Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra woke with a sharp, tearing gasp, as though she had been dragged back from drowning.

Her chest heaved. Her hands flew to her throat, fingers digging into skin slick with sweat. The chamber was dark, the familiar shadows of Red Keep stretching long across the stone walls, but her heart did not know that. It hammered wildly, deafening in her ears, as if it still ran from fire.

What was that?
What....what happened to her?

Her breath shuddered. For a long moment she could not move, could not think, only feel the echo of terror clawing through her veins.

A crowned man rose before her mind’s eye.

He had Alicent’s face.

No....not her face. Not truly. The features were the same , the same pious coldness carved into bone. But his hair, silver-gold, unmistakable, Valyrian. Targaryen.

He stood tall, arrogant, crowned in gold and Aegon's crown while....

Her father.

Viserys.

Rotting.

A body decaying in a closed room while the lords cheered another.

Rhaenyra sucked in a breath so sharp it hurt. A violent shiver ran through her limbs.

No. No, that is not possible.

She remembered standing in the halls of Dragonstone, older, harder, broken while children clustered around her. Children with her eyes. With Daemon’s sharpness. Sons and daughters who bore her blood and his fire, staring up at her in fear and grief.

Her hands trembled.

Then the pain came.

Gods, the pain....

Her body curled instinctively, muscles tightening as memory surged not from thought but from flesh. Blood. Fire. A tearing agony so complete it stole her voice. She remembered screaming. Remembered begging. Remembered thinking, this is how Mother must have felt.

Aemma.

The fear she had carried since girlhood, the fear of the birthing bed, of blood-soaked sheets and men making choices while women died, rose up and swallowed her whole.

Her breath came out in broken sobs.

And then....

Fire.

A boy stood beside her.

He looked like Daemon.

Too much like Daemon.

The same sharp jaw, the same defiant posture, the same reckless courage burning in young eyes. He turned, just once, as if sensing something...

....and a dragon she did not know unleashed flame at the command of that crowned man with Alicent’s features.

Rhaenyra screamed, the sound tearing from her chest as if it had been ripped free.

“He....” Her voice cracked, barely a whisper. “He called me his… half-sister.”

Her mind reeled.

Half sister.
How?

Her father was meant to marry Laena Velaryon. Everyone had said it. Everyone had known it.

Then how.....how did Alicent’s face sit upon a Targaryen body?

Her breathing turned ragged. Her vision blurred.

Does that mean....
Does that mean Father will marry Alicent?

“No,” she whispered fiercely into the dark. “No, no, no.....”

Another vision slammed into her without mercy.

Alicent older now, sharper, her mouth tight with righteousness lunged toward her. Steel flashed.

Pain bloomed across her arm as a knife bit into flesh.

Rhaenyra cried out, clutching herself as if the wound were real.

“Ahhh!” She shook her head violently. “Stop. Please...stop.”

Her hands flew to her temples. Sweat soaked her nightdress, chilled her skin. Her heart thundered so loudly she feared it would wake the guards.

Then...

Her father again.

Alive.

Whole.

And beside him sat Alicent, similar to her present age but no longer the quiet girl in her mother’s dresses. She wore a gown cut low at the shoulders, silk clinging to her frame, collarbones pale and exposed. A woman. A queen in all but name.

Rhaenyra gagged.

“Stop,” she begged, tears streaming freely now. “Someone stop....”

Blood splattered stone.

A child lay dying.

Dark hair. Dark eyes.

So like her mother it stole the breath from her lungs.

A sword fell. A man....one eyed calling the child... her child, nephew.

Rhaenyra collapsed forward, a sob wrenching itself free.

“Lucerys,” she whispered, though she did not yet know how she knew the name.

Grief crushed her chest. She saw herself screaming, breaking, clawing at the air as the words reached her....

Your son is dead.

She forced herself to breathe. In. Out. Slowly.

Control yourself.

Ser Criston would be outside. One sound too loud and....

Another vision tore through her defenses.

Criston Cole.

Her friend.

Her shield.

Standing before an older Alicent, his face twisted with bitterness, his voice thick with contempt. Watching an older her walking with an infant strapped at her chest while her blood dripping on the floors of the place that was supposed to be her home.

“She is a whore,” he said.

Rhaenyra choked.

“No,” she whispered. “No, you wouldn’t....”

Cold sweat drenched her spine.

Are these dragon dreams?
Or dragon warnings?

Like Daenys, who dreamed of Doom.
Like Aegon, who dreamed of winter and darkness.

Her blood felt awake, humming, as if something ancient had stirred within it.

“Calm down,” she whispered desperately to herself. “You have to calm down.”

Her legs shook as she pushed herself upright.

She needs to tell someone.

“Muna....” The word broke apart in her mouth. Her throat closed. “No… no, she’s gone.”

Her father.

She needed her father.

Then dread settled like lead in her stomach.

He will never believe anything against Otto Hightower. Not if he truly married his daughter over their cousin.

Her breath hitched.

“Daemon,” she whispered.

Yes.

Daemon.

She stood abruptly....

....and the world shattered once more.

Daemon plunged from the sky, locked in combat with the man who had killed her son. Dragons screamed. Fire and wind tore at them both.

Victory....

And then

Loss.

Daemon fell.

Her Daemon.

Her kepus.

His body vanished into darkness below, and the grief that followed was so complete it stole her voice entirely.

Rhaenyra crumpled to the floor, sobbing openly now, hands pressed to her mouth as if to keep her heart from breaking apart.

“No,” she cried soundlessly. “Not him. Anyone but him.”

The room was silent.

But her blood was not.

The dragons were not.

And somewhere deep within her, Rhaenyra Targaryen understood one terrible truth....

These were not dreams.

They were a warning.

-----------

The wine glugged softly as Rhaenyra poured it, red liquid catching the torchlight like spilled blood.

Her hand was steady.

That, more than anything, unsettled her.

All morning she had searched....scratched, really for some way to stop what she had seen. Some path that did not end in fire and dead children and a crown stolen while her father rotted. She had paced her chambers until her legs ached, replayed every vision until her head throbbed, whispered prayers she did not believe in to gods she had never trusted.

Nothing changed.

The future did not bend.

So she stood now in the Small Council chamber, dutiful and silent, pouring wine like the obedient princess she had always been taught to be and not the Heir she was supposed to be while her mind finally, finally, put the pieces together.

Her gaze slid, unbidden, to Otto Hightower.

She saw him differently now.

Not as her father’s loyal Hand. Not as Alicent’s careful, concerned sire. But as Daemon had always seen him.

A spider.

And gods help her....Daemon had been right.

A bitter, almost hysterical thought crossed her mind: a part of her almost applauds him.

Because it was brilliant. Cold. Meticulous.

He had isolated her so thoroughly she had not even known she was alone.

She was the Crown Princess of House Targaryen, the sole child of The King of Westeros and yet she had one lady in waiting. One. Alicent Hightower. No household of her own. No ladies sworn to her, no maids whose loyalty was unquestioned, no quiet ears to carry her words or guard her secrets.

No allies.

Otto had made sure of it.

Her fingers tightened around the flagon.

Five ladies. At least five, she should have had. That was custom. That was expectation. That was power. Instead, every whisper she spoke passed first through Alicent’s mouth straight into Otto Hightower’s waiting hands.

Her jaw clenched.

And how convenient it had been, truly, that Otto had suggested her naming as heir only after ensuring Daemon’s fall.

Daemon, reckless, cruel at times, yes but disinherited on the strength of words spoken in a brothel?

Words whispered in Flea Bottom somehow reaching the Iron Throne itself?

No.

That did not happen by chance.

That happened because someone was listening.

Spying, she realized coldly.

On her uncle.

On the heir presumptive.

To be able to spy on the Rogue Prince himself.

Otto had eyes everywhere.

The memory came unbidden too sharp, too clear.

She had asked Alicent where she had been the night before. She remembered it now with nauseating clarity. How Alicent’s eyes had flickered just for a heartbeat before she bowed her head.

In the sept, she had said. Praying for your mother.

A lie.

A lie spoken to her face.

Rhaenyra’s hand clenched so tightly the metal rim of the cup bit into her skin.

Bitch.

Yet beneath the fury coiled something colder. Something far more dangerous.

Fear.

Because for Alicent to move so freely, for Otto to send his daughter back and forth between the Hand’s Tower and the King’s chambers without a whisper escaping meant one thing.

He controlled the Red Keep.

Maids. Servants. Guards. Kingsguard.

All of them.

No girl, not even the daughter of the Hand, should have been allowed such access without scrutiny. She should have been questioned. Turned away. Stopped.

But no one had stopped Alicent.

Not once.

Which meant Otto Hightower’s reach went deeper than Rhaenyra had ever imagined.

Her grandsire had been dead and Her great Grandsire had collapsed and Otto Hightower had taken control and then, had never returned that control.

The thought made her stomach twist.

A second son of a house that was not even paramount.

Hand to two kings.

Master of whispers, master of access, master of silence. Master of power.

And she...
She was a girl.

A girl with dragon blood and no army.

A girl with visions and no proof.

A girl standing alone in a room full of men who smiled at her indulgently and thought her a place holder till the King's son is born.

Her gaze drifted across the council table.

Lords discussed grain stores and border disputes, ships and taxes, their voices droning together into a meaningless hum. They did not look at her. Not truly. To them she was ornament, cupbearer, merely a girl.

She understood then, with terrible clarity that she could not outmaneuver Otto Hightower.

Not while he lived.

Her breath slowed.

He has to die.

The thought was not hysterical. It was not impulsive. It settled into her bones with a frightening calm.

