Second Conquest - Dolphinsarcasm - House of the Dragon (TV) [Archive of Our Own] (2024)

Chapter 1: Prologue: Maester Gerion

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The Second Targaryen Conquest of Westeros, otherwise known as the Conquest of 141 AC, is decidedly simple by the standards of wars and conquests, but has far more complicated origins that could be argued to stretch back as far as the First Conquest, but to avoid esoteric arguments I find it most practical to start with the year 106 AC.

There are those who argue that 101 AC, being the year of the Great Council, would be more proper, but the Great Council itself had little bearing on the true causes of the Targaryen Schism and the conquest that followed.

On the other hand, the year 106 AC saw the death of Aemma Arryn, the first queen of King Viserys Targaryen, the Flight of the Dragons, and the remarriage of the King to the Lady Alicent of House Hightower, daughter of his Lord Hand, Sir Otto Hightower.

The Flight of the Dragons is in it of itself a poor way to refer to a complex series of events, only one of which could properly be called a flight. Prince Daemon Targaryen was in fact banished by his brother the king only a few days after the funeral of the late Queen Aemma and the late Prince Baelon, who survived his mother by mere hours. The prince was said to have made toasts to Prince Baelon, calling him the Heir for a Day, though Prince Daemon would later accuse the Lord Hand of concocting these accusations for his own benefit.

The flight of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, three moons after Prince Daemon’s banishment, is somewhat more mysterious, though it does line up quite well with King Viserys’ announcement of his impending second marriage to the Princess’ Lady in Waiting, Alicent Hightower.

The closeness of Princess Rhaenyra and Lady Alicent as children does bear a brief mention, as the Lady Alicent came to court when her father was made Lord Hand, less than two years after the Princess’ birth. It had become customary by that time for the Lord Hand’s family, including his children, to be given places in the royal household. The Lady Alicent, then just six years of age, was therefore made Lady in Waiting to the two-year-old princess, and by all accounts they were inseparable as girls, save for when the princess rode her dragon, and that this closeness only diminished upon the death of Queen Aemma before ceasing altogether upon the princess’ flight.

The princess’ first destination was Dragonstone, the ancient seat of her house and then the residence of the banished Prince Daemon, her uncle. She did not tarry long at Dragonstone, however, instead flying to Driftmark, the seat of House Velaryon. While King Viserys never officially fostered Princess Rhaenyra with House Velaryon, the princess lived on Driftmark under the tutelage of Princess Rhaenys, Lady Velaryon, for the next three years, until her marriage.

It can be accurately said that the Princess Rhaenyra did live at Driftmark for those three years, but she and the Lady Laena Velaryon, who claimed the dragon Vhagar soon after the princess’ arrival, spent some moons flying between the free cities. Braavos was their most frequent destination due to the ties the House Velaryon had worked for several generations to build in the city, but they also spent time in Qohor, smashing a Dothraki Horde from astride their dragons on the plains east of Qohoric forests, Norvos, the City of Bells, and Pentos. They turned different Dothraki hordes away from the latter two cities without conflict, instead by the mere presence of their dragons.

It is said the two women were utterly inseparable, from the shores of Driftmark to the cold fogs of Braavos to the forests of Qohor to even Volantis on the mouth of the River Rhoyne. Volantis, the proud and stubborn First Daughter of Valyria, was slow to call upon the Dragonlords for protection against the Dothraki Hordes that had turned away from the northern Free Cities, but did so after the sacking of the town of Volon Therys. Princess Rhaenyra and Lady Laena arrived in time to turn the horde away from the city, though not before Volantis had paid a King’s ransom in bribes in an attempt to placate the horde, only to receive demands for more.

Shortly after this defense by the Princess and the Lady, the Volantenes began to enact a series of trade regulations that ultimately resulted in the split of the Triarchy back into a trio of city-states, though a diplomatic incident between Tyrosh and Myr is likely just as much to blame.

With the splintering of the Triarchy in 109 AC Lord Corlys Velaryon and Prince Daemon Targaryen, who fought a long war that consisted principally of an awful stalemate against Carghas Crabfeeder, Prince-Admiral of Myr, finally found a victory as their enemies were no longer being supplied.

The interesting nature of this war - wherein the forces of Prince Daemon and Lord Corlys held supremacy in daylight hours while the Crabfeeder ruled the night - bears further explanation, but that will have to occur at a later time.

Prince Daemon, crowned King of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea by Lord Corlys, returned to King’s Landing and his brother King Viserys, to whom he offered the crown and the hammer of the Crabfeeder. The king in turn welcomed his brother with open arms, offering him a boon of his choice. Most at court expected the prince to ask once more for an annulment of his marriage to the Lady Rhea Royce, but the prince instead asked for Dragonstone, as a seat for him and his heirs.

The Lord Hand and Queen Alicent protested vigorously against this request, viewing Dragonstone as the rightful possession of Prince Aegon, the young son the queen had given King Viserys in 107 AC, a year after their marriage. The King, however, did grant his brother’s request, though he carefully made it clear that while Daemon would hold Dragonstone, he did not stand to become king after his brother, but that Prince Aegon was the heir apparent to the Iron Throne.

A moon after the prince took possession of Dragonstone, he flew with Princess Rhaenyra, Lady Laena, and Ser Laenor Velaryon, the son of Lord Corlys who had accompanied his father to war in the Stepstones upon his own dragon, Seasmoke, to the aid of the city of Qohor, once more threatened by a Dothraki Horde, this one larger than any that had come before. The four Dragonriders smashed the horde, breaking the power of the Dothraki in the west for a generation, as Khals looked east to Lhazar for a softer target.

Shortly after the Dragonriders returned to Driftmark, Prince Daemon wed both his niece Princess Rhaenyra and Lady Laena Velaryon in a Valyrian ceremony of the type not seen since Maegor the Cruel took his Black Brides to wife. It is thought Lord Corlys had originally wished to wed Ser Laenor to Princess Rhaenyra and Lady Laena to Prince Daemon, but he evidently did agree to the eventual arrangement, though Laena’s first son would bear the Velaryon name. Ser Laenor spent many of the next years in the east with his companion Ser Joffrey Lonmouth, keeping an eye on the Dothraki, as the occasional Khal did go west to escape the congestion of the eastern Dothraki Sea.

Chapter 2: Rhaenyra I

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They don’t even let her say goodbye.

The other times it had almost been with approval, as much as one could have approval from a septa, that she had been led to her mother’s bedside, to hold her hand for a few moments. To comfort her mother for the child that had been lost. But now - Rhaenyra had gone to her mother’s chambers to find a midwife - a younger one - outside, crying, though the tears turn to apologies when she sees Rhaenyra.

The maester, the guards, and even the head midwife won’t permit her entry. Rhaenyra wants to demand it, but the pain in their eyes turns her back.

“Remember your mother as she was, Princess. Not-” the woman trails off, and Rhaenyra turns, the tears pricking at her eyes.

She doesn’t flee, but her steps are hurried as she returns to her rooms. Lady Alicent is absent, though most likely at the sept with some of the other women of the court. Praying for the queen, if they hadn’t heard already. Or for the prince.

The day is warm, the sun’s rays bringing a pleasant heat, but Rhaenyra only notices the chill on the breeze as she finds one of her mother’s shawls, an old thing her mother had wrapped around her years ago, when she’d been small. It had been much too large then - more a great cloak on Rhaenyra than a shawl. It was only a shawl now, and thinned with age, but Rhaenyra wrapped it around her shoulders and the tears came - not the elegant things that some tales spoke of, but great sobs her septa would call unladylike.

The afternoon must pass like that, just Rhaenyra and her mother’s shawl. Lady Alicent never does come - it is Daemon, her uncle, that appears when the sun is hanging low, informing Rhaenyra she is late for dinner.

She hurriedly tries to dry her eyes, to make herself look presentable, but Daemon simply gathers her into his arms, warm and so protective. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to. They slowly make their way to the small sitting room where Rhaenyra’s father insists they take meals together - when it is only family - and the king is there, but he looks distant. He does not even notice Daemon’s or Rhaenyra’s arrival until Daemon pulls a chair out for Rhaenyra, the sounds of wood on stone finally rousing the king.

They eat in a miserable silence. Or rather, Daemon eats. Rhaenyra finds that she has no appetite, and merely pushes her food around. Her father doesn’t even do that, only making a few half-hearted prods before his hand covers his face once more. Daemon isn’t even halfway through his plate when her father dismisses them, his voice pained.

Daemon doesn’t speak until they have returned to Rhaenyra’s quarters, and then only in the language they share.

“Are you alright, niece?”

Rhaenyra shakes her head. “They wouldn’t even let me say goodbye.”

“Oh, Rhaenyra.” Daemon takes her into his arms once more and the tears come again, staining Daemon’s doublet. The prince sings softly, a dragon song on his tongue.

“What happened?” Rhaenyra asks when all her tears are spent.

Daemon pauses, sorrow in his eyes. “Rhaenyra-”

“She was my mother, and they wouldn’t even let me hold her hand. Please, uncle.”

The prince speaks after another long breath. “The babe was positioned wrong, and the midwives and maesters were unable to turn it.”

“And?” Rhaenyra can hear the hesitation in her uncle’s voice, but she has to know.

“And your father made the choice to save the babe over your mother.”

And, the words linger unsaid between them, the babe had not survived the queen by even an hour.

Her uncle holds her until night has well and truly fallen, and sleep is creeping into Rhaenyra’s eyes, before placing a kiss on her brow and bidding Rhaenyra a lingering farewell.

She sleeps poorly, the young midwife, the one who had apologized, so present in her dreams. The sky is only just starting to gray when Rhaenyra wakes, and she watches it rise with an agonizing slowness over the city as it wakes, thinking of the midwife. Why had she apologized? Even great ladies and princesses, even queens, died in childbed. Why was her mother different? Had the midwife done something wrong?

Lady Alicent does arrive to help her dress, her fingers shaking slightly as she did the laces of Rhaenyra’s dress, stammering out an apology for leaving the princess alone the previous day. She had been praying at the sept for the young prince.

The meeting of the small council is muted. Rhaenyra must pour an entire jug of wine for her father alone, and several of the other lords imbibe just as much. The funeral arrangements are made, for the double funeral, to be held on the morrow. If Rhaenyra had any tears left to give, she would.

Lord Otto changes to the other topics of the council with a detached indifference that makes Rhaenyra’s skin crawl. One of the kingsguard had died, and a replacement was needed. Rhaenyra found herself being shepherded out of the chamber and in front of the candidates before she knew it. She chooses the one who is battle tested. It seems reasonable, though Lord Otto scowls as her choice is announced when she returns to the council chamber. Her father’s cup is empty again.

She goes to see Syrax later, dragging Alicent along with her, but she can’t bring herself to ride, only sitting by Syrax’s side, carrying on a conversation that can only be described as absurd with Lady Alicent - musings on the weather half shouted, though in sort of a whispered shout. Her uncle’s dragon is laired quite near, and the Dragonkeepers had warned her of Caraxes’ temper and foul mood.

Syrax’s mood had also been different these last few days, or so they told her, but Rhaenyra supposed that was to be expected. She tried to see her lady every day, even if she didn’t manage to go flying due to the weather or her lessons, but she had missed two days in a row.

And, now that she thought of it, there had been a different feeling than usual in the back of her mind. It must be Syrax, for so often the feeling was of a lazy contentment and pleasant warmth, but it had been irritated these past few days.

Or perhaps not irritated. Irate? No, that wasn’t correct either. Or perhaps it was, but the emotions hadn’t been focused on her. It had almost been like Syrax could feel her sorrow, and wanted to exact vengeance on whoever had caused it.

It is Daemon that accompanies her to the Dragonpit the next day. He doesn’t tremble like Alicent had, gently scratching Syrax instead, flattering her beautiful dragon as he did. And Syrax soaked it up, positively preening as Rhaenyra climbed up to her saddle.

The flight to the area outside the city walls where the funeral was to be held was almost painfully quick - Syrax followed Caraxes’ lanky body through the air, then landed close beside him. Close enough that the dragonkeepers who were waiting for them seemed to tense, but Caraxes chirped, an almost delightful sound that seemed so out of place given the somber occasion, and took a step closer to Syrax, but her lady shuffled to the side and her uncle’s dragon looked quite dejected.

The funeral itself is a blur - the septon’s words don’t matter. Daemon’s hand appears on her shoulder after some minutes, as much of a comfort as he can offer, but Rhaenyra’s eyes stay on the mound of branches that will become the pyres of her mother and brother. Brother. She’d said the word often enough, heard it often enough from her mother’s lips. That this one would be a brother for Rhaenyra.

Daemon gives her shoulder a gentle squeeze, to break her from her thoughts, and she turns to him, only to receive an almost imperceptible nod, first to Syrax, then to the pyre.

“Dracarys.” The word should be strong, even, or so she had been taught. Dragons can sniff out weakness, but Rhaenyra’s voice sounds so painfully weak on her own ears. Syrax turns to her first, co*cking her head, as if she is checking Rhaenyra is alright, before setting the pyre ablaze.

Rhaenyra can’t even bear to watch, turning instead to bury her head in her uncle’s shoulder.

The next morning she goes to the small council meeting, the jug in her hand. Her father is irate, spitting insults at Daemon, calling him names Rhaenyra didn’t even know in spite of his absence.

She puts the pieces together slowly, over the course of the meeting. Her father had banished him. And she hadn’t even gotten to say goodbye - he was just gone, together with Caraxes.

It wasn’t the same as her mother - Rhaenyra knew childbirth was dangerous - hadn’t her mother called it a woman’s battlefield? But still, in some ways, it felt like it. Daemon had been there - a comfort, a rock. Someone to hold her as she cried. And now he is gone.

She goes with Lady Alicent to the sept, so lonely that she braves the mutterings that tend to follow her there.

She looks up at the great statue of the Mother, a little child in her arms, and the tears threaten to fall again. And so she turns away, watching Alicent light a candle at the Father’s altar instead. Rhaenyra had asked her why once, and Alicent had stuttered out something about her father being practically all the family she had left, what with one brother gone to the citadel to become a maester, and the other two in Oldtown, living with Alicent’s uncle. And so Alicent always lit a candle for the Father, for her own father, and prayed for his safety.

One of her brothers - the idiot one, at least according to Alicent, had come to King’s Landing since and joined the city watch, but still, Alicent lit the candle.

Rhaenyra turned around, taking in each of the altars in turn - Father, Mother, Smith, Warrior, Maiden, and Crone. The blank altar, without a statue, the Stranger’s altar, seemed almost an afterthought. There were no candles there, no penitents kneeling.

Rhaenyra dipped her head, begging that no more of her family would be taken away.

Alicent’s hand at her shoulder caused Rhaenyra to half-jump, startled.

“It’s ill luck to pray to the Stranger.” Alicent half whispered, half hissed. It was rare that she forgot Rhaenyra’s title, no matter how much time they spent together. Rhaenyra found herself nodding. The septa had droned on and on about it some months ago.

The return to the keep in the wheelhouse was painfully slow, nothing but silence passing between the two girls.

The next days are painfully lonely. Rhaenyra flies with Syrax, but she’s so alone on the ground. Her mother isn’t there to worry after her, when she returns from the flight. Lady Alicent was always so tired and praying in the sept constantly. Daemon was gone. Her father was busy as he always had been, ruling the seven kingdoms.

And so Rhaenyra spent more and more time with her lady Syrax. Flying, but also just sitting beside the dragon. She proved to be a good listener, eyes wide and attentive.

Rhaenyra wasn’t sure what it was, eventually. She had gleaned from the small council meeting that her uncle was on Dragonstone, not somewhere far away to the east.

Dragonstone, only three days away, sailing, depending on the weather. Less on dragonback. Much less. Hours.

She just wanted to see Daemon, to have someone who would hold her. Who could understand. As much as Syrax did, Rhaenyra just wanted someone to talk to. She just wanted to feel less alone in the world.

And so when next Rhaenyra mounted Syrax, there was only one place in her mind, one person. Dragonstone. And Daemon.

And her lady Syrax knew the way.

Chapter 3: Daemon I

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Leaving King’s Landing is easy enough. Daemon has done it before, enough that there is a disturbing familiarity to the packing of the saddle bags. One of his gold cloaks had brought word of his supposed transgressions.

Part of Daemon thought to stay, but what was the point? His brother had long ago decided to take the word of Otto Hightower over that of his own blood. Nevertheless, he should have stayed. For Rhaenyra, if nothing else. Her mother was gone, her father absent. And dragons were not meant to be alone in the world.

He was a coward, then, for leaving her alone to the vipers. He, Daemon Targaryen, was a coward. But he couldn’t do it anymore. He couldn’t face the slimy snake of Oldtown, the one who had made his brother little more than a puppet to his whims.

Though there was one thing - Daemon secured his usual saddlebags in their places and gave Caraxes a few scratches. His proud dragon misliked the pit and was anxious to leave. Or perhaps it was the city he misliked. Daemon couldn’t blame him there. King’s Landing stank something fierce, especially compared to the sea air of Dragonstone.

The head dragonkeeper was an older man, and easy enough to find.

“How fare the eggs?” Daemon had his suspicions, but he needed to know.

The man looked at him with tired, old eyes. “Poorly, My Prince. For all that Dreamfyre lays, most eggs are cool within moons if not days. And she hasn’t been laying as much of late. The last clutch was four moons ago.”

“How many are there right now, warm eggs, I mean?”

“Here? One, My Prince. The egg sent from Dragonstone for the late Prince Baelon.” Daemon had suspected as much, but winces nonetheless. Dragons don’t belong here. The disgusting humidity was nothing like the dry, volcanic heat of the Dragonmount.

“Show me.”

The egg is a deep green, and pleasantly warm to the touch.

“One of Dreamfyre’s, My Prince.”

“From when she resided on Dragonstone with my great aunt Rhaena.”

“Yes, My Prince. Laid in 52 AC, I believe.”

An egg over 50 years old, but it is still so warm. Compared to the eggs in the chest, cold as the stone they were despite being less than half a year old.

“I will return the egg to Dragonstone. And I will take the others with me.”

“As you say, My Prince.” The man sounds quite grim. “There is one other thing. Dreamfyre has been … agitated of late.”

“Agitated?”

“Yes. It-” the old man sighed and met Daemon’s eyes. “Pardon my frankness, My Prince, but I think the open spaces and heat of Dragonstone might do her some good. She is also - wheezing, for lack of a better word.

“Like Balerion did.” Daemon has heard a dragon wheeze before. It is a terrible sound.

“Yes. Though not so bad.” Not yet, hang the unspoken words. Balerion had flown exactly once in the last ten years of his life.

“When was the last time Dreamfyre flew?”

“Four moons ago, My Prince.”

Daemon does remember the day, Dreamfyre had only flown around the city a few times before settling back into the pit.

“Have her unshackled.”

The old man leaves to give the orders. Daemon packs the cold eggs in a large sack, separating the warm egg that had been for his nephew into a special stone container, secured with metal and with a nest of embers inside to keep the egg warm. Then he descended into the bowels of the pit, far past the first level, where Caraxes and Syrax made their nests. Caraxes looked annoyed as Daemon added the eggs to his already large collection of bags, and trilled at him. Hurry Up. There was probably an insult in there as well. Daemon’s dragon was delightfully impatient at times.

Dreamfyre’s color was evident, even in the darkness of the pit, the blue just visible. Daemon took the torch from the young dragonkeeper who stood by the door, trembling. He wouldn’t last long, then. Dragons could smell fear.

The words were rusty on his lips - there were precious few who spoke their tongue in King’s Landing. Rhaenyra only, and Daemon had taught her. Daemon hadn’t heard Viserys speak it in years, though he could certainly still read it. His throat was hoarse, but Daemon knew the song.

Dreamfyre stirred slowly at first, large blue eyes blinking open as she moved to regard him.

Daemon took a step back, then another, and the great she-dragon slowly followed. Overhead, he could hear the great dome opening, and his song changed. Not one he knew, but one his heart knew. He sang of home, of family, feeling the emotions in him, pressing them out as best he could. Caraxes trilled again. He could certainly feel it, but Daemon was bonded with him.

When the sunlight came, finally striking the great blue dragon, Daemon’s voice hitched. She looked dull, nothing like the glorious dragon the tales spoke of.

He discarded the torch, eyes never leaving Dreamfyre, the song never ceasing as he mounted Caraxes, with less grace than perhaps he ever had, as the annoyed noises his mount made very clear.

The final piece came then, half-spoken, half-sung. Fly.

Caraxes opened his wings, moving skyward, but Daemon barely noticed his mount move, eyes trained on the great blue dragon. Slowly she opened her wings, gazing up at the pair. Then her muscles bunched, and Daemon watched as she followed them into the sky, trilling softly. Caraxes' emotions were still annoyed, but much more distantly, Daemon could feel something else, a - happiness? Dragon emotions were hard to label.

They were well over the bay before Daemon’s eyes left Dreamfyre, eyes forward now. Searching for their destination.

Syrax arrived with his niece three moons after Daemon took up residence in the castle of their ancestors.

The day had been ordinarily enough - Daemon was still keeping an eye on Dreamfyre, but the dragon seemed to be settling in well enough. Daemon did cringe when he saw her with Vermithor and Silverwing, the three dragons curled together. Dreamfyre was smaller - significantly so - than even Silverwing, and she was the oldest of the three by more than a decade, though that mattered less given how old the dragons were.

Rhaenyra hadn’t said anything, but her eyes and the dried tear tracks there spoke volumes. Of pain and loneliness. Of how very alone she had been in the pit of vipers.

The guilt Daemon had put out of his mind came back, gnawing at him as he hesitantly took his niece into his arms, just as he had at the funeral.

And may the 14 help him, but Daemon Targaryen finds he is still a coward. He tells himself it is just that he isn’t what Rhaenyra needs, that she doesn’t need a brooding uncle, she needs a mother.

And so he helps her back on Syrax the next day before mounting Caraxes and taking to the sky.

They stand before his cousin Rhaenys less than an hour later, and Daemon already knows he’s in for a tongue-lashing as Rhaenys tends to his precious niece. Rhaenyra and Lady Laena, Rhaenys’ daughter, leave arm in arm, already laughing together and Daemon’s heart is glad for a few short moments before he turns back to Rhaenys.

“Are you an idiot?” Rhaenys certainly seems to think so.

“Good morning to you as well, cousin.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Are all men not fools, cousin?”

Rhaenys gives a decidedly unladylike snort. “Your words, not mine.”

“She deserves better than my company.”

“Very true.”

“Could she stay here? As your ward?”

Rhaenys raised an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t your brother be asking me that?”

“He should.” Daemon agreed, meeting Rhaenys’ cold eyes. “But here I am.”

“Did you even ask Rhaenyra before dragging her over here?”

Daemon winces. “No. I-” he covers his face with his arm. “She just arrived and I didn’t know what to do. Compared to her I’m an old man, Rhaenys. Here seemed a much better place for her than Dragonstone.”

“On that at least,” his cousin’s tone had softened. “I am inclined to agree. If she wishes, I would be happy to have her here.”

The rest of their conversation is less painful. Daemon will return to Dragonstone. Rhaenys will inform Viserys of his daughter’s location and desire to stay. Because she does so desire to stay. He and Rhaenys find the two girls laughing, heads buried together in a great tome, and Daemon thinks he even sees his cousin smile.

And Rhaenyra’s eyes - the sheer joy as Rhaenyra hears Rhaenys’ offer, the speed as when she takes it, Daemon flinches internally, the guilt at having left her so alone piling higher.

It was though, all in all, a good visit, Daemon thought as he remounted Caraxes. His dragon had been morose, watching as Meleys mothered Syrax the same way Rhaenys had Rhaenyra, occasionally casting mistrustful glances over to Caraxes. Daemon gave his mount a knowing look. They were exceedingly well matched, Daemon and his roguish dragon.

The trip back to Dragonstone was uneventful, though Daemon had spied a ship in the bay, slowly plodding along toward his island. Perhaps his brother had done a little more than send ravens.

Daemon’s suspicions were proven all too correct as the snake himself, though with a substantial guard - not, thought Damon, that they would be of any use against a dragon - arrived on Dragonstone two days later.

Part of Daemon is very inclined to meet them in the throne room, to give Otto Hightower the vision that must haunt his nightmares. But Caraxes is too large to enter the castle, so he meets them at its base, watching as the party of many slowly plods along the path, snaking slowly upwards.

He can tell the exact moment the snake sees him, just by the moment’s hesitation. So perhaps they were not expecting him.

“Prince Daemon. By order of the king, we are here to escort the egg of the late Prince Baelon as well as the Princess Rhaenyra back to King’s Landing.”

“Well then, My Lord, I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place.” Every word from Daemon’s mouth drips with venom. Oh, how he’s going to enjoy this. Caraxes, unseen behind the wall, already is.

“The head dragonkeeper saw you take the egg, Prince Daemon. The king orders that it be returned to King’s Landing.”

“Which egg? I did take all the cold eggs with me - they were running out of space for them in the pit.”

Otto is anything but amused. “The egg is dark green.”

“Ahh-” Daemon purrs. “That egg.” He sneers. “It was laid here, on Dragonstone. I returned it to its rightful place.”

Otto’s men are getting impatient. “What of the Princess?” One of them snarls as he draws his sword. “What have you done to her, fiend?”

Daemon looks over to the angry man beside Otto as he draws Dark Sister, lazily pointing it at the kingsguard. “Ser Crispin, wasn’t it?”

The man starts forward a step, but is frozen in his tracks as the trill of Caraxes settles over them, as Daemon’s dragon climbs over the gate to stand behind Daemon, his head just to Daemon’s left.

“My niece-” he emphasizes the possessive, watching the man twitch as he does. “Isn’t here.”

“Then where is she you-” Otto cuts off Ser Crispin with a hand.

“The egg, Prince Daemon. And the Princess.” His bravado is impressive, given that he and the dozen men he has with him are facing down an adult dragon.

“The egg will stay exactly where it is supposed to be. You may tell my brother that. As for Rhaenyra-” he pauses for Ser Crispin’s benefit. “She did arrive here three days ago. I escorted her to Lady Velaryon myself. A drafty old castle with only her roguish uncle is no place for a lady”

Otto is not happy at that revelation, though he hides it well.

Daemon co*cks his head to the side. “So unless there’s anything else, I suggest you leave before Caraxes gets hungry.” His mount is always hungry, though he prefers his meals without plate armor.

Several expressions pass across Otto’s face in a few moments, but he seems to accept he will be returning to the king empty-handed. Rhaenys’ raven will easily beat him to King’s Landing - in fact, it should have been there yesterday.

He starts to turn, but the idiot Ser Crispin lunges forward at Daemon, only to be plucked from his feet by Caraxes and dropped over the side of the path, onto the rocks below, the impact making a sickening crack.

Daemon glances over the bridge. Ser Crispin isn’t moving. He pats his dragon, who looks all too pleased with himself. “Now, Caraxes, I told you not to play with your food.” He gives Otto a long look. “Then again, probably best that you don’t eat him. You’d probably get indigestion. Plate armor tends to do that.”

Otto seems only too aware that he is the only member of his party who is not in plate armor and wheels his group of men back down the snaking path with a rather impressive speed, considering they seem to be trying very hard to make it clear they are not running away.

Daemon gives Caraxes an affectionate scratch. “Let’s find you some real food.”

Chapter 4: Rhaenyra II

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It was all a blur. The trip to Dragonstone. Her very confused uncle. Leaving Dragonstone. Arriving at Driftmark.

But then she’d met Laena. Rhaenyra was familiar enough with being sent from the room so the adults could speak - it had happened often enough at the small council. She only attended the beginning of the meetings and filled the lords’ cups. There were topics of discussion that were not fit for a princess’s ears.

Lord Otto had always said it in that particular manner, and her father had always nodded in agreement.

So when Rhaenys - Lady Velaryon - had introduced her to Laena - part of her had thought it was more of the same, albeit much subtler. The way Rhaenys looked as Daemon Rhaenyra had no doubt there would be words between the two of them.

Laena, though - she hadn’t been expecting them, that was for certain. Rhaenys hadn’t either, dressed in riding leathers, a few stray strands of hair had escaped her braids. Daemon must not have sent a raven ahead. Then again, even if he had, it wouldn’t have been much of a warning. Dragons are faster than ravens, especially over distance.

Laena had also been in what Rhaenyra initially thought were riding leathers, but they weren’t quite right. The leather was lighter and more supple, not the heavy-duty leather that riding a dragon almost required. She’d been sprawled on a daybed, hair unbound, a stack of tomes beside it, scrawling on a piece of parchment.

But Rhaenys seemed to approve of her daughter’s attire, of her actions. Her own mother did disapprove of some of Rhaenyra’s more unladylike qualities, but it was with a gentle touch. The queen had disapproved. Aemma Arryn, less so. What her father had thought, Rhaenyra never knew. She saw him so rarely, especially with how busy he was as king.

But the septas disapproved. And the lords would have, but Rhaenyra was so often beneath their notice.

The door shutting behind them caused both to turn. Rhaenys and Daemon were gone. Laena rolled off the daybed in a manner that was somehow magnificently graceful, almost in a dancer’s manner, and extended her hand.

“I’m Laena.”

Rhaenyra took it. It was a little strange. Ladies usually greeted each other with little curtseys. This was the manner in which lords greeted each other. It seemed to Rhaenyra entirely a superior method. “Rhaenyra.”

“What brings you to Driftmark?” Laena’s eyes were such a pretty lilac, and so open and curious. Rhaenyra couldn’t help but smile.

“I-” Gods, she didn’t know what to say. I ran away from home? My uncle brought me here? Both were true, after a fashion. “It’s-”

It was like Laena could see the turmoil inside her. She sat back on the daybed and patted the spot beside her. “Mother’s not going to be happy with me if I don’t have this finished and my Valyrian isn’t as good as it could be. Cousin Daemon said you spoke the best Valryian out of all of us last time he was here. Lend me a hand?”

Rhaenyra wanted to hug Laena. The page, containing a couple of half-formed Valyrian sentences and some little sketches of dragons, seemed such a breath of fresh air. Maybe that was it. The air of King’s Landing was always heavy and stagnant. It smelled. Oh, how it smelled. Dragonstone and now Driftmark were different. It smelled like the sea, and the breeze felt so nice of Rhaneyra’s skin. It felt like she could finally breathe. She tugged off the outer jerkin of her riding leathers and placed it on the ground by the stack of books before sitting where Laena had indicated.

The Valyrian wasn’t hard, but it had a more insidious tricky touch that Rhaenyra found utterly enthralling. Part of it was the dialect - Rhaenyra was used to the High Valyrian, spoken now only by Targaryens or in the free city of Volantis, but not the shifts that marked a different dialect. Laena had said this one was from Qohor, and it was quite similar to High Valyrian - she could read it no problem - but the letters were not quite the same.

She tried speaking it aloud, and it almost carried a naturally sung lilt to it. Laena had lit up as she said the words, scrawling more on the page.

Rhaenyra tilted her head, trying to read the scrabbles. “Did your septa ever-” she trails off, looking again at Laena’s pretty purple eyes.

“Oh I never had a septa. The king suggested it once, but mother told father if she took him up on the offer, she’d feed the septa to Meleys. She and father taught me my letters.” She paused, dotting a few letters. “Apparently I have the same writing as father - it does drive mother a little crazy sometimes. My brother’s the complete opposite - his letters are perfect but he writes so slowly.”

Laena suddenly stopped, her mouth falling open for a moment before she spoke softly. “Apologies, princess. I shouldn’t have brought up-”

“No, Laena, please. Actually I-” Rhaenyra swallowed. “What’s it like, having a brother?”

Laena stopped her writing, co*cking her head to the side, thinking. “It’s alright. We don’t actually see each other that often. He’s four years my senior, so all his lessons are different. I do watch him in the yard sometimes. Father says he’s a great swordsman.”

Rhaenyra wonders what it would have been like, if Baelon had lived. Lady Laena and her brother were only four years apart. Baelon would have been fifteen years her junior. Daemon was - gods she had never thought of it before. Daemon was closer to her age than her brother would have been.

Laena continued. “He’s nice enough. And he has father’s hair - the proper locks. I guess it’s kind of like having a cousin that shares the same parents. Except all my Velaryon cousins are idiots. They’re all boys too. I-” her voice quieted a bit but then she continued. “I’m glad you’re here. It gets so lonely sometimes.”

Rhaenyra cautiously wrapped her arms around Laena’s slim frame. “Me too. I-” She released Laena and took a deep breath. “I always wanted a sister. And I always had Alicent, and Syrax, but especially these last few months since-” she doesn’t need to finish that sentence. “I’ve just been so alone.”

Laena puts an arm around Rhaenyra’s shoulders. “Was Alicent your maid?”

Rhaenyra shook her head. “My lady-in-waiting. Her father is the king’s hand.”

“Would you tell me about her? Syrax, I mean. What’s it like, having a dragon?”

An echo of guilt slithered through Rhaenyra. Laena had been so considerate. She should have shown the same kindness.

“It- It’s like having a sort of presence, with you, always. I can feel her in the back of my mind. When she’s happy, when she’s angry. When I get tired in the middle of the day it is because she is sleeping. When I stay awake half the night it is because she is restless. She’s my friend, too. And flying it’s -” Rhaenyra doesn’t know how to describe it.

“It’s like you can do anything. It’s freedom.” Laena had a twinkle in her eye.

Rhaenyra nods, and she must look confused because Laena’s smile deepens.

“My mother takes me. And my brother sometimes. And-”

A knock at the door cuts Laena off. Princess Rhaenys enters a moment later, Rhaenyra’s uncle in tow. They’ve chatted the afternoon away, and it is time for the evening meal.

They sup together, just the four of them. Lord Corlys was away in Braavos, together with Laenor, Laena’s brother. Laena mutters to her that they also had taken her uncle Vaemond and two of his sons.

It’s a bit awkward. Rhaenys and Daemon go through what feels like a somewhat rehearsed discussion of politics, and Rhaenyra finds Laena’s eyes. She’s just as bored as Rhaenyra herself.

“Mother.” Laena does interject eventually. “Might the princess and I retire?”

Rhaenys doesn’t let them go immediately, offering instead for Rhaenyra to stay as long as she pleases. Perhaps it is just the formal offer usually made by a lord or lady to a princess, but Rhaenyra doesn’t care at that moment. The offer is everything she ever could have wished for.

She and Laena do leave then, but instead of heading back to Laena’s quarters, Rhaenyra’s new friend tugs her down a set of stairs.

“Where?” Rhaenyra starts to ask, but Laena just bites her lip nervously and pulls Rhaenyra along.

The exit out a small door to see the sun is well and truly down. There are dragons spaced out across the field. The graceful bright red of Meleys, occupying the best place on the warm rocks near the castle. A pale gray dragon not too far off, Rhaenyra’s own lady Syrax a little further, and her uncle’s Caraxes the farthest, but Laena doesn’t pay them any mind.

She does nod to the gray dragon as they pass. “Seasmoke. He’s Laenor’s.”

The walk down to the beach isn’t far, and they walk a little ways farther, to go around the bend in the shoreline, which reveals what is beyond the vast dunes. Laena’s been growing giddier and giddier the farther they go, a spring in her step as she tugs Rhaenyra along.

It’s hard to realize exactly what it is, before them. And Rhaenyra finally sees. The dragon is titanic, on another scale entirely than even Meleys or Caraxes. She’s sleeping, curled up on the side of a great silvery dune.

“That’s Vhagar.” Rhaenyra turns to look at Laena as the other girl whispers in her ear. “And she’s going to be my dragon.”

Chapter 5: Alicent I

Chapter Text

Alicent found it odd that the tournament began before the prince’s birth. The king was already into his third cup, but Rhaenyra wasn’t eating, and glancing forlornly back at the keep ever so often.

The jousts were much the same as usual. Alicent wondered sometimes if her father might choose one of the handsome knights to be her husband. She nudged Rhaenyra and nodded down to a particularly handsome one, a man the Stormlands if she remembered correctly.

The clumsy messenger came a little later, hands shaking as he bowed and then approached the king and her father.

The king had departed immediately, the joyful look on his face gone, and her father looked more somber. Perhaps the queen had been delivered of another girl, then.

Rhaenyra glanced back at the keep once more, then stood, following the same path as the king. Alicent made to follow her, but her father’s voice called her back. Odd. As Rhaenyra’s lady-in-waiting, Alicent accompanied the princess almost everywhere. And Queen Aemma had been so motherly to her as well.

Alicent didn’t remember her own mother well, just a few blurry images and sensations. She had died of a fever when Alicent was five. When she thought of a mother, she didn’t think of those few blurry memories or the few times her father spoke of her mother, she thought of the queen. How she was mother of the realm, mother to her dear friend Rhaenyra, and a mother to Alicent as well.

When Prince Daemon had taken Rhaenyra to the dragonpit so that she might mount her dragon, Queen Aemma had held Alicent close, and they had prayed for Rhaenyra’s safety together.

Alicent still seldom accompanied Rhaenyra to the great pit - the dragons terrified her, as did the thought of flying - instead the princess went with the kingsguard while Alicent stayed with the queen and her ladies. It sometimes got quite boring, listening to the older women, but the queen always had a place for Alicent at her side whenever Rhaenyra was flying with her dragon.

The final two jousts proceeded without the king or the princess. The champion was the handsome knight Alicent had spied earlier. Ser Criston Cole, a noble-looking young knight from the Dornish Marches.

Alicent glanced around to her father, wondering where she was to go. She should find the princess, but where exactly had Rhaenyra gone? Presumably to the queen. Alicent glanced around, finding the group of the queen’s ladies, the ones who had come here rather than stay in the keep with the queen.

Surely they were going to the queen, and Alicent would find the princess there. And so she followed them.

They didn’t go to the queen, but rather to the sept, and as they traveled Alicent recognized more and more of the women. Many of them were from the Reach, including one of her older cousins and her good-sister. None of the ladies she saw most often with the queen - the Vale women - were present.

The sept was somber, and Alicent followed the ladies in lighting a candle and kneeling before the altar of the Mother to pray. Alicent heard prayers for a prince, but she prayed for the queen. To preserve her life. It was undoubtedly very selfish of her, but she didn’t want to lose the queen. And she didn’t want the princess to lose her mother.

A messenger arrives not too long after Alicent and the queen’s ladies, proclaiming the birth of a prince. He says nothing of the queen, and Alicent’s heart drops.

There are a final few prayers to the Mother, for delivering the prince, and then they make their way back to the keep.

The prince is dead before they arrive. It takes Alicent more than an hour to find out the queen was also gone.

Alicent doesn’t know what to do. Rhaenyra is distant, and has been ever since the queen’s death. She spends what seems like every waking moment with her dragon. The queen’s ladies had dispersed after the funeral, or that is what it seemed like. The Vale women returned to the Vale. The Reach women mostly stayed, but Alicent hadn’t see them much even when the queen was alive.

The septa now spent most of her time with Alicent’s little niece, the daughter of her oldest brother and his wife, Allera Tyrell.

And so Alicent was alone. She prayed in the sept often, as there at least she had the gods. She lost count of how many candles she lit for the queen.

Her father seemed so much more stressed, and he was more distant now. The king was mourning his wife, so it made sense that more of the problems of the realm fell to her father, but it still seemed excessive.

She thought about asking her father if she might join a motherhouse and become a septa one day, after a horrible nightmare. Instead of the queen dying in that bed of blood, it had been Alicent, all alone, crying for help. It made sense in her mind. Her father was a second son even if he was Hand of the King. Her uncle had his heirs. She would love the children of the house she was sent to serve like her own, but she couldn’t bear the thought of being in that bed of blood.

Her father had been more agitated than normal that afternoon, so Alicent hadn’t mentioned it. She thought to do so once things were calmer. It would relieve another of his burdens if he didn’t have to find her a good husband.

But she never found the right moment, and her father pressed the book in her hands and ordered her to visit the king not long afterward. She didn’t understand then, wht he wanted her to wear her mother’s dress. The styles of maidens were much simpler than those of matrons, but the princess wore maidenly styles in the king’s presence often, as had Alicent herself. So it didn’t really make sense that her father thought a maidenly style too simple for one who would be in the king’s presence.

He was a kind man, the king. They didn’t really speak all that often, Alicent simply reading from whichever history she had on hand - he loved those about Valyria most, but Alicent could not pronounce the words well, so she often read from Septon Barth’s book on dragons instead. The king would simply work on his great model of Valyria, pausing on occasion to show Alicent something or elaborate on a point of Barth’s. And in those moments Alicent could imagine him as a simple Maester, keeping histories and teaching them, not as the king.

He spoke of the queen sometimes. Of how they had married so terribly young - he had been the age Alicent was now, and the queen had been several years his junior. He smiled when he thought of her. One night Alicent spoke too, telling the king of the queen’s grace, how she always kept an open position for Alicent to occupy whenever Rhaenyra went flying, and Alicent saw the king smile for the first time since the queen had died.

Two days later the princess was gone.

To say her father had been displeased would be an understatement. Alicent could see it in his eyes as he spoke to the small council. She’d been reading to the king when her father brought the news, and had been dragged along to the small council meeting. Usually Rhaenyra served as the cupbearer, but her father seemed to think that with the princess absent, Alicent would be the replacement. Or perhaps it was just that she was there, and there wasn’t time to find a more ideal cupbearer.

The princess’s shield was there as well, and beside himself. Rhaenyra had gone flying with her dragon, but simply hadn’t returned when she normally did. The lords argued back and forth about where she could be, how far she might have been able to fly in the hours since she had departed.

The king just looked resigned as the other members of the small council argued, and in that moment all Alicent felt for him was pity. He must be so alone in the world. His wife and son had died, his brother had gone, and now so had his daughter.

Alicent remembers the day that Prince Daemon had gone - there were mutterings that he had called the late Prince Baelon ‘Heir for a Day,’ but no one had said anything to her. Her father had simply said that the prince had been his usual self - a disgusting whor*monger utterly unworthy of his title. And while Alicent thought it might be interesting to see what a septa thought of the Rogue Prince, she had no desire to be the one to ask the questions herself.

His departure had been as spectacular as one would imagine - he had taken his own dragon, an odd thing, more snake than dragon, but Alicent had seen the second dragon - a huge blue one - follow the prince and his odd dragon.

Her father had seemed both relieved at the prince’s departure and more stressed at the same time, though Alicent wasn’t sure why.

The king slams his hand on the table to cease all the arguing, and gives orders in a clipped, cold fashion. A kingly fashion.

Her father is to go to Dragonstone to search for the princess and recover the dragon eggs Prince Daemon had absconded with. A raven is to be sent to Driftmark, requesting Princess Rhaenys and Laenor come to King’s Landing to aid in the search for the princess. It strikes Alicent as a little odd that the king only requests things from House Velaryon. He is the king. But Lady Velaryon is his cousin, and when Alicent had seen the woman before she seemed quite proud.

There are a few other ravens sent as well. To the Eyrie. To Harrenhal. To Duskendale. To Sharp Point. All are to ask the lord to send word if he or his men had seen the princess. Not all of the locations make sense to Alicent, but the council is dismissed and her father is leaving before anything else is said.

Her father departs quite swiftly, assembling a small group of men and boarding a ship. Part of Alicent is gland he leaves so quickly - on some level it is her fault for losing the princess as the princess’s chief (and only) lady-in-waiting. She should be with her mistress at all times, but as of late she has done little more than dress her, spending her time at the sept and with the king.

She takes the book and returns to reading to the king, but he stops her after less than a page, dismissing her. Thanking her for her company, but telling her with sad eyes that he would rather be alone at this moment.

He calls for her again after two days, though he still seems uneasy, his mind not present, as Alicent reads. There is another meeting of the small council on the third day, and Alicent is once again called upon as cupbearer. There has been a raven from Lady Velaryon. Princess Rhaenyra is on Driftmark. Alicent is glad to hear that she is safe, but the lords exchange uneasy glances.

The king is relieved, and the council is dismissed. He’s not paying much more attention to Alicent’s words when she resumes reading to him, but he isn’t so stressed anymore.

Her father returns no worse for the wear, though one of his men had apparently been killed by the prince’s dragon.

They sup together that night, and she broaches the subject. Her father doesn’t have much to say. The bay had been calm enough. Prince Daemon had been so very difficult. Ser Criston Cole, the winner of the tourney, had been the man killed by the prince’s dragon. It must have been the ill-luck from winning a tourney for a prince that lived an hour.

Her father is quite eager to hear of the second small council meeting, the one in which the raven from Lady Velaryon had been read. Alicent tells him of the letter - it had been quite simple. The princess was safe, and in Lady Velaryon’s care. She tells her father of the reactions of the lords, and he nods.

“How much did your Septa teach you of the recent Great Council?”

“That the lords chose his majesty to succeed the Old King.”

