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Chapter Text

Tidings arrived to Kings Landing in the dawn of Spring of 110 AC, not born by the wings of a raven but by the lips of a young page sent by King Viserys’s younger brother himself, so that no misinterpretation could be made when the declaration sent from the Rogue Prince was clearly announced before the court. 

Prince Daemon Targaryen had emerged the victor in the war for the Stepstones, he had been named the King of the Narrow Sea. In all his glory, he would arrived to Kings Landing within the sennight to claim his prize, his bride, the daughter of King Viserys Targaryen and the late Queen Aemma Arryn. 

At the words of the page, King Viserys had slumped upon the Iron Throne, diplomatically murmuring his words of understanding and relief that his brother had not perished in the bloody eight year war. A farce of a well-trained king to benefit those gathered in the throne room and bore witness. His white knuckled grip on the arms of his chair betraying to his close allies the true agony bubbling below the surface as he realised the gravity of his error in publicly promising his younger brother “anything” in exchange for his blood, sweat and steel restoring peace to Viserys’s Kingdom. 

The King swiftly took his leave from the throne room proclaiming the need for rest, though not before being passed a private letter bearing the Targaryen seal by the page which Viserys held as though it burned wildfire from within. A whisper from the King to the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard as he exited ensured that any spectators in the room were swiftly informed that if they spoke to anyone outside the throne room of what had taken place before the King had deemed it public knowledge, they would pay for the transgression with their tongue. 

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In the Kings private chamber that evening and deep in his cups, Viserys unleashed his tirade into the air in front of his closest confidants, the Hand of the King, Otto Hightower, and his daughter Alicent, the King’s second wife of not-yet-three sun turns. 

“Daemon is a plague, sent to destroy me! What kind of husband will he be to my daughter, my heir! He will take her from me, my only child!” He bellowed into the space between the heads of the gathered Hightower father-daughter duo, not quite speaking to them, staring into the distance behind them as though desperately seeking counsel from a ghost of his past with bright blue-purple eyes to anchor him. 

Alicent winced at his words, having given the King a son just two years ago, a son born a well-gossiped about barely eight moons post their hasty wedding, and already carrying a second in her belly. Caressing her swollen mid-section over the rich fabric of her gown, she sought to calm the Kings onslaught of words that cut her more deeply than the man who the King’s ire was directed towards. 

“Please, Husband, you must not overexert yourself.” She tried to placate with words of honed honey, seeking to take his hand from where it lay on the table.

“Rhaenyra is your friend, is she not, wife?” King Viserys hissed back at her, wrenching his hand away, venom dripping from his words. “Your step-daughter besides. You could share in my fucking concern for her fate!” 

Alicent blanched at his cold words that he uttered at her in a tone tinged with disgust. Her marriage to the King, orchestrated by her father from the very night Queen Aemma’s passed in the birthing bed in a fruitless pursuit of producing a son, had left an irreparable wound between herself and the Princess in question. While Alicent could now claim the title of Rhaenyra’s step-mother, their friendship had been cemented in it’s place six feet below the earth the moment she bled on the grieving King’s cock in the shadows, sacrificing her maidenhead for the crown she now wore. 

“What will become of her reign as Queen now that my brother will sit beside her as consort…” Her husband uttered vulnerably, once again the question not directed at either of his audience. Alicent froze as she heard her father clearing his throat, she already knew he would miscalculate this moment as an invitation to manipulate her husband toward his greater goal. Helpless to prevent the Hand of the King’s endless machinations, she closed her eyes as he began to speak in his usual careful, measured tone. 

“You have another option, your Grace. You have a son. As you say, the consequences of Daemon’s place by Rhaenyra’s side should she be permitted to ascend the throne could be dire. You could name Aegon in her stead…” 

“Do you think me blind, a fool to your scheming?! What a coup for you, my daughter taken from me and your grandson so conveniently waiting in the wings of your design, what is a perfect turn of events for you Otto. Rejoicing in spilling of mine own blood for the rise of yours!” The King’s already flushed cheeks turned carnation-red as all of his hostility was suddenly trained toward Alicent’s father. 

Finally, too late in many respects, forced to see the room and his company within for what it truthfully was. Blind wrath overtook him as he hurled his half-full cup of arbor gold toward the offending servant of the crown. “Get out! Get the hell out of my chamber! Both of you. At once or I shall have you dragged!” 

“Husband, please…” Alicent tried with eyes wide in horror as she struggled to recognise the usually kind and gentle dispositioned man, now apoplectic with fury, the dragon he had been accused not to posses within surfacing. 

“Get out, GET OUT!” 

No small measure of shock was apparent on both of the Hightower’s faces as they scrambled to their feet and made swiftly for the door to his chamber, recognising there was only more damage to be done by further words exchanged this night. Liquid dripping from his midnight-green coat, and mouth set in a grim line, Otto turned to his daughter who’s hands shook as she ripped at her fingernails. 

“He is in his cups, reeling from the ill received news from the Rogue Prince. Nothing more. Tomorrow we shall make him see sense. You will do well to ensure his favour as we do.” He said with a heavy look at her, making it clear that he was disappointed with her although how he thought she could have turned the tide on the conversation that had just taken place was a mystery to Alicent. 

Alicent sleep fitfully that night, dreaming of Rhaenyra as often she did. In her dreams, the Princess circled far overhead on her golden she-dragon, out of reach and out of earshot as Alicent called for her again and again until her throat was horse. She awoke with a gasp in a cold sweat when a second beast joined Rhaenyra’s in the skies, blood-red with a silver-haired rider, and flames had begun to rain from the heavens. 

Chapter Text

Something was amiss. The Crown Princess had expected to be summoned to her father’s chambers the previous evening having missed her afternoon lesson and the dinner feast as she stayed far atop Kings Landing on dragon-back well into the sun set, preferring the company of Syrax to the endless cold pointed looks from her step-mother, idle gossip of the women and long lust-filled stares of the men at court which incessantly haunted her steps since she had flowered at three and ten. She had expected to make her apologies to the King for losing track of time, as though she had not noticed the golden hues streaming across the city below as the sky slowly darkened. That morning her chamber was quieter than usual as the servants bustled through with fresh bedding and her handmaids worked on the laces of her dress. Normally, some chatter would fill the air but today there was almost deadly silence and no one seemed to dare glance at another, tension keeping their backs ram-rod straight. 

Rhaenyra’s brow furrowed, uncomfortable with the cloying air in the room, when her lady-in-waiting Amabel Strong burst through the doors into her chamber looking as though she was being hunted. Dark, curly hair tousled and her breath coming in quick, sharp bursts as she attempted to catch her breath when her frantic hazel eyes finally fell on her Princess. 

“Rhaenyra! By the gods…” She exclaimed but trailed off noticing every pair of eyes in the room trained on her at once. The oldest, boldest and loudest of the two Strong sisters, Ama was not usually one to be cowed by an audience to her words. 

“Ama? What has happened?” Rhaenyra blinked at her in astonishment, but at once her attention was drawn to the loud sharp rap of a knock at the entrance to her chamber. She exchanged a charged look with the panicked Strong sister who stood frozen next to the doorway, as her father’s Lord Commander entered with a swift bow. 

“Good morrow, Princess.” Ser Harrold Westerling greeted her and she caught sight of her own Kings Guard, Ser Criston Cole pacing the corridor behind him, his face turned away from her so she was unable to read his expression. “His Grace the King requests a private audience with you in his solar, if you will Princess, I shall accompany you there.” She gathered that the summons were immediate and while Ser Westerling’s invitation on her father’s behalf was polite, his tone brokered no room for delay or refusal.

“Of course Ser, we may go at once.” Rhaenyra replied, not knowing what else to add so choosing to remain largely quiet as she allowed him to escort her out into the passageway. She felt, rather than heard Ser Criston attempt to follow, rebuffed by the higher-ranked member of the Kingsguard who informed him that his service was unnecessary while Rhaenyra was in his charge. She stole a quick glance at her Dornish guard, meeting his inky eyes filled with a mix of anguish and anger briefly before she turned down the first corridor and was out of sight. 

