After The Dragons Danced (A Rhaena Targaryen SI)

[neyra]

7th Day, Fourth Moon, 131AC | The Dungeons of The Red Keep - King's Landing

CORLYS VELARYON

He woke up from his dream, nay, his nightmare, gasping, with beads of cold sweat trickling down his brow and staining his weathered tunic. He sat up gingerly, the pain in his hip reminding him that he was no longer a young man, reminding him that he was broken. Scant light of the crescent moon streaked into his cell through its single window. The sky was cloudless, the glittering of the stars in the night sky clear to him. Corlys stood, supporting himself with his cane and walked slowly towards the window. He took a deep breath, the scent of the night air and the perpetual stench of the shit that riddled this city reminding him that he was alive. At least this time he was not smelling his own shit; Cregan Stark had the basic decency of placing him in one of the lordly cells in the dungeons of the Keep. Such cells were attended to once a day, and their captive's chamberpot was emptied and the captive was fed.

The nightmares had become more vivid as time had gone on. These days, they would torment him every time he shut his eyes, trying to sleep. They were mocking him now. The nightmares were there to remind him of how much he had lost because of the bitch queen and her fucking war. It was the face of his wife, stern and strong and unyielding, that he saw most often. She appeared to him in the face she had when they had just married; young, lovely and full of life, the face of a woman just out of her girlhood with her entire life ahead of her. When he saw himself in those dreams, he was a younger man too, a dashing adventurer; just returned home from the voyages he had taken to the farthest reaches of the Known World. He remembered the words she had told him on the day she had declared in front of the entire court that they would be married.

'We may return to the ends of the world together, my love, but I'll get there first, as I'll be flying.' Like always, he smiled at the memory. That had been the day he knew he had found his queen, the day he knew he would make himself a king, as was his due. The folly.

The pleasant memory would only last a moment longer however, his wife's jet black hair quickly becoming streaked with white and her beautiful face becoming lined and streaked with age. He would then see her falling from the sky, Meleys' headless and lifeless body under her, smote upon the ground. The copper armour she loved to wear would then melt into her skin as the bronze and greenish-blue flames of his dead daughter's dragon engulfed her, turning the red of the copper armour and the crimson of Meleys' scales into the grey of ash. That was all that remained of his wife, Corlys knew, nothing but ash, as if she had never even existed.

That was all that remained of Corlys' life and legacy in truth. All of what he had pursued so relentlessly since he had been only a boy was ruined and burned. The strength of the Velaryon navy had been cut down by almost half; even if the remaining half could still hold its own against the rest of Westeros' fleets combined, it was a grave loss. Spicetown, the fishing village he had transformed into a thriving city more resplendent than even King's Landing could ever hope to be, was now a ruin. High Tide; the crown jewel of his life's work, the beautiful pale fortress he had built with his own bare hands with marble and silver, was a ruin as well.

And all of it was due to the bitch queen and her stupid war. He had been right in his assessment of her; she burned everything she lay her hands on.

Corlys usually did his best to avoid the uncomfortable thoughts of his ruin, but lately, he no longer had the strength to. He would be executed in two short days for treason. The young wolf's words came back to him, unencumbered, 'Aegon was an oathbreaker, a kinslayer, and a usurper besides, yet still a king. When he would not heed your craven's counsel, you removed him as a craven would, using poison…and now you shall answer for it'. Aye, the conviction with which Lord Stark had pronounced his judgement assured him of his fate. Reflection was all that was left for him to do. So, he walked back to the small bed, put on his heavy woollen cloak over his head, glad of the warmth that the cloak brought, and lay down slowly, his knees complaining as he did so. He let his mind wander unobstructed, reliving the memories of his life once more.

Surprisingly, his memories took him back to his youth, when he was a younger man, still full of hopes and dreams and ambition. The form of Daella Targaryen appeared in his mind's eye; the sweet, shy princess who was so unlike every other Targaryen he had ever met. None of the pride and senseless arrogance of her kin was present in her. Corlys cursed his ambition once more for rejecting her suit of marriage all those years ago. She would have made a splendid wife to him, Corlys knew, and a gentle, kind mother to any children they would have had.

But for a man like him, a woman who would have made a good wife and a gentle mother just wouldn't be enough; instead, he pursued one who would also give him a throne. His mind went back to the day he was betrothed to Rhaenys, and how glad he had felt. His quest for her had succeeded. He had made himself a king. His children would be dragonriders, and one of them would be king after him. His blood would rule these lands for centuries to come. The displeased faces of Prince Aemon and Prince Baelon came to the fore too; the two of them had wished to combine their lines by marrying Rhaenys to Viserys. When his wife had told him of that notion once they were wed, he had scoffed at the notion derisively.

He did not scoff now. Perhaps things would have been very different if he had married Daella, if his wife had to have been a Targaryen. Even the spoiled, vain and sly Viserra would have been enough. He remembered the letter she had written to him, soon after he had returned from his final voyage, offering herself to him clandestinely to rid herself of the egregious betrothal the good queen had made for her. She had even promised him that she would steal Dreamfyre from the dragonpit, making House Velaryon a house of dragonlords for all time. Corlys had guffawed at her delusions then, and promptly fed the letter to the flames of his hearth. Even if she had succeeded in her ploy, his house simply becoming dragonlords was not enough for him. No, House Velaryon would become a house of Kings.

Oh, how his delusions shattered. The gods had seen fit to send his ruin in the form of a spoiled princess, a pretender queen named Rhaenyra Targaryen. Oh, how he loathed even the taste of her name on his tongue. How had he, Corlys Velaryon, enshrined in legend for all time as the Sea Snake, let a little slip of a girl not even a quarter of her age destroy everything he had built?

He had been glad, so very glad when Viserys had come to High Tide and all but begged for Laenor's hand for his heir. Rhaenys had warned him that war would follow Viserys' death; that no male child would sit idly by and allow themselves to be usurped by their older sister. He had laughed then. Whatever war would follow would be short and devastating for any who sought to usurp them, he had reassured his wife. They had Meleys, Seasmoke, Syrax, Caraxes and Vhagar on their side. All his grandchildren would be dragonriders too, he was sure of it. He had made sure of it. Laenor's queer tastes had been accounted for; he had him lay with the beautiful Marilda and sire a child upon her, before the wedding between him and the princess was to take place. Sure, the methods used to coax pleasure out of his son were queer and ashaming for him, but what mattered was that it had worked. He would just have to do the same with his princess after they had wed, and all would be well.

It turned out that the princess had no sense of responsibility in even trying to sire trueborn heirs. She had her own desires, and she would fulfil them, regardless of the treason she committed. Corlys swallowed something foul and bitter when he remembered the first brown-haired, brown-eyed whelp was presented to him. He had not truly grasped the depth of the bitch's entitlement at that time. When the dragon's egg in the babe's cradle hatched within a few days after his birth, he had reasoned with himself that it must have been the latent Baratheon or Arryn genes lurking in both of his parents' blood that caused the boy to have such common features. So he gave him a storied Velaryon name, Jacaerys. A seed of doubt was cast in his mind however, when Addam was born soon afterwards, and his features clearly bespoke his Valyrian heritage; especially since nothing in Marilda's colouring identified her as a dragonseed. The birth of the second babe he named Lucerys, caused that seed of doubt to begin to sprout. Soon thereafter he had his son lay with Marilda again, hoping against all hope for the second babe sired between them would have common features to put to rest his suspicion. His hopes were dashed into the sea however, for Alyn was born soon after Lucerys, again with silver hair and purple eyes.

That was when his hatred towards the bitch was truly set in stone. He did not even bother bestowing her third whelp with a Velaryon name, instead letting his son give him the common name Joffrey, for his paramour supposedly. He did not understand. His son claimed the bastards as his. The couple paraded the boys as trueborn heirs of the two most powerful families in the Known World. Laena was nothing but a doting aunt to them and even arranged to betroth them to her daughters. He had wanted to speak out; to travel to King's Landing to disavow the boys as not being of his own seed in front of the king, but he could not. Those same dragons that he had counted on so staunchly as his support now had their jaws pointed firmly at his throat. Daemon would certainly not allow any shame be wrought upon his beloved niece. Laenor declared in no uncertain terms that he would turn against him, should he try to dispute his bastards' parentage. 'You can only watch as the entirety of your legacy is inherited by mongrels, father.' He had said, a vindictive smirk upon his face, 'I believe it to be sufficient payment for all the shame you have had me endure.'

He had tried to beget another son upon his wife then. Yes, she was in her forties, but Alysanne had given birth at forty-four and his grandsire's sister, Alyssa Velaryon, had given birth to his good-mother at forty-six. He had hoped it would work. It did not. It had been the only option left to him. Addam and Alyn were sired in secret; there was no way he could bring them forward, lest he put them and their mother in danger. Laenor had no care for them, he had never even seen them and there was nothing but hatred and contempt in his eyes when Corlys had informed him of their birth. The realm was more likely to believe that Addam and Alyn were his sons and not Laenor's, and Rhaenys would certainly not be happy to learn that her beloved husband had sired bastard children out of wedlock.

So he quietly despaired for about a decade, doing nothing as his son and daughter died, and then forced to have the bastard whelp he had named Lucerys as his ward afterwards. He was a good lad, Corlys had to admit, and would have made a splendid lord of Driftmark, were he trueborn. The boy displayed the same enthusiasm for sailing that reminded Corlys of his youth, fighting and eventually overcoming the seasickness that plagued him. He had begun to tacitly accept him as heir after a time, and even took him on a few voyages.

After one such voyage, he fell ill with a fever, and his nephew Vaemond, had the courage to do what he did not. He went to the king, declared the bitch princess' children as bastards, and put himself forward as the heir and future lord of his seat. He had gotten his head removed and his corpse fed to the bitch's dragon as a result of his foolishness. Vaemond's sons and Corlys' other nephews and cousins protested the decision, and some of them lost their tongues or their lives as a result. The rest of his kin looked in askance towards him, expecting him to answer the injustice done upon House Velaryon. He could not, and so most of them turned against him during the war he had bled and been beaten for. Many ships turned cloak and fought with the Triarchy when they attacked their blockade during the Battle of The Gullet. They were burned by dragonflame just as the Three Daughters' fleets were. The large Velaryon family tree had been trimmed so vastly that now the number of scions of the house remaining in the world could be counted in one hand. And all of it was because of a bastard and her bitch mother.

Before the war, he had thought that at least all his sacrifice would be worth it. Jacaerys and Lucerys would marry their cousins, Baela and Rhaena, who at least had Velaryon blood from their mother. At the onset of the war he thought they would win; they had more dragons to deploy on the battlefield and more lords sworn to the bitch queen than to the usurper. They had the most experienced battle commanders in him and Prince Daemon. He hoped this whole mess would be behind him in a few turns of the moon. He had been soundly mistaken.

Lucerys and the usurper's son had been slain each in turn, sparking the war in earnest. The Riverlands were conquered soon after by Daemon and his dragon. At that point things looked to be going well.

That was until his wife died, sent by the bitch queen against the forces besieging Rook's Rest, only to find two dragons; Sunfyre and Vhagar, lying in wait to spring the trap. From what he'd heard, she had not turned away from the onslaught of facing two dragons, instead choosing to go to her death whilst taking at least Sunfyre with her. She had almost succeeded, maiming the golden dragon badly, rendering him useless for most of the remaining war. Still, Rhaenys was dead.

That was his breaking point. He had decided to withdraw his forces and retreat to High Tide, leaving the queen and her bastards to fend for themselves in her foolish war for the throne. His wife and children were dead. His granddaughters were Targaryens, the daughters of Daemon, and the bastard boy who was to be his heir had been killed as well. He had nothing else to fight for.

Jacaerys had been the one who to change his mind. He offered him the handship, legitimised his grandsons as they deserved, and even let them claim dragons alongside three other dragonseeds. Addam succeeded in that regard, claiming his late father's dragon Seasmoke. Alyn unsuccessfully tried to tame the wild dragon Sheepstealer, in quite a reckless manner in his opinion, fortunately only coming away from that ordeal with only mild burns. Addam Velaryon was then named heir to Driftmark at the prince's urging, as was his due. Jacaerys had not been fool enough to even dare press Joffrey's claim to an inheritance he had no legitimacy to, not with the threat of losing the Velaryon navy for his mother's cause looming large. Finally, his actual grandsons had gotten their due, even amidst all the loss and turmoil. Prince Jacaerys' actions in that regard earned him Corlys' begrudging respect. He would have made a capable king, Corlys had to admit, a much better monarch than his bitch mother for sure.

Jacaerys did not live long however.

After his grandson had claimed Seasmoke, Ulf and Hugh, the two betrayers, had claimed Silverwing and Vermithor respectively, and the brown girl Nettles had tamed Sheepstealer, Jacaerys sent his brother Joffrey and his granddaughter Rhaena with Joffrey's dragon and three other dragon's eggs to The Vale. He then sent his two young half-brothers, Aegon with his young dragon and Viserys with his dragon's egg to Pentos. He did this to keep the four of them safe for the remainder of the war. On the way to Pentos, the ship they were on met the Triarchy ships sailing towards the Gullet to break the Velaryon blockade. Aegon, now the king, had barely escaped the Triarchy forces on his young dragon, flying back to Dragonstone in the midst of a storm of scorpions and catapults being fired at him. He came in haste, to seek help in freeing his brother Viserys from the enemy's clutches. That was the only flight the little Aegon took on his young dragon before the dragon died from half a hundred wounds. Jacaerys and his dragon riders responded immediately, flying to put the enemy fleet to rout and try to rescue the young prince.In the chaos of the battle, Jacaerys, looking for his half-brother Viserys, flew too low and was killed. The Triarchy and his rogue kin reached High Tide and Spicetown, sacking both and putting them to the torch. The enemy was put to rout yes, but it was a victory with too much loss for it to be considered one, and Viserys was lost and presumed dead.

After that battle, the queen and her new Dragonriders took the capital, and that was when her foolishness was truly put on display for the entire world to see. Corlys laughed at the memory of her idiotic reign. Her downfall came from the common folk of the city, not Vhagar with the Kinslayer riding her, not even the dragonriders, Ulf and Hugh who betrayed her and fought for the usurper instead. No, it was from the common folk. A monarch had to be extremely foolish to rouse their anger. He had never thought a queen could engineer her own downfall in such a manner.

Her short and mediocre reign began to unravel when they took the Red Keep, only to find that the treasury had been looted. The usurper's Master of Coin, Tyland Lannister, was brutally tortured to find out where said gold had vanished to. He revealed nothing. Instead of sourcing coin by seizing the treasuries of the lords who had supported her half-brother, or borrowing from the Iron Bank to pay them back to once the war came to an end and trade was restored, the dragon queen, by the advice of his illustrious new Master of Coin, Bartimos Celtigar, imposed taxes on the common folk of the city, common folk who had suffered hunger since the Riverlands went aflame under the Kinslayer's and Vhagar's wrath, and the supply routes from the Reach had been seized by the usurper's youngest brother and the host he commanded.

As she deployed her dragonriders all over the realm to deal with The Greens; (her husband and Nettles west to hunt the Kinslayer on Vhagar, Ulf and Hugh south to destroy the usurper's youngest brother and his dragon), dissent in the city was sown. The illustrious dragon queen soon became known in the city as Maegor with Teats for furthering the hardship they had fallen on instead of trying to alleviate it. The usurper's sister-queen then killed herself, and word spread throughout the city that Rhaenyra was the one responsible. The usurper's toddler son was torn apart by innkeeps far south in the realm, and the denizens of the city were certain that the bitch was the one responsible for it.

The dissent came to a boiling point when the city folk stormed the Dragonpit by their tens of thousands and killed the five dragons that resided there, at the urging of a one-armed street urchin, who convinced the populace that dragons were the cause of their downfall, and only with the death of those 'demons', would they be liberated from the hardship they were going through. They were right, he supposed. Instead of flying on Syrax, who resided on the Red Keep's courtyard, and turning away all who tried to storm the dragonpit, the queen fled the city after her last bastard Joffrey tried to do the same and died for it while she just watched. Despite himself, Corlys chuckled. Her bastards were truly mongrels. Even he knew that one could never mount a dragon that was bonded to another. Joffrey assumed her mother's Syrax was familiar enough with him to accommodate him for a short flight; he was thoroughly disabused of that notion when Syrax shook violently, throwing the whelp from her back, sending him falling to his death. Syrax then went feral, destroying a part of the city with her flames before joining the carnage in the Dragonpit and getting killed by tens of thousands of smallfolk. Six dragons died that night, and more than a hundred thousand of the common folk who had killed them.

Maegor with Teats fled King's Landing soon afterwards and went to Dragonstone, straight into the jaws of her usurper brother. Her only remaining child watched as she was devoured by Sunfyre, who had healed enough from his ordeal in Rook's Rest and had promptly flown to seek out his master in Dragonstone, killing Baela's Moondancer and the wild dragon Grey Ghost in his wake. Sunfyre died soon after however, from the fresh wounds he took fighting the two dragons.

Corlys had been in the Black Cells when he heard the news. Despite being near death from starvation and the injuries he had suffered during his imprisonment, he had found the strength to be happy of the Black Queen's demise. Her dying in the most ignoble way possible served her right. She had had him chained and beaten for rescuing his trueborn grandson from her executioner's blade.

When Ulf White and Hugh Hammer proved themselves traitors and turned their cloaks, she had ordered that all the Dragonriders deployed by Jacaerys be attainted for treason and detained. Daemon, in the Riverlands hunting Vhagar, sought to protect Sheepstealer's rider instead of obeying his queen's word. He therefore sent Nettles away and went on to face the Kinslayer and Vhagar by himself, both dragons and their riders dying in the resulting duel.

The bitch queen had dared to order Addam be tortured to 'ascertain his loyalty'. He could not have that, of course, so he forewarned his grandson, urging him to flee to one of the Free Cities and await the end of the war. The two Targaryen factions would all kill each other and all their dragons, he had reasoned, leaving his house, House Velaryon, as the only remaining dragonlord house. Addam could easily claim the Iron Throne for himself if he so wished, being the only remaining descendant of Old King Jaehaerys. And with him having Seasmoke, none would gainsay his ascension.

Addam, Corlys came to find out, did not share his vision. He was instead plagued by delusions of loyalty. Instead of finding solace in the East, he flew to gather fresh levies from The Riverlands to attack Tumbleton, where the traitor dragonriders roosted, 'to prove myself to the dragon queen', he had declared foolishly. Addam and Seasmoke died in that battle. Once Corlys was discovered to have aided Addam in his escape, he was seized, beaten as if he was some slave or a common born miscreant and then thrown into the Black Cells. He had languished in darkness there for weeks until Larys Strong pulled him out, telling him that the usurping King would have his allegiance, or Baela, now a hostage after her dragon had died battling the usurper's, would be beheaded.

He agreed, thinking that matters would yet be set to rights since Rhaenyra had been fed to a dragon, and her foolishness had been vanquished with her. It turned out that it had not. A shorter, sadder reign of Aegon the Usurper followed the short, sad reign of her bitch sister. Instead of trying to unite the wartorn realm under his banner, as Corlys had advised him to do, he sought vengeance on all the Lords who had supported the pretender before him. His folly was even greater than his sister's, and Corlys did not think that possible. The charred husk that was the usurper did not even have a dragon to enforce his will, and the attacks he made on the petty lords of the crownlands only served to rouse the rest of his sister's remaining loyalists. The Vale had inexplicably finally found ships to sail their men down the Narrow Sea, Stark and his Northmen finally bestirred themselves from their frozen wasteland and marched south two years after Jacaerys had made the grandly named Pact of Ice and Fire, and somehow, the Riverlands respawned even more men to battle and slaughter the now waxing Baratheons, the usurpers greatest supporters whose forces were largely unbloodied. The usurper was left exposed, naked, with hosts marching from all directions.

War would come to King's Landing once more, and at that point, he was truly tired of it. His time in the Black Cells had done much to make him weary. The madness had to end. And so, he poisoned the usurper and declared his namesake nephew king two days before the Rivermen reached the gates of King's Landing. He had thought the war well and truly over, that is until Cregan Stark and his host of ten thousand reached the city soon afterwards and took it over.

That the young wolf harboured ambitions of conquering the entirety of the realm for himself Corlys could clearly see, veiled as his ambitions were by the pretext of preventing fresh rebellions down the line when the boy lords whose fathers were slain in the war grew into manhood. 'Small babes become large men in time, and babes suck their mother's hate with their mother's milk,' he had said. When Corlys had pointed out how Aegon thought the same and perished for it, Lord Stark accused him of regicide in view of the entire court, and had his men seize him and imprison him once more, to be executed soon enough. That was two days ago.

Seventy-eight years. Corlys had lived seventy-eight years and in all that time, he had never imagined himself becoming a Kingslayer and dying for it. Adventurer, sailor, builder, king, husband and father. He had imagined all those titles for himself. But never Kingslayer. The rest would never matter, he knew now. Only ash remained of the towns and castles he had built. He could scarcely walk up a flight of stairs let alone brave the seas aboard The Sea Snake. His wife was dead. His daughter was dead. His son was dead. Remembering them now brought nothing but pain and guilt. A parent should never send their children into the sea. And what had he given them for the entirety of their lives, apart from grief, pain and suffering due to his ambition. Laena, his pearl, the loveliest lady in the whole world, had suffered for almost a decade, betrothed to a Braavosi wastrel, before Daemon had rescued her and taken her to wife instead. Laenor, his son, his brave boy, the first dragonlord of House Velaryon's storied history, died with an empty soul, ashamed to the point of plotting against his own father.

He was only left with Alyn now. Any hope of restoring his house to what it had been before lay with him. And there were the twins too, Corlys supposed, Laena's lovely girls, but they were more their late father's daughters than his own grandchildren. They were Targaryens.

Despite himself, Corlys laughed. Long and hard and throaty until tears streaked his ruddy cheeks when the realisation came to him. No matter how much he despised and mocked Maegor with Teats and her dolt of a brother for their follies, Corlys had truly been the greatest fool of them all. He had risen high, driven by ambition of legacy and glory and he had achieved all that. He had married a princess who would have been queen. He had had children and grandchildren who rode dragons. He had built a city on his dreary island, making it the greatest port in the Known World and given his house power never before seen. And yet, all that was gone now. In two days he would die, and Corlys Velaryon would die with nothing, he would die being nothing.

---

8th Day, Fourth Moon, 131AC | The Red Keep - King's Landing

CREGAN STARK

Cregan Stark walked towards the godswood of the castle. Unlike the one at Winterfell, the one at the Red Keep had only a single weirwood tree among a sea of oaks and roses and other flowers. That had surprised him. He did not imagine that a castle built by dragon kings would even have a place of worship for the Old Gods. But he was glad of it. Still, he was itching to go back North. Winter was here, and his place was at Winterfell.