Her father nods. “There is a little bit more to it than that. The major other claimant was Laenor Velaryon, through his mother Lady Velaryon, who was the only child of Prince Aemon Targaryen, the eldest son of the Old King. Laenor rides a dragon, as does his mother. The king once rode the Black Dread, but he died eleven years ago. The late queen did not ride a dragon, which left only Prince Daemon and Princess Rhaenyra with their dragons. With Prince Daemon now banished and Princess Rhaenyra now living with the Velaryons, the lords worry that Laenor Velaryon might think himself another Aegon. He has dragons, and his father’s ambition is a tangible thing. There are no more dragons here. The one unridden dragon that I had long hoped the king would claim left with Prince Daemon.”

Alicent didn’t know what to say. Her father’s words made sense. “Would he do such a thing?”

Her father didn’t answer, simply noting the time. It was late, so late that Alicent saw no point in going to the king.

She didn’t sleep well for a few days afterwards.

Chapter 6: Rhaenyra III

Chapter Text

Laena and Rhaenyra have their lessons together, mostly from Rhaenys. Rhaenyra’s Valyrian is better than Laena’s, but her new friend holds all the other advantages, and they pass hours with the maps, as Rhaenyra learns new place names. Rhaenys could care less if Rhaenyra can name every house in the Westerlands, but she expects complete and comprehensive knowledge of the Free Cities, and of Essos in general. Laena had made a cheat sheet, but with the complexity of Essosi politics, almost every statement on it has an asterisk that denotes an exception.

The Sealord of Braavos is friendly. Unless he’s decided to be obstinate or the Triarchy offers him a better deal. The magisters of Pentos are amicable. Especially if the diplomat comes with a dragon in tow. Qohor has persistent Dothraki Problems. Lorath is a bit of a mystery at the best of times. Volantis is proud. The Triarchy is a thorn in Lord Corlys’ side. And Norvos is the one Laena usually forgets.

Lord Corlys spends much of his time away, either at sea or in Essos, mostly Braavos. Rhaenys spends far more time at Driftmark than he does, though ever so often she will fly to Pentos or sometimes Braavos, though Lord Corlys seems to be the more common visitor to Braavos as compared to Rhaenys.

There are other lessons too, besides the Valyrian and the politics. Rhaenys teaches them about dragons, and more than just the Valyrian language. Valyrian customs, Valyrian culture. But Rhaenyra loves the lessons on dragons best.

Dragons love heat, but dry heat most of all. They can tolerate moisture as adults, but their eggs are susceptible to going cold if left too long in damp environments. Their colors pass from parent to offspring, though not always directly. Rhaenys has a family tree of the Targaryen dragons sketched out, going back to the original five dragons Aenar the Exile brought from Valyria. It is full of question marks, of eggs where the sire is unknown or only suspected, and even somewhere the dragon that laid the egg is unclear. But Rhaenyra has it memorized within days.

There are flying lessons too. Some in the air, Laena either with her mother or with Laenor, Syrax not really being large enough to carry two riders yet, even two as slight as Rhaenyra and Laena.

Navigation is boring but necessary. Aerial maneuvers, turns and dives, are what Rhaenyra loves most of all. There are also lessons on the ground, in handling the dragons. There are no dragonkeepers here on Driftmark, so they must guide their dragons on the ground themselves. Syrax takes to it all a little too enthusiastically, following Rhaenyra back to the castle even when lessons are over, and making forlorn little noises from outside as Laena and Rhaenyra go through their ever-expanding vocabulary lists.

Laena is still sneaking out, at night, to see Vhagar. Rhaenyra thinks Rhaenys knows, as if nothing else she seems to know everything that happens on the island, but most often Rhaenyra will simply stop at Syrax’s little nest, much nearer to the castle than Vhagar’s, or spend extra time with the map of Essos. Laena already knows it by heart.

Lord Corlys’ presence is an occasional thing - traveling by sea is so slow compared to dragonback. Rhaenyra remembers the twinkle in Rhaenys’ eyes as she gave them the rule of thumb. King’s Landing to Dragonstone is every bit of three days by ship. It is three hours by dragon, taking the easy-to-navigate longer route and flying leisurely. In haste? Rhaenyra suspects Rhaenys and Meleys could do it inside an hour and a half if needed. Her own Syrax isn’t that fast yet, and has yet to quite learn how to make effective headway against the wind.

And so while Rhaenys can make the trip to Pentos in less than a day, talk with the magisters, and be back by the next morning at the latest, Lord Corlys is gone for weeks on end when he travels to Braavos.

The man himself is pleasant enough, but Rhaenyra thinks that the man’s head must be filled with nothing but plans for future weddings. Laena and the Sealord’s son. Laenor and Rhaenyra. Laenor and daughter of a Volantine Triarch. Laena and a man from Lorath that Rhaenyra can’t seem to remember the title of. Rhaenyra and the Sealord’s other son. His current favorites, though, seem to be Laenor to Rhaenyra and Laena to Daemon or the Sealord’s son, the older one.

Rhaenyra for herself imagines that a marriage to Laenor wouldn’t be too terrible. He seemed kind enough, and he was away so often with his father that it seemed she would mostly be left to her own devices. It wouldn’t be any sort of grand love story from the songs, but probably more similar to the marriage of Lord Corlys and Rhaenys.

But if the idea of a marriage with Laenor seemed palatable enough, the thought of bearing children for him horrified Rhaenyra. All she could think of was her mother, fading away as dead babies came and went over the years. Her septa had always said that her mother was unlucky, that it was not like that for all women, but in the same breath the woman had told her of her mother’s mother and father’s mother, both of whom had died in childbed.

And so Rhaenyra preferred not to imagine her own marriage. Laena thought the Sealord’s son was an idiot. Then again, Rhaenyra had quickly gleaned that Laena thought most people were idiots. A trait shared with her mother. And so Rhaenyra and Laena imagined it sometimes, running away to Essos, traveling through the cities Rhaenys had taught them of. Seeing the Great Bridge of Volantis, the Bells of Norvos, the Titan of Braavos. Even the Great Bone Mountains, far to the east. Even beyond them. Lord Corlys had sailed as far as Yi Ti, as Asshai by the Shadow, in one of his great voyages, from before he had married Rhaenys. When he wasn’t thinking of their marriages, he would tell them of the far-off lands - of Ulthos at the edge of the world, of Mossovy and the Thousand Islands.

They were pleasant images, those ones that she and Laena concocted together. Syrax was too small to carry them both. Plus, Rhaenys and Meleys would no doubt find them and bring them home before they even caught a glimpse of Essos. But still, the girls giggled and dreamed, falling asleep on Laena’s bed more than once, imagining themselves as Jaenara Belaerys, who had flown over Sothoryos for years, seeing its wonders and terrors.

Syrax took to the new environment as well as her rider, though she always seemed a little skeptical when Meleys could curl up around her as if she was just a little hatchling. Rhaenyra hadn’t thought dragons could laugh, but the sound Seasmoke made at the sight of her golden lady, smoke puffing from her nostrils as she squirmed helplessly against Rhaenys’ great red dragon, couldn’t be anything else.

It always was a little bit of a delicate subject, their dragons. Or rather Laena’s lack of a dragon. She had Vhagar, but not in truth, not yet. She hadn’t mounted the great dragon of Queen Visenya, hadn’t ever flown alone. Rhaenyra found Rhaenys by the window one night, watching as Laena traversed the silver sand, toward where Vhagar laired.

“Rhaenys?” Her friend’s mother turned at Rhaenrya’s voice, then beckoned her closer. “Will Laena ….” She trailed off, unsure of what to say.

Rhaenys smiled. “Yes, I think so. In good time. Vhagar has only laired here on Driftmark since your grandfather’s death. Dragons sometimes do this, going to their next rider after the previous one passes.”

Rhaenys had touched upon this before in Laena’s and Rhaenyra’s lessons. Claim was a poor translation of a word from Valyrian. Bond would be better. Especially with older dragons, the dragon chose the rider as much as the rider chose the dragon.

“It is best not to force these things with older dragons.” Rhaenys sat on the window ledge, beckoning Rhaenyra closer once more.

Rhaenyra sat beside Rhaenys, glancing out at Laena’s progress across the dune.

“Meleys pursued me more than I did her.” Rhaenys is smiling as she recalls the memory, and Rhaenyra listens intently. She’s never heard the story of how Rhaenys came to ride Meleys besides a few muttering from Daemon, one time when he had been drunk.

“My cradle egg didn’t hatch. It wasn’t a surprise. Less than half do. As a child, I idolized Dreamfyre, Rhaena’s dragon.” The Old King’s sister. “She died a year before I was born, and her dragon had returned to the pit. She was the only riderless dragon in the pit then besides the Black Dread, and he terrified me. I wanted her so badly, that pretty blue dragon.” Rhaenys smiles at the memory.

“When my father moved us to Dragonstone, I pitched a fit, and threatened to run away like Saera. He told me of all the dragons on Dragonstone, but I didn’t care. I wanted Dreamfyre. Your grandmother, my aunt, died about a year after my father moved our little family to Dragonstone. Her dragon, Meleys, showed up a few days later. We didn’t think much of it. Some dragons detest the pit and prefer the Dragonmount, while some find the pit more tolerable. But she never went to the Dragonmount, instead hanging around the castle, always sunning herself in the courtyard or sprawled across the walls. And every time I left the castle she always showed up. Gave more than a few kingsguard and guards quite the fright, the way she would hop down from her perches right in front of me. I didn’t understand for more than a year, that’s how lost I was in my moping for my lost pursuit of Dreamfyre. It wasn’t until Meleys crammed herself into the entry hall, following me, that I started to Understand. My father also all but shoved me on her back. And once we flew together …”

Rhaenys trails off, but Rhaenyra knows what she means in the way that only another dragon rider can. “I didn’t dream of Dreamfyre anymore.”

Laena is making her way back across the sands now, and Rhaenys nods Rhaenyra off to bed.

Rhaenyra goes with Laena the next night, across the silvery sands toward the great dune that Vhagar has made into her nest.

Syrax had been awake when they passed, golden eyes following them.

For all that Rhaenyra’s dragon is still a large creature, she is remarkably stealthy. And so neither girl notices the golden dragon following them as they pad along the beach, their eyes on the sleeping behemoth before them.

So it was the rudest of shocks when Rhaenyra felt the prod of her dragon’s snout at her side and the noise that accompanied it. She and Laena turned to Syrax, who nosed Rhaenyra again, demanding scratches. Laena glanced back at the sleeping Vhagar while Rhaenyra tried to shoo her nosy dragon away. The other dragons usually gave Vhagar a wide berth, with how much larger she was. Syrax was having none of it, snorting and nosing Rhaenyra harder, such that the princess stumbled back.

She scrambled back to her feet, but it was as if the air shifted, and Rhaenyra slowly turned around to see two huge golden eyes trained on the pair of girls and the little dragon. Moments later they felt a low rumble through the ground as Vhagar shifted toward them, her snout moving. Smelling them. Or perhaps snarling in anger at those who had interrupted her rest.

Syrax certainly seemed to think it was that, snarling up at the titanic beast, her growl utterly pathetic next to the one that came from Vhagar in answer.

But still, Rhaenyra’s little dragon bared her teeth and took a step forward, hiding both girls behind her wings. Or rather, trying to.

Just as Rhaenyra saw the beginnings of fire, deep in Vhagar’s maw, Laena slipped between Syrax’s wing and neck, arms up, yelling.

And Vhagar stopped, turning from Syrax to Laena, taking a great stride forward, shifting until Laena was before her, and regarding Rhaenyra’s friend with curious, intelligent eyes.

The fire in her maw was gone.

Rhaenyra clung to her little dragon, both of them spellbound as they watched Laena slowly move toward the ropes that hung from the saddle which still sat atop Vhagar’s shoulder, though Rhaenyra’s friend’s eyes never left the great dragon, and neither did Vhagar’s eyes leave Laena. In those moments there was no one else on that beach to them. Rhaenrya and Syrax might as well have been in Asshai.

Laena’s climb up the ropes wasn’t terribly graceful, but as she reached Vhagar’s shoulder, the great dragons shifted, giving a shake of her head before moving with a slow, inevitable purpose. First one step, then two, then three. The flap of great wings, then another. And then the leap. Rhaenyra could feel it in the ground as Vhagar sprung skyward, Laena’s hair visible from between the great dragon’s shoulders as the Vhagar took first a loop around the castle, then rose further into the air, until they vanished into the clouds.

Syrax broke the spell, nosing at Rhaenyra again. Her dragon was such a needy thing sometimes.

Vhagar burst through the clouds with a great roar some minutes later, waking anyone on the island who hadn’t already been awoken by her footsteps, and taking a few more loops around the castle.

Chapter 7: Rhaenyra IV

Chapter Text

Laena spent what seemed to be every waking moment over the next week flying with Vhagar, much to Rhaenyra’s chagrin. Syrax didn’t have the endurance to join her for longer than a few hours at a time, which left Rhaenyra alone to face a disapproving Rhaenys and Syrax to face Meleys. Neither seemed to be best pleased with them despite their obvious joy at the eventual outcome.

And so Rhaenyra learned in excruciating detail exactly how dangerous her new friend’s mount was, and why she and Syrax had been unwise in the extreme when they had joined Laena on the beach that night.

Rhaenyra spares a few glares for Syrax - her beloved golden lady had been the one to wake Vhagar, but she had only been following Rhaenyra.

It is only a few days in that the thought comes to Rhaenyra - Rhaenys was worried. Meleys was worried. Just like Aemma used to be worried, whenever Rhaenyra went flying. Her thoughts are in turmoil for perhaps an hour, before she seeks out Rhaenys in her study, throwing her arms around her father’s cousin, and muttering a little apology.

Rhaenys had held her tight and close, just as her mother had, disregarding her work, just holding Rhaenyra. She departed a little later with a kiss to the brow, off to greet the returning Laena.

As much as Laena hadn’t spent much time on the ground when she wasn’t sleeping in that week, the smile had never left her face either. The giddiness too, had been omnipresent. Contagious, even. And so she and Rhaenyra embraced freely and fully, matching grins on their faces before glancing back at Laena’s huge dragon on her silver dune.

Rhaenys did restart their lessons the next week, but it wasn’t until the following week that the learning really resumed, and that was after Rhaenys switched the room that she instructed them in from one with a lovely view of where the dragons nested to one with a better view of the sea, of the waves. Both girls had spent more time gazing out the window than paying attention to Rhaenys.

Not that she actually seemed to mind all that much, the contagious giddiness spreading to her as well. Rhaenyra imagined that she knew better than anyone in the world save perhaps Daemon what it was to be in Laena’s shoes, and made a note to ask Rhaenys about it, when she got the chance.

As much as Rhaenyra had understood Rhaenys’ fear for her safety, Syrax seemed to have no regard for her own safety in spite of Meleys' attempts to corral the young dragon into her nest.

The little thing would wriggle out while Rhaenys’ dragon was sleeping or escape when the Red Queen went out hunting, though she was never hard to find, always having padded down the beach to Vhagar’s dune.

But the great dragon, for all she had seemed more than a little irate with little Syrax the day that Laena claimed her, proved much more tolerant. Rhaenyra wondered if it was because she and Laena were such great friends, that Vhagar tolerated the little hatchling in her nest, even tucking her protectively under her great bronze wings. And it was even more than that - she and Laena had arrived one morning to find Syrax dozing on Vhagar’s back, just behind where Laena’s saddle sat.

Rhaenys had smiled when they had told her of that one, a real and deep smile, reaching her eyes.

But the bliss of dragons and lessons and nothing else in the little world on Driftmark can’t last.

Two and a half moons after Laena mounted Vhagar, the raven tender appeared just as they finished their lesson with Rhaenys, a little parchment clutched in his hand.

Laena’s mother was reading as Rhaenyra and Laena grabbed their various sheets and maps from the geography lesson, but they all were interrupted by a roar. Not Meleys, Seasmoke, or Syrax - all had long since learned to tune those dragons out, and not Vhagar, whose deep roar was unmistakable.

“Caraxes.” Rhaenys supplies for Laena. Rhaenyra had recognized Daemon’s dragon’s odd roar.

“Laena, please go greet him and gather your father and brother in the smaller dining hall. Rhaenyra, stay.”

The two girls exchange glances, but Laena hurries away to do her mother’s bidding while Rhaenyra takes a few steps closer to Rhaenys. The raven tender had left with Laena, or even before.

Rhaenys expression is somber as she meets Rhaenyra’s eyes, handing her the parchment.

The spidery script must be that of a maester, because it looks nothing like her father’s.

She reads the missive quickly. Then again, partially aloud. “That on this fourth day of the third moon of the 106th year since Aegon’s Conquest the King Viserys of House Targaryen did take to wife the Lady Alicent of House Hightower.”

She looks up at Rhaenys as the confusion builds. Did take to wife. Her mother hadn’t even been dead for half a year. And Alicent?

“I’m sorry, Rhaenyra.” Rhaenys pulls her into a hug. “I imagine that is what Daemon is here about, but I wanted you to hear it before everyone was assembled.”

Rhaenyra murmurs her thanks and they begin making their way toward the small dining hall.

Lord Corlys, Laena, and Rhaenyra’s uncle Daemon were all there, and Laenor stumbled in a few moments later, finishing the last of the ties on his jerkin as Laena gave him a side-eye.

Daemon was still in his riding leathers, and the Rhaenys, Laena, and Rhaenyra herself were all in the half-leathers they usually wore day-to-day, making Lord Corlys very much the odd duck out in his fine blue and gold.

Rhaenys passed the little parchment to Corlys, whose eyebrows shot up just as she spoke.

“For those that are not yet aware, we just received a raven from King’s Landing. The king has remarried.”

Daemon didn’t hesitate, speaking as soon as Rhaenys finished, rising and pacing angrily as he did. “Less than half a year after Aemma’s death. He should still be in mourning, not g-”

He cut himself off as his eyes fell on Rhaenyra, a deep sorrow in them. He picked his way around the table, resting a hand on Rhaenyra's shoulder, warm and comforting.

“I’m sorry, princess.” His voice was totally different. Soft and gentle.

A moment later his hand was gone, and his angry pacing resumed. “Already married, too. He didn’t even inform his kin until after the wedding, so quickly was it done. Disgraceful.”

Lord Corlys had passed the parchment over to Laenor, who looked more confused than anything.

“Lord Hightower doesn’t have any daughters.”

Rhaenys nodded. “The Lady in question is the daughter of the Lord Hand, Ser Otto Hightower. Lord Hightower’s younger brother.”

“My lady-in-waiting. Since I was two.” Rhaenyra’s voice is quiet, but the room shifts, all of them turning to her. “Former lady-in-waiting, I guess.”

Rhaenys expression softened, but Daemon spoke, angry again.

“And only a few years your senior. Ser-” He seemed to catch himself, glancing again at Laena and Rhaenyra before continuing, slightly less angry. “Otto must have foisted his daughter on the king.”

Especially, thought Rhaenyra, given the way Alicent - and all the Hightowers she had ever met - followed the faith. She could hear Alicent’s voice, even now. Seven months of mourning, one for each good. And betrothals, first betrothals in particular, were usually a fair period of time. Not so quick that the King’s family, only hours away by dragon, was not invited.

“We ought to mark the date.” Rhaenys nodded at Corlys’ words, but they only confused Rhaenyra.

“Why?” Laena asked.

“Your father thinks that the reason for the quick wedding may be that the Lady Alicent is already with child. If a babe is born within the year, he is likely correct.” Rhaenys answered.

Rhaenyra could only feel sorry for Alicent in that moment, that her friend - former friend now - would be the one to occupy the same bed as her mother. She hoped Alicent had better luck with babes - for she would not wish what her mother had suffered through, all those dead siblings, on anyone.

She doesn’t pay much attention as things continue, Daemon still angrily pacing the room, talking more with Rhaenys while Corlys interjected on occasion, discussing the ramifications. Laenor slipped out, muttering something about the privy, after what must have been an hour and failed to return. Laena collected Rhaenyra so that they could make their own exit shortly after that, though they offered no excuse. They stop at the window that overlooks the beach, the area where the dragons nest, and Rhaenyra tugs Laena away from the way to their rooms, and toward the door that leads out to the dragons.

The walk down to Vhagar’s nest passes mostly in silence, just the beating of the waves and the quiet noises of the sand beneath their boots.

Laena’s dragon opens one eye at their approach, then shifts a wing. The two girls duck under it, going to Syrax’s side. The little dragon lets them rest against her flank, wrapping around the two.

Rhaenyra lets her head rest on Laena’s shoulder, though she waits before speaking.

“I thought it might happen eventually, you know? In some distant future. Just not- So soon. And not to Alicent.”

She does shift, lying so her head resting in Laena’s lap, the other girl’s hands in her hair. Laena’s shoulder had proved quite boney.

“What is she like? Alicent, I mean.”

Rhaenyra smiles, thinking back. “She was always friendly, kind. Parrotted the septa’s words. Terrified of dragons, even my Syrax. It’s just- I don’t know. She was one of the only ladies my age, at court. The others were all older - my mother’s ladies. But she was mine.”

Laena keeps gently moving her hands through Rhaenyra’s hair.

“So it’s - just strange. Beyond strange, really, to imagine her married to my father.”

They sit in a peaceful silence, together with the dragons, reveling in the warmth of Syrax’s side, and in the way Vhagar seemed to warm even the sand beneath their feet.

It was Laena that broke the silence in the end.

“Is it bad of me, to be glad the king is wed once more?” She glanced down at Rhaenyra. “You’ve met my father. Part of me is surprised he didn’t try, though I suppose Braavos and the Stepstones have kept him so busy as of late.”

Rhaenyra tended to agree. Lord Corlys had been practically gleeful, as he tried to push her and Laenor together. She couldn’t say she was sad that the man spent most of his time away from Driftmark.

“Would your mother have allowed it?”

Laena’s hand pauses at that, but does resume its motions after a moment. “She said to me, three years ago. When my father first really started discussing matches for me. In earnest. That if I did wed, it would be my choice. Or she’d feed father and the suitor to Meleys. Now I suppose I’d feed the suitor to Vhagar. And mother could still feed father to Meleys. I suspect that’s the reason I’m still unwed. Father has been pushing candidates, but not as most fathers do. In that, Rhaenyra, we may well be unique.”

She smiled down at the princess before continuing. “The only two women in all of Westeros whose fathers could not drag them to the marriage altar. Well, only three. Counting mother.”

“How did your parents end up married?”

“I imagine Mother will tell you her full story eventually, but suffice to say it was not a love match, more a marriage of convenience. The Old King wanted Mother married, and she deemed Father adequate. And while no man would be able to march Mother to the altar now, then it was a different story.”

“They seem happy.”

“And they are, though I suspect that father being away so much may actually help with that.”

There is another silence, and Rhaenyra’s eyes start to grow heavy, so she drags herself to her feet, and the two girls give Syrax a few scratches before heading back toward the castle. Rhaenyra is asleep before her head hits the pillow.

Daemon is gone when she wakes, and Rhaenyra finds herself saddened. She had hoped to get more time to speak to him, but he is only on Dragonstone, so close. She and Laena can fly there soon enough. The real surprise is the departure of Lord Corlys and Laenor - for Braavos. Rhaenys hadn’t said much, just that her husband had things that had to be dealt with in person.

Rhaenyra watches the ship depart with Laena and Rhaenys, so agonizingly slow compared to the dragons.

The lessons and the flying resume after that, but it is as if the spell is broken. Rhaenyra is still happy, and flying brings her joy as much as it had, but she looks toward the West sometimes, and wonders about her father. About Alicent. How it all could have happened?

When the raven tender interrupts lessons again, a few moons later, Rhaenyra is expecting it to be an announcement that Alicent is with child or something of the like, but it is nothing of the sort. The raven is instead from Lord Corlys in Braavos.

It doesn’t say much, only requesting that Rhaenys come with Meleys. Sooner rather than later.

Rhaenyra is in full riding leathers with Laena and Rhaenys soon enough. Three dragons, Rhaenys had decided, were better than one. The map that she draws their route on is familiar, and it feels a little odd to be doing this for real, not just in a lesson.

“And we’ll have Syrax lead the way.”

“Me?” Rhaenyra’s confusion must be written on her face.

Rhaenys nods. “Meleys and Vhagar know the way well, but it would be good for Syrax to learn it. And it is much quicker to learn by leading. I won’t let you stray too far from the route.”

The nervousness is still present as they climb on their dragons, as Syrax catapults herself skyward, followed by Meleys and then Vhagar, the three dragons circling the castle once as they even out in spacing, Syrax first, Meleys above, behind, and to the right, while Vhagar was farther behind, lower, and to the left.

Rhaenyra glanced at the sun, at the island, at the carving on the rocks visible best from the air, which marked the directions, and steered Syrax north by northeast, over the Narrow Sea.

Chapter 8: Alicent II

Chapter Text

She still goes to Rhaenyra’s rooms that first morning, almost expecting to find the princess there. But she doesn’t. Rhaenyra is on Driftmark, and all Alicent finds in her chambers is loneliness.

Alicent’s father is distant in that way which means he is disappointed. In Alicent and how she lost the princess.

So she avoids her father as much as she can. It’s not hard - the kingdoms keep him occupied and he has never been a religious man, especially not since Alicnet’s mother died. So she spends her time there, in the sept.

At the Maiden’s altar, praying for her friend to be safe, to come home. At the Father’s altar, wishing her father would be more her father than the Lord Hand. At the Mother’s altar, where words always escaped her. She wanted her own mother back, those few faint memories. She wanted the Queen back.

The Vale women departed in the days and weeks after the Queen’s death, the last one leaving a fortnight after the flight of the princess. And the Reach women - Alicent couldn’t say that she liked them. They always felt so fake, giggling and talking of babes.

So part of her was glad when it seemed her father had forgiven her, when he made her the permanent cupbearer for the Small Council. The running of the kingdom wasn’t terribly interesting, but it was better than the simpering.

And the king - Alicent quite liked the king, how patient and kind he was when she read to him as he carved his great and glorious model. He reminded her of her grandfather, though her memories of him were even fainter than those of her mother. Her uncle had been Lord Hightower for a decade.

The council meetings, which at first had been such a welcome break from Alicent’s monotonous days, grow more worrisome as she understood more. The Targaryens have never bothered to maintain any sort of royal army beyond the City Watch of King’s Landing. And they don’t keep a fleet either - the royal fleet was the Velaryon fleet. But then again, why would they bother? They had dragons enough to rout any army and burn any fleet.

Or at least, they had. Lord Greyjoy hadn’t paid his taxes. He wasn’t raiding, but it was an affront to the Crown. Lord Beesbury had made a passing comment about how Lord Greyjoy’s grandfather had tried this as well. But it hadn’t lasted for long - a quick trip to Pyke by Prince Baelon had seen the end of it.

But now, who could they send? None of the lords of the Small Council looked terribly eager to go. Her father had changed the subject in the meeting, to the issue of taxing the sea lanes.

Alicent’s father had summoned her to dine with him that night, and she’d ventured to ask about the issue with Lord Greyjoy.

“Father, the Iron Isles. What was the…” She trails off, and her father sighs, taking another bite before speaking.

“House Greyjoy has a history of not paying their taxes until prompted to. They’ve done it to every Targaryen king, even Maegor. Usually, it hasn’t been an issue. The King will dispatch one of his kin to Pyke, to remind Lord Greyjoy of his taxes and they’ll be paid without issue for another decade or so.”

He paused to take a sip of the watered wine.

“And it has been about a decade, so Lord Greyjoy has once again stopped paying his taxes. And the king is suffering from something of a lack of kin to bear the message.”

Alcient frowned, but then spoke. “Prince Daemon is banished, but surely the king has other kin that could carry the message.”

Her father shook his head. “The rest of the king’s kin are the wife, children, and ward of Corlys Velaryon. Any raven sent to Driftmark with such a message will surely lose its way. The Lannisters and the Redwynes do have their own fleets, but both are too proud to play messenger, not to mention that neither would ever agree to be subordinate to the other, and alone either of them would have a difficult time if the Ironmen put up a fight.”

“And the royal fleet is Corlys Velaryon’s.”

Her father nodded. “It is. No Targaryen King has even maintained an army or a navy that is truly royal. They’ve never needed to.”

He pushed his plate up the table a bit. “And that’s not the end of it. Corlys Velaryon is an ambitious man. More so than I think even I realize. He was born the scion of a wealthy but minor house - their greatest and only claim to fame was their Valyrian blood making them acceptable royal brides. He’s now the head of the wealthiest house in the realm - and that is by no small margin. And besides even that, he married a royal princess, and had a son by her. He advanced his seven-year-old son’s claim to be king at the Great Council, and left bitterly when the lords chose the king instead.”

“I don't think he’s ever forgiven Westeros as a whole for that. And now that son is grown. Driftmark is a fine castle, but it holds dominion only over a small isle in the Narrow Sea. Who is to say that Laenor Velaryon will not take the wayward princess to bride and make himself a new Aegon? His father would certainly smile at the thought.”

“Surly Prince Daemon would aid the king, wouldn’t he?”

Her father shook his head. “The king’s brother has been mercurial in his moods at the best of times, and in spite of everything is perhaps the one person in the world that Corlys Velaryon might begrudgingly admit is his friend.”

A servant appeared at the door then, begging the Lord Hand’s pardon, but with a message for Alicent. The king bid her to come to him. Flustered, she rose quickly, entirely missing the look in her father’s eyes.

The king had wanted to show her his newest creation, a spire that seemed to have a dragon wrapped around it. She’d read to him from Barth’s history that night, but not sitting in her chair across the model as she usually did. He had bit her to sit beside him as he worked. It was uncomfortable - both for the closeness of the king and how she had to be so careful with the heavy book - lest it hit him.

The chair she had used before - the one comfortably across the model - had been gone the next night.

Some weeks later, news came from Driftmark - for while the ravens of King’s Landing weren’t known for their ability to make it to Driftmark the ravens of Driftmark never had so much as an issue on their own journeys back to King’s Landing.

Laena Velaryon - Corlys Velaryon’s daughter - had claimed the dragon Vhagar. The Small Council meeting had been an awkward affair. The king seemed so happy for his cousin’s child, almost giddy in a way that Alicent hadn’t seen before. But the lords, her father included, exchanged uneasy glances.

Her father had told her later that Vhagar had been the dragon of the king’s father, and of Visenya Targaryen before him. That no living dragon compared to the great beast’s size, not even the other dragons.

He hadn’t been sleeping much, her father. She sees him at his papers when she returns from the king’s chambers at night and again when she rises in the morning. Alicent sometimes wonders if the other lords of the small council do anything, given that it seems her father does more work than all of them combined.

The king keeps her closer and closer - to the extent that it really is quite hard to manage the books and make sure they don’t interfere with his work. One of those nights, as she read again from Barth’s work, the king gently moved a lock of her hair, holding it up to the light and Alicent froze for a moment as the king complemented the lovely warmth of her hair color and said he was trying to match the color of it but hadn’t been successful.

It doesn’t occur to her until two weeks after it should have happened, but her bleeding is late. She spends the entire day at the sept, beyond her father’s gaze, begging the Mother for mercy. She hadn’t ever - but then her thoughts went to that night, to how the king touched her hair. Surely there was more to it than that, but she remembers the Septa’s words well, that to commit improprieties with men was to invite a bastard child into one’s belly.

So it is with trembling hands, bloody cuticles, and nervous feet that she stands before her father that night, feeling smaller than she had in ages, the words falling rapidly from her mouth.

He’s more understanding than she thought he might be, telling her to sit.

And she does, listening as he departs and then returns, then as the king arrives a few moments later. They are in the next room and she can’t see them, but their words are enough.

Strictly speaking, she’s not sure her father’s words to the king are entirely true - the way he says dishonor. It’s different. And the king - Alicent winces because he sounds so guilty, that kind old man who has never asked more of her than her words and a single lock of her hair.

Then they’re speaking of marriage - of Alicent’s marriage. Her father is speaking of marrying her to the lord of a small keep near Oldtown, of speed, but the king will hear none of it.

She is not to leave the capital. And Alicent puts a hand over her mouth to stop her gasp when he coldly declares that he’ll marry her himself.

She had never thought - the Septa sometimes spoke of naughty girls being married off to men old enough to be their grandfathers, but she had never-

Then again, the woman had added a few softer words later, that sometimes it was no fault of the girl, but simply the path the seven intended for her.

Alicent’s father comes back after only a few more minutes, and the look on his face fills her with dread. Expression carefully neutral, but his eyes - triumphant.

He does at least let her skip the Small Council meeting the next morning - though that may be more because the seamstresses are carefully pining and re-hemming the gown that she will wear that afternoon.

They don’t end up marrying until sunset, without pomp or a lavish ceremony, and hardly any kin present. None for the king, and only Alicent’s father, brother, and good-sister.

The feast isn’t much more than a normal dinner of state, and Alicent barely eats - too nervous to do anything aside from drink a few swallows of wine.

The eyes of the hall all seem to rest on her all the time and she just wants to shrink into her chair, to hide her face from the room. Because they’re muttering. She can see that much.

The Reach women especially, eyeing her with a mix of admiration and jealousy.

There is no bedding - a small mercy. The Targaryens don’t do beddings. She is simply ushered to the king’s chambers. Not the room that is completely occupied by the model he loves so, but his bedchamber.

There is a maid that unlaces her gown, but doesn’t remove it. That, she is informed, is the king’s prerogative.

The night is unpleasant despite the king’s gentle touches. Part of her wishes that he wasn’t so gentle. That it hurt her body as much as her mind. So she lays there and longs for Oldtown as he does what he wishes, takes what he pleases.

Her father is all too pleased to see the bloody sheets the next morning. He isn’t pleased when her bleeding finally does come three days later.

Chapter 9: Rhaenyra V

Chapter Text

Rhaenys has them land on a small clump of rocks that’s barely large enough to hold all three dragons.

“Laena, with me.” It takes two rounds of shouting for Laena to understand over the sound of the ocean and the wind, but she does dismount.

“We’ll fly in on just Meleys and Syrax.”

“But Mother-” Laena isn’t pleased. Rhaenyra would certainly feel the same if she was also to be a passenger on Meleys instead of astride her golden lady.

“I know, Laena. Flying dragons into Braavos is politically delicate in the best of times. They’re expecting Meleys. They aren’t expecting Vhagar. Best not to play our entire hand without cause. Your bond is strong. She’ll be close by.”

“But Syrax-”

Rhaenys silenced Laena with a raised eyebrow. As if anyone could compare Syrax to Vhagar. The intimidation factor just wasn’t there.

At that, Laena reluctantly joined her mother on Meleys, and they were off again. Only minutes later, the Titan emerged from the fog.

That was the first thing that Rhaenyra noticed about the city - the ever-present fog. Almost a shroud. The second thing she noticed was the cold. Alicent had always said King’s Landing was cold compared to Oldtown, and Driftmark was cooler than King’s Landing, but mostly due to the sea breeze. Braavos, on the other hand, was cold.

Not so chilly that heavy cloaks were required, but enough that Rhaenyra saw no bare arms. Rhaenys had landed Meleys in a courtyard on the northern end of the city, before a great palace. The Sealord’s Palace, Rhaenyra presumed.

Laenor was there to greet them, along with a collection of what must be Braavosi men. Or not all men, Rhaenyra realizes as Rhaenys greets them. Two might be women. But it is hard to tell - their hair and garb are the same as the men’s.

“Laenor.”

“Lady Mother. I trust you had an uneventful flight. Sister. Princess.”

Rhaenyra and Laena both acknowledge Laenor.

“Allow me to introduce our hosts. Archo and Tessmo Nestoris, Sons of the Sealord.” He indicated to a pair of young men. “Along with representatives of the Iron Bank,” the two indicated men were the most severe of the lot. And that was saying something. “And other esteemed representatives and citizens of the city.”

“Lady Velaryon.” It is the older of the two Iron Bank representatives that speak for the group. “Welcome back to our city. The Sealord awaits.”

They follow the group into the palace, through intricately decorated halls. Each is different from the next, and many clash more than they complement each other. Rhaenyra imagines that they are the work of successive Sealords. The Red Keep is new enough that it all appears hom*ogeneous, but Driftmark has several additions - some past Lord Velaryons had interesting tastes.

Soon enough they are arriving to a room occupied by a great table. A white-haired man that Rhaenyra presumes must be the Sealord sits in the center of one long side in an ornate chair, while Lord Corlys sits across from him. The table seats about twelve, Rhaenyra thinks.

“Lady Velaryon! It is always such a pleasure to be blessed by your presence.”

“Sealord Nestoris. Your city is as lovely as ever.”

The Sealord snorted at that. “My city is as foggy as ever.”

Rhaenys took a seat beside Corlys. Laenor, Rhaenyra, and Laena remained standing as various seats were taken.

One of the Sealord’s sons sat beside him while the other stood. The two representatives of the Iron Bank sat to his left, across from Rhaenys. A man in dim red robes and a woman in plain robes sat to his right. A lone man in black robes that were cut very differently - more suited to a warm climate than a cool one - sat on the end of the table, to the Sealord’s extreme right.

“I know it can get a bit crowded in here - the Sealord who built this part of the palace was a bit tightfisted with money. I’m sure his friends at the Iron Bank approved.” The two representatives of the Iron Bank didn’t so much as blink at the Sealord’s words. “So perhaps my son might give your children a tour of my menagerie.”

“Very well.” Corlys nods, and Laenor, Laena, and Rhaenyra follow the purple-clad man - Tessmo Nestoris - out another door.

And the menagerie is indeed worth seeing, though part of Rhaenyra smarts at being sent away like a child.

But not for long. They mostly break into pairs - Laenor with Tessmo and Rhaenyra with Laena, though the boys stay close enough that Laenor could be considered to be supervising Rhaenyra and Laena.

It’s like nothing she’s ever seen before, full of color and noises she’s never heard before, each creature stranger or more magnificent than the last. She and Laena stay arm in arm, pointing and eyeing the creatures. There are small colorful frogs from Sothoyos, and Rhaenyra would want to hold one but for the sign beside them, declaring the jewel-toned creatures to be deathly poisonous.

The tigers and zorses from beyond the Great Bone Mountains are better observed from a distance, but it is the group of seals - from the Iron Islands. Rhaenyra hears Tessmo telling Laenor that they don’t smell as much as the ones from Ib. And they’re from farther afield. It’s a little strange to hear of Westeros being called far afield, but then again the Iron Isles always seemed so far away. Barely a part of Westeros.

Daemon had told her the story of how he’d gone to pay a visit there, once. It had been before - well, before everything, really. She’d wanted so badly to know of his dashing deeds, but he simply smiled and told her that it had all been anticlimactic. Only fools chose to fight the dragons.

There is one small creature - fluffy, and just about the right size to hold. It looks so soft and Rhaenyra turns to find Tessmo, to ask if she can hold it - there is no sign proclaiming it to be some terrible creature that will kill her, but it is best to be sure. Syrax wouldn’t be happy.

The sight as she turns is even more surprising than the creatures.

Their host and Laenor are embracing, not paying any attention to the creatures around them, tongues down each other’s throats.

Rhaenyra tugs on Laena’s sleeve, nodding to the pair. The expression on her face must be one of utter shock, but Laena just smiles.

“And Father still thinks I should be the one to marry him.”

“But-”

Laena’s arm wraps around her waist, and the other girl pulls her close. Rhaenyra feels so much younger than Laena, even though the other girl is barely a year her senior.

“Father is still convinced he can find a woman for Laenor. Apparently, he and the Sealord bonded over having sons that refuse to be married off.”

Rhaenyra has so many questions, but her thoughts refuse to come together, so Laena continues.

“I actually don’t think it would be that bad, having him for a husband. Laenor would be happy.” Laena snorts. “Half the time, at least. When that-” She nodded her head toward the pair “isn’t happening Laenor tends to think Tessmo is a stuck-up bastard and that feeding him to Seasmoke would be too good for him.”

“Would you be happy?”

Laena gives a little half smile at that. “Maybe. Maybe not. But he’s tolerable. Annoying, but tolerable. And my bed would be my own.”

She wrapped an arm around Rhaenyra and looked down at the cute brown-furred creature. “I shouldn’t be speaking of my burdens to you, Princess. It’s quite cute.” She nodded to the little creature.

“Laenor wanted to hold it, two years ago. It didn’t bite him - apparently, the little thing has sharp teeth - but it emits the most foul-smelling of odors. It took days before I could be in the room with him again.”

Rhaenyra smiles at that. “Best to admire from afar, then.” She glances back at the two boys. If anything, their tongues are even farther down each other’s throats.

“Is it normal - for men to want other men?”

“I think so. Laenor’s the only one I’ve ever really met, but he seems normal enough even if he is a bit-. Well, you know. He’s Laenor. Certainly a better person than my Velaryon cousins.” She pauses. “I haven’t been to as many Free Cities as him, but he accompanies my father quite a bit. He likes it better here, in the east. Though he prefers Pentos to Braavos. It’s too cold here.”

“You can say that again.”

“It’s also - the only sept east of the sea is here - though it is a small one and inconsequential next to the other temples. And I think you know more than I how the faith of the seven would feel about such things.”

Rhaenyra can only nod at that. Alicent did so love to read from the Seven-Pointed Star. They had rules for everything, to a degree that none could hope to follow all of them.

The jovial laughter that filters their way has the two boys springing apart, straightening their tunics.

The Sealord arrives with what seems to be a small army of servants and representatives in tow, along with Lord Corlys and Rhaenys. He bids Tessmo to escort them back to the gates before continuing on to a different part of the palace. Rhaenyra once more questioned the sanity of whoever had designed the layout of this place.

Rhaenys doesn’t speak until they are practically under Meleys’ wing, and even then it is low, to avoid any unwelcome ears.

“That was a waste of time. The Sealord has no intention of helping with the Stepstones. And the Iron Bank is the Iron Bank. We will return to Driftmark. And Corlys - if that Qohorik man asks more questions it might be better to negotiate there rather than here.”

“Indeed. Laenor and I will continue here. The Guild of Merchants may be a bit more amenable than Braavos as a whole.”

The women mount their dragons once more, making for the little island of blasted rock, but the winds are too high, so Laena rides back to Driftmark with Rhaenys on Meleys, Vhagar riderless beside them in the skies.

They arrive after dark, Rhaenys having taken over the lead as the sunlight faded. Night navigation was by the stars, and she hadn’t taught Rhaenyra or Laena that yet.

But the silver sands of Driftmark prove to be a beacon, and they land without incident.

And the exhaustion finally comes to Rhaenyra - it has been a long day. The flights had to be at least three hours each, and she hadn’t gotten a moment to relax, really relax, all day.

But even with the exhaustion, she can’t sleep, slipping instead into Laena’s room - the other girl is still in her riding leathers, equally wired after their long day.

They play a few rounds of cards, Laena winning every time. Rhaenyra’s friend is always lucky. Apparently, Laenor wouldn’t play cards with her anymore, but Rhaenyra won’t pass up the chance to spend more time with her friend.

Her eyelids are finally getting heavy, and Rhaenyra lays her head on Laena’s shoulder as the other girl reads.

The thoughts still stew in her head. If it was normal for two men to be together, wouldn’t the same be true for two women? She nuzzled closer to Laena, and her friend’s arm went around her. Her friend was so beautiful, and her lips always looked so soft. Rhaenyra remembered the kingsguard knight she’d picked. The one Caraxes had dropped off the bridge. Her stomach had fluttered when she’d seen him, and she’d wondered what it would be like to kiss him.

Laena’s lips looked so soft. What might it be like to kiss her?

“You’re beautiful.” The words aren’t the most coherent. Rhaenyra is already half asleep.

Laena shifts a little bit, and then Rhaenrya can feel those soft lips on her cheek. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

She smiles at that, the point where Laena kissed her tingling, and nuzzles even closer to her friend, pressing a little kiss to her neck before resting her eyes. Just for a moment, she thought.

Chapter 10: Daemon II

Chapter Text

It’s unwise to be alone with one’s thoughts for too long. It’s even more unwise to do so in the castle of your ancestors, doing little more than pondering the great painted table Aegon planned his conquest from. Daemon snorts at the thought. Pondering the great painted table Visenya planned Aegon’s Conquest from, more like.

Then again, he has been writing Rhaenys. And talking to the castellan. And the dragonkeepers. And Caraxes.

Rhaenys would have told him talking to Caraxes didn’t count.

His writing her was something of a minor comedy - Caraxes or Meleys could carry the message faster than any raven, but nevertheless, it is the ravens that carry the messages.

He goes flying as well, just him and Caraxes over the vast dark waters of the Narrow Sea. Always east, sometimes as far as Pentos, though most often Daemon turned back at the first hint of land. Caraxes loved cattle a little too much, and he always napped after a meal.

His dragon seemed perfectly alright on the island, though he mostly kept to himself. Daemon could frequently catch a glimpse of Vermithor, Silverwing, and Dreamfyre all curled up together. And the dragonkeepers were eagerly preparing for more eggs.

