The Queen’s Gambit - Quink (2024)

Chapter 1: Prologue

Chapter Text

Everyone was pulled out from the chamber before she could even process what had happened. And as soon as the silence fell, her mind drifted away, addled on the milk of the poppy.

The next thing Aemma saw was a rich red canopy above her bed, and a beam of sunlight, cutting through the break in the drapes.

And pain, dull pain, covering her body and reaching its peak somewhere around her thighs. Her breathing was laboured, and it could not be different, so loud she had to cry and so much to breath in and out to push the babe.

The babe…

So, that was it. Another one lost, this time his tiny lunges were too weak to let him breath properly.

Viserys was right, it was a boy, but why, by the Seven, his dream did not show him that the babe was not meant to live!…

Aemma would never confess to anyone that she had given names to all her babies. There were Daella and Alyssa after their mothers, Visenya after the Warrior Queen, Aegon after the Conqueror and Baelon. After the Spring Prince. The last one she had. She suffered through her pregnancy but it made her smile every time the babe kicked inside her, tiny bumps from his feet appearing all over her swollen belly. Viserys used to put his hand on her gently, feeling the kicks, and chuckling in amusem*nt at the wonders of childbearing.

Pulling up the covers higher to her chin, in attempt to protect herself from the harsh reality, she counted all her babes for the hundredth time. One of them was lost in the cradle, there were two stillbirths and two other pregnancies ended well before their term. Five in twice as many years.

Aemma knew how deficient people thought her, how they looked at her with ridicule, yet schooling their faces to a more respectful mien when the royal couple walked through the gilded halls of the Red Keep.

Someone shuffled in, opened the canopy of the bed, the bright morning light making the queen squint and cover her eyes with her palm protectively. Two young maids in cream dresses and red aprons curtsied, muttering, “my queen”, touched her forehead to ensure she was not in fever, then fluffed her pillows, adjusted covers and went on doing their duties in the chamber, while Aemma’s thoughts travelled back to where she was interrupted.

No, she was not deficient. No one would dare to think her that, not after she gave birth to the most wonderful child in the Seven Kingdoms, charming lilac-eyed and silver-haired princess, not yet fourteen, but already called the Realm’s Delight. Rhaenyra...

Their little golden dragon, her shining silver falcon. It was nothing but a miracle, a divine blessing to have her and with her existence all futile attempts at expanding their family were compensated.

How could her daughter be ignored? From now on Aemma made up her mind to spend more time with her, letting maternal love and advice replace those dogmatic teachings of septa’s and maesters. Her sweet daughter deserved all the love in the world, but not that little warmth left in her parent’s hearts after mourning her siblings who were deprived of the chance to see the light of day.

Aemma heaved a sigh, staring at the window, as a little bird perched on the sill and jumped to and fro, peering through the window with her tiny beady eyes.

Knocking on the door and commotion outside the chambers dragged Aemma from her thoughts once again.

And there she was. The doors opened with a light screech, revealing her daughter Rhaenyra, led by Daemon, their faces dark and anxious.

They were still holding hands when they approached and it warmed Aemma’s heart to see that her little girl was not alone, that there was someone to support her when her parents were drowning in grief and loss.

“Mother — cousin?” they said in unison. “How —” they began at the same time again but stopped, chuckling, and Daemon gestured to Rhaenyra to be the first.

“How are you feeling, mother?” Rhaenyra’s voice rang with worry, and her eyes were searching all over Aemma’s body for injuries, as if she was attacked by a pack of wolves and not went through, albeit tremendously difficult, but labours.

“Much better, thank you, dear.” lied Aemma, yet offering a reassuring smile.

Rhaenyra smiled back and glanced at her uncle, while he gave her an encouraging nod, as if saying “I told you everything would be fine, your mother is a strong woman.”

“May I…” Rhaenyra moved, pointing hesitantly at the edge of the bed. “I mean — Can I sit? Aren’t you in too much pain?”

“Oh, of course, I am not, my child!” exclaimed Aemma, chuckling. “Do sit down! Let me hold your hand, love.”

Rhaenyra smiled, sitting cautiously beside her, so that not to disturb her aching body.

“What’s that?” asked Aemma. She noticed, that her daughter was clutching something in her hand.

“Oh…” breathed Nyra, taken aback. “This is…” she stumbled on her words.

Aemma started getting tired of it, everyone around including her nearest and dearest treated her like a porcelain vase, awkwardly talking and moving. And yet again Rhaenyra’s eyes flicked to Daemon, as if searching for support. Another nod came from him.

“It is a toy. A little stuffed dragon which I made at my sewing classes with Septa Marlowe.” Rhaenyra uncurled her fist, revealing a small blue dragon with golden eyes and funny little tail, more of a cat’s than a dragon’s. “I thought that if I had chosen and egg for my brother’s cradle, why wouldn’t I make him one with my own hands. It is soft and plushy.” she smiled shyly and then averted her gaze. “I wanted to throw it away after everything happened. But Daemon said that I should better give it to you, for it would make you smile.”

“Awww, darling, of course, it will!” said Aemma blinking away tears.

She knew so well, that Rhaenyra hated sewing classes, she considered them to be tedious and a waste of time and begged Viserys to replace them with archery or sword training. He laughed her plea away, of course. So typical of him, as if laughter was cure for every disease and solution to any problem! And to Rhaenyra, spend so much time in confinement of her chamber, sewing a stuffed dragon was a feat in itself. It warmed her heart to know, that her daughter was so thoughtful and was looking to her little brother’s arrival as much as she did. Not afraid that once he was born she could be snubbed of all attention.

“Will it not serve you as a reminder —,” she stumbled again. “Of your loss. Our loss.”

“Oh no, it will only remind me of what a thoughtful and caring daughter I have.” she smiled, tenderness reaching her eyes.

Aemma smiled once again, this time to the toy, admiring it and then placed it on her pillow. Daemon…

So, it was Daemon who talked Nyra into bringing the toy dragon to her. And he knew that she was making it as well. Did Viserys know? The answer was so obvious. She did not know either.

Daemon’s eyes were anxious, as he shuffled on his feet, and curled and uncurled his fist over the tilt of his sword. Yet, he visibly relaxed, once seeing her content with this little token of affection.

“We are glad to see that you are doing better, cousin.” said Daemon, his voice a little hoarse. “May the Fourteen bless you and help with the soonest recovery.” to this Aemma nodded, thankfully. The prince rarely mentioned Gods, relying on his own powers, but when he did, he truly meant it.

“Come.” he said, reaching to Rhaenyra and squeezing her shoulder gently. “Your mother needs rest.”

Rhaenyra lifted her eyes and when they met with his, she smiled, nodding slightly in acquiescence.

Her daughter’s goodbuy kiss was soft like breeze and Aemma returned it exuding all the tenderness she could.

Daemon taking her by the elbow, the same manner they walked in some ten minutes ago, they left, and it settled Aemma’s heart, to know that her daughter was not alone, that, despite his wayward habits and constant disappearing from King's Landing, Daemon was with Nyra in this difficult time, she was not left and forgotten by her grieving parents.

As soon as the doors closed, and she was left alone, the whirlwind of thoughts engulfed Aemma once again.

Whatever people said, she had a family. She was not barren, it was high time people started noticing her daughter!

Aemma was the queen, her every wish was granted and she was treated with utmost respect and reverence, but none of that was worth losing her life in a birthing bed, leaving her girl alone in the cruel men’s world.

Even if Viserys was privileged to make her swell with babies miscarriage after miscarriage it did not mean that she would let him do it till the Stranger took her away.

With that she made up her mind. No more. No more maesters holding her down by arms and legs when she was in difficult labours, no more pouring of excessive doses of milk of the poppy right into her throat. No more tiny heart-wrenching hardly formed bodies extracted from her womb.

Another sigh. Queen of sighs, that’s what she should be called. How come that the envious life of a woman in the most prominent position in the realm turned into the chain of hardships and grievances?

And yet, the situation was nothing, but a double-edged sword. Wherever you touch, you get cut. If she continued to be empregnated by Viserys, she was sure, it would kill her. If they stopped their endeavours, the king’s Small Council would raise a question of Rhaenyra’s wedding for the sole purpose of securing their line and bringing as much heirs to the heir as she could squeeze. And to make matters worse, her little girl would hardly have a say in the choice of her future prince consort.

She sighed again, staring at the ceiling. And the more she thought, the more resolved she become that she was done with pregnancies and to ensure that her daughter would be spared from similar experience was her priority. How she would attain it, she did not know.

What she knew was that she had to make it right. She, not Viserys. It would be naive to expect it of him, although she had no doubt that he would do his best if asked, but, knowing him, fail in every step.

She would not fail.

Chapter 2: Talk with the King (Aemma)

Chapter Text

A pale face with sunken cheeks was staring at Aemma in the mirror as two maids were combing through her long silver hair, the only reminder of her beauty and lineage.

On Mellos’ insistence as a means to strengthen her body for labours and enhance fertility she was given larger portions of red meat and wine instead of her so much preferred tea and vegetables. Unlike her husband, who was renown for his love of feasts and hearty appetite, she had always been a light eater, and those recommendations made her feel all but repulsive. It did not help, though, babies sucked so much of her life resources, that she remained as skinny as she was, her bony shoulders noticeable under the silken gown.

It had been several days since the difficult labours, proving that she was done with having more children. Aemma was bedridden all that time and, while waiting for her husband’s arrival, was visited only by a horde of maesters, her cousin Daemon and Rhaenyra. Lying in bed gave her an opportunity not only to recuperate but have enough time to contemplate her fate and assure herself that her decision was correct.

Finally her husband decided to grace Aemma with his presence, making her both feel happy that she would see him at last and worried with anticipation of what she was about to tell him.

Yet, when the doors opened it was not only the king’s stately figure appearing in the chambers, but also Otto Hightower trailing behind. As always, impeccably dressed in his greenish attire, brown moustache and a goatee hiding his thinly pursed lips.

It was always like that, Otto Hightower following Viserys’ every step, as if he was not his Hand but his head.

Children stopped being attended by their nannies at the age of seven, why, for the love of God, her husband could not live without one at thirty two? Viserys had relied on Otto Hightower for several years, accepting his guidance on every decision, and it was understandable, for the crown was thrusted upon him while he was poorly prepared for his new role. Yet, those times had long gone and it was high time the king outgrew that attachment to his Hand.

“Aemma! My love!” Viserys strode into the room with his arms spread wide and a beaming smile upon his face.

The maids attending to her curtsied and scurried away, making way to their liege.

Closing the distance between them, Viserys leaned down to kiss her, but there was something in her gaze that, as soon as their eyes met, he reared back, embarrassment twinkling in his eyes.

“I have come to visit you earlier. Several times.” he explained himself, thinking that her displeasure was due to the lack of attention. “You were asleep.” he swallowed thickly, waiting for her reaction, but it did not come. “How are you feeling, dear?”

Aemma forced a smile onto her lips. “I am getting better day by day.”

“Thank the Seven! Mellos said the labours went with certain difficulties.”

Certain difficulties?! Aemma cringed internally. Understatement of the year. She nearly died from excruciating pain, old wrinkled fingers of the Grand Maester getting inside her womb, turning the babe and then extracting his deformed body with the forceps. And her husband chose to describe that hell with words “certain difficulties”.

“Not too much different from the others.” she lied, her eyes travelling to Otto’s figure, looming behind her husband’s back.

“Good, good!” Viserys’ countenance regained its previously worn pleased air as he filled a chalice of Arbor Red up to the rim and made himself comfortable on a chair opposite her.

Aemma tensed, looking between the king and his Hand, her plan included having a talk with her husband, not with his Small Council and Otto’s presence was not welcomed. She would not tolerate that.

“Would you kindly provide His Grace and myself with some privacy, my good Ser?” she said, startling Otto, who did not expect to be addressed by the queen.

He shuffled on his feet, looking hesitantly at the king.

“Your Grace, if you —” began Otto only to be interrupted by the king, dismissing him with the wave of his hand.

“Leave us, Otto.” he ordered his councillor and this explicit command Otto could not but obey. Bowing deeply, he left the chamber, grimace twisting his face, and Aemma felt that without his presence she started breathing deeper and easier.

As nonchalant as he was, Viserys was studying her face with tender eyes and soft smile, sipping on his wine.

“Viserys, we need to talk.” said Aemma without further ado. When you need to plunge into a cold water, better to do it right away instead of walking slowly forward, shivering with each step.

Taken aback by the seriousness of her voice, the king’s smile faded away from his face, replaced with some unreadable expression.

“Oh? What would you like to talk about, my love?”

The words came easier than she expected, although their taste was bitter in her mouth.

“This was the last time, Viserys.”

The king straightened in his chair, his brows furrowed, clearly missing her point.

“I know it is my duty to provide you heirs, and I am sorry if I failed you in that. But I have mourned all the dead children we had. I cannot bare it any longer and neither my body can suffer more labours. I am certain that I will not live through another one.” Aemma tried to control herself, but her voice trembled in the most inopportune moment.

Viserys grew serious as the Stranger himself while his mind struggled to process what she had just said.

“I see…” he muttered, staring into his chalice. “I am sorry if I harmed you, but all I did was only for the good of the Realm.” he said painfully, avoiding her gaze.

Oh, how she wanted to slap him on his round cheeks for those words to bring some sense into his crowned head! Good of the realm! What “Good” was that when the queen died, leaving the king and the heir grieving. Was not a strong House and a united family a Good in itself?

She breathed in deeply to calm herself down. She must sound reasonably, not emotionally.

“Aegon the Conqueror had only two children from two wives who were not the best examples of rulers, but from their blood came future kings.” she began, catching his eyes and glueing him to her with the sombreness of her voice. “Our grandfather Jaehaerys was blessed with thirteen children, only to be succeeded by his grandchild, all of his heirs dead by the time the Iron Throne required a new Targaryen king. Be it one child or thirteen, the Gods work in mysterious ways, Viserys, you never know what fate awaits us. So let us cherish what we have and cling to it, instead of wasting ourselves away in pursuit of dreams and illusions. Rhaenyra does not deserve to be reduced to being just a spare in waiting for her would-be brother to arrive in this world.” try as she might to remain calm and collected, Aemma’s cheeks were flushed from emotion, saying these words aloud but not in her mind, made her believe in their significance even more. She studied Viserys’ face for an answer, longing to see understanding and support.

“Neither am I the Conqueror, nor the Conciliator.” he chuckled mirthlessly.

And this was oh so true. As much as she loved her husband, he lacked the strength of Aegon and wisdom of Jaehaerys, achieving only mediocrity throughout his reign.

“Think about my mother, Viserys. Daella Targaryen died not yet eighteen from childbed fever soon after my birth.” even now, over two decades later, it pained Aemma to think about a mother she had never seen. “Your mother,” she continued, “a wonderful and brave princess Alyssa, rider of Meleys, did not fully recover from the third childbirth and died within a year, your brother Aegon following after, not surviving his infancy.” this time tears formed in Viserys’ eyes with mentioning of his mother’s fate and his hand reached to wipe them away, trembling slightly with emotion.

“So, you are afraid that you will follow your mother’s steps?” heaving a sigh, Viserys looked at Aemma, long and doubtful, his mind weighing consequences and choosing priorities.

Afraid?! “Gods be good, that is not the word to describe a woman who was bedded at thirteen and went through six labours only one of them delivering a healthy girl!” she thought privately. But said:

“No, I am afraid, that Rhaenyra will be afraid to follow mine. Without even giving it a try.” Viserys gawked at her, this thought had not even crossed his mind. “And you should understand how unacceptable it is for an heir. And a future queen.”

He opened his mouth to retort but snapped it shut. Always so jolly and gregarious, this time he seemed to be at a loss for words.

She never doubted his love, but as a man who had always been given everything on a silver platter even a crown and a throne, it seemed, he took her and Rhaenyra’s existence for granted, being under illusion that nothing bad could truly befall on them. And that unintentional neglect could lead to dire consequences.

The king rose and moved to the side table, reaching for the wine pitcher to refill his chalice. His face was sombre, laughing wrinkles replaced with a line between his brows.

“You do understand what consequences your decision will have for Rhaenyra, don’t you?” he said, once occupying his chair in front of Aemma once again.

And that was it. Surely, the king would touch the delicate question of her daughter’s marriage. It was a sore point for Aemma, having been wed at eleven, young and scared, she wanted to protect her daughter from similar experience or at least make it less painful.

“I do. We cannot change the order of things in this respect. But you do remember that you promised her that she would have a choice of husband, don’t you?” said Aemma, echoing his tone.

“Choice!” he snorted. “Were you given one? Or me?” he said pointing his finger between them. “And look at us now!”

“We were lucky to find love in each other. Who can guarantee the same for Rhaenyra?” she asked, shaking her head and trying to brush away the sadness tugging at her heart.

“Well, of course, we will take her preferences into consideration. What father does not want the best for his daughter!” he replied earnestly.

“The problem is that you can have different views on what is best for our daughter.” she said, noticing, how his lips curled downwards, displeased with her persistence. He fell silent, pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand and fingers of his other tapping nervously against the chalice.

“I need time to think.” the pregnant pause was finally broken by his weak voice. “As I take decisions which have direct consequences not only for our family, but for the whole Realm, you must understand that the situation requires proper thinking.”

If it was he, Viserys Targaryen, to choose the answer was quite obvious, he loved her too much to allow any harm befall on her or Rhaenyra. But it was king Viserys Targaryen, First of His Name, who had to decide and his choice was largely influenced by his Small Council and Otto Hightower in particular. The question was: who would make the final choice? Viserys the King or Viserys the Husband?

She would not push, though. With all his malleability and conflict-averse character, once being pressed too much on any issue, Viserys’ slumbering inner dragon awoke breathing not fire but utmost stubbornness and hereafter he would stand on his decision, even the most absurd one.

Viserys leaned forward, cupping her face and placing a gentle kiss on her lips. She reciprocated the sentiment eagerly, her husband could never be reproached for lack of tenderness, were it a passionate night in their joint bedchamber or a chaste kiss under the watchful eyes of the whole court. It signalled the end of their discussion, the king already weary of the pressing family matters. Bidding her to have a good rest, he left, most probably looking after his Hand and soliciting his advice.

Aemma relaxed back in her chair, somewhat relieved that their conversation was over and it went rather decently, without turning into a screaming match. If because of her decision Rhaenyra were to be married sooner than she wanted to, Aemma would make sure to secure the best possible match for her dear daughter. Neither a brute, nor a weakling deserved her precious hand. Only the worthiest, she would not take it otherwise.

With that in mind she pushed herself from the chair and walked to a small mahogany writing desk, previously used only for commissioning dresses and planning court festivities. Viserys needed time? She would grant him that. And meanwhile she would not waste hers. Pensively twirling a quill between her fingers, Aemma started compiling a list of potential suitors for Rhaenyra’s hand.

Chapter 3: Spoilt for Choice (Aemma)

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Making choices was hard, life choices even harder. But to make a life choice for someone you loved was an onerous task indeed.

Aemma was feeling the weight of the world on her shoulders when she was scribbling down the names on a long yellowish parchment. She was not into politics and never had been, she simply did not have time for that, spending so much of her life attended by maesters, in and out of pregnancies. This, however, did not relieve her from her duties as a Queen whose kingly husband was fond of balls and feasts and tourneys and hosted them with and without cause, while Aemma’s duty was to greet and welcome guests, exchange pleasantries and be gracious and attentive. It presupposed addressing people, so, remembering names of lords and their heirs came easy to her.

The first suitor, whose name literally roared in her ear, was Lord Jason Lannister. Ser, Lord of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport, Warden of the West - so many titles at a relatively young age. A very handsome man. Very. Too much. Aemma couldn’t help but imagine him looking at his reflection in the mirror, admiring his long golden locks, cascading to broad shoulders, green eyes, adorned by long eyelashes. On top of that he was thin-waisted and slender in the physique. Yet, his nature was one of pride and conceit. His station as the head of the House and gold mines, filling his coffers allowed him be that.

Viserys once said that his pride had his own pride. Yes, yes, even her husband, bless his kind heart, who had always been of so poor people’s judgment, could note but notice that prominent feature. Would not such elevation go into Lannister’s head? Would he recognise that it was not Rhaenyra marrying into his House but vice versa and his eldest child would not bear his name? Would such a man be ready to lose some of his ego and sacrifice his pride for service to his lady wife, his queen, rather than parading her as one of his possessions? Her daughter was not some meek or docile creature, she would hate to be one more diamond stitched to his red and cloth-of-gold doublet.

House Lannister would strengthen Rhaenyra’s claim for sure, making her even more powerful. “If I can’t have love, I will have power,” someone searching for a favourable match would say. But when you are a power, are you entitled to love?

Overwhelmed by so many questions swarming in her head, Aemma dipped her quill into a bronze inkwell and moved further, putting Laenor Velaryon’s name on the list. He was their kin, of pure Valyrian descent, a sweet boy. Perhaps, too sweet. Aemma could not tell, if it was her imagination or Laenor’s behaviour was a bit peculiar. And it showed itself in excessive interest in squires. That was, while young lordlings flocked around young ladies like bees to honey on a summer day, Laenor found more pleasure in talking to young men, preferring their company to any other. Were it not for his strict honourable parents, Aemma would say this young man was deviant…

No. She shook her head in disbelief. This was not possible.

Trying to think positive, she also noted that Nyra got along well with her cousin Laenor, much better and kinder than did Viserys with Rhaenys when they were children. She smiled, rekindling the stories from their youth, when Daemon and Rhaenys ganged against Viserys, teasing him and playing pranks. Smarter than her age Rhaenys and hyper-active Daemon, terrorising her plump obedient husband, who was skipping his sword training, while hiding with a book in an alcove. She felt envious listening to such stories, for she did not have siblings or cousins close to her age in the Vale and spent most of her childhood alone or with septas. That was until she turned eleven, then her childhood was over with getting married to Viserys, who was sixteen at the time, but yet too immature to be called a man grown.

It was so true that the dragon’s blood ran thick and Laenor, having blood of Old Valyria running through his veins, was a strong match. Targaryens always favoured marriages within a family. Not to mention the grudge Rhaenys held for having been spurned twice with the Throne. It all made Laenor a very strong suitor. Yet, having “marriage blanc” for her daughter was not possible. She needed heirs and if Laenor was not able provide her with them… What would happen? Bastards? They were more of a problem than a solution…

Aemma stared at the parchment, as if it was a crystal ball showing the future, names written in her neat handwriting dancing in front of her eyes.

“Lord Samwell Blackwood.” whispered Aemma, tasting the name on her lips. It was so familiar and yet distant. She did not remember the lord himself, save that he was very young but daring. What she remembered was the story of his father Royce Blackwood. Despite Aemma not knowing her mother in person, she was told a lot about Daella Targaryen by her grandmother, the Good Queen, and others who were graced with knowing the princess in person. And one of the stories Aemma was particularly fascinated by was how the then Lord Blackwood attempted to betroth his son Royce to her mother princess Daella when she was close to Rhaenyra’s age and was brought to Raventree Hall by Queen Alysanne. “My little flower” grandmother used to call her. She earned that name for having small stature and a childish aspect to her. Sweet, kind and gentle, with a tender heart. Daella was charmed by young Royce, graceful and courteous, skilled with bow and sword and to crown it all he wrote his own ballads, singing them with his deep velvet voice. Yet, her mother lost interest when she learnt that House Blackwood followed the Old Gods instead of the Faith of the Seven. Too pious and afraid of the world she was, Daella Targaryen. So different from her sisters Saera and Viserra.

Aemma did not know, whether Samwell inherited some of his father’s talents, but it would be ironic, if the son proposed and achieved what his father failed.

Name of Ser Amos Bracken next came to her mind. Perhaps, it was so closely associated with the Blackwood, wherever the first was mentioned, the latter was as well. The feud between the Houses was notorious and Aemma could not help but wince at the thought that one would kill another before the actual marriage even took place.

Elmo Tully could be viewed as a potential suitor, were it not for his father Lord Grover, stubborn and committed man, whose face twisted in displeasure each time the question of succession was brought about. He supported male claimants at the Great Council preferring of age Prince Viserys over too young Laenor Velaryon, and the only idea that the Throne would go to a woman, disregarding traditions and precedents, was preposterous for him. As his only son and heir, Elmo could be of his father’s opinion. Alas, in given circ*mstances, hardly could he lend a strong helping hand to Rhaenyra on her difficult path, she needed someone supporting her claim, not undermining.

Otto Hightower had a son of eligible age, Gwayne, but it was ridiculous to add him to the list, never in her sound mind would she give the Hightowers more power than they had already grasped. Though a capable statesman and administrator, Otto was overambitious and overreaching, assuming too much control over the king. No, no, she would allow no more Hightowers lurking around the Iron Throne! Over her dead body!

Aemma hummed thoughtfully, crossing out Lord Boremund’s son Borros Baratheon with a bold single line. A mocking smile slipped onto her lips before she could stop it, at three-and-twenty the Storm’s End heir still had not learned his letters, Lord Boremund’s own attendants called him “dumb as thunder”, while he himself had to rely on maesters to read messages for him. Rhaenyra who was good at her lessons and appreciated Valyrian poetry would not like such a brute. On top of that, there was a word going round, that he was betrothed to Lady Elanda Caron, a robust and healthy woman who he believed would give him many children.

Some would say that although of Valyrian blood, House Celtigar was minor, their line muddled, stemming from former slaves, set free and elevated by Aegon the Conqueror, thus not good enough for a match with a Targaryen princess. But what Aemma knew was that there was a talk about potential betrothal between Lord Bartimos’ son and heir Clement and Laena Velaryon.

It would be humorous, if it weren’t so sad the way Viserys had been tiptoeing around their cousin Rhaneys since the very day the results of the Great Council were announced. He would not dare to approach with a contradicting match, for it would cause strife and tension - two things which he tended to avoid at all costs. She knew her husband too well to even mention name of Clement Celtigar.

Aemma leaned back in her chair and a heavy sigh escaped her lips. Try as she might to be reasonable and choose the best men available, she was haunted by the feeling that it could all go wrong even from the start, Rhaenyra and her husband-to-be failing to spark any mutual feelings.

With all his flaws she loved Viserys. Having met a gentle and pleasant-looking young prince for the first time, she was infatuated and after their parting she spent her days waiting for ravens sent from the Kings Landing to the Vale. As time went by, the novelty wore off and masks fell, delicacy turned into eagerness to please people, amiability into total lack of spine, yet the tender feeling remained, it was larger than life, stronger than grudges. Could Aemma even hope that her daughter would be blessed with such sentiment? That she would love someone for being perfect and then for not being perfect even more?

She tried to extract as many names from the depts of her memory as she could, listing all the high lords and their heirs. The sad truth was, not too many of them were of Valyrian descent, and she felt that Rhaenyra would prefer nothing less. Moreover, her cousin Daemon’s pitiful example showed so well that a Targaryen alone in the world was a terrible thing. He could stand neither his wife Rhea Royce, nor his new home, her own home, the Vale, and Aemma did not begrudge him for that. Some matches were made in Heaven, but this one was definitely made in Hell.

By the time she had gone through only half of her list, Aemma was exhausted. She clearly required more time to rest and recuperate, preferably outside the suffocating halls of the Red Keep and smelly chaotic streets of Kings Landing. Dragonstone would be perfect, this place was special, as if dragons flying there shared their energy with the occupants of the castle.

It was already past midday and when the doors to her chamber opened, Aemma expected to see a servant, carrying a silver tray with dinner for her, she caught herself thinking that she was well enough to have some hot broth and a cup of herbal tea without omnipresent feeling of nausea. The Queen looked up and to her surprise she found Rhaenyra, walking inside her chamber.

Speaking of Rhaenyra. Her little girl turned out to be braver and more resolute than she expected. Full-grown dragon, not a dragonling. Although, shell-shocked in the wake of the death of her newborn brother and being but a child herself, she volunteered to be the one to say Dracarys in front of Baelon’s burning pyre. Aemma was not allowed to attend. She cried and weeped and protested but was eventually told that it would do her more harm than good and she should spare herself if not for her own well-being, but for Rhaenyra’s and Viserys’. And she obeyed.

Looking Rhaenyra over, so young and fresh in her simple golden gown, a pang of guilt hit Aemma. The urge to shelter Nyra had always been strong in the past but now, with Aemma’s recent decision, it suddenly made its presence as desperate as never before when she watched her innocent face. They were pushing their daughter on a difficult path, without even asking her opinion. As time of the conquest was long gone, she was supposed to fit an image not of Visenya or Rhaenys but of Alysanne, which made it not less challenging.

Rhaenyra moved into Aemma’s embrace, less worried than she was before. She wrapped her hands around her daughter, basking in the feeling of softness and warmth’s against her bosom. Too tired was she of cold courtesies and incessant “your graces” addressed to her, none of which conveyed any true emotion or feeling. Overwhelmed with tenderness and trying to fill the void left by Baelon’s death, Aemma gasped, making Rhaenyra pull away and snap her head.

“What?” she asked worriedly. “Are you still in pain?” she made movement to the door, “I will call the maest—”

“No, no, no, child, there is no need for that! I am fine.” she grasped Rhaenyra’s hand and urged her back into her embrace. “Just a bit overly emotional these days.” that seemed to put Rhaenyra’s mind at rest. She relaxed, clinging tighter to Aemma’s waist.

When she looked down, she met Nyra’s gaze, the girl was peering into her eyes, searchingly, trying to find the truth and answer she knew quite well. Too often did Aemma say that everything was fine and she was getting better only to be caught in another pregnancy and all the consequent sufferings. As reassurances were not enough, for actions speak louder than words, Aemma said:

“I wish to go to Dragonstone for a couple of weeks, this will help me to recuperate.” said Aemma, with a soft smile, tucking Rhaenyra’s hair behind her ear. The queen used to wear her hair in intricate braids, while her daughter preferred them to flow freely down her shoulders like a silver waterfall.

A flash of hope flickered on Rhaenyra’s face only to be replaced with doubt. “Will father allow that? He did not let you go previously.” said princess hesitantly.

“He did not, but this time I expect him to take my request with alacrity and to oblige.”

“What has changed?”

“Nothing. And a lot.” shrugged Aemma. “Leave it to me, child.” said Aemma with new found resolve the taste of which was rather sweet. Upon hearing this a smile replaced the frown on Rhaenyra’s face.

“We can save time needed for the trip back and forth. Syrax is not large enough to carry both of us, but I will ask Daemon to bring you on Caraxes.” her daughter said, excitement blooming in her face.

“Oh”, chuckled Aemma, “I am sure Daemon will offer his help eagerly, but Caraxes can think otherwise. Besides,” she added, “I am not sure I possess the training.”

“But you do possess a disarming kindness. It can be quite potent and dragons feel that as well.” Rhaenyra gave her a knowing look.

Aemma smiled, caressing Nyra’s cheek fondly, she could be very persuasive when she wanted to.

It was not that she was afraid to be harmed by the dragon but her half Arryn nature was still fascinated by these mysterious larger-than-life creatures and she treated them cautiously. Still the idea was not bad, Viserys would like the fact that he would have to spend less time alone.

Aemma spent half of the day, guessing about the sentiments her daughter might experience with the men on her list. Yet, little did she think about her own preferences. She reproached Viserys for being neglectful to Rhaenyra’s wishes, she was not any better, though.

She still had time to correct that.

Inhaling deeply, and looking at Rhaenyra’s relaxed form as she perched herself on a low stool beside her chair, Aemma ventured:

“Rhaenyra, daughter, tell me, what do you think makes a good man?”

Surprise flashed in her daughter’s eyes. “You mean what makes a good king? Or queen?” she corrected, clearly missing the word she used as much as its meaning. “I have been asked this question thousands of times by my father and maesters teaching me, as if enlisting these characteristics can make me better.” she scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest and pouting.

Aemma sighed, her hand still running down Nyra’s hair, this was going harder than she expected.

“My choice of word is correct, sweetheart, I mean a man. Someone with whom you will exchange your vows one day.”

“Oh…” Rhaenyra’s cheeks flushed as if she was embarrassed by the question, and now a brave dragon riding princess was turning into a shy girl, teenager who was yet to learn to word her feelings and emotions.

“Come on, don't be afraid!” encouraged Aemma with a smile. “A copper for your thoughts!” she said playfully.

Yet, in an instant her daughter’s confused expression changed to that of resentment as she held her head high and glared at Aemma.

“I heard from the maids that father visited you earlier this morning. Did you again discuss my marriage?” she demanded.

Looking like that, Rhaenyra was the image of defiance and resentment. Was it rebellious teenage spirit or were there deeper motives, hidden from even the most observant eye?

“Rhaenys and Visenya were dragonriders and warrior queens. And yet, they did get married and gave birth to a child each.” sighed Aemma, uncomfortable with her own words. She loved Rhaenyra as she were and constant comparisons seemed to distracting from the present moment.

“I would rather serve as knight and ride to battle and glory, than go through unbearable discomfort of pregnancy only to be later tortured in a birthing bed.” scoffed Rhaenyra.

“We have royal wombs, my dear, you and I. The childbed is our battlefield. We must learn to face it with a stiff lip.” Aemma felt anger flaring in Nyra’s chest, with that she tried to overcome her worries, anxiety of growing older, prospects of marriage and childbearing looming in the horizon.

“And anyway, dear, it will not happen soon.” whispered Aemma softly. Oh, gracious gods, what a poor reassurance from a woman who was wed at eleven!…

“I really want to know what type of man pleases you, child. In my primness I avoided this subject and now I want to right this wrong.” Aemma swallowed a lump forming in her throat, she did not deem herself to be Queen Alysanne reborn and could not boast such matchmaking talents. But for her daughter she would try.

Yet, to her relief, her words brought a crack in her daughter’s armour. She rolled her eyes, exuding reluctance and resentment but said:

“Fine. If it pleases you.” she co*cked her head and hummed, searching for the words. “He should be dashing and daring, charming and charismatic, have a bold presence that could be felt from a mile off. Dangerous to enemies and protective to family.”

Aemma was all ears, listening carefully to her daughter and trying to stop a smile fighting its way to her lips at the sight of Rhaenyra’s blushing cheeks.

“He should be a capable swordsman and good at jousting and melee, know how to sail… I would so much enjoy a boat trip across the Blackwater.” Nyra wrinkled her nose and scratched it in a funny way, the whole thing turned out to be a game for her, once she got rid of resentment. “What else…” she hummed. “He should enjoy hawking, out of all the hunts this is my favourite, it is always a joy to watch hawks and falcons soar in the air, catching their prey. Also! Valyrian poetry, I adore it, he should like it as well, I want to listen to him reciting my favourite poems.”

“Oh, dear me!” exclaimed Aemma, chuckling. “And if he does not speak Valyrian?”

“One more thing,” added Rhaenyra excitedly, paying no mind to Aemma’s comment, “he should be generous and give me presents, something rare and brought from faraway lands I have never been to.”

As she was saying this, her hand reached to a necklace. Aemma had not seen it before, but judging by the black glint of metal, it was Valyrian steel, encrusted with rubies. There was only one person who valued such things and knew where to find this rarity. Daemon cherished their Valyrian roots the most in their family and took great pleasure in spoiling their daughter with trinkets, so the answer was quite obvious.

Aemma co*cked her head taking in what her daughter was saying. She scolded herself for not having been attentive enough. Mayhaps, Rhaenyra did give a proper thought to the idea of marriage, despite being resented to it every time she and Viserys broached the subject. Curiouser and curiouser. That manner she would soon learn that she did not know her daughter at all. Another price to pay for looking too much into the future and disregarding the present.

By the end of her speech Rhaenyra was bubbling with excitement, cheeks flushed and eyes shining. Try as she might to display her disinterest in the opposite sex, she was a girl dreaming of a fair prince on a white horse. Or a dragon.

A screeching roar came from the distance and, whispering “Daemon!”, Rhaenyra hurried to a large balcony overviewing the Blackwater Bay. Aemma caught a glimpse of a gracious red creature, gliding in the sky towards the Hill of Rhaenys, while her daughter leaned over the railing and waved her hand, hoping that the prince would see her greeting.

Her daughter’s face brightened with smile and, pulling up the skirt of her dress so that not to trip over it and fall, in such a hurry she was, the girl rushed back into the chamber.

From then on it became clear to Aemma, that Nyra would sit still no longer. Enough with questions, let the girl run and chat with her uncle.

“Come on, off you go, child!” she urged, waving Rhaenyra away.

The girl hesitated for a moment, but seeing her mother’s explicit permission, she leaned down to kiss her forehead and swiftly, before Aemma was ready, slipped away from her chamber.

Aemma smiled at her daughter’s youthful impetuousness and, looking down at the parchment, added one more name. She underlined it and put a question mark in brackets next to it: Daemon Targaryen (?).

She knew his strengths, for it was no one else but the Rogue Prince Rhaenyra was talking so excitedly about. Lineage was just perfect. But what of his weaknesses? Mostly, that he was Daemon Targaryen.

Chapter 4: The Heir for a Day (Daemon)

Chapter Text

Daemon knew nothing about people who were brought before him. One thing he knew for sure was that they were criminals, scum, filth staining the streets of Kings Landing. And that was enough for him to carry the king’s justice.

“A thief!” came the accusation from one of the officers of the City Watch.

The man shook his head vehemently, denying his guilt, it did not help, though, as his hand was forced on a piece of wood and chopped off with one accurate strike of a sword. Gasping in horror and then crying in pain a thief cradled his mutilated hand.

The raper was the next one and the part he was going to lose were his loins, a disgusting sight, but that was the punishment he deserved. His trousers were cut and dropped, exposing his co*ck.

“Guilty!” cried the Watchman and proceeded with gelding. The man's anguished ear-piercing cry echoed along the street, while local people were peeping through the holes in their window shutters, watching appalled as the dreadful spectacle unfolded.

“There!” shouted one of the Gold Cloaks, pointing with a sword at the man held by the elbows and pushed down to his knees. “A murderer!”

Daemon would take care of this scum himself. The man who passed the sentence should swing the sword. With this in mind he raised Dark sister and with almost pristine precision relieved the man of his head.

Later that night there was a reward waiting for his men in one of the upscale brothels in the Street of Silk. The place was big enough to accommodate all his officers and offered service fit for a prince. A huge hall glimmered with gold here and there, as Daemon’s men flooded in, donning their golden cloaks. His pride, his trademark. All of them were fiercely loyal to their Commander and it boosted his ego to realize that he had his own army of two thousand men.

Mysaria was waiting for him there.

“I have not seen you for a while, my prince.” an arm wrapped his shoulder and a soft whisper came, tickling his ear.

“Family matters.” he answered curtly, unwilling to tell the whor* a sentimental story of helping his fragile cousin and frightened niece to cope with yet another loss. Neither would she understand, nor did he want to appear a sentimental fool.

Mysaria took his hand and pressed it against her breast, the same hand he used to help his niece climb up to the Syrax’s saddle earlier that morning. And as much as it felt right on Rhaenyra’s waist, it felt wrong on his paramour’s body. It stayed limp right there, without cupping or squeezing it, something he would usually do.

It did not come unnoticed by Mysaria. She pulled away, giving him a sympathetic look.

“What troubles you, my Prince? Hmm? I can bring in another, if you feel so. Perhaps, a maiden will please you? I have several, you can choose.” She winked at him playfully, tucking a strand of his silver hair behind his ear. “I can even arrange one with hair colour that will match yours.” He shook his head, averting his gaze, while Mysaria pulled up his chin, making him look into her eyes. She was not impressed by what she saw. “I will fetch us some wine, then.”

Daemon sighed. No pleasure came from that contact, neither sensual, nor emotional. And it made him worried and unsettled. He squirmed in his chair just to check if he felt his legs and what was above them. Well, it was in its place. But there was no warmth or arousal there, like in a deep slumber, nothing and nobody around bothered him at all. His mind was lingering somewhere in the morning, recalling the events and pastime with his niece, and as much as he tried to concentrate on the present, he failed, his unruly mind wandering off again to his flight above the Blackwater with Rhaenyra.

He braced himself, getting back to where he was. There was no point in sitting there and moping, his men deserved some fun.

“All the drinks and whor*s are on me!” shouted Daemon, his words were drowned out by uproarious cheers of Gold Cloaks. “Drink and f*ck to your hearts’ content, you did a good job today!”

Observing a lively commotion in front of him, a satisfied smiled tugged the corners of his lips. Daemon was constantly undermined by vipers at his brother’s court, was sent in and out from the Small Council, but here he was the prince, the lord, the master. Otto Hightower and the likes of him considered “Lord Fleabottom” to be an insulting moniker. He did not. He wore it with pride. He knew the people and they knew their prince, they loved him and it was sincere, not dick-sucking his brother had from all the nobles at his court.

“The king’s sole heir once again?” Mysaria joined him at the table, carrying two flagons full of Strongwine.

Daemon perked up at these words. “Stop talking nonsense, we all know that the king’s firstborn is an heir!” he spat.

“A girl?” Mysaria snorted in derision. “I doubt that it is me who is talking nonsense. Woman has never sat the Iron Throne and never will.”

So that was what the smallfolk think…

“Be careful what you say, those words are treacherous.” he hissed, gulping from his cup and trying to contain anger seething in his belly.

He hated to admit it, but the whor*’s words held the truth. His brother was in denial, making illusions that all the Lords of the Seven Kingdoms would take a sh*t on traditions and precedents letting a woman ascend the Iron Throne. Were it so easy, they would have bent their knees before Her Grace Queen Rhaenys, First of Her Name, not Viserys!

And yet it hit hard… A whor* in a brothel had more realistic expectations of the future than his brother, the king. Hardly anyone would accept Rhaenyra, unless something was done to strengthen her claim. But for now, Viserys had not even lifted his little finger and here was the truth: Daemon was the heir apparent, at least in the eyes of common people.

“Even a dragon will not help Rhaenyra Targaryen to grow a co*ck and that’s appreciated the most in a ruler, as we can well see.” continued Mysaria her blatant speech.

Daemon was fond of that whor*, but not so fond as to allow her disrespectful remarks about Rhaenyra. He balled his fists, swallowing anger, biting his tongue to contain curses and insults rushing to his lips.

“Keep my niece’s name out of your mouth.” he warned, sending her an icy glare.

Mysaria just co*cked her head and run her hand over his back in a soothing manner.

“Come, come, my prince. Stop being coy, it does not suit you. You are Daemon Targaryen, rider of Caraxes, wielder of Dark Sister. The king cannot replace you. We all know who you are - our future. Might we drink to our future?” the woman was vibrating with energy, straddling the sexual and the dangerous. It touched him deep. For the first time that night Daemon felt slightly aroused. He kissed her, taking the cup of wine and raising it.

“Quiet! Your prince will speak. Silence!” shouted one of the officers, noticing Daemon’s intention.

“The king and council have long rued my position as next in line for the throne. But dream and pray as they all might, it seems I am not so easily replaced.” His toast snared the room’s attention, everyone was intrigued by the opening. Some of the Watchmen sneered, while others remained serious. But with his next words Daemon’s face darkened. “The gods give… just as the gods take away. To the king’s son, Baelon —,” Daemon raised his cup and took a deep breath. “The Heir for a day!”

Deafening silence fell over the room. Most of the Watchmen shared confused looks, not knowing how to react to that seditious toast. Yet, in a moment, Mysaria’s lilting laughter broke out and others, taking it as a permission, loosed their own laughs. The whole room followed suit, joining with guffaws and japes.

Upon saying these words Daemon felt a rush of adrenaline. He smiled thinly at the power he held over his men and it mattered not, if their laughter was sincere or dutiful. A part of him thrilled at the idea of being an heir, a true one, not chosen on a king’s whim. Yet more of him knew that if there was a slightest chance for Rhaenyra to succeed Viserys, he would protect her claim, raining dragonfire and burning to ashes anyone who would dare to defy her rights as the king’s firstborn child and a proclaimed heir.

The Heir for a Day - his own words rang in his ears like the bells of the Great Sept.

Perhaps, it was too much to say…

As the wave of adrenaline dissipated, neither the toast, nor the wine in his cup and especially Mysaria, clinging to him, wrapping her slim tattooed arm with clinking bracelets around his neck and rubbing against his torso brought any more pleasure. It tasted bitter and stale, the touches were sticky and repulsive.

Perhaps, he shouldn’t have said those crass words…

His eyes roamed around the room, sliding over naked bodies and tangled limbs, until he settled on a small figure. A boy, street urchin in grey haggard clothes was looking at him with his mouselike beady eyes, listening to him intently. Before he knew it, the boy turned on his hills and slipped away from the door. There was no point in chasing him, the rascal knew the streets too well to vanish in one of the alleyways.

Now he was sure, he shouldn’t have said that…

Chapter 5: Chances Given, Chances Lost (Aemma)

Chapter Text

A flock of ladies-in-waiting was sitting in Aemma’s chambers, chit-chatting, playing the harps and lutes, doing their embroideries and needlework. With all the graciousness of the queen Aemma nodded in acknowledgement to their remarks and smiled at the jokes. This presence was refreshing, a proof that there was a life going on outside her chambers, rather interesting one and full of pleasures, as it seemed. When pain and weakness gradually receded, radiance gradually returning to her face, she was glad to listen to the latest gossips and rumours, running around the Red Keep an beyond its thick walls. Even more glad she was when everyone left and gave her time to think.

She needed time to process what she unintentionally learnt from Rhaenyra. The name of Daemon Targaryen stood out from the list of suitors she had compiled, catching her eye with its absurdity and audacity. She made sure to lock the parchment in the drawer of her writing desk, that way to hide from curious eyes, including half-literate maids attending to her in the chambers. Not to mention Viserys, the only idea of him taking note of that list sent shivers down Aemma’s spine. Especially, his younger brother’s name on it, Rhaenyra’s uncle. He would find it preposterous. As if getting married to his own cousin of eleven namedays was any better. But, of course, he was too hypocritical to admit it.

Searching for positive things associated with Daemon Targaryen was like polishing an old silver chalice. You had to work hard to clean all the tarnish just to be rewarded with a view of the shinning glitter of pure silver. No, gold. He could be golden when he wanted to. As well as absolutely intolerable and these states changed one another in a blink of an eye. The prince was mercurial and fast to anger, and yet his support and care for both, her and Nyra showed him from a different angle. Looking back at the recent events, Aemma could say that to a person displaying such admirable affection one could trust her daughter, he was a pillar to lean on in times of hardships.

The idea of such a match gained further shape when Aemma’s thoughts travelled to the time when Rhaenyra was born, a blessing for all of them after several miscarriages in a row.

“So, this we have been waiting for so long?” snorted Daemon, but a mocking smirk vanished from his face, a tender smile tugging at his lips the moment he was introduced to his niece, a tiny thing with rosy mouth, lilac eyes and wisps of silver hair. Since then he was hovering over the girl, stealing the little bundle from her parents’ arms.

Sacrificing time in his so much loved training yard, he would spend it in the nursery, scooping all the toy dragons he could find around and swooping them one by one above the cradle, making roaring noises, while Nyra laughed happily, eyes shining with excitement.

As years passed, the uncle grew even more passionate and ingenious in the ways to please and entertain his niece. Indifferent to jewellery and trinkets as a child, Rhaenyra was a sweet tooth, one of the few things she took after her father. When punished or just given not as much cakes as she wanted, she used to squeal and kick and throw temper tantrums, especially when lemon cakes were served. Daemon did not waste his time, though. Secretly (or at least he hoped it was), he would wink at Rhaenyra and hide pieces of lemon cake under the table and straight into his pockets. Later Rhaenyra was presented the cakes by her proud uncle, to her great delight. Aemma preferred not to think about the state of those cakes, especially after they had been stored and carried in Daemon’s pockets for some time - squashed and crumbled beyond hope, for sure.

Daemon was not a paragon of virtue or good behaviour, but when with Nyra, he somehow managed to keep his temper well at bay and could start a fight even if a single foul word was uttered in her presence. And when time came, he was a perfect companion in dragon flying, lending a helping hand and sharing his knowledge of dragons and Old Valyria.

Even Viserys’ decision to name Rhaenyra his heir presumptive, preceded by another rift with Daemon — a hard hit on his pride — did not turn him sour, a little bit tense at most. It was worth mentioning, that uniting these two claims would be a step to mend what was broken in 92 AC and then once more in 101 AC.

Age difference was not that crucial. Her own mother Daella was wed to Rodrick Arren at the age of ten and six, while he was a middle aged man of three and six namedays. A widower on top of that. Their cousin Rhaenys was a fine example that there was nothing bad about being younger than your husband. Corlys was seventeen years her senior, though it was she who had asked Jaehaerys for the Sea Snake’s hand and up to now they seemed — no, they were a happy couple. Corlys was hardened in battles and sea voyages, looking fresh and fit for his age, and, truth be told, even better than her own much younger Viserys. Daemon was cut from the same cloth — lean and well-trained, he was likely to retain his physique for long years to come.

Still, unlike Aemma’s father, Daemon was not a widower. Her cousin Rhea was young and hale, with stern beauty and not less stern character which Daemon absolutely despised, addressing her nothing else but “my Bronze Bitch”. Yet, as mismatched as it was, their marriage was an obstacle, but not the one which could not be removed. Even with Viserys against it, she would find that way or another to dissolve that fruitless union and appease the House Royce.

As for Daemon’s darker side and unbecoming habits... They were well-known, for he was called Lord Fleabottom for a reason. And Aemma’s common sense cautioned her against placing too much faith in her cousin, reminding her of all the disappointments he brought to Viserys and notoriety he had achieved through the years. Yet, human nature was changeable and without that dreadful marriage looming over him and with a sense of purpose, there was still hope for Daemon to change his ways and learn to control his fiery temper…

Aemma winced, awoken from her musings, as the doors to her chambers opened, letting servants in. Looking at the window, she noticed that the sun was already climbing down towards the horizon, as the bright daylight changed to dull late afternoon glow.

“I bring word from His Grace, my Queen,” squeaked a young boy with a clumsy bow, “the king will join you for supper.”

Aemma willed herself not to scoff at the page bringing the news and nodded graciously, ordering to inform His Grace that it would be her pleasure. They had not supped together for a while and she was only happy about that, for she did not have to share bedroom with her husband afterwards. Closeness and intimacy was a moral barrier she was yet to overcome.

Viserys had been masterfully avoiding the questions posed to him earlier, neither a word about her decision to cease his attempts in impregnating her, nor Rhaenyra’s future were uttered. And she expected no less. Her husband excelled in sweeping the problems under the rug. In fact, she always wondered if this habit was purposefully developed by Viserys to win time and sustain the stress of ruling, a mask of total obliviousness worn when it was suitable to him or this blissful ignorance was inherent to him, similar to fire burning in his brother.

“Does the Queen wish to get dressed for His Grace’s arrival?” a maid said in a timid voice, presenting her with a pale blue silken dress, the one she would usually dress for calm mid-afternoons and evenings.

But not this time.

Aemma shook her head and walked over to her extensive wardrobe.

Instead of that modest gown she chose the one very different. Her garments should make her regal not plain-looking. The deep blue colour would highlight her porcelain skin, while intricate embroidery and golden trimming would take attention from dark circles under her eyes. High collar, although, not that appealing, would hide her collarbones which still stuck out as well as skinny shoulders.

The headpiece she picked was a tiara of yellow gold, the top ornament of which resembled a crown and lower band was adorned with five strings of white pearls on each side.

Her appearance would be a statement, for she intended not to ask Viserys for a leave to Dragonstone, but to demand. At least that was her intention. She promised this trip to Rhaenyra, who wished a short reprieve from the hustle and bustle of the Red Keep, have plenty of time to soar atop Syrax as much as she pleased, without dragging herself in a wheelhouse each time to the Dragonpit. What joke of a mother would she be, not to indulge her daughter even in such a simple pleasure?

It was not the sole purpose of their trip, though. Daemon who had special attachment to their ancestral seat, expressed his wish to join Aemma and Rhaenyra and that oh so well matched with her plans. Matchmaking plans, she blushed thinking. It was inappropriate to stare and peep and peek, but she was ready to throw propriety to the wind. She had to have a closer look at Daemon when he was with her daughter.

Aemma took special care with the choice of courses and was mindful to have all Viserys’ favourites prepared, for she new that lavish feast was a prerequisite for his good spirits.

As expected, later in the evening Viserys appeared in her chambers with all his retinue. Otto Hightower and Lyonel Strong were quickly dismissed, although before leaving, the former took a moment to slide his eyes all over Aemma, assessing her condition, while the latter offered a somewhat sympathetic smile. She did not like to be stared at like that, but assumed what she hoped was a more regal-looking posture, straightening in her chair and smoothing the folds of her elegant dress. Dutiful Ser Harrold and Ser Steffon were stationed at the doors, closing them behind the councilmen.

Viserys took off his crown with a flourish, a nearby servant accepting it with a bow. His finest robes and fatigued face indicated that there had been a court session the whole day. This kingly duty sucked him dry and this time was no different, reaching the table he graced Aemma with a tired smile and plopped himself down heavily on a chair, drained a chalice of wine and snapped his fingers to a servant boy ordering a refill.

“I love my people, but why, by the Seven, are they so tedious and petty in their requests and petitions.” he took a sip from his chalice, this time slowly, savouring the taste of the Sweetwine. “As if it matters that a baker received slightly less flour from a miller.” he rolled his eyes, grabbing a fresh and still warm piece of bread with golden crust from a basket and taking a bite with appetizing crunch.

“I guess it is has more importance than we can think of.” shrugged Aemma, joining her husband and breaking a bun in two halves. “A baker gets less flour, produces less bread, his revenue is lower than he expected, yet he paid in full for the ingredients and gave his share of the tax to the Crown. People come to his bakery only to find out that their favourite pastry or freshly-baked bread are out of stock — they will not be happy as well. And hungry people are displeased people. Tensions grow and riots can be caused even by such seemingly insignificant thing as a half-empty sack of flour delivered to a baker. And you, dear husband, strive to maintain peace among your people and,” she pointed at his mouthfull of crusty bread, “enjoy having a freshly-baked bread with each meal.”

Viserys blinked at her several times, startled, and leaned back in his chair, letting the servants fill his plate.

“I did not think you are bothered by such things, my dear.” he chuckled and Aemma frowned at that. Was it how he saw her? A birthing machine incapable of any political thought? Oh, how she wished she could change that! Despite her obvious inexperience in the matters of state, she had always given sound judgment on many things and did not deserve such a condescending attitude.

Aemma resisted the urge to duck her head shyly at his mocking remark and wanted to offer some more of her insight into politics, but seeing her husband lose interest in their conversation and dig into his meal, choosing between a roasted pheasant and a swan in chestnut sauce, finally setting on both, she thought better of it. She would not waste her chance to discuss the trip to Dragonstone, especially when fine food and wine lifted the king’s spirits after a tiresome day.

He laughed jovially, telling some jokes and anecdotes, and that lightheartedness Aemma could only envy. It was a real gift to block any negative thoughts, while concentrating on positive ones. She doubted it was a good feature for a king, but for a man and a companion his amiability was something to admire.

It remained a mystery for her, though, if this levity was a sign of simplemindedness or deep wisdom…

“And to that I said, “are we meant to weep for dead pirates, Lord Corlys?” Her husband guffawed at his own joke, sloshing wine over the rim of the chalice he was holding. “Dear Gods, I am afraid Corlys is too much absorbed in his pirate games, imagining himself a daring swashbuckler. If this so called “Triarchy” is presently ridding the Stepstones of its pirate infestation, it sounds like good news, not a cause to worry.” he snorted and rolled his eyes.

Aemma did not know much about the problem at the Stepstones, as she only caught the bits of conversation her ladies-in-waiting were having and it was not something of interest to her either at the moment. She meant to talk about the trip to Dragonstone.

She waited for the servants to change the courses of their meal, replacing platters full of meat with pies and grilled vegetables. Once their plates were filled, she cleared her throat, looking hesitantly at Viserys.

“The recent events took toll on us.” she began slowly and upon hearing these words, her husband’s face acquired sympathetic expression, yet it was short-lived as next moment he averted his gaze, giving his full attention to the contents of his plate. He shoved a piece of mushroom into his mouth, reluctant to talk about serious or sad matters, but she knew he did not have a choice, for it was he who came into her chambers and sought for her company.

She clenched her hands around the arms of her chair, searching for strength and resilience. “And I feel the need to have some time and free space around to recuperate.” she continued.

“Very well then, take as much time as you need. Your duties as the queen can wait, as well as charities you are so much into.” he offered happily.

It seemed Aemma’s face did not reflect enough enthusiasm, so he suggested: “If you feel bored and need some entertainment, sweetheart, let us throw a feast or a ball, I am sure it will bring you pleasure. No need to leave the Keep.”

“It is not only about pleasure, Viserys, my whole body screams for it!” Her voice sounded louder than she intended, cracking at the last word, while her hands were clutching and twisting a silken napkin. Perhaps, she was right, a short reprieve would do her good. Though, there was something in her whole being, that made her husband look a bit intimidated. He did not expect such outburst from her meek self. Whether she planned it or not, it did have the desired effect.

“It will be hard for me to find the peace and quiet in the Red Keep, it is so crowded and atmosphere is too pressing. I would like to go to Dragonstone.” she said, putting on a resolute face.

“It was not necessary before, and I truly don’t understand what has changed so drastically and —” he mumbled.

“I told Rhaenyra we would go to Dragonstone, and we will — because, as far as I’m concerned, a promise made is a promise kept.” her voice sounded forceful, interrupting him midword.

Viserys stared at her for a second, a resentful look passing over his face, but as she stared back, he cowered, swallowed thickly and averted his gaze.

He was obviously taken aback by her pressure, and in order to win time to process her behaviour he popped a tart with caviar into his mouth and chewed it thoughtfully.

The next thing that happened came as a surprise, for both of them, perhaps. Viserys leaned forward to reach for her hand and patted in a placating manner. “Fine, fine. To Dragonstone then.”

She gaped at him, scolding herself for how stupid she must have looked.

”Wh—“ , she stuttered, “You—“

“I give you my permission. If it is what you want.” He smiled, pleased with himself.

Oh, that was easy… It seemed, she should have been more insistent before. If Viserys was so malleable and easily swayed by other people why cannot she be that person commanding him? She would gladly take on this role, it would suit her perfectly.

“That is good news, indeed,” she said after a short moment, savouring the small victory. “To save time on travel, Rhaenyra will fly on Syrax and Daemon offered me his help.”

“Caraxes is as temperamental as his rider. I do not think it prudent to put you at such a risk,” her husband said with some hesitancy. “Join me aboard the ship.”

Join?! Oh…

She wanted to use that time to have a closer look at Daemon and Rhaenyra. Viserys was supposed to stay at the Red Keep!…

She opened her mouth to protest but no arguments came to her head.

“Are you going as well?” was all she could ask, poorly concealed disappointment ringing in her voice.

“Uh-um.” he hummed and nodded, washing down a mouthful of pigeon pie with Dornish Red.

“But — who —” she began.

“Otto can head the Council in my absence.” He waved off her concern nonchalantly, as always giving full trust to Hightower. “And yet. About Caraxes. I am worried.” he reached for her hand, covering it with much larger his.

“You shouldn’t be.” shrugged Aemma. “Daemon popped in this morning and borrowed my handkerchief. He says Caraxes needs to know the smell of the person to let himself be mounted.”

With that revelation Viserys smile turned from a gentle to a forced one, the fact that plans were made without his prior leave caused his displeasure, which he did not dare to voice due to Aemma’s yet fragile state. For that she was grateful. Fortunately, years spent together had taught him to be more empathic to her needs.

“Hmm, well… Daemon knows best.” he said, forcing a scowl out of his face.

“He can return to the Dragonpit and take you on Caraxes as well. The dragon should be well familiar with you.” seeing her husband’s souring mood, Aemma offered an olive branch. “That way you can join us faster.”

Yet, Viserys’ rapidly paling face said it all. Out of two evils his weak stomach could tolerate seasickness better than… What was the right word for it? Dragonsickness?

“I will go by ship.” he squeezed out a smile. “And meanwhile you, my dear girls, will have some time for yourself.”

A fine idea, she thought.

Aemma’s attempts at restoring her beauty did not come unnoticed. As soon as her husband sated his appetite, he could fully appreciate her own person. And as the evening died, Viserys lingered in her chamber even when all the topics for discussion were exhausted, looking expectantly at her, waiting for permission to stay. She knew he would have the decency not to enforce his presence. And she did not want to torture him either. Or even worse, push him to seek warmth in someone else’s bed. Inhaling deeply, she shook off the haunting memories of her recent labours, when she was lying helpless waiting for it to end, either the labours or her life; the sympathetic gazes of the maids and furrowed brows of maesters, all on her, creating the illusion of support and help while not lending any. But what else could they do if her body resented the babies planted in her by Viserys?

Worries aside, she would allow him to stay that night. The simple question “Won’t you stay?” brought a beaming smile to the king’s face who, having lost his hope, rose to leave. Let it be known to the whole court that the king shared his bed with the queen and there was no discord in the royal couple. The whispers and gossips would fly over the Red Keep the very next moment, when Viserys would be seen leaving her chambers.

She did not expect anyone follow the steps of her aunt Viserra, trying to seduce uncle Baelon right in his bedchamber, but a good wife was a prudent wife, and a prudent wife did not make her husband an easy prey for less honourable women.

Yet, she entertained hope that while walking to his chambers to get ready for the night, he would be caught into conversation by one of the men from his small council, and with that she would win time and pretend to be asleep when he arrived. As bad luck would have it, her little plan failed, instead of going all the way to his chambers himself, he called for an attendant to fetch his things. And there she was — the maids unlacing her heavy gown and Viserys leisurely observing her reflection in the mirror while slowly unbuttoning his own doublet.

When the dress finally slipped from her shoulders, the maid scooped it from the floor and, dipping into curtsy, left followed by the rest of the servants. Wrestling her discomfort into submission, Aemma sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for Viserys to change in his bedclothes and dismiss his own attendant. Despite her attempts at being calm, previous resolve was treacherously leaving her and was replaced with a dark pit of fear. She squinted at her husband’s half-naked form, torn between her feelings — one part of her was yearning for his touches, while the other, more reasonable one, was crying that they were poisonous, each time forcing her to wither away, bearing fruit of their shared intimacy.

Closing her eyes for a moment helped to collect herself, yet she winced when she felt the weight beside her.

“Fear not, my love,” Viserys whispered in her ear, turning her gently and cradling her face between his palms. “I am not going to do anything that can cause —,” he stumbled searching for a better word, “undesirable consequences. Only on safe days, alright?”

“Only on safe days.” she echoed, hardly containing a sigh of relief.

It was the answer she so longed for. Her life was more important to Viserys, than of an illusionary heir born in the Aegon’s crown from his dream. And as much as she grieved for all the lives lost and not yet given, she was ecstatic to turn this page of her life.

Never an athlete, nor a warrior he possessed almost feminine softness of body which was pleasant to touch and Aemma always searched for him in the night to snuggle up and find comfort. It was not different this time, her fears of close contact dissipated as soon as she found herself under the same cover with her husband, cuddling into his warmth and softness. Viserys stroked her hair and placed a kiss on her forehead, letting the fatigue of the day take the better of him. Lulled by his soft rhythmic snoring, her own mind drifted off, letting her fall into deep and peaceful slumber…

Only to be dragged back by someone knocking insistently on the bedchamber door. The dawn had not yet risen and the room was still covered in darkness, save the halo of light over half-burned candles.

“Viserys,” whispered Aemma, shaking his shoulder, but heard unintelligible grumble as an answer. “Vis! Wake up! Someone is knocking.”

“They can f*ck off, I am not to be disturbed at such a damn early hour.” he scoffed, pulling the cover higher up to his ears.

“And if something happened? No one will have the audacity to wake their king without an urgent reason. If it is about Rhaenyra?” she said, slightly panicking. “Go on, answer it!” with all her might she rolled him on his side.

“Fine, fine.” groaned her husband, pushing himself from the bed. “It’s better be something of utmost importance or I will have him flogged whoever he is.” rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Viserys staggered to the door still in his bedclothes, not bothering to take a robe.

The heavy door opened and closed letting the intruder in. Aemma sat up in her bed, listening to the hushed voices, but the heavy fabric of the canopy blocked the words. It was the Hand for sure, his low honeyed voice she would recognise even in the dead of the night. At least it was not Mellos, which meant that was a matter of state, not health, so Rhaenyra should be safe.

“What was that? Is everything alright with our daughter?” she asked anxiously when the man left and Viserys reappeared beside her.

“It is not about Rhaenyra, Aemma,” he hissed in a low voice. “It’s Daemon.”

Further questions were not necessary. One look at Viserys in the dimly lit room was enough to know that Daemon was about to fall from the king’s grace. Again.

Huffing angrily, he grabbed his breeches and doublet and stormed out of the chamber. It was unclear, how much of that was Daemon’s fault, and what was Otto’s slander.

Oh, gracious Gods!... She was ready to give Daemon a chance. Would he rob himself of it without even giving a try?

For some time she lay, studying the ornaments on the canopy of her bed, weighing the options. Then sat up, an idea forming in her head.

“No way that green leech will ruin my plans before I even started realising them.” thought Aemma, hastily taking her own robe. She needed to give some instructions to her sworn shield at once.

Chapter 6: The Value of Apologies (Aemma)

Chapter Text

“Cousin?!” Daemon drowsily rubbed his eyes, while wrapping himself in bedsheets in an attempt to hide his modesty. Next moment his arm reached to the side of the bed, searching for something or someone, but not finding any, he breathed out a sigh of relief. His paramour had already left and Aemma was only happy to be spared the sight.

~ Earlier that morning…~

Ser Steffon stared at Aemma, flabbergasted. “T-to the Street of Silk, Your Grace?”

He was not at liberty to question the Queen’s orders, but this particular one was too much out of the ordinary. Aemma was sure, it must have been the most unexpected thing to happen since Ser Steffon Darklyn’s name was written into the White Book.

And so the knight did as he was bade - escorted Aemma to the Street of Silk early in the morrow, when the sun only began to rise above still sleeping capital. With the help of a grey cloak she disguised herself from curious eyes, while Ser Steffon discarded his own milky white enamelled armour, replacing it with a woolen hat and a simple robe.

Once reaching their destination, a place where she hoped to find Daemon, Madam welcomed them at the entrance of one of the most upscale brothels. She looked askance at Aemma, whose strands of silver hair were treacherously poking out from under the hood and inquired of their preferences: men or women, virgins or someone with experience. Aemma blushed at that, clarifying that they came not in search of carnal pleasure, but of a person, the one with silver hair and high social standing. The woman was quick to understand and, beckoning them, led the way to the bowls of the pleasure den. Why was she not surprised…

When passing through the corridors, Aemma was stealing involuntary glances through the doors left ajar. Having been bedded at thirteen, she was not a naive maiden, yet a great amount of self-control was needed to suppress gaps of astonishment. Was it how Daemon used to spend his time? Did he posses the knowledge and experience to do things like that? These thoughts troubled Aemma even more than what she was about to hear from her cousin. Rhaenyra was but a little girl, a child, alien to the ways of flesh and, surely, a gentle touch was needed to introduce her to the world existing beyond books, balls and dragonflying. She was not sure, if Daemon was a good guide, for she had learnt her ways with Viserys, who was not as clueless as she was in her youth, but far from Daemon in this respect, and there was something endearing in his shyness and trying to be gentle with his young wife.