Every day he spent at this cesspit of a castle, he wondered why he had even come south in the first place. Oh, right, he harboured foolish ambitions of conquering the Seven Kingdoms. He had waited for the Targaryens to fully obliterate each other in their foolish war, before daring to bestir himself and marching his forces south. 'They were still collecting their harvest', he had told the dragon queen, 'The North was vast, and it would take time to gather their men'. All of it was a lie. They had been done collecting the harvest two moons before even Prince Jacaerys had landed his dragon in Winterfell's courtyard; and that was more than two years ago now.

It was shortly after the Princeling had left Winterfell once he had received news of his brother's death, that the notion of ruling the Seven Kingdoms occurred to him. Why shouldn't a King with Stark blood rule these kingdoms, he had asked his half-sister. They had been kings for eight thousand years; they were kings before even the Valyrians had tamed their dragons and forged their Empire. If there was any man with legitimacy once the Targaryens died, it was them.

So he let the war unfold, anticipation swelling within him every time he heard of a dragon and their rider having fallen in battle. Normally, when Winter came, the old, the helpless and those without hearth, home and family, would venture out into the snow to go 'hunting', without any intention of returning, until spring came forth at last. This time however, he had held back all the men. They would have enough land to resettle once his conquest of the continent was complete. Food and hearth and home would be there aplenty for the Northmen once his conquest was done and the entire continent bowed to the Starks. Rodrick Dustin and his Winter Wolves had disobeyed his directives and marched two thousand men south, but alas, they were dead, and they were but only a small part of the armies he could raise.

Soon enough, the dragons died, and Cregan marched, to bring the whole continent to heel has he thought he would do. The rest of the realm was devastated. It would have been easy to conquer their castles, each and every one. A king with Stark blood would sit the throne, he had promised himself.

Arriving at court, his ambitions had been shattered thoroughly. King's Landing was truly a shithole of cesspit and intrigue. Here, Cregan learnt that a king could be poisoned as easily as he could breathe. Men cared not a whit about the oaths they swore, be they knights or men-at-arms or even those meant to be the king's closest advisers. They were all snakes, he realised, whether they were of the sea or not. They would never be safe here, should they even succeed in their conquest. He had no place here, he realised; the Starks had no place here.

He instead decided to give justice to those who had used a coward's weapon in dispatching a king. Whether he was a usurper or not, whether he was a pretender or not, a king should never be killed by such treachery. The Sea Snake, The Clubfoot and their cronies would pay for their crimes two days from hence, Cregan swore to himself as the godswood came into view. He had come to say a prayer to the Old Gods, asking for absolution for the blood that would be on his hands after the executions.

Shock was plain on his face when he encountered Lady Rhaena sitting in a corner of the garden, feeding her hatchling large chunks of meat. The pink dragon was already the size of a hound, not counting her wings, and with a ravenous appetite from what little he had seen of her. The sight of the dragon always gave him pause, and he was not the only one. Even the boy king had ordered his sister to keep the dragon out of the castle grounds and away from his sight, but it seemed that Lady Rhaena had no compunction of following such a command. He stood, planted to the ground as he watched the hatchling breathe pink flames streaked with black on the goat's flesh in front of her, charring it, before savagely tearing large chunks with her black teeth.

The dragon was the first to notice him. She turned her small head towards him, her black horns glittering in the morning light, her eyes wholly focussed on him, as if staring into his soul. The Lady followed her dragon's gaze, seeing him.

"Lord Stark," she greeted, with a warm sultry voice and an inviting smile, "have you come to bask in the morning sun as I have? Winter has come, making it quite rare for the sun to come out, it would be remiss not to bask in whatever little sunshine we get."

Remembering his courtesies, Cregan responded, "I have actually come to pray, my lady." The dragon stopped gaping at him at long last, and returned to her food, the smell of the roasting of meat reaching his nose and whetting his appetite. He had not yet broken his fast, Cregan remembered.

The lady seemed to think on his words for a moment, "Oh, forgive me my lord," she replied, after finding her words, "I seem to have forgotten that not all of us worship in the Sept like I do."

"It is no trouble My Lady," Cregan told her, her minor slight quickly forgotten.

"The weirwood is that way my lord. It is secluded from the rest of the garden, so I believe Morning and I should not bother you as you say your prayers." she replied, pointing towards the direction he had already been told would lead him there. He began to walk towards it. Cregan did not desire to remain in the presence of a dragon. This one might only be a hatchling, half a year old, an infant in human terms, but on his march, he had passed through the Riverlands and had seen for himself the devastation the dragons had wrought.

"My Lord?" Lady Rhaena called out to him once more. He turned back to see her stood up from where she had been seated. Cregan turned to face her, "I would humbly request you to free my grandfather from captivity."

Cregan stopped himself before he scoffed, "And why would I do that?" The snake had committed the highest of treasons; execution was the only outcome for him.

Lady Rhaena's smile grew wider, but Cregan saw a flash of something fierce beneath her courtly facade, "You said it yourself," she paused, picking the goat's leg and holding it in her hand, the hatchling's pink form immediately jumping on her shoulders to follow her food, roaring at her, or attempting to; the roars came out as squeals, "small babes become large men in time, and a babe sucks down his mother's hate with his mother's milk." The lady held up the goat's leg before turning to the creature on her shoulder, saying something to her in a language Cregan did not understand. In a flash, the goat's leg was bathed in gleaming pink flames, this time without any streaks of black, then the dragon tore into the flesh with her black teeth.

He did not see the goat's meat burn. He saw pink flames consuming the Great Keep of Winterfell, and thick black smoke rising into the skies above the North. He heard the screams of the burnt and the burning, all of them begging for death. Cregan immediately understood.

Her charming and demure smile suddenly morphed into a deadly smirk as she walked closer to him, leaning forward and whispering in his ear in a voice as sweet as honey, "The Hour of the Wolf may be the darkest hour in the night, but the sun has never failed to rise, and with it, Morning comes." The squeal the hatchling produced at those words was a great roar of an eldritch monster of the tales he had been told since he was a babe.

As quickly as she had leaned in and whispered in his ear, she turned away, walking gracefully towards the castle, the train of her dress trailing behind her and the hatchling flying above her.

 

[Error29]

Interesting, Im looking forward to what is going to happen. Is it going to be all outside pov? I noticed asoiaf fic are usually better when they are outside prespective. And do you have an update schedule? Thanks for the chapter.
Right, how many dragon are still there right now?

 

[neyra]

Interesting, Im looking forward to what is going to happen. Is it going to be all outside pov? I noticed asoiaf fic are usually better when they are outside prespective. And do you have an update schedule? Thanks for the chapter.
Right, how many dragon are still there right now?

Click to shrink...

Stay tuned to how things will go. Yes, for now I've planned for it to be all outsider perspective, to see how Si's actions and thoughts affects those around her. We'll also get plenty of her character through the lenses of her siblings.... Update schedule hasn't been set in stone quite yet, but I'm planning of it being on the 4th, 14th and 24th of every month, once I have sufficient backlog to make it work consistently even if with things in RL.
I'm glad you liked the chapter.
Dragons: The Cannibal riderless on Dragonstone, Silverwing riderless in Red Lake, Sheepstealer and Nettles in the Mountains of the Moon in the Vale, Morning ridden by Rhaena.

 

[neyra]

9th Day, Fourth Moon, 131AC | The Red Keep - King's Landing

BAELA

Baela swung her wooden sword swiftly, feigning right but instead going left, striking Rhaena's right wrist and making her drop her own sword. Before she could recover, Baela pointed her sword at her sister's throat.

"Dead," she exclaimed as their chests rose and fell in heavy pants and sweat glistened from their skin. Her sister raised both her hands in surrender, as she often did after being disarmed, with her usual defeated look on her face.

"You're getting there, Rhae," Baela told her, attempting to encourage her.

"Not fast enough," her twin replied, with a sullen look on her face, cradling her wrist that was sure to bruise soon enough.

"You began your training less than a year ago," Baela reminded her sister, "I followed Father into the training yard since I was old enough to walk. Your progress is remarkable." Baela said, in as reassuring a tone as she could muster.

"I agree with Lady Baela my Lady," Ser Corwyn Corbray added. Her sister's martial pursuits had been a recent development, and under Ser Corwyn's tutelage, which began during her wardship in the Vale during the war, she had made remarkable progress. That was in their nature, Baela knew. Whatever endeavour they pursued, they would put an indomitable determination into it; they were their mother's daughters, after all. Laena Velaryon had claimed the largest living dragon of her time, right under the king's nose, tilting the balance of draconic power to another house for the first time since the Doom of Valyria. According to their late grandmother's tales, their grandfather's ambitions for the Iron Throne had been the greatest at the time, and were it not for her grandmother's dissuasion, the dragons would have danced a few decades earlier than they eventually did.

"Thank you, Ser," her sister replied before continuing, "What did Lord Stark decide on his executions?" she asked the knight. Ser Corwyn would serve as one of their brother's regents once the wedding to join the two factions was done.

"They will happen tomorrow, and your grandsire has been spared from his sword." the knight told them as he took their training swords, shields, and handed them to his squire for them to be taken to the armoury. That was strange to Baela. The Lord of Winterfell was hellbent on seeking justice, even for those who slew a usurper. However her sister intervened, it seemed to have cowed him considerably, just as Rhaena had said it would.

After wishing farewell to the knight, the two of them walked, arm in arm, back to the castle to bathe. It was an unspoken routine they had fallen into since reuniting. They rose at dawn, trained, and then proceeded to bathe together in the same tub, just as they had done when they were children. In Baela's mind, it seemed to be such a long time ago. Memories of her father, mother, and her twin sister together in the resplendent mansions in the east always seemed blurry, for they were only four years of age when their mother died in childbirth and they returned to Westeros. Most of the memories they had of Laena Velaryon were in the form of stories told to them by their father, his eyes shining with love and grief as he did so. After that, they resided with their new mother on Dragonstone. Rhaenyra Targaryen may have neither been a good queen nor a good battle commander, but she had been a good mother who raised the two of them the same as she raised her sons; it was from her they learned how to do their hair the way Queen Visenya did (at least before Baela began chopping hers to a shoulder length), it was to her they went to when they first flowered, and she was oh so gentle in easing their shame and pain. Rhaenyra Targaryen gave them brothers as well, five of them; all loving, caring and different in their own way. Before the pain and grief and loss could come to the surface once more and cripple her, Rhaena interrupted.

"You think very loudly sister," she japed.

Baela noticed that she was frowning then, and eased into a smile, albeit a small but genuine one. Even with all the people she'd lost, she was grateful that the person with whom she had shared a womb with had survived and returned to her healthy and whole, no matter the strange changes she had undergone this past year.

Rhaena had always been most like their mother; cheerful, charming and easily sociable. Baela was the one who was most like their father; moody, brooding and headstrong, Yet now her sister also seemed to have gained a spine of Valyrian Steel. 'War does that to people,' she surmised.

"The bath has been drawn, my ladies," Lady Elinda Massey said to them once they reached their shared apartments, "If you need anything else, just ring for me. I shall be in the adjoining quarters."

"Thank you, Elinda." Baela appreciated Lady Elinda. She was another relic of their distant childhood. She had been the head of their mother's household on Dragonstone and had endeavored to learn all their preferences, even the small ones: the food they liked, the times they preferred to eat, the soaps and perfumes they preferred to use, the scalding hot temperature of the water they enjoyed bathing in, the clothes they liked to wear, the material of the bed sheets they liked to use; linen for her, silk for her sister. She took great care in her work in ensuring their lives were as comfortable as possible and Baela knew she was indispensable.

Rhaena helped her unlace the leather tunic she wore when they trained, then undid the braids of her shorn hair. She, in turn, did the same for her luscious, waist-length silver tresses, and soon after, their clothes were all on the floor, leaving them as naked as the day they were born. It bore no shame to them; they had shared a womb, and no matter their differences and how they evolved over time, they would share their lives.Like all things, seemingly, their bodies had been changed because of the war. Rhaena had blossomed and grown even more beautiful, with her breasts and hips growing rounder and more shapely as her girlhood faded, while her skin remained flawless. However, the skin on Baela's stomach was twisted and scarred from the burns and battering she had received during her and Moondancer's duel with the usurper and Sunfyre. She was also thinner as well; still regaining the weight she had lost when she had been a prisoner to said usurper, at a time she thought her death was all but assured. The first time they bathed together after the war, it had been hard. She had wept after looking at the mirror and seeing her form and differentiating it with her sister. Rhaena had come from behind and put her hands around her waist in an embrace as she let out her tears.

"You bare the marks of a warrior," she reassured her, "it makes you 1000 times more beautiful than before, and fiercer than many could even hope to be." They stood there for an endless amount of time as her sister traced every scar, every swathe of skin that appeared mangled and twisted from dragonfire. Despite her calloused hands, Rhaena's touch was still as soft as ever. After a time, she turned and embraced her, with as much warmth and affection as she usually did, and Baela was assured that she was home. Both had been broken and bruised with injury and grief, but they were home.

Her sister took care to scrub her thoroughly as she did the same for her, and soon the water grew tepid and dirty with their sweat and grime. She took the basin next to their bath and washed the soap off their bodies. They then dressed each other; Baela in a resplendent tunic, an overcoat made to fit a woman's curves, and breeches underneath, while her sister wore a gown as jeweled and ornate as their mother preferred, though not too formal for a normal day in the castle.

"Have you decided yet?" Rhaena asked, breaking the comfortable silence between them.

"Decided what?" Baela answered, trying to play coy, but she knew what her sister was asking. There were four dragons that were alive at the moment. Silverwing, Sheepstealer, The Cannibal and Morning, two of whom were riderless. Rhaena had been trying to convince her to claim another dragon since they reunited. She had made excuses then, saying that no rider could take a second dragon. Her twin had dismissed her excuses, reminding her of the dragon's egg that had hatched while they were visiting great-aunt Saera in Volantis, the hatchling dying only a few hours later. Now she had Morning, her pink dragoness that hatched from one of the three eggs she had taken with her to The Vale. Baela had tried to stall once again, claiming that they had to make sure their grandfather survived the Judgement of the Wolf. Her sister had not pushed her further on the matter, but Baela knew that Rhaena was aware of the truth of why she was hesitant to become a Dragonlord once more.

Baela was terrified. It was not the all-consuming, irrational fear that her brother had developed of dragons and anything concerning them, but she still feared nonetheless. Both her mothers were slain by dragonfire. Her father died during a dragon battle. Jacaerys, her betrothed, her Prince, the love of her life, had died the same way. Lucerys and Joffrey as well. She had not witnessed any of those deaths as Aegon had, but the pain lived in her heart all the same.

"Baela," her sister called her, taking her arms in hers, "if you cannot do it for yourself, do it for Viserys." At that, she was puzzled and she could not hold back her look of surprise.

"Viserys?" she asked, surprised.

Her sister sighed and continued, her eyes holding nothing but truth. "Aye, he's alive, in Lys. Some powerful banking family has him hostage, biding their time until they can use him to gain influence on the Iron Throne. Morning will not be large enough to ride into battle for some years yet, and we need to retrieve our brother and return him home whole and unharmed as soon as possible."

"How do you know this?" Baela asked.

To her credit, Rhaena did not hesitate. First, she made her swear to secrecy. Baela took her dagger and sliced the flesh of her palm, and Rhaena did the same with hers. It was the kind of oath sworn to the Gods of Valyria; their father had taught them that if such an oath was broken, the oath-breaker would combust into flames and die instantly. Though she rather doubted that, they both respected the sanctity of such a vow. Rhaena sat her down on the bed and began her tale, telling it in High Valyrian, the language of their ancestors; The Red Keep was still filled with ambitious men who wished to see their house vanquished, and it would not do for the rats in the walls to learn of their secrets.

She spoke of having memories of another life, another world that had many wonders and had seen many tragedies. In these memories, she was a warrior, fighting against men made of iron and steel who wished to kill and burn men made of flesh. In this world, the towers are topless, but unlike those in Valyria, they were made almost completely of glass. The people in her memories moved from city to city in carriages that fly, carriages that do not require horses to move. She talked of devices they had, like glass candles, that could conjure the forms of a person halfway across the world and speak as if they were in the same room. She talked of many more things, of how men of flesh thought themselves gods and made men of metal to be their slaves, but the metal men rose up in rebellion and began brutally killing the men of flesh to gain ultimate power over that world. Even with all that, the most surprising thing she said was that the people of that world read about them in stories. A scribe of great renown had written numerous tales of their world; from Aegon's Conquest to the war they had just survived, and many more tales of their future. Before she joined the army to topple the tyranny of these insurgent metal men, she had read all these tales and knew them like the back of her hand. In her memories, she had been a teacher as well, giving knowledge to many eager students willing to learn their histories, be it distant or not. She knew the histories of that world extremely well, just as she knew many other things. She was an inquisitive soul that sated her curiosity with immense studies into many different subjects. Because of this, she was the one of the few who had been recruited by the kings of that world to end the war with the metal men. Using some wizardry Rhaena claimed she could not explain, her mind was to be sent back in time to a point before the men of metal in that world were created. They were to stop those who invented them from doing so, to prevent the death of billions. That was the last thing she remembered before she woke up in the Eyrie as the sun rose, to the song of her newborn dragon, Morning.

Baela stood dumbfounded, allowing her face to show the shock of all she had just heard. Rhaena was silent, her look pleading with her twin to believe her. Baela did believe her; she was her sister, they had shared a womb, there was no one in the world she trusted more. Moreover, Rhaena had never lied to her. Their father had told her tales, fables describing the founding of their Old Valyrian empire; that it was done by a man who had memories of a different world as well, but those tales were highly disputed. That man apparently became first among the Valyrian pantheon of gods, to be worshipped eternally since that time. The myths say it was he and his children who created the first dragons, performed the magic and rituals required to tame and ride them, and passed that knowledge down to their descendants as the empire they built grew in the peninsula of the Lands of Always Summer and expanded to the rest of the continent.

Her sister's tale explained her change in behaviour and demeanour this past half year, as well. She had become more stoic, her face never betraying her emotions except in the privacy of their shared chambers. She was bolder as well; not that she was ever shy, but more willing to assert herself and her presence on others. Her sudden interest and quick progress in the training yard made sense as well. Moreover, most strangely, her sister now wrote a lot. From dusk until the candles wax sticks in their chambers are all melted and done, she wrote. She never questioned her on it, giving her the ample space she needed to grieve in her own way. Baela composed herself, her mind returning to the matter at hand.

"What happens to Viserys then?" she asked her sister.

"He shall be married. Alyn will learn of it while voyaging in Dorne, as a member of the family keeping him hostage will become Dorne's prince consort. Viserys will be married to that family's youngest daughter, who is of age with us, and he shall father a child on her soon after, before he turns thirteen, before Aegon does. That family then tries to poison Aegon, his wife, you and me, so that Viserys may become the undisputed king with their daughter as his queen. Their power and wealth will wax, as they will have married into both Dorne and the Iron Throne. Lys will rule Westeros in all but name and in less than two decades, the dragons will die. Morning, Sheepstealer, Cannibal, Silverwing, and several more that hatched later on. The younger dragons born grow ever smaller, becoming stunted and twisted. As Aegon is known as the conqueror, our brother will be known as The Dragonbane and House Targaryen will never be the same again."

Baela was stunned once more, but the shock morphed into determination, burning away all the fear that had crippled her spirit.

"Then I shall claim Silverwing," she declared.

She was the largest dragon remaining at the moment and Baela would have her. Aye, The Cannibal was closer, only a three-day sail away on Dragonstone, but he was a wild dragon who had feasted on any would-be riders for nearly a century, and Baela would not tempt the gods. Silverwing would be her mount, Baela decided with conviction then; she would find her on the other side of the continent (the most recent reports indicated that she roosted at Red Lake), and bind herself to the dragon. Her house, her father's house, had suffered enough from the grasping ambition of the lords of Westeros; she would not let it be preyed upon by outsiders as well.

Rhaena smiled, before replying, "I'll speak to Lord Stark and arrange for a host of five hundred of his men to accompany us to Red Lake. We shall be ahorse, thus the journey should not take more than a moon's turn. We shall depart at dawn the day after tomorrow, and the Good Queen's dragon shall have a new rider."

 

[neyra]

9th Day, Fourth Moon, 131AC | The Dungeons of The Red Keep - King's Landing

LARYS STRONG

The Clubfoot paced his cell frantically from one end to the other. He was barefoot, so none of the guards could hear the pittapatta of his steps. Something was wrong, very wrong. He still felt the presence of the one he had been ordained to destroy. Like he had done in his previous life, he was to make an envious younger brother slay his older sister. Again like last time, the entire world would slowly descend into divine darkness afterwards. He had walked the right steps, followed every action that he was ordained to do. The problem was that he could not see anymore. He could not see his people, those who had given him another life and another mission. He was blind, as blind as the darkness he served.

"It was meant to end this way" he muttered, trying to calm himself, "the sacrifice was done and he who gave his force to the fires shall die."

"Then why can I still feel them? Why are they still here? He was supposed to be dying and his strength fading," he mused to himself in frustration as he took his head into his hands and he sat on the bed.

Everything had gone perfectly; the way he had been told it was supposed to go. The sun, the moon and the bleeding star had fought each other and from there only the moon had risen from the ashes of their battle. Then the fire had plunged its flaming sword into the sapphire orb of the moon, and the sword broke. The fire was drowned and the moon shattered. When they fell, the sun rose once more, albeit briefly, to drive its sword into the egg to unleash the demons of divine darkness upon the world. After that, the sun was meant to set, and the divine darkness would begin its reign for another lifetime. He had done his part, like he had done in his previous lifetime, slaying the little stars that the sun had birthed with the sword of fire.

Her words came back to his mind unbidden. "The sun has never failed to rise, and with it, Morning comes." No, no, no. That would only be a false dawn. All had gone perfectly; the darkness would reign and the next servants of the divine would come after him, after his time was done. He knew their names; The Raven of Blood and The Crow With Three Eyes. He had seen it everyday when he closed his eyes in dreams as vivid as memories.

He sat down and with the practice of several lifetimes, felt his feet step into the eyes of the rat and scurried to the home of the children of the one he was destined to destroy. He saw both of them speaking the ancient tongue, the foreign one that belonged to the children of his master's greatest enemy. He did not understand that tongue. His god-emperor forbade his servants from learning it, therefore it remained foreign to him. He stayed a few moments all the same, but caught nothing with his ears. With his nose however, he smelled the two of them, to see for himself whether the scent of his enemy still lingered on them. When he did, it felt wrong. His children did not smell like this; most of them had the scent of fire, fire which soon destroyed them from the inside, but with one of these two he was watching, her scent was strange, foreign, otherworldly. Suddenly, before he could see further, he was devoured in one bite by the pink creature bonded to her. He broke free of the rat a split second before he too was no more.