There were half a hundred waiting in the burning tunnels of the island - some laid in Valyria itself, before the Doom, while others were more recent. Labels of chiseled stone proclaimed the parents where they were known. Dreamfyre and Quicksilver. Vhagar and Balerion. Grey Ghost? Aenar the Exile hadn’t kept the best of records regarding the eggs he had brought from their ancient homeland, so many of the oldest eggs could only be guessed at, based on their color.

Not that anything based on color would be more than a guess. Balerion’s black and Vhagar’s bronze had only resulted in red dragons - Caraxes and Meleys - though if Daemon remembered correctly Vhagar’s dam had been red.

Rhaenys wrote of the political happenings in King’s Landing, in Braavos, or even in the Triarchy, and Daemon was grateful for it, but that was not why he read her missives. Her comments on Rhaenyra and Laena were never much, but enough to hook him into reading. His lady cousin knew him too well.

And Daemon couldn't ever stop the smiles at the news of the girls’ progress - how Rhaenyra and Syrax danced in the sky. How Laena had mounted Vhagar for the first time. And he wanted so to go to Rhaenyra, to his sweet niece. To share the joy. To see Syrax squawking underneath Meleys’ wings. To speak his native tongue to his family, to hear their Valyrian accents - true Valyrian, not the trade tongue of the free cities that so often passed as such. But it wouldn’t be right, or that was what he told himself. Rhaenyra was so happy now, what would he have to add to it all?

He was only the brooding uncle, spending far too much time amongst ghosts and gargoyles.

He did write back to Rhaenys - of the dragons, of the mindless cataloging of their ancestors' papers and books he had done since arriving. A complete catalog hadn’t been taken since before the conquest. Rhaena Targaryen had done some, but she and Visenya both seemed to be of the opinion that their filing system was meant for them alone, and that idiot future Targaryen princes would need to blunder their way through.

Rhaenys would no doubt understand it in an instant, but Daemon enjoys the challenge, the great puzzle. Caraxes thinks it odd he spends so much time indoors, even if Daemon had chosen a room his dragon could easily peer inside of, that Daemon could even scratch Caraxes’ nose from, if he wished.

Some of the papers weren’t so useful - Aegon - the grandson of Aenar - and his musings on the different types of lichen that grew on Dragonstone, or Daemion Targaryen’s poetry to his wife. Daemon found Visenya’s logistical analysis of the Conquest far more interesting if quite dull - Aegon’s sister-wife didn’t ever have much of a flourish to her writing. It was to the point.

Daenys the Dreamer’s musings were the most interesting of the lot, but Daemon couldn’t begin to wrap his mind around them. The margins of the pages told him he was in good company - he counted at least four sets of handwriting, and each seemed as perplexed as he was.

He had given up on Daenys for the day, instead reading some comments by Visenya on exactly how Oldtown was to be ‘subdued’ if things had gone poorly at Aegon’s coronation while imagining the Hightower in flames and Otto Hightower’s bulging eyes at the sight.

Rhaenys might have thought him childish if she had seen it, but the imagined images were too good to pass up.

The missive from King’s Landing was entirely unexpected - he’s heard not so much as a word from his brother the entire time he’d been on Dragonstone. The castellan had sent a missive when he’d arrived, Daemon was sure of that, so his brother knew Daemon had come to Dragonstone, but nothing. No insults, no orders to vacate, no demands that he beg forgiveness, nothing.

Daemon would have preferred the insults. At least then he would have known Viserys did still care.

The message wasn’t in the king’s hand, but Daemon hadn’t expected it to be. The Grand Maester’s, he thought, though the message was more to the point than Daemon remembered the man being.

Viserys was remarried. To Otto Hightower’s brat.

Daemon was on Caraxes five minutes later, gazing west across the bay. They made it almost halfway to King’s Landing before he came to his senses, going back. It was Driftmark that was his destination, not the Red Keep. As much as he might want answers from his brother, Rhaenys was the level-headed one. Best not to rush into Otto Hightower’s trap.

Rhaenys was unflappable when he arrived, gathering her family. Corlys in his blue and gold, the rest of them in some form of leathers.

Rhaenys was indeed level-headed. She’d already broken the news to Rhaenyra, Daemon could tell that much. To his precious niece who had lost so much already. His fingers find her shoulder, the anger Daemon feels towards his brother is bleeding away, replaced by protectiveness toward his niece.

She hadn’t tensed or moved away, instead relaxing.

The real conversation hadn’t begun until after the children had left.

As much as the king’s marriage was what had brought Daemon to Driftmark, it was not the only thing they needed to discuss.

Corlys is having problems with the Triarchy, but that isn’t news. His father had problems with them as well. The web of politics that the Velaryons have woven is more impressive - Braavos, Pentos, and even perhaps Lorath. Each of the alliances is tenuous at best, but they’ve been busy.

And they want to add Dragonstone. It’s only logical - neither Laena nor Laenor is ready to run Driftmark, and Daemon knows enough of Corlys’ brothers to know that neither Corlys nor Rhaenys would even consider them to be an option to run the island. So Rhaenys will continue to. Meaning that Corlys has only one small dragon at his disposal - Seasmoke.

He will have Laena’s Vhagar in time, or perhaps Meleys if Rhaenys prefers to have Laena run the island. But not yet.

And things are worse than he had known. Pirates usually only had single ships, but the Crabfeeder of the Stepstones had a fleet.

It’s a tenuous alliance - Daemon is well aware of the fact that Corlys is using him. But better him than Rhaenyra. Let her have her happiness, and let Daemon fight the war his brother should be dealing with.

He leaves before the dawn, heading first to Dragonstone and then south. They need the lay of the land, of the seas. And sooner rather than later.

He spends a fortnight in the south - scouting, mapping as best he can. It’s hard to map when high in the sky, what with the wind and all, but Daemon’s memory is not one of a skilled cartographer. His sketches look decidedly crude.

Dragonstone is the same as he’d left it, but Driftmark is entirely different. Rhaenys and Corlys had taken all of the children to Braavos in the end. Not that it had helped. The Sealord was mercurial, happy to declare his distaste for the Triarchy, to renew his city’s abhorrence of slavery. Still unwilling to commit his ships to the task at hand.

Daemon for his own part is inclined to forge ahead with only the dragons - ships burn well enough. And if they need ships, Corlys has a fleet of his own that would be the envy of any of the free cities, save perhaps Braavos and Volantis.

But the Velaryons are not the only ones to have come from the East. The man’s black garb is easy to place as Essosi, but it takes Daemon a moment to remember the city. Qohor - far to the east, on the edge of the great grass sea.

It’s not a city that Westerosi maesters ever teach much of, given how far east it is, and how much its history is steeped in Valyria. Daemon had wanted to go, as a boy. Less for the black goat that seemed to haunt every septon’s dreams and more for the lost parts of his culture. For magic, for the arts that even the Targaryens had forgotten if they in fact knew them in the first place.

He doesn’t bring an urgent plea for aid, but rather a murky offer of alliance. Qohor would see dragons stand against the Dothraki for them, but it’s not only that.

Regardless, it isn’t urgent. The Dothraki aren’t at the gates. Rhaenys suspects it is more of a cost saving venture - that Qohor thinks it cheaper to purchase protection from them then to purchase Unsullied and pay the Dothraki their tribute. Daemon can’t say he’s in a position to agree or disagree.

He and Corlys will be departing for the south soon enough. That can’t wait. Not with what he saw.

He catches Laena and Rhaenyra as they come in from flying, cheeks flushed, breathless, arm in arm.

Laena sees him first. “Prince Daemon.”

Rhaenyra’s face lights up. “Uncle!”

And she’s in his arms before he knows it. How he’s missed this, Rhaenyra. His Rhaenyra. His niece.

“Why did you leave?” The two girls just about let him sit before Rhaenyra begins to question him. He takes his place in the chair while they sit close as can be on the settee. “And-” Rhaenyra’s questions are only beginning. “Why don’t you come more often?”

“I went south. To check on things there. And as much-” a smile begins to crawl up his face, matching Rhaenyra’s and Laena’s “as Caraxes is an artful dragon sometimes, I don’t think any map drawn by him is going to be good enough for Lord Corlys.”

That draws laughter from both of them, and the two girls turn to each other, exchanging some secret in their glance.

“Tell us about the south, then.”

Damon finds himself smiling. “It’s hot - muggy, though not as bad as King’s Landing. The winds up high are bad enough that I don’t think my map was much better than anything Caraxes might draw. I’m afraid there wasn’t much of interest. Though I hear you ladies saw the free city of Braavos.”

Indeed they had, and the two launched into a rapid account of the trip - from the flight there to the Sealord’s menagerie to the nighttime flight back. And Daemon can’t help but notice how they almost finish each other’s sentences, so in tune. And he remembers how his grandmother talked about his parents doing the same.

But Lord Corlys has come for him all too soon, and Rhaenyra isn’t best pleased at his imminent departure.

He gathers her in his arms and promises to return soon, pressing a gentle kiss to her brow. Rhaenyra isn’t any happier.

Laena catches him halfway down the stairs, half a smile on her face.

“Prince Daemon.”

He turns up to see her on the landing above him.

“If you do anything stupid that makes her sad I’ll feed you to Vhagar.”

Daemon walks the few steps back up to the landing, taking Laena into his arms. “Lady Laena, I suspect you’d have to get in line. Caraxes would hand me over to Syrax himself.”

He presses a kiss to her brow as well and the lady flushes, looking down. “Keep her safe, would you?”

Laena nods, and Daemon proceeds down the stairs once more.

Chapter 11: Rhaenyra VI

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra and Laena watched Caraxes and Daemon depart from the window - the large blood-red dragon gave a long loop of the island before heading off into the distance.

Rhaenys is calling them back to their lessons soon enough - night navigation, for one. And geography. Much more geography. Laena had more of the artist’s hand than Rhaenyra did, but the two girls learned quickly enough.

Laenor had taken to the role of messenger quite well if somewhat grumpily, regularly flying between the Stepstones and Driftmark to bring news or requests for supplies. The war - though no one called it that, not yet - wasn’t going as well as could be hoped. The forces of the Triarchy had enough sense that they were always careful not to face the dragons during the day, but nighttime raids took their toll and even during the day Daemon and Caraxes could not be everywhere at once.

Rhaenyra and Laena for their part began to play the messengers more frequently. Oftentimes they simply carried the order to the castellan of Dragonstone - for Prince Daemon had left the running of the castle and the island up to Princess Rhaenys in his absence - but gradually they went further and further afield.

First, it was little trips across the bay - Stonedance. Sharp Point. Claw Isle. But never King’s Landing. But as those became easier and easier, as the moons rolled on, they went further.

Laenor was needed in the Stepstones, fighting. Not playing messenger boy. And so Rhaenys sent the girls to Pentos.

It wasn’t far - much closer than Braavos, and much easier to find. The skies were perfectly clear, as they headed out over the Narrow Sea.

They had been tired, when they returned, perhaps more so than they should have been. Vhagar hadn’t so much as blinked an eye, curling up in her dune as she always did, but Syrax was exhausted - the weather had held, but the prevailing wind against them on the ride back made for tough flying, especially for a dragon as small as Syrax, far more at the mercy of the wind than Vhagar, who knew well how to fly in difficult wind. In fact, Rhaenyra’s dragon was so exhausted that she had crawled up to Meleys’ nest herself, letting Rhaenys’ dragons drag her in and mother her.

It was quite sweet, really. Rhaenyra and Laena had watched from the window, already half-asleep themselves.

But the next trip to Pentos was easier - the magisters were expecting them, this time. There had been a great deal of gawking, especially at Vhagar, that first time. They’re still tired when they return, but less so. There is time to go through a few letters that Rhaenys had wanted them to read.

From the Stepstones - Laenor’s rather straightforward account of events. Daemon’s somewhat less polite castigations of one Vaemond Velaryon. There was also a letter from the Sealord of Braavos, which simultaneously managed to be twice as long as any of the other letters and contain exactly zero useful information.

But most interestingly, a new guest arrived. Rhaenys had mentioned his arrival when the girls had returned, but it had been late, so there hadn’t been much beyond. That.

Argemon of Qohor had his audience with Princess Rhaenys the next day.

Rhaenys normally dealt with manners in her study, rarely making use of the audience room that contained the Driftwood throne. But now, she used it.

In some ways it reminded Rhaenyra of the Iron Throne - it looked uncomfortable, for one. She and Laena both had rich chairs in blue and gold, but they all were in leathers. Argemon of Qohor, Rhaenys had said, hadn’t asked for an audience with Lady Velaryon, but rather with the Dragonlord Rhaenys of the House Targaryen. And so it was Dragonlords that sat before him, when he was shown into the hall.

The man wasn’t overly tall. His attire was black - though the cut was decidedly foreign, nothing like the black garb Rhaenyra had so often seen her uncle don. His hair, too, was black, and his eyes dark - though it was all contrasted by the pallor of his skin.

The bow was different, as well. Deeper.

“Dragonlord Rhaenys.” His voice was deeper than Rhaenyra had been expecting. He spoke Westerosi, but with a noticeable accent.

“Argemon of the Free City of Qohor. What brings you so far from home?” Rhaenys responded in perfectly accented High Valyrian. Rhaenyra had no doubts that she already knew the answer.

“I have come to implore your grace to send aid to my city. We have had difficulties with Dothraki khals as of late.” He spoke Valyrian now, though the accent was different - not the standard High Valyrian, but one with a more singing lilt.

“Even here, we have heard of the 3000 of Qohor.” There was no question, but Rhaenyra understood the unasked one. What has changed? Argemon clearly did too.

“Indeed, Dragonlord. The other free cities have taken to using Unsullied as well, and there are only so many new ones produced each year.”

Rhaenys nodded. “And so you have come to me.”

“I have, Dragonlord.”

“Over the dragonroads to Norvos, then Pentos. Up the sea to Braavos. And now even over the sea, to the Sunset Kingdoms. That’s a very long way to travel. And not, I think, sent by the rulers of your city. You would not be alone, were that the case.”

“Indeed, Dragonlord.”

“So I ask again, Argemon of the Free City of Qohor. What brings you so far from home?”

It was as if Rhaenys’ words had opened the floodgates. She didn’t like to repeat herself, nor to waste time on pleasantries when there were serious matters afoot. This Argemon seemed to pick up on that, and so he spoke.

Qohor had been visited by increasing numbers of Dothraki khals - its position on the edge of the Dothraki sea meant it had always received the most visits of the Free Cities, but not ever so many as now. They had long used Unsullied slave soldiers from further east to defend their city, along with gifts to the passing khals, but as of late the gifts had been scoffed at, and had been considered paltry. And mighty Volantis had also turned to the Unsullied, leaving precious few for Qohor.

And so there were those - Argemon spoke as if a group had sent him on a mission, but he was here alone, and not an official envoy. Rhaenyra did remember him from Braavos - he had been there as well. She suspected that was how he gained an audience with Rhaenys in the first place.

“That’s all very well and good, Argemon. But why here? Why not Volantis? Why not Norvos?”

“Volantis demands fealty in exchange for their protection. And Norvos has no strength to spare. I do not wish to prolong this problem, Dragonlord. I would see it end in fire.”

“Dragonfire.” Argemon inclined his head at Rhaenys’ response. “And which Dragonlord would you hope to see flying to your defense? My cousin and son are already at war. My daughters are here, and still have much to learn. And Driftmark and Dragonstone do not run themselves.”

“Any that you see fit to send, Dragonlord. The Dothraki would burn all the same.”

Rhaenys nods at that. “You’ve come far, Argemon. I’m sure you are quite tired.”

He nodded, acknowledging her words once more. The conversation was over - this was merely the formal offering of hospitality.

They fly that afternoon, Syrax and Vhagar lazily doing loop after loop around and around, Syrax spiraling all around the much larger dragon, riding the vortices that Vhagar’s huge wings produced. If they had looked down, they might have seen a black-clad figure, watching intently. But they didn’t.

Rhaenys called them both back for supper. Their guest will dine alone.

“Tell me what you think of our guest.” Rhaenys is asking Laena first, but Rhaenyra knows well she will be next.

“His story seems reasonable, though I find it odd that he is alone. Perhaps the council of Qohor thinks his plan is ridiculous.”

Rhaenys nods, her eyes flicking to Rhaenyra.

“Perhaps it would help - to aid them, I mean. More cities might see the advantages of being our allies against the Triarchy. It could help shorten that war.”

“It could. But Qohor is the farthest of the Free Cities, and neither they nor even Norvos are really in a position to be of much help. It is Volantis we need. And saving Qohor would not bring Volantis into the fold. And add to that the travel time. Even assuming Argemon has traveled as fast as he can, he still would have left Qohor moons ago. The Dothraki might be long gone, and they are so fickle.”

Both girls nodded.

“How long would the flight be - a day? Two?” Laena asked.

“It’s probably possible in a day in good weather while pushing. But I would say it's better to do it in two to three, and not arrive after dark.”

“So probably a five to seven-day trip?” Rhaenyra asked. “If it is only five days, we could go.”

Rhaenys sighed. “Five days are much longer than one. As navigation goes this is no worse than Pentos - following the Dragonroads from there to Qohor is easy enough. But I don’t know how friendly a welcome you would get in the city of sorcerers.”

“They are the most like Valyria of the Free Cities.”

“Sorcery is heavy in their blood, even as dragon-riding is in ours. And even more than usual, they would see you - and your dragons - as prizes.”

“You aren’t planning to send us.”

Rhaenys nodded. “Unless he says something that utterly changes things tomorrow. The Stepstones are causing enough problems, and his issue is more of a long-term cost savings for the Qohorik, I think. If they were in mortal danger when he left the trouble would have passed by now. The last thing I need is for one or both of you to be lost at the edge of the Dothraki Sea.”

Both girls nod, and Rhaenys dismisses them for the night.

They fly at dawn, but there is a shadow waiting for them outside the castle.

“Argemon.” Laena greets him first, Rhaenyra having been fighting with the fine ties of her riding gloves and not having looked up.

“Dragonlords.” His tone is different - reverent, almost. He’s almost looking past them, at the dragons, but then his eyes are on them, and Rhaenyra almost wants to squirm. There is something that isn’t quite right behind those dark eyes.

His speech starts pretty - words of admiration. He switches tune soon enough - to a story of how the Dothraki now demand slaves of the Qohorik, and not purchased slaves from slavers bay, but rather silver haired girls and boys - the blood of Old Valyria. Rhaenys squirms more as she hears it, images coming unbidden to her head.

She knows he only wants them for their dragons. But she can’t help it - the fate of those poor boys and girls sounds worse than death. And they could prevent it - Qohor might be the farthest east of the free cities, but it is only a sennight at most on dragonback. The navigation is easy.

Laena makes an excuse and pulls them away, inside the castle.

The chaos is a surprise - Rhaenys is giving orders left and right. Laenor had been there, in the night, but he was already gone - headed back to the Stepstones. And his mother would soon be joining him, if only for a short while.

There were orders that needed to go to Dragonstone, ones here for Driftmark, and servants running to and fro. Rhaenys is pressing a kiss to each of the girls’ foreheads just a moment later, promising that she will be back soon.

Argemon finds his way to them not long after Rhaenys leaves. And his words continue. And Rhaenyra can’t help it anymore - she wants to help. Lord Corlys - for surely a great victory would convince the Braavosi to lend more aid. And the poor slave girls and boys taken from the city of Qohor - they can’t be ignored. He’s good at talking, Rhaenyra knows that - but that doesn’t mean his words aren’t true.

Laena for her part is more suspicious, but as the hours wear on she agrees more with Rhaenyra.

It’ll only be five days, a sennight at most. They might well arrive back before Rhaenys. And it wasn’t like Laena’s mother had actually given them firm instructions, was it? It wasn’t like she’d made a final choice on the situation in Qohor.

She might as well have, though. The Velaryon cousin who had chaperoned their time with Argemon seems sympathetic - though he probably just wants to be in charge while they are gone.

“We should go, Laena.”

“I-” Laena was still clearly torn. “My mother won’t be happy.”

“It was my idea, Laena. You just went with me because otherwise, I would have gone alone.”

“She’ll never believe that.”

“Argemon said more - she hadn’t made a final call yet.”

“And what if we are needed in the Stepstones, like Mother was? And Laenor returns to find both of us gone, in the east?”

“I still think we should go.”

Laena squeezed Rhaenyra’s hand. “Best leave soon, then. At first light.”

Argemon’s face is carefully controlled as they tell him they will be departing for his city, but he can’t hide the smile as he scrawls out a letter for them to carry with him.

They are over the Narrow Sea before the sun is up, and passing Pentos by noon.

Argemon of Qohor is bound for Pentos only a few hours after the princesses, aboard the Racer - though however fast the ship might be, it will be moons before he returns to Qohor.

Jaemon Waters was more than a little nervous as he watched the red shape of Princess Rhaenys’ dragon land, three days later. In one hand he had a missive from King’s Landing - the new queen had produced a prince. But that wouldn’t be the Princess’s first concern. Her principal concern would be her daughter. And the Princess Rhaenyra. Jaemon swallowed. Rhaenys was strict but fair. That didn’t mean he was remotely eager to tell her the news. Then again, the dragons weren’t here - she probably knew already.

Chapter 12: Interlude: Argemon of Qohor

Chapter Text

Argemon had been born behind the walls of Qohor. They weren’t legendary things like the Black Walls of Volantis, but they were of heavy stone, and sturdy.

He’d grown beneath their shade, looking east to the great forest and west to the river that gave the city its name. His parents hadn’t been high nobles by any stretch of the imagination - Argemon had nothing to fear beyond the Dothraki when they threatened the city.

In some ways it was an awkward position - too high to join the Guild of Smiths, too low to be a true noble, too foreign to be a priest, and too Qohorik to be a proper merchant. And the fourth son at that - beneath his parents’ notice.

A position as a scribe was low for one of his birth, but it was something. The libraries of Qohor were not those of Volantis - limited by priests of the Black Goat. But they were still seemingly endless. Argemon had copied page after page, mostly of Valyrian knowledge - only senior scribes were permitted to write the prayerbooks.

He’d learned the legends of his city as any child did - of its founding, of Aurion the last Dragonlord, and of the 3000. Of the 3000 slave soldiers who had turned back the endless horde sent to rid the world of the Black Goat, as the priests would say it.

The Great Temple still contained the urn of ash, from the shed braids of the horselords. And the slave soldiers who fell had been burned, an honor never before and rarely since afforded to those of their disposition.

Argemon knew more of the tale than most, more of the reality than most. He’d transcribed the record a dozen times, at least. Of the 3000, only 600 had remained. Their ranks had been bolstered soon enough by more Unsullied, and the price of the slave soldiers had doubled overnight.

But that had been more than two hundred years ago. The price of the slave warriors had only increased over the centuries, though it had wavered at times. The Dothraki came again ever so often, but they had mellowed from the hordes of yesteryear - willing to accept gifts, and ride on. Though the gifts must always increase - no khal would imagine being bought for a cheaper price than one of his forebears.

Argemon wouldn’t say he was well-traveled by any stretch of the imagination - he’d been to Norvos as a scribe, escort to an official messenger. But he hadn’t been beyond the forest, to the great grass sea of the horselords. He hadn’t followed the Rhoyne to the first daughter of Valyria.

The singers called all nine Free Cities the daughters of Valyria, but Argemon tended to disagree - Valyria had three daughters. To Lys she left her beauty and her hedonism. To Volantis she left her scepter and her majesty. To Qohor she left her magic, or what remained of it in the world. Even in Volantis the secrets of Valyrian steel were forgotten. Not so in Qohor - the Guild of Smiths reforged the steel, even if the art of making it was lost.

Though Argemon wasn’t so sure it was lost because the knowledge was gone - rather, it was lost because one of the ingredients was missing. The guild did not forget anything easily.

But she hadn’t left her dragons to any of her daughters.

They weren’t gone, the great creatures of Valyria. A few, said the whispers, lived still on the edge of the world, in the Sunset Kingdoms far to the West, beyond the sea.

Argemon had thought the legend only a children’s tale, until he’d copied correspondence from the Council addressed to Gaemon the Dragonlord. The contents of the missive had been irrelevant, but he’d never forgotten that title, or the date beside it.

A Dragonlord had lived, not like Aurion.

He’d eventually been promoted - not to senior scribe, but no longer condemned to copy dusty records. The Council was twelve - and they all wanted their own copy of any missive. Besides that, official notes of their proceedings had to be kept. To do so was the duty of the First Scribe of Qohor, but when twelve men shouted over each other, it was best to have more than one person transcribing their words.

Argemon listened well for every tidbit - every mention of these Dragonlords. But the Sunset kingdoms were far away to the west. The mentions were scant, until the 203rd year since the Doom. He’d almost skipped over the missive from Volantis - his interests lay West, not South. Let the other scribes read it. But he hadn’t, in the end.

The missive itself wasn’t all that interesting - a Triarch of Volantis had his feathers ruffled because his son had been denied the crown of the Sunset Kingdoms. But Venion, the Scribe who had accompanied the messenger to Volantis, had evidently taken an interest in the happenings, and had transcribed an entire order of proceedings.

The old king of the Sunset Kingdoms had lost his children in his old age, and so he had called his lords together to pick a new king from his grandchildren. Argemon didn’t recognize the names given, but they were unmistakably Valyrian. The titles were a disappointment - prince and princess, no dragonlords in sight. But the disappointment was lost as he read further into the proceedings. The Triarch’s son had been laughed out of the proceedings on the second day - he was only the illegitimate son of the fourth daughter, a daughter that the old king had disinherited. And while the affairs afterward were not told in great detail, the unmistakable mentions of dragons were there - two great red beasts, one behind each candidate. Dragons yet lived upon the earth.

It had been an academic pursuit, at first. Argemon wished to know more of dragons, and of the West - for surely it would be an aid to should he ever rise so high as Messenger. But as the Dothraki returned again and the gifts taxed from his city grew greater, he began to wonder - could a single dragonlord put the foul horselords in their place, ruin them for decades, at least?

He hadn’t been appointed messenger to Pentos, but he’d inherited the post when the messenger had been flung from his saddle on the dragonroad, and had split his head open on the black stone.

The official part of his duty was done soon enough, the message spoken to the magisters of Pentos.

The unofficial part of his duty was far more enlightening. Argemon had always been a good listener - as was needed to be a good scribe. The wine - Dornish Red from the Sunset Kingdoms - had flowed freely, but Argemon had not indulged, simply listening.

Pentos was on the edge of the Narrow Sea, not far to the east as Qohor was.

The magisters spoke and spoke as their cups were filled and filled again. Argemon nursed his cup ever so slowly.

There was an alliance between Braavos, Lorath, and Pentos. Lorath was new to the alliance, and the Pentosi didn’t like it - the mazed city was ill-luck. But Lord Corlys insisted they were needed, for numbers - he meant to clear the Stepstones of pirates, to break the Triarchy. Argemon had his own doubts about one man’s ability to break the Triarchy - he certainly wouldn’t be the first to fail, but still, he listened. Lord Corlys came only rarely to Pentos - his wife often came in his stead. His wife, and her great red dragon. Argemon almost dropped his wine at the mention of a dragon.

He’d known there were dragons in Pentos from time to time - the Sunset princes tended to stay there when they displeased the king - but it was another thing entirely to hear the casual mention of a dragon having been in the city only a moon prior. Argemon listened closer.

Rhaenys - that was the name of the Dragonlord. And she wasn’t the only one - the Sunset king had a brother, and his dragon was red as well. Another dragon to aid Lord Corlys, the magisters said. Surely the war in the Stepstones would be short and victorious.

The Lord Corlys was in Braavos, negotiating with the Sealord.

Part of Argemon wanted to find a ship, to cross the sea to the west, but he thought better of it. The council of Qohor would want to know of this Lord Corlys, and would want their messenger to meet him in person. Or, that was the tale Argemon spun to his escort. They swallowed it hook, line, and sinker.

Braavos was a gloomy city, and not one Argemon was all that fond of - too cold, and too foggy. Lord Corlys was an enigma even before Argemon met him. The man had sailed nine times into the far east, and returned nine times with holds of treasure. He’d taken a Dragonlord to bride and put children on her. If there was any man who could break the Triarchy, it would be him.

Argemon had spent some time pondering the marriage of this Lord Corlys. It was against Valyrian custom, which only allowed Dragonlords to wed those of equal rank.

And however mighty he was, Lord Corlys Velaryon of Driftmark was no Dragonlord. Valyrian marriage customs had been something of a personal interest of Argemon’s as he was learning to be a scribe - the laws regarding them had been infinitely complicated, but the sum of them was relatively simple.

Dragonlords would only be wed to other Dragonlords, and generally if a dragonlord caught their spouse abed with another, they had the absolute right to kill them if any of the parties involved were not dragonlords. The complications arose when they were.

Almost exactly a moon after Argemon entered the free city of Braavos, a noise he hadn’t heard before - not the bellow of the Titan - broke through the fog. And for the first time in his life, Argemon saw dragons.

The larger of the two was red, a brilliant scarlet even in the gloom of Braavos. The dragon of Lord Corlys’ wife. The second was much smaller, and yellow. The dragon of one of their children.

Lord Corlys’ son greeted his mother, and then they went to negotiate with the Sealord. Argemon’s silver tongue had brought him a seat during the introductions, but the negotiations were for the Sealord and the Sunset Lords alone.

No matter - Argemon had gone first to observe the dragons for a time before heading to the menagerie. Rhaenys the Dragonlord had brought a passenger with her, as well as the yellow dragon’s rider.

The youngsters were in pairs when Argemon arrived, keeping to the shadows, preferring to listen. The Sealord’s son and Lord Corlys’ son had taken quite a liking to each other, while the two girls, both so clearly daughters of Valyria, were another albeit less obvious pair.

He stayed out of sight, simply watching. There was nothing to hear at this distance, but so much to see. Corlys kept the boy close, and the why of it was obvious. The girls, though - the shorter, paler one was a Dragonlord herself even if her dragon was small.

Perhaps he would be better starting with the hatchlings, not with the formidable Rhaenys.

Chapter 13: Daemon III

Chapter Text

Bloodstone was the only choice for their landing. It wasn’t the northernmost of the Stepstones - that was Tyrosh - but it was close enough.

Daemon would be lying if he said he didn’t like how close they were to Dorne, but the island had a deep water harbor, and Corlys had prioritized that over all else. They would need supplies, and it wasn’t as if any could come from the islands themselves.

And it was easy to find - relative to the other islands, that was. Large and with might pass as something between a very large hill and a small mountain, though in truth Daemon would call it a mountain, for it was volcanic, though unlike Dragonstone it was long dead, the flame extinguished.

The sands bore a marked resemblance to those of Dragonstone - so dark to almost be black - though they had their differences. Streaks of rusty red crisscrossed the beaches, and the sand itself was finer by Daemon’s judgment - it certainly had a tendency to hang in the air in a way that Dragonstone’s sand didn’t.

But Daemon hadn’t thought much of the sand on the first day - there was too much to do. The pirates of the Triarchy hadn’t been waiting for them on the beaches. In fact, the entire island had been almost deserted. Their only company that first day had been a few confused sea birds. The lack of any trees on the island had been an unwelcome surprise - the entire island was naught but the infernal volcanic sand, broken only on occasion by single pathetic shrubs.

Caraxes liked it well enough, rolling the sand and trilling happily, but the true problem of the sand had become clear when the cloud that Daemon’s dragon had kicked up drifted toward the men in the sea breeze, and the sounds of coughing began to fill the air.

They’d moved the campsite upwind of the place that Caraxes had appointed as his lair, but it only helped so much - the winds seemed to swirl in a way that always blew the infernal dust back toward them.

The first night had been peaceful enough, though Daemon hadn’t slept much. The sea had been calm, and the air still. There hadn’t been any dust.

The arrow that greets them in the morning is most unwelcome. It is fletched with gaudy feathers that must have been dyed by a particularly indecisive Tyroshi, for the colors are loud and blatant against the dark sand.

It is buried in the ground, so it was most likely fired, but the angle tells Daemon that it could not have been fired from far away if it was in fact was fired rather than being placed into the ground directly.

The message tied to the shaft of the arrow is hardly unexpected - they certainly didn’t think the Triarchy would be happy with their presence, but even Daemon had thought they would have a few more days before their new neighbors arrived.

The signature is messy, but not so much that the signatory is not immediately clear. Craghas Drahar, Prince-Admiral of Myr.

Daemon spends most of the next two days flying with Caraxes, mapping the islands and islets. The channels between the Stepstones were treacherous things, oftentimes passable only at low tide or high tide, leaving it a most dangerous place to send ships outside of the two shipping routes. The Dornish route, which hugged the coast, and the Tyroshi route, which was toward the eastern end of the island chain, though technically speaking Tyrosh wasn’t quite part of it.

The Dornish didn’t impose a particularly high tariff, but their route was too shallow for most ocean-going vessels, so traders gravitated to the Tyroshi route.

The islands were largely hom*ogenous - low slabs of weathered rock, lacking in any real tree cover, save for Bloodstone’s and Grey Gallows’ dead volcanoes. Corlys thought it likely that Grey Gallows had once been part of Bloodstone - and from above Daemon could see his point. The dark sands both held the same rust streaks.

Corlys and Vaemod had been overseeing the construction of a reinforced camp while Daemon and Laenor split the scouting, searching for their foes.

Daemon found nothing but the wreck of a Braavosi ship, and Laenor had fared just as poorly.

Corlys and Vaemond had managed not to kill each other, and the fortified encampment was mostly built. Nothing had come from their foes since that first arrow, and the men were starting to relax even if Daemon himself was still on edge. There weren’t many places to hide on Bloodstone, and yet their enemies were hiding distressingly well.

The first man went missing during the third night, though his friends hadn’t reported him missing until well into the fourth day. He had gone to the latrines during the night and seemingly never returned.

Two more men went missing over the course of the next week, and neither they nor the first man showed up. The men were starting to mutter, and Daemon couldn't blame them. Three men gone, and not so much as a hint as to their fate. Perhaps they’d fallen on some of the more treacherous stones and been swept away by the tide. But it didn’t make sense. As much as it was easy enough to lose one’s footing on the treacherous sand, a tumble to the dark sand was unlikely to do more than sprain an ankle. And so there wasn’t anything he could say as the whispers mounted, day by day.

The food supply was tenuous, but it wasn’t what worried Daemon - there was no water here besides the salty sea. They would die of thirst long before they died of hunger. He should have paid more attention as Corlys explained their supply routes, their lifeline. It was by sea, to Pentos and Driftmark. And in time, hopefully to Braavos and Lorath. Rhaenys was persuasive.

The harbor did at least give them a safe place to keep the ships at night, but they couldn’t stay. The voyage back wasn’t a long one, and Corlys hadn’t brought a terribly large army, but the army at times consisted of simply an ever-thirsty, ever-hungry mass of men. And Daemon was acutely aware that both Tyrosh and Myr were in a reasonably good position to have a chance at interfering with their supply lines. For himself he had nothing to fear - Caraxes could be at Dragonstone in less than a day if necessary, but Corlys had brought an army, albeit a small one. The shipping lanes needed to stay open.

And so he had flown north the next few days, over the open sea. Checking for a hostile fleet that wasn’t there.

The mutterings were far louder when he returned. The three men had been found, on the opposite end of Bloodstone, dead. Obviously tortured, and half-eaten by the crabs. There had been another note from Drahar - or Crabfeeder, as the men had named him. It was less an invitation to leave and more a threat that they would all end their lives on that beach, as food for the crabs.

A young man - more a boy, one that couldn’t be older than Rhaenyra, came forward, stammering that he had heard faint screams one night. He had thought it was only the wind. Daemon can only nod. He probably would have thought the same.

Vaemond wants to whip the boy, but Corlys’ common sense prevails. The boy leads them to the place.

They find the first entrance to the caves that afternoon. It’s narrow, and ever so dark. Too small for a dragon. Really only wide enough for a single man. No one wants to be the first into the darkness. Daemon tosses a torch, but it only reveals seemingly endless darkness.

Daemon has Caraxes block the entrance the next day, but within the next week they’ve found four more entrances. The island is riddled with these caves that must be the home of their enemies, and if Daemon knows anything about volcanic caves - and he’s spent enough time on Dragonstone that he if anyone would - then all the caves are interconnected. They can collapse all the entrances they find, and there would still be more. Some are small and barely count. Others are by the beach, and half-submerged.

The disappearances slow as the men become more wary - even in the day no one leaves the camp alone - but they do continue.

Every single man turns up within a week, staked to the sand. The mutters of Crabfeeder grow louder.

Tyrosh and Myr have at least not interfered with their supplies yet, but neither is Corlys in possession of a way to navigate through the Stepstones without paying their tariffs. If they were generous then they have partially conquered this island - for it is theirs by day, but it is their foe’s by night.

The days fade into weeks, and still, the Tyroshi and Myrish fleets do not contest them. A testament to Lord Corlys’ mighty fleet.

The weather has no such compunctions. The first storm is relatively mild, coming up from the south, and only dumping rain on their camp and their ships. The strength in the winds had been mostly gone.

The second comes through far more slowly, and the winds haven’t died. Daemon understands why the islands are so windswept, so bare. Nothing that could withstand the full might of the winds can grow in a year.

The sand becomes an issue once again, the men coughing more and more, and the visibility becoming less and less. Perhaps Crabfeeder had a point, living underground. The wind doesn’t reach there, and so the sand would not be nearly as bad. But it isn’t just the wind - the waves lash at the beaches, tossing all ships that are not in the harbor to and fro. And Daemon gets the feeling that the caves Drahar and his men call home are partially flooded.

A poor choice indeed, between the flooding darkness of the caves and the dusty sand that has men coughing up blood on the bad days.

There is at least one discovery - a small sloop, wrecked on Bloodstone’s southern coast. Daemon had been wondering how Drahar was supplied. The casks of water and food aboard make it clear that it must be by darkness, that the small ships are laid up or even hidden within the largest cave entrances during the day, far from the fury of the dragons, only to slip out to their tasks at night.

Fire arrows are fired at the ships in the harbor, but they all fall short. Nonetheless, it spooks them all. Ships are far more susceptible to dragonfire than the pittance that is fire arrows, but once a fire takes hold it will kill the ship all the same.

The harbor is large enough that they can still use it, but only a few ships can fit in the safe center, and even leaving them there makes Corlys nervous. There are ways to make arrows fly further. And if an arrow can appear in the very center of their camp Daemon finds it unlikely that Drahar would be unable to get one on a ship if he really tried.

More likely, he muses, Drahar wants them to leave. And when one is trying to herd an animal away, it is best to leave an escape route. Corlys is rattled but it is Vaemond that is the problem. He wants to charge into the caves.

To do so would be suicide - there would be no better place to lay an ambush. And once they were abused there would be no escape through the narrow entrances. Their advantage is the dragons, but their enemy refuses to show his misshapen face so Daemon can inform their foe of the words of his house.

The first they hear of it is on the third day since the first boy had fallen ill. It’s not the Bloody Flux, but it is Flux nonetheless. Fifty men are ill by the sixth day. Only two have died, but it compounds their lack of success.

So much for their short victorious war.

Chapter 14: Rhaenyra VII

Chapter Text

The flight to Pentos almost feels like a normal one. Vhagar flies straight and true, beating her great wings only rarely, but Syrax almost dances around the great dragon, and Rhaenyra thoroughly enjoys it, that feeling of the wind whip across her face.

Syrax almost sings with joy, mirroring Rhaenyra’s happiness, her giddiness, even, but Vhagar only gives the occasional little acknowledgments. Still, the great dragon seems amused by Syrax’s antics in the air.

It’s easy enough to pick where to land - Rhaenyra and Laena have made this trip to Pentos before, and the Magisters know the routine. Technically, they share a bed, but it is so gigantic Syrax could have joined them as well and there would have been plenty of room left to spare. As it is, Syrax decides to snooze on the floor, near the fire in their rooms, while Vhagar remains outside the city. There is enough room for her to land in the area before the palace they stay in, but not enough that her presence does not take up the entire square. And so this is the arrangement.

It had been Prince Baelon’s arrangement as well, though in the time of Queen Visenya Vhagar had as-of-yet been small enough to reside in the square.

Rhaenyra finds she can’t sleep that night, giddy still but also nervous.

“Your mother will kill us.”

Laena snorts at that, turning to Rhaenyra and smiling while shaking her head. “She would never let us off that easily.”

Rhaenyra slips closer to Laena, nodding. “I suppose so. She does have to find us, first.”

That won’t be hard, and Laena raises an eyebrow. There’s actually a small chance that Rhaenys might make it to Qohor first, depending on how long she’s in the Stepstones. Rhaenyra and Laena would be following the dragonroad from Pentos to Norvos and then on to Qohor. Rhaenys had no such needs. She could fly clear across the plains and myriad of rivers that all flowed across northern Essos and she would still arrive at Qohor with ease.

“It’s not like Meleys can drag Vhagar back to Driftmark.”

That earns another snort from Laena. “Vhagar would probably hand me over to Mother herself. Syrax, though - she’s big enough now that Meleys couldn’t just drag her back either.”

Rhaenyra shakes her head. “Somehow I don’t think it will matter.”

Laena nods at that and pulls Rhaenyra closer, so there is only the span of a single hand between them.

“In all seriousness, do you think we’ve made the right choice? She’s going to be so disappointed. And-” Lanea looked away, and Rhaenyra suddenly felt terribly guilty.

Rhaenys didn’t really get mad, not with them, anyways. But the few times she’d been disappointed were somehow much worse.

“It-” Rhaenyra swallows, collecting her thoughts. “Lord Corlys needs more help. If we smash the Dothraki the Free Cities might offer their strength a little more freely. If nothing else we’re ready to go further afield. Your mother can’t keep up penned up on Driftmark forever. She let Laenor go off to war. He’s only what? Five years older than you?”

Laena nodded slowly. “Four. I know. That one-” she signed, a hand coming up to cover her eyes for a long moment before she spoke. “She’s let Laenor do so much for so long. At first, I thought it was because he had been a rider for so long, but I’m not sure anymore. Vhagar is all the protection anyone needs.”

Laena paused, but Rhaenyra waited. Her friend wasn’t done. She knew Laena well enough to know that. “My father always insisted, with Laenor that is. That he needed to be seen to be a dragonlord. That he needed to be seen to be a warrior. That it should be him and not Vaemond that bore messages to the Sealord or the Magisters.”

“Vaemond?”

Laena snorts, smiling. “I suppose you haven’t had the misfortune of meeting him. My father’s brother. He’s an idiot and his sons are somehow worse. He went to the Stepstones with them.”

Rhaenyra glances away before speaking, softly. “Do you think we’ve made the right choice?”

Laena opens her mouth a few times before speaking. “I don’t know. I want to think so. But-” she glances at Rhaenyra.

This would have been an easy choice if Rhaenys had told them to go or even given them a choice - Qohor or Braavos.

“When it comes to it I would rather do this, my mother’s wishes be damned, than sit on Driftmark, doing nothing. I ride the largest dragon in the world. We should put that to use, not sit on a rock in the middle of the Narrow Sea and twiddle our thumbs while the men play at war.”

There is a fire in Laena’s eyes that Rhaenyra finds sends butterflies through her own stomach.

“But let us talk no more of what my mother may or may not do when we see her next.”

They lay together in silence for what must be minutes. Syrax is already asleep, but Rhaenyra’s eyelids refuse to grow heavy.

Laena takes Rhaenyra’s hand, gently running her thumb over the princess’s palm. “We’ll be ok. I promise.”

And as if that was all she needed, Rhaenyra is suddenly exhausted, yawning as Laena gives her another smile and giving in, falling into the arms of sleep.

Laena gently shakes her awake in the predawn light.

“Rhaenyra.”

“Mmmmmm.”

“Rhaenyra.” Laena’s tone is firmer the second time, and Rhaenyra blinks a few times, rising rapidly. They’d talked about this back on Driftmark. It would be best to depart Pentos early, and not just because Rhaenys might be closer behind them than they would like. The dragonroads are no easy things to follow at night, and it is no short distance from Pentos to Qohor.

Rhaenyra begins to throw her riding gear back on, murmuring her thanks as Laena secured the ties.

Syrax was already awake, lazily looking at them as she still basked in the light of the fire.

They had informed the magister that they would be leaving early, so there is a small group of Pentosi there to see them off as Rhaenyra and Laena both climb onto Syrax’s back. Rhaenyra’s dragon is large enough to carry them both now, and landing Vhagar in the square in the as-of-yet dim light of the dawn seemed unwise.

Syrax puts down beside Vhagar, outside of the city, and they both dismount.

Laena’s great lady gently noses at Rhaenyra's little lady, but Rhaenyra only looks at them for a moment before turning to Laena.