“The prince is here.” said madam, pushing the door open. “He does not like to be disturbed early in the morning, though.” she warned with a half-smile.

Ser Steffon, who desperately tried to keep a straight face all the time, pretending to be unperturbed by what he saw, was stationed at the door and Aemma, inhaling deeply, prepared to see whatever was inside.

The room was dim and smelt of wine, incense and oils. The largest part was occupied by a large bed covered in red silken bedsheets, as vulgar and tasteless as it could only be in a brothel. Daemon sprawled on the bed, his silver hair spread over the pillow. When he was like that — sleeping — his face gained serene expression, a stark contrast to his typical half smirk or a scowl, and that way he bore striking resemblance to his older brother, with the same straight pointed nose and sensual lips. And if Rhaenyra shared her own tastes, it was not a mystery that she was so attracted by her uncle.

The floorboard screeched as she stepped forward and with that Daemon stirred, opening his eyes drowsily. He shot up on the bed, as soon as his eyes focused on Aemma.

“Cousin?!” he gasped, wrapping himself in bedsheets. “Gods, what brings you to this place?” he asked in a hoarse voice, regaining his bearings.

“Not what, but who. Otto Hightower came to the king at daybreak, bringing some discomforting news.” she said in a low voice. The memories were still fresh and, although, relieved that it had nothing to do with Rhaenyra, the fact that Daemon was involved was not less disappointing. “It concerned you. I do not know what it was about, but Viserys was livid.”

“f*cking c*nt!” growled Daemon, shaking his head furiously. “You shouldn’t be here, anyway.” he frowned, ashamed because she witnessed something she was not meant to see.

“I know, but what choice did I have? The king will request an audience as soon as you step into the Red Keep. I had to be the first one to see you.”

Daemon looked bewildered. And it was easy to explain, she had been just a silent witness all the time. Sympathetic — yes, but the one passively watching as Viserys time and time again punished, banished and pushed away his brother for his numerous transgressions.

“You did not come here alone, did you?”

“Of course, not, Ser Steffon escorted me.”

“He must be very much impressed. It’s not a proper place for the one who took his vows.” he remarked, a mischievous smile slipping onto his lips and making him look his usual self. “Will you give me a minute?” he asked, his eyes searching for his clothes.

She nodded and walked over to a window giving some privacy to Daemon and meanwhile observing the awakening city. Street sellers were getting their stalls ready for the day, placing goods and food on display. Before long, she heard Daemon’s voice behind her back — “So?”

She turned around, her cousin was already dressed, his doublet was wrinkled and dark read smears and smudges could be spotted all over it. He had been fulfilling his duties as the Commander of the City Watch as usual, but what could have gone wrong that night?

“I guess, I should be the one asking questions, don’t you think?” she smiled, as he shyly ducked his head. “Now, tell me, what made our Lord Hand so agitated in the middle of the night?”

Under her intense gaze Daemon deflated. He sagged into a chair, running his hand down his face and searching for words. Perhaps, there was something to be ashamed of.

“Last night I had a small celebration with my men from the City Watch,” he began, “a small prize for the job well done. And there was a toast,” he was still averting his gaze, “the stupid words I said. I did not realise their meaning until they escaped my mouth.” he sighed once again and met her eyes, receiving an encouraging nod from her.

“What did you say?” she asked, a knot forming in her stomach from what she was about to hear.

“I toasted prince Baelon, styling him “The Heir for a Day.” he muttered.

Merciful Seven…

Upon hearing this confession Aemma closed her eyes, the world around her spinning. Oh, that cut deep... Not only was she reminded of her loss, but in a form of a cruel jest in front of whor*s and Watchmen. The wound had not yet healed, as if it ever could, and shame for failing Viserys and the whole Realm was still burning wild inside her heart.

“Look, Aemma,” it seemed her face betrayed her, as Daemon rushed up to his feet and took her hands in his. “I did not mean to mock you or your family. It was just…” he shook his head, tormented by the memories of the previous night. “It was wine, blood of all those criminals we hunted down, that stupid whor*, triggering my darkest thoughts. I —”, he swallowed hard and looked down to meet her eyes. “I am sorry. It was not my intention to hurt you or Viserys, or Rhaenyra. Do you believe me?”

Did she?

Perhaps, she did. He sounded sincere. She refused to accept that he was that cruel. And what was more, Daemon was rarely sorry for his actions, and never ever did he apologise. This word was foreign to him and, yet, this time he said it — slowly, meaningfully. She could feel aggrieved with him, she was entitled to any sort of negative outburst and anger. But he was sorry. Genuinely regretful and remorseful.

Of course, she would forgive him, what choice did she have?

Rhaenyra needed her uncle, his company brought happiness and joy to her restrained by all the rules and protocols existence as a princess of the Realm. She would never deprive her daughter of that. For Nyra’s wellbeing Aemma would put her own sorrows and grievances aside. Look forward, not backwards, she reminded herself one more time; she had repeated these words more often than prayers recently. And were Daemon to be banished, this all would cease to exist, leaving her daughter alone, but in the company of Alicent Hightower, who was a nice obedient girl, indeed, but a pale imitation of Rhaenyra’s uncle.

Yet, she was not sure, that Viserys would share her desire to forgive. And Otto would not be Otto, if he had not elaborated the story with some unseemly details.

“I forgive you, Daemon.” Her words brought a smile onto his lips, a weak smile but filled with relief and gratitude. “But on condition.”

“Condition?” he arched his silver brow curiously. “Command me, then, my Queen.”

“Tell everything you have just told me to Viserys. Apologise. I know how you like pestering each other, making bitter remarks and saying words which should not be said, like two squabbling boys who should be pulled apart. Your temperament is fiery and Viserys is too stubborn to accept all your exploits. But once he understands that you did not mean to cut him deep, he will forgive you and Otto’s attempt at driving a wedge between you will fail.”

Daemon hesitated for a moment, as if weighing the situation, then nodded. “I will do as you say, cousin.” With that they exchanged understanding glances before his face gained puzzled expression once again.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked, pouring wine from a pitcher and offering Aemma a cup.

She shook her head, declining it and sighed. “I am well aware of the consequences of your rift with Viserys.”

“He will banish me again.”

“And send you to the Vale.”

“Seven Hells, not that!” he exclaimed, surprising Aemma with his outburst, then suddenly recalling the fact that it was her home as well. Or used to be.

“You know, what I mean. No offence. The Vale may be nice. But Rhea Royce is not. With all my respect to our late grandmother, the Good Queen, what she did to me was not good. It was a life sentence!”

Daemon sounded hurt, his soul was wounded and scarred with the decision taken for him ignoring his own wishes. When others talked about Queen Alysanne with reverence, Daemon tried not to mention her at all. For of the dead nothing but good was to be said. And the shackles on his wrists were a constant reminder of how little worth he had for his family. It was difficult for a man with such dragon energy not to rage and turn spiteful, when his lot in life was to be constantly pushed away to a place he hated and to the people he despised.

“Anything is better than being banished to my Bronze Bitch.” he hissed. “I would sooner go to Dragonstone with my Gold Cloaks and take Mysaria as a second wife in Valyrian traditions. Mayhaps she will be able to give me a child, for I will never be able to f*ck this… sheep!”

Aemma’s eyes widened at this revelation. It sounded even worse than she could imagine. He rubbed his face, already sorry for another temper tantrum.

“And yet, you did not answer my question, cousin. What is the reason for you trying to keep me at court? I have been banished many times, why does it matter so much for you now?”

This time it was Aemma’s turn to be ashamed. Sadly, he was right. Although, supporting Daemon, she had never openly put in a word for him or asked for a pardon on his behalf.

“Well,” she began, searching for the right words, “let’s say, the need in you has grown recently. As well as understanding that we must hold on to each other as a family. If Rhaenyra is to succeed Viserys, she will need her immediate family around. At present, there is little hope to find support in Driftmark, but your sword and counsel will be much welcomed.”

As usual, he tensed at the mentioning of the question of succession. He was only half-way through it, still accepting the fact that he was pushed further down the line.

“Do you also believe in it? That your daughter stands any chance to become the Queen?” Aemma nodded but Daemon only snorted and rolled his eyes in return.

“My dear cousin, you know better, than I do, that the lords of the Seven Kingdoms will never accept a woman ruling in her own right. History has the tendency to repeat itself. I do not want to disappoint you, but the common folk does not see her as such as well.”

“I can’t argue that, they don’t. At least not without support. And you are this support, Daemon.” she clarified. “You say common folk will not accept her. But you are called the People’s Prince. Won’t you win people over for your niece? Following you they will follow Rhaenyra.”

And as for her matchmaking plans, she would keep them to herself for now…

“Very well,” he murmured. Than added in a more decisive voice: “You don’t need to ask me twice, cousin, my hand and sword are Rhaenyra’s. I will not leave you and be a paragon of best behavior with Viserys, if that is what you need.” he said, smiling, as Aemma mouthed thank you, joy and gratitude filling her from within. “Would you like me to escort you back to the Red Keep?”

“Thank you, but I think, Ser Steffon is quite capable of doing that.”

As Aemma started her ride back to the Keep, shadowed by vigilant Ser Steffon, she caught herself thinking that it was the right, albeit risky move. Now she knew what all the fuss was about, and it warmed her heart that she could settle it with Daemon. She had to keep him close for the time being. Were he banished now, Rhaenyra would take the hardest blow. Yet, she was filled with anticipation of Daemon’s conversation with Viserys. Otto could add any nasty details, making the cruel toast sound even worse, and she was sure that her husband would not take it easily. Yet, there was one more precaution she could take. Rhaenyra would help to ensure the success of her endeavour.

Chapter 7: A Brother and a King (Viserys)

Chapter Text

Viserys ducked his head miserably, it was the most he could do so that not to look ridiculous, otherwise he would have closed his eyes and covered his ears.

When he was given the account of the events for the first time, aroused from his peaceful slumber with Aemma, he felt outrage and disappointment. To be exposed to the whole story once again, retold with gusto, sparing no details, was tantamount to a torture. Otto could not be blamed for his zealous service but Viserys wished him to deliver Daemon’s exploits in a more subtle way, rather than adding salt to injury with his vivid descriptions.

“It was unprecedented roundup of criminals of every ilk. Prince Daemon made a public show of it meting out the summary judgment himself. I’m told they needed a two-horse cart to haul away the resulting dismemberments when it was done.” said Otto slowly, measuring his words. The King abhorred violence, and unlike his younger brother avoided having close contact with blood, steel or death, listening to such stories included.

“Gods be good…” gasped old Lord Beesbury, appalled, and sipped shakily from his goblet.

“There is more to it, Your Grace. I feel compelled to share that last night Prince Daemon bought out one of the pleasure houses on the Street of Silk to entertain officers of the City Watch and other friends of his. He toasted Prince Baelon, styling him “The Heir for a Day” and called himself the king’s heir and future of the Realm. I corroborated this report with three separate witnesses.”

Those few hours that had passed, since Viserys was delivered the news did not help much to numb the pain it inflicted, quite on the opposite, when he was exposed to the account once again, disappointment gripped him with its iron claws, anger at his brother rising like bile in his throat. He felt as if he was slapped on the face, cheeks burning and aching. For a long time Daemon had been forcing him into all sorts of ugly situations, but this… Violence and massacre in the city streets is one thing, but mocking his dead son in a filthy brothel among whor*s and his lickspittles was truly hitting the rock bottom. This selfish little imp, did not even think about Aemma or Rhaenyra… Him, his own brother, for goodness sake! As if their feelings were nothing more, but a pile of dirt to be disregarded and spit upon! As if his brother could not live without constantly embarrassing himself and his family! He knew, he knew that it was suspicious that Daemon had been too timid and obedient recently, showing so much care to Aemma and Rhaenyra. Otto was right — it was another mask of his, just to be taken off in the most unexpected moment, when Viserys’ own vigilance would be lulled.

A disquieting thought crawled back into his mind, the one he wanted to pluck off once and for all, but try as he might, it stubbornly sat in its place, plaguing him every so often. When claims were considered, back in 101 AC, great many of them — including three bastard sons of their aunt Princess Saera, each fathered by different man — Daemon refused to put forward his. And for Viserys, it had been a mystery of a lifetime, where preferences of the Lords of the Seven Kingdoms would have gone, had his brother's candidacy been considered. A capable warrior, a dragonrider, a born leader, to name but a few. What else to desire from a Targaryen king? But Daemon was his father’s son and would have never dared to put himself before his older brother, whom he had sworn to protect on their mother’s memory.

And yet, with all his virtues, Daemon insisted on being a constant cause of pain, a thorn in his flesh, embarrassment. How could these two contradictory aspirations co-exist in one person — to love and protect his brother and liege, simultaneously being so mean to him and insufferable? What was the reason to put his daughter’s rights as the heir under question? To vex his brother, his king? Or could he go as far as to contest his niece’s rights? Maegor had slain his nephew to claim the Throne…

This is an absurdity!… An indignant voice rang in his mind, sounding so much like prince Baelon. The King shook his head angrily, either with himself, or with the accusatory tone of the voice.

“Prince Daemon cannot be allowed to act with this kind of unchecked impunity. He is to explain his doings with the city watch.” concluded Otto, his verdict followed by consenting humming of the Council members.

“And where is Prince Daemon himself?” inquired Grand Maester Mellos tentatively, looking at Daemon’s empty chair and a missing orb of office.

“I presume, the prince has obvious reasons not to appear before the eyes of His Grace.” said Otto accusatory. “Or is indisposed after his nightly activities in the pleasure house.”

“Stop it, Otto!” the King chastised, his patience running thin. It was an indecent comment, one the Hand was in no position to make. “You are talking about the prince of the Realm, show some reverence!”

“Ah, but of course, Your Grace. Apologies. I did not mean to sound rude, just stated the fact.” Otto bowed his head slightly, yet not looking quite apologetic.

Viserys frowned at that. It was just laughable how two full-grown men, the Prince and the Hand, indulged themselves in petty squabbles, making pointed remarks, and gaining from it some sort of perverted pleasure.

There was nothing left but to proceed with other daily tasks, his Master of Coin drawling on and on about budget and finances and Lord Corlys mentioning the necessity of sending a detachment to find out more about the current situation at the Stepstones.

Viserys sighed. At such moments he caught himself thinking, that the Gods played a wicked game on him, making him the first-born son of a prince who outlived his siblings. The Targaryen history was written in fire and blood, but King Jaehaerys moved them beyond that — with five decades of peace and progress, and then the vote at the Great Council. And now he, Viserys, was somehow meant to do even better. It was intimidating, a daunting challenge which he did not know how to meet. He sometimes found himself wishing he could go back to that day and pass it all to Rhaenys and to be just another Targaryen prince. Like Daemon. To be able to hunt, to read, and enjoy life’s simple pleasures.

The council had covered all the agenda, but Daemon was still missing. His absence only contributed to Otto’s triumph, who time and time again cast meaningful glances at his empty chair and then to Viserys. As much as it was irritating, nothing could be done, his brother did not have the courage to show up or deemed it unimportant.

Once the meeting was adjourned and chairs screeched against the stone floor, the Lords shuffling away, Ser Harrold informed him that the prince was spotted entering the Red Keep. Viserys sucked in a breath. Much of him wanted to face his brother urgently, while the rest cowered, as their confrontation used to bring out the worst in both of them, making them say things which they would soon regret.

“I request his presence at once.” he said curtly to the knight. “Otto, you can leave.” But the Hand raised his brow at the dismissal. Apparently, he was inclined to stay, but the whole thing was already made public enough, this time he wanted to converse with his brother privately. “You may wait outside.” he offered and Otto, albeit reluctantly, accepted.

As time dragged on, he was pacing in front of the large arched windows, catching the bits of breeze, coming in from the Blackwater, in a futile attempt to soothe his nerves. Little did it help, though. For Daemon he had always been too kind, too weak, too fat, too forgiving and the whole array of other epithets his younger brother unfairly awarded him with. The only difference was that this time he had gone too far. You could make jests at someone’s appearance or lacking of some qualities, but to mock the dead was against all the morals, and it did not matter, if you followed the Old Gods or the New, the Seven or the Fourteen Flames. It was equally blasphemous in all religions.

When finally he saw Daemon striding into the chamber, armour not yet cleaned from stains of blood, shining golden half-cape over his shoulder, his body lean an hard, an image of strength and resilience — everything that he was not, he wanted to weep. A knot tightened in his stomach and fists clenched with such strength that his fingers started to hurt when the rings pierced into his skin.

“Did you say it?” he asked lowly, barely recognizing his own voice.

He expected him to deny it. To rage. To throw his own accusations.

He did not.

“We must all mourn in our own way, Your Grace.” said Daemon without a trace of mockery or bitterness. Viserys blinked, bewildered. “And if my words have hurt you, or your family — for that I am sorry. I wish I could have them back.” He lowered his head, remorsefully, hands clasped in front of him.

Viserys gawked at Daemon, as if seeing him for the first time. He expected nothing less, than a mocking smirk or a cutting comment, anything but this… Apology? Probably the first one he had heard him giving since his childhood, if ever this word had been uttered by the prince.

And it was not the end. Hesitantly, Daemon stepped forward, offering him an embrace, which grew only tighter when his own hands fell on Daemon’s shoulders.

Viserys felt the wave of warmth, covering his whole body, barely containing a sigh of relief. Daemon was sorry. There was no need to quarrel. Of course, his brother did not mean that. It was a poor choice of words, without any implication. He loved his family, he loved Baelon, even though the boy was only for a few hours in this world.

Oh, how he wished their father could see them like this! Comforting each other was common for the Spring Prince and the Pale Prince. Yet, it was not the same for the Young King and the Rogue Prince.

“And what about Aemma?” Viserys whispered in the crook of Daemon’s neck shakily. “You didn’t even think of her, selfish little brat! She loves you, cares for you and I am sure, she will be shocked, utterly shocked, if she knows about your stunt. Thank the Seven, she does not know! And don’t you even dare to mention it to her, now or later!”

“Don’t worry, brother. She will never know.” said Daemon, and he felt him smirk. It was not a laughing matter, why couldn’t his brother grasp that?!

Unsettling feeling stirred once again, making his stomach clench. It was not all.

“Daemon, brother, I understand that you may need time to accept that you are no longer the heir, but for the sake of your niece you should stop proclaiming yourself as such. By doing that you are undermining her.”

Daemon’s embrace weakened and his head snapped from its resting position on Viserys’ shoulder.

“Pardon?” he asked, pulling away, breaking their embrace and frowning.

“You called yourself my sole heir and future of the Realm.” said the King hesitantly, watching how Daemon’s face started to burn with fury.

“Seven f*cking Hells, is it another blatant lie concocted by your c*nt of a Hand?! You call yourself my brother, yet swallow it so eagerly, as if it was one of you favourite cakes!” he spat with vitriol and disgust, jabbing a finger into his chest.

“I —,” Viserys started feebly, straightening up, but had to step backwards, for Daemon’s glare was menacing, one hand balled into fist, the other clutching the hilt of his sword.

“I’d sooner cut out my tongue, than say it! Or better I will remove the tongue of that c*nt, who calls himself your Hand! Never in my life would I challenge my niece’s claim to the throne! I do not know what lessons did you learn from our father, but I learnt mine well - the blood of the dragon runs thick!” he spat indignantly. “No matter how the leech is fat, it wants for more. As if it was not insulting enough to spy on me, but slander!”

Viserys bit his lip. The good thing was that it was a lie, Daemon was slandered. The bad — they were quarrelling again. He made a mental note to double check such accusations, it seemed, Otto’s sources were not reliable enough.

There was a fine elaborate dragon embroidered in gold stitches on the front of the King’s doublet by the best seamstresses; but it was a real dragon, facing him at the moment, breathing fire and flapping his wings angrily, embodied in Daemon. This image made Viserys cower, taking a step back. He was used to his brother’s tantrums and outbursts, but this time it was more than that. As if Daemon summoned all his dragon energy, insulted by the accusations, brought by spies. Spies?… A street urchin, a serving girl in a pleasure house and someone else of similar sort. Gods be good… And he allowed this scum to tarnish his brother’s reputation, call him a usurper?

Viserys’ face crumbled. Now it was his turn to look ashamed and meekly clasp his hands in front of him.

“But I cannot vouch for others.” continued Daemon, his anger weakening, replaced with dismay. “The idea of Rhaenyra as the Queen regnant is ludicrous to many a lord at the moment. And you’ve done naught to make them think otherwise!”

“That is unfair accusation!” Viserys protested weakly. “Rhaenyra has been my cupbearer since the age of eight and attended all the Small Council meetings, except those when she or Aemma were unwell!”

“Oh yes, Your Grace, in your infinite wisdom, your heir and one day the Queen is still serving wine to her future subjects. As if she was still eight namedays!”

Viserys stared at him and blinked. How could he not understand such simple things? “Daemon, I cannot give a position on my council to a child.” he said slowly.

“Rhaenyra is not a child. She is much smarter and more capable than you think.” he argued. His eyes met Viserys’ when he continued: “Think of the Great Council, Viserys! I have nothing but respect for Grandsire and all he accomplished, but Harenhal was a farce. Do you truly think that Rhaenys’ claim was even considered? Believe me, it was not. Councils don’t make kings. Kings make kings. And after what we have all gone through you are still under illusion that Rhaenyra stands the slightest chance as the Queen, without paving the path for her?“

Viserys wanted to protest, to say that he was the King, his word was law! No one had dared to question the Conciliator’s wishes, why should anyone question his?

“They will do as I say, and as I please!” he shouted.

“On that much we agree. But tell me, dear brother, what will happen when there will be no longer YOU?”

“What is this?” the King narrowed his eyes, the warmth he felt to his brother previously dissipating into thin air. “Are you threatening me?”

“I’m not. But you will not live forever. And when you are gone, your words will turn to ashes. It is not me who undermines Rhaenyra, but you and your inaction!”

The air had gone out of the room. Viserys glared at Daemon, holding his chest and breathing heavily, his mind desperately searching for arguments.

“I —,” he stuttered, but was interrupted by the doors of the Council chamber opening.

In came his daughter, radiant as ever, her gown and hair a bit messy, as if she was getting ready in a hurry.

“Father? Uncle?” Rhaenyra stepped inside. “Pardon my tardiness, I was not informed that meeting was convened and went flying on Syrax.” She looked over an empty room, her eyes carrying a trace of disappointment. “Oh, it seems it is too late…”

Viserys felt how all his muscles started to relax, a scowl slipped from his face, a tender smile forcing its way to his lips. In the corner of his eye he observed similar transformation happening to his brother. Daemon was also looking at Rhaenyra, his face as soft as he had ever seen it.

“Rhaenyra?” the King murmured.

She stood on her tiptoes, kissing him softly on the cheek, as she always did, and offered a slightly guilty but charming smile. He did not request her presence during the meeting, though, sparing her the news of her uncle’s transgressions.

“Everything is fine, my dear, we are almost finished.” he mumbled, squinting at Daemon.

“That’s even for the better!” she hummed. “Come, uncle, you need to pack for the trip to Dragonstone. Mother says we are leaving in a couple of days. You need to pack some extra cloaks. The winds are stronger there, and air is damp, you don’t want to shiver from cold, do you?” she teased, poking him on his side.

Viserys would have considered such care touching, but it was both sweet and bitter to observe how Rhaenyra grabbed his brother’s hand, tugging him away from the chamber, without asking for a leave. Matter-of-factly, as only a family do. Was he a poor family to his brother, mislead so easily by gossips?…

And so he stood there alone, in the middle of the Small Council chamber, dry-mouthed, tasting dust and ashes. Groggily, he moved to the table, poured himself a full goblet, gulped it down and refilled once more. He nearly choked on his wine, startled by a voice.

“Your Grace? Has Prince Daemon explained his doings?” It was Otto, who returned to the chamber after a long wait.

“Enough with this, Otto,” he moaned, sagging in his chair, the little strength left in him after sleepless night and heated arguments, melting like snow on a sunny spring day.

Fiendishly difficult. Intolerable. Mind-blowing and exhausting. These were the words to characterize any kind of interaction with his younger brother. For the second time this blasted morning the King wanted to weep, but Otto’s inquisitive eyes brought him back to his senses.

“Prince Daemon denied the accusations. He was slandered. And I tend to believe him. Next time make sure to check your sources of information before disturbing your king before the dawn.” he said with a pointed look to Otto. His eyes widened in surprise and mistrust, but he did not argue.

“My apologies, Your Grace. I will have the boy who brought the news found and whipped.” said the Hand, bowing his head in obeisance.

As much as the King wanted to be left alone, he could not, as Daemon’s words raced through his head. Something must be done to support Rhaenyra’s claim. Sadly, it seemed his word was not enough. Viserys looked at Otto. He would ask his Hand, his shameful failure could be redeemed by good advice.

“I need counsel, Otto.”

“I am at your service, my king.” replied Otto, and sat down, following his invitation.

“Tell me, what could be done to strengthen Rhaenyra’s position as the heir?”

Otto looked taken aback by the sudden question, but his face regained pensive countenance as he started to speak.

“If I may, Your Grace, I find it prudent to make all the Lords of the Seven Kingdoms pledge an oath. One thing is to proclaim Princess the heir, but words can be easily forgotten, while oaths are not. All of them should be called to Kings Landing to swear fealty to Your Grace and the Princess.”

Viserys nodded in agreement. That was prudent, indeed. There had never lived a Stark, who forgot an oath, others would be much too proud to go back on it and the rest simply would not dare, for a dragonriding Queen was not a force to be trifled with.

Otto’s second suggestion brought more pain, than relief.

“And of course, the need in Princess’ marriage rises.” the Hand continued in a solemn voice. “A good match will strengthen her claim and heirs will secure succession.”

Viserys let out a shuddered breath, sadness tugging at his heart. She was just his little girl, innocent and vulnerable. Each time he was reminded of her marriage, his hand reached to his chest, heart aching with worry.

“Does it? Can’t it wait for some time more? Rhaenyra is but a child.” he whimpered, fighting back the intrusive thought that he made Rhaenyra pay the price for his failures.

“Pardon my bluntness, Your Grace, but Princess Rhaenyra had her first moonblood over a year ago and since then has been considered a woman grown.”

Feeling the inevitability of that fact, Viserys slumped, running his hand down his face. “Do you have someone in mind, Otto?”

But as shrewd as he was, Otto noticed his reluctance and his eyes twinkled with a knowing smile.

“There is one more variant, Your Grace. It will ease Rhaenyra’s burden and —”

“Speak it!” he barked, not letting Otto finish his sentence.

“And,” continued the Hand, “spare our precious silver Falcon.” he said kindly. “Grand Maester said that the last labours went with complications and next time —”

“There will be no next time, Otto! Queen Aemma and I will not have any more children.” he swallowed hard, the notion setting in his mind. It was the first time he had said it out loud, the words sounding like a sentence, sacrifice he put on the altar of his own ego as a dreamer. It seemed there would be no Prince that was promised, but Princess. Gods would either have to accept it or else, if they would not, by doing that he doomed his ancestors. It did not matter any longer, though, for his priorities were chosen, as selfish as they were — he would not let Aemma go.

“Like I said, Rhaenyra is my heir and is to ascend the Iron Throne one day, ruling in her own right, and that is FINAL!” Viserys cried out in exasperation.

Otto was but a reserved man, letting little of his thoughts or emotions appear on his face, yet, this time, his was so much overwhelmed that his mouth fell slightly open, eyes calculating. It was a matter of moments until Lord Hand regained his composure.

“If so —”, he stumbled on his words and coughed, clearing his throat, “if so, Your Grace, then we should direct our efforts on ensuring Princess’ smooth succession. She will require all her strength, for heavy is the head that wears the crown. Unless —” he paused, weighing the option.

“Unless?” Viserys co*cked his brow, curious about what his counsellor was going to suggest.

“Unless Your Grace chooses the path of your ancestors, and considers taking a second wife, who will be able to bear a healthy male child. Such practice is not common among the Andals, but I am sure, His Holiness the High Septon will —”

Astounded by the audacity of Otto’s suggestion, Viserys could only blink at him, opening and closing his mouth like fish out of water. It took a moment before he collected himself, giving way to his rage.

“My goodness, Otto, are you mad?! That is the most preposterous suggestion I have ever heard!” he shouted, shooting up from his chair and slamming his fist against the table. Oh, now he knew so well what his father felt when Grandsire announced after uncle Aemon’s demise that he was to inherit the Throne, not Rhaenys. The sticky disgusting feeling of being made a traitor, rousing both, shame and indignation. That time he was just a boy, and, although, he understood the gravity of the situation and the consequences it would have for himself, he could not grasp why the father was so devastated. He could see it now…

Towering over Otto, Viserys opened his mouth to continue with his rant, but Ser Harrold rushed into the room, his sword half unsheathed from its scabbard. He stopped mid track, looking between the King and his Hand. “Your Grace?”

“It’s fine, Ser Harrold,” Viserys raised his hand in a placating manner, slumping back into his seat. “Just an overheated debate.”

As soon as the knight left, he glared at Otto, waiting for excuses.

“My apologies, Your Grace.” he lowered his head shamefully. “I overreached and did not mean to insult you or your family.” Otto sounded apologetic and confused.

“Granted. But let us speak no more if it.” he said in a stern voice, then added sadly. “Oh well, it seems, I am needed here to plan the ceremony. And I so wished to join my family at Dragonstone.”

“It won’t take long, Your Grace, a couple of days, perhaps, to settle the most important issues and send out summons. I will take care of the rest. I know your deep attachment to the Queen and the princess Rhaenyra, but while you are apart, might I suggest my daughter Alicent keep you company? She is an excellent reader, as we all know — your Grandsire, King Jaehaerys, found great pleasure in Alicent’s presence and was fond of her reading.”

“That’s very kind of you and Alicent, Otto.” Viserys smiled, grateful. Nothing was better than a good story after a tiresome day. Some of Otto’s suggestions were absurd, but on the whole, he was happy to be blessed with such an astute and considerate adviser. And as for Dragonstone… Oh well, it would have to wait…

Chapter 8: A Princess to be Queen (Rhaenyra)

Chapter Text

Anxiety which settled in Rhaenyra’s mind the moment she was informed about father’s decision to officially proclaim her the heir refused to let her go, be it a day or night. Her parents tried to cover this decision with sugar-coating, thrusting the news upon her at a family dinner, the table groaning with all her favourites and a minstrel humming a song accompanied by lilting tune of the lute. And yet, despite their best efforts, little did it help — the moment she heard those fatal words, her hand lost the grip on the chalice, spilling red wine all over a white silken tablecloth.

“I am sorry, Rhaenyra, I have wasted years since you were born wanting for a son. You are the very best of all our family and I believe you will be a great ruling queen.” said the king as if all the years spent in a want for a son were mere dust in the wind.

Rhaenyra stared at him, wide-eyed, the ground slipping under her feet. Her father did not understand a thing! His apologies were misplaced, directed at the wrong person. She could survive without due attention of her parents. But did it mean that all her mother’s sufferings were for naught? A worthless sacrifice resulting in unfulfilled duty? She shifted her gaze to the queen and was surprised to see that her expression was serene. No hint of pain, only admiration a parent had for a child, no matter if he or she was even worthy of it.

Another thought crossed her mind, flashing like lightning in the midnight sky.

“But Daemon —” she began, her own voice failing her.

“Daemon,” her words were drowned out by father’s, “is not made to wear the crown. But I believe that you are.”

“The Lords will never —” one more weak futile attempt escaped her lips.

“All the lords of the Seven Kingdoms will be summoned to Kings Landing, bend their knees, give an oath and swear fealty.” the King finished the sentence in her stead. The resolution in his voice leaving no space for arguments.

So, there she was. The future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Not a consort, but ruling in her own right.

It was a gift, an honour. Good Queen Alysanne’s wish came true. Not through her granddaughter, but grandgranddaughter was there a chance to prove that Targaryen women were worthy of the Iron Throne. And she would be the living proof of that.

And yet, Rhaenyra cowered, the glory of the moment spoilt by the part of hers that was not a dragon, but a human.

“I will try not to betray your trust, father.” Rhaenyra mumbled quietly, shrinking under the expectant gaze of her parents. To her relief, no more words were spoken and further discussion was postponed until their return from Dragonstone. And that is how she found herself torn apart by pleasant anticipation and growing fear, counting days till the departure.

To her delight, Daemon announced that he planned to join their trip and, winking conspiratorially, told in hushed tones that he would show her places she had not been before. The King who was strolling in the gardens slightly ahead of them, caught the bit of their conversation and, turning on his heels, glared at Daemon and exclaimed in exasperation: “I will have none of your tricks, Daemon, do you hear me? None of them! You are to accompany and protect my wife and only child, not drag them into your stunts and exploits!’’

To that uncle Daemon only sneered and held his both hands up in the air, showing his good will and obedience. It did not help much, though, the king just scowled and wagged a warning finger at him. Rhaenyra rolled her eyes, not less exasperated than her father. She felt the safest with her uncle and that mistrust and cautiousness her father treated Daemon with was beyond her understanding.

The fact that she was to become the heir meant the end to all those fruitless attempts at making her mother pregnant and forcing her body do things beyond either her will or physical capacity. And with that, changes in her mother could not be but noticed. Much to Rhaenyra’s amusem*nt, she sent her chambermaids away, insisting on “packing for her girl herself”, as she put it, neatly folding her gowns and shawls to keep her warm and protected from the strong winds of Dragonstone in a leather bag to be clasped to Syrax’ saddle. Rhaenyra snorted, trying to protest, it was below her station, but soon surrendered — she was not much different several weeks ago, fretting about her then pregnant mother, fluffing her pillows, adjusting covers and brewing herbal teas. “I don’t need mothering, Rhaenyra!” Queen Aemma used to object, but it was the least she could do to ease her mother’s burden and to show that it was she, Aemma Arryn, who was important, not only a babe inside her belly. Her mother’s care was sweet and, although, as a princess of blood she was loved and spoilt all her life, this time it was clear that she was not a spare, a placeholder, but a child her parents wished for.

A Targaryen alone in the world was a terrible thing, her uncle once said, but Rhaenyra was happy, that apart from her family, there was Alicent Hightower who was there to lend a helping hand and lift her spirits. Rhaenyra’s agitation did not come unnoticed and Alicent, as always a bit too pious for a young girl, suggested praying in the Sept in search of peace of mind — the idea Rhaenyra politely declined. The Gods were cruel and only mocked at people’s tragedies, giving and taking things on their whim. She was not in the mood to worship them, much to Alicent’s displeasure.

“No need to torment yourself, Nyra,” said Alicent in a patronising tone, “my father told me that His Grace was adamant when he declared to his councillors that you would be the heir apparent. And I was told, he shushed everyone who voiced their concerns.” she added, nudging her at the side.

“Oh? Dare I ask who were these people?” Rhaenyra’s raised on her elbows from her relaxed position, as they were lying on a grass near the Weirwood tree, and tilted her head. She was curious to know the names of the lords who tried to reject her right from the start.

“Lord Corlys and Lord Lyonel still think that Prince Daemon should succeed.” mumbled Alicent sheepishly, already sorry that she touched upon a sensitive topic.

Rhaenyra’s heart made a thump when she heard these words. Would this become an issue between her and Daemon? She loved him too much to let anything stand between them. Even if it was the crown…

“Anyway,” said Alicent, trying to sound cheerfully, “The trip to Dragonstone will do you good, all of you.”

Rhaenyra hummed in agreement, tossing nagging thoughts away in the back of her mind.

“I am so happy for you, you will have such needed rest after you all have gone through.” continued Alicent sincerely. She had been very supportive of Rhaenyra when the Gods — those cruel Gods, to whom Alicent was pushing her to pray— took Baelon’s life.

Alicent showed considerable empathy, comforting her in time of grief. Not long ago Alicent had lost her own mother, so the abyss, which formed deep inside the heart when you are destined to outlive your relatives, was a familiar thing to her.

“I am worried for my father, though. I wish, he could come, he hasn’t been to Dragonstone for ages and needs rest.” she shared one more of her concerns.

“Worry not, Rhaenyra, your father is the king and will be taken care of in your absence.” Alicent switched on her patronising mode again. It was not the care that the princess meant but she let it go like that.

And she was oh so right about her father, he seemed so much distressed when the day of the departure came, holding to her mother like for dear life, and reluctantly releasing her hands when their carriage was brought to a halt.

Outside the Dragonpit both dragons were waiting for them, temperamental Blood Wyrm, flapping his wings impatiently, and Syrax, a more timid creature, coiling on the ground and looking curiously with her huge green eyes at the new people arriving to the Pit.

The retinue stayed behind, shuffling on their feet next to the carriage, cautious of the dragon’s presence, while the king himself approached Rhaenyra, his hand running up and down her arm in attempt to soothe her, but even more so — himself.

“Oh, yes, avoid flying anywhere near the eastern side of the island, the Cannibal is said to be lairing there, at the back of the Dragonmont. It’s no small thing, Rhaenyra!” her father warned, noticing that her attention was already slipping away. “The dragons under our control are different from those that are not. And Syrax… Syrax is yet too small to protect you if the need arises.” the King stumbled on his words and locked his eye with hers. “Promise?”

“Promise.” came the voice, but it was not Rhaenyra’s. Her uncle stepped forward and put his gloved hand on the King’s shoulder. “I promise to take care of your daughter and wife, Viserys. And stop fretting about your daughter, will you? You look ridiculous! Rhaenyra is an experienced dragon rider, she has been doing it 7 times longer, than you did when you were in your prime.” with that he gave her father a satisfied smirk, the king did not answer, though, just clenched his jaw. “And by the way, my offer still stands. I can fetch you to Dragonstone when you are done with your duties.”

Father’s hand reached to his stomach and, gulping loudly, he shook his head. “No need, but thank you.”

The last time Rhaenyra saw her father on dragonback, behind Daemon, was over a year ago, when they visited Driftmark to congratulate Princess Rhaenys on her birthday. Upon landing, he was as green in face, as gown Rhaenys was wearing and had to be tended for some time, fanned and given water. Rhaenyra could not grasp, how a man with dragonblood could feel so averse to dragons. Mayhaps, the choice of Balerion as his mount had other motives, than having been the largest and the mightiest of living dragon. The oldest was the key word. As far as she was told, the dragon’s condition was poor, unhealing wounds he acquired in Valyria pestering him and his was not for long in this world. And truth be told, it made Rhaenyra so upset. She wanted her father to be as dashing and daring as her uncle, soar in the sky, casting large dragon-shaped shadow over his subjects, to be feared and respected. So far he was only loved. Loved for his generosity, open-handedness and desire to entertain people. I will be different, when I am the Queen, she resolved. For she was born a woman, and would require to display twice as much dragon energy than as if she was born a man.

Rhaenyra hopped easily on Syrax’s saddle, waving off Ser Harrold’s outstretched hand, she did not need that. At least not under her uncle’s watchful gaze. And Daemon was looking at her, impressed, and she was bathing in it like in a warm sunlight. She took pleasure in making the prince admire her, showing that now she was more than his little niece. Her moonblood came over a year ago, a change signifying a new stage in her life and since then, her eyes had been uncontrollably wandering all over her uncle, exploring the parts she did not notice before.

Tearing his gaze from Rhaenyra, Daemon took her mother by the hand and led to Caraxes, bidding her to rub his long neck. The Blood Wyrm sniffled the half-dragon Queen, purred as a sign of acceptance and graciously lowered himself a little, inviting her and Daemon to mount.

Making sure that the bond was established, Daemon carefully lifted her mother to Caraxes, easily, as if she was featherlight. The Queen’s eyes glistened with excitement as soon as she steadied herself on the saddle, and she waved her hand to the father, while he shakily returned the gesture. Then the King pulled Daemon closer to him by the elbow and, frowning, whispered something in his ear. The prince just smirked and nodded twice.

“Sōvēs!” she commanded, much to Syrax’s delight, who also started to lose her patience. A squeal was heard behind — Caraxes also took up in the air and her mother, frightened by sudden unfamiliar movement, clutched tighter to Daemon’s waist. In a matter of minutes, the king and his retinue became minuscule and the land below just a colourful patchwork of fields.

Her uncle enjoyed doing different reckless stunts in the air, flying at a breakneck speed, piercing the storm clouds, letting the reins go and even not chaining himself to the saddle. This time, however, they glided gracefully through the air, slowly and evenly. The reason for such change of heart was obvious — Daemon was carrying her mother, his cousin, the Queen. And not necessarily in this particular order. He took utmost care not to stress her and exhaust still fragile physique, dragonflying could be taxing experience for those unaccustomed. It was endearing how fearsome Daemon was with others, but so caring and tender with his family.

Before long the landscape changed, the island of Dragonstone appearing in the haze. Rhaenyra smiled, anticipating their eventual arrival, but a dragon’s shriek shattered the air, making her wince, while Syrax joined in, her voice not full of joy or excitement, but strained.

Rhaenyra turned to Daemon and followed his gaze — a black imposing form was gliding in the sky towards them. She wouldn’t have minded it too much, for dragons flying free were not a rare sight near Dragonstone, but even from the distance she could see that her uncle stiffened. He looked at her and waved in the opposite direction. It took a moment before she understood the meaning of her uncle’s gesture — he was telling her to fly away. That was bizarre, they practically reached the island, mother must have been exhausted by this time and wished for sooner arrival. And yet, the closer the black dragon approached, the more frantic Daemon’s gestures became.

Rhaenyra pulled the reins to direct Syrax towards Caraxes, but she refused, instead increasing her speed. She took out her whip and lashed several times, but again to no avail. Helplessly, she looked behind to check on Daemon and her mother, to her relief, Caraxes also was speeding up, her mothers braids uncoiled and hair blowing in the wind.

The dragon approaching them with ever increasing speed was huge and black as coal and even from a distance Rhaenyra could see his menacing green eyes. The Cannibal, she thought frantically. Once Daemon told her about all the wild and unclaimed dragons roaming free on Dragonstone and she knew well what each of them looked like. This description fit only Cannibal and it was this dragon her father warned her about on their departure. With trembling hands she tried once again to make Syrax turn and check on Caraxes, only to be carried away even further.

Chapter 9: Dragonstone (Rhaenyra)

Chapter Text

Before long the smell of sulfur and brimstone reached Rhaenyra’s nose and, when the clouds parted in the distance, it signaled their arrival at the Dragonstone. She flew over the port with its taverns, inns and warehouses, ignoring the astounded villagers, as a large shadow cast by her dragon ran over them. While they were used to the sight of these magical creatures, she flew so fast that people were looking up at her in awe, shading their eyes and pointing fingers in the sky, losing their hats with the gusts of wind made by Syrax’s wings.

Rhaenyra looked back, anxiously peering in the clouds and smoke, rising from the island, trying to make out Caraxes carrying her mother and uncle. It was only when she finally caught a glimpse of red wings and long neck of the Blood Wyrm appearing from the parting clouds, she realized that she had been holding her breath all the time. Cannibal was no longer anywhere to be seen, disappearing as unexpectedly as he appeared. Never in her life was dragonriding associated with any kind of menace, neither did she feel in danger, were it in the presence of a dragon or finding herself high above the ground and over the clouds.

Until this time.

The princess inhaled deeply, her head spinning from the air which was thin on such altitude. She could not fully process what had happened, but at least all of them were safe and that was all that mattered. She made Syrax slow down and gradually descend right on the bridge leading to the entrance of the castle.

Once on the ground, she unchained herself from the saddle and slid down to the cold uneven stones, her legs wobbly, panting and catching her breath. She felt Syrax nudging her lightly on the back with her golden snout, as if apologising for her disobedience.

“Why didn’t you listen to me, Syrax? Why didn’t you let me wait for my family?” Rhaenyra rubbed her scales affectionately, feeling Syrax purr under her touch. “I know you wanted to protect me, my golden lady, but we cannot leave in trouble those whom we love, even if it poses a threat to our lives.” she chastised the dragon lightly.

A heavy thud was heard behind and Caraxes landed on the bridge, chipping away little parts of the stone bridge. It filled Rhaenyra with relief to see both Daemon and her mother safe and unharmed. Daemon slid off Caraxes’ neck, unchained the Queen from the saddle and, wrapping his arms around her waist, with utmost care, as if she was a porcelain vase, helped her down.

“Mother!” Rhaenyra cried, rushing forwards, while her mother pressed her hand to her chest as she panted, bending down. Gods, it was too much, her mother was supposed to recuperate, not to be stressed out like that! Rhaenyra was afraid that she would pass out because of the strain, speed and fright, but, thankfully, she composed herself, straightened up and smiled weakly, offering a hug.

“Who could have thought my first flight would go like this.” Queen Aemma whispered, her voice raw and shaky. Rhaenyra tightened her embrace, feeling sorry that the most marvellous experience turned out to be so frightening for her mother.

“Are you alright?” came Daemon’s voice, and seconds later she felt his hands gently pulling her away from the mother, and she literally melted under his intense gaze, as his eyes were travelling all over her body, searching for injuries. Of course she was alright, she was not that fragile and could endure even faster speed on Syrax, but his worry was understandable — he promised her father to keep them safe and such a nasty accident happened before their travel had even begun.

“What the f*ck was that?” he breathed out, frowning, once it became clear that none of them was harmed. “Cannibal is known for devouring corpses of dragons, their eggs and hatchlings, but till now he did not dare to attack full-grown dragons or villagers.”

“Do you think, he wanted to attack us?” asked Rhaenyra incredulously. If so, they were in great danger and should be thankful to the gods that Syrax and Caraxes were faster than Cannibal. Caraxes had been at war and could stand against another dragon, but her golden lady was yet innocent and juvenile, soaring in the sky and gliding over the Blackwater her sole pastime and experience.

“I am not sure, but why chasing us?” Daemon shook his head, finding it hard to believe. “I will inquire the dragonkeepers if they have noticed anything strange in behaviour of wild dragons on the island. Or dragons know something that we don’t. Just —,” Daemon took her trembling hands in his and looked intensely between her and mother. “Just one small request to you and Aemma. Let us keep it to ourselves for the time being. Do not tell your father.”

“He will kill me — He will kill you!” they said in unison and chuckled, the stress of the accident leaving them.

With that Daemon ordered Caraxes into the sky, Syrax following right after him to the Dragonmont; both dragons deserved to be well-fed after the strenuous flight.

When they turned to the sound of the castle gates opening, they saw Ser Robert Quince, the castellan of Dragonstone, a stout amiable middle-aged man, hurrying to them with greetings and welcoming words.

“I had all your rooms prepared as soon as I received the raven with the news of the arrival of Your Graces.” Ser Robert announced with a clumsy bow of his large frame which left him panting. “We do not have many servants in the castle, but I do hope your stay will be comfortable enough.” he said, slight embarrassment ringing in his voice.

Rhaenyra got the whole meaning of his words when they passed through the corridors of the castle — empty and dimly lit, so different from the colorful, glittering and glistening Red Keep, which reminded more of a beehive than a castle. There were no chambermaids to stir the fire in the fireplace and once their dinner was served, the servants left the chamber, leaving the royal family to their own devices, instead of filling their plates and serving wine at a wave of their hands as it was at feasts and family dinners in the Keep. Such intimacy was cosy and was all Rhaenyra wished for. Unlike her mother who had a flock of ladies-in-waiting, she had only Alicent to attend her, and she could imagine mother’s relief when she found herself alone and surrounded only by her family. The dinner went in relative silence, only the clinking of the cutlery breaking the quietness of the chamber, none of them wished to discuss their way to Dragonstone.

Heavy curtains did not help much to cut out draughts coming from the windows and making the chamber chilly and less comfortable than what they used to. Warming pans came in handy, and Rhaenyra placed two of them in her own bed, deriving pleasure from looking after herself. She slipped into the bed, curling under soft woolen bedsheets and hoping that she would not dream the troubling dreams she used to have in the Keep.

She did not. The sleep was sweet and deep.

Next morning Rhaenyra woke up refreshed and energised, events of the previous day and encounter with the Cannibal becoming no more than a hazy memory. She was bubbling with plans and filled with anticipation of all the things she could do with Daemon, giggling at the fact that there would be no lessons and no sour face of Septa Marlow, scolding her for poor penship or loose strands on her needlework.

Yet, much to her dismay, Daemon left early in the morning, refusing to skip a single sword training in the yard. It made her unbelievably sad, for she wanted to spend every possible minute on Dragonstone in his company. In Kings Landing he had so many duties as the Commander of the City Watch and, sadly, most of his nights were spent… She did not know where exactly, but Ser Otto quite often referred to them as “places unbecoming of a prince”. And each time he did that, Rhaenyra, as a cupbearer, wanted to pour wine not in his goblet, but in his face. The Hand thrived in undermining her uncle, as she irritably noticed at Small Council meetings, and father... Father didn’t seem to notice that. Or didn’t want to. But silence meant consent, how could he not understand that?… He was supposed to side his brother, didn’t he? Surely, not Ser Otto! Lord Hand was her best friend’s father, but blood of the dragon ran think, as she was often told and unconditioned support should be given to her uncle, not some Hightower Ser. Anyway, on the island, she could have Daemon for herself, for she felt robbed when they were not together.

Even though Daemon’s absence was not a good start of the day, breaking her fast with mother was also a treat, too often did the Queen spend her mornings surrounded by maesters, poking and prodding her and not giving her own daughter even the chance to chat over a cup of tea.

Predictably, Rhaenyra found her mother in her chamber, not her exactly, but the one belonging to the Prince of Dragonstone, the largest and most lavishly furnished. The Queen was already dressed in a loose velvet gown and finishing her meal. Cheerfully wishing her good morrow, Rhaenyra joined her at the breakfast table, pouring herself a cup of tea and grabbing an oat biscuit.

“You are not flying today?” asked mother, surprised to see her in the confinement of the castle.

“Maybe later, Daemon is busy at the moment. And he wouldn’t like it if I went alone after that nasty incident we had. He is in the training yard.” She said, anticipating mother’s question. But there was much more to this, she was afraid of emotional detachment on Daemon’s part, cold stares and resentment, but she did not dare to share her worries with her mother.

“Oh, I see,” nodded mother, sipping on her tea. “You can stay with me, then, I was going to do some needlework.”

Rhaenyra sighed, the only look at the embroidery made her bored to tears.

“Yes, sure, needlework...” she mumbled miserably.

The window was slightly ajar, and sounds of clink-clanking and commotion could be heard. Rhaenyra moved to the window, overlooking the training yard and immediately became engrossed in the spectacle unfolding. With greedy eyes she was taking in every movement of her uncle, graceful and light, as if he was dancing, not fighting. It was only when the velvet of gown rustled on the floor and Rhaenyra felt her mother’s arm wrapping hers, did she understand that she was not alone in the chamber. She was back to reality again, and with this the same questions continued their frantic race in her mind.

“Mother, tell me —,” she began, but her throat clenched, not letting her finish her thoughts.

“What, dearest?” mother’s hand ran down her hair in a soothing way. Rhaenyra closed her eyes, before venturing with a troubling question.

No need to keep it to myself…

“Don’t you think that Daemon can feel spited?” Rhaenyra practically squeezed out the words which before this very moment were only thoughts, disturbing her peace of mind.

“Spited? And why, dare I ask?” the Queen raised her brows in sheer surprise.

“He considered himself to be an heir for some time…”

“He did.” said mother with a short nod, with these simple words, sending shivers down Rhaenyra’s spine. “But your father, the King, ruled differently. And trust me, my dear child, Daemon will be the first one to bend his knee and swear fealty to you when the ceremony of investiture takes place.”

“How can you be so sure?” Rhaenyra shook her head, the lightheartedness with which her parents were talking about that was beyond her understanding, or was she the only one intimidated by the prospect of becoming the first ruling Queen?

“I think I have known Daemon for quite a while to be sure.” said mother, leaving the impression that some words were left unsaid, something that she knew but for unknown reason did not want to share.

Rhaenyra hummed, still unconvinced.

“Nyra, please stop it, do not search for the blame where there is none.” the voice Rhaenyra heard was strong, the queen was speaking, not the mother. “It is high time you understood that it is not your responsibility. You did not make this choice, but you were brave enough to accept it.” Queen Aemma stepped closer, squeezing Rhaenyra’s hands. “Daemon will accept it as well.”

Reluctant to add more salt to the injury, Rhaenyra fell silent and stared out of the window, watching how Daemon shoved to the ground one more knight of Dragonstone’s household. The poor man was sitting right on his arse in a cloud of dust when the prince approached and extended his arm to help him rise.

“You want to join your uncle in his training, don’t you?” asked her mother softly and Rhaenyra snapped her head at the sudden question. Of course she did, but —…

Not waiting for her answer, the Queen smiled knowingly and moved to the other side of the room, where stood an old mahogany chest of drawers with dragons carved on each side. After rummaging inside for some time, she retrieved something long and shining on its end.

“Let me show you something.” Mother sat on a chair in front of her. “This,” she outstretched her arms, showing the object she was looking for, “was the sword Princess Rhaenys used to train with. Her father, Prince Aemon, gifted it to her many years ago.”

Rhaenyra raised her eyebrows in surprise, hardly believing her eyes and ears. “Princess Rhaenys trained with a sword? But how? Was she not reprimanded?” she stuttered.

“Oh, no, my dearest. The Good Queen Alysanne herself supported the idea. Since Rhaenys was born, Grandmother had been adamant that she would ascend the Iron Throne and even kept calling her “our future queen”. And if you want to command men, you should not lack in any respect. If they wield sword, why can’t a woman? Alysanne truly believed that one day the Realm would be graced with the queen atop the red dragon and a sword strapped to her hip, Queen Visenya come again. And with time Rhaenys acquired certain skills in wielding sword, I should say.”

Rhaenyra had never heard about that before and was urged to feel offended that such exciting details had been obscured from her.

“But why is it still here?” she asked, the interest taking over her.

“Dragonstone used to belong to uncle Aemon and Rhaenys, as you may well know. But, sadly, the Gods had other plans, and she had to leave. Driftmark became a new home for Rhaenys and she was lucky enough to find joy there. At least she was given the right to choose the man of her liking. And with that her trainings came to an end. Either there was no more motivation, or she became engrossed more in her family matters. When Viserys was made the Prince of Dragonstone and we moved in, he found the sword and tossed it far away, not finding any use in it.”

“Well,” Rhaenyra giggled in her hand, “it seems the father has always been more capable with a fork and a spoon, than with a sword or a lance.” She knew, she shouldn’t be saying that, but uncle always jested in such manner, she could not but laugh as well. A smile tugged at mother’s lips, but she chose to ignore the comment, keeping the king’s dignity intact.

Instead, their conversation moved in other direction. “I really wish you talked more with Rhaenys. I know nothing about ruling and father… Well, he was not trained for it. But Rhaenys was. Her tutors were Jaehaerys, Alysanne and Septon Barth. I would like her to share her expertise with you.”

“We seldom see each other and,” Rhaenyra ducked her head, the little episodes they had together with the older Princess running through her memory, “I don’t think she likes me.”

“Oh, you foolish girl, don’t say such things, of course she likes you! You are her niece!” exclaimed mother, waving her hand dismissively. “You will see it with your own eyes, when she comes to the ceremony.”

“And Rhaenys will see a future queen, when she was denied that, even though she had more rights.” Rhaenyra sighed. She might be young, but she was no fool. And what her parents heralded with joy and pride was an insult to Princess Rhaenys. The Queen Who Never Was. So far the idea of any kind of good rapport, much less friendship was feasible to Rhaenyra. She was Targaryen herself, and knew that forgiveness was not among their virtues. And when the crown was snatched right from under your nose, it was nothing but a lifetime grudge.

“Can’t I learn from Otto?” Rhaenyra asked hesitantly, yet the whole idea seemed far-fetched.

Mother made a humming noise. “He is an able statesman, no one can argue that. But I do not think that he possesses the necessary qualities to share his knowledge with you.”

Rhaenyra sighed. Otto was her closest friend’s father. The only friend, to be precise. She waited for Lord Strong’s daughters to arrive, but still they were not there and she was not convinced that they would share any interests. As if reading her thoughts, the Queen hummed: “It’s a shame Laena has to stay with her mother at Driftmark. She could make a perfect companion to you. Her positive qualities are renowned and she is of dragon blood, so you will have much in common.”

“I don’t know Laena very well.” Rhaenyra shrugged defensively. She did not want to be pitied in such respect, she had fun with Alicent, although, she was too much prim and proper and it got in the way of their mischief.

“This can be changed after the Ceremony. She will come with her parents to pledge an oath and you will be a nice and welcoming cousin.” said mother, giving her a knowing wink. “You know what, my sweetie,” seeing her hesitance, the mother sat closer and took her hands in hers, “don’t you even worry about that. I will talk to Rhaenys myself. We used to get along when we were younger. I’m sure her affection has not changed much. She holds the grudge for Viserys, and, mayhap, if back then he was more open with his desire to mend the rift but did not dive into festivities and tourneys right after his coronation, this distance wouldn’t even have existed. But me and Rhaenys had never exchanged a bitter word, she knows that I was put in the same circ*mstances, and was forced to do what was expected of me.” with these words mother’s face darkened for an instant, Rhaenyra knew quite well, what she meant by the word expected.

“Your father is a good man, of course he did not want to spite Rhaenys. But he overlooks too many things. And instead of doing something, he let things slide.” continued mother.

Rhaenyra nodded, mother’s suggestion making her feel a bit more at ease. Then she took another look at the sword. She did not know its name, but it looked like Valyrian steel, the scabbard and hilt of it encrusted with rubies and decorated with a dragon’s head made of gold. “But…” she said hesitantly, “Princess Rhaenys might want to have it back.”

“Oh, I’m sure she won’t,” objected her mother, “Rhaenys ceased her training when king Jaehaerys announced that your Grandsire would succeed him.” Rhaenyra co*cked her head, curious to know the reason for such a change of heart. “She did not see the point anymore.” the Queen clarified.

“Was she depressed?”

“I’d rather say, she was angry. She is not the kind of person to sink into despondency when the fate strikes. She is more of a dragon than you can think of looking at the colour of her hair. But it hurts when you were promised something all your life and all of a sudden was unfairly denied it.” Her mother sighed looking down, but next moment lifted her gaze and smiled encouragingly. “Take this sword, darling. I am sure, it will serve you well.”

“Father will not like it. He has always told me that sword training is unbecoming of a lady.” Rhaenyra couldn’t but share with her mother one more of her insecurities.

“With the frequency of his own training, it is unbecoming of a man as well.” the Queen rolled her eyes and huffed, making Rhaenyra giggle, such things to say were common to Daemon, but mother was always a paragon of proper behavior and treated the king as if he was a knight in shining armour. “I will speak to your father. He will agree.” she offered.

“And if my future husband doesn’t like it?” one more question escaped Rhaenyra’s lips.

“We will choose the one who does, then.” her mother shrugged nonchalantly, never getting tired of her daughter’s questions.

Rhaenyra’s squirmed in her seat and reached to take the sword. “I’ve seen so many times knights training in the yard, Daemon teaching them how to attack and parry. It it is like dancing: a series of steps and movements which you have to perform. If ladies are taught dances, why not sword fighting?” she asked thoughtfully, twisting the sword in her hands and getting used to its weight.

“Apparently, because you do not have to hold a sharp long metal thing when you dance.” chuckled her mother. “Much less brandish it, trying to cut your partner into pieces. But off you go!’’ She waved her off. “Or you’ll be late for the training!”

Upon hearing that, Rhaenyra shot to her feet, feeling happy and elated, and placing a kiss full of gratitude to her mother’s forehead, stormed out of the room and hurried to her own chamber, promptly changing into her riding breeches and leather jerkin which seemed to be an excellent sword training attire.

Once fully ready and with the sword in her hand, Rhaenyra ran skipping stairs to the inner yard of the castle, but the closer she got, the more unsettled she became. It was not easy to school her emotions, shaking off the mixture of shyness and delight, when clutching a cold hilt of her sword. What would Daemon say? Would he laugh her off? Decline, saying that it was unbecoming of a lady? Soon enough, the thoughts formed a whirlwind in her head as she stopped abruptly, squinting in the rays of morning sun, cutting through the clouds and smoke. Her uncle stood there, surrounded by the household knights, sweaty and disheveled.

Under Daemon’s appraising look Rhaenyra wanted to shrink, but instead mustered all her courage and, lifting her chin like a true Targaryen princess she was, walked on the training ground. Yet, her worries were quickly dispelled, as moments later, Daemon grinned and stepped aside, with a wide gesture of his hand inviting Rhaenyra to join him in the yard.

And so it began. Mayhaps, she was wrong and oversimplifying things, but she considered it to be a step, albeit tiny, to her preparation as a future Queen. If she was to compete with the men, to be equal to them and even better in some respects, then she shouldn’t lack even in such unwomanly thing as wielding a sword.

Rhaenyra was used to dancing with Daemon, who was her most frequent partner at numerous balls and feasts held in the Red Keep; it was one of her most pleasurable experiences, which only dragonriding could be compared with. Sparring with her uncle was even more pleasant. Movements were swift, eye-contact intense, but there was also one more thing — rush of adrenaline running through her veins with each successfully blocked hit and dodged strike. Of course, Daemon was the most careful and did not even use one third of his strength, his sword touching hers gently, as if she could fall apart any minute. It wouldn’t be like that in real life, but at least she would learn the basics and tactics, it could help a lot if the need arises.

She failed to notice how much time had passed but eventually, sweaty and exhausted, she stumbled over a rock and fell right into Daemon’s arms, the sword falling down on the sand and straw covered training ground.

“You look tired, Princess.” her uncle whispered in her hair as she clang tightly to him, inhaling the scent of leather, smoke, metal and something distinctly only Daemon’s. “Enough for the first time. I think we need to take a break.” she lifted her head to meet his eyes, a small drops of sweat tickling her forehead and temples, and smiled in agreement.

The break turned out to be more than she could desire. They took Syrax and Caraxes for a ride, refreshing themselves in the torrents of wind and then landing on a cliff overviewing the Blackwater Bay. Only then they allowed themselves to fall on the ground, covered with grass and moss. There were some nuts and dried fruit Rhaenyra snatched from the breakfast table and put in the saddle bag and this snack was more than welcome after the training and flight.

They laughed and chatted for some time, enjoying the slight strain in their muscles and air filled with fresh scents and aromas. Daemon seemed quite enthusiastic about a tourney which surely would take place after her initiation. Still, Rhaenyra did not share his excitement, for everything associated with the upcoming Ceremony made her feel worried.

“I can already see how father announces that the winner of the tourney gets my hand.” she huffed and pouted her lips.

To that Daemon sneered savagely and said: “I will unhorse everyone in a joust and then defeat in a melee. No suitors will be left. Apart from me.” He grinned mischievously.

Rhaenyra chuckled at his jest, but there was a bitter taste in her mouth when she answered:

“But you have a wife, uncle.”

“I would challenge her as well, if she was a man.” he pushed himself up on elbows. “She looks like a man, anyway. I won’t be surprised, if she hides a co*ck in her breeches. At least that’s only what I have seen her wearing. Not pretty gowns, but breeches and doublets.” he grimaced in distaste.

Rhaenyra sat closer, taking his head and lowering on her knees. It was a sad story, the one not sung at feasts, Daemon’s marriage to Rhea Royce. She took a blade of grass poking from his mouth and put it in her own. The princess enjoyed sharing things with him, were it food, fruit or anything he touched. She would have liked to share her whole self with him, if only she could do that. Their talk ceased for a while, but then Daemon stirred and sat up, locking their eyes.

“Do you want it?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

“What?” she asked, bewildered. A relaxed smile was wiped off from his face and replaced with a solemn look, what he was asking was not a laughing matter.

“The crown. That ugly chair.” he waved his hand in the air, following the shapes of the Iron Throne. “Do you want it?”

She stiffened at the question, though it was not something unexpected. Of course, he would have asked, it was just a matter of time. She felt the urge to cry No, no, I do not want it, I am afraid, I want to be hugged and protected, I want to have you by my side... But she would sound weak. And Daemon despised anything that was weak. And so she straightened her back and lied:

“I think I do. But, I guess, you’re the only one asking.” she sighed, staring up in the sky.

“You don’t sound quite convincing.”

She sighed once again, her eyes focusing on his face. “I do. I want it.” this time her tone left no room for hesitation. But an ugly thought nagged at the back of her mind. “And you?” she returned a daring question, the one she was afraid to ask before.

Daemon looked at her intently, then shook his head. “Not really. I don’t have the patience for it, as I am ceaselessly reminded by Viserys. And too cruel and temperamental, according to his Council.” He tried to sound calm, but could not trick her, she knew these words hurt him so much. Then he shrugged and continued: “Anyway, sitting in the Small council chamber for bloody hours and listening to petitions when holding court will be a torture for me. It’s fine for a delicate lady like you, or for a fat-ass like my brother.” he grinned, showing a row of white teeth as she glared at him. “I was brought up to protect, not rule. I have no taste for it.” he shrugged and fell silent.

Rhaenyra wondered, if he really meant it, and if there was still room for ambition left in him. Perhaps, she shouldn’t have asked this question in the first place. It was not a thing he enjoyed discussing, and no matter how hard he tried to look unperturbed and show his indifference, he did imagine himself on the Iron Throne. But not at the expense of his family. That much she was sure.

“You did not answer my question.” his voice dragged her back.

“I did.” she argued.

“No, you didn’t. One word is not enough. Come on, it’s your turn to answer.”

“I am proud that that way I can save my mother and secure my father’s line.”

“It sounds more like a sacrifice, not desire.” he snorted.

“It’s duty.” she said. And for the first time this word acquired the meaning it should, giving answer to her own dilemma.

“Duty.” he echoed. “And sacrifice. Doesn’t sound too much fun.” he snorted again. “But there must be something good about it, right, Your Grace?” he teased, poking several times on her side. She chuckled and wiggled away, brushing of his hand.

“Feasts and balls and tourneys are fun.” Rhaenyra nodded. “But I hope to do more than that.”

“One day I told Viserys to leave everything on his Small Council, claim Vhagar and fly conquering Dorn, like our father and uncle did, return House of the Dragon to its previous glory. He declined.” the prince said bitterly.

“You cannot repeat the past, Daemon. Caraxes and Vhagar will not make prince Aemon and Baelon out of you —” she stumbled, searching for words.

“Neither do we possess their qualities?” said Daemon, scowling. They were treading on dangerous ground and Rhaenyra knew, it was the sore point they were touching. She wished they hadn’t had this conversation. Ducking her head, she started playing with the hem of her leather jerkin.

