Chapter Text
Lucera
Driftmark
I left the Driftwood Throne room with the ache still lodged behind my eyes, the kind that pulsed in time with my steps. Four hours seated on hard oak, four hours of voices and figures and numbers.
The doors closed behind me with a dull, hollow sound. Not a slam, nothing so dramatic, but a tired thing, like an old man lowering himself into a chair.
The corridors were quieter at this hour.
Torches burned low, their flames guttering as the draft from the sea crept through the stone. Driftmark was never warm. Even in summer, the walls held the chill of centuries, the damp of salt and spray soaked too deep to ever be chased out entirely. I had grown used to it. I did not think I could ever grow fond of it.
My boots clanked against the stone as I walked. I had dismissed Alyn Redwyne and Hugh Merryweather with nods instead of words. Alyn had stood when I rose from the throne, straight-backed and silent, as he always was. Hugh had gathered his ledgers like a man cradling children, his mouth already pursed with calculations yet to be made.
They were loyal. That mattered more than affection.
The matter of Spicetown still churned in my mind like a tide that refused to settle. A stolen ship, wrecked before it ever left harbor. Fools, desperate men, or both. The loss itself was not ruinous. Wood could be replaced, sails rewoven, coin accounted for. What troubled me was the audacity of it. Driftmark was not a place men should mistake for unguarded.
Alyn had wanted heads on spikes. Hugh had wanted fines levied and accounts frozen. I had ordered neither. Not yet.
Power, I was learning, was not in the first reaction, but in the one that came after the anger cooled.
My shoulders felt stiff beneath my dress, the fine fabric pulling where I had sat too long without moving. At twenty, my body should not have felt so old. Yet there were moments, like now, when I felt nearer Corlys Velaryon in his final years than the girl I had been on Dragonstone, flying along the cliffs atop Arrax, the world no heavier than the wind at my back.
Dragonstone felt very far away tonight.
I passed a narrow window overlooking the dark stretch of water beyond the cliffs. The sea was restless, whitecaps breaking like scattered bones beneath the moon. Ships rocked gently in the harbor below, their masts rising and falling, patient as beasts at rest.
Corlys had ruled this place for decades. He had bent lords and kings to his will with charm and gold and the promise of ships. When he died, Driftmark did not pause to mourn, it simply turned and looked to me, as if I had always been meant to sit that throne.
Perhaps, in some ways, I had.
Still, there were days I felt the absence of my mother like a phantom limb. Rhaenyra would have known when to be merciful, when to be cruel. She would have spoken, and men would have listened because she was certain, not because she demanded it.
I had certainty. I simply learned it more slowly.
The corridors narrowed as I climbed the staircase leading to my rooms, the ceiling lowering, the stone pressing closer. Driftmark had been built for war as much as for rule, and it showed.
By the time I reached my chambers, my legs ached, and the knot at the base of my skull had tightened into something sharp. Sleep was all I wanted. No parchments. No voices. No talk of ships or ledgers or punishment.
Just silence.
I paused before the door, one hand resting against the wood, and let myself breathe for a count of five. This, too, I had learned, a lady who brought her weariness into every room soon found that it ruled her more than she ruled it.
Tomorrow there would be petitions.
Tomorrow there would be repairs to oversee, messages to send, sailors to discipline. Tomorrow, Driftmark would demand its due again.
But tonight—tonight, I would lay my head down beneath the sound of the sea and allow myself, for a few hours, to be nothing more than a woman who was tired.
I pushed the door open and stepped inside.
I closed the door behind me. The chamber smelled faintly of and beeswax. A small fire burned low in the hearth, more habit than necessity. I crossed the room and sat before the mirror, the candlelight catching in the dark glass, throwing my reflection back at me.
My hair was still pinned tight from my braids. Too tight. I reached up and began to pull the pins free one by one, setting them on the table beside me. Each loosened strand felt like a small mercy. My scalp ached, my temples still throbbed, and my shoulders protested as I rolled them once, twice, trying to work the stiffness out.
I had just freed the last pin when the knock came.
It was sharp and measured, not hesitant. I knew that knock.
“Enter,” I said.