“We follow the dragonroad closely. It will take us first east to the Little Rhoyne then northeast to Norvos and finally southeast to Qohor.”

Laena nods. “You’ll fly lower with Syrax, keeping eyes close on the road. I’ll be above and behind with Vhagar. She needs to be higher to fly efficiently.”

Rhaenyra nodded, taking a deep breath. It was almost hard to believe they were about to do this. Almost hesitantly, she embraced Laena, but her friend returned the embrace with ease.

There was a smile on her face when they broke apart. “We’ll be fine, Rhaenyra. The dragons won’t let anything happen to us.”

They part with those words, Laena scrambling up the ropes to her place high atop Vhagar’s shoulder while Rhaenyra had her much easier climb onto Syrax’s back.

Syrax doesn’t even need the command, in the end. It’s almost like she can read Rhaenyra’s thoughts, and the yellow dragon ascends skyward, Vhagar’s great green-bronze bulk behind her.

They take one last look at the sea before turning east.

Rhaenyra had been nervous about the first leg of their journey over the continent, but her fears proved to be unfounded. The dragonroad is easy to follow even before the sun burns the mist from the land.

The road itself is straight in a way that is only really appreciable from the air - Syrax only has to course correct very slightly at times due to the wind. Other than that they follow the black line over first plains and then hills.

There are no rivers yet, though Essos has so many. The hills grow larger and higher, though they stop short of full mountains as they near the Little Rhoyne. Even here it is easy to follow the dragonroad. These must be the Velvet Hills, and Rhaenyra can almost understand why they earn their name - the way the shrub forests sprinkle upon them does remind her of velvet.

They turn with the road at Ghoyan Drohe, heading northeast now.

The plain continues after the Velvet Hills, though the shade of it shifts, and the Hills of Norvos begin to loom in the distance.

They are making good time. Better than Rhaenyra thought they would. But the dragonroad becomes more difficult to follow as they head into the Hills.

It remains as straight as ever, but the Hills of Norvos are poorly named - they are more mountains than hills, and their sides are streaked with different rocks. Mostly the rocks are pale, almost white, but there are dark streaks, and Rhaenyra focuses more closely on the road.

The city almost sneaks up on them - it’s larger than it appears at first, and Rhaenrya can almost hear the bells as they turn over the city, heading southeast with the dragonroad. Heading on to Qohor.

Rhaenyra had originally thought it might be wise to stay a night in Norvos - the ride from Pentos all the way to Qohor was a long one - but with Rhaenys so near and Argemon’s plea so urgent it seemed unwise. If they had to, they could spend a night under Vhagar’s wings. But as the hills ended it seemed that they wouldn’t.

The plains east of the Hills of Norvos were different from the Pentosi flatlands - the color was different, and more rivers crisscrossed the landscape. The bridges that were parts of the dragonroads were perhaps the most impressive part of them, though Rhaenyra would put how straight they seemed as a very close second. It was something that could only be appreciated from the air.

The bridges were sturdy and solid, and the rivers never seemed to change from the place where the bridges were built.

That was one lesson Rhaenyra remembered well. Rhaenys had spoken at length of the dangers of using rivers for navigation - they twisted and turned, bending to and fro. And over time, the very course of the river changed. Old maps were not nearly as reliable as one might hope. It was best to use the dragonroads, straight as the day they were made, or the stars.

Rhaenys navigated by the stars, most of the time. Rhaenyra and Laena were learning, but it was an art form more than any other form of navigation.

Part of Rhaenyra wondered how dragons navigated themselves. Vhagar would go hunting sea leviathans far out into the Narrow Sea or even further north on occasion, but she never failed to find her way home in good time. It was as if she always knew where she was.

Perhaps it was that dragons could always find their riders - Syrax certainly had never failed to find her. But she was also careful to never become separated from Syrax.

They see the forest before the city comes into view. It’s vast, huge in the same way the Hills of Norvos had been, and green in a way Rhaenyra can’t quite put her finger on. Or, no. Not green. The sun seems to hear her thoughts, and the light shifts. The leaves of the forest are gold, like they hold sunlight itself.

The city is at the very edge of the forest, and seems so small next to its great neighbor, but it must be at least the size of King’s Landing, though Rhaenyra thinks it smaller than Braavos or Pentos. Larger than Norvos, though.

She glances up. Vhagar and Laena are still above them, and then begins to spiral downwards, looking for a good place to land and belatedly wondering what type of welcome they might receive.

Chapter 15: Rhaenyra VIII

Chapter Text

The city of Qohor is almost perfectly circular in a way that Rhaenyra had learned cities rarely were. They all seemed as such, from the ground, at least, but the shapes were far more obvious from the air. Many cities followed the flow or the land or the sea - King’s Landing, Pentos, Braavos, and Volantis, though Rhaenyra had not seen Volantis herself. Norvos followed the flow of the valley in which it rested, but Qohor stood a near-perfect circle, behind great tan walls.

Beyond the walls, the ground was also tan, devoid of any green for at least a hundred paces. The perfection of the two rings - the dirt ring beyond the walls and the walls themselves - struck Rhaenyra as odd, and it was only broken by the Qhoyne river, glittering amongst the city, running through it, cutting the city almost perfectly in half.

It is a colorful city, though the tan of the plain and the golden of the great forest to the east predominate. Still, greens, reds, even blues and purples wink up at the descending dragons. Vhagar announced their presence as only an elder dragon can, her deep roar echoing over the city.

There is no apparent reaction from their position high above, but Rhaenyra winces. Horses rarely take the first sight of a dragon well, and it takes them quite some time to even get used to Syrax. And Syrax is no Vhagar. In such a large city there is every chance some poor soul has been thrown from a horse, struck his head on a stone, and died.

Then again, what other way was there to arrive?

They circle the city almost half a dozen times, slowly descending, and the individual buildings become more and more obvious. A great black building that can only be a temple to the Black Goat, the stark white and large buildings that must be the city’s upper quarter, while the more colorful area beside it is likely the artisan’s quarter. The small tan buildings are the lower quarter. But what catches Rhaenyra’s eye even more than the great black temple is the great gilded dome that stood in the center of the city.

But there will be more time to ponder this city later. Rhaenyra scans the city again. Syrax can land almost anywhere, but Vhagar is an entirely different matter. She can land far more precisely than Rhaenyra had expected the first time she’d seen the great dragon, but the sheer size of the dragon still means it takes an entire city square.

The walled square in the upper city seems the better place to Rhaenyra, but ultimately it is Vhagar and Laena that will choose where to land. And they prefer an area by the river, near the great golden-domed structure that straddles the Qhoyne.

The people are there, scurrying away as the dragons land, and an awkward silence settles over the square even as Rhaenyra climbs off Syrax, giving her lady an affectionate scratch. The sun was still high in the sky - they’d made very good time, all things considered, but a sense of nervousness was settling over her.

Vhagar seemed totally unaffected by the better part of a day’s flying, glancing back and forth at the people on the edges of the square, giving them a wide berth.

Laena climbed down more slowly than Rhaenyra, dusting herself off and groaning as she stretched. Rhaenyra felt a pang of sympathy for her friend - it was a learned skill to not become tense while flying, and it was not a lesson that anyone learned quickly - or at least that was what Rhaenys had told them.

It was getting better, but a full day of flying was still not an altogether pleasant experience, even for Rhaenyra, and Laena had been flying for a far shorter period of time.

“Ugh.” Laena gave a final stretch and turned to face Rhaenyra. “Remind me again why we decided to do this in one day.”

Rhaenyra snorted in a decidedly unprincesslike way. “Your mother, hot on our heels.”

Rhaenys hadn’t beat them there, a small mercy.

They stretch and wait for dignitaries from the city. Admittedly, they perhaps could have planned this part better. It wasn’t as if the people of Qohor had any inkling they would be arriving.

Syrax for her part looked more tired than Rhaenyra liked - that was one thing that Rhaenys had drilled into them, and with good cause - that landing a tired dragon somewhere other than Dragonstone or Driftmark was unwise. But as tired as Syrax was, Vhagar’s eyes were keen, her movements sharp.

And in this, it was Vhagar that mattered. Syrax was no lady of war, not yet. There was a Valyrian word, but Rhaenyra’s tired mind could not recall it. It was akin to messenger, but had different implications. That was one thing that they took for granted, Rhaenyra thought. To a dragonlord the distance between Pentos and Qohor was less than a day. Driftmark to King’s Landing was little more than an hour. Driftmark to Braavos varied depending on the weather, but it was never more than a few hours.

Corlys on a swift ship counted his journey in days, and with favorable winds, it was a ten-day trip. The difference was even starker on land - Pentos to Qohor was moons, even over the dragonroads that Rhaenyra and Laena had followed. The world of the dragonlords was far smaller, in a way.

It takes an hour, by Rhaenyra’s estimation, for a cautious pair of robed men to approach them, addressing the two girls in nervous and slightly accented Valyrian.

“Hail to the Dragonlords!”

It was a little jarring to hear the different title. Rhaenyra had been a princess first all her life, but in a way, she found she quite liked it. The title of princess came from her father. Dragonlord, on the other hand, was her own.

“Hail to the Lords of Qohor!” Her voice is a little rougher than she would have liked, but after a full day of flying, it is hardly a surprise. The simple greeting appears to lower the tension markedly, at least when it came to the two messengers.

They come a little closer and converse in a somewhat stilted manner with the two girls. It’s awkward, and Syrax yawns at a somewhat inopportune time. But the second messenger seizes the moment to invite Laena and Rhaenyra to stay the night in a manse and meet with the full ruling council of the city the next day.

It’s less than ideal - Rhaenys is coming, and she might well arrive in the intervening timespan, but Rhaenyra doesn’t see a better option. She can only imagine how she might react if a dragonlord had descended from the skies above Driftmark while Rhaenys was away. She and Laena would certainly have delayed at least a day, trying to figure out what to do. It’s an entirely reasonable request, really.

Syrax follows them as the messengers lead them to a manse in the upper quarter. Vhagar takes off after a nod from Laena. She won’t go far. Not until she’s sure they are safe. Still, she’ll need to hunt soon, and that means a trip to the Shivering Sea for a dragon of Vhagar’s size.

The messengers are less than pleased by Rhaenyra’s instance when Syrax follows them into the manse itself, but on this, Rhaenyra will not budge. The Lords of Qohor probably don’t trust them, but equally, she would rather have Syrax very close tonight.

It’s a tighter squeeze than it had been in Pentos - the Pentosi are quite used to hosting dragonlords and have a particular manse with wider halls that they usually put all the dragonlords up in. Not so the Qohorik - though the manse is decorated with ornate art made of arranged pieces of broken tile and glass, some held in place by plaster, others almost fused into great tiles. It’s so very other, nothing like the tapestries that predominate in Westeros, and Rhaenyra isn’t sure what to make of it.

Laena flops into bed as soon as they are alone. She’s exhausted, and Rhaenyra isn’t much better. The food that is brought has Rhaenyra salivating - slices of sweetmeats, honey tarts, and the largest grapes she’s ever seen. She plucks one and rolls it between her fingers, marveling at the size and fullness of the grape.

But they probably shouldn’t eat any, she thinks. Not until they have the measure of the Qohorik.

The crunch from beside her startles Rhaenyra from her thoughts. Laena is licking her lips, and plucking a second grape from the cluster she’d taken.

“Laena we-” Rhaenyra stops at the look her exhausted friend gives her.

“If they’re poisoned, Vhagar will avenge us. I’m far too hungry to care at the moment.” She tossed another grape into the air, catching it in her mouth, and purring as she tasted the sweet juices.

And Rhaenyra can’t help herself, taking a grape of her own, delicately eating it. These are not the grapes of Westeros - where Rhaenyra had expected to find a seed there is none, just the sweet soft flesh.

The honey cakes are next - spicier than Rhaenyra had expected, but delicious. They offer Syrax one of the slices of sweetmeats, but Rhaenyra’s lady looks skeptical at first.

She does take it in the end. It’s not just Vhagar that will need to hunt soon, though if push comes to shove Syrax is more than happy to eat goats or small oxen. She detests sheep, as really do most dragons - the wool gets stuck between their teeth.

The sweet meats do prove tempting to the she-dragon, though from the little tilt of Syrax’s head after she nibbles the first slice she still isn’t sure, just hungry.

But the dragon does devour the entire quantity sent, leaving Rhaenyra and Laena the grapes and cakes.

Rhaenyra and Laena barely even wait for the sun to go down. Technically they’ve been provided separate rooms, but Syrax only fits in one of them, so they both tumble into the same bed. It’s not nearly so large as the one in Pentos - they can easily reach each other, but it is plenty large.

They should probably talk, or at least think about the morning, but Laena is asleep before Rhaenyra can so much as ask her anything, and Rhaenyra herself follows quickly enough, still in her riding leathers.

Rhaenyra wakes before the dawn, stiff as a board. It had been a mistake to sleep in riding leathers, and she really should know better by now - she and Laena had fallen asleep in half leathers a few times during those first few weeks on Driftmark together, and that was unpleasant enough. Full leathers were another matter entirely.

Then again, Laena, still asleep on the bed, is also in full leathers, though she’d managed to loosen some of the lacing, so she wouldn’t be quite as stiff as Rhaenyra.

There is an east-facing window, so Rhaenyra goes to watch the sunrise. The manse is only a two-story one, but they sit almost atop the hill that is prominent in the upper quarter, so the walls don’t obstruct the view as they might otherwise. It’s different from the sunrise at Driftmark or King’s Landing - the sun doesn’t rise over the sea, but rather over the great forest.

The leaves had been golden even in the afternoon light, but they seemed even more so in the dawn. Rhaenyra had been just about to wake Laena when the other girl’s arm came around her, her chin hooking over Rhaenyra’s shoulder.

“It’s beautiful.” Laena’s voice is still hoarse from sleep.

Rhaenyra nods and smiles. Even beautiful feels like such an inadequate term. It’s like nothing she’d ever beheld in Westeros. Magical in a way not even the dawn over the sea was.

There are dresses available, but both girls opt to re-lace their riding leathers. In this, they are dragonlords. Rhaenyra for one is itching to get out of the heavy and restrictive leathers, but now is not the time, not yet.

Five men and three women, all dressed finely but in a style that is relatively unfamiliar, though somewhat like that of Argemon as Rhaenyra recalls, await them in the reception room of the manse.

Chapter 16: Rhaenys I

Chapter Text

Rhaenys is tired as Meleys circles down to Driftmark, landing in the empty sands. Rhaenyra and Laena will be flying, then. She gets off Meleys and offers her red lady a few affectionate scratches before heading into the castle.

“Jaemon.” The man looks like a wreck. More so than he should.

“Lady Velaryon.” He bows. “The Princess-”

Rhaenys’ blood runs cold before he can even finish his statement. Rhaenyra and Laena are gone, together with their dragons. As, he adds, is their Qohorik guest.

The curses that fall from Rhaenys’ mouth are more fit for that of her sailor husband than a princess of the realm. “Qohor?” That’s where they had to have gone.

“They didn’t say, My Lady.”

Rhaenys nodded. “It’ll be Qohor, then. Otherwise our guest wouldn’t have gone.” She turns to Meleys. “Alas, Sweet Lady, I fear our day is not nearly over yet.”

Meleys gave a little puff of smoke. She seemed skeptical. Rhaenyra and Laena did have Vhagar with them. Or perhaps it was that Rhaenys had called her sweet.

Still, Rhaenys climbed back on her lady, and they were in the skies within minutes, heading east, across the sea.

It will be an agonizingly long flight, and one that Rhaenys knows she will spend worrying after the girls and what they might have gotten themselves into. Qohor was called the city of sorcerers for a reason. Vhagar would keep them safe from brigands, from the Dothraki, but it would be in the city, where Vhagar could not go, that the girls would be in danger.

But there is nothing she can do about it, not yet. And so Rhaenys lets her mind wander.

Corlys’ and Daemon’s war is not going as well as it should. Neither Caraxes nor Seasomke were large enough to burn their foes from the caves that riddled the Stepstones, and it was impossible to supply an army large enough to hold the area, even with coffers as deep as theirs. Add to that the unforgiving weather of the area, and Rhaenys is more of the opinion that it might be necessary to take direct action against Myr. They wouldn’t need to burn the whole city to make a point, but it would be such a fine line, and one that Rhaenys was not looking forward to drawing.

They would have to destroy Myr to the point where it could no longer be the bastion against them without alienating any of the other Free Cities. The last thing they needed was to win the war and become pariahs in Essos because of it. Perhaps merely destroying the port would do it, though even that would be no mean feat with three dragons if they intended to be quick about it.

The wind is mild over the waves of the Narrow Sea - just making little whitecaps on the waves far below. But Rhaenys does not envy those on Bloodstone. The sand is so fine that they will be breathing in the foul stuff even with such a mild breeze as this. But perhaps the winds are milder farther south. It had been a dead calm when she had departed that morning.

The plains of Essos loom out of the East soon enough, and Rhaenys ponders the one choice she has to make. Whether to take the dragonroads or to fly straight across the continent to Qohor. The former is certainly the route the girls took, but will be a good several hours longer. Perhaps even a quarter of a day.

Yet the wilds of Essos are no easy thing to navigate across, and if Rhaenys misses so much as one of the ever changing rivers she will have to wait for the stars to continue. And the girls might well have stopped at Norvos.

No, in this it is better to follow the dragonroads. Rhaenys turns Meleys to follow the road and lets her mind drift once more.

The dragonroads have always been a personal interest of Rhaenys’, albeit one that she rarely got to indulge in. Of all the pieces of Valyria that remained, they were perhaps the most visible, stretching line great scars across the vastness of Essos, marking the far-reaching expanse of the empire.

The making of the roads seemed simple enough, and Rhaenys and Meleys probably could have made their own roads given enough time and materials, but the charting of the roads was something else entirely. Rhaenys, even after years of research, still didn’t even know where to start on the navigation aspect, on how the old Valyrians had kept the roads straighter than any arrow.

And so much of the art of navigation itself was lost as well. Visenya had practically had to resurrect the art from only the journals of dead ancestors, and how much of her knowledge had managed to pass through the generations to Rhaenys herself was debatable. Rhaena had received Visenya’s tutelage, but Jaehaerys and Alysanne less so. They were more Visenya’s prisoners than her students. So it was nor surprise that Rhaenys had spent a great deal of time in Visenya’s journals, trying to learn. Trying to understand the stars and the seas, how to read the winds and the waves. Even now, Rhaenys suspects that she has only a shadow of Visenya’s knowledge, and even Visenya had only a faint shadow of what had been known before the doom. What then, did the girls have? The shadow of a shadow of a shadow?

Though through Vhagar the knowledge of Visenya did still live, at least for now. Rhaenys had been apprehensive about her daughter claiming the ancient dragon for more reasons than just the great size of Visenya’s mount. The loss of a dragon was a painful thing to see, and something that not all riders survived. It was selfish, but Rhaenys wanted to guard her daughter from that loss. But Vhagar’s call could not be denied, and so Rhaenys had made her peace with it. Dragons could live so very long, and Vhagar might yet outlive even Laena. The dragons of old Valyria had made it to half a millennia on occasion, though that had been rare. Most dragons made it to about 300 unless they died through more violent means.

So Vhagar likely had a good many years left, at least another half a century. Sometimes Rhaenys wondered how large the great dragons of Valyria - the ones who made it to half a millennia - had been. Vhagar seemed unfathomably large, but dragons could live centuries longer. A dragon that size might be half the size of the island of Driftmark, or perhaps even larger. The records were fragmentary, but dragons seemed to have not grown so large since the doom. Though perhaps that was just the age of the dragons involved. None of Aenar’s dragons had been ancient, and all of them had died young save for Balerion himself, and aside from Balerion no dragon since the doom had lived as long as Vhagar.

The plains turn into hills and mountains soon enough, as Meleys continues to speed onwards. There is something to be said for following the dragonroads, even when Rhaenys could navigate by other means. It allowed her mind time to rest, and Meleys’ mind as well. Following the endlessly straight road was easy compared to the intricate task of counting and identifying a myriad of rivers, all of which looked the same. The stars were easier than the rivers, but only by so much, and both Rhaenys and her lady preferred to sleep than to navigate the chilly night air.

There does become some art to it as the mountains deepen and the mists begin to curl in the air, hiding the dragonroad, and making it appear to still be shrouded in the smoke it had been born in.

The layering of the roads was more a tedious process than a complex one, and the Freehold had always used slaves for the hard labor involved, only bringing dragons in for the final fusing of the roads. Visenya had made an offhand comment in her notes about the maintenance of the dragonroads, but Rhaenys had never been able to find where that particular comment had originated from, and no dragonroad she had ever laid eyes on looked anything other than new, and pristine as the day they had been laid.

Why, then, would there be any need for maintenance. But perhaps Visenya was referring to a proto-dragonroad. The records on the techniques used to develop the roads were almost nonexistent on Dragonstone, but Visneya had traveled to Volantis more than once, and Rhaenys suspected that then Dragonlord Visenya (for her foremother had taken to the title of Queen with some distaste and always preferred the Old Valyrian style) had spent rather more time in the archives behind the black walls and rather less time in conversation with the triarchs.

The free city of Norvos looms beneath Rhaenys soon enough, almost hidden in the fog that shrouds its valley. For all Braavos had been the hidden city, Rhaenys had always thought that Norvos could well be called the same. The dragonroads alone betrayed its location. Beyond that the mountains hid it well.

But Rhaenys would be out of the mountains soon enough, and onto the plains of Qohor. She had been to the city of sorcerers only the barest handful of times as opposed to her almost monthly visits to Pentos. As much as the Lords of Westeros tended to think the continent of Essos to be monolithic, then didn’t understand just how vast the continent and the freehold that had once stood upon it had been, and even in the time of the freehold the continent hadn’t been monolithic, not that certain of the factions among the dragonlords hadn’t tried to make it that way.

But others had thought differently, and Norvos and Qohor still stood, outlasting even the freehold that had birthed them. Rhaenys squinted at the horizon. The forests of Qohor had a tendency to loom of the east before the city itself came into view - the walls of the city were stout, but it was not a city of spires as Valyria had been or even one of the vastness of Volantis or even Pentos. For now there was naught but the dust covered plain, even the faint shimmer of the river Qhoyne was yet absent.

And none of the landmarks that Rhaenys remembered from her previous trips to the city were the first to loom out of the past - the great pillar of black and gray smoke was decidedly not what she hoped for.

Chapter 17: Rhaenyra IX

Chapter Text

The eight lords and ladies in the reception room of the manse give deep bows to Rhaenyra, Laena, and Syrax. Rhaenyra inclines her head in return, and just that seems to put the eight at ease and diffuse some of the tension in the room. Rhaenyra remembers something from one of Rhaenys’ lessons - it hadn’t been the subject of the lessons itself, rather something that had developed from Laena asking a somewhat off topic question about how etiquette related to dragons, but the part Rhaenyra remembered was that Dragonlords of Old Valyria traditionally bowed to no one, not even each other, in public, but it was considered good manners to acknowledge bows with a head nod.

“Dragonlords. We are to conduct you to the ruling council of Qohor.” One of the men speaks for the group. His Valryian is accented by the standards of the High Valyrian Rhaenyra knows so well from her family, but easy enough to understand.

“Lead on, my lord.” The man bows deeply again, seemingly surprised to be addressed, and the large doors to the manse are opened.

“We have prepared palanquins and horses for your Eminences.”

Rhaenyra glances at Laena. She, for one, is still stiff from their long ride the day before, and Syrax is not likely to forgive easily if anyone or anything other than herself carries Rhaenyra in her presence, but Rhaenyra doesn’t want to subject her little lady to anything that might overly tire her considering that if things go terribly wrong Syrax will have to carry both Laena and Rhaenyra unless they are in a place where Vhagar can land.

“Your offer is kind, my lords.” Rhaenyra glances over the city to the great dome. “That dome is our destination, yes?”

“Yes, Dragonlord.” The man seems nervous.

“It is not far. And I wish to see your lovely city for myself. What about you, sister?” Rhaenyra doesn’t realize that she’s called Laena her sister until a moment after the word is said and she internally winces. For so long she has thought of Laena as such - as a friend so close that they must be sisters at heart if not in truth - but she had intended to tell Laena when they were alone, not before a group of messengers and more than a few citizens of the Free City of Qohor who were now looking on.

“I find myself agreeing, sister-wife.” Rhaenyra imagines her skin must flush some, but even if she couldn’t see the smile on Laena’s face she could hear it so clearly in her voice. “And I’m sure these messengers would be happy to walk with us and tell us of their fair city while we walk.”

The poor messenger is nodding though his eyes seem blown wide with fright. “Of course, Dragonlords. It would be our honor.”

“Lead on.” Rhaenyra nods to the great dome, and the man begins to lead them down an avenue.

They make a bit of an odd procession - some guards out front, then the eight messengers with Rhaenyra and Laena, then Syrax directly behind them, keeping an eye on everything while also managing to be distracted by almost everything they pass. The slaves carry empty palanquins and lead the horses behind that - a most healthy distance as the horses are more than a little wary of Syrax - before more guards bring up the rear.

The city is very different to the King’s Landing that Rhaenyra remembers - the stone is tan instead of red, and the avenues are wider. Even a dragon so small as Syrax still was would struggle to fit down the avenues of King’s Landing, but by Rhaenyra’s estimate Meleys or Caraxes could have navigated the main avenues of Qohor. Then again, Qohor was old, much older than King’s Landing. Built to at least accommodate Dragonlords.

Sometimes Rhaenys’ history lessons really seemed to bring it all home to Rhaenrya on just how young the Targaryen presence in Westeros really was. It sounded so old when Rhaenys had described Aegon I as Rhaenyra’s grandfather’s grandfather’s father, but he had raised the Red Keep and the city of King’s Landing barely a century ago. In the East, or even other places in Westeros, history was easily counted into the thousands of years.

The messengers do tell them of the history most enthusiastically as the walk continues and the dome grows ever larger and higher. It had been one of the first things they had described, the great dome of the stars - so named for the fact that its interior was perfectly painted to look like the night sky. But Rhaenyra pays more attention to the people that line their path.

Most are somewhere between curious and fearful, eyes glancing mostly to Syrax. Rhaenrya’s golden lady loved it, glancing around in turn, ever curious. But some of the citizenry - though Rhaenyra knew enough of the East to imagine that some of those she supposed were citizens were in truth slaves - looks to her and Laena as well with wondrous eyes.

What must they look like to the people of Qohor but something out of the past, out of the pages of ancient history? Only a century had passed since Aegon had conquered Westeros, but the Doom had been another century before that, and as the East seemed old to Rhaenyra with its buildings and the records that must be collecting dust in the archives of the Free Cities, the memory of the common folk - the folk who learned their tales from the parents and their grandparents - must be a shorter thing.

They take a long moment to stand in the square before the great dome of the stars. Vhagar is overhead - high enough as not to appear too present of a threat, but very certainly present. And as Rhaenyra could herself attest to, the old she-dragon was remarkably quick.

The great dome itself is even larger from the inside - Syrax could fly if she so chose, but it would be somewhat cramped. Rhaenyra estimated the dome itself was twice as far across and at least three times as high as the great dome of the Dragonpit.

There was a dais with a dozen chairs upon it, but the Lords of Qohor instead met Rhaenyra, Laena, and Syrax on the floor itself, bowing as deeply as their messengers had.

“Dragonlords.” They intone the title as one, but Rhaenrya can hear nervousness and something that borders on worship. “Welcome to our city.”

Rhaenyra and Laena incline their heads.

An impressively blank-faced man speaks then for the council. “What has brought you here, Eminences?”

The tension in the room creeps higher with his words, and Syrax takes a step close to the girls, glancing around.

What had brought them here? Argemon had said they needed help.

“A lord of your fair city - Argemon, he called himself - sought us out and invited us to see the marvels of the Free City of Qohor.” Laena is stretching the truth at best, but it is a response that diffuses much of the tension in the room at a stroke. Even Syrax nuzzled Rhaenyra’s hand, asking for scratches which the princess happily provided.

The blank faced man nods. “And we are honored to receive such esteemed guests. Alas there is not much entertainment fitting of those of your lofty stature during this season - the city is dusty and thirsty, awaiting the coming rains, but there is some spectacle we might offer you. A foolish Khal of the Dothraki has come to our walls demanding tribute, and we would invite you to watch him and his horde be smashed before the walls of the city.”

Rhaenyra glanced at Laena, who nodded. “Lead on, My Lord.”

The entire council bows again. “Dragonlords.”

They do accept the palanquin this time, and Syrax surprisingly doesn’t seem the least bit annoyed during the travel to the walls of the city, happily following behind and even up the walls.

“What are we doing?” Rhaenyra’s words are low enough that even the slaves that carry the palanquin won’t hear. “This is getting out of hand.”

“Being hospitable guests. If the Qohorik wish to stand against the Dothraki themselves then we should let them.” Laena sounds very much like her mother in that moment, and Rhaenyra wonders how close Rhaenys is behind them. A day? Could she arrive within the next few hours? “It may seem alien and even barbaric to us for them to call this entertainment, but it is their city and for now we are their guests. And we came here thinking to burn the same Dothraki.”

Rhaenyra nods. It’s still a disconcerting feeling, and the feeling only grows once they are atop the walls. Row upon row Unsullied - that is what the blank-faced man calls them - stand on the dusty plain. Perhaps 2000 in all. So many, but so few. It takes a long moment for Rhaenyra to recognize the Unsullied as the same black-garbed, spear-wielding guards that had led the procession to the great dome of the stars.

The Dothraki horde emerges slowly from the trees, almost like a river or a flood. There are many more Dothraki than Unsullied - ten times as many men, at least. Perhaps even more, and Rhaenyra glances at Laena. What have they gotten themselves into indeed?

Another of the Lords - not the blank-faced man - is regaling them with the tale of the 3000 of Qohor and how they had turned back a great horde of Dothraki during the Century of Blood.

But Rhaenyra and Laena are watching the field. The Unsullied are not flat against the wall of the city, but close enough that the Dothraki do not encircle them, only surrounding them on three sides.

The Lord’s narration continues, speaking of how the Dothraki charge like mad animals onto spears. But the Dothraki in the field don’t. They loose arrows - all normal and expected, and the Lord tells them. The Unsullied had shields for this very reason, and the Dothraki do not carry enough arrows for them to be anything other than a mild inconvenience.

But a quarter of an hour later, the torrent of arrows has yet to cease. Very few Unsullied have fallen, but Rhaenyra has no doubt many are injured. It’s then that she sees the caravans of horses and other odd beasts of burden walking back and forth along the lines and Dothraki warriors going from their positions to the caravans before returning.

“They brought extra arrows.” She muses aloud. The Lord seems confident in his reply - something that the battle will take a little longer, but it won’t matter in the end. A quarter of an hour drags on to half an hour, then a full hour. Still the rain of arrows upon Unsullied does not cease. Still so few of the Unsullied have fallen, but Rhaenyra can see the blood on the duty plain. They must nearly all be injured at this rate.

A horn sounds, and the arrows do finally cease as the Dothraki take up a chant in their tongue that is more than a little unnerving, even to Rhaenyra behind the walls of Qohor with Syrax near at hand. She looks up. Vhagar is faintly visible high, high above. Further than Rhaenyra would like.

The Dothraki charge then, and Rhaenyra winces as they smash into the Unsullied. The sound of the clash is like nothing she has heard before, and both sides seem to have come off the worst of it - the Unsullied formation is holding for now, but it bent at the first charge, and it is clear the first will not be the last. Still, the bodies of horses and Dothraki are evident on the dusty plain, even if it is becoming harder to distinguish what is going on.

The next charge is front the side. The Unsullied there held fast better than the front of the formation had at the first charge, but their numbers were thinning and there had only been so many of them to begin with.

The formation breaks on the third charge, splitting in two, but still the remaining Unsullied stand fast through two more charges as their numbers dwindle. Rhaenyra’s stomach churns and she can barely watch as the last of them are cut down. The blank-faced man seems rather less blank-faced.

“Dragonlords-”

Laena stops the man with a simple raised hand. “We may not be of your city, my lord, but I do not think the Dothraki will bother with such distinctions and we are certainly in your city.” She gives a small gesture towards the sky, towards Vhagar. Calling the dragon. Come hither. “And I for one have no intention of dying today or being the prize of a Dothraki Khal.”

Chapter 18: Rhaenyra X

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra realizes that she doesn’t have a plan as Syrax beats her wings, throwing them skyward and clearing the what for Vhagar. Laena’s great she-dragon isn’t going to be able to land on the walls, but the height of the walls is just about correct for Laena to be able to mount Vhagar from them without the usual ladder climb.

Syrax goes into an instinctive circle around the remains of the chaotic battle between the Unsullied and the Dothraki, but there is nothing of the wrath that Rhaenys had described as indicative of an angry dragon. Syrax is merely curious, this spectacle a continuation of the last few days.

The Dothraki don’t seem to pay Syrax much of a mind, though Rhaenyra for one rather suspects that is because their eyes are firmly focused on Vhagar as the great dragon beats her wings and leaps into the sky.

Syrax might not understand anything of war, and Laena and Rhaenyra have only theoretical knowledge, but Vhagar wastes no time, breathing a great line of fire between the Dothraki and the Forest of Qohor.

And the Dothraki scatter like ants - the screaming horses are audible as they flee in all directions - some along the fire, but most towards the city. Vhagar cuts them off again with another long line of fire between the Dothraki and the city, though the second line of fire is much closer to the city than the first had been to the forest - tongues of fire lick at the base of the walls.

And the smell of burning, roasting flesh begins to fill the air. Vhagar didn’t seem to be aiming directly for the Dothraki - not yet, at least, but with a dragon so large the niceties of what exactly she was aiming for didn’t seem to perhaps be the most important.

Rhaenyra brings her hand up to cover her nose - the smell is revolting, more for what she knows it to be than the odor itself. But Syrax has a different thought.

Rhaenyra has rarely been upon her golden lady when Syrax has been hunting - to do so is more than a little dangerous, especially now when many of Syrax’s preferred prey items are not all that much larger than Rhaenyra herself - but she recognizes the way Syrax snaps to attention, zeroing in on a burned but still living horse and beginning to dive. She’s hungry, after all, having had only a few tid-bits after flying all the way from Driftmark.

And Rhaenyra half panics. They can’t land, not now. Syrax can carry two people now, but there is a massive difference between two people and a person and a horse. And her golden lady is young enough that the spears of the Dothraki are still a danger, just as the arrows of the Dothraki will be a danger to Rhaenyra. Arrows that they still have plenty of.

Breaking a dragon’s food response is hard. Rhaenys had impressed that upon them. If a dragon wants to eat something there are precarious few ways of stopping it that do not involve another dragon.

“Syrax, Syrax.” Rhaenyra can barely hear her own voice over the dim of battle and the rush of the wind. She doubts Syrax can hear her at all. “NO.”

And as much as her lady hadn’t responded to her own name, she does break off a little bit, her attention once more on Rhaenyra, but still clearly hungry. Rhaenyra imagines her pretty lady is thinking that Rhaenyra must know where a better snack than the poor dying horse is. Her eyes race over the battlefield, though by now it is a field of fire and ash more than battle.

Vhagar hadn’t stopped, and four walls of fire still burned to various degrees, though there were some gaps where rocky outcroppings jutted from the ground and the grass was burning itself out terribly quickly. A few Dothraki were slipping through the gauntlet, even if Vhagar was containing most of them in an ever tightening spiral of fire and death.

A flash of something - silver perhaps - caught Rhaenyra’s eye, and she saw a group of four men on horseback navigating through one of the gaps, though the grass in that area was burnt through and not aflame anymore. One of the men had excessively long hair, and that seemed to be the source of the silver.

Syrax notices her attention and begins to zero in on the group. Perhaps she is pleased with Rhaenyra for directing her to a much larger meal, albeit one that Vhagar has not already partially pre-cooked. The dive starts slowly at first, and it almost reminds Rhaenyra of the lazy dancing and twirling that she and her lady sometimes do just for fun, but there is a cold purpose and intent in every one of Syrax’s movements.

They are still a good distance above the Dothraki when the men realize that Syrax is chasing them, and they urge their horses faster. It doesn’t matter. Syrax is far faster than any horse.

The first jet of flame takes out the rear-most rider and scares one of the other horses so badly that it also throws its rider in the panic, falling as it does, but Syrax doesn’t stop. She’s zeroed in on the lead rider and horse. A second jet of takes the remaining two riders and horses out, but Syrax is going to fast land, and so Rhaenyra’s golden lady circles once more.

It’s clear that Rhaenyra isn’t going to be able to stop her this time, so she takes a long look over the battlefield. Vhagar is still circling, low and slow, but the great dragon isn’t raining down flame anymore. Rhaenyra wondered how long it had been since they had mounted their dragons. Minutes. Perhaps half an hour? More likely a quarter of an hour. But it seemed like an eternity she had been with Syrax in the air, watching the battle and struggling with her hungry lady.

More importantly, there were no riders or men - only burnt corpses - so far as Rhaenyra could see. It wasn’t like she really had a choice, but it was probably safe to land.

Syrax goes straight from the corpse of what had been the leading rider’s horse, giving it a second roasting - Caraxes might like his meat on the rarer side, but Syrax preferred her food fully cooked.

Rhaenyra stays atop her lady for a good few minutes. She doesn’t get to watch Syrax eat often, and of all the places to be on her lady is probably much safer than on the ground.

But the glint of silver and gold catches her eye - the lead rider must have died in his fall from the horse, as while he is burned those injuries are only grievous, not really fatal, so far as Rhaenyra can see. He is the one with the glint in his hair, and Rhaenyra - perhaps against her own best judgment - dismounts, carefully keeping both eyes on Syrax for a long moment. But the dragon is completely ensconced in devouring the burnt horse so Rhaenyra takes a cautious few steps over the lead rider.

His hair was indeed excessively long - longer than Rhaenyra’s or Laena’s, and probably longer even than Rhaenys’. It was as different to her own as could be - dark and thick, though like Rhaenyra’s hair it was done in braids. Each braid was adored with countless shining little bells - some looked gold, some silver, some glass or even carved from gemstones. Part of Rhaenyra wanted to go closer still, to see the fascinating little bells closer, but something stopped her in her tracks - the smell, perhaps. Or perhaps the sudden thought that while he looked dead he might not be.

She’s still there the minutes or hour later that Laena arrives, Vhagar landing by a thoroughly full Syrax who had in the end managed to devour just over one and a half horses.

“Rhaenyra.” Rhaenyra hears Laena’s voice, but her mind is still far off for a few moments until Laena’s hands come to grasp her arms. “Rhaenyra.”

“Laena.” The girl in front of her looks a mix between relieved and angry, and she’s embracing Rhaenyra a moment later, tight as can be.

“Have you been here this whole time? I couldn’t find you over by the city.” Laena’s words are quick even if the worry is bleeding out of her voice.

“Partially. Syrax-” she gestures at the half eaten horse. “I think I was with you for the first few minutes but then she went into hunting mode and I was mostly just a passenger.”

Laena embraces her again, and Rhaenyra returns it fully.

“Well. As much as I am displeased with your little lady for scaring me like that, I must say she had decent taste. I think that-” she gestures to the Dothraki with long hair and the man bells braided into it “was the Khal.”

Rhaenyra finds herself nodding. The finery, the close escort of riders. Yes. The man was likely the Khal.

“Rhaenyra? Are you alright?” Laena lifts Rhaenyra’s arms, checking her for injuries or anything of the sort.

“Yes. I’m fine. It- I think the smell got to me.” Perhaps there is more to it than that, but the smell had certainly gotten to Rhaenyra.

“Yep, it stinks. I’m sure the Qohorik will have baths of some sort. We’re both covered in soot.”

Rhaenyra nods. Perhaps a bath will help. “Something about it all just feels … wrong.” That seems the only way to put it. The Dothraki had attacked Qohor, but there was something about the field of ash and dying fire and burnt corpses that ate away at Rhaenyra.

Laena pulls her close, resting their sooty foreheads together. “It’s going to be alright, Rhaenyra. We have only my mother’s ire to fear. Let’s go back to the city and get cleaned up.”

Rhaenrya looks at Syrax, who is still snoozing. “I may need to get a ride from you.”

Laena gives a little snort and presses a kiss to Rhaenyra’s sooty cheek. “I’m sure Vhagar can manage to carry both of us.”

Rhaenyra smiles at that. Something is still weighing on her, but the touch of humor has lighted the world to a degree.

“And Rhaenyra-” Laena’s gloved hand cups Rhaenyra’s cheek. “Don’t scare me like that again, alright?”

Rhaenyra nods, and Laena seems to hesitate for a moment before leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to Rhaenyra’s lips. Rhaenyra blushes, embracing her friend once more.

Syrax is willing to take Rhaenyra back to the city in the end, though the flight is possibly the laziest that Rhaenyra has ever seen out of her lady.

Qohor is jubilant - more so than Rhaenyra really thinks they ought to be, but she and Laena manage to get through the worshipful nature of it all and into the finest baths Rhaenyra has ever seen - far more ornate and likely older than those she knows well from Pentos.

The soot comes off with some scrubbing, though Rhaenyra thinks it will be some time before she or Laena have it out of their hair. Rhaenys mentioned that something about a sort of helmet that one could wear while riding, and perhaps Rhaenyra should try and track one down when she returned to Driftmark. Not that a helmet would be of all that much help against soot.

For all that the battle - if it can even be called that - had been very short, Rhaenyra finds herself exhausted even as the sun is only just starting to dip in the sky. Syrax was already snoozing away in the reception area of the manse, and Laena was munching on more grapes as she watched Vhagar from the window. The great dragon had eaten a dozen or so horses, but not a full meal as Laena had told her.

They are expecting the musical call that sounds in the evening gloom - they’ve been expecting it all day - but Rhaenyra’s blood still freezes as Meleys’ musical voice echoes over the city. Rhaenys had arrived.

Chapter 19: Rhaenyra XI

Chapter Text

“She’s going to kill us.” Rhaenyra doesn’t mean it, but she hesitates to imagine what Rhaenys will do to them.

Laena snorts. “Worse. She’ll ground us. Literally” She ate another grape.

“Has she ever grounded you before?” It will be some time before Rhaenys gets to them - in fact Rhaenyra would not put it past Laena’s mother to purposely drag things out with the Qohorik to let them stew in the anticipation for an extra hour or two.

“Yes and no. I didn’t have Vhagar, so it was less that she was grounding me and more that I was confined to my quarters.”

“What for?”

“I dumped a type of sauce in Laenor’s hair. It was some years ago. He made fun of my lack of a dragon - it was just after my egg went cold. Mother was furious with him - she made father take him on his next trip to Braavos and Seasmoke was left behind with Meleys. The day before he was due to leave on the trip I acquired a large pot of a very sticky sauce that Father adores - it’s from the Summer Isles - and dumped it on Laenor. So Mother confined me to my quarters outside of meals and lessons until I finished cleaning the rug that some of the sauce got into. I was stubborn for about a day and a half but I had it cleaned to her satisfaction by the end of the third day.”

Rhaenyra finds herself with a smile on her face. She can picture Laena with the pot, and then a very annoyed Laena with the rug.

“Do you think she’ll make us clean every rug in Hightide?”

“I doubt it. I had to clean the rug because of the sauce. Mother didn’t punish Laenor and I often, but when she did the punishment usually fit the crime. If anything I would guess that she’ll double the amount of correspondence that we have to go through or something similar and tell us that if we want to be diplomats then we get to do the work of diplomats.”

Rhaenyra nods. It sounds like what she’s learned of Rhaenys. And as much as she and Laena had disobeyed Rhaenys, they were still very much in one piece and in good spirits.

The sun is fully down about two hours later when Rhaneyra hears Meleys land by the villa. The hours had mostly been spent in silent trepidation, probably just as Rhaenys intended. As much as Laena was probably right, Rhaenyra had no doubts that Rhaenys would put some thought into their punishment, and she could have taken the entire flight over from Driftmark to think on it.

“Shall we?” Laena is standing in the doorway.

Rhaenyra nods and follows her friend.

Rhaenys is still dealing with her gloves and riding leathers as they enter the reception room, and Rhaenyra finds her gaze affixed on the floor. There had been a coil of guilt when she and Laena had first left Driftmark, but now that guilt is back in full force.

“Girls.” Rhaenys voice doesn’t betray so much as the slightest hint of anger. “You seem to have taken a rather creative interpretation of my instructions.” She takes a few smooth steps over to Rhaenyra and Laena, eyes carefully examining both of them. “Are you at least both in one piece?”

“Yes.” Laena answers while Rhaenyra nods.

“It’s my fault.” She blurts out. Because it had been her idea.