“It’s getting late. I promised Aemma to bring you back before dusk.” he looked up in the sky, searching for Caraxes, and as if called by name, the dragon appeared from the mountain and started descending. She did the same thing with Syrax and in an instant she caught a glimpse of her golden scales shining in the falling sun.

Daemon lingered for a moment, with his back to Rhaenyra, as if trying to get rid of the aftertaste of their talk. Then turned abruptly and outstretched his hand. When his fingers curled around hers, she felt a light squeeze. A reassurance? A consent? She did not know. But one implication was clear - he was there for her.

“I know what you are thinking, Nyra.” he pulled her closer and lifted her chin with his fingers, their eyes locking. “I will not be second Viserys and you will not be Rhaenys. I swear to you, this ugly chair will not alienate us. If you are to become the queen, then I will be your subject.”

No, no, not subject, I want you by my side, so that we could rule together, like Aegon and Rhaenys, Jaehaerys and Alysanne!… she wanted to cry, make him see her true desires. If only… If only there were no Rhea Rhoyce and I had at least the smallest chance to choose a husband. However, she left these words unspoken.

“And there is one more reason why I will make a poor king,” he added, “I am really bad at keeping my mouth shut.” There was anger and self-derision in his voice and with that Rhaenyra experienced the same inexplicable feeling as if she was missing on something. Something she was a part of, but not imparted to. Oh, how she wished the mother and Daemon wouldn’t talk in riddles! Without realising it, she stared at him, trying to penetrate into his thoughts and find those bloody answers.

“What?” he asked, tilting his head. “Why are you looking like that?”

“It’s — … Nothing, never mind.”

Daemon narrowed his eyes suspiciously, but refrained from asking further questions. Caraxes and Syrax were already there, it seemed they had a good time, and Rhaenyra was sure that she could discern a smile on her golden lady’s snout.

Next morning, clean and fresh from her sword training with Daemon Rhaenyra burst into mother’s chamber. The Queen was already waiting for her at the breakfast table laid with bowls of steaming honeyed porridge, cheese, fruit and berry tarts. The food was still untouched, as her mother was holding a parchment in her hands and reading it intently.

“A raven this morning?” smiled Rhaenyra, grabbing a tart and taking a seat beside her mother.

“Uh-um,” nodded the Queen, “from your father.”

“Oh?” Rhaenyra raised her brows. He should have already sailed off to Dragonstone by this time.

“He says that duties keep him busy in the capital, too many things to settle before the Ceremony.” she said, sadness ringing in her voice.

“Why cannot Ser Otto deal with them? Isn’t the Hand supposed to do the work for the king in his absence?” Rhaenyra asked, frowning.

Mother looked puzzled and hesitated before giving an answer.

“Well, you are partially right, child, but not all the tasks can be delegated to the Small Council. Your father wants everything to go impeccably and that may require his presence, I presume.”

“He was not that diligent before with his duties.” pouted Rhaenyra. Probably she overreacted, but that childish part of her wanted everything to go the way she liked — and having all her family around on Dragonstone, like it was all those years ago in her childhood, was her wish.

“Come, Nyra, maybe he will still have time to join us.” Mother said in a placating manner. “And now, eat, you look so thin and pale after all these trainings with Daemon and dragon riding.” mother pushed her a bowl, adding more honey to already delicious porridge and poured a steaming hot tea with dried berries and mint leaves into her cup.

Rhaenyra sighed and smiled, her mother fretting about her causing both joy and sadness. There had been a change of heart in her parents after Baelon’s death and it weighed on her heart that this new-found affection was triggered by a tragedy. But she was a dragon and dragons were greedy creatures, so she coveted that much. Mayhap, she was too harsh and wanted too much from her father. He was working in her best interest, after all, she only should be grateful and patient.

Chapter 10: Of Unaccepted Gifts And Unexpected Betrayals (Aemma)

Chapter Text

Aemma could not take her eyes off Rhaenyra and Daemon sparring, their laughter and clinking of swords echoing through the inner yard of the Dragonstone. It was surprisingly easy to fall into routine, which embraced morning trainings in the yard and dragonflying for her daughter and cousin, while Aemma was doing her needlework or just daydreaming in a comfortable plush chair, gaining strength and making full recovery. She was surprised how liberating it was to forget about everything outside the island and the fuss of the Red Keep.

For once in a while everything went as she planned, plenty of free time together with her uncle was a real treat for Rhaenyra, seldom did she see her daughter so elated and full of energy, her cheeks gained a healthy blush after each sword training or dragonriding. And with each passing day Aemma grew ever more certain, that the strong feeling of affection between her daughter and Daemon was genuine and mutual, a bit more than a child play, but less explicit than flirtation. Such matchmaking endeavours might have seemed premature, for Daemon was still a married man and the final say in choosing Rhaenyra’s husband was Viserys’ prerogative, but what a mother would not do to ensure her child’s happiness? After all, Rhea Rhoyce was her kin, and Viserys’ would not be Viserys, if it was not possible to twist and turn him the way she wanted. Not Otto anymore, but her.

The road ahead was uncertain but the end was clear — there wouldn’t be another man capable of making Rhaenyra happy and there wouldn’t be another woman who would succeed in taming Daemon’s wild temperament. And, whether she wanted or not, to secure this union lay on Aemma’s shoulders. As well as the inevitable need to persuade Viserys that that was the only right choice and navigate him to the correct decision.

Speaking of Viserys, sadly, he was not able to make it to the Dragonstone, referring to busyness. Nonetheless, he sent ravens every day, inquiring of their wellbeing and telling about the events of his days. Most of them, as it seemed, were spent within the Small Council chamber, the planning of Rhaenyra’s investiture proved to be a surprisingly challenging task. Aemma would have liked to have him by her side, and missed his warm smile and soft touch greatly, however such passionate approach to duties was not customary to the king and deserved admiration. But, giving it a second thought, his presence would not provide such vast opportunities for sharing their free time for Nyra and Daemon.

Viserys was never good at wielding sword, but his hand was precise and the plans and designs of Old Valyrian stronghold he made for the stonemasons were beautiful and detailed. This time he went as far as to draw the design of Rhaenyra’s investiture cloak. When Aemma unrolled the scroll brought by the raven in the morrow from Kings Landing, she gasped in awe, admiring an intricate pattern to be embroidered by the best seamstress, which depicted a golden dragon on the one shoulder, as a symbol of the future ruling queen and a black dragon on the other, signifying the mount of her predecessor. On the back there were two red coiled dragons circled by the golden sun, the symbol of the ruling House, and the cloak itself, apart from black velvet collar, was made of golden brocade with ornament on both sides and hem. In his letter Viserys asked Aemma to hide it from Rhaenyra for the time being, he wanted to make her a surprise, once the cloak was done. It warmed Aemma’s heart to read that the king missed them so much and wished for their return. She inhaled deeply the scent of the parchment, written in Viserys’ hand, folded it neatly and put in a small wooden box where she kept her jewellery.

In the daytime, when weather was friendly and winds kinder, Daemon showed Aemma and Rhaenyra to numerous caverns where dragons made their lairs and even the volcano, a captivating sight so different from the labyrinth of narrow streets the Kings Landing was. Wild dragons were roaming free in the sky around the island and it was reminiscent to watch Vermithor and Silverwing coil in the sky, as if still waiting for Aemma’s Grandparents to mount them.

As much as Aemma enjoyed the company of her family, more often than not she gave space to Daemon and Rhaenyra, feigning fatigue and desire to rest, which they welcomed, making sure, she had everything she needed. It had lasted like that with little difference, until one morning, when their stay was coming to an end. Daemon excused himself and left to check on clutches, laid by the dragons and inquire more on the behavior of wild dragons, the strange behaviour of the Cannibal still occupying his thoughts.

Sitting on a velvet cover, protecting them from the rough surface and rocks spread on the beach, both, the Queen and the Princess could share a simple moment of being a mother and a daughter — luxury unattainable in the confinement of the Red Keep, with every move protocoled and restricted.

Aemma allowed Rhaenyra to speak her heart out, sharing the details of trainings with Daemon which fascinated her no less than exploration of the island. A change, albeit it slight, did not escape Aemma’s notice — her little girl was no more bubbling with excitement as she used to, but weighed her words, while her observations acquired more depth. The way she spoke about Daemon was no longer of a child, telling about playmate, rather, her admiration flourished, thankfully, no longer marred by guilt she carried when the king finalized that she would be queen.

The waves were rising and falling rhythmically, hypnotizing and lulling to sleep. Their conversation died out, giving way to silence and leaving them to their own thoughts. Pulling the knees to her chest and resting her head on elbows, Aemma closed her eyes for an instant, letting her mind drift off, light slumber swallowing her mind. The moment of tranquility did not last long, though, a screech came, piercing the air and making both of them wince and look up, expecting to see Daemon, returning form the Dragonmont. Aemma had to blink the drowsiness away, her eyes failing her, for it was not red-scaled noodle-like form she saw, but something black and much bigger.

In a matter of seconds, the Cannibal fell on them from out of the clouds, flapping wings ferociously and baring his blade-like teeth which were large enough to pierce a cow to the bone. Her daughter was standing aside, shading her eyes and staring at the wild dragon in awe.

Without thinking, Aemma crossed the distance between her and Rhaenyra, wrapping her in a tight embrace. The seashore was an open space, nowhere to hide and there was no sense in running away, the dragon would only laugh at them, if dragons were ever familiar with such emotion. She was a small slender woman, yet, a bit larger in frame than her teenage daughter, and it gave her a chance to shield her, hoping that her body would prevent fire from penetrating and hurting Nyra. Closing the eyes, she prayed to the Seven, begging them to save her little Dragon and bless her with a long happy life, while prepared to the burning sensation which was about to come, and an agony when her flesh would melt on her bones in a torrent of flame.

Seconds passed, or minutes, it was hard to tell, the only pain she felt was coming from the lip she bit from tension till its started to bleed. But she could clearly hear the roar thundering in the sky, and it was not of the Cannibal. Holding her breath, Aemma opened her eyes and turned to face the dragon. There were two of them this time, one black as coal with pikelike horns, the other silver as her own hair, slender and graceful in her movements. Both creatures were dancing in the sky, hissing at each other menacingly and puffing clouds of smoke.

Silverwing… It was Silverwing, trying to shoo the other dragon away. This battle could hardly be called fair, the size and ferociousness of these two beyond comparison.

Aemma’s heart made a thump at the thought that her Grandmother’s dragon would be harmed by the Cannibal, but there was nothing she could do, just stare helplessly at this breathtaking spectacle. The first one to lose his temper was Cannibal, the flames escaping his mouth but not reaching Silverwing who seemed to be more swift and agile. It was unknown how old the Cannibal was, some among the smallfolk of Dragonstone claimed that he lived on the island even before the arrival of the Targaryens. If the Cannibal was from a different lineage of dragons, that might have explained the aggression towards other Targaryen dragons. Yet, this stance lacked foundation, according to it the Cannibal must have been older than Balerion himself, who died of an old age and weakness reaching the size of a mountain. By that time, the Cannibal should have been much larger, like Vhagar, if that was true, but, nonetheless, he was older and bigger than Silverwing. The silver dragon took advantage of that and circling around large imposing figure of Cannibal, flew from behind and released a torrent of flame, making the other dragon roar in pain. As fierce as he was, Cannibal did not expect such resistance and, hesitantly and reluctantly, flew away, to the eastern side of the Dragonmont where he was believed to nest.

Her thoughts a total mess, legs unsteady on the ground, Aemma released Rhaenyra, who by that time had ceased her attempts at making herself free and curled into herself, her shoulders shaking from sobs.

The relief was short-lived, as Silverwing descended on the beach, so close to them that they could smell smoke, coming from her nostrils. Was she a threat to them as well? Although, she was known as a docile and friendly to strangers dragon, she was untamed and had been as such for several years.

Praying for this nightmare to end, Aemma forced herself to pull away from Rhaenyra, turning to the dragon and instead of fear, something else stirred inside her, sending shivers down her spine and goosebumps all over her skin. A completely unfamiliar feeling, an irresistible desire to touch Silverwing and feel the warmth under her palm. As if in a dream, Aemma moved forward with her arm extended, paying no mind to Rhaenyra’s cries of warning and protests.

Silverwing’s scales were warm and rough, the body reverberating with each breath which was a bit hardened from the fight, taking place minutes ago. Aemma stroke the dragon twice, cautiously, then, more persistently, rubbed, leading her hand from her side towards the snout. The dragon lowered herself, tucking her feet under her body, extending her wing, and it occurred to Aemma that it was an invitation to mount her.

However, the emotion was so overwhelming, that even a step forward seemed impossible. She stood there, gawking at the dragon, her mind refusing to accept the fact that Silverwing would try to bond with her, and at the same time exhilaration and thudding in her chest pushing her towards the dragon.

“Lykirī! Rȳbās! Dohaerās! Dohaerās!” (Val. Calm down! Focus! Obey!)

Came Rhaenyra’s desperate whisper in a language the Queen did not know, but these words were well familiar. Her daughter gesticulated passionately, urging Aemma to repeat those sacral words.

As much as she wanted to say it, who was she to claim a dragon? What for? She was not Queen Alysanne, who accompanied her lord husband all around the Seven Kingdoms as far as to the Wall in the North; neither was she Rhaenyra, whose dragon egg hatched in the cradle when she was still a babe. Shaking her head she stepped back, the calling still strong, but marred by puzzled look in Silverwing’s amber eyes. Realisation struck her at this moment, the same look had the Grandmother, as she observed her girls, Gael, Rhaenys, Rhaenyra and herself, all who were left and mourning those she had lost. A part of her former rider still alive in the dragon, bonding with Aemma and yearning to be the one to follow and protect.

Not having received any response, Silverwing spread her wings, roared and launched herself into the skies, while Aemma fell to her knees a terrible exhaustion suddenly overcoming her.

“Mother!” Rhaenyra joined her on the ground, grasping her shoulders and turning to face her. “Why did you reject the bond?”

“The bond?” Aemma lifted her head, staring at her daughter, but the eyes unseeing.

“Yes! Silverwing wanted to bond with you! Why did you not accept it?” Rhaenyra’s cried out in exasperation.

Oh, that’s how it happens… This voice, this calling was not my imagination, not sound of the wind…

Rhaenyra was still looking expectantly at her, waiting for an answer, but Aemma could not utter a single word. There was no reason and dozens of them at the same time. But something must be said right now…

“I — I was not born a dragon rider… I am half Arryn…” she mumbled weakly.

“But, Mother, aunt Rhaenys has Baratheon blood in her veins and she is the rider of Meleys! And me? I come from your blood and Syrax hatched in my cradle in the traditions of old Valyria!”

All of that was true enough and there was no point in lying to herself, Aemma was just making lame excuses. An if she was honest with herself, she was simply afraid. Afraid to become someone she was never meant to be, afraid of Viserys’ reaction, that she claimed a dragon without the king’s leave. The sad truth was, despite her efforts to be stronger and wiser, deep inside she was still that scared 11-years old girl, sent away from her home in the Vale to wed a man chosen for her by her parents.

The image she created at the moment must have been really pitiful, as Rhaenyra embraced her in what felt more like a motherly way. It was both, saddening and sweet that her girl was already old enough to give comfort to her parents, the childish selfishness replaced with consideration which comes with maturity.

A dragon’s screech was heard from the distance, this time it was not the Cannibal or Silverwing, but Caraxes, carrying Daemon from the Dragonmont. Neither Aemma nor Rhaenyra told him about what happened.

The rest of the days they spent on the island did not differ much from the previous. Neither did the Queen venture to the beach again, nor did she seek Silverwing. If it was one in a lifetime chance, the dragon choosing her and trying to bond, she did not know. Thinking of it was also fruitless. Aemma was reticent about the incident on the beach, discarding all Rhaenyra’s attempts to discuss the matter. Her daughter’s feelings were bewilderment, disappointment, but it did not lack sympathy as well. Whilst Rhaenyra felt herself Targaryen to the core, Aemma was half Arryn and the blood of lords of the Vale ran thick and strong through her veins.

Once the day of their departure came and after several hours of flight the Dragonpit emerged in the distance, it was a surprisingly welcomed sight, as well as the expectant gazes of the king and his retinue, waiting for their landing. Everything looked the same as it was two weeks ago, the only change was that Aemma was holding in her heart, a private memory which only she and her daughter shared.

When finally finding herself on the ground, Aemma followed Daemon’s example, whispering words of gratitude to Caraxes; these two weeks on the Dragonstone taught her that one can talk to a dragon and even more so - should.

Aemma was flanked by Rhaenyra on the one side and Daemon on the other, and so was Viserys, with Ser Otto to his right and Lady Alicent to his left. With greedy eyes, she studied her husband’s face, there was no sickly pallor on it, as she expected judging from the long hours he was to spend in the Council chamber, rather, his cheeks were round and flushed from excitement, silvery-golden scruffy beard he had grown within these two weeks adorning his face.

As all the eyes were on them, Aemma curtsied formally, lowering her head in deference, Rhaenyra and Daemon doing the same. This formality was not to the king’s taste and he rushed to them, taking Aemma in his arms and squeezing her against himself and then doing the same with Rhaenyra. Daemon was greeted in a less passionate way, but also embraced and kissed on both cheeks.

“I missed you so much.” the king whispered privately, placing another kiss on her forehead and Aemma eagerly reciprocated the gesture. “My beloved wife and daughter!” exclaimed Viserys, this time louder, so that the courtiers could hear him. “I have missed both of you so much and it brings me pleasure to finally have you by my side! What magic winds are there at the Dragonstone to make you look so radiant, my love?” he said, making a step back to admire her.

“Fresh air and sufficient activity can do wonders. And you can’t imagine, dear brother, what a fearless dragon rider your wife could be, if you let her claim one. Preferably, not an old wreck, but someone swift and agile.” smirked Daemon, mischief playing in his eyes.

“Balerion was not an old wreck, he was the largest, the fiercest dragon who had witnessed Valyria before the Doom!” scoffed Viserys, offended by the blatant way Daemon stomped on his feelings.

Her cousin’s comment was only about her sitting in a saddle behind Daemon; how Aemma’s claiming Queen Alysanne’s dragon would hurt her husband’s pride was something Aemma preferred not to think. Mayhap, he would be overjoyed, but something told Aemma that sooner he would be not. Smiling politely to both brothers, she felt Rhaenyra’s gaze on her, the sole witness of that marvel in which Aemma herself still refused to believe in.

“I wish to know everything about your stay in Dragonstone, everything!” insisted the king, holding out his hand to help Aemma get into the carriage. She smiled indulgently, as if the everyday accounts she had given in her letters were not enough, yet, such keen interest in his families affairs was endearing.

Later in her chambers two maids were brushing Aemma’s long silver hair and for once in a long time she was satisfied with what she was seeing in the mirror. Her face was no longer gaunt and pale, cheeks gained some flesh and there was even a touch of tan. If only she had known before, that taking reprieve from the suffocating air of the Red Keep and without judgmental and expectant glances of the courtiers cast on her, waiting for her to fulfill her only duty and gossiping when she was failing spectacularly, would be so liberating.

At Dragonstone Aemma got used to staying alone and, once her maids were done with their main duties, she let them go. Yet, one of them, whose face was unfamiliar, lingered in a room for a while.

“Are you new here?” asked Aemma in a friendly voice. The woman flinched and shook her head.

“If I may, my Queen, I am the chambermaid if His Grace.” said the maid, looking down and twisting her hands, calloused and hardened by labour.

“Oh?” Aemma co*cked her head in surprise. When there was a need to send a message from the king, it was a page who was usually sent, not chambermaids.

An awkward silence stretched as the maid was shifting on her legs indecisively.

“If that is all —” began Aemma, tired of people and longing for rest.

“No!” exclaimed the maid, forgetting herself, then curtsied, embarrassed, and added, “If I may, Your Grace, there is something I wish to tell you.”

“Very well, then, speak.” the Queen commanded, leaning back in her chair, and trying to ignore the uneasiness that gripped her.

“I have a daughter, my innocent little flower. She works in the Keep’s kitchens, a scullery maid she is.” started the woman from afar, causing even more confusion in Aemma. “I do hope that one day she will find a nice stable boy or some other servant in the Keep and get married. The only thing which bothers me at the moment is her honour, she has to be chaste to be chosen by a good man.”

“That is all wonderful, but what does it have to do with me?” asked Aemma, surprised by the audacity of the woman. Was she expecting her, the Queen, to find a match for her daughter?

“What I want to say, my Queen, is that honour is the most important thing a maiden has, even more so, when they do not have much say in choosing their husbands.” The woman looked around, checking if they were alone and continued in a low voice. “I think that Lady Alicent, the Lord Hand’s daughter, is doing wrong when she comes unchaperoned to the King’s chambers. I wouldn’t pay attention to it, but, like I said, I have a daughter of mine and am well aware how difficult it is to keep her untouched when surrounded by so many men, not all of them considerate enough to think about her future. And even if a man’s intentions are well-meaning and pure, gossips are always there to sully a maiden’s reputation. You will not want to believe what I say, but it is the truth, Your Grace.” the maids eyes flickered to Aemma, waiting anxiously for her reaction.

Aemma did not find it hard to believe there would be women flocking around her light-hearted husband, his constant want for a son making him an easy prey. Then fear replaced surprise in Aemma. Fear that the maid’s insinuations were really of the sort she started painting in her mind. She looked into the woman’s eyes, begging to continue, to reveal the details that would shatter her and the earth would open up and swallow her.

But there was no continuation, the story, as it seemed, reached its end. An unchaperoned maiden, her daughter’s friend was allowed to the King’s private chambers in the evening right after his wife, the Queen, departed to Dragonstone. Ugly thoughts cramped Aemma’s mind, and it took a lot of efforts to shake them off. Maybe she was too suspicious?

“What were they doing?” Aemma dared to ask and winced at how thick her voice was.

“Talking. Mostly. While I was stirring the fire in the hearth and laying the table, Lady Alicent was walking around the stone city, His Grace is so passionate about, asking questions with keen interest.” the woman lowered her head and blushed slightly with embarrassment.

How very smart of this little harlot, thought Aemma. Of course, Viserys would not waste an opportunity to wax euphoric about his hobby. Mayhap, Aemma herself should have shown more interest, if that was what he needed…

“Was it —,” Aemma stumbled on her words, swallowing a sob, “was it all they were doing? Conversing?”

“That I do not know, my Queen, I was dismissed as soon as I finished my duties. But,” the woman moved closer, as close as the protocol allowed and whispered, her eyes glistening with excitement, “What I do know, is that she did not stay long. I made sure of it.”

“Hmm? What do you mean by that?” Aemma looked up, her vision blurred by the tears treacherously welling up in her eyes.

“I was ordered to bring some fruit, desserts and wine to the king’s chambers, to please His Grace and Lady Alicent. But instead of usual watered wine, I served Strongwine, the strongest I could find in the wine cellar.” the woman beamed at Aemma, proud of her trick and, seemingly, of its result as well.

“Oh? Didn’t they see the difference?”

“They did not, my Queen. Too engrossed in the conversation they were. But the wine was strong enough to make the king drowsy quite soon after several cups, which I am sure he drank and Lady Alicent was dismissed, while I was ordered to prepare His Grace for sleep.”

Aemma could only admire the resourcefulness of the maid. And courage. In any other case she could have been relieved from her duties, whipped or even thrown to the Black Cells, spying on the king and drugging him and his guest was nothing less but treason.

“Was there anything else you noticed? What did the king call her?” Aemma forced the question from her lips.

“Um…” the woman furrowed her brows, recalling the details. “The king called her “my dear Alicent”. “Kind Lady Alicent”. “Charming”… I’m so sorry, Your Grace, but masters deem servants to be blind and deaf, but we are not, we can see and hear much more than they think.” Then all of a sudden, her head snapped, panic colouring her face. “Your Grace, please, I beg you, do not punish me for spying on the king! My family, my daughter needs me!”

Aemma hushed her, raising her hand in a placating manner. Dear Gods, the woman was right, nobles never treated servants as ones with feelings, eyes or ears. Even now, when this poor woman was helping her, putting her own life at risk, she had not even asked her name! Her own selfishness made Aemma cringe and she asked hurriedly before the woman keeled over in panic.

“What is your name?” this simple question made the woman stop stuttering her excuses and her brows raised up to the hairline.

“D— Diane, Your Grace.” she whispered.

“Very well, my good Diane, there is nothing to worry about. No harm will befall on you for your faithful service. The Queen is grateful to you and as a token of friendship and my gratitude please accept this.” Having said that Aemma walked to her desk and retrieved a velvet purse heavy with golden Dragons.

Diane accepted the reward with trembling hands, her gaze shifting between Aemma and the purse. Then, finding her bearings, she dipped into low curtsy, saying that she would continue her observations if the Queen pleased. Aemma accepted the favour, a tentative hope, stirring in her belly, that were would not be another occasion when such spying would be necessary.

Once alone in the chamber, Aemma buried her face in her palms, swallowing sobs and cursing herself for being too naive and letting the joy of the moment lull her vigilance. There was nothing unbecoming, but the only thought that Viserys let unchaperoned maiden into his chambers was painful. Mayhaps, if she did not love him, it was only anger she would feel, but he had a special place in her heart and could not be easily plucked out and forgotten.

Viserys... Why?… This question was swirling in her head, but there was no even the slightest hint of an answer. For a time, she sat still, feeling little warmth coming from the hearth, as coldness enveloped her from inside.

Her husband was so genuinely happy to welcome them back in the Keep, so gentle in his kisses and embraces. He was a dragon, true, and could covet for more, but, for the love of Gods, not in such an ugly double-faced manner!

Or was Viserys that cruel to show that he could do things that she could not? As terrible as it may sound, kings could sire bastards and not be frowned upon for doing that. Had he become that cruel? Cruelty had never been in his nature, why would he develop it? Had kingship made him that?

Aemma had known that there was a risk when she announced Viserys about her decision to cease attempts at trying to give birth to a healthy babe, but actually seeing it happen, moreover, so soon after their talk and his eager acceptance of her conditions, was a blow she found hard to withstand.

There was one more thing, one more driving force of this madness. Design. Self-serving treacherous evil design with the sole purpose to strike unexpectedly and press the sore point until it bled. If Alicent’s visits had gone farther than reading books and conversing, she would have stayed a good chance to find herself with a child, even more so, a boy, Viserys could be tempted or pushed by his Hand to legitimise. The sprouts such actions could give would be detrimental to Rhaenyra.

And that silly girl, Nyra’s close friend and companion? What was she thinking?! She did not even know what she was getting into when fulfilling the order and will of her overambitious farther. Surely, they hoped that were she become pregnant, the king as an honorable man would be forced to marry her or at least legitimize the child, a boy in particular. And if not? Did she even have time to think about the consequences, if their plan failed?

As this ugly revelation settled down in Aemma’s mind, she felt dragon blood boiling in her veins, throwing its Arryn part into submission. She stood up abruptly, ready to storm into the king’s chambers and — and….

Not moving an inch she collapsed into the chair, all strength and resolve leaving her.

It is a test, an obstacle to overcome. The Gods are testing me and I cannot fail…

Swallowing despair, she made herself think clearly. Bursting into the king’s chambers with accusations for which she did not have a single evidence apart from the words of the maid who risked to lose her tongue for slander, would lead to nothing.

No, she would not throw a temper tantrum, she would not lunge at him with fists, she would not make accusations. Not now. To make that silly little girl and her overambitious father show their true colours would be more prudent.

There was one more reason for her to remain silent. Rhaenyra. A strong and united family was a prerequisite for her daughter’s success and strengthening of her position as the heir. A quarrel within a family, breaking them apart would make a chink in her armour that such like Otto would surely take advantage of. Aemma promised herself to be strong for the sake of her only child, didn’t she?

Aemma wiped with the back of her hand tears still rolling down her cheeks and sucked in a breath to calm herself down. It was obvious, that self-pitying could only aggravate the situation, not mend it. A vile game was being played behind her back and the best thing to do was to accept the challenge. That tragic night, when Baelon was born and taken away by the Gods minutes after, she was resolute to be strong.

With that in mind Aemma’s hands reached to take a parchment. In her best penmanship she wrote a short but meaningful message to her husband, sprinkling it with lavender perfume before rolling it. The need to keep him close and on a short leash was proven once again, the king’s weaknesses not aligning with her aims. A young page was called and made haste to the king’s chambers with the message in his hand, while Aemma spent little time she had readying herself. A light dress with open cleavage and a bottle of summer wine was what she needed. It would not be that difficult to show that a sheep was no match for a dragon, would it?

Chapter 11: Unfinished Letter (Viserys)

Chapter Text

“Rhaenyra started doing… what?”

No, Viserys heard the words uttered by Aemma very well, it was the meaning of them he somehow failed to grasp…

Since the return of his family from the Dragonstone, Viserys was showered with the news and changes which did not cease to surprise him. One of them, for instance, was Aemma’s frequent visits to his chambers, desire to spend nights together, breaking their fasts and taking strolls through the garden in time free from his kingly duties. It was a pleasant change, indeed, though, a little unexpected, for he felt there was certain distance between them after the Queen’s last pregnancy. She avoided close contact with him, treating him with reserved coolness, albeit masked with a polite smile, but now, he bathed in her attention, was covered with tender kisses and hugged more times than he had been since their wedding.

Aemma was so tender in her touches, her dresses alluring and skin glowing with health as opposed to the way she looked before, despite all the efforts of the Grand Maester and his acolytes. He made a mental note to talk sternly to Mellos and reprimand him for performing his duties poorly — maintaining the health of the royal family was his main task and he seemed to be failing miserably, using methods inefficient, if no to say the worse.

With all these pleasant changes he could not deny Aemma’s company, although, he had prior arrangements with the Lady Alicent. Another surprise which caught him off-guard. While his family was away, Otto kindly offered his daughter’s company in the evenings, which Viserys found highly enjoyable — the young lady showed great interest in history, both Valyrian and times after the Aegon’s Conquest, something he himself was keen on and it was his sole reprieve from the weight of ruling. Lady Alicent was keen to learn more, willing to ask many a question and this thirst for knowledge should not have gone to waste, while he cherished this unexpected gift of an attentive listener. And he decided not to deny himself with such simple pleasure.

Daemon held deep respect for their past, but it mostly span around dragons; Rhaenyra studied dutifully but her attention was easily distracted and she lacked enthusiasm; while Aemma… Aemma referred so often to her Arryn heritage, that he believed her to be indifferent to the history of her Grandparents. As much as she could have become the second Good Queen Alysanne, she preferred to stay just Queen Aemma Arryn.

And Alicent was a breath of fresh air in this respect. She was listening with rapture to his accounts of Valyrian history, her face lit up with glee when he showed her all the minute details of his stone model city. It was both tempting and unusual, and he couldn’t but indulge himself with her company and attention…

“Rhaenyra started practicing sword fighting and Daemon was kind enough to assist your daughter to acquire this skill.” repeated Aemma slowly, making sure that the meaning of her words sank in, and before he could open his mouth and express displeasure, reached to his face to clean up the whipped cream from his lips with a silken napkin.

“For the love of Gods, what for?” he exclaimed, once freeing himself from Aemma’s care.

“To show that it is not only music, poetry or needlework women are destined to practice all their lives.”

“It is not,” he chuckled, “giving birth to babies is among them.” A reward for his attempt at lighthearted joke was Aemma’s icy glare and he chose to duck his head and assume seriousness, if she insisted. Their breakfast started on a happy note, but soon enough he found himself bombarded with the details of their trip to Dragonstone, upon hearing which his appetite was spoilt, as well as his mood.

“It was Daemon’s stupid idea, wasn’t?” he asked with a sigh.

“No, it was I who suggested Nyra sparring with Daemon.” Aemma shrugged nonchalantly, and he felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment.

“Ah… I see… And yet, I insist that it is a totally useless skill. The princess has the Kingsguard at her disposal and later the queen will have the Queensguard, not to mention the household guards and the rest of the knights of the Realm to protect her. Each and everyone of them will be delighted to give their lives for her. She is not supposed to protect herself with any sort of weapon. Besides,” he lifted up his finger, silencing Aemma who was about to shower protests and arguments on him, “our daughter has a dragon. Isn’t it the most fearsome weapon?” he tried to sound reasonable, but Aemma only rolled her eyes.

“Look, Viserys, Nyra finds the training highly enjoyable. Would you deny your daughter this pleasure? And privilege.”

“Pleasure…” he grunted, rubbing his forehead and looking at his wife in defeat.

Pleasure was not the word he would describe sparring in the yard. For him it was one of the most miserable experiences, a torture inflicted on him by the Master at Arms. In his youth he was a laughing stock for Daemon and a disappointment for his father. Hundreds of times he had been told and retold the story how uncle Aemon began training at arms with a wooden sword, while his younger brother Baelon was deemed too young to join. It did not stop little Baelon, though, as he found a stick resembling a sword, made his way to the yard and started whacking at Aemon, boldly and fearlessly. And afterwards the trainings of Viserys’ father and uncle were a spirited and spectacular affair, drawing crowds of spectators. His own sparring with Daemon also drew crowds, but of that Viserys preferred not to think. The shame laced with indignation his father, Baelon the Brave, had surely felt for his older son and heir was never voiced openly, but the looks he gave Viserys, observing his clumsy failed attempts at defeating squires, years younger than himself, could have frozen the Seven Hells. And Viserys felt the most miserable then… How could his daughter fall for such a brutal thing? Was playing the harp or embroidering not exciting enough for her?

“You should come to the training yard and watch Nyra, you will be surprised with her achievements!” exclaimed Aemma, strangely delighted at this foolish idea, and he had to acquiesce — too soft and warm were her fingers drawing circles on his hand, as she sat closer, wrapping him in a light sweet embrace, staring at him with deep blue eyes promising divine pleasure.

“There is one more request I would like to voice as Rhaenyra’s mother.” said Aemma, dragging him back from his musings and sending his heart to a staccato rhythm from desire and anticipation.

“Hmm?” he shook his head slightly, trying to focus on Aemma’s face.

“In the view of the recent events, it is high time, our daughter was granted a position on your Council . It is beyond her station to serve wine to the lords. She is to be served from now on.”

Viserys looked at his wife sadly. There was the same conversation with Daemon not long ago. It seemed, Aemma and his brother were more similar to each other than he expected. Or was it all Daemon’s corruptive influence? First teaching Rhaenyra things unbecoming of a lady, then involving her in the duties she was definitely not prepared for…

“In her position as a cupbearer she has an excellent chance to listen to all the important and relevant discussions and observe the decision-making process. This is invaluable experience.” the King tried to reason, stating the truths which somehow escaped Aemma’s and Daemon’s notice.

“True enough. But why can’t she gain it sitting at the table, but not standing behind it with a wine pitcher in her hands?” came Aemma’s question.

A heavy sigh escaped the king’s lips. One minute his wife was so tender and desirable, the next one she was pushing him into doing things which he did not plan. It was like being given a bitter medicine followed by sweet honey. Not that he could do much about it…

“If Rhaenyra truly wants it, why has she never approached me with the request to give her a proper sit on the Council, I wonder?” Viserys scratched his chin pensively, as in his mind’s eye there was a picture of Daemon, who with his volatile nature had been in and out of the council, not satisfied with the positions he was granted. Hopefully, Nyra wouldn’t take her uncle’s example as a role model. A fickle monarch could hardly be called a good one.

However, there was even more to it. Viserys felt sick enough just by having to watch Daemon and Otto argue about every single matter, undermining each other with pointed remarks and then looking expectantly at their king and calling for justice. But for the love of Gods, what justice could he offer? Choose between his brother and closest advisor? Were he to choose Daemon, it meant that his Hand did not do well in his position; were it Otto over Daemon — it would show an open disregard for his family. He wanted to weep and tear his hair off because of this constant infighting!

And to make matters worse, now his own daughter would join this bickering and struggle. His only hope was that Rhaenyra would be more of a listener than a speaker. For the first time at least.

“Fine, fine… If you all insist.” he groaned, pouring himself some tea and adding honey, as all the strength started leaving him.

If he thought that it was all he would be asked of this morning, he was mistaken.

“I would like to be present at some meetings as well, dear husband. I am convinced that Nyra would like to have some support, making first steps in her new role.” said Aemma.

Upon hearing this, Viserys chocked on his tea, the sweetness of honey turning into bitter aftertaste in his mouth.

“Here, here, breathe.” Aemma patted him on the back several times and smiled in a kind placating manner, his frustration too visible.

“But, my dear, the Small Council is not a nice place for a gentle lady to attend. It can get very heated with debates sometimes.” he smiled weakly, making an attempt at reasoning his over-enthusiastic wife. The air of Dragonstone truly had a wonderful effect, too wonderful, perhaps. “There is no need for such taxing activities.”

“I’m well enough, my love. No need to worry.”

He fell silent for a moment, searching for arguments, but Aemma took it as a consent and continued with another topic. Of political nature as well, for Goodness sake…

“Have all the summons to Rhaenyra’s investiture been sent?” asked Aemma.

“Yes.”

“And to Rhaenys?”

“No…”

“No?” Aemma co*cked her brow in surprise. “Why?”

He frowned, barely managing to catch his breath from the Queen’s insistence. He was not used to such pressure from his usually meek and quiet wife. Not that he did not like it, but it was… New.

“Why?” Aemma repeated the question.

“Rhaenys might not take it well, I’m afraid.”

“It will be even worse if she is not invited or invited amongst the last.” argued Aemma. As if he did not know it…

“I found it difficult to word the letter and Otto was of little assistance.” he murmured, recalling all the drafts he threw away in the fireplace, watching them burn, while thinking of another way to inform his cousin that she would have to bend her knee before her teenage niece. It was irrevocable decision he made as the King, but in the back of his mind he realised that there would be another slight to be added to the list of the Queen Who Never Was.

Viserys watched as Aemma hummed and fetched from his writing desk a piece of parchment, an inkwell and a quill.

“If Otto was of little help, as you say, let me assist you, then.” she said, removing his plate and cup and replacing it with ink and paper.

He blinked several times in confusion as their conversation took another unexpected turn, grasping the quill obediently and dipping it in the inkwell.

“Dear Rhaenys.” began Aemma.

He put down the word “Dear” then stopped and looked up at Aemma hesitantly.

“Are you sure it is a good greeting? Isn’t it too familiar? We have not been in touch for some time and the last time we saw each other was rather cold… And strained. Won’t something like “Cousin” be more suitable?”

Aemma shook her head and continued: “We have not seen each other for some time and it pains me so much to realise how desirable and welcome your company is for me.”

Having written these words down, the king looked up again. “Even if it was true, which we both know is not, our cousin would be a tad surprised with such emotionality. We tried more formal options with Otto, to be honest.” he shrugged, feeling that this time they were getting nowhere. Yet again.

“I wish to have a decent talk with you, in the privacy of my chambers and explain what is about to come…” as if not listening to him, Aemma continued dictating the letter.

He huffed an exasperated sigh but went on. The quill was screeching against the parchment and all Viserys could think about was that, with all due respect to his wife’s endeavours, Rhaenys would laugh this pathetic attempt at reconciliation off, and, Otto’s variant was more suitable, although, less warm and friendly.

He was saved by the knock on the door and Ser Harrold reminding him that the Small Council had convened and was awaiting his presence.

“You know what,” a smile flashed on the king’s face as a fine idea occurred to him. “You write a letter to Rhaenys. From your name. Explain her the details and inform that her presence is requested in the capital.” Aemma could express any womanly sentiments she desired, it would sound more sincere and natural from her, after all.

To his great relief, Aemma nodded with a smile, eager to fulfill the daunting task, while he happily pushed the unfinished letter aside and rose from the chair.

“I will ask Rhaenys to prolong her stay after Nyra’s investiture and offer Laena to stay as well — she is a fine girl and could make an excellent company to our daughter.” suggested Aemma and to that he just absent-mindedly nodded, reaching for his cloak, his thoughts already in the Small Council chamber and ready for Lord Lyman’s droning about the expenses associated with the upcoming tourney and Corlys’ calling for war at those wretched Stepstones.

Once fully dressed, he took his Grandsire’s crown from the velvet cushion and moved to the door. Or at least he meant to, but…

“See you in the evening, my love.” gentle arms wrapped him from behind, pressing firmly against the soft fabric of the velvet gown and puffy skirt. He froze for a second, a promise he gave to lady Alicent springing to his mind. They were supposed to meet in his chambers and he would tell her about the third Dornish war and the Vulture King, a point they stopped last time. He truly wished to share the great history of his not less great ancestors with this sweet young lady, so adorably enthusiastic about everything he told her…

“I — …” he gulped and turned slowly to his wife, searching for an excuse, but Aemma ruled otherwise, her hands moved from his waist to his cheeks, cradling them, and a soft kiss on his lips sealed the deal — he would spend the evening with his dear wife. He closed his eyes, savouring the moment and when he opened them, he found himself behind the closed doors, Ser Harrold looking at him expectantly and ready to escort his liege to the Council chamber.

“Please, inform Lady Alicent that I have duties to attend to in the evening and shall not see her.” Viserys said softly to his chambermaid, who bumped into him at the entrance to his chambers and dipped into curtsey. Daena or Diane was her name, it mattered not, though… “Nor in the afternoon.” he added. As much as he wanted to stroll through the gardens with Alicent, it wouldn’t look nice now, when his family was around, Daemon would definitely start taunting him with dubious remarks.

The woman dipped into another curtsey and scurried away. No need to make Lady Alicent wait. And he had a Small Council meeting to endure…

Chapter 12: Two Alliances and an Unusual Finding (Daemon)

Chapter Text

If there was one thing Daemon Targaryen had unconditional love for, apart from his family, these were dragons. They made Targaryens kings, not peace treaties or trade deals. Dragons and dragons alone. Only a blind man could not see that, only a conceited man would think that they could maintain stability in the Realm without them. Dragons were their heritage and their future; their most lethal weapon and their best soulmates; their extensions and life-long companions. And the fact that something was wrong with the dragons worried Daemon beyond reason.

He did not show even a sign of his worry to Aemma or Rhaenyra, how could he, after all, his cousin came to Dragonstone to recuperate and his niece… His niece was so excited with dragonflying and their swords training that he did not dare to spoil her elated mood. Wielding a sword was a useless skill for a lady, but oh well… He loved when Nyra was happy and he loved to ensure that state of hers, even at the cost of his own ambitions or preferences.

Several times the prince ventured to the Dragonmount, exploring its caverns and looking for the newly laid eggs. Dragonkeepers were tasked to look after the clutch, keeping the list of each and every egg. Vermithor and Silverwing proved to be even more fertile than their former riders, having already laid several clutches.

Daemon moved the moss and sleek substance apart, revealing three large scaled eggs: one black with yellow stripes, the second of malachite colour and the last one dark blue with silvery spots. A warm smiled crawled into his lips, as he was watching their future, the dragons-to-be who will roam the sky over the Dragonstone one day and might be claimed by one of their children. One of Rhaenyra’s children, that is, for he was sure that if he had any offspring with Rhea Royce none of their eggs would hatch and wild dragons would refuse to bond. He sighed and stroked the eggshell reverently, so pleasantly warm to the touch, the might of Valyria of Old hidden inside. He put them in a large leather sack over his shoulder and, gripping tightly to the ledges on the cavern wall, climbed back to the entrance.

“Make sure to protect them well.” commanded Daemon to the Dragonkeeper, replacing his previously worn soft smile with a serious face. Several eggs had been devoured recently, all because of negligence of the keepers and inexplicably aggressive behaviour of the Cannibal.

“We will do our best, my prince, but a man cannot stand against the dragon.” came the answer, and as much as irritating it was, it held the truth. The Cannibal was a huge beast, who could not be stopped or scared by the spears of the dragonkeepers. Not that there was a need before.

“Can you show me to his lair?” asked Daemon and followed the shaking hand of the keeper, who indicated to the eastern direction.

Climbing higher to the top of the volcano, the prince, guided by several most daring keepers, finally reached the wild dragon’s lair. Daemon grimaced, inhaling the air which was a mixture of smoke, sulfur and rotting meat. A crevice entrance inside the cavern was wide enough to allow the huge form of the dragon get inside.

“My prince, I beg you to reconsider.” said one of the dragonkeepers, with ugly burns covering his face, bold skull and neck, as Daemon moved forward to the entrance. “We avoid approaching anywhere near the Cannibal and his lair.”

“Cowards.” grumbled Daemon, stepping inside. Something was going wrong and this bunch of idiots just chose to ignore it. “Your order was founded to take care of the dragons, not to be afraid of them.”

Chastised by the prince, the dragonkeeper who warned him against entering, followed inside the cavern, the only sounds there were the echo of their footsteps and rhythmical dropping of water. The Cannibal was somewhere else, hunting the livestock, as it appeared.

Holding a burning torch in front of his eyes, Daemon squinted, peering in the darkness and trying to make out the surroundings. The stone ground was covered with stalagmites, sharp as pikes. Taking a wrong step and falling on them guaranteed a long and painful death.

In the flickering light of the torch he spotted a pile of bones heaped on the ground, knelt and poked at them with a wooden stick he found nearby.

“This was not an animal.” he murmured, looking at a part of the human skull, the upper part of it smashed, but the jaw and nose definitely belonged to a man. Or a Woman.

“No, my prince. These are human’s.” confirmed the dragonkeeper, as he approached an stood behind Daemon.

“Seven f*cking Hells… Since when cows and lambs are not enough to sate his appetite.” muttered Daemon under his breath.

He stared for some more at the remains of the human body, his mind racing and anger boiling inside, anger at the dragonkeepers who let fear cloud their vigilance, anger at himself that he could not bond with more than one dragon or at least understand all of them, not only Caraxes.

“We should better go, my prince.” croaked the man behind him. “The Cannibal can return any minute and…”

“And what —?!” Daemon lurched on his feet, turning to the man and ready to kick some sense into his cowardly arse, but his eyes fell on the object lying on the ground, not burnt by dragonfire or torn by the teeth. Moving it with a stick, he saw a beige canvas purse with an image embroidered on its side. Bringing the torch closer to the object, carefully, so that not to set it on fire, Daemon examined the image — a green hand on a plain field. That was it. Simple, but definitely bearing certain significance, whereof Daemon knew little. Yet, there was a person who could be of use to him, and with that in mind, the prince securely tucked the purse under his doublet. What he was sure of, was that the purse did not belong to the poor lad, whose bones were now scattered around the cave. No, it was brought in later, and whoever owned it, left safely when his deed was done…

***

Since that wretched night when in the drunken haze he made a fool of himself, he had not seen Mysaria. But he was sure, damn sure, that she played her part in setting him up and he made a mistake of putting too much trust in her, up to the point to allow spying in him. A weakness that could have cost him too much, if not for the opportune involvement of his cousin.

Daemon was lounging on a settee, waiting for her arrival. Despite the ugly exterior of the building, located in the heart of the Flea Bottom, the room of the brothel was finely furnished, tables served with light refreshments, offering bunches of green and violet grapes, small cubes of cheese and little berry tarts. Although, he had spent most of his day inspecting the barracks of the Gold Cloaks and patrolling the city streets, Daemon had little desire to touch any of the food, neither did he pour himself wine from the set of pitchers, left on the side table.

Pensively, he was toying with a short dagger, which he discreetly slid inside his boot, as soon as Mysaria arrived, flashing a smile on her rouged face. The face he used to find appealing not long ago. As she always did, with easy steps, the former Lysene dancer crossed the distance between them and threw herself in his arms.

“Why do you make me miss you so much.” she murmured, stroking his cheek and tracing her thumb down his lips, “It makes me wanting you even more.”

“Oh, is it so?” he asked pressing her closely against his chest. “And slandering and spying on me is a sign of what? Deep affection or infinite love?” Mysaria stiffened in his arms and made a movement to stand up but she was nothing compared to his strength and could not move an inch from his grasp.

The blade of the dragger retrieved from the upper part of Daemon’s boot glistened in the candlelight, the tip of piercing her skin, as she winced in pain.

“Everything has its price, you know it quite well. You sell your body, but what is the price for your love? What is my worth to you?”

“Dae —” she coughed, fit of panic squeezing her throat. “Daemon. It’s a mistake.”

“A lie.”

“I was forced into doing it…”

“Another lie.”

She sighed, driven into a corner.

“I was told to report, if anything compromising happens. And that toast you made, about the king’s dead son… It was something that could be of interest to the Hand.”

“The Hand… But of course...” whispered Daemon, easing his grip on Mysaria and letting her fall down to his feet. The bloody bastard would go to any length just to destroy him. And Viserys foolishly kept calling him “his friend”. The prince shut his eyes in anguish and when he opened them another question left his lips. “And that I was the king’s sole heir, not his daughter? Did you make up this vile slander?”

Mysaria gawked at him, genuinely surprised. “Of that I know nothing… Well?” She let out a shuddering breath, her eye flickering to the dagger he was still holding in his hand. “Will you take my life now? Daemon, I —” she began, but he interrupted her, raising a hand.

“I will not. Not now. Only fools squander things which can be useful.” he hummed. “Get up.”

“I’m not a thing.” she hissed, offended.

“You stopped being anything else the night you betrayed me.” he said, voice dripping with disdain.

Mysaria clenched her jaw and averted the gaze, probably thinking that she had made a mistake by choosing the wrong master. Otto Hightower could reward her with gold and turn a blind eye to prostitution and gambling pits, but it was Daemon Targaryen who could be a gracious god to her as well as the darkest nightmare.

“How can I be useful to you, my prince?” she asked meekly, and when she looked up him, it was the sign that she accepted the deal. Her loyalties would stay with the Prince, not the Hand.

“Do you know what it is?” Daemon took out a purse from the inner pocket of his doublet, the one he had found inside one of the caverns of the Dragonmount.

Mysaria looked at him unimpressed, turning the dirty canvas purse in her hand. She furrowed her brows, upon noticing the green hand stitched to one of its side and rubbed her finger on the image.

“Hmm… I don’t think, I have seen it before.” she hummed, thoughtfully. “But I might try to find out the meaning behind this symbol.”

Daemon nodded in satisfaction. “But be quick. I need answers in the shortest time.”

“I will let you once I have any. If that is all… Are you staying for the night, my prince?” she said softly, as if nothing had happened, as if not long ago the blade of his dagger did not pierce the gentle pale skin of her neck. But she was yet to prove that she was worth keeping alive.

“I am. But not with you.” he grimaced in distaste, causing Mysaria to pout at the fact that she, the most comely woman at the brothel and the one always desired by the prince, was rejected.

“As you wish, my prince.” she answered coolly and opened the door, beckoning the girls standing outside to come in.

Daemon tilted his head towards one of them, blonde and slender, her eyes almost a shade of lilac, evaluated the strength of his desire for a heartbeat and settled at one whor*, not two. He did not spare Mysaria another glance — she was his spy from now on and was not worthy even the smallest bit of his feelings.

“My prince.” she muttered formally and added before leaving, “One silver Dragon to the girl after you’ve finished the act. She is a virgin.”

Watching Mysaria go, Daemon leaned back in his chair and looked appraisingly at the whor*. He was in no mood to hear her screams when he would pierce her maidenhood, her clumsy attempts at pleasing him lost its appeal, but surely she was skilled in other ways of giving pleasure. The prince nodded downwards, to his pants, resting his head on the padded back of the chair and hands on the armrests. The last thing he saw was a glow of silver hair in the dull candlelight, bending down to his manhood and, closing his eyes, another picture and another silver-haired woman appeared before him, as a soft moan escaped his lips…

***

“Make me a bath.” Daemon said curtly to a young maid, who dipped into a curtsey shakily, afraid of the prince’s sour mood. Stupid girl, of course he would not beat her like some drunken lord of a minor castle. Even if he wished to give vent to his anger, he wouldn’t lower himself to that.

The night in the brothel brought neither pleasure, nor joy. His only desire was to scrub off his body where he was stroked and caressed by that blonde whor*. Were he at Dragonstone, he would join Rhaenyra in the yard and then later they would lie languidly on a velvet cover somewhere on a mountain ledge. Each time the pads of his fingers touched her bare skin, not covered by the leather of her jacket, it gave him goosebumps and he hungered for more. Hers and only hers touch brought him relief, quick glance of mischievous eyes sparked his desire beyond control…

He sighed, dipping into the tub, savouring the memories, so fresh and palpable.

The day of Rhaenyra’s investiture was drawing closer, the Starks, arriving from the farthest part of the Realm, had already set their feet in the Crownlands, and with that the Prince had become ever more unsettled. The Tourney, among other festivities, which was to follow the formal part, promised to be a heated and lively affair — every lord whose rank was high enough would be fighting for the princess’ favour. When Rhaenyra voiced her concern that it would be a parade of suitors, back then at Dragonstone, Daemon turned it into a joke, saying that he would unhorse all of them and the rest he would defeat in a melee. Never had his niece been closer to the truth. Viserys would make it a parade of suitors and the hunt for the most admirable and desirable bride would begin. What a f*cking pity he could not join the horde of these lords and lordlings! Grandmother made sure to secure him a humiliating match, crippling him, tying his hands.

He could only hope that Rhaenyra’s marriage would not be as miserable as his; that she would not be reduced to warming the bed of her future husband, who would boast the proximity to the House Targaryen, maybe even calling himself such. Though, it was hard to guarantee with his brother’s incurable stupidity. A fleet of ships or a mountain fortress could be a nice bait the king would eagerly swallow, just to get rid off another headache and return to his toys, choosing imaginary world instead of the real one.

Thank the Fourteen, Aemma lived through another of her pregnancies, despite Viserys obsession with a son and unrelentless attempts to plant his seeds into her womb. And he would pray the Fourteen that Rhaenyra’s husband would not be like her father. Fortunately, Aemma was there. And as stubborn in some of his decisions Viserys might be, Aemma did have certain influence on him. Not as strong as the Hightower c*nt, but enough to guide him to a better choice of a suitor.

What if he, as her uncle, talked to Aemma? He never asked favours for himself, but for Rhaenyra he was ready to beg…

***

Daemon made it to the Queen’s chambers next thing in the morning, past the hour when breakfast was usually served, but before the Small Council convened. There were two Kingsguard stationed at he door, and Daemon wondered what caused such security measures.

Aemma, despite the late hour was carelessly wrapped in a red velvet robe over the silken nightgown, and her hair was still untouched by the maids, cascading freely down her shoulders.

“Are you unwell, cousin?” asked Daemon, furrowing his brows, while shuffling hesitantly at the entrance.

“Oh, no, no, I am perfectly fine, thank you.” she smiled, slight blush reddening her cheeks. “Just had a late morning. Please do sit down.”

As he approached Aemma, easing himself on a plush velvet chair, the doors opened, letting in the swarm of servants carrying silver trays filled with fine food for breakfast. His chance for privacy was stolen, and he had to wait for them to lay the table and perform other duties. Before long, all of them left as quietly as they appeared and Daemon leaned forward to Aemma, full of resolve to talk about the matter which had occupied his mind, robbing of sleep and appetite.

Only to be interrupted again.

“Daemon? I did not expect to see you here.” came Viserys’ hoarse voice as he emerged from the bedchamber. Judging by his looks, he also had just risen from the bed, his white linen shirt wrinkled and tucked only from on side in his half-laced breeches, hair disheveled and eyes still unfocused and drowsy. He yawned loudly, rubbing his face, and staggered first to Aemma, placing a kiss on the crown of her head and then to a silver basin with water to freshen himself up.

Daemon looked down uncomfortably, feeling himself an intruder to a family routine of the royal couple and battling with a feeling of envy, stirring deep inside. He would have liked to wake up like this — greeted by a woman he loved, in the comfort of the Red Keep and having some certainty about the future. So far, what he had got was a whor* in a brothel, willing to cater to his every even the most unpredictable desire and Rhea Rhoyce in the Runestone, unwilling to spare him a single glance or smile. And neither did he want to offer any kind of warmth to her, actually.

“Oh, Gods, I’m famished!” groaned Viserys, joining them at the table and helping himself to a generous portion of duck sausages and cheese.

It seemed the King tried hard during that night, working up an appetite in the morrow. Daemon grinned savagely, a dirty joke, about to slip from his lips, but meeting Aemma’s gaze he thought better of it. The joke might touch her honour as well and she was an honourable woman, “As High As Honour” were her House’s words and for the Queen it was not a trivial gesture.

The bells of the Sept broke the awkward silence which reigned in the chamber, interrupted only by clinking of the cutlery and Daemon’s occasional sighs. The King looked up, his eyes widening in surprise.

“What hour is it?” he asked, looking sadly at his unfinished meal.

“Already past noon, as you may well hear.”

“Seven Hells, I am late for the Council meeting! Again!” he exclaimed, startled.

“The king is never late, brother. Others just arrive early.” allowed Daemon, happy to finally get rid of Viserys’ presence. “Just don’t forget to dress up and ready yourself properly, unless you want to show the abstinent old farts in your Council how pleasurable nights can be.” he teased, earning a reproachful glare from the Queen.

“You could know such pleasures as well, if you didn’t keep ignoring your wife.” commented Viserys viciously, wiping off the smirk from Daemon’s lips. The prince furrowed his brows and inhaled deeply, ready to answer back, but was interrupted by Viserys.

“I— um — I have to go, my love.” He said between the bites of apple pie. Daemon narrowed his eyes and gripped tighter the hilt of the sword. Then breathed out, sending his anger into submission. He came to talk to Aemma privately and the need to tolerate Viserys’ smug face for a short time was an acceptable price for it.

The King grasped his doublet tossed on the floor the previous night in a fit of passion and stormed out of the chamber, while Daemon to his amusem*nt noticed something resembling women stockings and a nightshirt, also discarded right on the floor.

“Must you always act like this?” sighed Aemma in exasperation when the door behind Viserys closed.

“Like what?”

“Like people who hate each other’s guts, but not brothers!”

“Pfff!” snorted Daemon. “It is your husband who thrives on undermining me at every step. Not me. I have always ever defended him!” The look on Aemma’s face was not quite convinced, could they still hold grudge for him for the Heir for a day toast? Daemon sighed, hanging his head. “At least I am happy that you seem to be enjoying each other. Viserys looks very pleased.” he grinned mischievously and Aemma only rolled her eyes.

“I have to keep him pleased, you know.” she sighed. Then corrected herself: “Don’t get me wrong, I truly enjoy his company. It’s just… You, dragons, are so insatiable…” she smiled, flushing.

“Please, don’t tell me you want to have another try at conceiving a son, Aemma.” said Daemon seriously. Even before Rhaenyra was chosen as the heir to Viserys, each failed attempt at producing a healthy baby by Aemma brought little happiness to him, as some might have thought. Closer to the Throne he remained, but it was not the way of things he preferred.

“No, no, no that. We are done with this thing…” she shook her head, even the mentioning of her previous experience caused her to shudder with fear. “It’s just… I need to keep Viserys close as a necessary measure.” said Aemma, averting her gaze. “I received some disturbing information from my trusted source.”

Daemon couldn’t but give her a proud look. At last his cousin learnt how to play the game in the Red Keep, and having spies was not something indecent but one of its most important rules and prerequisite for winning.

“What information, dare I ask?”

“That Viserys shares his free time with someone else. A lady, that is.” she mumbled miserably, as if it was she who was unfaithful to her husband, not the other way round.

Before he could stop himself, Daemon burst off with uproarious laughter. “My prim and proper brother fooling around with some other women? I’m sorry!” he wheezed between fits of chortling, while his cousin looked almost offended, “I truly am, but this cannot be! His wayward days in brothels finished when he got married to you! And even then he was not the most accomplished! It must be a mistake!”

Then feeling of resentment replaced his initial merriment. It was he, Daemon Targaryen, who had always been chastised for his wayward ways, called a whor*monger behind his back by the leeches on his brother’s council. But was there anything truly so indecent about him? Cuckolding his wife whom he had not touched even once since their marriage which was not consummated? But Aemma… A woman of Valyrian descent, something Daemon could have never dreamt of when his hand was forced in marriage with Rhea Rhoyce. Viserys must be a complete fool to cheat on his wife.

“With whom was he seen, pray tell?” he finally managed, pulling himself together.

“The Lady Alicent Hightower.”

Once hearing this, a scowl forced away the smile which was still lingering on Daemon’s lips.

“Pardon?” he narrowed his eyes in disbelief, but Aemma confirmed her words with one short nod. “With this plain-looking Hightower lady-in-waiting?!” he exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. The girl had been shuffling behind his niece since her arrival at the court and possessed neither charm, nor beauty. “No, he is really out of his wits!” The King’s sanity was under question, and what seemed as a joke at first was turning into a full-scale disaster.

And, surely, Otto Hightower had his hand in the matter, it would be unsurprising, if it was he who had sent the girl. Was he that sick with ambition that he was ready to use his own daughter as a step on a ladder, leading to the Iron Throne? But the bastard had forgotten that the way there was littered with sharp blades, ready to cut undeserving ones.

“I don’t know the reasons for it, neither how far they go when left alone. But I am sure it is not only Viserys’ fault.” said Aemma softly.

Daemon could hardly resist the urge to roll his eyes. Was she really that naive? Or was it how the true love worked, it made you forgive the person you love even when he rubs sh*t onto your face? Oh no, enough with the madness and humiliating, he would expose the little whor*, together with her scheming father.

As if reading thoughts, Aemma raised a placating hand. “I know very little at the moment. Only that they meet occasionally in his chambers and talk. That alone can hardly be called cheating or unbecoming behaviour.”

Daemon’s brows furrowed, once again taken aback by his cousin’s generous spirit. After all she had gone through she was so loyal to Viserys. Sadly, Daemon got the wrong end of the stick with Rhea, but for his older brother, Queen Alysanne did secure a good match. Watching Aemma, who fiddled with the tassel on the belt of her robe, so miserable and upset with her findings, Daemon felt a strong urge to do something about it. He came to stand for Rhaenyra, but it seemed not only his niece needed protection.

“Do you wish to know more? To see what happens behind the closed doors?” he asked, lifting her chin with his finger and looking straight into her eyes.

“I do. Even though, I have to admit, I am anxious that something may transpire…”

“You say you have a pair of eyes watching Viserys, but it is not enough.” Aemma nodded, and Daemon offered her a knowing smile. “I can offer you mine.” The secret passageways of Maegor’s Holdfast had been well familiar to him since his childhood. Rarely used, but not forgotten. Effusive gratitude offered by his cousin was not needed, to expose the Hightower whor* was worth spending some crouched in dusty cobweb covered passages.

With Daemon’s promise to help the Queen felt at ease, her awkward smile replaced by relaxed one and she urged him to help himself with the meal which was already getting cold. Out of politeness the prince accepted a pair of sausages and a cinnamon roll which he, nonetheless, hardly touched.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” asked Aemma, tilting her head curiously. “Your visit is not mere politeness, is it?”

Daemon hummed thoughtfully, cutting the sausage into tiny pieces which he was not going to it, and pushed them across the plate. He washed his dry throat with several gulps of sweetwine before starting his speech.

“I know that Viserys will not listen to me or follows the opposite counsel, the one coming from Otto, but you are my beloved cousin, you’ve always showed common sense. Don’t let Viserys betroth Rhaenyra hastily. I am sure he is already planning to marry Rhaenyra to a Lord Paramount or an heir to a major house. But the thing is, a title doesn’t always mean that a person is not a total piece of sh*t. And you know better than anyone else how bad early marriages are for the woman’s body.” he finished, surprised at how weak his voice sounded. He was a man who commanded a small army of the Gold Cloaks, but now, talking about his niece and her precarious position turned him into an awkward goof, muttering the words under his breath.

“Your care is very touching, cousin.” nodded Aemma gratefully. “I can’t speak for Viserys, but I have made my choice. There is no better suitor for our daughter than a man whose most important value is his family. A man who understands the ways of Targaryens. Who will cherish our daughter and will not subdue her inner dragon and let her spread her wings.”

“A man coming from the family? Are you taking about Laenor?” grimaced Daemon in distaste.

“Oh, no!” spluttered Aemma with laughter, covering her mouth with a hand, confused with her own outburst. “His tastes and interests are slightly different from what we are searching for.” she said meaningfully. “What if you were offered a chance to court Rhaenyra?” she suggested.

It was not what he expected to hear. He came to ask to do Rhaenyra a favour, not him. And yet it sounded like some mean joke, no one had the right to make.

“Don’t play with me, Aemma!” he bristled, bitterness sharpening his voice. The topic of marriage had always been a sore point and he would not tolerate such japes even from his cousin.

“Do you think me that cruel?”

Daemon stared at her, trying to read her expression, whether there was underlying mockery or she was being earnest. He hated himself for how vulnerable, distrustful and pathetic he grew. All his life he had been wearing his mocking smirks and harsh words as an armour, it was an impregnable fortress he erected to hide his bitterness at being a second son who stood to inherit nothing and whose hand was forced into marriage disregarding his feelings and ignoring his pleas. But now it all crumbles with only one mentioning of his little niece, leaving him naked and helpless. When did he become that? And was there a way to fight it or was he doomed to burn from desire, watching his niece near him, but not his… Not his?

He gulped, suppressing the inner tremor, overwhelming him beyond his control.

“Explain.” he said, curtly.

“That morning in a brothel, I asked you for loyalty.”

“Yes, you did. And it is yours and Rhaenyra’s.” he confirmed, shame still making the tips of his ears turn red.

“Now I ask you for love.” said Aemma, a glint of hope flashing in her eyes. “Can you love Nyra the way I am sure she loves you?”

The time stopped running, while his heart stopped its beating in his chest and only Aemma patting his hand lightly and repeating his name several times, forced him back to reality.

“Daemon? Daemon!”

“How do you know?” he muttered weakly, than added louder, “Rhaenyra is still very young, how can you be so sure of her preferences?”

Aemma stayed silent for a moment, looking him over appraisingly, before trusting him with the greatest secret and ready to share the most precious thing.

“Mothers should know the most about their daughters, shouldn’t they?” she shrugged, still reluctant to give any details.

“Isn’t it too early to talk about such things? Or have I missed something? Mayhap, the Stranger took my Bronze Bitch and I am a widower?” he snorted bitterly. This teasing game brought little pleasure and even less satisfaction.

“And even if there was no Rhea Rhoyce, what about my fame? I have f*cked my way through the Street of Silk, wetting my co*ck in so many c*nts that I lost count long ago. What of my age?” he spat, digging himself a deeper grave. But he couldn’t stop himself — the whole idea seemed so appealing to him, that he had to make sure Aemma was serious, she really meant what she was saying, saw the consequences of her choice. He wouldn’t tolerate to be played with. Not when it concerned his niece.

Aemma took a moment to ponder on his words, while her face reflected conflicting emotions. It was bitter realisation, to know that each and everyone around treated him with caution, probing every time if the armour made of dragon flames he wrapped himself with was too hot to the touch. More often than not, though, it was unbearably hot, scaring people away.