The door opened, and one of the castle guards stepped inside, helm tucked beneath his arm. He bowed quickly, not deeply, another small courtesy I allowed, another habit Driftmark had formed around me.
“My lady,” he said. “A letter. Just arrived by raven.”
I took it from him before he could offer anything further. The wax seal was still intact, red and black pressed clean and sure. Three heads. I did not need to look twice.
“Thank you,” I said. He bowed again and withdrew, closing the door softly behind himself.
For a moment, I only stood there, the letter resting in my hands. The wax was cool, unbroken. I had received many like it over the few years. From Dragonstone, from my mother, from my brother's, from my cousins. Even my step father, Daemon wrote from time to time. This was not rare. It was not unexpected.
Still, my chest tightened all the same.
I broke the seal and unfolded the parchment.
My mother’s hand was steady, as it always was, firm lines, evenly spaced, confident without flourish.
My sweet Lucera,
Dragonstone feels emptier without you, though I know Driftmark has little care for my feelings. Jace pretends he does not count the days since he last saw you, but I see it in him. Joffrey asks after the sea often and swears he will sail to you the moment he is old enough to command a ship of his own. Baela and Rhaena speak of you as though you might walk through the doors at any moment. As for the little ones, Aegon and Viserys have taken to chasing each other through the halls like wild pups. They send you their love, loudly and without restraint.
I miss you. We all do.
I felt my throat tighten, though I had read words like these a dozen times before.
The letter continued.
You have ruled Driftmark for some time now, and I hear nothing but praise of your diligence. Lord Corlys would have approved, I think. Still, I would be remiss if I did not remind you, again, as mothers are wont to do, that Driftmark’s strength must endure beyond one lifetime. A claim is strongest when it is carried forward, not merely defended.
I know you do not lack sense, nor have you been careless. You wrote to me that the men of Driftmark do not suit you, and I understand why. You deserve a consort who stands beside you, not behind or beneath.
I exhaled slowly through my nose.
For that reason, I would suggest you consider coming to King’s Landing. The court is wide, and not all worthy men are found by the sea. There is no rush, no command in this, only an opportunity to be seen, and to see in turn.
My eyes skimmed ahead even as I forced myself to read every word.
If you are amenable, I intend to travel to the capital as well, with Daemon, Jace, Joffrey, Baela, and Rhaena. Rhaena is of an age where it would do her no harm to be presented to court, and it has been nearly a year since we were last together. Too long, by my reckoning.
We could meet in the Red Keep, if you wish. It would gladden me to have you under the same roof again, even for a short while.
Then came the final lines, written no differently than the rest, yet heavier for what they carried.
If you agree, write to me as soon as you are able. I must give notice ahead of our arrival and seek leave, as courtesy requires. Once I have your answer, I will send word to King Aemond accordingly.
With all my love,
Your Mother
I folded the letter slowly, more slowly than was necessary, and set it down beside the mirror. The pins lay scattered there still, small and sharp and bright, like bits of silvered bone.
Marriage. Heirs. Court.
Driftmark needed an answer. My mother needed one.
And King’s Landing, whether I wished it or not, had found me again.
...
The wind tore at me the moment we cleared the cliffs.
Arrax surged upward on powerful wings, the sea dropping away beneath us until Driftmark became a jagged crown of stone and white foam. I leaned forward instinctively, fingers tightening around the saddle straps as the cold bit through my riding leathers.
I did not look back for long.
Driftmark had stood unchanged as I left it, grey, solid. Alyn would be in the yards now, overseeing the morning drills, his voice carrying over the clash of steel. Hugh would already have his ledgers open, counting losses and gains with the same careful frown. They would keep order. I had chosen them for that reason.
Still, the weight of leaving settled heavily in my chest.
Arrax banked eastward at my silent urging, his long pale wings catching the light as the sun climbed higher. He was warm beneath me, a living heat that pushed back against the chill of the sky. I pressed my knees into his sides, feeling the strength there, the steady rhythm of flight. He was no longer the small, eager dragon I had first mounted as a child. He had grown, sleeker, stronger, restless when kept too long at Driftmark’s cliffs.
So had I.