The sun had set when he heard the stomping of boots approaching his cell, lifting him out of his trance. It was time for his last meal. Tomorrow, his life would come to an end. He wondered whether his master would give him the honour of being one of the servants to follow him. No, he discouraged himself of the thought immediately; that was being greedy, a sin of lesser men. He had already done his work, the world would descend into divine darkness, that was what mattered.

He sat on the simple bed in his cell. He smirked at the thought. He was a lord in his own right, and thus the accommodations even in his captivity had slivers of luxury; like a bed. He twisted his left foot, feeling the bones break for the thousandth time. The pain was sweet, it always was. It was what gave him reprieve from the onslaught of visions granted by his master. It served a purpose as well. The Clubfoot would be a part of who he was in this life, and like always, he played the part perfectly, making sure none suspected of the power he wielded. The knight, a Northman from his appearance and style of dress, put the tray on the small table near the bed. "Your last meal, traitor. Eat up."

The Ratcatcher did as he was told. He thought of trying to step into the eyes of the northman; he had done it once or twice, but it took much strength from him, strength he currently did not have. Then again, this was his last day, he might as well do it, purely for the pleasure of feeling his mind impose itself on another. As he prepared himself to do it, the knight guarding his door gave two knocks and announced, "Lady Rhaena Targaryen." The Northman left, and the guard let the lady in and then shut the door.

He immediately felt his anger rising. The child of his master's enemy; his enemy, was here. The tamer of that creature that almost devoured him when his mind had seized that of the rat. The strange scent of her mind wafted to his nose one more. It was very foreign, and the otherworldly nature of it made his mind squirm.

"Lord Strong," she addressed him.

"Lady Rhaena, or should I call you Princess now. You're the king's sister after all." he replied, with the normal oily slickness that was ever present in his voice.

"Platitudes are useless to a dead man." Lady Rhaena retorted, sitting on a stool on the opposite end of his bed.

"What do you wish to know?" he asked her, going straight to the point.

"I've racked my head everyday since the war ended," the Lady began, "you were Lady Alicent's confidant for a better part of two decades, meaning you believe your brother was the true father of my betrothed. In that case, why war against your own nephews? Then, when the king you pledged your loyalty to won the war, you plotted with my grandfather to poison him and support my brother's ascension to the throne. You are the lord of your own castle, the largest castle in the realm at that, yet you did nothing with its vast resources during the conflict to aid your cause."

The Ratcatcher scoffed, what did this simple child know of the god-emperor he served? What did she know of the unfathomable primordial forces at work in the vast expanse? Although she was the daughter of his god's mortal enemy, she was still only flesh and bones, ordained to live once for a miniscule amount of time and then die and be forgotten soon after. These simple creatures played their childish games to determine who would seize an iron chair, and all they obtained from it was only a sliver of the power he had commanded in countless lifetimes.

"Humour me, My Lord. At least before you die, satisfy my curiosity. You will die and be forgotten anyway." the Lady continued. Her scent was overwhelming to him now. Foreign, otherworldly, different. The voice in his head that told him something was wrong, was returned with a vengeance, screaming at him. He felt a head coming on. He held the veins temple, trying to calm himself.

"Something has changed within you." he told her.

To her credit, she was only unsettled for a split second before she regained her usual smoothed expression and replied, "You are going mad now as well. It is good you shall die soon."

"Even if I tried to explain, you could not even begin to comprehend." the Ratcatcher told her as he all but inhaled his food. His last meal was oddly tasteful. Mutton chops served with bread and elk soup. The voice in his head came back stronger. It kept shouting, "Something is wrong, something is wrong." He ignored it, his mission was done and admittedly, he was tired. Very tired. Fighting his master's enemy had always drained him. He had already won his battle. He needed to die, to drown in the darkness once more and regain his strength for the next mission. The lady sitting across him crossed one leg on top of another and sat up with poise.

For his own humour, he decided to unsettle her one last time. He repositioned his foot and felt the bones setting with tiny cracks and then he stood up, walking confidently to approach her where she sat. He was surprised by her once more, her face remained still. He walked back to his bed to finish his food.

Lady Rhaena only shrugged before replying casually, "I always suspected."

The Ratcatcher decided to indulge her. What could she do with the secrets he shared? The darkness would descend upon the world soon enough and this life was over for him anyway. His treason was already discovered and he would still be executed.

"I served your mother's cause my lady," he then proceeded to confess with his voice barely above a whisper, "my nephew was slain, and your father demanded a son in his stead. I obliged him. The boy was slain by a butcher and a Ratcatcher, was he not? Curious, the Ratcatcher was never found." The Clubfoot smirked in his victory.

The realisation seemed to hit her then but she quickly recovered before confronting him once more, "My father willed it that the Kinslayer be the one to die."

"Aye, he did, but the fate of the sapphire moon had already been determined," he replied casually, "so I killed the one they called Cheese and took his place, and the butcher was small of brain, so he followed whatever his Ratcatcher friend told him to do."

"Then why help the usurper escape? He murdered my mother and made my brother watch," The Lady asked him once more, with consternation clear in her voice.

"It had been ordained since beginningless time." The Ratcatcher replied.

"Speak clearly, Ratcatcher." Lady Rhaena retorted.

"As I told you before, you cannot even begin to comprehend the truth," he replied.

The lady looked thoughtful. The Ratcatcher knew exactly what she was thinking so he addressed her once more, "The war is over, the usurper is dead, my treason has been discovered. Even if you wish to tell the world that I am responsible for Jaehaerys' death, it will do naught to wash out the sins of your parents. Your father commanded the death of a son, and a son died, his original intent matters not. Your mother's reign killed more than a hundred thousand in King's Landing alone, saying nothing of those across the rest of the realm. This is my last night alive, content yourself with that."

Lady Rhaena stood up to leave the room, seemingly satisfied with the confession she had pried from him. She opened the door to walk out only to stop upon seeing the pitiful dowager queen.

"You killed my grandson as well!" the dowager queen shouted. The shift of the guard was changing, it would take half an hour for the new guard to take the place of the old for the night. Queen Alicent rushed at him, only being stopped by Lady Rhaena.

"He will die for his treason," Lady Rhaena tried to assure her, "his life is forfeit. Justice will be served for their deaths."

The Ratcatcher only laughed softly to himself. He had enjoyed using the pitiful queen, breaking her and letting her shame herself to the false gods she supposedly revered. Oh, how he wished that his seed had taken and her womb quickened in one of the several times they lay together. Strongs on both sides fighting for the Iron Throne; the thought amused him.

Soon, the pitiful queen's ruckus ended and he was once more left alone. Good. He was done with those of this world. He finished his last meal. Night had settled in now. With a smile on his face, he climbed on his bed and quickly fell asleep, reminding himself that tomorrow he would descend into the divine darkness once more; that he would rest in knowing his work was done.

He awoke when he heard the clanging of metal right next to the bed. "Get up, you worthless traitor. Today is the day you die." In his bed, the Ratcatcher remembered to twist his leg once more. Even on his final day they would not know. He limped, following the guard to the castle courtyard. His eye came upon the wolf then, with his greatsword sheathed behind his back. The sword that would take his head. Two scores of his fellow criminals stood with him, together with the royal family and a gaggle of lords and ladies who resided in the castle. His crimes were the greatest, therefore he would be the first to die, Lord Stark announced.

He was asked his last words, replying that he wished his clubfoot be removed and buried in a pauper's field. As he knelt, and placed his head in front of the executioner's block, ready to leave this world, the voice in his head came back once more, "Something is wrong! something is wrong!" That was when he saw it, that was when he saw her. He remembered her words once more, "the sun has never failed to rise, and with it, Morning comes." He had known what he meant when she said those words to the wolf of Winterfell. She was talking about her dragon. He turned to look at the creature once more; the pink beast still in its infancy. He had seen that it would die soon, barely grown from the size it was now. The rising of the darkness would kill it. He was wrong. He was so very wrong, he realised. He saw it, he saw her. She was supposed to have died. Her death was supposed to bring The Divine Darkness. Her brother had slain her by commanding his mangled dragon to eat her. How was she here? If she was here, it meant that his work was not done. His mind raced. He had to remain alive. He had to kill the creature.

Before he could seize the mind of some random lord standing in front of him to continue his work, he felt the cold, sharp touch of Valyrian Steel upon his neck before it all went black. And Larys Strong's last thoughts were of failure.

As Lord Cregan Stark went to call the next convict, Morning pounced at once, burning the Ratcatcher's body and devouring him in his entirety, even The Clubfoot.

---

CORLYS VELARYON

The scent of pouring rain was refreshing as it reached him through the window he liked to keep open and stare out of. For once, it even overshadowed the stench of shit that forever riddled this city. It was not as cold as he remembered it being during his voyages to the frozen lands and Ib and Mossovy, but it was cold nonetheless, so he won his overcoat, ten days dirty by now. He did not mind it. He had been stuck in the Black Cells for far longer, and he was almost at the point of death when he was released the last time; he could bear a dirty overcoat for one more night. On the morrow the Stark boy would be taking his head anyways, an he would be done for good and all.

With the support of his cane, he slowly walked back to his bed and lay there, staring at the ceiling of his cell. Sleep would not come to him; no, he would not be granted the blessing of a good-night's sleep before he was decapitated, and his headless remains sailing out to the sea for the final time, never to return. That was somehow better, Corlys knew. If he slept, the nightmares would begin once more, and with how horrifying they had been getting these days, he couldn't bear it. He would have eternal rest after all.

The opening of his door broke him out of his hopeless musings. What could it be now? He wondered. In walked Rhaena, dressed in a lovely red gown, made of samite, embroidered in silver with the mosaics of dancing dragons. Her platinum hair reached her waist and was almost shining in the scant light that reached the dreary cell. Unbidden, the memory of his lovely daughter, her mother, came back to his mind, dressed in aquamarine silk instead of red, bejeweled in pearls and seashells instead of silver. He shook the memory from his mind before the guilt clawed its way to his throat once more, and the happy Pearl of Driftmark was turned into a pile of ash, choosing to face dragonfire when her last babe could not come.

"Rhaena," he called out. She would be regarded a princess soon enough, if not already. At least that was a thing to be proud of, her granddaughter would be a princess.

"Grandfather," she replied, "it is very good to see you whole."

Corlys chuckled dryly, "as I was yesterday, and the day before that, and the one before, when you came to visit on all of them."

She smiled in return as well, "Doesn't make it any less good to see you whole."

She took a seat on the small table that was in front of him, the table he used to place his plates. She sat down, with a courtly poise, one leg clasped above the other, her hands in front of her. The smell of her perfume reached him then. It was the most wonderful thing he smelled in the few minutes of every day she or her twin came to visit; wildflowers, mixed with roses; although in the most delightful way. Corlys resisted looking into her eyes as he gathered his wits to speak; they were a light lilac, just like her grandmother's, just like his wife's.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, granddaughter. Have you finally come to accept that this old man will be joining your grandmother in the great beyond? And where is Morning? She is usually perched on your shoulders at all hours of the day."

"Like I told you grandfather, you would not die. And it seems that I was correct. I convinced Lord Stark to spare you, on account of all you did to end the war, and surprisingly, he agreed." Rhaena told him, her eyes dancing with the same mischief he had seen on Daemon Targaryen's many, many times.

His own eyes widened in surprise. How had she done it? Of course, he knew that there was no way that she had managed to convince Lord Stark. The boy lived up to the reputation of the Northmen, grim and stubborn. But, he was not one to pry. It seemed like life was not yet done with him. He would not be drowning in the waters of the coast of the ruins of High Tide just yet, as he had requested of his grandchildren once was beheaded.

"Thank you, Rhaena. Truly," he managed to say, his gratitude true and honest, "I am truly grateful for pleading for my case so earnestly."

She smiled and nodded, before her face turned serious once more, "I have one thing to ask of you, however. It would be a fine way to show your sincere thanks."

"Go on."

"Troubled times for our house and the realm are ahead of us. There's only three of us Targaryens remaining now, and with only one dragon, a hatchling at that. It will take time and considerable effort for us to set the realm to rights. And as always, lords with ambition on their minds have knives pointed at our backs, some of them doubtless thinking that the Dance has broken our power for good and all."

"Aegon is young," she continued, "there'll be a regency that shall rule the Seven Kingdoms for the next five and a half years, before he comes of age and takes rule into his own hands. I would ask you to be part of this regency. You are one of the only men we can trust with such a task. You were loyal throughout the war, despite the wrongs and slights that the queen did to you. Your loyalty has not been taken for granted, grandfather."

Corlys tore his eyes away from the girl in front of her, staring at the ceiling once more, not knowing what to think. The knowledge that of his only remaining kin valued him made his heart squeeze with a feeling he could not explain. That he had been an adventurer, a warrior, a prince, a kingslayer, a man enshrined in legend for all time. All that had been amounted to nothing, washed away by the waves he had sailed aboard The Sea Snake, and turned into ash beneath the heat of dragonfire. It would all mean nothing in the end. He had failed as a father, a husband, as a leader of his family. But, perhaps, perhaps he could do right by his grandchildren.

"Very well, I accept," he said, with conviction.

 

[neyra]

10th Day, Fourth Moon, 131AC | The Red Keep - King's Landing

AEGON

It was drizzling as dusk approached. There would be a storm that night, Aegon knew, judging by the clouds present in the sky. He walked to the balcony, on the kingly chambers that were now his, to watch the storm clouds gather in the late afternoon sky. He had always enjoyed watching the sky. He remembered the storms at Dragonstone. They were fierce, raging and terrifying to his baby brother. He, on the other hand, had always found them comforting. The beat of the Stone Drum when the winds were howling and rain was falling made him sleep like a log.

However, he did not enjoy them as much as Lucerys did. Lucerys was made for the seas and all the peril they brought; truly a worthy heir for the Lord of The Tides. Lucerys had been the one to teach him what the different types of clouds looked like and what they all meant; after he himself had been taught by his grandfather when they had sailed to Volantis once he turned ten. Lucerys had told him that his dragon had the colouring of the clouds during a storm. So he named him that; Stormcloud.

His father had thought it a stupid name, urging him to name his dragon after one in of the Gods in the Valyrian Pantheon, like him, his mother and his brothers had. Caraxes, Syrax, Vermax, Arrax and Tyraxes were beautiful names for beautiful mounts. Her mother had disagreed then, arguing that Stormcloud was a fierce name in its own right, fiercer than the uninspired Sunfyre, the name his uncle gave his own mount. They had all laughed then.

He was not laughing now. In fact, he had not laughed in a long time. He always wondered why he was named Aegon. His father had told that he was more worthy of that name than any who had borne it before. He did not believe him. There was Aegon The Conqueror, the king every Targaryen since then aimed to match with varying degrees of success. He had asked his mother about it, and she had told him that his father had a baby brother that had died soon after he was born, who was also named Aegon. She had explained that her father thought it was his fault that he could not save him or his mother. So, he had promised to do right by him, the new Aegon. He had gone to his father's room then and gave him a hug, assuring him that he was the best father he could have ever asked for. That was the only time he had seen his father shed tears.

When they went to King's Landing to celebrate Jaehaerys and Jaehaera's fifth name-day however, his uncle, the one with the sapphire eye, told him that he had no right to that name; that the name he bore only belonged to kings and not a whore's son. He ran to his father once more, asking him what a whore was. When he told him where he had heard that, he took Darksister and marched angrily out of the room. His mother had stopped him. It was the first time he had seen his father and mother shout at each other. He was terrified then, and ran to Rhaena's room and slept the night there. Rhaena had held him and had sung sweet songs to him as he fell asleep.

Now, he hated the name. He hated himself for having that name. He hated Aegon The Conqueror. Why couldn't he just stay on Dragonstone and be content with what he had? He could have done what Lord Corlys did and built the island to become the richest demesne in Westeros. Then his mother would have been happy, and most importantly, she would have lived. He allowed his mind to wander to that. Rhaenyra Targaryen would have become Lady of Dragonstone. Jacaerys Targaryen would have followed their mother with Baela Targaryen as his lady. He would have been content to serve the three of them; they were more worthy than most kings he had read about. He hated his father's dead brother; he should have lived so that he didn't have to get that name.

His mind wandered to his uncle then, the usurper that had the same name as him. Everytime that happened, he only saw flames and heard screaming. He couldn't let himself think about it, so instead he took the kitchen knife he had hidden after breaking his fast the day before yesterday and made two more cuts on his forearm. It was painful, as it was every time he did it. He made himself focus on that pain, it took his thoughts away from the screaming and the flames.

What would his father think of him now? He had given him that name and told him that he would be the greatest to bear it. He was sure he would not think of him being worthy of being his son, worthy of being his blood. His father had gone to war for seven years in the Stepstones to make sure his brother's realm was secure from foreign invasion, without hesitation. He was the first to pledge to their mother as queen, without hesitation. He gave his life fighting for them to live, without hesitation.

Jacaerys had flown all across the realm to secure allegiances of multiple houses in the war. He then died burning foreign invaders that threatened his mother's realm, without hesitation. Lucerys as well. Joffrey had spent every day after his mother took King's Landing patrolling the skies, ready to face Vhagar or Tessarion if they dared to invade. He had died, trying to defend their dragons from being assaulted by smallfolk. His brother had just been named Prince of Dragonstone then, and wanted to prove himself worthy. (He was in Aegon's eyes). Aegon had told him not to go, but Joffrey promised him that he was going to save Shrykos for him to claim when the war ended. Joffrey had promised him that he would be his Hand when he sat the Iron Throne, right as he went into the night, never to be seen again. What about him? What had he done, even with his storied name? The only contributions he had made in the war was leaving his baby brother to be killed by invaders and pirates, and to stand and watch as his mother was.... No, it would not do well to remember that.

He had a King's name, but he should never have been King. They remembered the first Aegon as The Conqueror and the second as The Uncrowned. How would they remember him? Aegon the Craven was fitting, or Aegon the Unworthy. He would have been content to serve his brother Jacaerys in whatever way he asked him to. He once thought of joining the Kingsguard and becoming as renowned a knight as Ser Ryam Redwyne or Jonquil Darke, or even becoming Joffrey's hand, that was okay for him too; Joffrey was the boldest of his brothers.

But, they were all gone now. His mother, his father, his brothers; all of them were dead. The rain had begun to pour, and Lucerys was not here to play with him in it until they were found and got into trouble with their mother because of it. Jacaerys was not here to help him train his dragon. His father was not here to teach him how to wield a sword, and get angry with him everytime he stole Darksister and hid it from him. Joffrey was not here to play pranks on Ser Robert Quince, the old fat knight that had been their mother's steward on Dragonstone.

And Viserys. His brother who followed him everywhere since he learned to walk. It had annoyed him greatly, at first. One time, soon after Viserys had begun to walk, Aegon had hidden from him for an entire day. His brother went to their mother, screaming in tears, thinking he had died. That was the only time he could remember his mother being truly angry with him. "He is your baby brother Aegon, it is your duty to watch over him. Like Jacaerys watches over all of you," his mother had told her. That day, he had promised his mother that he would watch over his baby brother; that he would be like Jacaerys.

Oh, how he had broken that promise. He remembered his brother on the boat then, tightly clutching to his dragon's egg. The egg was still warm, even after seven years of having it, and Viserys hoped it would hatch. Aegon was so scared after their boat had been attacked. But Viserys was brave and clever instead. More brave and more clever than he could ever hope to be. He quickly changed his clothes to those of a servant and hid the egg at the bottom of the bed so that it could not be spotted. All Aegon could think of was getting away from the bad men. So he took his two-year old dragon and flew from the boat to go get his brother to help him rescue Viserys.

On the flight, his dragon had protected him. It was his first flight, and he was barely in any control. He tried to think of all he had been taught by his father, mother and Jacaerys about flying on a dragon but it could not come to him. Instead he just clung to Stormcloud as scorpion bolts were being shot at him. Stormcloud, his best friend, his other half, had made it to Dragonstone and died of many of those bolts when he landed. Jacaerys found him, and he had promised him that he would get Viserys back. But he could not. At least Jacaerys fought the people who had taken his baby brother and died trying to save him. Jacaerys was brave. He was not. He had left him. He was a failure. He had left his baby brother to die. What difference was there between him and his uncles? "We are all Kinslayers," he muttered to himself.

The rain had begun falling steadily, with the thunder howling and the lightning flashing. It held no more joy for him now. The stars were not out that night either. The last time there had been stars in the skies was when he lay on the beach with Viserys the day before the war began. He was suddenly aware that the pain on his left forearm had dulled, so with the knife, he reopened the two healing scars that he had made yesterday. He was drenched in rain water. He saw fresh blood was mixing with it and the bricks on his balcony's floor ran red with the mixture.

The sweet dark sounds of death urged him to take the knife and plunge it into his neck. Maester Gerardys had taught him that there was a part of the neck that if slashed, a man would die quickly. He could end it all. All this misery, all this sadness, all this pain. He wished to end it. He would see his brothers again, and his father and his mother in the great beyond. In his madness, the elder Aegon had brought him to the execution block so many times when he was his hostage. Each time, he had ordered his traitor Alfred Broome to swing Blackfyre to end his life. He always countermanded the order when Broome had raised the sword high above his head. His uncle thought it would scare him, cow him and make him fear him. It did not. Aegon felt nothing, nothing but a strong sense of desire to join his mother in death. Oh, how he wished to feel the cold of the Valyrian Steel falling hard on his neck. Death would be his freedom, death would be his redemption.

On the first day they had returned from Dragonstone, Jaehaera's grandmother had come into his room holding a kitchen knife. It was in the middle of the night, and like most days, he was on the balcony watching the sky. She had snuck up on him only in her sleeping shift accusing her mother of killing her sons and grandsons, claiming that it was only right for the debt to be repaid by his death. Aegon did not even move, he did not even flinch with fear; he just turned around to look at her. Their eyes locked; his empty, dead and a dark void while hers were full of fury, vengeance and anguish. Baela had saved her that night; she had entered his bedchamber slowly with one hand on Jaehaera's shoulder and another holding the conqueror's dagger to Jaehaera's throat.

"Kill my brother, and I swear, you will watch as I open her throat." Her voice was low, like the roar of a dragon. She sounded more like their father than he ever could. Jaehaera was sobbing silently, with tears staining her face. With a clang, her grandmother had let her knife fall to the floor and ran to her granddaughter. A moment later, they had scurried out of his chambers.

"Why didn't you just let her kill me. You could have been queen, just like mother and father wished you to be," he had asked his sister.

"You're my brother. I will not let you die. Too many of us have. And I was to be Jacaerys' queen. That is what I desired."