If Otto Hightower lived, her future ended in fire.

Alicent...

Alicent she could handle.

She would not underestimate her. No, she would not make that mistake, not after seeing that knife flash, not after witnessing the audacity required to wound the King’s heir in front of the King himself. In front of Princess Rhaenys. In front of Lord Corlys. In front of Daemon.

The sheer confidence of it.

Alicent had known she would get away with it.

And she had.

Which meant Alicent was dangerous but not yet untouchable.

She was still only a lady in waiting. Still needed time. Still needed her father.

Take Otto away, and Alicent’s path to the throne would not be so smooth. Without him, she would have to fight.

And Rhaenyra could fight her.

Her eyes hardened.

The council’s voices blurred as a sudden pause rippled through the chamber.

Footsteps echoed against stone.

Rhaenyra lifted her gaze.

-------

The knight’s boots echoed sharply against the stone floor as he entered the Small Council chamber, helm tucked beneath his arm, posture rigid with urgency.

He knelt.

“Your Grace. My lords,” he said. “Prince Daemon has taken a dragon egg from the Dragonpit.”

The room stilled.

Rhaenyra lifted her gaze slowly, heart giving an odd, hollow lurch.

The knight continued, “He has sent a missive. He claims the egg is for his future child.”

Silence followed, thick, heavy, coiled tight with tension.

Then Otto Hightower spoke.

Outrage slid effortlessly into his voice, polished and practiced. “This is an insult,” he declared. “A provocation. The prince mocks the Crown, Your Grace. He must be answered swiftly, decisively.”

Rhaenyra watched him.

Truly watched him.

She saw how easily he took control of the room, how naturally the words bent around him, how the council leaned subtly, unconsciously toward his authority.

Her father’s face darkened.

Viserys’ hands clenched upon the table, knuckles whitening as anger rose. “Daemon dares,” he hissed. “After everything, after his exile...”

Any other day, Rhaenyra would already be stepping forward.

She would have volunteered without hesitation. She would have said send me, would have ridden Syrax with fire in her veins and certainty in her bones.

Daemon listened to her.

But today....

Today her mind was elsewhere.

She barely heard Otto propose retrieving the egg himself. Barely registered the discussion of ships and guards and honor. Her thoughts were tangled in threads of isolation and knives and fire.

So lost was she that she did not notice Ser Harrold Westerling’s eyes on her.

Not until much later would she realize he had been watching her with quiet concern, watching the way her gaze did not sharpen, the way she did not interrupt, the way she stared through the council table as though seeing something none of them could.

When Otto named those who would accompany him, it was Ser Harrold who spoke.

“Your Grace,” Westerling said carefully, “with your permission… I would remain here.”

Otto turned, faintly surprised.

Westerling continued, “The princess seems unwell. I would see her guarded in Ser Criston’s stead.”

Rhaenyra did not hear it.

But Viserys did.

He looked at his daughter, too pale, too still and nodded. “Very well,” he said. “You have my permission.”

And just like that, the pieces shifted.

Rhaenyra never noticed.

She did not notice that Otto left without Westerling.
Did not notice the concerned look upon Ser Westerling's face.

Did not notice....most crucially that the egg Daemon had taken was the very one she herself had chosen moons ago for her brother Baelon.

The dead child.

She rose when the council adjourned, movements automatic, and left the chamber with Ser Harrold Westerling following silently behind her.

Only once she reached her chambers did the weight finally press down.

The door closed.

Rhaenyra crossed the room and sat heavily upon the bed, hands falling limp into her lap.

Her head throbbed.

Behind her, she heard Westerling hesitate.

“Princess,” he said quietly. “Is something wrong?”

The concern in his voice, unforced, genuine cut deeper than expected.

Something in her snapped into clarity.

If she was alone… she did not have to be.

“No, Ser Westerling,” she replied softly. “I miss my mother.”

The words were true. That was why they worked.

“I think,” she continued after a pause, “I wish to do something to divert my mind.”

“Yes, Princess,” he said at once.

She inhaled slowly.

“Ser Harrold… could you find for me the personal maids of Queen Aemma? Those who tended her closely.”

He stilled.

“Particularly,” Rhaenyra added, voice carefully measured, “those who came with her from the Vale.”

Westerling turned, studying her face.

“I can try,” he said slowly. “But may I ask the reason?”

Rhaenyra lowered her gaze, lashes shadowing her eyes hiding calculation beneath grief.

“In some time,” she said quietly, “Father will marry Lady Laena. Princess Rhaenys will surely send her own servants and maids for the new Queen.”

She swallowed, letting emotion color her tone.

“I do not wish for my mother’s people to be dismissed. I would rather take them into my household.” A pause. “I am the heir now, not merely a princess. My household must grow.”

Westerling did not hesitate further.

“I will see to it,” he said, bowing. “At once.”

Left alone, Rhaenyra lay back upon the bed.

Her mother’s face surfaced in her mind, Aemma Arryn, gentle and laughing, surrounded always by women who loved her fiercely.

Please, Rhaenyra prayed silently to gods she had never spoken to before. Give me one loyal soul. Just one.

Footsteps returned sooner than expected.

The door opened.

Ser Harrold Westerling entered, not alone.

Behind him stood servants. Maids. A few household knights.

All with the look of the Vale upon them.

“These,” Westerling said, “were all part of Queen Aemma’s dowry. They came from the Vale with her.”

Rhaenyra rose slowly, her heart pounding.

She smiled, small, genuine.

“Thank you, Ser Harrold.”

She stepped forward and looked at them.

“One by one,” she said gently, “tell me your names.”

They did.

And as they spoke, relief washed over her like rain after drought.

Familiar faces.

Women she remembered at her mother’s side. Women who had wept openly when Aemma died.

Loyal.

When they finished, Rhaenyra nodded.

“You served my mother faithfully,” she said. “I ask now that you serve me in the same way.”

They bowed as one.

“It would be our honor, Princess.”

When they left, the chamber felt different.

Not full but no longer empty.

That night, Rhaenyra finally slept.

And as sleep claimed her, one thought followed her into the dark.....

Otto Hightower must die if she want to have any chance of a safe future.

-----------

Morning light filtered through the high windows of the King’s solar, pale and gentle in a way that felt almost cruel.

Rhaenyra sat across from her father at the small table set for breakfast, the clink of cutlery and the murmur of servants the only sounds between them. She had avoided Alicent deliberately, sent word that she would break her fast with the King instead. She did not trust herself to look at Alicent’s face so early in the day.

Viserys looked tired.

Not merely grieving, unmoored. His shoulders slumped, his movements slow, as though he carried the weight of something unsaid.

Rhaenyra watched him closely.

When the servants withdrew, she spoke.

“Father,” she said calmly, “I wish to take all the maids, servants, and the few knights who were part of Muna’s household especially those who came with her from the Vale, into my own household.”

Viserys looked up, frowning.

“Why, daughter?” he asked, genuinely puzzled. “What need have you of that?”

The words landed like a slap.

Rhaenyra’s fingers curled beneath the table.

Gods, she thought bitterly, he truly does not see.

As the named heir to the Iron Throne, she should have had a household larger than that of just consisting of a daughter of a second son. She should have had retainers, sworn servants, people whose loyalty belonged to her.

Yet her father had never thought to give her any.

For a fleeting moment, anger flared, hot, sharp, dangerous. But then the visions rose in her mind: fire, blood, her children dying, Daemon falling from the sky.

She swallowed it down.

Aloud, she said evenly, “You will marry again in some moons. Once you wed Lady Laena, Princess Rhaenys will surely send her own maids and servants to attend the new Queen.”

She met his eyes steadily.

“I do not wish for Muna’s household to be scattered.”

Viserys’ face tightened.

Guilt flickered across his features.

Once, she would have thought it was grief alone, remorse for Aemma, for the pain he had caused her.

Now Rhaenyra knew better.

That guilt came from secrecy. From plans unspoken. From a marriage he had no true intention of making.

Not after you have already taken Alicent to your bed, she thought coldly.

She softened her voice.

“I know we both miss Muna,” she said gently. “We are grieving in our own ways. But having her trusted maids near me… it would help. I would feel her presence still with me.”

Viserys’ composure cracked.

His eyes shone as he reached across the table and took her hands in his.

“As you wish, my daughter,” he said thickly. “I will see to it. Lord Beesbury shall increase your household budget accordingly.”

Relief washed over her but it was not clean. It came laced with clarity.

“Thank you, Father,” she said, rising smoothly.

She bent to kiss his cheek, then turned and left the solar.

Behind her, Viserys sat alone with his guilt.

Ahead of her, Rhaenyra walked with purpose.

This time she will not lose anyone, will not grieve anyone.

----------

Rhaenyra paced her chamber like a caged dragon.

Back and forth. Stone beneath her bare feet, skirts whispering with each sharp turn. Her thoughts refused to settle, circling the same truth again and again.

Otto Hightower must die.

But how?

She pressed her palms to her temples, breathing hard. “Think,” she murmured under her breath. “Think, Rhaenyra.”

Poison? Too obvious. Too many eyes, too many loyal to him. And she wouldn't even know how to get one or how to poison him.
A blade? Impossible, she has no chance of that.

An accident? She wouldn't be able to manage that, not while she does not know whether her household is actually loyal to her or not.

At this point, she wouldn't even deny that maybe Otto hightower had filled even her Muna's household with spies and snakes.

Her pacing slowed.

Then....

Her breath hitched.

The egg.

Daemon.

She stopped so abruptly her skirts twisted around her legs.

If Daemon refused to give the egg....
If Otto went himself....
If Ser Criston stood at his side, the man who had stabbed her uncle in the back....