Below us, the sea stretched wide and unbroken, dark blue flecked with silver where the sun struck it. Ships moved slowly across it, their sails like pale moth wings, fragile from this height. I had decided to bring some of my guards and handmaidens with me, but they had to go by ship.
The hours passed in measured silence, broken only by the rush of wind and the sound of Arrax’s wings beating against it. I let my thoughts wander where they would, though they circled the same matter again and again.
King’s Landing awaited.
I had not seen the city in years. I remembered its smell most of all, smoke, sweat, and something sour beneath it, like rot hidden under perfume. Driftmark was harsh, but it was honest. The sea took what it would and gave no excuses.
At court, nothing was ever taken plainly.
Arrax climbed higher as the day wore on, the land eventually rising beneath us as the coast curved inward. Rivers cut through the green like scars, glinting faintly. Farms and villages appeared, small and orderly, their people unaware of the dragon passing far above them.
I shifted in the saddle as my legs began to ache, grateful for the way Arrax seemed to sense my discomfort and adjusted his pace. He was tireless, or seemed so, though I knew even dragons felt the strain of long flight. Ten hours, perhaps more. Long enough for doubt to creep in.
I had told myself this was necessary. That Driftmark’s future demanded it. That heirs were not a thing one could postpone forever without consequence. I had written those words to my mother myself once.
They felt heavier now.
The sky deepened toward afternoon, the sun tilting westward. Far ahead, the land narrowed, the Blackwater Rush winding like a dark ribbon toward the sea. King’s Landing lay somewhere beyond it, hidden for now by distance and haze.
I adjusted my grip and set my jaw.
Whatever awaited me there, glances weighed and measured, words spoken too sweetly, choices framed as courtesies, I would meet it as I had met everything else since Corlys Velaryon’s death. With steadiness. With eyes open.
Arrax let out a low rumble, not quite a roar, and beat his wings harder, carrying us onward.
The air grew warmer as we pressed inland. Below us, the land thickened with roads and rivers, with fields cut neat and square, with villages clinging to bends in the water like barnacles to a hull. Arrax glided lower at my urging, his shadow skimming across farmland and stone alike, sending cattle scattering and men pausing in their work to shield their eyes and stare.
King’s Landing announced itself long before I saw it clearly.
First came the smoke, thin threads at the horizon that thickened into a low grey haze. Then the smell reached me, even from the air. ash, pitch, sweat, river water gone stale. The city rose from the land like a wound that had been built over instead of healed.
Its walls appeared next, pale and vast, curling around the hills like a clenched fist. And above them all, the Red Keep crowned the highest ridge, its red stone unmistakable even at a distance. Sunlight caught on its towers, bright and unforgiving.
My chest tightened despite myself.
Arrax let out a low sound, sensing the change in me, and beat his wings harder as I guided him lower still.
We banked toward the Dragonpit, its great dome unmistakable even half ruined as it was. The heat there was different from the dragon’s warmth beneath me, older, heavier, baked into the stone by centuries of fire and breath. As we descended, I saw the dragonkeepers waiting below, small figures in their rough robes, faces lifted to the sky.
Arrax landed with a heavy thud, claws scraping stone, wings folding in with a rustle like sails being drawn. I slid from the saddle stiffly, legs protesting after so many hours aloft. The ground felt unsteady beneath my feet, as it always did after long flight.
The dragonkeepers moved at once, practiced and careful, murmuring in their strange, old tongue as they approached Arrax. He allowed it, lowering his head as one of them touched his neck, another reaching for the harness. I rested a hand briefly against his warm hide, a silent thanks, before stepping back.
I watched as they led him away, his pale wings disappearing into the shadows of the pit. Only then did I turn.
They were already there.
Two members of the Kingsguard stood waiting beside a carriage right next to the pit, white cloaks bright even in the soot-stained air, armor polished to a dull gleam. One stepped forward and bowed.
“My lady,” he said. “You are expected.”
I nodded, too tired for anything else, and allowed myself to be guided into the carriage. The ride was short, the streets blurring past in a press of stone and bodies and noise. The city watched as we passed.
I did have to give up my title as princess when I became lady of driftmark.