Baela had defended them, fought for them. She had duelled Sunfyre and his uncle when he first took Dragonstone. She had sacrificed Moondancer to keep them safe, to keep them alive. She was the reason that Sunfyre was dead. If not for her, her uncle would have held the throne and killed all of them. And now she fought for him again, defended him again, with no hesitation, in order for him to live. Baela was brave, he was not. Baela protected her baby brother. He had left his to die with the bad men. Aegon had let the tears fall then. Baela held him as he sobbed. She did not talk sweetly to reassure him like her mother, nor try to soothe him by singing like Rhaena or his father, but she held him as he let his tears flow, and that was enough.

Aegon did not know how long he had been lying there, in the wet as the rain and hail that fell with such force that it seemed that it would break the earth. The thunder was loud and howling, a sound that reminded him of Stormcloud's roars. The sound of the door to his balcony opening broke him out of his trance. He looked to see his sisters, Baela and Rhaena, dressed in fine resplendent gowns of red and black, with Gaemon, his only friend accompanying him.

"Egg, please come inside." Rhaena's soft voice punched through the falling rain.

Aegon remembered then. Everyday he spent his evenings and nights together with his sisters. They would sup together. Afterwards, Rhaena or Elinda would sing for them, as they had done on Dragonstone for as long as he could remember. These days Rhaena went beyond, her singing accompanied by the sound of a harp. When questioned by Baela, Rhaena would say that she had learnt how to play it in the Vale, where she would entertain the wives, sisters, daughters and nieces of the lords and knights that had gone to war. Within a surprisingly short time, she had become a harpist of great skill. There were nights where they would talk of matters of court, mostly meaning Rhaena feeding him the gossip she had learned.

On other occasions, they would sit in silence as they all went about their various tasks; Rhaena wrote, on one of the massive empty tomes from YiTi their father had gifted her on her sixth nameday. It had taken five years to fill the first one, now she was on the second one. There were twenty of them. Their father had intended for them to last for a century. On them, his sister chronicled the events, achievements (small or large) together with notable daily happenings of all their family members across every day since the day his little brother was born. Rhaena and Baela had shared a nameday with his baby brother, Aegon remembered.

Lady Elinda brought the food, Gaemon jumping excitedly as he went to eat it as Rhaena examined his bleeding arm. She then requested Lady Elinda get a bottle of wine from the kitchens and milk of the poppy from the maester. She returned soon after and Rhaena poured some of it on the metallic chalice and placed it in front of the hearth of fire and soon after it bubbled showing that it was boiling, she took a cloth and poured the hot wine on it, placing it on his arm. He winced at its sting. "It will staunch the bleeding Egg, and make sure the wound will not fester." Aegon listened. His sister knew what she was doing, she always did. Rhaena poured a dose of the poppy milk and handed it to him. "The cuts are deep. They need to be sewn shut and that shall be incredibly painful without the poppy milk." So he drank the dose given. After a few minutes when the poppy had taken effect, she took the needle, poured some of the boiled wine on it and the thread, and began to sew his cuts closed with dextrous hands.

In Aegon's opinion, Rhaena was better at this than even Maester Geradys. She had been treating him since she returned from the Vale; since her grandfather had poisoned his uncle and proclaimed him king. Never once did she even attempt to condemn him or question him on why he was destroying himself. She deftly cleaned his wounds and made sure they were dressed before he went to bed. He was not sure whether she was involved or not, but knives were no longer present for their meals. He was only granted a spoon and a fork. Even the Valyrian dagger that was wielded by all the Kings since his conquering namesake was not in his possession. He did not know when they had been taken, but he knew that his sisters had them. In truth Aegon did not wish to destroy himself as he did. Every time after Rhaena dressed his wounds, he was gripped by a profound sense of shame. He was failing once more. Failing to be stronger than his pain and grief.

"All good now. It shall heal, but it will leave a scar. I shall check it again tomorrow to make sure it does not fester." Rhaena said as he had finished wrapping his arm with a fresh linen cloth.

Tonight the five of them aye, Elinda and Gaemon sat at the table as well, they were practically family now) ate in a comfortable silence. Aegon liked it. The evenings and the nights were the highlights of his now empty life.

Baela broke the silence as she dug her fork into the pork chops, "Egg, tomorrow at dawn…." she shared a look with Rhaena before she continued, "I shall depart King's Landing for a time."

Aegon began to feel a sense of panic rise in her throat. Whenever someone left home, more often than not he did not see them again. He tried to quell the fear that gripped his chest. "Where are you going?" She shared a look with her sister once more. It was as if they had whole conversations with just their eyes. Like him and Viserys used to.

"Swear you shall not tell anyone." Rhaena all but commanded.

"I swear."

"I swear Princess," Elinda and Gaemon added their oaths as well.

"Egg, we think Viserys might be alive. We are not sure exactly, as they are just rumours we heard from the merchants in the docks, but Baela shall set out to see to the truth of them."

His face clearly showed the mixture of shock, surprise and anticipation. There was a chance that he would reunite his brother once more. He quickly responded, "You have my leave sister. If you can, find him and bring him back to us." Baela agreed.

The rest of the dinner was uneventful, as it was usually. They ate, then Rhaena played the harp as Elinda and Gaemon sang, while Baela attempted to, failing miserably. That night was the first night in many that he did not have to take sweetsleep to stop the bad dreams. As he felt sleep claim him, he did not hear screaming nor see flames, however, for the first time in a long time, Aegon allowed himself to feel hope, as Baela continued her awful singing.

 

[neyra]

BAELA

18th Day, Fourth Moon, 131 AC | Tumbleton

Seven days of hard riding south-east brought them to Tumbleton, a host of Northmen riding with her, just as Rhaena had promised. Lord Stark's men could not to return to the North, for winter was at hand, and their presence would only serve to burden those lands and cause famine and lack. Ten of the eleven thousand that had marched south had become their men now, sworn to House Targaryen, the first soldiers of their nascent army. All that had been Rhaena's doing. How she had managed to convince Lord Stark of letting his men join their service and releasing his grandfather from his execution, she did not know. Lord Cregan was a notoriously rigid man. What she knew was their grand plans for them; to establish a central army, loyal to The Crown, just as the Free Cities and the Valyrian Freehold before them had.

Five hundred of them had accompanied her as they left the city through the King's Gate, eschewing the Rose Road and instead following the Mander Road, riding hard throughout the day and resting in some inn in the night or even making camp in the wild where there was no inn.

She had some wariness at being surrounded by this many men at first, but they had turned out to be her fiercest protectors, treating her with a respect and devotion that surprised her. It was one Eldric Umber, the second son of the third grandson of Lord Umber, and currently in command of these men, who told her that her twin had promised massive amounts of gold to them for her safe accompaniment to accomplish her mission and return to the capital. She laughed lightly at that. It seemed gold staved off men's baser instincts.

Still, she kept a dagger close at hand; the conqueror's dagger, made of Valyrian Steel and with a gilded dragonbone hilt. The dagger was hers now since blades were not allowed anywhere near her brother. It would not do to have her guard down incase any of the men lost their sense and judged that gold promised in the future was worth less than a princess among them at present. It seemed unlikely, however. Eldric had made himself her sworn protector, and appointed ten more to serve with him. The rest served to mainly to swell their numbers, in order to repel any brigands that might have been roaming the lands, since outlawry had increased quite a lot in the wake of the war and its devastation.

That had proved useful thus far. A band of robbers had attacked them on their fifth day, but her 'Wolf Pack' had made short work of them. That had made her feel powerful, knowing that she was nigh on untouchable to anyone but an organised army. There would be no organised armies however, the war was over.

Aye, the war was over, but the scars it left behind still lingered; Baela thought as she entered the ruined and burned husk that was Tumbleton. The town walls were crumbled and torn apart, the stones that once held it were twisted, blackened and melted. The devastation was worse inside the town. Market squares had crumbled all around them.The remnants and ashes of tents and pavilions swirled in the air whenever the wind picked up. The streets were lined with the shells of buildings, their stone foundations scorched black and their wooden beams collapsed into messy heaps of rubble. The few walls that still stood seemed like the ribs of a giant, picked clean by vultures. What was once the town's sept was burned and blackened, with its roofs collapsed and the statues of the Andal Gods unrecognisable. The only building that stood unchanged was the castle at the top of the hill, the seat of House Footly.

They came upon the very things that interested her of the town, the reason they had eschewed the Rose Road and ridden on the Mander Road for Tumbleton instead. In the middle of what must have been the main market square of the city, were the corpses of the three dragons that fought and died here. She could identify two of them easily enough.

"Do dead dragons terrify you?" she asked the Eldric in a teasing tone when she noticed his disquiet around the dragons.

He wheeled his horse to face her full on before replying, "How could you not? The wrath of dragons…,"he shook his head, "we men are dust under their feet. Look at the destruction they leave in their wake."

"No, the wrath of dragonriders. Dragons, by themselves, bear no ill will towards anyone. They will hunt, eat and sleep, the same as any animal does when left alone." she replied.

"Then why not leave them alone?," he asked, "you seek to claim Queen Alysanne's dragon, do you not?"

Unbidden, she thought of Moondancer, and for a second she allowed herself to imagine that it was her lovely green and pearl dragon she was sitting astride and not her black palfrey. There had been a gap in her soul since Moondancer had died in their duel against Sunfyre.

"Because we need each other. A dragon thrives best when bonded to a rider." she answered. "And we do need them as well. There are still parts of the realm that have not yet been brought under the king's peace, such as the Iron Isles. Dragons were the only way that the seven kingdoms have remained at peace for the past century, you know? Before this war, many generations had grown up and died without ever knowing battle. Without dragons, these kingdoms would descend into the same anarchy that had plagued them since the dawn of days."

The man only nodded in response.

Baela turned to look at the dragons. Even dead, they were still magnificent. Vermithor's huge bronze form took the most space, sprawled on the ground in a way that one could think he was a giant firewyrm sleeping. The dried dark patches of dragon's blood on the ground beside him and on his hide was what confirmed that he was dead. That, and the his large, tattered wings.

Beside Vermithor was Seasmoke, his smaller and grey remains headless, with one of his wingbones bent in a way a dragon's wing could never naturally take. It was broken, badly. A black patch was left at the base of his neck where his head used to be. Even now, a year after his death, smoke was rising from the hot black blood that was caked over the wound.

On the far side of the street, there was another corpse, this one a deep cobalt-blue colour, with copper horns, crests, and belly scales that had been made black by dried dragon's blood. There were three arrows lodged in one of its open eyes as well. Tessarion.

She had never seen this dragoness, nicknamed The Blue Queen as a snub against her grandmothers' Red Queen. In the few times they had come to the capital in the decade before the war, they had never been allowed into the Dragonpit. They had no dragons of their own at that time, and access to the Dragonpit had been restricted to dragonriders and Dragonkeepers, a rule instituted since her mother had snuck in early in her uncle's reign and claimed Vhagar.

Suddenly, Baela found herself growing sad, and then angry. These dragons were wasted on the men that rode them. Hugh had proven himself a traitor to both factions of the war and was killed when he dared crown himself king after his treachery. The same with Ulf, though at least his dragon Silverwing had the mind of getting away from the carnage of the battle, flying to the other side of the realm and making herself a lair in an isle in the middle of Red Lake. It was a small mercy that cousin Addam, the rider of Seasmoke, had remained loyal to the end, him and his dragon dying for his queen's cause.

It would have been so much better however, if Jacaerys, Lucerys, herself and Rhaena, had claimed the unridden dragons. At least her and Rhaena could have claimed Vermithor and Silverwing. Why had they never even thought of it, Baela asked herself, instead of clutching to dragon's eggs that took years to hatch.

Perhaps… perhaps Jacaerys would have have lived if she had accompanied him into battle on the back of a dragon of Silverwing's or Vermithor's stature. On instinct, her hand went to the golden chain, a betrothal gift. The memories of sweet promises whispered that dawn came to her as the chain was being fastened around her neck. 'Once I burn these Triarchy cunts, I will marry you Baela.' She had kissed her beloved then, one among the many kisses they had each stolen from the other since they had been old enough to know what kissing was. Neither of them had known that it would be their last kiss.

Mayhaps she would have been the one to aid her father in hunting down the kinslayer and bringing an end to him. Both she and her father might have returned alive. Gods knew she was a better rider than any of the dragonseeds, even Nettles, the girl who had tamed a wild dragon and purportedly bedded her father. Baela had battled and fatally injured a Sunfyre that was many, many times her own dragon's size, though Moondancer had died in that duel. She shook herself out of those thoughts. Such notions would only cripple her now. She had Rhaena, Aegon, and Viserys, who needed to be rescued. And she would avenge her beloved.

Baela turned back to the column of their men, and had the fifty Dragonkeepers that had ridden with them summoned to the front. These were the members of the chapter of Dragonkeepers that had been deployed on Dragonstone during the time of the war. The ones in King's Landing had all been killed when the smallfolk of the city had stormed the Dragonpit. They came forward a few moments later, dressed in their black armour encrusted with rows of dragon scales. Baela addressed their elder in High Valyrian.

"Do you remember your instructions, elder?"

"Yes we do," he answered in the same language.

"Very well. We shall get enough wagons for you to return their remains to Dragonstone."

As they made to ride towards the castle that was nestled on a gentle hill on the far side of the town, a company of boys, twenty of them by her count, with the oldest of them seemingly her age or only a bit older than her, approached from the opposite direction. All of them had their swords unsheathed and at the ready with their horses at full gallop, riding towards them. Baela raised her hand to beckon her own retinue to come to a halt.

"You stand in the lands of Lord Jon Footly, and his regent Lady Sharis Footly. State your purpose!" said the boy at the head of the company, with red hair and the beginnings of a similarly coloured moustache at the top of his lips. She was puzzled. Didn't Rhaena send a raven informing the lady of the castle of their coming?

Eldric Umber was seething in rage at the young boy's discourteous tone. Baela stopped him in his tracks just as he was about to retort a harsh reply, and likely a slash of his longsword that was already halfway out of its scabbard.

Adopting a tone that she hoped was as close as to what she had seen her father use when issuing commands, she replied, "I am Lady Baela of House Targaryen, sister to King Aegon Targaryen. I have come to return the remains of these three great dragons to the rightful resting place on Dragonstone, they place they were born."

"These corpses are the property of House Footly now. And how do we know that you are the sister of the King? You have no banners, and your men have no sigils on their mail and plate to identify them."

That was intentional. In order to improve their speed of travel, their party was deprived of all the marks of a lordly host. There carried no banners, pulled no wagons, carts or litters with them to haul their belongings, only a saddle pack on their horses to hold all their belongings. Even Baela had foregone all the luxuries she had been used to, having only one other set of riding leathers and small clothes to change into at the beginning of every day or two. Every night or two, she washed the set of small clothes she had worn for the day and dried them as much as possible by wringing them while wrapped inside a towel. The leathers were only washed when they came upon an inn or castle.

"Good ser," she began in reply, before a new horse, this time with a lady sat atop it, approached them. The boys promptly moved aside to let her through. The lady was plump, with a homely face, quite buxom while short, with auburn hair that fell to her shoulders and with large brown eyes.

"Princess," she greeted, once she was let through by the rest of her men, though calling them men was an exaggeration, "forgive these boys. They are young, green and rather eager for bloodletting." After offering a rather dramatic bow, the lady introduced herself, "I am Lady Sharis Footly, regent to Jon Footly, Lord of Tumbleton. Be welcome." Baela smiled. At least no threats would have had to be made.

"Thank you, my lady. As I told the good ser behind you, I seek to return the remains of these dragons to Dragonstone. It seems the raven meant to inform you of this must have gotten waylaid. Our Dragonkeepers will need wagons, open litters, anything and everything that could be used to carry them."

"Of course, princess. Your Dragonkeepers will be given all that they would need for that. But…" she paused for a moment, "I had hoped to use them to bring some coin back to the town to aid in its restoration. Dragons are a rare sight in the realm even now, and many would have paid good coin to see the skull of one, let alone touch it."

"Worry not," Baela replied, keeping her manner pleasant and inviting, "Loans are being offered to the lords of the realm whose lands suffered the worst damage during the war to aid them in their recovery. In fact, my sister informed me that she would gladly receive you in King's Landing to settle the matter of the amount of coin that would be loaned to you." That was true. Rhaena had correctly predicted that she would make this request. In her memories, Lady Footly had mounted the three heads of these dragons on the central market square and charged coin for men to view and touch them. The lie was the part about offering such loans to many lords in the realm. That would not be happening. The Crown needed as much coin as it could get.

"Thank you princess. You are a guest in my castle, humble as it is. You and your party shall be guested and provided with all you need, to the capacity in which we can offer."

"Thank you, my lady. That is most kind," Baela said.

---

25th Day, Fourth Moon, 131 AC | Bitterbridge

They had left the ghost town that was Tumbleton two days after they arrived, once the Dragonkeepers had cut up the corpses of the dragons and carried them off in the litters and wagons that they had been granted them. Their remains would have their use, aged as they were. She had known from seeing the remains of Balerion at the bottom of the Dragonmont that dragon's meat never rot, and their corpses never smelled. They were magical creatures.

Lady Sharis had been quite courteous host throughout the rest of their sojourn at her castle. On the final day she had had her boys fish the headwaters of the River Mander that flowed only a few leagues west of the town. What they had not eaten had been salted and then packed on three large stallions that had been gifted to them as pack horses. Baela herself had been gifted another set of leather riding garb that fit her well. They had belonged to Lady Footly's daughter that had been killed when the usurper's brother, the two betrayers and their forces had conquered and sacked the city.

After leaving a hundred men behind to aid the Dragonkeepers and escort them on their return to King's Landing and then onwards to Dragonstone, the rest of them had ridden hard south-west along the Mander towards Bitterbridge. There were multiple inns in the countryside along the river, and they had therefore not slept in the wild even once unlike the two times they had on the first leg of their journey. The River was the life-blood of these lands, she knew, even now in the depths of winter when there were no crops in the field and the golden leaves of autumn had fallen as winter rose.

Like Tumbleton, Bitterbridge was similarly devastated. Its remaining stone buildings were blackened and crumbling at some places. The difference was that there were more people littering the townscape, not many, but numerous comparing to the ghost town that was Tumbleton. Most were busy trying to repair one part of the town or the other. Bitterbridge had faced Tessarion's dragonflame and endured a brutal sack in vengeance for the killing of the usurper's son. Said son had been torn apart by the town's denizens as his protector was rushing to get the young boy to Oldtown for safekeeping.


The usurper had arranged that after Daemon Targaryen had 'killed' his son. To tell it true, her father had planned it that the kinslayer was the one to be slain in vengeance for Lucerys' death. It did not mean that she had not been glad to hear of the princeling's death. The Clubfoot should have slain all of the usurper's children in her honest opinion. Had that happened, her brother Aegon would not be forced to marry the usurper's daughter, he would not be forced to marry at all when he was firmly still a child, and a broken one at that.

This time, they had sent word ahead to inform the town and its lord of their coming, incase the raven sent from King's Landing was waylaid as well. At Bitterbridge, she had another important task. The usurper's son that had been killed here possessed himself of a dragon's egg. After he was slain, Lady Caswell had planned to send it to the Hightower forces that were marching from Oldtown. She did not get to do that however, for the host, led by Tessarion's rider, fell upon them and brutalised the town. The egg should still be here, according to what they had heard thus far; and they could not let even a single dragon's egg be lost to them, especially an egg from the clutches laid by Dreamfyre, the most prolific egg-laying she-dragon since the doom.

T'was truly a shame that all those eggs had been destroyed when the dragonpit was invaded. The dragons produced from Dreamfyre's clutches grew particularly fast, even more so than the dragons from the eggs laid by her cousin's Syrax, and her hatchlings were fast-growing as well. The usurper's twins had two dragons that were the nearing the size of Vermax and Arrax, while being seven years younger. Tessarion had been almost the same size as Syrax and Seasmoke despite hatching in the Dragonpit almost a decade after the two.

A retinue of riders, fifteen of them by her count, were riding to meet them, with a young boy, younger than Aegon to be sure, riding at their front.

"My lady," the boy said in a small, shy voice as he bowed from where he sat on his horse. He sounded so terribly sad, and his face twisted in grief. There was enough depression to go around in the wake of the war it seemed. He had watched as his mother hung herself, begging for the usurper's brother to spare her children; a request he had honoured it seemed. "I am Lord Garland Caswell, Lord of Bitterbridge. We are happy to host you, but we don't have much to offer. Our town and castle have gone through much devastation."

"I am pleased to make your acquaintance Lord Garland," Baela replied, "we do not need much. All we need is the dragon's egg that belonged to Prince Maelor returned to House Targaryen, and we shall be on our way."

The boy said nothing more, only turning to one of the men behind him, and giving the command. The knight stepped forward, holding a satchel in his hand. Eldric took it, examining its contents, and passing it on to her once he deemed himself satisfied. She put her hand inside and pulled out the egg.It was pale-green, with silver swirls and streaks all across it. Most of all, it radiated the heat of life, the same heat that she had felt from Moondancer's egg before it had hatched, scarcely four years ago now.

Once satisfied, she closed the satchel once more and secured it to her horse.


"Thank you for this, my Lord. Your loyalty to House Targaryen will not be forgotten." The young lord only gave a slight incline of his head, wheeled his horse, and trotted back to his castle. And she had thought Aegon to be particularly depressing.

She bade her men advance, sensing that they were not particularly welcome in this town. No matter, the less lords they had to pay court to, the less time their travel would take. They crossed the Mander on the actual bridge that Bitterbridge was named for, and rode on for a few leagues, before departing the Mander Road and instead taking a trail heading west through the countryside towards Goldengrove, stopping occasionally to ensure they had the right heading.

Eldric was an excellent navigator, she had learned, having gone on many adventures in the North, selling his skills with the sword to some lord or the other. He would have been called a hedge-knight in the South. Baela herself was not half bad. She was a dragonrider, and once one began riding their dragon, navigation became a compulsory part of their training, even if some old dragons remembered the ways to places they had been to frequently.

That night, they made camp in an open field, seemingly in the middle of nowhere. The night was cloudless and stars filled the sky. The winter cold was bone-chilling; she could feel it even through the heavy woolen overcoat she wore for warm. She did not understand how these Northmen did not seem to mind it.

"In the North, this is just an autumn's kiss. You of the south have not felt the winter cold truly fuck you," Eldric's second, one Ramsey Bolton, a distant cousin of that house, and a man more foul-mouthed than any she had ever met had told him when she complained of the cold once.

Some of the men were busying themselves with one thing or the other. There were some gathering wood for the fire, others tending to the horses, others hunting while the rest were on watch or sat around the fire making merry. She wondered what a sight their little posse of travellers must make. Four hundred men led by a princess, going to seek out a dragon across the kingdom.