“Rhaenyra, as much as I don’t doubt that you flew here of your own accord, I do not imagine that Syrax could drag Vhagar all the way from Driftmark.” She gave Laena a pointed look. “And I think it is safe to say that if you had any real doubts about this then Vhagar would have no issues whatsoever herding Syrax back to Driftmark.” Rhaenyra understands Rhaenys’ meaning. You are both here. You are both culpable. “But I would rather hear what happened in your own words than be left to speculate. What happened?”

“We-” Rhaenyra pauses and glances at Laena before continuing. “After what Argemon said it didn’t feel right just to leave the city to the mercy of the Dothraki. So we decided to do something about it.”

“So I saw.” Rhaenys gestures for them to sit, and they all do. “But it took him months to get from Qohor to Braavos to Driftmark. As much as your timing proved fortuitous for the city, why did you think it would before you arrived?”

The girls glance at each other. “We didn’t think that far ahead.” Laena admits, and Rhaenys nods. “We flew over the dragonroads, from Pentos to Norvos to here, arriving yesterday.”

Yesterday, Rhaenyra mused. It feels like it has been an age since they set out from Driftmark. Had it been such a short time ago?

Laena continues. “We met the Council of Qohor and presented ourselves as curious and wishing to see their city. The Dothraki attacked this morning and made relatively short work of the Unsullied that the Qohorik sent out of the city to fight them. After that…” She trails off and looks away before looking back at Rhaenys and speaking with a cold steel in her voice. “I believe my exact words were that I, for one, had no intention of being the prize of some Dothraki Khal, and that while we might not be of the city of Qohor we were certainly in the city of Qohor and the Dothraki would not make such a distinction. Vhagar essentially did the rest.”

Rhaenyra nods when Rhaenys glances at her. Laena had summed it up well.

“We didn’t promise the Qohorik anything.” She adds. “Afterwards we both claimed exhaustion and have been at the baths or here ever since.”

Rhaenys nods. “As much I won’t pretend that I approve of your choice to leave in the first place, you’ve done just about everything right since then, and I dare say you both will never have to pay for anything again in this city. We will discuss this more once we are all back on Driftmark, but that is for then. You both look like you are about to keel over here and now. Get some sleep. I’ve informed the Qohorik that we are leaving for Driftmark at first light and that they may send an envoy to treat with us there.”

Rhaenyra nods, and she and Laena gratefully retreat back to the bedroom, both asleep soon enough, too tired to worry about what the future might hold.

There are no dreams that night, and Rhaenys is waking them all too soon - the gray light only just hinting at the impending dawn.

The leathers feel so very constricting on what will be the third day straight that Rhaenyra will wear them, and they still smell of the smoke of battle and the day before. Syrax too is rather sleepy and glancing at Meleys in the same nervous way that Rhaenyra herself had been glancing at Rhaenys in the evening.

Part of Rhaenyra expects Rhaenys to direct her to lead, to navigate - she’d claimed responsibility for this after all. But Rhaenys does no such thing. “We’ll return overland, not following the roads. I’m on point.” Rhaenyra nods, grateful for this small mercy - a shorter journey - though perhaps Rhaenys simply wanted them all back at Driftmark that little bit faster. And it mattered less if the overland navigation went wrong heading west. They would reach the Narrow Sea even if they arrived somewhat north or south of Pentos.

It’s easy flying, all things considered. Syrax easily takes station off Meleys’ left wing, and Rhaenyra’s thoughts begin to drift. The smell of the smoke is more potent than she had thought it would be, even as they circle higher into the blue sky before turning Southwest.

She shakes her head to snap her thoughts from the memories of the previous days, instead focusing on Meleys. The graceful red dragon flew with an amazing fluidity and grace, barely moving so much as a wingtip for minutes on end before giving a single long flap of her wings. The smoothness of her tail too - Syrax was almost always making slight corrections to their direction with her tail, but Meleys seemed to fly as if an arrow from the boy of a god - straight and true, her tail never so much as giving the hint of any course correction as they flew over river after river, some small, some great. Each would in time flow into the mighty Rohyne, but in northern Essos there were a seemed to Rhaenyra a thousand thousand rivers, each with its own name and history.

Rhaenys had taught them the history of a few of the larger rivers, but so much had been lost beneath the heel of Old Valyria when they had subjugated this half of the continent. Had those long-dead conquerors wondered about the smell of smoke as it clung to their riding leathers, even as Rhaenrya did now? Or did they think nothing of it, happy to carry off the next realm to be another land under the wing of the mighty Freehold?

What of Visenya? Of Aegon? What had they thought above the Field of Fire, and the smoke crept into their leathers and seeped into their skin? Rhaenyra didn’t recall anything from their journals or notes. Then again, both Aegon and his elder sister had been people of few words, and not given to any sort of long catalog of their thoughts, preferring instead to give cold figures and perhaps a basic map.

Rhaenyra glanced over her shoulder. Was Laena thinking of something similar? She had been even more in the thick of it than Rhaenyra herself had been, atop Vhagar as the great dragon had smashed the Dothraki to night, reduced them to ash and charred heaps that had once been men and horses.

She tried once more to put it out of her head. Perhaps this was part of Rhaenys’ designed punishment. To leave them alone with their own minds. To let them think long and hard - perhaps too long and too hard - on what they had done.

Rhaenys’ navigation is true in a way that is terrifying - they arrive precisely at Pentos, flying directly over the city before making the slight turn and heading directly for Driftmark, across the Narrow Sea. Would Rhaenyra herself be able to navigate with such ease in time? Would she know the world the way Rhaenys did? As vast as the world seemed when they had been in Qohor, at the edge of the Free Cities and on the verge of the lesser known regions of further Essos, upon a dragon, even one as young as Syrax, it felt so very small.

The sea is calmer than it sometimes is, but Rhaenrya’s thoughts do not mirror the calm beneath her. What now? Will the smell of smoke fade in time and the memories into nothing, just a small footnote to Rhaenyra’s visit to Qohor? Or would she in time forget the city itself but remember the clogging smoke and that terrible smell - worse even than the smoke - of burning men?

Rhaenyra is almost glad when the wind does pick up and the city fades from her thoughts in favor of the now roiling sea beneath them and the way that Syrax rides the air currents. What of her lady? What will she remember of their trip to Qohor?

It’s a great relief, then, when first Dragonstone and then Driftmark come into view. The spires of the castle of Rhaenrya’s ancestors are hidden by clouds, mist, and fog, but the Castle of Hightide is easy enough to pick out as the three dragons descend to it. They’d been away only what? Three days? Not even that. It felt like three years of Rhaenrya’s life had passed. Like behind her lingered girlhood. The Qohorik hadn’t called them Princess Rhaenyra and Lady Laena. They’d called them Dragonlords.

Chapter 20: Alicent III

Chapter Text

Alicent hates everything about being Queen. There is no longer so much of a semblance of her life being her own - the Reach women, appointed as her ladies by her father and the Small Council, are with her constantly. She can’t even go to the privy alone. Even when she prays, it is with a dozen eyes carefully watching her.

The king, for his part, is kind enough. He dines with her every two or three days and invites her to the Small Council meetings - not as a cupbearer, but instead to keep him company. Sometimes, he even calls her to his chambers at night to read to him as she had before their marriage, but more often he simply wishes to take his rights as her husband. And in that, he does his duty. Alicent’s bleeding is gone before she has even been queen for two months.

That, in it of itself, is a small relief - her father is pleased, and the king no longer calls her to his bed, but the Reach women watch Alicent all the more closely. At least she is still permitted to sit with the Small Council, to keep the king company.

The lords argue over Corlys Velaryon on occasion, but for the most part they deal more with the mundane parts of ruling the kingdom. Taxes. Maintenance of the royal roads. Arguments between lordly houses - House Bracken and House Blackwood were apparently at each other’s throats again over some small slight.

Alicent listened carefully, even when the topics became ever so boring. Road maintenance seemed to her that it should be beneath the notice of the council, but ever so often there was a mention of Rhaenyra. Such mentions were rare, and usually more a reminder that the Princess was now in the power of House Velaryon, but still Alicent treasured them. The Princess would return in time - she was not so much younger than Alicent herself and surely the king would find a good husband for her - then they could be friends once more. For as much as the Reach women showed Alicent endless deference, they were not her friends.

“A dragon for your thoughts?” The king’s gentle voice breaks Alicent from her musings.

“I was just thinking of Princess Rhaenyra, Viserys. She is almost of age to marry.” Alicent has to consciously make herself call the king by his name. He’d insisted on it, especially now when they dined together, but it still felt so alien even after the nearly half a year that they had been wed.

“Hmmmm.” The king hummed, putting down his knife and fork and steepling his hands together in thought. “I confess that I’ve been rather remiss in contemplating husbands for her. Once I thought to send her on a great royal progress to choose a husband for herself. Perhaps I still should. I don’t want her to be unhappy.”

The babe within Alicent’s belly gives a kick, and she lets her own hand drift down. The babe has been kicking for a few weeks now, and it still feels unnatural, even though her father had been so very pleased that the child had quickened.

“It is so rare that those of my house have such difficulty with marriages. I never thought I would have to make such a choice when Rhaenyra was young. It seemed such a sure thing that Aemma would have a boy and then there would be a brother for her to marry.”

The non-chalantless of the king’s words gives Alicent pause. She’d heard that the Faith permitted the Targaryens to wed brother to sister, but it was another thing to see the king - her husband, the man who was ever so kind to her - speak so casually of it.

“My own parents were so happy together, and that way I wouldn’t have to worry about anyone who would think of mistreating her.” The king gives a little snort. “Then again, I dare say Rhaenyra has always had her roguish uncle wrapped around her finger. Even if I wanted to bring any man who was ungallant to her to royal justice, I fear there would be nothing left of the unfortunate but ashes once Daemon was done with him.”

Alicent’s stomach twists and her appetite is gone in a moment.

“What do you think, Alicent? Is there any young lord you think would make a good husband to my daughter?”

Alicent takes a deep breath. “I’m not sure. Most of the Lords I have met are married, and while I have no doubt they would all highly recommend their own sons I cannot speak for the sons myself.”

Viserys smiles at that. “I shall have to put the question to the lords of the council, if only for my own amusem*nt. I do believe each of them - aside from your father - has at least one unmarried son.”

“And my father has an unmarried nephew, even if he hasn’t ever met the boy”

The king laughs at that. “So he does. Perhaps I should have all the boys summoned so they can make their own offers to Rhaenyra.”

Alicent lets out a conscious breath as the babe kicks again within her.

“Alicent?” The king’s concern is evident from his voice.

“The babe is very strong, Majesty. Viserys.” Alicent corrects herself immediately, but she’s still annoyed at herself. The king had specifically asked her to use his name, and he always uses hers.

“Then I best let you both get some rest.” There is a gentle sort of worry in Viserys’ tone now. “I don’t-” he trails off. But Alicent has been his wife for long enough to know he is thinking of the late Queen and little Prince Baelon. Any remaining joy in the room at once seems subdued, and the king quickly takes his leave of Alicent.

Alicent’s nerves grow worse and worse as the birth nears, and the babe takes more and more out of her. Gone are the days when she could close her eyes and imagine herself a maid once more, waiting for Rhaenyra to return from a flight on her golden dragon. Now even if she closes her eyes, each ache and pain - from Alicent’s feet to her back to her breasts - reminds her of the babe within her. And as much as she wants the babe to come - so her father will be pleased, but more so simply so Alicent can have her own body back - for in this she feels more a vessel for the as-yet unnamed babe than herself - she dreads the birthing bed that awaits her.

But all her dread seems unfounded. As much as the Mother does not spare Alicent any of the pain, her labor begins just before dawn and is done not long after high noon. Those half-dozen or so hours might have felt like six centuries to Alicent, but they are nothing like the days of labor her septa had spoken of, or the many hours that Queen Aemma had endured.

Not that Alicent had thought about any of that in the moment. She’d been exhausted by the end of her labor, even as short as it was. Perhaps one of the midwives had told her it was a prince she had birthed, but just then Alicent hadn’t really cared. She’d just wanted to rest.

And for the most part the midwives had let her, only rousing Alicent when the king came to see her, holding the little bundle that was their son.

Aegon, Viserys had named him, apparently on her father’s suggestion. A strong Targaryen name for a strong Targaryen prince. The little silver wisp atop the prince's head and his soft Valyrian eyes proclaim him as such, and Alicent isn’t sure she sees anything of herself in the boy - he is wholly the king’s, and it is as if she was merely the vessel of his birth.

There is a grand tourney - not quite so grand as the one during which Prince Baelon had lived and died, but Alicent doesn’t attend. In this, at least, there is a small bit of mercy. The midwives are keen to keep her in her bed, and the king agrees with them. Her father had wanted her at the king’s side.

She is with Viserys again a few days - it is not as if dining requires all that much effort - and sitting with the small council again within the week, though Alicent finds it a rather torturous affair, even more so than usual. Little Aegon has his wet-nurse, but the Mother had provided Alicent with the ability to feed him herself, if she had chosen. And as such things were not the provenance of queens, Alicent had to refuse the Mother’s gift and endure the pain that came with doing so, as well as the milky smell that clung to her every moment of the day no matter how she scrubbed her skin. Add to that the unpleasant sensitivity that had yet to leave her body - no matter how Alicent wished that all the sensations the babe had brought would have gone with Aegon’s birth, they only faded slowly, some lingering on for weeks while others did not seem to fade at all. Was this what the septas spoke of when they mentioned the changes of motherhood? That Alicent’s body would forever bear the scars of bringing Aegon into the world?

The small council hadn’t discussed much that day in any case, mostly just cataloging the replies to the announcement of the Birth of the Prince. House Velaryon’s had been among the last to arrive in spite of the closeness between King’s Landing and Driftmark. Alicent’s father had taken the opportunity to once more bring up the ambitions of Corlys Velaryon, though as Alicent remembered the man was in the Stepstones. So perhaps it was less surprising that the raven had taken some days to return. Lord Velaryon’s castellan had likely sent word to his lord and waited for a response before sending the raven in reply, and that could easily account for the several days’ delay.

But just as the council had been about the break for the day, Alicent’s father had mentioned the egg. It had apparently been the sole topic of the discussion for the second small council session after Aegon’s birth, but Alicent had still been abed then and the king hadn’t said much on the topic to her.

Between what he did say and what Alicent can imagine from what she knows of her father, her shoulders slump. It will be a long meeting indeed. There are no dragon eggs in the city - Prince Daemon had apparently seen to that some months past. So there is no dragon egg in Aegon’s cradle yet. And apparently no response to either raven that had gone to Dragonstone - one announcing the prince’s birth and the next demanding an egg be sent for his cradle.

Alicent for her part rises, quickly forming the only words she can think of. She is tired, and still weak from the birth. It’s true, but her father is none-to-pleased. She can see that much from his cold expression.

The king calls Alicent back to his bed a little less than two moons after Aegon’s birth, and somehow the experience is even less pleasant than it had been in the first days after their marriage. As much as Alicent had disliked being with child, perhaps it was better than being at the beck and call of the king. Then again, there had been nights when Aegon was worse even than the king - Viserys took his rights quickly and would send her on her way, while little Aegon had kept her up all night more than once.

The Ruling Council of Qohor was not able to establish a precise count of the Dothraki dead in the aftermath of the what could only be called the Rain of Fire or the Battle of Sudden Flame - 1964 Unsullied had left the gates and none had returned, but the Dothraki hadn’t exactly furnished the council with a record of each and every warrior that had attacked, but after much debate and some counts of the force, it was recorded in the annals of Qohor that the Dragonlords had faced 12000 Dothraki on the plains between the walls and the Great Forest, slaying 11500 of them, including the Khal.

And from Qohor, even before the Council’s count was done, word spread even quicker than fire. By the time the whispers made it to Norvos there had been 40000 Dothraki screamers dead on the fields between the plains and the forests. And as the whispers reached Pentos the horde grew once more - 100000 screamers, all slain by the Dragonlords. One atop a great dragon, raining fire on the horde, while the other slew the Khal.

And it must be said that sailors do love tall tails, for when the whispers reached the docks of King’s Landing in the Sunset Kingdoms 300000 Dothraki warriors had died before the walls of Qohor, and the great Khal had been slain in single combat with a Dragonlord atop a golden dragon.

Chapter 21: Rhaenyra XII

Chapter Text

As much as Rhaenyra adores flying, it is a relief to be back on the firm and familiar sands of Driftmark. She hadn’t expected to be so exhausted, but it’s all she can do to quickly eat and unlace her leathers before she falls into bed. The days had been long, and Rhaenyra hadn’t ever really relaxed in Qohor. She’d been all too aware that Rhaenys would be coming for them, and as magnificent as Qohor had been, it wasn’t too far flung a thought that had they lingered any longer less savory elements of the city could have presented themselves. In this Syrax’s size was an advantage. They hadn’t had to worry about being totally dragonless on the ground.

Rhaenyra mutters out a thanks to her golden lady as sleep claims her.

It is a restless sleep - one heavy with the smell of smoke and screams of horses. The dreams themselves are fleeting, but they linger in her mind. She wakes somewhat rested - there is something about her own bed and the familiar castle that helped. Perhaps it is the smell of salt, wafting in for the sea. But it is still several hours before dawn. Her room is gloomy and lit only by the moon, but Rhaenyra feels entirely awake.

What had the last dream been? Rhaenrya can still feel the lingering knot in her stomach and she remembers a flash of the sensation of falling. Perhaps she dreamed that she had fallen off Syrax and into the waiting Dothraki Horde. Or perhaps the dream had been that Syrax had been shot from the sky and they had both tumbled to the earth. As large as Rhaenyra’s lady was, she was still small enough that the weapons of man could harm her.

“Ugh.” Rhaenyra groans as she stands. The floor of her bedchamber is cool, and every muscle in her body is stiff. She’d been stiff even in Qohor, and the many hours of tense flying on the way home hadn’t helped matters. Gingerly she twisted left, then right before arching her back and leaning down.

She should go back to sleep. Rhaenys will have some punishment awaiting them, and the more rest Rhaenyra can get before it begins the better, but there is something about the lingering hints of the dream that makes Rhaenyra apprehensive to the degree that she can’t bring herself to try. Part of her thinks she should go to Laena, but it seems cruel to disturb her friend’s sleep. And If anything her friend is more likely to bear the brunt of the punishment, being older and Rhaenys’ daughter besides.

The sea is black under the faint light of the stars and moon, only lit by the shimmer of reflections. Rhaenyra turns to her bed once more. She should at least try to get more sleep. But instead she tugs on the half-leathers that both she and Laena tend to wear around Driftmark. It had seemed odd at first - half leathers were entirely different to the maiden’s gowns that Rhaenyra had worn in King’s Landing. Well, not entirely. Rhaenyra had always worn leathers when she had ridden Syrax - most sets had been gifts from her father, though Rhaenyra distinctly remembers that the very first set had been a gift from her uncle.

The memory of her first flight brings half a smile to Rhaenyra’s face. She doesn’t remember much of the flight itself, just the sensation of wind in her hair and that feeling that was unique to flying. That, and Daemon. She remembers how proud he had been, and his smile as they had snuck away from the keep, heading to the Dragonpit.

Her father had been most displeased with Daemon, though Rhaenyra herself had been back in her worried mother’s arms so she hadn’t been there when her father and Daemon had spoken. Rhaenyra had always heard that her father had been unhappy with Daemon after she had mounted Syrax so young, but part of her wonders. Had her father really been angry? Would Rhaenys really be angry?

Rhaenyra is almost snoozing at the window when the soft knock comes at the door of her bedchamber.

“Enter.” She calls, slightly groggy and rubbing her eyes.

“Rhaenyra.” Laena is at her side when Rhaenyra looks up. There is a somewhat sheepish smile on her face. “Shall we go and see whatever my lady mother had concocted?”

Rhaenyra finds herself smiling, and she takes one of Laena’s hands. “Perhaps not just yet. Let’s enjoy one last sunrise before our impending doom.”

But instead of turning back to the window Rhaenyra instead tucks herself close to Laena, the top of her head just fitting under her friend’s chin. It was a little awkward - Laena was taller than Rhaenyra, but not all that much taller. Then again, it seemed her friend already had boots on while Rhaenyra’s feet were still bare. So it worked out alright.

Laena’s hand gently strokes up and down Rhaenyra’s back as they stay together for a few moments or perhaps a few minutes. Rhaenyra finds herself basking in her friend’s presence and suddenly rather frightened that Rhaenys’ punishment will involve something that might prevent them from seeing each other. Would she send Rhaenyra off to Dragonstone? Or worse, back to King’s Landing? Why had Aegon even built the blasted city in the first place? Having seen both it and Dragonstone Rhaenyra, for one, thought her vaunted ancestor might have been somewhat insane.

“We should go.” Laena’s voice breaks the peace of the morning. “Before she comes and finds us.”

Rhaenyra nods but doesn’t release her friend for another long moment, offering Laena a matching smile to the sheepish one that had graced her friend’s face earlier.

Breakfast is a somewhat miserable affair, their impending doom far too heavy on Rhaenyra’s mind to eat. They make their way to Rhaenys’ solar afterward, giving each other one last look before Laena gives a knock at the door.

Rhaenys’ solar is in many ways the complete opposite of most solars. There are no embroidery hoops or spools of thread here, just Rhaenys’ desk - piled high with papers but somehow still neat - and a bookshelf full of tomes.

Princess Rhaenys is sitting behind her desk, finishing up a missive, when they enter. Rhaenyra glances around before taking one of the two seats in front of the desk. Laena takes the other.

Rhaenys finishes the missive a minute later and adds it to a pile before exhaling and sitting back, crossing one leg over the other.

“Girls. What ever am I to do with you?”

Rhaenyra wonders if the question is rhetorical but says nothing.

“Jaehaerys would have grounded you and seen you married within a moon for this.” Rhaenyra is reminded that Rhaenys had grown up at the court of the Old King for the most part, like her father and uncle.

“Make no mistake, this is going to be a mess. I dare say we will have more than a few guests from the Free Cities in the coming moons as news of your actions spreads. And count your blessings. Qohor is called the City of Sorcerers for a reason, and you are lucky your stay was brief. It is not as safe a city for us as Pentos. Do not forget that.”

Rhaenyra nods, looking down.

“But the fact is, aside from your initial flight to Qohor, you did just about everything right. The Council was quite impressed with you, not just your dragons.”

“And I am not Jaehaerys. Make no mistake - you started a mess and you will deal with it. Every letter and every diplomat. It will cut into your flying time, and I’m not going to go easy on you because you proved you can navigate by the Dragonroads.”

Rhaenyra feels the tension in her body begin to dissipate. More letters won’t be too bad. They already see many of them anyway.

“Take today to recover. Your lessons resume tomorrow.”

Rhaenyra and Laena stand, Rhaenyra giving a quick nod before they turn.

“And girls?” Rhaenys’ voice has them turning back. “There is not to be a repeat of this. Am I understood?”

The next days and weeks are the calm before the storm. The letters and diplomats will take time to arrive, Rhaenyra knows that much. Moons, potentially. Especially because the news has to filter from Qohor to the other free cities first. It is an agonizing wait the first few weeks, though after Rhaenyra and Laena contemplate the distances more it seems unlikely that many messengers will arrive in less than three months. Even over the Dragonroads horses are such slow creatures compared to dragons. And none of the Free Cities are ruled by a single man the way the Seven Kingdoms are. They will have to argue things out.

The raven arrives from King’s Landing five weeks after they return from Qohor, and Rhaenyra finds herself in Rhaenys’ office without Laena, unfolding the scrap of parchment.

The words are simple, but she’s never thought to read them like this. “I have a brother.” It’s stating the obvious. Rhaenys had read the parchment first, announcing the birth of Prince Aegon Targaryen to King Viserys and Queen Alicent.

She traces the letters in Alicent’s name. It feels odd to see them scripted out like this, so obviously done by a scribe. Alicent herself tended to slightly hook the ‘l’ and cross the ‘t’ with a decidedly slanted line rather than the perfect script on the little parchment.

Rhaenys gives her the rest of the day off, but Rhaenyra finds herself sitting with Laena on the other girl’s bed later that day.

“Did she tell you?”

“About the prince? Yes.” Laena’s long arm wrapped around Rhaenyra.

“It’s so surreal. I never thought I would have a brother. Though I suppose this one might be like all the sons my mother bore.” Rhaenyra wondered how long they had waited before sending the announcements of the birth. A day? A fortnight? Baelon had lived an hour. “I wonder if Father will want me to marry him.”

“Surely not. He’s so much younger than you, Rhaenyra.” Rhaenyra finds herself nodding. It would be absurd if her father had her wait for Aegon to come of age in 16 years time. She’d be an old maid. But perhaps it would be better that way. It would be 16 long years before she would face the childbed that had taken her mother. Perhaps even more.

“True.” Rhaenyra lets her head rest on Laena’s shoulder. “And I’ve had brothers before.” She takes a deep breath. “It was so strange seeing Alicent’s name there. I can’t even imagine her in my mother’s place.”

Laena says nothing, simply holding Rhaenyra close.

“Will we have to marry soon?” An idle thought. Alicent was older than both of them, but not by all that much. And Laena had mentioned that she might marry the Sealord’s son.

“Rhaenyra.” Laena tilts Rhaenyra’s chin up and blots the few tears that Rhaenyra had shed without even knowing it. “I dare say no one is going to make us marry anyone. And if they try, Vhagar and Syrax will do unto them what they did to the Dothraki.”

Rhaenrya smiles at that. And a humorous image comes into her mind. Some little lordling suitor bringing flowers to Syrax, hoping to win Rhaenrya’s affections through her dragon, only to end up a charred pile of ashes.

“We shall be old maids together, then.”

Laena blushes at that. “Together.” She agrees.

The messengers and diplomats begin to arrive two and half months after they return from Qohor. First to come is a man from Lorath, next pairs from Norvos and Qohor. Argemon is not with them. Two days later a trio of Pentosi arrive, as does a messenger from Braavos, bearing an invitation to the Sealord’s palace. The wonder in their eyes is a magnificent thing, as they behold Syrax and Meleys and mighty Vhagar. For that is the only thing they will speak of. Dragons.

Chapter 22: Daemon IV

Chapter Text

The mutual siege - for they are the besiegers by day but themselves besieged by night - has solidified by the third month on Bloodstone. More worryingly, Crabfeeder had given up any delusions of striking directly at them. But he didn’t need to - Daemon and Laenor were only two. Crabfeeder must have had a thousand men at least. Two dragons could be in two places. A thousand men could be in a thousand places.

And so the war became an exercise in boredom, more than anything else. Marked only by the occasional barge that was caught during the day or the man who unwisely left the safety of Corlys’ little fort at night.

Of course, there was a way that the war might be over in a day. Well, perhaps two days. Daemon and Laenor could probably burn Tyrosh and Myr in the same day, but Lys would require another day. It seems a wiser plan to Daemon - a swift end to the war that is anything but short and victorious. But Corlys restrained him time and again. The cities would be destroyed, but that would not change the fact that Crabfeeder’s men infested the Stepstones and the trade routes to Volantis, Qarth, and the further East.

They had been lucky when it came to the flux and the pox - a few small outbreaks, but by and large they managed to avoid it through Corlys’ rather stringent camp regulations. But Daemon rather thought that the boredom would eventually kill them. Or Crabfeeder would come up with some clever stratagem that would make for a quicker death if not a more pleasant one.

He and Laenor largely split the scouting in an irregular rotation. One dragon was always at camp or nearby, while the other set out to look for lost sloops and barges. They didn’t find them often, but it kept their foes on their toes well enough that Crabfeeder largely kept his distance from Bloodstone itself.

Daemon had just returned from one such round of scouting - no barges this time, only one unfortunate impaled and left for the crabs. Not one of Corlys’ men - perhaps a traitor in Crabfeeder’s ranks.

“Daemon.” Corlys nods him into the tent. They had long since dispensed with the formalities, at least when not in front of the men.

Vaemond is in a chair in the corner of the command tent, scowling all the while, a raven’s parchment in his hands.

Daemon narrows his eyes. They usually hear from Rhaenys every week to fortnight. But he hadn’t expected to hear from her now. Laenor had needed some rest - he’d eaten some slightly questionable preserved fish - and Daemon’s cousin had come for a few days to keep the dragon numbers up and check on her son.

Corlys plucks the parchment from Vaemond’s hand and hands it to Daemon. The script is unquestionably Rhaenys’.

Girls gone. Likely Qohor. Going after them.

“Why would they go to Qohor of all places?” Daemon finds himself asking. Qohor isn’t the least of the Free Cities, but it is far afield. He would have expected Pentos or perhaps Braavos.

Neither Corlys nor Vaemond has an answer. Daemon mutters a few curses under his breath.

“I’m going to get cleaned up.” He’s unpleasantly sticky after a day in the air. There’s nothing he can do at the moment. Even if he went after the girls himself, Rhaenys would catch them long before he did. Meleys was faster than Caraxes and Rhaenys was a better navigator than him besides, not to mention that she would be the one with an insight into where the girls would be going. Into why they might be going to Qohor of all places.

There is no bath - that is a luxury not even a Prince can have on the dry island that is Bloodstone, but the lukewarm water Daemon splashes on his face does bring some relief. The first thing he’ll want when he returns to Dragonstone is a proper bath. He must stink by now, though Rhaenys hadn’t given any indication during her brief visit. Then again, she’d been on the ground for the absolute minimum time necessary.

It is a small mercy that Vaemond is absent when Daemon returns to Corlys’ command tent an hour later.

“We need a new plan.” Daemon flops into the chair Vaemond had occupied an hour previously.

Corlys looks up from his papers. His eyes belie how tired he is. Daemon and Laenor at least have each other, and in a pinch Rhaenys, to cover while they get some rest. Corlys has only Vaemond, and Daemon for one doesn’t trust Vaemond as far as he could throw him. Part of him had wondered why they had brought Vaemond in the first place. Then again, at least here Corlys could keep an eye on him. “We’re going nowhere and this isn’t sustainable.”

“I’m all ears.”

Daemon finds an exhausted and mirthful smile on his face. That was the point of it. It was all well and good to say that this wasn’t working, but what else could they do?

“I suppose burning Tyrosh is still out of the question?”

Corlys doesn’t even dignify his answer with a response. They’ve been over this half a hundred times. While burning Tyrosh might seem an easy answer, the Volantines would not look kindly on it. And the ultimate goal of this was to trade with Volantis, not to be unwelcome in the city.

“Our goal is trade.” Daemon finds himself thinking aloud. “Not to conquer these blasted islands.”

Corlys nods.

“Why don’t we just force the straits with dragons three or four times a year as needed?”

Corlys let out a deep breath and Daemon looked at him again. He really didn’t look good. Had he also eaten some of the preserved fish that had waylaid Laenor?

“Theoretically, yes. With both the girls we have enough dragons to force the straits and cover Driftmark. It would have to be in convoy, and it would be much less efficient.”

“But it would be much more sustainable. Laenor and I can’t keep doing this, Corlys.”

“It would.” Corlys shuts his eyes. Perhaps he is actually considering it, then. “I have every faith you and Laenor could force the straits during the day, but the transit of the straits is not one that can be completed in only a day. And I have no doubt that Crabfeeder would throw fire ships at us at night.”

He paused. “And the formation would have to be tight. Keeping ships in formation during the day is a task my seamen are equal to, but the night is another question entirely.”

Daemon nodded along. About this, Corlys was the expert and Daemon would certainly defer to him. “I think we would be able to deal with fire ships - they’d be visible from the air enough. And if we ran the straits at the full moon, the illumination would be enough that both the men and the dragons could see.”

“We’d be at the mercy of the weather to keep the night clear. And it would be as imperfect as this, just in a different way. I’ll think more on it.”

The next three and a half days are torture. Daemon finds himself looking northeast often, wondering about Rhaenyra and Laena. Why would Rhaenys think they had gone to Qohor? Why would they go to Qohor in the first place? It was on Corlys’ list of potential allies, but they would not be one that would give more than token support because of the distance if nothing else.

He thinks about taking off after them more than once, but his mind always prevails. Rhaenys is the one that knows where they are going. Rhaenys is the navigator. And Laenor is still not quite fully mended. Corlys needs him here. And through him, so does Rhaenys. And Rhaenyra. And Laena.

So Daemon throws himself into his patrols. The sands and countless little straits are as empty as ever. Not so much as a porpoise or a cloud in the sky. Daemon starts to count the islands - it is at least enough to keep his mind off the girls for another few minutes. But always, his thoughts go back to them. Qohor is the City of Sorcerers. Of all the free cities only Volantis and the Triarchy would be more dangerous for a Dragonrider, though Braavos would be safe only by the dint of Corlys’ unusually good relationship with the Sealord. For all that Corlys’ and Rhaenys diplomatic arrangement didn’t initially make sense, the more one knew of Braavos the more it seemed logical. The Braavosi had not ever been friends to dragons, and it was unusual that they would think so highly of Corlys considering the Dragonlord he had taken to bride.

Daemon himself had been young for the wedding of his cousin and Corlys, but he remembers Rhaenys arrival well, atop Meleys and a Dragonlord in the way that few had been since the Doom.

He’d ruminated on the marriage when his Grandmother had betrothed him to Rhae Royce. No one had marched Rhaenys to the altar. He’d never asked her what it was about Corlys that brought her favor upon him. But the happiness of their marriage was evident. In some ways it was a strange thing - more than one Targaryen had complained about the strange bond that most had with their dragons - but Corlys seemed to understand in a way that few ever did. It was just as well that he, what with his wife and children all claiming dragons. And there had never been any mutterings that they should not. Lady Rhae ever regarded Daemon with suspicion even though they often went years without seeing each other.

Actually, Daemon muses, it had been ten years since he wed the Bronze Bitch two fortnights ago. He hadn’t ever noticed.

The next raven arrives on the third day, but Daemon does not read it until long after the sun has set. The words are vague but a great relief.

Girls safe. Returned to Hightide. Details to follow.

He sleeps better that night than he had for weeks. The following message does not arrive by raven, but rather by messenger upon a supply ship. At first Daemon is deeply annoyed, but the length alone makes it clear it would have been four or five ravens to get the missive to them. And while they have ravens, it is not wise to waste so many for what is not an overly urgent message.

Even as much detail as Rhaenys provided, Daemon still had countless questions. Why exactly had the girls gone to Qohor in the first place? Regardless of that, the results stood for themselves. Daemon, Laenor, and Corlys might not have managed any sort of short victorious war, but Rhaenyra and Laena’s hadn’t even lasted an afternoon. And their victory had been total - a horde of Dothraki smashed in a way no army had been smashed since Aegon’s Conquest.

The next morning a pair of ravens arrive. One for Corlys and the other for Daemon, announcing the same thing.

King Viserys finally had his long-sought Prince. Daemon wonders if this one will last any longer than the last one. Perhaps they will have another missive in a fortnight’s time, announcing a period of mourning at the death of the King’s latest son. Aemma had boren Daemon’s brother four sons, though only two had drawn breath. One had lasted three moons. Baelon had only lasted an hour.

That much is the same between the two missives, but Daemon’s has an addendum. A demand for a dragon egg to be placed in the prince’s cradle. At that, Daemon sneers. The seal is that of the king, but the words are those of Otto Hightower and the little whor* he had put in the King’s bed. It was almost cute that Otto had found a baby viper to succeed him after his brood of blockheaded sons.

Daemon writes out a cold denial. He will not offer an egg to the half-breed son of a whor*. Let his brother disown him once more.

The fourteen must be smiling on him, because Corlys catches him before he sends the missive and soothes his fury with calm words.

The second missive is in Daemon’s hand, but the words are Corlys'. Of course, Prince Aegon shall have an egg. It is his due as a Prince of the Realm and a son of the king. And Daemon freely offers an egg he himself selected - yellow with golden streaks, laid by Dreamfyre in the final year of the reign of the Old King.

An egg Daemon had removed from the capital together with Dreamfyre. An egg that had been cold before the Old King had even died. And for all Otto Hightower was a wise man, he would not know this trap. Cold eggs could become warm again, but the art to do so was lost with the Doom, or else hidden behind the Black Walls of Volantis. And Viserys, for all he loves Valyria, prefers the architecture to the minutiae of hatching dragons. Perhaps he will know. But Daemon doubts it.

Viserys had scarcely raised his daughter when he had no kingdom to rule. And in this, Otto is Daemon’s unwitting ally. The Lord Hand will want his grandson raised by the godly queen rather than the heathen king. Perhaps the egg will be presented to Viserys. Likely, even, the egg will be presented to Viserys. But he will not be the one that puts the prince in the cradle. He will not rock the boy to sleep. He will not feel the coolness of the fabric beneath the egg.

It had been Daemon that felt the heat in the silk where Syrax’s egg rested beside his little niece. Yes, in this Colys’ plan was as insidious as any Otto could concoct. And Daemon understood a little better what his mighty cousin saw in her husband.

Chapter 23: Rhaenyra XIII

Chapter Text

It should be the end of Rhaenyra and Laena’s day of lessons - they’d spent the morning flying and the afternoon in a mix of Valyrian, Cartography, and History. The History had been rather boring by Rhaenrya’s tastes and was more oriented on such things as taxation and the affairs of state rather than any battles that were memorialized in song.

But Rhaenys hadn’t dismissed them as she usually would, instead smiling, telling the girls that with the entire crop of visitors here - at least the ones that Rhaenys was expecting - their true punishment would begin. That each of the delegation would want assurances, and Rhaenyra and Laena were to draft a model treaty for Rhaenys to look over.

So instead of snoozing the late afternoon away or visiting their dragons, Rhaenyra and Laena found themselves sprawled out in Laena’s bedchamber, racking their minds. What did one put in such a treaty?

“How do we ever start?” The question is mostly rhetorical.

“Probably not at the beginning.” Laena hums and frowns. “Most treaties open with a bunch of meaningless platitudes, and those would change with every city.”

Rhaenyra nods. “I have no idea what we should ask for.”

“Then let’s start with what we would offer them.” Laena’s suggestion seems sensible.

“Protection. Dragons.” Rhaneyra doesn’t like either word as soon as it leaves her mouth. They are too vague. “No. That’s too vague.”

“And we should be careful about offering dragons. Father is still dealing with the Triarchy and Mother would be most displeased with us if we started another war before he even finishes that one up.”

Rhaenyra nods. “And I don’t want to have to be constantly flying from one city to the next, never here. There would need to be some sort of system - and a reasonably quick one - for them to call us. Ravens?”

Laena picks up a piece of parchment and jots a few notes down. “Maybe. That would certainly work for Pentos - I know the magisters already have a raventender and they send birds here fairly often. But the distance is going to be a problem with the other cities.”

Rhaenyra gets up from where she had been sprawled and rummages through the top few layers of papers on Laena’s desk - for all Rhaenyra tried to keep her own desk clean the Lady Laena’s was an exercise in organized chaos, but the lady herself always knew where every parchment and scrap of notes was. She does at least find a map quickly.

“How quickly would we need to be able to respond? With Pentos if they send the raven in the morning we can get there by halfway through the afternoon, but from somewhere like Qohor it could be two or three days for the raven to even get here, depending on the weather, and then a very long day’s flight for us to get to Qohor. And I don’t think the Dothraki will just wait around for a week before attacking the city.”

“No, I don’t think they will. But they don’t attack immediately.” Laena leans back, thinking deeply and chewing on the end of the quill. “As much as the Dothraki love to pillage, the cities usually pay them off. They might get a few days to gather the tribute. And that could be long enough for us to arrive.”

“It could be. But I fear the Khals will catch on. Then again, the cities are walled. And a siege takes time. Far more than three days. If the Dothraki can’t immediately storm the city then we would have plenty of time to arrive and rest before dealing with the Dothraki.”

“But all the cities have some inhabitants that dwell outside the walls, save for Qohor. Those lands would still be pillaged. And does Lorath have a wall?”

Rhaenyra shuts her eyes and racks her brain. Lorath is the least of the Free Cities and often forgotten in the shadow of its mightier sisters. “I think so.” The tome they would need is in Rhaenys’ study at the moment. “It’s mostly underground, but it does have a wall.”

“I guess we would phrase it as that they have to be able to hold out behind their walls for seven to ten days - that would account for the travel time of the raven and our own travel time with a decent buffer for bad weather, and if they can hold out for that long then we can deal with the Dothraki.” Laena is scribbling the words down as she speaks.

“It sounds so simple when you put it that way. Perhaps we should also say they are to send a raven every day or two. That way if one gets lost we will still get the message.”

“Indeed.” Laena makes another note. “Which brings us back around to what we want from them.”

Rhaenyra makes a face. “I still haven’t the faintest idea. Are there trade rights your father wants?” It seems like something that Lord Corlys would tack onto any treaty.

“Probably. But I haven’t the faintest clue what they would be and they would differ greatly by city.” There is the scratch of Laena’s quill. “Trade rights. Mother will know at least some of the specifics.”

“A manse that we can stay in while we are at their city? Plus food for us and the dragons while we are present?” It’s all Rhaenyra can come up with.

Laena nods, scribbling it down. “Perhaps some up to date charts of the river Rhoyne and its various tributaries. Or just up to date charts in general. Most of ours are so old. Mother has talked of doing a mapping project, but even with four or five of us theoretically able to take part now there has never been and I suspect will never be enough time. She keeps the coastal charts pretty well up to date, but not the inland ones.”

“What about some sort of mutual defense treaty? Some way to keep the four cities mostly aligned so we don’t have to worry as much about squabbling between them in the future?”

“Like proposing ourselves as arbiters?” Laena co*cks her head to the side, but does scribble the idea down. “They tend to be so proud, but perhaps Mother will have a better way to put it.”

They spend another hour trying to come up with ideas, but nothing more comes of it.

Syrax makes her displeasure at Rhaenyra’s lack of afternoon appearance known, but they don’t have the time to slip outside before they need to be back in Rhaenys’ solar, so Rhaenyra has to be content with calling to her lady from the window. Syrax just seems confused - and is pouting in a was that would almost be amusing if it wasn’t Rhaenrya’s precious Syrax - but she finally curls up in her little nest in the sand dune, though Meleys herds the smaller dragon into her own nest while Rhaenyra and Laena watch from the window.

“She’s not going to be able to do that for much longer.” Laena comments. “Then we’ll get to see Meleys pouting the same way she did when Seasmoke was too large to also fit in her nest.”

That image does have Rhaenyra giggling. Meleys is in many ways a perfect reflection of Rhaenys, and it is hard to imagine the regal dragon pouting in the way Syrax sometimes did.

Still, it is not wise to be late and so the girls set out for Rhaenys’ solar, Laena’s parchment clutched in her hand.

Their explanation isn’t a very elegant one - clearly unrehearsed, but Rhaenys would have expected that.

“You’ve done a good job brainstorming, ladies.” Rhaenys doesn’t seem overly impressed, but neither does she seem disappointed. Then again, it can be very hard to read Laena’s mother at times. “I will tell you that none of the free cities are going to willingly sign a treaty where they give up any sort of arbitration power to us - as much as they do occasionally call on a third city or another outside power to moderate negotiations, they value the ability to make war on their neighbors too highly to be seen to cede any of that. But your intent is good. Perhaps we will be able to convince them to sign on to a clause about intending to keep the continent peaceful and not supporting bandit groups, but I doubt it will be anything with teeth.”

She skims over the parchment, occasionally making little notes of her own. “Good thought to try and get up to date charts. So many of our own hadn’t been re-done since well before the Conquest, and some date all the way back to Valyria itself. The rivers have certainly changed since then. Other navigation aids could also be useful - perhaps the Norvos treaty could have them set up a marker on the upper slopes of one of their mountains. Finding their valley from the air when the clouds are thick in the valleys can be a rather harrowing flying experience what with how close to the ground you have to fly and how close the mountain walls are on either side.

“What about Lorath? Could they also give us a navigational aid of some sort?” Laena asks, and Rhalenyra finds herself nodding. They are both probably remembering the same lesson when Rhaenys had gone into a great deal of detail on how easy it was to miss the city, even when you were looking for it.

“We can certainly ask. I suspect they will just say the lighthouse - meager as it is - is enough. There is also one thing - Norvos and Qohor are both interested in some sort of regular visits. Nothing long term, just showing the dragons to the populace every once in a while.”

Rhaenyra and Laena share a glance. They can both imagine where this is going.

“The specifics are yet to be determined, but we’ll be splitting those visits. I’m a bit loathed to sign us up for that while Laenor is still in the Stepstones. Three riders - two of whom I’m loathed to let navigate such a trip alone for now - isn’t much to over that, any protection that a city might need, and Driftmark, especially with Corlys still in the Stepstones.

“Could we add a condition where the cities have to support Lord Corlys’ Stepstones campaign?”

Rhaenys sighs. “We could try, but in all honesty the only two of the Free Cities with the power to deal with the Triarchy are Volantis and Braavos, and Braavos won’t act unless their ships are affected.”

No Volantine message had arrived yet. The First Daughter of Valyria was nothing if not proud. “Are we expecting a message from Volantis?”