When the carriage came to a halt and the doors were opened, the Red Keep loomed before me, closer now, larger than memory. I stepped down and crossed beneath its gates, the guards parting without a word.
The training yard opened before me, wide and sunlit, packed hard by years of boots and hooves. Steel rang somewhere to the side, the sound of practice blades meeting. Voices fell quiet as I entered.
I had taken no more than a few steps forward when something struck me from the side.
I went down with a startled breath, the impact knocking the air from my lungs as we hit the dirt. Arms wrapped around me hard, warm and unyielding, and familiar laughter rang in my ears.
“I missed you,” Baela said fiercely, her face buried against my shoulder.
I laughed despite myself, breathless and startled, my hands coming up automatically to brace her weight. “Baela—”
She pulled back abruptly, eyes widening as she took in our surroundings. Only then did she realize we were sprawled in the middle of the yard, skirts dirtied, hair disordered, with half the court staring.
“Oh,” she said flatly, and scrambled to her feet, offering me a hand. “Right. Everyone’s watching.”
I accepted her pull and rose, brushing the dirt from my skirts as best I could, heat creeping up my neck. The stares pressed in from all sides, lords and ladies whispering behind their hands, judgments already forming.
Before I could gather myself fully, my mother was there.
Her arms wrapped around me, firm and familiar, her embrace steadying in a way nothing else could be. She smelled of dragon and incense and home.
“Lucera,” she said, voice low, fierce with feeling. “You’re here. Oh how i've missed you, sweet girl.”
I held her tightly, for a heartbeat longer than courtesy allowed, before she drew back to look at me properly. Her eyes searched my face, sharp and knowing, then softened.
Rhaena stepped in next, quieter but no less sincere, her hug gentler, careful. “You look well,” she said, and I knew what she meant beneath it.
Jace followed, tall now, solid, his arms closing around me with the easy strength of someone who had done so a hundred times before. “You took your time,” he said, though his smile betrayed him. Seven hells his grip on me was strong.
Behind them, Daemon watched it all with that familiar curve of his mouth, amusement and calculation mixed in equal measure. He did not embrace me, but his eyes met mine, and he inclined his head just enough to acknowledge me.
Then there was a thud and a clatter, and suddenly Joffrey was there too, nearly tripping over his own feet as he all but threw himself at me, arms tight around my waist.
“I told them you’d come. Can we go visit the fountains in the garden's?” he asked, his head burrowing into my skirts, breathless with triumph.
"Sure. If mother allows it."
I laughed again, this time more freely, one hand settling in his hair.
A bit later we moved through the Red Keep together, our steps echoing against stone that had once felt too large for me and now felt strangely narrow. No herald announced us. No doors were thrown open in greeting. Courtiers drifted past at a distance, pretending not to stare while doing exactly that, their whispers trailing after us like threads pulled loose from a fraying tapestry.
I felt it then, the absence.
No king waiting at the doors. No queen. No gentle welcome, no sharp rebuke. Just corridors and glances and the sense that we had arrived somewhere we were expected to navigate alone.
My mother walked at the front, her posture composed, chin high. She did not comment on the lack of ceremony, though I could see the tightness at the corners of her mouth. Baela and Rhaena flanked me, Baela with her usual defiance, Rhaena more watchful, her eyes tracking every movement around us. Jace spoke quietly to Daemon, while Joffrey stayed close to my side, his hand holding onto mine as though to reassure himself I was real.
We had gone no more than a few turns deeper into the keep when a white cloak stepped suddenly into our path.
He was tall, broad shouldered, his armor polished bright, his cloak falling clean and unwrinkled down his back. For a heartbeat, I could not tell which one he was.
Arryk? Erryk?
He bowed deeply, more to my mother than to any of us, then straightened.
“Princess Rhaenyra, prince daemon.” he said. “My ladies. My princes.” His gaze flicked over us in practiced order. “You have my apologies. There has been… confusion.”
Confusion, I thought. In King’s Landing, that word could mean anything or nothing at all.
“You were not meant to be left unattended,” he continued. “If you would follow me, rooms have been prepared.”
My mother inclined her head. “Of course.”
The chambers we were led to were spacious and cool, furnished with the careful neutrality of rooms meant for guests whose favor was still being measured. We had scarcely entered when the guard announced someone’s approach.
