Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Your Grace... you’ve delivered of a healthy daughter.”

All round her the room feels like it began to spin. A girl. She hadn’t planned for a daughter - too ready to give birth to yet another son for the throne. Daughters could come after her son's ascension was assured. Alas the Gods themselves had seemed to have other plans in mind. A maid scampered forth as the Maester whisked her girl away to be tended to, the mousey-haired girl offered her a cup of mulled cider. The sweetness lingers on her tongue as the Maester comes forth with a tiny creature swaddled in red and black. He hands the girl off to a nursemaid who settles herself astride her bed, eyes downcast as if she feared to meet Alicent’s own gaze.

“Give me my daughter,” Her voice was sharp and commanding as one of the ladies awkwardly stumbled forth. Clear to voice her objections, Alicent understood it, they had yet to change the sheets or properly dispose of the remnants of her labors. But what was more important was that she cradled the child first, long before either her father or her husband could. She had not been able to do the same with Aegon. Presumably would not do the same way if she bore a second son.

The quiet child settled easily in her arms as Alicent instinctively held her even closer. Her daughter even now she could tell she'd grow into a great beauty, the perfect embodiment of her marriage to Viserys. Of Andal and Valyrian heritage. She knows deep in the morrow of her bones this child, this girl, would be hers. The evidence was clear enough for all to see in her delicate curls that were as red as Weirwood leaves. And despite Alicent’s firm belief that the girl’s eyes would indeed darken to the purples of her father’s house there was still something else. Something almost giddy in her at the knowledge that her blood prevailed over Viserys’ own.

At the very least my husband wouldn't be foolish enough to name her for that ghost of his. Viserys couldn't, not with the way their own girl appeared - she is grateful for it, Maris' blood which ran true in her veins - the flickers of lanterns dance against the dark corners of her chambers. As the young mother watched her now sleeping child anxiously.

“My Queen,” Grand Maester Mellos began, much too gravely he doesn’t glimpse her merely stares at the child in her arms. “The King wishes to see the Princess.”

His voice trails off slightly, dark eyes calculating as he awaits her reaction, Alicent could feel her stomach drop. She wasn’t surprised by Viserys’ insistence. He’d been much the same with Aegon before, still she smiles and nodded like it was the most natural thing in the world though every bit of her wishes instead to scream in protest.

Indeed, her husband despite his insistence on the girl seemed plenty ready to wait until long after every trace of her labors had been done away with. Her maids braid her hair loosely and dress her in a loose satin gown with a frock thrown over it easily enough. Bloodied sheets likely reminded him of what occurred with his first wife, Queen Aemma; she hated to think of dying in the same manner upon a bloody featherbed. Her husband looms in the doorway as Alicent glanced up from their daughter, just behind him was her father’s replacement, Lord Lyonel Strong, she doesn’t know what to think of this man. She knows so little of him - so little of his brood aside from the infamous Lucamore “the Lusty” - it frustrated her somewhat, her father hadn’t had much to say of the former Master of Laws other than that he appeared an earnest advisor of her husband and lord.

Her husband is almost hesitant to move. Careful, as if he wished not to rouse the sleeping child, it took him some time before he found himself face to face with their little girl, awed and silent. None of the boasting as with Aegon's own birth. His eyes narrow as he catches sight of her curls of auburn, his jaw clenches as if displeased by the sight before he glances toward her. “Did you have a name in mind my dear?”

His voice is kind, but there is something else to it, something almost disappointed and Alicent can feel her heart hammer in her chest. She swallowed quickly, indeed, she had a name in mind. The only name she had to offer a daughter of hers. She brushed her fingers against the girl’s cheek, of course she wasn’t blind to the meaning of the name she had chosen. Shining light. An ode, an omen to her own line - we light the way - her house’s words; words which her daughter would no doubt one day live up too.

“Helaena, if it pleases Your Grace.” Her voice is low and sweet, careful in its selection though for what Alicent herself knows not. It’s not as if Viserys would protest such a name. His own choice was likely foiled by the child’s coloring; Aemma, after the first Queen. Alicent takes a deep breath and forces the thought away, no child of hers would be so cursed to be named for the dead.

“Princess Helaena Targaryen.” Her husband smiles yet in that smile Alicent feels as if it were but a lie. She dismisses it easily enough, and Viserys continues on, voice cheery and full of jubilation. “Indeed, what a princess she shall be.”

Thus was the first few strings of fate were woven, and a very different Dance was beginning to take shape.

The years pass by quickly, admittedly far too quickly in Alicent's mind. Helaena's once blue eyes shift easily to the colors of Viserys' own mother, Princess Alyssa. Her quiet babe had grown into a clever, charming girl. Though there was a seriousness to her unmatched by even Aemond. Now here she stood watching and waiting as her maids tried to ply her child from her books to begin her proper introduction to the court. Certainly far younger than most princesses had done, but her husband and King insisted upon it, said it would be good for her, good for the realm to see the future queen consort of his bastard grandson about the realm.

How desperate was her fool of a husband to bind their only daughter to Rhaenyra's false son? Rhaenyra herself was somewhat encouraging of the match; it was really her own opposition which stopped it from happening. But what other prospects did Helaena have if she did indeed claim a dragon? There was of course the natural course - wedding her to Aegon, combining and proving she too held as much Valyrian blood as her elder brother. Another was Viserys’ choice in suitor; Jacaerys “Velaryon” the son and heir to the princess Rhaenyra and her lord and consort, Ser Laenor Velaryon. A notable match on paper - but one which would cause her to sacrifice herself, her sons and her houses prospects at the mercy of the whore-princess, something which Alicent would never have done. Not even if the Gods themselves commanded of her.

Why must Viserys be so insistent Helaena even claim a creature, her daughter was far better without it, why not leave such eccentricity to Daemon’s brood and their boys? Why must they take the only child she truly possessed from her as well. She ignored these fault as she inhales the scents of sandalwood and resin filtering through the room as Queen Alicent Hightower quietly observed her daughter, Helaena sat quietly, clutching tightly to a tome much too large for her. As was often found with her little girl, truly, oftentimes it felt as if she were speaking to a woman grown rather than a child of six namedays; sunlight had spilt through stained glass windows and caught alight to red-gold curls and made it appear as though it was liquid gold. The winter-pale child, brow furrowed in focus as she poured over her array of parchments. The cracklings of the hearth did little to stir the child, nor did the Hightower Queen’s easy approach of her, the Queen sighed as she glanced at ink-stained fingers.

Helaena was brilliant, Alicent had always known that and she has always been grateful for it; that her line was so blessed as to bear a star as bright as her daughter. With trembling hands she reached towards the girl, it was only when the child’s mismatched eyes found the sorrowful dark eyes of her mother’s own; too much was the sign of the dragon’s claim on the child. A claim the sad, young Queen loathes to accept, every inch of the child marked her as a true-blooded daughter of Oldtown. Everything except for her eyes. She can scarcely stomach them but that is nothing in comparison to her ghosts; the many daughters of the dragon that came before her.

She heard whispers of it. Of the shadows that haunt her child’s steps; those dragon-blooded maidens, from stubborn and willful Alyssa to vain, cunning Viserra. Bright, bold and beautiful, each stolen away by the Stranger much too young.

Queen Alicent does not wish for such a fate to befall Helaena.

For her to be snuffed out in childbed as Alyssa and Daella had been or doomed and dead like Viserra. Nor to be forgotten and discarded like the much reviled Saera.

“My lady mother,” her child’s voice is steady as if she knew she could not display weakness before the crown. Alicent’s heart hurts at the thought, sweet thing Helaena was ought to be a child not a future sister-wife for her crown prince. She should play with girls her own age as Alicent once had with the Crown Princess and Lady Laena. How she longed for those days whence she wasn’t trapped inside a gilded cage ready to break free.

“My own dearest heart.”

The Queen lets go of her daughter and sighed, she could convince her husband of the importance of companions, for her and their sons. Ladies and lords of good stock to help weed out the seedier aspects of their heritage; that loathsome dragon blood which would devour her children if she weren’t careful. Perhaps she’d even be able to convince Viserys that it would… help in his wish for Rhaenyra’s false born claim? No… she already made her wishes for her own sons perfectly clear there was no way he’d believe such a sudden change of heart.

“What are you writing?” It’s better to think on her daughter than it is the politicking of their blood. Helaena was most pleasant when she discussed her interests; her dancing and musical lessons were especially beloved. And she showed great promise in them. But there was also her fascination in translations, specifically the art of deciphering old Valyrian hymns to that of both the Old and Common Tongues. She had a true gift, one which would be besmirched if not nourished properly.

“It’s about the story of the Maiden and the Stranger” Her voice was just above a whisper, as Alicent managed a weak smile. She knew that story, it was one of the first her daughter had asked after the one where the Mother so greatly suffered. She hates that story, for what happened to the Maiden, the Stranger's queen. At the very least it is nowhere near half as bad as some other stories she had heard her child speak of. She shivered at the thought of the Wicked King, the one who mirrored Maegor, very least he had been struck down by Fair Richmond who could only be noble King Jaehaerys, whom took the old king's daughter to wife. Though unlike Alysanne, the Noble King's Daughter was the Cruel king's niece not his child. And that beloved spring consort too shared the curse her own child possessed; beauty, a surpassing beauty that far outmatched even Rhaenyra’s as a girl and such a curse could drive men mad. She hates it because she knows her daughter’s beauty shall only grow with age, for the Gods’ sake Helaena was but a girl of six namedays and men already whispered of the great beauty she would one day possess.

Wolves would feast upon her daughter if she were not careful, as they had her, Laena and even Rhaenyra. Her royal blood would not protect her for long.

And her own lineage merely exacerbated the issue, as Alicent who had once been haunted by visions of a doomed lineage had now found such visions shattered at the whims of her young daughter. She was integral to its shift just how Alicent hadn’t known, yet she knew this; her daughter would be the root of great suffering, a host of grieving widows, of childless parents, of orphans whose futures had been cruelly shattered at the Strangers mercy.

All of whom would someday curse her only daughter’s name.

Alicent does not desire such a fate for Helaena, her daughter’s crown, her shroud would not be of blood and bones.

Not if she had anything to say about it.

How auspicious her daughter shared the name of another doomed maiden, that Valyrian girl (she had been tricked by that hero after guiding him through that labyrinth had she not?) yet bore the fate of a woman of her own house; Maris the Maid was said to be much the same. So beautiful that a tourney had been fought in her name, the would-be husband of hers had been denied and she’d been offered as a bride to her own House. She thinks of Maris’ true fate, trapped in a cage of delicate luxury, forever the prize and never the wife. How she had committed a terrible sin in the end, eating poisoned berries as despite her forebears false words nothing would change.

Her daughter was cast in the same manner, and Alicent prays to every god known and unknown that Helaena doesn’t suffer the same fate; admired by all and loved by none.

Never truly seen and forever beloved for her beauty.

She loathes to think of Helaena were likened to her namesake and foremothers, of the great calamity she would bring about. The thousands which would die as a consequence of her beauty, it’s why she hated the idea of parading her daughter around court. Dressed up like a precious little doll and flaunted about. Still, she knew Helaena had no choice, her daughter was doomed the moment she had been raised above the bloody featherbed to the dark red light of the moon.

Yet it is her duty as her mother to protect and care for her, if that meant participating in such a horrible tradition as this then she’d do so. She glanced at the maids watching idly, their careful, yet she knows in truth they served her husband’s blood not hers. After Helaena’s presentation she should send for maids from the Reach, girls who would serve her daughter faithfully and strengthen their families ties.

Her cousin had a girl about her age, a little girl of Riverlander blood. Little Alysanne, or as many called her Black Aly for her darkened curls.

She didn’t know much of the girl, but certainly knew her pedigree made her a good enough companion for her daughter.

The Queen bites her tongue as she watches the maids begin their work, her daughter is instructed (commanded really) to leave aside her translations and sit herself in front of the bronze mirror. She steps back as she catches sight of the Valyrian dress, silks of black and red, she watches them lace up that dreadful thing and carry little trinkets into the room. They would adorn her dress, each chosen to reflect her child's true beauty, her wild red-gold curls were plaited and bound together by fine golden thread, and ivory hair pins all were naturally in the style of Old Valyria at her lord husband's insistence. Though she managed to add a bit of her own homeland's fashions into the dress, specifically the embroidery. The Princess had insisted Helaena dress in the traditional colors of House Targaryen rather than the greens and golds of her homeland. Her husband had made it abundantly clear in that respect he would not budge. Claiming it as a sign of her "dual natures" as both a daughter of earth and fire.

Speaking as if her blood, ancient as it was, would ever be like his.

She was the blood of kings, whilst her husband's family remained naught but sheep farmers. Still, it's amusing the lengths he goes to 'honor' his supposedly noble ancestry. An ancestry he believes their children to inherit above her own, one of blood and fire rather than of earth and scales.

A pity he was wrong, even more so now that her only daughter was coming into her own. Helaena was a strange child by nature, dreamlike and quiet made only stranger by the blood that runs through her veins, not Viserys’ but her own. She sits as still as her husband's marble carvings whilst her maids fawn over her. Careful to make sure every detail was perfect from the silks of her dress to the organza of her veil, part of Alicent worries that such implements were too much, that Helaena would coil back into herself as she often does, she watched her daughter hesitantly reach for a small curl of red-gold that had fallen free, twisting and curling it tight around her fingertip. She tugs at it, a nervous habit of hers that the Queen was yet to break, still she supposed it was much better than her own. She watches as a maid tucks it carefully back in place as if it never strayed in the first place.

“Helaena, dearest. I do hope you understand the importance of what you are to do today...” Alicent lets her voice trail off as her too clever daughter's eyes immediately narrow in on her like a hunter catching its prey, there is an intensity there. A fire that burns as hot as dragon flame and as steady as the Honeywine, her child doesn't speak, doesn't need to even utter a word. Alicent knows the girl's answer well, despite it being her first formal introduction to her duties at court her child knew them well, mostly because of her own guidance. It would not bode well if the future queen didn’t know how to address her subjects or achieve the love of her people.

“I understand, lady mother.” Her child’s voice doesn’t waver, not even for a moment, despite knowing the fact that all of court would be watching her. Alicent would not fault her dearest girl if she was nervous nor would she if Helaena didn’t wish to do what she must. Confidence however was a welcome sign of what was to come, certainly better than Aegon’s own presentation to the court. She can scarcely think of a more disastrous moment in her life as to what she had witnessed that day.

“Good.” There are no words of comfort that fall from her lips, Helaena wouldn’t appreciate such falsehoods nor could Alicent summon the courage to utter them. Part of her can’t help but think of the unfairness of it all, of Rhaenyra and her false born eldest—that boy not only displaced her own sons but his siblings too. It was clear the child was not of Laenor Velaryon’s seed even if the man was too prideful to admit it that he had been slandered in such a way, he could not disavow the eldest child of not for fear it would cast doubt on the younger two.

How amusing was it not, that the Velaryons aimed for the throne and yet were undermined by the very claim they backed. As if the Gods themselves had orchestrated such a travesty to show where their true favor lies, Alicent supposed she shouldn’t be surprised; the Gods gave her a daughter such as Helaena why would they not be on her side?

“My lady mother, when has His Grace ordered for my introduction to be, before or after the tourney in celebration of the Crown Princess’ twins?”

“After. The King was insistent that the Tourney was in honor of the Princess and her children.” Loathe Alicent admit her husband could be a stubborn man when he wished it, only encouraged by the flames that now ran hot in his blood. It was an odd thing to imagine, her husband ruling the flames that once belonged to the Conqueror’s beast, they are strong—but a whimper compared to the dragon they had come from. Just as Meraxes flames had been before it. She doubts they’ll strengthen much, likely just flicker out and die—like those before them.

Her daughter only nods but Alicent is certain the child is now used to her father’s careless dismissal of her, having been done so since practically her birth. It was only because she was born upon a most holy day that he even bothered originally, now it was because he couldn’t possibly ignore a child as brilliant as their daughter. She supposed some part of her is pleased that Helaena is honored the way even her brothers are not, that she is accepted in a manner unlike any Princess before her. Even Alysanne—that ancestress Viserys’ declared their sweet girl took after—wasn’t as praised as a child as much as her lovely daughter, she offers a hand to her daughter she can’t help but manage a shaky smile, her boys may be meant for Viserys and the dragon throne but Helaena was hers to keep. Her little princess to mold into her perfect successor, one loved and adored by both nobles and her own countrymen. One that would one day ensure the continuation of her blood on the throne, ahead of Rhaenyra and her foolhardy ambitions for the crown.

“Shall we, my dear girl?” 

In an instant Alicent watched her somber daughter, unveiled as of now brighten, her mismatched eyes alight with a joy that seems like a dream in her otherwise melancholic daughter. Her smile, by the Gods, Alicent swears it dazzles and blinds as a growing certainty fills the Hightower Queen. Her heart trembles as she watched the maids fasten the veil in place, her sweet child's face lay hidden now, and will until her presentation to court and after that she would no longer need to bear it. Anxiously she squeezed the girl's shoulder, it should be easy... she had borne Aegon's presentation well or rather had until Rhaenyra ruined it, but she knows this is different. Because Helaena was hers. Solely hers. Hers in a way her brothers could never be, Viserys blood held no claim over this sweet babe, daughter of the sodden earth, legacy of flowers and scales.

And Gods be damned she would allow none to take her girl from her.

Chapter Text

The familiar cheers and applause from his court did little to ease Viserys’ mind, indeed he found his mind drifting off from the ceremonies and revelry that usually followed Rhaenyra’s children. And instead turning more towards his children by his second wife, more specifically little Helaena. Admittedly, Viserys had never truly felt comfortable around his second daughter. Too quiet, too serious, scarcely crying as a babe which worried the Maesters and nurses that attended her. Rhaenyra was nothing like her as a babe. Bright-eyed and of a sunny disposition lighting up the room without even trying. ‘Aemma had been so delighted in our dear girl, so eager to share in our joy with the people.’ he thought sorrowfully. Perhaps he found Helaena so strange was because of her Hightower blood, for the only other comparison he had was Good Queen Alysanne, who was known to take more after her father’s dragon blood than her mother’s Hightower ancestry.

Perhaps… I should have been more involved then she would be more like my lovely Rhaenyra.

Alas, he was six years past any reconciliation which might have been attained. Still he loved his strange, serious daughter, she was a true credit to his house, possessing a fierce intelligence and holding herself with a grace he had seen Aemma do before her. It was as if some part of her knew she was not meant to be Alicent’s blood but Aemma’s own, the Gods in their wisdom fashioned a daughter by his second wife to resemble his first, surely it was a sign that little Helaena was meant to rule alongside Jacaerys?

Alas, it seemed neither his daughter nor his wife had seen the worthiness of the match and though Viserys could command it to be done he had not.

Not yet at least.

For his care of the ladies in his life was perhaps too great, and both Rhaenyra and Alicent had expressed their displeasure of entertaining such a match. Furthermore, Rhaenyra sighted interest in binding her children's blood by her niece, little Rhaena born to the Lady Laena. To once again unite the lines of the Pale Prince and his own father. Admittedly he couldn’t really see the merit of such a decision, Jace and Luke ought to be wed to women who’d help her own claim, not seat his brother's blood on the throne. But, he knew Daemon would deeply appreciate the gesture offered to him and Viserys himself wouldn’t be able to deny that he would be immensely pleased if he and Daemon’s blood were joined as one.

“Make way for the Queen Alicent of House Hightower and their Highnesses, Princes Aegon, Aemond, Daeron and Princess Helaena.”

He forced a smile as he watched his young children as well as his loving and devoted wife enter the Royal box, they sat opposite of Rhaenyra and her own babes. The boys clad in the green of Oldtown, just as their mother, all except little Helaena. Rhaenyra had been insistent that her little sister bear the traditional colors of their house on this occasion including a sheer veil of blackened organza. A peace offering to his Queen though if she would take it was another matter, her little face remained obscured by her veil and would remain until her actual presentation at court, after which she would attend court just as regularly as Rhaenyra had following her own presentation to the court.

“Daughter,” He tried his best to greet the child cheerfully, hoping that perhaps once all was said and done she’d understand the importance of being presented as a Targaryen Princess rather than a noblewoman of the Reach. He had to admit it was nice seeing a child by Alicent wearing his house's colors over her own, perhaps he could request his sons do just as their sister and wear the same?

“Your Grace,” the child dips her head lowly in acknowledgement of him. He paused; Helaena was always so formal, always so serious carrying herself like a future queen ought to. Still, he wished the girl would call him father rather than addressing him as if he were only her King.

There was time he supposed, she was young still and therefore she could be spared the poison Otto so freely spat about Rhaenyra and her children. He watched the girl turn away and instead glance towards Rhaenyra and her children, though he couldn’t see the expression on her face he thought it sweet she took such an interest in her niece and nephews. More so than her brothers had at least. A step in the right direction to mend the bridges between his daughter and his wife, perhaps they’d even be willing to accept his suggestion to wed Jacaerys and Helaena to one another. Though perhaps he should take shallower steps for now, too many would burn down the bridge he wished to build.

He shook his head. Now was not the time to worry about what shall eventually be, now was the time to celebrate his daughter and beloved grandchildren. “Rhaenyra, my dear girl, how are you after the twins?”

His eldest daughter smiled brightly, his heart aches at the sight of Aemma’s smile as she cradled Jacaerys close. They say a mother’s love for their first child is like nothing else, that rung no truer than with his eldest daughter. For whilst Rhaenyra clearly adored her twins it was Jace she always spent the most time with. Just as Aemma always held her close, Rhaenyra was their only child such was natural she would be so beloved. And that in turn her children even more so, truly, he had never been more thankful to see his Valyrian blood conquer over Laenor’s Baratheon ancestry as well as Aemma’s Arryn blood, easily showing that his eldest grandchild was as true-blooded as his younger siblings.

“I am well Kepa, though I believe Luke and Joss might've stolen Laenor's heart as Jace once had mine.”

How true it is, that a parent always favors one child over another, just as mother had with Daemon so too had father with me.

“As you had your mother's and mine.” He chuckled to himself as he squeezed her hand, little Jace giggled in her arms causing him to look towards the boy. He had never been so relieved that Rhaenyra did not share the same fate as her mother did in childbed. He had asked after her to the Maesters, who easily assured him all was well and soon enough she’d be ready and able to once again assume her duties as his heir.

“Have you thought of a match for Jace as of yet?”

The question slips out easily as Rhaenyra's smile all but died, sighing his daughter turned towards him. Amethyst eyes burning with conviction, “I have indeed. I agree that perhaps the best course of action is for Jace to do as great-uncle Aemon had before him. 'Tis only right after all, why else would we have such a star in little Helaena?”

Viserys searched his eldest daughter's features, Rhaenyra had been most reluctant part of him wonders what changed her mind. Helaena was an exceptionally clever child, more so than even Alysanne or Jaehaerys at her age, perhaps it's the knowledge that her cleverness meant she was the most prepared to be a queen consort ahead of both little Jocelyn and Daemon's daughter Rhaena. Helaena's presentation to court was perhaps the best time to announce the impending betrothal of his second daughter to his eldest grandson.

He pats his daughter's hand as little Jace enthuses himself by chewing on his hand. “I'm happy you've come round, Rhaenyra truly. And I believe that she'll be the best Queen for Jace.”

Still she needs ladies, ladies to grow up alongside her, and secure better alliances for Rhaenyra’s future rule. Helaena's engagement to little Jace would finally cease this petty squabbling once and for all.

Companions ought to be called for the boys as well, loyal and noble brethren to help them steer clear of any treasonous words that could be whispered in their young minds, and perhaps a lordship or two should satisfy and alleviate Alicent's worries for their sons. He had wanted to ask the council of the ruins of Oldstones and if they could be repaired. Originally it was just out of curiosity but now it might just serve a true purpose; a future for his sons that would not interfere with his future for Rhaenyra. Still he needed to start slowly, first with Helaena's own companions then branch out from there, perhaps Rhaenyra would even give him suggestions for companions she had in mind for her young sister. Alicent whilst of good council would likely be biased (especially given all the poison Otto spewed in her ear) so it was better he consulted his daughter in such a manner. 

Perhaps he could even ask after the tourney finished. His gaze fell upon an approaching rider, Ser Harwin Strong, Rhaenyra’s sworn sword and noble protector. A bright red ribbon had been tied to his lance, his daughter’s favor. Just as he had always done.

The horn was blown and Viserys anxiously watched the riders gallop towards one another. He watches as Ser Harwin’s lance smashed into the man’s side, and the man fell to the ground with an ease that showed the King just why he had been given the nickname “Breakbones.” A truly worthy protector of his daughter, thankfully the other man took it in stride, easily accepting defeat despite the protests of his young sons.