“Not yet. Probably not until they themselves or one of the cities they hold dominion over - Volon Therys, perhaps - are under direct threat. Even then, it will likely be a near run thing. The Volantines think us impure bastards, and in this Corlys’ friendship with the Braavosi really hasn’t helped. And then there is the fact that we are at war with Lys at the moment and Lys and Volantis share a sort of special kinship.”

“Has anyone ever managed to please both the Volantines and the Braavosi?” Rhaenyra asks.

Rhaenys smiles at that. “I sincerely doubt it. Sometimes it feels like they take the opposite position simply because the other has taken a position on something.”

“But I digress. Well done. We’ll start the negotiations tomorrow. Given who we are negotiating with I’ve decided that we’re just going to do all the negotiations at once with everyone in the room - the cities present will value honesty and the knowledge that they are all getting pretty much the same deal. The Braavosi and the Volantines are different - there we would do everyone separately precisely so the Braavosi and Volanties think they are getting special deals. And once these treaties are done we will need to make another foray to Braavos unless Corlys somehow wins his war in the next fortnight.”

It’s pretty obvious that while everyone in the room thinks reasonably highly of Lord Corlys, no one thinks he’ll win his war in the next fortnight.

“Any Questions?” Rhaenyra glances at Laena. She knows she should have questions, but none come to mind, so she shakes her head.

“We’ll talk again briefly in the morning before negotiations start. Dismissed.”

Chapter 24: Alicent IV

Chapter Text

Alicent goes to visit Aegon more often than she perhaps should, but there is an honestness to the babe and his nursemaids that she finds quite refreshing. And it is rather sweet to see him grow more quickly than she would have thought. And the Reach women almost whisper approvingly, that Alicent is a good mother, a pious one who wants to see her son raised right, without any of the blasphemy that so often can be found in the royal family and their servants.

If only they knew. For all his recalcitrance and his endless conflicts with his brother and king, Prince Daemon had sent a dragon egg for little Aegon’s cradle.

The egg was smaller than Alicent would have thought - easily able to fit in her hands. Rhaenyra had constantly spoken of her Syrax as a small creature compared to the great older dragons, but compared to the egg that rests in Aegon’s cradle even Syrax seems a titan of the skies.

She muses on it one day, waiting for the king to arrive. He was rarely late to their little luncheons together, but sometimes the realm kept him busy.

In the end it is over a quarter of an hour before he does arrive, shooing the servants away as he sits. “Alicent.” It’s nice just to hear her name. To all the women of court Alicent has become her title. Rhaenyra had called her that, but Rhaenyra had been away for moons and moons now. Over a year, now that Alicent thought about it. She herself had been married to the king for almost a year, after all.

“Viserys.” And it had taken nearly all of that time for her to grow used to calling the king by his name whenever they were alone.

“How is the nursery?” It had become Viserys’ opening question to her as of late.

“Little Aegon is a happy and healthy boy. Always smiling. Today he was napping when I visited, still clutching his egg.” Alicent finds herself smiling at that. She hadn’t loved Aegon when she had carried him, but now he seemed like such a sweet little boy. A blessing from the Mother indeed. “Though he’s not so little anymore. I swear each day I find him larger than the day before.”

Viserys smiles at that. “Babes do not remain babes long. Best to cherish them while they are small and sweet. Perhaps I shall have a painter capture the image of our little Aegon before he grows too much. Clutching his egg as you said.”

“When will the egg hatch?” It seemed as cold as the day it had arrived from Dragonstone every time Alicent touched it, more stone than any living thing despite its beauty.

“In its own good time. Cradle egg can be somewhat of a misnomer. I believe Rhaenyra’s egg hatched when she was just shy of a year old, and even that was quite early. Daemon carried his cradle egg around until Caraxes caught his eye as a teenager. And if anything it’s more common for them not to hatch. Until Syrax and Seasmoke the most recent cradle egg was my own mother’s Meleys. And of the Old King’s Children, only two hatched their cradle eggs. There is no shame in failing to do so, and plenty of older dragons still reside on the Dragonmount, waiting for new riders.”

“Still, I find myself wishing for his egg to hatch. For his safety, if nothing else.”

That brings a chuckle from Viserys. “Yes and no. The act of claiming an older dragon can be rather dangerous, but I think it tends to be thought of as rather more dangerous than it is. The last Targaryen who died doing so was before the Conquest. One Aelyx Targaryen, I believe. Younger dragons, on the other hand, can be less diligent and are often quite food motivated in a rather detrimental way. My uncle Aemon died because his young dragon was eating goats.”

Alicent takes a sip of wine, and Viserys continues.

“Though that’s not to say that young dragons can’t be incredibly destructive. There’s going to be an emergency council meeting after we are through here. Apparently Rhaenyra and Laena Velaryon have made quite the impression in Essos.”

“Oh?” Alicent’s gut twists in an uncomfortable way, and the Princess’s words ring in her mind like Rhaenyra had said them yesterday. That she wished to feel the wind in her hair, see the world, and eat nothing but cakes. It had seemed such a pretty dream, then. The dream of a little girl before she was shipped off to some keep to be the lady wife of a lord her father chose. Had Rhaenyra’s dream come true after all? From what little Alicent knew of Lady Velaryon she did not seem lax enough with her supervision to let unmarried maidens roam free in Essos, though House Velaryon did not follow the Seven. There would be no septa to advise Lady Velaryon on how best to rear young maidens in a way that would be true to the faith.

Viserys is nodding then, seeming almost giddy and so proud in a way that made him seem younger than his years. The crown had undoubtedly aged him - even when they had married Prince Daemon had looked more like Viserys’ nephew or even his son than his brother. But he looked so young now. More a prince than a king.

“I had almost thought to receive a raven from Driftmark, but my lady cousin must have her hands full with Rhaenyra and Laena. And Lord Corlys is still in the Stepstones with my brother.”

Or, thinks Alicent, perhaps Lady Velaryon did not want the news of her daughter and her ward - a royal princess - escaping to Essos to reach the king. One of the Old King’s daughters had fled to Essos in disgrace and ended up in a Lyseni pleasure house.

“How fares your brother?” Alicent doesn’t want to think more on what may have come of Rhaenyra. As much as she dislikes Prince Daemon, the king still accounts him as his brother.

Visersys snorts. “To quote his last raven, he’s not dead yet. And still demanding an annulment of his marriage. So all in all I would say he’s fine. Probably deeply annoyed with himself that he didn’t manage to win Lord Corlys’ war in a fortnight, not that he’d ever admit it.”

They dance around more lighthearted topics for perhaps the next quarter of an hour, both eating little, before Viserys offers Alicent his arm and they set off for the small council meeting.

They take their seats - Alicent’s as always beside the king, before Viserys nods to Alicent’s father. “Lord Hand, if you would.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Alicent’s father glanced around the room, his eyes lingering a moment on Alicent herself, before he spoke.

“Whispers reached the court yesterday morning. They seemed at first so outlandish that they could only be the imaginings of drunk sailors, but now they have been repeated enough that I would be remiss if I did not bring them before the council.” Her father paused then before beginning again. “It seems that the Princess Rhaenyra and the Lady Laena Velaryon have slain many Dothraki in Essos with their dragons.”

Alicent is at once relieved that her dear friend was not another Saera.

“Is there any more to these whispers, Lord Hand?” Lord Strong asked.

“Nothing certain. The Princess and the Lady met the Dothraki east of the Free City of Qohor. News takes months to travel from there to here, and it has passed through many sailors’ tongues.”

Visersys seems almost giddy again, but the Lords of the Council are rather more subdued.

“What of Lord Velaryon? Where was he when the Princess - his ward - went to Essos? Why did he not inform the Crown of this adventure himself?” Ser Tyland Lannister doesn’t seem as displeased as his words seem to imply. He wasn’t Master of Ships - that post was the domain of the ever-absent Lord Velaryon - but for now Ser Tyland sat in the seat of the Master of Ships.

“Peace, Ser Tyland.” It’s Lord Strong that speaks again. “Unless the Lord Hand has heard otherwise Lord Velaryon is still in the Stepstones and it is Lady Velaryon that rules Driftmark.”

“The point stands. Why did Lady Velaryon allow her ward to go to Essos? Your Grace, the Lady ought to be summoned to explain as much to you as the Princess’s father.”

The undertone is clear. Ser Tyland wishes Lady Velaryon to be questioned as to whether or not the Princess is compromised. Alicent has not ever heard Qohor mentioned in the same way Lys is, but the Free Cities of Essos are more kin to each other than they are to Westeros. So it cannot be all that different.

“Your Grace.” Alicent’s father has to prompt the king - still with a rather inappropriate giddy expression on his face - to bring the meeting back to order.

“No, My Lord. Lady Velaryon did not send my daughter to Essos alone, she sent her together with her own daughter. Do not imply anything untoward toward my royal cousin because you dislike her husband.”

Ser Tyland doesn’t even look sheepish at the king’s rebuke.

“But I do wish to see my daughter. Have a raven sent to Driftmark, inviting the her and House Velaryon to my nameday feast.”

It’s a rather expediant solution. The King’s nameday feast will be in just over a moon, and this way it will not appear as if the king is summoning his daughter out of any displeasure with how she is being raised. Such a thing would undoubtedly offend the proud Lord Corlys, no matter if it was the man’s wife at fault.

And, Alicent thinks, it will be nice to see Rhaenyra - her friend - once more. Even with Aegon and the King’s kindness she is still lonely more often than not.

“Your Grace-” It’s Lord Strong that speaks. “Perhaps such an invitation would be best delivered in person. So that there can be no misunderstandings or lost ravens. Lord Corlys can be quite proud.”

It’s not that far to Driftmark - three days by sea with decent weather. Or that was what Alicent’s father had told her.

“Lord Hand-” Viserys looks to Alicent’s father. The rest is unspoken, but the command is clear. A messenger will head to Diftmark then, not a raven.

“And on the topic of my daughter, she is of age to marry. And I would be a poor father to see her become an old maid. Lord Strong, Lord Hand, begin compiling a list of potential suitors.”

For all the king can seem a convivial and jovial man, Alicent is beginning to see some of his actions for what they are. The king doesn’t trust her father alone or Lord Strong alone to find suitable candidates for Rhaenyra’s hand in marriage, so he sets both of them to the task to balance each other.

“Your Grace.” Her father acknowledges the king’s command. “What of your son? How fares Prince Aegon?”

“Alicent?” Viserys turns to her and Alicent finds herself rather shocked. There’s never been so much as an indication that she was there to do anything more than accompany the king in silence, supporting him as a wife should.

“He is a happy and healthy babe, My Lords, and growing apace. Each day I see him he has grown.” She’s parroting her own words - almost the same as she had told the king earlier - but it’s all she can think of.

Alicent’s father gives an almost imperceptible nod before steering the talk of the council to the more mundane topics that Alicent takes little interest in. The roads - apparently a storm in the Stormlands had washed out part of one of the royal roads. It always seemed so trivial when such topics came up. The rest of the topics are short and mundane, so Alicent lets her mind drift. Rhaenyra is returning. It will be a moon, but Alicent finds herself almost as giddy as Viserys had looked. Things will undoubtedly be strange at first - what with Alicent having married Rhaenyra’s father - but they will be friends as they always have been. The sisters that neither of them have in truth.

The council meeting is over soon enough, and Alicent is departing on the king’s arm, her thoughts still on the princess.

Chapter 25: Rhaenyra XIV

Chapter Text

The negotiations are not near as difficult as Rhaenyra imagined they might be, in the end. Each of the cities have their own little quibbles or clauses that they wish to add onto the draft agreement she and Laena had concocted, but none rejected the model agreement in its entirety and all seemed rather eager to have an agreement hammered out.

Still, the negotiations drag out for four days in the end, with the delegations all leaving with the pre-dawn tides on the fifth day, making haste back to their cities with a dozen or so ravens in tow. For Rhaenys had added one crucial point - the agreement was not in force until a test raven was sent to ensure that the ravens could find their way to Driftmark without any difficulties. And so Pentos was the only city technically under their protection, as they had adopted the ravens as a means to communicate with various Lords or Dragonstone even before the Conquest.

For her part Rhaenyra rises early on that day, but their various visitors are already gone and only the faint hints of sails are visible from the windows before they too are gone over the horizon. It’s peaceful in a way the last few days and weeks had not been - Hightide was a large castle, but with delegations from four major cities it felt rather small and crowded.

Laena doesn’t appear for breakfast, and so Rhaenyra makes a little plate with some of the salted fish that her friend adores so much. Rhaenyra herself is not terribly partial to it, and Rhaenys had called it an acquired taste.

Rhaenys had been up early enough to see their guests off with the pre-dawn tide, but seems totally unflappable when Rhaenyra collects a still-yawing Laena and they go together to Rhaenys’ solar, where their lessons usually take place.

But for once Rhaenys doesn’t have a dozen books or maps that they will be studying today already out.

“Ladies.” The Lady of the Tides does have a single book open, but it doesn’t look like one of the ones she would normally use for lessons. “With how busy we’ve all been these past few days, I think we all deserve a day off. No lessons for today.” Rhaenys pauses, as if considering something briefly. “If and when you go flying, stick to Driftmark and Dragonstone, though. The weather has been a bit overcast.”

Rhaenyra and Laena nod their acknowledgement.

It’s an unspoken agreement that they will of course go flying first, and they are tucking each other’s hair under leather caps and lacing up riding boots soon enough before they set out across the sands to where the dragons nested.

Meleys was napping rather peacefully among the dunes while Syrax terrorized two unfortunate pieces of driftwood under the watchful eyes of Vhagar, who gave a puff of smoke from her nostrils in greeting as the girls approached. Rhaenyra still wasn’t the best at reading the giant dragon, but Laena was grinning.

Syrax does finally notice them then, and the driftwood is instantly forgotten as Rhaenyra’s golden lady almost bowls her over, giving little chirps as Rhaenyra tries to hug her dragon.

“Good morning to you too, Syrax.” She eventually gives up on the hug and settles for scratching the place just by Syrax’s horns. “Ready to go flying?”

Syrax perks up even more at that, and Rhaenyra feels the slightest pang of guilt. These past few days with the negotiations she and Laena have barely had the time to see the dragons, let alone to fly properly.

Laena is likewise greeting Vhagar, though the giant dragon hadn’t bowled Rhaenyra’s friend over the same way Syrax has almost done to Rhaenyra. Visenya’s great dragon seemed so aware of her size in a way that Syrax didn’t, at least yet. Rhaenyra’s golden lady seemed to still think she was the dog-sized creature that had slept in Rhaenyra’s bed one night that Daemon had snuck the little dragon into the Red Keep.

“Dragonstone?” Rhaenyra calls over her shoulder. Laena is already halfway up the long tattered rope ladder that leads to Vhagar’s great shoulder when Rhaenyra turns to look at her friend.

Said friend makes an affirmative hand gesture before resuming her climb and Rhaenyra smiles. Woe be unto anyone who gets between the Lady Laena and her dragon.

She clambers up to Syrax’s shoulder and does up the leather straps that will hold her in place before nudging her golden lady, who launches they skyward a moment later. They’d learned the hard way that being on the ground while Vhagar took off tended to result in getting a little better acquainted with a large amount of sand than Rhaenyra preferred to be.

Vhagar’s great steps are heavy even as Syrax circles a little higher, but the great dragon and her rider are airborne soon enough and Rhaenyra changes course, flying along the island of Driftmark to the point where they will cross over the straits to Dragonstone.

It is not a terribly pleasant flight - the wind is cold and strong enough that Rhaenyra has to pay more attention to navigating and staying with Vhagar that she really can’t enjoy the flight in the way that she can when the weather is better, but they reach the island of Dragonstone soon enough.

The home of Rhaenyra’s ancestors was very different to Driftmark - full of cragged cliffs and jagged rocks interspersed with caves and all overshadowed by the Dragonmount. There are beaches, but not so many as Driftmark, and the harbor is smaller and more treacherous.

Syrax flies in and around some of the rock spires as Vhagar circles the island a few times, calling out. A trio of voices answer - Vermithor, Silverwing, and Dreamfyre. All near the Dragonmount, by the sound of things.

Vhagar lands first, on one of the few beaches, though it is very different to the beaches of Driftmark. The island that House Velaryon called home had beaches of a rather pale sand that extended far as rolling dunes dotted by coarse grasses, while Dragonstone’s sand was dark, almost black in places, and the beaches were short things, entirely submerged in the highest tides, that ended in rocky outcroppings.

Syrax lands beside Vhagar, and Rhaenyra clambers down to wait for Laena as her Syrax starts nosing around, as if looking for another piece of driftwood to torment. It tended to be quite an amusing sight, as Syrax wouldn’t burn them for quite some time, preferring to shred them with her teeth and claws.

“Princess.” Rhaenyra almost doesn't hear Laena over Vhagar’s great footsteps as the elder dragon adjusted and curled up, lazily blinking at them before settling down to nap.

“Laena.” Rhaenyra almost flops down on the sand, at once exhausted from the past few days, but thinks better of it at the last second. Sand is a fact of life on Diftmark, especially considering the dragons preferred the dunes for nesting, but Rhaenyra doesn’t want to deal with overly sandy hair tonight.

Her friend seems to have no such compunctions and flops down on the sand, only to give an annoyed groan that Rhaenyra can sympathize with. The beaches of Dragonstone are more of a hard-packed sand than the softer and looser sands of Diftmark.

“How soon do you think we’ll be off to Braavos?” Rhaenyra asks. There would be more negotiations ahead of them.

“Hopefully never. The Sealord undoubtedly still thinks his son would make a fine husband for me. But Father hasn’t exactly won his war in the Stepstones, so perhaps a fortnight. Or a bit longer. Mayhaps they’ll even come to us.”

Rhaenyra doubts that from what she knows - Braavos and Volantis might seem total opposites most of the time, but in some ways they both had a certain air of pride in common.

They stay in a companionable silence for a few minutes, and Rhaenyra’s eyes drift over to Syrax. Her dragon had started digging a hole in the sand.

“Dragon for your thoughts?” Laena asks.

“I-” Rhaenyra looks back over at Laena. “I don’t want to get married. And if your father is considering suitors then my father’s council must be as well.”

“My father might be considering suitors, but he’s not going to have an easy time marching me to the altar. And the Braavosi might not even be interested anymore. The quasi-betrothal-scheme-thing that Father and the Sealord hatched is from before I had Vhagar. Something tells me that with how much it always feels like Mother is walking on eggshells in Braavos the chances of any Braavosi match are rather slim now.”

Rhaenyra nods. “I should worry less. But somehow I cannot.” She thinks of her mother and that horrid bed of blood. “And as much as I have Syrax, Uncle Daemon had Caraxes. I do not think one could say that he wished for that marriage, and yet he still married to the Lady Royce.”

Laena sits up. “True enough. But Daemon’s marriage was made by the Good Queen, with the approval of the Old King and Baelon. Neither of our fathers have dragons.”

“And yet my uncle is still married to Lady Royce, even with the Old King, Good Queen, and Baelon dead. Even with Balerion dead.”

“Lady Royce who he hasn’t laid eyes on in what, a decade? Longer?”

“As you say.”

Laena shifts so her head rests in Rhaenyra’s lap. “You’ve been thinking of this more recently.”

“Since Aegon’s birth. It-” As much as Rhaenyra had been aware that Alicent’s marriage to her father signaled that she herself could expect to be wed in a few years time - her former lady in waiting was only a few years older than her, after all - somehow the birth of her half-brother brought it home in a way the news of the marriage hadn’t. That now Alicent was a proper lady, bearing sons for a lord husband just the way a septa would say she should.

“Oh, Rhaenyra.” Laena sits up and holds her closer, pulling Rhaenyra more into her lap than anything else. “I promise to be your knight in shining armor and rescue you from any marriage if Syrax proves unequal to the task.”

They glance over at Syrax, who is still digging a pit in the sand.

Rhaenyra smiles. “Your armor isn’t very shining, my noble knight. And you’ve brought me here all alone. Perhaps you are more a rogue than a noble knight.”

“A rogue , am I?” Laena moves fast as the sea snake her father is named after, pinning Rhaenyra to the firm sand. “Well then, my fair princess, I must have a kiss from you.”

The kiss is insistent but gentle and Rhaenyra pulls Laena closer, suddenly aware that her friend is straddling her and has her effectively helpless against the sand.

Laena pulls away far too soon for Rhaenyra’s liking in the end. “A rather beautiful rogue.” Rhaenyra bites her lip, suddenly feeling hot even in the coolness of the sea air. “I would think you’d know then that kisses are bestowed , not taken.” She pulls Laena down for another kiss, savoring the surprised noise her friend gives.

Laena flops beside Rhaenyra once more once they finally grow tired of kissing. For all the songs seem like lies, perhaps they are built on some grain of truth. Marriage seems a great horror, but Rhaenyra will freely admit that she does enjoy kisses. Laena’s kisses, at least.

“You’ll help me get the sand out of my hair tonight.” Laena had been the one to get her hair sandy in the first place.

Laena snorts. “Yes, Princess.” She purrs and presses another kiss to Rhaenyra’s cheek.

A flash of gold in the corner of Rhaenyra’s vision distracts her, and she turns to see Syrax stalking along the beach as best a brightly colored dragon could, driftwood and hole forgotten.

“Is there-” Rhaenyra isn't sure why she is whispering. Syrax’s footfalls are undoubtedly louder than her own voice.

“A very lost seal, I think.” Laena finishes. “And a very unlucky seal.” The gray blob seems to think otherwise though, dashing back into the sea before Syrax can pounce. “Or not.”

Rhaenyra smiles as Syrax gazes at the dark waters forlorn before trudging her way back along the beach. “Perhaps we should head back. Alas I did not have the foresight to bring any food. And I find my dragon is not the only one who is hungry.”

Laena smiles at that, pressing a last kiss to Rhaenyra’s cheek. “I’m devastated to learn that my kisses are not enough for you, Princess.”

They are on the wing to Driftmark within a quarter of an hour.

Chapter 26: Daemon V

Chapter Text

It wasn’t that things had turned against them, strictly speaking. Well, Daemon darkly muses, perhaps it would be more accurate to say that things hadn’t even been for them in the first place. He’d imagined a short victorious war, one of burning ships and groveling foes. Corlys’ venture in the Stepstones - and his own - had been anything but that.

Vaemond was absent - a small mercy. The day had been long, and Daemon did not think Corlys would approve of him doing any permanent damage to his brother. At least outwardly.

The winds had been unusually strong in the morning, and the fine sand seemed everywhere. It was all the men could do to huddle in their tents, but Daemon had been in the air with Caraxes. Searching for the enemy that proved as elusive as ever. Of late it seemed that they were more chasing ghosts than men. The only proof Daemon had seen all day that the Crabfeeder even existed was the three corpses staked to the sands. One - more a jumble of bones now - had been one of Corlys’ men. The other two looked Myrish by Daemon’s estimation, but with the weather conditions he wasn’t going to land to investigate.

Perhaps their foes suffered from the occasional traitors as well. Living in caves and permanent darkness did not sound like a pleasant existence, and that was before the threat of being burned alive came into it.

Still, Daemon’s mood is dark. He and Laenor had only managed to catch a miserly pair of small supply barges in the past fortnight, and Corlys had grimly informed him that the latest outbreak of the flux was up to a full dozen men dead, with twice that numbered ill. None of the other minor flux outbreaks in past months had been more than two or three men dead.

One thing that was in relative abundance was Dornish wine - through Corlys' usual wizardry regarding their supply situation, no doubt. And while Daemon would never admit to enjoying the wine, it had a certain edge to it that was necessary after days such as this one.

His cousin’s husband returns when he’s almost done with his second cup. Not drunk yet, but the fire in his veins is hot, and the visions that dance before his eyes are filled with fire.

“Daemon.” Corlys sounds tired, and Daemon muses for a moment on the ships in the little harbor. Flying had been an adventure today, what with the wind drafts pushing Caraxes in different directions. Had Lord Corlys had the same troubles with his ships?

“Corlys.” He’s not quite as angry as his voice sounds, but at the moment Daemon doesn't care. The fire has saturated his veins. “I was just thinking of the gift I will make to Rhaenyra at the end of this. A necklace, I think. One with Lyseni pearls and Myrish glass and …” he trails off. “What is it they make in Tyrosh?” Armor, he knows. Dyes, if their ridiculous beards are anything to go by. Neither of which are easily made into beads. Though perhaps with Caraxes breathing down their necks the vaunted Tyroshi armorsmiths will come up with something.

Corlys looks anything but amused. “Fascinating.” And his tone is the same coldly restrained one that Vaemond so often brings out. “Perhaps you ought to consider such a thing after our little war is won.”

The Sea Snake is not a man to revel in any victory early. “Then let Laenor and I win your little folly of a war.” Daemon pours himself another cup of wine and takes a deep swig of it. “We can ponder what our prizes might be in the ashes of Tyrosh while Lys and Myr fall over themselves to be the first to grovel at our feet.”

“And have Volantine, Lyseni, and Myrish daggers in our backs before the ink on any surrender is even dry.” Corlys doesn’t drink often, but he likewise pours himself a generous cup. The Volantines are in many ways the unspoken enemy. It’s not that they even supply the Kingdom of the Three whor*s, but their inaction is itself tacit support.

“We may yet have Tyroshi, Lyseni, and Myrish daggers in our backs if we continue like this. What have we gained, Corlys? Nothing. Not the gold you are after, not glory.” If anything they are only making fools of themselves. Two Dragonlords and the fearsome Sea Snake with his mighty fleet, all brought to heel by a rag-tag bunch of pirates, hiding in caves. Otto c*nttower must be laughing at them even now.

“I am not seeking gold. Only trade.” Corlys sounds angrier than Daemon has ever heard him. Daemon for one finds Corlys’ hair-splitting over such things to be utterly childish. Trade will lead to gold. And that’s what Corlys wants. Well, that and more ships and the sea breeze in his hair. One of which can be purchased with more gold.

“Awfully hard to enjoy the gold.” Corlys glares at him. “Trade. If you’re a half-eaten corpse staked to the crab-ridden sand flats of Bloodstone.” Daemon takes another sip of the wine.

“Awfully hard to enjoy the ashen spoils of your victory if you’re going to be dodging daggers for the rest of your life. What then? Burn them too? You’d burn the world until there was naught left in it but ash.”

Daemon swirls what’s left in his cup. What would be left, Corlys asks? Dragonstone. Rhaenyra. Everything that actually mattered. Let Tyrosh burn. Lys, Myr, Volantis if it came to that. Oldtown. King’s Landing. It wasn’t like any of them provided anything of actual value to the world. They were all nothing but the breeding ground of vipers.

“What does my cousin see in you? She’d never accept such a war such as this. We’d burn Tyrosh in a day and it would all be over.” Rhaenys is more level headed than Daemon, but she’s also decisive in a way that her snake of a husband isn’t.

Corlys only glares at him, and Daemon finds a vicious grin on his face. If nothing else, the Sea Snake knows his Lady Wife well enough to know Daemon speaks the truth.

“And to think all of this started because the mighty Lord Corlys wasn’t willing to pay a pittance to pass through the Straits of Tyrosh.” It hadn’t been a pittance, but compared to this endless and useless war it must have been. Corlys had waxed poetic when this all began. That it was better to go to war. To make the firm point to the Kingdom of the Three Pirates. That paying them off would only lead to an ever increasing fee and then war would be inevitable. That the war would be short and victorious and it was best to fight it sooner rather than later.

They drain their cups in tense silence before Lord Corlys mutters something and departs. Likely he has more ships to deal with, Daemon thinks. For his own part he heads to sleep. He and Caraxes must rise with the dawn.

Daemon had still flown the next day, even though he’d woken up rather parched and still very much feeling the wine. Laenor was recovered from the bad fish he’d eaten, but with only two of them and the necessity of rotating the dragons to hunt every so often, it was still painfully obvious how thin they were stretched.

He hadn’t spoken with Corlys that night - far too exhausted for another argument. So it wasn’t until the next day that he heard Lord Velaryon had called for a truce, and for negotiations.

The envoys didn’t arrive for another four days, but even that speed spoke to the fact that the Triarchy were ready to negotiate. That perhaps they were stretched rather more thin than it seemed.

It’s a farce - the command tent had been given a refurbishment. Daemon, Vaemond, Laenor, and Corlys himself were in finery for the first time in moons. A full table was laid out with great jugs of water interspersed with wine and fanciful delicacies. The image of plenty, of splendor. Seasmoke and Caraxes rest outside as a very real threat - the only real part of the entire mess. And it still seems rather useless to Daemon. One only has to look hard into the camp to see that Lord Corlys’ men are hurting. Fighting, but hurting.

The envoys - three of them - seem a similar farce. A pale and handsome young Lyseni man who wouldn’t have been out of place in a pleasure house, and who probably could have passed himself off as a bastard cousin of Daemon’s to any that were not familiar with the fine points that separate Valyrian features. The Myrish envoy, in contrast, could have been mistaken for a Dornishman. But no one would dream of confusing the Tyroshi envoy - a man with a tri-pointed beard dyed pink, turquoise, and a blazing yellow - for anything other than a Tyroshi.

“My Lords.” Corlys’ tone is dripping with venom, though to one that doesn’t know him they would think it simply honey. “Please. Eat. Your journey has been long, and I would be a poor host to leave you to negotiate on empty stomachs.”

They do, but not until Corlys eats himself, and even then it seems performative and like they are pushing food around the plates more than eating. The true negotiations begin once the wine is poured.

They begin with the expected niceties - gifts of gold from Corlys to the envoys. In chests so heavy that they wouldn't be able to take it with them - Daemon had watched as lead weights were placed into the bases of the chests before the gold was layered atop them. The envoys had brought a few gifts of their own - creamy pink pearls from Lys. Glass beads in brilliant reds and blues from Myr. And small gilded ornaments from Tyrosh. Perhaps, Daemon muses, he will be able to send a necklace to Rhaenyra after all.

“We have gone about this all wrong.” Corlys is swirling his wine as he speaks. As much as he had made a show of pouring the wine for all of them and taking a sip to prove it wasn’t poisoned, he hadn’t taken so much as another sip, and Daemon hadn’t taken a single sip. This was not a negotiation that it would be wise to conduct impaired. “It is not that I wish to conquer these islands from their pirate denizens. My argument with your masters is over trade. Fees to access the straits.”

The tent is tense as Corlys swirls his wine glass once more. “It is not the lifeless islands that my son and cousin should be turning to melted rock.” The threat is an oblique one, but from the glances the envoys exchange it is clear they understand. Technically Corlys is more threatening their ships, but Daemon imagines he is being vague for a reason. Burning Tyrosh would have unpleasant repercussions, but implying that one might burn Tyrosh less so.

“And so much of this is merely down to my own pride. The straits are treacherous, and it would of course be reasonable for ships to pay a fee to have a native helmsman guide them through, don’t you think?”

“Of course.” Daemon agrees, as does Vaemond.

The envoys exchange another glance, and Daemon wonders if this will all be for naught. If the Kingdom of the Three whor*s will laugh in their faces and call Corlys’ little bluff.

“But I understand this may be a difficult choice to make. Return to your ship. You are under my personal protection. We can talk again tomorrow.”

It’s a tenuous truce, and not one that Daemon thinks will last forever, but the envoys do agree to a truce. Corlys even offers that his men will depart Bloodstone so he isn’t seen as negotiating with an army breathing down the throats of the Triarchy. And somehow, he even manages to make it sound like they aren’t running back to Driftmark with their tails between their legs.

Still, part of Daemon thinks they will be back at it in a few moons, or perhaps a year. Whenever negotiations fall through or when the Tyroshi increase the fee to transit the straits. Still, he certainly isn’t complaining about leaving, and neither is Caraxes. It will be good to see the spires of Dragonstone once more. To see if Dreamfyre is the brilliant blue she should be instead of the sallow and distressingly pale blue that she had been when Daemon had coaxed her from the Dragonpit. And Rhaenyra. For as much as Daemon wants to see the island that is his home, he wants to see his precious niece more. And he does have a necklace to offer her - though not a crown as he’d dreamed during those first few fortnights on Bloodstone when things were going more in their favor. Before it had all come to a stalemate.

Chapter 27: Rhaenys II

Chapter Text

It is almost exactly a quarter of an hour from when Rhaenys dismisses the girls from her solar to when Vhagar’s great footfalls echo over the island, heralding the departure of Rhaenyra and Laena. Rhaenys rises swiftly, catching a glance of the two dragons - Syrax’s golden form, growing larger every day but still looking positively tiny next to Vhagar's faded green and bronze scales. Their direction is clear. Dragonstone.

Rhaenys for her part goes back to the tome, one that had come with Aenar the Exile from Valyria, but unlike so many other tomes, it wasn’t a book on navigation or dragons or other such things, but rather a collection of tales that any septa would have scoffed at. Not the grand romances the tales of the Seven Kingdoms seemed so fond of, but rather Valyrian Tales that held a more comic air to them, mostly poking fun at what were probably real dragonlords, but the records that might have confirmed or denied that were behind the black walls of Volantis or lost to the world entirely.

But as much as Rhaenys does enjoy reading the book from time to time, she marks her place as she finishes the tale of a dragonlord who had been in love with his dragon and sets out to see her own dragon.

The wind is whipping up the sand up rather unpleasantly, and Rhaenys understands at once why the girls had departed for Dragonstone, but Meleys' wings shield her from the wind and sand easily enough.

“Dear Meleys.” She gives the dragon an affectionate scratch. “How fares your quiet day?”

Meleys gives a soft trill and Rhaenys smiles. There is no small part of her that wishes Meleys could speak back to her. Would Meleys express some from of relief that Syrax and all her boundless energy was away for the day? Would she be irked by the blowing sand?

“Shall we fly?” Rhaenys wasn’t in full riding leathers, but they wouldn’t go far.

Meleys agrees quickly enough, and they are in the sky only moments later, the wind whipping past Rhaenys in a way that will never grow old.

They circle above the castle briefly before ascending further as Meleys caught updrafts and wheeled left, then right. As much as Syrax had the agility of a young dragon and Vhagar could fight the weather in a way that no other living dragon could hope to, Rhaenys would choose Meleys over either of them without hesitation.

Meleys was different. Meleys could dance, flying with the lazy, easy grace that belied so many hours spent above the clouds. And it was something that Rhaenys would never tire of. She’d spent almost every waking hour on the wing with her precious lady during the first year of her marriage - Corlys for his part had spent almost the entire year at sea. Not that either of them had complained.

Rhaenys was content for the sea to be Corlys’ wife and Meleys to be her own husband, after a fashion. She and Corlys had done their duty, and as much as the more devout among the Westerosi would think it odd that a Lord and his Lady led such separate lives, it was for the better. They complimented each other well, but would never sleep in the same bed. Corlys snored.

Still, as Meleys twirls with ease and such grace Rhaenys’ thoughts fly back to her own wedding. How her lady had carried her to the sept, and how she would have carried Rhaenys from the sept, Vermithor and the king be damned, if Rhaenys had wished it. Even then no older dragon could have caught her lady. Vermithor especially. The Old King’s mount was not nearly as swift as Silverwing, let alone Meleys.

There had been a second wedding afterwards, the day she and Corlys had arrived on Driftmark. Not the full Valyrian ceremony, but a version of it that House Velaryon preferred. One said at the seaside, with only a few witnesses. The same one they had used since they had come to Driftmark before the Doom, but Rhaenys thinks there have been a few alterations over the years. Still, it had felt far more like a commitment of her and Corlys to each other than the ceremony which was held in King’s Landing. That had been for the lords of the realm more than anything.

And unbidden, Rhaenys’ thoughts turn to the girls. Corlys had his Braavosi schemes, and a few of them involved Laena’s marriage to one of the Sealord’s sons. As much as such a thing had worried Rhaenys once, Laena had Vhagar now. And with the Braavosi attitude toward dragons, that imagined marriage had to have fallen through, even in Corlys’ head.

As for Laenor, Corlys undoubtably wished for him to marry Rhaenyra, though Rhaenys’ husband had been rather quiet on the subject. It would hardly be a perfect match, but one that all parties involved could be civil enough to deal with. Laenor and Rhaenyra, for all they were both still rather young, could have the same conversation that Rhaenys and Corlys had in the godswood of the Red Keep, all those years ago. They were both wiser than one might think.

As for Laena, Rhaenys was glad that Viserys had remarried before Corlys had even really had the chance to try and offer their daughter to Viserys. That, she wouldn’t have been able to forgive Corlys for. Well, that and having a brother such as Vaemond. Rhaenys’ goodbrother was insufferable and he did not like being at sea nearly as much as Corlys.

Meleys lands almost silently back on the beach, near her nest. “How would you handle hatchlings such as mine?” Rhaenys asks her lady, giving the scarlet dragon another scratch. For all Meleys mothered Syrax and for all she had mothered Seasmoke when he was small, she’d never produced a clutch of her own eggs. Or at least not one that Rhaenys knew about.

Most of the rest of Rhaenys’ afternoon is passed in her solar, alone with her collection of Valyrian stories, but Jaemon does bring a pair of raven missives an hour before supper, just after Vhagar’s footsteps had announced the return of Laena and Rhaenyra.

The first Rhaenys had honestly been expecting, though perhaps not this soon. Her husband was a stubborn man, but his little war hadn’t been going well.

Truce with Triarchy. Returning to Driftmark.

So they could expect Daemon and Laenor within the next few days, though Corlys would have at least a fortnight of stewing on a ship with Vaemond before he returned. Well, unless he had managed to assign Vaemond to a different ship. And for all Corlys tolerated Vaemond in a way that Rhaenys herself didn’t, tolerating Vaemond and living in close quarters with Vaemond for a fortnight were very different things.

The second missive is less welcome. The language is more flowery than Corlys’ short missive, inviting the Velaryons and Princess Rhaenyra to King’s Landing for the king’s nameday. An innocent enough request. One that Rhaenys could certainly see Viserys making, especially if he was now properly out of his mourning and thinking of his daughter again. But there was something about the request that smacked of Otto Hightower. As much as Corlys undoubtedly had his own ambitions when it came to Rhaenyra’s future marriage, he would not be the only lord in the realm that wished to have a princess for a gooddaughter. And some would want Rhaenyra as their own wife.

Rhaenys folds the missive. Such messages are best not responded to immediately. Conjuring the flowery language of the court is taxing, and Rhaenys does not want to give herself a headache today. Such a thing can wait for tomorrow. Or perhaps even later.

She had told the girls the next day, and was planning to write a reply the day after. But time had gotten away from Rhaenys. Lord Strong had arrived in the middle of the afternoon, together with a rather seasick looking group of men-at-arms.

In some ways it is just as well that Rhaenyra and Laena are on Dragonstone again - this time retrieving some particular tomes from the archives and returning a few that they had previously brought to Driftmark. In this, Rhaenys would rather receive Lord Strong alone.

“Please, My Lord, sit.”

“Lady Velaryon.” Lord Strong does take the seat Rhaenys offers.

“What brings you to Driftmark, My Lord?” The Lords of the Small Council rarely come here. It is usually Corlys or Rhaenys herself that make the trip to King’s Landing. If nothing, Meleys is far swifter than any ship.

“The order of the King, Lady Velaryon. He asked me to personally extended an invitation that your house attended his nameday feast in a moon’s time, and asked that you bring the Princess Rhaenyra with you to the Red Keep.”

“This all seems a little much, Lord Strong. A raven and a visit from a Lord such as yourself to extend an invitation to a feast?”

“Ravens do not always fare well on the trip from King’s Landing to Driftmark.”

Rhaenys nods. Corlys had a habit of either ‘being at sea’ when the important messages came in or of burning them and blaming an errant raven when it suited him. And as much as she was loathed to admit it, there were times when it was an excellent strategy for dealing with inconvenient ravens. “Alas, the winds can be rather treacherous for birds.”

“Indeed.” Lord Strong sounds tired. “And if I could steal the princess from her lessons for a moment I also have a message from the King for her.”

“The Princess and Lady Laena are on Dragonstone today, Lord Strong, and I am not expecting them back until tomorrow. I know your errand here is rather urgent, but with how changing the situation can be in King’s Landing I wouldn't want to keep you for longer than needed. You can leave the message with me.” Rhaenys’ words are carefully chosen. The Red Keep is a nest of vipers, and it is not one that it is wise to leave unattended for those that imagine they control it.

“I see.” Lord Strong doesn’t sound happy, but he pulls the missive from his tunic and hands it over to Rhaenys. The wax seal is unmistakably that of the king, but the slanting script that spells out Rhaenyra’s name is not in his hand. Unusual. Viserys still wrote most of the missives he sent to Rhaenys herself in his own hand. Had he injured himself?

“I will convey the message to the Princess, Lord Strong.” She places the sealed parchment on the corner of the table and stands. “Now I should see you on your way. You only just made it in the last of the tides, and if you tarry much longer you may well be stuck here for another half day or even longer. The weather can be mercurial. And it would not do for the king to be lacking in your services any longer than necessary.”

“As you say.” Lord Strong sounds somewhat miserable. Then again, he is from the Riverlands. Perhaps it shouldn’t be such a surprise that he does not handle sea voyages well.

Chapter 28: Rhaenyra XV

Chapter Text

It is almost like the breaking of a spell out of some song in a way. Inevitable, but still painful. And Rhaenyra wasn’t sure whether she liked or hated that her father’s nameday was still almost a moon away. And so she would have almost a moon to wonder what it would be like to be in King’s Landing once more.

It’s late, and she should probably be in bed. But the moon is high in the sky and Rhaenyra had slipped out of the castle through a side door Laena showed her and set off over the silver sands. Her dear friend was already asleep regardless, and with the amount of flying Rhaenys had them do Rhaenyra would be a poor friend to wake her friend for this.

Syrax is snoozing, but opens a single golden eye as Rhaenyra ducks under her dragon’s wing, sliding to the sand and leaning back against her golden lady’s warm scales.

“My dear Syrax.” Her lady had grown up in King’s Landing too. In the dragonpit. “We’re going back to King’s Landing. To see my father. He’s having a feast for his nameday. Which I suppose is what kings do.”

Rhaenyra’s dragon shifted ever so slightly, letting Rhaenyra lean back further. She rested her hand against the warm scales. “You’ve liked Driftmark so much. And Dragonstone. Will you ever forgive me for staying in King’s Landing for so long? For keeping you penned in the pit?”

Because as much as Rhaenyra’s lady had always seemed to thrive, she’d grown markedly since arriving on Driftmark.

“It won’t be a long trip back. We’re just going for the feast. There’s not going to be a big hunt this year. Perhaps in another few years.” The image of Syrax chasing deer through the woods springs to Rhaenyra’s mind, and she smiles. “By then the deer would be little more than a snack for you, but I suspect you’d enjoy the chase.”

Rhaenyra lets her eyes flutter shut. She’ll be stiff if she sleeps like this, but perhaps the warmth of Syrax’s scales and the soft melody of the ocean - louder here than it was in the castle - would help to put the thoughts of what - and who - awaited her in King’s Landing out of her mind.

But if anything the images her mind conjures only become more vivid. The gold cloaks. The red stone that was everywhere in the Red Keep. The smell - for King’s Landing reeked. The city more than the keep, but it was something that she hadn’t noticed until she’d come to Driftmark. The sea breeze was far more pleasant. Her father. Her brother - though the word seemed foreign and wrong. And Alicent. Her friend. Her father’s wife, now. The Queen.

Rhaenyra’s mind conjured two images of Alicent. One of the pious girl who had been her lady-in-waiting, who Rhaenyra had spent almost every waking moment with. Well, except when she went flying. The other is more a vague thing, and one that Rhaenyra dreads. Queen Alicent is a strange mix of the girl Rhaenyra had known and others. Did she have women’s courts as the Good Queen had? Was she pious as the septa she had parroted so often? Or - Rhaenyra’s fists curl even though she hadn’t intended it. It hurt to think about it, and yet she had no other choice. Was Alicent like her own mother now?

“Syrax.” Rhaenyra’s dragon curled around her even more, making a soft sound as she did. Trying, it seems, to comfort her. Her golden lady had never disliked Alicent - their relationship or lack thereof was very much more something caused by Alicent’s fear of Syrax.

“What will I even call her?” Alicent had always been Alicent to Rhaenyra. Lady Alicent to most of the court. Now she was queen to them. But what was she to Rhaenyra? Alicent still? Stepmother? Mother? The thoughts have an ashen feel to them, and Rhaenyra can’t bring herself to try and invoke the words. She had a mother already, and if another deserved the title it would not be Alicent, but rather Rhaenys.

In some ways Rhaenyra thought of Laena’s mother as her own already - Laena didn’t guard her tongue as she had those first few months. And Rhaenyra had almost called Rhaenys mother when speaking to her dear friend more than once. Even that felt like some betrayal of Aemma, of her dear mother who had worried so whenever Rhaenyra had taken to the skies, no matter how many times she came back with nothing more than windswept hair.