The doors opened a few minutes later.
Alicent Hightower stepped inside.
She wore green, of course, a deep shade this time, rich and carefully chosen. Her hair was drawn back neatly, her posture flawless. A smile touched her lips the moment she saw us, soft and practiced and entirely without warmth.
“Princess Rhaenyra,” she said, her voice smooth. “I apologize for the delay. Matters of court rarely keep to a courteous schedule.”
My mother returned the smile, just as composed, though her eyes sharpened slightly. “No doubt.”
Little viserys and Aegon were hiding under some table, whispering to joffrey to joing them. Alicent glanced at the boys like they were some pests.
Alicent turned her gaze to us then, lingering on me for a fraction longer than the others. “Lady Lucera. Driftmark suits you, I see.”
I inclined my head. “Your Grace.”
Her smile twitched, almost imperceptibly, but she let it pass.
“The king is presently in council,” she continued. “He regrets that he could not receive you at once. Until such time as he is free, I shall see to your comfort.”
She said it easily, as though the role were hers by right.
“As Queen Dowager,” she added, the title spoken with careful emphasis.
Something in my chest tightened.
Queen Dowager.
The words rang false. Aegon had been king. Helaena had been his wife. By every law and custom, the title should have passed to her. Alicent was the widow of Viserys, nothing more, important, influential, yes, but not what she named herself.
I wondered if she did it out of habit, or defiance, or because no one had yet dared to correct her.
My mother said nothing. Their relationship had never been the fragile truce of the past, no thin smiles hiding old wounds, no false affection. What stood between them now was cooler, harder, shaped more by rivalry than resentment. Book learned courtesy layered over years of quiet opposition.
“We thank you for your consideration,” my mother said at last.
Alicent inclined her head. “You are most welcome. You are guests of the crown after all.”
Guests.
Not family. Not kin. Not something closer.
Her eyes flicked once more toward the doors, toward the corridors beyond, as if gauging how long the king might remain otherwise occupied.
I folded my hands together to still them and reminded myself that I had chosen this. That Driftmark needed heirs, and heirs required paths like this, stone halls, careful words, smiles that meant less than they showed.
Alicent did not stay long.
She left with the same practiced grace she had entered with, excuses shaped like courtesies, her smile thinning as she mentioned that the king had risen from council and required her presence. My mother inclined her head, polite but stiff, and said nothing more. When the door closed behind the queen dowager, the room seemed to breathe again.
Mother was the one to break the silence.
“You must be hungry,” she said at last, her eyes finding us one by one. “The gardens are always stocked. Go. The rest of us will remain here.”
"I wish to stay here, if thats okay." Jacaerys said.
Mother nodded "alright then. Baela, rhaena and lucera, you go. And please take Joffrey with you."
I rose without argument. The journey had left my bones aching, and the thought of lemon cakes was welcome.
So the four of us left the chamber together, Baela first, always moving as if the world would wait for her no matter how fast she went, Rhaena close behind, Joffrey nearly running to keep pace, and me, walking slower, taking in the halls as we passed.
The gardens of the Red Keep were just as I remembered them, high hedges trimmed into neat shapes, fountains whispering softly, the smell of herbs and late-blooming flowers hanging heavy in the air. Long stone tables had been set beneath the trees, laden with plates of sweets and fruits as if no war had ever touched the city.
Joffrey made a delighted sound and went straight for a pile of sugared almonds.
Rhaena reached for candied plums, inspecting them with care before choosing two.
Baela snorted. “You look like a septa choosing sins.”
Rhaena shot her a look. “And you look like someone who’s never had to think about anything beyond tomorrow.”
“That’s because I do not have to. I'm a princess.” Baela said, popping a honeycake into her mouth.
I took a lemon cake, soft, dusted with sugar, just as it had always been. The first bite tasted like childhood, like the Red keep kitchens and stolen moments before lessons.
We settled along the stone edge of a fountain, skirts gathered, Joffrey perched between Baela and Rhaena.
“I don’t want to marry,” Rhaena said suddenly, her voice low but firm.