Blood would be spilled.

Daemon would not tolerate Otto Hightower standing before him, lecturing, demanding, threatening. He would see the insult for what it was.

And Otto....

Otto would use that bloodshed. He always did. But maybe just maybe....

Her heart began to pound, not with fear...but with possibility.

She turned sharply and left her chambers.

------

Ser Harrold Westerling stood near the training yard when she found him, helm under his arm, posture relaxed but alert. He straightened the moment he saw her approach.

“Princess.”

“Ser Harrold,” she said, lowering her voice. “May I ask you something?”

He nodded. “Of course.”

She hesitated, just enough to make him lean in.

“Do you think,” she said carefully, “my uncle would give the egg to Ser Otto… without bloodshed?”

Westerling stilled.

His jaw tightened, his eyes flicking briefly away before returning to her face. That hesitation, small, instinctive, was all she needed.

She stepped closer at once.

“Ser Westerling,” she said softly, urgently, “I know for a fact my uncle despises Ser Otto. And seeing Ser Criston Cole beside him, after what happened in the Tourney, will only inflame his temper.”

Her voice wavered, deliberately.

“I am afraid,” she continued, “of what will happen if Otto goes himself.”

Westerling studied her now, suspicion creeping into his expression. He knew that look. He had known it since she was small since she had learned how to ask for things without ever truly asking.

This was the same tone she had used when she wanted lemon cakes from the kitchens despite the Queen’s strict orders. The same careful concern, the same appeal to reason and feeling both.

He sighed.

“What are you trying to say, Princess?”

She met his gaze, steady and fearless.

“I think I should be the one to go to my uncle.”

“No,” Westerling said immediately. “Absolutely not.”

She did not flinch.

“You know him,” she pressed. “He will listen to me. More than to Otto. More than to any knight or lord you could send.”

Her voice dropped lower.

“And I am the least likely to be harmed by his temper.”

Westerling shook his head. “His Grace would never allow it.”

Rhaenyra tilted her head, eyes bright.

“Then he does not have to know.”

His brows drew together. “Princess—”

“I will take Syrax,” she said quickly. “I will fly to Dragonstone, persuade my uncle to give the egg to Ser Otto without bloodshed, and return quietly. No spectacle. No fighting. No dead men.”

She paused, then added, gently but pointedly, “Is that not better than what may happen otherwise?”

Silence stretched between them.

Westerling looked at her, truly looked.

At the fire in her eyes and that stubborn tilt of chin that made her look as if she was still that five year old princess who came in his protection.

Gods help him, he was weak to his little girl.

“You are asking me,” he said slowly, “to lie for you.”

She smiled faintly.

“I am asking you to keep watch,” she corrected. “And to say I am resting… should anyone inquire.”

He exhaled heavily, rubbing a hand over his beard.

“This is dangerous,” he muttered.

“Yes,” she agreed without hesitation.

That, somehow, sealed it.

After a long moment, Westerling straightened.

“I will stay vigilant,” he said at last. “And I will cover for you, for as long as I can.”

Relief washed through her, swift and bright.

“Thank you, Ser Harrold.”

As she turned away, her heart thundered, not with fear, but with certainty.

She will see that Otto hightower will not come back from this trip alive even if she had to kill him herself.

Chapter Text

The heavy oak doors of Maegor’s Holdfast groaned as Rhaenyra stepped out, her mind a whirlwind of the prophetic nightmares that had begun to haunt her sleep. But the abstract horror of the future vanished, replaced by a visceral, burning rage when she reached the gardens.

There, bathed in the soft afternoon light, was King Viserys. Beside him walked Alicent Hightower.
Rhaenyra stopped dead. The sight was a physical blow. It was one thing to suspect, to see and hear in those dreams. It was quite another to witness the easy intimacy between her father and her supposed best friend even with the appropriate distance between them. Viserys was talking, truly talking with an animated energy Rhaenyra hadn't seen since before the funeral pyres of her mother. And Alicent? Alicent was looking up at him with those wide, doe-like eyes, her expression a masterclass in calculated flattery and feigned innocence.

A cold, hard resolve crystallized in Rhaenyra’s chest. Her heart burning with their audacity to actually walk in the garden in broadlight.

If I must suffer the agony of these dreams, she thought, her jaw tightening, if I must stain my soul with blood because my father is a foolish cunt who listens to Otto Hightower, then they too shall not know a moment of peace.

She did not hesitate. Rhaenyra straightened her spine and stormed across the grass, her silks hissing like a viper.

Viserys and Alicent startled as she approached. Alicent reflexively tried to step back, to create the distance of a mere servant, but she wasn’t fast enough.

CRACK.

The sound of Rhaenyra’s palm meeting Alicent’s cheek echoed through the courtyard. The force of it whipped Alicent’s head to the side. Nearby servants froze; guards shifted their weight, and a group of noblewomen nearby let out collective gasps, their fans fluttering like dying birds.

"What in the Seven Hells, Rhaenyra!" Viserys bellowed, his face flushing a deep, mottled red. "Why would you strike Alicent?"

Rhaenyra let out a sharp, jagged scoff. "'Alicent,' is it? Since when has she become so dear to you? Oh, let me guess, since the moment she began visiting your chambers at night, unchaperoned? Am I right, Father?"

The blood drained from Viserys’s face. Beside him, Alicent went deathly pale, her hand trembling as she touched her reddening cheek. The murmurs from the gathered crowd intensified instantly, a low hum of scandal spreading like wildfire.

"What rubbish, Rhaenyra!" Viserys stammered, his voice lacking its usual authority.

Rhaenyra’s eyes were twin violet flames. "Oh, please. Don’t insult my intelligence. The maids outside your chambers have been whispering for a week. I didn't want to believe it....I didn't want to think my friend was a snake, so last night I went to her quarters. She wasn't there. Tell me, Alicent, where were you during the time of night? And does our dear lord hand knows about his daughter's whorish tendencies and behaviour."

Alicent opened her mouth to speak, but Rhaenyra stepped forward again. "You whore!"

CRACK.

The second slap was harder than the first. A thin trickle of blood began to seep from the corner of Alicent’s lip.

"Rhaenyra!" Viserys roared, finally stepping between them and pulling Alicent protectively behind his shoulder.

"Look at you," Rhaenyra shouted, her voice reaching every corner of the garden. "Protecting your precious whore!"

"Stop calling her that!" Viserys’s voice cracked with desperation. "She is your friend, Rhaenyra!"

"She is nothing but a common harlot who visits widowers under the cover of darkness," Rhaenyra spat, her lip curling in disgust. "Isn't that right, Alicent? Isn't that what your precious Faith calls women like you? Those who ignore propriety? Those who spend their nights in the beds of powerful men before marriage? Wasn't that why King Jaehaerys disowned his own daughter because she showed signs of impropierty."

Alicent began to sob, the sound wet and pathetic. "Princess, please... it wasn't..."

"What a dedicated lady-in-waiting you are," Rhaenyra cut her off, her voice dripping with venom. "From dressing me in the morning to undressing my father at night. I must say, you fulfill your duties with such.... responsibility."

The King looked as though he had been struck himself. "Rhaenyra, enough!"

"Why, Father? Tell me, why else does a maiden visit a man who is unrelated to her at midnight? That too without a cheperone. Without letting anyone know.To discuss the weather? To read him histories? No. She went to 'comfort' you during cold nights, right. I never realized you shared Uncle Daemon’s taste for whores, Father. It hasn't even been a moon since Mother died, and you’ve already taken a mistress that too a lady from my own household, your daughter's household. My god's, the scandal.. If you wanted a whore, couldn't you have found one on the Street of Silk instead of sullying my household."

"She is NOT a whore!" Viserys’s face was now purple. "She has been a balm to my soul in my grief!"

"Your grief?" Rhaenyra’s laugh was a jagged thing. "What grief do you have? You killed my mother for your precious son! I am the one who is grieving! I am the one who lost her mother! You, who butchered her, who ordered her to be cut open from chest to sex, what do you know about grief? I am the one who needs comfort. Alicent is my lady, my childhood companion, if anyone should be getting comfort from her, it should be me! Me!you know the girl who has lost her mother just like Alicent here did. She should have been comforting me , knowing the grief of losing a mother, she should have been providing me with companionship. What does she even have in common with you to provide you confort. Oh that's right she has a cunt and you have a cock. That what she has to be able to provide comfort to you. Comfort. Hmph, What comfort, Don't make me laugh , if she should have been comforting anyone, it should have been me , you know in whose service and household she actually is.But I guess I am not a man, so of course our pious Lady Hightower won't care about me."

The silence that followed was deafening. Viserys recoiled as if physically burned, the truth of Aemma’s death finally laid bare before the entire court. Alicent’s eyes went wide with horror; it was clear she hadn't known the gruesome details of the Queen’s passing until this moment.

Rhaenyra wiped a stray tear from her eye, her expression turning to one of icy indifference.

"Anyway, since she has clearly chosen your comfort over mine, you can keep her. I will not have my household sullied by such a woman. I dismiss her from my service."

"She is not a whore!" Viserys yelled, driven to a corner. "She has been my only light, and I intend to marry her!"

"What?"
The voice didn't come from Rhaenyra. It came from the garden entrance.

Princess Rhaenys and Lord Corlys Velaryon stood there, having arrived amidst the chaos. Rhaenys stepped forward, her regal features twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated disdain as she looked at Alicent.

The garden air was thick with the scent of crushed lilies and the copper tang of blood from Alicent’s lip. Rhaenyra stood tall, watching the wreckage she had wrought with a cold, calculated fury.