He frowned, had they wanted to see the pair duel? Helaena however clapped politely enough, as Rhaenyra eagerly cheered on her knight. The man had been utterly enthralling as he struck down a man with a green ribbon in the finale, having eliminated Ser Lancel Lannister and multiple others previously. His Queen smiled as well as Rhaenyra was crowned Queen of Love and Beauty as she usually had been. Just as she ought to on such as this; it was her celebration after all and it was only the feast in which Helaena would be of attention.

Even then that would be fleeting.

No, this day was about Rhaenyra and Aemma's line, his sweet daughter, his heiress, the one who would bring about the Song of Ice and Fire. Not about his poisoned wife nor her brood of children. Today was a day of celebration not of regrets.

Rhaenys cradled the boy, Lucerys, closer as she quickly turned to her son, she could scarcely believe it to be true. Laenor was a father in blood and not just word, her boy, her son, had finally blessed her with grandbabes. Shame sets alight in her belly, how could she think him as incapable as Viserys’ daughter described—she described him as being so utterly useless that she had no choice but to look elsewhere to gather her heirs. She hadn’t even bothered to approach her son, thinking him too ashamed to confirm what she already believed. She should have known better, then perhaps her true blood wouldn’t be snubbed in favor of the bastard of Ser Brokenbones Strong.

She bites her tongue as Laenor adjusts his daughter, Jocelyn, named for her own loving mother in his arms, his eyes dark and tired. Rhaenyra had been foolish, arrogant, thinking herself above everyone and everything, only now did she seem to comprehend the consequences of her actions and even then, it was not because she wished to atone them. No, she wished to bury them—to hide once again behind her father’s tunic as she did that day of the Great Council. All because she cared more for her own pleasure than her future as Queen, it's funny really, how Corlys desperately clung to the idea of revenging herself upon her kin; did he know not the risks?

Laenor had achieved as was promised providing both a son and a daughter of his blood for Rhaenyra’s claim, yet they came too late. Displaced by a bastard babe, conceived merely three moons after Rhaenyra’s own marriage to her son, her gooddaughter said she had tried; yet Jocelyn and Lucerys proved easily enough to the contrary.

“Mother,” her son’s voice is hoarse, thick with tears as he looks at her. Rhaenys heart breaks at the sight before her, her boy, her beautiful, sensitive boy, she had never seen Laenor so lost. Not even when his Knight of Kisses died. He cradled his daughter close his grip tight yet gentle as if little Jocelyn were made of glass. “What are we going to do?”

She inhales sharply, cursing Viserys and his spoiled daughter as she begins to think of her options. There admittedly weren’t many of them, the first was disavowing Rhaenyra and her elder son, denouncing the babe as a bastard and declaring Lucerys as the rightful successor. It was also their weakest, because who was to say the Queen couldn’t easily proclaim the twins as falseborn as well? Though she supposed it would take some time, the woman was too busy preparing for her only daughter’s introduction to court. The second was to keep quiet and bind the eldest boy to her line by blood, preferably through Laena’s eldest daughter, Rhaena, with Lucerys perhaps marrying a younger sister as further insurance. Jocelyn could easily be tied to Vaemond’s son, Aethan and silence the dreadful rumors surrounding them all. Of her cuckold son, her wanton gooddaughter and her willfully ignorant cousin. The third and arguably most impossible option would be to ally herself with the Queen, by binding her grandchildren in marriage with her children. Already she could see it, Aegon to Rhaena, Helaena to Lucerys, Aemond to Jocelyn and Laena's newest babe to Daeron. But that would require her husband and cousin accepting Rhaenyra was ill-suited for the throne, and Queen Alicent being willing to put aside her hatred for the Princess.

She supposed of these potential matches only one really held possibility anyways as unlikely as it was to be.

Lucerys and Helaena.

It was natural, she supposed to want her grandson to having a dragon-blooded princess to take to wife. But having the most fair and dutiful princess certainly was an improvement from her half-sister, granted the child was but six years compared to Lucerys’ few moons. She supposed the difference wasn’t as bad as Ceryse and Maegor’s own, and even then they still managed to have Alysanne together.

“Lucerys is our heir, our future king.” She states it bluntly, without hesitation despite what her cousin says. It would be her grandson that sits the throne, not Rhaenyra’s false born son or even the Queen’s sons. The line of the Pale Prince and his Dark Lady would one day sit the throne as it was always meant too, and Lucerys would be the king that does. And as such he needed a Queen, one that would match him in greatness, she supposed she was lucky enough to have an abundance of granddaughters.

The most obvious choice was his own twin Jocelyn, they were born together, twin flames, echoes of each other. It was natural for them to wed, but certainly not wise politically speaking, binding her heirs together made no room for alliances. She supposed she could bind Luke to Rhaena or another cousin of his, but that too brought little to no benefit. No, the only match that even seemed to bring a semblance of benefit in their family was the Queen’s daughter, granted the girl had no dragon but that could easily be changed. Rhaenys had heard whisperings of the child, an intellect not even seen in Jaehaerys or Alysanne at her age. A quiet grace that seemed only natural in a queen. She is a quiet thing, nothing that a fostering under her tutelage couldn’t change, it would help if she grew up alongside her intended as well.

“You wish to displace Jace for Luke? Mother, you know how… impossible that is! What if it brings questions upon the twins, where would our blood be then?”

Rhaenys could admit her son’s protest was sound, but surely he could see how much of a detriment his supposed “eldest” was? Not only was the whelp in the way of their true blood but he casted doubt on his children and their claims by his very existence put the realm at jeopardy, he shouldn’t have even been allowed a dragon egg but alas her foolish cousin never listened.

Rubbing her temples she takes a breath, “It’s not perfect and we do have time to plan things out further but first we must acknowledge that we need allies. Credible allies. Ones bound not only by oath but blood.”

Laenor freezes, eyes narrowing in quiet rage, “Absolutely not.”

“She’s a good match.”

“She’s the Queen’s daughter, our enemy or did you forget that?” Her boy all but spat, fury burning in his eyes as he glared at her. Rhaenys knows it wasn’t always like this, Laenor hadn’t always hated the daughter of Oldtown as he did. Once upon a time he had come to her, stars in his eyes and asked if he could take his friend to wife. For he knew her preferences mirrored his own, the girl’s displays with Viserys’ spoiled daughter proved it. Young Joffrey approved as well; sighting how good a match it would be. Alicent and Laenor were friendly after all and whilst it wouldn’t be a match of love, it could grow into one of respect and care and the girl had enough honor to give her legitimate grandchildren which was more than what she could say for the princess. If only… If only it had been Laena as Viserys’ Queen then everything would be alright, her blood would not be so dishonored as it was. She shook her head and sighed there was no need to dwell on it now, just better to work with what she had; truly she’s not surprised by Laenor’s stubborn nature. It was just as she had been as a girl, or was it more like Corlys? It was hard to tell which he inherited this particular flaw from.

“She’s also the only way we can truly get rid of your wife’s mistake.” The word came out harsher than she hoped but it surely had its effect, Laenor quieted whatever protest on his lips surely had died by now.

“If you can convince the Queen to work with us then perhaps, perhaps I would be willing to see what I could do with Jacaerys.”

Rhaenys smiles at her son and turned back to the little bundle in her arms, Lucerys slumbered peacefully, unknowing of what was intended for him. Her father’s mirror only with her mother’s eyes, just as his twin was her mother’s mirror with her father’s eyes. If the gods were kinder then they need not ally with the Hightowers, alas… they were not.

She supposed little Helaena was perhaps one of the better queens her grandson was saddled with. Brilliant enough for it certainly, but it was not the child but her mother that caused Rhaenys to despise such a union. Alicent Hightower was exactly like her grasping father, always pushing too far for more and more power and that had the ability to be her family's undoing. Thankfully, she could easily manage it—fostering her daughter was just the start after all, she was yet to make a queen out of the girl or even be properly introduced to the child. Perhaps, she should wait on finalizing her plan until the child is presented to court in full after the tourney.

Then she could make her final judgement on her future plans to seat Lucerys on the throne.

Chapter Text

Part of Elizabeth wondered if God sought her to mirror Persephone. The doomed maiden of spring brought to ruin by loathsome Hades, who though he had elevated her as his wife and consort, had done so in the manner of which the Day-Star once beguiled Eve. Was she cursed the same, doomed like poor Eurydice to the foulest parts of Hell? For what was her fate if not damnation, a punishment for the sins she committed once before, for the follies she failed to correct in her time on earth. It didn’t however explain why her punishment mirrored the life she had once lived, once more she is the daughter of a King, ill-favored and dismissed in the favors of others. She had not done anything to displease this King, it was as if he held no true care for her or that of her brothers having only eyes for her “sister” Rhaenyra.

She shivered as she thought of the peculiar life the Almighty had bestowed upon her. A family full of abominations and sinners; a family with magick running through their veins. How Elizabeth loathed it all. She had thought herself would once again find herself in her loving mother’s embrace, only to find herself so thoroughly disappointed. Edward and Mary, how she missed them, her new “siblings” were nothing in comparison to them. Born to a world much alike Great Arthur’s own, though she was neither Guinevere nor Morgana, she could admit the merit of claiming a beast of her own. Despite her great sin she must partake in if she were to do so. Alas, such worries would have to wait until she was formally presented to court.

Thumbing the soft fabrics of her skirts the once queen can’t help but frown, she had of course seen such things before, in paintings and sculptures, yet it was another thing to wear them. Black and deep red silks pool around her, the inclusion of the red had subtly changed the meaning of the black. Shifting it from the wealth and power as was natural of a noble woman, never mind a King’s daughter, to the far darker meaning of death, which coincided to the martyrdom that often was ascribed to such a red only spelled trouble for her. She brushed her hands against the ornaments they adorned her wrists with, they shimmer slightly from what she can manage to see from beneath the veil, black scale-like flecks lay upon silver bangles shaped in a manner of serpents, or something alike them which curling around her pale wrists. A lovely if rather… ostentatious choice. Though that is nothing in comparison to what they had wished to do.

If not for the Queen (for it seemed the Almighty spared her enough to bequeath a loving mother unto her) interceding it was likely such would have been worse. In Christ’s name she was but a girl, a child now, no longer beloved Gloriana, mother and savior of her people. Nay, she was little more than a powerless Princess now, one whose brothers seemed to be disregarded in the place of a whore. A woman so loathed, she’d make even Jezebel blush, so accursed not even Helen of Troy could compare. Truly, if the Almighty wished for her to atone for her sins why would he allow, never mind condemn her to more sin?

Sins which it seemed many eagerly await her to partake in. To be the next consort of this doomed land, to put aside all the godly princes she had once known in her youth or even her Sweet Robin to be bound as Persephone once had been. Or perhaps she could go about it another way, join their heathen faith and spend the rest of her days in peace away from the war to come. Though even that seemed more likened to a dream than any reality she might be allowed.

No, her curse would never allow her such a peace. The same curse which she read about so many times as a girl, one which she had never thought much of; beauty. For it seemed it was all these men took note of her, her stomach churned at the idea only made worse as her new name came to mind. Helaena. Much too similar to the Spartan Queen (or was she the Trojan Princess?) for her own comfort. She asked the Queen about it once, the woman only smiled and said she be the torch which would light the way of the people. A second Alysanne, the supposed “Good Queen” who ruled alongside her cousin-husband Jaehaerys after the fall of her father Maegor.

She was no mere consort nor did she wish to be such.

“-cess Helaena!” One of the haggard old maids forced her to attention. Elizabeth bit her tongue as the old woman smiled kindly as if this were all a game, and not one of the most important days of her life.

“Poor dear must be frightened.” Another more somber woman spoke up from her seat as her fingers pierce through her palms, she can feel the tell tale trickling of blood as she did her best to remain composed.

She wasn’t afraid, not really, merely… wishing everything went well this day. Especially with the whore and her ilk in attendance. She heard stories as to how the woman ruined her elder brother’s presentation and merely didn’t wish the same.

“‘Tis not that good lady, I merely… wish for everything to go well.”

She hopes the woman believes her, even as the make for the finishing touches on her garments. They step back clearly pleased in their work with her, and swiftly she is guided out of her solar, and through the winding halls of the Keep. She would be the last one presented this day, for the babes have already been acknowledged and celebrated now so shall she. Her heart constrics at the thought, the memories of her reconciliation with her princely father all those years ago at Yule. At the behest of Mary and her mother's own usurper, her father had welcomed her but what if the dragon king did not?

What if he rejected her? What if he decried her as not a child of his blood and shut her away as her own father was wont to do. She shook her head, this man was not her father, he was weaker, indecisive and though not in malice had falsely dishonored her new mother and brothers. All in favor of a woman whom no such honors should have ever been granted, a woman whom was utterly warm to her as Mary once had been. Yet it is in this woman’s gaze that she sees her sister, not the loving care she so missed but the cruel, half-mad queen she had become in the end. She stands as the doors entrance now, turning her head towards the herald she watched the man inhale sharply as her maids readied themselves.

“Make way for Her Highness, the Princess Helaena of House Targaryen.”

Well, this was it then. Men push the doors open with little difficulty as Elizabeth straightened her shoulders, holding her head high she slowly but surely began to make her way through the Great Hall despite the eyes which now followed her. Music filtered through the room, the sounds of harp strings and flutes, its melody light yet somber as she moves through the room with trained steps, hands folded in front of herself just as she remembered Mary doing in her youth. She doubts she matched the effortless grace that her elder sister always seemed to possess, whilst hers was always more measured still it was by far spades ahead of her “replacement.” Men and women part, clearing her path to the throne of swords beneath the dais, the one which the King now sat and at his side sat her mother and his daughter, the favored whore.

With a deep breath she sinks into a deep curtsey in respect of those before her. An uneasy silence followed as if spellbound, accursed blood, her mind cruelly whispers whilst Elizabeth strains herself not to rise too early in fear of upsetting them. She can practically hear her mother's heart hammer in her chest as the distinct uneasy wobbling of the dragon king as he carefully took her hand into his withered one. She swallowed back the bile that threatened to rise in her throat, was this how sweet Katheryn Howard felt at her own father's side? He lifted the veil with a delicate care, as a vision of light now came into focus, she blinked for a minute as she struggled to adjust to the now foreign sights.

Though she smiles, as any good princess ought too.

(Even though Elizabeth knows she is so much more.)

“Your Grace,” her inflexions are perfect, every annunciation carefully accounted for, her voice is sweet like honey and steadfast as if to proudly display her fluency. For this tongue was not much different than those she had known from before. So, the ease to which its mastery came was truly no surprise to her. “I hope you are well.”

The King smiled, clearly pleased though his eyes did little to hide his surprise as well as the surprise of the lords and ladies which looked on. She glanced towards them quickly, eyes calculating as they watch her, perhaps it's her curse again or the fluency in which she speaks. Elizabeth neither knows nor does she care.

“I am well, my little dragon.” The king answered with a chuckle once the discomfort seemed to melt away, and the court too seemed to let out the breath they were holding. Her mother smiles too as the king speaks again. “Come little one, you are amongst kin.”

Shakily she made her way towards her mother's seat, the woman smiles as the king turned again to his subjects' voice pleasant and eager as he slips into what Elizabeth can only believe in his mother tongue. Though she scarcely pays attention to the words he speaks instead watching as the gathered lords and ladies erupted into delighted cheers and eager revelry. She can feel a burning gaze settle against her skin and catches sight of how her “sister’s” jaw tightened and eyes narrowed, displeasure clear for all to see. What did she have to be displeased about? Elizabeth merely acted as any noble child ought, it was not her fault that her child was unruly, nor that her brothers seemed to be just as ill-counseled. Still, she can scarcely stop the small, satisfied smile that made it too her face, as she quietly thanked the Almighty for the good fortune he had bestowed upon her.

Alicent coached her sister. Rhaenyra wasn’t surprised by this fact, she always knew that her former friend would use any opportunity to try and discredit her claim. But to weaponise her own daughter? Well, that was a low she didn’t think it possible to stoop too alas, it seemed Alicent loved proving her wrong. She sighed and nursed her goblet of wine, Helaena… that girl was always a strange one.

Too Andal for her tastes, and far too Valyrian for the Hightowers.

She glanced towards her sister’s way, she seemed utterly enthused by their father’s “blessing” and Rhaenyra can’t help but find it amusing. Had Alicent made her hunger for so much affection even a greeting would please her sister? Her sister who was reportedly so adored and beloved only to long for the love of a father who scarcely acknowledged her.

Surely the Gods were jesting? To think her father wanted to shackle her beloved Jacaerys to Alicent’s mirror, her dear boy would be dreadfully bored not to mention her oh, so sweet sister was reportedly behind Alicent’s foolhardy cause in opposition for her throne. Still, she supposed she could see the merit in sowing division amongst the supporters of her brother’s false claim.

Father had voiced his support of their engagement…

Decision made Rhaenyra raised her goblet in preparation to toast, “Sister.”

The child turned that fine golden thread gleaming under the flickering flames of the torches. Helaena’s gaze was sharp, observant, such made only more dramatic by the state of dress; the blacks did well enough to bring out her eyes. Rhaenyra bit back a smile, any good Queen consort needed to be clever only better they be observant.

Perhaps the Gods truly crafted my sister for my Jacaerys.

“A toast.” She begins, throat still burning with sour wine, “To the continued prosperity of our house, and to its future, my beloved children; Jace, Luke and Joss. And my siblings, Aegon, Helaena, Aemond and Daeron.”

The nobles cheer and clap politely, as Rhaenyra glanced towards her father and Alicent, taking a deep breath she continues, “And what a blessed future it is, with one such as Helaena, truly my Queen she is a credit to you; a second coming of Alysanne, wizened and clever and pious, a true Queen in the making, and yet we are but one house.”

The cheers had stopped, smiles slipping from eager revelers as they watch her with calculated precision, attention rapt as they glance between her and Alicent. Still, Rhaenyra steadies herself and smiles towards little Helaena, she’d be a good wife to Jacaerys. “My son, Prince Jacaerys will inherit the Iron Throne after me, I propose we betroth him to your daughter and my own half-sister Helaena.”

Alicent’s hand twitched towards her goblet, dark eyes wide, her father practically beams eager and ready to agree. He did want the match after all so that was no true surprise.

“Ally ourselves. Once and for all, let them rule together as King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne had done.”

“A most judicious proposition!” Her father cheered as Rhaenyra watched Alicent closely, even little Helaena seemed paralyzed as if registering what she meant. That was impossible the girl was but six namedays but Rhaenyra did have time to teach and mold her to be the future Queen of the realm.

Alicent lets out a shaky breath as her hand coiled tight around her daughter’s smaller one, she doesn’t utter a word as her father still eagerly goes on how good a match Jace and “Nelly” were. She stifles a laugh at the ridiculous nickname her half-brothers given her sister, Lena would suit her much better it fell easier off the tongue. She knows as Jace’s future Queen Helaena would be expected to care for him but how could she when she was in a court of vipers?

“Furthermore, I believe in the best interests of both the crown and my own wishes to allow the fostering of bonds betwixt my son, Jacaerys and his intended, the Princess Helaena. Strengthening and fostering such a bond that only had been matched by Alysanne and Jaehaerys - and so that in time, they might one day understand their roles towards each other and the realm as those before them had once done.”

She knows it’s not true that her mother was more a child than a woman when she married her father. But she can’t risk Alicent spouting poison in the girl’s ear, taking a deep breath she sits down eyes still glued on the Queen.

Seethe, show them just how rotten you truly are. You damnable Green bitch.

There is a satisfaction in watching her sister’s maids dither about, packing away dresses, books and jewels. She’d have to summon a seamstress to craft pieces in Valyrian style, they clearly suited her so much better than Westerosi fashions; colors of purple, red, black. Helaena couldn’t be allowed green, she didn’t need her lords thinking she was still bound to Alicent’s foolhardy cause. A new Septa would also have to be brought to Dragonstone to oversee Helaena’s education; one of the more unfortunate concessions she had to make was the allowance of Ser Gwayne Hightower as Helaena’s sworn sword whilst under her care.

It was the only way her father had been able to quell his Queen’s fury. A retinue would deliver the Hightower knight once she, Laenor and the children departed to Dragonstone. The girl made herself unavailable following the feast, clinging to her brother’s side like a baby dragon did to its mother. Her sister perhaps grasped the fact she was not to remain in the Keep, but couldn’t understand that she was to be raised at her behest rather than her wretched mother’s hand.

“Crown Princess?” One of the girl’s maids called to Rhaenyra hadn’t cared to learn any of their names as they wouldn’t be traveling with her. “Her Highness, the Princess Helaena has returned from her lessons.”

The elder daughter of the King nodded watching the doors open, her young sister easily stepped into the room, hands folded in front of her, back straight and face utterly composed. Rhaenyra swallowed hard, t'was always odd to glimpse upon her beauteous younger sister, whose ringlets of copper and gold are tucked beneath the Reachman’s veil, and whilst she isn’t dressed all that richly or rather as richly as Rhaenyra herself would have done at her age. It seemed little Helaena even in a modest dress of green silk could steal her breath even now, her dress is lined with ermine fur and embroidered with golden dragons coiled around a tower. She bears no jewelry, something which she herself could never do.

“Sweet sister,” she greets the child easily as the girl’s mismatched eyes comb over her. It’s as if the child wished to assess her, something which seemed utterly amusing in retrospect. She swallowed harshly and continued, “How were your lessons?”

Her sister doesn’t even blink, just glanced from the maids then back towards her. “‘Tis true then. I’m to be in your care, is that not right Princess?”

Rhaenyra blinked, her sister spoke with the gravity of a woman grown. There was not a single gleam of warmth in her eyes as the young girl stared her down, she looked every inch of Alicent’s creature; cold, polite and utterly bereft of life.

She’d have to fix that. No child should carry herself such as this, the girl should be allowed to be a child in truth.

It seems I truly have my work cut out for me.

“Indeed, sweet sister.”

The child nodded, thought she doubted the girl was truly satisfied with her answer. Still Rhaenyra smiled at the girl, perhaps hoping to see a bit of life in her now-ward unfortunately it seemed not to have done a single thing.

“When shall we be leaving?”

Rhaenyra sighed, “In three days time. I truly believe you shall love it on Dragonstone, Helaena just as well as I do.”

The younger princess merely narrowed her gaze as if in annoyance, “We shall see.”

At the very least she doesn't seem entirely like a lost cause.

Their departure to Dragonstone comes much too quickly for Rhaenyra’s liking. Still, she knows she can’t avoid it for long, as loathe as she was to abandon the capitol to Alicent and her schemes knew that as the heiress to the throne and more importantly the acting ruler of Dragonstone she had abandoned her duties for long enough. Her children are easily prepared by their nurses and maids. Indeed, it seems all she awaits is her young ward.

Who seemed most insistent on stalling them all. She did not fault the girl, not really, her sweet sister merely wished to say goodbye to her brothers. There is a calmness in which she does it, quiet and cold, as if she were trying not to cry in front of them. As if emotions were such a weakness; just what had Alicent taught her daughter?

“I packed some books your grandfather sent for you and some trinkets Aegon insisted be crafted from Tessarion and Sunfyre’s scales. A few dresses and furs to keep you warm, some jewels, fabric and sewing supplies.” Alicent is rambling when she settles her trembling bloodied hands atop Helaena’s small round shoulders, her dark eyes filled with tears as the green queen swallowed thickly. Rhaenyra’s heart ached at the sight of such grief before quickly dismissing it. Alicent… She made it clear that she was no friend of hers and Rhaenyra herself had tried to see past her grievous betrayal upon her mother’s death - how easily she waded through her mother’s ashes - but this was necessary for both herself and Jacaerys. She had to keep her boy safe. If that meant ripping another child from their mother so she can keep hers then so be it.

Better Alicent's daughter than my sweet boy.

“Don’t cry lady mother, I shall be alright.” the girl’s voice was soft, gentle really, as if she were trying to comfort a scared child and not a queen well over thrice her age. It's an odd sight to see, it's clear the girl is uncomfortable, out of depth with these words of comfort, yet still she tries. Tries to comfort her grieving mother. As if that bitch did not deserve such a thing, did not deserve such a punishment for her betrayal of her. Of the trust Rhaenyra once placed in her.

She glances towards her husband and nods, Laenor takes a deep breath before taking the young princess by the hand and leading her away from the queen and her sons. Helaena doesn't flinch just looked back towards her crying kin as Laenor easily carried her towards the wheelhouse where their own children reside. Part of Rhaenyra is thankful the girl doesn't cry, doesn't scream for Alicent or her half-brothers, even in this she is just as graceful as she had always been.

The crown princess glanced towards her father and king, he had been right, Helaena was perhaps the best suited towards the role as her son's bride. She merely had been much too blinded by her hatred of Alicent to truly see it. The tourney had merely been a way for the flames of Valyria to open her eyes to point her in the right direction.