Rhaenys was different. A teacher more than a mother, but somehow both. While she did worry - Rhaenyra remembered the expression on Rhaenys’ face when they had returned for Qohor well. Each time it came into her mind, a curl of guilt returned. But it was different to Aemma’s worry.

What of Alicent? Did she worry now? And as much as the image Rhaenyra’s mind still thought of as Alicent was the girl in maiden’s dresses, what would she look like? Tired as Rhaenyra’s own mother had so often been, and great with child? Well, likely not this soon after the birth of Aegon.

“Aegon.” The name felt just as awkward on Rhaenyra’s tongue as it had in her mind. It was a name for history. And an unlucky one, as of late. Aegon Uncrowned and his dragon had been torn to pieces by Maegor and Balerion. The Old King had a son named Aegon, but he’d died in the cradle. And then there had been Rhaenyra’s uncle Aegon, who had lived only a year. Was the Conqueror's name cursed, then? Would Aegon follow Baelon?

“Would that you could tell me a story, Syrax. Take my mind off all of this.” Rhaenyra wondered what sort of stories her dragon could tell. Stories of vigilant seals that slipped away. Or of how the pieces of Driftwood that Syrax so liked to shred earned their punishment. But the images change in Rhaenyra’s mind. The horrid stench of death and burning men above the plains of Qohor. The pyre her mother and brother had burned on.

“No one understands it all. No one but you.” Daemon had held her that horrid day as the pyres had burned. Laena had been with her above Qohor. Then again, as much as Syrax seemed attuned to the mood the day of the funeral, Rhaenyra doubted her dragon had any compunctions about what had taken place before the walls of Qohor.

The call of a dragon breaks Rhaenyra from her thoughts. Syrax had uncurled some and was gazing skyward, as was Meleys a bit further down the beach. Vhagar for her part didn’t appear to have moved, but the dragon sounded rather young.

Rhaenys Targaryen’s dragon does what Rhaenyra can only describe as a grumble and curls up once more a moment later, but Syrax remains vigilant as a dragon comes into view.

Seasmoke looks almost black until he lands, then more silver than the soft gray Rhaenyra known him to be. Laenor, then. She glances at the sky. Surely if Laenor had returned then Daemon should be with him. But her uncle's unmistakable dragon is nowhere to be seen.

Seasmoke rather quickly curls up himself, even as Laenor is still clambering off his back.

Part of Rhaenyra thinks to remain hidden beneath Syrax’s wings, but she does want to know where Daemon is. If he is coming. What has happened to him? And, a small part of her mind adds, perhaps it is not the wisest of choices for her to be alone with her thoughts and Syrax right now.

Laenor gives her half a smile when he sees her, still unbuckling his helmet.

“Has my mother become so cruel that you must sleep in the sand with the dragons, Princess?” For all Laenor must be tired his humor seems mostly intact, and Rhaenyra finds half a smile on her face.

“Welcome back, cousin. I couldn’t sleep. And my moonlight visit to my dear lady rather quickly turned into half a night spent at her side.”

Laenor nods. “I know the feeling.” He glances back at Seasmoke. The two dragons are very nearly the same age, hatching about half a year apart. But one would not know it looking at them. Seasmoke was perhaps a quarter to a third again the size of Syrax, even with how much Rhaenyra’s dragon had grown in the past year, and she finds herself wincing. Had her dragon grown more slowly because of the pit she had lived so much of her early life in?

Laenor starts walking in the direction of the castle and Rhaenyra runs a few steps to catch up with him before falling into step beside him.

“How is my uncle?” As much as Rhaenyra probably should ask after Lord Corlys first, they aren’t in any sort of formal setting, and Laenor is as good as her brother, in a way.

“Probably still a bit grumpy. The Stepstones don’t really agree with him, but I don’t think they agree with anyone. He landed on Dragonstone. I expect we’ll see him in the morning. Or perhaps in the afternoon if he’s half as tired as I am.”

“It will be nice to see him again.” Rhaenyra has missed her uncle, even if Rhaenys had mostly kept Rhaenyra and Laena busy enough that they had little time for missing anyone.

Laenor laughs at that. “For you, Princess. I dare say I’ve seen enough of the man for at least the next year.”

They part ways then with a brief goodnight before heading to their separate quarters. Laena and Rhaenyra were not far from Rhaenys while Laenor was almost halfway across the castle, in one of the towers with the best view of the sea.

But Rhaenyra is no closer to sleep when she returns to her own quarters, and the images of King’s Landing come again. Her father. Alicent. The bed of blood that her mother must have died in, even if they hadn’t let Rhaenyra see her. Hadn’t let her hold her hand. Hadn’t let her say goodbye.

Half-trembling, Rhaenrya rises once more, making her way not to the beach and Syrax, but rather next door.

Laena is asleep when Rhaenrya enters, but her friend can be a light sleeper, and as Rhaenyra turns from shutting the door one of her friend’s eyes is half open.

“Nyra?” Laena’s voice is hoarse from sleep.

Rhaenyra walks over to Laena before hesitantly climbing in bed even as Laena shuffles over a little bit to give her more room. “I can’t be alone right now. I-”

Laena nuzzles up to her, wrapping her arms around Rhaenyra and pulling her closer. Her words are muffled from sleep and more spoken to the top of Rhaenyra’s head than anything else, but the meaning is clear.

You aren’t alone. I’m here.

And Rhaenyra’s eyelids finally seem heavy. She’d been up half the night - perhaps even more. She’d exhausted. How could she not be? Sleep - the dreamless sleep born of exhaustion - comes quickly enough.

Laena is already awake and mostly dressed when Rhaenyra slowly comes back to herself, rubbing her eyes as she does. She’s stiff and tired and groans.

“Rise and shine.”

Rhaenyra gives another groan in response.

Laena’s hand is gentle on Rhaenyra’s shoulder. “I’ll find you some food, but lessons start in an hour.”

And Rhaenys Targaryen is one who starts such things on time. Though perhaps with Laenor back she might give Rhaenyra and Laena a little bit of a rest.

Caraxes’ unmistakable call comes when Rhaenyra and Laena are well into their lessons, poring over faded maps of the borders between Braavos and Lorath. For as much as the Free Cities all claimed to be city-states, they all had a slice of Essos they called their own.

Laena gives her a knowing look as Rhaenyra drops the quill she had been holding and goes to the window, gazing up at the sky, looking for Caraxes’ lanky form. And for Daemon.

Chapter 29: Daemon VI

Chapter Text

The spires of Dragonstone loom out of the gloom suddenly, as if out of a mist. There’s part of Daemon that is glad. The last few minutes of a long flight are in some ways the hardest. Once the destination is in sight he can always feel every stiff muscle in his body, as well as the full brunt of the wind on his face.

Caraxes lands smoothly in the inner courtyard, and Daemon gives his dragon a few scratches before making his way into the citadel of his ancestors. The staff is minimal and his reception something that many a prince might scoff at, but after so long in the sparse military camp he’s just happy for the hot food and most of all for the soft bed.

Daemon wakes earlier than he’d wanted, before dawn. His body still seems to expect a patrol over the countless isles of the Stepstones, looking for those elusive little barges that seemed almost ghostly, especially at the end.

Caraxes is easily visible from one of the windows, curled up in the sand, the charred remains of an unfortunate seal beside him. Odd. Seals did not usually reside this far south, and Caraxes would not bother to carry his catch all the way back from the more northern climes that they frequented. And, Daemon thinks, Caraxes would not have had time to fly all the way north and back south in less than a night, especially with how far they had flown the previous day.

But as dawn slowly creeps over the castle, Daemon’s thoughts shift. Bloodstone had been distant from what in some ways seemed to be the real world, the one that Daemon had now returned to. Visenya’s painted table is behind him, though the candles needed to illuminate it are absent. Westeros seems so much closer now. Just over the horizon.

Daemon tears himself away from the window and the view of his sleeping dragon to trace the edges of the darkened table. He knows the coastline well. The Craggy West. The Fertile Reach. The Broken Arm of Dorne, so near to where he had been. The Stormlands. The Crownlands, home to his brother.

He lingers there for a moment, fingers tracing over the place where King’s Landing had been founded. It was in some ways a hint that the map had been scarcely used since the Conquest. King’s Landing had not existed when the map was made, and even now it had not been carved into place, usually denoted only by a scrap of parchment or little marker.

How would Viserys be? As much as Daemon had kept up a correspondence with Rhaenys, his correspondence with Viserys had been minimal and far between. Any letter sent to Viserys would be an affair of state and read at a small council meeting.

It was different at Driftmark. Any missive sent to Rhaenys or Rhaenyra would be read by them and kept rather private. But even if it would, Daemon is itching to see his precious niece and his dear cousin in person. Laenor, for all he had been a battle companion that Daemon would happily fight beside once more, did not have the charms of his mother or cousin. And as much as Daemon perhaps should take at least one day of proper rest for Caraxes’ sake if nothing else, he thinks his dragon will happily manage the quick trip over to Driftmark.

But he is not so eager as to wake Caraxes himself. The Blood Wyrm that had been the dragon of Aemon Targaryen is a prickly creature, and having one’s dragon annoyed was usually a recipe for a very unpleasant ride or two.

So Daemon continues to trace the table for the time being, coming to the Vale. Home of his lady wife. Once Daemon had hated her with a burning, terrible passion. He’d imagined ways in which he might make himself a widower before. That he might reduce Runestone to another Harrenhal, or that he might run the woman through with Dark Sister. But for all Viserys and his court of vipers called Daemon himself impulsive and reckless, he never had. And he found he no longer wanted to. His hatred was now more for those that had arranged the marriage, for his wife’s father and his own meddling grandmother. Good Queen, they had called her. Perhaps good to the smallfolk. Less so to her own children and grandchildren.

In its own way it is convenient to be married, even if Daemon holds no affection for the woman. The lords are less inclined to foist their daughters and sisters upon him. Not, Daemon thinks, that such a thing will stop Corlys Velaryon. For all Daemon himself had never gone through with making himself a widower, much as he had considered it, Lord Corlys had aspirations for his children’s marriages. Rhaenyra for Laenor. Daemon himself for Laena. And if the king would not grant an annulment, Lord Corlys could no doubt arrange an unfortunate accident to befall the Lady Rhea. It was well known he had many friends in Braavos.

But Lord Corlys’ dreams will not be simple to enact. Most lords married off their children as they pleased, the wishes of the children or even the objections of their lady wife be damned. Lord Corlys might have put himself above every other lord in the seven kingdoms by dint of his marriage to Rhaenys, but the Sea Snake was beholden to Daemon’s cousin and their children in a way that no other lord was. No man would have any luck dragging the rider of the mighty Vhagar to the marital altar.

Caraxes stirs, and Daemon makes his way to his dragon. Driftmark awaits.

Daemon’s welcome is warm enough - Rhaenyra looks positively delighted to see him, and Rhaenys might even be smiling, but Caraxes has no such luck. Meleys seemed rather unimpressed with Daemon’s dragon, and for all Syrax seemed just as happy to see Caraxes as Rhaenyra was to see Daemon himself, Caraxes had to content himself with a nesting place beside Seasmoke. But that didn’t stop Daemon’s dragon from being asleep once more in mere moments.

“Uncle!” Rhaenyra’s Valyrian had the lilt of a slight accent that belied Rhaenys’ tutelage. His niece practically throws herself into his arms, and Daemon cradles her close before pulling back to greet her.

“My dear niece.” Rhaenyra is different from when he had last seen her. A little taller, and so much more Valyrian than she had been. A dragonlord. Not the princess that had come to Dragonstone, lost and alone save for her dragon. No, Rhaenyra seemed so much happier now, though her eyes seemed older than he would expect. Old in the way that Laenor’s eyes are.

She speaks quickly, his precious niece, so much so that Daemon can barely follow what she says. Rhaenys is an excellent teacher, he can gather that much from all she says of navigation and language and ruling. But Rhaenyra probably speaks most of Laena, calling her a dear friend and many other things besides. A sister. But there is something about the way she says it. Something that implies more.

Daemon feels a slight twinge of jealousy that the Lady Laena is so affectionate with his precious niece, and that said niece so obviously feels affection for Laena in turn.

“I have a gift for you.” Daemon is a little impulsive, but he wants to show his own affection for Rhaenyra.

“Oh?” And his pretty niece is ever so clearly intrigued.

“Pearls from Lys, Glass from Myr, and Ornaments from Tyrosh. I’m having a necklace made for you.” Perhaps it is a little bit of a white lie - Daemon had not yet been to see any jeweler, but it was his intent.

Rhaenyra smiles at that and gives him a soft kiss on the cheek. “I simply cannot wait to see it.”

Somewhat belatedly, Daemon realizes that his niece is in full riding leathers and that Laena Velaryon has appeared beside her mother, quickly collecting Rhaenyra and then proceeding down the beach with her, collecting Syrax along the way as they head toward Vhagar.

“Cousin.” Rhaenys sounds almost amused as she greets him.

“Cousin.” Daemon mirrors Rhaenys’ greeting.

“The girls have their navigational exercises to attend to, but I fear we cannot indulge in such things at the moment.”

“Just as long as it doesn’t involve salted fish.” Daemon had eaten quite enough of that in the Stepstones.

Rhaenys laughs, a musical thing, and waves him inside.

They are in her solar soon enough, sipping on a watered Pentosi wine. It’s probably for the best. Daemon has never been known for his patience. Rhaenys for her part speaks evenly and smoothly, not like Rhaenyra had. With Rhaenyra Daemon had only caught one word in every ten, but with Rhaenys he catches every word, much as he finds dealing with politics to not be to his taste.

The viper Otto Hightower is still scheming, that much is clear. Daemon isn’t quite sure what to make of the invitation to King’s Landing for his brother’s nameday feast. On the one hand Viserys, for all his faults, does love Rhaenyra, and it seems entirely reasonable that he would simply wish to see her. On the other hand, Otto Hightower undoubtedly has a scheme to marry Rhaenyra off to some lordling.

Daemon snorts as an idle thought crosses his mind. One of some distant future where he makes Rhaenyra a widow while she makes him a widower in turn.

Rhaenys seems rather unamused, and it’s not a thought that Daemon thinks wise to share with his cousin, not least because her son is the most likely actual candidate for Rhaenyra’s hand, no matter what schemes Otto Hightower comes up with or any fleeting, unacknowledged dream in Daemon’s mind.

“I will go.” Daemon hasn’t been formally invited, but on some level he does want to see his brother. And to protect his niece from the viper’s nest that is King’s Landing.

“Splendid.” Rhaenys barely pauses in her explanation, moving from the affairs of the Seven Kingdoms to those of Essos.

Here Daemon more nods along than anything else. He had never been called politically astute. That had always been Viserys, while Daemon was his strong right arm. The iron fist concealed by the velvet glove of his brother’s kinder nature. But Rhaenys was both. A schemer to equal her husband through she hid it well, and a dragonlord in every sense of the word.

The alliance of Free Cities that they were assembling was hardly a new concept - a similar one had existed during the Century of Blood when Volantis had proclaimed themselves successors to Valyria. That alliance hadn’t lasted once Volantis had been beaten back. And as much as Rhaenys is Rhaenys, Daemon finds himself rather skeptical of this new alliance. It’s simple - and that will likely help it - but it cannot last. Even against a foe as common as the Dothraki, it cannot last.

“Any questions?”

Daemon opens his mouth, then closes it again. He probably should have questions, but he doesn’t. His mind is too confused as he tries to keep the complicated web of alliances straight.

“Many. None that are currently articulable.”

That does earn him a rather unladylike snort from Rhaenys. “You know where to find me when they become articulable.”

“That I do.”

Their conversation shifts after that, to lighter subjects. The archives on Dragonstone, and what Rhaenys currently has on Driftmark. Rhaenys’ ideas for more complicated navigation exercises that they all - even her and Daemon - could likely benefit from. And this Daemon can follow much more easily than the web of politics.

There is undoubtedly a political aspect to it - tours of Essos are always such - but Daemon is much more looking forward to the flying. To seeing Rhaenyra and Syrax together. To seeing Laena and Vhagar in all her glory. To seeing the way Meleys and Rhaenys could dance.

And in turn, he supposes he finds himself looking forward to his brother’s nameday feast, if only because he desperately wanted what came after it.

Chapter 30: Alicent V

Chapter Text

For all the King’s nameday is being celebrated by a feast, it isn’t going to be a large one. The only outside guests invited are Rhaenyra and House Velaryon, though there are always some number of Lords - both those on the Small Council and more minor lordlings - in King’s Landing to fill out the King’s table.

Alicent throws herself into the preparations with an assured calmness she hadn’t had a year ago. The King’s nameday feast then had been a rather minor affair just a few weeks after their wedding, and planned more by Alicent’s father than anyone else.

Traditionally the Queen should be the one to oversee the planning of such affairs, not the Lord Hand, but Alicent had been such a nervous wreck a year ago that she hadn’t even been embarrassed that her father had seen to it.

Now, though, Alicent was the one poring over menus and consulting with the royal cooks. This, at least, came naturally to her. It was the duty of any Lady to see to such affairs, and as much as septas were keen to instill the virtue of modesty, any highborn girl would learn from her mother or her septa how such affairs were to be planned.

Alicent herself had learned more from Queen Aemma than from her septa, and she was grateful for it. The septa’s lessons would be more than sufficient for the lady of a minor keep, but Rhaenyra’s mother attended to so much more than a basic menu. The table arrangements and seating arrangements were most delicate at the royal court, and it was always an intriguing puzzle to sit each lord in a suitable place that would flatter him while not insulting any other lord.

The menu, at least, is easy. It is the King’s nameday, so Alicent chooses dishes she knows Viserys will be partial to. Venison for the main meat course, certainly. The final sweet course is a little more troublesome, but Alicent settles on a combination of spiced poached pears and lemon cakes. Viserys, she had learned over their year of marriage, is not overly fond of sweets but quite adores spices. It had been Aemma that Rhaenyra had gotten her sweet tooth from, and her love of lemon cakes.

The month almost flies by as the preparations intensify, and each day it seems that there is a new issue regarding the upcoming feast that Alicent must attend to. The lemons prove harder to source than usual - the sweet Myrish variety cannot be had with the difficulties in Essos, so Alicent finds herself scrambling to ensure the Dornish lemons that can be found will serve. She is worried at first - Dornish lemons are often called overly sour - but the cook proves almost a magician, and with an additional bit of sugar, Alicent finds she can’t tell the difference once the lemons have been cooked into the little cakes that Rhaenyra adores.

The seating arrangements for the feast, though, are Alicent’s greatest challenge. Lady Velaryon hadn’t sent a detailed list of which members of House Velaryon would attend, so Alicent finds herself guessing. There will be more than enough food. After all, it is tradition for a great excess of food to be made on the event of the nameday of a king so that all that is left after the lords have their fill can be distributed to the smallfolk. And Alicent can simply order that the amount of food to be prepared be increased. Unfortunately, as much as the cooks might heed Alcient’s orders as Queen, the tables will not extend themselves at a moment’s notice.

It is the King’s nameday, and he speaks of it more as a family event than a grand formal thing, so Alicent decides on two tables. One for the royal family and House Velaryon, and the other for the various lords and lordlings that will be in the city. It’s not a perfect solution - Lord Strong and Ser Tyland Lannister may take minor offense that they will not be at the top table, but Queen Aemma had often had similar arrangements at Viserys’ past namedays, and Alicent’s husband spoke so fondly of those times.

In the end, Alicent does consult her father, if only to learn which Velaryons are coming. There are bedchambers that will need to be prepared, and the seating arrangements at the top table will be impossible if Alicent must guess as to which members of House Velaryons will attend.

it proves fortunate that she does. The latest missive - one that had arrived by raven only that very day from Driftmark - said that the war in the Stepstones was over. So it would not simply be Lady Velaryon, Lady Laena Velaryon, and the Princess, but rather Ser Laenor Velaryon as well. And, Alicent’s father said with no small bit of disdain in his voice, Prince Daemon. But in a small mercy, Lord Corlys would not have time for the full voyage back to Driftmark and then onto King’s Landing, so they would be spared his presence.

There will be eight, then, at the top table. That, at least, makes Alicent’s life easier. The King and Alicent herself. Her father. The Princess. Prince Daemon. And three from House Velaryon.

Really it is perfect - eight is the ideal number for one of the smaller grand tables, one Queen Amma preferred for smaller feasts that just included family. The table fit nicely in the annex of the great hall while the much larger table for the lords of the city - between 30 and 35 men depending on exactly who was in the city on the day of the feast - would occupy the main hall while still giving the royal family some privacy to celebrate the King’s nameday.

The King will be in his typical seat, and Alicent by his right side. In time Aegon will be the one that sits to Viserys’ right while Alicent will sit at his left side, but for now little Aegon is far too young for feasts - though Alicent does look forward to properly introducing Rhaenyra to her little brother, hoping that her friend will take as much joy from the little boy as Alicent herself does.

That is the easy part. It is placing the rest of the guests that is tricky. Usually Alicent’s father sits to the king’s left, but with Princess Rhaenyra being one of the principal guests and the king’s daughter it would also be proper for her to sit at the king’s side.

In the end though Alicent - in what her septa might perhaps call a selfish choice - places Rhaenyra not at the king’s left, but at her own right, on the end of the table. Another typical place for the eldest daughter is beside the Lady of the Keep. From there it is easy to place the Lady Laena Velaryon at Rhaenyra’s right. As three ladies of about the same age, conversation will come more naturally to them. Lady Velaryon is after that - across from the king, so that they can easily discuss Rhaenrya’s education and other matters as they see fit. The princess’s marriage, perhaps.

The last two spaces - for Alicent had by then determined that it would be best to leave her father beside the King - would be occupied by Laenor Velaryon and Prince Daemon. It would be considered more traditional for Prince Daemon to sit beside her father, only two seats from his brother the King, but Alicent instead puts Prince Daemon beside Lady Velaryon and Laenor beside her father. Her father loathes the prince, and even though Prince Daemon is a seat farther from his brother, it will be easier for him to speak with the King this way. And, a small part of her mind adds, her father would much prefer to sit across from the prince rather than beside him.

Alicent rises early on the morning of the feast, though not of her own volition. She’s been a little nauseous, like she’d been on a ship, though the feeling dissipates quickly even as her thoughts go to those early days when she had been carrying Aegon, before she’d even properly realized that she was with child. And the day - Alicent thinks on it for a few minutes. It’s been long enough since she last bled. Her bleeding should have come by now, she thinks. The last moon had been such a whirlwind of feast preparations that she hadn’t thought hard about such things. The King called for her when he wished, but even he seemed to sense how busy the preparations kept her, and it had only been twice this past moon as opposed to every two to three days, as was more typical of the King. It was a mercy - Alicent’s septa had been clear that if her husband summoned Alicent to him every night that was his prerogative. Every two to three days - especially for a King with only one young son - was downright kind.

Her breasts are tender, more so than usual, as the maids attend to the laces of Alicent’s gown. It is a simpler one, of red and black as most of her gowns are. She will change for the feast, but that gown is rather heavy and Alicent will be visiting the kitchens multiple times in the morning to ensure that final preparations are going smoothly.

It is as she is down in the kitchens, sampling the lemon curd, that the great roar announces the arrival of their guests. Alicent quickly compliments the chef before hurrying away, toward the inner courtyard. The dragons are already circling lower when she arrives, standing beside the King and gazing upwards.

There are five dragons in all, largest among them the behemoth that dwarfs the other dragons and the Red Keep itself - heavens, the dragon must be half the size of the entire city! Vhagar, Alicent thinks. Viserys spoke often of the dragon of Queen Visenya, for the creature had been the dragon of his father as well.

Prince Daemon’s deformed beast - more snake than dragon - is likewise easy to recognize, but Alicent’s eyes flick over it without a second thought, looking for the golden dragon that was Rhaenrya’s. She finds it soon enough. Rhaenyra’s dragon, for all Alicent remembers her as a rather large beast, looks pathetically small next to the larger dragons.

Viserys for his part is almost giddy with joy, bursting with excitement as the first dragon lands. It is a scarlet-red beast, and even Alicent marvels at how it lands seemingly without making a sound.

A single rather diminutive figure quickly climbs from the dragon’s shoulder, carrying a bag, and the red dragon takes off almost as silently as it had landed.

The pale gray dragon - one that Alicent doesn’t recognize - is next. It lands more loudly and with less grace than the first dragon, again waiting as a single rider - though a more masculine figure this time - Laenor Velaryon, Alicent thinks - dismounts with a bag.

Prince Daemon’s wrym of a dragon lands next, and Alicent can’t help but to tense, and she notices her father’s fist tighten. Prince Daemon Targaryen rather leisurely adjusts himself in his saddle, taking his helmet off and smirking in a way that only he can before giving his mal-formed beast a pat before finally dismounting.

Rhaenyra’s Syrax lands next, almost chirping as she does. But instead of one rider, there are two, each with a bag. Had the Princess brought her maid from Driftmark? Alicent glances up at Vhagar once more. The behemoth was still circling over the city, but making no move to descend any further.

Rhaenyra’s familiar white-blonde hair is free of her helmet soon enough, as is her companion’s, and Alicent understands. The other girl must be Lady Laena Velaryon. Vhagar is too large to land in the courtyard. Alicent had honestly been expecting them to land in the dragonpit - her father and Lord Strong had both spoken of having carriages there and ready in the past weeks - for surely Vhagar could have landed there. But gazing up at the huge dragon, she’s not so sure anymore.

The dragons head off, and Alicent watches as the five figures climb the steps, each with a bag slung over their shoulder and a helmet under their arm, all in matching dark riding leathers.

Lady Velaryon isn’t quite what Alicent expected. Regal, her silver-white hair seeming more a crown than merely hair, and bearing a great deal of resemblance to Rhaenyra.

“Cousin.” Her voice does have a hint of an accent to it as she dips her head, greeting the King. Strictly speaking she should curtsey, but Alicent doesn’t see so much as a dip in her knees.

“Rhaenys.” The King doesn’t even seem to notice, instead embracing Lady Velaryon whole-heartedly, in a way that most men wouldn’t embrace any lady other than their wife or daughters.

“My children, Ser Laenor and Lady Laena.” Lady Velaryon indicates to the two figures that Alicent doesn’t recognize. Ser - the knighthood is new - Laenor is handsome enough, the image of a dashing young knight. Lady Laena, on the other hand, seems more boyish than ladies ought to be. Though, Alicent thinks, perhaps it is just the riding leathers. Rhaenyra had always looked so different in riding leathers as compared to her gowns. Both Ser Laenor and Lady Laena have inherited their mother’s hair color, but theirs falls in tight curls and coils, evident even in the braids that were under their helmets as opposed to their mother’s, which is straight as an arrow. Their skin too is different. Lady Velaryon is as pale as Rhaenyra, or as the King himself. Her two children must take after their father, as both of them sport skin that is closer to a rich caramel color from what Alicent can tell.

“I was unaware that Ser Laenor had been made a knight. Congratulations.” Viserys is smiling in a way that Alicent doesn’t know that she’s ever seen, at least not since their marriage. Then again, she had still been in her birthing bed when her father had given the King news of his healthy son. Perhaps he had smiled as such then as well.

“I knighted him myself, Brother.” Prince Daemon’s voice has Alicent’s skin crawling, but Viserys seems none the wiser, instead embracing his brother.

Rhaenyra is standing by the Velaryon siblings, looking slightly nervous even as the King and Prince Daemon part and Viserys’ gaze falls upon her.

“Rhaenyra.” His voice is soft, his tone gentle. The King loves his daughter in a way that Alicent thinks most lords don’t. Their embrace is more tentative than those that had come before. “You look lovely, my dear.” Viserys brushes a soft kiss on Rhaenyra’s forehead before the princess steps back, dipping her head.

“Papa.” Her greeting to her father is quite timid for what Alicent remembers of her friend.

“Rhaenyra.” Alicent had not greeted any of the others, but she couldn't stop herself.

Rhaenyra’s head whips over to her, eyes wide. It’s altogether odd and not like the Rhaenyra that Alcient remembers.

“Your Grace.” Rhaenyra’s voice too seems a shadow of its former self.

Lady Velaryon is standing between them a moment later, speaking to the King. Proclaiming that they ought to get out of their riding leathers and into more proper court attire. Viserys whole-heartedly agrees, and their five guests follow a few servants.

Viserys is soon speaking to Alicent’s father, and Alicent finds herself rather alone, her fingers going to her nails before she abruptly turns and heads toward the kitchens. She ought to make sure that there are no issues with the food.

The kitchens are hot - unpleasantly so - but that is to be expected with several roasts going at once. The cooks, meanwhile, have a dozen different sauces for Alicent to taste and give her final approval to, but Alicent’s thoughts linger on her friend.

Was Rheanyra just shocked to be back in King’s Landing after living on the largely featureless isle of Driftmark for an entire year? Or was it something else?

One of the sauces proves infuriatingly impossible to get right, and Alicent only leaves the kitchens an hour later, feeling sticky and disgusting. It is a little early, but she heads back to her quarters, maids in tow, and dresses for the feast. The gown she has chosen is a fine one in red velvet, paired with a ruby-studded hair piece and a matching necklace. As formal gowns go, it is a comfortable one despite its weight.

The maids have swift and sure fingers as they lace Alicent into the gown, and Alicent’s breasts are still tender as they had been in the morning. An unpleasant reminder. Is she with child once more? Should she tell Rhaenrya, and let her precious friend share in the joy? Perhaps when Alicent takes Rhaenyra to meet Aegon. Or perhaps not. Alicent isn’t even really sure herself if she is with child once more.

The maids direct Alicent to godswood. Princess Rhaenyra, they say, is there with Lady Laena Velaryon. And they speak the truth.

The Princess is sitting under the great weirwood tree, with Lady Laena sprawled across the roots of the tree, her head in Rhaenyra’s lap as they softly converse in Valyrian.

Both girls have changed into their attire for the feast.

Lady Laena’s dress begins with a pale green tone at the top of the bodice, fading to a similarly pale blue at the hem of the skirt, and is heavily embroidered with silver thread and little pearls, though from the distance Alicent can’t make any of the designs out.

Rhaenyra’s dress, meanwhile, is pitch black, but has a lovely shimmer in the light with hints of blue and green iridescence. The gown appears largely unembroidered, but small rubies glint back from near the shoulders and collar of the gown.

Alicent takes a few steps closer, and the two girls quiet, gazes looking up at her.

“Your Grace.” Lady Laena makes no move to get up or even bow her head.

“Alicent.” Rhaenyra’s voice is soft and hollow.

“Rhaenyra. Lady Laena.” Alicent greets both girls and takes a few steps closer. She can see the designs on Lady Laena’s gown now - mostly soaring dragons intertwined with the seahorse of House Velaryon. Their hair is bound in similar fashions - Rhaenrya’s hair is still in braids, though now said braids are pinned in place and her hair seems full of little golden ornaments and what could either be rubies or fine glass beads. Laena’s hair is no longer fully braided, and instead it is her seemingly boundless curls that are pinned in place, dotted with fine pearls in a soft and pale pink hue.

Alicent isn’t quite sure where to sit. There is only one comfortable way to sit in the roots of the tree in a gown - though Rhaenyra had found a few others when she was in her riding leathers.

“I thought I might invite you to visit the nursery with me. To meet your brother Aegon.” She’s already smiling at the thought. Aegon is usually such a happy child, even if he seems to love his nursemaids more than Alicent herself sometimes. And Alcient isn’t really sure he can even recognize the king. But he always brings her such joy, brightening her day.

“No.” Rhaenyra’s voice is colder, and a little harder. “Thank you, your Grace. I wouldn’t want to disturb the Prince’s nap.”

“You won’t. He usually naps earlier, and even if he is still asleep, he sleeps very deeply. He won’t even know we are there.” It’s quite touching that Rhaenyra cares for her brother so, but truely the nursemaids are plenty adept at dealing with Aegon even if they do somehow manage to wake him.

Rhaenyra’s eyes narrow ever so slightly, and her gaze seems much harder. “No.” Her voice too is different, colder.

“Rhaenyra-” Alicent hadn’t meant her tone to be scolding, but she flinches a little inside because it is. So often she had to be the one to remind Rhaenyra of their lessons from the septas, and the habit had come from there. It was good and proper to know one’s siblings, even if they only shared a father and not a mother.

“No. Lady Laena asked me to show her the godswood.” It sounds like an excuse to Alicent’s ears, and one that Lady Laena is no doubt complicit in.

“You do not even wish to meet your brother?” Alicent can’t help the hurt in her voice. Why is Rhaenyra so cold, and so distant? What has happened to her friend?

“My brother died the same day as my mother.”

“Rhaenyra-” Alicent can hardly believe her friend is being so childish. “Aegon is your brother, the son of your father. And my son.” In some ways it still feels a little strange having her own child.

Rhaenyra’s eyes narrow once more. “Se nādrēsy tresy hen iā līve.” Even not knowing their meaning, Alicent can tell the words are meant to hurt.

“Rhaenyra.” Even Lady Laena seems reproachful, and Rhaenyra's face immediately softens.

“I’m sorry.” The apology seems to Alicent’s ears to be more directed at Lady Laena, for saying whatever it is she said in Laena’s presence, than to Alicent herself.

“I know you must be quite busy, Your Grace. We wouldn’t want to keep you waiting.”

In her sadness and confusion Alicent finds herself nodding and walking away, careful to dab the tears before anyone - even the maids - can see them.

Part of her thinks to seek out Viserys - for all the King has many faults, he is always so kind, and Alicent needs that now. But he is speaking with Prince Daemon and Lady Velaryon, and has asked not to be disturbed. So Alicent goes to see her little son alone.

Aegon is awake, happily batting his dragon egg around and giggling as it spun strangely due to the scales all around it. Her perfect, precious Aegon.

As much as she found carrying him to be unpleasant, Alicent cannot help but to wish that she is with child once more. Aegon ought to have a sibling to grow up beside. And Alicent wants another pure precious child for herself.

It is with no small amount of dread that Alicent makes her way into the annex of the Great HAll. She should have been here earlier - with the King as soon as he had finished his private audience with Prince Daemon and Lady Velaryon - but instead she had made her way to the kitchens for one final check that everything would be alright.

The place cards - elegantly written in the Grand Maester’s hand - seem to mock her. The King. The Queen. Those, she sees every day. But beside her, at the end of the table, is the card that she’d so earnestly wanted to see there until only a few hours ago. Princess Rhaenyra of House Targaryen. The cards are each where she had ordered them placed. Lady Laena of House Velaryon. Princess Rhaenys, Lady Velaryon. Prince Daemon of House Targaryen. Ser Laenor of House Velaryon. That one had been quickly re-done at the news of his newfound knighthood. Ser Otto of House Hightower, Lord Hand. Her father’s was the only other familiar place card.

Of the guests, Rhaenyra and Lady Laena arrive first. The Princess takes one look at the cards, then another - cold and vicious as earlier - at Alicent before sitting not at her own place, but rather across from the king’s place in the spot Alicent had intended for Lady Velaryon. Alicent is both deeply relieved that she will not be sitting beside her former friend and deeply hurt that said former friend would simply disregard her work like that. And the Lady Laena sits not across from Alicent’s place, but rather on the other side of the Princess in the place marked for Prince Daemon.

Alicent thinks to tell them off - she is the Queen and the Lady of the Keep. Place cards are used at feasts for a reason. They both ought to know that. And while Alicent will not claim to know the details of Lady Laena’s education, Princess Rhaenyra knew her letters well enough to know the difference between her own name and Lady Velaryon’s.

And the chaos, the wrecking of Alicent’s carefully organized plan, only seems to continue from there. Lady Velaryon takes Alicent’s father’s place. Prince Daemon takes Lady Laena’s. And Ser Laenor takes Princess Rhaenyra’s, even though his own allotted place is yet open, leaving Alicent’s father with only Ser Laenor’s place to take.

“Alicent.” Viserys brushes a soft kiss to her cheek before turning to Rhaenyra, beaming at her as if she is the sun incarnate.

But that little moment of joy is rather rudely interrupted by Prince Daemon’s voice. The prince is speaking valyrian, and Alicent cannot think of his words as anything other than poisoned honey. His tone is nothing like Rhaenyra’s had been earlier, but to her ear, unused to the strange sounds of her husband's mother tongue, it all seems to sound the same.

“Daemon.” Viserys sounds amused. “Need I remind you that you are a married man?”

“I may be married, dear brother, but any man can see the beauty of the Princess and the Lady. It would be dishonest of me not to compliment them.”

Viserys smiles at that, far more indulgent with his brother than Alicent thinks he ought to be.

“Tell me, your Highness, how is your lady wife?” Alicent’s father’s question is a little pointed for what is supposed to be a more lighthearted feast, but with the untowardness of the Prince Alicent would have asked it herself. It was unbecoming for even one with such a roguish reputation as Prince Daemon to say what must have been uncouth words to his maiden niece and cousin.

“Still alive, I presume, seeing as no one has seen fit to inform me of her demise, and ruling over that little castle of hers. What was its name again? Runeclif? Runesheep?” The Prince’s tone is mocking.

“I believe the seat of House Royce is Runestone, Your Highness.”

“Ahhh. Yes. That one. Runestone” Prince Daemon’s smile is that of a hungry predator.

But rather than reprimanding his brother, the king turns to Rhaenyra, directly across from him. “You must tell me of your adventure to Qohor. The only whispers that have come here are the outlandish claims of sailors, and I dearly desire to hear the truth of it from you.”

Rhaenyra glances at Lady Velaryon before she begins, but then launches into a tale that even Alicent finds herself listening carefully to.

It is a tale rather skimpy on the reason why the Princess and Lady Laena had decided to fly to Qohor, but from there it is a well detailed account of their travels following the dragonroads from Pentos to Norvos and then onto Qohor, all in a single day in a way that Alicent finds quite strange. She’s seen how far those cities are from each other on the map, and a journey to Qohor and back would usually be the better part of a year. Could a dragon truly fly all the way there in a single day?

Rhaenyra’s description of the city is a vivid one, and it sounds very different to King’s Landing. Colorful. Different. Old. The buildings Rhaenryra mentions are ones that Viserys seems to have heard of, as he stops her on occasion to ask specific questions about some of them.

Rhaenrya ends the description of Qohor with her and the Lady Laena staying in a manse for the night.

“And I think the Laena can better relate what happened in the morning. Syrax was rather single minded.”

Laena smiles at that. “Indeed she was. But you did kill the Khal. You should at least relate that part.”

Rhaenyra gives a light hearted shake of her head. “Syrax killed the Khal.” She shares a look with Laena, but then Laena launches into the story of the next day.

The Lady’s story is different from Rhaenyra’s, more a cold retelling of events rather than full of the brilliant images Rhaenyra had painted with her words. She begins with the Dothraki slaughter of a group of Unsullied meant to protect the city. Alicent had originally thought them sell-swords - such things were so common in Essos - but as the story continues it becomes clear they are slave soldiers. Were slave soldiers. The Lady Laena does not mince words, and the Unsullied had died to the last man. Valiant soldiers indeed, even if they were slaves. Such bravery was usually a thing for songs.

The battle between the Princess and Lady, together with their dragons, and the group of Dothraki - a Khalasr, Laena called them - seemed a very quick thing, but even at Lady Laena’s rather brief description Alicent’s stomach turns. It doesn't sound anything like the songs, or even the tales of Aegon’s Conquest. There are echoes of the Field of Fire, but there is something more brutal than even that. Perhaps, Alicent thinks, it is simply the fact that the Lady Laena recounts it more in the way Lords usually would a hunt as compared to a battle.

But mercifully, the Lady’s account comes to an end before Alicent’s stomach becomes too upset, and Rhaenyra speaks once more. Compared to Lady Laena, her own tale is quite simple. One of slaying the Khal - the leader - of the Dothraki. Something that would no doubt be worthy of praise - and a knighthood - if Rhaenyra were a prince. But Alicent cannot help but to think it is well that the group at the table for the king’s nameday feast is so small. And that the princess might damage her own marriage prospects if such a story were to become common knowledge. The field of battle belongs to lords and knights, not ladies and especially not princesses.

But Viserys just seems proud and happy, and so very eager to hear more.

Mercifully though, the tale of the return trip is short - just following the dragonroads. And Alicent thinks that perhaps she could try and turn the conversation to a more appropriate topic - suitors for the princess’s hand, perhaps.

Prince Daemon has other ideas, and before Alicent can get a word in edgewise the prince is already deep into his own tale of the war in the Stepstones. It also seems more like hunting than war in a barbaric sort of way, but Alicent ignores the prince as best she can, instead pushing her piece of roast venison around the plate, wishing for the tale to come to an end.

When it finally does, she’s glad the King is asking Lady Velaryon about Rhaenyra’s lessons, and very grateful for the milder topic. The lessons sound nothing like the ones taught by septas, and more a mix between those taught to princes and with some that are more fit for maesters of the Citadel. Will Rhaenrya be ready to be the lady of a Keep? She and Alicent had learned from the same septa, but it was clear that Alicent had taken the lessons far more to heart than the princess. And she did not seem to have mellowed at all with time as some more difficult girls did, but was rather even more fiery now than she had been when she left King’s Landing.

The thought strikes Alicent sometime while Lady Velaryon is speaking, that Rhaenyra looks a great deal like the king’s cousin. More so than even Lady Laena to Alicent’s eyes. It probably helps that their hair is styled very similarly - pinned braids, though the pins in Lady Velaryon’s hair are adored with black pearls rather than the gold ornaments or red jewels of Rhaenryra’s hair. Their gowns are certainly different - Lady Velaryon’s is closer to her daughter’s than to Rhaenyra’s, a light blue gown with golden embroidery of seahorses, dragons, and waves upon the ocean. But there is something about the way they both hold themselves that Alicent can’t quite name.

Normally such feasts would extend long into the night, but Lady Velaryon insists that she and her companions - including Rhaenrya and Prince Daemon - must leave when the sun is still high in the sky, so as to make it back to Driftmark before darkness falls.

And as sorrowful as the King seems that the visit - from Rhaenyra, but also from Prince Daemon and Lady Velaryon - is so short, the dragons are descending each in turn once more soon enough, all picking up one rider, save for Syrax, who picks up both Rhaenyra and Lady Laena.

Alicent feels a pang that feels like guilt then. Was Rhaenyra so close to the Lady Laena because they flew together? Was that why she now seemed to have forgotten their friendship? Was it all because Alicent was fearful of the Princess’s dragon?

Deep down she knows that it is more than that. Rhaenyra had been so kind to her, even as Alicent trembled at Syrax’s presence. The septas rarely spoke of what the relations ought to be between the second wife of a lord and his children by his first wife other than to say the children ought to honor the new wife the same way they had their mother, and that Good Queen Alysanne’s kindest act had been her widow’s law.

Did Rhaenyra now think of Alicent in the same way that the dishonorable young lordlings who threw their father’s widows of out of his castle the day after his death? Has her time on Driftmark changed her so greatly?

Alicent goes to see Aegon again, if only to put the thoughts from her head, but not even her precious little son - the king’s only son and heir, her mind insists - can calm her. Whether Aegon was merely tired and crying as babes do or whether he knew of Alicent’s worry was unclear, but not even the nursemaids could settle him. He simply cried until he wore himself out as the maids fretted and Alicent worried.

“Leave us.” The maids all curtsey, and Alicent gingerly picks but her little son, still slightly whimpering, rocking him as she had seen the nursemaids do.

Rhaenyra’s vicious look flashes before Alicent’s eyes, and she holds her son tighter, making a slight promise, a vow to the Mother.

I’ll protect you. For anything. And anyone.

House Targaryen was more the House of the Snake than that of the Dragon. As much as Alicent might only be a woman, men feared mother bears for a reason. Aegon was her son, and she would guard him - and his future - with her life.

He’s sleeping when she sets him in his cradle and summons the maids once more, placing a final kiss on Aegon’s brow before departing.

The King is exhausted from the feast - or perhaps just over-full on the roast venison he had delighted in - but the result is the same. Alicent’s night is her own.

Alicent wakes early again the next morning, the familiar feeling contorting beneath her stomach, and a stickiness between her thighs. She is not with child, then. Her bleeding had just been a few days late.

Silently, she mourns the idea of the child that had never even existed within her. It will be a week before the king calls for her again, and as much as Alicent doesn’t enjoy those nights, she finds herself earnestly wishing for another child. A son to be Aegon’s compassion, or else a daughter to call her own. She had thought Rhaenyra - though her ‘daughter’ only through Viserys - might still be hers in a way that Aegon would not be once he started to grow and begin his lessons.

But it was clear now that was not to be. Her Rhaenyra - her friend - was gone.