As Viserys sputtered and Rhaenys moved closer like a dragon scenting prey, Rhaenyra’s mind whirred with thoughts. She looked at Alicent, trembling, weeping, and clutching the King’s arm and felt a dark surge of triumph.

"You cannot be serious, Viserys," Rhaenys said, her voice like a glacier. "Are you truly suggesting you would reject my daughter, Laena, the blood of Old Valyria, for this? For the daughter of a second son. For your night time mistress." She hissed with such a venom that the king himself recoiled.

Rhaenyra felt the briefest flicker of shock and then burning satisfaction.

She knew that look and voice of Rhaenys.
Princess Rhaenys will destroy Alicent.

In Westeros, a king choosing a woman of lower birth could be excused, if anything it would mean that the lady must be so virtuous that the king chose to marry her even with her lower status. And that must have happened in that other life. If father had just declared his intention of marrying Alicent , many of the lords and ladies and septa and septons would have thought of her so virtuous that she was able to catch even the King's eye. Though offcourse the ones with the brain would have still seen the foolishness.

But if a lady went to a man’s chambers unchaperoned, at night, it meant seduction. It meant impropriety. It meant moral failure.

That was the rule.

Now, once Father announced their marriage, it would be seen as though Alicent had seduced him, that the king had become cunt-struck enough to choose her over a lady of far better status and standing.

And that kind of stain never goes away, not with the way their precious Seven preach propriety. The old king disowned his own daughter, a princess of blood, and her reputation still never recovered. So who is Alicent? Especially without her father.

People may not say it to her face once she legally marries The king and becomes the Queen but behind her back, nobody would ever see her as anything more than the whore who sold herself to get the crown. While people may turn blind to her if her son actually becomes the heir but that is something that she will not allow ever.

And now Princess Rhaenys stood here, furious, humiliated, determined. She would tear the truth from Viserys one way or another because just like her, even Rhaenys knows that father has never been interested in whores, never even eyed a single court lady in his entire life not even before his marriage with Muna. Her father was many things but a lustful creature he was not. He would have never called for Alicent, not on his own. Specially not his precious friend's daughter.

No, that is not something even Rhaenys would believe. She knows that between the two of them, it could only have been Alicent who took the initiative.

Rhaenys would force him to admit that Alicent had came to him first. And once that happened, the rumors would never stop.

Not when Otto Hightower was dead and he would be. Rhaenyra would see to it. She would force Daemon’s hand if she had to. She would bend him, break him, bargain with him if she has to but Otto would die. Rhaenyra would use every inch of love Daemon had for her to ensure that Otto Hightower did not return from this trip alive.

Not that she believed she would even need to. Not after she would tell him of Otto’s plans, of his precious daughter, and of their king’s stupidity. No, if she knew Daemon as well as she believed she did, he would not hesitate to kill Otto, if only to stop that fucking Andal blood from ever touching the Iron Throne forged by their ancestors. And let us be honest: of all the people alive, she knew Daemon best. She knew every inch of his darkness as intimately as she knew her own.

And without Otto, there would be no one to contain the whispers.

Rhaenyra watched the scene unfold with a grim satisfaction. She saw the panic in her father’s eyes and the utter ruin in Alicent’s. She knew her father; he was nothing if not stubborn. If he had decided to marry Alicent, then nothing would deter him. Nothing. But that was never her intent anyway. She didn't want to stop the marriage.

What she wanted was to damage it. What She wanted was to poison the foundation of Alicent's power and she had done exactly that.

The damage was done.

By sunset, every soul in King's Landing would know that Alicent Hightower had seduced a grieving King in the dark of night. Rhaenys would never let this insult to the Velaryon name go; she would ensure the world knew that Laena wasn't rejected for a better match, but passed over for a "seductress."

Rhaenys was the proudest woman in the Seven Kingdoms. To have her daughter, Laena, a girl of Valyrian blood and the daughter of the wealthiest man in Westeros rejected was one thing. To have her rejected for the daughter of a second son who had compromised her virtue to get a crown? That was an insult that could only be washed away with the total destruction of the Hightowers' reputation.

Rhaenys will not let this stay in these gardens, not even just in King's landing, Rhaenyra thinks with a triumph fury. She will ensure every Great House from the North to Dorne knows the truth. She will make it clear that Laena Velaryon was not "passed over", she was simply too honorable to compete with a girl who spends her nights in the King's chambers unchaperoned.

The stain on Laena’s pride would be transferred tenfold onto Alicent’s character. The Velaryons would shout from the High Tide to the Iron Throne that the King hadn't chosen a Queen; he had been ensnared by a maid who didn't know the meaning of propriety. Both Rhaenys and Corlys were too prideful to let such an insult against their house go unchecked.

Rhaenyra turned on her heel, leaving them to their ruin. She had planted the seeds of Alicent's reputation being torn to shreds. Now, she only needed to ensure that Daemon took care of Otto.

She walked away quietly, knowing Ser Westerling would cover her departure. Behind her, the shouting of the Queen who never was and the weeping of the new "Queen-to-be" faded into a sweet, vengeful melody.

---------

Night clung to the sea like a shroud when Dragonstone finally rose before her.

From atop her Golden Lady, Rhaenyra watched the ancient fortress emerge from the dark, black stone carved by fire and time, jagged towers cutting into the moonlit sky like the ribs of some long-dead beast. Dragonstone always looked most honest at night. No false warmth. No courtly smiles. Only stone, fire, and memory.

Syrax beat her wings slowly, patiently, as if sensing the storm churning inside her rider.

Rhaenyra’s gaze drifted to the black waters beyond the cliffs. Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She had seen Otto's ship on her journey here, sailing pale against the horizon, cutting through the sea with quiet arrogance. Otto would arrive by tomorrow morning, or perhaps the afternoon, carrying her father’s commands and his own smug sense of victory.

Every fiber of her being had screamed at her to dive. To command the golden goddess beneath her to utter a single word....Dracarys and watch the Hand of the King turn to ash before he could ever set foot on the Dragonstone.

Every part of her had screamed to turn Syrax midair and reduce that ship to ash.

Just one command.
One word.
Fire, and it would all end, Otto, his schemes, his poison whispered into her father’s ear.

What would her father have done to punish her that was worse than the visions currently haunting her? What was an exile or a loss of title compared to the smell of burning flesh and the sight of her son falling from the sky? Of the nightmare of getting burned alive.

For a moment, the temptation burned hot and wild.

Then reality sank its claws into her.
The cold, suffocating reality of her father’s nature set in.

If she killed Otto, Viserys would remove her as heir. What then? She knows that he would not turn back to Daemon. No, he would never make her uncle his heir again. Instead, he would simply wait.

He would wed his "precious whore" and wait for a son. The thought of her father naming his son with Alicent as heir was the only thing that stopped her from diving.

A son born of his precious whore.

The thought made her stomach twist.

Her father marrying Alicent.

Choosing that child as heir.

That boy.... that man, the one she had seen in her dreams, grown and crowned, who had burned her alive while her own son screamed and watched helplessly.

That single image stayed her hand.

Fire died in her throat.

Not yet, she told herself, nails biting into her palms.

Not like this.

No, she thought, her grip tightening on the dragon-leather reins until her knuckles turned white. I will not lose this opportunity. This is the only chance to change the tide.

The fragments of her dreams flickered in her mind again, unbidden. Daemon, armored, bloodied, glorious returning from war with fire in his eyes and victory in his wake and a crown on his head. Those visions were too sharp, too consistent to be dismissed.

If those glimpses were true, then Daemon would go to war.

And there was only one war brewing now.

The Stepstones.

Lord Corlys had spoken of it again and again in council, his voice edged with frustration, his warnings sharp and urgent. A war that threatened trade, power, and pride alike. A war her fool of a father had ignored again and again on the words of his precious Otto.

Sometimes, Rhaenyra thought bitterly, that perhaps her father was in love with Otto Hightower. It would explain everything....the blind trust, the indulgence, the way he chose the Hightowers again and again over his own blood.Choosing Otto's daughter over his own.

It would certainly explain Alicent.

The war would happen. She was certain of it.
And Daemon would never resist it.

War meant glory.
Fire.
A chance to carve something of his own.

He would go, even if banished, even if unwanted. And once he did, he would be gone for years.

And that was the true problem.
That Daemon had not been there in the few years of Alicent's marriage with king. The precious time when both father and daughter pair isolated and cornered her.

If Daemon had been here, exiled or not, he would have never allowed Otto and his whore of a daughter to isolate her as they did. They would not have whispered unchecked, would not have closed ranks around her father while she stood alone.

Daemon’s absence had been their opportunity to gain even more power than they already had, enough power that they were certain of their position even after she had married Daemon. For surely, once she had wed him and borne her heir, the child of the Rogue Prince himself, she would have gained support and strength.

Even lords who would have sneered at the thought of her on the throne would have hesitated, knowing that her heir was the son of the Rogue Prince.

But it had clearly not been enough. Or rather, Alicent had gained far too much power.

She recalled that scene with cold realization, the moment she saw how Alicent had used that knife on her in the presence of everyone, including Daemon. The fact that Alicent had been so certain of her power, so arrogant that she would not be punished even with Daemon there, only showed how much power she had gained.

She still shuddered at that other memory, the moment when Cole had called her a whore. The scene sent a chill down her spine: her walking through the halls of the Red Keep, leaving a trail of blood behind her, an infant pressed to her chest.

That scene alone was enough to terrify her. Daemon had not been there.

That could only mean one thing, Daemon had been exiled. She refused to believe that he would not have been with her during her labor. Refused to believe that, had he been there, he would have left her and their child alone. And she absolutely refused to believe that anyone would have dared force her to walk moments after giving birth if Daemon had been present.