Who knows perhaps the promised prince would indeed be born of Jace and Lena's line? Mayhaps it was why the Gods so blessed her young sister, so that Rhaenyra could see the truth of it, that her son of salt and sulfur needed a bride of fire and gold to bring about their intended savior. It made the most sense really, that the cold in the North be stopped by the flames and might of her blood. She glanced towards Alicent, there was something else too in the girl, something far stranger. She was not blind to the whispers of Alicent's own blood, of those supposed seal folk whom had been entrapped by her Hightower ancestors or the supposed children who had begotten them in turn.

Fire and earth. Earth and fire. A dual nature as her father was wont to joke, as if he believed such ridiculous tales, they were mere stories just as the Others and the children of the forest. Legends dead and gone that held no true weight. Still these whispers, these little lies could easily be used to her own advantage. Rhaenyra did not fancy herself a believer in fate, nor much in prophecy but she couldn't deny that there were certain exceptions to such a rule; Daenys whom had saved them, the Conqueror who had granted them their throne and her own father whom entrusted her with his secret.

“I shall miss you residing at court my dear girl.” Her father whispered, tears glistening in his violet eyes as Rhaenyra steadies herself. She cannot falter, not now when she had all but assured Jace's accession and her own. Helaena was a necessary sacrifice. The crowning jewel that would ensure the continuation of her line, of her mother's line.

Rulers must make sacrifices, father had done so with mother as I shall with Helaena.

'Tis a shame, that my reign must be secured by carving out the fate of a girl far younger than even my own mother when she was bound to the crown.

Chapter Text

The salty sea air burned his lungs as Otto Hightower grimaced, his hands remained clenched on the worn letter, the one which spelled utter damnation for his beloved granddaughter. There is some merit in this unfortunate design of his, and of the princess’ desperate offer. He glanced about the gloomy island and sighed; Helaena deserved much better than this barren rock where she would spend her days. His son easily mounts his horse with the skill of a natural equestrian, alas he lacked such a quality, and it took him round a moment or two to do the same.

I’m certainly not the young man I used to be.

The journey up to Dragonstone fairs no better, their retinue is waylaid by the muck and grime of a summer storm; when he imagined his grandchildren fostering, he often had pictured sun filled days playing and learning amongst other children. Not a cold and dreary island where his only granddaughter was a prisoner in all but name. And bound to a boy whose very position was a threat to her brothers, and in some part herself.

“Do you think Helaena has grown much since we last saw her?”

His son’s voice was light, as if trying to dispel the sour mood that had overcome them all. Otto doesn’t say anything, just guides his mare along, Gwayne still tries to chatter and bring up the mood. Though for the most part the former Hand ignores his son’s words, there was some comfort in the fact Helaena would have her uncle to remind her of home. Of Alicent and her brothers, of where her true loyalties ought to lie; with her blood not their would-be usurpers. Thankfully, the child was a clever thing; far more so than any of her brothers, a perfect jewel, a shining example of what a princess ought to be.

The Gods fashioned and lovingly cast their granddaughter in my Alerie’s image.

“I believe…” He begins simply, “That Helaena shall remember her blood runs as strong and as true as any Hightower. Even amongst dragons it oughtn’t thin.”

Gwayne nodded quietly and they continued on a while, merely enjoying the sight and sounds around them. It wouldn’t be long, certainly not, he’d see his young granddaughter soon enough. Loathe he admits it of his grandchildren it had been little Helaena who had easily stolen his heart. Aegon, Aemond and Daeron though he loved them; he knew as his only granddaughter Helaena was different. Made softer by the nature of her sex, the inherent virtue of which Rhaenyra so lacked. She was gentler, quieter and had a somber air about her that none of her siblings possessed. An utterance of doom he could never explain, Alicent had likely seen it too, had dreamed of Helaena and what the Gods so intended with their clever little star.

The gates lie ahead, like the gates of the Stranger had so easily swallowed up the ghost of Jonquil whom Florian had tried so hard to free. He bargained with them both, the Maiden had been driven to tears by poor Florian’s song that she asked her lord and husband to allow them to try once again. Humoring his wife and queen’s sentiments the Stranger so allowed it, with a single condition; Florian could not spare a glance towards Jonquil until both were in the warmth of the Mother’s embrace.

Alas he had not heeded such conditions and instead he endured the tragedy of losing his love once more. It is in knowledge of this tragedy that he thinks of Helaena; she, like poor doomed Jonquil, had been cursed to the most treacherous of fates. He knows that there is another more blasphemous connection he could make; he doesn’t dare think of it, the Gods would strike him down for daring to compare his granddaughter to them as they had Helaena’s great aunt Viserra before her.

He catches a glimpse of the gathered retinue; he shouldn’t be surprised by the presence of the Lady Laena or Daemon. Dark-haired ladies stand gathered around the princess, Strong’s sisters, alongside some others he can scarcely recognise. Instead, the older Hightower’s gaze turned immediately towards the young girl stood in the middle. She was small for a girl of six namedays, clad in a silk stola of deep blue color embroidered with dragons of black and gold thread, thrown over it is a palla crafted from silver myrish lace. They dress her up as if she were a Valyrian noble girl. Perhaps, it is to spite them, the child’s features were fine, delicate and utterly symmetrical, with large doe-like eyes that bore the same mismatched eyes of the portraits he had glimpsed of Princess Alyssa; one was a purple so dark that it was almost black and the other a startling green that reminded him of gleaming emeralds. Her skin was pale, as pale as ivory and a strange almost pearlescent sheen to it, alongside wild curls of copper and molten gold, appearing much like flames of a hearth. There was little doubt in Otto's mind that his granddaughter would only grow more beautiful with age, perhaps even into the most lovely girl in the realm.

Indeed, how cruel of the Gods to craft his granddaughter in Alerie's own cast.

The child eyes them wearily, distrust evident, eyes gleaming with a knowledge too sharp from a girl her age. He kneels to the child, his daughter’s daughter, distantly he registered his son too had joined him; Gwayne kneels to the girl, his charge, a soft smile on his face as the girl straightens her back, her face a mask of neutrality. As if she wished to try and appear brave before them. Otto’s heart breaks, shatters really into thousands of tiny pieces; how he wished to take the girl with him, to have her reside in the halls her mother once walked.

Clearing her throat the little girl speaks, voice clear and sweet like honey, “Well met, nuncle, I trust your travels were well?”

Gwayne chuckled and pressed a tiny kiss to the girl’s extended hand, “Well met, little princess. Indeed, though the sights were quite… gloomy.”

Relief flooded through Otto as he watched the girl crack a small ghost of a smile. It had been wise of Alicent to ask for one of their own to serve as Helaena’s shield. The princess’ party stared as if spellbound, even Otto himself couldn’t deny the magnetic pull his granddaughter seemed to possess. Seemingly found himself drawn to his only granddaughter in a way he had never been any of her kin; a perfect copy of Alerie's gentle beauty just as Alicent had been, though Helaena's had been refined by her Valyrian heritage.

The Gods themselves had easily granted such a blessing to my own daughter.

Surely, there is no better sign of their favor.

Their journey up to the ancient Keep fared no better in Gwayne’s opinion. The unnerving silence did little to ease his mind as he spied a look towards his young niece, his newfound charge; truly he was honored that he had been chosen as Helaena’s sword. And as eager as he had been to meet his young niece he wished desperately it were under different circumstances. Alicent had chosen him specifically for the task of caring and guarding her little girl, loathe he admit that he found himself utterly unprepared for the task and astonished by the trust his queen and sister had in him.

Helaena was Alicent’s only daughter.

As such there were certain expectations for her, a certain ideal that she must remain beholden too; the pious, dutiful daughter just as Alicent once had been. He couldn’t help but loathe it. His niece was but a girl, a clever girl, but nevertheless she was a child, not a doll to be paraded about or dressed up at the command of the princess. He resolved to do his best when it came to his little niece, to live up to the trust his sister had in him and keep her daughter safe.

Adjusting to Dragonstone isn’t as hard as Gwayne believed it would be (so long as he and his little niece steered clear of that Rogue Daemon) and Helaena seemed to enjoy his company well enough. Though truthfully the child seemed much more content with her books than she did another's company, it’s funny really just how much Helaena resembled Alicent as a girl in terms of mannerisms yet it was the ghost of his mother that she resembled most.

“Ser Gwayne,” his nephew’s usurper greeted him, she twisted her rings as her purple eyes (eyes Gwayne quickly grew to despise) stared at him as if he were merely dirt beneath her pretty little heels. “I can’t help but notice your charge is not with you.”

So that was it? Admittedly he isn’t that surprised about Rhaenyra’s inquiry, Helaena had been keen to avoid the elder princess and Gwayne was all too eager to help Alicent’s little girl. To prove just as easily to Rhaenyra why his sister and queen trusted him with the girl’s care.

“The Princess asked to pray privately.” His voice isn’t unkind, merely… detached, it was good that even this moon amongst this blasphemous flock she had not been drawn in by their words of deceit that she stayed true to their faith. Oh, he knew that Rhaenyra and her… clan paid lip service to the true faith but they didn’t believe in them truly. “I’m certain you can understand the privacy in which Sacraments are usually done? After all, you follow the Faith as we do.”

The princess’ face is pinched, lips in a firm line as she struggled to maintain what little composure she had. It was amusing really, that this was Aegon’s great rival, a wanton woman who whilst was somewhat politically competent was nowhere near the levels of his own sister. Her little stunt with Helaena’s betrothal was just a lucky coincidence, because her fool of a father got it in his head she was destined as the bastard’s Queen.

‘Tis a shame really, how easily they would no doubt crumble—it needn’t even come to bloodshed if all went as he expected.

Chapter Text

The servants closed the door behind him the moment he crossed the threshold of his and Laena’s chambers, his siren doesn't stir from her watch of their children. Not even as Daemon settled himself by her side the torchlight casts a golden glow throughout the room as the Rogue hummed. Loathe he admit he was somewhat impressed by his niece's little gamble. He hadn't thought Rhaenyra capable of such ruthless politicking, of undercutting the supposed claim that the whelp of the Cunttower Queen possessed by binding her daughter to her Strong bastard. He reaches out to brush as little Baelon's pale gold curls, as Laena clutched Rhaena closer still, that's when he sees it - there glinting like pearls against his sweet daughter's skin - were pale pink scales. He would never get used to it, to Rhaena's strangeness; the salt in her veins was stronger than he or even Laena anticipated, though it did make it much easier for Baelon's claim on the Driftwood throne.

For none of Rhaenyra's bastard whelps could claim the same. He grimaced to think of them, of the shame they inflicted upon his family's legacy, “You're brooding again, husband.”

Daemon snorts, Laena was never one to be so formal in private, never one to reproach unless she meant to discuss something with the utmost seriousness. “I’m not brooding, merely, thinking on some things. On the future of our houses which has become uncertain nowadays.”

Laena stopped and glanced towards him calla lilly eyes burning with accusation as she slips easily into their mother tongue, “I wonder, are you speaking of Rhaenyra’s little ward - or her bastard whelps she seeks to set our children aside in favor for.”

Daemon tilted his head, “I suppose it would be both wouldn’t it?”

Laena raised a brow, “You know how Rhaenyra is, she’d scarcely let the girl out of her sight if she hadn’t already sequestered herself in her chambers. Her whelps… well, it would certainly be easier to get rid of those boys than the girl’s brothers. ”

“Only the boys?”

His wife grinned, “Yes, only the boys. I am remiss we do not have two sons of our own, however, Rhaenyra’s little tactic might have proved useful to us then.”

Daemon reached out with his free hand and settled it on her flat belly, it had scarcely been three moons since she delivered the twins. And as apt as Laena said she wished to continue with the fun of their marriage. He knew it was wiser to wait, lest his darling go the same way as Aemma had. Inhaling sharply he glanced up towards his wife and daughter and chuckled, “We have time to make a second boy, there is no need to rush.”

His wife sighed, “I cannot wait to leave for Pentos again, to leave this damned castle and her.”

“Have you seen to the girl yet?” The question slips out with little fanfare, merely curious as Laena shook her head. “Surely we must before we depart, it’s only right.”

“Glimpse the fairest maid in the Seven Kingdoms?” Laena asked with a sarcastic smile, “Why, you yourself said such claims were merely desperate declarations on the Queen’s part.”

“I did.” Daemon muttered in agreement, “However it would surely be nice to refute them wouldn’t it?”

“I suppose, dearest, though I doubt the Hightower knight will let that girl out of his sights.”

Daemon nodded, enough about the girl though he didn’t want to think much on his brother’s half-breed daughter, “Has your father written to you of his intentions for my great nephews?”

Laena frowned, “Not as yet, though my mother has said she wished to foster both Baelon and her son on Driftmark and arrange a marriage between him and Rhaena. Said it would be good for the cousins to become fast friends.”

Daemon tilted his head, “Has she really? I suppose it wouldn’t be so bad, surely would make the boys loyal to another.”

“Daemon…” Laena hissed through clenched teeth, pretty purple eyes burning with a rage like a restless summer storm. “That is besides the point.”

“I’m merely hoping to ensure our children’s prospects, do you truly believe I would allow such a match to come to pass when Rhaena’s own brother is much better suited?” Daemon smiled lazily as he slipped back into his mother tongue h tough his words hadn’t seems to move Laena in the slightest, “No darling, our daughter is to be the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, our second son may have Driftmark and wed the half-breed girl if we truly wish to do away with her.”

“Your willing to marry our child to Otto Hightower’s blood? Truly, husband I can scarcely believe that.”

Daemon scoffed, “The girl is intelligent enough to bring further greatness to our legacy I would be a fool not to realize that. But she is not special enough to be Queen.”

In the end, Daemon doesn’t accompany her, instead favoring to take Rhaena on a ride atop Caraxes. To partake in the greatness of the skies. Leaving Laena to introduce her young son Baelon to her would-be niece, her boy squirms and shrieks in his nursemaid’s arms, clearly displeased as she approaches the girl’s chamber. The girl’s uncle stands outside her chamber, the one closest to the sea so she might glimpse out on the ships on the harbor, for it seemed that the Princess would have the girl want for nothing, and sought to charm her way in her newfound charge’s good graces. The knight raised a brow as his gaze flicked between her and little Baelon; Laena mustered the most charming and pleasant smile she could manage as she greets the man.

“Good morrow Ser Gwayne,” she does her best to keep her voice light, careful not to sound too… unpleasant, as the man if rather reluctantly greeted her in turn. “Is the Princess Helaena in, I thought she might want to meet her cousin.”

Gwayne Hightower chuckled, “I shall inquire of her, as she is still amongst Sacrament.”

She watches the man slip behind the door and glances anxiously towards her maid, Maliya, who merely sighed, everyone amongst Dragonstone knew that much like her mother, the Princess was a dedicated follower of the Faith. Spending hours at prayer under the guidance of a Septon, such devotion ought to be admired but Laena only found it worrying. Such piousness was troublesome in so young a child, Rhaenyra too was just as troubled, lamenting that her charge was much too Andal in truth.

Something which we unfortunately can agree on.

The Hightower man slipped back out, face unreadable as he met her eyes, for a singular moment Laena believed the girl denied her. That’s when the man spoke, “You may enter.”

The man made his disdain of her presence clear enough, as Laena inhaled sharply, how she loathed him and his brood. To think it had been his sister she had been put aside for, she moved past him easily enough as does Maliya, she observed the girl’s sitting room with little interest, one of the greater chambers, draped in red, black and ivory. She spotted dragon shaped etches on the girl’s furnishings; scale-like detailing on plush chairs, beyond them was a young girl, Laena feels her breath falter as she glimpsed the child in question, Laena squints to be sure what she is seeing is true. A peculiar if lovely creature, possessing delicate features that made her look more like a glass doll than a real child. She seemed to inherit the best of both her Andal and Valyrian blood; the flawless ivory skin of her queenly mother and her auburn ringlets though they are laced with a molten gold. So too does she inherit the famed mismatched eyes of Princess Alyssa, her grandmother. Now the girl is clad in black and red; their skirts long and flowing and in Valyrian fashion. There is a noticeable melancholy to the girl, as if she were somehow inherently doomed, though to what Laena could not say. Loathe Laena admit that girl truly was exactly as the rumors painted her and would certainly grow more beautiful as she aged.

This must be Rhaenyra’s elusive little ward then.

The child shifted somewhat uncomfortably as her cunt of a knight bowed towards her, the girl sighed and bid the man to rise, Laena wasn’t all that surprised by the formalness of the action; so used was she to hear the girl’s praises sung. A true princess at just three namedays, a little queen in the making at six. Even suffering through Rhaenyra’s complaints of the girl “acting as a woman grown” and yet she thought it mere exaggeration. A foolhardy attempt to put forth her brother’s claim once again. Indeed it was funny how in truth a mere girl had much more decorum than her good sister could ever hope to possess. Even her husband had more sense than the supposed heiress of the throne, it just made the question as to why the King clung to her supposed claim all the more confusing, it had to be guilt surely? Guilt over allowing his first queen to die in a bed of blood.

“Princess Helaena,” the knight addressed his niece easily enough. There is an odd detachment there Laena doesn’t find all surprising she had known it to be the first time that both the little Princess and the knight had been introduced to one another. It would take getting used to their new arrangement. “May I introduce you to the Lady Laena Velaryon, Prince Daemon’s wife and your aunt.”

The girl nodded quietly, almost solemnly, as she moved closer towards them. She glided like a little swan upon water, pretty little thing gifts her a curtsy once she neared, Laena couldn’t help the smile that blossomed upon her face. “Well met, lady aunt.”

The child’s eyes shift behind her towards little Baelon, mismatched eyes sparking with interest – as was natural when glimpsing a trueborn child of a Velaryon and Targaryen rather than Rhaenyra’s false born brats – notably her son’s shrieking had ceased in turn as if soothed by something unseen. The child moved closer towards her son, until she was standing just infront of the boy. “Which of my cousins is this?”

“My son, Baelon, little princess.” The girl smiles and by the Gods, Laena didn’t think the girl could get any prettier, but it seemed as if hers transformed the child entirely. It was a nice thing to say the least. However startling the girl was with that beauty of hers, she was a pleasant enough child once you got past that little part. Perhaps... perhaps she could convince Daemon to stay for the celebration of the girl's seventh nameday? It wouldn't be long and they could easily just stay with her kin rather than the girl's sister.

At the very least such a stay would be much more tolerable than enduring the princess' obvious affection for my own husband.

Chapter Text

The moons following Helaena’s departure were odd to adjust too for Aegon, so used was he to her dithering about, forever trailing behind him or mother. Sweet, pious, clever Helaena, always quiet, always courteous, now at the mercy of his half-sister Rhaenyra. Today is her nameday, she's seven now, despite only spending four moons on Dragonstone it feels as though it had been an eternity with her cast amongst Rhaenyra and her lickspittles.

Admittedly, Aegon didn’t know much of his father’s elder daughter, as he had always been careful to never remain in the woman’s presence for long, though he knows the King favors her. And despite the cruelty in which she had stolen his sister that Rhaenyra cares for Helaena; he had seen it, seen the little trinkets she offered his sister, the books she had sent for, perhaps it was all in preparation for this.

For stealing her away from the only home she had known. Aegon hates it. Hates that he could do nothing to stop it, such feelings made worse by Aemond’s constant pestering. At five namedays it was clear his younger brother hadn't truly understood why Helaena had departed with Rhaenyra. Not like Aegon did, mother said Helaena was lost to them, a hostage in all but name, though Aegon knew it wasn’t so in truth. He wants so badly to fly Sunfyre to Dragonstone and bring Helaena back himself, but he knows all the dragons that reside there are far bigger than his. So perhaps, he had to come up with another plan? Mother would likely want to be part of it, she grieved Helaena’s loss the most after all, refusing to allow any of them to truly leave her side. When grandfather asked after a potential fostering for Daeron she had denied him with such a rage that Aegon thought she’d begin to spout fire like Sunfyre.

“My prince,” One of his gentlemen ushers hesitantly stepped forward as another kept buttoning up his doublet. It’s a deep emerald green stitched with gold, pretty embroidered flowers are stitched in; roses; Helaena’s favorite flowers. He’d been especially insistent on their inclusion to try and keep her close. “The Queen is here.”

Aegon nodded as the man backed away and instead Ser Arryk led him towards his sitting room, his mother was there and behind her was Ser Criston. With a simple wave of his hand he dismissed his sworn sword, he had no need of him amongst kin, especially not when he knew which way the conversation would go. He glanced between the pair as mother fiddled rather nervously with her chaplet, precious stones gleaming as she did so, his throat tightened as he settled on a chair of plush velvet opposite of them.

“Lady Mother.” His voice is calm, poised just as Helaena would have done. He hopes he doesn’t give his nervousness away. His mother eyes him the same way Helaena would have, calculating and sharp, though unlike his young sister he doesn’t soften. “You wished to speak with me?”

Better to play coy than to give the game away Helaena would do the same, certainly.

Wouldn’t she?

His mother blinks as if in disbelief though Aegon believes beneath her trained mask of indifference he can see something akin to surprise. It makes Aegon want to snort, with a sister like Helaena did she think him so neglectful of proper etiquette? He wasn’t Rhaenyra. Sure, he didn’t like being as formal as Helaena; but he was plenty capable of it when called upon.

His mother recovers quickly, dark brown eyes burning with conviction as she watches him as if she truly saw him for the first time. “Indeed. Though I believe you know what this is about, Aegon?”

“My duty towards the crown.”

The words fall simply yet there is a weight to them. Such words were more suited to fall from Helaena’s lips rather than his own; his heart ached as he remembered their goodbye, Helaena was never great when it came to comfort but she had tried to soothe the loss they'd feel. Nails dig into his palms and Aegon takes a breath, the least he could do was ensure she'd return home in the end. What kind of brother would he be if he left her in the enemies' company?

Instead of waiting for either his mother or her sworn sword to speak he does so first. “Teach me.”

His throat burned as he continued, “Teach me so I can bring her home.”

His mother's eyes widened as Ser Criston bit back a grin, Aegon didn't care for it merely staring at his mother in leave of her answer. Her hand trembled as she set the beaded chain against the table, the smallest of smiles on her face - the first since Helaena had left them. “Of course, Ser Criston, would it please you to ensure my son and I are not disturbed for the time being?”

His mother's man nodded and headed towards the door, as his mother moved closer towards him. There is something different about her now, something proud yet manic, almost desperate; he knew better than anyone just what Helaena’s absence had done. His sister may have been the quiet sort, but she could easily liven up a room, possessing a warmth and charm Aegon never truly noted till now.

“Tell me, Aegon, what do you think are important qualities for a king to have to ensure a prosperous rule.”

Aegon started and glanced up at his mother, “Oh- I- Money?”

His mother chuckled, “That is true money is important to the treasury, however dearest it is not a quality. How do you think as a King you ought to act?”

“Merciful. Any good king ought to be merciful, but also ruthless against their enemies.” The words fall from his lips, not his, Helaena’s when she too tried to convince him to take action for his birthright. He had brushed her off, his sister whilst brilliant was not a ruler, though she had ascribed what qualities she would want him to have as a king. The answer must have been the right one as his mother’s smile brightened somewhat; Aegon wants nothing more than to keep it so. And to bring Helaena home. He’d endure the depth of the Stranger’s halls as Florian had done; venturing through the Seven Hells himself, endure the damnedest of punishments all for his blood. He would not falter, could not in truth, for if he did then surely Helaena was as lost as Jonquil.

I have to do this. I have to bring her home, the Gods themselves cannot deny me thus. 

“As you said, money is important, as is mercy and strength. However all are useless if you do not know how to utilize them properly, the Conqueror’s own sons are perfect examples of this. Aenys, he was much too merciful and far eager to please, leading many to think him a weak king.”

Aegon cuts her off, “He was a weak king, he allowed the Faith to arm themselves and they almost brought our dynasty to ruin.”

His mother shot him a reproachful look but didn’t say anything, choosing instead to continue. “Maegor was much too cruel, leading his men to hate and conspire against him. Even his own daughter sided with the rebels and bound her claim to his rival’s own. What I am saying Aegon, is that it is important to know when strength is needed and when mercy is better suited. Do you understand?”

Aegon nodded quickly, “Yes mother, I understand.”

His mother nodded simply, “The maester tells me you are good with numbers and sums. Any good king must have a quick wit about them when delegating court.”

Aegon frowned, then how in the Seven hells did father become king? The man practically had no sense when it came to court, shaking his head he chose instead to listen to his mother. She at the very least knew how to govern properly, much like how his grandsire presumably knew and just as easily took Helaena under her wing before Rhaenyra took her under hers. Rhaenyra who scarcely knew how to govern Dragonstone was instructing his younger sister in preparation of her supposed queenship with Jacaerys.