Not for the first time, she wondered whether this ploy of theirs would even work. Her uncle, King Viserys, had tried to claim Dreamfyre soon after Balerion had died and had almost burned to death in the attempt. Only her father's timely intervention had saved him. What if this was a fool's errand? A rider who had their dragon die before them sometimes refused new mounts, she knew; their bond with their first dragon so intimate that having the presence of another mount felt too foreign.

Her father had thought it different. He reasoned that it was the second dragon to be claimed that determined whether the bond would form or not. Dreamfyre was the worst possible dragon that a former rider of Balerion could try to claim, or so her father had said. According to him, each rider and each dragon left sort of an imprint on each other's soul after either of them died.

The first rider of Dreamfyre, Rhaena, the woman her twin had been named after, had an immense hate towards Maegor, who was Balerion's rider, and Balerion himself for travelling to the hellscape that was the ruins of Valyria on her daughter's whims. He had concluded that whatever imprint of Balerion left in Viserys' soul after his death must have been sensed by Dreamfyre, who herself had been left with her rider's revulsion for him, hence the bond not successfully forming.

She hoped it would not be the same with Silverwing. Moondancer was Silverwing's own granddaughter, if relation mattered in any way to dragons, which she knew it did not. Caraxes was Vhagar's hatchling and they had killed each other in the Battle above the God's Eye. Meleys was Vhagar's hatchling as well, and that hoary old bitch had no compunction against tearing her head off above Rook's Rest and burning her rider, Baela's own grandmother to her death. Still, there was no open hostility between the two dragons or the riders they once bore, and her sister had bonded to Morning even after possessing a dragon once before. Claiming Silverwing had to work, she told herself, trying to shun the doubts she had.

Fires were roaring all about the camp, boar and deer roasting above them when Eldric came to her, offering her a choice cut of boar rib. All round them, men were making merry. One of the men around their own fire broke into The Bear and the Maiden Fair, the rest singing along with him. Rhaena knew it all the way through, and would surely sing it in a much lovelier voice than any of these men did. She even had the harp to accompany her.

"What occupies your mind so princess?" Eldric asked, taking a big bite of boar himself.

"What you said when we were at Tumbleton, surprisingly. Perhaps all this is a folly. Maybe I should abandon this pursuit. Who knows whether Silverwing will even accept me?"

"You are the blood of the dragon, as you've told me many times princess. Why would she refuse you? She accepted a drunken sot on his back during the war did she not? Why not you?"

"You're right." That steeled her resolve. She was Baela Targaryen, the blood of the dragon, the daughter of Daemon Targaryen. Her lineage almost unbroken since the days of Old Valyria. If there was any who could claim a dragon, it was her.

Even in the places where it was broken, it was not by much. House Targaryen's dragonless, minor branches established Houses Velaryon, Celtigar and Qoherys in Valyria's day; and save for a few spare daughters marrying into other houses for alliances, none of the four houses had married anyone else but each other. Before the conquest of Westeros, even the children of the daughters that had married outside Valyrian stock had never married back into the mainline of the four houses.

Although that had changed after the conquest, the matches made outside the four houses were still to those with a substantial amount of Valyrian Blood. Argella Durrandon had a Targaryen grandmother through her mother, Arianne Tarth. Her husband, Orys Baratheon, silver-haired and purple-eyed, was a pureborn bastard of Aerion Targaryen and his half-sister Maelora Baratheon, sired through the custom of the First Night. Maelora herself was a Targaryen bastard sired in a rather scandalous affair between Lord Daemion of Dragonstone and his aunt, Naerys Targaryen. Before Borros Baratheon, House Baratheon had married either Velaryon or Celtigar brides since its founding, making Jocelyn Baratheon, her own grandmother's grandmother, more Valyrian than Durrandon.

Queen Alyssa Velaryon, Jocelyn's mother, was as pureborn as any in the four houses during that time. Her Velaryon father came from an unbroken line and her mother had been a Targaryen from a lesser known branch of their house that had left Dragonstone half a century earlier to earn their wealth in other ways since they had no access to the dragons the main branch did.

Queen Aemma Arryn, her brothers' grandmother, had Valyrian blood as well. Her father had a Velaryon mother and a Celtigar grandmother while Aemma's own mother was Daella Targaryen. The only match between a Targaryen to one without Valyrian Blood of any sort had been her uncle to Alicent Hightower. And look the disaster that that marriage wrought. Rhaena and her had agreed that such a match would never happen under their watch again. They would stomach their brother's marriage to the usurper's daughter only for now.

She turned to the Eldric beside him, deciding that teasing him was much better than dwelling on those bleak thoughts, "Can you sing as well as you wield a sword?" Baela asked. She'd tested swords with the man on occasion, and had been beaten to the ground quite soundly on all those occasions. The men cheered for her though, saying that she'd lasted much longer than many who had gone up against him.

"I might surprise you, my lady," he replied.

"Then do so. Surprise me."

The man nodded, and in a shockingly lovely voice for such a grim man, broke out into The Night That Ended, a famous song detailing the Long Night and how the Night's Watch rode out to slay the others and bring the dawn. The rest of the men around their raging campfire stopped their merriment upon hearing their commander's lovely singing voice. A sea of harmonised voices joined Eldric into the refrain after the last verse.

The cheers, whistles and applause was deafening once the song was done. Even men from the other campfires had joined in. Baela herself was shocked, and fought to close her own gaping mouth.

"The princess shall sing for us now too," one of them said, amidst the cheering throng.

A second man took up the suggestion and soon enough, hundreds of voices rose with the chant of "Princess. Princess. Princess."

Baela fought not to flush. She knew a few songs, but her twin was a far much better singer than she ever was; especially now, her strange memories had gifted her new songs she'd never heard of and had also made her quite good at playing the harp. There was one song she had particularly enjoyed, even humming it absentmindedly. Rhaena had named it Summer Season, and had sung it so much of late that Baela had no difficulty recalling the words. A love song, she had said, and a rather poetic one at that. It seemed fitting in a sense, since winter had the realm in its icy grip. She opened her mouth and began.

You found your way but it's never enough,
And though it's been tough for you,
Losing touch,
Summer has its end sometimes
Although I can't promise you much
You'll be fine
You'll be fine

As she came upon the refrain for the final time, which in this song, was just repeating the same line over and over again in different notes, the men were swaying to the rhythm and joined her in singing. When she was done, they cheered for her, although she knew it must have been false. Her voice was not meant for singing, not like her sister's or her father's. Still, she smiled brightly, and took a dramatic bow, and thanked the men for their flattery, as false as it may have been.

That night she dreamed of her father, and the last time she had seen him alive.

"I am going to hunt down the kinslayer," he had told her, "and I might not return. Should I die, it will fall to you to care for your brothers and sister. You are the eldest among them. Care for them. Protect them with your very life. Can I count on you for this?"

"Yes father." Baela had said bravely, tears flowing down her cheeks.

"No tears for me, Baela," he had replied, as he wiped her tears.

"Remember what I've always told you."

"If I look back I am lost." she had pronounced the mantra as clearly as she could, not letting her voice creep through the fresh tears that were falling.

He had smiled then, that mischievous smile of his that she had tried to make hers into, just as she did in all things. This time however, weariness was clear on his visage. After that, they had embraced, and then she watched he climbed Caraxes' saddle, and flying into the setting sun for the last time, Nettles and Sheepstealer alongside him.

---

3rd Day, Fifth Moon, 131 AC | Goldengrove


They came upon Goldengrove eight days after they had crossed Bitterbridge, and for the first time during their journey, it rained. At first, it was a drizzle, but the drizzle turned into a steady, gentle downpour. Baela welcomed the rain. Since the night of singing, she had been in good cheer. Her will was steel now. Only one more castle to pass by, and in less than a fortnight, they'd be upon Red Lake, and Silverwing would be hers.

As their houses galloped towards Goldengrove, their hooves booming across the country road, she remembered the purpose she had here. She was to pay court to Lord Thaddeus Rowan, a bluff and cheerful man who Rhaena was planning to have on their council after their grandfather died. For now however, there would be a vote during her brother's wedding to the usurper's daughter to decide who would sit the council of regency.

On this, they would have little say, since the two of them were still ten moons shy of their sixteenth name day, but so long as their grandfather became hand, the council would be theirs, and they would comfortably enact their plans. Baela was curious to see how Rhaena would pull that off. Their grandfather was a kingslayer by all accounts, and the realm was not like to forget that.

Like the last two castles, a welcoming party rode out to receive them immediately they saw their host arriving, but unlike the last the last two castles, there was neither the hostility nor the sheer depression. At their head rode an old man, pourtly, with a belly that must have weighed more than Baela herself did. He was bald, but with a well-kept beard that had grown to reach his chest. In her sister's memories, the regents had schemed to wed her to this man. She could see why she had refused and instead ran to Driftmark and bound herself to cousin Alyn. That would not happen this time around. The regency would be loyal to them, and if it was not, she would have Silverwing.

"My lady," the man said, bowing as much as his belly would allow while still sat atop his horse., "my good Sers. Welcome to Goldengrove. I am Lord Thaddeus Rowan. Lady Rhaena sent word ahead to inform me of your coming. Please, be welcome." In so saying he handed her the customary bread and salt, to signify their guest right.

"Thank you, My Lord." she replied, as she spurred her horse to ride alongside him and their hosts followed behind them.

"I do not think I have enough space in the castle to fit all of your men," he said while fondling his greying beard, "but there is space enough within the castle gates for them to make camp I'm sure."

"That will be no problem for them, to be sure. We have been riding for the past moon's turn, sleeping under the stars where there were no inns or castles."

"Truly? That is not proper for a lady, much less one with royal blood, who would soon become a princess."

"It is no issue, my lord. We needed speed for our journey. My brother is to wed Aegon's daughter, and I shan't miss it." She wanted to say the usurper's daughter, but she stopped herself. For the nonce, her cousin was recognised as king, the Second of His Name.

"Good, good. I'm glad. I thank you for the courtesy of coming all this way to pay court to my humble castle. Please, follow me. We should not be in this rain for too long."

To the rest of the realm, at least those who knew about Baela's journey from King's Landing, she was on a progress, visiting some of the lords in the Reach, to help bind the realm together and aid in dissolving the factionalism that had split the realm in two these past two years.

"Think nothing of it my lord. We would be happy to have your hospitality."

After entering the castle and out of the rain, Lord Thaddeus took the several minutes introducing him to his six sons. His eldest son and heir was Robert Rowan, a man near thirty, tall and broad, comely by all accounts, although Baela would not describe him as handsome. There was Gareth Rowan, his second son, and Robert's only full-blooded brother. The rest of his sons were from his second wife, who had died six years ago during the birth of the youngest son; Rayford Rowan, Symon Rowan, Willem Rowan and Loras Rowan. Symon was Baela's own age, while Loras was only six.

The feast that night was grand and quite the spectacle it did not need to be. She had been bathed, had her hair brushed, oiled and put into a braid. Scarcely a moon's turn and her hair was already flowing past her shoulders, to the small of her back. She made a mental note to get it cut once she returned to King's Landing. Unlike Rhaena, she did not particularly enjoy caring for long hair, and all the inconveniences it brought when she rode.

Baela had also been gifted a gown made samite with many colours. There was red, green, blue and yellow, twirling about as she observed herself in the dressing mirror. It may have fit her well, but it was hideous to look upon, in her opinion. The handmaid that attending her thought she was beautiful. That was empty flattery, she was sure. Garbs of many colours did not suit her, she knew. For a time, she thought of shedding the gown and dressing in the black and red leathers she had been with all this time, but they were not clean enough for the feast, and had been taken to be washed besides. She would have to brave the gown it would seem.

Whether it was by coincidence or intention, she found herself sat next to Gareth, the lord's second son. Robert was married to an Arywn Oakheart, and was a serious lad where his brother Gareth was full of humour, at least he imagined he was. There were several points during the meal where Baela fought to roll her eyes at his supposed 'japes'. Arywn spoke of meeting and befriending Rhaenyra Targaryen when she toured the realm, two decades ago. She praised her beauty, and the splendour of her dragon Syrax. That was the most interesting part of the feast.

Baela wished Rhaena was here with her. Her twin had an air about her that made anyone from the greatest lord to the lowliest commonfolk feel welcome in her presence. She hated the imagine what her awkward silences and sparing answers made this lord think of her. Despite her lack of charm, she did however remember the courtesies that had been drilled into her since she was young.

"My lady," Gareth said, ambition in his eyes, "have you given thought to who you might marry? You are almost a woman-grown after all."

Baela gave a smile that did not reach her eyes, "I have not thought much of it to tell it true. The war has just ended, and most of my family died in it. I wish to grieve first before I truly consider it."

Rayford, who did less to shield his words behind hollow courtesies, rebuked his brother, "Brother, if you wish for Lady Baela to marry you, just say so. You are as subtle as a charging bull." Laughs rang around the table, and Gareth was flushed.

After a hearty meal, the best she'd had since leaving King's Landing, she left to check on the Northmen in the camp they had set up for the night, to make sure they had eaten as well as she had. Satisfied, she climbed to the chambers she had been offered. Upon making sure the dragon's egg was secure in the satchel next to her, she lay on the feather-bed, drifting to sleep immediately.

They spent three days more before they left Goldengrove, this time with thirty more pack horses, all of them filled with food; bread, cheese, salted fish, beef, mutton and even chicken. They would still need to hunt, however, since four hundred men would consume even that amount of food in quite a short time. Baela honestly thanked Lord Rowan for his splendid hospitality, and from his reaction, she judged that he was well pleased with her. He promised that he and his family would be there for her brother's wedding in two turns of the moon.

---

10th Day, Fifth Moon, 131 AC | Red Lake

The roars of a dragon sounded in the grey skies above as she finally espied the blue waters of Red Lake, so named for all the blood that flowed in it during some battle or other in ancient times. She looked up, seeing the Silver Queen beating her wings; the dragon that had been Queen Alysanne's closest companion from the day she was born, both of them having travelled throughout Westeros in the many royal progresses she had made in her long life and reign. There was even a song made about the day she landed the dragon the last time, five years before she died, her broken hip making it too difficult to mount the dragon anymore.

Her second rider, Ulf the Sot, had been unworthy of the honour of becoming a dragonrider to be sure. The drunken fool had pledged allegiance to her betrothed, only to turn cloak later in the war and fight for the usurper in the Battle of Tumbleton. The usurper's men had then slain him themselves when they heard that he desired to crown himself, once the brute Hugh and his dragon had died.

In the last year, the dragon had seen more battle than she had in the ninety three that she had lived before that. She chuckled at that. Silverwing would be seeing much, much more blood and fire in the next few years, if their plans were to come into fruition. She was the largest remaining dragon in the world, none would stand against her fires.

"Silverwing," she heard Eldric whisper the name beside her, as he also looked in awe of the dragon as she made her descent upon an isle in the middle of the lake, a sheep in its jaws.

Baela could think of nothing else, not the lord of the castle that bordered the lake nor the courtesies that she should pay him. There was a small fishing skiff with oars at either of its side at the shore of the lake, and it looked usable.

She pushed the raft into the water and clambered upon it clumsily, so clumsily that she almost toppled it over the edge and fell into the water. She rowed as fast as her hands could towards the isle in the middle of the lake, and the dragon awaiting her there. Her arms were screaming by the time she was half-way to it, but she did not care. Her heart was thumping hard in her chest, and she felt a strength she did not know she had flooding the muscles in her arms. From the distance she could hear some voice shouting after her, but she did not even so much as glance at it.

The isle was strewn with the bones of dead animals, all of them blackened and broken. There was a cave on the far side, as large as one of the lairs of the Dragonpit. Silver flames intermittently lit the cave, and its light confirmed to her that it was indeed a dragon inside, and she had not just dreamed of it.

She slashed her palm slowly, carefully with the conqueror's dagger. Blood began to pool, for a few moments, before it flowed from her arms, dripping on the ground. The pain would be worth it. Even her lack-lustre voice would serve, Baela thought as she began the song of bonding, in the ancient tongue, while walking up to the cavern's mouth slowly, carefully, reminding herself to show no fear.

Fire breather
Winged leader
With two heads
To a third sing

From my voice
The fires have spoken
And the price has been paid
With blood binding

It was an ancient song, steeped in sorcery and mystery, created by the mages and sorcerers that made the dragons and combined their blood to that of the Valyrians to ensure that only their exalted race could ride them. The phrase 'Blood of the Dragon' was not just a mummers farce that their family spoke to convince themselves and others of their own superiority. It was truth, as plain a truth as the sun rising in the east and setting in the west. The Targaryens may have been lowliest of the Forty when they left Valyria, with no knowledge of sorcery, pyromancy, no skill in building in Dragonstone nor making Valyrian Steel, but they still had this one song, the song that reminded rider and dragon of the price that had been paid in ancient days to bind them together.

Silverwing abandoned whatever she was feeding on and turned her huge yellow eyes to her, Baela immediately feeling her blood sing. She reached out cautiously to the dragon's snout with her bloody palm to make sure the dragon would know that they were of the same blood, that she was worthy of her. The dragon stirred upon sniffing her, and she reached with her dagger, making a small cut upon the side of her head. Black, boiling blood began to flow from it, further staining her already dirty silver scales, flowing down and dripping to the ground between them.

She continued with the song, and slowly moved her bloody hand and placed it on the wound, immediately feeling something changing within her. The black slit in Silverwing's left eye swelled to completely obscure the yellow, while she felt the purple of hers cover the white of her eyeballs as well.

With words of flame
With clear eyes
To bind the three
To you I sing

There was a buzzing of sort through her body as she continued to sing, causing gooseprickles to rise on her skin. She felt vibrations from the dragon's hide as well, as she let out a deep grumble, and closed her eyes. Baela closed hers as well and immediately, she felt something within her change. There was that presence again in her soul. Baela had not realised she had missed it this much. Unbridled power was coursing through her veins, and oh, she felt alive, more alive than she had felt since she had lost Moondancer in her duel against the usurper.

As one we gather
And with three heads
We shall fly as we were destined
Beautifully, freely.

The next moment, all went still, and it was done.

She opened her eyes and withdrew the cut hand from the dragon's hide, seeing the blood that had stained it suddenly spark and come alight in crimson-red fire. The skin she had sliced closed itself. Silver fire was lit upon the wound she had cut on the dragon's hide too, and it closed as well. Flames of both colours cleansed the conqueror's dagger. All blood spilled in the ritual was washed away by fire. As she was sheathing the dagger, Silverwing gave her a sudden push with her snout, making her fall over in a childish fit of giggles.

"Māzigon", Baela beckoned the dragon to follow her out of the cave, once the dragon had ceased its antics. She obeyed eagerly. Silverwing was still saddled, but for her own safety and following her training, she unfastened and refastened the saddle, to make sure it was safe for flight.

"Never ride in a saddle you did not fasten, elsewise your own flight will be short and deadly," her father had always taken care to remind her. The saddle by itself was old, probably the same one her great-grandmother used; she did not remember her beloved having new ones made for the dragonseeds he recruited. She would have to have that done once she paid Dragonstone a visit.

Climbing atop the dragon and fastening the chains that bound her to the saddle took far longer than she thought it would have, and it was ponderous besides. Then again, this dragon was five years shy of turning a century old, and easily two thirds the size of the kinslayer's Vhagar, judging by estimation alone.

"Sōvegon," she commanded, and the The Silver Queen obeyed, immediately taking flight.

Oh, how she had missed this, Baela thought as she landed, having ridden Silverwing until sunset that day. The dragon had roared in excitement and joy often, to her delight and the surely to the distress of the men below. At one point she had flown all the way to the sunset sea, flying low, Silverwing's hind limbs and wings dipping into the water. They had flown high into the clouds as well, and with a command, the dragon's flame melted the water that formed them.

Her home was in the sky, Baela had thought, above the grief and despair that the ground had to offer. In the sky, there was no death, no loss. But, she had to land. She had to return to the twin sister that was born with her, to her despairing brother who was now king. She had to return her lost brother and make sure that he was safe and whole.

Home was with them, Baela decided.

 

[Aravis]

Thanks for the chappy!!! I am liking the story so far, though I think I'd like some more of Rhaena's perspective. Is this going to be one of those stories told primarily from outside of the MC's POV? Nothing wrong with that, just curious.

 

[neyra]

Thanks for the chappy!!! I am liking the story so far, though I think I'd like some more of Rhaena's perspective. Is this going to be one of those stories told primarily from outside of the MC's POV? Nothing wrong with that, just curious.

Click to shrink...

I'm really glad you like the chapter and the story so far.

You are correct. this is one of those stories told outside the MC's POV. Watsonially, I want her to be the mystery master who drives the plot. Doylistically, I don't really know how to write her in a way that does not egregiously break the immersion of the reader, so I'm letting the natives tell the story. But, her character shall shine as well.

 

[Phillip99Rus]

Orys Baratheon with Valyrian features? Velaryons and Celtigars are cadet houses of Targaryens? What the fuck is this?

 

[neyra]

Orys Baratheon with Valyrian features? Velaryons and Celtigars are cadet houses of Targaryens? What the fuck is this?

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T'is the changes I decided to make to this AU. I wanted to make Targaryens be more blood-purists unlike how they were in canon, hence why they married into those houses so often. Baratheons still have black hair, those Durrandon genes are strong in that regard. But unlike canon, their eyes are sapphire blue, even sometimes indigo, due to how close to the Targaryens they were.

The reason for this is to drive home how unusual the marriage of Viserys to Hightower was. Dude was the first Valyrian since COB to marry a non-Valyrian.

It doesn't break the lore so far in any way though, I don't see what the problem with it is.

 

[Phillip99Rus]

T'is the changes I decided to make to this AU. I wanted to make Targaryens be more blood-purists unlike how they were in canon, hence why they married into those houses so often. Baratheons still have black hair, those Durrandon genes are strong in that regard. But unlike canon, their eyes are sapphire blue, even sometimes indigo, due to how close to the Targaryens they were.

The reason for this is to drive home how unusual the marriage of Viserys to Hightower was. Dude was the first Valyrian since COB to marry a non-Valyrian.

It doesn't break the lore so far in any way though, I don't see what the problem with it is.

Click to shrink...

Will they change the borders of the kingdoms? The Crownlands are too small and weak, it would be nice to include the Riverlands into the Crownlands.

 

[neyra]

Will they change the borders of the kingdoms? The Crownlands are too small and weak, it would be nice to include the Riverlands into the Crownlands.

Click to shrink...

The one which is definitely getting added to the Crownlands is Harrenhal, since House Strong is dead and Alys Rivers is a witch bastard who they would obviously not want squatting on their land. And on top of that, she had a son by Aemond, a son who she professes is trueborn and the true king. That obviously shall not stand.