It could only mean that her father had exiled Daemon again and who else would be able to make her father exile his brother, her daughter and heir's husband while she is giving birth if not for that pair of father and daughter.

The fact that the Hightowers had been able to amass so much power, that even her marriage to Daemon and her heirs with him had not been enough. That even with his support, she had not been able to gather sufficient allies or strength.

And wasn’t that a cold realization; that Alicent had managed to accumulate such power in just a few years of marriage to the king, during the time Daemon had not been present, that she had been able to act so boldly, so arrogantly. Had been able to get the Crown Princess' consort exiled.

She could not let that happen again.
No, she could not but some things could not be changed.

She could not stop the war.
She could not stop Daemon from leaving.

Daemon would go. He would seek the glory and the land her father denied him. And in his absence, the "cunt" and his "whore of a daughter" would isolate her, weaving their web around the King until Rhaenyra was a prisoner in her own court.

She could not stop him from leaving; the Rogue Prince would never turn down a chance to carve his name into history. And while she knew that if she asked him; if she told him of her dreams and visions, he would stay, she could not ask that of him. Not when this war will give him everything he had ever wanted. She would never be that selfish. She could not chain her kepus like that.

But she was also not naive enough to think she could get someone killed. Not yet atleast. She simply doesn't have that kind of power right now. She needed him.

The dreams shifted in her mind again. Even in those dark visions, it was Daemon who had been her blade. It was Daemon who had killed the "one-eyed" and taken revenge for their sons.

Their sons.

The idea of marrying Daemon and having children, not just one, but many, still baffled her. She had wanted him since she was old enough to understand what marriage was, but the reality of it felt like a fever dream.

She saw the face of Lucerys, a boy who was the exact copy of her mother, Queen Aemma. She didn't know why she would name him such, though perhaps it was to appease the Velaryons. Maybe she had named some other child of hers after Baelon.

She saw Aegon, a boy who was the living image of Daemon himself, her last alive child , the one who had to watch her being burned alive.

There were others, too, faces she couldn't quite see and a girl who looked like Laena Velaryon, standing behind Rhaenyra in the halls of Driftmark, devastated by the news of Lucerys’s death.

It made sense; she must have betrothed her children to Rhaenys and Corlys’s grandchildren to secure the only other house with dragons.

Considering the cold blood between the Velaryons and the Hightowers, and the insult of her father choosing Alicent over Laena, Velaryons with their fleet and dragons would have been her logical ally.

Though how Father allowed Daemon and her to marry was still a question that burned in her mind.

Maybe he was persuaded or maybe she had not asked his permission. That seems way more plausible to believe than Father giving them permission to marry.

Yes,....She must have married Daemon without her father’s permission.

She did not think that her relationship with her father would have been any better in that other future than it was in this one. Even without all the secrets and lies, the simple fact that her father had married her childhood friend, her lady-in-waiting and that she had been made to bow to the daughter of a fucking second son would have been enough to unleash her temper and fury.

Syrax roared, a high, musical sound that echoed off the dragon-glass cliffs, and began her descent. As the dragon’s claws found purchase on the stone landing, Rhaenyra’s eyes locked onto a figure standing near the gates.

Daemon.

He wasn't the man from her dreams yet. This Daemon hadn't yet felt the weight of the loss or grief of the wars. He stood there with that infuriating, arrogant smirk, his hand resting casually on the hilt of Dark Sister.

He looked ready to say something "Daemon-like", something biting or sarcastic to soothe the pride that had been wounded after Father replaced him with her.

But as Rhaenyra slid from the saddle, she couldn't help it. The sight of him, the only person who truly belonged to her, the man who would one day die taking out a monster to avenge their child, broke the last of her composure. A sob, thick and jagged, escaped her throat.

The smirk vanished instantly.

Daemon stepped forward, abandoning the maester and the guards. He looked genuinely panicked, a rare flicker of vulnerability crossing his features. The Rogue Prince, the terror of the City Watch, looked comically undone by the sight of her tears. To anyone else, he was a predator; to Rhaenyra, he was the only sanctuary she had left.

He had always been weak to her tears, and tonight, she was drowning in them.

She didn't wait for him to speak. She threw herself into his arms, burying her face in his chest just like how she used to during her childhood. Daemon tensed for a heartbeat, his breath hitching in surprise, but then his arms wrapped around her, pulling her flush against him with a fierce, protective grip. Though vastly confused, he didn't ask questions. He simply held her, his presence a solid wall against the horrors of the future.

In the shadow of the dragon's lair, Rhaenyra clutched him tighter. She had her first victory today and she has her kepus now. And she will make sure that the next sunrise will be the last sunrise Otto hightower will ever see.

Chapter Text

Daemon Targaryen had imagined many outcomes the night he stole the dragon egg meant for Viserys’ dead son.

He had imagined his brother storming into Dragonstone, red-faced and shaking with rage, demanding explanations he would never truly want to hear.

He had imagined the king sending his precious Hand in his stead, wrapped in diplomacy and veiled threats.
He had imagined guards, accusations, exile, punishments meant to further humilate him.

And he had been ready for all of it.

Why would he not be?

He had wanted to hurt his brother as deeply as his brother had hurt him.

The audacity of it still burned, Viserys replacing him with his niece as heir after so many years. Casting him aside as if he had never mattered at all.

It was not that he hated Rhaenyra.

Fourteen hells, his father would curse him from Balerion’s blackened pit if he ever even thought to hate Baelon’s precious granddaughter. And beyond that, Daemon knew himself well enough to know he never could. Not her.

No, that was not what cut him.

What stung was Viserys’ hypocrisy.

Viserys had years....five, ten, more, to make that choice. Years to look at his living child and see a future ruler. But he never did. Never once.

If he had wanted Rhaenyra as heir, he had years to name her so. Yet he never once thought of her that way. Not truly. Because King Jaehaerys’ precious heir could never imagine a girl inheriting the Iron Throne.

Instead, Viserys had done what weak men always did.

He had kept bedding his wife, again and again, chasing the ghost of a son while his living child watched. Chasing a phantom son while his daughter watched from the shadows. Miscarriage after miscarriage. Stillbirth after stillbirth.

Daemon had never liked Aemma Arryn much. She was too close to their grandmother, too gentle, too Andal for his taste, she didn't even have the classic valyrian coloring despite being Daella Targaryen’s daughter.

No, he did not like her.

But after years of miscarriages and stillbirths, even someone like him had begun to feel pity for his good-sister.

More than pity, though, he had felt anger.

Anger that Viserys and Aemma were so consumed by their obsession with a son that they never once stopped to consider how it must have looked to Rhaenyra; their only living child. How it must have felt to grow up knowing you were never enough. A little girl watching her worth measured against unborn boys.

He hated that they never considered her as heir.

And yet, a shameful part of him had been glad.
Because for all that time, Viserys had kept him as heir, even if only temporarily.

He did not know whether he hated his brother.

No.

He knew he did not.

How could he?

Viserys had always been his hero. At least, he had been before he began shadowing the old king, before Otto Hightower slithered into his ear, before he started speaking their language of caution, compromise and fear. Before he started thinking of him as a headache, as Maegor reborn rather than his little brother.

There had been a time when Baelon’s sons had been as close as Baelon and Aemon themselves.

Daemon still remembered it.
He remembered the day his brother gentle, bookish, uninterested in violence had drawn steel against a knight who dared insult his younger brother. The memory still burned bright.

A sword fight, clumsy and reckless and entirely unlike Viserys.

Daemon had watched him then, wide-eyed, and thought him a hero out of some half-forgotten song.

He remembered thinking that he would have to become strong enough for both of them. That he would protect his brother, because Viserys was too kind for the world they lived in.

He had wanted to protect him from the moment Viserys bled for him.

That instinct had never left him.

When their mother died, Daemon had been too young to remember much but he remembered this: Viserys was the only one who cared for him.

Their father had been lost in his grief, unable to even look at the son who reminded him of his sister-wife.

But Viserys....Viserys stayed.

Even while grieving himself, his elder brother took care of him. Fed him. Sat with him. Spoke softly when the world had gone cold.

Daemon remembered thinking then that even if he had no one else, he would always have his brother, his family , his home.

Daemon had thought then that even if he lost everything, he would still have his brother.

That even if his father vanished from him as his mother had, Viserys would always remain.

Oh, how wrong he had been.

He did not know exactly when things changed.

A part of him wanted to blame Otto Hightower and gods knew the man deserved blame but Daemon was honest enough to know it was not the whole truth.

The shift had begun when Viserys started orbiting King Jaehaerys. When he started shadowing the old king.

Their grandfather had never liked Daemon. And the feeling had been entirely mutual.

Daemon had been too much like Maegor. Too sharp. Too violent. Too unyielding. Too honest in his hungers. Too dangerous. Too Targaryen.

Jaehaerys had seen in him echoes of things he had spent his reign burying.

He had accepted that long ago.

He knew his grandparents did not love him, and frankly, he was better off without it. In his experience, being loved by that couple either made you dead or senile.

But he had believed, foolishly, that at least Jaehaerys understood how deeply he loved his brother.

So imagine the betrayal when Jaehaerys bound him into a forced marriage.

The forced marriage.

Daemon knew exactly why it had been done. Jaehaerys could dress it up in duty and stability all he liked, but the truth was plain: the old king wanted him gone from court.

Daemon frightened him.

The old king had always feared that Daemon and Viserys would become another Maegor and Aenys. Another violent brother and weak king. Another crack in the peace he so treasured.