If Helaena is to be anyone’s Queen then she is to be mine. Not any bastard born whelp of Ser Harwin “Brokenbones” Strong and my half-sister. Aegon could only hope when the time came Helaena accepted the match for he knew her great disdain for their families’ ancient tradition of wedding son to daughter. Perhaps, she’d be more comfortable wedding him than a false born prince who held no true claim over the throne.

She was as cursed as Cassandra, the once-loved priestess of sun-kissed Apollo, for what cruel irony befell thus, to be etched in the same cast as her own namesake, Queen Elizabeth of York. As much like she, the young girl was born upon the first bloomings of spring rather than the dying of summer, Maiden’s Day, such auspicious beginnings as hers meant to signal greatness the queen always told her. Yet here she is, accursed to lived her namesake’s life, a princess binding her claim to another’s though unlike the great love of her grandparents had been known for Elizabeth was to endure an accursed union, one born of sin itself. The hearth before her crackled as she pulled the string tight, fixing the final stitch on the dragon scale tight.

She is seven now, an auspicious age, one where they were to bring a woman of little repute to tell her fate. One which she had seen only in her dreams; dreams which she longed to cease. The celebrations in honor of the Maiden was almost done, she thinks of the peculiarities of it all; the Maiden was like Persephone, the wife of the Stranger - the Queen of Death. Yet just as well she was like wild silver-eyed Artemis, for it was the forests she loved where she was brought below. Having helped the Warrior cut down a doe for some godly feast or another, it was then atop his chariot the Stranger rode that he rested her up as she tried to run.

Today was the day she’d claim a dragon of her own, or so the Crown Princess said. The act of which bound her to the little boy with eyes which reminded her of mud, she’d be taken amongst the caves and allowed a creature of her own. A boon in celebration for her birth, another effort for the princess to legitimize her little son through her. Biting her tongue she sets her needlework aside, it was better not to try and tame one, then she’d be free. Either him or Aegon at the very least. She shivered at the idea, how she liked it not. Glancing about her chambers and the girl frowned, their richly decorated with dragon-like instruments, an ornate canopy bed lay closest to the window by the sea, its curtains made out of the softest of silks, overladen with swan-down pillows (and how Elizabeth had to grimace once she made the distinction they were not in fact of goose) and a well stitched coverlet made from navy blue silk embroidered with dragons and ravens.

What would Edward and Mary think of me if they saw me now?

She glanced towards the tapestries, the supposed glories of Valyria of Old, all finely made of the most expensive fabrics and thread. There are a few paintings too that she hadn’t cared much for. There is a roman lectus near the hearth, embroidered with scale-like stitches, a little farther was a room opening up to a study and her viewing chamber. The same one where she so easily received her aunt and young cousin.

Yes, indeed these were lavish chambers with perhaps the most beautiful view of the sea below. Something which her darling sister ought to have done to impress her; if so it had ended in folly.

She is not all that surprised when her supposed half-sister’s maids come to collect her, the princess was indeed eager for her to claim such a creature for herself. Brushing off invisible dust from her dress Helaena swiftly followed them with her uncle, Ser Gwayne trailing behind her, there is some trepidation in it. In the knowledge she’d have a creature of her own; though she can’t help but wonder which one she’d claim, they say the dragon chose the rider, so what if none chose her? Would she be allowed back at court, the girl shook her head, oh how foolish a thought that was! Of course she would not.

“Are you nervous, sweet sister?” The woman asked of her, eyes burning with curiosity and something else. Something she can’t quite name. Elizabeth just nodded rather than deigning the elder woman with a response, better to play up the role of a skittish young girl which she surely believed then to play her true hand. It surely had been the right response as she caught sight of the woman’s eager smile; so eager was she to try and assure her of such a thing as her right to a creature of her own. “Do not worry, sweet girl, I’m certain you shall claim a mighty dragon of your own.”

Elizabeth nodded again, doing her best to keep herself steady as they made their way to the ancient tunnels, slippered feet practically stamping over grass as she kept pace with the princess. There is nothing regal about their journey towards the ancient maw; she swallowed thickly as she stood at the entrance of a lair she knew to be Silverwing’s own, for the pliant and unassertive dragon would suit best her ambitions to any other. The princess already told her of the creatures nesting habits, how Silverwing would coil around her bonded whence they occasionally shared a lair.

“Are you ready?” The princess asked, silver curls bound by a braid, though slightly windswept, purple eyes burning with pride as her much taller frame practically brimmed with excitement. “To take to the skies as our ancestors have done, as I have?”

Elizabeth finds herself nodding despite the great urge she had to point out that perhaps her going in alone wasn’t the best idea, what if the creature decided to eat her alive? Or burn her to ash? Surely, the princess ought to have thought of that, did she not?

I suppose I shall find out whence all is said and done.

Shakily she stepped forward, eyeing the great and dark abyss before hesitantly taking a step then another, letting out a breath she swiftly traversed forward. She squints as she eyes the darkened cave, a gleam of silver catches her eye and she smiled quietly to herself. There she was, that great creature which she sought to claim as her own; Silverwing. Coiled against the bronze of another and swallowed hard, by Christ why hadn’t the princess told her that he’d be here as well?

Perhaps, she’d be able to quietly retreat. To ask for a different day to claim a creature such as this? As if sensing her worries, the bronze creature lurches forward almost protective of it’s silver companion. Elizabeth can feel her pulse quicken as she scuttled back, eyes carefully tracking the great creatures movements, it maw glows dimly as she catches sight of red-gold embers. And prayed to the Almighty himself.

O Lord have mercy on me, to God I commend my soul.

To Jesus Christ I commend my soul; Lord Jesu receive my soul.

Shakily the girl raised a hand towards the creature, whole body trembling, “Calm. Be calm, Vermithor.”

The beast snarled, as Elizabeth bites down her tongue, God be damned she would not die due to the princess’ insistence she lay claim to a creature she truly could do without as of now. Crying out again, voice stronger now she allowed herself to be filled with a righteous fury as was befit her damnable fate. “Be calm and serve me, Vermithor. Serve.”

Something shifted in the creature’s eyes as Elizabeth felt something settle in the marrow of her bones, something warm, she doesn’t dare glance away from the creature as it settled its head against the palm of her hand. Almost docile, as if calmed somehow, she swallowed hard as she managed a shaky laugh because by God’s grace she had done it. She claimed a dragon. A dragon of a king long since past, one that befit her best, she can hear the princess call her name panic laced in her voice as Elizabeth stared at the creature before her.

Should I mount him? That was what I must do is it not?

As if sensing her thoughts the creature lowered itself allowing her to mount it with an inelegance she can’t help but despise. Delicate hands coil around the clasp as she settled herself in the saddle, her fingers move towards the reins as she winds them round her wrists (partly in assurance the damned thing doesn’t try and kick her off) she turned towards the creature’s mate it’s head tilted in almost curiosity of her. Elizabeth stifled a laugh as the beast strode forward, steps trembling beneath her before taking to the skies themselves. Elizabeth shrieked and tightened her hold on the reins feeling a slight burn in her wrists as she does so whereas the beast roared as if in laughter much to his new mistress’ displeasure. She glanced down beneath her and immediately regretted it, how in the heavens above was she meant to get down?

“Helaena!”

It was her good brother’s voice, sharp and commanding as his and the princess’ beasts caught up to her. Elizabeth blinked, and the beast beneath her circled lazily in the clouds, though occasionally it caused her much fright by diving downwards. Causing laughter from the other two riders, tugging at the reins she tried to call the dragon back towards Dragonstone, its ancestral home.

She forced back a wince as the reins cut into her slim wrists, still she knows it’s worth it, worth not plummeting to her death. Elizabeth is never more pleased than when the creature landed, as soon as they had Ser Laenor slid off his creature in a practiced manner as had Rhaenyra, she allowed herself to let go of the reins air hissed through her teeth as she catches sight of her reddened and bruised wrists. Gingerly she rubbed her injured wrists as the pair approached, both bore eager smiles on their faces as two other beasts swiftly joined them, much larger than either Laenor or Rhaenyra’s mounts.

Laenor chuckled as he called up to her, “Do you need help unchaining yourself, little princess?”

His voice was filled with amusement as heat crept up the now former queen’s cheeks. How she loathed this, this uselessness whence it came to her now mount. She had studied these creatures with the sole purpose of claiming one, and yet, when in practice it seemed so much different.

After a few more tugs she finally managed to extradite herself from the creature and instead her half-sister beheld her. Grip tight as if in fear she’d disappear. Elizabeth squirmed rather uselessly in discomfort, as she glanced towards the dragon, her dragon once again. The last rider of the creature was the Old King, a wizened king so she read, it was a good omen such a creature allowed her to claim it. Perhaps even better than the silver creature of the “Good” Queen Alysanne.

She recognized one of the newcomers as the Lady Laena, presuming the new man at her side to her other uncle - her sire’s brother - Prince Daemon Targaryen. He and his wife cradled little babes close to them, fear sparked in her chest… had they ridden with their children?

“You must be my other niece, the one with the Hightower’s look.” He says the words as if they were poison, Elizabeth stilled in Rhaenyra’s arms as the elder princess brightened eagerly and stepped away from her to grab the man’s arm.

There… close. Perhaps the rumors of the younger children do in fact have some truth about them.

She curtsied shallowly to the prince, careful to show not an inch of weakness. The man raised her chin, sharp violet eyes roving over her features with careful precision, “You are indeed a beauty, little niece.”

God Almighty… Her stomach coiled tight as she eyes this man - of all the people she had to be reminded of why him? He doesn’t give much a second glance instead turning back to speak with Rhaenyra and his own lady wife, as Elizabeth lets out the breath she hadn’t known she had held. Nails dig into her palm as she eyes the man - the shadow of Thomas Seymour - even in damnation she cannot be freed of him, just as she could not her sweet, foolish, doomed cousin Katheryn Howard - Rhaenyra served best as a reminder to her father’s fifth wife, his “Rose Without A Thorn” how wrong he had been… Despite her sins, Elizabeth had loved her, had loved her in a way she never could Catherine or Mary for she was no mother but indeed a true sister. Alas she had seen how such befell her.

“I was so worried when you hadn’t emerged.” The princess murmured, voice low as the younger princess huffed, then why had she decreed she go alone? If Elizabeth had gone with another there certainly would have been less risks.

A familiar voice rang out words scathing, “Then perhaps you shouldn't have sent the Princess alone if you were so afraid, Crown Princess.”

The elder princess’ lips pursed as Elizabeth stayed herself, truly she wished to smile, as such made most sense. Indeed the Velaryons and Targaryens around her seemed to pay no mind to her sworn sword who easily settled himself at her side. Dark eyes softening as they take her in, “Vermithor, little princess? I would have thought for certain you were to claim Silverwing.”

Elizabeth sighed, “I meant too though perhaps it’s for the best not to be.”

Uncle Gwayne snorts, “Or perhaps you're more alike a king than a queen.”

Her eyes snap towards him at their utterance, a ghost of a smile on her lips as she remembered when she truly became Gloriana. At the remembrance of Gravelines when she walked amongst her people as Good King Hal done his at Agincourt. Yes, she had always been more suited for rulership, Rhaenyra seemed not too pleased at his words. Indeed the princess seemed almost repulsed by them, not that Elizabeth paid much mind to her nor to the others as Vermithor let out a huff of hot air against her back.

Is… Is it amused?

Could such a creature even grasp our conversation?

The Princess cleared her throat, almost eager to change the conversation. “A feast. We must have a feast to celebrate such a triumph! One that too befits the I had planned for your nameday.”

Elizabeth finds herself nodding despite herself, she wrinkles her nose in distaste, the smell of blood and brimstone clung to this feeble form. She ought to take a bath to watch such filth off of her, part of her wonders if the princess would take offense to such a request. In the end, her distaste for the smell was worth more than anything the princess would’ve given her as a reaction. She is careful to ensure her voice is quiet, almost soothing as she glances towards the princess. “Might I go back to my chambers to bathe first?”

The woman laughed joyously and kissed the crown of auburn curls, the sweetest of smiles upon her faces as she gazed at her with nothing but affection. “But of course, sweet sister.”

Her uncle offers her his arm, if in guidance to help her journey back to the Keep. Elizabeth takes it easily, tiny fingers clutching tightly at his arm as they make their way back to her chambers. Her uncle makes no move to assume his post indeed it seemed he solved to stare at her instead, ignoring how maids come forth to deliver both steaming hot water and silks to one of the smaller chambers from her living quarters.

“Helaena,” her uncle begins amusement ringing in his voice, “Do you understand what you’ve done?”

Before Elizabeth could even hope to deign a response the maids hurry forth to bring her to where they would prepare her for the feast in her “triumph” of which she could see no true cause. The water is piping hot, almost steaming against her skin whence she finally enters and littered with sweet smelling flowers, out of the corner of her eye she catches sight of garments, colored not the familiar reds and blacks she’d come to associate with this long winded stay with the Princess. But instead silks of  a deep blue and cloth of silver; House Arryn’s colors, the colors of Rhaenyra’s own mother. The maids are in no hurry when she finishes, one is rubbing sweet scented oil into her delicate skin, as two other maids stand silent on either side of her carefully pulling tight the laces as Elizabeth bites down the urge to protest, if she should be dressed in anyone’s colors it should be her mother’s not a queen dead and gone. They braid her hair in the manner of Visenya, that warrior queen of the first Aegon, surprisingly they forego the pallas leaving her auburn curls on full display.

They lead her out of the room, her uncle sits in front of the fire posture solemn as he easily turns to her, his eyes widened slightly as he takes in her appearance before quickly frowning. Elizabeth knew there was something about her attire which bothered him; perhaps it was how quickly the maids sought to decorate her in silver jewels, decorations of the raven of the Eyrie perched atop a crescent moon. He shook his head and easily strode forward though his gaze remained reproachful as they flick towards her maids, instead he chooses to offer her his arm and lead her through the winding halls to the greater hall. Rhaenyra beams, catching sight of her as Laenor blinks clearly startled though he too said nothing. Truly, Elizabeth wondered if perhaps there was some sort of insult in dressing her as an Arryn lady rather than a Targaryen princess. Eagerly the princess seats her next to her good brother, Ser Laenor and her uncle, Ser Gwayne, for all her children are too young to be in attendance of the current feast.

Alas… I sought to see the truth in regards to the little twins.

She eyed the table anxiously, too many options it seemed, fire roasted veal seasoned with some herbs in far flung Lys, roasted swan dregged in a sweet sauce known in the Riverlands, and fish! There were so many fish dishes, swallowing Elizabeth looked over her options and sighed, glancing toward her sister and her good brother—much to her own displeasure it seemed they were too enraptured in the gathered joy around them to notice, very least it wasn't all that bad. She paused before selecting roasted duck, sweet berries and some lemon cakes, though she scarcely indulged in them more so choosing to pick at her plate. Eyes practically willing the meal on her plate to burn itself at many others reveled in the celebrations around her; words echo in her head, aching to be spilled from her lips, sweet, honeyed things that would serve to doom her further.

Sweet, mad Cassandra…

Was it bad enough to be my grandmother’s mirror?

Still, she knows the words which she ought to speak, having never had much hope to stop them. As likened to Cassandra she cannot help what she says, once she utters words of augury she knows she cannot hope to stop them. Perhaps she was doomed like Cassandra in that her words would never be believed? No, she could not be certainly, perhaps in the privacy of her own chamber she'll allow such words to spill free from her lips but certainly not now.

Yes. Yes she’d allow herself that, but not before then, she could never understand it. The visions she so often glimpsed, the shouts, screams, curses and the ringing of swords, she could never hope to understand such things. She knew of them, of dragon dreams, though these... These seemed much different than what had been described in the books she had read. She shakes her head in an effort to will such things away, thankfully they abate quickly enough - magick was something that touched her deeply in these strange lands, far more than the rumored will of the river maid, Melusina, and that dreaded curse which dogged so heartily her blood. The one which Mary so impressed upon in her youth, blue eyes shining with a reverence as she spoke the tale; she knows little if Edward knew it or the King, but she believes they had perhaps heard whispers of them.

I wonder… Is Melusina’s story, fabled as it is a glimpse towards the supposed past of my mother’s own house.

Chapter Text

He was in a Sept of sorts, color gleams through luxurious stained glass windows as he eyed the beautiful architecture, he could spot hints of Valyrian influence. A building yet to be built then. Flower petals red and white are thrown from the windows, cheers and revelry erupted from the gathered. Soon all huddled into the Sept, there standing under a dais was a young man, a dark-haired young man, clad in black and cloth of gold, a golden crown encrusted with jewels atop his head. Jacaerys. Viserys beamed with pride at the sight of his kingly grandson, oh how his heart ached that he'd never see the day but he knew the boy would have a reign just as prosperous as Jaehaerys himself. With such a clever queen in Helaena it was all but assured.

The doors open and a young woman clad in black and red walks forth; Helaena. Her ringlets of copper and gold lay unbound, her dress looked to be a peculiar combination of both Valyrian and Reachman influence. Her face composed as she made her way forth, her pale ivory skin seemed to shine in the light of the sun, causing his young daughter to emit a glow of sorts, the pace of her walk was slow, almost as if she were being led to an execution rather than her own wedding. Viserys frowned, he thought the pair would’ve gotten close in their time upon Dragonstone though he supposed he could understand it. Helaena was five years Jacaerys’ senior; it was perhaps strange of her to wed one with such a gap as theirs, yet Ceryse had easily taken Maegor to husband and she was over half his age. Perhaps it was her pious nature, she had been told such unions as theirs were wrong under the teachings of the Seven - despite his grandsire’s proper ruling that their line was special in the sense they hungered for dragon blood and in the rare cases they did not it was often such descendants married within the line.

Jacaerys turned towards Helaena expectant as did the bejeweled Septon, his younger daughter took a breath before kneeling before the Septon and Jacaerys easily followed in suit. There’s a paper under the dais, some sort of document Viserys cares not for. The pair sign it. Then stand with the gracefulness of royalty, of children raised to take the crown, the Septon bound their hands and began the ceremony. Yet it is in Valyrian which he speaks, an insistence on Jacaerys’ part to ascertain the importance of their heritage.

His grandson and daughter dutifully repeat the words with a solemness, though he believes he can see a smile gracing his daughter’s face as she spared a glance towards Jacaerys.

That was good, Alicent’s poison had not taken in her young heart.

The visions shifts. A different scene settling as he found himself instead standing above the Dragon Pit, he can taste the welcomed bitterness of brimstone and blood, as great pillars of flame - of fire burst to life in a multitude of colors, appeared as if they were in an odd dance of sorts, twisting and turning this way and that, as excitement burns in the King’s belly as he could hear the great cheers of the people.

From overhead he watched a flower crown fall to his feet, perhaps it had been thrown from one of the many houses of King’s Landing in celebration of Jacaerys and Helaena’s wedding. But it was not the crown itself that caught his attention but instead its color, a rose crown with both red and white petals. How odd is that? Not just merely red and white roses but joined as one. The king blinked and winced in preparation as he knelt to the crown taking it in hand just as screams filled his ears alongside the cheers, blood seeps from the petals and unto his hands. Higher still the flames had risen, consuming all around him, all of the might of King's Landing, as the distant sounds creep closer still; thundering hooves, splintering shields, and ringing swords.

And there in the center of the flames sat the Iron Throne.

A sweet melody fills his ears, once he heard this song, once his own dearest child had played it to him. Helaena had been so pleased to perfect it, it was soft yet sorrowful, as his ancient words filled his head. Words which flow with such a fluidity Viserys wonders if perhaps such lyrics were merely a piece in their future.

Alas sweet child, who doth not wrong,

Cursed be thy to sung such song.

Fairest by far is she, thousands of ships cast to sea.

Construction of what would later be known as the Great Sept of Viserys, better known as the Great Sept began in late 115 AC swiftly following the departure of the Princess Helaena Targaryen to Dragonstone under the careful tutelage of her elder sister, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen. Alas, sparsely few letters survive of Princess Helaena of Oldstones circumstances whilst she remained under the Princess Rhaenyra’s care. Though records from King’s Landing do in fact hint at her treatment under her sister, the Princess’ care; including the tale of young Helaena’s claiming of the Old King’s dragon, Vermithor came to the great joy of King Viserys. As had the tales of her great beauty which seemed only strengthened during this time. Whilst in King’s Landing King Viiserys himself begun two construction projects, the first a Great Sept atop the hill of Visenya, one hewn from white stone and marble embossed with gold, such architecture having never been seen before though none could deny the lavishness of such a building could only be rivaled by the Starry Sept in Oldtown, the house of the Faith.

His Hightower bride was said to be quite in awe of the King’s newfound piousness in the absence of their only daughter. “A guilty mind” some whispered, “causes many to atone by virtue of the Gods' graces.” Others still whispered, “It was the Queen, for she’d not acknowledge His Grace until he said prayers to the continued prosperity of the realm.” Queen Alicent herself hadn’t been recorded much in this time, though much could be said of Prince Aegon himself, the eldest of her children, whom had seemingly taken himself with a seriousness he had never once possessed prior to the younger princess’ departure. Perhaps it was the knowledge how easily King Viserys would sacrifice his own blood to secure the princess’ claim drew him to action.

For it seemed at the Queen’s urging did the King allow his eldest son to sit the council as Princess Rhaenyra once had done as his cupbearer, citing the need of proper positions for her own children with little Helaena’s prospects as her nephew’s Queen. Better still was Queen Alicent’s own ambitions further with the security of her own sons inheritance - t’was why such preparations for reconstruction of the ruins of Oldstones came to the question of many, it was clear His Grace wished to provide for his children by his second wife yet to do so would merely put the future reign of his eldest daughter at risk. And so the King tried to appease both sides.

The Princes Aegon, Aemond and Daeron would indeed be provided for. The eldest boy, Aegon would do as Rhaenyra once done and served the cups of the council, to which decisions of the realm would be decided. Prince Aemond would serve as a squire under the guidance of the white cloak, Ser Criston Cole. And Prince Daeron much like Princess Helaena herself would be sent off at but seven namedays to Oldtown to squire for Lord Ormund Hightower. Though none knew to which son King Viserys intended to gift Oldstones to or whether he wished to title Prince Daemon’s son, Baelon.

All of which would swiftly be proven wrong, for it was not a lord who'd rule Oldstones but instead a Lady.

— Fire & Blood, Being a History of the Targaryen Kings of Westeros, by Archmaester Gyldayn

Chapter Text

Aegon grimaced as he eyed Daeron and Aemond, how he longed for when Helaena was still at court. Serious though she may be, Helaena had always been one to keep court interesting at the very least; alas his sweet-tempered sister was at the mercy of savages, bound to bastard blood. And try as he might to prove himself a worthy future king it seemed his father would not have her as his bride.

Stubborn, deluded old fool…

To wed a true-blooded princess to a bastard wyrm unworthy of breathing the same air - never mind standing in her presence.

At the very least he knew Helaena was pleased with his progress when he found time to write to her, when not attending to his mother’s side or serving cups on the council. Truly, Aegon understood it not - he was the eldest son of the King and yet, and yet - he was denied a sister-wife as was his right as a Targaryen never mind a future king. In truth, Helaena was perhaps the best bride one could wish for - as pious as Maegelle, as clever as Alysanne and rumored to be as beautiful as Rhaenys, the first conqueror’s wife - truly if he had her at his side then surely he’d not desire another, scarcely even dream of ever besmirching her honor as men would so often expect of him.

Everything I do, I do for her sake - to be a king she would be proud to call her husband.

“Prince Aegon,” his mother’s man, called to him sharp and commanding as the young prince turned towards him. “Keep your feet light. Unless you wished it was easier for your enemies to uncut your blade.”

Aegon took a breath and adjusted his stance just as the man counseled, he can feel the heat of stares against his neck and sighed. Aemond. There were oftentimes when his young brother too reminded him of Helaena - that seriousness which they shared, though their sister was far more devoted to their mother’s faith than he. Far more than any he had known, a pious little queen in the making, his future wife seemed to be indeed. Mother would have the match made if not for Rhaenyra’s trickery those few years ago. Alas, it seemed he’d have to wait until such a time where pretext could be found to annul such an arrangement.

The white cloak eyed him seriously, a satisfied smile on his face, “You’ve improved much these many years, my prince. Perhaps, we ought to test you and your brothers blades against mine own?”

Aegon snorts, “That is hardly a fair fight, Ser.”

The Dornish knight raised a brow, “Since when was war ever fair?”

That… that was indeed true, after all, had it been fair whence Rhaenyra stolen Helaena away? Had it been fair when his bride had been condemned to wed a bastard wyrm? Nay, war was never fair. And if it was to be such a way where he needed to play dirty to get his future queen back then he’d take whatever chance he could to do so.