Daemon shifted a little on his chair, a feeling of worry coiling around him. Sometimes he didn’t even need Otto Hightower to undermine him, self-destruction ran through his veins, mixing with the dragon blood.

Finally Aemma broke the silence. The words of comfort she uttered covered like herbal balm did when spread on a wound.

“That is true enough. All of it. You do not mask your vices under virtues, like most of the double-faces hypocrites at court. And that is precious.”

He blinked, taking in her words. It did not sound like pity which he so much hated. Pity was for weaklings. Neither there was a hint of accusation or reproach. He blinked again, easing in his chair and co*cking his head curiously, inviting Aemma to continue.

“I would like you to become one of Rhaenyra’s suitors. I have known both of you long enough to be sure that you have more in common than you might think. And my worst nightmare is the future for my daughter where she would wither away under the weight of the responsibility she was given and in a company of a man unable to appreciate her as woman, not as a ladder to the most prominent position in the Realm. You do understand how precarious the situation is, the girl is tasked to continue the legacy of her family when even its male representatives fail in so many respects.”

Daemon snorted, recalling the ups and downs of his Grandsire’s reign and the troubles plaguing his brother’s, which he so typically chose to ignore.

“I have sworn to give my hand and sword to Rhaenyra once.” he said, while Aemma nodded in acknowledgment. “I will pledge my oath officially at the initiation ceremony. And trust me, cousin,” he said, leaning forward to Aemma and taking her hand, "I can do it every day since, with each rise of the sun in the morning and its set in the evening I can proclaim my love and loyalty to Rhaenyra. If only given a chance.” he added, letting go her hand and walking to the window, somewhat confused with his own outburst of emotion.

“And for that I am endlessly grateful to you.” Aemma’s voice was soft as she joined him near the window, watching as the day was reaching its peak, the sun at its zenith in a cloudless sky.”

“Will you share details of your plan, perhaps?” asked Daemon, without turning his head, still looking at the view. “My marriage to Rhea Rhoyce? Viserys and his stubbornness?”

“I have none.” came Aemma’s answer, baffling him with its simplicity.

“None?” he turned to her, furrowing his brows, some deep hidden bitterness that he was teased, rearing its ugly head again.

“Nothing specific. But you have been doing well recently, and you must continue like that.”

“Like what?”

“To be on your best behaviour. Without compromising yourself.” she clarified.

Daemon bit his lip. He had taken many wrong steps in his life and paid a price for it with his hurt pride and wounded feelings. As much as he was constantly undermined and slandered by the Hand, preferred by his kingly brother over his own person, he was not innocent.

“I promised to be better and I never go back on promises, my Queen.”

Though, Aemma’s next phrase proved that it would be harder than he expected.

“Lady Rhea is coming to the capital with the rest of the House Royce.”

“Seven Hells…” he groaned, smacking his face with a palm.

“You may find her presence upsetting, but Rhea is the head of the House Royce and must pledge oath to Rhaenyra.”

“I am her husband and she must follow my oaths, so there is no need to have her here.” he argued.

He did not wish the whole grand affair to be darkened by his wife’s presence. And what was more, behaving himself in her company was an unattainable task. There hadn’t been a single decent conversation between them since their marriage. Nor there was any before they exchanged their vows. A cheap spectacle arranged by his late Grandmother.

Surely, he would get himself drunk senseless or engage in an argument with her, any sort of stupid unbecoming thing might happen.

“We need her here, in Kings Landing, if we want to move on with out plan.”

“As you say, cousin.” he sighed in acquiescence.

The bells of the Sept tolled once again signalling the beginning of the new hour. A short talk he had planned turned into an intimate conversation, full of sudden revelations.

“I will not take your time any longer.” he stood up and placed a kiss on the back of the Queen’s hand. “I am sure you have other duties to attend to, as well as I do.”

He marched to the door, but lingered in the doorway for a moment.

“Aemma?”

“Yes?”

“I’m doing it not only because I want freedom from my Bronze Bitch.” he said, turning back. “I do love Rhaenyra.”

“I know you do.” smiled Aemma and waved her hand dismissively. She did not need the words to prove it, it was a fact for her, and that was the sweetest of feelings Daemon had experienced in a long time.

Chapter 13: Of Overweening Ambitions and Sublime Confidence (Otto)

Chapter Text

The fact that King Viserys was not the strongest-willed of kings, always amiable and eager to please, relying greatly on his Small Council and doing more often than not as they bade him was well known to Otto even before Jaehaerys’ crown was put upon his head by the High Septon. Yet, nothing could sway him from the notion of proclaiming his sole daughter, Princess Rhaenyra, his successor. It all began with hesitance and uncertainty and then transformed in an issue which was yet to be solved until it snowballed into a full-scale disaster.

Throughout all his reign the King was torn between his daughter, brother and a son who was not even born. What was worse: a woman on the throne or a temperamental moody violent psychopath was only the question of time, yet, the risk of plunging the Realm into riots were the former ascend the throne or wars, if the latter was chosen, was imminent.

Meanwhile, the situation could no longer be ignored and His Grace’s choice fell on his daughter, adored by her parents, loved by the highborn and cheered by the smallfolk. Though, how many would still support Rhaenyra when she would not be an eligible bride anymore and her beauty would be marred by age and childbirths was a question none could answer at the moment.

Yet, despite all those worries, plaguing the Hand’s mind, when the King almost weeping approached Otto, asking for advice how princess’ position could be strengthened, Otto did what any honourable Hand would do — outlined the course of action the main part of which was to summon all the lords and make them officially pledge an oath to the princess. “A half-measure”, Otto was writing to his brother in Oldtown, who had immediately expressed his displeasure and accused him of governing the King poorly, “Better the Realm’s Delight than Lord Flea Bottom. Until a better solution is found.” he clarified to Lord Hobert.

Though, Otto saw neither promising nor secure future, were the princess to succeed the throne after her father. Was not Viserys himself chosen over a woman and made the king despite being a son of the second son, younger than Princess Rhaenys? The benefit of writing history was that people could learn from it, equally taking into consideration mistakes as well as the right steps. And maesters made it crystal clear in their chronicles that the council of 101 AC established an iron precedent on the matter of succession — the Iron Throne could not pass to a woman, or to a male descendent of a woman, making either Princess Rhaenys or Laenor Velaryon invalid claimants.

There was enough devision in the seemingly peaceful kingdom, one just had to look in the direction of Bracken and Blackwood, whose ongoing family feud and mutual hatred was so strong, that even a quarrel over a tiny plot of land could spark slaughter. What might happen to the Realm, if the Andal Law was changed, making women stand in line for succession with men, not after them? The answer was obvious for everyone with eyes and ears — wars and unrests would break out, every woman from every major and minor House claiming their right as the firstborn.

The tidings changed quicker than Otto expected and solution, favourable to him and his House appeared, glistening with the promise of gain and elevation in status. The King proclaimed that he ceased all his attempts at making his Queen pregnant, and only blind could not see that this woman was incapable of producing any living organisms; princesses Rhaenyra was more an exception than a rule. Otto was sure, that all the miscarriages and stillbirths served as a proof that this sinful and perverted way of Targaryens with intermarriages was wrong and the nature itself opposed it. The King, as the most compliant among the family, was supposed to come to this realisation and cast his eyes towards another, more suitable lady, the one, capable of producing heirs and strengthen his line.

The situation was still rather tricky, unlike his whor*mongering younger brother, the king was a faithful husband, who shared the bed and satisfied his desires with this feeble Arryn woman. With her pale skin, colourless hair, weak translucent body and timid nature she bore resemblance to a ghost, not to a queen. No wonder, the life itself denied her body, resisting any healthy sprouts and letting only premature babes escape her dry infertile womb.

Luckily, there was no need to search for a suitable woman to distract His Grace from his unsuitable wife in the farther corners of the Seven Kingdoms. Otto kindly suggested the king to be entertained by his daughter, Alicent, a clever and lovely young lady, hoping that the interest and tenderness displayed by her would be reciprocated.

It must me said, that the Hightowers of the Oldtown were an ancient and noble family of impeccable lineage. Moreover, as for child bearing, there had never been such problems in their family. Both of his children, Gwayne and Alicent came into the world easily and without fuss. There could have been much more, had the Stranger not taken his wife so suddenly and early. Otto was sure that Alicent took after her mother in this respect, pregnancy would not be a trouble for her and babes would be robust and healthy. So sad His Grace refused to see the gift he was given. This wilful blindness was useful in some matters but in this case it infuriated Otto immensely, he was seething when Alicent returned to him empty-handed after each visit. “We were reading and talking…” she mumbled in her weak voice. Reading could not plant a babe in your womb, he wanted to shout at his daughter, but instead gave her an encouraging smile, she was simply unaware of his true motives, the actual purpose of her visits to the king was not revealed. What for? Her surprise would look even more natural when the king’s desire would be finally aroused and as a greedy and lustful dragon he was, he would ask for more than reading and talking…

***

The hour of the Small Council meeting was approaching and Otto rubbed his hands impatiently, anticipating discussions and debates over which he would domineer, the way he always did. The king hated dissension and tired by the tedium of the rule relied greatly on Otto’s counsel and judgment, making him the king in all but name. Apparently, such honour did not go unnoticed and many a lord found Ser Otto brusque, proud and haughty. A bunch of envious fools, Otto would often think. They could even turn with envy as green as the beacon on the Hightower, for all he cared. He had His Graces ears, and soon, he would have his other parts, those which often guide men with lust and passion.

Otto knew the kings mood perfectly well. With the little taste for ruling he had and mind distracted by his sweet Alicent, enthusiasm he showed with elevating his daughter would soon wear off and Otto would eagerly and obediently take the reins in his hands and proceed dealing with the matters of the Realm. This thought filled Otto with glee and triumph and he had to restrain himself so that not to skip a step while walking towards the Council chamber.

Usually, it was Otto the first to arrive at the Council chamber, but as he marched into the room, deep in his thoughts, he had to stop in his tracks and make a deep bow, as there were practically the whole royal family sitting at the council table. He had always been a reserved, cool calm and collected man, his solemn yet courteous mask rarely falling from his face, but in this instance he could not help as his eyes narrowed and jaw tightened when looking at this new… arrangement.

He co*cked a brow and cast a questioning glance at the King who sat back in his chair watching his wife and daughter in front of him with a soft smile. Meanwhile Otto’s facade cracked even further when he did realise that it was his, the Hands, chair occupied by the Princess. Daemon, whose place was still vacant, was supposed to be sitting across the table from her, on the left side from the king, and the Queen was sitting next to her daughter. The only two options left for Otto were either to sit next to Daemon Targaryen, and that he would never do for his own physical and mental safety, or next to Queen Aemma, which was acceptable, but it made Otto sit even farther from the King, two chairs away that was. And taking into account how large and wide the carved chairs around the council table were, it was a great distance and each time to address the king he would have to lean forward in order to see his face and raise his voice to be heard.

No, this was too humiliating, he had been the Hand of two Targaryen kings after all, not a Master of something! With this in mind Otto cleared his throat, addressing the king, “We are having new members of the Small Council, as I may see.” he said with a light chuckle, as if it was a nice but a bit foolish joke. The King’s answer, though, was not what he expected to hear.

“My precious wife and my beloved daughter expressed their wish to join the council and I am most happy to oblige them.” he said, leaning over the table to plant a kiss on Rhaenyra’s bejewelled hand and sent a warm smile and a mischievous wink to his wife.

Otto blinked with a bewildered look upon his face at that uncalled show of intimacy, while the King continued, “Rhaenyra will occupy this place permanently, her duties as a cupbearer are over from now on, while it is up to my beloved Queen to choose when to join the meeting or not, depending on her well-being, of course.”

He opened his mouth to protest, well, he could not actually contradict the King, but at least warn him against…

Yet, his frantic line of thought as well as the sound of his own voice was drowned out by the Lord Commander who, opening the door, announced the arrival of prince Daemon. Belated, as usual. Otto cursed under his breath and watched narrow-eyed as the prince swaggered across the chamber to occupy his place at the table. Fortunately, he was not in the habit of coming often, but when he did, Otto was sure, the sole purpose of his presence was to pester either him or His Grace. It was a cheap trick, but, much to Otto’s chagrin, it worked oh so well on both of them. The rest of the councilmen filed in, occupying their chairs and putting their marble orbs of office in their designated places. All of them, except the princess and the queen. Because they are not supposed to be here, thought Otto irritably.

The king’s countenance was pleased, while the princess… The princess looked radiant, she beamed as if a child when given a sweet or a new toy. Otto mustered a smile, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. By the Seven, cupbearing was a noble task given either to heirs or other offsprings of the most prominent Houses of the realm. Experience they received from listening to discussions and observing decision-making was invaluable. No need to provide an actual seat at the table. Listening and watching was enough, not necessarily participating.

Swallowing his irritation and displeasure, Otto took a parchment from his leather folder, listing the agenda. Ser Tyland, the Master of Ships in the absence of ever resentful Sea Snake, insisted on bringing the problem at Stepstones into consideration, as if there were no other important issues connected with the arrival of lords to the capital, hosting them, feeding and maintaining order. This discussion shouldn’t have lasted long, though, since His Grace abhorred the topic and, unlike his unruly brother, was never warm to idea of waging war, especially for nothing.

However, minutes stretched into a half hour as the Lannister twin was droning on and on about the ships attacked and losses suffered by some merchants, Corlys Velaryon among them. There was nothing new about it, as the Stepstones had been a disputed land for years, a haunt of pirates and outlaws. Due to their location, the islands controlled the sea lanes to and fro from the narrow sea, but again it had remained no more than a nuisance for centuries. Predictably, Prince Daemon was the most interested in the discussion, calling for war and begging the king to provide gold and army.

“Prince Daemon might be so willing to support this affair because of his eagerness for the gold and glory that potential victory in war will bring him. But the Crown is not at war and has never been in open conflict with the Free cities.” concluded Otto, managing an understanding smile.

“Of all the lords of Westeros Corlys Velaryon suffers the most from such practices. And we need to assuage the Velaryons who still hold the grudge, real or imaginary.” insisted Daemon, showing in every way that Otto’s comment was no more than a buzz of an annoying fly.

“The prince is making a good point here, My Lords.” unexpectedly came the Queen’s voice, before Otto could voice his objection. “I myself has been in correspondence with Princess Rhaenys lately and dare I say, she reacted rather cooly to the news about Rhaenyra’s official proclamation as the heir. What can be better for the Crown than to mend the rift between two branches of our family, by offering a helping hand in the war that troubles Lord Corlys and affects his wellbeing greatly.”

“You don’t want your daughter to become the queen of bones and ashes, do you?” Daemon addressed the king, feigning deep concern in his voice, and with these words Queen Aemma’s face assumed that frightened pathetic expression, proving once again that the Small Council was not an appropriate place for women, while the prince continued, “And that what will happen if you let a bunch of pirates and outlaws grow into an army, controlling the shipping lanes. Whether you want it or not, it will be not matter of Corlys’ income anymore, but a full-grown war right under your nose. Or your daughter’s, if you keep ignoring its existence.”

“The Prince is overexaggerating, Your Grace…” began Otto.

“Our daughter’s task is hard enough, why make it even harder with brewing wars and unfinished tasks?” hummed the Queen and to Otto’s horror Viserys nodded, offering her a warm smile, oblivious to the fact that his Hand was interrupted by a comment bearing little sense of any at all. Brewing wars and unfinished tasks… Otto ran the Realm impeccably, there were no such things as unfinished tasks! Was this why Aemma Arryn dragged herself to the meeting instead of busing herself with needlework and embroidering? To join forces with her her cousin and support his impetuous ideas?

“Will fifty crossbowmen and hundred men-at-arms suffice?” asked Viserys, as Otto craned his neck, struggling to see his face.

“It will, if doubled. And coins sent to the garrison already staying there.” demanded the Prince in a tone leaving little space for argument. The king looked at Lord Lyman who stiffened for a moment but nodded obediently. The cost of the tourney and other festivities, following Rhaenyra’s initiation was enormous, making the old Master of Coin tear his hair, what remained of it at least.

The secret that His Grace did not need much pressure to acquiesce was well known to Otto and he used it well to his advantage, but to his unpleasant surprise, in the hands of others it had the same effect. And that was what the king did — acquiesced.

Viserys heaved a long sigh and held his hands up in surrender, “Fine, fine. If you all insist. We will send the troops to the Stepstones and sponsor the Sea Snake’s endeavour.”

Too much stressed by the pressure, the King gulped greedily from the cup which had to be filled by the Lord Commander in Princess’ absence, wiped his forehead with a silken cloth and urged the council to move in with further agenda. Otto needed to think of a new cupbearer. Perhaps, he would suggest Gwayne, who was not particularly bright or attentive to details, but he was loyal to him what mattered most.

In the corner of his eye Otto noticed how Daemon’s lips curved into a smug smile. Yet, it was Otto who always commanded the council and orchestrated its members and he would not let the wayward prince have the king’s attention and favour. He lifted his chin and offered Daemon a matching smile, moving on to a topic he was well aware of, for it was he who in the Queen’s and Princess’ absence planned the oath-pledging ceremony and sent all the summons.

“Shall we discuss Princess Rhaenyra’s initiation ceremony, Your Grace?”

“I will be most delighted!” the King beamed at the mentioning of initiation, happy with the upcoming festivities and attention to his daughter alike. He turned to Otto with a smile, giving him his full attention.

“All the lords who were summoned to Kings Landing have been met and hosted within the walls of the Red Keep or mansions in the city. The Tourney grounds prepared and the lists of contenders are here…” reported Otto, passing over a long parchment with many a name scribbled in his neat penmanship. “The ceremony itself needs rehearsal, if you please, the words to be said and positions taken.”Even if this spectacle was not supposed to have long-lasting meaning, Otto wanted it to go impeccably, since he was in charge of organization and he was used to doing his job well.

Before he could turn to another point, the Queen raised her hand slightly, drawing attention of the councilmen. “As we all know, only the high lords and lords paramount will be admitted to the Great Hall to pledge their oath, while the smallfolk will have to stay outside for obvious reasons.” began Queen Aemma and looked at her daughter, inviting her to continue.

“But people have the right to see their future queen with their own eyes, and for that I will fly thrice around the city on Syrax and then, after landing on the market square, I will ride a horse through the streets.” finished Princess, looking so proud with her plan.

“Although, I appreciate your desire to profess love to your future subjects, it might be too dangerous to appear in such proximity to the smallfolk.” said Otto, feigning concern in his voice and a patronizing smile stretching his lips. She was yet to learn a lot of things. Sneaking from the walls of the Red Keep disguised as a page to walk through market streets is one thing, but official visits required serious security measures. “Any accident might happen. The Kingsguard is not enough to protect the princess. You Grace, I urge you to reconsider the plan of event.” proclaimed Otto. The game of the spoilt brat with her showing off atop the dragon would do little to make her a queen in people’s eyes.

“Worry not, Lord Hand,” Prince Daemon cut in, before the king could open his mouth, “The Gold Cloaks are always there to maintain law and order in the streets and they will do their duty with utmost care to protect princess Rhaenyra. I take all the planning on me, there will be established several posts in the city streets and a detachment following my niece on her route.”

“What is the point, then?” chuckled Otto condescendingly. “If the princess is surrounded by the whole army.”

“You get me wrong, Lord Hand.” replied Daemon, giving him a matching look. “The Gold Cloaks will mingle with the people, as they usually do patrolling the streets, not surround the princess. And they will be ready at the first sign of unrest.”

“Well,” said Viserys, stroking his golden beard, “This idea definitely deserves implementation. Rhaenyra is quite right, people should know their future queen, so that when her time comes her image is well into their heads. My grandparents went on several royal progresses and was in close connection with the people. And we all know how well loved by their subjects Jaehaerys and Alysanne were.” He paused for a second, looking at the councilmen and as none objections came he slammed his palm against the table, saying, “The matter is settled, then! Daemon, you are responsible for my daughter’s security. If anything should happen — it will be on your own head.” he said, jabbing a finger in the prince’s direction.

“Your Grace.” nodded Daemon in obeisance. Otto glared at the man, wondering for how long he would continue playing the role of a protective uncle. First his attempt to secure his nieces future reign from possible enemies, now engaging the City Watch to guard her against ill-wishers from the mob.

Encouraged by the the king’s agreement and her uncle’s support, Rhaenyra’s face bloomed, her cheeks slightly flushed either from emotion or from the heat which Otto found suffocating with each lost argument between himself and Daemon.

“Your help is greatly appreciated, uncle.” purred Rhaenyra, with her head tilted down an eyes looking up at the prince through her silver lashes.

“At your service.” replied the prince humbly, a smile, not a mocking one this time, gracing his lips.

Otto only huffed at this display of affection, and moved onto further matters.

“I have the report from the royal kitchens, Your Grace. Here is the menu for each day of the celebration.” he stated, taking about another parchment, even longer then the previous one from his folder. “We have a great many of them, I must say.”

“One hundred and five. One course to celebrate each year of Targaryen rule.” beamed the King, happy with his ingenious plan. “Very symbolic, isn’t it?”

“Very, indeed…” said Daemon with serene face but Otto could swear there was a mocking glint in his eyes. “But what are we going to do with the leftovers? You understand that it is just impossible to consume it even by all the fat bellied lords you invited to the capital, don’t you?”

“This is not a problem.” replied the Queen instead, and leaning a bit forward Otto could see the encouraging look she was sending to Viserys. “It is symbolic, my lord husband is correct. And as for the the leftovers, everything will be sent to the city, distributed among the people. And to give this plan even more significance, in the course of one hundred and five days food will be sent to household in need and orphanages, in the name of Princess Rhaenyra, heralding that in her reign people will be taken care of and well-fed.”

Otto could hardly not roll his eyes at the naivety of the plan. “That is very generous, indeed, but don’t you think, Your Grace, that when these one hundred and five days are over, the people will still feel privileged to be given food from the kitchens of the Red Keep?” he pointed out.

“And it will continue. Within the projects me and my daughter are running, but of which you might have little knowledge.” stated the Queen, oblivious to the actual cost of such generosity.

“The funds will be taken from my household. Only a small part from the royal coffers, which good Lord Beesbury will be able to allocate, I’m sure.” chimed in Rhaenyra offering Lord Beesbury a smile, which Otto had to admit was really charming. And it worked well, as the old Lord smiled back, his previously determined resistance crushed by her charms.

As the discussion progressed, Otto’s ordeal continued, when all his suggestions were discarded by the king, laughed off by the prince or ignored by the rest of the council — a situation so new to him that a crippling headache started to form in his head and he even forgot himself up to a point that he started picking at his fingernails until they bled, just the way his daughter was constantly doing. No, this can not last long, he thought, trying to put his mind at ease. Daemon would make a false step. There had never been a single meeting without two brothers’ arguing with each other over this or that matter…

Seven Hells, this would be the first one, as it seemed, a thought flashed in Otto’s mind, while he was so deep in his musings, that had entirely missed what the king said. “My apologies, Your Grace,” he mumbled with a defeated look upon his face.

“I was saying that with the help of our comely ladies we had a very productive discussion today.” repeated the king, looking between his wife and daughter with barely hidden adoration. “We will be glad to see them more often here, won’t we, Otto?”

“That way, I am afraid, we will have a Sunday Fair, not meeting of the Small Council, Your Grace.” the words escaped Otto’s lips before he could stop himself.

The heads of everyone present turned to him, but it was again Prince Daemon who spoke up first: “A good Fair always needs a good fool, entertaining the folk. Could you suggest one for our meeting, Lord Hand?” a smirk formed on his lips and Otto could swear that some of the councilmen even chuckled at this dubious joke.

“Are you trying to hint at something?” snarled Otto, the little self-control left in him evaporating into thin air. And only Gods knew where this bickering would have lead to, if not for the king, who clapped his hands happily and called the meeting adjourned.

The chairs screeched, as the councilmen scurried away from the chamber with bows and wishes of a good day, all of them, apart from the king who stayed in his place. Otto lingered for a minute, thinking that His Grace had intention to seek his counsel privately. He let out a breath, relieved that the charade was over, yet, his hope was quickly shattered and his expecting smile fell, when the king dismissed him with a wave if his hand and engrossed in some discussion with his daughter. Otto locked eyes with Daemon briefly, the ever-present smirk playing on the prince’s thin lips and, turning on his heel, marched out of the chamber.

As he was striding along the corridor of the Tower of the Hand, leading from Small Council chamber to his own apartments, he bumped into Grand Maester Mellos who was slowly making his way towards the steep staircase.

“Hmm,” hummed Mellos thoughtfully, when noticing Otto, who was following him behind, “it seems we now have not three heads of the dragon, but four.”

“Three heads and one heart.” corrected Otto, scoffing. “And the heart dictates the mind how to act.”

Mellos hummed again, not quite pleased with the state of affairs, but not as infuriated as Otto either. An unsettling feeling stirred inside him, the notion that he was wasting time becoming clear and evident. But it was not he who was wasting time, but Alicent. Lazy foolish girl, incapable of seducing a man denied by his own weak and feeble wife. He stopped for a second, taking a calming breath. It did help to assuage his anxiety but next moment his mind began to race again.

What, in the name of Seven, was that?! Such unanimity was never common for the brothers, but with the princess and the queen by their side… Otto had felt the most comfortable at the meetings, leading them, while everyone present, including His Grace, were flying round him like moths around the fire. But this time he faced such strong resentment that splitting headache crept into him somewhere in the middle of the meeting and now was killing him with its intensity. Merciful Seven, he used to have one political headaches and now three of them. He dragged himself to his daughter’s chambers, the need to talk about her progress with her king becoming more urgent in the light of this peculiar accord between the royal family.

Alicent’s chamber was modest and simply furnished, creating a rather dull atmosphere. A stack of books was lying on a small vanity table and a wardrobe filled with her gowns and accessories where the only things which caught Otto’s eye. His daughter’s dresses were pretty but simple and Otto had to rummage in his late wife’s chest, searching for something more revealing and mature. Luckily, there were couple of gowns matching the requirements which fit Alicent perfectly, only if a bit loose over her maiden body. It would change, though, when she started swelling with a baby, thought Otto gleefully.

Sitting on a chair he took a copy of a “Seven-Pointed Star” and flipped through the pages while waiting for his daughter’s arrival. Even after the meeting ended his thoughts were sent on a wild race, he hated to take even a single step back or to be outargued and that had happened twice today: firstly, the king consented to send reinforcements and gold to the Stepstones, then supported the princess in her cheap trick to win over the smallfolk. Mingle with them in the city streets and send food from the royal table to that mob. Otto snorted in derision, recollecting the episode. If the queen and princess so much wanted to do an act of charity, they could have preoccupied themselves with it outside the Small Council chamber.

Before long Alicent entered the chamber and nearly jumped in surprise as Otto greeted her from the dark corner of the room. “Father? I… I did not expect to see you here.” she mumbled, her surprise somewhat unfair. He did try to spend more time with her, was it not enough?

“You look lovely, daughter.” he complimented her, trying to sound encouraging as well as caring. “But you can be even more prettier, the dresses I gave make you the very image of your mother, and trust me, she as a beauty, was admired by the whole court.

A lie.

His wife died shortly after their arrival at court from the Oldtown, the fever taking away her life before he could even understand what had happened…

“Will you see His Grace tonight?” he asked, feigning casualness in his voice. “I have heard he profoundly enjoyed your company.”

“He did, yes. But it was during the absence of his family and now there is no need —”

“There is need,” he barked, but that instant cursed himself for sounding to rough, “I mean, a good and intelligent company is always a gift and I am sure, His Grace welcomes it eagerly.”

Alicent shrugged but remained silent, making Otto seethe with anger. Why was it he who worked on the best for their family, while his daughter tried to play innocent. Mayhap he made a mistake, not mentioning the purpose of her visits right from the start. There wouldn’t have been a problem with expressing himself now.

His musings were interrupted by a soft knock on the door and he followed Alicent with a tired gaze as she moved to let the knocker in. “Who was that?” he asked when Alicent closed the door and returned to the chair opposite him.

“One of the King’s chambermaids.”

“Oh?” Otto tilted his head curiously. “And?”

“Here,” Alicent opened her balled fist, revealing a rolled parchment. “She brought a message —”

“From the King?” exclaimed Otto, impatiently interrupting his daughter.

“Well, it must be, if it was brought by his maid…”

Otto could hardly resist the urge to run over to Alicent, snatch the message and read it without waisting a second. But his daughter looked frightened enough, and such outburst would scare her even further. Swallowing his anxiety he waited for Alicent to unroll the parchment and scan through its contents, her brows raising in surprise and disbelief.

“What… What is there?” He asked, inching closer to his daughter and craning his neck to see the message better.

“It is… It is an invitation. I guess…” she mumbled, unsure how to react.

Meanwhile, Otto could not endure the torture any longer and grasped the letter from Alicent’s hand. His eyes ran through the lines and then again and again. And one more time, before the meaning of words sank in:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Alicent,

We have not seen each other for some time and it pains me so much to realise how desirable and welcome your company is for me.

I wish to have a decent talk with you in privacy of my chambers and explain what is about to come. With all the pleasure I receive from your company, I do not feel sated enough with your beauty and kindness.

I do hope you can show me how the warm feeling I harbour to you can be reciprocated.

King Viserys of House Targaryen

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Gods be good…” he muttered, unable to believe in his own luck. “It is a love letter… The King has finally warmed up to you, my dear.”

Otto lifted his gaze to his daughter, but unlike him she looked more frightened than gleeful. “It can be a joke, can’t it?” said Alicent hesitantly. “A cruel joke of someone who has noticed my visits… A servant, perhaps. You saw it, it was a maid who brought the message...”

“Of course it was a maid, Alicent! What did you expect? Viserys himself to come to your dusty chamber, fall on a knee and ask for your favour?!” he exhaled sharply, irritated with his daughter’s stupidity. “It is the King’s handwriting, I have seen his letters thousand times!” said Otto, not letting his daughter finish the sentence and battling with the joy so ecstatic engulfing him. “It is sloppy in some lines, yes, but it happened because of feelings, I’m sure, His Grace was overwhelmed with emotions when writing it! Alicent! Stop doing that!” he grasped her hand and pulled away from her mouth. What a nasty habit it was, the most comely lady at court kept hurting herself, biting her fingernails and tearing skin drawing her own blood!

Sighing deeply, Otto approached her and embraced in what he thought to be the most fatherly gesture. There had been some awkwardness between them, especially, since Helena Hightower died, but with his restless efforts he tried to overcome the grief and replace both parents to Alicent.

“So, does it mean that I am invited to his chambers for some more —” she swallowed thickly, her eyes darkening with the perspective which started to form in her head. “More intimate and private pastime.”

“As it follows from this letter, yes. His Grace wishes you and as it is known all of us serve at his pleasure. Who are we to deny him that? This is an honour, my girl, and you should show the king that he has made the right choice.” Alicent nodded and Otto hoped, he really hoped that she managed to grasp the whole idea.

He pulled back from his daughter and, closing his eyes, sucked in a breath. Thank the Seven. At least part of his plan was going well. If only his daughter would not try to spoil it all.

Chapter 14: Of First Introductions and Pure Hypocrisy (Aemma)

Chapter Text

The sleep evaded Aemma that night, as dozens of thoughts swarmed in her mind, buzzing like bees in a beehive. It was hard to explain, for there were no words to describe a sensation of a dragon stirring inside and rearing its head inside her, evoking feelings previously alien and so exciting.

She grew more possessive and protective, that she could tell for sure. Aemma wondered, if it was her resolve to be a mother and wife not in name only, but really strive to do better in these roles or the encounter with the Silverwing. Could dragon ignite some of her dragon energy? Was she wrong when so cowardly rejected to bond with the dragon, thus losing a chance to gain more respect and power not only as queen Aemma Arryn, but as a dragon-riding Targaryen?

These thoughts made Aemma squeeze Viserys tighter in her embrace, inhaling the fresh scent of his clean nightshirt washed with citrus oils and something sweet distinctly his and noticeable only to her, while he squirmed in his sleep and mumbled something unintelligible. No way she would share him with some other woman, even if she was twice or thrice more beautiful and younger than she was, brought to her well-meaning husband on a silver platter by the most trusted advisor. Not now, not when her daughter’s position was precarious and required support of the united family, she thought, leaning closer to him, stroking his soft belly, listening to his rhythmical snoring and savouring his warmth, she would sooner start playing the same vile games as Otto Hightower, then letting the Hand plot against her family.

If she could not defend her family like a knight with a sword in his hands could, like Viserys as the head of their family should, she would do it differently, using the means possible to her.

Alicent’s visits did continue, as Diane reported, and Aemma was glad that she made friends with that woman. Her loyalty was sincere and character humble — to the queen’s great surprise she refused to take another purse of coins, saying that the first one was so generous that she could provide her family for a year with the amount of gold she was gifted. Apparently, the needs of the common folk were much simpler than that of the nobles…

And yet, the time was running out, and things to do on Aemma’s list were only growing, forcing her heart clench in anguish, despite her attempts to chase away defeatist thoughts. But the way Daemon’s eyes glistened when she assured him that his words were not needed, she trusted him and believed in him without any proof of his worth; how Rhaenyra smiled happily every time she was praised for a sound suggestion or wise judgement at Small Council meetings; and how every night Viserys fell asleep helplessly in her arms, and hers only, despite the time he spent with another woman, younger and with beauty not marred by numerous labours — all of it inspired Aemma to do more and better, the inner dragon awoken deep inside her heart spread its wings and was ready to roar, shielding her family…

***

As there were only days left before the Realm was officially presented their future queen, the first one in the Westerosi history, more and more lords were coming to Kings Landing, and with this influx of people the capital filled with visitors from farther parts of the Realm, street actors, merchants and musicians, while the Red Keep was as lively as it had not been in years.

The festivities so carefully planned by Viserys and Otto began well before the investiture ceremony, vintage wine flowing freely and tables brought out to the Godswood and Royal Gardens groaning with roasted pheasants, caramelised venison, canapés with smoked salmon and goat cheese, berry tarts, lemon cakes and honeyed plums. It would have been a mystery to Aemma how the thrifty Master of Coin, good old Beesbury, allowed such wastefulness and squandering of the Crown’s coins, if not for affection and love he experienced towards Rhaenyra, knowing her from her cradle and delighted by her as the whole Realm was. Moreover, Rhaenyra’s participation in Small Council meetings earned her respect in the eyes of Lord Lyman, as her judgements were reserved and sound, while discipline and diligence remarkable.

The day before the ceremony, the king held a banquet in the Godswood, to which the high lords and the lords Paramount were invited and introduced to the heir and their future queen. Rhaenyra was beside herself with worry when preparing for the event, observing herself in the mirror and toying with her rings, as several maids were braiding her silver hair, arranging an elaborate hairdo, while two more maids were lacing an exquisite gown — a mixture of silk, brocade and Myrish silk. She chose to wear the colours of their House: black, red and gold, which were in stark contrast with Rhaenyra’s alabaster skin, lilac eyes and almost ethereal glow of silvery-blonde hair. Aemma’s heart swelled with pride at the sight of her little girl, now practically a woman grown, ready to take on immense responsibility and carry it on her fragile shoulders. If only there was someone to share the burden, loyal, protective and loving, sparking her inner flame as well as quelling it when needed…

Standing under the red leaves and sprawling branches of the Weirwood tree, Rhaenyra and Aemma, flanked by the king and the prince from both sides were approached by many a lord, donning the colors of Lannisters, Tullies, Starks and Baratheons. Lord Rickon Stark stepped forward first. Despite the summer heat and the sun burning relentlessly from the cloudless skies, he was draped in a heavy cloak with black fur collar, thick woolen doublet and breeches, so different from the mixture of purple and gold Viserys was wearing and even Daemon’s simple black doublet with red details seemed bright and foppish. It was obvious, that they were different people, the northmen, their heads were not kissed by the warm sun and their lands were not blessed with fertile fields.

Aemma watched with bated breath the elaborated introduction before the king and his heir, with bows, falling on knees and other signs of reverence and loyalty, and to her great relief, she could swear that the Warden’s of the North stern face softened whilst he was talking to Rhaenyra. It was the first time he had seen the young princess in person and she managed to create a favourable impression on the northman with her soft charming smile and considerate questions about his family. Aemma did well to prepare Rhaenyra in advance, studying with her all the names of Lord Rickon’s household, including his heir, little Cregan Stark, so that to be more empathic and approachable. And his smoothed from ever-present frown face was a good sign, the Starks were loyal to their oaths and once Nyra won over Lord Rickon, she won over the whole North.

Lord Jason Lannister, predictably vain and dressed as a peaco*ck in crimson an gold, a thick golden chain adorning his neck, made even the king’s attire look humble, while his big green eyes were glued to Rhaenyra, studying every inch, every curve of her body, like a lion waiting for its prey. Aemma shook her head slightly, chasing off an image of Lord Jason’s face turning into that of a lion with fluffy golden mane, baring his sharp teeth and roaring. The Queen was sure that he would do his best to win Rhaenyra’s attention and would try to lure Viserys with promises of wealth, gold and support; not that the Crown and the House Targaryen needed them, but her husband would definitely fall for the trick. Moreover, his name was on the Tourney lists, so he would also boast his prowess with a sword and jousting skills. Deep inside, Aemma hoped that Daemon would unhorse him as easily as he did it previously, thus humbling the arrogant lord.

The only one who did nothing to mask his disdain and resentment was old Grover Tully. Without hesitation he supported Viserys’ claim back in 101 AC and now to be forced to bend his knee before a girl who was about to be proclaimed his future queen was considered by him wrong and humiliating. His lips were pursed into a thin line when he bowed to the king and the princess and during their short conversation he was stroking his grey beard, his calculating eyes narrowed and locked on Rhaenyra. For the aged lord, it was a temporary half-measure and he was ready to support any idea leading to a change in succession, were it taking a second wife by Viserys or giving up the crown to Daemon. Relying on charming spells was futile in Lord Grover’s case, and Aemma wondered, if offering him or his children position at court would help to bring him under control or worse, it would let him undermine Rhaenyra and her claim from inside, taking advantage of being in close proximity to the throne.

There were much more lords coming, but it was another person that caught Aemma’s attention. Somewhere mingling among the courtiers, she noticed a thick dark brown braid, broad shoulders wrapped in a gown which was about to bursts on it seems from the pressure, while the silk on the arms did little to conceal its muscles and rings looked out of place on calloused fingers. Rhea Royce, and it was no-one else but the Lady of the Runestone, was talking to one of the courtiers, feeling terribly awkward in this sea of luxury and pretence. Once their eyes met, Aemma waved a hand, inviting Rhea to join the royal family. She did not know how to approach the king best and demand that wretched annulment, but there was no sense in hiding her head in the sand — the sooner she acted, the faster she would set Daemon free from these shackles and let him court Rhaenyra properly.

Predictably, Daemon, who was chatting easily with Rhaenyra at the moment, tensed when Rhea Royce came into his vision. Their faces were mirroring each other — hate and contempt almost palpable, gaze burning.

“Wife.”

“Husband.”

Came the greetings in voices laced with ice capable of freezing all the Seven Hells. If looks could kill, they both would have been dead by now.

However, that instant Aemma was forcing to stay her hand and not slap Viserys on his hamster-like cheek, as he was watching happily in total obliviousness at the “family reunion”. “Lady Rhea,” said the king, stepping forward, “we are happy to welcome you in the Red Keep.”

To that corners of Rhea’s lips curled downwards, but she forced herself to dip into low curtsey and kiss the ancestral ring on the king’s index finger, while Daemon, to whom following even the simplest etiquette in the presence of his wife was unattainable task said: “Either you use a royal “we”, brother, or speak for yourself. I beg your pardon, but it has become too suffocating for my tastes here.”

With that Daemon left and, to Aemma’s horror, her cousin could do nothing better, than take Rhaenyra by the hand and tug her along to the table filled with cakes, berry tarts and honeyed plums, offering her a chalice of sweetwine and piling some sweets on the plate. And then, as if they were alone, he started a lively conversation, with all his might showing his indifference to Rhea, whose face flushed from insult and jealousy.

This was not what Aemma planned. Of course, it gladdened her mother’s heart to watch how gently Daemon’s touches were, how carefully he put all Rhaenyra’s favourites on the plate and how he sought her in stressful situation and when he needed comfort, but the moment was wrong, and they were supposed to mend the rift, but not drive a deeper wedge…

Viserys blinked, a smile still plastered to his face, and looked to Aemma for guidance. It was high time she intervened, otherwise, the exchange of pleasantries would have ended without even starting.

“How is aunt Alyssa faring?” she asked sweetly, trying to distract Rhea’s attention from the uncle and niece couple. “It is a pity the journey to the capital was too taxing for her and we can not have the pleasure of meeting each other.”

“As well as her condition can allow. The age took toll on her greatly.” replied Rhea, her eyes wandering to Daemon. Her gaze was intense and there was little warmth in it. Worse, there was jealousy. Aemma noticed how she tensed when Daemon wrapped his hand around Rhaenyra’s waist, she could be indifferent to Daemon Targaryen, but her pride was not indifferent to her husband who was supposed to show at least a grain of respect to her in the presence of other people.

“The Vale is a splendid place, I fell in love with its green fields and hills when visiting Aemma there before our marriage and it still holds a special place in my heart.” said Viserys in a friendly voice, taking two chalices of wine from the servant and offering one to the Lady of Runestone.

“Too bad that the Vale has next to none significance to my husband, Your Grace.” replied Rhea, not even trying to force away steel from her voice, as her eyes were glued to Daemon who was rather mischievously feeding some grapes to Rhaenyra.

Viserys followed her gaze, his silver brows raising in surprise at the sight, then, unable to think of anything better, he shifted his position and stood in front of Rhea, shielding his brother and daughter from her view with his broad chest and voluminous ermine-trimmed cloak draped over his shoulders.

“A-hem…” he coughed, embarrassed, “I do hope you will stay with us until the end of the festivities, we have planned a lot and trust me, you will be well entertained.”

“I am already well entertained...” she murmured, but minding her manners bowed her head respectfully and expressed her gratitude to the king for the honour and hospitality.

Thankfully, the awkward situation did not last much longer, as other lords wished to exchange a word or two with the king and Rhea Royce was dismissed, leaving the Godswood with wide steps of an equestrian, but not of a lady. The spectacle of mutual hate was so obvious that Aemma resolved to discuss it with Viserys in the evening, he could refer to dramatizing and over-exaggerating when looking at Daemon’s marriage from afar, but when he witnessed right under his nose how ill-suited they were, it could be easier to make him stop that lunacy and give both Rhea and Daemon a chance to start their family lives from the scratch.

Later in the evening Aemma was supping with Viserys in her chambers, enjoying the sweet taste of fresh oranges and peaches, brought to them by Lord Hobert right from the Hightower garden in the Oldtown. Rhaenyra’s first appearance in her new status went as well as the situation allowed, her easy charm and warm smiles doing wonders to even the sulkiest of lords. Aemma could only hope that, strengthened by the knowledge and experience her daughter would get from participating in the Small Council meetings and decision making, she would prove to all the Seven Kingdoms, that it was not the co*ck that made a king, but wit, intelligence and charisma.

“Lady Rhea Rhoyce has come all this way to Kings Landing, to pledge oath to your daughter, why don’t you want to reward her by giving her freedom?” Aemma mentioned, peeling an orange and putting sweet juicy slices on Viserys’ plate.

To her surprise, Viserys snapped his head, the pleasantness in his eyes from the wine drank during the banquet and adrenaline from presenting Rhaenyra to the lords, charmed by the Realm’s Delight, disappeared that instant.

“I beg your pardon?”

Aemma came to love her husband with all her heart, but she had never found it in her to understand the scope of his blindness and aspiration to pretend that things were going well, when they were obviously not. “Do not play the fool, Viserys, you know quite well what I am talking about. You saw Rhea Royce and Daemon with your own eyes today, the woman is tortured not less than your brother.”

“Do not speak for Rhea,” he argued, “this marriage is an honour to her House, I cannot take it away from her!”

“Honour?” Aemma asked, glaring at Viserys. “Believe me, Viserys, in her eyes this marriage are shackles as well as in Daemon’s!”

“Couples have to work on their marriage, like we do, love.” he smiled, taking her hands in his and Aemma had to suppress an urge to yank them away. Oh, yes, Viserys was the one working on their marriage, especially during his idle talks about history over cups of wine and sweets with Alicent. Targaryen brothers were difficult to understand and this time Aemma could only wonder if it was pure hypocrisy or obliviousness to the games played by his Hand.

“What is dead may never die, and so are their feelings — they are dead. And nothing in this world will spark them. Just give them an annulment while both of them are in the capital, it will save you so much trouble, believe me.” Aemma almost begged.

“Lady Rhea is a fine woman, I am not going to disgrace her in such a way!”

“In what way, Viserys? By giving both, her and Daemon freedom of choice? The chance to have children and put some order in their lives?”

He huffed, plopping down on the bed, his stubbornness reaching its peak either because of a stressful day or because… Because he was just Viserys and was true to his own drawbacks and vices.

“It was ever my Grandmother’s wish to see Daemon and Rhea as husband and wife,” he began, “she wanted to ensure a well-fortified castle like Rhunestone and a plot of land for her grandson, a second son who stood to inherit nothing, and out of respect I have for the Good Queen I will try not break the marriage and make her efforts go down the drain. Besides, she was the one to comfort me and Daemon, even if he pretend not to remember that, when our mother died from post-birth fever, not the father, who was consumed by his own grief.” he uttered, breathing deeply and shakily, still haunted and tormented by the sad memories of his childhood, “Alysanne and Alysanne alone took care of us, kissed away our tears and soothed our sorrow with comforting words and tender touches. And I will not be the one to stomp and spit on her wishes. Not me, I am not like Daemon, I respect other people’s feelings, even if these people do not walk longer among us. If he does not remember that, it is only because of his nature — he is willing to take and take and take, while rarely giving something in return.” Viserys’ face looked pained, and usual mirth in his eyes was replaced with sadness. And Aemma almost took pity on him… Almost… But no.

Steeling her heart, she stared him, dismayed that the very essence of her plan was slipping away from her grasp. She had been rather successful so far in all her endeavours, even little Alicent was about to be caught in her own trap, but it was too naive of her to forget how stubborn her husband was and how difficult it was to make those ideas swarming in his mind go.

“It is only Daemon who is nagging about his marriage. You may not like Otto, but my Hand is right, it is just another of Daemon’s tricks to manipulate me to a decision favourable to him. And of course, disregarding the needs of our House and the Crown. He was a selfish little brat when he was a child and remained so even now!” he continued in a rising voice, his initial touching vulnerability turning into vexation.

“What needs are you talking about, Viserys?” exhaled Aemma in exasperation. “What can our House or the Crown get from a fruitless marriage full of mutual hate and it was not even consummated! It will not make happy any of them! There is only grief in it, I can feel it. And I truly don’t understand, why you can’t!”

“Tomorrow is an important day, and my brother’s marriage, on which he is too lazy and conceited to work, has nothing to do with it.” Irritated, he rose from the bed, reaching for his previously discarded clothes. Aemma’s face fell, she worked so hard to stand united on this important day, when Rhaenyra would be proclaimed as the heir in front of the Realm, and now it was shattering to pieces because of their family argument. Daemon had the gift to spark anger in Viserys even without his actual presence.

No, she thought, I would not let it all collapse! Not now. She closed the distance between them and rubbed his heaving chest soothingly, a sentiment which he ignored, putting on his doublet. Seeing this, Aemma, reached her hands to help with numerous little golden buttons on the doublet, but instead of letting her help him, he pushed Aemma’s hands away, and it was not a gentle movement.

“Viserys…” she began, shuddering at his gaze, which was like an icy draught through her heart.

“Let us speak no more of it.” he cut her off. “I hope to find you in a better mood come morrow.” there was no smile upon his lips as he was saying it, rather, a line between his brows and slightly twitching corners of his lips showed that he tried to suppress the feeling of anger. He was angry at her for trying to help his brother!…

And so he left, his heavy steps echoing through corridor accompanied by clinking of the armour of the Kingsguard, until the door closed by Ser Steffon cut the sound off.

Where would he go? The hour was not too late to call the Hightower girl, who would not be as demanding as Aemma and instead of pushing him to this or that decision would sooth his anxiety with honeyed words and feigned interest in history and architecture.

She sighed sadly, her eyes falling on half finished orange and chalice of sweetwine left by her husband. For Aemma, that day was one in a million chance to negotiate with the lords and show them that even if her daughter was young, a child not long ago, she had a bright mind and keen intelligence and her easy charm could bring smile upon the lips of even the most sullen of lords, and Rickon Stark was a good example of that. And they did well, all of them.

But even more to it, with Rhea Royce and Daemon present at the Red Keep, Aemma wanted to show both sides of the argument to Viserys, to break the spell of blind obliviousness or whatever it was Otto had cast upon him. With his own eyes he was supposed to see these two deeply unhappy people. And yet… The king was looking not at them but through them, still smiling widely at the “family reunion”.

The simplest way was to make both Daemon and Rhea approach Viserys simultaneously and with united efforts and unanimity shown only when trying to stay away from each other, ask him for the annulment. The funny thing was, that they would not unite their efforts even for the sake of their own interests.

“It was going to be harder, than I expected…” she muttered, pouring herself some mint tea.

Before long, while she was alone, enjoying the soft evening breeze coming from the open window in her chambers, a knock and scraping sound came from the wall, making Aemma drop a fan she was holding in one hand and a small book of Valyrian poetry in the other. She was about to scream and call for Ser Steffon, but to her astonishment a door which was supposed be a part of the wall, not covered by the tapestries, opened, revealing none other than her cousin, Daemon. She swallowed her scream, letting out a sigh of relief instead.

“Gods be good, Daemon! You scared me to death!”

“Aemma! Come! It’s time!” he whispered as if he was still in the confinement of the secret passage and could be heard on the other side of the wall. He patted his arms and legs, removing the dust and cobwebs he caught within. “The little Hightower whor* has come to Viserys, she is in his chambers right now.”

Resisting the urge to lurch from her chair and follow her cousin’s lead, the queen armoured her heart against whatever she could see there, even if it was Viserys kissing Hightower girl and holding in his soft warm embraces. She would not let curiosity get better of her, for she simply would not be able to contain herself and would barge into the chambers, walloping the stupid girl and then doing the same with Viserys.

Yet, the outcome of it did not align with her plans — a cheap spectacle, the only fruit of which would be gossips spread within the walls of the Red Keep. No, she wanted to reap better harvest. Disgrace to Alicent and her father would suffice. It would have even more devastating effect, given that at the moment the Keep was filled with lords and ladies to the brim. And if there was still some hesitance and occasional pangs of guilt because of the faked letter, none of it left by now. And there were reasons for it… Viserys, her decent and faithful husband, who was fooling around and mayhap cuddling with an unmarried unchaperoned woman in his private chambers at the moment, not long ago was talking about the value of faithful marriage, accusing Daemon of being a poor husband who needed to work hard to build up his marital happiness. What a hypocrite!…

Was it cruel to punish them that way? It was. Did she desire most of all to wrap her husband into embrace, stroke his silver hair, cherish and love him? Of course she did… But if a slap on the wrist was needed to help him see the truth, she would do it, and the whole thing was even better, as she was killing two birds with one stone: shaking off Viserys’ hypocrisy and exposing the little Hightower girl, and it was worth every ounce of Aemma’s bad conscience.

“I will ever be grateful to you for your help, cousin, but I will not go.” she said decisively.

“No?” there was surprise and confusion painted all over Daemon’s face. He stood abruptly in the middle of the chamber, his hands hanging limply on both sides.

“No. I must confess, that I took precautions the moment I learnt about this disgrace.”

“You told me about your spy, yes.” nodded the prince, taking a seat next to Aemma.

“There is more to it, Daemon. There was a letter, an unfinished one, written by Viserys. I added some details, so that it looked like the one addressed to Alicent Hightower, inviting her to the king’s chamber for more… Pleasurable past time. Then I had it sent with Diane, the kings chambermaid spying for me, to Alicent. Now all I have to do is to wait for an appropriate moment, tell Diane to find Alicent and tell her that the king is awaiting.”

“Do you… Do you think she will do as aunt Viserra was rumoured to do with my father?” asked Daemon, his eyes wide, as Aemma’s plan began to sank in.

Aemma shrugged, “Disrobe herself and wait for his arrival naked in his bed? Well if she is not, then it will work for her own advantage and will be explained as… Misunderstanding. Or a joke. And if she does… A lot of lords, residing in the Red Keep presently, will have a pleasure to witness how far Otto Hightower is ready to go in order to fulfill his overweening ambitions.”

Even if it troubled her much and ate on her conscience, Aemma prayed that her trick would work and Alicent would go to the king’s chambers undressed, this was a perfect chance to prove Viserys that he was not as faithful as he boasted himself to be, and Aemma would not hesitate to use it against him and grasp the annulment of Daemon’s marriage from his hands with the iron claws of the dragon.

Daemon studied her face for some moments, silent and thoughtful. Then his face broke into smile, as he clapped his knee with his hand and exclaimed enthusiastically, “So, you faked the king’s letter? You do know that faking the king’s letters is treason, don’t you?”

“And you do know that meeting with an unmarried woman behind the closed doors regularly is adultery?” she asked, co*cking her brow and earning even a wider grin from the prince.

With that Daemon threw back his head and laughed. “Gods, Aemma, you are changing so fast that I can hardly follow you!” he admitted, wiping off tears of laughter from the corners of his eyes. “Setting a trap for the little Hightower whor*! That is why you have always been my favourite cousin! And yet… I have never thought you to be so… decisive.”

“Neither have I. But I will not let some over-ambitious second son from the Oldtown ruin my family and snatch the crown from my daughter’s head.”

“You know what they say — never tickle a sleeping dragon.” Daemon wagged a finger at her in a mocking manner.

“I am not sleeping anymore.” Aemma pointed out. She had spent most of her life deep in slumber, letting herself be led and made to do things she did not want. Not anymore.

“You have intrigued me, cousin. I will be looking forward to seeing how you will bring little Hightower whor* and her father to ruins.” Daemon’s face lit with happiness, he was immensely pleased that it was not only him ready to wreck havoc and oppose the grasping over-ambitious Hand of the King and his whor* of a daughter whom he came to despise as much.

“What’s this?” he asked, pointing at the book, Aemma was previously reading. “Valyrian poetry?”

“Oh yes, a very rare edition, it dates back to Aegon the Dragon. I found it in the Dragonstone library, when you were away with Rhaenyra.” replied Aemma, flipping through the old pages, filled with tiny Valyrian letters and decorated with intricate miniatures. She leaned forward, giving the book to Daemon.

“Can I … Can I borrow it?” he asked hesitantly, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the ornaments and letters on the leather book cover.

Aemma opened her mouth to say no, she was only in the middle of this beautiful compilation of Valyrian poetry, but all of a sudden it occurred to her, what exactly Daemon needed the book for. But of course, she thought. There were only two more people who could appreciate such thing apart from her — Daemon and Rhaenyra. Well, at least she would know for sure what her daughter would be read to, and it was a perfect choice, indeed.

“Sure,” she shrugged and waved her hand towards the book. “Take it. Rhaenyra might enjoy it as well.” Daemon gave her a knowing look with a hint of a smile upon his lips, grasping the little book and tucking it safely in the inner pocket of his doublet.

Chapter 15: The Heir Part 1 (Rhaenyra)

Chapter Text

As the investiture day was drawing near, Rhaenyra spent her days, standing beside her father, smiling and welcoming the lords who arrived from all parts of the Seven Kingdoms to pledge oath of obeisance to her. She did not expect it to be easy, and yet she had to muster all her wit and charm to win over aged lords, watching her with appraising eyes along with younger lordlings, more interested in the curves of her body than mind.

Expectedly, lords from the Vale were the most favourable towards her. Ser Corwyn Corbray was so exuberant in expressing his feelings that at their first encounter he took to his knees, his hands outstretched and holding Lady Forlorn, the ancient Valyrian steel longsword of Hose Corbray, gifted to him by his father, and pledged his allegiance and support of his House. Seeing that, his older brother, Leowyn Corbray, patted him on the shoulder, embarrassed by such emotional outburst, but was as eager to swear his fealty as his sibling.

“You see,” whispered the mother, squeezing her hand, “all of them are delighted to see you as their future queen, there was no need to torment yourself with worries, dear.” Then louder, “Ah, Ser Adrian, so good to see you.” the Queen nodded to Ser Adrian Redfort, a large man with strong hands, but eyes soft and loyal.

And so, it went on for hours with short breaks during which Rhaenyra managed to snatch some strawberry cakes and tarts with caviar from the tables groaning with delicacies and, munching on them, exchange a word or two with her uncle. He found this formal gathering no less tiring than she did, perhaps even more. Daemon tapped his foot nervously every time they had a misfortune to talk to a particularly boring and proud lord and a crimson doublet was too tight on his broad shoulders, bringing him discomfort with every movement. When they were out of earshot of the king and queen, he whispered that he begged this spectacle to end, change into his riding attire and take to the sky. “I can’t agree more!” she chuckled to that, wiping the crumbles from her lips with a silken napkin and nodding to her mother that she would join her soon.

Her aunt, Princess Rhaenys, had not arrived yet. There was no question that she would show up eventually, but it was definitely a statement, such disregard with the sole purpose to show that she was displeased. And she could hardly be reproached for that. How could she not? For her it was nothing else but a slap on the cheek — she had been twice deprived of her privilege by birthright and now she was standing witness how history repeats itself, yet, there was no need for Rhaenyra to defend her claim.

Later that day, Rhaenyra soaked into the bathtub, allowing her maids rub her thoroughly, while water, heavily scented with rosemarie oil and lavender, enveloped her with its warm embraces. And of course, mint leaves, mother always insisted that it helped to relieve any stress. And truly it did, sensation she was filled with was the best she experienced that day, sticky curious gazes she was covered with at the banquet in the Godswood washing away, leaving her as she finally managed to breath freely without the need to force a smile to her lips. Rhaenyra was used to being looked at with delight, always an adorable little princess, but it was much different this time, the glares were different and the way the courtiers and newly arrived lords spoke to her.

When the room was heated enough to Rhaenyra’s liking, curtains drawn and candles blown, all the maids left, leaving Rhaenyra in the quietness of the chamber, while she curled under the heavy blanket, searching for warmth and asking for the sleep to cloud her mind and carry away. The day was hard and on the morrow of the next, her investiture would take place, making her life take a new course, anticipated as much as feared. Yet, before she could forget herself, a scraping sound dragged her back.

“Seven Hells!” she cursed, not very ladylike. “Not these awful rats and mice again.” She raised on her elbows, ready to call for Ser Erryk and ask him to catch the nasty creatures, but a movement behind the tapestries was not likely to be made by either mice or rats, but by someone or something bigger.

“Such language does not suit a princess.” At first came the voice and only then its owner, still clad in his courtly attire.

“Uncle! I nearly had Ser Erryk cut you in pieces.”

Daemon only snorted to her warning. “Worry not, my little princess, he would not be successful in it.”

“You doubt the skills of the Kingsguard?” she co*cked her brow and gave him a challenging look.

“No, but I am sure in mine.” he grinned, walking to the side table and helping himself with some wine and grapes. Rhaenyra watched him curiously, the way he slowly plucked a grape and throwing it into the air caught it with his mouth.

She chuckled at the trick and said, smiling, “I am happy to see you here.”

“Are you? Despite my rude intrusion?” Rhaenyra knew about the hidden passageways, sprawling all over the Red Keep and even leading to Dragon Pit. She had never been shown to them, though, and it made Daemon’s sudden arrival even more exciting. It was always the mother to see her last before sleep, on rare occasions father, but never her uncle. She squirmed on her bed, a pleasant feeling blooming in her chest.

“Even despite that. But mama and papa will not be pleased to know that you visit me at such a late our.” she teased, feigning a scolding tone.

“But to be displeased, they have to know about it. Who is going to tell them, I wonder?” he said, challenging her.

“And if… If someone comes in? A maid? Or even parents.”

“Why would they?” Daemon made a surprised face. “In the dead of night? Has anything like that happened before?”

“No…”

“Then why should it be now?”

Rhaenyra shrugged, perhaps, her uncle was right, she was cautious beyond measure.

“May I?” Daemon smiled, his hand pointing at the edge of her bed. She nodded, moving a little bit to the centre to give him more space, and pulling higher the collar of her nightgown. It was both embarrassing to be dressed so simply in a company of a man, and at the same time, this informality was sweet. She would have liked him to remove his doublet as well, staying only in his linen shirt, but neither was brave enough to suggest him disrobing himself, nor was she sure he would welcome it.

“So, my little niece, might I congratulate you on your first steps as our queen-to-be?” Rhaenyra only rolled her eyes at that, the ever-present feeling of uncertainty and self-doubt immediately started scarping inside her heart like cats with their tiny sharp claws. Her face fell and it did not come unnoticed by Daemon, for he was quick to reassure her: “There is no mockery to it, I mean what I say, Viserys’ Small Council has been rather supportive of you as of late.”

“Not calling my ideas and suggestions nonsensical right into my face is not yet support.” Rhaenyra scoffed. “Nothing has changed since Dragonstone. I gained some more knowledge and have more say in the Council, and yet, I have the feeling that I am not taken seriously by either of them. They still take the situation as father’s whim and —”, she lowered her voice, as if what she was about to say was blasphemous, “his reluctance to take a second wife. I heard as much as that.”

“Let me guess who was the one to propose this treachery.” scowled Daemon, his eyes glistening menacingly in the candle light. There was no need to clarify, it was not a big mystery that if not all, but the most part of suggestions and pieces of advice came from her father’s Hand. Ser Otto Hightower was ruling the council more often than not, his experience of having been the Hand of two kings and sound wisdom was much appreciated by Viserys, as well as by other councilmen.

“But he will never agree to it, will he, uncle?” she wanted, oh, so wanted Daemon to give her reassurance, promise that this awful idea would not be planted in her father’s head. Alicent told her that praying to the Gods was needed to become closer to our wishes, but Rhaenyra had little faith in her Gods and even less in prayers. Yet, in love between her parents she did believe.

Daemon waved his hands vaguely in the air. “If I were Viserys, I would strip the man of the title and have his head. Who does he think he is, meddle in our family business, suggest taking some other woman instead of the rightful queen!” The prince cursed, wearing a scowl across his face. Then he let a small smile touch his lips and assumed somewhat calmer expression, saying, “Pay no mind to it, my princess. Even if you have the faintest of doubts in people’s respect and obedience, I am sure it will change tomorrow.”

She smiled gratefully, and, squeezing his hand, brought it to her chest. “Thank you uncle. It gladdens my heart to know that you are taking my side.”

“Of course I am. You are my beloved niece! And if the Fourteen saw it fit to make you our queen, then so be it.” there was no mockery in his tone, rather it was sincere and solemn. This proclamation made Rhaenyra’s heart beat faster and wash away the feeling of concern and worry, rooted so deep in her soul.

“So!” he clapped his hands, straightening up, and for a second Rhaenyra’s heart dropped at the thought that he was about to leave. Too bad her uncle was always inclined to spend his nights in the Flea Bottom, in the company of people she did not know and did not want to. Another silly thought flashed in her mind, how wonderful it would be to welcome dawn with him, with the sun slowly rising above the Blackwater and birds start their first songs.

Romantic nonsense, she scolded herself.

Tomorrow she would become a woman grown, the heir to the throne and she wasted her time imagining birds singing. Rhaenyra opened her mouth to say goodbyes, but before she could utter a word, Daemon positioned himself more comfortably on her bed and retrieved a small leather-bound book from the inner pocket of his doublet.

“If you are not sleeping, then I will read you. It helps to find peace of mind, you know.” he shrugged, tilting his head charmingly.

“Are you.. Are you staying?”

“Yes, if you will have me.” he said.

“Of course I will!” she nearly shouted, forgetting herself, and then took her hand to her mouth, looking at the door.

It did not take long for the ever dutiful and vigilant Ser Erryk to react. The Kingsguard knocked on the door three times and asked, thank the Fourteen, without intruding into the chamber: “Are you alright, Princess?”

Rhaneyra exchanged glances with Daemon and said as jovially as she could: “I am fine, Ser Erryk! I think I have seen a mouse, but it is gone anyway! Good night!”

“Good night, princess.” came the muffled voice from behind the door.

“A mouse, you say…” chuckled Daemon, kicking off his boots onto the floor and getting himself closer to her. “Now listen here, my little niece, there are several poems I particularly liked. This one is about a young couple who are watching the Doom of Valyria happening in front of their eyes, and yet, they are still holding tight to each other.”

“In sickness and in health.” she murmured, already enchanted by the poem.

“In joy and in sorrow, yes.” He nodded, cleared his throat and started reading.

They held each other close,

And turned their backs upon the end,

The hills that split asunder,

And the black that ate the skies,

The flames that shot so high and hot,

That even dragons burned,

Would never be the final sights,

That fell upon their eyes,

A fly upon a wall,

The waves the sea wind,

Whipped and churned,

The city of a thousand years,

And all that men had learned,

The Doom consumed them all alike,

And neither of them turned.

Her uncle’s voice died out and so did the poem. But Rhaenyra wanted for more, his voice, if only a bit raspy, was deep and smooth, words in perfectly pronounced Valyrian fell from his lips like gemstones and this moment of intimacy they shared enveloped her in a cocoon, leaving the rest of the world outside.

“Why are love poems always so sad?” Rhaenyra mused after a long silence. “Cannot lovers be happy for once?”

“Love in real life is not less sad.” replied Daemon with a slight frown. “Have you seen Rhea Royce, a woman I have misfortune to be married to? It is not a lady but a horse! I wonder how she manages to speak, not neigh. And how, for Goodness sake, am I supposed to love this?!” he grimaced in distaste.

Rhaenyra’s face changed from thoughtful to sympathetic. Her uncle’s marriage truly was a sad thing. Even a poem could not describe its sheer misery. Would it help if she entreated her father to dissolve the marriage between her uncle and Rhea Royce? Now that the king was more perceptive to her ideas and suggestions, and he should be, as the matter of fact, if only he did not make her heir in the name only. Rhaenyra had tried, she honestly had, to approach the Lady of Rhunestone several times since her arrival at court. Her demeanor was courteous as the protocol demanded, but the coldness could be felt even from the distance. It was like Daemon spoilt all her pleasure, being irritating to her as much as she was to him. A match made in Hells, once her mother said, and never had Rhaenyra heard a better way to call it. Why would her father insist on it? Preserving family values only made sense when there was a family.

“At least these two died seeing Valyria before their very eyes, something we are not destined to see.” Smile, albeit sad, returned to Daemon’s face and he flipped through the pages, searching for another poem.

“Will there be more?” She asked, somewhat relieved that the mentioning of Rhea Royce did not turn her uncle’s mood completely sour.