As for more border changes, stay tuned to see whether it shall happened, and if it does, how it will go.

 

[neyra]

THE QUEEN DOWAGER

7th Day, Seventh Moon, 131 AC | King's Landing

Dawn found Alicent Hightower standing on the balcony of her chambers, looking towards the rising sun. A lifetime ago, morning meant a new day, a day full of promise and hope. Dragons were dancing in the brightening sky, a large silver one diving into the bay, a smaller pink one following it eagerly. They almost looked beautiful, she had to admit, but Alicent had danced with dragons and knew how deceptive that beauty was. She wished she had known so before, she wished she had learned before everything was taken from her.

She had been so eager to come to court that lifetime ago, to see for herself the splendour of the Targaryens, with their silver hair and amethyst eyes that set them apart from the rest of the realm. Even the light-blonde hair and blue eyes she had inherited from her mother could not compare, no matter how many times the Old King had confused her with some daughter of his.

Memories of mornings in Oldtown came back to her. She had been still a child then, not yet broken. Her brothers and she had loved to climb to the top of the Hightower to watch as the fires that served as a beacon to the entire city of Oldtown blazed. Helena Mullendore, her mother, had despaired of her during those days. She had been too wild, she had said, constantly following in her brothers' mischief. 'You are a lady, you have no place in the games of boys.'

These days, she saw only shifting shadows whenever she tried to imagine her mother's face. The Stranger had seen fit to take her soul into the heavens just before she had turned seven, nearly four decades ago now. Gods, had it truly been forty years? She had reached heights she did not know possible, but she had also fallen far, far lower than she had ever climbed.

Coming to court had been an escape. Her father had thought of leaving her behind, to be fostered in Starpike ahead of her marriage to the heir of that castle, Unwin Peake, in fulfilment of a betrothal that had been set for her since she was five years old. At that age, she had no interest in being shackled to someone else. She had wanted nothing more than to see the King's court and experience for herself the glory of the Red Keep.

It did not disappoint. She had gained a new family then. Queen Aemma Arryn kept a retinue of nine ladies with her, and the ten of them were as close as sisters. Everything was so novel at that time. From the gowns she wore, the food she ate, the very sights of the city; it was all new and fascinating for the third child of the second son of the Beacon of the South.

At the centre of that, had been Rhaenyra Targaryen, the precocious girl who had been like the younger sister she never had. Even now, even still, the memories of them running after each other in the luscious gardens of the castle came to her mind, laughter making her face shine with mischief. That was before she had become a monster.

She thought of the words Jaehaerys Targaryen had said to her, in a rare lucid moment during his final days, "Care for those you love, sweet one. They are our true legacy, and they should be protected, or else you will die old and alone like me."

She had cared when Queen Aemma, the closest friend she had ever made, died in the birthing bed. Rhaenyra had been hers to comfort and care for, and she had done it gladly, just as her best friend had asked of her as she breathed her last. Many nights after Aemma's death had been spent singing sweet songs while running her hands through the gleaming silver tresses of her friend's only surviving child, trying to quell the torrent of sorrow she knew so intimately, the pain of losing a mother.

Through the darkness of grief, the light of a love so unexpected had been found. Alicent had seldom spent time around King Viserys, only seeing him when he chanced to come upon her when she was with the queen. She had never given him much regard, thinking him particularly lack-lustre compared to his dashing and daring younger brother that she had to stop herself from visibly swooning over whenever she was in his presence. Although Viserys was not all that, he was kind, caring, and of most import, gentle. He had treated her like a delicate flower, and Alicent knew that was not something many maidens could expect of their often uncaring or even brutal husbands. She had been content, happy even.

That had changed when her son was born, and her husband still kept his daughter as heir to the throne. Her father had finally made her see that she and her children were in danger of losing everything, even their very lives. It had taken him being dismissed from the council to truly realise the peril, and it was from there that she had begun to fight. The only way to ensure their safety was to make sure that her Aegon became king after his father.

So she had fought, throwing herself head-first into the stage and dancing with dragons. A marriage between Aegon and Rhaenyra, as was tradition among the Targaryens, would have solved all potential disputes, she had told the king. Her husband's daughter would have become queen, and her son king, just as they both desired. King Viserys had objected to that. It had not mattered however, for soon enough, her son had a queen, Helaena.

No, it would not do to think of her. All she could see now was her body writhing in pain, the spikes of the dry moat jutting out of her bloody breast, neck, thigh and stomach; and her lovely daughter begging for death. The sight was stuck with her.

Oh, Gods. She had fought all these years, she had danced on the same stage as dragons and still, her family had been obliterated, almost in its entirety. Aegon had been poisoned by Lord Corlys, Aemond and Daeron died in battle, and Helaena… she had to shake herself out of those thoughts. Now there was only Jaehaera, sweet Jaehaera.

It was her turn to dance now, she knew; to dance on the same strings that lovely Helaena had, the same strings that Alicent herself had. And she knew that it would end with nothing but death and devastation. Oh, how she wished she had another chance to kill that monsters' son. He had no right to her granddaughter, still so sweet and gentle despite everything she had endured.

'A son for a son. Pick one, or we'll kill them all, and then we'll see whether ye cunts are as good as the Prince say they are….. Hear that boy, your momma wants you dead.' She saw the blade move with decisive action and… no, no, no, no.

"Your Grace! Your Grace!" Alicent registered a panicked voice calling out to her, its owner holding her up to stop her from falling. The next moment she was sat on the settee in her chambers, tears flowing down her cheeks, and her hands holding her folded legs to her chest.

"Are you well?" the voice asked once she stopped shaking. She looked up at the owner of the voice, only to get the sudden urge to recoil once more and possibly run away. But she would not. She could not give the monster's daughter the satisfaction.

"I am princess," said Alicent, straightening herself and wiping the tears that were flowing down her cheeks and the snot that was leaking out of her nose. It took a moment more to compose herself, "good morrow to you Princess Rhaena."

"Good morrow to you too. I have a gift for you, my queen," she replied as she summoned four ladies, two of them carrying a gown, into her chambers. It is quite an ostentatious one at that. The dress was black almost in its entirety, with many, many rubies sown into the bodice and flowing into the skirt. She could swear that the gown looked familiar.

"Today is your granddaughter's wedding to my brother, King Aegon. I thought it fitting that the dowager queen dress in the same gown that Queen Rhaenyra wore to your own childrens' wedding. Of course, alterations have been made to accommodate your more… slender… frame," Rhaena said.

The ladies behind the princess had the gall to giggle. She swallowed the jibe. It would not do well to show her anger at the insult. Rhaena had a dragon, and her sister now rode the largest dragon in the world, having returned to the city flying on her just a few days ago. Alicent and her granddaughter had no dragons of their own, they were all dead.

"That is very kind of you, princess," Alicent replied in a contrite manner, "but I can't attend the wedding today. I am not feeling well, and I did not wish for my condition to affect the princess."

"Should I get a maester to examine you, Your Grace?" the Princess asked. "Princess Jaehaera so wished to have her grandmother present today, to witness her marriage and ascension to become my brother's queen. You are the only family she has left, you know?" she told her, affecting a sympathetic look that Alicent knew was as false as sympathetic looks went.

The last thing Alicent desired was to see her granddaughter get married to the monsters' son, much less bend the knee to that pretender. But she was cornered with no way out of this. As much as many still addressed her by a monarch's honorifics, everyone knew her queenship had lost its teeth immediately her last remaining son had been murdered. There was no escape.

With as much grace as she could muster, she therefore assented, "There's no need for that princess. I'll be quite fine by the time of the wedding I believe."

"Very well. Once you've bathed and prepared yourself, these lovely ladies shall help you dress." Said lovely ladies were blushing at the complement. Looking at them, could see that some of them were from houses that were her son's fiercest allies. One had a lion of Lannister on their gown, while another had the prancing stallion of Bracken. Traitors.

The princess continued declaring her instructions, veiled in sultry tones as they were, "you will ride with your granddaughter to the top of Visenya's Hill, where the wedding will be held. You will then give her to my brother before they say their vows and the High Septon pronounces them husband and wife."

"Very well princess." Alicent answered, weakly.

It was an hour later when the preparations were done and Alicent was deemed prim and proper. She gazed at her image in the dressing mirror, astonished. There was no mistaking that this was Rhaenyra Targaryen's gown, judging from how nauseatingly ostentatious it was. It even smelled exactly like she used to. The urge to rip it to pieces and place it in the fires of the hearth, to watch it burn just as Rhaenyra had, was almost overwhelming. But she could not. For her granddaughter's sake, she would have to endure.

Down the serpentine steps she went, making sure to walk slowly in order not to trip over the monster's gown. She felt foreign in it, especially with how dramatic it was. Why did this pretender feel the need to bedeck herself in such excess? She was weighed down by the gown, and she had not even worn any jewels to go along with it. The many, many rubies were enough for the outfit certainly, though Rhaenyra would certainly not think so.

In the carriage, she was alone with her granddaughter. What could she even say to her? She was marching her to her doom, instead of trying to do something to rescue her from her fate. Their eyes met only once throughout the ride, and a chill shot down her spine at what she saw. Those were empty eyes, dead eyes, full of nothing. She herself was dead-silent, not even speaking, only seemingly staring at her, her gaze unseeing. Alicent felt like crying all the more. That was the same look Helaena had worn in the days leading up to her death. Mayhaps death might be a reprieve. No, she stopped herself from going down that path.

Their carriage creaked to a stop at the top of Visenya's Hill after about an hour's ride. The doors opened and she stepped out after her daughter, her expression impassive and still so very dead. A sea of smallfolk had crowded either side of the path that had been set aside for the nobility attending the wedding to reach the grandstands erected at the hill's summit where they would sit in comfort through the ceremony. Gold cloaks stood guard on either side of the path, while others were guarding the nobility and their retinues.

Putting on a brave face, she took Jaehaera's hand in theirs, and led her to her doom. She could feel the eyes of the gathered nobility on her, the combination of their attention and the winter air sending another chill down her spine. Tears were stinging her eyes. Alicent willed them not to fall. Today was not the day for tears. She looked down at her granddaughter beside her, her face smoothed into an impassive mask. She paused for a moment, and took a deep breath. Jaehaera was the blood of the dragon, though she herself may not be. She was brave, and mayhaps she might even survive this, mayhaps this did not have to be her doom. In time, mayhaps she might fly again.

That was when I heard it. A loud thud that shook the earth. A deep, guttural growl followed the thud. She looked up, and behind the High Septon and Jaehaera's groom, the immense form of The Silver Queen had just landed, followed by the much, much smaller pink form of Morning, as she had learned Rhaena's dragon was named. The old queen's dragon bent her neck and both Princesses dismounted the saddle. Judging by her short hair, it was Baela that took a seat at the front, while Rhaena stood next to her brother, holding his shaking shoulders. Something was whispered between the two of them, then the twins shared a look, and the next moment, the two dragons shot back up into the skies.

The nobility's eyes were all too fixed on the spectacle of the dragons to even notice her. Within a short time, they reached the platform erected for the marriage to take place, and the pretender's son took her granddaughter's hand in his. A lady guided her to the seat reserved for her, right next to the twins and their grandfather.

The High Septon, who had travelled all the way from Oldtown for this wedding, began the customary marriage sermon. Once that was done, the bride and the groom were beckoned to say the customary wedding vows.

"Father. Mother. Warrior. Smith. Maiden. Crone. Stranger. I am hers and he is mine, from this day, until the end of my days," Rhaenyra's son said, his voice flat.

"Father. Mother. Warrior. Smith. Maiden. Crone. Stranger. I am his and he is mine, from this day, until the end of my days," her granddaughter added her voice to her new husband's.

Alicent wondered whether they even understood the vows the two of them were spouting. She herself had thought she had when she had married her own king. Oh, what a fool she had been. And she had been much, much older than Jaehaera was now when she said those vows. Binding oneself to a king was not definitely not the delight she had thought it would have been during her maidenhood. She had learned that lesson in the most brutal way one ever could.

Hope that her granddaughter would not go through the same was a folly, she knew. Unbidden, her mind went back to the wedding that Rhaenyra had won the very gown she was dressed in now. Helaena had barely been a maiden when she had married her to her son. She would end up a mother the next year, all in the name of bolstering Aegon's claim to the throne. She let the silent tears flow then. Jaehaera would not even have a childhood to look forward to, married as she was now.

The gentle beckoning from a lady beside her to inform her that the ceremony was at an end startled her out of her tears. She quickly dried them up. Alicent observed the king and his queen climb into an open litter, the household guard forming a protective ring about them as they rode back to Aegon's High Hill. Again, a raucous shout went up from the smallfolk.

She herself climbed upon another wheelhouse, Rhaena and some of the other ladies at court climbing in with her. Suddenly, she heard the loud, ground-shaking roars of Silverwing drown out the cheers of the smallfolk as they rode through the city and back to the Red Keep, for what she was told was the official ceremony to crown the pretender and her granddaughter as his queen.

It was noon when that ceremony began, since a small break had been offered to those who had attended the wedding to refresh themselves. Alicent had wished to change into a more comfortable garb, but she had been forbidden from doing so. Nobles from all across the realm were gathered in the throne room. A sea of banners, belonging to lords great and small littered the exalted hall, all of them there to bear witness to the ascension of a false king.

As the grandmother of the queen, she stood at a place of honour at the base of the platform that held the Iron Throne, looking out to the room. Memories of a ceremony similar to this came to her.

"Announcing, Prince Aegon of House Targaryen his lady wife, Princess Jaehaera of House Targaryen, and his sisters, Princess Baela and Princess Rhaena Targaryen," the voice of a herald boomed. The great iron and oak doors of the throne room opened, and in walked the four aforementioned Targaryens. All of them were dressed to the nines in their house colours, black and red. Even Jaehaera, who had worn nothing but green since she was born to her daughter, had shed those colours and donned her grandfather's hues.

Baela and Rhaena stood out among the four of them, due to the fact that they had worn identical red gowns, black embroidery depicting dragons in flight. The gowns were expertly cut, being strapless, to reveal their décolletage in a tasteful but still chaste manner. Baela wore a golden necklace with a dragon-shaped pendant around her neck. Her hair, as always, was cut to a boy's length, but its silver sheen still shone in the torches and sunlight that seeped through the gallery. Apart from the golden chain, there was no other jewellery on her.

Rhaena, on the other hand, wore more jewellery than her twin, sporting a necklace and earrings made of silver, with a ring on her middle finger that seemed to drink all the light of the world. Her long silver hair flowed in waves down to her waist. Both of them carried a red pillow each, crowns placed on top of them.

That the pretender looked handsome in a black sleeveless surcoat with the sleeves of a red shirt emerging from underneath the surcoat, she had to admit. Clearly, he was his father's son. He wore black breeches to accompany his black surcoat. Her granddaughter was dressed in a gown that was exactly like the ones the twins wore, the only difference being its reversed colours; red embroidered dragons flying on black. And she wore no jewellery at all. Her eyes looked as dead as they had at the wedding, an expression mirrored by her new husband.

The twins and Jaehaera fanned out to stand at either side of the Iron Throne, Rhaena and Jaehaera coming to her side while Baela stood at the opposite end. Aegon remained in the middle, meeting the High Septon for his swearing in. The applause had died down and now silence reigned in the great hall, hundreds of souls watching in anticipation.

The High Septon began his short sermon, preaching on how the king was chosen by the gods to lead the men of the realm, and how the rest of the realm was to be guided by him. Rather unsubtly, he proclaimed that this new king had come to free the realm of usurpers, pretenders and false kings and that he would heal the realm and make it whole. Alicent fought not to scowl at that.

Then came the investiture. His bade the pretender kneel as he proclaimed for all to hear, "Do you, Aegon Targaryen, stand before the Seven, in sight of gods and men, to take up the sacred mantle of king and protector of this realm?"

The pretender king replied, "I do."

"Then say the sacred vows," he beckoned.

In a voice that was surprisingly eloquent for his meek disposition, he began, "I swear by the Father to be just, to rule with wisdom and to judge fairly, never allowing hatred, pride, prejudice or false counsel to sway me. I swear by the Mother to protect the innocent, to defend the weak, to uphold the peace of the realm and to guard its lands from the threats of those who would seek to usurp or destroy them.

"I swear by the Warrior to stand as the sword of the shield of the realm, to lead its armies in times of war in defence from all its enemies, both from within and without. I swear by the Smith to mend this realm from the wrents caused by the war fought these past two years, instigated by usurpers, pretenders and accursed kinslayers. I will toil every day of my reign to keep the kingdom whole and united.

"I swear by the Crone to honour the wisdom of the wise and seek the counsel of those who serve the realm with knowledge. I shall strive to rule with fairness and clarity, seeking always to learn, so that my reign may bring prosperity and peace. I swear by the Maiden to cherish life and seek to bring hope and health to all my people. I swear by the Stranger's shadow to keep my vows and hold fast to my duty so long as the light of life shines upon me, knowing that death shall come for all, even kings. I shall reign with honour until the day my time comes.

"I swear this once more by the Old Gods, as I've sworn by the New."

The High Septon did not miss a beat, announcing, "In the sight of The Gods and men, I anoint you with the holy oil of the Seven, and crown you Aegon of House Targaryen, the Second of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms."

Princess Rhaena presented the crown she had been carrying, a simple circlet of gold, unadorned by any embellishment, which the High Septon placed on his head. "Rise, Your Grace, as king of the realm, chosen by the Old Gods and the new to rule."

Alicent could her outrage no more. Second of his Name, no! Rhaenyra sought to steal her son's name, and now her pretender steals his title? She could not let that stand. No. That monsters' son already had her son's name, her son's throne, he could not have his title as well.

The realisation that she was in fact speaking those words aloud for the entire realm to hear came too late. Immediately, she felt two hands on her, dragging her as if she was a sack of hay through the king's door behind the Iron Throne. Rising murmurs were the last thing she heard from the throne room before said door was shut. She was then thrown onto a lounging chair nearby.

Her ears were burning red and her cheeks flushed with embarrassment when Rhaena came upon her once more, a deadly smile on her face. She sat down on the seat next to her, the very picture of grace, "Your Grace. Isn't this what you wanted? Your granddaughter is to be the queen. Your blood will be in the future monarchs of the Seven Kingdoms until the end of time."

She opened her mouth to rage once more, but the four burly-looking guards surrounding her had their hands on the pommels of their swords. Alicent demurred, "Yes, princess."

The kind smile remained in place as Rhaena gave her instructions, "Very well. If you wish for your daughter to remain as my brother's queen, we shall return with you to the great hall. The lords are being called upon one by one to swear their fealty to him as the new king. You shall be the last to be called, and you shall swear fealty as well. And this time, you shall keep those oaths for as long as your life remains to you. Should you abide by this, you will be allowed to live with all the dignity and luxury that is afforded to a Dowager Queen. Are we in agreement, Your Grace?"

A nod was all the reply she could give amidst the silent tears that were flowing down her face. Rhaena got up, gave instructions to two of the four men who had accompanied her to discreetly escort her to the hall once she had composed herself, and returned to the throne room.

All was lost truly, wasn't it? Every one she had thought to be her ally were either dead or had turned their cloaks. She looked at the gown she wore once more. There were no blacks and no greens anymore. There was no righteous duty that her father had engrained in her since she had borne him a future king for a grandson. He would not even be known as king, only a usurper. She took a deep sigh, wiped the tears and straightened her gown once more.

She returned to the great hall as the last of the lords was swearing their oaths of fealty to the king. Princess Baela, who was currently serving as herald, called her name next, "Queen Dowager Alicent of House Hightower." Alicent walked up to the foot of the throne. She did not need to rehearse the vows even once, she had heard them before, when she was swearing to her own Aegon. The words she would use now were the exact ones she had used then.

She went to one knee and pronounced meekly, willing her voice not to break and the tears not to flow, "I, Queen Alicent of House Hightower, in the sight of gods and men, do swear fealty to you, King Aegon of House Targaryen, Second of his Name, the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms. I pledge my loyalty, my faith and my service to you in good faith and without deceit. I shall uphold and abide by the laws you decree and render to you the tribute and obedience you are owed as King. I swear this by the Old Gods and the New, and cursed shall I be if I forsake this solemn oath."

"All hail King Aegon!" Princess Baela announced, once she was finished and had gone back to stand at the place she had been allotted.

"All hail King Aegon!" the hall replied, following with more cheers and applause.

Said king climbed to the very top of the Iron Throne and sat upon it, the barbs and swords of his namesake's fallen enemies surrounding him. He held his hand up to cease the cheers, and the crowd obeyed.

Aegon began, in as assured a voice as a child his age could possess, "Thank you, lords and ladies of the realm. My first act as king shall be to formally declare the line of monarchs since the conqueror united these realms. The first king was Aegon, the first of his name, who reigned from 2 BC to 37 AC. His son Aenys, followed him until his death in 42 AC. Maegor the Cruel reigned after his brother for the next six years, until his death in 48 AC. After Maegor came Jaehaerys, who ruled until his death in 103 AC, to be succeeded by my grandfather Viserys, who ruled until 129 AC.

"My mother, Queen Rhaenyra, followed him, until she was murdered in 130 AC." He seemed to pause at that last part, his voice breaking, but it became resolute once more as he continued, "my reign began officially after my mother's death, on the twenty second day of the tenth moon of 130 AC.

"Aegon, the first-born son of King Viserys and Queen Dowager Alicent Hightower, is to be stripped of all royal titles he ever possessed in life. All accounts, annals and records that mention him are to name him only as Aegon the Usurper. Aegon's brothers are also to be stripped of all the royal titles they ever had due to the part they played in the treason of their attainted brother. Only Helaena, the mother of my queen, shall retain the status due to her as the daughter of a king, but no more. She shall be known as Princess Helaena in all records that mention her.

"In accordance with this, all laws, policies, decrees, edicts, proclamations and appointments made by him and those who served him are declared null and void. They are to be stricken from all records."

The nobility broke into applause. The tears came once more, and she did nothing to stop them from flowing. They not only stripped his son of his rightful kingship, but they were also making it as if he had never even existed.

The king continued once the applause stopped, "Due to the contradictions caused by the lack of a clear rules of succession, the realm has faced succession conflicts at almost every turn, some of which have led to war. Maegor slew his own nephew in order to secure his kingship. The conciliator called a great council to solve another conflict between his two grandchildren. We have just come from the most devastating war in living memory due to a conflict of the same kind.

"To prevent another conflict of this kind, an official law of inheritance has been drafted. From now until the end of time, succession of the Iron Throne shall follow principle of male-preference primogeniture, meaning that the sons of the monarch and their lines, in order of their birth, shall have precedence on inheritance. Where there are no sons, daughters and their lines in order of their birth shall be first in line.