Quickly he composed himself as Helaena would have done, tightening his grip on the practice sword. His gaze flicked to Aemond then little Daeron, his youngest brother was as old as the bastard whelp but already proved himself a credit to their house in a way Helaena’s supposed future husband could never have done. “Very well, Aemond, Daeron! Shall we?”

His brothers glance nervously between each other before advancing forth, wooden swords at the ready, at the man’s nod they advanced. Aegon attacked first, wild and fierce, he is not surprised the man was able to block him and force him back after a few careful swings. Aemond and Daeron attack next and though they last seconds fewer than he. Needless he tries again, only to once forth be repelled back - the knight chuckled good naturedly as he observed them there is a pride that shines in his eyes, he is proud of them, proud of their progress.

Yet it is not enough.

He needed to be stronger, needed to be quicker - better so he can bring Helaena back as he promised.

“A good spar indeed, my princes.”

Aegon nods despite himself, he had scarcely been able to truly attack the man - glancing up at the ramparts he sees his mother, dark eyes quietly assessing, carefully calculating as they take him and his brothers in. He throws his sword down and heaves, by the Seven what would Helaena think if she saw him incapable of holding his own? Perhaps she’d smile and say it was alright that he could not yet best the knight - that she would wait until he could, so he might save her from that condemnation which their father refused to free her from. Or perhaps she’d be furious, Aegon for his part could never remember a time unto which Helaena had been angered by them, for it seemed she was not merely as pretty as a rose but equally as gentle.

My sister is no dragon, but indeed a rose without a thorn.

T'was something he always admired in her, despite all her dragon blood - all her severity she was more so their mother's daughter than their father's. Always composed, how she was able to keep calm in the direst of circumstances is something he'd never know nor could ever imagine in himself.

“If that is all then perhaps a venture to the Dragon Pit is order is it not?” He glanced towards his brothers both of whom looked pleased at the notion though Aemond slightly less so. Having been of a melancholy since Dreamfyre rejected his claim and news that Helaena secured Vermithor as her own mount.

Indeed how strange it was that such a creature would reject Aemond - perhaps he was meant for one much more powerful than the Black Bride’s mount. One which easily had seen battle, like Vhagar for example. Though she was the mount of their lady aunt, Laena Velaryon.

Regardless, Aegon was sure his brother would one day have a mount of his own just like him and Daeron - one which would be in accord with his somewhat temperamental nature.

He settled a hand atop his younger brother’s shoulder and squeezed, “You’ll have a dragon one day, one as brilliant as you are little brother, I am certain of it.”

Aemond blinked but he could see a shine of something in his gaze, a spark of hope that filled him thus. Little Daeron easily bounded up to them, toothy grin as he practically bounced with excitement, “Can I show Aemond, Tessa? Mayhaps that will cheer him up?”

He spared a glance towards his brother and paused, Aemond cracked a small almost invisible smile at their younger brother's excitement; that was good, that he be so pleased now, better than whence he was plagued by melancholy. He already had one sibling who suffered from such in Helaena he did not need another.

Aegon stood beside Aemond watching as Daeron's Tessarion was brought before them. Brilliant azure scales glimmer like sapphires caught in the torches light, he noticed how Aemond stilled and frowned, Aemond's envy was so obvious part of him wondered if he'd act the same way with Helaena and her bronze beast. Still he tried to appear cheered for Daeron's sake; something which had been most important - better to smile falsely than to allow the world to know of their discord.

It is Aemond's voice which draws him from his musings, as Tessarion snapped up the roasted goat in her maw heartily taking part in such a meal. Daeron turned from his dragon - sky blue eyes latching onto Aemond with a sympathy Aegon wants to chastise - they were princes they needn't show such weakness or at the very least not here.

"Do you truly believe I'll have a dragon one day?"

This again? Aegon rolled his dark violet eyes in annoyance and sighed, leave it to his little brother to worry over what didn't truly matter. "Aemond..." He muttered careful not to rouse the attention of the keepers.

His younger brother turned towards him, pale lilac eyes seemed to burn with a sorrow unmatched even by Helaena. He bit his tongue as his brother merely shook his head, Aegon understood it some - what kind of Targaryen prince did not possess a dragon of his own? Aemond was not Vaegon the Dragonless, banished amongst the Faith but the spare to his heir even the bastards had dragons! The Gods had allowed such an insult be levied against his young brother, because of course it hadn’t been enough to steal away his bride, no they too had to issue insults against his current heir as well.

Yet another thing he would see too that is corrected. He’d ensure Aemond had a dragon of his own, regardless of what it was, his brother would take to the skies as he, Helaena and Daeron had. It was his right as a Targaryen, as a prince of the realm to do so. Settling his hand atop his brother's back Aegon offered a grin, "You're a Targaryen prince the skies are your birthright."

His brother raised a brow, "And yet I'm the only dragonless one, even Helaena has a dragon."

He spits the words out as if they were an insult to his very existence, Aegon sighed he had long since explained Helaena's unfortunate circumstances. A pretty little prisoner for their bitch of a half-sister. Helaena endured it well enough from what he read from their letters, any cause of complaint she never told him at the very least. Aegon straightens himself and glowered sharply at his young brother, his heir, until he himself bore a lineage of his own.

"Aemond, do you not remember Helaena's circumstances?" He hissed through grit teeth, his tone reproachful as his young brother nodded numbly. By the Gods, Daeron didn't even remember Helaena it had been so long. Letters were not nearly enough to replace her, to replace her clever words she weaved, or the sweet smiles she gifted him when he strived to prove his worth as a prince. Nails dig into his palms at the thought of it, of Helaena being bound to his bastard nephew - may the Gods save them all if such a match were to come to pass.

I'd rather feed Helaena to Sunfyre than have her wed a bastard.

Chapter Text

Muña tells them they are to have a younger sibling with little fanfare. It happens whilst they are breaking their fast  that they are told, Baelon knows that father longs for another boy, Aemon, after his great-grandsire. Though Baelon himself would much prefer an Alyssa to an Aemon as would Rhaena. His sister… Father said as was tradition he’d take her to wife one day, just as Aegon had Rhaenys and Visenya, Jaehaerys did the same with his cousin Alysanne and his own namesake had with Alyssa.

‘Tis only natural after all that he and Rhaena bear the same fate. Though Baelon knows he can’t really view Rhaena as a bride - she’s much too… wild for him, it would be boring if they were to marry. Not that Rhaena wished to marry him, she hungered for adventure like himself, but she hungered for the tides from which they were born even more. She always was strange when it came to the pull of the tides, mother said it’s natural for her to be bound for the sea.

Rhaena is more a child of the tides than I according to muña.

“The Princess has delivered of a little girl,” Their mother tells them over breakfast. Rhaena is far too enraptured with her dragon egg, though Baelon knows he can’t necessarily blame his younger sister. Rhaena had so longed for a dragon, one to match the beauty which she ought to embody; Kepa said that she far out-classed the princess, their cousin. That she was a beauty made in the image of Valyria, not the half-breed, half-witted girl born of a servant’s daughter. Baelon doesn’t know what to think of his cousin, Muña said that the rumors in regards to her beauty were indeed true having seen the girl herself.

“And pray tell dear wife, does this child bear a certain resemblance to her sworn sword?” Father asks in jest as Baelon himself frowned, he knows little of what they speak. What he does understand is the fact that Muña always got upset when they speak of them. Jacaerys, Lucerys and Jocelyn… Bastards all of them, whatever that so meant.

“My brother does not say.” Muña murmured, voice quiet still she continued. “The girl’s name is Aemma.”

Father muffled a laugh, “Aemma? Aemma Velaryon, oh by the flames of Valyria such is too sweet a sound as this!”

Aemma. That sounded like a nice enough name for a princess, in honor of her grandmother, that Arryn Queen who bore their eldest cousin, the Crown Princess. Truly though Baelon was mostly curious about the princess Helaena - he heard whispers that she was as a rose - beautiful and gentle - and wondered if in truth such could even be possible.

“Aemma’s a nice name Kepa,” he says with a mischievous smile as his father snorts. Perhaps there is something humorous about this situation Baelon doesn’t understand. “Though I prefer Alyssa more.”

A ghost of a smile danced on his father’s lips, he ruffled his hair as his smile widened into a full grin. His mother smiled softly as she settled a hand atop Rhaena’s own. Baelon puffed up his chest in pride, he had gotten mother to smile! Such was a rarity nowadays. Too worried was she about the supposed bastardy of their cousins that she found herself almost drowning in it. Baelon longed to better her days, so she can be so pleased whence little Alyssa came that she worried no more for the princess or her children.

“Baelon, Rhaena off to bed with you. Your muna and I have much to discuss.” There is something to Kepa’s words, something odd as he settles his hand atop Muña’s belly. 

It is with great reluctance he drags himself from the chambers. Baelon loathed it, loathed how quickly father dismissed he and Rhaena both - just when he first managed to cheer mother.

Mayhaps she’ll be more cheered once the babe is born?

Father did often say babes make ladies so pleased.

The sky turns dark when Muña begins her labors, as if the fourteen themselves were troubled by her fate - father refused to speak to them as she labors, refuses to allow them any closer than the outer chamber. And Baelon can see how such worries Rhaena, how mother’s wails and screams seemed to echo off the manse walls; it takes everything within Baelon not to cover his ears as such pained noises. His sister; she’d one day endure the same pain, the thought of such worried Baelon - he doesn’t want Rhaena to ever be harmed in any way especially not this.

The labor runs too long, or at least that’s what the maesters whisper, Baelon himself admittedly doesn’t know much about bringing his younger sibling into the world. But the look in fathers eyes tells him this is wrong, that it’s not supposed to be this way. A whisper of choice begins soon enough; the mother or the child, father thought he was out of earshot when they discussed it. That he hadn’t known what such meant. But Baelon knew - if they choose the child, his sibling then his Muña would be no more - she’d be little more than ash cast amongst the wind. And so, Baelon does what he has never done before.

He prays. Prays to every god of the fourteen, even the Old and New ones to keep his Muña from harm.

Please, Kepa don’t make choose, please deliver my brother soon.

Not long after that a shrill cry interrupted his prayers, one that’s different from mother's, he’s never heard a baby cry before. But by father’s  reaction he can’t help but be relieved, no choice is to be made then, he and Rhaena are herded into the room not long after - mother is propped amongst pillows clutching a tiny bundle, his brother no doubt. Mother must have seen how he and Rhaena practically bounced over to view the babe, as the smallest of smiles graced her fair features.

“‘Tis an Alyssa not an Aemon, dearest.” Mother speaks softly, eyes latched unto father who smiled despite it - part of Baelon wonders if she expected him to be displeased with Alyssa though that made little sense.

“Another beautiful daughter,” Father murmured, carefully taking the child from mother’s arms and rocking her gently. Baelon envies it slightly, this odd gentleness seemed wrong here. Father was never like this, or at the very least he can never remember him being like this. He kissed the top of his sister’s head and turned towards his mother, “We shall love her very well! Perhaps next time we shall have an Aemon.”

Baelon didn’t know it but there would be no next time, for whilst it seemed all well and good that the Lady began to recover - soon she began to spike a fever. Father worried and demanded for the fever to break, yet it would not be so. And mother writhed and squirmed as the sickness wracked her body, there were times whence she called for him and Rhaena. Baelon hated such times, whence mother through tears had said promised she’d recover swiftly so she might take Rhaena to the skies once again.

Mother is of Valyrian stock, she won’t be given into Balerion’s care so easily.

It’s not long after father tells them mother is gone, and Baelon doesn’t understand it. Mother gone? But she promised she’d get better! She swore on the knowledge that she was a dragonrider she would. They are to go back to mother’s homeland so that they might honor her with a burial befitting her ancient and noble house.

Muña… By the flames I hope you are happy now amongst our ancestors.

Chapter Text

“But Lena!” Jacaerys’ voice is practically a whine as Helaena swiftly maneuvers herself past him, truly Laenor had to admire the artistry in the girl’s elegance. Small fingers clutch tightly at her little bound book, the one which she always carried, his son’s dark eyes burning with curiosity as he reached for the elder girl’s arm. “I want to hear the ending!”

A small almost unnoticeably amused smile dances on his good-sister’s lips, mismatched eyes sparking with mischief, it’s rare for her to display such a carefree nature. Always plagued by that damned decorum she cleaves too, likely instilled at birth by the Queen. “Did I not tell you I’d only speak of the ending if you completed your lessons, little prince?”

Ah… there it was. His son looked ready to protest, but swiftly crumbled under the gaze of his betrothed. The girl prided herself on it, on Jacaerys pursuing his lessons - Lucerys and Jocelyn as well of course - Laenor understood it somewhat, she was clever it was only natural she wanted someone to match her in such an aspect. Ser Gwayne whom often shadowed behind the girl merely frowned at the interaction, displeasure clear to see.

Still the little rose had a point, better a wise king than a foolish one.

“Helaena,” he began calmly, serving to interrupt what would be an ongoing argument, his good-sister turned towards him. For a single moment Laenor forgets to breathe, ringlets of copper and gold catch in the sun like liquid fire, pale ivory skin shimmering like polished marble. He shook his head quickly and sighed - he ought to tell Rhaenyra of her sister’s growing beauty. So worried was she that she actually began to consider the benefits of locking the girl away for her own protection.

A princess locked away in a tower…

Sounds like the beginnings of a song.

“I… apologize, Ser Laenor.” Her voice is clipped, almost as cold as winter’s first frost, and Laenor wants nothing more than to curse himself. She was never really… comfortable around him, or Rhaenyra, not even Ser Harwin. Try as they might to welcome her, it seemed to do little to gain her affections - the children however seemed to have more luck than them though there were times when the girl remained guarded. When even Jacaerys could not scale the defenses his betrothed built to keep others away.

“‘Tis fine, little rose.” He muttered as he turned back towards the letter - the damning thing which stole his sister away, it’s hard to believe that Laena was… He covers his mouth in an effort to keep himself calm, though he feels the girl’s gaze beat against his skin, Rhaenyra had been insistent that Helaena dress in at least one of their houses colors, as a sign of her loyalty towards their own faction rather than the queen’s. Ser Gwayne had been furious on the child’s behalf - alas there was nothing he could do - as whence Rhaenyra put her mind to something very little stopped her. Her affections for Harwin only proved so, three months, his wife couldn’t even endure three months to give him an heir of his own before running to the knight’s arms.

Yet again she had done so for how else had she borne little Aemma? He and Rhaenyra scarcely shared chambers nevermind a bed - it was truly a miracle they even had the twins all things considered.

Perhaps she already picked out Ser Brokenbones whence she asked for leave of trying.

He loved Jacaerys’ but he was no true son of his, Lucerys - he was the heir - to both he and Rhaenyra’s claims even if his wife refused to see it. That was if the boy was actually his son at all. Daemon had lingered not long before Rhaenyra told him she was with child once again.

I might truly be the cuckold - bad enough by Ser Brokenbones but the damned rogue prince? I never should have agreed to such a proposition as the one she proposed.

“Little rose?” The girl quirked a copper brow in question. There is something else, a little glimmer of sadness in her eyes - perhaps it was the knowledge none saw her as a true dragon that so upset her. Perhaps not. One could never know with the girl.

Laenor chuckled as Jacaerys grumbled something, he did care for the boy, it was why he hadn’t repudiated him after catching sight of that shock of brown hair which crowned his head. “I trust that you are ready to attend such ill tidings as my sister’s funeral, are you not?”

His voice is sharp, measured as they address his supposed future good daughter, she doesn’t rise to the challenge however merely lifts her head, small and fragile and proud. Just as he expected of her before offering him a pretty curtsy and giving leave of the room with Ser Gwayne at her heels. Jacaerys turned towards him dark eyes narrowed in annoyance before scuttling after his would-be bride.

Gods be good Laena’s funeral will be a maddening affair. And that’s not even considering the Queen and her children or my nephew and nieces.

The cold bites at his bones, a numbness blooming deep within his chest, the taste of sea salt lingers on his tongue as he listens to the dull tones of Vaemond Velaryon’s words, Daemon swallows back whatever grief is left to him. His children… They need him, much more so than he needs to wallow in self pity; Laena wouldn’t want that, she’d want him to care for their children, to tend to them just as he would if she still lived. To be a steadying presence in their lives - gentle, guiding and there - Daemon had never been gentle, all he knew was fire and blood.

She was always the tender-hearted one…

Laena had always been the steady one between them. Calm like the still waters her family prided in. It was what drew him to her, that calmness, her fire too of course, but the need of home, of family was there too. To have something to come back to. Now, now he’s cut from it; cast to the tumultuous waves and left to burn ceaselessly. His children are the only things keeping him tethered, the last remnants of his sea maiden.

A tiny hand slips into his, Baelon’s hand, his boy had taken Laena’s death hard; he knew just how much his son loved his mother. Just how much Rhaena loved her, by the fourteen little Alyssa wouldn’t even know of her. Inhaling sharply he squeezed his son’s hand, in the silent hope he understood that he was here for them - he could feel Rhaenyra’s eyes on him even as she clutched her little bastards close.

His niece.

Laena thought he loved her more, that she was the second choice, part of Daemon knows it had been her addled mind which drew up such delusion but he had done nothing to dissuade her of the notion. Had she thought as she slipped from him that he’d return to his would-be usurper? He scarcely remembered the journey back to High Tide only that his children trailed so closely to him that he thought they would trip right into him.

“Kepa,” Baelon mumbled softly, his boy tugs at his arm fruitlessly deep violet eyes burning with something - something he hadn’t glimpsed since they sent Laena to the Merling’s halls. “Is that a nymph?”

Daemon raised a brow, and turned towards the direction his son seemed to be staring in, there he spotted it; a young girl, his second niece (Helen or something like that) sat nestled in the farthest corner of the room, surrounded by the bastards and the bitch queen's other whelps. She looks out of place amongst them, and much too uncomfortable. The girl's face remains hidden from view; though Daemon cannot deny there is a distinct pull that calls his attention, like a moth to a flame. She is pale, as pale as polished ivory, with wild curls of copper and gold that appear like embers of a dying fire in the dreariness of Driftmark. His stomach recoiled, this girl, this half-breed, dressed in his house’s colors as if she were a true dragon and not a disgrace to his house. He turned towards his son, his boy who still watched this girl with an odd fascination; Daemon internally scoffed, yes, the girl was pretty but she was so painstakingly Andal.

Too much a Hightower whelp to ever be of consequence.

“No, she is not a nymph.” His voice is sharp, drawing his boy from whatever thoughts he had. His boy looked up at him eyes disbelieving still he continued, “That’s your cousin, the Hightower’s whelp.”

His son crinkled his nose in annoyance, “She’s too pretty to be a Hightower.”

Daemon raised an eyebrow, amusement rich in his voice, “You’ve yet to see her face, boy.”

His son just shrugged and turned towards Rhaena, “I’m going to introduce myself; would you wish to come with sister?”

Rhaena blinked and hastily dried her tears, the scales on the back of her neck glimmering in the light of the sun, as sea-green eyes turned towards him. There is a hesitation to her - as if she were asking him permission to join her brother. He sighed and nodded despite himself, perhaps once their curiosity was sated, they’d forget all about the girl indeed.

Better that than allowing such a fascination to fester.

The girl departs quickly enough. Leaving both the bastards and the half-breeds in confusion, his gaze flickers towards his son for a moment and notices Baelon's caught attention as she leaves - he pushed the boy forward, a gesture to which his son seemed to catch onto. Before hastily taking after the girl himself, part of Daemon wants to go after his only son if only to monitor what occurred between them he spares a glance towards Rhaena who seemed very much of the same inclination.

Decision made he offered his hands towards his young daughter, who takes it readily enough - after all, it had been a good five years since he last glimpsed his second niece. Would be good to see how she supposedly grew even more beautiful in the time whilst he was away. Even better now that his children could see the truth of such lies the Cunttower queen had whispered.

“Am I to be your prisoner then?” It is Helaena’s own voice that echoed in her mind as she made her way to the cliffs - the cold winds did little to ease her mind as the taste of salt lingered far too long on her tongue. It reminds her of Dover somewhat, this great castle of Driftmark, perfectly poised upon the sea; with white stone walls and lush surroundings, she tries her best to ignore the ghost of Aegon’s touch against her own skin. How he had looked at her as if he were struck by the dart of Love by Eros’ own hand, much alike how Apollo once looked upon lovely, wild Daphne; ‘tis fitting given his own dragon was the reflection of the sun if such were the case. For the whispers of his great beast, Sunfyre, had indeed made their way to Dragonstone’s shores, with golden scales which gleamed like living sunlight stunning all who glimpsed him. An oddity amongst dragons - more akin to a dragon she’d once thought would be sustainable in great Arthur’s Avalon rather than the ancient rights of the once mighty Greece. Alas, it seemed to be that this strange damnation brought about both the tales of Arthur and the remnants of her girlhood being regaled in both Rome’s excesses under the devil’s dominion and the wondrous epics of those which came before her.

By the grace of Almighty God, she neither fancied herself a Guinevere nor a Daphne - and that was not even beginning to unravel the true meaning of her own name. That most wicked of temptations, the fairest maiden God had ever crafted; Helen of Sparta, the one whom beguiled naive, arrogant Paris honored champion of Aphrodite’s own reverence. Who selected noble Menelaus as her lord and master funny was it not that she’d so betray him in the end? To dishonor their marriage bed by absconding with her lover and fled like a criminal in the night, betraying her people, her dynasty, her kingdom.

So no, Helaena could never imagine herself as the who doomed fair Ilium - as the beautiful woman who launched a thousand ships with just her fair countenance. She shivered at the thought of it, of the ruined cities, of the ceaseless blame which would fall upon her shoulders, she was not Helen and she would not be the cause of such ruin. Vermithor lies ahead, amongst the beaches of Driftmark, content in his rest as she approached the ancient creature - sighing as she settles her palm against his snout as the creature nestles his hands into her palm, as if trying to burrow himself closer into her hand. She smiled softly, and moved her hand under his maw - the dragon trilled in delight as she gently moved her hands against his scales - who knew such a creature would enjoy scratches under his chin much like the loyalist of hounds?

It matters not if noble Phoebus would dishonor Daphne’s bed, she needn’t ever worry of such things. For in her flight she achieved a freedom all her own; regardless of what the son of noble Zeus wanted.

“Princess!” The voice which calls to her is young, and uncertain. Not like Jace nor little Daeron, she jolted slightly as Vermithor let out a snarl though she was quick to try and soothe him. Which thankfully hadn’t taken long. 

She glanced towards the direction and found herself staring at a young boy she could not recognize - presumably a Velaryon child. Perhaps even little Baelon. One of her cousins, the Lady Laena’s son whom she had not caught a glimpse of during this whole dreadful affair. She had wished to give her condolences personally, not merely because Rhaenyra implored her but also because he and his sister knew - they knew the pain she had so long ago. To lose one’s mother was perhaps the greatest pain a child could endure, and they were so young. Older than she had been when her own mother met her grisly end on the Tower Green but young enough where she doubted they’d have any true memories of her. They’d fade, like the ashes of Roman pyres and all that would be left were the broken mirrors they’d see in their reflections.

I scarcely remember even Katheryn’s face now, it has been so long. Recalling my own mother never mind even mentioning her had been one step closer towards the executioners scaffold.

“Well met little lordling. T’was dangerous for you to startle me, don't you think?” She tilted her head innocently at the young boy, who just stared at her with a look of utter disbelief and awe. He hadn’t voiced a single utterance of protest; for a moment Helaena doubts that he heard her, she continued nonetheless. “My dragon could’ve easily set you aflame if he thought you a threat. Take care of your own life won’t you?”

That seemed to snap the boy from whatever trance-like state he had been, indeed, he looked at her as if she were something other and nodded just as quickly. “Of course, princess.”

“Helaena. You may call me Helaena.” She smiled brightly at the boy who flushed a bright red. As red as darling Lancaster roses. “Might I enquire as to whom I'm speaking to?”

“Baelon, your grace. Baelon Targaryen.”

So my little cousin then? Indeed that rogue’s son, the one whom Rhaenyra so adored, Helaena glanced to see a little hatchling with seafoam scales and blinked. This must be the boy’s dragon then, the one whom hatched from that egg his father had absconded a second time - the one Rhaenyra once chosen for her true blooded sibling, another Baelon.

Perhaps he would be eager if I were to ask after his own dragon? Would do well to try and keep his mind off his mother’s own fate.

“Is that your dragon?”

Baelon blinked owlishly as the nymph addressed him. “Yes! This is Moondancer, she's my dragon.” He swallowed as the nymph cocked a brow and he awkwardly shifted, “I- she’s- she’s not big enough to ride yet.”

