. Knights were beheaded or hanged beside the common men-at-arms and sellswords, and while many begged to take the black, in the end Daemon gave leave to only a thirty to do so, a handful of boys around the same age as his son and the ones Rhaenyra had promised mercy on the streets of Flea Bottom.

There were five among the highborn set to die, seven days after they attempted to kill the king and his heir. Daemon would serve the king’s justice to all five himself. Ser Fleigh Peake, who would have been Regent of Starpike, for his brother Unwin died the same night of the Revolt, leaving a young heir; Lord Owen Fossoway, who had come only to his lordship six moons before; Ser George Graceford, heir to Holyhall; Lord Hobert Hightower, voice of Oldtown.

And, of course, Ser Otto.

He was a friend to you. Alicent’s voice. Then he should have been a friend, he wanted to thunder back. He should have been true and honorable, been the man I thought he was.

The man he’d told Daemon he was.

Prince Daemon stood on a dais in the Dragonpit, golden hand pinned to a doublet of black and red, flanked by Laenor and Harwin again. The Hand’s hands, Viserys thought grimly. Behind him was his son, all in black as he always was, Dark Sister at the ready. The five judged guilty were on their knees, and as Viserys started up the steps to the dais, Otto looked up and directly at him. Viserys looked away, disgusted, half with Otto, half with himself.

Beside him, Rhaenyra was a strong, warm presence. Viserys took her hand, ostensibly to guide her to the makeshift thrones they would both sit upon, but in truth, she was guiding him. This weakness is from the poison, he told himself, then made himself stop. Lying to himself was what put them in this situation. He would do it no longer.

“Seven days ago, these five men led a plot to murder myself and my heir, and seize the throne,” Viserys announced when the time came for him to speak. “They have been judged guilty of treason and shall die at the hand of my brother, Prince Daemon, on whose life they made an attempt.”

The crowd bellowed with anger, first at the attempt on his life and Rhaenyra’s, but more on the attempt on Daemon’s. Some laughs mingled with the outrage. “Kill the Rogue Prince?” someone shouted. “Spare them, they must be mad!” Daemon smirked at that. It was the first suggestion of sparing the prisoners that had met with less than a verbal thrashing from him.

The highborn who had joined them on a lower level of the hastily rigged dais were a different matter. Some of them looked resolute—Lord Tyrell, paramount in the Reach, among them—and some looked uneasy, though they clearly took pains not to show it—Lord Redwyne and Lord Lannister. Some jeered and cheered with the crowd—Daemon’s Riverlords were in this group, and the lords from the Crownlands.

It did not take long for the men to die.

Daemon retrieved Dark Sister from his son, who gave his father a quick, sharp nod. Daemon returned it, as though he were following the boy’s commands as much as the king’s own. Daemon cut quick and true, little though he had reason to spare any of these men pain. Their heads fell one, two, three, four. Only Hobart Hightower attempted to plea for his life, though teeth Daemon had broken days before in the Black Cells.

Daemon’s eyes were bright as the light that flickered across the blade of Dark Sister as she bit into the necks of the traitors. Blood stained the dais, and Daemon’s clothing, and dripped from the edge to the floor of the Pit. This was not what he’d wanted, Viserys thought. He’d wanted prosperity and joy, feasting and jousts, a family that laughed together in harmony. This was never what he’d wanted.

Viserys thought that Daemon might stop to speak to Otto before dealing the killing blow. He’d hated him for so long after all. Did he not have some parting words? Some last dig? But Daemon said not a word as he stepped to where Harwin had dragged Otto, the former Hand’s neck across a block. He raised Dark Sister and then she came down, and Otto’s head rolled three times before Daemon stopped it with the side of his boot.

The crowd was still cheering, as though this were just like the tourney they’d witnessed days before. Daemon stepped forward and the crowd quieted. “These men tried to destroy dragons. It’s only just that they nourish them instead. Men!” he shouted to the guards at the edge of the dais. “Give their bodies to the dragons!”

As though they were the dragons about to be fed, the crowd roared.