Chapter 31: Rhaenyra XVI

Chapter Text

The strange clang of Valyrian Steel on Steel rang through the courtyard. It was a noise that Rhaenyra didn’t think she would ever quite be used to, having an oddly high pitched whine to it. Daemon and Laenor were sparring below while she and Laena observed from above. They had finished the translation exercises early, as they did rather often now. Valyrian - even the more complex dialects of the Free cities - came more easily now than it had.

The bouts are mostly inconclusive, and Laenor and Daemon seem to be more focusing on footwork than actually sparring. It’s probably just as well. The sand of the training yard isn’t loose or tightly packed - rather somewhere in between - but it still seems a treacherous surface.

“Do you ever wish that we…” Rhaenyra trails off. Laena will know what she means.

“Heavens, no. It would cut into our flying time and we get sandy enough as it is. Let the menfolk swing their swords around as they will. Though I’m hardly complaining about the view.”

Rhaenyra has to agree with her friend there. Ser Laenor was in a standard tunic and leather jerkin, but her own uncle had stripped off his own tunic and jerkin rather early in the sparring session, not long after Rhaenyra and Laena had arrived. He was handsome - though perhaps the better word was beautiful. There was a Valyrian word that more properly described the type of attractiveness that was between handsome and beautiful better, but it had no good translation.

The sparring begins again, the clash of metal on metal producing more of that unpleasant noise as Daemon drove Laenor back a half dozen steps with relative ease before they broke just as quickly as they had begun, Daemon motioning for one of the squires to bring water as he and Laenor started a quick discussion, both shifting their posture, testing how the movement worked.

“I do wonder if Daemon removed his shirt more to distract my brother or to show off to us.” Laena muses.

Rhaenyra hums. “I suspect a bit of both.” Her uncle seemed entirely aware that of the many insults that had been leveled against him, ugly was never one of them. “Always the rogue.” It seemed an appropriately roguish thing to do.

“I don’t think it’s working with Laenor.”

The two men spar again, another quick flurry of blows and footsteps, though this time Ser Laenor didn’t give ground. Rhaenyra finds her eyes glued to her uncle, watching as his muscles rippled, but more how he moved. It almost seemed more like a dance than any sort of fight.

“Rhaenyra.” Laena sounds amused, and Rhaenyra realizes she must have missed something her friend had said. “I dare say it does seem to be working on you.”

Rhaenyra feels herself flushing at that. She bites her lip, looking down at the two men again. “You were the one who wasn’t complaining about the view.”

Laena gives a musical laugh. “True enough. But I digress. Shall we see how the dragons fare?”

They leave arm-in-arm, both stealing one last glance back at the courtyard.

Syrax still seems quite tired from the long navigation they had done the day before, and Rhaenyra’s dragon only opens a single golden eye when she approaches, giving a little puff of smoke from her nostrils as Rhaenyra gives her a scratch. Her lady is growing apace now, but still easily the smallest dragon on the beach.

Meleys is more awake, both crimson eyes open, carefully watching Caraxes. Rhaenyra’s uncle’s dragon didn’t seem to like the fine white sand of Driftmark all that much. It was humorous, in a way. Dragonstone’s sand was quite coarse, dark, and streaked with a fiery red, while Driftmark, though only being such a short flight away, had sand that was almost bone white most of the time.

The dragon of Rhaenyra’s uncle had first tried to solve his problem by fusing together some of the sand with his fire to make a great glass surface to rest on, though this had quickly proved a futile effort. Daemon and his dragon were spending the nights on Dragonstone even if they were on Driftmark for at least part of the day almost every day, and the nights were plenty of time for the glass slab to be half covered in sand. Not to mention that the slab cracked whenever Caraxes landed on it. The glass wasn’t like that of Myr, but rather a more crystalline texture, like Caraxes hadn’t fully melted it and some amount of sand still remained in it. It certainly seemed more brittle than any Myrish lenses Rhaenyra had seen.

They don’t tarry long on the beach. Syrax is tired, and Vhagar seemed to like her time alone. Add to that it is windy and there is already likely plenty of sand in both of their hair.

It’s seven days before the planned trip to King’s Landing when Rhaenys asks Rhaenyra to stay after she and Laena finish their lessons.

“You need a gown for the feast.”

The thought hadn’t even crossed Rhaenyra’s mind until Rhaenys mentioned it. She’d been wearing riding gear as her day to day clothing for so long that it almost seemed odd to think of putting on a fine gown for such a brief span of time as a feast.

“My gowns are still in King’s Landing.” Some of Rhaenyra’s things had been sent for - more riding leathers, for one, but there had seemed little point in moving her entire wardrobe to Driftmark.

“Indeed. Even if they were here, we might well still have the problem. Syrax isn’t the only one who has grown over the past year. You’re just as tall as I am now. But I think that is more to our benefit. Let’s find you a gown.”

It makes sense. More sense than it would for Rhaenyra to try and find something in Laena’s wardrobe. Her friend is a good little bit taller than her, and more slender. The chances of the gowns fitting are slim. On the other hand, Rhaenys is correct that she and Rhaenyra are now almost exactly the same height, and they both have what might be called the more classical Targaryen form.

Rhaenys' wardrobe is less extensive than typical for the lady of a great house, but given that she doesn’t wear gowns day-to-day, it makes more sense to have extra riding leathers instead of endless gowns.

A good number are in the Velayron colors - sea-blue with gold and silver sea horses and dragons, but Rhaenyra thumbs through them without pausing. As much as Driftmark does feel like home at times, she is not a Velaryon.

But neither is Rhaenys in truth, though she plays the role of Lady Velaryon rather well.

The reds and blacks are there, and Rhaenyra begins to linger longer on each dress, searching for one that suits her, but that also suits the occasion. Most are red with black accents, almost fashioned after riding leathers, but with a skirt whereas riding leathers had their tunic skirts and were clearly made to be worn with breeches.

And they seem too red. Too joyous, in a way. Rhaenyra’s official mourning period might be over, but she has no doubts whatsoever that going back to King’s Landing, back to the Red Keep, will stir up the memories of that horrid day her brother had lived and died.

The next gown seems much for fitting. All black, with only the tiniest hints of red at the shoulders. Fine more for the material it is made out of and less any sort of complex embroidery.

“This one?” A question. Rhaenyra wonders what the gown had been made for. It seems at once a mourning gown and not.

Rhaenys nods her assent, but does not elaborate on the history of the gown. As Rhaenyra pulls it out of the back of the wardrobe and into the more lit part of the room, the material shimmers, showing little flashes of blue and green iridescence rather than the pitch black it had initially appeared. It’s beautiful, and Rhaenyra finds that she likes it all the more for the shimmer.

The preparations for the trip to King’s Landing seem both rushed and not. Or perhaps it would be better to say that Rhaenys has everything - and everyone - in order while the rest of them scramble to keep up.

Daemon’s promise proves to be imperfect, or perhaps he realizes that there is no aesthetically pleasing way to string together Lyseni pearls, Myrish glass beads, and Tyroshi ornaments on one necklace. Rhaenyra certainly hadn’t managed to think of one. So perhaps it is for the bed that he instead presents her with an array of hair pins topped with gold ornaments and red Myrish glass while similar pins topped by pink Lysene pearls are for Laena.

They have a rather touching matching quality to them, and one that Rhaenyra and Laena do take advantage of as they pin their hair in place the next morning. The simple braids become extravagant court hairstyles with comparative ease, though they must then immediately be concealed beneath the protective caps that will ensure the wind does not undo all of their work on the flight over.

They will land in the courtyard of the Red Keep - Rhaenys had pronounced as much, and Rhaenyra is glad for it. She feels guilty enough for all the years that Syrax spent in the Dragonpit, and rather selfishly she does not wish to endure the carriage ride to her dragon at the end of the feast before they can depart.

The gowns (and formal tunics for Laenor and Daemon) are packed in simple saddle bags.

Vhagar is much too large to land in the courtyard of the Red Keep - even Meleys and Caraxes are too large to land more than one at a time, though if they were willing to be especially cramped Syrax and Seasmoke might well be able to land there together. But even that might be down to the moods of each dragon on the day. Syrax and Seasmoke mostly got along quite well, but it seemed unwise to push it. Regardless, while Vhagar will accompany them, Laena will ride with Rhaenyra. Syrax is large enough to take them both now.

Meleys takes to the sky first with the effortless grace that Rhaenyra always admires. Even with how much she and Laena are much more skilled now as compared to a year past, it is clear that they still have much to learn, or at least many leagues to fly.

Rhaenyra glances back to Laena, and her friend winds her arms around Rhaenyra before Rhaenrya nudges Syrax, who catapults them skyward. The motion is smooth, but still a little awkward. As short as the trip to King’s Landing will be, Syrax is still a little unused to two riders. Her take-off and landing will both be a little awkward as while she is large enough that it won’t be overly difficult to carry two riders, the difference between one rider and a pair of riders is non-negligible. Comparatively, Vhagar likely wouldn’t notice a difference between one man and a dozen.

They take up station off of Meleys’ wing as first Seasmoke and then Caraxes join them in the air, still circling over Driftmark. The formation shifts slightly as the other dragons join them. Seasmoke takes up position on Meleys other wing while Caraxes and Daemon take their own stations a good distance out to the other side of Syrax.

Vhagar’s great footfalls are easily audible even from the skies as the titanic dragon slowly shifts before launching herself into the air and taking station quite a distance away, perhaps a league or two from Seasmoke.

They circle Driftmark one final time before Meleys changes course with a lazy grace, bringing them out over Blackwater Bay. King’s Landing awaits. And in it, Rhaenyra’s father. His Lord Hand. The nest of vipers that always lingered in the shadows, and Alicent.

Rhaenyra supposes she should feel happy. She’s going home, after all. But it doesn’t feel like she’s going home. It feels like she’s leaving home.

Chapter 32: Rhaenyra XVII

Chapter Text

The first thing that Rhaenyra notices is the smell. King’s Landing stinks manure and filth, even from high above. The city itself looks much the same as she remembers from her girlhood flights with Syrax, twirling between the towers of the Red Keep. Such a thing wouldn’t be possible now - her golden lady had grown much too large. And even when Syrax had been small enough, her mother had been irate, though in hindsight Rhaenyra thought that the queen had simply been scared for her. It was dangerous - most things that Daemon thought were fun tended to be so on some level.

Laena’s grip adjusts around her waist, pulling Rhaenyra from her thoughts. Vhagar is much higher above them, circling lazily, while the rest of them descend toward the stinking, rotting city. Various buildings catch Rhaenyra’s eye, but no matter that she tries to avoid it the dragonpit looms large. Still, it seems so very small from above, and Syrax’s place within it had been smaller still.

Meleys gives a roar as she enters her final descent, gracefully landing in a way that only Rhaenys and her red queen could hope to manage. For all Daemon and Laenor have taken their dragons to war, no one with eyes could avoid the truth that it was Rhaenys who was the most skilled of the living dragon riders. And it wasn’t close.

Laenor and Seasmoke descend next, followed by Daemon and Caraxes.

Rhaenyra's uncle takes his sweet time getting off his dragon, and Rhaenyra is reminded of a particularly vain peaco*ck. Her dear uncle seemed so very like them sometimes.

In some ways it is a small relief, that they must circle twice more before Caraxes takes to the sky and the courtyard is clear for Syrax to land, but in other ways it seems all the worse. A deep seated dread had been building inside of Rhaenyra for so long, one she hadn’t been able to quite put her finger on. Was it her father? Alicent? Did she expect the ghost of her mother to be standing there beside her father, fretting for Rhaenyra as she did whenever Rhaenyra and her golden lady raced the wind?

But as much as her mind is in chaos, Rhaenyra’s hands gently urge Syrax forward to land.

Sliding off of Syrax is no longer as easy as it had been, though Rhaenyra’s lady tends to lower her shoulder so Rhaenyra can clamber off more easily. Still, it’s nothing compared to the long climb that Laena faces every time she mounts the venerable Vhagar, and they are off soon enough, leaving Syrax to take to the sky once more, and Rhaenyra to face the ghosts that await her.

The entire court seems to have come out to greet them, all glimmering in their bejeweled robes. Rhaenyra’s eyes take them in, one after the other. Some are familiar enough faces. Lord Strong. Ser Harrold. Others are entirely foreign to her, and still others she would rather not look upon. It’s not that she hides behind Laena and Daemon, but there are some advantages to being the shortest of the dragon riders, even with the small heels on her riding boots.

“Cousin.” Rhaenys is greeting the King.

“Rhaenys!” Her father sounds positively jovial. Like he couldn’t be happier. Was it the birth of Aegon that had put him in such a mood? It had been a good few moons ago now. Was that all that had been missing in his life? Rhaenyra remembered well how melancholy her father had often been. Reserved and kingly, her mother had said. Not jovial. But for perhaps those hours during Baelon’s tourney, the ones before he’d been called away. Before-

Rhaenyra shakes her head and grasps Laena’s arm. It is in its own way a lifeline, and she needs it now.

“My children, Ser Laenor and Lady Laena.” Rhaenys is making introductions, and Rhaenyra begins to steel herself. She will have to face this jovial man.

There are a few more pleasantries exchanged between the King and Daemon, mostly regarding Laenor’s knighthood, but if anything the waiting only deepens Rhaenyra’s dread.

“Rhaenyra.” She almost flinches at her father’s tone - so soft. So happy. But she manages to embrace him, awkward as it might be. Her father rarely embraced her. He had always been the distant king. It had been her mother’s arms that Rhaenyra ran to when she was young.

The memories threaten to bring tears as they part, and it’s all Rhaenyra can do to greet her father.

“Papa.” Her voice sounds like a shell of itself.

“Rhaenyra.”

To hear Alicent’s voice is a surprise, and Rhaenyra whips her head around to look at the girl who had been her friend. Alicent looks almost regal in a red gown, totally different from the muted blues she had preferred. And her hair - if the dress hadn’t, then the elegant but complex style proclaimed for all to see that Alicent was a married woman now, not the maid that Rhaenyra had known, and had counted as her dearest friend once.

“Your Grace.” Rhaenyra’s mind is racing faster than even Syrax can fly. Alicent’s eyes seem the same, but the rest of her is some foreign creature. Rhaenrya’s Alicent would never dream of wearing red. Rhaenyra’s Alicent would be hidden away at the back of the group, waiting to depart with Rhaenyra, arm in arm.

She wants to call Syrax in that instant, wants to flee for Driftmark or Dragonstone and never set foot in the accursed city again. Her golden lady answers, a roar sounding across the sky, and Rhaenyra can feel their gazes on her. Daemon’s. Laena’s. Rhaenys’. Even Laenor’s.

She doesn’t hear Rhaenys making the excuses that they need to go and change, but Laena’s grip on her arm remains steady as they enter the keep. It’s ironic, really. Rhaenyra had lived so much of her life within the walls of the keep that Maegor built, but it is Laena that is her guide in that moment.

“Rhaenyra. Rhaenyra.” Laena sounds worried.

“Laena.” Rhaneyra clings to her dear precious friend even as Laena holds her close. The room they were in was rather small and bare, but they were alone. That was what mattered.

“Rhaenyra. Are you-” Laena trails off, and Rhaenyra finds herself smiling, however painful it is. Laena knows her well enough to know that she isn’t alright.

“Would you hold me? Just for a little longer?” Rhaenyra lets her eyes flutter shut, imagining that she and Laena are back on Driftmark, embracing after an afternoon spent doing separate navigational exercises with their dragons. Rhaenys did insist that they needed to be able to find their way even without each other in case they were separated by a storm or otherwise flying alone. It was all very sensible, but Rhaenyra still missed her friend those days. And as much as it was only a little after midday, she was already so exhausted.

They stay like that for some minutes, Laena holding her close and ever so gently swaying before Rhaenyra reluctantly stepped back.

“Thank you.” Her voice still sounds hollow, even to her own ears. “Laena-”

Rhaenyra doesn’t know how to properly thank her friend, but Laena only smiles and steals the softest of kisses from Rhaenyra’s lips. “I know. Now let’s get out of these leathers and into our battle armor, shall we?”

The dress feels appropriate - dark enough to feel like mourning garb despite not actually being mourning garb - but flimsy in a way that Rhaenyra’s gowns hadn’t when it had been Alicent lacing her gowns. It’s not that the dress itself is all that flimsy, Rhaenyra had noticed this when Rhaenys had her try the gown on for fit in the first place. It was more that Rhaenyra was used to the unyielding nature of riding garb and for her clothes to have any real give or movement compared to that had them seeming flimsy.

Laena laces the gown onto Rhaenyra in perhaps a minute, her clever fingers racing through the laces with a lazy ease that Rhaenyra always envied, but it takes Rhaenyra five times as long to attend to the lacing of her friend’s gown before they turn their attention to any minor touch-ups that their hair might need, tucking the little wisps that had escaped from braids into less noticeable places and re-adjusting hairpins.

Truly, it felt rather strange looking at her friend after it all was done. They looked like proper princesses for once, any trace of the dragon riders that they usually were gone to any that didn’t know what they were looking for.

“Where shall we go?” Laena’s question is gentle, and Rhaenyra takes her friend’s hands, humming as she does. Where indeed? In truth they ought to go to Rhaenys and Daemon, to at least hear what words were being said between them and Rhaneyra’s father, but Rhaenyra can’t face her father again so soon. Rhaenrya’s septa would have said that she ought to join the Lady of the Keep and help with any preparations, but Rhaenyra cannot likewise not bear to see Alicent. And her mother’s ghost haunts the halls of the keep.

“The Godswood.” Queen Aemma had never been fond of the place. The flowers made her rather ill, but Rhaenyra had long adored it. And the denizens of the keep would be too busy to disturb them.

Laena nods. “And Rhaenyra?”

Rhaenyra turns to face her friend.

“It’s only today. We’ll be back in our own beds tonight.”

Rhaneyra can only nod at that. Only today, and Rhaenys intended for them to return to Driftmark before the sun was down. There would be little moonlight tonight. Still, it would certainly be a long day, and Rhaenyra intertwines her fingers with Laena and sets out. The great weirwood awaits.

They are sprawled beneath the branches of said weirwood soon enough, discussing their lessons for the most part, though the topics occasionally drift a little. Laena had taken up an interest in Valyrian poetry recently, while Rhaenyra had her own curiosities. The world might sometimes seem so small on the back of a dragon, but she still wanted to see the far off lands of Qarth or even Yi TI beyond. Books could only tell her so much, and many of them had been written so long ago. Was Yi Ti much the same as it had been in the years before the Doom, or had it changed as much as the Seven Kingdoms had in that time?

She doesn’t even hear Alicent approach, too caught up in the intricacies of the discussion she’s having with Laena.

“Your Grace.” It’s Laena that heralds Alicent’s arrival, her tone gentle and diplomatic.

“Alicent.” Rhaenyra’s voice is soft and hollow. She had come here so she wouldn’t have to see her former friend. But it seemed that it would not be so easy.

“Rhaenyra. Lady Laena.” Alicent sounds joyous in a way that feels almost wrong. How can she be so joyous in this keep that Rhaenyra’s mother had been butchered in? She’d always said the queen was so kind to her as well, and as much as she didn’t say it Rhaenyra could tell that she thought of Aemma as a mother as well. Had all of that been a lie?

“I thought I might invite you to visit the nursery with me. To meet your brother Aegon.” Rhaenyra tenses at Alicent’s words, images flashing unbidden before her eyes. Baelon, looking so tiny on his pyre. Her mother beside him. The one midwife, the one who had apologized. Daemon’s face as he’d told her what had transpired. He’d been sorrowful then in a way none would think the Rogue Prince could be.

“No.” Rhaenyra’s voice is cold, even to her own ears. “Thank you, your Grace. I wouldn’t want to disturb the Prince’s nap.” She’d learned her pleasantries and courtesies well, even if she’d never imagined to use them when speaking with Alicent. Even if her mother always said to dispense with the courtly nonsense. That they were mother and daughter first.

“You won’t. He usually naps earlier, and even if he is still asleep, he sleeps very deeply. He won’t even know we are there.” Alicent doesn’t seem to have heard her, let alone understood. And here she had always been the one who excelled at court etiquette, beyond even Rhaenyra’s own skill.

“No.” She should show more deference to Alicent as the queen or at least as her father’s wife, but Rhaenyra’s former friend doesn’t seem to understand the court niceties, and Rhaenyra is too irate to come up with another platitude about why she doesn't want to see the little whelp that Alicent bore her father.

“Rhaenyra-” Alicent’s tone is still gentle enough, though there is an air of something that reminds Rhaenyra of her mother. Not so much a scolding air, but one that is mildly exasperated.

“No. Lady Laena asked me to show her the godswood.” It’s a flimsy excuse at best, and a flat out lie in truth - Laena certainly hadn’t asked to see the godswood, rather Rhaenyra had brought her here so they might avoid the other denizens of the keep.

“You do not even wish to meet your brother?” Alicent’s own courtesy is gone, and she sounds hurt. Good, some part of Rhaenyra thinks. Let her feel some tiny fraction of the pain Rhaenyra feels. She had thought of Rhaenyra’s mother as her own, and yet she had taken her place without so much as the tiniest bit of hesitation. What was it that Daemon called Otto? The Viper of Oldtown? That was what he called the man in front of Rhaenys, at least. Rhaenyra had heard more vulgar titles muttered under his breath when Rhaenys was elsewhere.

“My brother died the same day as my mother.” Whatever courtesy had existed is gone as Rhaenyra spits the words. The whelp Alicent had given her father wasn’t her brother. Only the spawn of her father and his second wife.

“Rhaenyra -” Alicent sounds more than a little offended. “Aegon is your brother, the son of your father. And my son.”

Rhaenyra sees red at Alicent’s words. Her mother is dead. Her brother is dead. How dare Alicent imagine herself in Aemma’s place? How dare she think her whelp might take the place of Rhaenyra’s brother? How dare she think that her marriage to Rhaenyra’s father gave her the right to be Rhaenyra’s mother, to scold her as a mother might?. “Se nādrēsy tresy hen iā līve.” She snarls the words in Valyrian. Daemon’s words more than her own, but they fit well enough. Perhaps now Alicent might feel some small amount of pain. It will be nothing beside the roiling ocean of agony that still churns within Rhaenyra. For her brother, but most of all for her mother. The mother that Alicent thought herself to be.

“Rhaenyra.” Laena’s tone is gentle but reproachful, and Rhaenyra is at once full of a horrid guilt. She shouldn’t have said that. Even to Alicent, she shouldn’t have said that. Especially to Alicent, she shouldn’t have said that.

“I’m sorry.” And she is. Sorry to Laena. Sorry to Alicent. Perhaps even sorry to this Aegon that Alicent called her brother. If she should unleash her ire on anyone, it ought to be her father. It was he who had given the order to cut her mother open. It was he who had taken Alicent to wife.

Laena says something to Alicent and the queen is scampering off. Too late, then, to take back the words. Too late.

“I’m sorry.” I’m sorry you saw the worst in me. Because more than anything, Rhaenyra is sorry for that.

Laena nods, softly stroking Rhaenyra’s cheek. Gentle. Understanding. What had Rhaenyra done to earn a friend as true and dear as Laena?

Despite it all, Rhaenyra and Laena arrive in the hall before Daemon or Rhaenys. There are place cards around the small table, each announcing who ought to sit at that particular place, but Rhaenyra pays little heed to them. It is obviously Alicent’s work, and she has no desire to speak with Alicent. But her mind is perhaps too focused, as it is after Rhaenyra has sat in the place originally meant for Rhaenys that she realizes she is sitting across from her father’s place, and the rest of the seats have filled. There is little escape from Alicent, and none from her father. Then again, with the table as small as it is - only three on each side and one more on each end - there was little escape from them to begin with.

“Alicent.” Viserys brushes a soft kiss to his wife’s cheek before turning to Rhaenyra, beaming at her as if she is the sun incarnate, but for her part Rhaenyra only wants to shrink away from him.

Daemon breaks the tension as he is so often want to, raising his glass to Laena and Rhaenyra, calling them the fairest of Valyrian goddesses in that sly way he has, the one that makes Rhaenyra blush so often.

“Daemon.” Rhaenyra’s father sounds amused. “Need I remind you that you are a married man?” Rhaenyra had almost forgotten about her uncle’s wife, and idly she wondered when her uncle had last seen the woman. Rhaenys had never said much about the marriage, just that the Good Queen had arranged it, much to the chagrin of both spouses. Lady Royce herself hadn’t been one of Rhaenyra’s mother’s ladies - she had a castle and many lands to tend to as a ruling lady - but two of her cousins had. Rhaenyra doesn’t remember much of the two women, but her mother had been good at selecting ladies and they had seemed kind enough.

“I may be married, dear brother, but any man can see the beauty of the Princess and the Lady. It would be dishonest of me not to compliment them.” Daemon’s silver tongue does not ever seem to tarnish, and despite the unpleasantness of the afternoon, Rhaenyra found herself smiling easily. Her dashing uncle, ever the rogue. Even her kingly father seems to find it amusing.

“Tell me, your Highness, how is your lady wife?” Lord Otto’s voice is unwelcome, breaking the spell. There is an accusation left unsaid in his words, but one that everyone so clearly understands.

“Still alive, I presume, seeing as no one has seen fit to inform me of her demise, and ruling over that little castle of hers. What was its name again? Runeclif? Runesheep?” Daemon’s tone is almost cruelly mocking, the smirk evident in his voice and etched across his face. Rhaenyra hadn’t been the cupbearer for many small council meetings where her uncle had been in attendance - he detested the things and was so often away - but she remembers this tone well. It’s the one he always uses with Ser Otto.

“I believe the seat of House Royce is Runestone, Your Highness.” The Lord Hand doesn’t rise to Rhaenyra’s uncle’s bait though, continuing as if it were a simple and civil conversation they were having, one between friends rather than bitter enemies.

“Ahhh. Yes. That one. Runestone” Prince Daemon’s smile is that of a hungry predator.

The king turns from Daemon to Rhaenyra then, beaming as he had before. “You must tell me of your adventure to Qohor. The only whispers that have come here are the outlandish claims of sailors, and I dearly desire to hear the truth of it from you.”

Rhaenyra swallows, nodding. She had known this moment would come. That she would have to recount it all. She’d rehearsed it a number of times, mostly alone in her head, but twice to Syrax as well. Still, she glances at Rhaenys, who gives the smallest of nods, before launching into the tale.

It gets easier and easier as she launches into the tale, telling of their flight over the dragonroads, of the magnificence of Qohor. How it was so very different from King’s Landing, from Dragonstone, from Driftmark, even from Pentos. Her father does stop her to ask the occasional question - mostly about buildings, about architecture. Idly, Rhaenyra wonders how the model of Valyria that took up so much of her father’s quarters is looking. It had been large the last time she had seen it, so much so that she found herself questioning if it could ever fit through the door should he decide to move it. Has it now reached the ceiling as well?

Rhaenyra finds herself ending the tale as she, Laena, and Syrax made themselves comfortable that night in the manse, and looked to Laena to finish the story. For their triumph the next day had been Laena’s doing far more than her own.

“And I think the Laena can better relate what happened in the morning. Syrax was rather single minded.”

Laena smiles at that. “Indeed she was. But you did kill the Khal. You should at least relate that part.”

Rhaenyra flushes and glances down even as Laena launches into a rather detached description of the events. As much as she describes them in detail, no words could ever capture the smell of smoke and burning, both of horses and of men. Rhaenyra finds herself putting down her utensils. Even when Laena tells the story, she still usually loses her appetite.

The rest of the dinner passes quickly enough, as Daemon speaks on his own experience burning things - pirates and the boats in the stepstones - before Rhaenys speaks to the king about Rhaenyra’s education. Her father seems rather pleased with it all, and sorry that it is ending so quickly, but Rhaenyra feels a great sense of relief as she and Laena are lacing each other into riding garb once more and climbing back onto Syrax before they follow Meleys and Rhaenys out over the bay. Home awaits them.

Chapter 33: Interlude: Corlys Velaryon

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Corlys Velaryon, Lord of the Tides, was a man who preferred the soft rock of the waves to the smooth and sturdy stone of Driftmark. But today the water seemed a flat calm, not so much as a hint of a breeze present. They were still making way, but only under the power of the ship’s boats, and barely plodding along, their sails slack.

In some ways it was a comic sight - the mighty Lord Velaryon and his fleet, reduced to the barest of crawls by the whim of the winds. Not exactly the triumphant and victorious return he’d announced by raven.

Squinting, Corlys eyed the distant horizon. Nothing. They were close - the sun and stars had told him as much when the measurements were taken at high noon - but there was no hint of Driftmark yet and will likely not be for another day or two.

He glanced at the little boats and the oarsmen towing them before pacing along the deck and letting his mind drift. It had not been the short and glorious war he’d written of, and the older Corlys got the more he was convinced that the short and victorious war he’d described was an imagined thing, only for songs.

Still, the war had gone well, after a fashion. It wasn’t quite won yet, but neither was it lost, and while Corlys had spent more coin than he’d wished, he was returning with his fleet and most of his men mostly intact. For all the Crabfeeder had a fearsome reputation, the actual death toll had been more from the countless fevers that were pervasive in the warmer southern waters. And that was despite Corlys’ own best efforts. But it was behind them now, at least temporarily. Corlys was not so foolish as to think the Triarchy would hold to their word, but they had wounds to lick. Daemon had done well. Laenor too, though watching the two it was clear Corlys’ son still had much to learn.

They’d departed together with Corlys, but it was senseless for the dragons to simply circle overhead, and they would have arrived at Hightide that same day they’d left. Or perhaps in the early hours of the next day. It would have depended on the winds, and on the navigation of the riders. As much as Daemon was skilled in war, he was not perhaps the best at finding his way home, though he always managed it eventually. Much to his kingly brother’s chagrin on occasion.

Corlys imagines his dear lady wife would have been grumpy if they had arrived as late as he thought they would - Daemon and Caraxes never failed to announce their presence, and the Blood Wyrm was larger - and louder - than he initially appeared.

Ah, Rhaenys. Corlys smiles. A dragon in her own right, and one full of fire though she often hid it. As much as he was undisputedly Lord of the Seas, it would be better to term her Lord of the Tides. It was she who ruled Driftmark for moons at a time, sometimes longer. Theirs was a strange marriage by any standard save their own.

The boats are slowly coming in as another dozen seamen prepare to take their shift. The transition is smooth and easy - on the glassy sea such things are rarely difficult.

Corlys paced to the bow of the ship once more, glancing at the other ships. Vaemond was on one of them, but he didn’t much care which so long as it wasn’t his own. The man was insufferable, and some days Corlys wondered how it was they were brothers.

But for all Corlys found the man so insufferable, he had acquainted himself well enough on the Stepstones, leading the men with more ability than Corlys had imagined.

The end of the war - for it is merely a truce they enjoy now - still seems rather far off. For all Corlys can certainly begin it once more or end it, he can’t simply win it and it is infuriating. Daemon and Laenor could raze Myr or Tyrosh in a day. But Volantis would frown on a war ending as such and it would all be for naught. No, for all Corlys’ might, for all his wealth, for all the fact that he expected to count four dragons on the sands of Driftmark upon his return, it was Volantis that would have to end the war. The first daughter of Valyria was so very mercurial, and still fancied herself the greatest of the Free Cities. She would be pleased with the conclusion of the war only if she was the one to end it.

If it were a Westerosi war, then Corlys likely would have already made Laena a match among the Volantines and the war would be a thing of the past, but in Essos things were so very different. The Tigers and Elephants of the Volantis traded control of their city back and forth often enough, and even if he picked one faction over the other a third could arise or one could splinter. Would that he were Jaehaerys perhaps he could have wed enough daughters into Volantis to make some difference, but even that seemed rather futile. The noblest blood of Old Valyria were hesitant to even accept brides or bridegrooms from Lys, and while dragons would go far in mollifying them, Corlys was himself a mark against any marriage. Valryian, but not so completely as a Targaryen. And while House Velaryon had long been wealthy, they traced their blood back not to the Dragonlords who ruled the Freehold, but rather wealthy merchants. Laenor and Laena were the first Velaryons to mount a dragon despite the number of Velaryon women who had borne Targaryen dragon riders.

Still, Corlys will need to make marriages for his children. Once he’d thought to make Laena Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, but Otto Hightower had stolen the position before he’d even known Viserys was a widower. And it was Corlys’ own fault - he’d been at sea, and the entire affair had been done so quickly. If it hadn’t been a Hightower bride, a Hightower Queen, Corlys would have fully expected the High Septon to throw a fit about mourning periods, but the Lord Hand had played his cards well. That, Corlys could admire him for. If it had come to a vote of the Small Council between Laena and Otto’s daughter there would be no contest - Laena was the better choice on the merits, and Corlys had more coin to spend than Otto regardless.

Corlys had betrothed Laena to the Sealord’s son afterward, but such a thing wouldn’t last. Rhaenys would never accept the marriage, and the Sealord’s son might ordinarily be an attractive prospect, but the former Sealord’s son had much poorer prospects. As much as Braavos and Volantis might take opposing sides on occasion just so they could declare that they stood against each other, they also were rather similar. Alliances could not simply be made with marriages.

There is a part of Corlys that thinks to demand a royal decree that will permit his children to marry each other and be done with the arranging of marriages. They got along well enough for it, and while Corlys thought their marriage would be more similar to his own than any sort of Westerosi one, his own had worked out well enough. Rhaenys had given him his heirs, and they were happy enough in their separate lives, Corlys on the seas, Rhaenys in the skies.

Though Laenor’s prospects were perhaps easier than Laena’s. The Princess Rhaenyra had been a great boon, and some part of Corlys had always assumed that he’d marry his son to the princess. They were of the right age and both had dragons. It was a marriage that almost seemed to make itself.

Laena, on the other hand, was more difficult. Rhaenyra had a brother now, but he was yet a squealing babe. Part of Corlys thought to wait a few more years and see if this Queen followed the last - or to hurry her along if needed - but such a thing was risky. King’s Landing was Otto Hightower’s kingdom. The risks seemed more than the rewards.

And if Laena did not find the prospect of being Viserys Targaryen’s third queen an attractive one then Corlys would be hard pressed to drag her to the marital altar as was done on occasion in Westeros. Add to that, now that the king had a son by his Hightower wife, and there would more than likely be another soon enough. Otto’s daughter is healthy and young. Truly, that ship had sailed.

But the King did have a brother. Prince Daemon - for all his reputation did not lend itself to the image of a man skilled not only in tourney combat but also in war itself - had acquainted himself well in the Stepstones, and if Laena could not have the king, then the prince was a reasonable option. A skilled dragonrider, albeit a man without a keep to call his own, however much time he spent in the citadel of House Targaryen.

And come to think of it, if Prince Daemon decided that he did not wish to leave Dragonstone, there was precious little the king could do about it. Daemon was Viserys’ strong right arm, and Corlys certainly wasn’t going to ask any of his family to lift a finger towards expelling Daemon.

A question, Corlys thinks, for Otto Hightower to ponder in a few years. How exactly did he plan for his grandson to take possession of Dragonstone?

There is of course the small matter of the prince’s wife. He hadn’t said much of her - indeed if one did know it already it would be so easy to mistake the Prince Daemon for an unmarried man. But the Good Queen had seen him married to Lady Royce of Runestone, though by Rhaenys’ account said Queen had been the only party pleased by the marriage.

The bride had been none too pleased to be wed to a boy five years her junior, and Prince Daemon had been of the opinion that if he were forced to marry it should have been Princess Gael that was to be his bride.

Corlys wondered if they’d even seen each other since the Good Queen’s death. Daemon had moved between King’s Landing, Dragonstone, and Pentos depending on how displeased his brother was with him, while his wife had remained at her seat in the Vale.

Part of Corlys was surprised Daemon had never made himself a widower, but to a degree it almost seemed that he was waiting for bride to present herself so as not to endure the letters that would come from across the Seven Kingdoms and beyond as lords and magisters offered him their daughters and sisters.

Or perhaps he had set his eye on his own niece. He certainly wrote to her often enough, and while she was technically of age to wed, it was not by much and with the king’s new wife giving him more children, Viserys did not seem to be overly in a rush to find his eldest daughter a husband.

Perhaps it was that. Or perhaps it was that for all Daemon Targaryen was undoubtedly a dangerous man, schemes were something that he did not excel in. The banishments - all due to Otto Hightower’s meddling as much as the prince’s own actions - spoke to that well enough. And if a dragon made Runestone into another Harrenhal then Otto Hightower might well finally convince Viserys that more stringent punishment was merited - not to mention that the chances of Viserys marrying his child to a man who had killed his first wife were even lower than the chances of Daemon getting the annulment that was the only reason the man had even come to small council meetings in the first place.

Perhaps, Corlys thinks, he ought to marry Laenor to Rhaenyra first and then make Prince Daemon a widower. Such a thing would ensure his children weren’t left standing in the cold as the Targaryens wed each other in the way they were wont to do.

Chapter 34: Rhaenyra XVIII

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra registers the muffled noise through the door - a summons to supper - but she finds she doesn’t much care, too lost in Laena’s kisses to even ponder what sort of food might be waiting for them in the main hall.

Her dear friend, however, pulls back, gazing up at Rhaenyra with a grin on her face. “Supper awaits-”

Rhaenyra cuts Laena off with another kiss, pulling the other girl closer. Supper can wait. She only wants Laena.

Laena half giggles at that. “As much as I adore your kisses, Princess, probably best to head to dinner before anyone comes looking for us.”

Rhaenyra pouts, and Laena pulls her closer for one last kiss - this one softer and gentler, more a brush of lips on lips than anything else - before giving Rhaenyra a gentle shove off her lap and standing, stretching as she did.

Rhaenyra gives her friend a dejected look but has to agree. Probably best that they head to dinner before they are summoned, especially considering that Lord Corlys is on the island. Rhaneyra rather found that she preferred things when Rhaenys’ husband was absent, sailing some far-flung sea or else haggling with the Braavosi over a new trade deal. Or even when he was away at war on the Stepstones.

Laena’s father seemed rather single minded when it came to most things, to the point that Rhaenyra wondered sometimes what Rhaenys had seen in him, and at the moment his mind was firmly on Laenor’s marriage. Which wasn’t in it of itself Rhaenyra’s problem save for the fact that the Sea Snake had decided that Rhaenyra herself was the only maid in all the Seven Kingdoms and beyond that was fit to marry his son.

Laenor himself seemed rather clueless about the whole endeavor, spending most of his time with one of the Velaryon household knights or else flying with Seasmoke, but he could not escape his father on the island of Driftmark itself.

At first it had seemed almost sweetly romantic that first time Laenor had brought Rhaenyra flowers, but the second time she had noticed his father skulking in the hall the same way Otto Hightower might. The two men really seemed rather alike in some ways, though Rhaenyra doubted either of them would ever admit it.

The gifts - all of which proclaimed to be from Laenor but bore the unmistakable mark of the Sea Snake’s plots - had continued over the next several moons. Jewels. The occasional gown. All fit for a princess, even if Rhaenyra found herself avoiding them for purely practical reasons. Rhaenys had impressed upon her and Laena the importance of not wearing jewels while flying, and only a fool would ever try and mount a dragon while dressed in a fine gown.

This dinner would undoubtedly be more of the same. Laenor clumsily repeating words that obviously came from his father, all while Rhaenyra tried not to cringe.

“Rhaenyra?” Laena is at the door, one eyebrow raised, and Rhaenyra realizes that she must have been lost in thought.

They proceed down the stairs in silence, though Rhaenyra’s mind continues to wander.

In many ways Laenor seemed a perfectly decent choice for a husband. One her father would approve of. Heavens, even one that Otto Hightower would approve of. And she knew Laenor, better than most ladies knew their husbands before they were wed. He was brave enough - Daemon said as much - and kind. Rhaenys’ child as much as Corlys. Perhaps even more so. Laena had always described her father as a mostly absent father, and while as the son Laenor would undoubtedly merit some more attention from him, the Sea Snake was famous for his voyages to far distant lands. Voyages that were not things any sane man would bring a small child on. And for all that Corlys Velaryon seemed to be a man of many faults, Rhaenys would not suffer madness to be one of them.

Laenor is already eating when they enter the hall while Corlys and Rhaenys talk quietly, but it is Daemon that draws Rhaenyra’s attention. Her uncle wasn’t a constant fixture of the table at Driftmark, but he always came around at least every few days. More recently by Rhaenyra’s reckoning. It made perfect sense - Dragonstone was for the most part dreary and empty save for the servants.

Rhaenys nods, acknowledging them, while Daemon grims in that way that makes Rhaenyra’s stomach do little flips. Her uncle is a handsome man.

They’ve just begun the meal proper - fish, as was typical on Driftmark - when Jaemon entered, an apologetic and worried look on his face, and a piece of parchment in each hand.

Both are small, obviously from ravens. Rhaenyra thinks the wax on the first one looks like the sky blue of House Arryn, and she finds herself tensing. Has something happened to her cousin Jeyne? Has she finally decided to marry? The Lady of the Vale had no shortage of suitors, but she had remained steadfast that she would not wed. That if her lords insisted then the Vale itself would be her lord husband.

Rhaenyra had thought that she might follow in her cousin’s example, especially in those first moons after she’d arrived on Driftmark. But now, she found herself less sure. It must be so lonely, there in the heights of the mountains fastness that was the Eyrie, and Lady Jeyne was alone in the world. Rhaenyra remembered well those first days after her mother’s passing. She’d been alone then save for Daemon, and even he had left in time, leaving Rhaenyra to follow.

But now - Rhaenyra had Laena, Rhaenys, Daemon, even Laenor. For all Lord Corlys had his schemes of marriage, she did hold some sort of affection for Laena’s brother. He was kind, and contrary to his father’s intentions, seemed to have no interest in the marriage or in Rhaenyra herself in a rather refreshing way.

Rhaenys breaks the seal on that little scroll first, reading it silently before passing the scrap of parchment not to Corlys, but to Daemon.

Daemon’s eyes narrow as he reads the parchment, letting it fall to the table before glaring at Corlys. Rhaenrya plucks the parchment from the table before anyone else can.

The message is brief, and from the Eyrie, but it does not concern the Lady of the Vale, but rather Prince Daemon. The Lady Rhea Royce has died in a hunting accident.

Rhaenyra has only just registered the words, frowning as she does, when Laena plucks the parchment from her fingers, reading it for herself, before Rhaenys takes it back and finally hands it to Corlys, who if anything seems the most shocked of anyone.

“My condolences.” Rhaenys lifts her glass, but doesn’t sound all that sorry about Lady Rhea’s death.

Rhaenyra finds herself mirroring Rhaenys, lifting her own glass. She’d never met her uncle’s wife. The woman had been entirely an abstract concept to her in many ways.

Daemon gives a little nod, but is quickly plucking the parchment from Corlys’ hands and re-reading it again, as if he didn’t quite believe it.

Rhaenys for her part picks up the second parchment. It is secured with a small glob of black wax.

“The Dothraki have returned to Qohor.”

Rhea Royce is forgotten in an instant. Daemon and Corlys both look surprised, as does Laena, while Rheanyra finds her appetite rapidly leaving her as the memories of that smoking sky and the field filled with the ashen corpses of men and horses returned.

“I suppose they are fools, then.” Laena puts her arm around Rhaenyra. “We shall rout them as we did before.”

Rhaenys nods, but is it Corlys that speaks. “Laenor should go with you. He’s seen war against pirates, but it would be good to see some against the horselords as well.”

Laenor seems rather surprised to hear his own name. “Me?”

Daemon puts on a smile that would make Otto Hightower shrink away. “But Lord Corlys, it wouldn't be right to send two unmarried Ladies alone with Ser Laenor. He may be a knight of the realm, but he is still a young unmarried man. They ought to be chaperoned.”

Rhaenyra glances around. Laenor seems nervous, while Rhaenys is more amused.

“Their lordships of Qohor do not say how large the horde is.”

“All the more reason that I should go as well. To make sure Ser Laenor lives up to his new knightly title, and to ensure there are more than enough dragons so that the Dothraki may be more permanently discouraged.”

Corlys seems furious at that. “You? Truly, Rogue Prince, your depravity knows no bounds. Your wife only just died. Will you not mourn her?”

“A wife I haven't laid eyes on in years. But it is truly touching to hear you cared so deeply for my late wife, Lord Corlys.”

Rhaenyra knows Daemon well enough to know that even if Lord Corlys wins the arguments - which he most likely won’t - Daemon will simply follow them on Caraxes in the morning. It’s not like Lord Corlys can actually stop Daemon from accompanying them if he pleases. Rhaenys could, but she only seemed amused by the whole affair, and Rhaenyra finds herself imaging the brilliant colors of the market of Qohor, the spires and the great tan walls. Daemon would surely love to see them, and Rhaenyra would dearly love to show her uncle the city.

Laena is smiling in that soft sort of way she has when Rhaenyra looks over to her friend, and Rhaenyra suspects that they’ve come to the same conclusion. Daemon and Laenor will be accompanying them.