He stumbled over his words nervously as the nymph hummed quietly, mismatched eyes curious as they shifted from his she-dragon to him. There is something odd about her look, something he can’t decipher. He wants to question it, do as his royal blood permits and demands answers of her. Only to find his words stalled, as if snuffed out like the final embers of his mother’s funeral pyre - the one that father had burned whilst they lingered in Pentos. Before they set foot on the shores of his blood's homeland, he can still remember it; remember Rhaena’s quiet sobs and Alyssa’s screams of protest as the heat lapped up their mother’s flesh.

He shakes his head, willing such thoughts away. He hates thinking of mother's pyre, of the fact she is goneand they are left behind. The nymph looks at him with something akin to sympathy, he hates it, because she still had her own mother. He had lost his so utterly he could not hope to see her again until he himself burned. He wants so badly to tell her that he wants none of her pity, none of her condolences as his cousins have done.

“Baelon!” He practically jumps out of his skin as his sister’s voice rang out around them. The nymph turned too, Vermithor snarled as if reacting on instinct yet an easy caress from the nymph had soothed him. As if on instinct, it’s odd watching the interactions between the nymph and the beast. Too out of place, she was something he couldn’t quite understand - he doesn’t dare to look away from her, not even when his father and sister clearly approach them.

His father is mere paces behind his sister, eyeing the nymph with utter disbelief as if he couldn’t believe she was even real. He understood it somewhat. Whereas the nymph looked utterly unamused by their presence perhaps she’s annoyed they upset her dragon. That would at the very least make sense. She stiffened almost recoils in on herself as his father glowered at her, as if insulted by her very presence - though just what was so insulting about her Baelon didn’t understand.

“Nuncle,” She greets his Kepa simply, eyes turning towards Rhaena then himself easily enough and something in her softened. “I am… most sorry to hear of your mother’s fate, I cannot imagine the pain you both are experiencing.”

Her words come out jilted, formal, but looking into her eyes Baelon could see she meant every word she uttered. His father scoffed unimpressed, though what he says had little to do with what his cousin spoke of, “Such a shame you don’t take after our own blood niece, perhaps then you would have been a beauty of note.”

His cousin doesn’t say anything, just eyes him coolly before glancing back at him and something shifts. “If that is all then I wish you well.” She mounts Vermithor with little difficulty, he stares at her again and she stares right back. Almost as if they were entranced by some sort of magick from the times of the Merling King or of Fair Maris. It would make sense, if indeed his cousin was a visage of olden magick only awoken by the might of their Valyrian heritage. He isn’t surprised to learn of it, of the old whispers that dog her mother’s house, of the immense beauty and peculiarity that Maris the Maid had possessed. They say she was a witch, a siren who beguiled her lord and husband into practicing such… dishonorable acts as the arcane knowledge the Hightowers were supposedly known for. His father believed them to be little more than lies, cracked up things that never would hold any proof - yet his cousin cast doubt on such things. For magick was so clearly etched in her visage; even his father couldn’t hope to deny this. Baelon sucked in a sharp intake of breath as he watched the creature - magnificent in nature - it’s… He’s disappointed, as his own father had practically scared her off and for what?

His mislike of her own mother and grandsire, two people whom she had scarcely interacted with since arriving to his mother’s own home. His grandsire and grandmother scarcely glimpsed him, much too bothered with the princess’ children or even Rhaena to truly be bothered with him. It made no true sense - he was the heir - Driftmark’s future lord, even his own father said so not that - that… boy. He even heard from one of his cousins that uncle Laenor’s son didn’t even like sailing!

His father settled a hand on his shoulder and sighed, “So you’ve met the little princess, I trust your curiosity is sated?”

“What’s her name?”

It’s Rhaena who speaks, voice quiet as father turned towards her, “Helen, I believe? Truly, I care not to know it.”

“It’s Helaena.” He corrected swiftly enough, turning back towards his sister. “Perhaps we could properly introduce you after she comes back from her flight?”

His sister looked somewhat crestfallen at the fact she could not meet their cousin - not as he had been able to in the least. Baelon understands it easily enough. He had been lucky enough to catch her before her flight to truly meet her. Rhaena looked immensely pleased by the notion and nodded eagerly, he caught the gleam of her scales in the sun's light - pink glimmers against pale skin a sign of her true blood. The image of their blood, so unlike their cousin, the one who so resembled her own mother. Glancing up at his father, he can't help but hesitate, “She’s… Can you ask after a match between me and her?”

His father’s eyes narrowed, “She’s a Hightower whelp, not to mention you and she are both betrothed. And I very much doubt Viserys will annul the betrothal between her and Rhaenyra's boy.”

Rhaena cocked her head up innocently, “Doesn’t the princess wish me to wed her own son? Luke or something, and… her own betrothed is his brother isn’t he? The one that doesn’t look valyrian.”

His father let out a long-suffering sigh and shook his head, “No child of mine shall be bound to a Hightower girl, especially not one connected to Otto Cunttower.” Kepa coughed uncomfortably and continued, “Back to the castle now, I don’t doubt your grandmother wishes to see you both.”

Rhaena brightened considerably at the mention of their grandmother as Baelon fixed his attention back towards where the princess once been. She was odd... but he'd like to speak with her again, to truly get to know her; to know of her, even if it was merely as a content companion then surely that would be enough. Not as if he had any real hope of it anyway, he known just as everyone else who exactly she was promised too - his uncle, the King was a stubborn man when it came to his cousins. Still, he can't help but think it was a shame his cousin (even if she was half Hightower) would be wasted on a plain faced wyrm at least the second son - his own usurper - looked Valyrian, the eldest boy didn't even look like he had a drop of dragonblood in him.

Kepa... He did say my cousins were no true dragons. Mayhaps great uncle Vaemond would tell me the truth of it if I asked nicely enough.

He was by far the favorite of his grandsire's brother so there was little doubt in Baelon's mind that he'd be denied in reality. Perhaps it was a tad risky however, to do as he had done and openly ask that hidden thing which clearly everyone around him refused to acknowledge. Whether the princess' sons were truly his cousins or just ill-born bastard claimed as such.

Chapter Text

Viserys scarcely glimpsed his second daughter since her arrival at Driftmark, though he isn’t that surprised given her otherwise quiet nature. Helaena had always been a strange child. Clever and charming certainly but always holding herself with a severity he couldn’t wrap his head around. Alicent had tried in due course to keep their little girl from straying too far from whatever foolish path his Queen beset her on before Viserys’ himself had intervened. Rhaenyra’s influence was one sorely needed in any case, his child needed to indulge and act as a girl her age ought to rather than how Alysanne had been forced to after her father's demise. A large looming shadow danced above him as he looked up in instinct, there above him was mighty Vermithor - Helaena’s own dragon and that of his predecessors - he still could scarcely believe it, believe that Helaena had so easily embraced his blood, noble as it was.

“Grandsire?”

Jace. Sweet little Jace anxiously called, as he too peered up at Vermithor or more importantly tried to catch sight of his rider. He clutched something to his chest, something Viserys can’t quite make out. Helaena left in such a hurry after greeting Alicent’s boys, no doubt the eldest - Aegon - had said something to upset the girl, perhaps whispering poison of her future lord and husband. Still it was nice to see that the bonds between the pair were well set enough for such a worry to occur to his grandson. He smiled weakly at his grandson, at his Aemma’s mirror, as Rhaenyra watched on with a bright smile on her face. The Gods were indeed cruel when they granted him both a daughter and grandson in the image of his most beloved wife, Rhaenyra whilst inheriting his Valyrian coloring was all Aemma and Jace took her Arryn blood in truth.

Such vile whispers had been spread by those who had long forgotten what his first wife had truly appeared. Dark haired and violet eyed just as their eldest grandchild. “Yes, my dear boy?”

His first grandson pouted petulantly as Rhaenyra so often did as a girl, it still struck him how much his daughter’s children took after her. “Will aunt Helaena be down in time to finish telling me her story?”

Stories? Rhaenyra hadn’t mentioned Helaena’s storytelling in any of her letters. Though he supposed the girl had to find some way to use such intellect as hers. “And what is the tale you wish her to complete, my dear boy? That of Symeon Star-Eyes? Of Durran Godsgrief?”

His grandson lifts his chin high, eyes sparking with delight so alike Aemma’s that it was almost painful. “Nay grandsire.” A boyish grin appears on his countenance, bold and charming. “It is the story of Romeo and Juliet.”

“Romeo and Juliet?” The king found himself echoing with interest. As Rhaenyra nervously twisted her rings as she watched the sky in wait. Dark clouds loomed; it would not be long until a summer storm once again raged. They all ought to return to the Keep before then. “I confess, I have never heard even a whisper of such a tale.”

His grandson rolled his eyes as if the answer were most obvious. “That’s because aunt Lena made it herself.”

He glanced towards Rhaenyra in explanation. His dear girl looked greatly amused at her son’s words. “Jace, did Helaena not tell you to wait?”

His grandson looked greatly displeased, “I don’t know why I must! Helaena promised me she’d finish it and then she fled to Vermithor before she could.”

His daughter rubs her temples and sighs, “Helaena... she won’t take long, you'll hear the rest of your tale, sweet boy, I’m sure.”

His grandson pursed his lips but nodded reluctantly, eyes wide as he stared up at Vermithor in awe. Viserys wasn’t all that surprised by it - it still seemed hard to believe that Helaena had tamed Jaehaerys’ own mount. He had thought her more agreeable to Silverwing, a peacemaking queen to a wise king. Perhaps however, such was a sign that she would be just as vital to the future of his grandson’s reign. To be just as Alysanne was to Jaehaerys before her - a partner and queen.

“Pray tell, how did she begin this tale of Juliet and her Romeo?” Viserys asked his grandson good naturedly.

“Her story book.” Jace says the words like it was the most obvious answer of all. Rhaenyra’s eyes widened at that, clearly this was the first time his daughter heard of such a thing. Viserys glanced down at the small item clutched in his grandson’s hands.

“Is that it?” He can’t help but question, to which his grandson eagerly nodded.

“Do you want to read it?” The question was hesitant, almost shy, his grandson awkwardly continued. “It’s just… Aunt Helaena usually takes a while before coming down from Vermithor.” His grandson trails off nervously, as Rhaenyra sighed quietly.

“Helaena would understand if His Grace had no interest in children stories-”

Viserys is loath to cut his daughter off but does so anyway. “I would love to read them.” His voice is kind, cheery but slightly off - in truth he held no care for it but if Jace so loved these tales then perhaps it was worth a try to see what his clever daughter had crafted.

Aemma’s mirror beams up at him and eagerly hands the storybook off to him. Viserys watched Jacaerys run off, perhaps in search of Luke and Joss. A fond smile on his lips, he glanced back towards a tired looking Rhaenyra - perhaps long since used to the fondness Jacaerys held for Helaena.

“Father, that was…” His daughter paused as if trying to find the words which she’d speak. “Kind of you, to offer to read the tales Jace loves so much.”

“Like you said dear girl they are but children’s stories,” the king said simply, shrugging off the words with ease. “I doubt there is much to them.”

His daughter nodded satisfied, “Helaena shall be back from her flight in an hour or two if you wish to ask her of her tales.”

Viserys just nodded, though he doubted he’d need such. Indeed, it was better to change the subject instead. “I should like to retire dearest.”

His daughter smiled sympathetically, she knew such ceremonies often took much out of him. “Father, do you need me to get Ser Harrold?”

Oh how sweet of his dear girl. “Would you dearest?”

His loyal knight had never dared to complain of helping their sovereign to bed. Hopefully it would be an easy enough journey, and hopefully Alicent would be sated once she saw how pleased their girl was with her match.

Her husband all but shut himself away in his chambers following Lady Laena’s funeral rites. Alicent didn't know what to make of it, on one hand she found herself delighted in the fact she could partake in her children's company without interruption and on the other she was rather disturbed with the shift in Viserys' behavior. She knew he was tired, his illness made him so but was he so tired he didn't even have the courtesy to greet their only daughter?

Helaena was an entirely different matter.

As it seemed Rhaenyra refused to part from her for even a singular moment; too content at keeping her dearest child at her side. The Queen sighed as she nursed her goblet of wine anxiously, Aegon had been most attentive when it came to making a good impression upon his dear sister. His future queen if her son were to have his way. Alicent was not half as blind as her dearest husband, her child would be far more content as a Septa as Maegelle had been. If only those around her could see it, Helaena was pious much more so than she had been as a girl. Spending hours upon hours alone in prayer.

It was as if she were born to be a Septa!

The fates refused her such a happy ending whence they blessed her with Maris’ ichor. That beauty of Helaena’s ensured there was no other option than to take to the marriage bed as Targaryen princesses often did. She shivered at the thought of marrying her sweet girl to her own son - but what other choice was there? Rhaenyra’s boys were bastards, and her other sons were meant to wed for the throne. She supposed there was Daemon’s spawn, but she doubted Viserys would allow for such a match between them.

Not to mention her own… disagreements with his father. Little Baelon (from what she saw of him) was a delightful, brave, and fearless child. By all accounts another rogue in the making - one who’d easily turn into his father’s miniature. She would not dishonour her only daughter by binding her to such a fate as a second Daemon. Her child deserved much better than that. And her taming of Vermithor made it utterly impossible to wed outside of the family as other princesses had done before her. She sighed as she braced herself for yet another argument, Viserys for all his foolishness was almost painfully stubborn when it came to his line by Aemma Arryn - especially in regards to their firstborn grandson, Jacaerys “Velaryon” her so-called future goodson.

Ser Harrold as always is standing guard at her husband’s chambers when she approaches. He inclines his gaze respectfully yet doesn’t bow or treat her with the natural courtesies given the wife of a King and mother of princes. Alicent nearly voices the insult but decides against it.

“Your Grace.” There is little warmth in the man’s voice as he greets her. Not that she expected much as he was still Rhaenyra’s man even after all her follies. Not even bearing bastards seemed to change the stubborn man’s mind, perhaps it's due to the sentiment that Ser Harrold had been around since her former friend was but a girl that assured such. An emotional connection that lingered since before the Arryn Queen died.

“My husband,” She begins quickly, eyes sharp as they linger on the man in front of her. How she loathed this; her husband had all but barred her from his chambers so he could read children’s stories. Helaena’s stories. She was delighted to hear he was finally taking a special interest in one of their children of course, but it was in the manner which he had done so that aggravated her.

“The King does not wish to be disturbed-” Alicent silenced him with a scathing look and inhaled sharply. She was the Queen, she should not be at the beck and call of a man with no prospects, no lands, no family. She was a Hightower, the blood of Maris and her boy-king, the mother of dragon princes who’d one day found a line of Kings. Queens too of course, but she would not be denied this.

“Tell my husband I wish to speak with him.” Her words were firm, unbothered by the tired look in the man’s eyes as she watched him debate with himself for a moment before slinking behind the chamber door. She can hear the muffled call of his voice and Viserys’ own in turn. Before he slipped back outside and nodded to her as if allowing her to enter her husband’s chambers.

The room is dark, the only sign of light is the flickers of candlelight. It appears more alike her rooms as they were when she entered her confinement than that of her husband’s. Tapestries, rich depictions of Lord Corlys’ voyages, of Yi Ti and Valyria line the walls. Her husband pours over a table, a goblet of wine at his side as he reads Helaena’s story book with an intensity.

“A curse, a plague upon both your houses.” The words were soft, almost a whisper, still Alicent hears them. There is something in his voice, a subtle shift - he exhaled sharply and cast a look in her direction. His eyes are calculating almost manic before they shift back the book, the queen forces air through her lungs as she slowly approaches her husband.

“Husband.” She begins, voice quiet, her husband pays her no mind instead choosing to delve deeper into the book. Alicent bristles at the abrupt dismissal, was the man half-mad? Did he seriously ignore her in favor of children’s tales?

“Helaena.” He mumbled their daughter’s name as he turned another page. Pride is laced into his voice, for what reason she knows not, yet it does little to ease her mind as he turns towards her. “That child… Our daughter is a Dreamer.”

Confusion filled her as her husband chuckled, amusement clear as Alicent felt her skin prickle as ice settled in the marrow of her bones. What in the Seven’s name did he mean by this? A dreamer? Alicent was not blind nor deaf, she had heard Rhaenyra recount the fabled legend of Daenys before. Of how she dreamt of Valyria’s fall before it took place and that was how House Targaryen was spared such destruction.

But Helaena?

Her daughter having the same “gift” as Daenys - no, her child was of Maris’ line - Viserys’ brood bore no claim upon her. Helaena was hers. Her little rose of the Reach, her sweet clever girl. Damned and doomed once again because of Viserys’ line. Her heart aches at the thought of it, Helaena was her only daughter - beautiful and clever as a princess ought to be. Everything Rhaenyra was not.

“The Gods are merciful in giving not only the most beautiful but also a dreamer to rule by sweet Jace’s side as his queen.”

Alicent can feel blood trickling down her fingers as her husband continues despite it. He babbles on and on about how such a grand match Rhaenyra’s eldest bastard was for their daughter. As if such a match was the greatest Helaena could be granted. To wed a bastard was to bring dishonor not only to her blood, but to Viserys’ own, to the entire realm!

Was she to suffer as the Mother had when the Stranger stole the Maiden? As Florian had when he lost Jonquil was again? Be doomed to watch as her husband sent their daughter to her death because she possessed no dragon? Was she not also the blood of the Conqueror through the disinherited Rhaella, did Alysanne not also descend from a Hightower queen?

One who rebelled against her lord and husband to seat her nephew and daughter atop the Conqueror’s throne. If only she could do the same as Ceryse and Alyssa had, alas she neither had the fire power nor the means to make such a thing.

The best she could do was endure as those before her had. And achieve the little wins whilst she could. She can barely register anything else Viserys says, too stunned to even speak as he speaks of the “glories” of Valyria of Old.

Of ghosts and the ashes they had inherited.

Chapter Text

It’s near pitch when the vision comes to her, long after all the children have been sent to bed. She stands amongst a vast expanse of woodland which spanned out as far as she could see. The cold nips at her skin as Rhaenyra shivered, the loose chemise gown did little to warm her. Nor was she made anymore comfortable standing barefoot in such a damp and cold place. Part of her knows she is in search of something, of someone who lurks within these woods. It’s somewhat unnerving, to be so… calm in such a place. She knows deep in her bones that she is welcomed here, that she wouldn’t be harmed. She also knew she had a choice to make.

So she walks, quietly taking in the sights and sounds of the ancient forest. The sky is starless leaving only the might of the full moon to her gaze. It was strange walking amongst the woodlands, to be so comfortable amongst the ground - she was a dragonrider after all, the skies were her birthright. T’was only natural she dwelled within them.

This was only a dream thus no harm would befall her.

A path slowly began to make itself known to her, steps reminded her of what she remembered Daemon telling her of the Valyrian roads in Essos. She follows it, if only in the knowledge to try and decipher just what the dream wanted of her. She could hear the calls of creatures - small birds, swallows or a canary, creatures that reminded her some of dragon hatchlings. Though perhaps such a comparison was an exaggeration on her part. Either way perhaps it didn’t matter as she couldn’t see them.

‘Perhaps this is indeed a nightmare.’ Rhaenyra thought miserably.

“Dragon princess,” Someone called behind her.

Rhaenyra spun herself around and found herself face to face with three women - two were of obvious Valyrian descent but the third was stranger, for whilst she was as beautiful as them it was clear she did not bear dragon’s blood. She recognised two of them immediately having seen their portraits for practically all her life, the non-Valyrian was Ceryse Hightower, whilst the elder Valyrian was Queen Alyssa Velaryon. Her stomach lurched standing in a Hightower’s presence, though she knew such was her ancestress - Good Alysanne’s mother such opinions of the woman soured with her own interactions with their kin.

“We’re sorry for the rude interruption,” the third whispered beneath her veil as the Queens both sighed, clearly they too did not like being torn from the gilded halls of Empyrean to meddle once again in the world of men.

“You know what you must do don’t you?” The Hightower Queen whispered eyes fixating her with the same sharp assessment as little Helaena. There is something crueler about her gaze, something less… cold. More human in any case but also not.

“Of the choice you must make?” The Velaryon Queen speaks this time, there is something hollow in her voice, something almost haunted as Rhaenyra swallows thickly.

She knew they were here to guide her, to help her make such a decision but it was hard to accept such a task. The weight of this choice - they did not speak of it, just claimed she had to make one. With vague words and vague outcomes she must guide the destiny of those after her. She tears her gaze away from the women, towards a tree (she knows in part it had not always been there) more importantly eyeing the creatures divested in it. A snake, coiled tightly around the body of a bird, the creature twitched and strained to be free.

The beast, the snake bore its fangs as if in ready to strike the poor thing. It would be more suited if the Hightowers sigil was that of a snake and not of a tower, for it could easily be thought of as a symbol of the war to come if she did not tread carefully.

“You speak of choice,” Rhaenyra began quietly as she turned back towards the ladies. She can’t bear the sight of it all. Of Hightower's intended treachery, it’s only through luck she secured Helaena’s betrothal to her sweet boy. “Yet do not tell me what to-”

“A thread, a fate.” The veiled one whispers, cutting her off, deep green eyes watching her intently. The veiled maiden tilted her head and smiled, it’s not a nice thing her smile. It’s sharp, like valyrian steel and her eyes are cold, as cold as her father’s carved marble statues. “Dragons dancing, steel singing, pyres burning.”

A thread? What thread must she choose? She glanced towards the tree once again to find the snake and little bird gone - in their place were three silver threads carefully treading into the water, the river. Her choice - the one she must make. She glanced towards the three again and took a breath before shakily taking hold of one, the Queens let out a breath as the veiled one cuts the other two.

“What- What were they?” She whispered quietly, she wants nothing more than to demand answers as any dragon would. Yet in the presence of this woman she hesitates. Something uncanny she can’t understand.

“Children never born.” Ceryse whispered, voice hallowed as Alyssa shifted nervously. Ceryse’s deep blue eyes assessed her for a moment before she continued.

“Choices never made.” Came the mother of the Wise king. Her gaze doesn’t stray from her, not even for a moment. There is something about this that is oddly comforting, as if she were reunited with her dear mother.

“Chances never taken.” Answered the veiled one. Ceryse and Alyssa both seemingly flinch at her words but say nothing as the delighted woman practically preened watching her.

“Reel it in.” The three say at the same time as much as Rhaenyra wished not to, she obliges. Perhaps out of curiosity to find just which choice had so designed her own fate.

When she finally pulls the silver thread from the river she catches the glint of a necklace in the moonlight, a golden ring like her mother’s wedding band. Cast in the makings of a crowned swan pendant coiled around an apple? She knows neither the relevance of either in correspondence to her fate. Honest just the crown would have made more sense. It's cast in pearls, and tiny gemstones decorate the ornate thing. As Rhaenyra glanced back towards the three to find them gone. The rushing of the water, the cries of birds, and the forest had warped into nothing more than a tunnel of noise and sight which quickly turned black.

Rhaenyra awakes in a cold sweat, her heart hammering in her chest. As she quickly glanced around her chambers, she hugged her knees and heaved out a sigh. What was that? A dream, a nightmare - a prophecy? She shook her head quickly, no she was not blessed like Daenys or Aegon nor even her own father, it had to be a nightmare. A terrible nightmare but also a confusing one. What choice did she make?

It was stuffy, almost suffocating in her chambers - perhaps a walk along the beach would do well to ease her addled state. She signaled one of her maids to grab a frock for her and some shoes, pulling it close to herself she carefully began to make her way through the winding halls of High Tide towards the beach. Towards her beloved Syrax, she shouldn't be surprised to find Daemon amongst them either. He had been especially devastated following Laena, refusing to even try and be cordial with her or their kin.

(Though Otto and his ilk more than likely deserved it.)

"Kepus!" She called to him, immediately she regrets bringing attention to her presence. For the look her uncle gives her is one so murderous for a moment Rhaenyra thought he'd well and truly strike her down. As she feared he would have whence she was first made heir. Then he looked away from her turning back towards his dragon once again.

It takes everything in Rhaenyra not to flinch at the brisque dismissal. She had heard tales of Daemon and Laena's exploits in Essos of a devoted husband willing to do whatever his beloved sea maiden desired. It's hard to reconcile her vengeful, impulsive uncle with the steadying, calm husband they speak of. As if Laena tethered his dragon's blood in a way she didn't quite understand. Dragons were meant to burn together - blood called for blood after all yet with Laena it was different.

Unlike how Daemon was with her, restless and impatient. He had been satisfied with the life he built with his Velaryon bride, she had seen it firsthand after all. She envies it, envies the love they bore for one another; the one Laenor so denied her. Very least she could assure that her children are bound in marriages that were both loving and politically advantageous for her own claim. That they too had loyal companions just as she did. Companions which would arrive to Dragonstone once Laena's rites were done.

Houses, nobles to support her claim. Greyjoy, Tully, Celtigar, Blackwood, Redfort and Sparr. All houses of repute to attend upon her children and her young ward; she liked to think that young Alysanne Blackwood as both kinswoman to Helaena and a notable supporter of hers would indeed get on well with her young sister. Young Dalton Greyjoy was to foster under the agreement by that reforming lord Quellon Greyjoy, she finds a good and noble bride to bind his wild heir too.