“Yes, if it pleases you. But on condition.” He said, lifting his finger in the air. “Tomorrow is an important day and you require good rest. Close your eyes and try to sleep and meanwhile I will be reading to you. Agreed?” He tipped her nose with his finger playfully and waited for her to nod and curl deeper under the heavy velvet bedcovers.

Before she knew it, Rhaenyra found herself again under the spell of Daemon’s voice, drinking his every word and her mind envisioning the poem he was reading. A truly wonderful gift it was — that of a company — she was not alone when the most important day of her life was approaching, not anymore, and the support her uncle promised, was like a balm on her guilt-ridden heart. The abyss of ambitions did not divide them any longer, and there was no grudge in him for choosing her, a girl, over a full-grown man as the king’s heir.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

For the ends of being and ideal grace.

I love thee to the level of every day’s

Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light…

The next thing she heard was a knock on the door, making her sit up on her bed and with pounding heart turn her head looking for Daemon. She did not want him to be seen in her chambers at night… At night. Rhaenyra looked to the window. Rays of sunlight were filtering through the curtains, still young, but heralding the arrival of a new day. Daemon was nowhere to be found. Presumably, he had left the same manner he entered her chambers, as soon as she fell asleep.

“Come!” she allowed, stretching her arms and legs, shaking off the remains of the sleep.

Queen Aemma entered the chamber, followed by several servants and maids, carrying garments and jewellery boxes for Rhaenyra.

“Good morrow, sweetest, I hope you slept well and ready of the day ahead.” Her mother said, her voice ringing with excitement. Then she chuckled: “I did not. Methinks, even the night before your father’s coronation gave me more sleep.”

Warm smile on her mother’s face was a much welcomed sight and Rhaenyra smiled back, happy that she would be taken care of. There was no doubt that the maids would help her with the dress and do her hair, but her mother’s soft touch and encouragement could not to be replaced even with the horde of servants doing there duty, showering her with stilted compliments.

Mother approached her bed, sitting on its edge and beckoned two maids, carrying what looked like a cape, to come closer. Rhaenyra has been fascinated by lovely dresses and rich jewellery since very young age and spent a great deal of time, choosing ones for the feasts and balls a then admiring her reflection in the mirror. And this time was no any different, the moment two maids stretched the cloak, revealing its magnificent embroidery — a golden dragon on one side, symbolizing her own dragon, Syrax, as she guessed, and a black dragon, Balerion, the mount of her predecessor, her father, on the other, she gasped in awe, a smile tugging the corners of her lips. On the back there were two vibrant red coiled dragons circled by the golden sun and the combination of silk, velvet and brocade contributed to its already gorgeous looks.

“Your father designed it especially for you. You know how he likes sketching and drawing, his hand is better suited for a quill and charcoal than a sword.” Her mother chuckled, watching intently Rhaenyra’s reaction, shyness making her voice soft and quite. It seemed, her parents worried that this beauty would not be to her liking. Refraining from any words, for there were none to express her true emotions, Rhaenyra embraced her mother, tucking her head in her shoulder and basked in the feeling of warmth when her sentiment was reciprocated, and two gentle arms enveloped her, stroking her hair. Her whole family was there for her, lending their support in the way they could, and it gave Rhaenyra even more courage to face the wrinkled faces of old lords who stood witness to King Jaehaerys’ ruling and decrees, always preferring men over women. It was her chance to break this tradition, and she would do well not to disgrace her father and prove that dozens of spares were not needed if there was at least one worthy of a crown.

Chapter 16: The Heir Part 2 (Rhaenyra)

Chapter Text

“Beautiful…”

“Gorgeous…”

“Divine…”

Came the gasps and whispers of the maids, surrounding Rhaenyra when they finished dressing her and her hair was braided, piled up and hidden under an intricate hairpiece. These words of admiration were no more than a buzz of flies, though, empty and annoying and only made the princess turn to the person whose opinion had importance and value.

“Mama?” Rhaenyra asked, a bit shy of how small and fragile her voice sounded. It did not fit the proud princess staring at her in the mirror.

“You look ravishing, dearest. Such beauty can move mountains and inspire men to perform any feat.” Queen Aemma said reverently and Rhaenyra noticed how her eyes glistened with tears she tried to blink away, but they treacherously welled again.

“This is the best attire and jewellery one had a chance to cast eyes upon.” chimed in another maid.

Mother gave the maid a short but thoughtful look, then added: “There will be time when you will look even more delightful.” Rhaenyra tilted her head curiously, wondering, if her mother meant the day of her coronation. But what the Queen said was unexpected. “On your wedding day. And I swear to you, my child, I will make sure that the smile upon your face will shine brighter than all the diamonds and rubies adorning your gown and hair. For it is what matters. None of the gems in the world should outshine your smile or be worthy of it.”

Rhaenyra did not think that far, but an oath her mother gave her opened a chest, releasing and shooing away ugly ghosts and ghouls, which for so long had been the source of her misery, tormenting her with uncertainty they promised. Hundreds of questions bubbled in her throat: how would they achieve that, how could they be sure that she would have a happy smile on her wedding day, and if her mother had a potential suitor in mind, for Rhaenyra had… But the spell of the moment was broken when the Queen clapped her hands, waving off maids and servants and announcing that they have to depart to the Throne Room where everyone had already convened. Before they left, her mother wrapped her in one last embrace, careful and gentle, so that not to disarray her hair or wrinkle the vibrant red silken gown she was wearing under the cape which was more a work of art than a garment.

When Rhaenyra arrived at the Great Hall, it was already filled with the courtiers and nobles who came to the capital to attend the ceremony. They grouped according to the Houses they belonged to and colours of the banners on their clothes helped to tell one from another. Her father was seated atop the Iron Throne, clad in a black cloak, cuffs and collar of which were trimmed with gold, an elaborate embroidery of a dragon stitched on each shoulder, his Grandsire’s bejewelled crown upon his head and hand clutching the hilt of the Blackfyre. Rhaenyra could not see him well, since she was standing at the foot of the throne, but she could swear, there was shadow across his face and features unmoving, as if carved from stone. Was he still hesitant about his decision? Had not she proven herself worthy enough?

Resolute, she pushed her doubts away and turned to face the lords gathered in front of her, thus signalling that she was ready to begin the ceremony.

Daemon was the first to fall on his knee, his hand on the hilt of the Black Sister he was holding in front of him. Her uncle’s voice was stern and unwavering, each word pronounced distinctly and filling her with comfort, the same as it did the night before, when he was reciting her Valyrian poetry.

After that, one by one, each head of the House was brought forward to pledge an oath of obeisance and say the same words, which echoed through the Great Hall, bounced from the walls and pierced into Rhaenyra’s ears.

“I, Corlys of House Velaryon, Lord of the Tides and Master of Driftmark, promise to be faithful to King Viserys and his named heir, the Princess Rhaenyra. I pledge fealty to them and shall defend them against all enemies in good faith and without deceit. I swear this by the old gods and the new.”

“I, Lord Hobert Hightower, Beacon of the South, Defender of the Citadel, and Voice of Oldtown, promise to be faithful to King Viserys and his named heir, the Princess Rhaenyra. I pledge fealty to them and shall defend them against all enemies in good faith and without deceit. I swear this by the old gods and the new.”

Not everything went smoothly, though. When Lord Boremund Baratheon stepped forward, unlike the rest of the lords, he did not speak out. The awkward silence hung in the air and Princess glared at him, tilting her head to the side. The Lord’s of the Storm End jaw was clenched tight, but hearing the clank of the armour, as the Kingsguard shifted on their feet, the words finally fell from his lips, yet, his eyes were cold and defiant. Just another proof that not all of them were so eager to see her as their queen, yet, thankfully, there was still time to correct it, Gods bless her father and give him long years of reign.

“I, Boremund Baratheon, promise to be faithful to King Viserys and his named heir, the Princess Rhaenyra…”

When all the lords pledged their fealty, Grand Maester approached with a thick golden chain in his hands and wrapped it around Rhaenyra’s neck. She turned to the king who proclaimed:

“I, Viserys Targaryen, first of his name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, do hereby name Rhaenyra Targaryen, Princess of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne.” Her father’s voice boomed, crowning the ceremony and with that everyone bowed their head in unison. Rhaenyra mustered all her willpower to lift up her chin and school her face into solemn expression, chasing away any hint of doubt or anxiety.

***

Having changed into her riding leathers, Rhaenyra was walking swiftly to the inner yard of the Keep where Syrax was waiting her for the flight around the city, as they planned at one of the Small Council meetings. Her mind was carried away with the thoughts of how the ceremony went and what was still to come; how people in the streets would welcome her and if they rejoice at her becoming an heir or believe it to be a bad omen. It was like a whirlwind, which grasped her whole attention, and she had to stop abruptly, nearly bumping into a person she was so eager and at the same time frightened to see.

“My niece.” greeted Princess Rhaenys, extending her arms towards Rhaenyra and catching her in her treks. “Dear Gods, such a hurry! Princesses and queens, particularly, do not run to anyone or anything. It is the duty of the others to do so. You just have to wait for their arrival and then decide if it was quick enough for your liking or not, and if that person requires any punishment for being slow with fulfilling royal orders.”

Embarrassed by a sudden reproach, Rhaenyra ducked her head sheepishly, muttering that she was too enthusiastic to make her flight on Syrax and got carried away with her thoughts .

“Too enthusiastic a queen cannot be either. It is not emotions or temperament that should guide you, but common sense and foresight.” With these words Rhaenys’ gaze slid up and down, but it was not the one Rhaenyra received from some of the lords, filled with contempt, neither it was pity, seen in the eyes of some ladies. Rhaenys was… Curious. Curious to see a woman who achieved what she had not.

“Dragonclaw.” Rhaenys arched her brow, looking at her waist. Rhaenyra’s hand reached to the hilt of the sword she was wearing on mother’s insistence, let them see that you do not lack men in any respect, she told. Dragonclaw. So, that was the name of this Valyrian sword. The older princess’s lips were pursed tightly, forming the thinnest line. “How is it that you come to own this sword? Where did you get this?” she inquired.

Excuses were about to fall from Rhaenyra’s lips, it troubled her from the beginning that her aunt might not take it kindly that her things were used without permission, but Rhaenys waved her hand dismissively, saying: “I do not suppose it matters truly.” She looked down at the sword. “This is no toy or trinket, Valyrian steel is very sharp. I hope you have the slightest notion how to use it?”

Rhaenyra did not like that depreciating comment, but rude to the older Princess she could not be. So, she raised her chin and schooling her face into polite expression said: “I have taken some training in the yard, learning the basics and even more. But thank you for your concern.”

“Better see it in your hands, than be lost and forgotten.” sighed the princess, softening after the harsh rebuke. “It meant a lot to me, for it was my father’s gift. But I could not bare to look at it anymore, when he was killed. Grandsire was quick to find the Pale Prince a replacement, though, giving his preference to the Spring Prince.”

Rhaenyra looked down, not knowing what to say, upset with the direction their conversation took. Her Grandsire Baelon was proclaimed heir shortly after Prince Aemon’s demise. Too shortly perhaps, and it was clear that Rhaenys would never accept that.

“Ah, Laena, join us.” came Rhaenys’ voice and Rhaenyra snapped her head, curiously. Laena Velaryon had changed a lot since Rhaenyra last saw her, and she must have as well in Laena’s eyes. There were unruly silver curls framing her face, a mixture of her big mother’s Targaryen lilac eyes with the same decisive look in them and straight nose and plump lips of her Velaryon father.

“Princess.” said Laena formally and dipped down in a curtsey, keeping her eyes on Rhaenyra who felt terribly uncomfortable at that moment. She did not like that, there were cousins, weren’t they? Of course, it was a fools hope to expect both Laena and her mother show any particular warmth and engage in a lively conversation, exchanging the news and gossips at the Red Keep and High Tide. And yet, it looked, as if there was a barrier between them, which only grew over the years and now was as high as the Wall in the North. Rhaenyra wondered, how fast she could correct that. And if she would have any success at all, especially, with her new status.

“Princess Rhaenyra is in a hurry, dear.” Rhaenys interrupted the awkward silence. “Apologies, if I sounded a bit too harsh or gave you unsolicited advice. I just dare to hope that the first queen who is allowed to ascend the Iron Throne will come prepared.” Even though, part of Rhaenyra rebelled at the thought that she was reproached and lectured, her other part welcomed guidance from the princess who was prepared for the throne in her youth, unlike herself.

Equipped with a new saddle — another present from the king and queen — Syrax was waiting for her outside. She patted her Golden Lady’s side, wondering if dragons could be nervous on important events. Judging by the way her hot body trembled, they could. It was not the first flight above Kings Landing, she had done it before numerous times, but not when the smallfolk was gathered to greet her as their future queen. Usually they waved and smiled, looking with awe at the soaring dragon, and she hoped that it would not be much different this time.

Flying always had liberating effect on Rhaenyra and this time it was no different. As soon as Syrax took up to the skies, flying as low as possible, so that not to hurt anyone or frighten, but at the same time let people see her face, her mind became clear and mood elated, and the thoughts of all the lords whose favour she was supposed to win and horde of suitors, yearning for her hand ceased to exist. The smiles of the smallfolk, their cheers and rhythmical reverberating sound of Syrax breathing was all that mattered, even if for a short time.

Three times Rhaenyra swept over the city, each time lower than before, while every man and woman and child waved their hands, cheered and awed at the marvelous sight. Only then did she bring Syrax down to the center of the Market Square, dragon's screech drowned out by the cheers of the citizens, chanting her name. The Gold Cloaks were already waiting for her there, some of them mingling with people, others pushing the most boisterous men aside to make way for the Princess. When one of the Gold Cloaks who holding her horse by the reins turned, a smile beamed across Rhaenyra’s face. Without prior informing her, Daemon had two horses saddled — one for her and one for himself — so that he could escort her through the city streets, a distinct sign of unity between the former and the new heir and protection against any troubles which could befall on her amidst the crowd. And so he stood there, golden half-cape wrapped around his shoulder, Dark Sister strapped to his hip and lilac eyes locked on her own. She smiled back, as her uncle knelt, clasped his hands together and let her use them as stirrups, so that she could climb onto the horse’s back. As she did so, he joined her atop his own steed and from thence they rode together through the city streets, the smallfolk forming long thick lines on each side similar to moving human waves.

“Long live Princess Rhaenyra!” The people shouted. “All hail Daemon Targaryen, the Prince of the City!” Chanted others. “Hurrah for Realm’s Delight!”

Bakers were stretching their hands, offering her freshly baked pastry wrapped in clean white cloths, flower girls were presenting her with beautiful flower bouquets, greengrocers were giving her paper cornets with tangerines and sweet ripe peaches. Rhaenyra laughed heartily, making her best to say words of gratitude to each of them, although her own and Daemon’s hands became soon filled with the gifts. Her heart was overwhelmed with glee at the sight of such unconditioned love, while her uncle face split a satisfied grin, though eyes were sweeping over the people and ready to ward off any threat. Having ridden through the streets, they climbed up the Aegon’s Hill towards the Red Keep where the celebration continued.

***

The feast was a glorious affair, as any held by her father. The Great Hall was decorated with flowers set on the long tables and Targaryen banners cascading down the stone walls, thousands of candles in chandeliers lit to brighten the interior, as with the beginning of evenfall light sopped filtering through huge arched stained-glass windows. Rhaenyra with her family sat at the centre of the Royal Table which was set up on a dais, the king and queen were on her right, while Daemon lounged leisurely on a chair on her left, his company promising a more amusing pastime.

Princess looked at the guests, searching for familiar faces. Spotting Laena, they exchanged curious glances and shy smiles. Rhaenyra would have liked to speak to her more, as there were not too many ladies close to her age at father’s court and Alicent had been acting strange since her return from Dragonstone. More formally, that was, and distanced. Rhaenyra wondered, if it was her new status that shunned her close friend and companion away. If so, that silly girl was so mistaken, nothing had changed at all, and she was the same princess, so eager to share gossips with Alicent over lemon cakes and candied plums. Finding her friend seated next to her father, Ser Otto Hightower, Rhaenyra smiled to her warmly, but Alicent averted her gaze. Exasperated by the game the meaning of which she failed to grasp, princess was about to approach Alicent and demand to explain her strange behavior, yet was stopped by her father who rose from his chair to open the feast.

“Be welcome as we feast tonight in honour of my precious daughter, my heir, your future queen! And after tonight’s small affair, seven days of tournament and feasting!” announced the king loudly, casting a proud glance to Rhaenyra and she felt flutter in her stomach for having been finally acknowledged by her father and accepted that she was not the prince he had dreamt of for years.

“You did very well, my girl.” her father said, patting her hand, once the applause stopped. “And our people cheered you with all possible enthusiasm. You see, everything is going fine, no need for all these worries your mother was constantly talking about. You will make a fine queen and the people see it as much.” He smiled warmly, looking at the guests over the rim of his bejewelled goblet. She prayed that he was right.

As one course changed the other, Rhaenyra managed to take only small bites of each, admiring how well-cooked and well-seasoned the dishes were, ingredients brought from all over the Seven Kingdoms. The king complimented the cooks, welcoming everyone to fill their plates and did not forget to mention that the leftovers would be sent to the people of Kings Landing so that they could rejoice with the nobles and toast their future queen.

“Did you have a chance to talk to Lord Jason Lannister? A pleasant young man, isn’t he?” her father asked between bites of venison in cranberry sauce. “So gallant and courteous.” he praised, and Rhaenyra could not help but grimace, losing what little appetite she had. Sadly, she realized that the elated mood created by the love of the smallfolk she received whilst making her ride through the streets, dissipated and began to turn sour at the inevitability of having to deal with Jason Lannister.

“Boastful fool.” she muttered under her breath, so that the father could not hear her, it would be wrong to start an argument under the curious eyes of the courtiers. She saw Lord Jason boasting at the banquet the other day, so proud of his status and family wealth, as if it was him who earned it. His pride could match that of Lord Corlys’, except that all the Sea Snake had was his own doing.

“He does not take eyes of you, my dear. I wish you to dance with him tonight, learn something more about each other.” Viserys continued and Rhaenyra winced internally, as the underlying meaning of the words were “he will make a fine match”. But said, “Yes, father, as you wish.” She was grateful to the king for giving her power almost close to his own and hated as much for taking away any bits of freedom she used to have as just a princess of the Realm. Even the choice of a dance partner was no longer hers, turning the taste of triumph to ashes in her mouth.

“Good, good.” Father smiled again, holding out his goblet to a servant who rushed to refill it. Viciously, Rhaenyra hoped that the strongwine would cloud the king’s mind before he would engage in his poor matchmaking practice. Alas, when he downed the wine, she noticed him tilt his head slightly towards Lord Jason, whose lips, adorned by golden beard and moustache, matching to his mane of a hair, curved into a small smile. It did not take long for the Warden of the West to appear in front of the royal family, bending into the deepest of bows.

“Your Grace, such a splendid feast. I admit I cannot imagine what you might have planned for the rest of the festivities.” he flattered, earning a wide satisfied grin from the king. Then he bowed his head to the queen. “Your Grace, it is a great pleasure to see you in good health and well-rested. Alas, it is all up to the Gods will, if we are not created for certain things, no need to waste ourselves in pursuit.” with that her mother’s smile faltered and father stiffened. Jason’s attempt at uttering something meaningful reeked of inconsiderateness, bordering on an insult.

“Ah, thank you, Lord Jason, whatever you meant by that.” replied queen Aemma, her voice strained. The king nodded along, dismissing him, and with another elaborate bow he left, moving towards the rest of his House.

“What a buffon…” moaned Rhaneyra, leaning back to look at her mother behind the king’s back. “Does he not understand that he is making dubious comments?” About your inability to produce a male heir, she wanted to add, but stopped herself, before these cruel words escaped her lips.

“Perhaps, he does not.” her mother shrugged. “Let us rejoice, that it is his twin Tyland we are subjected to see at the Keep and on your father’s council, and Lord Jason is busy in his domain.”

“You must try this pheasant, dear, I swear, it is the most tender you have ever eaten.” the father interfered, oblivious to their comments, snapping his finger to the servant to fill the queen’s and her own plate with meat. Unlike her father, whose ample belly could accommodate far more than one course, she only tried tiny bits of everything, savouring the delicious taste of food and vintage wines.

“I have tried it, thank you, one serving is quite enough for me.” declined Rhaenyra, covering her plate protectively with a hand and by that earning a surprised look from her father.

“It is delicious, indeed.” chimed in her mother, taking away the king’s attention, who turned to her, smiling. “I heard that after the pheasant we are having quails and partridges, all served with different sauces and spices.”

It was a much welcomed distraction, as Daemon rose and, offering his hand, said: “Might I have the honour of a dance, princess?”

Rhaenyra slightly blushed at the formality of his tone, but nodded eagerly, letting her uncle lead her to the dance floor. The flute started playing, soon joined by the beat of the drums and blurring sound of the high harp, as a catchy melody spiralled through the Hall. She was glad that it was a lively one, for she enjoyed the swift graceful movements with which Daemon twirled her, holding by the waist and lifted in the air. It was better than the line dances when the partners changed all the time, that way she had Daemon all to herself.

Upon returning to the High Table, they earned a reproachful look from the king, apparently, he noticed their absence despite mother’s attempts to engross him in a conversation.

“Next dance you owe to you lady wife.” her father said to Daemon, his tone brooking no argument. A grimace of disgust formed on Daemon’s face and Rhaenyra could feel how he was shuddering inside, forcing rude words away from his mouth.

“You should follow at least the simplest norms of behaviour, brother.” continued the king, oblivious to Daemon’s distress. “Smile and show good will to one another.” As an example of that Viserys turned to the Queen who was listening to their conversation attentively, but without interfering, and planted a passionate kiss on the back of her hand.

“If you insist, brother.” Begrudgingly, Daemon conceded to the king’s wish. Were it some different occasion, he would probably rebel and argue, but mostly for her own sake, as it was celebration in her honour, he obliged. Without wasting the time, her uncle rose to his feet abruptly and moved to his lady wife.

Rhea Royce was seated on the right side of the High Table, among other Valemen and was engrossed in a conversation, a rare smile playing on her lips. Yet, it fell the moment she saw Daemon approaching, and was replaced by a mask of sheer surprise and then scowl. Their small talk looked stilted and awkward and soon they joined at the dance floor.

Rhaenyra watched them dance, Lady Rhea doing twirls and steps much more elegantly than one could expect. A tickle in Rhaenyra's chest made her squirm on her seat. It was something akin to jealousy but mayhap even more intense. She glanced sidelong at Daemon. His face lacked any emotions and was as cold as a stone, his wife’s face was the same. Only blind could not see that — both of them created a miserable picture.

Rhaenyra glared at her father. “Is it because Daemon has asked me to dance, papa?” she questioned, but all she earned was her father’s wide-eyed stare.

“I am afraid I am not quite following you, my child.”

“You made Daemon dance with Rhea, is it because I was asked out first?” she clarified. No, she would not let him play a fool.

“Rhaenyra, don’t be ridiculous!” Viserys hissed, leaning forward and pointing with his fork between her and the queen. “Is it a kind of weird game you’re playing with your mother? Since Rhea’s arrival you keep mentioning how ill-suited they are and how Daemon is unhappy in his marriage. I told it to your mother and ready to repeat it to you, especially in the view of your upcoming betrothal. Couples have to work on their marriage, even if both partners have shared mutual feelings of love from the day they exchanged their vows in the Sept. That is how it works, there is no other way. Too sad, that your uncle is so selfish and refuses to accept it.” he said, his brows furrowed and expression irritated. Then he strengthened in his chair and painted a benevolent smile upon his face. “Let’s speak no more if this, Rhaenyra, people are watching. We gathered here to feast and celebrate, and your happy face is the most important thing all the lords should see.”

Rhaenyra ducked her head in embarrassment, reproached by her father. He was the king, after all, an half of his life he spent in marriage, there were ups and downs, of course, but, in general, her parents could be called a happy couple. Could she hope that her father’s views had at least a grain of truth? She shook her head, chasing off the thoughts, father was right, they were supposed to celebrate, and questions of love and life were to difficult to grasp fully at her young age. Princess lifted her goblet, tipping her head down in acknowledgment as one of the lords approached the high table, pledging loyalty to their House. When Daemon returned to his seat, his jaw was trembling from tension, and glare was the darkest she had ever seen.

“You see, brother, it does not take much to be considerate and polite. Lady Rhea looks flattered by the attention. And your attention is her right by marriage, let me remind you.” The king pointed out, smiling, but Daemon could not but scowl in return.

A merry tune started playing and Rhaenyra looked hopefully at Daemon. She would have liked to join young lords and ladies stepping to the dance floor and moving rhythmically, but it seemed her uncle was afraid to ask her out and then be forced to dance with Rhea Royce once again. Instead, she heard the clinking of numerous golden chains, as Lord Jason approached the Hight Table again, asking her out for a dance.

“I do not think we have been properly introduced.” He said, putting his palm over her hand and leading her in circles, as the dance required.

“Your twin serves on my father’s council.” Rhaenyra shrugged, turning her face away.

“Tyland is frightfully dull, gods love him.” He said, mockingly. “Ah, splendor of the Red Keep is definitely something to behold.” He twirled her and them lifted in the air, eyes sweeping over the arched ceiling of the Great Hall and gigantic statues of Targaryen kings lined along the walls. “And yet, Casterly Rock is not less magnificent. It is carved out of a colossal stone hill beside the Sunset sea. It is believed to resemble a lion in repose at sunset. Have you been there?”

“Once… On tour with my mother when I was young. And honestly cannot recall much of that.” She hummed, but, to her further displeasure, he took it as an invitation to brag more about his home.

“The rock is thrice the height of the Hightower in Oldtown, taller still than the Wall in the North. It has been said if one were to stand in the tower on a perfect day, one could see clear across the Sunset Sea.”

“It must be quite something.” she replied politely.

“Dragonstone is also situated by the sea, but, dare I say, it can not compete with the beauty of Casterly Rock. Well, we do not have a Dragonpit, of course. But I do have the means and resources to build one.”

“Why would you need a Dragonpit?” She asked, her eyes flickering to him suspiciously.

“To house dragons, of course. I would do anything for my queen. Or Lady wife.”

Rhaenyra glared at the Western lord, realization of his vulgar advances dawning upon her. As she did not respond to his previous words, playing oblivious, Lord Jason made a jape she did not find amusing at all before the music stopped and he bowed his head, thanking her for the dance. He held out his hand which she reluctantly accepted, letting herself be guided to the High Table.

“Princess is a wonderful dancer. Never have I had a better partner, Your Grace.” Lord Jason smiled courteously to the king whose face beamed with a smile.

“She is, indeed. You have not heard her play the lute.” Viserys pointed out, puffing his chest with pride and to that Rhaenyra could hardly suppress a moan. Who did she think she was? A bloody minstrel? But as eyes fell on her, the rules of etiquette commanded her to smile back and cast her eyes down in a feigned modesty.

“Might I have the honour to dance with the princess?” came the voice before she had a chance to return to her seat and cool down after Lord Jason’s insolence. Young Samwell Blackwood was shyly offering his hand, and, although, she did not want to dance anymore, she obliged, taking pity on the young man, looking so awkward in his black and yellow doublet, too loose round his slim neck and skinny shoulders.

Thankfully, he was not a talkative sort, rather he hardly uttered a single word while they danced, his eyes bouncing from one corner to another, afraid to look straight at her face.

The dance did little to assuage Rahneyra’s anxiety, rather, she felt anger bubbling in her throat upon recalling the boastful words of Lannister. How dared he? Compare Casterly Rock to Dragonstone and approach her with questions of marriage without proper proposal and the king’s consent.

Or…

Rhaenyra’s eyes flickered to her father, chatting animatedly with some of his councilmen, who joined him at the High table. Had he already spoken with Lord Jason? Without even asking for her opinion beforehand and gave his blessing to the courting? A new fit of anger pierced through her, was it how he though it right, plan everything behind her back?

Anger lead Rhaenyra to the High table and, pulling up her skirts, with wide steps and full of resolve, she thought of the words she would tell him. No, she would not throw a tantrum, she had long outgrown such things, but she deserved to know from what other lords should she expect more advances. Even if the king worked for her own good, he should not deprive her of the chance to choose the suitors.

When several feet divided her from the table, she had to stop in her tracks and, looking up, she could not stop a smile stretching her lips.

“Here you are, my little niece.” said Daemon, taking her by the hand and tugging along to the corner of the Great Hall. “It seems we are doomed to dance and share pleasantries with those we despise.” he said, his eyes flicking to Jason Lannister, already dancing with Rhea Royce.

“How can one person be so arrogant and conceited?” she said, squeezing Daemon’s fingers in distress. “He had the gall to tell me that he would take me to Casterly Rock, which is a splendid and more appropriate seat for the heir than Dragonstone.”

Daemon’s eyes widened as he heard this nonsense and anger which flashed for a moment on his face was replaced with disdain. “What a fool to think so. And twice a fool to say that to his future queen. Dragonstone served as the ancestral seat of the heir since Aegon the Conqueror. Casterly Rock might be a splendid place, in his opinion, but it is Dragonstone constructed from stones melted by dragonflame, its walls can resist any siege, underground passages sprawl all through the island and lead to caverns where dragons nest.”

Rhaenyra hummed in agreement, that castle held special place in her heart and she would never change it for anything offered even by the wealthiest of lords. She was the Princess of Dragonstone, and Lord Jason Lannister would do well to remember that next time, she resolved.

“It was on father’s accord that he asked me to dance. He sees him as a potential suitor.” she said, shuddering with the thought.

“I did not know that poor matchmaking skills is something which could be passed on with the blood. Queen Alysanne excelled in her poor choices, I dread to think that Viserys took after her in this respect.” huffed Daemon, shaking his head.

“Lannister is rich —” she began.

“And that is exactly where his virtues end. And even this can be hardly called one. Maybe, I am missing something, but I do not think that House Targaryen requires more wealth.” scoffed the prince.

Rhaenyra sat on cushion covered bench in the quieter corner of the Hall and sighed, “The tourney comes next and then again a feast and a ball — it will be a torture to be subjected to dances with Jason Lannister again.”

Upon hearing these words, a feral smile formed on Daemon’s lips. “You won’t be,” he tipped his head down, as if making a promise to himself, “I will take care of it.” Her surprised look urged him to clarify, “You do know that I am the most accomplished in jousting and melee among the lords high and low, do you? Jason Lannister put his name on the lists. He will not stay there long.” Realisations dawned upon Rhaenyra and she could not help but smile at Daemon’s devious plan. Did she take pity on the arrogant Western Lord? Not really, and with that thought her smile grew even wider.

“Thank you!” she exclaimed, reaching for his hands.

“This is the least I could do for you. If not for my promise to your mother, I would have already kicked the arrogance out of his ass.”

“What promise?”

“Ah, never mind.” he waved his hand dismissively.

Rhaenyra was urged to demand explanations, but a page approached and, bowing his head, informed that His Grace was about to call for desserts and requested her presence at the High Table.

A round of applause was given to the cooks when a huge cake, consisting of multiple layers was brought in. It was followed with plates filled with cakes and tarts, all with different flavour, and of course the ripest of fruit — bowls of cherries, peaches, grapes, blueberries and tangerines.

“Would you like to have mine?” she heard Daemon whisper in her ear, his breath tickling the bare skin of her neck. Even though, it was generous, Rhaenyra felt her cheeks bloom at the offer. It was not a secret that she was a sweet tooth, but gluttonous she did not want to appear.

“Come on,” her uncle nudged her at her side good-naturedly. “The sweetest sweet for the sweetest princess.”

“And you?”

“It is even sweeter to watch you.” he smiled, gently taking the spoon from her hand and feeding her a small piece of delicious cake. “I want to have something in return, though.”

“What might it be uncle? Do you wish to trade your cake for candied plums?”

“Oh, no, not that.” he chuckled, this time taking a small bite himself. “A dance will do.”

Rhaenyra looked to her father, who was busy sampling the desserts and at the same time engrossed in conversation with the mother, so no more matchmaking games were threatening her at the moment. Nodding to Daemon, she held out her hand, as he led her back to the dance floor.

But the end of the feast, when all the guests, fatigued by the merriment and excesses, started to leave, the father was too full of food and wine to walk straight and required assistance of the two most sturdiest Kingsguard to walk him to his chambers. The mother looked tired, but thought it best to follow the king, so that to tend to him once all the servants left.

“You did so well, my child, I am very proud of you. Tomorrow you will shine even brighter.” Mother said before leaving, gently squeezed her fingers and kissed on both cheeks. “Your father has overindulged tonight, I’m afraid. I will look after him and have the maesters serve him some fennel tea and something else for his head and stomach.” The father did look unwell, flushed from wine and excitement cheeks acquired a greenish hue, making Rhaenyra slightly worried as well and ashamed for being angry with him during the feast. “But he will be fine tomorrow, I will see to it.” Her mother reassured, rubbing his velvet covered chest as he made some unintelligible sounds, probably, meaning that he was perfectly fine. “I wish you to have a good rest.”

Rhaenyra smiled gratefully, and once her parents left, turned around, looking for Daemon, but he, as it seemed, just disappeared into thin air. One moment he was sitting beside her at the High table, and the next — he was gone. Rhaenyra found his retreat more than disappointing, as by the end of day she was more agitated than she was on the morrow. Faces, words and music formed a whirlwind in her mind, not letting find sleep or relax. Mayhap, if she could share it with someone, it eased her burden. Daemon with his sharp tongue and mocking comments would be a perfect companion to laugh away the stress and freshen the mind before another day of celebration arrived. And yet, he was not there anymore…

***

While the Keep turned into the place of music and splendour, the city did not lack in this respect. The sounds of music and merriment were filtering in her chambers through the open window, and Rhaenyra craned her neck to catch a glimpse of the bustling city, wondering how the smallfolk celebrated her becoming an heir to their king.

Sighing sadly, she took the bell to summon her maids who would help her to get ready for sleep, but a familiar screech came from the corner. A smile bloomed all across Rhaenyra’s face when she saw her uncle emerging from the door leading to the secret passage.

“Oh, uncle, I am glad that it is all over. At least until tomorrow.” she murmured, burying her head in his chest, as he wrapped her in embrace and stroked her hair soothingly.

“But is it, really?” he asked with mischief in his voice. Rhaenyra turned her head to the window, from whence came the sounds of music and laughter. “You would like to know what is happening outside, wouldn’t you? It is not all about the dull faces of the lords and courtly dances.”

“Ah,” she sighed, “heir or not heir, my wishes still mean very little, as I am ceaselessly reminded by my father.”

“Well, your wish is my desire.” the prince declared with a short bow. “Here,” he pressed a bundle of grey linen clothes into her hand. “You can change into that.”

“Wh— What for?” she stammered, baffled.

“We will go to the city. Have fun. And I will introduce you to some friends of mine. The future queen should know who is guarding her peaceful sleep and maintains order in her capital.”

Chapter 17: The Hour of Ghosts (Halloween Special)

Chapter Text

Multiple times Aemma had urged Rhaenyra to go to her chambers and get ready for sleep. And every time the little girl shook her silver head vehemently and refused to leave, too engrossed was she in the game her father and uncle were playing. The princess was too young to understand the rules of Cyvasse, but she could not take her eyes of meticulously carved pieces. Her favourite pieces were a Dragon, two rubies glistening as his eyes and its wing spread; Elephant seemed cute to her, with its enormous ears, long trunk and yet sharp and dangerous tusks; and, of course, the King, tall and proud, with a crown upon his head, adorned with gems of different colour. Rhaenyra winced each time the victory was gained and as the rule required, the only one she knew at the moment, the King was killed, grasping her own father-king by the hand, making sure that he was unharmed. Then she giggled when either her father or uncle, depending on who was the winner, cursed and grabbed the bejewelled goblet to drink from it in dismay, while her mother, who was embroidering in the corner of the room, gasped and glared at the man who cursed.

The bell on the Grand Sept tolled several times, its deep sound penetrating through the open window.

“Oh, dear, it is almost the hour of bat!” exclaimed the Queen, after counting the strokes. “Rhaenyra, you must go to bed at once!” She placed her embroidery on the side table and reached for the bell to call for the maids to escort little princess to her chambers.

“No! Nuh-uh! No way!” the girl protested. “Father and uncle are still here, why can’t I?”

“But they are grown men, they are allowed to retire to bed when they want.” explained Aemma patiently.

“That is not fair!” pouted Rhaenyra and snatched the bell from her mother’s hand. Yet, it was too late and a flock of maids already flooded in the room, dipping down in curtsies before the royal family.

Rhaenyra glared at them dismissively and then declared, turning to her parents, “I am not going! That is my wish! Am I not princess and is my father not king?”

“Tell her, Viserys,” sighed Aemma turning to her husband who pretended to be extremely thirsty at the moment and hid behind his goblet, drinking greedily, as always intimidated by his daughter’s tantrums.

The maids shuffled at the door, cooing to Rhaenyra and beckoning the capricious girl to come closer to them.

“Please, come with us, Princess, it’s time to sleep. I will read you a story, the one you like, about dragons.” ventured the oldest of maids, the one who knew how to deal with spoilt princesses.

To Aemma’s disappointment it all started to transform into a full-blown argument, with Rhaenyra being at her worst behaviour, Viserys as always playing ignorant and Daemon… Gods bless him, Daemon decided to take the initiative. He whispered something in Viserys’ ear, who choked on his wine upon hearing his brother’s words, then barked out a laugh and nodded eagerly.

With that Daemon sneaked up to Rhaenyra, grabbed her from behind and, lifting up in the air, proclaimed, “If you do not wish to go to your chambers, Your Highness, then, if you allow me, I will carry you in my arms, for this is the way princesses should be treated. And I will read you a story, the one of your choosing.” The trick worked and Rhaenyra beamed with pleasure positioning herself more comfortably in her uncle’s strong arms, wrapping hers around his neck.

“Goodnight, pa, ma!” she waved her hand to her parents.

Viserys waved back and said in low voice, “Beware of the ghosts, for the Hour of Ghosts is drawing near.” Aemma just rolled her eyes at that, but Rhaenyra seemed frightened, leaning tighter to Daemon’s chest.

“There are no ghosts! These are silly fairytales for children!” The girl frowned at her father, who shrugged his shoulders and smirked.

***

Soon enough, Rhaenyra was bathed and dressed in her pristine white nightgown, her hair unbraided and flowing freely on her pillow. She curled under the warm blanket, as the maid placed a heating pan at her feet, and, looking at her uncle, patted her hand on the bed, inviting him to sit.

Finally, all the maids scurried away, leaving only two of the candles lit, which created a mysteriously dim atmosphere in the room.

“Uncle?”

“Yes, little dragon?”

Rhaneyra looked conspiratorially at him and whispered, “I want to listen to a scary story.”

Daemon co*cked his head in amusem*nt, “Are you sure? Isn’t it too late for scary stories? Will you be able to find sleep after that?”

The girl put a brave face and nodded decisively.

“Well, as you wish…” murmured Daemon, flipping through the book and searching for the story, smiling to himself that his and Viserys’ plan was going well. “Here it is. It’s called “The Curse of Harenhall and the Evil Ghost of the King Harren.”

Having heard the title, Rhaenyra’s eyes widened in horror, and she pulled covers up to her chin. Daemon expected her to ask for another one, but as stubborn as his niece was, she did not.

And so he started reading…

“… when building the castle King Harren allegedly mixed human blood into the mortar for the stonework. People believe that the castle is cursed and haunted due to Harren’s hubris and the horrors that have occurred within the castle walls…”

Suddenly, soft rapping came from the wall, making Daemon stop reading and Rhaenyra tense under her covers.

She listened closer.

Silence.

Then came another tapping and rapping.

Daemon gave his niece a challenging look, as if daring her to continue. To that little princess wrinkled her nose and commanded, “Go on, uncle, I’m listening.”

“As you wish, Princess.” he smirked and continued, “King Harren boasted that Harenhall was impregnable. But nothing can withstand a dragon and dragonflame. Aegon the Conqueror flew his dragon Balerion, the Black Dread, above the high walls of the fortress and then roasted Harren alive in the tallest of the towers, now known as Kingspyre. King Harren and all his line perished in the burning of Harrenhall. And since then the castle has been believed to be cursed by the king who met his agonising death within its walls and his ghost nowadays wanders daily and nightly, howling and scaring the inhabitants…”

Here came another rapping, this time louder. Rhaenyra winced and grabbed her uncle’s hand.

“Is something wrong, little dragon? Are you afraid?” he asked innocently.

“No—”

Another sound.

“Y—yes! I don’t know! Have you heard that, uncle?”

“Hmm.” hummed Daemon, rising from the bed and moving to the corner of the room. “Nothing here.” he shrugged and hit several times on the wall.

On his way back to Rhaenyra, a high-pitched muffled shriek was heard, making all the colour leave the girl’s face.

“It— it is over there…” whispered Rhaenyra, pointing at the wall.

“It’s just a wall, Rhaenyra.” frowned Daemon. “There is no human blood mixed into the mortar of the Red Keep and neither is it haunted. It’s your imagination, I told you, your mother told you that you should not be up till the Hour of Ghosts.”

Rhaenyra sighed sadly and bit her lip.

“Or are you afraid of ghosts?” the question seemed to anger the stubborn princess and she shook her head. “Fine, fine. Then let me bid you goodnight, I must confess that I’m feeling drowsy myself.” said Daemon, reaching for his previously discarded cloak and sword.

“No!” shrieked Rhaenyra, pushing away her covers, jumping from her bed and lurching to Daemon. She climbed up over him as if he was a tree, and squeezed his neck into tight embrace. “No…” she repeated softly. “Stay.”

“So, you are afraid of ghosts.” smiled Daemon, burying his face in her silver hair. Was it lavender or rosemary oil he sensed?

“Can you stay?” she asked, looking pleadingly in his eyes.

“Um… I might, but I don’t think it will be a good idea to stay in Princess’ chambers for the night. You parents may not like it. Shall I wake up your father?”

“No!” she cried, locking her hands tightly round him. Daemon tilted his head questioningly. “Father is not a warrior. I mean,” she corrected herself, “he is the king and he is always protected by the Kingsguard, I have never seen him in the training yard or wielding a sword… Not to mention the jousting. Actually, the only time I remember him with a sword in his hand was when he was cutting a pie with it on his and mother’s anniversary.”

Upon hearing this revelation mocking laughter bubbled in Daemon’s throat and he tried hard to suppress it, for he did not want to put his older brother and more to that, the king in unfavourable light. Viserys was the one actively participating in their plan after all, it must be cold and uncomfortable for him to stand in the secret passageway behind Rhaenyra’s wall and make all these knocking sounds and shrieks. So, Daemon tsked and looked strictly at his niece. Very strictly.

“I mean…” she mumbled. “You are a warrior, so brave and strong. No one can defeat you. Even a ghost…”

So Rhaenyra was afraid of ghosts.

“As you wish, Princess.” He sighed, rolling his eyes theatrically. “I will stay until you fall asleep.” Rhaenyra beamed at that, and wriggling from his arms down to the stone floor, tiptoed back to her bed, tugging Daemon along.

***

Viserys and Aemma were sitting at the table, laid with lavish breakfast, when Daemon and Rhaenyra were announced.

“Good morrow!” said Viserys cheerfully through a mouthful of bacon. “Slept well, my dear?”

Rhaenyra rushed to her mother and curled on her lap, yawning widely. “Not really…”

“I told you to go to bed earlier.” scolded Aemma in a stern voice, yet, stroking her daughter’s hair gently.

“What was bothering you, child?” asked Viserys with a concern in his voice, waving to the serving boy to fill Rhaenyra’s and Daemon’s plates. Daemon was hungry, indeed, after a sleepless night of comforting his scared niece. The knocking and scraping sounds continued well after the Hour of the Owl and there was no way Rhaneyra would let him go to his own chambers.

“I think I have heard a ghost…” whispered Princess, looking shyly between her parents.

Predictably, Aemma pursed her lips and assumed a rather displeased face, looking sternly at Daemon. “Is it one of your antics?” she demanded.

“Oh, have you?” interjected Viserys, who finally swallowed his bacon and turned his attention to Rhaenyra. “I think, I have as well.” he whispered, leaning down to her — only to move back abruptly, avoiding Aemma’s slap.

Corners of Rhaenyra’s mouth trembled, as she stared miserably at her plate with honeyed porridge and prunes. The king and queen started to discuss the details of the upcoming tourney, switching from the topic, troubling their daughter. And yet, apparently, he and Viserys had overdone with their antic and frightened the poor girl beyond measure.

“Don’t worry, little dragon, ghosts or not, I will always be there to protect you.” whispered Daemon to his niece, squeezing her elbow and only with that reassurance she managed to relax, smiling at him gratefully and digging into her meal.

Chapter 18: Of Tamed Desires and Revealed Secrets (Daemon)

Chapter Text

It was a foolish, ridiculous, risky idea, only proving the words and accusations spat regularly by Otto Hightower and then repeated by Viserys — Daemon was a reckless, unreliable, irresponsible and unpredictable man, preferring the bowls of the Flea Bottom to the refinement of the Red Keep. Yet, he couldn’t help it, but take Rhaenyra to the city after the ceremony of her initiation. That day, and all others before, his little niece’s pretty face was plagued by worry, so unfairly unsuitable for the blooming youth. The weight from her shoulders had to be removed, if only for a short time, mind cleared off, and for Daemon trips to the city were exactly that, after them he was a man reborn, ready to survive the battlefield of the court. And he hoped it would have the same effect on Rhaenyra.

If Viserys knew about it, he would banish him. If a word about their outing reached Aemma, she might never forgive him. The Queen had put enough trust in him, and he promised to behave. Such antic would hardly align with her conception of good behavior. It was too late to go back on his offer, though. Nyra’s face lit with enthusiasm upon accepting it and he would hate to be the one, wiping the smile off her face.

Privately, the Prince thought that it would have been much easier, if Viserys had inherited at least a grain of wisdom from the Wise King and following tradition named Daemon, the eldest male Targaryen, the heir. But the Gods were mocking them, as now they mocked Jaehaerys’ legacy. His own pride was tucked in the deepest and darkest corner of his heart, while Rhaenyra’s self-esteem and confidence had to be boosted, otherwise, all those lords would not take her authority as they should. Boremund Baratheon dared to show his defiance, but it would not be for long, accidents were the most natural thing to happen at jousting arena, and Daemon would make sure for one to happen.

Daemon chuckled, as he observed Rhaenyra wearing boy’s clothes. Without voluminous skirts and puffy sleeves he could finally admire how slender and fragile she was, stirring the urge to protect her even more. Did he even catch the moment when his niece transformed from a pretty girl into an alluring beauty? As much petite and exquisite her body was, there were all the parts so loved by men, soft and delicious, calling to be touched, caressed and kissed. He closed his eyes shut for an instance, chasing off inappropriate thoughts, and then opened again, swallowing thickly.

Thankfully, Rhaenyra was oblivious to his inner torments, having inspected her disguise in a full-length mirror, she sniffled a sleeve of the shirt he had given her, wrinkling her noise in a funny way. “Whose was it?”

“It is my squire’s.” he replied, happy that his mind got distracted from any carnal thoughts, flooding his head in such an inopportune moment. “He is a nice lad, of that you can be certain. Bathes every two moons.” Rhaenyra’s eyes grew wide and terrified at that and he had to hold her hands gently to prevent from ripping the shirt off. He threw his had back and laughed. “I am joking, little dragon.” Noticing that her shoulders became more relaxed, he smirked and added, “Once in a moon.” She huffed angrily, pouting and furrowing her brows, and it made Daemon laugh even more.

“Come, come, my dear. Do not get angry with me, I am just being silly. Yet, I know how I can win back your favour.” He winked, his hand reaching to the inner pocket of his doublet, her eyes watching him curiously. “You have been quite a sight today, I could not stop admiring how beautiful you were, firm and resolute at the same time when all the lords bent their knees.”

Daemon meant it as a compliment, but it only made Rhaenyra look down and murmur, “Boremund Baratheon seemed to have certain doubts.”

“Hmm.” he hummed, anger coiling in his belly. The Lord of Storm’s End had the gal to put a long face and hesitate. Apparently, he was still holding the grudge for being spurned twice. First, by Aemma’s mother Princess Daella, it was well known that he was raised as her potential suitor by Queen Alysanne on account of his wealth and birth. However, it was Lord Rodrik Arren whom Daella chose for her husband. And secondly, he was one of the staunchest and most outspoken supporter of Rhaenys’ and little Laenor’s claim - his relatives by blood - but it did not go well for him either. Yet, even that did not give him the right to show disrespect. “I will teach him some good manners come morrow. Along with the Lannister.” the Prince promised, cupping her chin with to fingers and gently lifting her head to look at him. “Is that your wish?”

Rhaenyra closed and opened her eyes, expressing silent content. Mentioning of the unruly subject seemed to upset her and it flashed Daemon’s mind that he was about to do something more pleasant, than droning about matters which bothered his little niece.

“A small gift to commemorate this important day.” he said uncurling his fist into Rhaenyra’s palm and smiling, as her eyes glistened with joy at the view of the ring he commissioned for her — a tiny replica of Jaehaerys’ crown, even the precious jewels were encrusted in the same order.

Princesses’ eyes travelled to his own and it warmed his heart to see happiness in them. “It is beautiful,” she said, then stood on her tiptoes and placed a kiss on his cheek. Soft like feather and tender like flower, making him crave for more.

“I am glad you like it. May I?” he smiled, taking the ring and trying it on her finger, as the gems and polished gold glistened in the candle light. “Fits perfectly.”

Rhaenyra stretched out her hand, admiring the gift and in a short while, having let her do so, he took her hand in his, “Let us leave it for tomorrow. Now we have other plans and nothing should give out your identity.” With that he took off the ring and placed it safely on the table.

Throwing his own grey hooded cloak over the shoulders, Daemon led the way through one of the secret passages, until they found themselves in the inner yard of the Keep, where kennels were situated. Reaching the entrance gates, Daemon nodded to the guard to open, which he did, pulling them with a screech.

“Will you be out till morrow, my prince?” inquired the guard, as they were walking past him.

“No, not that long, me and my squire will be back before the hour of the Wolf.” replied Daemon, receiving a short nod from the guard.

***

The streets were bursting with life which the city could barely contain. Despite late hour all the shops were open and stalls of street vendors were groaning with the goods brought from across the Narrow Sea: cheap trinkets mixed with rings and pendants of precious metal and gems, even items made of Valyrian steel could be found by a watchful eye. Others were selling fruit, sweet and ripe: peaches and apples from the Reach, raisins, tangerines and mangoes brought from the Free Cities. Both Daemon and Rhaenyra felt quite full after the feast, but the smell of roasted chestnuts was so rich and mouthwatering, that they could not resist the temptation to snack on it, taking warm yellowish balls from a paper cornet and savouring their sweet buttery taste.

Keeping his eyes on pickpockets, lurking here and there, Daemon led Rhaenyra through the labyrinth of streets and alleyways, stopping to watch a fire eater or lifting their heads up to marvel at ropewalkers, as they were walking along a thin tightrope stretched between the roofs of the houses. The beat of the drums sounded from the market square and Rhaenyra tugged him along, following the crowd which was gathering around a makeshift stage to watch a performance by street actors. The horn was blown three times, informing the people that the spectacle was about to begin.

Daemon was watching the play with bated breath. He knew very well how harsh and cruel street plays might be, mocking and calling upon vices of the nobles and even the king. The smallfolk loved such displays, laughing at bawdy jests and rude gestures. He had seen many of them, but none were aimed at mocking his niece. She was dubbed the Realm’s Delight and actors preferred to stick to that image. He was not sure that with her change in status which was yet to be accepted by some groups, the mockery and travesty would not turn against her. Would the people be delighted to have her as their future Queen. They were, when they were trotting on their horses through the city streets after the ceremony. But they were also cajoled by free meals, bread, fruit and coins distributed among them as a part of Aemma’s charity plan. What would they say when the festivities and such generosity ended, replaced with bleak hungry days. The Prince resolved to punish every single actor and then slice the throat of a playwright, if a single vile word was spoken against Rhaenyra as the heir. And after that he would task the Gold Cloaks to cleanse the city from remaining actors, or on the penalty of death make them perform only favourable plays.

While those thoughts were racing in Daemon’s mind, his fist instinctively curling around the hilt of his sword, the first act was finished bringing nothing but smile upon Rhaenyra’s face. The simple plot of the play was revolving around the Aegon’s Conquest and how all the Seven Kingdoms were united under the Targaryens. People cheered and children waved their hands, clutching small wooden dragons, sold so conveniently near the stage. Daemon tossed a coin to a seller in exchange for a dragon and offered it to a boy who did not have one. Sparkling eyes and a wide smile with a missing tooth was his gratitude, as the boy clutched the toy and joined the others, making flying movements and roaring sounds with his newly acquired dragon. The second act ended with “the lords” bowing to an actor in a white wig and a crown, pretending to be Aegon the Conqueror. Not particularly exciting, but could be worse. At least, his niece’s feelings were spared and no one dared to question the king’s choice of heir. So far.

“The play was rather nice.” said Rhaenyra when the applause finally died out and the crowd began to disperse, attracted by some other things.

“They have seen dragons and know that they are not a power to be trifled with. Some of them even recall Jaehaerys and Vermithor. But it cannot be said about the rest of the Realm. The Westlands and the Reach hardly witness dragons nowadays. You could remind them who there true rulers are. Go on a royal progress, like my grandparents did, Silverwing carried Queen Alysanne as far as the Wall in the North, and every lord welcomed Her Grace with open hands. There was no doubt who ruled the Seven Kingdoms.” he mused as they went further.

“Will you join me?”

“No, little dragon. I have to secure your kingdom from the threat from afar. The king gave his leave to wage war in the Stepson and Corlys is currently preparing a military campaign, which I might join.” The plan seems exciting to Daemon, but Nyra’s face darkened upon hearing it.

“I see… But please don’t leave me too soon, help me to endure all these lords, pestering me with their silly advances. It is not me they want but my title!” Rhaenyra pleaded, her voice leaving the cheerful note and becoming small. Quite expectedly, Viserys started shoving suitors on her at the earliest convenience, and with that, choosing the most infuriating among this Andal lot.

“To become a King Consort each of them will go to great lengths, that is true enough. But are all of them that awful?” he asked, without knowing what answer he wanted to hear.

“Not long ago, if memory serves me, right after little Baelon’s death, my mother asked me about my preferences in men.” his niece said thoughtfully. “And the more I look at all the Lords who came to Kings Landing, the more I understand, that I will not be able to fall for any of them. Even Lord Boremund with all his disrespect he showed to me dragged his son Borros —”

“He will change his mind.” interjected Daemon. “And will treat you respectfully next time he sees you. I told you that before and can repeat it again, if you like.”

“Are you planning to unhorse anyone who is not respectful enough?”

“Yes, if it is needed. And even more.” He was surprised to see Rhaenyra smile at his promise. Did she not take him seriously? “Don’t ever doubt me in this respect.”

“I don’t.” she smiled even wider and he wanted to tell her more, to reassure her, to swear, but they arrived at the tavern and the words were left unsaid.

The tavern was warm and lit by the chandeliers attached to the walls, making the place look cosy and full of life. Daemon had spent many nights there, when he was not visiting a brothel, that was, and easily spotted a table he usually occupied with his men from the City Watch. Predictably, they were already seated and dining on a roasted duck with backed potatoes and ale, gold cloaks removed and carefully hung beside them. A mischievous smile tugged the corners of Daemon’s mouth, when he imagined the faces of Luthor Largent and Harwin Strong upon seeing their Princess right in front of their noses. Of their loyalty he was sure, not a word of their visit would escape their lips, if he asked.

“Isn’t it too big of a meal for such late hour?” japed Daemon, clapping Luthor on his shoulder.

Hearing the voice of his Commander, Luthor and Harwin turned their faces, beaming with smile. “You know how insatiable I am my prince, be it at dinner table or in bed.” returned Luthor, as Harwin laughed uproariously. “You are late today! So busy with Princess’ initiation that none of the time is left for your brothers-in-arms?”

“You can’t be more right, my friend, and actually I still am.” replied Daemon pulling back a chair for Rhaenyra who was still wearing the hood over her hat. Both watchmen acquired a puzzled expression when they finally spotted a new figure. Very cautiously, so that not let her long silver curls fall from under the hat, his niece removed the hood and offered the men the most charming of smiles.

The prince observed their baffled reaction, not even bothering to hide a mocking smirk — their faces were hundred times funnier than any play preformed by street actors. Even more amusing was them trying to hide their true emotions and trying not to attract attention of other patrons.

“It is my greatest pleasure to meet you, good Ser.” said Rhaenyra, offering her hand. Luthor, moved by the gesture, took it in his and placed a very light but reverent kiss on the back of it. Surely, he had never dreamt of holding Princess’ hand, much less kiss it.

“And you, Ser.” she addressed Harwin, stretching her hand as well. Strong, whose father served on Viserys’ council, spent more time at court than Luthor, was less confused and brought his lips to Rhaenyra’s hand, looking straight in her eyes. His gaze lingered on Rhaenyra for longer than any protocol allowed, and Daemon had to stop himself before making some rude comment or sending Strong away. He had nothing against Harwin, but it troubled his to see Nyra courted on every step.

Despite initial awkwardness, their conversation continued in a light and good-natured manner, forcing alarming thoughts away from Daemon’s mind. Perhaps, he was just on edge, the inevitability of suitors, which reminded him of an unkindness of ravens, flocking around and trying to grasp what should not be theirs. His niece, his precious little dragon. The more he thought, the more he understood that Rhaenyra had to be his. Aemma’s leave to court her daughter was a kind gesture, indeed, yet it was also a mocking one, in the view of his current situation — he was but shackled to Rhea Royce. How, by the Fourteen, did she imagine him courting Rhaenyra, while still wed to the Bronze Bitch? Aemma promised to make a plan, but so far there was none. The time was ticking, though, and Viserys would soon lose patience and throw suitors at Nyra even with greater zeal.

“Are you feeling fine, uncle?” Rhea asked, eyeing him worriedly. Perhaps, he allowed himself to go too deep into his thoughts, a scowl marring his features.

“Um, yes, why?” he asked, offering one of his most nonchalant smiles.

“It is like you are here with us and somewhere else at the same time.” she shrugged, still watching him intently. Their two companions, not so sensitive as Rhaenyra just stared at him until Luthor raised his hand, snapping fingers, and ordered one more round of wine.

Once drinks were served and hands of the watchmen grasped their cups, Rhaenyra joined them. “Are you sure, you want to try this?” asked Daemon, his fingers curling around Rhaenyra’s wrist. The look she gave him was that of surprise.

“Yes, why not? I am curious to try what is served in the taverns of Kings Landing.” With that Rhaenyra made a sip from the simple pewter cup, while Daemon was watching closely, a smirk tugging up the corners of his lips. It did not take her long to react.

“It burns!” she gasped teary-eyed, fanning her face with a hand.

“It does, yes!” nodded Daemon, giving a cheeky grin. “It is much stronger than the sweet or watered-down wine served in the Keep. Don’t say I did not warn you.” He poured some water and offered the cup to Rhaenyra, who was still trying to catch her breath.

“Gods, for a moment I thought I would breathe fire like Syrax.” she chuckled, good humour returning to her. Harwin and Luthor joined in, their laughter loud and infectious.

Meanwhile, a serving girl came with a tray full of tankards of ale and wine. Having placed them on the table, she retrieved a folded parchment from the pocket of her apron and discreetly handed it to Daemon. “This is for you. From a friend.”

He arched his brow, taking the note and using the moment when everyone at the table was distracted, quickly scanned its contents. Mysaria wished to see him. The moment was inappropriate, but there must be something important to tell, if she dared to disturb him. He had not seen her since their last talk, when he pressed a knife to her neck, and it was clear that whatever had grown between them turned into pure business. Nothing personal.

While Rhaenyra was talking to Luthor, he leaned forward to Harwin, asking him to keep an eye on the princess. These to men could keep her safe for a short time, couldn’t they?

He found Mysaria in one of the private rooms on the second floor of the tavern, chatting with another girl who left as soon as he appeared in a doorway.

“You wished to see me.” Daemon said curtly instead of greeting.

“And hello to you, my prince.” Mysaria teased and he rolled his eyes.

“Come on, tell me what you have got, I am otherwise occupied.”

“Oh, yes, sure, we have an esteemed guest this eve. The patron would burst with pride, if he only knew.” she said nonchalantly, plucking a grape from a bunch and putting it into her mouth. Daemon narrowed his eyes, it always made him wonder how this woman could know things. Rhaenyra’s true identity was well disguised, or so he thought, and, yet, Mysaria already knew it.

“‘Tis none of your concern.” he bristled. “Speak up, or else I lose my patience.”

Mysaria gave him a look which he could not decipher, but he guessed, she did not like him being rude. He did not give a sh*t, though, no one could play tricks with the Rogue Prince.

“This thing,” she said, retrieving a purse with an embroidered green hand, he found in the cavern at Dragonstone. “The man who owed it presumably belonged to the order of Green Hand.”

“Green what?” puzzled Daemon, a weird thought that he was growing to hate colour green flashing in his mind.

“Green Hand.” she repeated slowly. “In the days before Aegon’s conquest, when it were not the Targaryens who ruled the Reach and the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, but Kings of the Reach and their queens, the greatest champions at tourneys, men as pure, virtuous and honourable as they were skilled at arms, were invited to join the Order of the Green Hand. And yet, it did not help them in the Field of Fire, all of them were extinguished during Aegon’s invasion. With them perished beside their king, it was believed that the order died as well. The more strange it is to find something bearing their sigil.” she concluded, tapping her finger on the purse.

“It is a nice history lesson.” hummed Daemon. “But I need the names. And what in the Seven Hells, they were doing in the Dragonmont.”

“This I cannot tell.” shrugged Mysaria, leaning back in her chaise. “But I would think that they do not like dragons, as their predecessors were killed by dragonfire, along with their king.”

Mysaria’s words made sense, since there were groups of people who hated dragons, deemed them to be dangerous creatures, who came from the darkest pits of the Seven Hells, or part of something which could not be explained by maesters, such as Valyrian magic. It did not surprise him, for Targaryens were different, closer to Gods than men, and such like Otto Hightower had to be reminded about that time and time again.

“And yet I need the names.” he repeated, his eyes locked on Mysaria’s.

“No promises. But I will try.”

Daemon just nodded, accepting that. There was no sense in threatening her, she would do what was asked. But if those bastards were far away from Kings Landing it made the whole thing even more complicated. The idea that some of them were lurching in the shadows of the Dragonmont, searching for something or trying to harm eggs or hatchlings. Surely, they were not out of their wits to approach a full-grown dragon. And yet, it was the Cannibal’s lair Daemon found the purse in.

“So, would you like me to arrange a private room for you and your companion?” asked Mysaria, plucking another grape.

“I told you to stay out of it. And stop spying on me, better busy yourself with finding who those bastards might be.” Daemon replied sharply, irritated by the dirty hint. Mysaria thought that he brought his niece there to defile. But what else could a whor* presume? She was wise enough to read his anger and preferred to stay silent. Still, it was a strange thing that most of the troublesome things in his life were associated with colour green or coming from the Hand. The Order of the Green Hand. What could sound worse?…

On his way back to the table Daemon stopped at the counter, throwing a purse with coins to the tavern owner. “A round of your best wine to everyone.” he said quietly, as the man clasped the purse with a wide grin across his face.

“You are so generous, my prince, as alw—” he stopped with his mouth open, while Daemon lifted a finger, silencing him.

“Tell everyone it is from the Princess. Let them drink to her health and the prosperous future reign of the Realm’s Delight.”

“Understood, my prince.” nodded the patron, already beckoning serving girls to distribute the drinks.

The conversation between Rhaenyra and his captains seemed nice and lively, leaving him little space for concern that it was a mistake to bring her to the tavern. His own power came from the trust and love the City Watch had for their Commander and the smallfolk appreciated his generosity and desire to mingle with them.

Nyra gave him a happy smile, her eyes glistening with excitement and cheeks blooming red from the drinks. Her smile grew even wider, when all the patrons were served with wine and raised their cups to hail and cheer Princess Rhaenyra, the Realm’s Delight and their future queen. Daemon observed it with satisfaction, they were really eager to do that and when chanting Rhaenyra’s name, their faces beamed with hope. Mayhap, Viserys’ choice of heir was not that bad, after all. Rhaenyra possessed the merits which he could never have, even as a dragon she was more reserved and could guide her temperament while he almost always lost it. She would make a fine Queen. And he was oh so willing to help her in that.

Harwin and Luthor soon left to the barracks, kissing Rhaenyra’s hand all over and whispering the words of loyalty. Whatever they were talking about in his absence, the Princess surely won over these two brutes, charmed by her easy charisma and amiable nature.

“Where have you been?” she asked, co*cking her head curiously, as he sat down and poured them another cup of wine.

“Aaah, visited an old friend of mine.” he shrugged nonchalantly, preferring to keep the details to himself.

“If not for Ser Luthor’s reassurance, I would have thought you left.” she teased, making him feel embarrassed.

“Left? Why?”

“Daemon Targaryen is unpredictable, it is well known.”

“Am I?”

“I would not be sitting here, if you were not. This is not the most appropriate place for a princess.”

“But you are enjoying yourself, aren’t you?”

“I am, yes. This is the best thing to happen to me in a long time.” she confessed.

“Then I take it as a compliment. Daemon Targaryen the unpredictable Prince.”

“I like the Rogue Prince better.” Saying this Rhaenyra was playing with the collar of her tunic, the sleeve of which, too wide for her shoulders, slipped down, revealing her smooth alabaster skin.

Daemon traced his finger over her bare shoulder, feeling deep arousal and desire, the one he had not felt in a long time, even in pleasure house with Mysaria. All it would take would be to order a private room as Mysaria offered, and this evening from a pleasant one could grow into something more. He had been into exploring Rhaenyra’s wit during the council meetings, her thoughts and nature in their private conversations, but all of it only ignited his desire to explore the more sensual part of his niece. The Heavens she hid between her thighs.

Daemon Targaryen was not used to denying himself in pleasure. He always plucked the ripest fruits and had them all until his appetite was fully sated. Yet, none of them were so appealing as his niece was at that moment. It was not even necessary to deflower her, there were dozens of ways to please each other, of which she, surely, did not know, but he was a good teacher, and not only in Valyrian.

He took her chin with two fingers, caressing her silken skin with his thumb. But then, through the haze of the desire, an image of Aemma appeared before his eyes and his promise rang in his ears. “Can you love Nyra the way I am sure she loves you”, she asked back then. “I would like you to become one of Rhaenyra’s suitors. I have known both of you long enough to be sure that you have more in common than you might think.”