Rhaenyra did not bother trying to press Ser Westerling for answers as they traversed the short journey from her own rooms to her father’s in silence. She knew it would be an exercise in futility as, although the man was extremely fond of the Princess that he had bounced on his knee in her early childhood and now watches over as a man would his own daughter, his ultimate loyalty belongs to his King. Her mind drifted to the possibilities of everyone's behaviour this morning. Her rather extended flight on Syrax could not cause such an atmosphere. Perhaps her father had decided, as many expected he would, to name Aegon heir at the pressing of his new wife and the hand. The tension, the looks, perhaps they were pity at the finally disinherited Princess she thought bitterly as she was ushered in through the door to the King's solar. 

Her father was hunched over his model of Old Valyria, his frame looking more broken than she had noticed the day prior. Light filtered in through the half drawn curtains of the room, shrouding the king in shadows.

“Daughter!” He rushed to his feet as Ser Westerling pulled the doors behind them closed. Rhaenyra noted that he was alone in the room, his ever present shadows of Alicent and Ser Otto conspicuously absent. 

“Father, are you quite well?” She asked as he pulled her into a tight embrace, unusual for them. 

“I must speak with you, my sweet girl.” He mumbled quietly, pulling her toward two ornate chairs set before the fire in the hearth of the solar. Rhaenyra’s eyes pricked at the nickname, one that her mother had used for her, a term of endearment that she had not heard since before she had instructed her dragon to burn the pyre where Queen Aemma had lain, the small bundle of Rhaenyra’s brother who never drew breath tightly swaddled in muslin cloth next to her. 

“My brother has sent word of his victory in the Stepstones, he will fly shortly for Kings Landing.”

“Uncle Daemon?” Rhaenyra asked, taken-aback. There had been few and less words from and spoken about the uncle who had left for war when she was but seven sun turns of age. She remembered little of him. His dragon certainly, the Blood-Wyrm was famous in its own right but Rhaenyra remembered most the deep bond which her uncle shared with his beast, and how he had been the first to take her to the skies atop it’s shimmering red scales. She remembered him correcting her High Valyrian with a grin as she sought to get to grips with the language under Aemma’s patient tutorage. However, all of his visits had been fleeting, his penchant for finding trouble within the streets or the keep itself meant that he was more oft than not sent away while her father sought to repair whatever damage the young Prince had wrought. 

“Please listen, my daughter.” Viserys half-whispered, his tone pleading. “When I asked Daemon to lead the war against the triarchy in the Stepstones, I promised that if he brought victory to the crown, he would be granted any request that he desired. He returns now, the Driftwood Crown atop his head and has sent ahead word that he will be taking what he was promised.” 

“And what is it that he wants?” Rhaenyra studied her father’s expression, options running through her head as something in the air around them made her pulse begin race. 

The King sucked in his breath as though it pained him and in a hushed tone put an end to the mystery around the oddities of the day, everything coming into sharp focus as he spoke. “He wants.. you.”

Chapter Text

“Show it to me.”

Viserys looked down at his daughter's outstretched hand, reaching toward the the letter penned by her uncle, delivered not a day before by the page whom had upended the steady predictability of the King’s world. He hesitated before passing it into her palm, the shadows dancing in the ill-lit room masking her face, rendering her expression unreadable in the firelight. 

“Brother,

I trust this letter finds you in good health. I have achieved victory for the crown in the Stepstones as you surely are already aware, the page I sent ahead will have delivered the good news along with this letter. I will not write to you of the bloody battles and endless death that these last eight moon turns have been marred by, nor the scars to my person in pursuit of glory in your name. Your lack of ravens and pitiful provisions of aid speak well enough to your interest, so I shall not bore you with the gritty details. 

I write to you of the future I now seek to take for myself, redeeming your promise made on the eve of a war you would not have been able to win without sacrificing your own brother to the helm. I wish to return to Kings Landing, the comforts of home, and the Valyrian bride I shall take to wife. Your daughter, my niece, Rhaenyra, is my chosen “spoil of war” as my men would call it. I have heard many a report over the last few years, though not penned by your own hand to be sure, of the beauty of the Realms Delight. 

I do hope that you will bless our union and I look forward to providing you many a grandchild in due course. I do hope, by the time I reach Kings Landing, preparations for our wedding shall be underway, as I do not wish to wait. Know that, should you try to deny me this, the armies that have followed my lead these many years upon wretched shores, will march instead upon Kings Landing.

Daemon”

“A spoil of war.” Rhaenyra echoed, her heart beating out of her chest, an audible thrum in her ears by the time she finished reading her uncles words. Everything felt tight, her corset that had not caused her discomfort earlier that morning was rigid over her ribcage, preventing her from drawing a satisfactory breath. 

“You.. you cannot truly mean for us to marry, father.” She looked in alarm toward her only remaining parent, the man she had been endlessly disappointed by since her mother’s death, imploring him not to continue the pattern that had their relationship consistently teetering on knifes edge of ruination. After her mother’s death, her father had retreated from being such to her in his grief, then married her best friend before her mothers ashes had cooled in the wind. He had allowed his new wife to launch attack after attack toward her. He had allowed the hand of the king to undermine her time and again, he did nothing to assuage the rumours of her disinheritance that swirled insidiously through the halls of the home that no longer felt safe to her, vipers in every corner watching and waiting to strike.  

Now, he would have her shackled to the perils of the birthing bed, by his own brother. A business-trade, a royal womb for a war won, no better than cattle for gold. 

The grave expression on King Viserys’ face informed the Princess of the answer he seemed unable to provide with his tongue. Rhaenyra leapt from the chair where she sat, the tension within her finally snapping. 

“This is not mine own choice, daughter.” Viserys replied, voice thick with regret, pleading amethyst orbs watching helplessly as Rhaenyra made for the exit to his solar.

“And yet, it will be I who pays the price.” She responded harshly, not turning back lest he see the tears shining within her own lilac eyes. Bursting through the heavy wooden doors, Rhaenyra pushed past Ser Westerling without preamble, turning sharply into the first alcove she found just a few steps down the passageway. Rustling silk skirts heavy around her legs, Rhaenyra stumbled toward the open shutters of the window that overlooked Blackwater Bay, trying desperately to draw the sea air into her lungs as ice and fire burned together through her veins. 

“Princess?” Her father’s Lord Commander stood in the archway, watching her with wary eyes that quickly turned to worry when he realised the princess was struggling in her quest to breathe. “Princess!” The palms of his large, weathered hands raised to rub comforting circles upon her narrow back, touch a liberty that he would never usually take upon the royals he served. Rhaenyra’s shaking hands clawed at the tight bindings lacing the back of her ornate gown, desperate to loosen them as she suffocated within. With quiet understanding Ser Westerling fumbled slightly to untie the top laces for the Princess, not exactly a hand-maiden but a practical man, he was capable of releasing a lace or two. It did not expose the Princess indecently but allowed her the reprieve she required as the rise and fall of her chest fought against the tight lashings of fabric against her milk-white skin. 

After a few minutes Rhaenyra’s gasps slowed, her breathing steadied and the black spots that danced in her eyes had dissipated. Forgoing normal convention, she allowed her head to fall back against the Lord Commanders shoulder, finding comfort in his silent presence which shielded her from being observed from the Kings corridor. 

“Everything will be alright, Princess.” Ser Westerling promised softly. “Prince Daemon.. he.. he has his flaws but he is a good man underneath. He was always a favourite of mine.” He smiled down at her, eyes distant as he replayed the memories of an unruly silver-headed teenage Prince who had never failed to make the man smile, even though many were tinged with exasperation as he chased the second-son of Baelon the Brave and the wild-princess Alyssa through the Keep, trying often fruitlessly to keep him out of mischief.

Rhaenyra returned his smile weakly, slowly beginning to collect herself even as her thoughts thundered through her mind. 

“Thank you, Ser.” She murmured in response. At this moment, his words of platitude were welcome but did little to alleviate the crushing reality of her impending fate.

Tightly squaring her shoulders and carding her fingers through her sliver-gold hair, arranging her wavy tresses to fall down her back, hiding the loosened ties of her gown, Rhaenyra made to return toward her rooms, the stoically comforting presence of Ser Westerling falling into the shadow of her steps. She had a little less than a sennight before her uncle would return, and she would need to be ready to face what lay ahead. 

Chapter Text

It had been three days since King Viserys had sat upon the Iron Throne. 

Three days since he had been seen outside his chambers, where Alicent knew without seeing him with her own reproachful brown eyes, he was holding vigil for his own pride in a shroud of darkness. 