Baela turned to look at her, surprised. “You don’t want to now, or you don’t want to yet?”
“I don’t want to,” Rhaena repeated. “But I know I must. Everyone keeps saying there will be letters, offers, careful considerations. Lords with sons. Sons with expectations.” Her fingers tightened around the plum. “I don’t want to be considered like land.”
Joffrey puffed up at that. “I don’t want to marry either.”
I smiled at him and reached over to brush sugar from his sleeve. “You don’t need to marry for many years yet,” I told him. “By then, you’ll have changed your mind five times.”
He considered this seriously. “Maybe six.”
Rhaena exhaled, some of the tightness leaving her shoulders. “You’re lucky, Baela. You don’t have to look.”
Baela lifted a brow. “That’s because I already found,” she said lightly, and did not say Jace’s name, though we all knew it. “Besides, if I had to look, I’d make it miserable for everyone involved.”
“I believe that,” I said.
Rhaena huffed a laugh despite herself.
Baela leaned back on her hands, eyeing Joffrey and then Rhaena with mock consideration. “You know, if the two of you married, the problem would solve itself.”
Rhaena nearly dropped her plum. “Absolutely not.”
Joffrey recoiled in horror. “She’s my cousin.”
“And? It's normal for Targaryens.” Baela said.
“That’s different,” he insisted, though none of us knew how.
I ate another bite of lemon cake and let their voices wash over me. The sun was warm on my face, the fountain steady and untroubled. For a moment, it almost felt like peace.
Almost.
My eyes drifted back toward the keep, toward stone walls and closed doors. Somewhere within those halls sat a king I had once known too well, and now barely at all.
Baela did not sit quietly for long. She never did.
“So,” she said, flicking a crumb from her fingers, “who do you think they’ll try to give Rhaena to first?”
Rhaena stiffened. “I don’t want to think about it.”
“That’s never stopped anyone from thinking for you,” Baela replied. “They’ll start close. Velaryon cousins. Crownlanders. Someone with ships or coin.”
“I don’t need either,” Rhaena said. “I only need a dragon.”
Joffrey kicked his heels against the stone. “What if you just… don't?”
“Don't what?” Rhaena asked.
“Don't marry,” he said simply. “What if you refuse?”
Baela opened her mouth, but I answered first. “Refusing is easier when you are powerful,” I said. “Or dangerous. Or very loved.”
Rhaena lowered her eyes. “I’d rather claim a dragon and fly forever,” she murmured. “Just keep going. No halls, no talks, no men with smiles like knives.”
Baela snorted. “You’d come back in a fortnight. You’d miss hot baths.”
“I would not.”
“You would,” Baela said confidently. “And clean sheets.”
Joffrey leaned closer to Rhaena. “If you don’t marry,” he offered, “you can just live near me. I’ll protect you.”
Rhaena smiled faintly. “You can barely lift a shield.”
“I will,” he insisted. “I’m growing.”
I reached out and tugged his curls lightly. “You’ll grow into trouble first.”
He laughed at that.
I wiped my fingers on a linen cloth and stood up.
“I’ll go see Helaena,” I said, rising. My voice came out steadier than I felt. “I still remember where her chambers are. I’ll meet you all back in the rooms with mother.”
Baela lifted a brow. “Alone?”
“I won’t get lost,” I said. “And I won’t be long.”
Rhaena nodded, understanding in her eyes. Joffrey only waved, his mouth already full again. I gave them a small smile, then turned away before anyone could ask more.
The gardens fell behind me quickly. The warmth, the laughter, the scent of sugar and fruit, all of it faded as soon as I passed beneath the arch and into the keep. Stone swallowed sound. My steps echoed softly as I walked, the hem of my dress brushing the floor.
I knew these corridors. I had walked them as a child, as a girl. The walls looked the same, but they felt narrower now, heavier. The torches burned low though it was still daylight, and the air smelled faintly of wax and old stone.
I was thinking of Helaena, of her quiet voice, her careful hands, the way she used to hum when she thought no one listened, even when she knew peoole listened. Then I turned the corner.
I did not see him until I bumped into him.
Not hard enough to fall. Not enough to cry out. Just enough to jolt me back into myself.