To become one of Rhaenyra’s suitors. That was what Aemma offered. Would he spoil whatever plan she had on her mind with his reckless action and short-lived pleasure? As divine as it seemed, it would not last long, yet, the consequences would. Young and inexperienced, Rhaenyra was an easy prey, and he could do whatever he wanted before she even knew it. But he was not a vulture.

Letting go of her face, Daemon swallowed thickly, banishing carnal thoughts from his head. Not now. They could be spied upon, even in the city the walls had eyes and ears, sharper than in the Red Keep. And most importantly, he wanted everything proper for Nyra, rather than causing her problems, if it was not him who would have the honour to spend wedding night with her.

“It is time to go. You look tired and so am I.” He sighed, averting his gaze, but the image of his sweet niece still lingering in his eyes. He doubted that there would be another chance to be so close to her, though, especially, with Viserys’ zeal to wed Rhaenyra off. He would take care of the Lannister, but as for the rest, it might be more complicated.

The city plunged into darkness, once the sellers closed their shops, merchants removed their stalls and street actors and musicians finished their performances. They spent their way back mostly in silence, enjoying the cool night air.

Not until they climbed up the Aegon’s Hill, lingering silence was finally broken. Rhaenyra took him by his arm and mused, “Now I can see that the city is not as scary as my parents sometimes paint it. And can understand why you like it and prefer to spend so much time there.”

“It is not about preferences,” puffed Daemon. “I am the Commander of the City Watch, as you well know, and if your father somehow manages to rule the Seven Kingdoms from his Throne, I cannot maintain law and order in the capital without my actual involvement. My men are loyal to me because they know that I am with them and not afraid to get my hands dirty or even blooded.” he said, sounding too much defensive to his liking. Why did he always try to find excuses like a naughty boy being scolded for a mischief?

“I would do the same, if I could.” she shrugged, pulling up her hood as they approached the Eastern Gates. “Join my men, I mean. I have always thought that father is too passive in such matters. Hearing petitions is not enough. It is only the chosen few who are granted permission to approach the king in the Throne Room.”

“Well, you will have your chance to establish a new order.” he smiled, gently covering her head with the hood, and tucking a stray of silver hair under her hat.

“Identify yourself!” called out the guard at the Keep’s gates, peering into darkness. “Good eve, my prince!” the man stood to attention, once Daemon showed his face. With that they slid through the doors, passed the stables, the kennels, and dived into the secret passage.

***

There was still some time left to rest and slumber before the games started. It was decided to open them later than usual, so that the nobles could have a chance to recuperate after the ball and feast the other night. Closing his eyes and drifting off to sleep, it was mere minutes, or hours, Daemon could not tell, when the knocking on the door woke him up, making jerk up on his bed.

Will, his young squire, entered the chambers, holding a tray with a jar and a bowl of porridge.

“F-for you, S-ser.” he uttered, stammering as he always did when was nervous.

Daemon beckoned the boy, and, taking the jar drained iced milk in several gulps. Wiping white marks from his lips with a sleeve, he studied Will for a second — there was a shade of concern painted on his face, fingers fidgeting with the buckle of his belt. “Is my armour polished?” the prince asked.

“Yes, sir!”

“And is my horse groomed and fed well?”

“Aye, my prince! The tent is put up and all the lances checked.”

“Good, good.” Daemon stretched his arms and yawned, chasing off the sleep. The boy was still lingering in the chamber, shifting on his feet. “Off you go now, don’t just stand and stare at me! Have the servants bring some water and towels.” ordered Daemon, waving his hand dismissively.

“Um, there is one more thing, my prince. Apologies that I did not start with it, b-but, it — it is the king’s page, he was here. His Grace wished to see you at once.”

Daemon could hardly stop himself before the curses escaped his mouth.

“How urgent?”

“V-very.” his squire stammered.

“You should have started with this, you stupid boy!” the prince barked, throwing the jar onto the floor, the boy wincing at the crashing sound.

“I-I was afraid, you would be displeased.”

“Seven Hells, am I not now?!” scoffed Daemon, rolling his eyes at the stupidity of the boy. A son of some country lord, who wanted to find a place for his son at court and once did a favour to Viserys. It had always irked Daemon that he had to pay it back, but on certain occasions the boy was quick and obliging, so he just accepted it eventually.

“You are, my prince.” The squire mumbled, looking down at his boots. “So… Will you go now?”

“Where to?”

“To the king.”

“No.” cut off Daemon decisively.

“N-no?” asked Will, his eyes as wide as saucers.

“No. I will see him, but after the tourney. Presently, I have a promise to fulfill.” There could only be one reason for his brother’s burning desire to speak to him in the morning. Surely, not to wish him good luck in the games. The boy nodded hesitantly and scurried away, calling for the servants.

Once alone, Daemon collapsed back onto his pillows, rubbing his face in dismay. Viserys knew. And so soon… This was preposterous, the Prince of the City and the Heir were seen together, unguarded and uncheperoned. But the most infuriating thing was that they were so easily spied upon in their own city, their Keep. This maddening thought sparked anger in Daemon which was now burning hot and wild, filling him strength and energy to defeat all his opponents in today jousting. If he was a bit drowsy from the sleepless night, none of it left, his arms were made of Valyrian Steel — sharp and deadly.

He yearned to trace whatever bastard reported about him and Nyra to the King. It was not Mysaria, he knew that much, because she knew that her head would roll off her shoulders if she dared to spy on him and report back to Otto Hightower. Surely, she learnt her lesson well, when the tip of his dagger was inches away from her throat. He would find out, of that he was sure, even if banished, there were loyal people on Kings Landing who would bring that bastard to justice.

***

Covering his head with the helmet, Daemon swung into the saddle and trotted into the arena. As the prince he had the honour to choose an opponent. Pulling the reins of his horse to the left, where Lord Jason Lannister was seated atop his white mare, covered with red and gold horsecloth, attended by a squire, clad in a red and gold tunic, holding his gold-plated helm with white plumes and engraved lions.

The tip of Daemon’s lance clinked against Jason’s shield, the Lord of Casterly Rock, tipping his head in acknowledgement of the challenge. Turning to the royal box to pay respect to the the King and Queen, they parted, each trotting to the opposite side of the arena.

When the cheers died out and the crowd froze in anticipation, Daemon spurred his house, sending it into gallop. He aimed the tip of his lance at Jason’s shield and in mere seconds, the metal screeched, Daemon wincing at the strong impact on his left side. The pompous ass had a strong hand and seemed to be a good equestrian, bringing the first round to draw.

To sustain Daemon’s hit once was hard, but there could be no second chance. He was knighted by the Old King at sixteen, at the same time was given Dark Sister and since then his prowess steeled in numerous tourneys had only developed. When he and Jason met in the centre of the arena for the second time, his lance avoided his opponents shield and slid from his breastplate to hit him right in his head. Spectators gasped as he fell on the ground, his armoured arms and legs sprawling limply.

“One down.” murmured Daemon, raising his lance in the air to acknowledge bellowing and cheering of the crowd. Looking at the royal box, he spotted the king whose face was unmoved, he did not smile or clapped cheerfully like a fool as he always did at tourneys and especially when it was Daemon’s victory, while Rhaenyra seemed relieved that he won, only her eyes remained sad. So, Viserys did talk to her. “Bloody Hells.” he cursed, hurrying to choose his second opponent. Even if he was banished, he had to keep his promise.

Black stag on a yellow field was blazoned on the Baratheon’s shield, as Daemon tipped it, choosing him next. Boremund was a sturdy man, thick in waist and wide in shoulders. His hair and beard were dark brown and wiry, while his brown eyes were locked on Daemon’s without a hint of fear.

Not before four lances were broken and replaced with new ones, the impact of the prince’s hit could unhorse the Lord of the Storm’s End.

One overly proud suitor and one defiant Lord were dealt with, quickly and efficiently, it would take Jason Lannister weeks to heal his broken neck and misplaced shoulder, while Boremund would hardly ever be able to wield sword as he used to, once his fractured hand was cured.

The crowd was chanting his name, while the Prince was circling around the arena, bringing his horse to a halt next to the royal box. Viserys’ gaze was as sharp as steel, but it did not make Daemon avert his. The prince bowed gracefully to the royal family and, rearing his horse, trotted to the camp, leaving the rest of the knights compete with each other.

He entered his tent, stretching his back and arms which hurt after the hits of jousting lances he endured. His squire was sitting on a low stool in the corner, folding his hands on his laps, but jerked up the moment he spotted his master.

“My prince!” the boy squeaked in a high-pitched voice. “King’s page was here. Again. His Grace insists on your presence in his chambers right after you change from your armour. Or else he will have to send his Kingsguard to bring you by force.”

Chapter 19: Shadowed by the Legacy (Viserys)

Chapter Text

The morning was bright and warm, sunlight was cutting through the huge arched windows and curtains were fluttering from soft breeze coming from the Blackwater. Viserys was watching several servants fussing around his chamber laying silverware for breakfast and others carrying a basin with warm water and towels for him to freshen up and relieve a throbbing pain in his head. Since the day ahead promised to be long and the one that preceded was not less so, he allowed himself to have a late relaxed morning. He also wanted to savour the feeling of accomplishment — the matter of succession was finally settled, no more dark whispers of the second Maegor or worse behind his back and jealous gazes over the Blackwater from Driftmark. Aemma was safe, her duty fulfilled and Rhaenyra was accepted as the heir by all the lords of the Realm. Now it was the time to reap the fruits of his labours, six days of the festivities were left, and then some peace and quite, him teaching Rhaenyra the little tricks of ruling and Daemon hopefully away playing his war at the Stepstones.

The tranquility did not last long, though, startling Viserys with his abrupt entrance, Ser Harrold stepped into the chamber announcing that the Hand was at the door and requested an audience to discuss some matters of state.

“Send him away, Ser Harrold,” - the King grimaced, waving his hand, still very sick and nauseated. Despite the overall feeling of relief and even triumph, his head was splitting from the headache and stomach still bloated from all the food he consumed the other night. The Gods were punishing him for his indulgences and he suffered so much. He did not deserve such suffering, no one did, to think otherwise was cruel. Thankfully, Aemma was with him during the night, pouring some herbal teas into his mouth, which tasted awfully, making him want to gag, but had their relieving effect. No, he would not tolerate any visitors. “Do not admit anyone until my further notice.”

However, to Viserys’ great displeasure, the Lord Commander disappeared behind the door, only to reemerge seconds later, stating that the Lord Hand insisted it was urgent.

“Can I have a single morning of peace, by the Seven!” the king muttered angrily. He served the Realm daily and nightly and was denied of even such smallest thing — a couple of hours in the morning to work on his model and get back to his senses. Yet, while he was searching for some excuse and tried to add some more strictness to his voice, Ser Otto appeared, seemingly, too enthusiastic with whatever news he carried to wait for the royal permission to enter.

“Have mercy, Otto,” Viserys moaned miserably from his armchair instead of greeting, the sight of Otto’s gloomy face doubling his headache. “I am not prepared for the day yet, much less for dealing with any issues.”

“I beg your pardon for intrusion, Your Grace, but I have the most distressing news.” said Otto in a solemn voice, making Viserys moan even louder.

“Goodness gracious, Otto! Cannot this distressing news wait until the Small Council convenes or better till the end of the festivities?” he pleaded, but Otto’s face reflected that, obviously, it could not.

“With all due respect to Your Grace, it is urgent.” he declared, bowing his head respectfully.

Viserys sighed. He was the king, a good king. And had always strived to be even a better one. Sadly, the part of being good presupposed denying of his own needs and pleasures for the sake of the duties he carried. Swallowing a bile, rising up his throat together with a curse which formed in his mouth, he pointed at the empty chair across from his, and wrapped tighter the bedrobe over his nightshirt, shivering from the feeling of anticipation running down his spine. He hated urgent matters. And even more when they came in inopportune moments. Discarding his invitation, Otto preferred to remain standing and waited for the servants and grooms to leave, which took some time, for there were quite a few of them in the chamber.

“You may speak.” the King finally allowed, pinching the bridge of his nose and looking upwards at Otto.

The Hand, visibly moved by the news himself, heaved a heavy sigh, forcing the words from his lips, “I have discomforting news, Your Grace, which I thought best shared discreetly and at your earliest convenience.”

“What is it? Have Brackens and Blackwoods fought again?” he puzzled, but Otto’s face remained blank. “The Sea Snake? Has he been wagging about his wife’s claim for the throne?” to that Otto only shook his head.

“I am afraid, it concerns the Princess, my King.”

With mentioning of Nyra’s name, fear coiled in Viserys’ belly. He straightened in his chair, hands gripping tightly the carved wooden armrests. “Has— Has she been harmed?”

“The Princess is feeling fine, Your Grace.” Ser Otto reassured, but his face was still complicated. “It is no easy thing to tell a father of his daughter’s exploits. I had considered saying nothing, but—”

“What has she done?” Viserys interrupted him, now the feeling of anxiety flooding all over him and replacing fear.

“The Princess was spied last evening… Beyond the walls of the Red Keep… She was seen late at night in one of the taverns in Kings Landing, alone and unattended, in a company of men.”

“What men?”

“Prince Daemon and his cutthroats from the City Watch. She engaged in behaviours unbecoming of a princess, drinking wine and joining the brutes in their bawdy jokes and pastime.”

Viserys opened his mouth but only gasps and wheezes left his lips. It took a moment for his shock to pass, letting him finally utter, “How do you know?”

Ser Otto bowed his head in the most humble way, his hands dropped limply at his sides. “I must ask for your forgiveness, Your Grace, but my spies who work around the city have reported me about that.”

“How—” Viserys started but his voice broke. He coughed several times, clearing his throat and only then continued, “How do you know it was her? My daughter. It is unbelievable that they did not disguise themselves.”

“They did, my king. And very well. Yet, those who know things, see what others cannot.”

Completely in denial, Viserys shook his head. “They could be mistaken. They were mistaken, by the Gods! Do not you remember how some of your spies slandered my brother not too long ago?” he narrowed his eyes, looking suspiciously at Otto. It was a valid argument, indeed, the same thing could happen once again. But this time, the lier would not get away with only whipping, Viserys would have his tongue for that!

This line of thought helped Viserys to regain strength and confidence, he felt a rush of energy, ready to protect his daughter’s honour. There was nothing out of the ordinary that Daemon spent the night with his comrades, but it could be any woman, any whor*, sharing the company. Yet, his heart clenched, when Otto approached him, retrieving something from the inner pocket of his dark green doublet.

“My men found this when the princess left.”

Viserys stared dumbly at Otto’s palm, on which lay a tiny shining object. His lilac eye traveled up to Otto’s grey and then down to the object.

“What is it? A ring?” he asked a silly question, but it is all that he could think of at the moment.

“It is, Your Grace.”

Viserys co*cked his head, studying a crown-shaped golden ring, studded with coloured gems. “I cannot recall my daughter having this.” he said triumphantly, falling back in his chair. He knew it was a set up, a vile lie, a plot to tarnish Rhaenyra’s reputation, concocted by those who did not agree with his decision to name her heir. “It is not hers, Otto, shame on you for falling into the same trap again! This time not only your spies, but you will be punished!” he threatened, jabbing his finger in Otto’s direction.

The Hand did not seem intimidated in the slightest. He shook his head and said in a soft voice, “This ring belongs to the Princess Rhaenyra. If you doubt my words, then you may ask her. I swear by the Gods, the answer will be the same as mine.”

Viserys held his breath, frantically searching for words or arguments. None came to his head, while even the most ridiculous would do, anything, just anything — only to explain away his daughter’s actions.

Seeing his poor state, Otto continued, “My methods might seem despicable to you, Your Grace. But this way I serve the Realm. Imagine if your Grandsire’s daughter’s had been under better control? Spied upon by trusted men? If there was a pair of eyes watching them daily and nightly and then reporting to the king himself. We would not have witnessed either princess Saera’s downfall or princess Viserra’s fatal accident, of that I can assure you.”

Mentioning of his wayward aunts felt just like another slap, stronger even than from the revelation that his daughter was seen in a company of unmarried men in some filthy tavern. But it was all true, he was a boy when the whole court became witness of his aunts shameful deeds, yet up to now he could recall frustrated faces of his grandparents and his own baffled, trying hard with his childish mind to grasp the meaning of the words he was told and that he would never see his aunts again.

“It is all done for the good of the Princess.” continued Otto in a soft voice. “Your Grace remembers that it was me who suggested making princess Rhaenyra the heir. Would I condemn my own counsel as incorrect? Besides, she is our only option. Unless there are some other heirs, chosen or sired by Your Grace.”

Viserys preferred not to hear the word sired. Not this ugly idea of him remarrying! Anger bubbled in his throat when his own daughter was compared with Princess Saera, but he swallowed it down. It was Rhaenyra causing him headaches and igniting his fury, not his Hand. Otto had been mostly helpful so far.

Burying his face in his palms he plunged into dark thoughts. Throughout his reign Viserys had been in the shadow of his Grandsire and now he risked to find himself in the shadow of his wayward daughters. He could not recall ever speaking about those incidents either with his father or grandmother, but tongues at the court had been wagging for a long time, bringing misery upon the unfortunate parents — one whor* of a daughter fleeing from her confinement in Oldtown to Volantis only to become the owner of a pleasure house, while the other found her death in a drunken horse race, when she was thrown from her mount and broke her neck. Would he be like Jaehaerys? The king who sired a wayward daughter? Ser Braxton Beesbury, one of aunt Saera’s lovers, requested trial by combat, facing King Jaehaerys who slew the man with Blackfyre. Gods, Viserys would not be able to defeat Daemon in a duel. No one would, to be honest.

It was Otto’s voice that brought the king back from his musings. “Your Grace, I beg of you, we have nearly avoided Maegor come again by proclaiming your daughter the heir, do not allow the second Princess Saera or princess Viserra happen.” saying this Otto folded his hands in prayer, while his eyes reflected sadness and concern. This reminder stang so painfully, that the king’s hand reached to his heart, feeling its drumlike beating even through the thick velvet of his bedrobe. Apparently, he paled so much that Otto hurried to the table, poured a cup of wine and pressed it to his hand. Viserys did not move and Otto inclined the cup so that the liquid poured right into his mouth, tasting as bitter as the King was feeling at that awful moment.

“You look unwell, my king, I should better call for the maester.” Otto made a step towards the doors.

“No, no, it will not be necessary.” Viserys dismissed, forcing a smile onto his lips.

“Are you sure? You are sweating.” with worried eyes and caring face, Otto handed him a white silken napkin, which he gratefully accepted, wiping his brow, which he found really wet.

Of course, he was sweating. If only a word slipped about his brother’s and daughter’s antic, when all the lords were summoned to the capital, it would grow into such a scandal, his Grandsire could never have even imagined.

Then another wave covered Viserys and crushed at his very heart. Ungrateful spoilt brat, he wanted to yell, wrath at his daughter replacing his initial attempt at defending her honour and his own self-pitying. He and Otto worked tirelessly to arrange the ceremony, to summon all the lords to the capital and every his action was aimed at helping Rhaenyra and making her future ascension smooth and secure. But instead of cherishing his effort, the girl chose to play stupid games!

“I will speak to the Princess myself. You may go.” huffed the king dismissing Otto’s insistence to call Mellos or stay with him. Viserys rang the bell, and as soon as Ser Harrold peeked into the chamber, he barked, startling the knight, “Bring the Princess Rhaenyra to me!”

As the groom was helping Viserys to dress, he grumbled about the poor choice of the doublet, cream-coloured velvet with golden trimming, only highlighting how pale he was, then the groom laced it too loose and afterwards too tight, hardly letting him breath. In other words, he found everything annoying, while his mind was far away, still processing the things Otto had told him. Meanwhile it took so long for his daughter to arrive that he decided to go to her chambers himself.

Nearly bumping into each other in the doorway, when finally Rhaenyra graced him with her presence, Viserys clasped her wrist and dragged inside, slamming the door shut.

“Father? What is the meaning—” she began, daring to play innocent. Viserys would have none of this. Otto’s words about princesses Saera and Viserra were still ringing in his ears, coloring them red with shame.

“You were seen in a tavern late at night, surrounded by men from the City Watch. What say you to that?” he growled, towering over her.

It took a moment before the question settled in. Rhaenyra inhaled deeply and raised her chin. “It is a lie.” she said defensively, while Viserys fixed his gaze to her face, waiting for a brow or corner of her mouth to twitch, showing her nervousness and that it was she who was lying to him. It did not happen. Fine, there was another way to find the truth.

“A lie, you say? Mayhap you can enlighten me, then, what is this thing?” Viserys demanded, his hand outstretched and holding the ring Ser Otto gave him. The one, forged in the form of King Jaehaerys’ crown, his own crown.

The trick worked well. Rhaenyra’s eyes widened in recognition, as she bit her lip.

“So?”

“It belongs to me, father. A gift.” she replied, once regaining her calmness.

“A gift? From whom dare I ask?”

“From my uncle.” Rhaenyra shrugged and he arched his brown, piercing her with his gaze. “Does it surprise you? Well, it should not. There is no great mystery that uncle Daemon loves indulging me with gifts and trinkets. This is one of these. Given to commemorate my initiation.”

“You are the owner of this ring, then.” said Viserys gloomily. “If so, I wish you to explain, how did it happen that the ring was found lying on a table in a city tavern?”

The question startled her, she swallowed hard and glared defiantly at him, seemingly, at a loss for words. Viserys own heart stuttered to a stop, as he waited for her to confirm the gossip.

“I am not going to comment on any vile accusation, thrown by someone, willing to undermine me, my virtue or uncle’s honour.” declared Rhaenyra, clasping her hands at her front. Time spent on the Council worked well for her, thought Viserys to his own displeasure. She learnt better how to hold her ground and not to cower when faced with an argument.

“It is not an answer!” he bellowed, loosing control of himself. His daughter refused to speak further, though. As moments passed in silence, he clenched his fists and gritted teeth, feelings of his Grandsire becoming painfully familiar to him. “Alright, then.” he hissed darkly. “If I cannot get the bloody answer from you, I know whom I should ask. And now leave. At once.” he shooed the wayward girl away with a wave of his hand. “Ser Harrold! Escort the princess to her chambers, any visits, especially by my brother are restricted. You are to bring her to the Tourney grounds later.” The feeling that he was being too harsh was gnawing at him, but it was a necessary measure, or else Rhaenyra and Daemon would make up a story to feed him later, as if he was a dumb trusting fool. And the king wanted to have Daemon sharply questioned.

“Even the Queen cannot see the Princess, Your Grace?” asked the Kingsguard, shifting uncomfortably on his feet.

Viserys hesitated for a moment before saying, “That I allow.”

He was so sick and tired of all these womanly things and discussions, especially that they were constantly revolving around Daemon. First, Aemma pestering him with the annulment of the prince’s marriage, and now, his own daughter gallivanting around the city, making herself drunk and ridiculous with the Gold Cloaks and her uncle! Let his daughter and wife direct their energy to courtly gossips and other things they might be interested in, that way his own head would hopefully hurt less.

Chapter 20: “Et Tu, Brute?” (Viserys)

Chapter Text

Viserys had always been a man of peace. He hated violence and felt nauseous from the sight of blood. Unlike most of the boys, who flocked to the training yard to watch sparring or participate in it, the older Prince of the two used all possible excuses not to, hiding from the Master at Arms as if from the plague. Tourneys, though, were different thing. The action sent his adrenaline pumping without being in close proximity to blood, cracked bones and misplaced shoulders. This time, however, the pleasure was spoilt beyond repair. It was not the games he was watching, but tapping his fingers nervously on the armrest of his wide armchair and searching his mind for the words he would say to Daemon. Quite expectedly, his brother had not made his appearance yet, for the Tourney began with the jousting of some hedge knights, minor landed knights and then a melee, featuring those who were not too badly injured.

“Are you enjoying the games, Your Grace?” came Otto’s voice from his left.

Dragged from his musings, Viserys had to force a smile onto his lips before speaking, “I am. Immensely.”

“I do hope we will see Prince Daemon jousting today.” said the Hand meaningfully, stroking his beard.

“What are you speaking about? Of course we —” Viserys stumbled over his words, realisation that Daemon could have run away, ashamed of his actions, darkening his face. The King requested his presence earlier that morning, only to face his brother's disobedience. But his brother was not a coward either and had never been, so, mayhap, it was not just about his guilty conscience — he had been waiting for knights matching his princely station.

“My cousin is always in the lists.” it was Aemma now who joined the conversation. “And he will never miss such a grand event, in fact, he will do his best to make it more glorious, the memory of our daughter’s proclamation as the heir should stay in people’s minds for years to come.”

For years to come. Viserys scoffed at that. If they continued likewise, there would not be too many years before Rhaenyra ascended the throne. His hand reached to his aching heart, its beating increasing with memories of what Ser Otto told him and then their little quarrel with Rhaenyra. He glanced sideways at her — nothing gave away his daughter’s worry, her chin was up, back straight, eyes wide open and watching the joust.

“But of course, Your Grace, he will! The Prince never ceases to impress us.” commented Otto, his voice laying emphasis on the last words. Viserys bit his inner cheek to suppress a moan. He was already impressed, thank you very much! And now his only hope was that none of Daemon’s transgressions would transpire and no one would be given cause to gossip. Viserys winced as one of the contenders was brought down from his horse with a loud thud and clanking of his armour. As if it was not enough for the lad, he stood up with much effort and, swaying, demanded to continue in a contest at arms. People cheered him as he grabbed his sword, but Viserys rolled his eyes at the stubbornness of the man, drowning his own worries in Summer wine.

Before long Daemon did arrive. His name was chanted by the crowd, all of them hailing Daemon Targaryen, the Prince of the City. For Viserys, though, it was a relieving thought to know that his brother had not fled. The noise only died out when the King rose to announce the second part of that day’s Tourney and more exciting one — nobler lords from major Houses were supposed to show their skills. Daemon, in his black armour, encrusted rubies shining on his breastplate where eyes of the dragon should be and pompous winged helmet with red plums, blown slightly by the wind, cut the image of the true Targaryen prince. Were it some other day, Viserys would be proud, if only a little worried and silently praying that his brother would not be hurt. Yet, it was anger that pushed away all other sentiments, turning his heart into stone, while he could hardly wait to have Daemon brought before his eyes.

Casting a side-glance, Viserys saw Aemma reaching for Rhaenyra’s hand, clutching it, rubbing knuckles in a placating manner. So, they had spoken. Aemma knew about their daughter’s escapade and Daemon’s treachery. The King's own hands were restless, one gripping the dragon on his armrest, the other, clutching tight the stem of his goblet. No one was holding his hand, and he felt terribly lonely amidst the sea of people. The morning of triumph turned into sheer misery, forcing his mind to search for culprits. Daemon, for one. How dared he to put his daughter’s virtue at risk! Then came Rhaenyra — a spoilt girl, who was bestowed with the greatest honour and instead of being serious and grateful, she played with it as if it were rings on her fingers. Aemma was too soft and permissive with her, Viserys always knew it. Without doubt, he adored Rhaenyra, but was also aware that dragons needed taming — Daemon was a good example of that.

Watching his brother trot proudly astride his black charger and circle the arena, Viserys was struggling with conflicting emotions. However, the moment Daemon approached Jason Lannister, touching his shield with his lance, the balance was tipped against the prince. It could not be different, among all of them Daemon chose Lannister as his victim. Apparently, he guessed that Viserys gave him his leave to court Rhaenyra — Lord Jason was an excellent match, and the king embraced this idea with enthusiasm. In the first round their lances met, splintering into pieces against shields, but both of them remained ahorse. In the second, Lord Jason was pushed away from his steed with such force that he first flew in the air and only then landed on the ground, his arms and legs stretched limply aside and bent unnaturally. Spectators roared frantically, waving black and red banners in support of prince Daemon.

As if his bloodthirst was not yet sated, his brother chose another Lord Paramount to humiliate. Even though Lord Boremund’s frame was quite intimidating, he lacked dexterity and technique which helped Daemon to unhorse the Lord of Storm’s End as swiftly as he did the Lannister. Viserys could swear that he heard moans coming from the ground when Boremund was carried away by his squires. The king turned his head and found Daemon next to the royal box, bowing deeply to them and basking in cheers and shouts of the crowd. Rearing his horse, he galloped to his tent, granting other knights a chance to choose their opponents.

The page he had sent to Lord Jason’s tent returned carrying the news that the Lord of Casterly Rock was badly injured and would remain indisposed for some time, though, the maesters were already attending to him. Viserys sent the boy back to the camp and right to Daemon’s tent, demanding his presence. Then with a flick of his hand he ordered Ser Harrold to escort him back to the Keep. Enough of this for today. He had to fight his own battle and meant to unhorse his brother with the truth.

***

Viserys had hoped to discover Daemon waiting for him in his solar, but the luck was not with him. The King abhorred quarrel and violence, but it seemed both would be needed when questioning his brother. And it was bitter realization that only the guilty heart would try to avoid him so painstakingly.

He sent the sturdiest and most capable of his Kingsguard to fetch Daemon, a nagging thought in the back of his mind that, if needed, Daemon could beat them both. Meanwhile, he steeled himself for the conversation, nothing drained and exhausted him more then arguing with his brother. He wondered, if some wine would help, but eventually decided against it — having clear mind was better than a loose tongue.

By the time Daemon was finally announced, the dark pit formed in Viserys’ stomach and he yearned for his brother to fill it with apologies and reassurances, but not to dig it deeper, making it painful for both of them.

“You called for me, Your Grace.” he said rather formally and bowed deeply.

“I did. But you are not the quickest to obey your king.” Viserys reprimanded sternly.

“I had to take care that your event was spectacular. And it was, thanks to me.” Daemon replied with another bow.

Spectacular it was, thought Viserys. He gave his leave to Lord Jason and he was supposed to court Rhaenyra throughout the festivities and then stay in Kings Landing for some time. And now in his indisposed state the only thing he could do was to be carried to Lannisport and spend several months under the care of his maesters. He would not be surprised, if Daemon had done it on purpose, just to spite him, his king.

Daemon was looking at him expectantly, his back straight, one hand behind his back and the other clutching the hilt of his sword. Did he not know what the king called him for or was it just a stupid game he was playing? Fine, Viserys would not waste his time beating around the bush.

“I know that you are an ambitious man, Daemon, and wherever you are looking, your gaze returns to this thing which I am wearing upon my head.” Viserys said, tapping his finger on his silver hair, there was no crown at the moment, but it was obvious that he referred to Daemon’s long-lusting desire for the crown. “Yesterday you were among the first to swear your loyalty to Rhaenyra. Why, by the love of Gods, you break your oath the next day? Is that what our father taught you?!” he demanded, jabbing an accusing finger in his direction.

With these words Daemon’s defence gave a crack, he swallowed thickly and looked at him pretending to be hurt by accusations. His voice was calm, though, when he spoke.

“What have I done so wrong to be called an oath-breaker?” he demanded, still playing innocent.

Tired of it all Viserys roared, “Did you take my daughter to the city? And please spare your efforts when denying the truth, this ring is Rhaenyra’s and it was found in a tavern where you indulged!” He thrusted the damned crown-shaped ring on the table, pointing at it.

“I did.” the answer Daemon gave was outrageously straightforward.

“And you— you are not going to deny this accusation?” Viserys narrowed his eyes in disbelief. The audacity of his younger brother truly did not know any limits.

“Tis I who gave Rhaenyra the ring. And it was my idea to go to the city, so that she could learn more about its people, their pastime and how they view their future queen. As much as that. Nothing unbecoming has happened, whatever lies you were fed and whichever poison was poured in your ears. But let me tell you something. She was not wearing the ring that time. It was too conspicuous and we left it in Rhaenyra’s chambers. So, tell this little thief of yours that next time I will cut his fingers one by one, if he ever lays his bloody hands on things belonging to my niece. And then I will gauge his eyes for spying, even if it is someone else doing the dirty job for him.”

“There is nothing bad about spying, if it serves for the best if the Realm.” Viserys argued. “Aunts’ Saerra and Viserra’s fate would have not been that grim, if our Grandsire, as you call it, had spied on them.” he said defensively, repeating his Hand’s words. From Otto, though, they sounded more convincing, than from himself.

“By the Fourteen, is there any sense left in this empty head of yours, Viserys!” fumed Daemon, throwing his hands in the air. “Tell me it was not your idea to compare Rhaenyra to her great-aunts, tell me you are not that weak-minded!”

Viserys winced internally at these words, well, it was not his mind that bore the comparison. He did his best to ignore his confusion; it was no moment for Daemon to see his weakness.

“Enough!” he yelled, taking a step towards Daemon and, cursing that his brother was taller, glared up at him. “Listen to me and listen well, Daemon. You will attend the feasts and other festivities, will eat and drink and make merry and if you don’t then you will be forced to! Enough of undermining your niece and making her partake in your escapades!” he threatened, while Daemon’s face was all a mask of deep contempt. “And once they are over, I wish you out of the capital! Go, wage your war, but before playing this favourite game of yours, you are to spend two moonturns with your lady wife. Think about your own heirs, instead of spoiling mine.” Viserys yelled barely holding himself against lurching on Daemon, but it would be very unkingly to do so. He opened his mouth to say more and worse, but the Gods were kind to Daemon, sending Ser Harrold in.

“Apologies, Your Grace. It is the Queen and the Princess. They want to speak to you and say it is urgent.” he said stiffly, looking between the enraged King and the defiant Prince.

Before he could give his leave, the rustling of skirts against the stone floor was heard and both of them appeared before his eyes. “Viserys? What is the meaning of this? You left so suddenly, without as much as sparing a word. Has something happened?” inquired Aemma, her voice laced with worry. Her cheeks were flushed and she was panting, it seemed she had almost been running all the way.

“My brother happened, Aemma.” Viserys whined, throwing his hands in the air. “This time he took our girl to Kings Landing where they were seen—” he did not manage to finish his words, as Aemma’s voice drowned out his.

“It is true, they spent the evening in the tavern with some officers of the Gold Cloaks, conversing and eating. Our daughter wants to know her people, their tastes and pastime; to know how her future subjects feel about her. Is that a crime?” she defended, taking Rhaenyra’s hand in hers.

“Wh— what? You— you are taking his side?” Viserys gasped incredulously. He was ready to pinch his hand, just to make sure, it was not a nightmare he was dreaming. Aemma, his sweet Aemma chose Daemon over himself, her husband, her king? He blinked and stared at her imploringly. “This… this man tried to undermine your daughter’s virtue and you support him in that? Trying to find a valid explanation to his deeds?” his voice was weak, barely a whisper.

“It is but another misunderstanding.” the Queen argued. “Small wonder that Daemon’s actions have been misinterpreted, knowing who whispered this gossip in your ear. And let me remind you that every time the twisted news come from one and the same person, your precious Hand. Should you not question him instead of Daemon? How can you rely completely on a word of a man who is not your family? If it brings you more concern to know that your daughter had a wish to explore the city which will be hers in a due term, than the fact that the princess’ chambers were intruded and her ring stolen, it is you who undermine Rhaenyra, not your brother!” she accused. It seemed it was a mistake to grant Aemma admission to Rhaenyra’s chambers. They used the time before the Tourney talk everything over and build up their defence. But he would not surrender that easily.

“It does not matter! How could you not see this! Jaehaerys would have disinherited her!” he berated.

“For a lie? Viserys, you have yet to ask Rhaenyra for the truth of what happened, but you chose the word of your Hand over hers!”

“The truth does not matter, Aemma! Only perception. Our daughter has exposed herself. And now she has to suffer the consequences, even if some facts were twisted.” he explained. Yes, he would follow their advice and would put Otto’s version under question, but they should also be aware of how it looked like. Yet, there was no enthusiasm in either of his family. Aemma looked appalled and contempt was painted all over Daemon’s face.

“The truth does not matter you say, Viserys?” asked Aemma, her voice low and the king did not like that. There was an air of hidden menace, but it was so alien to his wife, she had always been kind and obedient… Her next words lay heavy on his aching heart. “You are a hypocrite, husband. When have you become that or have you always been, but disguised this ugly feature so masterfully?”

“Me? A hypocrite?!” he whispered, horrified that his wife turned out to be so unsympathetic to his inner torments.

“Exactly. Your false appearance of virtue does not suit you.” she said and Viserys winced at the offense.

No, he would not tolerate that!…

“You call up on my drawbacks so readily, but forget about your own deficiencies! And I, a naive fool, keep protecting you from all the accusations thrown at your back!” he yelled angrily.

“What did you call it?…” the queen breathed out and stepped back, aghast hearing the words that were only true.

“That— that…” he began, but stuttered, it took his breath away when his eyes fell on Aemma’s and Rhaenyra’s faces.

His heart skipped a bit, even several, nearly stopping right in his chest, he would have doubled over, if not for his regal station and so instead he straightened, scanning his family with a matching glare. All of them chose to rebel against him when he was at his most vulnerable — he officially admitted that he was incapable of giving the realm its future king, instead offering his subjects a queen. All of them did not even care to lend him support and dared — dared……

“My deficiencies?” Aemma’s question dragged him back from his inner misery, her tone was icy but eyes huge and pained. “My deficiencies, is it?” she repeated, as though it was the most vile lie and accusation. Perhaps, the word choice was wrong, but the meaning… What was this ridiculous reaction about, really?! Her issues with pregnancies and childbearing were not a secret, Gods saw it fit to punish them that way, but he, as a generous husband and king, found a way to solve it, sparing Aemma’s life, health and honour.

“Were you my brother, I would smash your f*cking face for these wretched words.” this time it was Daemon who spoke. Viserys turned his head and winced at the menace in his eyes — quiet and growing. “But you are a king. What a pity.”

Were you my brother?! Viserys winced again, when Daemon’s words echoed in his ears. “I am your brother, Daemon, but it does not give you the right to talk to me like that.”

“I doubt that.” his brother growled.

“Wh—what?” Viserys asked, his voice breaking.

“Both. About being brother and the right to treat a piece of sh*t like sh*t it is.”

The heavy silence fell on the chamber, Daemon glaring at him, Rhaenyra’s eyes downcast and Aemma… Oh, this accusation in her stare could burn him to ashes, no dragon flame was even needed!

“Ha!” to everyone’s surprise he chuckled bitterly, then addressed to Rhaenyra, his finger pointing at Daemon. “So, is this whom you chose for a company, my dear daughter? A brute, disrespecting his king and elder brother? How could you be so selfish and irresponsible! How could you be so naive to fall into his trap!”

“So, Rhaenyra is selfish?” Aemma cut in, stepping forward.

“Yes!” he said irritably.

“And irresponsible?”

“Absolutely!”

“Oh well, dear husband, I have suspicions you misunderstand these both notions. I wonder, whose chamber will be searched next? Probably mine, since I am the Queen and someone will definitely benefit from spreading vile gossips and lies about my own person. Should I keep my jewellery away, or else it will also be stolen and used to slander me?” Aemma demanded with a force Viserys had not seen in her before. “It is a truly sad thing that my lord and husband gives preferences to someone outside his own family, as if the name Targaryen can be so easily tarnished by the bleating of a sheep.” she finished, her voice as cold as ice in the North.

No, it was not the treatment he deserved! His wife was supposed to stay away and watch meekly as he passed his judgment on his wayward daughter and brother, but instead… He… He, the king, was reproached and reprimanded, as if it was his fault, as if it was him cutting the branch their daughter was sitting on!

All the senses leaving him, he broke at that point. “You will not speak to me in such a manner!” he yelled on the top of his lungs. “None of you! I am your king in the first place and only then husband, father or brother! And you will obey my command and behave yourself!” his head was spinning and breathing laboured, but it was already too late to stop himself. “You!” he roared, turning to Daemon and jabbing a finger at him. “I want you out of the capital by the end of the festivities! It is for the sake of my daughter,” he threw a sharp glare in Rhaenyra’s direction, “that House Targaryen must stand united! And afterwards you leave, be gone, disappear from my sight! And don’t dare to return until I command otherwise!” he fumed. “But your king is generous! It is up to you where to crawl — to your wife’s bed in the Vale or to the Stepstones!”

Rhaenyra gasped at that, bringing her hands to her chest, while Aemma wrapped her arm around their daughter’s shoulders in a protective manner. Such touching unity and support. But not for him! Not for their king and father!

“And now all of you — out! I had enough with all your nonsense! A bunch of ungrateful fools! Whatever I have given you, you’ve thrown back in my face! I do not expect any gratitude, but respect I am owed!” The world around him started to spin and crumble, grabbing the back of the chair to help himself stand upright, Viserys closed his eyes and tried to steady his breath. “SER HARROLD!” he bellowed, startling the Lord Commander yet another time during this wretched day. “Take them all away!”

Viserys turned his back to his family and when the tapping of steps against the stone floor died out and the doors closed, he collapsed in his armchair, exhausted, drained, defeated. He was relieved, though, that there was no feast or ball planned for the evening, just another banquet in the Godswood which he might even not attend, referring to some political matters he had to deal with urgently. It would not be even a lie. His daughter was his political headache. And queen Aemma would host that small event, she was so bubbling with action, defending his brother and daughter, after all, let her energy serve some good purpose.

***

Reclining on a grand armchair, Viserys rubbed his eyes, a wave of throbbing headache ever increasing, bringing misery upon him. Mayhap, some calming draught would help. He was about to call Grand Maester Mellos, when Lady Alicent Hightower was announced, to his great surprise. A pleasant one, to be honest.

She dipped into a low curtsey, offering a shy smile. “You called for me, Your Grace.” she startled him. Did he, really? He searched his memory, but all in vain.

Alicent’s face gained slightly confused expression, watching his hesitance, “Oh, there must have been some mistake,” she mumbled, “Apologies, my king.”

Seeing the young lady’s poor state, he was quick to reassure her, “Uhm, yes, I think I did call for you, please, sit. I find myself in dire need of a nice company.” he sighed sadly. “Let me serve you some wine.” he said, reaching for the pitcher, but Alicent’s hand caught his midway, gently pulling it away.

“You look so… distressed, Your Grace, let me take care of you.” She poured the chalice up to the brim with Arbor Red, and collected some sweets and dried fruit from the small side table.

Without realizing it, Viserys sat obediently, accepting a chalice and a slice of strawberry cake from Alicent’s caring hands. Making himself comfortable, he took a bite, the taste of sweetness doing wonders to his wounded heart.

The young lady was oh so right, he was distressed, all thanks to his family. Rhaenys and Daemon ganged against him when they were children, now it was not any better — he was under constant attacks of his brother, wife and even daughter. He was the king and had to be treated with reverence, yet it were rebukes and harsh words he received instead.

“Have you— have you enjoyed the tourney?” he asked between the bites, trying to break the awkward silence which lingered for too long.

“Oh, yes, much so, Your Grace!” exclaimed Alicent enthusiastically.

“I have always enjoyed them. Watching them, that is.” he clarified.

“It is a pity you cannot add your name to the lists, Your Grace.” she noted and his heart sank — not another person bringing misery upon him and calling incapable! But her next words were like soothing balm on his soaring wound. “It is just not fair that Your Grace is deprived of a chance to show your prowess with a sword and lance. I do understand your feelings very well. If you mean to fight on a melee or break lances in a joust, it will not be a fair contest — no one will dare to strike or harm the king, as well as risk your displeasure by hurting you. Your Grace is very generous. And fair. At cost of your own desires you have to forsake the activities that bring you joy, not willing to be given an unfair victory.”

Viserys blinked, were his ears failing him? Such way of thinking was absolutely new and wonderfully refreshing. Instead of mocking his inability to hold a jousting lance, Alicent interpreted it in a way, that he refused to be given victory based on his status, all the participants either unwilling to harm him or afraid to cause his ire by beating him. Aemma had always told him that he was safer sitting in the royal box and watching, ever doubtful of his martial skills; Daemon was all jabs and mockery, calling him plump and clumsy; and Rhaenyra had eyes only for her uncle, he was her sole interest and joy. It was so sweet from Alicent to see everything in such a kind way, indeed…

Viserys waved his hand in the air then ducked his head bashfully. “Yes, just another sacrifice among the many. I do not wish to be the last man standing just because all the contenders will let me win.” he said. “Heavy is the had that wears the crown. People only speak about honours it gives, but rarely mention the duties it imposes.”

Alicent gave him a long look, her deep brown eyes exuding understanding and sympathy. “The realm and its people are grateful to you for your sacrifices, my king. Yet, you should take more care of yourself — your wellbeing is the realm’s prosperity.” with that she offered him another slice of cake and, taking note that his chalice was already empty, moved to the table groaning with silver pitchers and glass decanters to refill it.

It took a couple of moments for her to do that, but before he could reach his hand to take the drink, Alicent stumbled over the front leg of the armchair, the contents of chalice spilling right on his cream-colored doublet, its velvet soaking the red liquid, as if bloodied wounds appeared all over his chest and belly.

“Oh, dear me!” Alicent gasped, trembling like an autumn leave in the wind. “I beg your pardon for my clumsiness, Your Grace!”

Once having understood what had happened, Viserys was quick to laugh away her concern. “Please do not worry, my lady, it is nothing!”

“I— I shall call for your attendants.” she pulled up her skirts, hurrying to the door, but he stopped her, taking by the elbow.

“No need for that. They will only disturb our piece and quite. I will change myself, it will not take long.” he reassured softly.

“May I help you then?” Alicent’s voice was soft as were her fingers, brushing against his chest and down to his belly, deftly one by one unlacing the ties of his doublet.

“Ahem…” he cleared his throat awkwardly, gawking down at Alicent and squirming from the tickling feeling when her fingers touched his skin. “It is usually tea we drink with the Queen, so I am happy that you spilt wine on me, not hot water.” he laughed at his own joke and Alicent returned a shy smile.

“Here, Your Grace,” she said, undressing him, “just a couple of stains on your shirt. She brushed her gentle hand over the softness of his belly where two red droplets could be noticed. “And this,” she outstretched her hands, examining his doublet, “this, I am afraid, is spoilt beyond repair. Oh, what a shame, it brought out your eyes so well!” she complimented.

Looking at how tight Alicent was clutching his doublet to her chest, he waved his hand dismissively, “Please, never mind. Just throw it over there.” And that she did, but accurately hanging it on the back of the chair. Then looked at him — there was no defiance burning in her eyes, like it was in the ones of his family, but respectful obedience, something he was owed to by his wife, brother and daughter but rarely got any. Then lady Alicent averted her gaze and ducked her head, still embarrassed of what had happened. Filled with sympathy, Viserys reached for her hand, squeezing it reassuringly, but she got even more shy after that, her cheeks blooming red.

Overwhelmed with emotions, Viserys felt the urge to reassure her that everything was fine and he was not angry in the slightest for her clumsiness, quite on the opposite, grateful for her gentleness and care. He took her by the hand and led to a velvet cushioned settee, waited for her to sit first and then took his place close to her. They talked of books and Valyrian lore, Viserys boasting the rare editions gifted to him by Lord Stark and Lord Tully, while Alicent, gasped in awe, bringing her small hand to her mouth and shared his excitement. It felt so liberating to talk like that, without being pushed to this or that decision or reproached for having done something that did not align with someone expectations. It was just Viserys talking to Alicent, not His Grace the King to his subject.

They were sitting so close that he could feel her sweet breath, brushing against his cheek and this feeling was so warm and welcome. Shiver went down his spine, as if from desire, but it occurred to him that it was only a white linen shirt he was wearing, hence this unsettling feeling. Though, it was nice to know that even without regal-looking garments the lady was still fascinated by him so much.

“Aren’t you feeling cold, Your Grace?” she asked, tracing her finger along his bare forearm, covered with treacherous goosebumps.

“How could I? Your presence is most warming.” he chuckled amiably, earning her smile. “But you are right, I am in need of a doublet.” too engrossed in his own thoughts and feelings, he thought little of lady Alicent’s comfort, perhaps, it was embarrassing for her to be in his presence when he was so intimately dressed, even though, her eyes were filled with admiration, seeing his physique. “My dear lady, will you wait a moment?” he rose, kissing the back of her hand, his lips lingering longer than the protocol allowed, and disappeared in his solar, searching for some more appropriate attire in his vast wardrobe. It took some time before he found a doublet matching his beeches, meanwhile trying to suppress the burning feeling of desire ignited by lady Alicent’s tenderness. Yet, before he could throw the doublet over his shoulders a familiar voice rang from the antechamber.

“Here, my lords, this is His Grace’s most precious treasure — the model of Old Valyria he has been reconstructing from stone for many years. All the plans were sketched by the King’s talented hand.” Viserys’ heart sank as he heard his wife’s melodic voice and gasps of awe made by whatever courtiers and guests residing in the Red Keep accompanying her at the moment. Her next question made Viserys’ blood freeze in his veins. “Oh, Lady— Lady Alicent? What is the meaning of this? What are you doing here? And why are you dressed like this? Or better say, undressed?…”

Chapter 21: Two Birds, One Stone (Aemma)

Chapter Text

Aemma spent half the night tending to Viserys, this silly man really did not know where to stop when it came to food and wine. Ever since her pregnancies she had uncontrollable fear of Grand Maester Mellos and avoided his company whenever it was possible. His potions proved to be effective, however, bringing relieve to her husband and rescuing him from headache, nausea and other unpleasant symptoms. Deep inside Aemma hoped that when the time came for Rhaenyra to be in a birthing bed, the labours would go smoothly, not so painfully, and after that her daughter would not have to shudder each time her eyes fell on Mellos.

The morning before the Tourney Aemma was surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting, chitchatting about the feast and the ball the other night, the gowns of the ladies and jewels adorning them, music played and dances performed. Afterwards their conversation flowed in the direction of more sensual things, such as handsome lordlings who arrived in Kings Landing, accompanying their fathers. Aemma was listening to them with a soft amused smile while doing her embroidery, letting herself enjoy the moment of bliss, when the most difficult part was done and they could carefully and purposefully pave the path for Rhaenyra’s future ascension.

“You should not be that shy next time, use your fan to convey a message to him.” said Elaine, the granddaughter of Lyman Beesbury. Her grandsire was good with figures and the girl had certainly inherited his sharp mind.

“How do I do that?” Lisa Belmore blinked several times, trying to get closer to the secrets of courtly interactions which she had never known before at home, back in the Vale.

“By holding your fan in certain ways, of course! Look here, I will show you.” To great amusem*nt of her companions, Elaine started moving her hand, drawing circles in the air with her fan, lightly touching her ears, shoulders, twirling it in her right or left hand, touching its tip with her finger — each gesture conveying certain message.

As the young ladies continued their chatter, Aemma’s thoughts travelled to her own daughter. There was Lord Jason Lannister and other high lords who were all smiles and bows and watched Rhaenyra’s every move with hungry curious eyes. It was not only a beautiful Targaryen princess they were getting, but also a crown and the Iron Throne. For all of them an attempt and subsequent embarrassment of being rejected was worth the crown, however, somewhere deep inside Aemma felt sorry for all these suitors, none of them stood the slimmest chance to win Rhaenyra’s favour. Unless they were Daemon Targaryen.

Before long, in the middle of the lively discussion the Princess was announced and it brought a smile on Aemma’s face. Everything had been too official thus far and she welcomed an opportunity to talk privately to her dear daughter, discuss the details and exchange their feelings. The Queen quickly dismissed her ladies, thanking them for the company, and, putting away the embroidery she was doing, stepped forward to her daughter with open arms. The more surprised she was when Rhaenyra, instead of returning the gesture, collapsed to her feet, barely keeping herself from weeping. Astonished by the sight, Aemma rushed to pull her up and led gently to a settee, helping to sit and then lowered herself beside her daughter.

“I did not know that celebrations were a cause for tears.” Aemma remarked with a rueful smile. “Now tell me, what is this all about?” She gathered Nyra’s face in her palms, searching for her eyes. “Come on, tell your mother everything, and if there is a problem we will think together how to solve it.” When their eyes finally met, her daughter blinked away the tears, breathed shakily and started talking.

“I do not know how to explain it, but I… I felt so unsettled after the ceremony, sad and then… Then came my uncle, late at night…” Surprise in Aemma’s eyes urged her to clarify, “he used Maegor’s secret passages to avoid the guards at my doors…” Rhaenyra continued, but her voice sounded so distant, as if coming from afar. When the whole story of love, recklessness and treachery was shared with Aemma, she felt coldness pass right through her, and, as the gravity of the situation began to take its shape, she fell silent, weighing the consequences.

“I know it was all wrong, though, it was not meant as such.” Rhaenyra sobbed, her shoulders shaking. “But I… I—” Her voice broke with sudden emotion and Aemma remembered that she was only fourteen. Whatever she did could be accounted to her youth, inexperience, lack of her parent’s care, after all. Aemma vowed to herself to be more attentive with Rhaenyra, but she did not even know that her daughter spent the night outside the Red Keep. What else did she not know?

And Daemon… He unleashed his chaotic nature, despite the promise to behave. Aemma recalled Rhaenyra’s words about having been lonely, stressed and eager to see the world behind the walls of the Red Keep. And her dear uncle had obliged, saved her from boredom and distress. The road to hell is paved with good intentions — nothing could describe better what Daemon had done! And Aemma could not even take it against him, he acted in the interests of Rhaenyra and kept his promise — nothing unbecoming had happened and her little girl was returned safely to the Keep. The rest… The rest was just another plot, concocted by Ser Otto. Aemma wondered, how swiftly the Hand acted, lurching in the shadows and grasping every chance that served his cause. What a gifted and an awful man he was. Or awfully gifted when it came to promoting his own interests. It was certain that he would not leave Aemma’s family in peace until he ruined them all, just to crawl closer to the Iron Throne. Fine, the challenge was accepted! But Aemma would be the first to ruin him.

“Are you angry with me?” whispered her question Rhaenyra, stirring in Aemma’s arms. Angry? Oh yes, she was angry. Mostly with herself. Whatever happened to children, the parents were the first to blame. If her daughter deemed it appropriate to sneak out of the Keep in a company of an unmarried man, it was Aemma’s fault as well, for she did not take her time and explain Rhaenyra that such behaviors were unbecoming of her station as a princess and a maiden, as well as all the risks that followed. Her daughter lifted her head, expecting an answer. Aemma sighed, pulling back and locking her eyes with Rhaenyra’s.

“Anger is not the right word to describe it, I must say. Tell me, Rhaenyra, how did you feel that night?” she asked, watching how taken aback her daughter was by the question.

“I felt…” she paused, hesitated for a moment, then breathed out, “happy… safe… warm… and taken care of.” she said and there was uncertainty in her voice, as though she was afraid to speak these words, share her true feelings, even with her own mother. “Maybe I should not be saying this, maybe I am wrong…” with that she gave in to her feelings, tears running down her cheeks as large as pearls and her slender shoulders shaking.

Aemma enveloped her daughter in tight embrace and waited for her sobbing to seize. “You should never be afraid of your feelings, my sweet girl, much less ashamed of them, if you know that they are true.” she reassured.

“But father was so angry…” she said with a whimper.

“Of course, he was! You know your father. It does not take much to cause his ire when Daemon is involved. And you said there was some ring that was stolen from your chambers?” she asked and Rhaenyra nodded. Greedy ambitious leech, thought Aemma, anger bubbling in her chest. As if sending his daughter to seduce the king was not enough, he started digging from the other end, trying to ruin Rhaenyra’s reputation. How one can be so sure in his plans? How one can be so arrogant? And yet again she became angry with Viserys for letting his Hand become that with his permissiveness and total reliance in his advice. Those Council Meetings when they acted as a united front, championing each other ideas was just an exception, nothing had really changed and the balance was still on Otto’s side.

“Will— will Daemon be banished? This time because of me…” Rhaenyra finally dared to pose a question that seemed to trouble her most. Aemma was about to say some platitudes, for she did not know what the chances to get away with this escapade for Daemon were, but was interrupted by a page who emerged in her chamber, announcing:

“My Queen, the carriage to escort you to the Tourney grounds is ready to depart.”

It signaled the end of their conversation and, squeezing Rhaenyra’s hand and favoring her with a soft smile, the Queen murmured, “Later. We will talk about it later.”

***

Viserys was already sitting in the Royal Box, his face a grimace of displeasure and even the sight of the Queen and the Princess did little to lighten him up. He was sipping nervously from his cup, not the first one as it appeared. Thankfully, it was just Sweetwine, which tasted well but did not cloud the mind. The king’s mind had already been clouded enough by the Hand’s lies and false accusations, no need to disorient him even more. Viserys nodded coldly as they approached, making Rhaenyra wince and squeeze her hand, searching for support.

To Aemma’s vast dismay Ser Otto was constantly making comments concerning Daemon, as the jousting went on, and even doubted that the prince would make his appearance. What an arrogant fool he was, if it occurred to him, that Daemon could flee, afraid of the king’s wrath caused by slander. Aemma gave the Hand a long chilling look and pointed out that the prince would never miss such a splendid event. And he did come, gaining a glorious victory over Lord Borros and Lord Jason — both of them had a misfortune to draw Daemon Targaryen’s ire.

The horn blowed announcing other contestants and Aemma noticed that her husband was leaving, accompanied by the Lord Hand. His desire to talk with Daemon was so great that he could not even wait for the jousting to end, his second favourite thing after feasting. Relying on the Gods’ goodwill seemed rather naive, especially when Otto Hightower was concerned and Aemma preferred to see to the matter personally. “We return to the Keep.” She ordered to her sworn shield and, beckoned Rhaenyra to follow.

The way back to the Red Keep took longer than she expected, as their entourage moved painfully slowly through the crowded streets of Kings Landing, where people seeing the Targaryen banners carried by the knights, cheered the royal family loudly and Aemma had to peek out of the window, favouring them with smiles and waves of her hand. Once in the inner yard of the Keep, she all but ran to the King’s quarters, dragging Rhaenyra behind.

Finally, barging into the chamber, Aemma looked anxiously from the King to the Prince, barely catching her breath. “Viserys? What is the meaning of this? You left so suddenly, without as much as sparing a word. Has something happened?” she asked, assuming a nonchalant demeanor.

“My brother happened, Aemma!” came the king’s answer in a high-pitched voice. His face was red from anger and judging by the murderous glint in Daemon’s eyes, she came too late.

Unwilling to listen Viserys repeating the poisonous words, Otto had poured into his ears, Aemma gave the details of the night events, the ones she heard from her daughter, her family, not presented by an ambitious counsellor, promoting his own agenda. It all fell on deaf ears, though, only fuelling the king’s wrath. He was usually a gentle and reserved man, yet, none of it was left in him when Daemon was the cause of his ire.

“You call up on my drawbacks so readily, but forget about your own deficiencies!” Viserys spat bitterly right into Aemma’s face. It took her a moment to comprehend his words, but when the understanding came, her eyes darkened.

“Deficiencies, is it?” she asked grimly. So this was how he saw her — deficient. She knew some of the courtiers whispered those vile words in the dimmest corners of the Keep, but she hoped that Viserys was above that. It was the truth, she failed the king, unable to give him a son and heir. She would never forget it and the court would not let her. However, instead of falling into misery, she armoured herself in this sad truth, not allowing anyone to hurt her by that. Her daughter and the unity in her family were hundred times more precious than any would-be baby-boy and made the gossips behind her back no more than rustle of leaves in the wind.

And so she struck Viserys back, calling upon his own weaknesses, challenging to send Otto’s spies to her own chambers, steal things and then cook lies and false accusations. Quite expectedly, after that they were thrown out of the king’s chambers, leaving her trembling from fury hysterical husband inside and Ser Harrold offering an apologetic smile. They exceeded the limits, all of them, even she had been shouting, she realized with a sudden flush of shame. And now she was shaking from anger, helplessness and fear. And yet, under the wounded pride she could sense something else — her daughter was threatened even before her long way to the throne had actually begun.

“Listen, Aemma, I am sorry.” When Aemma’s blurred vision cleared, she noticed Daemon standing beside her and holding her by the elbow. “I truly am.”

“Don’t be.” she shook her head and reached for his hand, squeezing it. “I told it to Rhaenyra and will tell it to you — do not apologise for your true feelings. They are not something to be ashamed of. You are dragons and it is in your nature to be passionate and temperamental.” She was half Arryn and Viserys’ dragon was constantly in deep slumber, but her cousin and daughter were different, the blood of the dragon ran thick in their veins. “Go and attend to Rhaenyra, cousin. Please. She needs your help.”

Daemon hesitated, then nodded slowly. As much as he was affronted by Viserys’ explosive reaction, Aemma’s kind consent puzzled him no less. Letting go of her elbow, he moved to Rhaenyra who all but fell into his arms, barely containing her weeping.

“Not now.” Aemma warned her. “Go to your chambers first, the corridors of the Keep are too crowded to witness you like that.” The Princess heeded her advice, wiped whatever traces of tears were running down her flushed and, straightening her back, walked away, her uncle holding her by the arm.

***

There were times — not many, but a few — when Aemma questioned herself why she loved Viserys. What was so good about him, so powerful, so enticing that wiped away all his weaknesses, stubbornness and blindness. It was not a valiant knight standing before her, oh no, he was so far from that — just a man close to his middle age, getting too soft and plump, he neither claimed another dragon after Balerion’s death, nor did he have much taste for the hunt, the joust or swordplay; his face was handsome, warm and lively, but not carved from a piece of marble like one would expect from a Targaryen. And yet, Aemma found it hard to look away from him during the day, and relished snuggling up into his softness and warmth at night. All his affections brought immense pleasure and she was ready to reciprocate them twice as much. At this moment, however, she would eagerly sacrifice these feelings, put on the altar of the happy and secure future, but try as she might, she could not. Gods worked in peculiar ways — they punished her with love to the man who did not deserve it.

As several maids were brushing through her hair, applying some rouge on her cheeks, and ladies-in-waiting were offering her gowns and jewelry for the banquet, Aemma prayed for this madness to end, hoping that Viserys would see the light and Daemon would find a way to articulate his intentions in a more reserved way. Her hopes, however, were quickly shattered with the arrival of the king’s page.

“I bring word from His Grace, my Queen.” said the boy in red and black surcoat. Aemma whirled and stared at the messenger, her eyes full of hope. She knew it, she knew that Viserys would repent at his crass words and foolish behaviour, she knew that he was better than Daemon or even herself imagined him. Aemma smiled, inviting the boy to speak and expecting an apology or an invitation to the King’s chambers.

“His Grace is presently busy with some of his councillors and wishes you to host the banquet in the Godswood.”

“Is not His Grace joining?” she asked, barely keeping herself straight and not letting her shoulders slump. The page shook his head and, bowing deeply, left.

So, he is not sorry in the least, she wanted to exclaim, but did not permit the words to pass her lips. Not in the presence of her ladies-in-waiting. It was a rude awakening and she had to deal with it by herself. Aemma dismissed her ladies quickly, winning some time before the banquet, as the plan began to take shape in her mind.

Aemma’s eyes stung from tears and she rubbed at them savagely cursing her sensitivity. She had to be strong, if not for herself, but for her only child. Her trembling hand was forced to the small ornate wooden box, the contents of which was locked away from curious eyes. Dear Lady Alicent, the letter stored there began, half written in Viserys’ and half in her own hand. A treacherous move it was, but treachery should be answered with treachery. By the Gods, she did not want that, it was not her intention to ruin Alicent’s reputation, but the girl was turned into a piece on a Cyvasse board the moment she entered the game of thrones, and Aemma meant to play it well. Alicent started it first, after all, and let her reap the consequences of her actions. And for Viserys it would be a fine lesson — perception was not all that mattered, there were also the truth, honour and family.

Aemma held her hands in prayer, calling for strength, then rang the bell to summon a page who would bring a message to Diane. This woman was the key to her her plan and, thankfully, Aemma grew to trust her, since she perceived the whole situation with Alicent as a common cause. Being a mother of a maiden whose virtue could be easily spoilt, Diane approached the task with sheer determination.

“This letter is to be delivered directly to the lady Alicent Hightower.” said Aemma, offering Diane a rolled parchment, as soon as she stepped into her solar. “Tell her, it is from His Grace.” The corners of Diane’s mouth twitched upwards as she took the scroll. It did not take long for her to recall the plan Aemma had shared with her some time ago. The maid was in no place to judge it, but the Queen had the feeling that she wholeheartedly supported this deception.

***

The sound of music and song spilled from the Godswood and when Aemma finally made her belated appearance, the banquet was already in full swing. The inner yard surrounded by elms, alders, black cottonwoods, with a great oak covered in smokeberry vines in the centre, was bursting on its seems from all the lords and ladies gathered there, eating drinking and making merry. The bard dressed in bright red tunic and holding a high harp was playing a lilting tune, while younger ladies were shifting on their feet clad in small golden sleepers, anticipating some more lively melodies and dances.

Once the Queen was announced, the humming of voices reduced for a moment as everyone was doing their bows and curtseys. Moments later Aemma found herself surrounded by the nobles, each willing to exchange a word or two with the Queen and grasp an ounce of her attention. She steeled herself from the tormenting memories and ugly words spat by Viserys earlier and was all grace and smiles, chuckling at jests and lending an attentive ear to the story of this or that lady.

It did not take long for Diane to appear in the Godswood, manoeuvring through the nobles she approached the Queen and whispered softly in her ear. The bird was in the cage. Even if there was a little doubt in Aemma, it was dispelled, together with all the sympathy to the Hightower girl. Instead, her heart went into staccato rhythm in anticipation of the scandal.

“My lords and ladies,” Aemma addressed cheerfully to a group of nobles, gathered around her. “Unfortunately, His Grace cannot join our celebration, he has to give his full attention to the matters of the Realm at the moment, yet it is not only ruling our King excels in, he has many talents he is too humble to show.” with that with all grace of the Queen she led the group of nobles from the Godswood through the drawbridge to Maegor Holdfast and up the serpentine steps to the king’s apartment’s. As she went, Aemma was increasingly anxious, chasing away whatever doubts were stirring in her mind.

It was an eerie feeling when your expectations of the worst came to life, the sight which you only imagined appearing before your very eyes. There were whispers and gossips at the Old King’s court of how Princess Viserra tried to seduce Prince Baelon, her brother and heir to the throne, waiting for him naked in his chambers. For Aemma that story seemed absurd and ridiculous, spread with the sole purpose to undermine Queen Alysanne’s health even further, yet, seeing Alicent Hightower standing in the King’s chamber only in her undergown, auburn hair cascading down her slender shoulders and eyes wide with horror, as a group of people made their way into the chamber led by the Queen, proved that there were no limits for people’s cunning and ambitions.

“Here, my lords, this is His Grace’s most precious treasure — the model of Old Valyria he has been reconstructing from stone for many years. All the plans were sketched by the King’s talented hand.” declared Aemma proudly, gesturing to the stone monstrosity on which Viserys had been meticulously working and adored with his whole heart. “Oh Lady— Lady Alicent?” Aemma gasped feigning great surprise in her voice. It was easy, for until the very last moment, she was not sure the Hightower girl would go that far. “What is the meaning of this? What are you doing here? And why are dressed like this? Or better say, undressed?”