Recovering from a spring cold, the court was brusquely informed by her father. Stewing in his own misery as he awaited the looming return of the rogue prince, most knew. 

The court had been rife with gossip since the Princess had been seen leaving the King’s wing escorted by the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, word of Prince Daemon’s return and subsequent demands now openly on the tongues of all and sundry. 

On the fourth morning, Alicent stared nervously at the huddle of blankets in the middle of her husbands bed, drawing the curtains back slightly in the musty chamber, her nose wrinkling at the sour smell of wine-induced night sweat and the slight sweetness of rot. Exposed, a few beams of the dawn sun filtered through the window panes, illuminating her husband’s form more clearly within the sheets where he lay curled into himself.

They had not spoken since the night the King had all but thrown her and her father from his sight. She had patiently waited to be summoned the next day, expecting a new gown or a new set of jewels and a profuse apology from her regretful husband, once the wine had ceased to addle his mind and he had returned to himself.

The summons, nor the apology, ever came. Fear settled in Alicent’s heart as she realised that it would not and she would have to go to him to mend the fences between them, unsure of her place in his suddenly unpredictable mind. 

In the solace of the Queen’s rooms the previous afternoon, where she sought reprieve from the stares of the courtiers that murmured in the halls, her father had swept through with eyes flashing in displeasure, bringing with him not words of comfort but cold instruction. “You must draw your husband from this ridiculous state of self-pity, and, more importantly, you must cement your place and mine own, by his side. If Daemon Targaryen catches wind of any discord between you, or between the King and our house, he will be sure to strike. Aegon’s rightful inheritance, and his very life itself, depends on your doing your duty effectively. This is not the time to sit idly.” He had spat toward her, Alicent realising that somehow she was wearing the shame of her father’s own blunder with the King and, of course, was expected to set it right.

She had bitterly rubbed the ache in her lower back, discomfort from carrying two pregnancies in quick succession grating on her as the Hightower patriarch had carefully outlined his thought-out plan to turn the tides back toward House Hightower, and bring the King’s favour back to her.

A sennight, the Rogue Prince had promised, a mere seven days of which five had already passed in a veil of uncertainty, the King sequestered in his chambers and his daughter evading any and all duties in favour of being shielded by her ladies-in-waiting and escaping to the skies on dragon-back. 

The first part of her father's plan, for her to ender herself to the King through the step-daughter who’s refusal to speak with her father they knew to be the main source of his pain, had already failed the evening before. Alicent had made her way briskly to the Princesses chamber hoping that Rhaenyra, in the suffering she was certain her old friend must be drowning in, she may take Alicent’s magnanimously-offered hand to pull her back to surface. This would prove her worth to her husband, show him that she alone could hold together the royal family, now cracking like a broken pillar as a result of their disgusting customs.

How, Alicent wondered, could anyone consider marrying an uncle to his young niece anything more than a revolting jest. 

Alicent had been turned away at the door of the princesses bedchamber by one of the dark-haired, plain, in her opinion, Strong sisters. She had claimed that the Princess Rhaenyra was too unwell for company, affected with a headache, perhaps even the starting of the cold that King Viserys was currently battling, she had wondered aloud pointedly. In any case, Lady Strong had insisted politely, in the Queen’s delicate condition, she should not risk sharing the air with the Princess.

She had all but shut the door in the Queen’s face at that, leaving Alicent in the corridor masking her outrage. Later, she heard the shrill cry of Syrax and looked out over her balcony to see her long silver-haired rider making for the clouds between the golden dragon’s wings.

Spoiled, arrogant girl she had seethed, the seeds of pity which had gathered low in her stomach over the past few days knowing that she and Rhaenyra would share the fate of being married to an old man not of their choosing, washed away by the acidity of her wounded pride.

Stood in her husband’s bedchamber with renewed determination after her step-daughter’s cruel dismissal the day before, Alicent’s urban curls fell gently down to her waist, styled in a way she knew the King preferred, dressed in an elegant gown of black and red in an attempt to entice him into affinity to her by displaying herself in the colours of his house.

Visery’s awoke to the forced end of his self-imposed seclusion by light drifting in through the curtains of his bedchamber with an inelegant groan to see Alicent stood before him, looking largely displeased but not entirely hostile as he had been when they last shared the space on that disastrous evening. 

“Husband… I wish to assist you in rejoining your subjects today. The… court misses your presence, my love. Our son misses being in his fathers presence. I miss you.” She tried in a beguiling tone, as he swung his weeping sore-ridden legs over the edge of the bed and faced the window that she had opened in an attempt to rouse him gently and draw him toward the sun.

Viserys sighed, rubbing a bandaged hand across his weary expression. He knew it was time to return to reality, to accept what was coming. 

“Where is Princess Rhaenyra?” He asked her hopefully. “Is she to break fast at court?”

“I… I do not believe so, husband. Princess Rhaenyra has preferred to take her meals within her own rooms these days past. I went to see her yesterday, but her ladies said that she was suffering from a headache and was abed early. Nothing serious, they assured me. I sent the Maester this morning who reports that my step-daughter seems to be once again in full health.” Alicent responded sweetly, drawing nearer at her husband’s gentle tone, placing her more at ease in his presence. 

“Very well.” Viserys finally rose and took a long swig of the wine glass set on his side table. “Then it is time for us both to return to duty. Please inform the Princess that we will sup together as a family this evening. Send in my squire to assist me to dress. I shall sit the Iron Throne this morning and receive supplicants after I break fast.”

“Of course, my love.” Alicent replied smoothly, resentment bubbling beneath her words at her husband's brusk dismissal as though she was still meek Lady Alicent, serving the Princess, and not the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. No matter. For now, she had succeeded in her immediate goal. 

Chapter Text

Should Daemon be punctual, a trait that Viserys would hardly associate with his chaotic younger brother, today would be the day that he returned to Kings Landing after the passing of almost a decade. 

Sat upon the Iron Throne, the turmoil of the last several days largely dispelled, he allowed the piece of himself that longed to hear his brother’s wit closer to the surface. He had, in fact, missed his brother in the years that had stretched between them. Despite his trepidation to the idea of Daemon taking his daughter to wife, he knew that as a child, Daemon had doted on Rhaenyra in his short visits to the Red Keep.

He had been kind, gentle with her in a way that Viserys had never seen his brother be with anyone or anything before. Viserys remembered how had held her when she was first born, lifting the quiet infant from Viserys’s own arms to rock her softly, as his beloved Aemma had watched slightly warily out of the corner of one exhausted eye. He recalled Daemon’s large finger stroking across the furrowed, pink-skinned forehead of the tiny babe, sweeping her shock of silver curls out of the way as he murmured a Valyian lullaby into the shell of her ear until her eyelids had become heavy and Aemma had reached for the tiny bundle, her reward after two agonising days in the birthing bed, keen not to be separated from her daughter for long. 

Rhaenyra was no longer a fragile infant, but Viserys closed his eyes and silently pleaded with the gods that her uncle, not known for his care with the many women he had over his life, whores and paramours alike, would comport himself as carefully as though she was.

He loved his daughter, the only remaining piece of his Queen taken from him too soon, in a way that he did not his son that Alicent had carried, something that he could only admit to himself in the darkness of his own mind. The days that he had spent agonising over the cavernous distance between them had sent him-half mad with fear of losing her, to his own words turned against him no less. 

All had come to a head between father and daughter at the dinner he had summoned Rhaenyra to attend two nights earlier, drawing a line under the conflict between them as they came to an understanding which both could live with for the time being, though Daemon’s actual arrival had yet to take place and Viserys knew tensions would once again flare once his brother disembarked from his blood-red dragon. 

He had waited for Rhaenyra’s arrival in his private dining room with Alicent that night, his wife’s small, cold hand gripping at his own tirelessly as she rattled off endless anecdotes about Aegon’s day, a safe subject between them, in a bid to make the King smile. He could barely hear her over the beat of his pulse when Rhaenyra entered the room dressed in a pale blue gown, the image of his Aemma as she sat across from the pair with a practiced, neutral expression. His wife and daughter had exchanged frosty greetings, his own over-enthusiastic one slightly too loud for the intimate setting.

The dinner itself, as expected, had been a tense affair. Rhaenyra answered politely when spoken to, but didn’t contribute to the conversation further. Alicent seemed stuck on a loop about Aegon’s mundane achievements, relentlessly attempting to take the King’s hand whenever it was not actively in use and to hold it in an iron-tight grip.