He knew Jaehaerys saw echoes of Maegor and Aenys in him and Viserys alike and so he sought to protect his so-called peaceful realm by chaining Daemon to the heir of runestone,far from power and influence.

A house that came under the paramount of vale and thus would have never rebelled against their own.

Fourteen hells. Leaving him aside , no one had thought of the bronze bitch as well.

As much as he hated her and the hatred was completely mutual. Because just like how he hated the "sheep andals", She too hated the so called "queer targaryens".

The fact remained that, as her husband, let alone as a prince, he held immense power over her through marriage. If he wished to do something, to take revenge, to force himself upon her, to vent his anger on her, no one would have been able to stop him. No one would have spoken against it. He could have easily taken control of her, of her House, and nothing could have stood in his way. What were a few soldiers against his dragon?

And despite Knowing this, knowing how much he despised that union, their grandmother still didn't care one bit about that bronze bitch.

She never cared for him but alas he had thought that as a woman atleast she would have cared that Rhea Royce was marrying a man who hated her and the union and how dangerous it could have been for her.

What if he had been the monster they feared? What if he had forced himself on her? What would anyone have done then? What if he had gotten a child out of her, then killed her and ruled over runestone as a reagent ?

But Queen Alysanne had never cared for such things.

Why would she, when she had no issue allowing the bedding of her three and ten granddaughter.

Why would the Good Queen care for an unknown woman when she didn't even care about her own granddaughter.

So why would Rhea Royce be spared, when even her own granddaughter had not been spared by her ?

If marriage was all they wanted.

If Jaehaerys had truly wished to marry Daemon off, Aunt Gael had always been an option.
Perhaps she might still be alive then.

Not that Daemon liked Gael either. She was too skittish. Too soft. A dove, just like Aemma.

No.

What he had wanted was fire.

A dragon. A twin flame. Someone who could match him, challenge him, burn with him....
Someone like Rha....

He cut the thought short.

So yes. He knew.

Viserys stopped being his brother the day he became heir and later, Otto Hightower’s friend.

And yet, fourteen hells curse him, he still held hope.

Even now.

As long as Viserys kept him as heir, there was a chance. A home. A place he could return to, even if reluctantly welcomed.

Though that home had stopped feeling like home long ago.

Truth be told, he did not think he would have held on to hope this long if not for one small thing.

A little girl.

A little dragon.

His niece.

His princess.

He remembered holding her when she was born. Remembered the way her tiny fingers wrapped around his own, impossibly strong.

Remembered those great violet eyes staring up at him, already fierce, already alive.

He had fallen in love instantly.

He had seen it happen to his father too. The way Baelon had come alive again after Rhaenyra’s birth in a way he had not since Alyssa Targaryen died.

Daemon had looked into those eyes and thought he would burn the world down for her.

A sentiment his father and, to some extent, even his grandsire had shared.

Because nothing brought Targaryen men together quite like Rhaenyra Targaryen and her unique eyes.

He remembered the ferocity with which his niece loved him.

How she had declared, as a mere child, that she would marry him one day.

And when she learned he was to be wed, gods, the violent fit she threw.

Daemon still believed that had she and her dragon been a few years older, she would have burned the sept to ash where his wedding took place.

He remembered her glare, how she had looked at his grandparents and his bronze bitch as if she could Dracarys them with her eyes alone.

And he remembered thinking that no one would ever love him the way she did.

And he wondered, sometimes, if that love came from her father.

That perhaps, just perhaps, she had inherited that fierce devotion from her father.

That maybe, deep down, Viserys still loved him.

That perhaps Viserys still loved him too, somewhere beneath the rot and fear and crowns.

That maybe Rhaenyra’s fierce devotion was proof of that.

Because gods knew it didn't come from Aemma. She had only ever tolerated him.

And maybe that was why, despite everything...

Despite the humiliations.

Despite the army he had gathered for Viserys’ claim.

Despite the fact that his brother could not even grant him an annulment of the marriage forced upon him....

Daemon Targaryen still hoped.

Because if nothing else, he was Baelon and Alyssa’s bleeding-hearted son when it came to his own blood.

And that weakness, he suspected, would be the death of him.

--------

Daemon had imagined many endings to this farce.

He had imagined Viserys storming Dragonstone, red-faced and trembling with righteous fury, crown slipping askew on his skull.

He had imagined Otto Hightower, thin-lipped and venomous, arriving with threats wrapped in courtesy.

He had even imagined the Kingsguard, swords drawn, orders barked in the King’s trembling voice.

But never, not once, had he imagined that the one he would be forced to face would be his niece.

Though, truth be told, he should have.

Of course Rhaenyra would come.

The dragon egg he had taken was not merely any egg. It was hers. Chosen by her own hands, held with reverence, whispered over in High Valyrian, meant for her brother before the gods stole the boy from the world. That alone should have guaranteed her arrival.

And the rumors....Gods, the rumors. Word traveled faster than dragonfire, and the news of him siring a child would have reached her ears like oil poured directly onto flame. Add to that the insult of gifting that stolen egg to said child, and the outcome should have been obvious.

Daemon knew his niece. He knew her too well to believe she would stay away.

He knew that while she had stopped speaking aloud publicly, carefully, of wanting to marry him, age and court finally pressing her into silence, she had never stopped feeling it. Never stopped being possessive. Never stopped seeing him as hers in that feral, Targaryen way.

And gods help him, he loved her all the more for it.

Daemon Targaryen had never been chosen.

Not truly. Not by his brother. Not by his father. Not by the court. Not by the realm that whispered his name with equal parts fear and disdain. He had always been useful, always been tolerated, but never chosen.

For a man who had never been chosen, not by his brother, not by his king, not truly by his house, Rhaenyra’s possessiveness had always felt like a benediction. A claim. A declaration that someone in this cursed family looked at him and said: mine.

He knew exactly why the bronze bitch still breathed.

Not mercy.
Not affection.

Use.

Rhaenyra tolerated her because she understood the rules better than anyone. As long as he was bound in marriage, Daemon Targaryen would never wed again. As long as he was bound, he would never take another wife. And as long as he was bound, he would never, could never bring a bastard into the world.

Baelon Targaryen’s ghost would have risen from Balerion’s shadow to strike him down if he had.

His father had been many things, fierce, volatile, terrifying but he had been traditional in the ways that mattered. Some lines were not crossed.

Some oaths were not broken.

Daemon had carried that lesson in his bones.

Which meant that to Rhaenyra, the rumor of him siring a child was not merely an insult.

It was a violation.

And when paired with the knowledge that he intended to give that child the very egg she had chosen.....
Daemon almost smiled at the inevitability of her fury.

He stood there, watching her.

He watched her then, golden scales gleaming as Syrax shifted beneath her. She was already halfway to mounting, movements sharp, precise, restrained only by the fragile thread of control she had learned far too young.

He could already hear it, the cutting remarks, the cold, devastating fury she wielded better than any blade. The way she burned not with heat but with ice-fed fire, slow and merciless. Those eyes....violet unlike any other Targaryen’s, ready to flay him alive.

Gods, he had looked forward to it.
Part of him....dark, reckless, honest thrummed with anticipation.

He was waiting for it.

The cutting remarks.

The glacial fury wrapped in silk-soft words.
The way her voice could slice deeper than any blade.

The way her violet eyes....those strange, singular eyes, would burn as she unleashed herself upon him.

Rhaenyra’s anger had always been different.

Was there something twisted in him, to crave her wrath?

Yes. He would not deny it.

But few understood the truth of it.

Daemon Targaryen was a man starved of devotion, of being wanted. And Rhaenyra’s possessiveness, her jealousy, her fire, had always been proof that he mattered. That he was chosen.

And her fury… gods, her fury was mesmerizing.

A part of him knew he should be ashamed of what her anger stirred in him. Of the way his pulse quickened, of the heat that curled low in his gut when she looked at him like she might set the world ablaze.

But Daemon had long accepted that he was a sinner.

And if one of his many sins was being tempted by his niece’s fury, then he would claim it openly and damn the rest of the world for daring to judge him.

After all, he came by it honestly.

Everyone knew the story of Baelon and Alyssa.

How Alyssa Targaryen had once beaten Aemon Targaryen bloody in a fit of righteous temper, how the court had frozen in horror and how Baelon, gods-blessed fool that he was, had thrown decorum to the winds and kissed her before them all.

Fire had always loved fire.

So no, Daemon was not ashamed.

Not when he could feel history humming in his veins. Not when he knew that though he would never dare say that he and Rhaenyra were Baelon and Alyssa reborn… he was also not not saying it.

How could he not be tempted by her?

Rhaenyra’s anger was unlike any other in their bloodline.

Where the rest of their house burned fast and bright...his own fury, Rhaenys’, Baelon’s, even the old king’s; hers was something else entirely. A fire that grew colder the longer it lived. A heart that froze and burned all at once.

Hers was cold and burning all at once.

Like a heart frozen solid, feeding flame instead of smothering it.

It mirrored her eyes perfectly; dark fire surrounded by a pale, chilling ring.That dark violet center, ringed with something paler, almost silvery a storm trapped in glass. While the rest of them burned too quickly, her fury only deepened with time.

The colder it became, the hotter it burned.

Those eyes had always been different. Even among Targaryens, even among their house's similar features, they stood apart; deep, dark violet ringed by something lighter, colder. Beautiful yet Unsettling. Just like her.

She was contradiction made flesh.

Pampered, yes.

Spoiled, perhaps because he was nothing if not biased.

And yet never quite secure. Never quite safe.

The favorite child who still feared being left behind.

The pampered child who was somehow never enough.

Soft-spoken yet devastating.
A dragon wrapped in silk.