Lady Alicent was speechless and flabbergasted, she gawked at the people with round eyes, her mouth opening and closing. No words came out, but what could she say, really? Aemma steeled herself against any pity towards the girl and shame she caused her in front of high lords and ladies. Alicent’s face burned with humiliation, her fingers fiddling nervously with the hem of her revealing silken undergown and she was not far from collapsing onto the floor. Looking around discreetly, Aemma noted that she was the only one having even the grain of sympathy towards the Hightower girl — the nobles whispered and murmured, exchanged mocking remarks and bawdy comments. Those of higher rank did not even care to lower their voices.

“That is what happens when a girl is raised up without a mother.” said lady Redwyne in a whisper audible to everyone.

“That is what happens when a second son becomes too proud and haughty. Ambitions seem to cloud his mind, if he is so willing to sell his daughter.” said lord Manderly, not bothering to sound quiet.

“What a shame…” gasped Lord and lady Caswell in unison.

“I like such “matters” much more than those I have to deal with.” sneered Lord Celtigar, without trying to assume some fake politeness.

No wonder, there was little pity to lady Alicent. The longer Otto Hightower served as the Hand, the more imperious he became, thus many great lords came to resent his manner and envy him his access to the Iron Throne and his influence on the King. Aemma held even smaller love for him, especially in the view of the recent events.

And so it went, a part of the nobles was snigg*ring, others were looking away, but none of them moved to give Lady Alicent a gown to cover herself. The girl was shivering, either from cold or shame or both. Whether for good or bad, Aemma considered her plan to be fulfilled, but a soft noise from the solar caught her attention. While everyone was turned to Alicent, gaping at her, Aemma slipped inside. But what she saw there made her gasp, her hand reaching to her mouth to quieten the sound. Viserys was standing in his solar, his face as white as a shirt he was wearing, save for several dark red splotches on his chest and belly. What is HE doing here, by the Gods, thought Aemma frantically. He was supposed to be with his councillors, at least she was told so by his page who came to her with an order to host the banquet in the Godswood.

Meanwhile, Viserys was looking at Aemma for rescue, his eyes as huge as two saucers, purple turning to indigo blue from fear. “No… Please, Aemma… I— I can explain…” he pleaded, then forced a chuckle, “it is not the way it looks, not even close!”

“The truth does not matter, only perception. These are your words, Viserys.” Aemma whispered softly, so that she could not be heard. “Do you wish to know how I perceive what is happening before my very eyes? And not only me.” Viserys swallowed thickly, then shook his head, then nodded.

There was desperate hope painted all across his face and eyes. She could easily leave the solar, pretending he was not inside, all the possible ungodly blame and shame falling only on Alicent. Poor girl! And yet, not really that poor. She brought into life one of the worst Aemma’s nightmare, following aunt Viserra’s footsteps, decided to seduce a man. But Baelon was weak from his grief, while Viserys was weak because… Because he was Viserys and such was his nature.

While her mind was racing and thinking whether her husband was worth saving from shame, a loud thud and gasps came from the antechamber. Viserys made a step to the door, but Aemma caught him by the sleeve and pressed a finger to her lips. “No!” she mouthed, shaking her head. “Don’t go there!” There was still a chance for her to come out and say that the solar was empty and the King must have been somewhere else. The Hightower girl would not dare to deny it. Aemma and Viserys exchanged a look and then he did something foolish, relieving her of doing what she could not force herself to do.

Wrenching free of Aemma’s grip, he rushed outside - as he were, not even covering himself with doublet - and bolted to Lady Alicent who fainted and now was lying limply on the floor. More gasps came from the antechamber as the spectacle continued. Following Viserys, she saw him kneeling beside Alicent and shouting to call for a maester, yet, no one moved, staring wide-eyed and speechless. The sight before them was too obvious and were it not for the deep shame she was filled with at the moment, Aemma would burst out laughing. The air turned thick with tension, no one dared to make another comment in the presence of the half-dressed king, who was trying to give some water to the fainted lady. No one, except one person. Aemma winced and everyone turned their heads as Princess Rhaenys spoke, whose presence Aemma did not notice in the commotion.

“Oh, my kingly cousin, do you imagine yourself to be the Conqueror in the flesh and decided to take two wives?” snorted Rhaenys, her eyes shifting from shivering Alicent to dumbstruck Viserys. Then she turned to Aemma. “My dear, I do apologize for my cousin. It is so sad that men stubbornly consider themselves so much superior to us. ‘Tis our Grandsire who sowed the seeds of that and now we all must reap the harvest.” Rhaenys was renown for telling things straight from the shoulder. This time was no different — none other would dare to say such a thing right in the king’s face, but Rhaenys did it with unruffled equanimity. Viserys was so apprehensive about her visit not without reason, for she would tell him the truth without even trying to sweeten it and polish with flattery he was so accustomed to.

Rhaenys’ next blow was aimed at Alicent. “These girls are green as summer grass, none of them have known what true love or love out of duty means. Lord fathers send their daughters to the court already aroused and leaking, and we expect them to act with honour or grace. It is a marvel that marriages do not break at their first appearance.” she said with disdain.

“You are drawing wrong conclusions, Princess.” hissed Otto icily, upon entering the chambers and elbowing his way to the centre. “It is but a terrible misunderstanding.”

“Of course, it is, my Lord Hand!” Rhaenys laughed sardonically. “There has always been a very vague line between being a mistress and a whor*.” Rhaenys said with distaste. The words cut like Valyrian steel through the thick air, making people present stir and hide their smirks and sneers behind beards or fans.

Otto looked like a man caught red-handed in the middle of the crime; or if it was him who was found half-naked in the king’s chambers. Aemma forced herself to stifle a laugh, although the situation was far from being funny. “Will you please make room for Lady Alicent and His Grace. It is but a terrible misunderstanding. Everyone leave at once!” Ser Otto roared, waving his hand to Ser Harrold, who started to push the gaping nobles away from the king’s chambers with his broad armored shoulders.

“Why— why did you do that, Lady Alicent?” Viserys mumbled miserably, once they were freed from the presence of others. At this point Aemma started feeling truly worried for her husband, for his was as pale as a ghost, his breathing laboured and hands trembling. He was not the strongest of men and prone to oversensitivity, resulting in feeling unwell or searching reprieve in food and wine. As much as she felt bitter and offended at that moment, she wanted none of that for him. This public humiliation was a punishment enough. Moreover, this whole situation was not only an eye-opening experience for Viserys, now he would do anything to earn her forgiveness.

“It was misunderstanding, Your Grace, I am so sorry,” said Alicent in a barely audible whisper. She was shaking badly, even when her gown was finally back in its place.

“Your error is easily forgiven, my lady.” Aemma intervened, before Alicent said something about the letter from the king she received earlier. “But I know something when a woman is made a pawn in men’s game. Yes, by the Gods, I do know about that!” saying this Aemma cast a piercing look at Otto, noting how he curled his fists from anger. She shifted her glance back to Alicent. “It is enough from you, Lady Alicent. You should better leave as well, Lord Hand. Go, spend some time teaching your daughter the value of virtues. Such knowledge is indispensable in Oldtown, I presume.”

Otto Hightower regarded Aemma thoughtfully with those cool grey eyes. “The situation is really embarrassing. But, I assure you, it was a fruit of someone’s cruel joke. I will take it upon myself to find the culprit.” there was open menace in his tone which made Aemma wonder if he already knew the answers. Part of her feared that Otto would try to take his revenge, but she also knew that it was in her power to prevent it.

“I must be excused.” said Alicent with the last of her dignity. She whirled and bolted out followed by her father who, giving a bow to Viserys only, strode briskly from the chambers.

“Aemma…” began the King, making hesitant steps in her direction. She raised her hand bringing it close to his cheek and making him close his eyes shut, expecting a slap.

“You have got strawberry jam on your chin.” she sighed, wiping the sticky red stain from his stubble. He reopened his eyes and blinked several times in confusion. “She does not care of you enough, does she? Letting you eat all those sweets without restraining yourself.” Aemma pointed to the half-eaten strawberry pie, while her husband opened and closed his mouth like a fish wishing to say something, but not knowing what. Then his eyes fell on a doublet, hung over the back of the chair.

“You see?” he exclaimed defensively, grasping the doublet and outstretching his arms, showing red stains all over it. “It is ruined! That is why I am undressed! Not because… because…”

“Ah, never mind, it did not suit you anyway…” she cut off his blabbery.

He stopped and gaped at her, making an offended face. “Did not suit me? But… Lady Alicent told it brought out my eyes so well…”

“Oh, did she? What else did she tell you? What other flattery? That you are a valiant knight in a shining armour?”

Maybe it was a low blow, but he deserved it. Wishing to prove that Aemma was wrong, Viserys sucked in his stomach to make it look smaller, puffed his chest and squared his shoulders. It did not help much and Aemma could only roll her eyes, shaking her head. He looked so pathetic that any other time Aemma would feel pity for him, but not now.

Seeing that she was not in the least impressed by his appearance, his shoulders slumped and he mumbled, running his hand through his silver locks. “Gods, this is so embarrassing. I do not know what possessed her. We just talked and then, accidentally, she spilt some wine on me and…” he stopped abruptly and looked at Aemma desperately. “You do not believe me, do you?”

“A half-dressed man and a half-naked woman? What does it look like, dear husband? Only perception matters, does it not?” she asked, waving her hand in his direction. “You still do not grasp what happened? Your trusted Hand sent his only daughter to seduce you, the King, a married man, his friend, as you ceaselessly remind us.”

“Lady Alicent’s intentions were pure and so were mine!” Viserys declared stubbornly and Aemma rolled her eyes at the audacity of the man.

“As pure as your hypocrisy.” she replied, her mouth twisted in a bitter grimace. “Am I that deficient that you chose it best to search for my replacement?” she asked, watching him carefully. He should break at this point, apologise, if he truly loved her.

“What?!” he exclaimed instead, his eyes blank at first. But when the memory came his face fell. “Oh, that… Please, Aemma, do not pick on words!”

“So this is what you call it? Picking on words?” Even after having been caught in a compromising situation, Viserys was not brave enough to admit that he was wrong. He had all his father’s, Baelon the Brave’s, handsome appearance, yet none of his nature. “Take your time to clean yourself and get rested, Your Grace.”

“Aemma, I thought we were above all that! More than these stupid Your Graces! We are family and there is no place for such coldness and formality!” he exclaimed, crossing the distance between him and Aemma, trying to take her hands in his. Avoiding his touch, Aemma stepped back.

“What would you have me do?” he asked, chewing on his lower lip, the way he did when being in a great distress. Now she was in the place to command.

“Make sure your servants bath you well. Mayhap, it will help a little to wash off the stains if not from your honour or from your family’s, but at least from yourself after the contact with this whor— woman.” she uttered with vitriol dripping from her voice. Viserys exhaled heavily, his both arms falling limply on his sides. “Afterwards I request an audience. I have certain demands to make.”

“Demands?” he gulped, perking up his head. “What demands?”

“You will see.”

No more words were said, she left him as he was — alone and humiliated, drowning in his pathetic misery, it was high time he reflected on his hypocrisy, blindness and intentional neglect. With that Aemma walked out of the solar with all the dignity a cheated wife could muster.

Chapter 22: A Gambit Well-Played (Aemma)

Chapter Text

Recent events immediately took the proportion of a full-scale scandal after Aemma’s initial plan got out of control, for better, rather than for worse. She had not spoken with Viserys privately ever since — he needed some time to recover from shame, shock and humiliation he brought on himself thanks to his own naivety. More feasts and banquets followed and every time Lady Alicent was announced to the Great Hall or the Godswood, her entrance was accompanied with stifled laughs and whispers of those who witnessed her faux pas, while those who only heard the gossip, cast curious glances, filled with either disdain or mockery. So was the life at the court — the gossip spread like a wildfire with intensity even Aemma was not prepared for. Perhaps, Viserys was right that for many mattered only perception, not the truth, and she was ready to accept it as long as it served her needs. The victory would have been sweeter still, if the dirt did not taint her family’s honour. Alas, they let the Hightowers crawl too close to them, getting under their bedsheets, breaching the privacy of the Targaryens.

The scene everyone witnessed was terribly humiliating, for Aemma most of all, but, bracing herself, she decided that she was ready to give this sacrifice, for the outcome greatly outweighed the inconvenience — now it was a perfect opportunity to demand things from Viserys which he would never grant in any other circ*mstances.

Ladies-in-waiting whispered in hushed tones about what happened when they thought the Queen was out of earshot, but she knew well, how they savoured all the details of the scene. No one dared to accuse the King directly, Aemma’s reputation was also intact, but what they were telling about Alicent and Otto was spiced with such vivid descriptions, that only idle minds could think of. They were telling that it was not Alicent’s first time when she was seen with a married man, there were many of them, actually; that Otto had lost any limits and with his desire to gain control he uses his own daughter as a pawn, and he was no better than a pimp in a brothel. People’s tongues were as sharp as Valyrian steel and desire to dance on Otto’s bones burning.

When Aemma left her solar and stepped into the antechamber, she caught snippets of conversation about Alicent — she almost became a byword for her lack of womanly virtue. Young ladies were hemming the shirts which were supposed to be later distributed among the poor citizens of Kings Landing, while it was decided to send some of them in wagons of visiting lords and give to the people of farther parts of the Kingdoms in the name of Princess Rhaenyra and Her Grace the Queen. Aemma shushed the girls, chastising them for sloppy stitches. “You work with your tongues better then with you fingers.” she scolded them. “It ought to be vice versa. Do not shame me or my daughter with poor and shoddy work.” Ladies ducked their heads shamefully and muttered apologies, while Aemma joined them in their sewing, but first passed a pair of scissors to undo the clumsy seams and ordered to do them again.

It was more difficult with Rhaenyra, though. The girl considered Alicent to be her friend and she was most bewildered when the first wave of gossips reached her ears. Aemma walked her through the events of that day as carefully as she could, omitting some of the details, save those having real importance.

Rhaenyra approached Aemma quietly, sitting next to her on a settee. In a light blue silken dress she looked vulnerable again, not a proud Targaryen princess she was several days ago, when all the Lords pledged her fealty and oath of allegiance.

“Is it true, mama? What the courtiers are gossiping about?” she asked hesitantly, afraid to hear the answer.

“Well, my dear, more often than not people tend to surprise us in a negative way, and, alas, we can do little about it, if only be prepared for the blow and not let the circ*mstances overwhelm us.” Aemma explained, gently stroking Rhaenyra’s hair. “Alicent got entangled in her father’s nasty plotting and, although, she followed his orders, it was her choice to walk the path which brought her nothing but humiliation.” this explanation was sufficient for Rhaenyra who sighed and nodded in understanding. Still, the question lingered in the air.

“And you, mother? And father…”

“Ha”, chuckled Aemma, doing her best to sound unperturbed and nonchalant, “it does not take so little to sweep me off my feet. While your father truly needs to learn how to discern who is his friend and who is foe.” assured Aemma, but her daughter’s face was still hard to decipher. It could not be any different, for it was not only her parents, but a friend involved.

“Do not be sad, my love, you will find new friends and companions. Laena Velaryon for one. She is a nice girl and knowing her mother, she should have decent upbringing.” she emphasised the word decent. Of that she would take care of herself, Rhaenyra should be surrounded with pure, honest and virtuous young ladies, not like… Like Alicent, who was quick to undress herself at first call.

Nyra gave her a questioning look and Aemma elaborated, “You are coming of age, Rhaenyra. And as the princess and heir you need your own household. We will select ladies-in-waiting for you together, the nicest girls from leal Houses, trustworthy and refined. They will be the part of your own court when you are queen.” smiled Aemma, wrapping her arm over Nyra’s shoulders. “Agreed?”

“Agreed.” echoed Rhaenyra in a soft whisper, traces of sadness leaving her voice.

***

“Prince Daemon Targaryen is here to see you, my queen.” announced the Kingsguard in a formal manner. Aemma allowed his entrance, dismissing her ladies. Conversation with Daemon was welcomed, since Aemma wanted to discuss her plans with him first and only then go to his older brother.

“Aemma, is it true?” said Daemon instead of greeting. In several long steps he reached the table with refreshments, filled a cup of wine and drained it in several gulps. Then looked back at Aemma with glee. “The thing the whole court is now gossiping about. You really did this? You ruined Otto’s reputation as well as that of his little whor*!” His eyes were two large amethysts, mischief and triumph sparkling in them.

Aemma chuckled, but there was more bitterness in it than humour. “Everything happened just as I expected. I believe, there is no need to give you the details, you must have already heard them from the courtiers.”

Daemon snorted, his disdain apparent. “No good would ever have come from a girl from the Hightower. They are all too ambitious, always forgetting their place and that it is the Targaryens who conquered them and burnt their kings. I am not even surprised that the little whor* threw herself at my foolish brother without giving it a second thought.”

“Well, she will not be able to do such a thing again.” Aemma mused.

“There is enough scandal to satisfy those eager to gossip for months to come.” smirked Daemon savagely. “What are you going to do with her? She cannot stay at court, for sure. She should be given to the Faith, that is what I think. A novice to septas or silent sisters will do her good.” he clapped his hands excitedly, plucked a grape and threw it into his mouth.

Aemma looked up at him, considering his words. Perhaps, he was right, making a Sept of this girl would do her good, but she could not force herself to take such drastic action, it was a set-up, after all, and it was partially Aemma’s fault. This nagging thought did not let her go, although in the back of her mind she knew that Alicent would do the same when the situation allowed, even without Aemma’s trap.

“I will try to find her a match.”

Daemon snorted, rolling his eyes. “Gods, you are too generous, cousin.” he clicked his tongue in disappointment.

“Yes, I do not mean to ruin the girl’s life. She did one man’s bidding to please another man and got nothing for herself but shame. Yet, my condition is that her future husband should be from the North.”

“The North?!” Daemon barked out a short laugh. “It is so bloody cold there, especially for such a delicate flower brought up under the sun of the Reach and the Crownlands.”

“Well,” Aemma shrugged, “Her father will have to add some more woollen dresses and warm fur coats to her dowry.” The suggestion was met with savage grin playing on Daemon’s lips. “But her new home should be far, far away from the capital, as well as Otto’s. He, by the way, will also have to leave.” Upon hearing this, Daemon’s eyes widened in surprise and glee, but before he could say something, Aemma proclaimed, “But all of these is not as important as my main demand. I am going to ask for the annulment of your marriage.” With that Daemon’s amused face froze and he stared at Aemma in disbelief.

“You could have asked anything from the king and it is my own interests you chose to advocate?” he asked slowly, mixed emotions flashing across his face. It was still strange for Aemma how vulnerable and underloved Daemon felt, even though she tried her best to prove him the opposite. He sat quietly, staring at his clasped hands.

“Yours and Rhaenyra’s, yes. My offer to court Nyra was not empty words and false promises. I did not know how to accomplish it back then, but Gods have their own ways, and sometimes they cross with ours.” she reached taking his hands in hers, unclasping his fingers and squeezing them. “You see? I know there will be a lot of troubles and hindrances along the path, but I wish to secure the future for our family by all possible means available — the Targaryens will be much better off with the Hightowers far away from the throne and positions of power, and my only daughter married to a man with the same dragon blood running through his veins.”

If Daemon was more eloquent and open with his feelings, he would be able to say something, cry, shout — anything to express his sheer happiness. He was not like that, though, and all he was able to do at the moment was to pull Aemma in his embrace and place a gentle kiss on her forehead, showing his infinite gratitude to his beloved cousin. It warmed her heart to know Daemon would finally get something he so much wanted, long years of disregard put to an end.

Before long the prince pulled away, doubt clouding his face. “And what about Viserys? He will never agree…”

“He will.” Aemma cut him off abruptly. “Viserys is here for the time being.” she said, pointing her finger at the middle of her palm and then clenching it in a fist sharply. “Right here.” she said decisively and gave a meaningful look at her balled hand.

***

Aemma sent one of her handmaids to inform the King that she requested an audience. The answer came instantly, before she could even change her dress from another banquet she attended.

It seemed, Viserys had been waiting for her arrival impatiently, and as soon as she was announced and walked in the vast antechamber, he crossed the distance between them, snatched up her hand, turned it over and pressed a kiss into the palm. Aemma felt the urge to recoil at the gesture, but the tickling feeling of his stubble was so familiar to her, stirring emotions and warmth. It was not the right time for such sentiments, she forced herself to think.

“It is quite hot, isn’t it?” the King suddenly asked, leading her to his solar. He wiped his brow from moisture and continued, “Like the year we married, back in 93 A.C. The sun was scorching, making the thinnest and most delicate silks sticky with sweat. I found enjoyment in that, to tell the truth, you were wearing an open gown which clang to you body so appealingly that I was forced to tear my eyes off you, lest it would have looked unseemly.” he chuckled, waiting for her to join him in his sweet reminisces. She did not.

Seeing that she was unwilling to share his enthusiasm, Viserys gestured at a small table and two armchairs. Approaching it, he poured two cups of wine and took a plate with berry tarts, offering them to Aemma. She shook her head, declining both — it was a serious conversation they were about to have, not a nice chat over sweat treats. Viserys sighed before pushing away the plate and cups and lowered himself heavily on a chair.

“Before we begin just let me tell you, there was nothing of the sort, even if…” he swallowed hard, blushing. “Even if it looked like that. Despite this… bloody perception.” he muttered defeatedly.

“You will not go from lord to lord telling the same thing, neither would you make a public announcement.” the king shook his head with serious face confirming her words, which were actually more of a sarcasm. “The best thing for all of us is to let the gossip settle down and be gradually forgotten. Do you agree with me on that?” His silver head drooped and nodded.

“It was not supposed to be that way, we were only talking. And then… Then… I fail to understand why Alicent did that.” Viserys mumbled.

“Oh is it so, you fail to understand?” Aemma chuckled bitterly in response. “I will tell you then — because her father, your dear Otto, sent her and told to do that.”

His eyes shot up and stared at her in disbelief. “Did he suggest you taking a second wife? Or, perhaps, divorcing from a barren queen?” Aemma stroke another blow with this sudden question.

Viserys wanted to deny the accusation instantaneously, but faltered, searching his memory. By the little sparkle of guilt which glistened in his eyes, Aemma understood that he did. No, Otto was not only a leech, he was a cunning poisonous spider! He had been weaving his cobweb behind everyone’s back all this time, but would he be able to resist the heat of the dragon flame, if he had chosen to play with the dragons?

“Of course, he did.” Aemma said witheringly after a pregnant pause.

The King sighed. “I will not lie, there was a talk about that. But I declined the notion and forbade Otto to ever mention it again.”

“Oh yes, and instead of mentioning it, he jumped to actions. That is so in-character to our esteemed Lord Hand.”

“I swear by the Gods, there was nothing between me and Lady Alicent. I will be honest with you, Aemma, I liked how kind she was to me, praising me and imagining me to possess the necessary skills to joust and fight, drinking in whatever I was telling her. She did not question my every decision, like—” he faltered, but Aemma knew what he wanted to say. Like she did, or Daemon. She wanted to rage at her delusional husband. How could a man in the most powerful position in the Realm fall victim to honeyed words and fulsome flattery!

“The girl was sent to you on purpose, Viserys. And you fell into the trap, she made a fool of you. The King was made a laughingstock for nobles who arrived to attend his daughter’s initiation. And that is not all. With your actions you are hurting me, you are hurting Rhaenyra. You are hurting Daemon, by trusting Otto’s words above his.” Aemma threw one accusation after another, crushing her husband with the weight of the consequences of his naivety. “And Otto… What Otto does only serves the advancement of his own family.”

The King’s face fell even more when he digested Aemma’s words. “So, it was false — all of it — right? That is what you want to tell me? This kindness and interest Lady Alicent showed were all artificial? To make me like her?” he asked painfully. Oh, despite the world of difference between the two Targaryen brothers, there was one thing they had in common — both of them for unknown reason felt underloved and neglected, craving for more appreciation from others.

“I am relieved to see that you have understood the false nature of her advances sooner, than later.” Aemma remarked rather bluntly. Viserys absentmindedly reached for a blueberry tart and plopped it into his mouth, then another, deep in thought, his shoulders slumped in disappointment.

Aemma waited patiently for him to finish the third one, then asked, “Now, are you ready to listen to me?”

Viserys swallowed and gave a small nod. A satisfied smile touched Aemma’s lips. At least he repented, their conversation would go better then she anticipated. He looked up at Aemma, his face a picture of misery. She steeled herself against feeling pity for him, looking through his deep lilac eyes and plump soft cheeks, covered with silvery-gold stubble. What a weak and silly woman she was, unable to stifle a feeling towards a man who did not deserve it.

“You cannot undo what was done in front of so many witnesses, Viserys. But we can prove that perception was wrong and that we are united, as king and queen, as House Targaryen. Do you want it?” she asked and her husband gave a small nod.

Before Aemma could start, Viserys chuckled, saying, “I think I know what you are about to say — Otto Hightower is the culprit of everything in our life.”

He looked amused with his words, but Aemma simply nodded. “He is, in fact. I am glad you can finally see this.”

Viserys scowled and shook his head in exasperation. “You will not deny that he has served loyally on both mine and Grandsire’s Council for many years!”

For one illuminating moment she thought that Viserys was not lying. He wholeheartedly trusted Otto and believed that it was only the good of the Realm his Hand had in mind. Aemma was not a hypocrite to deny her own guilt — she had spent years trying to produce an heir, letting Viserys fall into Otto Hightower’s trap as he coiled around the King like a snake, gradually tightening muscles and strangling its victim. Sadly, it was neither Daemon whom he chose as his councillor, nor Rhaenys.

“Dear Gods, how come that you got under such strong influence of Otto Hightower, that even now, when he became the source of your shame, you are still protecting him. Where does all this protectiveness go when a matter concerns your brother? Or me? Or Rhaenyra?” Aemma exclaimed in exasperation.

He opened his mouth to retort, but no words left his lips, he gawked at her, speechless, then lowered his head. “You are too prejudiced against Otto. And myself.” he muttered softly. “But I love you, even if you say otherwise. And will do whatever you ask of me.”

“Oh, yes, you will.” she said, earning a rueful smile from him. “And I will try to forget your infidelity.”

Relief flickered across his face, but died as quickly as it appeared. “What would you like to have in return?”

“Me?” she snorted, her hand reaching to her chest. “Not really me, but those who are important to me.”

Viserys co*cked his head, staring at her curiously. Well, it was the time to start — hopefully, her endeavours were not for nothing.

“In view of recent events, you do understand that Lady Alicent cannot stay at court. She has to leave, the sooner she does it, the quicker people will stop talking about what happened in your chambers.”

“To the Oldtown?”

“No, somewhere farther from the capital and from the influence of her father.” Aemma still hoped that Alicent was not that bad and ruining her life was not in her plans. Some country oaf, far from politicking and sewing treacherous seeds in her head would be fine. They would go for walks together, hunt, raise their children — this life would not be any worse than the one Otto might push her to with his insatiable greed.

“And what this place would be?” he asked, but when the realization stroke him, colour rushed into Viserys’ face. “Surely, you are not planning to send this young lady to the Septa’s! You cannot be that harsh.”

Aemma pondered for a moment about his words. She had not considered it seriously, but mayhap this idea was sound. Yet, she thought it best to follow her initial plan.

“No, nothing like that. I understand that the girl is just a pawn in her father’s grasping hands, and she deserves to live a full life, allbeit away from the court. I will arrange a fine match for Lady Alicent. Lord Rickon Stark is residing presently in the Red Keep, he will advise me on the matter and recommend some fine young lads among his bannermen.”

Viserys chewed his lip, thinking over Aemma’s proposal. “Gods be good, you want to send her to the North? This place is not for gentle ladies brought up under the sun of the Reach and then that of Kings Landing. Staying there will be for her not easier than with the septas.”

“There is a difference, still.” Aemma remarked. “She will be given a chance to find love and be loved. If she is humble enough to embrace her fate, that is. The girl is unspoilt, her maidenhood will be preserved for her future husband, and courtly gossips might not reach as far as the North. People there are occupied with more down-to-earth matters, I presume.”

“I give you my permission.” he declared. “Choose whomever you see fit, I trust your judgment. What is next?”

“As one marriage alliance is to be made, the other is to be dissolved.” the Queen continued. She did not manage to elaborate, though, as she got interrupted by a knock on the door. Ser Harrold emerged in the doorway, bowing his head.

“Lord Hand requests an audience, Your Grace. He insists on the urgency of the matter.” informed Ser Harrold. Aemma knew very well what this urgency was about. Perhaps, she somehow should have taken care of the actual letter delivered to Alicent, with Diane’s help or some other. If she kept it, and she surely did, it was a compromising evidence. Not that it would do much to clean her tarnished reputation, the damage had been done already, but it would cause certain troubles to Aemma — they would certainly try to find the person who had written it.

Before Viserys could open his mouth, Aemma spoke, “Tell the Lord Hand that His Grace is presently busy and does not take any visitors.” said Aemma and Ser Harrold nodded his head politely but then looked hesitantly to the king.

“Ah… Yes, I am not to be disturbed.” confirmed the king obediently. Ser Harrold bowed his head and disappeared behind the doors, only to reemerge seconds later.

“The Hand informs Your Grace that he has something of utmost importance to show you. Some kind of document or letter.”

Aemma froze, waiting for Viserys’ reaction. She did not expect Otto to come so quickly with the evidence against her. There was a spark of curiosity on the king’s otherwise defeated face.

“Do you really deem it appropriate for the king to repeat himself twice?” Aemma took the initiative again.

“No, Your Grace, absolutely not.” Ser Harrold nodded and rushed to shoo away the intrusive councillor.

Aemma let out a soft sigh of relief as an idea formed in her head. Daemon knew the secret passages better than anyone — she would ask him to steal the letter from Otto’s chamber. It would not be the most dignified task for a prince, but for their mutual benefit he would agree.

“You were talking about marriages, my dear.” prompted Viserys with a small smile, interrupting Aemma’s thoughts.

“Yes, marriages, and actually the necessity to dissolve one.”

Understanding flashed in Viserys’ face and whatever pleasantness stayed there, slipped away replaced by scowl. “Daemon, right? My brother does not value his honourable wife, Lady of the Runestone, his children could be well-off, inherit the castle and land! And instead of cherishing what he was given by the Good Queen he keeps moaning and insulting Lady Rhea.”

“Thus speaks the man who was about to ruin his own marriage.” replied Aemma without a flicker of amusem*nt.

Viserys gave a hard little laugh. “You are comparing me with him?” He jabbed his finger in his chest resentfully. “He calls his lady wife a Bronze Bitch, humiliates her, disregards, while I have been only ever so kind and gentle to you.”

The King reached for her hand, but she pulled it away. “Enough of this, Viserys. I am not in the mood right now. We have been through it many a time, but this one will be the last. Here is my second condition — put an end to this ugly farce and grant Daemon annulment of his marriage with Rhea Royce.”

Pushed to the corner, Viserys pouted, breathed loudly, but surrendered. “Fine. As you wish. But I will speak to Lady Rhea first, as the king I must know her opinion on this matter.”

“She will be delighted, believe me.” assured him Aemma. Their conversation had been going well so far and a bold idea sprang to her head. She took a deep breath, collecting herself and uttered, “Daemon will be free from his marriage and with that I want him to court Rhaenyra and if everything goes well and the feelings are mutual, ask for her hand.” Yet, what followed was quite expected…

“Daemon?” cried out the King, lurching up from his chair. He narrowed his eyes and pointed an accusing finger at Aemma. “Aha! Now I can see…!! This is the reason why your first condition was to give him an annulment, is it not?!” the king burst out resentfully. Aemma bit her lip. For a chilling moment she wondered if she went too far and it was too much for Viserys, he needed time to accept all those things she demanded, and offering Daemon as a potential groom was beyond her husband’s grasp. He would come to terms with this idea. Later.

“No, it is not.” she argued in a calm voice. “I wanted the annulment because it was a fruitless marriage bringing misery upon your own brother and the lady of House Royce, none of whom deserved it and it was only you who turned a blind eye to the problem.” she paused to see Viserys’ reaction — he was frowning, still thinking that it was him who was mistreated. “Maybe you will warm to the idea of Daemon as Rhaenyra’s husband, but for now I will not insist.”

Viserys deflated and leaned back in his armchair, visibly relieved that he would not have to fight over this, yet his eyes remained suspicious. As he always did — terribly afraid of problems at hand — he did not speak a word about the possibility of marriage between his brother and daughter and looked at her expectantly, waiting for further demands. Now it was time to weed the garden and pluck out the poisonous plants with the root.

“I hope now you can see how detrimental is Otto’s influence and meddling in our family’s affairs. Consequently, he cannot stay in his current position. You have to dismiss him and name a new Hand of the King. Not a self-serving ambitious leech, but a person who puts the interests of the Realm first.”

Viserys was already too tired from their conversation to object, instead, he closed his eyes and muttered, “Of course. It could not be any different.” A heavy sigh escaped his lips as he rubbed his face with his hands. “This decision will not be announced before the festivities end, we shall wait for the lords to go back to their lands. I do not wish to make Otto’s removal a public affair. This is my condition.” He waited for Aemma to nod and she did, the timing was not that important — the fact of dismissal was. “Whom should I appoint a new Hand then?” asked Viserys, although the question was addressed more to himself than to Aemma.

“You are the King and it is your choice to make.” she replied. Upon hearing it, Viserys grimaced, reluctant to make such a serious decision on his own, always so dependent on the opinion of the others. There were several worthy candidates at present, yet, each had certain nuances. Rhaenys would make a fine Hand, a wise and sharp-tongued Princess, not intimidated by men, high or low. It would help to mend the rift between the two branches of their family, but at the same time she was still resentful and could decline the offer. Daemon had always dreamt of the golden pin of the Hand, but his impetuous nature might cloud his judgment, moreover, he was needed to court Rhaenyra and not to be snowed under with papers, figures and counting of coppers. The easiest choice was someone who already was on the council, like Lord Beesbury or Lord Strong, both intelligent, experienced and loyal statesmen.

Aemma watched how Viserys’ face stiffened as his mind raced in search of an answer. She reached for his hand and patted it in a placating manner. “There is no need to be in a rush. Take your time to think. We can discuss it later, if you wish.” It was actually what she hoped for, anyway without Otto’s influence the future seemed much brighter. “Let us go over it once again, Viserys. Daemon gets the annulment, Alicent Hightower is to be married and sent to the North and Otto is dismissed from his position of the Hand and leaves the capital. By the end of the festivities.” she said, showing that she was ready to accept Viserys’ condition. It took a moment for him to sigh heavily and drop his head in a nod.

“Will it help me to win your favour again?” came a hesitant question in soft whisper. Viserys knotted his fingers together and humbly rested his hands on his laps, while his eyes were searching Aemma for an answer.

“We shall see.” she replied, letting a tiny note of hope slip into her voice.

Daemon was walking impatiently to and fro outside the king’s chambers like a caged lion, but he stopped abruptly and his head shot up when he saw Aemma coming out.

She met his gaze, which was full of expectations, and beckoned him to follow her to her quarters, saying, “Daemon. For a word.”

***

Another part of the festivities was moved to the Queen’s Ballroom, shining with its silver sconces on the walls reflecting the dancing torchlight, a place much more appealing and pleasant to the eye than somber intimidating atmosphere reigning in the Great Hall.

The courtiers laughed as if the King had made a wonderful jest, his own mood much brighter than it had been before their conversation. It seemed, he started getting to terms with the conditions of Aemma’s pardon to him, embracing the role of a generous brother freeing his sibling from shackles of fruitless marriage and a king, ready to make drastic changes in his circle of advisers. Viserys leaned to take her hand, one by one kissing every ring on her finger, desperately trying to show affections to his Queen in a hope that it would somehow erase people’s memory. Aemma joined the chorus of laughter and caressed his cheek with her free hand — she would play along and be a gentle loving wife, thus restoring her own honour.

Daemon sauntered into the ballroom, acknowledging the bows of the courtiers and when the attention diverted from him, approached Aemma. She felt something pushed into her hand, and glancing down she saw a folded piece of parchment, the one which made its travel from the king’s chambers to her own, then to Alicent’s, and now returned to Aemma again. One did not have to ask Daemon to do a favour, for his family he would go as far as to the Seven Hells and back before the night changed day. This time was no other — he fulfilled her request promptly and without rousing unnecessary suspicion, getting hold of the evidence, capable of ruining their intricate plan. Now, even if Otto decided to protect his daughter’s inexistent virtue and insist on the fact that everything had been a setup to taint Alicent and himself, there would not be a single proof, apart from his own words. And words were wind, especially of a dismissed Hand.

Chapter 23: When Everything Crumbles (Otto)

Chapter Text

“Have you searched everywhere?” Otto exasperated, his eyes sweeping frantically over all the surfaces in his daughter’s chamber.

“I have, father…” Alicent mumbled, tearing bits of skin from her fingers, a nasty habit which had grown even worse since that… that episode.

“Things, Alicent, do not disappear into the thin air. Unless they are stolen.” he accused, as if it could change anything or make this blasted letter appear.

Otto watched wearily as his daughter, dressed in a finest revealing gown newly commissioned from the best seamstresses, was fussing around the small writing desk, opening and closing the drawers and rummaging the contents. What a vision she was — slender figure, thick auburn hair cascading down her delicate slim neck, large brown eyes brimmed with long eyelashes. Pious, kind and diligent — everything any man could even wish for, even a king. And what splendid babies she could give, fine future kings and princesses. Otto chewed on his lip, the images his mind created so vivid and enticing, he could just reach his hand and touch the crown sitting upon his grandson’s head…

“No, this is all useless!” Alicent dragged him back to reality from his reveries. “I cannot find the letter. Stolen or not, it does not matter, we do not possess it anymore. And I am condemned to drown in all these calumnies.” she whined, collapsing on the armchair. “Rhaenyra is to be the future queen while her mother stays the queen. I feel so bad that you made me doubt in the king’s choice of heir, made me believe that I could help him and produce those who are more suitable to rule the realm.”

“Alicent…” Otto tried to reason her.

“It was your idea after all, was it not? You advised the king to keep Daemon away from the throne and let Rhaenyra rule as a queen on her own.”

Otto gave a derisive snort, barely keeping himself from some angrier reaction. “My dear child, are you so naive to think that you are supporting your friend by believing that she will be able to sustain the weight of the crown?”

“All the lords pledged their oath of allegiance, you saw it with your own eyes, father, everyone did! There was no even the slightest trace doubt on their faces, and if she does not possess the necessary knowledge or experience, she will learn in time…”

“Oh yes, the girl will learn how to rule the whole kingdom, how to joust, ride astride and wield a sword. No, Alicent! It does not work this way!” Otto exploded, feeling even deeper recoil at his daughter’s stupidity and defeatist attitude. “A woman cannot rule such a vast Kingdom like ours, these particular lords that swore an oath to her, will eat her alive once she ascends the throne!”

Alicent looked down and sniffled, clutching a silken napkin tightly, and Otto could notice small blood-stained marks from her fingers.

“You will come to the king again—”

“But father—”

“—and apologize. Say that it was misunderstanding and inform His Grace that someone dared to play a vile joke on you. And on him. This person has to be found and severely punished.”

“I was already humiliated, father… Do you wish to send more of it upon me? Was that not enough? Is it not enough now, when the whole court is gossiping about me and the king, calling me a trollop?”

It rankled Otto that his daughter thought him to bear the guilt for what had happened. He was the first to believe the lies written in the letter, true, but he was deceived, since the letter was written in the King’s hand.

“You do not understand, Alicent, the position which comes with the king’s favour and the title which may come—”

“Position? Title?” she snorted in derision. “Neither of these gave me protection of the designs of men.”

“And what do you mean by the designs of men?” Otto felt anger bubble in his throat at the accusation.

“You know it very well, father. And I fell victim to one of these… The Queen said that I was made a pawn and I tend to agree with her.”

Otto recoiled at the despair ringing in his daughter’s voice. Well, it might be not pleasant, but he himself had gone through humiliation and not once, not twice, numerous times. He had to flatter to an old stubborn delirious Jaehaerys, then to self-indulgent gluttonous weak-willed Viserys, both of them treated him like their servant, while he only worked hard daily and nightly for the good of the Realm and it did prosper under his administration. Why cannot his daughter grit her teeth and strive for her family’s wellbeing and elevation?

However, he did his best to contain his anger, inhaling deeply did help a little. The girl was distressed, no need to trouble her further. “You are my only daughter, Alicent. The very best of your mother.” he traced his thumb over her smooth cheek. “And you deserve much more than you can think of. We have not lost yet, trust me, my daughter. Come here,” he said, opening his arms and letting her lean on his chest. “If you do not want it, I will speak to the king, he needs to hear the truth. Let us pray Viserys sees sense soon.”

Once alone, Otto was enveloped in dark thoughts and regrets again. He should not have given the letter back to Alicent after his visit to the king. He was denied entry, the fact which infuriated the Hand immensely — never ever had he been stopped by the Kingsguard, whatever the king was doing: eating, bathing, sh*tting or sleeping. And Otto had to admit, to experience it for the first time was rather humiliating.

It was the Queen His Grace was sharing company at that moment — another occurrence which irked Otto. It was much more convenient when Queen Aemma was lying in her bed, swollen with a baby, feeble and barely breathing and then exhausted after labours. But now she dared to stand between him and the king, even more so, whispering in Viserys’ ear. This proximity to His Grace which Otto used to have gave great possibilities, but now he could not even inform the king of treason brewing right under their noses!

Guilt and raged coiled inside Otto’s belly, intertwining and forming a storm capable of sweeping everything on its way. It was not a mystery who was involved in this treachery. Otto ordered to steal Princess Rhaenyra’s ring to back his accusations with some proof and Daemon did the same with the letter. There was vast difference between these two thefts, though. Princess did spend time outside the Keep, engaging in behavior unbecoming of a princess. While the ring was just a nuisance helping Otto to get through their defenses and lies. Damn the prince and damn the Queen! Otto would have his revenge, whether served hot or cold — it did not matter.

Otto stroked his beard pensively, weighing the options. He needed to have Viserys on the throne, Daemon far away from the throne and the Queen… The Queen was a useless sheep, as useless as her mother Daella. Weak and meek, barren and dragging her lord husband behind. If there was only a chance to rid the realm of her presence, Otto would grab it with both hands.

Finally, a page in king’s livery knocked on his door, bringing the news that His Grace was ready to grant him audience and Otto decided not to waste a minute. He descended the tower steps seething with anger; he did not manage to calm down even some time later, when he was climbing the stairs of the Maegor’s Holdfast. Although, he tried to imagine different ways conversation with the king could play out, none of them led to an outcome he preferred — he looked like a fool in all cases. While ascending his knees trembled, he had been made a victim of court gossips for the past several days and could scarcely relax or put his mind at ease. As a result he was feeling weary, humiliated and his sole driving force was deep-seated rage.

The king was sitting at his desk and writing something on a long piece of parchment. “Ah, Otto, do come in.” Viserys invited without taking his eyes off the table, but as he approached, peeping at the document, the king’s bejewelled hand lay on it, shielding its contents from Otto’s curious eyes. Perhaps, he would show it to him later — there had not been a single document Otto was not shown, save those commissioning dresses or rings and pendants or other luxuries for His Grace’s own use.

Otto bowed deeply and stretched his lips in a courteous smile, yet, the king’s face was aloof — so different from its typical warm and amiable expression. He did not allow Otto to sit down, neither did he offer him wine as he usually did. And that was not all. The drapes leading to the solar parted and queen Aemma emerged in the doorway. She sauntered across the chamber and sat on a cushioned chair beside her husband. Otto bowed again, yet his back stiffened with unpleasant anticipation. What was she doing there? He was supposed to talk to the king, and him alone, he had waited for bloody days to get this privilege.

Otto thought it best not to spend time on pleasantries and went straight to the point: “The episode that happened between Your Grace and my daughter Alicent,” Otto swallowed thickly, rubbing his one hand against the other, this conversation was immensely embarrassing and, judging by the king’s sour face, it was like that for both of them. “I do insist that it was not Alicent’s true intent, but she became a victim of a vile joke.”

“Yes, yes, you keep telling me this, I really do not wish—” Viserys waved his hand exasperatedly.

“There is a letter, my king. From Your Grace.” interrupted Otto.

“A letter? Written in my own hand?” asked the king, his face mixture of suspicion and surprise. “If there are letters written by me of which I have no knowledge — it is nothing, but treason! Show it to me, Otto!” he demanded, stretching his hand with his palm up.

“Ehm…” Otto lowered his gaze and shuffled on his feet, “there is certain complication. I find myself unable to present this letter to Your Grace at the moment.” Irritation flashed across the king’s usually amiable face, as he straightened in his chair and glared at Otto, apparently waiting for explanations. If only there were any! Otto gulped and said in a small voice: “The letter was stolen. Unfortunately.”

The Queen regarded him cooly. “I had not thought you a man prone to fantasies. The Hand I had thought my husband to choose would have had a clear mind and sensible judgement.” These words stung and Otto bit his inner cheek just not to bristle, he was in the presence of the royal couple after all. But, damn this woman… The next thing she said, however, was even worse. “It is for the better, that you are no longer in this position.”

His head snapped and he looked to the King, as understanding struck him sending shivers up and down his spine.

Viserys stirred on his grand armchair, looking like a man who wanted to be anywhere but here. Otto could see reluctance in his voice and posture, he knew that the king did not want it all, he considered Otto to be his friend and this coldness which he demonstrated was not sincere, but notion pushed into His Grace’s head by his brother and wife.

“You appear to be tired, Otto, overly suspicious, you see things and plots where there are none. Involving my daughter and my brother was the last straw. They claim that the ring you showed to me was stolen right from the Princess’ chambers, and while their own proof are their words against yours — it is my family I tend to believe.” uttered the king with a grimace, casting a furtive glance at his wife, whose head slightly nodded.

“Stolen or not, my king, everything is done for the good of the realm, for safety…”

“I do not wish to pay such price for your so-called safety,” Viserys cut him off irritably, “spy on those who mean to harm us, not my own family!”

Otto had seen stupid faces before many a time: on the Council, during petitions and at court hearings, these were faces of nobles and of small folk — each time he rolled his eyes at their unwillingness to accept the truth, at their sheer surprise and defiance that something did not go they way the expected. All of them looked weak and pathetic. And that he looked like at the moment — pathetic.

Was there any sense to argue? To defend himself? He studied the stern faces of the royal couple for a moment, then squeezed out, his voice thick with emotion: “Am I… am I dismissed, Your Grace?”

The king shifted uncomfortably on his seat again and took a deep breath. “You served my Grandsire nobly in his final days. You were the man that taught me how to be king. But I can no longer trust your judgement, Otto. I find the accusations you levied against my daughter and my brother false and without merit, and it pains me to see such dishonourable actions from the Hand of the King”. Viserys looked briefly to the Queen and she nodded slightly, as if the words the king was telling Otto were written in advance and well rehearsed. This silent approval gave Viserys the courage to continue. “Moreover, your counsel put me in unfavourable light before my family and you dared to slander the heir to the throne, put her reputation under question and in a moment of great importance, shortly after her investiture. Although, it was you who suggested naming Rhaenyra the heir, your interests seem to no longer align with those of the realm and your judgment has been compromised.” the king ruled.

With that Otto’s trembling hand reached to his chest, unpinning his badge of office, but he was stopped by the king’s command, “You can keep it Otto. Until the end of the festivities — then you will leave. Quietly. This is the least I can do, for the crown and the realm both owe you a debt that can never be repaid.”

“I thank you for your generosity, Your Grace.” replied Otto, bowing his head. It was better than public dismissal, although he could not get rid of the taste of ashes in his mouth. “May I humbly inquire, who will be given the honour to take the position of the Hand after me?”

The king looked taken aback by the question and hesitated for an instant. “We are still considering the options.” he finally responded.

We? Did Viserys use the royal “we” or there was already someone whispering his or her will in his ear, Otto thought glumly.

“Ah, I see…” Otto replied. “I am sure your choice will be wise, the new Hand will excel in his office and the realm will flourish and prosper.”

“Someone who is not self-serving and does not put his own interests over the realm’s will be already good enough.” remarked the Queen, putting her hand on Viserys’ shoulder and he instantly grabbed it and placed a long passionate kiss on each of her fingers.

“This is not all, Otto.” The king continued. “Our Queen has graciously agreed to find a favourable match for Lady Alicent. It is past time she was wed.”

Otto gulped, shifting his gaze from the King to the Queen. “I would like to keep the privilege of choosing a husband for my only daughter.” he tried, but was met with steely gaze. He was driven into the corner, his most precious asset taken away from him. If there had been a slight chance to see his daughter as queen, now it was crushed and turned to ashes. Defeatedly, he forced himself into another bow. “It will be honour, Your Graces. And who that Lord… that candidate would be?” he asked tentatively, but the way Aemma’s eyes glistened made his stomach clench.

“At present we are waiting for Lord Rickon’s proposals.”

“Lord Rickon Stark? But… but this means that a man she is to marry will come from the North.”

“Exactly. A fine place for a fine lady, with beautiful nature and honourable people.” the Queen said and the King nodded happily in confirmation.

Otto was not amused by their words. There was nothing good about the North, not for a lady brought up in Kings Landing. With that he made one last desperate attempt: “It sounds more like an exile! For both of us! Your Grace, I beseech you, do not let my daughter and myself be humiliated! Because of… Because of a lie and false accusations!”

It was the queen who spoke first. “You cannot do anything with the perception, can you? Your daughter’s reputation was tainted and so was yours. Is disappearing from the court not the best solution to save graces?” she remarked.

Otto narrowed his eyes, ready to argue, but put himself together. “Her Grace is very generous.” Otto bent in a bow, not out of courtesy, but — if only for a moment — to hide his own scowling face. The Gods mocked him viciously — he strived to replace the Arryn woman with his daughter, yet it was his daughter who was cast aside by Aemma Arryn. Damn it!

“You will both leave once the festivities end. You, Otto, to Oldtown and Lady Alicent may join Lord Stark’s retinue.” declared Viserys.

Otto looked at them for a long moment, then turned his eyes on the floor. “As Your Grace commands.” he said, barely containing loathing in his voice. With that he bowed and left.

“Otto!” he already walked past the Kingsguards stationed at the doors, but was stopped by Viserys’ voice. “Otto. Do not embarrass me. You have served me and my Grandsire as the Hand for many years and with such unseemly behaviour you put your worthiness under question. What will people think? That the Hand is a paranoid halfwit? Trying to prove your accusation with some imaginary evidence…” Viserys looked both sad and exasperated. Surely, it was not his decision, this weak king would never dare to dismiss his most trusted adviser. Viserys sighed, shaking his head, then asked, “Are you upset, Otto?”

“If we can call it that. You chose to believe your brother’s word.” replied Otto, letting accusation slip into his voice. “I have seen Prince Daemon uses a lot of them. Especially, with the Princess. And I do not believe he has the ability to keep his word.” The next phrase tasted of bile in his throat, but he forced it out. “If you tell me to leave, that I will do.” Viserys sighed again and disappeared in his chambers.

As the heavy doors were closed shut behind him, all the weariness of the past several days had returned to Otto.

Dismissed and humiliated.

He would not let it go like that, he would not be spit upon. There was a larger picture in his mind, but for now, an idea sprouted in his head and blossomed. He narrowed his eyes, calculating the risks and benefits, then turned on his heels and made his way to the quarters of the Red Keep where the guests resided.

Otto was not blind, he saw all these advances Lord Flea Bottom made to the Princess. Heir or not heir, he found a way how to snake his way to the Iron Throne. It did not escape Otto’s vigilant eye the way Prince Daemon was flirting with Rhaenyra, dancing, whispering compliments in her ear, feeding grapes and tarts right into her mouth while everyone was looking. Would not it be wonderful to remind him of his marital duties, while his lady wife was at the Red Keep? He had been ignoring her existence so blatantly, mocking her and the Gods who had tied them together in marriage. With Rhea Royce Otto would speak. That must be the person hating the wayward prince to the guts — and the enemy of Otto’s enemy was his friend.

As per his wish, Rhea Royce appeared from one of the chambers. For a split of a moment Otto wondered what was she doing there, for that was not the place where she was supposed to stay, but tossed that thought aside. There were more important things to discuss.

“Lady Rhea!” Otto called, startling the woman. “May I escort you to your chamber?” he asked, giving his arm to her. At first she looked surprised by such unexpected attention, but eventually nodded in acquiescence.

“I do hope you are enjoying the festivities.” he said with a soft smile while walking along the corridors of the Keep.

Lady Rhea hummed thoughtfully, as if evaluating, then agreed. “Pretty much so. Especially the tourney part. Although, the way some of the noble knights were harmed was a disturbing sight.”

“It was yes, but it gladdens me that we have another more pleasant sight to behold. Your dress looks wonderful.” Otto complimented, lying through his teeth. The dress was nice, but lady Rhea felt visibly uncomfortable in heavy brocade and with tightly laced bosom and waste. “I can tell it took great care and effort to make such a beautiful piece.”

She blushed a little and chuckled. “Lord Hand is too kind. Much kinder than the one who is supposed to pay attention to such details.” Otto raised his brows, feigning surprise, and she clarified, sarcasm and bitterness lacing her voice, “You appreciate my dress more than my husband Prince Daemon appreciates myself.”

It took considerably less efforts to lead her to the conversation Otto wanted to have. He glanced around to ensure that there was no one near them in the corridor.

“More the pity.” he sighed and made a sad face. “I have heard rumours, however, that the Prince’s attention has lately been directed towards… other noble ladies at court.”

“I have heard these rumours as well, unfortunately. Prince Daemon’s behaviour has become increasingly difficult to bear.” she complained and Otto felt how her arm tensed under his grasp.

“Let me tell you this, my lady, Prince Daemon does not behave with honour and courtesy towards you. Lady of Runestone deserves to be treated with respect and admiration, and these rumours are unsettling to say the least. I beg your pardon for my bluntness, but I strongly believe that Prince Daemon cannot be allowed to act with this kind of unchecked impunity. Ask the king to send Prince Daemon to the Vale. It is but his duty to stay by his lady wife’s side, is not?” Otto stopped and looked straight at her face, watching her reaction.

“Do you really think so poor of me that I would welcome Lord Flea Bottom by my side, with all his malice and contempt? Do you think me so desperate?” she asked derisively.

“I do not, my lady. But it is not only happiness or marital bliss gives us sweetness. Revenge can be sweeter still.” he said it quieter than the rest of his speech, yet, his expression was fixed, locked onto Rhea.

“Oh, that is funny!” she snorted and feigned amusem*nt in her eyes. “You want me to take revenge on my husband? Really? What should I do? Poison him with Strangler or hire an assassin to cut his throat whilst he is asleep, like in some cheap song played at a filthy brothel?”

This woman was proud, Otto thought. No wonder, her relationships with no less proud and sharp of tongue Daemon were just a chain of arguments and never-ending hostility.

“No need for that.” Otto chuckled and bit his tongue so not to say, that such actions would be much welcomed. “You are going back to Runestone, aren’t you?”

“Of course I am, my Lord. I have no business at court. My sole purpose of visit was to pledge an oath to the king’s chosen heir and, to tell the truth, I have had enough of these so-called courtly pleasures. It is beyond my grasp how one can eat so much, dance and indulge in idle merriment. I doubt I can fit into my hunting attire after all those pies and meats and wine when I return home, and to ride a horse shoot a pheasant or a partridge is all I dream of.” she said bluntly, her words raw and not masked by false pretences.

“Take your husband with you.” Otto suggested, finally getting to the point of their conversation. He was met with surprise in Rhea’s steel grey eyes. “As I have told you, petition the King, asking to send Prince Daemon with you. It will not bring you any good, but for him it will be even worse. Let us be honest, he hates the Vale and your ancestral seat, won’t it be sweet to confine him to that particular place which brings him so much misery?”

Lady Rhea pondered his words for a moment, then nodded her consent. If she could not have her husband’s love and respect, at least she would have his presence — something that was hers by right.

“Your words make sense, my lord Hand. That I will do.” she said, determined to follow his advice.

“Good, good. I hope to see you in the Hall later this afternoon, listen to some music and dance. Maybe it will help to save the efforts of your seamstress on altering your gowns.” he jested, adding mirth to his voice and eyes, but what he really hoped for, was that her presence would keep Prince Daemon’s advances and flirtation with Princess Rhaenyra from being so blatant and unseemly.

When Otto was returning to the Tower of the Hand, his steps were light and swift, while a satisfied smile stretched his lips. Daemon was telling that men f*ck sheep in the Vale, so he would have a chance to check it with his own eyes.

Yet, shortly after, Lady Rhea informed Otto that according to the King’s decree her marriage with Prince Daemon Targaryen was annulled. She saw the letter to His Holiness the High Septon sealed with the King’s sigil. With heavy heart Otto had to acknowledge that he lost an ally shortly after gaining her support. Damn it twice!

***

It was one of the last feasts closing all the festivities, some of the lords already bid their farewell and left to their lands, others still stayed in the capital, filling their stomachs with abundant delicious food and dancing till their legs ached.

The courtiers gathered around the royal couple, discussing the parts of the realm where some of the lords would be returning and there journeys hence. Otto observed this exchange with polite smile, which fell from his face once his daughter’s name was mentioned.

“Lady Alicent will have a chance to see the lands outside the Red Keep. As far as to the North. Isn’t it splendid? You may consider yourself privileged,” Viserys winked at Otto and nudged him at his side playfully, “your daughter will be more lucky than the Queen herself. It is not much my dear Aemma have seen with the weight of her royal duties. Good Queen Alysanne travelled on Silverwing as far as up to the Wall in the North, and that journey brought her so much experience and joy.” The king flashed a beaming smile and chuckled, “Lady Alicent will be our Alysanne reborn and will see both the sun and heat of Kings Landing and stern Northern beauty of Winterfell and the Wall.”

The courtiers laughed at that, especially Alicent, who would eagerly change this opportunity to travel for a crown, and Otto joined in the merriment as well. They would have been fools to do anything but laugh heartily at the king’s joke. If they did not, it would mean their defeat, and Otto wished to retain the scraps of dignity upon their leaving.

Anyway, Alicent took the news of her upcoming betrothal better than Otto had feared. Moreover, she looked relieved and there was even a happy glint in her eyes. She had always dreamt of strong and valiant knights, handsome and capable with sword or lances. Few of these characteristics could be used to describe king Viserys, and, although Alicent found him good-looking, kind and gentle, he was far from the ideal image she created for herself. But northerners were famous for their outstanding physique and bravery — this pleasant anticipation had kept her smiling since she was announced the news.

The musicians played an opening chord on their lutes and high harps and the courtiers including the King left to the dance floor. A golden cloak glimmered amidst the multicoloured sea of red, blue, green an black velvet and brocade, stirring in Otto desire for revenge. He strode towards prince Daemon, pushing himself threw people.

“My prince.” Otto made a shallow bow.

“Ser Otto.” Daemon greeted, making an emphasis on the word “Ser”. Not Lord Hand, not anymore. It cut Otto’s ears, for he got used to this title and it was as natural to him as was his own name. “Now the King sees that you serve your own interests, not the crown’s. It took some time for him to see reason, but better late then never.” He glared at Otto and his lilac eyes measured him in a way that only Daemon Targaryen could do.

“At least I am consistent in my efforts. I have heard whispers of how you snake your way to the Princess once your marriage with lady Royce was dissolved. Is that your ingenious way to crawl closer to the Throne?” Otto spat viciously. Then struck his main blow. “Why am I not surprised that all your words about winning war at the Stepstones and protecting your brother, the king, and your niece, the future Queen, were mere boasting.”

Upon hearing this remark, Daemon grew red in face, his hand clutched the hilt of his sword. The corners of the prince’s mouth twitched and he moved briskly towards Otto. Were they in some other place, but not among the crowd of nobles and in the King’s presence, Daemon would surely make use of his sword, piercing Otto through with its sharp tip. The prince inhaled deeply in an attempt to calm himself down, but his eyes threw daggers. Otto’s trick worked well, he cut Daemon’s pride. He would not be surprised, if he left to the Stepstones right after the end of the festivities. Otto — to Oldtown, and Daemon — to those wretched islands, and there was hope, all be it tiny, that he would meet there his untimely end, war was a deadly and dangerous thing, after all. Meanwhile, Otto would think what to do with the Queen, this sheep who thought too much of herself.

Chapter 24: Interlude: Rhea

Chapter Text

“You are going to marry a prince!” declared her father, Lord Yorbert Royce, triumphantly, expecting Rhea to share his joy. Obviously she did not. Being a bargaining chip was never among her priorities.

Rhea searched her memory, recalling the days when the royal progress reached the Vale and the whole court stayed in Runestone. Back then she had a chance to meet both Targaryen princes and had her fill of their company. Both brothers were present, the eldest and the chubby one was trailing all the time behind Aemma Arryn, while the younger was trailing behind the maids and other nice-looking ladies, pinching them secretly. His second favorite thing was playing pranks on the courtiers. Queen Alysanne was smitten with her both grandsons — the living memory of her deceased daughter Alyssa — and eagerly forgave any mischief. Rhea, though, was not so forgiving.

“Which one? The fat or the grumpy?” she asked her father, one of her eyes shut, the other glued to the aim in front of her, and released the string of her bow. The arrow hit the centre, as it always did.

The father huffed indignantly, “Do not speak like that! Prince Viserys is not fat and Prince Daemon is not grumpy. And you know very well that Prince Viserys is already wed to your kin, Lady Aemma Arryn.”

Of course she knew that. Royal marriages were among the most talked about affairs in the Realm, since there hadn’t been wars for decades. Rhea wondered, if she could go to war, if there was some conflict. Even fighting brigands on the Kings Road sounded more enticing to her, than—

“Prince Daemon.” said Yorbert. Rhea’s eyes jumped to him. “Prince Daemon Targaryen is given your hand in marriage.”

Rhea chuckled mirthlessly, “Then, the grumpy one. And yet they are how I described them, otherwise you would not understand, who is who.” she teased.

Lord Yorbert rolled his eyes in exasperation and said warningly, “That is a great honour to our House, Rhea, be grateful. Such comments are indecent.”

“Why me? Why such an honour?” she released the drawstring again, shooting another arrow. “Is it because our family is rich, we own lands and I am to inherit a well-fortified castle?”

“Runestone will go to you, my daughter, but it is not the only reason why you have been chosen.” Yorbert explained patiently, as if to a bad-tempered child. “Her Grace the queen is happy with the match she arranged for Prince Viserys and Aemma Arryn. Her next choice also fell on the Vale, expecting that it will be as beneficial as the first.”

There was little surprise that the queen’s match worked well. Rhea knew Aemma, she was meek and obedient, while Prince Viserys seemed kind and gentle. However, it was not like that with Rhea and Prince Daemon — she was rebellious and short-tempered and so was he.

Rhea searched her head for arguments, whilst hitting the target for the third time. “Aemma is an Arryn, they soar up in the sky, but we, Royces, like firm ground under our feet and ride horses, not dragons.” She refrained from stating the obvious — Aemma was half-Targaryen, with their queer customs and love for fire-breathing creatures.

“Her Grace believes you have much in common with her grandson. The prince enjoys hunting, hawking and riding as much as you do. Moreover, he is a capable swordsman and has been knighted by king Jaehaerys himself!” Yorbert said excitedly, for him it also seemed a perfect match. Rhea was almost convinced in Deamon’s worthiness. Almost.

“Whatever.” she grumbled. “It is not that I am asked, anyway.” It signalled the end of their discussion. The wind was getting stronger, blowing away the arrows and she concentrated on her shooting, until it had gotten too windy.

Rhea was already unhappy with the forced marriage, but meeting Daemon did not improve things. He was cold and arrogant, and it was clear that he had no interest in getting to know her or forming any sort of relationship. Rhea was sure that there would be trouble if they were forced to marry, and she was right. Even if Daemon was not physically violent toward her (which was a very high possibility), she was certain that he would make her life miserable in other ways. The short period of courting they were allowed was full of coldness and mutual disinterest. Both of them squeezed out smiles for the king and the queen, but their faces turned sour, once alone.

The only thing which warmed her heart about the prospect of her marriage, was that she would not have to live in Kings Landing or somewhere else away from home. Never had she been more mistaken, though… But later about that.

Finally, the wedding day came. A glorious affair by all means, with the king and the queen present as well as hundreds of other guests and courtiers. Rhea was dressed in the most beautiful (and uncomfortable) gown she had ever seen.

Minutes dragged before the arrival of the groom and Rhea cherished a tiny hope that he would not show up at all. The capricious prince could have thrown any kind of temper tantrum, deterring him and his family from arriving. Yet, he finally made his appearance, flanked from one side by his father and his brother from the other. He looked princely in his red scaled doublet trimmed with gold, and only his face was distorted with a grimace that did not match the “happy” occasion. Rhea squeezed out a smile, feeling superior to him — unlike him she could bring her emotions and feelings under control.

The vows were exchanged and from then on they were husband and wife. The grand wedding feast followed, where wine was flowing freely and one course was replaced with another; merriment was in everyone’s hearts and upon their faces. Only the bride and the groom looked tense and driven into a corner. To Rhea’s great dismay, her newly-made husband chose to drown his sorrows in wine, as if not grasping that he was making a fool of himself.

“Is it wise to indulge in wine so much on your wedding day?” asked queen Alysanne, shielding a goblet full of wine with her hand from Daemon’s grasp. There is still a bedding ceremony to be held.”

The prince lifted his lilac eyes and slurred, “Oh yes there is, and the wine is the only way for me to struggle though it. When the vision is blurred, you can’t see the face.” The queen looked at him, aghast, while Rhea held her tongue and stewed, brimming with anger and contempt for her husband.

Daemon, however, did not have to struggle through the bedding ceremony. By the time this custom was supposed to happen, he was so deep in his cups, that his father and brother had to support his weight to bring him to the chambers, and once the bride and the groom were stripped naked everyone was ushered out. He fell on the bed, face down, murmured unintelligibly that she could go and f*ck herself if she pleased, and started snoring loudly. And that was it.

Rhea managed to drift off during their first night, although her head rang with music, songs and voices from the wedding feast. When she woke up, it was already morning and the first rays of light penetrated through the thick curtains into her bedchamber. Their bedchamber. She turned her head to see her husband. Like that — with his pale skin, long hair, delicate features and only silken bedsheet covering his nakedness — he looked so vulnerable and even beautiful in his own way.

Unfamiliar feeling stirred inside Rhea, making her move closer to her husband. His eyes were closed and he was breathing evenly. Gently she reached out and brushed back his soft silver hair, pressed her lips to his temple, tasting him… Suddenly his eyes snapped open and looked at her — there was only contempt there and deep loathing.

“Don’t touch me!” he spat, as if he was not sleeping only moments ago.

She recoiled in dismay and turned around to face the curtains of canopy, but not him, swallowing tears, and not knowing what caused them more — anger at him or hurt.