"Niece." Rhaenyra huffed at the cold reply she had hoped to speak with him. To offer Luke and Joss' hands to his twins, better secure them in their intended roles. And to build the bonds of brotherhood between their boys under Corlys' tutelage.

Her uncle doesn't linger, merely bows in mockery before leaving on her lonesome once again. Rhaenyra grits her teeth in an effort to keep her composure. Rubbing her temples she sighed, it would be best to approach him in the morning, specifically with father present as to ascertain Daemon's approval for the matches. Not even Alicent could refuse her father when it came to Helaena so too Daemon couldn't say no when faced with the support of both the King and his heir.

Her children's very futures hung on these matches, perhaps she ought to ask her sword for some advice he had after all trained under her uncle. Mayhaps, he knew some sort of avenue she was yet to cover as a way to offer in exchange? Or perhaps father would put his foot down and command the match in any case?

Rhaenyra sighed, whatever the case she had to try and prepare for the worst. She couldn't hope to get two lucky breaks with her children's betrothals no matter how much she wanted them. What was it Laenor said again? The wise sail flees the storm or something akin to that manner. She shook her head, it didn't matter - her children would have their futures; marry Valyrian blooded nobles as was their right.

The halls were dead and cold as if Laena’s absence had forced all life from their keep. Laenor rubbed his temples as he reluctantly dragged himself from his seat. Father, he had impressed upon the issue—of Jacaerys—dissatisfied with his supposed son; quite frankly he wasn't surprised. That… boy, he always brought a sour taste to Laenor’s mouth, not because of anything he had done but his existence was a cruel reminder; of his failures as a prince consort, as a husband. If he had only done his duty—

He shakes his head and sighed Rhaenyra had burned that bridge long before it could even take root. He endured it, had accepted her little bastard as his son, though he refused a bastard to rule his family's seat; he fed upon her fears, the whispers which trailed his supposed eldest. Said the only way to stop them was if he were the father of her child. He isn’t all that surprised it worked, that the little lie he spouted had brought fruit.

Even then the twins…

He couldn’t even be certain Luke and Joss were of his blood, at least they look Valyrian; passable enough where they wouldn’t be openly questioned. Laenor partly curses his “dear” wife for she had all but doomed the babes she bore, propped up as trueborn children yet at every turn they were questioned. In that questioning bore a dagger far more dangerous than any supposed action of the Queen’s could be.

It is in the Hightower woman he finds a kindred spirit oddly enough, if the Gods were kinder they would have never wed Targaryens and his beloved sister would be Queen. His mother’s blood would sit the throne as the next heir, and he would have the freedom he so longed for. Perhaps he and the former Lady Hightower would even be friends.

She would even be tolerable if their fathers arranged a match for them. But alas this was not that world. Thus they were enemies in the looming war; a war which would bring the realm to its very knees as cities burned and dragons bled.

All in the name of his wife’s supposed claim.

“What makes you so special?” He muttered under his breath, his mother had been the only child of King Jaehaerys’ first born son, and young Aegon was the eldest male descendant of the Uncrowned and the Black Bride. What made Rhaenyra—the only daughter of a sick, tragic Queen whose only notable act was failing in her most basic duty to the realm; to give them an heir.

He heard his mother say it was because she was brought to bed too young, that in doing so damaged her humors, which lead to her wanting to wait upon the consummation part of Laena and the King’s marriage. The King in desperation had ignored all sense and taken a girl merely a few moons younger than his eldest child as his second wife, very least he sought to bind the claims of Rhaena to that of Jaehaerys’ through such a match.

But the point still stood; Alicent had not an ounce of power over her union. Just as he had none over his own. They were the same in that manner, just ornaments to make their “dragon” spouses feel better about themselves.

What a farce!

He thought about the children the queen bore, specifically Helaena; she’d always been an odd one. Wise like Jaehaerys with Rhaena’s sharp tongue and Rhaenys’ beauty. Perhaps in another life the girl could have been his child, her brothers too; he wouldn’t have minded it. Being married to Alicent, even if he held no feelings for the woman she was a good friend during their youth. Laenor knew she wouldn’t dare dishonor their marriage bed as Rhaenyra had.

It was… nice to think of such things even though they could never be. The ground trembled with the might of an ear-shattering roar, Vhagar’s roar, perhaps little Rhaena claimed as she wished. She always more of his sister’s ilk than of Daemon’s own. He glanced towards the great window, eyes watching as a large and looming shadow blocked out the full moon for a few moments. He swallowed thickly, even his sister’s dragon was gone, claimed by her daughter.

Supposed he should go and congratulate the little sea maiden on embracing the skies as was her birthright. The Great Hall would not be far certainly, decision all but made he makes his way down the winding corridors. A flare, a burning feeling fills him as he makes his way as if his heart knows something is wrong long before his mind does.

What could possibly have gone wrong? His niece claimed his sister’s dragon as was her right but when staring at with his solemn faced uncle, Vaemond who was a merry man with little to no disagreements (aside from his qualms of his wife and “children”) does he feel his heart leap in his throat. Something bad had happened, but what happened he did not know.

“Laenor were needed in the Great Hall.” His words leave no room for argument, not that Laenor would have had any. His only concern had been for Laena’s blood and perhaps the twins, to ensure his sister’s remnants were well and good.

So he follows his uncle without a word, despite the heavy weight in his chest; that ache which filled him the moment of Laena’s yielding to Empyrean’s halls, the halls of the gods, to whom they were but noble servants. Whatever it was his uncle needed him for Laenor would be ready, nothing could truly surprise him at this point.

Chapter Text

Melusina’s song fell silent.

Sorrowful and haunting, as haunting as Katherine’s echoing screams in Hampton Court had been—or so she had been told, Robin had been so serious when he spoke of it though she could never be certain if such were the truth. Dread curls in Helaena’s belly as she exhaled quietly, something… shifted in a manner of speaking the bindings of fate had always been odd in any case. Never etched in stone, acting more like a tapestry, a churning loom and one tiny change could make it all unravel.

She hated this. These cruel tricks which so befell her, what had she done to deserve such a cursed thing? Helaena shook her head quickly and rubbed her temples in hopes to dull the incoming ache. Had Mary suffered such as this? She could scarcely remember a time when the river's blood affected her so.

Granted unlike her sister, she could only claim one reach of descendancy through that misguided creature, whilst Mary bore several. Such was the cost to bring royal blood into the world after all. Helaena did not envy Mary in any case, she never could though she loved her so. She set her book to the side and frowned as she turned towards Daeron, Edward’s eerie echo in this damnable prison of hers; it was oddly comforting to look upon him. Perhaps if only in reminder that not all was truly lost to her.

His voice comes out in a hallowed whisper, something haunted as he stares at her as if truly seeing her for the first time. “The rivers have blinded the sun.”

It's the fierce shouting emanating beyond her chambers that stops her questioning his cryptic words. In a moment her brother had been seated and in the next he was to his feet and racing down the corridor, still she followed just as Eurydice had Orpheus through Hades, each step heavier than the last as the sounds grew louder and louder. Daeron stiffened as he caught sight of something, stopping all together in the hallway as Helaena settled a hand atop his shoulder and sighed. She kneels to him, his eyes remained glued onto something, something that Helaena couldn’t quite see. The boy-child screams, shrieks more like, as if he were being burned alive upon one of Mary’s pyres. Such was so that Helaena fixed her gaze in the direction of where Daeron was looking and felt her stomach drop.

Aegon. He sat crowded around by a Maester, their mother, Aemond, and Ser Criston. A giant bloody gash trailed from his cheek to his brow, severing through the soft skin of his eyelid and cutting into muscle. Helaena held her breath as the Maester stepped away seemingly finished in his work of stitching his wound.

“Aegon!” Her voice shakes as the eldest prince lolled his head in her direction, Helaena feels Daeron stiffen as the cold realization washes over her. Someone maimed a prince; if she were still in King Harry’s court then the evildoer would be executed for his crimes. Not even the Almighty could hope to spare the loathsome soul who dared to spill the blood of the King’s heir. Even here, in this warped, cursed damnation that reminded her a plenty of noble Arthur’s lands, would such an act be punished. One could not merely harm a person of royal birth and get away with it after all.

Daeron grips her hand tightly, refusing to let it go for even a moment as she squeezes back. The boy looks at her now, in awe and in fear for what Helaena knows not. She swallowed quickly and did her best to move herself in front of the boy lest anyone try anything as they had with Aegon and Aemond. The children are still screaming, still bickering as they often do even when the large oak doors open.

Ashen faced Lord Corlys speaks his words cutting through the room sharper than any blade forcing all to quiet. “What is the meaning of this?”

He and Lady Rhaenys rushed to their crying grandchildren who were being held back by some of their kin in an attempt to keep them from lunging at one another. Whilst the Princess’ children were all huddled together and being tended to by Ser Laenor who looked out of place standing next to the three of them. The King followed not long afterwards, followed by an apathetic Prince Daemon and a bemused Princess Rhaenyra. Though her half sister did not remain bemused for long as she took in the state of her children and husband. Bruises marred Jocelyn, Rhaena and Baelon’s faces as Jace and Luke’s were stained with blood. It was not hard to piece together what had commenced; Rhaena was dragonless, she remembered hearing Rhaenyra and Laenor speak of if. It was not unlikely that she’d want to claim what was once her mother’s dragon, yet Aemond beat her to it? Oh. She understood now, but Aegon’s part to play in all this she didn’t know.

“Who did this?” The elder Princess’ came out quiet but Helaena could hear the rage buried beneath the surface as she stood protectively in front of her children.

“They attacked me!” Aemond shouts out gesturing in the direction of Jace and Luke. Who looked so affronted as the others immediately began to protest. Daeron buried himself closer in her skirts as if in the hopes to disappear as Helaena held him tighter.

“You were going to kill Jace!”

“He stole my mother’s dragon!”

“For the last time Rhaena dragons can’t be stolen!”

“SILENCE!”

The weak-willed dragon’s voice came out more a roar than a shout as Daeron winced at the noise. Helaena refused to allow such a weakness to show, too intent on keeping at least one of her brother’s safe this night.

King Viserys hobbled from his place beneath the dais as he glowered down at both his sons. “Aegon, Aemond I will have the truth of it. What. Happened.”

Aemond didn’t cower, just stared the usually meek King in the eye and shot a look so vile that if it could indeed harm then the dragon king would be naught but ashes. “I claimed Vhagar and they attacked me, Aegon and Baelon protected me, that is all there is to it, Your Grace.”

He spits out the King’s title as if it were poison as Aegon himself, still somewhat high on milk of the poppy, merely smirked, whilst little Baelon shot a withering glare at his sister before offering an odd smile to Aemond.

It was surprising to see them getting along though she supposed that only benefited her, after all, it wouldn’t do well if her chosen husband and her brothers did not get along. Whilst Daemon looked at his son like a man haunted, amethyst eyes wide in disbelief as he glanced between his children and scowled, displeasure evident.

“You defended a Hightower whelp?” There is an odd shift in Daemon’s voice as Baelon turned back towards his father. Something unreadable in his eyes as he eyes him.

“I defended my blood just as you said too.”

That did enough to shut the insufferable man up, as her mother inhaled sharply, glancing back to her brother towards her and Daeron. Amber eyes relieved as she takes them in, clearly happy that they had not been brought into such vile infighting. Helaena scoffed internally as if she’d ever bring herself to such dishonor, or would allow Daeron to do the same.

Rhaenyra recovered from the news quickly enough, stepping forward with something akin to satisfaction in her eyes. “Father, my sons are the true victims in this tale.” She squared her shoulders as her eyes caught Alicent’s for a moment. As all eyes turned toward the direction of the supposed heiress and her children. “Vile accusations were levelled against them, and they were forced to defend themselves.”

The King stiffened and turned towards her quickly carefully taking in his eldest child’s words. Whilst her lady mother shot a princess such an incredulous look at her words as everyone else appeared to glance between themselves. The insults to the Princess’ children (specifically Jace) were obvious, even if she herself was too proud to admit the truth.

“What insults?”

“The legitimacy of my children’s birth was put to question.”

Yes, because they are indeed bastards, Helaena thought sourly. Truly she didn’t mind Jace or the twins but the manner which the court went about propping them up as truly Ser Laenor’s children had left a sour taste in her mouth. The irony of course was not lost to her that in fact her much hated mother, Anne Boleyn had been accused of cuckolding her father (though such was widely disbelieved) and the Princess had done so in actuality. Instead of disinheriting his daughter or punishing her in any manner the King believed such false tales if only for his own piece of mind.

“He called me a bastard.” Jace adds unhelpfully. He glances towards the twins, his Valyrian looking siblings, it was clear his upset was due to how they were treated. The twins looked Valyrian despite the whispers of their “roguish” nature that mirrored Daemon’s own. Helaena could feel the tension rise and winced as Melusina began to sing once more, whilst Rhaenyra seemed to take advantage of the situation once more.

“Your Grace, my sons are in line to inherit the throne. To question their birth is to question my virtue which is the highest of treasons. I demand that both the Princes Aegon and Aemond be sharply questioned as to where they heard such lies.”

That seemed to cause her lovely lady mother to rise to the occasion long before the King, her husband could hope to reply. “Tell me stepdaughter,” she spits the word as if it were an insult. “You are the heiress to the throne, the first to be beset before her brothers, yet you’d sanction the torture of children? Princes no less! Boys who merely sought to defend themselves from such vicious attacks levied by your sons."

Helaena bit her tongue as she listened quietly to the Queen's words. It was odd, to see such a great lady like herself be backed into a corner. She thinks on her own history for a moment; she'd heard of such things before, both had been brides of weak-willed kings, both married young and strove to protect their children's rights. It's oddly fitting that her mother does the same as they had before her. Even then she doesn't seem that the Hightower queen was finished in any case. “Cursed be the kinslayer. Is that not what the book of the Seven says when it describes one's thirst for the blood of their kin? My own husband's namesake was called to be sharply questioned was he not? You recall what happened to him don’t you, daughter? How Maegor slaughtered his own nephew, would you do the same to my own sons?”

Rhaenyra’s face was ashen as she stared at the queen in horror, clearly not having expected such a turn of events. She glances about the room, looks of horror and faces grave were all that one could see. Helaena isn’t that surprised, Maegor’s legacy still lingered across the realm it's scarcely been a century since his rule; still it was awfully ironic to all it was the pious queen, the "second Ceryse" who had likened the King's chosen heir to Maegor himself.

There is a shift in Otto’s eyes as they track his queenly daughter once again as if seeing her for the first time. Princess Rhaenys only moved closer towards her grandchildren despite their clear displeasure with another. Daemon didn't utter a single word, his face practically lost all color as the queen's words seemed to register in his head. He glances over his children and once satisfied they were safe, left for his rooms. The rest all looked upon the Crown Princess warily as if they were looking upon a ghost in her stead.

“Husband,” The queen, her mother, begins again sweetly enough. “We cannot guarantee Helaena’s safety in the princess’ custody, therefore I am much ashamed to call for the dissolution of the Princess’ betrothal to Jacaerys Velaryon.”

Her nephew stiffened as Rhaenyra’s gaze flickered back toward the queen, there was something desperate, almost manic in her eyes but the king just shook his head.

“The Princess Helaena’s betrothal shall stand my dear.” He leaves no room for argument as he fixes his gaze upon her once again. Alicent looked affronted but was silenced with a fierce glare. “Helaena was born to be queen there is no denying that, her being a dreamer merely reaffirms what we already knew. However her wardship shall be at its end. Rhaenyra must focus on Jace’s education thus another solution shall be provided for our future queen.”

A dreamer? What did he mean by that, at these words Rhaenyra too looked confused and glanced towards her.

“Father, how are you certain Helaena is a dreamer?” Something wavers in her voice, small and fearful, almost haunted in any case. Her father—the king—just signaled a man servant forth, he holds a small bound book Helaena recognised all too well. Recognition flashed in Rhaenyra’s eyes as she began to chuckle, “Her children’s tales? Father-”

“Romeo and Juliet.” The King said cutting her off. “Two young lovers from rival families, who so despise one another they put each other to the sword. They fell in love despite it, and loved one another so fiercely they were willing to die for it. Two doomed children whose tragic deaths reconciled their houses. Don’t you see? Helaena is just as Daenys was, it is in good sense she had already started to record her dreams for our house's own benefit.”

He turned towards her and smiled, perhaps he thought it a kind thing; as Helaena felt bile rise up in the back of her throat. She had sought to bring such tales to this land to remind her that she was still in God’s embrace, to think he thought her as…

“Fear not daughter, I shall not allow such a fate befall you or Jace, or this family, or the Seven Kingdoms. I swear this to the Gods themselves.”

Such a conviction burned in his eyes caused Helaena to feel ill, he truly believed… He seriously thought she was magic, sure she could acknowledge Melusina’s presence in her line but that was only because she made it hard to ignore. But to seriously think she would dabble in such a sin was a crime within itself, her own mother died because of such accusations alongside the supposed adultery she committed.

“As for the manner of Helaena’s education, I have decided to give her lands of her own as I do not wish her to be a mere consort but indeed a partner as Alysanne was to Jaehaerys. I have already ventured and asked the Lord of Riverrun about Oldstones and if it could be repaired for her.”

He had thought this all out. Truly Helaena had to commend him, to give her a lordship—freedom was something she wanted, better to keep herself from the trials and tribulations of his supposed regal court or the sycophants of Rhaenyra. Though the irony wasn’t entirely lost on her that it reminded her of Anne of Cleves’ own settlement following the annulment of her and her father’s marriage.

The king sighed tired as he glanced about the room, eyeing every courtier distastefully. “To bed all of you.”

He looked more aged than he had ever been, and hurried from the room as if his cloak were aflame. Servants crowded around Aegon and helped him to his feet, his gaze still watched her as they lead him out the room with the maester at his heels. Likely to continue his treatment before retiring to bed themselves. Helaena bit her tongue as Daeron tugged at her arm likely wishing to guide her to some place. Perhaps the Sept to pray for her soul, or more likely Aegon’s as she knew it all too likely there was a chance he could not survive such a grievous wound.

Her mother hugged her and Daeron before she and Aemond trailed absconded themselves to Aegon’s chambers to ensure nothing was amiss.

Helaena knew in all likelihood that the Princess would perhaps try and follow after her roguish uncle, perhaps to further explain herself in her intentions. Perhaps to broach the subject of his children and hers matches; or she would plead with her father of the issue and it would be ordered to be thus.

Either way, Helaena supposed she had to prepare for such opposition. If only so she could react accordingly.

Daeron knew that his sister saw the shifting threads, the ones which she herself unraveled without even meaning too. Perhaps it was her secondary heritage, the rivers ran strong in her beauty and blood, far more than Maris’ claim no matter how much his mother would like to think otherwise. He grinned despite it, the flames which once marred his dreams would linger no more. Part of him wonders if he should thank Helaena or not.

He doesn’t think she’d appreciate it that much though. So he doesn’t, instead he guides her towards the Sept, not for prayer but merely to let her breathe in the knowledge she now possesses. It was as his father said, Helaena was a born queen, a true boon to their house, one to find a line of kings. Queens too Daeron likes to think.

“Sister?”

Helaena turned to him, the orange glow of the flickering candlelight reflected well against pale skin it shimmered, it reminded Daeron briefly of pearls. Mismatched eyes were unreadable as the young boy took his time to observe his elder sister. She was to be a great beauty, one that men would drive themselves mad for. Though he hoped she was bid for a happier ending than that of her namesake.

“Yes, Daeron?” Her voice is soft, like silk, gentle as if in respect for this holy space. Her hands are still clasped together as if in silent prayer. She was perhaps the most pious of them, yet another virtue in her favor in contrast to Rhaenyra.

“I… Do you believe you would be happy as Queen?”

The words tumble out despite himself and his sister chuckled, eyes glinting with something like bemusement; as if he asked the most silly of questions. Daeron frowned as his sister moved quietly, settling her hands gently atop his shoulders. There is something sad in her eyes as she looked upon him, as if she saw another in his place.

“To rule, is to put the people’s happiness before one’s own wants and whims. I shall endeavor to do my best for the realm but my wants? Well, they are of no consequence.”

“But Rhaenyra-”

“Rhaenyra is a foolish woman who believes that we rule by the whims of the Gods, she forgets we also require the people’s approval, Daeron. I do not. If I’m to be Queen then I shall endeavor to be one most loved, not feared.” His sister speaks as if she were a weathered politician and not a princess of one and ten, Daeron isn’t surprised as even in her letters she discusses things as if she were a woman grown.

Mother said such was good, that the realm needed a queen prepared, not one sheltered as Rhaenyra. Daeron nodded and smiled brightly, she’d be a good queen, one who’d endeavor for the realm and its people. “I think you’d be a good Queen.”

His sister doesn’t say anything to that but he thinks he catches a hint of a smile on her face. Daeron's eyes widened, heart hammering in his chest as if spellbound, when Helaena smiled it only seemed to accentuate her already famous beauty. He heard rumors that already she managed to charm all at Dragonstone. That even Ser Laenor had been rendered speechless by her and Aegon said he held no torch for women!

Truly, he was thankful for it; that his blood was no longer accursed as it was meant to be. That Helaena had given them the opportunity where justice and righteousness would prevail; even at the cost of herself.

“Helaena of Oldstones.” He mumbled her new title aloud with a tiny smile dancing atop his fair countenance. She’d be a good lady, rule well and prove herself every inch of the queen he had dreamed of.

“I think they’ll sing songs of you.”

“Perhaps they shall though what they sing will be as good a guess as yours as it is mine.”

The following morning, contrary to Otto’s own hopes, was just as tension-filled as the night before. Alicent, Rhaenyra and the children seemed all but at each other's throats. Save for Helaena and Daeron, his more… Hightower grandchildren. Those two were pleasantly speaking to those around them; Viserys had already decreed that they would return to King’s Landing forthwith. With everyone gathering to bid the King farewell in the Hall of Nine, once again everyone’s attention was immediately captured by Helaena and Daeron. They had always been the odd ones out of Alicent’s children; Helaena for her obvious beauty and Daeron for his peculiar mannerisms. Maris’ blood rang strongly in them—it was why his nephew, Ormund insisted on at least one of the two foster in Oldtown.

With Helaena’s new role as a lady in her own right it made it all more obvious that Daeron would take on such a duty, under the guise of going as Ormund’s squire.

He watches as both Aemond and Aegon glare at the Princess’ bastards, he had to admit the girl was partly clever in managing to convince her uncle to conceive her second batch. It appeared as though she was finally smartening up in a manner of speaking, Otto could only hope it didn’t continue. Or that she at least gravely offended her allies at some point.

So he could better take advantage of her errors and work them in his house’s favor.

“Princess.”

His granddaughter smiled courteously as little Daeron strayed a bit farther from her. Her reflection of Alerie only grew stronger it seemed, just as her mother’s had. Otto cleared his throat and sighed, yes indeed it seemed he was proven right in his assumption that Helaena’s beauty would grow. Such could prove troublesome if not carefully managed in any case, the elder princess, Viserys’ false born heir cast a longing look towards the girl. Part of him wonders if she wished to call the girl over though something stopped her.

Good, perhaps she knew the girl would not welcome whatever she wished to say. “I’m afraid Daeron and I must say our goodbyes to our kin, grandsire.” The girl curtsies prettily before leading herself and little Daeron off, Otto watches them leave and pauses. They much resembled Gwayne and Alicent as children, in this closeness they held for each other. Thankfully, it seemed such a relation would not turn the ways of their father’s house; Otto did not know what he would do if it were so, if Viserys “superior blood” sullied such a bond.

He watched them as they nodded their thanksgivings to the Velaryons for their hospitality. He knows if anything Helaena would remind Daeron of his courtesies. Prince Daemon watched on, still clearly displeased by his children’s spat and clutching his youngest child close. The child that Lady Laena died for. Not his longed for spare but indeed another girl, he didn’t think the man was displeased with this knowledge though. As he was said to love the Lady exceptionally well, far more than the “love” he bore the Princess Rhaenyra.

It makes him wonder what hurt the girl more, the fact Daemon so easily forgot her or the fact Viserys set her up for failure from the start. He supposed he shouldn’t care for it. Given the inherent threat Aemma Arryn’s daughter posed.

Daemon’s son, little Baelon looked at his granddaughter as if she hung the stars themselves. His face red and burning as his granddaughter spoke to him. The rogue’s eyes narrowed as he quietly watched the pair, quietly assessing their interactions, certainly he would have preferred any other match to Rhaenyra’s bastard. But he drew the line at Daemon’s son. His granddaughter was a born queen as Viserys said, it was only natural she wed the next king though he can scarcely contain his disgust in the knowledge that king would be Aegon; her brother.