Eventually, after desert had been served, Alicent mumbled something about the hour being late, clearly believing the evening to be at an end and keen to retire for the evening. Before Visery’s could address his daughter, to finally say something of meaning, Rhaenya spoke instead.

“I imagine you must be exhausted, step-mother. I have seen mine own mother’s need for much rest during her pregnancies. Perhaps, father, we could speak privately once Alicent takes her leave?” 

“Yes, yes please, of course.” Viserys had quickly stood and all but ushered Rhaenyra into the connecting solar, leaving Alicent open-mouthed still sat at the dining table.

Rhaenyra circled the table where his model of Old Valyria sat, a delicate finger lightly tracing the mended wing of a model dragon, before she turned to him.

“I will do my duty, father, and marry my uncle.” The breath was knocked out of Viserys’s lungs at her words. “But you must do your duty, too.” She continued. Viserys made to speak but stopped abruptly as his daughter raised her hand. 

“Please let me finish. You have named me heir, but have done naught to solidify my claim. You cannot be deaf and blind to the machinations of the court, of your own new family.” Accusation was quickly stamped out of her tone as her shoulders slumped slightly. “I do not wish to fight. I wish to know if you intend to keep me as heir despite this marriage, and if you do, I wish for a place on your council. Not as a cupbearer but as a member with a voice. I wish for you to defend me at court and I wish for you to stand up for me, publicly and privately, from now on. If you do not intend to keep me as heir, I wish to know it now so that I may charter my own course.”

“I do, I do intend to keep you as my heir, daughter. This was never, will never, be in question” The words more than certain, but sticking in his throat as he realised how deeply he had failed her to this point. “You will have a place on the council, from the morrow. I will right the wrongs between us, Rhaenyra, I promise.” He took her hand, small and warm. She allowed him to hold it for a few moments before trading a small but genuine smile with her father.

They had left their conversation there for the evening, both uneasy with the topic of what the next few days would bring, basking in the peace between them after the tumultuous days which had preceded it. 

Thoughts returning to the present, King Viserys received the rest of the mornings supplicants, startling slightly at every entrance through the throne room doors. 

At last, as the sun reached it’s peak in the skies, he heard the anticipated wingbeats over the city and the distant cries heard through the open windows. 

“Prince Daemon! Prince Daemon has returned!” 

Chapter Text

The throne room was aflame with anticipation as the stained glass windows behind the Iron Throne bathed the larger than usual crowd gathered at court in a reddish-glow. The clang of iron was audible in the air, guards standing more rigidly to attention than normal as finally, the immense pale-gold doors were thrown open to reveal the Rogue Prince. 

With a half-smirk playing on his lips, Daemon swaggered through the sea of rapidly scattering courtiers, parting immediately to clear a path as he traversed the short distance to the Iron Throne where his elder brother sat. Unaware of the princess he meant to claim silently mirroring his steps, shielded by the masses as she was awarded her first sight of her uncle since he had departed when she was but a young girl. 

Beneath his obsidian scale-like riding leathers, Rhaenyra could discern her uncles lean frame corded with heavy lines of muscle. He was much taller than she had imagined, broad and powerful, his fifteen years her senior not the visible contrast betrayed by physique in the same way of her father and Alicent. 

At his hip she caught sight of the infamous Dark Sister’s Valyrian steel pommel, the sword that had once been wielded by their shared ancestor Queen Visenya, where her uncles long fingers on his right hand rested lightly. 

Her eyes were drawn up to the dangerous lines of his face, startlingly handsome, despite the cruel twist playing on his lips and the darkness swimming within his violet eyes. His hair was worn short, the cropped style unusual for a Targaryen and unexpected as Rhaenyra was aware that he usually favoured length to his tresses as the rest of her family did. 

The princess had found herself in the days past drifting like a magnet to iron toward the portraits which held her uncles likeness, intently studying the meticulous strokes of brush against canvas, capturing the brooding presence of the silver-headed Prince depicted within. 

Remaining hidden behind veil of the courtiers awaiting the royal reunion with bated-breath, Rhaenyra caught sight of her step-mother, stood rigidly at the foot of the steps to the throne next to the Hand of the King, her mahogany eyes trained on the Prince. 

Prince Daemon had weathered the years far better than her own husband, Alicent thought sourly as he came to stand before them. The elegant grace of the fearsome Rogue Prince, who’s steady gait was utterly unlike his brothers limping one, caused a shiver to fire up her spine. She attempted to hide her ragged fingernails within the skirts of her gown as, to her own humiliation, she realised that she had allowed her eyes to linger on his form for longer than what was proper.

Alicent’s cheeks flushed in further embarrassment as the Prince did not dignify her with a bow as custom would dictate, or even bother with the barest of acknowledgement toward his new Queen once they were stood level. Instead, he lifted the crown that appeared to be made of cuttings of sanded driftwood from his brow and extended it toward his brother with one sinewy arm. 

The King grinned heartily from his vantage point, leaping to his feet with a burst of energy that he seldom felt within his bones. Hurrying down the wooden steps, he embraced his brother, breathing in the scent of dragon which, these days, he was only accustomed to being worn by his daughter. Alicent complained about the musk plenty during the meals they all shared, claiming the odour would turn her stomach from her food. To a true Targaryen however, it was the siren-call of their heritage steeped in smoke and flame. 

“Brother!” Viserys exclaimed, passing the crudely fashioned crown behind him to the waiting palms of a guard. “I am gladdened of your safe return.”

“I am pleased to hear it.” Daemon replied. “I had wondered if my letter would sour you to the idea.” He continued, lowering his voice to an octave meant to reach only his elder brother’s ears. 

Viserys narrowed his eyes slightly, a touch wrong footed as he considered whether his brother meant to taunt in malice or in jest. 

“Yes, well. Your words could have perhaps been slightly more diplomatic, brother, but diplomacy is not a skill that I believe you have yet honed.” He shot back, tit for tat. The two brothers locked eyes, awaiting the verdict that would determine the path their reunion would take. 

“No matter.” Viserys stepped back from the prince slightly and gestured benevolently at the assembled subjects before him, raising his voice for all to hear. “Now that you have safely arrived home brother, I am pleased to formally affirm your betrothal to my daughter and heir to the Irone Throne, Princess Rhaenyra!” 

Daemon kept his face impassive aside from the slight widening of dark purple eyes as Viserys’s words hit him like a thunderbolt. He had expected to fight his brother to take his bride, expected to be forced to stand by his words and march upon Kings Landing for the girl he had always known was his birthright. 

He had greedily consumed every report holding word of his niece from where he was bound to duty across the seas. The Realms Delight they called her, whispers of the beauty of the Princess increasing year by year, whispers turning to roars as the years between them passed him by on the bloodied shores of the Stepstones. 

He thought back a more vulgar description that filled him with white-hot fury one night, two years prior when his niece first flowered at three and ten, in a musty tent where the men took reprieve from battle. Aemma Arryn’s face on Saera Targaryen’s body, the most fuckable woman in the realm, a drunk Velaryon soldier had crowed attempting to portray a crude hourglass figure with his hands across the air. Daemon had swiftly removed the man’s head from his shoulders, much to Corlys Velaryon’s chagrin. 

Pushing the thought back he began to search the many faces in the room, continuing to act as though the Hightowers, barely concealing their pious anger his deliberate slights, boring cunts, were invisible to his gaze. 

“And where is my betrothed, brother?” He wondered aloud. 

“Probably half way to Dorne on dragon-back to avoid having to marry you.” Viserys whispered back, Daemon gathering quickly that it was really only just a half-jest. 

“I am right here, Kepus.” Came the voice of the object of the Princes’s desire, finally stepping into view.

Daemon’s heart stuttered in his chest as he drank in the sight of her, still recognisable remnants of the girl he had kissed on her sun-kissed button nose to say his farewell before mounting his dragon, bound for war. Yet, the changes startled him as he allowed himself to feast on the reality of his nieces beauty, like a man starved after so many years waiting to see her with his own eyes and not second-hand reports. 

His niece had large, bright lilac eyes, set into a delicate, heart-shaped face, with perfectly full cupid-bow lips. A dainty nose and a light blush along high cheek-bones, framed by a few escaped curls from the braids set along her forehead, forming a crown atop her gold-silver hair that fell to her waist in waves like the ocean in moonlight. 