He did not stay. Rhea heard him sigh, then weight lifted off the mattress and soft steps of bare feet tapped against the stone floor. Couple of minutes passed, accompanied by the sound of clothes rustling, fastening of buttons and clasping of the scabbard to the belt. The door opened and closed with a loud bang, leaving Rhea alone in the vastness of her bedchamber. What caused his displeasure she did not know. Since then, she refrained from touching Daemon, were it in public, or in private.

The snippets of their “family life” were nothing more than a mummer’s farce, poorly played, on top of that. It was a mixture of mutual hatred and contempt. There was not a single time, when they could keep a decent conversation, all they could manage was exchange of obscenities and cutting remarks. He was as sharp-tongued as she was, and their vocabulary of curses boasted vast variety of words, making Rhea’s ladies and maids blush when overheating their arguments.

While their relationships were dominated by general coldness, there were instances, when Daemon tried to be nice. To be honest, he really was, but Rhea could not find it in herself to accept it, not from him. It was deep resentment she felt, grudge for her father for selling her to House Targaryen under false pretences of honour to their family. Even after her father’s death she could not forgive him that.

One time, right after their marriage, Daemon appeared in her doorway, holding something behind his back. He shuffled on his feet under her expectant gaze, then walked towards her.

“I’ve… I’ve brought you flowers.” he mumbled, not quite looking at Rhea. She did not answer. “Ladies are supposed to like flowers, aren’t they?” he asked, this time his eyes finding her face. Again she remained silent, willing to teach him a lesson and show that some flowers cannot win her favour.

This coldness seemed to spark his ever-present anger, he narrowed his eyes, watching her indifferent face and then, whirling around, threw the bunch of flowers right into the hearth.

“Stupid bitch!” he cursed and, turning on his heels, stormed out of the chamber. For a moment, Rhea thought, that, perhaps, she was not right, she should have accepted that little sign of affection and thank the prince, but this feeling of remorse was short-lived. She scowled at the door through which Daemon had just left and wondered over what they would quarrel next time.

She did not have to wait long for his little revenge. Her husband was as unforgiving as he was vicious. Next day Daemon strode into her bedchamber, carrying a little lamb in his arms. His face gained that vicious expression when he was about to say or do something rude and disrespectful to her.

“Look, dear, I have to f*ck this sheep.” he whined, and judging by the way he slurred his words, he was indulging in his favourite pastime in the castle — drinking heavily.

That awful moment Rhea was with ladies, as a mistress of the castle and the head of House Royce she was supposed to have them and spend sometime in their company when she was not hunting or riding. They gasped in horror, appalled by such unseemly behaviour of the prince.

Seeing their uneasiness, she glared at him and said, doing her best to keep her voice calm and polite, “Daemon, please, control yourself, at least in the presence of the ladies.”

A wolfish grin curled his lips and his eyes sparkled with mischief. “I am not talking to you, wife.” His gaze turned to the lamb, meaningfully.

Oh… So, he was referring to HER, when saying SHEEP…

The lamb started kicking in his arms and Daemon bent down to put it on the floor. Once on its feet, the lamb baaed, ran out of the chamber and Rhea’s ladies hastily followed the animal, giving the husband and wife some privacy.

Rhea felt rage bubbling in her throat, she, Lady of Runestone, was so deeply and publicly humiliated. She stood up and approached Daemon with a burning desire to wipe off that smug grin off his face.

And so she did.

Rhea put her whole body into the blow, but it was a foolish attempt, for the prince caught her fist midway and pushed it aside. Her hand burned from his touch, as if dragons did not only breath flame, but were made of it. But even more burned her pride, while she cursed the day she gave her consent to marry that wicked man.

“Don’t!” he warned her, his eyes reflecting open menace.

She stepped back, helpless and humiliated.

Since then, Daemon added one more insulting moniker to the list. He liked to refer to her not only my Bronze Bitch, but the Sheep, which he had to f*ck. He did not couple with her even once, actually, not that it troubled Rhea much.

Still, there was one more time, when Daemon tried to be nice, but everything went wrong. He commissioned a dress for her — a beautiful one, red velvet and Myrish silk, its bodice embroidered with tiny runes — but, alas, it did not fit her well-trained strong arms and broad shoulders.

Instead of holding her tongue, Rhea pointed out: “This dress is too small for me, my dear husband. It seems, you have confused me with one of your whor*s when giving measurements to the tailor.”

Daemon’s face flushed with anger at the stinging comment. He called her “a fat cow which did not fit in any dress” and stormed away. This was the first and the last time he had given her a present, and ofttimes Rhea wondered, if it was different, if she had kindly accepted the first one.

Nothing changed with the ascension of Daemon’s brother to the throne. Rhea entertained tiny hope, that when Queen Alysanne, the person who orchestrated their awful marriage, had passed, the prince would petition the new king to grant him an annulment. Yet, for unknown reason, king Viserys did not oblige. On the contrary, Daemon’s visits to the Vale had become more frequent and stays longer. And judging by his sour mood during such, it was a punishment inflicted on him by His Grace.

What a disgusting feeling to serve as a means of disciplining the king’s brother…

Rhea dreaded to spend time with her husband, few as they were. Nothing good went out of it, apart from exchange of sharp-tongued comments and arguing over stupid matters.

Meanwhile, their squabbles were not all. Adding salt to injury, villagers panicked when Daemon made his appearance atop Caraxes, they petitioned Rhea, complaining that their livestock was devoured by the dragon, grass burnt and some of the buildings destroyed. However, there was little she could to appease her people. Daemon refused to leave his beast in the Dragon Pit and travelling by horse deemed beyond his merit. So, there they were — a huge red worm-like creature was roaming their skies and frightening local people.

While giving Rhea different insulting names, her husband gained his own moniker — Lord Flea Bottom. Rhea, however, did not find it amusing, it became just another one on the long list of slights by her husband. Where else should a married man spend his nights? Sharing his bed with his wife, perhaps? No, not for Daemon Targaryen. The cheapest filthiest whor* was more appealing to him than his lady wife from the ancient and honourable House Royce.

“My husband’s dragon roams the skies of all the Seven Kingdoms, yet, the rider himself cannot so much as make it into my bedchamber.” once she remarked to Daemon. “Can’t you see that people start to gossip and whisper?”

A smug grin slid across his smug face. “The Dragon does not concern himself with the opinion of sheep.” he stated arrogantly.

“Even when he acts like a fool?” she blurted out, wondering if he would ever dare to hit her. Surprisingly, he was enough of a prince not to do so.

And so she was in that peculiar humiliating state — a married woman who had not shared her bed with her husband, a wife to a prince who made his appearance by her side only when punished and banished.

Rhea was not actively involved into politics, but was somewhat surprised when she received summons to court. She was to come to Kings Landing immediately and pledge an oath to the king’s chosen heir — Princess Rhaenyra. Rhea barked out a laugh, rereading the letter. Her husband was so much of a loser that he did not even manage to retain his title of the king’s heir, having been supplanted by a girl. Nevertheless, Rhea liked the idea of a ruling queen — a co*ck, as she learnt from her own experience, did not guarantee either wisdom or kindness to its owner.

Though royal court was glittering with gold, diamonds and luxury, offering abundant food and lavish entertainment to the guests, Rhea’s stay at the Red Keep was worse than she expected and made her feel even more miserable.

There was something between prince Daemon and his niece, princess Rhaenyra. Some chemistry. Some subtle attraction. The way Daemon was acting around the princess was… Rhea tried to find words to describe it. Tender, gentle and… protective. She felt a pang of jealousy deep, deep inside her heart. Why could not he for once be like that with her, just one bloody time?! It was a foolish question, though, the answer to which she had known since their first encounter — he did not love her. Even in the slightest, like kins did, or people who had spent long time together.

Yet, it occurred to Rhea, if Daemon so openly displayed all these feelings to Princess, it meant that either he was a good actor (and he was, obviously, not), or it was she who held his heart and was worthy of love of this arrogant prince. Rhea chuckled bitterly, reflecting on her own findings. How “nice” it was to come to pledge an oath to the Princess, while being cuckolded by her own person. So, it was not only Rhea’s loyalty Princess Rhaenyra claimed, but also her husband.

Never ever had Daemon looked at Rhea liked that — gone were the malice and contempt, giving way to soft gentle touches and sublime care. Were she a weaker woman, she would cry, seeing this unfairness. But she was a daughter of Bronze kings and would not be swayed so easily by emotions.

There were discreet touches, exchanging of remarks, brushing their hands and every other way of becoming closer to each other. Rhea was not blind and could notice that. Also, it was curious to see that the prince himself was subject to such tender feelings which made him look vulnerable in the eyes of others.

Seeing them dance was another torture. It was beautiful, yes, but Rhea hated the side-glances cast at her by courtiers — she was Daemon’s wife and was supposed to dance with him, at least several dances. There was one, actually, and she would better not have it at all.

So, Rhea’s observations led her to unsatisfactory conclusion: there were only two living beings who deserved Daemon’s kindness and attention — his dragon and his niece. The rest were mere dirt under his boots.

Yet, not all the men were lost cause to Rhea. There were courteous and chivalrous among them, such as Lord Jason Lannister who caught her eye. They danced together at feasts and strolled in the royal gardens. He was everything Daemon Targaryen was not — polite, gentle and respectful. Not a single curse escaped his lips, and with his easy charm, green eyes and golden locks he cut the image of a knight in shining armour.

Well, he was a knight in armour at the joust, but yet again, Daemon Targaryen was a cause of Rhea’s misery. He unhorsed the Lord of Casterly Rock with such vicious power, that for a split second she thought that his twin brother Tyland was to inherit the lands and the title.

Not wasting her time, Rhea rushed to Jason’s chamber when the word spread that he regained his consciousness after the fall.

Tending to him was a great pleasure. He looked vulnerable in all those bandages, yet, his eyes exuded warmth and gratefulness.

“You have such caring hands.” murmured Lord Jason as Rhea dampened a cloth in water, squeezed it and then dubbed his sweaty forehead. He developed a fever right after the joust, but now it was much better.

Two maesters shuffled into the room, carrying a basin with clean water, some rags and poultices. “Your Lordship, may we dress your wounds?”

It took Rhea some efforts not to growl in displeasure. It was a nice moment they were sharing, and once alone, Jason seemed more approachable and less arrogant. She did not blame him for behaving somewhat superior towards others, he was the Warden of the West after all, Lord of Casterly Rock, and even this arrogance did not match Daemon’s overinflated gigantic ego.

“I should better leave. Although I am a married woman, I am not accustomed to man’s nakedness.” she said, adding mirth to her voice. “My husband does not grace me with his presence much.”

The mentioning of her husband brought a dark shadow upon Jason’s face. He swallowed thickly and averted his gaze.

“I will leave you to rest.” she said, raising from his bed. “And hope to see you soon, stronger and feeling better.” The darkness in his eyes dissipated after hearing her words, and smile, albeit weakened by pain, flashed across his face.

An unexpected encounter waited for Rhea behind Jason’s chamber. Right there, in the corridor of the Keep she was approached by the Lord Hand and that was unwelcome experience. He was a sly and cunning man, imperious and grasping. She heard as much of him and tended to believe such characteristic.

The enmity between Otto Hightower and Daemon Targaryen was notorious and the false smiles they wore at court did little to mask it. With her own strong dislike of the prince it happened that she was in the Hand’s camp, so to say, and she was guided mostly by jealousy, humiliation and hurt when accepting his plan how to drag Daemon back to the Vale. Although that allowed her to punish her husband, his presence in Runestone was a double-edged sword, cutting not only him, but Rhea as much.

However, as soon as she had come to terms with the idea of Daemon by her side, she was summoned by His Grace the king himself. Surely, the conversation would touch upon her marriage and she already started forming decent explanations of why they had not produced any children yet; something straightforward, but not insulting the kingly ears. Daemon’s words that he would sooner f*ck sheep than her were definitely not to be cited.

An imposing knight in milky armour and white cloak draped over his shoulders announced her, opening the grand door to the king’s chambers. She entered and dipped down into curtsey, spotting the king sitting behind the desk.

“My lady Rhea. Please, do sit down.” the king allowed, pointing at the chair across his table. Rhea raised from her curtsey and sat herself neatly on the edge of the padded velvet chair, discreetly studying the surroundings. A large stone model of a city caught her eye. It was beautifully and meticulously done, and Rhea found herself thinking that if Daemon had some kind of hobby, he would have less time for his silly escapades and whoring.

“May I offer you some Summerwine?” the king asked, smiling, and without waiting for her answer, he stood up and walked to a small table with wine and refreshments, pouring two generous cups.

Such hospitality alerted Rhea, the king had not graced her with either conversation or a visit to Runestone since the actual wedding. An awful thought crossed her mind — Daemon impregnated some woman and they wanted her to pretend that the bastard was hers… It was a disgusting thing to do, but she would not be surprised if it turned out to be true — king Viserys loved his wayward brother and would arrange everything needed to protect his honour. Non-existent honour that was.

It took the king some time and asking her how she liked the festivities organised to honour his daughter as the heir, which she, of course, praised, before broaching the subject he had been avoiding.

“Your marriage with my brother, Prince Daemon, did not go as our grandmother, Good Queen Alysanne had planned. She hoped to build a strong and fruitful alliance but, I am sad to say, so far…” he hesitated, searching for right words.

“So far our marriage has not even been consummated.” she helped him.

His eyes, appalled, jumped to hers. “It is true, then?” he asked in disbelief. “You have never—”

“Prince Daemon shared his bed with many women, but myself was not among them.” she informed, her face blank.

“That is… That is a pity, indeed.” His Grace said and coughed, masking his discomfort.

She was not moved by this revelation, not anymore. “Not really. I am sure, my husband does not share such sentiment, Your Grace.” she shrugged.

The king’s next words were like cutting an abscess, opening an emotional wound that had not healed, but only worsened with time. And that — the cut — was the necessary measure to get the puss out and let it finally heal.

“Years have shown that your marriage proved futile and I am inclined to oblige my brother and grant him annulment. What say you to this, lady Rhea?” the king asked.

“Knowing prince Daemon and myself, I can only say that it is a wise decision, Your Grace.” she replied, keeping her voice even.

“I presume, lady Rhea, there is no discontent on your part and we can consider your marriage with Prince Daemon annulled?” the king said, furrowing his brows.

“That is correct, Your Grace.” she nodded solemnly, and only Gods knew how difficult it was for her to sit still and not jump and cry with joy and triumph.

“Good, good. I am happy to see that you support my decision. Now you are free to choose your new husband, for I understand the importance of having an heir who will succeed you as a lord or lady of Runestone. On my behalf I can say that it was an honour having you as part of our family.” he said politely.

Rhea bowed her head, expressing her gratitude, while king Viserys reached for a silver bell and rang two times. That instant a page in royal livery emerged in the chamber.

“This is for the Grand Maester. He is to send this letter to His Holiness at his earliest convenience.” His Grace ordered, handing a rolled parchment to the boy.

The page departed with a bow, while Rhea wished with all her heart that the boy would run fast and Grand Maester would choose the swiftest raven in his rookery.

“Well, then. The matter is settled.” the king said, lifting his goblet and cheering Rhea.

“Oh, yes, it is.” Rhea echoed, cheering him back. She made a sip from her goblet. Never had wine tasted sweeter in her life. As sweet as freedom.

After her audience with the king, Rhea felt an urge to find Daemon and say him some parting words, but eventually thought better of it — nine out of ten times their attempts at conversing with each other led to quarrels and exchange of insults, and she had strong doubts, that this one time would go decently. Even though Queen Alysanne considered them to be similar in many respects, they were different, and none of them was going to do anything about that. Let Daemon try his fortune in finding happiness with Princess Rhaenyra, while Rhea’s own eyes were set on Jason Lannister. A foolish thought? Maybe, but why not, she was a free unburdened woman after all.

Rhea departed Kings Landing feeling no regrets, evening bidding a polite goodbye to her former husband. A smile tugged corners of her lips as she was sitting in her carriage on her way to Runestone and planning her trip to Lannisport, right after she dealt with the tasks accumulated in her absence.

Chapter 25: Author’s Note

Chapter Text

Dear readers,

This story has been on hiatus for two months due to work on other projects, but I would like to inform you that it is not abandoned and is in progress. The chapters will be updated in the next few days.

Thank you for your patience.

Yours sincerely,

Quink

Chapter 26: A Failed Attempt at Reunion and an Unexpected Letter (Aemma)

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra was officially the heir to the Iron Throne. The profound significance of it began to settle in Aemma’s mind only when the lords of the Seven Kingdoms started to leave the capital, riding their horses, carriages and palanquins through the River Gates and onto the Kingsroad. The past several days went like a whirlwind, forcing Aemma to call on her dragon blood and take actions which had been unimaginable to her before. Keeping her family together turned out to be a daunting and challenging task, yet she was ready to face it and make things right.

Watching Otto leave Kings Landing brought Aemma as much relief as it troubled her. He managed to weave his plots right under their noses, and what was he capable of doing far away, without hers or Daemon’s watchful eye, remained a mystery to Aemma.

The parting glance Otto threw at the Queen was that of a wounded savage animal — vengeful and full of hatred. He was ready to bite back, but was restrained by the chains of the royal decree. If not for that, he would have sunk his teeth and claws right into her throat. These thoughts caused shiver down Aemma’s spine, and yet, composing herself, she mustered a smile — animals feel fright and fear, she would not grant this to Otto.

As for Rhaenyra, she seemed both relieved and tense at the same time. On the one hand, her little girl was happy that the most intimidating part was behind and it was time to learn and prepare for her future role as the Queen. But on the other, the question of marriage had become more pressing.

Previously, Rhaenyra feigned indifference or even resentment when approached with this question. Now she sought Aemma herself, desperate to share her worries and tell about affections.

“Do you remember you asked me once what made a good man, who could please me?” Rhaenyra asked, once they were left by the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting. Of course she did remember that. It was a question of such delicate nature that Aemma had not known how to approach it for a long time.

“I did not answer then.” Rhaenyra said.

Oh, didn’t she? Her answer was as clear as a day, although not expressed directly.

“But now…” she murmured, twisting rings around her fingers. “Now I think I know. I want Daemon. None other man will understand me, I can be myself with him, he plants the fire in my heart and brings peace to my mind.” she said reverently. “But father… He was so angry when—.” she wanted to continue, but chocked as a shuddered breath escaped her lips.

Aemma blinked away tears welling up her eyes and wrapped Rhaenys in embrace. Her little girl sounded so hopeless, so desperate to be with her uncle and at the same time so deeply afraid to be given to some other man.

“I will talk to your father, dear.” Aemma murmured in her hair. “He will see reason and let Daemon court you, now as a free man, not tied by marriage vows.” she promised and was rewarded with a look of hope, glistening in her daughter’s eyes.

And so she did.

Viserys was still seeking her favour, guilt-ridden after the incident involving lady Alicent in his private chambers. Aemma planned to use that to her advantage. She had already gained a lot — getting an annulment for Daemon and dismissing Otto Hightower from the position of Hand was a considerable success on her path to secure future for her Rhaenyra. Could she get some more from her weak-willed husband?

When Aemma first approached the topic of Daemon courting Rhaenyra, the king was furious. The idea itself seemed preposterous to him and she chose best to retreat for the time being. And still, she sowed the seeds, and next time when faced with the same question, there was hope that his reaction would be less adverse.

Aemma would have another try. Gods be good, she vowed to herself to have as many tries as it was necessary, only to have everything their way!

After the Small Council meeting which went less stressfully than usual, leaving the king in uplifted mood, Aemma followed him to his solar, ready to discuss the topic of their daughter’s marriage. Funnily enough, that particular moment she was relieved to have only one child whose marriage they were supposed to arrange. The thought of Queen Alysanne and six daughters she had was frightening. The royal couple worked hard to arrange fine matches to their daughters, however, despite their best efforts, most of them turned out to be disastrous.

Aemma’s gentle, kind, sweet but shy and easily frightened mother Daella Targaryen was sent to the Vale, her hand given to a widower many years her senior. She saw a fatherly figure in him, but alas, her young body was unprepared for hardships of pregnancy and labours. Aemma was given her life by the Gods, but in exchange for her mother’s.

Beautiful ambitious and vain Viserra who had dreamt to become a queen and marry her handsome brother was promised to a stout aged man, four times widower on top of that. Her pleas fell on deaf ears — the King and the Queen found the match suitable. And so, disguising herself as one of her maids, princess left the keep with her companions for “one last night of laughter” which cost her life. Aemma was about five namedays at that time and was spared the details of that notorious accident.

There was also Saera Targaryen. Tempestous, demanding and disobedient princess, who used the word “no” whenever something displeased her and was vocal about her own wishes and preferences. But when her numerous transgressions exhausted Jaehaerys’ patience and it was decided to give her to the Faith, she preferred to flee, finding passage in a ship at Oldtown, which had brought her to Lys. Her royal parents were devastated and as their opinions on the matter concerning their daughter split, they fell into argument.

Aemma did not want such fate for their precious daughter. And, she hoped, neither did Viserys.

The king was angrily pacing across his chamber, throwing his hands in the air and doing his best to prove that Daemon’s heart was blacker than she thought.

“He— he is—” the king gasped, searching for yet another unflattering epithet.

“He is your brother, Viserys, your blood.” stated Aemma calmly.

“He is my brother, exactly! And I know better than you do what we were up to in our youth, left to our own devices by our overburdened with duties father.” this confession made him blush, although, Aemma was not that naive to be ignorant of the escapades the two princes used to have in Flea Bottom.

“He took her on that blasted walk around the city when it was swarming with high nobles and others who arrived to attend the ceremony—” he hissed accusingly.

“— and brought her safely home.” finished Aemma.

“That was selfish! Daemon is selfish!” exclaimed the king in exasperation.

“Wrong, Viserys. You got it all wrong — he did it for Rhaenyra.” she explained. “Our girl was under too much pressure, the weight you put on her shoulders making her anxious and depressed. She needed that freedom, she needed to know that her life did not end when she took that responsibility.”

Viserys huffed sceptically, but refrained from further argument. The memory of what happened to him the next night was too vivid, and he preferred to avoid mentioning of that embarrassing faux pas involving Alicent.

He collapsed into his armchair and chewed on his lower lip. Then, inhaling deeply he continued, “Daemon is called “Prince of the City” not without a reason, Aemma. His face is familiar to every cutpurse, whor* and gambler in Flea Bottom. He frequents brothels more than any honourable man does his wife’s bed! Daemon’s lust is instatiable and affections fickle. Believe me, Aemma, we had similar pastimes in our youth.”

“So does it mean that you are the same?” questioned Aemma, narrowing her eyes in suspicion. By accusing his brother of deadly sins he led himself to a trap.

Offended by the implication, Viserys grunted, “No, I changed when I met you, married you.”

“If you changed, why cannot he? Do you consider yourself so much superior to your own brother, or is our daughter not inspiring enough to nurture the best in men?” Aemma demanded.

The fact was that Rhaenyra was inspiring. Hers and Viserys’ best creation, Princess fit to be Queen. Their daughter’s name made Viserys melt, while Aemma had one more argument up her sleeve. She gave the examples of his parents and grandparents, saying that Jaehaerys and Alysanne, and then Baelon and Alyssa were happy in their marriage, choosing the blood of their own. While his aunts whose hands were forced had not ended up well.

Viserys fell silent, pondering on her words. He was older than Aemma and spent most of his life at court, bearing witness to their gandparents’ judgments and tragedies. And so he deflated and seized throwing insults and accusations at his brother.

Aemma took it as a good sign. “So, I assume Daemon may have your permission?” she asked tentatively.

Torn between the desire to decline on the one hand and common sense on the other, fortunately, he chose the latter. “Uhm— well… It is not a permission, but I— he— Daemon can court Rhaenyra. Along other suitors.”

Upon hearing that Aemma hardly suppressed the urge to shout in triumph. Ironically, she was grateful to Otto and Alicent — with their plot they tied Viserys’ hands and made him more pliable. Apparently, without that the king would not even listen to a single word about Daemon, much less give a permission to court their daughter. Gods worked in peculiar way, as always.

“You are tired, my love.” she stroked his cheek gently. He leaned into her touch, closing his eyes. Any sort of arguments drained him dry, especially those which concerned family issues.

For Aemma it was another small victory. Gently, she would guide Viserys to the match between Daemon and Rhaenyra, and he would embrace it as the only reasonable one. With Gods help they would have no more of “Heir for a Day” incidents and other escapades Daemon used to participate in.

Or so she thought.

***

There still was one more burning question which occupied Aemma’s mind. The position of the Hand of the King was now vacant and to fill it with a wise, loyal and honourable person was of paramount importance. They had enough of the self-serving leech, ready to spy, slander and use his only daughter as a pawn in his game of thrones. Otto was Jaehaerys’ relic, someone not chosen, but given to Viserys along with the crown, but now they had an opportunity to choose.

Viserys had not yet recovered from Otto’s dismissal and took the current situation too close to his heart. Without the Hand he felt like a child without his parents’ protection — the result of lifelong reliance on someone who would always advise, guide and solve problems when they occur.

Once free from her duty to produce an heir, Aemma hoped that she would be viewed as such support and guiding hand by Viserys. She was granted a seat on the Council and took part in major changes, yet, the king was far from acknowledging her as his equal. They were not Jaehaerys and Alysanne ruling the realm together. Or, perhaps, Aemma wanted too much and should wait for his acceptance, since she was not the Good Queen herself and had to deserve such a moniker.

Do not be in a haste, she reminded herself, let’s achieve everything step by step.

Although there were several candidates on the list, it did not take long to contemplate the matter — Rhaenys seemed a perfect choice. She was wise and witty, with critical mind, and most importantly, by granting her a position of power they could have her in their “good side”. It was basically a political manoeuvre, since they were partially making this offer out of guilt. Rhaenys was shrewd enough to be aware of this ulterior motive behind the offer, but it was not bad, let her know that they show their good will and acceptance.

And so a page was sent to Princess Rhaenys, informing that His Grace King Viserys and Her Grace Queen Aemma requested her presence for a private audience.

Array of food was servered on a small table settled in the Godswood. When all the guests left, the place regained its special spirit of mystery and seclusion.

Viserys was tapping nervously against the armrest of his chair, and Aemma could see how his lips moved, rehearsing the speech he prepared for Rhaenys. They had not been on speaking terms for a long time, save formal occasions. Cousin was witty and sharp-tongued, often leaving slow-thinking Viserys gape at her at a loss for words. Actually, Aemma was happy that she was there, ready to support him and smooth the rough edges in their complicated relationships.

“Cousin,” the king greeted, rising to kiss her hand.

“Your Grace,” Rhaenys replied, dipping into a perfect curtsy.

“Let us dispense with the formalities.” Viserys moved to her and urged to rise. “You are our dear cousin, after all.”

“It pleases us that you agreed to stay longer in the Red Keep.” said Aemma kindly.

“I was curious to see how life goes in my former home.”

“Former?” exclaimed the king. “I beg of you, do not say that! Red Keep is your home and always will be.”

“I don’t think so, but thank you.” A small polite smile graced Rhaenys’ features, yet it did not reach her eyes. The violet of her irises was cold and reserved.

“Tea?” intervened Aemma, gesturing a servant to fill their cups with steaming liquid. Looking sideways at her husband, she could swear that it was not tea he needed at the moment, but strongwine.

Rhaenys had taken time to dress. She wore a teal velvet gown with a seahorse worked upon the sleeves in golden thread, a jewelled tiara in her hair. Six of her ten fingers were adorned with golden rings with gemstones — a deliberate ostentation to show how richHouse Velaryon was.

“Everyone was in awe of the festivities you arranged.” Rhaenys complimented, taking a cup of tea and making a sip.

She declined a piece of strawberry cake politely, small wonder, she possessed such a slender, graceful figure and it certainly required efforts to keep it like that. Viserys, on the other hand, popped into his mouth two slices before they even began proper conversation, nerves always making him hungry. Aemma wondered, if it would be right to stop him in case of overindulgence.

“This was the occasion to be remembered for years.” Viserys declared proudly. “It will be overshadowed only by Rhaenyra’s wedding.”

“I am sure you will impress us all, cousin. Do you have someone in mind, by the way?” Rhaenys asked looking between the king and the queen.

It was not a welcomed question for Viserys and he just hummed, searching for words.

“We will begin courtship shortly.” replied Aemma as vaguely as she could, yet trying to sound polite.

“This is going to be the most desired position, that of a prince-consort.” Rhaenys chuckled, making another sip of her tea.

Although, their conversation had just started, they did enough of the small talk and could move to the matter at hand. Aemma glanced at Viserys meaningfully and said, “Speaking of positions, cousin, there is something the king wanted to offer you. Something you might like.”

Viserys cleared his throat before saying, “Ser Otto Hightower failed to meet my expectations as Lord Hand and was dismissed from his office. Now we must fill it with the most honourable person.”

The circ*mstances of Ser Otto’s dismissal were so dubious and provocative, that they were not mentioned openly, yet, discussed in every corner and alcove. No one dared to mention the king’s name directly, referring only to indecency of the Hightowers. However, one could silence the tongues, but not the minds.

“This must be a difficult choice, Your Grace.” said Rhaenys with emphasised indifference. For long years she had been trying to distract herself from everything connected with the court and with the ruling, paying no mind to the issues which were supposed to be hers to resolve.

Viserys coughed and squirmed uncomfortably on his armchair. “Yes, and I was wrong. My trust was misplaced. Alas. However, it is high time we corrected that.” With that Viserys pulled a golden hand pin from a pocket of his doublet and put it carefully on the table, beside Rhaenys’ cup.

Judging from her face, Rhaenys was not overly enthusiastic about the offer. Her eyes slipped from Viserys to Aemma, then to the golden pin laid in front of her, then back to Viserys.

“To what do I owe the honour?” she asked with icy courtesy.

“You are my blood, Rhaenys. And Aemma’s, and Rhaenyra’s.” came the king’s reply.

“That is a strange thing to remember after all those years. You had been feeling quite comfortable with the Hightower blood by your side.” It was a bitter remark, aimed at stinging, and it worked well.

“I must confess, I wanted to honour our Grandsire’s choice of councillors. But times have changed.” the king smiled, motioning his hand graciously at the golden pin and inviting their cousin to take it.

“The world wanted us at odds, but we do not have to let it be that way.” Aemma added.

Rhaenys hummed, her face mask, still and pale, betraying nothing. Temptation, though, was very great, Aemma knew that. To become the second most influential person in the Realm was aspiration of many in position of power.

Aemma’s lips curled into a smile, as she nodded encouragingly to her cousin. A much welcome change in the Small Council almost made… Rhaenys’ hand moved slightly, fingers fluttered, ready to grasp the pin.

Pleased that his offer was so easily accepted, Viserys reclined into his chair and uttered. “If only the realm had not viewed me as the most deserving one, you could have made a fine queen.” he said with a benevolent smile, yet, instead of returning it, Rhaenys stiffened, obviously offended by the backhanded compliment.

“Oh, really? Is that what you think?” the Queen Who Never Was arched her brow and pursed her lips into a thin line. Viserys gaped at her still smiling. “That it was worthiness compared at the Great Council, not gender?”

“Well, yes, I mean—” he stuttered, searching for words that could clarify his poorly stated idea, “Laenor was but a child it was too early to judge, and you—”

“Were a woman?” huffed Rhaenys, not even trying to conceal contempt in her voice. “As is your daughter, let me remind Your Grace.”

Well, that was a low blow. Not an unexpected one, though. The moment the decision to name Rhaenyra heir was made, Aemma’s thoughts traveled to Driftmark and to her cousin. She was rejected for having been a woman, and now, several years later, no one bothered about that. And even if there were malcontents, the king was quick to suppress them, something what king Jaehaerys had not thought necessary.

Meanwhile, Rhaenys seemed to take the comment too close to her heart. “How disappointing to be appreciated for what you are born with rather than for what you gain as a person. Our Grandmother spent great deal of time teaching me to be Queen. I hope you will do the same for Rhaenyra. As a girl she should be aware of the fact that she lacks something very important, yet she can compensate it exercising her mind.”

The issue of Jaehaerys’ heirs was likely to arise, but still, Aemma hoped that somehow they would be able to avoid it. Discreetly, she cast an angry side glance at Viserys. What in the name of Gods possessed him when he mentioned that blasted Great Council?!

As they remained silent, Rhaenys continued, “You did your daughter a disservice, cousin, when naming her heir. And here is my advice from a person who was in similar position: make sure that you have it hammered into the lords’ heads that she is to be their queen, and oath pledged once might be not enough to change their way of thinking. And what they think you can learn by looking at me. Woman has never sat the Iron Throne. And worthiness is not always taken into consideration.” she said, but there was no venom in her voice.

Rhaenys sounded… sincere. As if she was cautioning them, urging to learn from her sad example and take measures which can strengthen Rhaenyra’s claim — an oath pledged once might not be enough, and lords must be kept under control.

Twisting the rings on her fingers Aemma was frantically searching for some diplomatic reply, something to placate the princess. While she was doing it, Rhaenys shook her head slightly and straightened in her chair.

“You know what, cousin?” her hand moved to push away the golden pin of office. “I suggest you search someone more worthy of the position.” Disdain was dripping from her voice, and violet eyes stared with coldness which could make all the Seven Hells freeze.

Viserys gasped, opening and closing his mouth like fish out of water. In his naivety, as always, he was not prepared for such turn of events and this rejection stole his ability to think and speak clearly.

“It was a great pleasure to have an audience with Your Graces.” she said, again rather formally, rising from her chair and smoothing the folds of her beautiful gown. “But I must leave you at this point. My lord husband and I have some business in Kings Landing before we depart.” without waiting for permission, she dripped into curtsy, her back straight, chin up and left the Godswood.

Watching her leave, a frown made a deep crease between the king’s brows. “Rhaenys was always like that.” he complained. “Difficult to satisfy. Nursing old grudges. Perhaps, she is too much of a dragon.”

Aemma could not but roll her eyes. “Your words, Viserys…”

“What?” he asked desperately. “Did I sound rude?”

“You did, yes.”

“Seven Hells…” he cursed under his breath. “It was not about me. Rhaenys has always been fiendishly difficult to deal with.” he huffed, snapping at a servant for more wine.

“Well, this time it was you who was difficult.” she accused, not paying attention to the boy, who was holding a wine pitcher and casting wary glances at the royal couple.

Viserys’ head jerked up and he glared at Aemma, “Me?!”

“Why did you start this thing about being worthy and unworthy of the crown?” exasperated Aemma. “What were you thinking, Viserys?”

“What, by the Seven, is wrong with it?”

“What is wrong, you’re asking? You are rubbing salt into the wound, how can you not understand that?!”

Unfortunately, he did not. The throne and the crown were such an easy catch for Viserys, coming to his hands without any efforts, the whole job done by his brother who gathered an army to support his claim, by his mother, who bore him and the Gods who gave him his co*ck.

Well, it seemed, they failed spectacularly. What a shame… It was a good chance to bring House Velaryon to Rhaenyra’s favour.

“You need to think of another candidate.” she said and Viserys groaned, pressing his fingers against his temples in a bout of pathetic self-pity. “And don’t tell me that it was easier with Otto Hightower by your side ruling the kingdom in your stead.” she warned, raising her index finger.

Later, reflecting on their conversation, Aemma came to realisation that Rhaenys still held on to resentment towards Viserys for snatching her birthright away from her, and offering the position of Hand was not enough to make up for all that. While they thought that this offer was a kind gesture, Rhaenys saw it more of a political move, an insensere attempt to appease her while making it so she had to be loyal to Viserys.

Still, their failed attempt at reunion weighed on Aemma’s heart and she thought it best to approach their cousin before she left to Driftmark.

“If you feel mistreated or disrespected, please don’t be. Viserys might have sounded dubious, but it was not what he meant.” Aemma apologied, wringing her hands. “If there is that long-standing grudge—”

“Aemma.” Rhaenys interrupted in a calm voice. “Long-standing grudge? You know me better than that.” she said. “I am not that petty. Though, I am not thick-skinned either. I cannot stay here, for everything reminds me of my defeat, of what I was deprived. And Corlys only makes everything worse with his constant moaning. I, personally, abandoned this ambition long ago and now have something of much more value to concentrate on.”

“You have got two wonderful children.” nodded Aemma, wholeheartedly agreeing that this gift from the Gods was infinitely better than any crown or throne.

Rhaenys nodded in acquiescence, her mother’s heart so similar to Aemma’s own. Then she continued. “To be honest, my husband is also one of the reasons I cannot accept this position. Even if he is granted the seat of the Master of Ships and is made Lord Admiral, he will be under my command as the Hand of the King. He is a proud man, my husband, and sometimes we do not see eye to eye with each other. Yet, one thing is a family matter, but stakes are much higher when you act on behalf of the king. Arguments, a lot of them will ensue. I do not wish my family to fall apart, not even at the cost of the highest honour.” she confessed.

The reasoning was fair and to that Aemma could only sigh and nod. Watching her, Rhaenys frowned. “Hasn’t— hasn’t Viserys thought of Daemon? I am sure, he dreams of the Hand’s pin and is not restrained by family obligations like I am.”

Obviously, this idea came to Aemma’s mind, but she was so busy with coaxing Viserys into allowing Daemon to court Rhaenyra and at least be given a chance to fight for her hand among other suitors, that proposing him as a person worthy of the golden pin was too much for the King.

“Viserys thinks— he thinks Daemon lacks patience for it. Moreover, he is extremely efficient as the Commander of the City Watch.” explained Aemma. This sounded as a reasonable excuse, and it satisfied Rhaenys as she hummed thoughtfully.

Her next words were that of a mother, not of a Queen Who Never Was with wounded pride. “I talked to Corlys and we decided that Laena can stay for some time. Life at court will do good to her unruly nature, perhaps, being surrounded by ladies dressed in beautiful gowns will arouse her own interest in fashion and other womanly things. So far she is too wild, too spirited and for her own good, she should be tamed a little.”

Upon hearing this, Aemma stifled a chuckle. Well, if Rhaenys thought that Rhaenyra’ could make such influence, she was mistaken. Princess was not a kind of timid and docile lady, spending her days sewing, playing musical instruments or reading poetry. Without question, Rhaenyra loved all those things, except sewing, but her main interests lay in dragonflying, hunting or sailing a boat with Daemon.

Yet, this gesture was clear to Aemma — their cousin’s grudge was aimed at Viserys, not her, and it was an olive branch and acceptance of Rhaenyra’s new position. Rhaenys had always been complicated to deal with, but who was not? Moreover, Aemma welcomed the idea of a new companion for her daughter who had just lived through a betrayal of her close friend. She needed to be shown that not everyone was like that, there were decent and honourable people who were not so easily bent to their father’s treacherous plotting. Now Alicent was gone, but Laena arrived in her stead.

Parting with Rhaenys on a friendly note and giving her reassurances that Laena would be well taken care of, Aemma retired to the royal quarter, longing for rest.

Within she found Viserys, already dressed for the night, but still sitting at his desk, frowning, and with a parchment in his hand.

“What is it?” she asked, perching on the armrest of the chair and wrapping her arm over his shoulders draped in soft velvet sleeping robe, while stealing a glance at the letter.

“You will never guess.” he muttered, shaking his head. “As if audience with Rhaenys was not punishment enough for today.”

Unclasping his fingers from the parchment, Aemma took it into her hand. The handwriting was unfamiliar, as was the coat-of-arms on the sigil. Before reading her eyes flickered to the signature at the end of the letter. She had to reread it twice before the name sank in her head.

The signature said: Princess Saera of House Targaryen.

“It is from our aunt?” she gasped in disbelief.

Viserys hummed in agreement, scratching his stubbled chin in a very unkingly manner. “Uh-huh. One more troublesome relative. I am surprised, she is still alive, though.” he mused, but upon receiving a reproachful look from Aemma squeezed out a weak smile. “What? Aunt Saera has not sent a single letter for a long time, since… since the Great Council, I guess.”

“What does she want?” muttered Aemma, quickly scanning the contents of the letter.

“She does not say. Only that this matter is delicate and that she wished to discuss it privately with her family.” he said, laying a special emphasis on the word.

“Does she still view us as such?” Aemma arched her brow doubtfully. Aunt Saera had been ignoring them for years, leaving the moment her bastards’ claims were dismissed at the Council, not saying a word to either Viserys or Rhaenys who were her closest living relatives, neither did she replied to the royal summons to attend Rhaenyra’s initiation ceremony. What was the reason for such change of heart? That Aemma did not know. But what she knew well about Saera was that nothing good came from this woman, and her boldness and wild spirit bordered with impudence and selfishness.

Viserys groaned as his hand ran down his troubled face. “Will I ever have peace?” he moaned, giving Aemma a sad look.

“Not until this golden thing sits upon your head.” she replied, pointing at Jaehaerys’ crown proudly displayed on a red velvet cushion. Another moan escaped his lips and hand reached weakly to his heart.

Meanwhile, Aemma’s own heart skipped a bit. Never ever had anything good come from their aunt. Neither for their grandparents, nor for them. What tides were bringing her back home?…

Chapter 27: A Night To Remember… Or To Be Reminded Of? (Daemon)

Chapter Text

Three years before…

Late 103 A.C.

“So? What do you say?” Viserys asked, not even stirring from his relaxed position, one leg crossed over the other and both hands clasped behind his head.

Deliberatly omitting all the courtesies upon his entrance to the king’s chambers, Daemon cast a glance at the very thing his brother was pointing at, schooling his face to an unimpressed expression.

“Uhm… It looks… nice.” replied the prince with a careless shrug.

“Nice?!” Viserys barked out a laugh, waving a dismissive hand at him. “It is not nice. It is stunning! Magnificent! Fit for a Targaryen princess!” he exclaimed, so full of himself, that Daemon could hardly resist the urge to slap him on his face.

It had been only months since his coronation, yet Viserys acted as if he had already achieved greatness of Aegon the Conqueror. Or at least their Grandsire. Bullsh*t! All he had done during his short reign was throwing three feats, two tourneys and a hunt.

Yet, there was one thing that bothered him most of all — Viserys seemed to have no intention to name Daemon his Hand. As it was during the late years of Jaehaerys’ reign, Otto Hightower occupied this position and assumed all the power and influence coming with it.

There was only one reasoning Viserys fed to his Council when distributing the offices. “To hounour his Grandsire’s choice,” he declared. Again bullsh*t! His only reason was to spare himself from worries and not to stir his fat ass appointing a new Hand, that was all!

While Daemon… Daemon could serve him loyally and faithfully. Like their father Baelon was supposed to serve uncle Aemon — to be an extension of each other, support and protection. And it rankled Daemon that Viserys pushed all these opportunities away, wasting himself on idle pleasures.

The sound of fingers snapping interrupted Daemon from his musings. It was Viserys ordering his attendant to hand in a large velvet purse to the man humbly and silently standing in front of them — an artesian from whom the king had commissioned the saddle.

Yes, it was nothing other but a dragon saddle. Even though, one could hardly call it that. It was a richly decorated item, made of the smoothest, yet most durable leather, with details of pure gold and silver, encrusted with rubies the size of a grape.

Daemon swallowed, fighting with the unpleasant feeling of envy, stirring deep inside. Along with Jaehaerys’ crown and Aegon’s throne Viserys inherited coffers filled with gold, and, as it seemed, greatly enjoyed squandering what was inside.

“Is it how you spend the crown’s coffers? Grandsire left them full to the brim, do you mean to waste all of it in the first years of your reign?” Daemon rebuked, but Viserys only rolled his eyes.

“There is enough gold, brother, my Master of Coin does not allow me too much of extravagance.” Viserys said with his stupid little smile. What was that, but extravagance?

What followed first placated Daemon, but then instanteniously irked even more. The saddle was Rhaenyra’ nameday present. It was fast approaching, and while Daemon had thought about a present to his niece, he had neither got hold of it, nor even come up with an idea.

“What is some gold compared to Rhaenyra?” chuckled the king. “She deserves all of it and even more. When Aemma gives me my heir I will commission a matching saddle to him.”

Heir…

So far the king had none, and Daemon was his heir presumptive. The only problem was that he refused either to acknowledge it officially, or grant Daemon the seat which should come with the title — Dragonstone, constantly and stubbornly referring to the boy which was in the Queen’s belly.

And now Viserys was speaking again of an illusionary heir, totally disregarding his own brother, not even giving him crumbs from the royal table.

Angry at the thought, Daemon clenched his fists and challenged Viserys, saying, “I am sure Rhaenyra will be more pleased with my present to her nameday, than yours.”

It was an immature move, but Daemon could not help it. Why, by the Fourteen, all the best was reserved for his brother — the Iron Throne, a Valyrian wife, honours and status, even Rhaenyra was his. The realisation stung as Daemon committed to himself to win his niece’s favour.

“Oh, really?” exclaimed Viserys with a hint of amusem*nt. “Tell me then what have you prepared? Another pendant or a ring? Perhaps some silk or brocade for a new gown?”

“None of that.” he replied defiantly. “This will be a gift fit for the princess, not her dragon.”

Although this was supposed to be a taunting remark, Viserys looked totally unperturbed. “Fine, fine, keep it a secret, if you wish to. I will learn sooner or later.” he shrugged indifferently.

“I bet that my gift will impress Rhaenyra more than yours.” challenged Daemon, waving dismissively at the glistening and glimmering dragon saddle.

“Bet? So, you want to take a wager?”

Before he could stop himself, Daemon nodded.

“Fine!” the king rubbed his hands enthusiastically.

Daemon pondered for a moment, until a fine plan to humiliate Viserys formed in his head.

“The one of us whose present Rhaenyra likes least will clean the dragon sh*t in the Pit.” said the prince with a vicious grin. He was sure in his victory — never ever had his gifts to Rhaenyra failed to impress her.

Viserys was foolish enough to accept the challenge. He regarded Daemon for a moment, then outstretched his hand for a handshake. “I should deny it, for such thing is below the king’s dignity, but as I will most certainly win, the bet itself is not important.” he said.

While Daemon tried to remain cool before his brother, he left the king’s chambers fuming. It was rather infuriating to be always shown that you were inferior. Surely, it was far from the brotherly relationships Daemon dreamt of, their father and uncle Aemon were not like that. Although Aemon was the heir to the throne, Baelon was his equal and there were talks that the younger brother would be the older’s Hand.

***

There was no sense searching for any unique items in the markets and shops of Kings Landing, so without wasting time and efforts Daemon reined Caraxes across the Narrow Sea, towards the Free Cities. Volantis seemed a perfect destination, the oldest and the proudest of the Nine Free Cities. With its ancient history and well-developed trade it certainly could offer some unique items, much better than a saddle commissioned in Kings Landing.

And so the prince was meandering from stall to stall, observing items displayed there. Nothing was even close to what he was looking for. Pendants, rings and silks — just as Viserys had said.

There was one shop, however, which Daemon remembered from his last visit. The owner bought relics and artefacts from passing sailors, some really rare, others mere trinkets.

“What would you like, my prince?” asked the shopkeeper instantly recognising him.

Daemon hummed. “Something for a very special person… A tiara perhaps?” Rhaenyra was in awe at seeing her mother’s tiara on their coronation day. She would certainly love to have a little tiara of her own.

“Ah! What a pity, my prince! I have recently sold an absolutely unique item! The Jade tiara of the Empress of Leng. A travelling merchant brought it on his ship. I put it on display, but it did not stay there long — the next day came a servant from the household of Saera Targaryen and bought it out.”

“Saera Targaryen?” asked Daemon, suprised to hear the name of his kin.

“Yes, my prince. Within the last years she has become very influential in the city. So rich… But how can you not be rich, if you sell something people can not live without — pleasure. I myself visited some of her pleasures houses, and dare I say, she lifted them to a new level.” he said, wiggling his bushy eyebrows.

To Daemon’s further surprise he learnt that aunt Saera owned most of the pleasure houses in Volantis. Small wonder she achieved all of that. Even as a child Daemon had heard a lot of stories about his aunts ambitions, temperament and stubbornness. Not to mention her father frivolous character.

Getting to Saera’s mansion was not easy, as it was guarded by dozens of sellswords.

“Do you have prior arrangements for an audience?” the guards asked, crossing their halberds.

“I have.” lied Daemon, lifting his chin and assuming self-assured demeanour.

It took a moment for the guards to scan him from top to toe, but finally they let him in.

The audience was hold in a great hall, whereto Daemon was ushered by the attendants. And there she was, his aunt who despised the wishes of King Jaehaerys and fled across the Narrow Sea, tainting her reputation.

Saera was garbed in golden silks with a rope of rubies around her neck. Atop her silver hair sparkled the very thing Daemon came for — the jade tiara of the Empress of Leng. Gracefully sitting on a thing which could be well called a throne, she was holding her little “court”. Two sturdy men armed with spears in their hands and short swords on their hips were stationed on each side of their mistress. Merchants, slave owners, shop keepers in turns approached his aunt and she passed her verdicts as quickly and efficiently as the matters — mostly about debts and loans — required.

There was a silver-haired man of Daemon’s age, standing at the foot of Saera’s makeshift throne. Tall, broad-shouldered, with aquiline nose, he could easily be mistaken for a true Valryrain, save for deep brown eyes brimmed with curly dark lashes.

Saera’s bastard, thought Daemon, giving an appraising look to the man. Perhaps, one of those she dragged as a claimant to the throne in 101 AC.

At last, it came Daemon’s turn to approach. Pulling his hood down he made several steps towards his aunt, greeting her with a slight nod of his head.

“By all the Gods and Hells!” exclaimed Saera. “Nephew! What tides brought you to Volantis?” Then she clapped her hands, ordering, “Everyone! Out!”

Two men which stood on guard beside the throne moved forward, ushering all the visitors out of the hall. As soon as it became empty, two servants dressed in thin yellow tunics appeared, carrying a small table which minutes later was laid with refreshments. Candied plums, apricots in honey, cakes with raisins and jugs of summer wine filled the space.

Aunt Saera changed her throne for a plush armchair next to the table, inviting Daemon to join her. There were only two armchairs, so it was an unsaid command to the silver-haired man to leave, which he did without asking any questions.

“His name is Aerys. A son of mine.” catching Daemon’s curious glance, she clarified.

“And who is his father, dare I ask?”

Saera waved her hand vaguely in the air and shrugged. “You do not know him anyway.”

Daemon wondered, if it was a souvenir from the Oldtown she managed to obtain before fleeing on a ship to Lys or he was from seed of some Volantine man. One of Saera’s bastards was rumoured to have been sired be the Triarch of Volantis himself.

There were two more sons whose claims Saera put forward in 101 AC, but they were not present. Not that Daemon had any wish to know their whereabouts, if it was not anywhere near the Dragonmount. Wasting of dragon seed was a precarious thing, for dragons had to stay within the royal family. The mere thought of some bastards roaming around and trying to claim a dragon was disturbing.

“How fares the kingdom? Can I dare to hope that Jaehaerys choked on his wine?” she asked, her voice laced with disdain.

“Jaehaerys is dead…” Daemon informed with reserved coolness.

Saera stilled for a moment, startled by the news about her father. Her eyes darkened with some vague emotion — grief or anger — but then she said: “For the better. The Gods gave too much time for this asshole.” she said without a hint of sorrow.

Wealth, status, children of her own — nothing helped to heal the wounds Grandsire inflicted her. Saera was a Targaryen to the core — easy to anger and slow to forgive.

“Well, and who is the king now?”

“As per decision made by the Old King at the Great Council, my brother Viserys, First of his name, was crowned King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.”

“That Viserys? My nephew? By Gods, life is a funny thing. I remember him as a plump good-natured boy, seeking refuge from the attacks of his cousin and now he is the king. I hope Baelon will be proud of him, wherever my brother is now. Heavens, I presume, he was a good man.”

“It is hard to tell what kind of king he is, too little time has passed.” replied Daemon, still nursing his grudge. While he did not want to look like a complaining weakling, he could not but mention the fact that he was passed over with the position of Hand. “So far it is Otto who rules, not Viserys.”

“Otto Hightower? That same viper Jaehaerys nourished in his bosom?” she arched her brow curiously and gestured to a servant to refill their chalices. The wine was pleasantly cool and lightly scented with oranges. “He had always been bad at reading people, misjudged them quite often. Yet,” she yawned, trying to conceal it with a bejewelled hand, “I have little regard for the things in Westeros. Especially after my sons’ claims were dismissed at the Great Council. Just another mummer’s farce played by that old fart, my father. He always had the taste for theatrics. I will never forget how he challenged Braxton Beesbury in a duel, as if he did not have seven knights of his Kingsguard to do the job. And so he did it himself, chopped off Braxton’s head — just to spite me.”

There was so much vitriol in her voice, that Daemon made a mental note that having this woman as his enemy would be a grave mistake. She forgot nothing, yet remembered each and every slight inflicted to her.

Meanwhile she continued, “My father wanted me to act the way he liked, but I did not. Yet, he was wrong if he thought I had lost. As you can see,” she swept her hand across the richly decorated hall, “I only lose when there is nothing to gain by winning. What was there for me in Westeros? An old creepy husband who would f*ck me till I birthed him heirs? A miserable existence, that’s what it is. But here, I am the queen and have my own kingdom.”

“You even have a crown of yours.” chuckled Daemon, pointing at the jade tiara atop he head. It was an opportune moment to mention the very thing he came for.

“Ah, this little thing…” aunt Saera smiled coyly. “Yes, it sits pretty well on me.”

Daemon hummed and nodded. “I would actually like to buy it. It would make a fine gift for my niece.”

“Your niece?” Saera arched her brow in question. “I have not received sufficient news about the affairs of my former family, but the rumours were right, as I can see. My little nephew has failed to have a male heir so far, hasn’t he?”

“Yes, the gods have not been kind to King Viserys and Queen Aemma.” confirmed Daemon, deliberately stating their titles.

“As useless as his Grandsire.” Saera rolled her eyes and, although, it sounded rather unkind, Daemon refrained from pointing it out to her.

“They still have time for it.” the prince explained, not fully believing in the truth of it. While this topic was sensitive and Daemon did not like how Saera spoke about his family, he came there for a reason. And surely it was not defending his Grandsire or brother. “So? Can I have the tiara? I will not spare a coin.”

She thought for a moment, while Daemon’s hand reached to the inner pocket of his doublet, ready to retrieve a purse filled with golden dragons.

“No.”

“No?”

“Even if I needed gold — but I obviously do not — I want to keep the tiara to myself. First I was disinherited by my father, and then my birthright was stolen along with the crown my sons deserved. But here, in my kingdom, I wish to have a crown of mine. This one sits perfectly on me.” she replied in a tone leaving no room for arguments.

As much as Daemon wanted to have the tiara, to argue with aunt Saera was like pissing against the wind — Jaehaerys was a good example of that. He bit his lip, resolving to look through each and every blasted shop in the city tomorrow, but find something unique for Rhaenyra.

Seeing his obvious distress, Saera smiled, kindly this time, and said: “You cannot have the crown, but as your aunt I will oblige you. I am not Jaehaerys and do not treat those of my blood like sh*t. Much less such a comely prince as you are, nephew. You can have as much fun as you want in any of my pleasure houses, take any girl you like as many times you like. For free, you will not have to pay. I bet you have not seen such beauties in that filthy piss reeking capital.” she took a chalice of wine and toasted him with a smile.

***

Daemon walked into the pleasure house, surrounded by warm and inviting atmosphere with plush seating and decorations throughout. The scent of scented oils filled the room, and his eyes wandered to the women working there, many of which were of exotic features. Their eyes followed him, and one by one they called out to him with enticing voices, each offering a variety of services.

Daemon feeling in an especially frivolous mood due to his previous meeting, decided to indulge himself a little. He approached the woman who who had first caught his eye upon entering, and her mischievous grin and sultry voice lured him in. However, his attention was soon taken over by a new figure stepping up before him. Her silver Valyrian hair glowed in the light of chandeliers, and her features were striking, though he failed to recall if he had seen her previously.

“You do not recognise me, dear cousin,” the woman said to him, a smile on her lips as a playful sparkle in her deep violet eyes. “I am your cousin, Aerea.”

For an instance the prince was taken aback. “Cousin?” he replied, unsure of how to respond. “I do not recall having a cousin named Aerea.”

“Well, let us correct that. I am Aerea Targaryen, daughter of your aunt Saera.” Her smiled widened, amused by Daemon’s confusion. “Now please do not think me a stranger. Come.” she tugged him to an empty table in the corner, and as they eased themselves into plush chairs, a serving girl fetched a jug of wine, two cups, some cheese and grapes.

Daemon’s initial caution was replaced with a hint of amusem*nt as he took in Aerea’s playful manner. “I do not wish to think you a stranger.” he replied, matching her tone. “But you are new to me, you can understand why I am unsure.”

“Yes, dear cousin, of course I can understand.” Aerea smiled, her gaze softening as she reached out to to gently put a hand on Daemon’s arm. “But please allow me to clear your confusion.”

Having a closer look at the woman, Daemon could clearly see Saera’s features in her, most of all peculiar boldness in her eyes, slightly upturned nose and lips which turned from smiling to pouting in a blink of an eye.

“So, are you the Hand of the King or something.” she asked, sipping on her wine. “If your brother is now the king. Or how does it work in Westeros?”

The unexpected question felt like a slap on Daemon’s cheek. Despite trying to armour himself against the fact that his birthright was stolen by some landless knight, a second son from the Reach, every time the issue was brought about he wanted to rage.

“No, I am not the Hand. Not yet.” he answered curtly. But Aerea seemed to have already lost interest in the question.

“The jade Tiara of the Empress of Leng.” she said all of a sudden. “I heard you wanted it.”

Daemon narrowed his eyes suspiciously, “Did you— did you spy on me?”

“Not spied, I was just… Curious.” she batted her long silver lashes innocently.

“This is called spying.”

“Ah!” she waved a dismissive hand. “Call it the way you like. So, do you want the tiara?”

Startled by her offer, Daemon hesitated, then nodded. “I do, yes. But your mother will get furious, if she knows that her tiara was taken without her consent.”

“No, she will not.” Aerea dismissed. “It is supposed to be mine anyway, so it is my right to dispose of it as I like. Sooner or later, who cares.”

“What do you want in return?” he asked, a pleasant feeling of triumph stirring in his belly. Now he was really close to his victory — and Viserys to cleaning loads of sh*t in the Dragon Pit. “I am sure, gold is not something you need.”

“I want you.” came her answer, startling him more than her initial offer.

“Come on, cousin, you mistake me for a whor*!” Daemon snorted.

“No, that is not the thing!” she exclaimed. “I have been told about the traditions of our House and wanted to try how it feels to become close with someone of the true dragon blood.”

Daemon regarded her thoughtfully. He was fine about bedding his cousin, even just once, but somehow it did not sit with him well. However, there were not too many options. He promised to awe Rhaenyra and made a bet with Viserys, and one would be an utter fool to say that a night of pleasure with a nice-looking young woman was a high price for it.

“It is so nice to see your face.” Aerea said sitting closer to him. Hesitantly her hand twitched, then reached to touch his cheek. “I thought I was destined to die without getting closer to my ancestors, my lineage, my blood. But you came so suddenly and unexpectedly — and now I have a chance to correct that. Take the tiara, Daemon, and take me.”

***

“Are you— are you not a maiden?” he asked as her fingers were deftly unlacing the strings on his breeches.

“Not anymore. Mother says there is no point in keeping your flower, it will be plucked anyway, and more often than not without our consent.” she murmured, pulling down the fabric and leaving him naked.

Daemon chuckled. Having her untouched would have been nice, but that way he would be spare the efforts of teaching her how to do what was needed.

Aerea was a sweet little thing. Her skin pale and smooth, curves of her body alluring and the silver of her hair was wonderfully glistening the candle light. What a pity, aunt Saera fled Kings Landing, Daemon could have been wed to a Targaryen princess, instead of being tied up to that sheep from the Vale.

As the two embraced, the tension grew hotter. Each touch on their skin made them more eager, more bold in their actions. Hands began to wander, caressing along every inch of their bodies, teasing just to keep the excitement going.

The night was full of pleasure and passion, each of them coupling and reaching climax as if for the last time, and probably it was, for where else they could find someone of their blood, blood of the dragon.

When morning came the two lay interlocking, breathing heavily as the afterglow of their night together settled in. They were tired from the vigorous activities, but satisfied with the night they had just shared. Overcome by a wave of drowsiness Aerea nuzzled into Daemon and drifted off to sleep.

For the last time he looked at Aerea’s sleeping form, her long silver hair spread all over the pillows. Smirking, he imagined his brother’s face if he brought her to court as a mistress — a woman with at least some, even though diluted Targaryen blood, as opposed to his Rhea “Sheep of the Vale”.

Then Daemon grabbed the tiara, hid it in his leather shoulder bag and tiptoed to the door. He had no desire to say parting words to Aerea, the story ended with his departure and he decided that he wanted no more of it.

Caraxes made a screeching roar upon seeing him, already impatient to return home. Daemon patted his back and with a swift movement jumped in the saddle.

“My prince!” came a thin voice and Daemon turned to see a boy-servant dressed in the livery of aunt Saera’s household. “Mistress Aerea sent a word that she wishes to see you.”

“Seven Hells,” Daemon grimaced. It was supposed to be one-time connection, nothing more. He was kind enough to show her what coupling with Targaryen was, not with the slaves her mother’s brothel was swarming with. She gave him the tiara in return. A fair exchange, he could not be reproached for treating his cousin disrespectfully.

“She is waiting for you in her chambers.” he stuttered, wiping his wet for brow.

“Tell her— tell her that I will return shortly. After I have done some business of mine.” Daemon lied, checking how tight the fastenings on Caraxes’ saddle were — they had a long and tiresome flight ahead. Rhaenyra’s nameday was soon and he did not want to miss it. As much as he enjoyed the night, there was no intention to revisit Aerea.

***

“I thought you would not come.” Rhaenyra said, pouting her lips in a very sweet way.

“I could not miss my niece’s nameday. Never.” he tapped her nose playfully. “Now, close your eyes. I have brought you something.”

“But then I will not be able to see it!” she protested and spying a leather bag on his hip tried to snatch it. Daemon dodged and made a step back, wagging his finger.

“Not so fast! Close your eyes, just for a second. Please.”

Giggling with anticipation, she did as she was asked to, as Daemon guided her to the mirror. He retrieved the jade tiara from the leather bag across his shoulder. Gently placing it on Rhaenyra’s silver hair, he blinked two times, astounded by her beauty. It was worth it, everything, even listening to his aunt’s bitter moaning and indulging his lustful cousin.

“Now — open!” he allowed, drinking in the sight before him. Rhaenyra’s eyes grew wide in awe and a happy smile flashed all across her face as she reached her hands to touch the tiara. She was astonishingly beautiful that moment. Little could compare with the joy and satisfaction of seeing her happy, and the prince was ready to move earth and heaven just to please Rhaenyra.

“This tiara is said to have belonged to the Empress of Leng. She was worshipped by the people and you deserve as much, my little princess.” he said meaning every word of it — he enjoyed worshipping his sweet niece, and the older she became, the more intense feeling of pleasure he experienced.

“Do you like it?” he asked, feigning shyness in his voice. “Will you wear it for the feast?”

Of course she did wear it. Actually, she could not wait for the feast to begin and bask in the attention of all the high nobles residing in the Red Keep and those who arrived specially for the occasion.

A self-satisfied smirk was wiped away from Viserys’ face as he was staring at the gleaming tiara atop his daughter’s silver hair, while her eyes shone with happiness. She gracefully acknowledged everyone who approached the high table before the commencement of the feast, their eyes glued to the tiara, which was an absolute sight to behold — it was of intricate design made of white and yellow gold inlaid with precious jade. The large emerald set into the centre shone brilliantly in the light. A piece of jewellery fit not only for a princess, but for a queen.

Even if Viserys’ gift was bigger, glittering with gold and rubies, the thing Rhaenyra would use every day, but it was Daemon’s gift she was wearing at the feast, making all the high nobles gasp in awe. Rhaenyra was called by the minstrels the Queen of Love and Beauty and Daemon had to fight for her attention — a challenge which he gladly welcomed.

“This is the best gift I received for my nameday! Thank you, uncle.” Rhaenyra said, taking his hand and bringing it to her lips.

“I serve at your pleasure, Princess .” he tilted his head respectfully and then cast a stealthy glance at Viserys, to make sure that he heard her words.

Judging by the sour look upon the king’s paling face, he did. A crease appeared between his browns and corners of his mouth twitched downwards. Aemma was telling something to him excitedly, which he fully ignored, his eyes locked on Daemon and Rhaenyra.

A dragon saddle is one thing, but it is the tiara that made Rhaenyra’s heart melt…

Next morning came the best part of Daemon’s little adventure. The sun had hardly risen, but he was already there, by the King’s doors.

“Good morrow, brother!” jovially he greeted Viserys who was still abed. “Rise and shine, you have a debt to pay.”

Throwing Daemon and icy glare, the king could only groan helplessly at the reminder of his defeat.

“The carriage is waiting for Your Grace. As well as loads of dragon sh*t in the Pit.” he reminded, slipping away from the chamber.

Everyone was escorted out of the Dargon Pit — Viserys’ sole condition, no one was supposed to witness his humiliation, but Daemon. Huffing and puffing he was sweeping the ground covered with dragons’ excrements mixed with wet straw. Sweat was rolling down his forehead and flushed cheeks, white satin shirt clang to his body, while Daemon was urging him to work even harder.

When the work was done, Viserys dropped to the floor in exhaustion throwing and angry look at Daemon.

“Your are a man of honour, Viserys. But next time think before making a bet with me.” With that he passed his brother a wineskin which he grabbed and drank from greedily. “I am better at winning Rhaenyra’s favour, there is no point in denying it.

The looks Viserys received from the Kingsguard and the dragonkeepers were precious. Seeing his king disheveled and in complete disarray, they shifted uncomfortably on their feet, wondering what happened inside. Luckily to Viserys, they had no idea and Daemon as a good brother would not tell them. He was satisfied enough with with the spectacle itself.

“Your— Your Grace?” Ser Harrold stepped forward hesitantly, but was waved off by the king who stomped to his carriage and disappeared in its depth.

“Dragons do not always treat people kindly, even us, Targaryens.” explained Daemon stifling a smirk.

***

“What is this smell?” Aemma wrinkled her nose as they were sharing a family dinner.

“That’s dragon sh*t.” replied Rhaenyra knowingly, but was rewarded with Aemma’s stern look.

Viserys sniffled discreetly at his freshly cleaned purple doublet, Daemon snorted and Aemma narrowed her eyes in suspicion, observing them both. The stench was very clingy, Daemon knew from his own experience, it would take days for it to evaporate.

And yet, while Daemon was savouring the taste of his small victory, a nagging thought stirred at the back of his mind.

Aerea.

Hopefully, she would quickly forget about him, for he had no intention to return to Volantis in the foreseeable future. And she would be prudent enough to take Moon Tea, wouldn’t she?