“I—” I began, then stopped.
Purple.
That was the first thing I saw. One eye, sharp and cold, fixed on me as if I were something beneath notice. The other was hidden behind the black leather patch.
Aemond.
For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to the space between us. He stood taller than I remembered, broader through the shoulders, dressed in a dark tunic and boots. His hair was longer, half of it bound back like always. His face had lost the sharpness of youth and gained something harder in its place.
A king’s face.
My body reacted before my mind could catch up. I stepped back quickly and bowed into a curtsy.
“My king,” I said.
The words tasted strange. Wrong.
I opened my mouth again, to apologize for my carelessness, for daring to occupy the same space as him, but he was already moving.
He did not speak.
He did not slow.
His shoulder struck mine as he passed, not enough to hurt, but enough to make his meaning clear. I was nothing to him. An obstacle. A delay.
I staggered a half-step, catching myself against the wall. By the time I straightened, he was already several paces away, his back straight, his stride unbroken.
He did not look back.
My chest felt tight, as though something had been pressed there too hard, too suddenly. I stood frozen, staring after him, memories rising unbidden despite my efforts to bury them.
Eight years.
Eight years since the last time I had seen him, really seen him, before Viserys died, before the crown passed to Aegon. Before that night.
We had spoken after that dinner with the whole family, cautiously at first, as if testing old ground. I guess he partially forgave me for turning him partially blind. We had started to talk more, meet up in the library, bond over books like we used to when we were little, when I promised myself to him, promised to bear his children. Words had turned into looks. Looks into touches, until finally he fucked me underneath the weirwood tree when it was the hour of the wolf and the red keep had been silent and halfway empty. Atleast around the garden's and godswood area. After that, he made me ride him in his chambers before he fucked me inti his matress again from behind like a madman. I had told myself it meant nothing, that it was only memory and loneliness and proximity. But I had known better even then.
In the morning, I had pushed him away.
We cannot, I had said. There is too much blood between us. And our mother's do not like eachother.
I had left with my family shortly after. Dragonstone. Distance. Silence.
Then Death. Crowns changing heads. Viserys died. Aegon was crowned. Then he died too, so Aemond was crowned. Corlys dying. Driftmark becoming mine whether I was ready or not.
And now this.
I forced myself to breathe. Forced my feet to move. The corridor was still empty, still silent, as if nothing at all had happened.
But my hands were shaking as I walked on toward Helaena’s chambers.
I lifted my hand and knocked.
For a moment there was only quiet, then a soft voice drifted through the door. “You may enter.”
I pushed it open.
“Lucera.”
Helaena was on her feet in an instant. Whatever composure she’d held a moment before vanished as her face lit up, her eyes widening with genuine delight. She crossed the room quickly, skirts whispering over the floor, and took my hands in hers as if to be sure I was truly there.
“You came,” she said, smiling. “I knew you would, but still… you came.”
“Of course.” I answered, returning her smile despite the tightness in my chest. “You look well.”
She did, older, yes, but not worn. Her hair was looser than I remembered, threaded with only a few silver pins, her face softer somehow, calmer. Peace did not often live in the Red Keep, but it clung to her all the same.
Behind her, two children looked up.
Gods.
I stopped short.
One sat cross-legged on the rug, a hoop of fabric in their hands, tongue caught between their teeth as they embroidered with careful concentration. The other sat curled on a couch, staring at me.
Jaehaerys and Jaehaera.
They were no longer the quiet babes I remembered trailing after their mother. They had lengthened, sharpened into themselves. Eleven, perhaps. Old enough to look at me with curiosity rather than shyness.
“They’ve grown,” I said softly.
Helaena laughed under her breath. “Too quickly. Every day I wake thinking they’ll have changed again.”
She turned to them. “This is Lucera, your cousin. I’ve told you of her.”
I couldn't tell the two apart for the life of me.
"This is jaehaera" helaena pointed at the girl on the floor, embroidering. "This is jaehaerys." The one whi sat on the couch.
Jaehaerys stood at once and bowed, awkward but earnest. Jaehaera followed more slowly, watching me with pale, observant eyes before offering a small curtsy.