"Where the monarch has no descendants of his own body, the monarch's brothers and their lines, in order of their birth, shall be the heirs and failing that, the monarch's sisters and their lines, in the order of their birth. Targaryen bastards, meaning any child born by a Targaryen outside the bonds of marriage between a man and his wife, shall have no claim to the Iron Throne under any circumstance, whether they were legitimised or otherwise. This writ has been signed by all the great lords of the Seven Kingdoms or their regents, and is therefore binding, regardless of me being in my minority.

Rage welled in Alicent's belly on hearing that. What right did this pretender have to declare this? These were the same exact reasons her own Aegon has been crowned!

"In accordance with this law, I acknowledge my sister, Princess Baela of House Targaryen as heir presumptive to the Iron Throne and the current Princess of Dragonstone, until such a time as I sire heirs of mine own body. Following her in the line of succession as it is now is Princess Rhaena, Queen Jaehaera and Archmaester Vaegon."

Her mind was in a daze after that, not hearing a thing as the knights to serve in the Kingsguard were bestowed their white cloaks, nor when the members of the council were selected and accepted their posts. She needed to get away from here. She needed a way out. But there was none. Her dance had begun the day she found herself in a grieving king's bed, and Jaehaera's the day she was born.

What was the point of it all? What was the point of playing the game, on dancing of the strings laid before her? What was the point of making her children dance along with her, if it was all to end in fire and death.

 

[Kelsier Vin]

Show Alicent I feel a bit bad for but book Alicent deserved everything she got.

 

[neyra]

Show Alicent I feel a bit bad for but book Alicent deserved everything she got.

Click to shrink...

Both of them deserve everything they got. What do you think of her in this chapter?

 

[Kelsier Vin]

Both of them deserve everything they got. What do you think of her in this chapter?

Click to shrink...

I empathized with what's she going through. Losing your entire immediate family over the course of a few years is brutal. That being said it was her, Otto, and Aegon that caused that chain of events.

 

[neyra]

I empathized with what's she going through. Losing your entire immediate family over the course of a few years is brutal. That being said it was her, Otto, and Aegon that caused that chain of events.

Click to shrink...

That is exactly what I was going for. But, of course, she thinks she did nothing wrong.

 

[Error29]

I empathized with what's she going through. Losing your entire immediate family over the course of a few years is brutal. That being said it was her, Otto, and Aegon that caused that chain of events.

Click to shrink...

It's not like Rhaenrya was any better. She had the unique chance to be the first queen, and be the most important woman in a position of power, and she screwed it up by being a spoiled child. Definitely Viserys didn't help with him not shaping up her as his heir. But the moron then goes to make a couple of obvious bastards

 

[neyra]

It's not like Rhaenrya was any better. She had the unique chance to be the first queen, and be the most important woman in a position of power, and she screwed it up by being a spoiled child. Definitely Viserys didn't help with him not shaping up her as his heir. But the moron then goes to make a couple of obvious bastards

Click to shrink...

Good thing is that the moron is dead.

 

[Sceonn]

What was the point of it all? What was the point of playing the game, on dancing of the strings laid before her? What was the point of making her children dance along with her, if it was all to end in fire and death.

Click to shrink...

So you do learn. I really have no pity for this woman and her father, her children were ultimately just pawns for the Hightower's towering hubris. Hell one could even say Rhaenrya in all her glorious incapability was also a pawn due to Viserys' ego.

How will the Hightowers be punished? With the push for reconciliation not much, but King's Landing could house its own Citadel.

 

[neyra]

So you do learn. I really have no pity for this woman and her father, her children were ultimately just pawns for the Hightower's towering hubris. Hell one could even say Rhaenrya in all her glorious incapability was also a pawn due to Viserys' ego.

How will the Hightowers be punished? With the push for reconciliation not much, but King's Landing could house its own Citadel.

Click to shrink...

Yap, a bit of self-reflection from her at long last, even though her resentment is still quite strong.
We shall see how Oldtown shall be dealt with.

 

[neyra]

7th Day, Seventh Moon, 131 AC | The Red Keep - King's Landing

BAELA

"What a fucking shitshow!" Baela said as she walked into the Queen's apartments that she now shared with her sister. Aegon and four of the newly appointed Kingsguard were following them. She shut the door and slumped into a settee in the lounge area of the antechamber once inside, the four shadows taking their places outside the door.

"Baela, language!" her sister chided her lightly.

"Come on. Our father cursed all the time, and we turned out fine," Baela reminded her sister in a teasing tone.

She turned to see tears glistening in her brother's eyes.

"What's wrong Aegon?" she asked, alarm plain on her face.

"I thought… I thought you said I did well," he whined.

Baela fought the urge to roll her eyes. Thankfully, Rhaena took the burden of comforting their little brother off her shoulders, "Yes Aegon. You did very well. The shitshow Baela is referring to was Alicent Hightower's outburst."

"Oh," he replied weakly.

Rhaena took a seat on the lounge chair, her lilac eyes, that she shared with her, looking deep into his brother's dark violet ones. She spoke with all the sincerity she could muster, "You did very well valonqar. You were the very image of a king, and in only one session of court, you set a firm system of succession, something the six monarchs before you did not, while honouring your mother at the same time by posthumously granting her the status of queen. I'm sure she's looking at you from the great beyond with nothing but pride." At that, the tears in his eyes began to flow, and her sister continued to reassure him as they embraced each other.

"You were masterful today. Continue in the same vain and you shall be great, greater than even the Conqueror. And, of course, you shall have your wonderful sisters to help you in any way you need." They stayed locked in an embrace for a few moments as Aegon composed himself. A dirty glare sent her way by her sister told her to join the hug, which she reluctantly did.

"Thank you, truly. I don't think I would have had the strength of doing what I did today without the two of you."

"Always Aegon. We will never abandon you. Not now, not ever."

Soon, but not soon enough in Baela's opinion, her brother had calmed down and composed himself. He propositioned her twin sister into a game of chess, a game Rhaena had invented from the knowledge of her memories. Aegon had been obsessed with it every since he had been introduced to it, and as a gift for his ascension, Rhaena had had an exquisite chess board and playing pieces made. It was on that board that they were playing now. Baela's interest in that game was mild compared to her siblings, but she would learn it, for the noble reason of beating Rhaena in it, the fact that she invented the game notwithstanding.

For her part, she went inside the bed chambers. Hells, she needed to get out of this gown. How Rhaena had conscripted her to wear it, she did not understand. But no longer. She would attend the evening feast in her preferred garb, thank you very much.

She stripped herself of the garments and took her time to look at her naked body in the mirror, as she seemed to always do nowadays. What she saw gave her mixed feelings, as it normally did. Aye, the weight she had lost during the starvation she had endured as the usurper's captive was slowly returning. Soon enough her body would return to its true form, or so she hoped. Expecting it to also gain the womanly shape her sister's body was recently gaining, the womanly seductive shape that Rhaenyra had, was too much to ask for.

And then there were the burns. Her hands gingerly lightly traced the twisted, uneven patchwork of skin below her breast. Patches of it were uncharacteristically darker than the pale flawless skin on the rest of the body, pulled tight in an unnatural way. Upon healing, it had gone numb. She pinched it now on impulse, and she felt nothing but the skin resisting the pull. But the echoes of the singularly most bone-chilling pain she had ever experienced were still there. Moondancer had just died from the duel that would go on to kill Sunfyre, and she was struggling to unchain herself and escape the usurper's dogs.

That traitor Alfred Broome had been the first to come upon her. He had every intention of beheading her. Marston Waters had been the one to stop him. She had thought it a mercy to be saved from certain death by Alfred's blade. Only, Marston's goal was to make her suffer. He had dragged her mottled flesh across the pavement, the nightgown she had worn while battling Sunfyre almost entirely torn apart. The following weeks in the dungeons of Dragonstone had been the worst in her life, the usurper disallowing maesters from attending to her until he had deemed her sufficiently cowed.

She pulled herself out of that abyss. The usurper was dead, thanks to her grandfather's efforts. Alfred and Marston were dead as well. The former had been thrown onto the spikes of the dry moat below Maegor's Holdfast and lingered in agony for two days before the stranger took his soul, while the latter had been roasted slowly by the breath of her beloved Silverwing before she ate him in one bite. Her twin had revealed the plots and treasons he would end up being involved in in the coming years, and that had sealed his fate.

The fact that the Baela from Rhaena's memories had allowed a cur like Marston Waters to remain on the Kingsguard, let alone remain alive after enduring that much suffering by his account, she did not understand. To add to that, that accursed man had been there when her cousin had been burned by dragonfire and had done nothing to stop that.

The Baela in Rhaena's memories was not real, just the ludicrous imagination of some scribe who had written about their world. That was the conclusion she had come up with upon hearing the full account of their lives and that of their descendants from Rhaena. It was the only plausible reason. Leaving the largest remaining dragons in the world riderless and out of their control, letting ambitious regents dictate their lives as if they were not scions of dragonlords, and most of all, the dragons becoming stunted, malformed, and going extinct in less that two decades. None of it made sense. They would never have been that careless.

The burns she had suffered would not be in vain. The losses they had endured would not go unanswered, she swore once more. The four of them; her, Rhaena, Viserys and Aegon would restore their house to where it belonged, and no grasping lords would bring it down from its zenith. Whatever contrived nonsense that scribe had dreamed up, all for the purpose of tearing down their family and leaving nothing but two exiled children begging off the streets and selling themselves into slavery, would remain that, tall tales, that those from the world that Rhaena's memories had come from would read for entertainment.

Their house, the real House Targaryen, would never end up that way, she vowed as re-dressed herself. This time she wore in a pair of exquisitely made pair of breeches, an undershirt, and an overcoat that was sown in the same style that the ridiculous gown was made in; red, with black dragons embroidered on it.

She rejoined her siblings to find Rhaena beating Aegon in their game of chess. Gaemon Palehair had joined them and once he had taken out another board from the shelf, Baela proceeded to beat Gaemon senseless as well. Elinda, now formally appointed as the head of their household, joined them soon afterwards, four of her assistants serving them a modest luncheon.

She had been in a perpetual jolly mood since her beloved brother, Robin Massey, was to be appointed to the Kingsguard. He was quite the capable knight, but above all, he was loyal, like his fellow sworn brothers. In fact, of the seven White Swords, six of whom had been appointed today, only Willis Fell had served the usurper. By the virtue of Kingsguard serving for life, the pardons offered to all those who fought in the war, and Ser Willis having been appointed by Uncle Viserys to the Kingsguard, they had no grounds to dismiss him. Not without diminishing the importance that Queen Visenya had intended the sacred brotherhood to possess.

Regardless, Fell would serve as Jaehaera's sworn shield, protecting the daughter of the usurper while being nowhere close to their brother. Aegon's six other defenders were leal men, as confirmed by Rhaena. It was her that had proposed Ser Corwyn Corbray be made the Lord Commander, a proposal he had eagerly accepted. Apparently, in her memories, Rhaena had wed Corwyn as the regents had asked her to.

How she had assented to their demands honestly left her gobsmacked. Rhaena was the only Dragonlord in the world at that time, and according to Morning's growth rate thus far, a powerful one at that. The Rhaena in those memories was not real, she reminded herself once more. Certainly the Rhaena she knew would never accept such an unreasonable and ergrigious match, no matter her fondness for the man.

Alongside the Kingsguard, two-score more men that Baela herself had chosen from the northmen Cregan Stark had left behind had also been assigned to guard their royal persons. They would remain behind once she and Rhaena left for the Stepstones to get their brother back and obliterate the Triarchy once the moon turned.

Oh, how she would relish that. Even now, her beloved's body, as it had been when it was dredged up from shallow waters of Driftmark after he and Vermax had died in battle, was clear in her mind. There were arrows jutting out of his head, stomach and legs. A particularly gnarly-looking bolt had penetrated his throat, almost severing his head clean off the rest of his body. Baela, like her father, had never been one to weep, but she had wept that day as she dismissed the Silent Sisters and prepared Jacaerys' body for the funeral rites herself. She had wept as Moondancer had burned his pyre. She had wept as she interred his ashes in the catacombs of Dragonstone.

Moondancer had been much too small for her to join her beloved in war, and she had cursed her for it. Guilt welled within her once more. If only she had claimed a formidable dragon instead of waiting a decade for the egg Rhaenyra had given her when she was two years old to hatch. Why had she and Rhaena not done so anyways? She brought herself out of those harrowing thoughts.

She had Silverwing now, the largest dragon in the world, and the Triarchy would know her wrath. Her father had avenged her grandmother and Lucerys by killing that one-eyed monster. Her grandfather had avenged Rhaenyra by poisoning the usurper. She would be the one to complete that cycle of vengeance. Baela would be the one to bring retribution for the death of her beloved.

"Baela!" her sister's voice snapped her out of her musings.

"What…" she asked, startled.

"Are you alright?" her sister enquired worriedly, "you were drifting again."

"Yes, yes, I'm fine," Baela replied.

At Rhaena's questioning glare, she repeated once more, "I'm fine, really."

"Very well," Rhaena told her, her tone doubtful, "you haven't broken your fast today. You have to eat."

The games were set aside for the meal Elinda had brought. Steaming joints of duck, roasted with honey and peppers was accompanied by cheese and egg-fry bread together with a salad made up of spinach, fruits and plums. There were also delectable pastries, most of them being lemoncakes that Aegon had so enjoyed before the war. These days, he had to be reminded to eat. To wash it down was juice for the boys, and sweet, watered-down wine for both her and her twin. A light meal by all accounts, for the feast that evening was going to be twenty-one courses of mouth-watering goodness.

"Did you find Viserys?" asked Aegon, his perpetually melancholic eyes looking at hers in hopeful inquiry.

Baela nodded, "He's in Lys to be sure. At the beginning of the next moon, Rhaena and I will be heading there to rescue him, while also punishing the Triarchy for the attack that killed Jace."

His eyes sparkled with joy, but only for a moment, before the ever familiar sadness returned to them, "Do the both of you have to go?"

Rhaena's reply came faster than what she was about to say, "We do. Two dragonriders are needed for that endeavour. One to stay and guard the camp of our army while the other goes to retrieve Viserys. We plan on also getting reparations from all three cities of the Triarchy and annexing the Stepstones in order to make sure we control the trade routes of the Narrow Sea."

"Alright. Please fly Viserys back as soon as you find him," Aegon pleaded.

"Of course," Rhaena replied.

"Remember not to reveal to anyone anything concerning Viserys and our desire in rescuing him, are we clear?" Baela firmly asked those around them.

"I swear Princess," Elinda was the first to affirm.

"I swear," Gaemon added his shy, childish voice to hers.

Aegon only gave a nod.

"Your Grace, you have lessons to attend to," said Elinda once their meal was done.

"Even today?" Aegon replied, whining.

"Aye. You already missed your lessons thrice this week."

"I think he can take a break for today," Rhaena came to her brother's defence, "it's his wedding day. He'll have time enough for lessons after the celebrations end."

Elinda only nodded. Baela fought the urge to sigh. Rhaena coddled Aegon too much, in her honest opinion. They had argued about it once. Aegon had watched his mother get burned by dragonflame, she had said, he was fragile and needed to be treated accordingly. Baela had also seen their mother being burned by dragonfire. It had taken many years for that scene to cease being what she saw when she went to sleep, but it did not mean she had forgotten. That memory was the earliest thing she could remember, the only secret of hers that she did not share with her twin, and she would keep it that way.

"Aegon," her sister told their brother suddenly, "to celebrate your ascension, we have a gift for you." In so saying, she went into their chambers, and came back carrying the brazier that contained the dragon's egg Baela had collected from Bitterbridge. The smoking brazier was placed on the table, and her sister opened it.

"Is that…." their kingly brother exclaimed, his mind seemingly slow on the uptick. The dragon egg's amethyst scales gleamed in the light, with the golden flecks all along it only serving to add to its beauty.

"Aye, a dragon's egg," Rhaena replied, "you could have another Stormcloud, Aegon, or a dragon with another name, depending on what you decide."

"No.. No… no, no, no, no, no, no, no!" Aegon said, each no growing louder and more distressed than the last, "No. Never again! Never again!" This time his breathing got more and more strained, his pale skin turning red in a mix of emotions Baela could not name. Then, their kingly brother began to shake, "Never again. No more dragons!"

Rhaena was with him in a flash, trying to comfort him, trying to ease his panicked state, but his brother only grew more enraged, and more resolute, "Get that fucking creature out of my fucking sight!" He screamed. Ser Corwyn burst into their chambers, two of his sworn brothers in tow, swords drawn and at the ready to defend their liege from the assailant that was attacking him.

After recovering from her apparent freezing at the scene in front of her, Baela took the brazier in her hands, covered it with its lid once more, and returned it to their bed chamber where it had been safely ensconced before. Even from the depths of the closet, she heard the door to their apartments slammed shut. She reemerged to find Rhaena sitting by herself, a frown on her face.

"I take it that did not go as well as you hoped," Baela said, and if there was just a smidge of sarcasm in her voice, it was warranted. Her twin breathed a heavy sigh, before shaking her head in response.

Baela resisted a chuckle, "And to think you were to gift him the egg during the feast in front of the whole realm."

"I thought… I hoped he could overcome his fear if he hatched this egg, that he would feel whole once he was bound to another dragon."

Baela only shook her head in a muted response, "the egg would serve Viserys better."

"No. Not Viserys."

"His egg has not hatched in the past seven years. Perhaps he was just not meant for it. Maybe he was meant for this one. And also, are you sure what you have planned for him will work? What if the plan fails? What if he is harmed in your hair-brained scheme?"

Rhaena's eyes met her own, with nothing but surety and confidence filled within them, "It will work. It worked during the war, and from my memories, it was common practice."

"For unruly dogs, cats, horses and lions, not dragons."

"It will work Baela, trust me," she reassured her, "If Aegon will not have the egg, it shall be reserved for the fifth child born to either of us."

"The fifth?" Baela asked, dumbfounded, "where will the other four get dragons from?"

"Sheepstealer is in the Vale, and shall remain there for the next five years at the very least. We'll get him back in time, once the Dragonpit is repaired and rebuilt, I think. Once we do, he shall be reserved for the heir to the throne. There are also the three dragon's eggs that Elissa Farman stole from my namesake and sold to Braavos. Those eggs were most likely laid by Dreamfyre and sired by Balerion, meaning they will grow incredibly quickly as a result, quicker than even Tessarion, Shrykos and Morghul did."

"You know how the Braavosi are, they'll most likely not agree to give them back," Baela pointed out.

"We'll buy them back. They were entrusted with a large part of the royal treasury by the usurper. They can keep a part of it in exchange for those eggs. I'm sure the sum they'll ask for shall be much, much more than what Elissa Farman sold those eggs for. And if they refuse entirely, we can take them back. You have Silverwing after all."

"They have Faceless Men. Even though Father trained us to see through glamours, war with them will still be incredibly dangerous since they can be disguised as anyone at any time. Tis for that reason that our great-grandfather did not simply burn their city down and retrieve the eggs," Baela replied.

"We will cross that bridge once we get there," Rhaena affirmed, "the Sealord's son has come as a representative of Braavos for Aegon's wedding and crowning. I shall speak to him before the celebrations end. His father is not the same Sealord that sent Faceless Men after us. He actually killed that Sealord and his entire family. That, at the very least, should work in our favour."

"Very well," Baela agreed, "Another thing. If we are to fulfill our plans, I still don't understand why we let Aegon wed the usurper's daughter."

Rhaena explained, "Many reasons. For one, we can't change too much yet, or else the knowledge I was blessed with will become useless. I am worried that we've already done so with you claiming Silverwing. No one can predict the hidden effects our actions will have.

"Also, the agreement that our grandfather made with the unruly Great Houses after he killed the usurper included that marriage, to unify both the Greens and the Blacks and end the war. If we were to do away with Jaehaera right now, those houses might rise in rebellion once more, and even if we are assured of victory against them by the virtue of you having Silverwing, continuation of the war will not be conducive for us to carry out our other plans and secure our house and the realm.

"We need to rescue Viserys as soon as possible. I'll feel much better once he's back and by our side again. We need to annex the Stepstones too, to make sure our trade routes can't be cut off on a whim. The Iron Islands are still in open rebellion, despite you flying a dragon in their skies. Aliandra will have her Dornishmen will invade the marches soon. Wildlings will invade the North and the Vale. A plague will decimate the kingdom. And in the midst of all this chaos, schemers lie in the shadows, plotting to seize power for themselves.

"It'd be better to wait until we have control of the regency and our hold on power is consolidated. Once that is done, we'll end the usurper's bloodline for good and both of us will marry Aegon and Viserys. There's no need to rush. Both of them are far too young for marriage. Waiting can only be a good thing.

Rhaena got up from where she sat and walked towards her, leaned down and looked into her eyes, "Trust me Baela, when the time is right, you will be queen of the Seven Kingdoms just as Father, Rhaenyra and Grandmother always wished you to be. But not yet."

Baela only nodded solemnly in response. She did not need to tell Rhaena her doubts concerning that. Yes, she had been groomed to be a queen since she was four years old, but what she had desired above all was to be Jacaerys' queen. She could not remember a time before she had him in her life, a time before she loved him with her entire being, yet now he was dead and burned and she was meant to live the rest of her life without him. Deep feelings of betrayal brought themselves to the surface at the thought of being queen to a king that was not her beloved. She could not stomach that, let alone trying to move forward without him.

How her sister had moved on so swiftly, she did not know, so she asked, "Do you think of Lucerys often?"

Rhaena sat back down before she replied, "Every day. We may not have been as close as you and Jace were, due to him being with Grandfather on his voyages often, but I miss him all the same."

"How have you moved forward then?" Baela inquired of her sister.

"I haven't really, if I'm being honest. I remind myself that all that we are doing now, we are doing for them. I am grateful for these memories, and I will use them to make sure tragedy like we've endured doesn't happen to our family again. I think of how he died, torn to pieces by Vhagar and sent tumbling into the sea by that monster, and I know we have to do all we can to make sure our children and their children and their children after that don't live to know that kind of devastation."

They sat there for a long moment, just as they had ever since they were little girls, neither of them saying anything. Nothing needed to be said. Her father had told them once that the bond between twins was the only thing that came close to the bond between a dragon and their rider. Twins shared one soul, a soul that just so happened to be split into two people, he had claimed. She knew that Rhaena thought the same.

"I have to go check on Aegon," her sister said, "will you be okay?"

"Aye," Baela responded, before adding, "you coddle him too much, you know. He is the king."

"I coddle you too, and you are a princess," she replied with a smile as she left, leaving Baela alone with her own thoughts.