Daemon’s eyes traced lines down her, taking in the slender, elegant neck above sharp collarbones, leading down to a very changed body since the fateful day he had left his home. The Rhaenyra he remembered had none of the womanly curves that his niece now held gracefully on her form, a very obvious swell of breasts and hips, flaring out from her slim waist, even inside her structured black gown, adorned with embroidery of Targaryen insignia. 

He could feel Viserys’s eyes on him, almost hear the audible grit of his teeth as he could tell how much Rhaenyra’s appearance pleased his younger brother.

“Skoros nykeā gevives ao issi, byka zaldrīzes.” Daemon bared his teeth at her in a wolfish grin, bringing her fingers to his lips. What a beauty you are, little dragon. 

“Nyke aōha hen vīlībāzma iksos naejot aōha, Kepus.” Rhaenyra shot back icily. I hope your spoil of war is to your satisfaction, uncle. 

Daemon raised an eyebrow at her, the words in the letter he had sent his brother had clearly drawn her ire. They weren’t meant for her eyes and he could see how they may offend, but he did not mean to apologise for them. 

“Ziry iksos.” He confirmed with a smirk. It is.

“Let us celebrate my brother’s triumph and return in the gardens.” Viserys cut through the tension hurriedly. “Alicent has organised a luncheon!” 

Not taking his eyes off his little, fire-filled niece, Daemon dropped his hand low on her back as he guided her to follow behind the King. He would enjoy this. 

Chapter Text

In the sprawling Godswood of the Red Keep, Prince Daemon turned his face toward the sun from his position half shaded beneath the gnarled branches of the Weirwood tree at it’s centre. His niece had evaded him quickly upon their arrival to the luncheon that his brother’s second wife had arranged. Daemon’s lip curled in disgust to witness her and her leech of a father having been elevated to such a height by Viserys. Why, by the gods, Viserys would choose a Hightower to breed with was beyond his comprehension. 

He had taken great pleasure in Viserys largely disregarding them both in the hours since his arrival, making no reference to Alicent during their reunion in the throne room and swiftly brushing past Otto, even his hand had sought to catch the King’s attention as they made their way through the Keep. Perhaps less of a fool than he seems, Daemon contemplated with a repressed chuckle. 

He flicked his violet eyes over the simpering courtiers, laughing raucously at some undoubtedly wholly-unamusing anecdote from the King, seeking his niece’s form once again. He quickly detected her stood flanked by two of her dark-haired ladies, smiling along with them at the hulking presence of Ser Harwin Strong. He recognised the man from his time as Commander of the City Watch, a position his brother had given to him in an attempt to provide his younger brother with responsibility and direction. 

Daemon’s methods as Commander of the Gold Cloaks had been less… judicious than Otto Hightower’s preferences allowed. Ever determined to drive a wedge between the the brothers, the Hand’s never-ending furious murmurs in the ear of the weak-willed King had drawn an end to his appointment. 

Daemon’s eyes narrowed dangerously as he observed the curly-haired heir to Harrenhal grinning broadly at the pretty Princess, his eyes never leaving her even as her ladies took their turn to speak. He wondered idly if Ser Harwin wanted to keep the cock that he had indeed seemed quite fond of in the past on their many visits to the Street of Silk. 

Daemon noted his niece’s posture suddenly tense has his brother’s new wife made a beeline toward her, surrounded by her own haughty ladies, her dark eyes visibly flashing with spite as she approached the Princess. He remembered how close Rhaenyra and Alicent had been in their youth, often walking hand-in-hand through the keep, heads together as they laughed conspiratorially. 

He had always been somewhat disdainful of his nieces mousy-headed companion, suspecting Otto had instructed his daughter to infiltrate the Princesses inner circle with her friendship, never a wholly genuine attachment. How right he had been proven, Daemon thought with revulsion, keeping his footfalls light as he moved toward them, reaching earshot at the same time as Alicent began to speak.

“What a tremendous day for you step-daughter. Your future husband, returned from war. How excited you must be to marry your…uncle. You Targaryen’s do have such queer customs.” Alicent directed at Rhaenyra in a tone dripping with distaste.

Before Daemon could interject to remind the whore-Queen of her place, the King’s voice suddenly rang through the air. 

“Those queer customs have ensured that Targaryen’s have owned the skies since before the doom, wife. Unfortunately, more like than not your lack of dragon-blood is the reason our son’s own dragon egg went cold in his cradle.” Viserys’s tone was that of half-jest, however the hardness in his gaze told the gathered circle that it his words were meant to wound. 

Daemon had come to stand behind his niece possessively, Ser Harwin quickly melting away into the background with a quick bow to the Prince, and it pleased him to notice the goose-flesh bloom along the back of her arms as she realised his presence. Unnoticed by the rest of the group, he traced a feather-light finger along the raised skin, delighting in the stifled hitch in Rhaenyra’s breath. The aloof Princess may be outwardly less than warm to him thus far, but her body was reacting to him beautifully, and that was a language he was more than happy to speak.

Alicent, cheeks flaming with mortification, changed tactic. 

“Well. We have a royal wedding to plan in any case. I know that the Prince has requested a short courting period, but I do hope that my step-daughter will receive courtship gifts befitting her station. I treasure every one of mine own.” She said, tone saccharine, blinking with faux-innocence at the King who shifted uncomfortably watching Alicent play with the opulent necklace that had been chosen not by himself but by his Hand during the brief courtship between the King and his daughter. 

“Of course, she shall!” Viserys answered for his brother quickly, trying to save both Daemon and Rhaenyra embarrassment. “But the man has just flown from war, Alicent! He has hardly had time to procure courting gifts on his journey. Perhaps, brother, we could visit the royal vault together and select some of the finest jewels. It would be your right, as mine own brother, to utilise the collection of our ancestors just as I have.” 

Nausea filled Daemon as his eyes were drawn to Alicent’s scrawny throat where her unworthy hand clutched at the pearls set into gold, realising they were once a gift given by his Grandfather King Jaehaerys, to his Grandmother, Queen Alysanne.

“That will not be necessary, brother. It would be rather pathetic of me to gift Rhaenyra jewels that will belong to her by rights as the future queen, and beside, as we speak there is a Velaryon ship bound for Kings Landing laden with gifts I have curated for the Princess these past years.” Daemon smirked. Viserys beamed with relief while Alicent looked stricken, but Rhaenyra’s expression was utterly undecipherable to him. 

“These past years?” She asked, voice tinged with uncertainty as she seemed to realise that her betrothal to the Prince was a scheme longer in his mind than she could have suspected.  

“Yes. Luckily, I do have one gift that I could carry easily on dragon-back.”

Daemon reached into the pocket of his doublet and held the contents out to her in his long, calloused from battle, fingers. Rhaenyra reached up to touch the slate-grey chain in his hand in wonder, noting the rubies, as large as pebbles set into the necklace. 

“Do you know what it is?” Daemon asked her, quietly.

“It’s Valyrian steel. Like Dark Sister.” She replied softly, examining it in fascination. 

Daemon snatched the jewel back from her touch, forcing her to stare up into his face, to meet his burning gaze. 

“Turn around.” His words a demand, not a request. He could see his niece struggling with herself, not certain of whether to yield to him. Slowly, she turned on her heel, gathering her waterfall of shining silver hair to one side with her left hand and deftly slipping off the gold necklace already adorning her neck with the right. 

Daemon stepped forward to secure the clasp of his mark around her slim neck, gently resting his fingertips along her collarbone from behind to signal his success, prompting her to turn back to face him. 

“There.” He said in a hushed tone. “Now we both own a small piece of our ancestry.” 

He took a step back to admire his work, violet on lilac as tension steeped in... something else crackled in the air between them. 

“Geive.” Beautiful. 

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra sat in silent contemplation on the bay window seat in her chamber, sun streaming through the window panes illuminating her in a golden glow. 

Having dismissed her ladies after they had escorted her to her rooms from the luncheon in the Godswood, her thoughts were filled with the unexpected events of the afternoon, swirling through her mind like a hatchling on it’s first flight, desperate to make sense of the patterns of the wind to stay aloft. 