That was the way of Targaryens not that Otto would ever get used to it despite serving them for years. The Old King and the Good Queen’s marriage was a rarity, a marriage between cousins to consolidate their rivaling claims. Such was the same in the terms of Alicent and Viserys’ own marriage; to combine the lines of Rhaena and Alysanne for House Hightower descended through her secondborn daughter, Princess Rhaella. One could easily argue that Aegon had the far superior claim than any other as he was not only of Jaehaerys and Alysanne's line but also of Rhaena and Aegon's blood.

Alas, Viserys would not see sense on the issue thus they had to act in secrecy even if Aegon were the true heir and not his wanton half-sister.

His daughter guided her children away from the Velaryons and towards the ship to guide them home. No doubt she’d insist Helaena board the ship to ascertain how her fostering had been; not that he could blame her, spending so long away from her daughter… Well, that had been hard on him when he was sent away from court, he missed his daughter almost every day and so he could only imagine how Alicent was feeling in regards to it all.

His grandchildren weave past him easily enough. As their dragons circle overhead; Sunfyre, Vermithor, Tessarion and Vhagar, he sighed and rubbed his temples before trailing after his daughter and her children. He could work out the best solution as to ensure his blood’s success, Daeron’s fostering would only secure it and he could easily turn Helaena’s ladyship in their favor if anything.

“Troubling times,” he muttered to himself. “Alerie, by the Gods you would have helped with this useless politicking and made Viserys see sense.”

His wife had always been clever, as a Florent she lived up to her family's reputation. Having helped secure further alliances early on in his career and even trying to help mend the frayed relationship between himself and Prince Daemon. And it was clear his granddaughter inherited her clever mind just as she had her beauty.

Whatever may come, Otto thought to himself, he’d ensure that his grandchildren—Alicent’s children, Alerie’s grandchildren—would be spared from further harm. That he hadn’t sacrificed his daughter for his house’s ambitions in vain; in the years to come Otto would count this as the beginning of the end of his house. But in the meantime it was a mere tragedy which befell his blood that he refused to allow to happen once more.

Not long after their return to Driftmark and his granddaughter readjusting to court life did a scandal erupt and cause further disorder.

Ser Laenor Velaryon was slain by his sworn sword and rumored lover, Ser Qarl Correy, furthermore was the troubling alliance of the Rogue Daemon to the Princess Rhaenyra. Binding their claims as one, whispers carried from Dragonstone, to Driftmark and King’s Landing, that Prince Daemon wished to secure the rightful inheritance of Lady Laena’s children despite the vile insults the princess had levied against them. His ambitions for his children to succeed their mother’s house far exceeded any insult the princess could administer. The couple secluded themselves to Dragonstone, bringing their own children to live with them, though it was quickly decided Lady Laena’s twins and young Lucerys would ward at Driftmark so as to familiarize the future lord, his lady wife and his intended right hand with another.

Dark whispers lapped at the Princess’ heels, for just as her disastrous union to Daemon had been, so too did the fact she called for the blood of not only her brothers but also in the manner that mirrored Maegor before her. Alleging they be tortured to right a supposed wrong done to her and her illegitimate children. An heiress who hungered for the blood of her brothers? The people of King’s Landing had whispered amongst themselves. Such was an accursed thing, perhaps the true Second Maegor is not the Rogue but indeed his Princess.

It was said in the Red Keep that Viserys was so aggrieved that he forbade the Princess leave of Dragonstone for nigh a year, the first of many humiliations if the Greens were believed.

All the while House Targaryen argued amongst themselves once more did men continue their work on a fine castle of white stone began to emerge from the haunted ruins of a palace long forgotten. A keep that would one day be remembered as the origin of the moniker; “Helaena of Oldstones.”

Chapter Text

Driftmark is mostly a foggy nightmare if Aegon were honest with himself. He remembers the rage he felt at the knowledge he’d once again been denied what was his bride by right, all because of stupid dreams! And whose to say they even concerned Helaena and Jace? What if it was farther down the line, his and Helaena’s own descendant perhaps? He’s giddy at the thought of it, of Helaena as his Queen. She’d be a good one, there’s no doubt of course, just as his useless father said; but it was a disservice she was expected to be the wife of a bastard in any case. Thankfully it seemed he wasn’t the only one who felt this way.

“You’re brooding again, Aeg. Are you sure you're alright?” Aemond asked as he turned a page in his book again, some Valyrian tome or another book Helaena had recommended, thankfully the Maesters left him alone for now. Their tedious lectures and tending had only done to darken his mood; so too had the fact his dear sister scarcely visited. Too wrapped up in adjusting to life back at court, and her future role as a ruling lady to truly be able to allow her an ounce of freedom. Such was the gilded cage his sister found herself in, like she was a prized songbird.

Aegon snorted at the thought. “It’s about Helaena.”

Aemond looked up and sighed, it's a tired thing. Too used to his lofty complaints about their sister’s damned betrothal, about his own wishes for her hand. And why would he not desire it? Helaena was a beauty unparalleled by their half-sister or any other noble lady he had glimpsed. Pale skin like porcelain, with a pretty rosey complexion, a little flower maid as his mother had joked when they were young; a pretty, solemn and courteous princess who’d grow into a great beauty. Though Aegon himself always found her to instead be fire made flesh, the embodiment of everything he had been promised as a child.

A perfect queen in waiting.

His Queen. 

None speak this aloud though all know it to be the truth; it was their house’s tradition to bind son to daughter. Helaena had been his to wed, alas she’d been stolen from him. Mother sought to rectify such calamities on his behalf, protesting even now that it was the payment for his suffering that he be awarded the chosen bride of his treacherous nephew. An eye for a bride, she had told the old, foolish king. A trade he couldn’t regret if given the choice, he’d trade a thousand eyes if it meant he could have the hand of the fairest princess in the realm.

Alas he was denied once more, the prophecy as his father was wont to protest had been the reason for it.

Must he take after the Stranger and beguile his would-be bride to possess her hand? To bind her in the ways of Old Valyria as to ensure not even their sire could separate them?

He shook his head, it needn’t come to that; he had the backing of the lords, Rhaenyra and her brood of bastards did not. Mother and grandsire both were insistent he learn how to play the game. His loss of an eye would be played into their favor if his grandsire had anything to do with it. Already he heard whispers of Jaehaerys and Alysanne—a kind princess promised to another and the heir which would save her from her accursed fate. The throne, the glory, the adoration of his people all seemed to pale in comparison to the thought of not having the queen he had chosen.

Jaehaerys had been allowed his cousin-wife lovely Alysanne. What had he done to deserve being denied the one he wanted?

Aegon doesn’t know exactly what Helaena was told of the matter. Mother kept her so close it was hard to get her alone nowadays and even then she seemed to avoid him. Part of him wonders if she dreamt of it. The life that had been denied them all because their father put superstitions above the laws of the land and paraded his delusions of his “precious” Rhaenyra.

“When is it not?” Aemond grumbled in response. His brother set his book upon the table before running a hand over his face and sighed.

“She’s avoiding me, I think.” He continued after a moment as Aemond stared him down.

It was obvious his younger brother didn’t believe him. For what reason would Helaena have to avoid him after all? He’d done nothing to offend her; it had to be a dream surely. Aemond took a breath as if deeply pained and exhaled quietly, his displeasure clear for Aegon to see.

“I’ve never been more happy to already be betrothed.” The younger prince muttered softly as he rubbed his temples. “Seeing you pine after our sister is exhausting! I’d never behave in such a manner with Cassandra.”

Aegon’s jaw twitched as his remain eye narrowed. “You aren’t the one being denied your bride, brother.”

Aemond just shrugged. A small mischievous smile appeared on his face as he faced Aegon in turn with an odd glint in his eyes as if he just came to a realization of sorts. “I heard from mother that after Helaena settles in Oldstones with her chosen ladies we will be able to visit her.”

Aegon raised a brow and Aemond continued easily enough. “Think of how much easier it would be to court Helaena if you were away from our half-sister’s lickspittles.”

Aegon didn’t argue with that. It would be nice to finally be able to properly court Helaena. To be able to glimpse her without any sort of interference from Rhaenyra’s faction. “When is Helaena to choose her companions anyway?”

“Today, or so mother told me.”

Aegon nearly choked as he stared at Aemond in stunned silence. His brother snickered at the look on his face, the little shit. If he weren’t nearly falling sword over shield for his Baratheon lady he would’ve thought it purposefully done to make their sister harder to catch. Though Aegon knows in truth the only affections that his younger brothers bear their sister is the same as uncle Gwayne did mother. Helaena herself held no inclinations either—too much of a daughter of the High Tower to fall to such queer customs as mother scathingly called them.

Whatever. Not like it mattered anyway he'd talk with her later, be sure she didn't avoid him this time and see just what exactly was going on between them. More importantly, whether or not she knew about the King's insistence the Maesters copy her book of dreams down. If Aegon were honest with himself, he didn't think Helaena would be too happy with that last bit. After all, those dreams all but condemned her far more than anything else.

The King wouldn't deny his precious grandson anything after all.

And if he were truly that stubborn in wanting the little bastard to be the future King it made sense, he ties the whelp to the only one who could ensure such a future, as a Dreamer his sister was far more prized than she would ever have been as a mere princess. It didn't matter she was the cleverest or would grow into perhaps the most beautiful woman in the world. Their family owed their lives to Daenys after all, it made sense (but was no less unfair) that Helaena as the second recognized Dreamer marry the future King.

Even if Aegon knows in the morrow of his bones that King is meant to be him.

It's fine though.

He'll wait, either way Helaena will be his in the end regardless of what the King said. He was the blood of Kings after all. Such was his mother's gift to him, the blood of the Most Fair and Old Valyria, more divine than his whore of a half-sister could ever hope to be.

The blood was strong after all, and it would endure.

Alicent schooled her features as she watched the ambassador eye her daughter as if she were the Maiden made flesh. Helaena for her part didn’t appear bothered much, speaking to her father with an ironclad conviction. Her daughter’s choices were not surprising, important noble ladies from notable houses.

Lannister. Redwyne. Tarth.

She had hoped to have young Alysanne Blackwood as her lady but it seemed the younger girl did not care much for propriety whilst Helaena was equally unenthused by her wild nature. Alas she’d have to take one or two more though that could come later, her daughter’s hands don’t tremble as she offers the wine to her father. Not even under the weight of the envoy’s gaze.

“Thank you, Helaena.” He said, taking the goblet as his gaze remained fixed on the envoy. Ser Otto Hightower eyed him with utter distaste as Helaena set the pitcher down before settling next to her grandsire.

“Ledgers.” She said fingers drumming against the table. “Have they been sent for?”

Always straight forward and duty bound. Her daughter was a breath of relief especially in comparison to Rhaenyra and her brood. Her father chuckled and nodded, “Yes, little star they have. There in my solar if you truly wish to see them.”

Her daughter smiled and Alicent’s heart stopped, she’d do anything and everything to keep her daughter like this. Happy and honorable. She had never felt more relieved that Rhaenyra’s influence had not taken root in her little girl’s heart.

“Lady Mother, Your Eminence.” She said offering them a pretty curtsy as her eyes flickered to her father. “May we go, grandsire?”

He glanced towards him and paused, “You would not mind would you, daughter?”

Her response was immediate. Anything to get Helaena free from that hungry gaze, the envoy looked somewhat disappointed by her child’s departure. It would have been about ten minutes at most when Aegon appeared at the door, as Alicent’s heart ached as she took in her eldest boy. He glanced around the room, almost expectant then frowned.

“Mother, where’s Helaena?”

She rubbed her temples and sighed, “She is with your grandsire attempting to learn more about how to run a household.”

Aegon nodded and glanced at the envoy surprised, “Who is-”

“Lysandro Rogare, an ambassador from Lys.”

“Ambassador?” He asked amused, then sighed. “Very well, I’m going to speak with Helaena.”

Alicent bit her tongue and glanced at her son, “Aegon,” she called out suddenly. Her boy turned, his wound still festering but healing relatively nicely.

“Yes mother?” He asked, cocking a brow.

“You know how Helaena is, I trust you shall treat her accordingly.”

Her son doesn’t say anything, only bowed and leaving the room, leaving Alicent with the ambassador.

Chapter Text

Vaemond grimaced as he settled a hand on Baelon’s shoulder, the lad had the grit of a born sailor but was as restless as the tides. His brother pulled back little Lucerys who was scowling, the boy did not do as well, prone to seasickness and as flighty as the winds his dragon soared through. He was more Targaryen than Velaryon (if he was even Laenor’s boy) that much was clear whilst Laena’s children were more of salt and silt than brimstone and ash.

“Boys,” his brother's voice cut in as loud as thunder. His expression was hard, like sharpened stones, as both boys squirmed beneath his gaze. Little Rhaena clung to his good sister, too preoccupied with watching the sea; she was more so drawn to sea even more than Baelon had been. Favoring it over the supposed “stolen” dragon now lost to her. “That is enough.”

The Greyjoy boy snorted from his place at Rhaena’s side, it was odd how the pair took a shine to each other. The lad was a wild, willful thing and Rhaena was so sweet and gentle, they made for an odd pair of friends. Then again, the Queen and Princess Rhaenyra had been so in their youth. He remembered how shy the Queen had been in her youth and how the Princess brought out her more social nature.

“Dalton!” Rhaena hissed as the boy held his hand up. His face the fixture of mock innocence. Baelon threw his sword to the ground.

“Who knows if you are truly my cousin anyway?” Laena’s son snarled, as ill tempered as his father. There was disgust there, as he looked upon his “cousin” and Lucerys looked ready to lunge at him. Perhaps he wished to make another Brokenbones of his kin (as his own son done to the Princess’ lover before he was cast back to Harrenhal.)

Corlys was quicker and glared at him instead, “Take the boy back to his chambers, he is to remain there for the rest of the day.”

Vaemond bit his tongue, though he desperately wanted to speak on the boy’s behalf. Now was neither the time nor the place. Laena’s boy flushed red as Vaemond scoffed but did as his brother bid.

“Of course, brother.”

Baelon paced the length of his chambers, frustration bubbling under his skin like puffs of flame. The boy grabbed a goblet of cider and threw it against the wall in frustration, it wasn’t fair. Why was he punished for speaking the truth? Everyone among Driftmark knew that Lucerys and Jocelyn were no true children of the seas.

Not like he or Rhaena were.

He pushed the sleeve of his tunic down, eyeing the seafoam scales so different than Rhaena's pale pink, his sister and he were alike in the same regard. Both carrying the weight of divinity in their veins. Just as the Princess did. He cursed himself for being so stupid, they’d likely punish him by preventing him from writing to her. Keep all his letters to the wayside till he learned his “lesson”.

The hearth crackled as the door was pushed open, instinctively stopped and turned, his grandsire stood in the doorway. His expression dark as he eyed the mess of his chambers. Grandmother tried to make him see sense, had tried to vouch for him—he’d heard it. Yet the man was not easily swayed, stubborn as the restless tide—like his Muña always claimed he was.

Perhaps they’re more alike than the young Targaryen would like to admit.

“Baelon,” The man’s voice is gruff, as the boy shifted nervously. His grandsire looked tired, in such a way he’d never seen. Baelon swallowed hard. “Who spoke such lies to you?”

Baelon refused to speak. He couldn’t tarnish his Muña’s name like that, she was amongst empyrean, it wouldn’t do well to upset her spirit. To disturb her rest by tarnishing her legacy, his kepa said it was important to keep the gilded halls of empyrean clean. His grandsire frowned at his silence and sighed settling on his bed as Baelon awkwardly sat next to him.

“Lucerys is your cousin,” He said bluntly as Baelon stared at the dying embers. Corlys chuckled and eyed him with amusement. “The son of your uncle, Laenor, that is all there is to it.”

“Then why doesn’t Jace look like us?”

His voice came out harsh as Corlys blinked. He seemed tense at the mention of his elder cousin, almost as if speaking his name threw him into a rage. All his mother’s blood seemed to be when they spoke of uncle Laenor’s eldest son.

“Does Princess Helaena not resemble her mother? So too does Jacaerys resemble his grandmother, Aemma Arryn.”

The words come out as if practiced a dozen times before, as Baelon frowned at the explanation. He’d never seen paintings of the first Queen, how apparently his eldest and youngest cousin and the Queen’s namesake resemble her.

“Helaena’s different,” He began flustering as Corlys raised a brow at the boy in turn. He wasn’t blind to the clear adoration his grandson held for the girl. How both Lucerys and Baelon seemed utterly enraptured by the princess indeed. The girl was as cold as winter’s winds, as formal as a Septa, yet charmingly so.

“I suppose she is,” Corlys conceded. “Perhaps it’s fitting that the ones so different from our blood are to be the ones joined in the end.”

He doesn’t want to be reminded of Helaena’s betrothal; Jacaerys was okay, but Helaena was too special to be bound to his dark-haired cousin. He is not wrong in his wish for her to be Queen, she’d excel at that. Of which there was no doubt.

But for her to be Jacaerys’ wife and consort?

Baelon couldn’t see it. He wondered if she’d even be happy dutybound as she was, she perhaps grew up with the expectation of marrying her brother Aegon. So to wed her nephew had to be a surprise in itself. And if she wasn’t going to wed her brother then why couldn’t she wed him?

He’d be fine as nothing more than her consort as the lady of Oldstones, much less pressure than if she were to be Queen.

“Baelon, I want for you all to get along.”

His grandsire’s voice is earnest, almost pleading as Baelon found himself nodding along. Lucerys was his brother now, with the marriage of his father to Princess Rhaenyra. They were kin besides, but he couldn't help that nagging thing as his grandsire shifted uncomfortably.

“There is another matter, about your betrothal-”

“Am I not to wed Rhaena?” He said cutting him off confusion laced in his voice as his grandsire sighed.

“Nay. T’was why I've delayed this conversation so long. You are to wed Princess Jocelyn, your uncle Laenor’s daughter.”

He thinks of Jocelyn. She’s silver-haired, with wine dark eyes, his great grandmother’s eyes apparently. He thought… Had this been why his father demanded he and Rhaena be fostered alongside Lucerys? So the… whelp could know his sister and his future bride?

“Rhaena is to wed Lucerys is she not?”

“Indeed, she is.”

Baelon grimaced at the notion. Lucerys wasn’t worthy of Rhaena, or of the Princess either. He was a rot, something he’d endure and suffer through if to please his father but nothing more. He refused to call Rhaenyra “mother”, refused to accept any child borne as a true sibling of his.

All he had were sisters’ Rhaena and Alyssa.

The daughters of Laena Velaryon.

Still, he’d smile, be courteous then when they least expected it he’d rip the rug under them. He thinks of the Princess again, the King was right in that Helaena was born to be a Queen. But would she be happy, the crown had done much and more to the woman of his blood. Baelon would much prefer her comfort over suffocating under the weight of their kins expectations. And if she was to truly be a Queen, then who said she had to be Aegon or Jacaerys’ wife and consort?

He and Rhaena were older than Lucerys. Jacaerys was a bastard so excluded from the succession, and Helaena’s brothers? They were far too Andal to hold the crown.

Thus, leaving him, of the purest Valyrian stock as the most obvious heir to the throne.

Helaena if she truly desired to be a Queen then Baelon would make her so. A Queen as fair as the sun and the seas, one that even outshone Queen Alysanne. But Baelon would be sure it was him who she stood beside at the end of it all.

Chapter Text

The vision came to him unabated, waves crashing against the shore, the taste of salt on his tongue. They beat against rocks, harsh and unrelenting, as Daeron frowned and squinted to try and see within the mist. He's here for a reason, he knows that much. Cold winds bite at his bones, as he glanced worriedly. He wondered briefly if Helaena would miss him most out of their brothers, for all she cared for Aegon and Aemond, Daeron liked to think she was closest to him.

She’d love it in Oldtown, perhaps even visit me on an occasion.

Daeron knows he’s here for a reason but not quite what it is. The river pulsed as whatever lurked beneath began to wade its way to the surface, he doesn’t know what shall appear but he decides to brave it anyway. The wine dark waters burst to reveal a woman, or well an angel.

She was beautiful, in the same way Helaena was. Though hers was a darker beauty than his sister’s had been. With curly hair was darker than the night sky and fell past her waist, shimmering like fish scales. Her skin was paler than white marble, her scales luminescent and glittering marked her skin. It reminds him of some of the rumors he’d heard whispered about Lady Laena’s twins, her features were perfectly symmetrical.

An angel, that’s what she was.

“Oh, regulus aren’t you a charmer?” The woman trilled sweet and eager. Daeron thinks he can see a bit of Helaena in this strange woman’s appearance. For whilst his sister’s appearance is light to her dark, the dappled green of her eyes matched Helaena’s own green eye.

Daeron doesn’t know what regulus means, be it a name or a title, perhaps it is both. The woman’s dressed oddly as she approached him, she’s dressed in the manner of ambassador Rogare’s wife, a peplos of seagreen wrapped in a chiton of bronze; the same manner they instructed his sister to be bound in. A jeweled coronet of spun gold and emeralds gleamed against her dark curls, she looked like some sort of "Queen of Old" that mother once described.

“I’ve been wishing to meet you for quite some time,” The woman continues, circling him like a hungry wolf does a lamb. Daeron can feel himself tremble as he tries his best to meet her gaze. Tries his best to appear unafraid, though he doubts it convinces the woman—the creature—his heart hammers in his chest as he swallows.

“You see things, regulus, things of the past, and things yet to come, am I wrong little prince?”

How did she know such things? Not even Helaena knew what he glimpsed—

Not that his elder sister would believe him if he told her. She was odd, odder still than even he, and away upon Dragonstone’s shores. He had tried to speak of it once, to Aemond, to ward him away from claiming mighty Vhagar. For he would loose his eye if he had, and yet…

Yet, his vision didn’t come to pass as he had seen.

Because it was not Aemond who lost his eye, but Aegon, their brother and future king. Now marked not in much a differential manner as Helaena had been.

A perfect match if given the chance.

“Then have you glimpsed it? The calamity, the ruin wrought?”

The words are unspoken; the war, the one he’s only seen in dreams. Burning cities, men cursing his blood, and an ill-fated union. Helaena was integral to it, Daeron knew that much since Aegon lost his eye. But how is the question?

“It’s been borne once before, the most beautiful woman in the world, a girl more divine than mortal. Bound to be a living legend in her own right and bound to be despised for it.”

“What’s her name?”

The woman sighed and eyed him with a melancholy he could not quite understand. He doesn’t want Helaena to be despised, his sister deserved to be loved, to be adored as was her right.

Alas, he doesn’t know if he can change her fate.

“She has gone by many,” The woman said simply. Her words detached and eyes gleaming with something ancient. Something older than the Iron Throne itself. “The face that launched a thousand ships. The fairest woman in the world.”

“That’s not her name!” Daeron snapped irritable and quick. He needed to know what her name was, what Helaena’s fate might be if he doesn’t try and help her.

“Helen,” The woman said bluntly. “Of Argos, of Sparta, of Troy. It matters not in truth, be she the daughter of Sparta or the ruin of Troy.”

Ruin?

“Troy was a beauteous city, you see, and there was once a prince, a boy—unknown of his noble blood who was asked to make a choice, and in doing so Helen was his reward for it. But Helen was married, you see, to Menelaus of Sparta—quite happily I must say.”

How could someone be a reward for another? How could a woman be traded when she was wed to another man? Daeron doesn’t quite understand it; the idea of a woman destroying a city, of launching ships, or Helaena’s relevance to it.

“A choice?” He echoed confused.

“One much like your half sister has made.”

Daeron freezes at that. He doesn’t know much about Rhaenyra or her children, just that she is stealing Aegon’s birthright. That she should not sit the Iron Throne, not when his brother was heir by right and law, by the blood of the Black Bride and her daughters.

“What was the Princess’ choice?”

The infuriating nymph shrugged, uncaring of his frustrations and sighed. “Alas that is not why I’m here. No, regulus I’m here for you.”

“Me?” Daeron echoed in confusion.

“You.” The nymph repeats bluntly. Then a smile creeped up her face as she lifted his chin, “After all, it’s not every day a son of my blood inherits my gift.”

“Blood? Gift? Madame what are you-”

“You know of me.” The woman continued cutting him off. Her voice is sweet like cider, green eyes cold like the Blackwater. “Of my story in your families line, a maid so far her hand was won at a tourney? Of that man who raged outside your families keep for it.”

“Maris the Maid?” Daeron echoed questioningly as the woman laughed to herself.

“Oh, I go by many names my Prince. The Maiden, the Most Fair. Although I prefer my first the most.”

“And what is that, oh maiden fair?”

Maris’ smile is sharp and all teeth. “Melusina, child of the rivers and seas.”