Daemon had known her since her first breath, and still she remained an enigma. Dove and dragon. Falcon and flame. Aemma Arryn’s softness sharpened into something dangerous by Targaryen fire.

Daemon watched her dismount Syrax and felt something twist in his chest.

Her eyes....

They were wrong.

Not burning. Not sharp. Not alive with the fury he had been waiting for.

They were haunted.

As though something had taken root behind them; something heavy, something old, something that did not belong on the face of a girl he had loved since her first breath.

Unease crept up his spine.

He reminded himself that she had just lost her mother. And though he had never loved Aemma Arryn, though he had resented her softness, her inability to truly see her own daughter, he knew she had loved Rhaenyra fiercely.

And grief did strange things.

So Daemon swallowed the unease. Prepared himself for a sharp remark, something barbed enough to reignite her fire, to banish that hollow look from her eyes.

He opened his mouth....

And she broke.

She started crying.

Not quietly. Not with restraint. But with a raw, shuddering sound that tore from her chest like something wounded and desperate.

Daemon froze.

The Rogue Prince.
The terror of Westeros.
The man who had never flinched before dragonfire or battle....

Panicking at tears.

His heart lurched violently, as though it might tear itself free of his ribs. He stepped toward her without thinking, every instinct screaming.

And then she was there.

Rhaenyra collapsed into him, arms wrapping around his torso, her face pressed into his chest as though she wanted to disappear inside him. Just like she had as a child. Just like she had whenever he’d been gone too long.

Daemon caught her automatically, arms closing around her, holding her tight.

Her sobs shook her small frame.

And something in him snapped.

Rage....pure, murderous, incandescent flooded his veins.

Who had dared?

Who had dared to make her cry?

This was the girl who had stood stone-faced at four years old, giving the command of Dracarys over her stillborn sibling’s funeral pyre. The same girl who had called the Good Queen Alysanne a selfish cunt to her face for speaking ill of her favorite person, doing so in the presence of the Old King himself, without an ounce of fear.

And someone had broken her.

Daemon held her closer and pressed his lips briefly to the crown of her head, jaw clenched hard enough to ache, every muscle coiled with violence barely restrained.

He would find whoever had hurt her.

He would burn them down to bone and ash.

He swore by Baelon’s grave, by Balerion’s bones, that whoever had hurt his princess would not live to see another sunrise.

He would burn the world to ash if he had to.

No one touched his niece.

No one made his little dragon cry.

And no one, no one made his princess cry and lived to tell the tale.

-------

The air in the Dragonstone corridor was thick with the scent of salt and the muffled sound of Rhaenyra’s waning sobs. Daemon felt the frantic rise and fall of her chest begin to steady, her weeping slowing into those jagged, exhausted breaths that signaled the end of a storm.

Over her shoulder, his eyes locked onto Maester Gerardys. The healer stood like a shadow, his face etched with a grave, worried expression that did little to settle the protective fire beginning to roar in Daemon’s gut.

Daemon’s voice was a low, dangerous rasp, cutting through the silence with the absolute authority of a man who expected his every order to be obeyed.

“I am taking my niece to my chambers,” he stated, his eyes never leaving the Maester’s. “No one enters without my explicit permission. Have Mysaria keep those whores in line.”

He shifted his weight, his grip on Rhaenyra tightening ever so slightly. "Get the Rhaenys chambers cleaned in the meanwhile. Rhaenyra will rest in them tonight. And get the steward to arrange for some maids to serve her; women who know when to hold their tongues."

Gerardys offered a deep, solemn bow of his head. He knew better than to offer platitudes or protests when the Rogue Prince spoke with such icy intent. Without a word, the Maester turned and vanished into the gloom of the castle.

Left alone in the flickering torchlight, Daemon looked down at the crown of Rhaenyra’s head. She was hiccupping now, small, involuntary jolts that shook her frame.

The sound struck a chord of memory so sharp it felt like Valyrian steel against his ribs. He remembered the last time she had sounded like this. He saw the mist over King’s Landing years ago, the silhouette of a little Rhaenyra flying Syrax, her Golden Lady, without a saddle, trying to stop him from leaving for yet another exile. He remembered the cold fear that had gripped him as he watched his eight-year-old niece mount her dragon for the first time, and the tightly pressed-down happiness he had felt, knowing that someone in this godforsaken world cared enough to want him to stay.

She had been a girl then, fierce and desperate, crying herself hoarse until she was reduced to these same pathetic, heart-wrenching hiccups as she begged him not to leave her in King's landing.

A hard lump formed in his throat, one he had to force himself to swallow as he recalled how his little dragon had asked him to take her along, all while hiccuping badly. He reached down, bending his arm to hook beneath her knees and scooped her up into his arms. Rhaenyra didn’t protest; she simply looped her arms around his neck, burying her face in the crook of his shoulder, as if the world outside his embrace no longer existed.

As he strode toward his quarters, Daemon’s jaw tightened. A dark, simmering frustration began to boil beneath his skin. He knew his niece better than anyone, she was the proudest creature in the Seven Kingdoms. Under any other circumstance, Rhaenyra would have considered such a public display of "weakness" to be beneath her station.

For her to be this broken, this unraveled… something truly terrible had happened.
He swallowed back the urge to demand answers immediately, tempering his worry with the cold patience he reserved only for his niece. He carried her through the heavy, arched doorways until they reached his chambers, the rooms that had once belonged to the warrior-queen Visenya, and later to his own father, Baelon.

The history of the room felt heavy, but as he kicked the door shut behind them, his only focus was the trembling Princess in his arms.

Chapter Text

Daemon enters his chambers after ensuring that Mysaria is keeping the whores in line and Luthor is keeping the gold clocks and Mysaria in line.

He enters and immediately wishes that he didn't. There is his niece , his princess sitting nearby fire immune to fire in the way only a Targaryen can be.

Her eyes gods, her eyes look so dead , so painful that he wants to destroy something, he wants to climb caraxes and burn king's landing down because he knows that the only reason his niece could be like this is bcoz of his foolish of a brother.

He controls his anger ,reminding himself that he can't be impulsive , not with his darling niece so broken. He needs to know just what the hell has happened and once he did , he will kill whoever was behind this state of his niece specially if it is that highcunt.

He comes in front of the chair she is sitting and kneels in front of her , takes her hands in his own and squeezes hard....
He calls her gently, " Ñuha zaldrīzesse ( my little dragon)"

Startling Rhaenyra and she looks in his eyes and starts sobbing again while hiding herself in his arms and all he could feel is his heart squeezing between his ribs, he wants to burn something, he wants to bleed something.... Anything to not feel this , anything to stop this helplessness he is feeling but he knows that nothing would come out it and he simply holds her and tries to calm her down....

He must be successful coz Rhaenyra sniffs but stops crying and make him sit on the chair beside her , never removing his hand from her hold.

She starts murmuring,," Everything is going to end....Kepus. Everyone is going to die. You will die kepus.... Kepa.... Dream.... Nightmare.....daenys....aegon...."

He feels a chill crawl down his spine. A part of him wants to stop her before she can speak, wants to convince himself that Rhaenyra had merely suffered some terrible nightmare and came to him for comfort, as she once did as a child. He wants to believe it is nothing more than that. But he knows better. He knows that whatever is about to leave her lips will change something between them forever, that once spoken, it cannot be taken back. And worst of all, he knows the blood of Old Valyria runs through them both. Dragon dreams were not mere fancies of sleep. They were woven into their blood.....

He has never believed in dreams , atleast not the nonsense that Visery's spouts of seeing his son sitting on throne wearing aegon's crown but he also knows their history....

Knows how Daenys had a dragon dream as a warning of the end of their house and the room of Valyria....

So he knows that if Rhaenyra is so hysterical , so broken then whatever she had seen has atleast a sliver of truth in it and that she has confirmed it and thus her state....

He calms his racing heart and brings his hands on her face , wiping her tears and says, "Rhaenyra tell me clearly. What have you seen."

And Daemon hears as his niece starts telling him of things that makes his hold tighten on her hands in anger....

He wants to kill that highcunt and his whore of a daughter as his niece tells him about that whore seducing visery's and him marrying her over Rhaenys' daughter. His blood boils as Rhaenyra tells him how she confirmed that the whore is actually visiting Viserys at night though Daemon’s pride flared briefly when she spoke of exposing them and leaving them to Rhaenys' mercy, but it was quickly extinguished by what came next....

His blood again starts boiling as she talks about him leaving for stepstones war and her getting isolated and Viserys siring children after children on his whore of a second wife.

His heart that was burning with happiness as he heard her tell how they got married feels a cold ice pouring over it.... as she talks about her giving birth and walking bleeding with an infant in her arms....all while Daemon himself was not present.

"I gave birth," she whispered, her eyes distant. "I walked through the halls, bleeding, with an infant in my arms... and you weren't there. I was alone."

Daemon’s heart went cold. If he wasn't there while his wife...his Rhaenyra was bleeding and vulnerable, it meant only one thing. Exile. He felt a surge of murderous intent toward his future self for allowing such a thing to happen.

Then came the assault. She described the so called Green Queen attacking her with a Valyrian steel dagger in front of the entire velaryon court, and Viserys doing nothing.

"He let her strike me," she breathed. "And you stood by."

"I would never," Daemon hissed, his voice like the crack of a whip. "I would have beheaded her where she stood."

But the nightmare deepened. She spoke of the loss of a son; a boy who looked like her mother, slain by a half-breed son of Viserys. The air in the room seemed to drop in temperature. And then, she spoke of the end.

"You died," she choked out. "In the sky, over the waters... killing the one who took our son. A warrior's death, but you left me."