Her father had kept to his word, rebuffing the slights against her, protecting her from Alicent’s determined barbs. Rhaenyra had been surprised by this, not quite ready to place her faith in him after the countless occasions that preceded when he had not. 

However, a thread of hope bloomed within her that, perhaps, the tide had changed and she would once again view her father as a champion that she could depend upon. 

Rhaenyra’s uncle, however, remained an unequivocal mystery to her. Her cheeks warmed as she recalled the electric current that had sent fire through her body at his touch in the garden earlier, embarrassed by the knowledge that he had witnessed her uncontrollable physical reaction. 

Neither the dashing Ser Harwin Strong, whom she had once considered as a suitable candidate for her hand in the future, nor her handsome Dornish Kingsguard whose beauty she admired but had no realistic designs upon, had ever elicited such from her. 

Thoughts returning to her uncle, the heat in her cheeks trailed down her body, pooling between her thighs which the Princess immediately clenched together. Her body, it seemed, had lost all sense of decorum from the moment the Rogue Prince had landed in the city. 

Rhaenyra was still furious with him for the content of the arrogant, provocative letter that her had send her father, demanding her hand with no care as to whether or not she wished for the match. 

However, since meeting the Prince in person something darker had simmered in her belly when she recalled his threat, written in the ink of his own hand, to march upon Kings Landing to take her as his bride. 

Still, she would not acquiesce to him as easily as others may. 

With irritation that had surprised her, she had noted the expressions of the ladies at court as they gazed upon the Prince. Even Alicent had averted her eyes a moment too late with a flush upon her skin, an incident that Ama had cackled about quietly in Rhaenyra’s ear as she had made her escape from her uncle’s grip in the Godswood. 

Rhaenyra rolled her eyes expressively to think of Alicent’s banner of piousness since becoming Queen by slipping into her grieving father’s bedsheets. Alicent herself had been the one to whisper in a tone filled with thill of the way Ser Criston’s tanned arms filled out his armour, back in the time before when they both still walked arm and arm through the halls. 

Now it seemed, whenever Ser Criston so much as exchanged a word with his charge, she would see the Queens eyes trained upon her with a look of disgust and reproach filling her expression, as though the Princess was engaging in untoward behaviour by simply informing her Kingsguard that she meant to take Syrax for an afternoon flight. 

Rhaenyra had been long informed of the venomous words that Alicent hissed into her ladies ears, how the Princess and her Kingsguard stood too close, smiled too often in an effort to discredit her stepdaughter with distasteful rumours. 

Even Ser Harwin, put forward as a favourable match by the Queen’s father himself, more like than not in the hope to banish Rhaenyra to Harrenhal to birth dark-haired babes and be forgotten by the realm, seemed to draw Alicent’s ire. Whenever the amiable Knight sought to dance with the Princess at a feast, the Queen would glare burning holes into the pair as they walked from the royal dais. 

A soft knock on the door snapped her out of her thoughts, the sound signalling the end to her solitude as the evening feast was set to begin. 

xx

“Oh! Doesn’t the Princess look beautiful, Ser?” Ama exclaimed with an over exaggerated swoon as Rhaenyra exited her chamber into the hallway. 

Ser Criston went an almost ridiculous shade of pink as he caught sight of her, mumbling something inaudible, quickly falling into step behind the Princess and her ladies as they made their way toward the Great Hall.  

Rhaenyra was dressed in a deep-red gown with rich embroidery depicting two black dragons along the side of her waist, outstretched claws almost touching across her middle, accentuating the dip and flare of her hips beneath. Her hair had remained in it’s half-up braided style, homage to the Conquerer’s sister-wife Visenya, whom Rhaenyra suspected she may have to draw strength from to survive the evening battlefield that surely awaited her.  

She had debated relentlessly within her own mind removing the necklace that her uncle had bestowed upon her that afternoon, very nearly unclasping the chain in an act of defiance at the door to the corridor, however ultimately deciding that it would not be worth the stir if seen as a slight. She also could admit to herself that the Valyrian steel was truthfully an astonishingly beautiful piece, and she did wish to wear it. 

“Stop it, Ama.” Elinda chastised. “Ser Criston is a Kingsguard. He has taken a vow of chastity.” 

“I bet he wishes he hadn’t when he saw the Princess this evening!” Ama burst into giggles. “Although I don’t fancy his, or anyones, chances of winning her in a duel against the Rogue Prince!” 

Rhaenyra hushed Ama herself as they entered the mouth of the Great Hall, ignoring the curious eyes of the courtiers as she made her way up the dais to take her place at the right of her father. An empty space on her other side, presumably open for her uncle who was conspicuously absent.

“You look lovely, daughter.” The King smiled, patting her hand gently as she took her seat. “How are you faring after the excitement of the day thus far?” He asked, the question loaded. 

Before Rhaenyra could answer, Alicent, dressed in a gown of forest-green and flanked by her father on the side not occupied by the King, cut in. 

“Your betrothed did not accompany you here, step-daughter? We expected that you would arrive together. I had heard that Prince Daemon had left the Keep after the luncheon, I do hope he has not been detained reacquainting himself with his… preferred establishments in Kings Landing.” 

Rhaenyra’s throat tightened as she realised the insinuation from Alicent. All knew of her uncles proclivities before he departed for the war in the Stepstones. Perhaps he had headed straight for the Street of Silk to visit with the many whores that would surely be pleased to have the Prince’s custom back in the city.

However, she would not allow Alicent the pleasure of her inner turmoil at the concept. 

“The Prince has flown seven nights on Dragon back, step-mother.” She bit back, ensuring to measure out only a small amount of condensation to lace through her tone, enough for Alicent to understand but her more oblivious father to miss. “The exhaustion from such a trip is not something many can grasp. More like than not his lateness is due to taking rest in his chambers. Perhaps a luncheon, followed by an evening feast on the day of his return was somewhat ill advised.” 

Alicent’s mouth hardened at the slight against her as the King nodded in his agreement, even though Rhaenyra had skirted entirely around the issue of the Prince absconding from the Keep. Not exactly the actions of an exhausted man, she contemplated to herself darkly.

Before her mind could spiral further, the doors to the Great Hall once again swung open. “Prince Daemon Targaryen!” The Herald boomed in announcement, every head in the room immediately swivelling, reminiscent of the scene just a few hours prior in the Throne Room.

Just as Rhaenyra had a few minutes earlier, the Prince entirely ignored the crowd thrumming once again with excitement, fixing his eyes on her as he made his way to the dais. 

“Ah, brother!” The King gestured benevolently for Daemon to take his place beside her. “We were just speaking of you.” 

“Were you?” The Prince murmured in response to the King, tone disinterested, his eyes not leaving Rhaenyra as he gave her a predatory smirk and pulled his chair closer to her side.

Something inside her, fire, burned. 

“That’s right, uncle.” She told him, holding his gaze and tilting her chin. “The Queen was wondering if you enjoyed your time in the streets of Kings Landing this afternoon.”

“Is that right?” Daemon broke their charged eye-contact to give Alicent a look of visceral disgust, quickly understanding the allusion. “If the Queen’s spies were well informed, they would have told her that my visit out of the castle was to ensure Caraxes was in good health in the Dragon Pit. A seven-day flight is no small task even for a seasoned dragon.”

“Spies?!” Ser Otto spluttered, he had still been ensuring much care with his words around the King, however even a fool could see that Alicent had been treading water to stay afloat the entirety of the day thus far. “The Queen does not spy she simply keeps well informed of the Royal comings and goings, as is her duty.” 

“Sounds more like idle gossip than a royal duty to me, Otto, but I wouldn’t want to expect too much of the Princess’s old handmaid, after all.” Daemon’s bored tone had returned, as he twirled a dinner knife in his fingers, pressing the point into the wood of the table in front of him.

“Quite!” The King agreed heartily with a slight slur, a few cups of wine too many Rhaenyra suspected, her father either honestly or wilfully blind to the insult. “Alicent does her best. Anyway, the pigeon has arrived!”

With the Hightowers subdued and having turned her attention to the food, Rhaenyra suddenly froze, her body alight with awareness as she felt one side of her silk skirt raise slightly under the table. 

“So, brother” Her father asked obliviously, facing forward as he devoured his dinner, speaking with his mouth full. “Alicent has spoken with the High Septon, he will of course perform the marriage ceremony despite the familial relation due to the Doctorine of Exceptionalism.” 