---

MAEGORO PAENYMION - THE VOLANTENE

A feast to celebrate the king's wedding and ascension to the Iron Throne should surely be more robust than this one was turning out to be, Maegoro thought, as he took another sip of his wine. Or perhaps he was just biased; the feasts, celebrations and even bacchanals in the Paenymion residence in Volantis were legendary whenever they were held. This was quite the muted affair compared to those. Aye, there were some in good cheer, but there was no one who could be said to be particularly rowdy.

"You need to get yourself one of these Westerosi lasses Maegoro!" his cousin Aemon told him. Said lass was sat on his lap, her eyes closed and head pointed to the ceiling, while his hands snaking up her gown. He heard her moan.

"Aemon," Maegoro chided, his voice coming out sharper than he intended it to be, "this is a Westerosi feast. We're not back home where you can have any number of whores you want."

"Relax Maegoro," Aemon told him, his voice dismissive of his worries as always, "she seems to like it." He continued, pointing to the lady on his laps with his chin. Said lady was now shaking, her muscles spasming. They were lucky the hall was crowded, meaning her gasps and moans of pleasure did not carry across the room. The next moment, the lady attacked Aemon's lips with her own, no shame visible on her features at all.

Maegoro sighed. He loved Aemon just as he did the rest of his cousins and siblings, but his unchecked desire was quite an undesirable vice. Still, it was a bit of a relief knowing that he would never have relations with a woman who did not desire it themselves. It was one of the virtues that Saera Targaryen, their grandmother, had instilled in them since they had learned what a woman was. She herself had gone through that, decades years ago when she used to work in pleasure houses, soon after the glorious king that was Jaehaerys the Conciliator disavowed her as his own daughter and cast her aside.

Despite how much unadulterated vitriol he held towards his great-grandfather, the relations between House Paenymion and House Targaryen had been quite advantageous for them thus far. The Paenymions were of ancient Valyrian blood themselves, their lines traced back to that of the Dragonlords of Old Valyria. He had studied their history extensively.

After the Ghiscari wars ended, dozens of the dragonless cadet branches of the exalted Forty had formed new families and moved to rule as colonists in Volantis, the new city they had established. Said branches had never married anyone save for each other for thousands of years afterwards, maintaining the purity of their blood. To add the blood of a true Targaryen into their family was one of the many accomplishments his grandfather, Aerion Paenymion, a blood purist if there was ever one, had achieved.

By the time his children, Jaehaerys and Rhaella (Maegoro's parents), Maegor and Daella (Aemon's parents) and Viserra were adults, they were undoubtedly the wealthiest family among those of the Old Blood. His grandfather saw no reason to align himself with the other Volantene houses when he had no need for them, and therefore, he instead made marriages that would preserve their Targaryen blood. Only Aunt Viserra had married outwards into House Maegyr, their closest ally.

Apart from just obtaining Targaryen blood for their own, House Paenymion's relation to House Targaryen had been very useful for them thus far.

In 115AC, when Maegoro was just three years of age, Daemon Targaryen and his wife Laena had landed their dragons atop the black walls of Old Volantis. While many had feared that their city was under attack, their family had instead guested them in their resplendent manse, in a move that reinforced their bonds of kinship through Grandmother Saera. At that time, Daemon was searching for willing allies to help him hold the Stepstones, the islands at the junction of the Narrow and Summer Seas, whose geographic positioning made them the most value trade route in the world.

After being shunned and sent away by his kingly brother, Daemon had to search for allies among the Free Cities to help keep the Stepstones away from the predations of the Triarchy; the nonsensical alliance that the Three Whores at the heel of Essos had formed. House Paenymion had been one of those that had agreed to aid him in this endeavour by pledging some ships from their enormous fleet to provide peace-keeping services in the Isles.

In exchange, him and his wife had promised two things. The first being aid of their dragons in obliterating Lys, Myr, Tyrosh and their Disputed Lands should they try and reassert their claim on the Stepstones or attempt to expand their borders eastwards. The second was a vast reduction on the tolls the merchant ships of the coalition he was forming had to pay to cross the those isles. The alliance between Daemon, Volantis and Pentos had worked quite well; the Triarchy had been cowed for the next decade and a half and The Stepstones had remained unmolested with him as its undisputed ruler.

Daemon and his wife Laena had visited Volantis numerous times in the following three years, bringing along their children, Baela and Rhaena. He remembered playing with them when they were little more than babes. At that time, his grandmother had been angling for a marriage between him and his older brother Rhaekar with the Dragon Twins.

Alas, it never came to be. Daemon returned to Westeros when his wife died in childbirth to prepare for the war they had recently won. He and his daughters had visited Volantis only thrice more in the following decade. Another marriage between House Targaryen and House Paenymion would be quite unlikely at this time; Rhaekar had already married Aunt Viserra's daughter, Maegelle Maegyr and had a child on the way already, while Maegoro's own betrothal to Aemon's elder sister, Maera Paenymion, had been decided, the two of them set to be married at the end of the year. To add to that, Baela and Rhaena were princesses of the realm, princesses who were currently heirs to the Iron Throne and the only remaining Dragonlords in the world. Westeros would be in uproar should they entangle themselves with nobles from foreign lands. No, what House Paenymion hoped for now was a partnership of mutual benefit.

For the first time since the Century of Blood, two Triarchs from the tiger faction; the more militaristic party in Volantis' politics, controlled two of the three Triarch seats as the absolute rulers of Volantene territory. His father, Jaehaerys Paenymion, alongside Jaenor Maegyr, both from the tiger party, had secured a majority of the Triarch seats against all expectations in the elections held this year. T'was a testament to the power and majesty that their house had gained. And House Paenymion would not let this opportunity go to waste. They would use it to ensure their name rose higher than it had in a century and they knew the way to do it.

Volantis had not waged a proper war of conquest since the last time the Tiger party had secured majority of the Triarch seats, almost two centuries ago now, soon after the Lands of Always Summer had been obliterated. At that time, they had wished to annex the other Free Cities and rebuild the Freehold in their own image. Those dreams were turned to ash when Aegon the Conqueror had destroyed the Volantene fleet that was to attack Lys using the fires of the Black Dread. But that was a century go.

They intended to go to war once more, to regain the territory they had lost in the Battle of the Borderland, and conquer the Disputed Lands in full. This time, they desired a willing ally in House Targaryen; or at the very least to make sure that no Dragonlord nor Westerosi polity interfered with their conquests as the Conqueror and the Storm King had. That was why Maegoro was here specifically. His father, Triarch Jaehaerys Paenymion, had entrusted him with that mission.

The bothersome alliance known as the Triarchy had fallen, with each of them blaming the other for the difference in the losses they suffered when they joined the dragon war. Lys still had most of its navy intact, while that of Tyrosh and Myr were almost entirely decimated. The admiral who led the attack on Driftmark had been a Lyseni by the name of Sharako Lohar, who was accused by the rest of the magisters of preserving his city's forces while sending Myr's and Tyrosh's to their death.

Sharako had been slain by the Myrish soon afterwards, and his entire family either shared his fate or were sold into slavery. Word had reached them that Serenei, Sharakor's daughter and heir to the Lohar fortune, had been sold by the Myrish to the Black Swan as a pleasure slave. Myr was undoubtedly preparing for war with Lys. Seizing the opportunity provided by the war coming between Myr and Lys, Tyrosh had decided to re-assert its claim on the Stepstones once more. The pirate admiral who had troubled Daemon for many years, Racallio Ryndoon, was preparing a fresh invasion force to retake those isles.

The Stepstones were quite important to the Targaryens and their realm, Maegoro knew, and because of the dragonlord war they had endured and the oncoming winter, Maegoro was not sure whether Westeros had the strength to hold them on their own. Volantis and Pentos, the Free Cities that had been part of Daemon's coalition, were hesitant on making good on their threat on Tyrosh since Daemon had unfortunately perished in a dragon duel.

Maegoro hoped they could help each other achieve their ambitions. At worst, he could get his childhood acquaintances not to intervene in their battle against the Three Whores, and at best, he could get a dragonrider to aid them in their prospective conquest of the Disputed Lands. In exchange, he could lend Volantene aid in Westeros' dominion of the Stepstones, just as their house had done when Daemon was King of the Narrow Sea. Aye, he was quite hopeful in this. Baela Targaryen, the rider of the largest dragon alive at this point, had an axe to grind with the three cities of the fallen Triarchy, since they had killed her betrothed when their fleet attacked Driftmark.

A particularly loud squeak from lady on Aemon's lap broke him out of his musings. He looked to see that she was bare from the waist up, the bodice of her dress torn apart and hanging loosely at her sides. One of her bare breasts was in Aemon's mouth while the other was being kneaded by his hand. Maegoro sighed. Gods he hoped his Targaryen cousins would not take his behaviour as a slight on their hospitality. It would be quite bad if the agreement he hoped to make to fell through because of Aemon's behaviour.

"Aemon!" he whisper-shouted at his cousin as the music was quieting, "how about you go to your quarters and continue with your… escapades… there?"

"The first good idea you've had for the entirety of our time here," he replied, smugly. He then lifted the girl and placed her above his shoulders like a sack of corn. He lathered kisses on her bottom as they walked away, the lass laughing the entire time. Good riddance.

The hall now was entirely quiet, as Baela Targaryen stood up, with a cup in hand to make a toast, "Brother, as tribute to the beginning of your prosperous reign, Rhaena and I have a gift for you,"

At that, the grand doors of the hall happened, and two serving men walked into the hall carrying a wooden box. They reached the foot of the high table and set the box down, one of them moving to open it. Baela came down from her place on the table and took the gift out of the box.

It was a sword. It's pommel was ornate, being in a dark charcoal grey, carved into the shape of a dragon's head, with a gleaming red ruby set in the place where the dragon's eye could have been. Even from where he was sat, he could recognise the dark ripples of Valyrian Steel that seemed to drink all the light in the world. He knew Valyrian Steel intimately, he wielded a spear made of the same metal after all. The hand-and-a-half sword was beautiful, he had to admit.

"Tis Valyrian Steel, to match Blackfyre," Baela said, "worthy of a king."

Said boy king, who had been glum and melancholic for the entirety of his wedding celebrations, seemed to perk up a tiny bit as he came down from the high table and took the sword in his own hand, gave a few lazy swings and returned it.

"Does it have a name?" the king asked in a small voice.

"Yes," his other sister Rhaena, answered, "Reign."

"Reign," the king repeated.

"A fine addition to our house's legendary swords," Princess Rhaena proclaimed.

"Yes," the king replied, "thank you for this sisters. Tis indeed a fine sword."

The hall broke out in muted applause at the gifting. If there were other gifts to be presented, Maegoro knew that those to present them would think otherwise. No gift could beat a Valyrian Steel sword. He was curious at where they had found it. As per the knowledge supplied to him by his grandmother, House Targaryen only had two swords, Dark Sister, that Daemon had wielded, and Blackfyre, that the king normally wielded. Dragonsteel swords were quite rare in Westeros. He shrugged. A third sword would add more prestige for them.

The music restarted at the princess' beckoning, and this time, he took time to observe the royals. The king was sat at the center of the table, his melancholy returned once the sword was taken away. His little queen sat at his left was utterly expressionless. Her eyes were dead. That made Maegoro shudder; he had never seen a child be that emotionless. At the little queen's left, there sat a woman with blonde hair and blue eyes. The queen's grandmother, Alicent Hightower, from what she had heard. She was quiet too, her face was blank but her eyes were full of anger. She wore the most ostentatious gown Maegoro had ever seen, and he had seen quite a lot since his own his own grandmother favoured those quite a bit.

At the king's right sat his sisters, the famed Dragon Twins, the only remaining dragonriders in the world. Said sisters were engaging their kingly brother in conversation as much as they could. On the sisters' left sat Corlys Velaryon, the twins' grandfather, now appointed Hand of the King and the foremost among the boy king's regents. Apparently he had killed the usurper and was instrumental in bringing an end to the war. Corlys joined in the conversation between the princes from time to time but for most of the occasion he sat by himself, quiet, his eyes staring but unseeing. He was far, far away.

Maegoro had never witnessed as much grief as there was around this table. It reminded him of his family when his grandfather had died, eight years ago now. But, House Paenymion was quite large still, and that was without taking into account his family's cadet branches, the scions of his grandfather's brothers, sisters and cousins. There were only four Targaryens remaining, five if he counted his grandmother, although she might disagree with that. She had disavowed the Targaryen name and all its trappings just as much as her kingly father had disowned her.

If he was to make his move, he'd better do it now, Maegoro decided. Getting up from where he sat, he downed the cup of wine he had been drinking and made his way to the high table, making sure to put on his most contrite demeanor.

"Your Graces," he greeted the king, the dead-eyed queen and the seething dowager. He then turned to the other side of the table, "My Princesses, Lord Hand, on behalf of the Paenymion family of Volantis, I wish to congratulate the king for his ascension to the Iron Throne, and look forward to his reign. You will be a great king indeed."

"Thank you, my Lord," the king replied.

"Maegoro, you came!" Rhaena called to him excitedly. She still recognised him. Good, "I had heard that a delegation from our Paenymion cousins was coming for the wedding. I am glad to see that it was you."

"I am honoured to be here princess," he replied.

There was a mischievous smirk on the princess' face, "Are you here to ask me for a dance?"

His tongue was tied for a moment, before he answered, "Of course princess. Please, may I have this dance?" he asked after he recovered.

Thankfully, he had been taught Westerosi styles of dancing, so he did not do too badly. Rhaena however, was flawless where he was good. After a time, he let her take the lead.

"I see your dancing has markedly improved," she teased once the song ended.

Maegoro affected a wounded look, "My dancing has always been spectacular."

"That is a lie. You have been lied to by whomever told you this." she replied, followed by the shake of her head, as they left the dance floor.

"So, how are your siblings and cousins? There were ten of them if I recall correctly."

"Yes princess. And a niece or nephew on the way too. They are well. Grandmother bid me to greet you and Baela, and send condolences for all the losses you've suffered due to the war."

There was a sadness in her eyes as she replied, "They have been received gladly."

"I wished for a private audience with you and your sister to discuss matters that would be mutually beneficial to both our houses."

"Straight to business as always I see," Rhaena teased once more.

Maegoro chuckled, "Tis what brought me all the way here princess. My father sent me as an envoy and empowered me to negotiate on Volantis' behalf with the Iron Throne."

This time, she even rolled her eyes, "Of course. I had the same intention, but on the morrow, once the celebrations are done and the wine has left our minds."

"Oh," said Maegoro, looking sheepish. Rhaena had the gall to laugh once more.

"Tonight is for dancing cousin. We are celebrating new beginnings" she told him, "enjoy yourself, as I saw Aemon doing." His ears were burning with embarrassment on behalf of his slut of a cousin.

Luckily, Baela came to get his sister for some purpose or the other and rescue him from his absolute shame.

"We shall meet with you on the day after tomorrow at noon to discuss business," Rhaena said, once Baela had finished whatever she had been whispering into her twin's ear, "a servant will come to fetch you."

After a greeting from Baela and a goodbye from Rhaena, Maegoro left the feast altogether and made his way to the quarters the Paenymion delegation had been alloted in the Red Keep, his mind set on one thing; he was going to kill Aemon.

House Paenymion of Volantis:

---

Author's Note:
I hope you've enjoyed the chapter and a glimpse into the twins' plans, Volantene politics and what became of Saera Targaryen, the disgraced daughter of Jaehaerys the Conciliator. If you're wondering which sword the twins gifted Aegon, it is Lamentation, the ancestral sword of House Royce that was lost during the Storming of the Dragonpit. The twins had the rubble of the pit cleared so that the remains of Dreamfyre, Tyraxes, Shrykos, Morghul and Syrax could be taken to Dragonstone, just as Vermithor's, Silverwing's, Seasmoke's and Tessarion's were in chapter 5. In the process, the sword was recovered and repomelled. You can be sure Daemon is looking at his daughters with pride from the great beyond after them sticking it to the Bronze Bitch's family.
In the next chapter, '08. Diplomatic Negotiations,' more political moves are made and we'll get a glimpse into the regency council and how it works. If you're impatient and would like to read that chapter and several more now, you can do so here.

 

[Jack-21]

"They have Faceless Men. Even though Father trained us to see through glamours, war with them will still be incredibly dangerous since they can be disguised as anyone at any time. Tis for that reason that our great-grandfather did not simply burn their city down and retrieve the eggs," Baela replied.

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You need to get an arrangement with the Faceless men and how they feel if the Targs conquer or destroy braavos.

If the Faceless men don't give a shit beyond their temple being destroyed, then just send them an advanced warning and march your army.

You just have to wait until House Targaryen numbers recover without GRRM pruning it with wars and plagues, another 4-5 decades, House Targ numbers will be in the double digits.

That way the Iron Bank will bankrupt themselves before they can get through 5-10 dragon riding Targs.

If they actually do care, then the best you can do is just stop Braavos economic growth and seize their territory to send their development back. So they don't have the wealth to afford faceless men.

Faceless men can bring the entire seven kingdoms to their knees with ease, all they have to do start assassinating lords left and right, once their heads start dropping House Targaryen would be forced to agree to a ceasefire.

Also another factor is that the more powerful House Targaryen becomes proportionaly the faceless men will demand more gold/valuable sacrifice being offered will increase in value.

 

[neyra]

You need to get an arrangement with the Faceless men and how they feel if the Targs conquer or destroy braavos.

If the Faceless men don't give a shit beyond their temple being destroyed, then just send them an advanced warning and march your army.

You just have to wait until House Targaryen numbers recover without GRRM pruning it with wars and plagues, another 4-5 decades, House Targ numbers will be in the double digits.

That way the Iron Bank will bankrupt themselves before they can get through 5-10 dragon riding Targs.

If they actually do care, then the best you can do is just stop Braavos economic growth and seize their territory to send their development back. So they don't have the wealth to afford faceless men.

Faceless men can bring the entire seven kingdoms to their knees with ease, all they have to do start assassinating lords left and right, once their heads start dropping House Targaryen would be forced to agree to a ceasefire.

Also another factor is that the more powerful House Targaryen becomes proportionaly the faceless men will demand more gold/valuable sacrifice being offered will increase in value.

Click to shrink...

For now there's no beef between Braavos and the Iron Throne, and therefore the Faceless Men have no cause to take out the Targs. This was just a thought exercise for if they did develop beef due to Braavos refusing to give back Daenerys' eggs to House Targaryen. We shall see how things play out with them however.

 

[Jack-21]

For now there's no beef between Braavos and the Iron Throne, and therefore the Faceless Men have no cause to take out the Targs. This was just a thought exercise for if they did develop beef due to Braavos refusing to give back Daenerys' eggs to House Targaryen. We shall see how things play out with them however.

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It all depends on how the group of Extremely Competent Assassination Death Cult think of Braavos.

At best, they would think of Braavos as just the city where their base of operations is located and wouldn't give a shit if it burned down.

At worst, Braavos is their playground and attacking it will be treated as attacking them, which means the faceless men might just retaliate against the Iron Throne without any payment (death cult, might not start assassinating before a 'proper' sacrifice is offered to the many faced god)

 

[neyra]

It all depends on how the group of Extremely Competent Assassination Death Cult think of Braavos.

At best, they would think of Braavos as just the city where their base of operations is located and wouldn't give a shit if it burned down.

At worst, Braavos is their playground and attacking it will be treated as attacking them, which means the faceless men might just retaliate against the Iron Throne without any payment (death cult, might not start assassinating before a 'proper' sacrifice is offered to the many faced god)

Click to shrink...

We at least know that they align in their abhorrence of slavery, but above that, I don't know how much else they work in concert with one other

 

[Wolffils]

"When the time is right, you will be queen of the Seven Kingdoms just as Father, Rhaenyra and Grandmother always wished you to be. But not yet."

What? Is this to suggest that Jaehaera is to be killed or set aside? Why? Marrying competing claims to unite the bloodlines makes sense politically. Secures peace within Westeros and a great symbolic presentation of the Dance being over. Can't just be irrational pettiness to undo this. Is it because Baela rides Silverwing ?

Also, just to point this out, the main reason Rhaenyra needed Baela to marry Jace was to secure Velaryon support because her son was a bastard. Not out of some personal wish or genuine care for Baela's station in life. Same with Rhaena being betrothed to Luke. Rhaena was meant to provide another cloak of legitimacy and protection to Lucerys 'Velaryon '.

 

[Jack-21]

We at least know that they align in their abhorrence of slavery, but above that, I don't know how much else they work in concert with one other

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They are foremost a cult and the assassinations they perform is their worship to their god.

At most, Braavos probably has a discount on Faceless men services in return for turning an eye away from the House of Black and White.

I doubt Braavosi have any immunity to faceless men assassinations.

"When the time is right, you will be queen of the Seven Kingdoms just as Father, Rhaenyra and Grandmother always wished you to be. But not yet."

What? Is this to suggest that Jaehaera is to be killed or set aside? Why? Marrying competing claims to unite the bloodlines makes sense politically. Secures peace within Westeros and a great symbolic presentation of the Dance being over. Can't just be irrational pettiness to undo this. Is it because Baela rides Silverwing ?

Also, just to point this out, the main reason Rhaenyra needed Baela to marry Jace was to secure Velaryon support because her son was a bastard. Not out of some personal wish or genuine care for Baela's station in life. Same with Rhaena being betrothed to Luke. Rhaena was meant to provide another cloak of legitimacy and protection to Lucerys 'Velaryon '.

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Rhaena, Baela and Aegon hate the Greens. You have to remember that Aegon II, was torturing Baela & Aegon III and messing with their heads using death threats.

If Sunfyre had survived his wounds, Baela and Aegon III would have been tortured to death on Aegon II's command.

No way was Aegon II ever willing to put Rhaenyra's son as his heir over his own daughter. If the Blacks were defeated, he would murder all the claimants until only his daughter had a claim to the throne.

They only lived so Aegon II could use them as hostages/bargaining chips against the Black armies.

 

[Tertius711]

"When the time is right, you will be queen of the Seven Kingdoms just as Father, Rhaenyra and Grandmother always wished you to be. But not yet."

What? Is this to suggest that Jaehaera is to be killed or set aside? Why? Marrying competing claims to unite the bloodlines makes sense politically. Secures peace within Westeros and a great symbolic presentation of the Dance being over. Can't just be irrational pettiness to undo this. Is it because Baela rides Silverwing ?

Also, just to point this out, the main reason Rhaenyra needed Baela to marry Jace was to secure Velaryon support because her son was a bastard. Not out of some personal wish or genuine care for Baela's station in life. Same with Rhaena being betrothed to Luke. Rhaena was meant to provide another cloak of legitimacy and protection to Lucerys 'Velaryon '.

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Why not? Why should you resolve competing bloodlines when you have absolute power? Why let the daughter of your enemy be Queen and let her children rule when you are the dragonlords?