“It’s good to meet you both,” I said. “You were much smaller the last time I saw you.”
“I do not remember you." Jaehaera said suddenly.
"That is okay. After all last I saw you two, you were 3 years old." Lucera said gently.
Helaena smiled at that, then gently guided the children back to what they were doing. “Go on now. Finish your work.”
They obeyed without protest, returning to their quiet tasks as if my presence were no great disruption at all.
Helaena gestured for me to sit. We took the chairs by the window, close enough to speak softly. Sunlight spilled in, pale and warm, catching dust motes in the air.
“Mother told me you were coming,” she said. “I’ve been looking at the door all day.”
“I didn’t wish to intrude,” I replied. “But I wanted to see you before the keep swallowed me whole.”
Her lips curved faintly. “It still tries.”
She called Jaehaerys over, who then sat between her legs, letting his mother braid his hair.
Silence settled between us, not an uncomfortable one. It never was with her. Still, there were things unsaid, heavy and waiting.
“I should have written more,” I said at last. “After…after Aegon.”
Her fingers stilled in his hair.
“I know it has been two years,” I continued, words careful. “But I am sorry. For your loss.”
She looked at me for a long moment.
Then, to my surprise, she shook her head.
“Do not be,” she said quietly.
I frowned. “Helaena—”
“He was my husband, and my brother.” she said, calm as still water. “And the father of my children. I mourned him. I did what was expected of me.”
She glanced toward Jaehaerys and Jaehaera, her gaze softening. “But I am not broken by his passing.”
There was no bitterness in her voice. No grief, either. Only truth.
“When he died,” she went on, “the noise stopped. The shouting. The wine. The way the air changed when he entered a room.”
Her hands tightened briefly, then relaxed. “I sleep now. My children sleep.”
I swallowed. “I didn’t know.”
Few had, I suspected.
“I am relieved,” she said simply. “And I feel guilty for it. But guilt does not change what is.”
She looked back at me, studying my face. “You carry too much for someone so young.”
I let out a soft breath. “So do you.”
She smiled again, faint but genuine. “Perhaps we always have.”
Outside, the bells of the Red Keep rang the hour. The sound drifted through the window and faded.
“I’m glad you came,” Helaena said. “This place needs gentler faces.”
I thought of the corridor. Of purple eyes that had passed me without a word.
“So am I,” I replied.
“You look tired,” Helaena said at last, not accusing, only observant. “Driftmark weighs on you.”
I gave a small, humorless smile. “It never stops. The sea does not care who sits the Driftwood Throne. Ships break, men steal, lords complain. A few days ago alone, someone tried to take a ship from Spicetown and smashed it to kindling instead.”
Her eyes widened slightly. “And you had to judge it.”
“For four hours,” I said. “Two men begging mercy, three merchants demanding coin, and a ship that will never sail again.”
“You were born to it,” she said gently.
“Perhaps,” I answered. “But being born to something does not make it easy.”
She nodded, understanding.
“And now they look at you,” she continued, “and see a woman who must marry. Must produce heirs. Must be… settled.”
My shoulders tensed. “My mother reminds me often.”
“As she should,” Helaena said without judgment. “And as mine once did.”
“You never wished to leave?” I said carefully. “To live somewhere else. Somewhere quieter.”
Her gaze drifted toward the window, toward the sky beyond. “I wished for many things once. Most of them were impossible.”
She looked back at me then, eyes clear. “Now I wish for safety. For my children to grow without fear. For peace to last longer than a season.”
I thought of Driftmark, of waves crashing endlessly against stone. “Peace is a fragile thing.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “But it is worth protecting.”
She finished braiding Jaehaerys's hair and let him walk off to his sister, her hands now free.
“You still look like a girl,” she said softly. “They will pretend you are one.”
“I am twenty,” I replied. “That is already too old for most.”
“For fools,” she said. “Any man worthy of you will see past the number.”
I huffed quietly. “That narrows the field.”
She smiled. “Good.”
Her gaze sharpened, just slightly. “You will stay a while, won’t you?”
“As long as I must,” I said. “Long enough to choose. Long enough to be seen.”
“And long enough for me,” she added.
I reached out then and took her hand. “Always.”