Rhaenyra was completely still in her seat as he spoke, unsure if she was even drawing breath, her skirt now lifted on the side where her uncle sat to just above her knee. The heavy table cloth that reached the floor of the dais below prevented anyone else, at the table or in the hall, from witnessing her uncles fingers begin to roam along her expose thigh, electric with the gooseflesh that erupted across her skin. 

Choosing to stare straight ahead rather than dare glance into her uncles violet eyes that she could almost feel burning the side of her face, lest she react involuntarily, she felt his fingers trace a line from her knee to where her small clothes began, using every vestige of control that she possessed not to let a gasp slip from her lips. 

Her uncle did not stop there, slipping a deft finger beneath, Rhaenyra tried to inconspicuously squirm backwards from the digit but he was too fast for her. Lightly grazing a finger over the folds of her slick cunny, where her throbbing pearl hid, before slowly retracting his hand and letting her skirts settle back into place. 

“I believe that as you have requested a short betrothal, six-moons of courting shall suffice and we shall make arrangements for the wedding to take place at the end of this period in the Grand Sept!” The King continued, following his words with a long gulp of Arbour gold. 

Every steady rise and fall of her chest was a conscious effort as Rhaenyra finally allowed her eyes to meet Daemon’s. 

“Rhaenyra and I will be wed in one moon’s time. There will be no need for the Grand Sept. The Seven is not our faith. We will be wed in a traditional Valyrian ceremony on Dragonstone.” The Prince replied smoothly as every head at the table turned to him in astonishment. 

He did not bother to return their stares, eyes fixed on the lilac pools owned by his niece, licking the tip of the index finger of his left hand between his lips, a gesture innocent to anyone else, with a smirk. 

Chapter Text

Alicent burst through the door to the King’s chambers, eyes flashing as they landed on the King who was being attended within by Grand Maester Mellos and his assistant Orwyle. 

Visery’s sighed. This was the second time in only a few days past, and the second time in the entirety of their marriage infact, that his wife had entered his chamber without summons, and unlike the first occasion she did not appear to have arrived to offer sweetness nor platitudes. 

“Leave us.” He murmured with a wave of his bandaged hand to dismiss the Grand Maester whom Viserys felt had already fussed over his form for long enough. 

With low bows to the Queen, Grand Maester Mellos and Orwyle exited swiftly, clicking the doors shut quietly behind them. 

Alicent drew nearer, finally seating herself in the armchair set across from the King, fire burning low in the hearth in front of them. 

“What do the Maesters say?” She inquired, glancing at the gold bowl on the ornate side table to the left of the King, filled with bloodied water, a small once-white cloth set next to it, stained with crimson. 

“A nosebleed.” He replied unhelpfully, choosing to avoid her gaze by watching the orange and gold of the flames dancing across the embers. 

“The cause?” She asked, a touch of impatience in her tone. 

“The do not know Alicent, it is just a nosebleed. Possibly the heat in the Great Hall, the exertion of the day.” 

“Or perhaps the stress Prince Daemon has wrought since his return!” The dam raging within Alicent finally burst. “You fell ill almost immediately after your brother’s preposterous demand to forgo a marriage ceremony before the Faith of the Seven and marry Rhaenyra within a single moon, in a heathen blood-letting ritual no less!” 

Her father had explained, lowly in her ear, after the King had been rushed from the Great Hall of the Valyrian ceremony that saw Targaryen’s cut one another and drink their mingled blood. Her stomach had barely ceased roiling from the words. 

Viserys did not react, following the line of a single flame as it joined with another, growing larger as they intertwined as one. 

“Viserys… my love. You cannot mean to concede to this!” Alicent pleaded, desperately trying to draw the King’s undivided attention to her words. “Prince Daemon goes too far, you must put an end to this mockery at once!”

“And what would you have me do, Alicent?” Visery’s finally burst forth, frustration coursing through his veins at his own recognition of the weakness of his position as King. “Refuse my brother his right to marry in the tradition of mine own house, on the island of our ancestors as many Targaryens have done before? Break the betrothal that I myself announced before the court, just earlier today? Go to war, against mine own brother, whom commands a battle tested army at his fingertips, like than not waiting in the wings for just this eventuality, whom may raise Kings Landing before the first ship could sail for the Crown from Lannisport? Not to mention, Daemon has a dragon, a large dragon whom has known combat!”

“I… the Princess Rhaenys has a dragon.” Alicent replied lamely, her fingernails already dripping blood onto her lap. “Rhaenyra has a dragon.” 

“Rhaenys’s husband has just spend eight years at war with Daemon. The insult to their house by my passing over their daughter Laena as bride besides. There is no guarantee the Velaryon’s would fight for the Crown, remain neutral, or even join forces with Daemon. They are of his blood as much as they are of mine.” 

Another sigh wrested from the deep resignation within his chest, before the King continued. 

“And Rhaenyra commands a young dragon, hardly a match for Caraxes. I have just requested of her to do her duty and marry her uncle to uphold a promise that I made, and now you would have me command her to attempt to chase him from Kings Landing on dragon-back?” 

Alicent fell back against the silk cushioned back of her chair, finding no solace in its comfort, finally forced to face the heart of the matter. Prince Daemon could bring a swift end to her husband’s reign, if he so chose, in his pursuit of the power she was certain her sought to take by wedding Rhaenyra. 

In her chambers the previous evening, she and her father had agreed that they must prevent the marriage from taking place by any means that they could, the schemes of the Prince obvious in their minds. Once wedded to Rhaenyra, the Prince would rule as King in her stead, even if she remained the figurehead of Queen.

Viserys’s health was already failing, allowing Rhaenyra to possibly ascend the throne with Prince Daemon by her side, before Aegon had a chance to grow and become the obvious choice to succeed the King. Her father had insisted that Prince Daemon, violent by nature, would put Aegon and the son growing in her belly to the sword the second Rhaenyra was crowned, erasing any future challenge to their line. 

Last night, Alicent had been sure that it would be enough to slowly sow the seeds of doubt within Rhaenyra with the assistance of the Prince’s whore-mongering behaviour. The Princess would demand her betrothal to the Rouge Prince be broken, and Viserys would banish him from Westeros. 

She needed to buy herself, and her children, some time. 

Steading her shaking hands, she reached for the cloth that the Maesters had been using on her husband before her arrival and knelt on the floor between his legs, gently using one damp corner to ease away the crusted blood matted into the hair that he kept on atop his upper lip. 

“I… I am sorry, my love. Your brother has put you in an impossible position. I simply feared for your health this evening.” She said softly, looking up into Viserys clouded purple eyes as she spoke. 

“Thank you, Alicent. I have not been myself of late, and I fear I have treated you too harshly because of it.” The King leaned into the affection she offered, physically and mentally exhausted from the day. 

Alicent hummed lightly. 

“We must present a united front now on, husband. I understand you cannot break the betrothal between them over the… ceremony that your brother wishes for. But perhaps Prince Daemon would at least acquiesce to a longer courting period. It is my duty, as her mother now, to ensure that Rhaenyra is prepared properly for this marriage, and all that comes with it.” She hesitated slightly. “She is but one and five and knows nothing of the duties of marriage. She should be given some time to learn of them.”

Rhaenyra, three years Alicent’s junior, was now the same age as she had been when she wed the King. Not comprehending the parallels, Viserys smiled down at her. 

“Of course. I will speak to him on the morrow about extending the courting period. You are right, Alicent.” 

Alicent took her leave shortly thereafter, making straight for the Tower of the Hand. 

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra sank low into the tub set in her chambers, the water swirling with jasmine oil and rose petals, carefully placed from a height by the maids who whose fingers would be burned lest they met the surface. 

Silver tendrils of her curls, loosened from their braids by her own hands as she sent those who sought to assist swiftly from her rooms upon arrival, half submerged, fanning around her in their own carefree dance. 

Rhaenyra tried to force her mind to empty, willing the steaming heat to comfort her, to allow her a small reprieve from the tension within threatening to tear her limb from limb. 

In her mind however, the endless fiery red of the day splashed across her vision, impossible to clear. 

The dark crimson of her uncles dragon that she had watched circling the city, wings beating ominously as he swooped low toward the ancient structure of the Dragonpit. 

The bright carnation flush of anger across Alicent’s cheeks, ever present, ever born by righteousness, as though it were she who wore betrayal like a beacon. 