Daemon closed his eyes, his forehead resting against hers. He could feel Caraxes’ agitation through their bond, the dragon sensing the rider’s blood-lust from the dragonpit. But the final blow was yet to come.

"He burned me," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Sunfyre. My brother’s dragon. He burned me alive while our son watched. Our son,,,our Aegon.... he watched me turn to ash."

The silence that followed was deafening. Daemon felt a primal, scorched-earth rage take root in his soul. It wasn't just anger; it was a cold, calculated vow. The vision she had seen, the Dance, the death, the betrayal was a map of a future he would now tear to pieces.

He pulled her closer, his voice dropping into a deadly, low register. "It was a dream, Rhaenyra. But it is a dream that will die in the cradle. No Hightower will sit the throne, and no half-breed will touch our blood. It is my promise to you my love."

The primal urge to burn the world down did not leave Daemon easily. It clawed at the inside of his chest, a roaring phantom of Caraxes’ flames, demanding that he take Dark Sister, stride into the Council Chambers, and paint the stone walls red with Otto Hightower’s blood. He wanted to reduce the entire Red Keep to a mountain of smoking ash, to erase every corridor and chamber where his niece had walked bleeding, lonely, and betrayed. He wanted to build a fortress of bone and fire around her and their unborn children so that nothing in this wretched kingdom could ever touch them.

But as the heavy thrumming of his pulse began to steady, a cold, bitter clarity washed over him.
Impulsiveness. That was the flaw. The vision of the future Rhaenyra had brought back was a testament to his own failures as much as Viserys’s weakness. It was his rash nature, his penchant for storming out in a fit of pride, that had left him without contact with his niece during the stepstones war. It was his absence that had left Rhaenyra isolated, a solitary dragon surrounded by a pack of scavenging Hightower wolves. If he gave in to his rage now, if he slaughtered Otto in the middle of the throne room; Viserys would banish him again, and the tragic wheel of time would simply keep turning.

He could not afford to be the Rogue Prince tonight. He cannot be the one to decide things , he had long been the Rogue Prince , it is time for him to be the Prince Consort.

Daemon brought his hands up, gently cupping Rhaenyra’s face. He forced her to look at him, drowning the chaotic fire in his mind within the icy, shattered depths of her violet eyes. Slowly, the trembling in his chest subsided, replaced by a profound, chilling resolve.

He leaned in, his voice dropping into a low, reverent vow. "Tell me, my Queen. What do you want me to do?"

The word hung in the air, heavy and absolute. Rhaenyra blinked, a tremor of profound shock rippling through her frame. Queen. The title was a sudden, solid weight against the nightmare she had just relived. For days, she had been a grieving, terrified girl; now, with a single word, Daemon had reminded her of who she was destined to be.

A small, tentative smile broke through her exhaustion; a sharp, dangerous thing and Daemon mirrored it with a slow, bloodthirsty curve of his own lips.

Rhaenyra straightened her spine, the vulnerability melting away as she turned her gaze toward the dancing flames of the hearth. The firelight caught the sharp angles of her jaw.

"Otto Hightower cannot be allowed to live." she said, her voice dropping the ragged edge of a victim and taking on the chilling cadence of a ruler. "He is too connected, too close to Father. Father will always choose that cunt over us, no matter the truth. If Otto remains in the Keep, he will weave his web until we are strangled in it. He cannot be allowed to live."

She turned her eyes back to him, violet surrounded by a storm of icy grey and Daemon felt his blood burn with an intoxicating mix of devotion and pride. Yet, he kept his composure, waiting for her command.

"Tell me what you want me to do," he repeated softly.

Rhaenyra looked back at the flames, her mind sharp and calculating. "Otto Hightower will reach Dragonstone tomorrow on his ship, sent by my father to demand the dragon egg back from you. I do not want that ship to ever reach King’s Landing again. That ship will drown in the Gullet." She tilted her head, a cold, detached expression settling over her features.

"It will be a terrible accident. A sudden malfunction mid-way through the journey. A tragic fate for the Hand of the King, but the Stranger will guide him to heaven... along with his chosen companions like Criston Cole, and whichever knights he brings to my shores."

For a split second, Daemon stared at her in genuine shock. Then, a dark, booming laugh threatened to spill from his throat, transforming into a wicked, triumphant grin. Gods, he loved her mind. It was a flawless stroke of political assassination. No executions, no open treason, no fuel for Viserys's fragile anger. Just the sea claiming what it was owed.

"Done," Daemon murmured, leaning forward to press a kiss to her temple. "I will ensure my most trusted man handle the vessel once it lands on Dragonstone. A loose plank, a slow leak that gives way only when they hit the deep, unforgiving currents of the black water. Nobody will know a thing. Nobody will doubt either of us."

He shifted, smoothly pulling her into his lap. Rhaenyra didn't protest; she deflated against him, melting into his embrace as if the armor she had just put on was too heavy for her young shoulders to bear alone. Daemon wrapped his arms around her, rubbing her arms up and down to chase away the residual chill of her nightmare.
Holding her like this, he felt a profound wave of disgust for the version of himself from her dream. That bitch-ass man, Daemon thought fiercely, cursing his alternate self to the fourteen hells.

How could he have let his dāria rūklon....his queen, suffer so much? How could he have allowed those hightcunts to torment her while he sulked in exile or played the rogue? How could he let those half breeds of Viserys live knowing that they would be a threat to his niece and their children? He would never repeat that mistake. He would stay by her side, a shadow and a shield, and he would play the long game.

"And what of the whore?" Daemon asked quietly, his hands continuing their soothing rhythm against her arms. "What of her and the future half-breeds she intends to foist upon your father's house?"

Rhaenyra stared unblinkingly at the fire," Those half-breeds need to die, and that whore needs to suffer. But they also need to be born first." Her voice was dangerously quiet, laced with a venom that made the air feel heavy. "I want to kill those bastards myself, Daemon. I want to see the light leave Alicent’s eyes, one by one, just like mine did as I lost child after child in that war. She needs to feel the agonizing, tearing pain that I felt. And just like I didn't have my father to comfort me when the world burned... she, too, will not have her father to comfort her. She wants to take my mother's place so bad , then she can suffer her fate as well."

Daemon looked down at his niece, and a profound, aching sadness bloomed in the center of his chest.

A part of him....the prince, the warrior, the targaryen who valued blood and vengeance above all else, felt a savage pride hearing such ruthlessness from his Targaryen princess. But another part of him... the part that had watched her grow from a cradle, the part that had bought her translations from Valyria and silver necklaces , had watched her rode her golden lady in skies felt his heart break.

He knew Rhaenyra better than anyone. He knew that beneath the anger, this was a wound inflicted by a profound betrayal. She had loved Alicent. Not as a lover, but as her companion, her sister in a lonely court, the only person who kept her company when her mother was too busy birthing a son. Rhaenyra had never been cruel, atleast never intentionally. She was spoiled, yes; she was careless, headstrong, and fiercely independent, but there had never been malice in her spirit. Hearing her speak of slaughtering children and torturing a former friend so casually told him exactly how thoroughly witnessing the future had butchered her innocence.

He wanted to kill Viserys for allowing the court to rot her. He wanted to butcher the Hightowers to preserve whatever sweetness she had left. He wanted to turn all of Westeros to ash just to keep her heart pure, to keep her the carefree girl who rode Syrax through the clouds without a care in the world.

But as he held her close, listening to her ragged breathing, he knew he couldn't do that.

The girl who rode Syrax through the clouds could not survive what was coming. If she was to sit the Iron Throne, if she was to be the first reigning Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, she could not remain naive. The lords of Westeros were vultures; they would smell innocence like blood in the water.

A woman upon the Iron Throne would never be granted the luxuries afforded to men. Every hesitation would be called weakness, every kindness folly. To survive, Rhaenyra would need to be fiercer than any king before her... harder, crueler when necessary, impossible to bend.

Daemon knew the realm. Lords would sooner forgive a cruel king than a merciful queen. Rhaenyra would need to be twice as ruthless for half the respect.

To sit the Iron Throne was not enough. To truly rule it, Rhaenyra would need to become something greater, harder than the twisted iron beneath her, sharper than the blades that forged it.

He could fight her battles, could put her enemies to the sword, and would lay down his life for her without hesitation. But he could not rule in her stead. He could not make her choices for her, nor command the realm in her name forever. Not when he knew how unlikely it was that he himself would outlive Viserys by many years. After all, he was but four years younger than his brother and the blood of the dragon did not make men immortal.

One day, whether he wished it or not, there would come a time when he would be gone. And when that day came, Rhaenyra would stand alone before the realm. She would have to defend herself, her throne, and their children without him beside her.

In the end, Rhaenyra Targaryen would have to stand alone before the realm and the realm would either kneel before her… or devour her whole.

The Iron Throne was her birthright. The war would be hers to command, the battles hers to decide, the game of thrones hers to survive.

And to do that, she would need to become something stronger than she was now; something forged in fire and blood

Daemon tightened his arms around her, burying his face in the curtain of silver hair as though he could shield her from the darkness gathering around them. He held her fiercely, as if by strength alone he could keep the future at bay.

His eyes fell shut, and for perhaps the first time in years, he found himself offering a silent prayer to the long-dead gods of Old Valyria. Not for victory. Not for power.

But for her.

He prayed that when Viserys finally joined their parents beneath the flames of the Fourteen Fires, and he himself had followed after him into the ashes of old Valyria, when the crowns had been won and the bloodshed ended, the woman left sitting upon the Iron Throne would still be someone he knew.

Someone he could still call Rhaenyra.

That the throne would not devour her whole.”.