The the scarlet of rubies set into Valyrian steel, discarded hap-hazardously on the armoire across the room, removed by a Princess with shaking fingers.  

The vivid maroon of her father’s blood as it spilled without warning, triggering a swift end to that evening, chaos ensuing as calls that the King had been poisoned rang through the air.

Red. Mele. 

In the aftermath, Rhaenyra had been pulled to her feet immediately by Ser Criston to the audible ring of half-unsheathed steel as her uncle had attempted to draw her to him instead, amid shouts from the Hand of the King for order to reign, before Ser Westerling’s command that the panicking throng disperse to make way for the royal family to exit the hall. 

The moment they had been hurried into the sweeping foyer, the Lord Commander had instructed the royals taken back to their separate rooms and Maesters called to attend her father, whose insistence against the idea had already begun, alleviating any true fears in Rhaenyra’s mind for his immediate health. 

Rhaenyra had turned back slightly as she was half-dragged away across the stone floor toward the wing of her chambers, meeting her uncles gaze, his dark glare at her retreating form almost rendering his eyes an unreadable inky black. 

Returning to the present, she sighed slightly, lips half submerged in the water of her tub, sending a shower of bubbles to the surface. 

Abandoning the pretence of escaping the thoughts thrumming through her mind, she allowed her anger to rise within her. 

Her first sunset with her rogue of an uncle back in Kings Landing was both as, and nothing as, she had expected. 

He had arrived with all the arrogance that she would expect of a Targaryen Prince returning from war, utterly indifferent to usual custom or manner, taking liberties with his demands as well as his hands. 

She could still feel, to her frustration with herself, how slick the area between her thighs remained from his touch beneath the table during the disastrous feast. Her uncle had barely spoken more than a few words to her directly, yet he had touched and tasted the forbidden place she had never even dared explore with her own fingers under the cover of darkness. 

He clearly thought her body his right, as he thought it his right to declare they would be wed within a single moon, barely bothering with the pretence of courting her.  

Her bitterness began to prickle beneath her eyelids and she clenched her jaw to prevent herself from allowing tears to spill. 

Even in her youth, Rhaenyra had not ever expected a marriage for love. 

She had no fantasies that she would be wed for a love match, she had always known that her station would demand a marriage of political alliance, of duty. 

Since learning that her fate that would see her wed her uncle, and most notably after reading the letter penned to her father and sent before his return, she had held no false romantic dreams. 

However, perhaps, she would have made peace with her impending reality more easily had he seemed inclined to at least pretend that she deserved to be courted, spoken about with some semblance respect, consulted with about how and where her own wedding would take place. 

Clearly, in her uncles mind, she was little more than an vessel through which to produce Valyrian heirs, taunt for his own amusement, and vex his elder brother. 

Still, irritatingly, Rhaenyra couldn’t help but wonder where her uncle was at that moment, having wrecked his havoc within the Keep for the day, Alicent’s earlier allusion to the Street of Silk ringing in her ears. 

Unbidden, images of the Prince intertwined with one or more beautiful whores on the bawdy street of pleasure sprang into her minds eye. She knew of his reputation, she had seen first hand the eyes filled with desire that had followed him since his arrival. 

More like than not, she was the furthest thing from his mind as he celebrated his return to the city, while she could not shake him an inch from her own thoughts.

Trying to banish her despair, pathetic, Rhaenyra squeezed her eyes closed, sliding down even further so that her nose barely remained above the water level, as deep as she could be without losing the ability to breathe. 

“Surely that water must be as cold as the ice beyond the wall by now, zaldritsos.” 

Rhaenyra’s eyes flew open, her rear bumping backward painfully into the wall of the tub, a cry of shock muffled by the water. 

There, leaning casually against the lattice room divider that separated her sleeping chamber from the area set for her to bathe, none other than the uncle in question stood, arms folded as he watched her calmly. 

“What in the seven hells are you doing in here!” Rhaenyra demanded, trying to regain her composure, flushing furiously at her barely concealed nudity. 

“I have been waiting on the other side of the door for some time, I was starting to wonder if you had drowned, byka dārilaros.” Daemon smirked in amusement, little princess he had called her, not moving an inch at her words. 

“As you can see, I have not!” 

“Kessa, nyke kostagon ūndegon.” Her uncle replied smoothly, as his smirk turned to a grin. 

Yes, I can see. 

“I shall ask again, what are you doing in here?” Rhaenyra hissed, denying him the intimacy of replying in their shared mother tongue, her temper surging hot within her at his blatant enjoyment at her compromising position. “As you can see, this is hardly the time for me to be receiving visitors!” 

“Se skoro syt daor? īlon aderī nykeā tistākēlio.” And why not? We shall soon share a chamber. 

“How did you get past my guard?!” She did not dignify his words with an answer, wrong-footed. However, Rhaenyra was suddenly aware that she had heard no scuffle, no shouts of protest from Ser Cole. 

Surely, he would not have simply allowed her uncle entry, to slip through the door to her rooms unchallenged and unannounced during the hour of the bat. 

Her uncle straightened from his position and walked toward her, a glint in his violet eyes. Rhaenyra’s heart began to pound, eyes flicking down to the water, confirming that it’s opacity from the scented oils and floral petals did in fact provide some cover to her bareness, however hardly enough. 

Once stood over her, Daemon extended a hand as though to assist her in rising from the tub where she lay.

“I will show you.” He murmured in a low voice, making no attempt to hide his eyes roaming across the view of her form that he was afforded. “Ao vaoresagon nyke hēnkirī ao?” 

Unless you prefer I join you. 

Rhaenyra scowled at him. 

“Wait on the other side of the divider while I dress.” 

Her uncle grinned again, but, allowing a small mercy, sauntered away from her and disappeared behind the latticed wall. 

With her heart still beating as though determined to break free from her rib cage, Rhaenyra slipped from the tub quickly, and with trembling fingers secured the sleeping robe left by her maids around her waist. 

Summoning the courage within her, she marched into the space of her sleeping chamber, currently occupied by her uncle who lay with an infuriating casualness atop her bed, propped up by pillows with his fingers laced lazily across the middle of his chest.

They locked eyes for a minute, perhaps two, neither speaking. 

“So?” Rhaenyra demanded eventually, unnerved but desiring to regain some control over the situation she was wholly unprepared to find herself in. 

“Your father never told you of the secret passageways that Maegor built through the Red Keep? I admit I found myself surprised he would not have his own daughter’s sealed off, or guarded, at the very least. Convenient, but an oversight to be sure.” 

Rhaenyra stared at him in ill disguised shock. Daemon pointed to a panel in the wall of her chamber and she swiftly crossed the room to confirm his words with a gentle push of her hands. 

Seven fucking hells. 

Rhaenyra considered her father like did not know of Maegor’s passageways, or at least not of the existence of this one. She vaguely lamented her lateness in discovering it herself, wondering how many more hours she may have passed with Syrax over the years with the ability to slip from the Keep without permission and escorts. 

Turning back to her uncle, she crossed her arms over her chest which she recognised was much more visibly outlined in her silk robe than it would normally be in her heavy gowns. 

“Well. That does not explain why you decided to utilise your intimate knowledge of the underbelly of the Keep to enter my chamber uninvited this evening.” She shot toward him haughtily. “I have asked twice already, and will ask once again, what are you doing here?” 

Daemon swung his long legs over the edge of her bed at that, with the smirk that had already become antagonisingly familiar to her over the course of a single day. 

“Iksis ziry pirta naejot jaelagon naejot emagon ao naejot nykēla syt iā tȳne va se tubis hen ñuha arlī?” He asked, beginning to advance toward her. Is it wrong to wish to have you to myself for a moment on the day of my return? 

Rhaenyra took an automatic step backward. 

“Iksan daor ao skoros iksis paktot iā pirta.” She snapped back, failing in her attempt to keep her voice steady, High Valyrian running off her tongue before she could prevent it. 

I am not sure you care what is right or wrong. 

Her uncle chuckled quietly, before his eyes darkened and he pressed toward her, following her retreat until she felt the wood of the ornately carved wall biting against her back. 

“Iksā paktot nūmāzma bona, skori ziry māzigon naejot ao.” He whispered, towering over her, their bodies flush as he gripped her chin between his fingers, forcing her face upward. 

You are right about that, when it comes to you.