Chapter Text
( Visenya Pov)
The bells of Septa rang clear and bright, their deep toll echoing across the sea. The morning had flown past in a haze of rushing hands, whispers, and prayers, but now—at last—it was time. My heart thundered in my chest as the great doors of the hall opened, and sunlight spilled across the floor like molten gold.
My father, King Viserys, stood at my side. He looked older than I remembered from my childhood, his eyes heavy with the weight of years and rule, but when his gaze fell upon me, they softened. “You look radiant, my sweet girl,” he whispered, his voice cracking slightly, as though he were trying not to betray how moved he was.
I smiled nervously, clutching the silk of my gown. “You will not cry, Father,” I teased, though my throat was tight with emotion.
“Ah, but I just might,” he murmured, his arm steadying me as the music began.
The aisle stretched long before me, lined with noble houses, banners of red, black, and silver fluttering overhead.
The torches flickered, casting a soft glow over the faces that watched me—some smiling warmly, others whispering in hushed tones.
I felt their stares, their judgment, their awe. The dragon princess wed to the rogue prince. A union that was both scandal and destiny.
I focused on the end of the path, where Daemon stood waiting. My breath caught. He was magnificent—clad in deep black with crimson embroidery, a dragon wrought in silver clasp at his chest.
His silver hair shimmered like starlight, his violet eyes burning with an intensity that made my skin prickle. His smirk was faint, but there, as though he was reminding me without words: You are mine now.
The music swelled, and I took my first step. My father’s arm was strong and steady, guiding me forward, though every heartbeat felt like an eternity. My hands trembled against the silk of my dress, but when Daemon’s eyes met mine, it steadied me. He never looked away.
When at last we reached him, my father stopped. For a moment, he simply gazed at me, his daughter grown and a bride, and I saw the tears welling in his eyes.
He pressed a kiss to my forehead, lingering there. His breath was warm against my skin, and I heard him murmur, “Be happy, Visenya. And do not forget—you are loved.”
My throat burned, but I nodded faintly, blinking back tears. Then, with a solemn weight, he placed my hand into Daemon’s.
Daemon’s grip closed over mine immediately, possessive, steady, warm. His smirk grew faintly at the corners, a look only I could understand. My father turned, stepping back, his crown gleaming in the torchlight as he rejoined the gathered company.
Daemon drew me forward, before the Septon and the altar of the Seven. The air smelled of incense and smoke, sweet but heavy. The Septon’s voice rose, chanting the words of the Faith, binding us before gods and men.
My head bowed slightly, my lips moving with the vows, though my mind was caught between the thundering of my heart and the heat of Daemon’s hand enclosing mine.
Yet it was not only the Seven who bore witness. Behind the Septon, braziers had been lit with coiling smoke, Valyrian runes etched upon the stone in silver.
Old Valyria watched as well. The words of my ancestors were spoken, deep and sonorous, carrying the weight of fire and blood. The flames flickered high as if stirred by unseen wings, and I felt the breath of something older, greater, coil around me like a dragon unseen.
We exchanged our vows twice—once in the language of the Seven, once in the tongue of Old Valyria.
My lips shaped the ancient words with trembling reverence, Daemon’s voice answering mine in perfect, confident cadence. His hand tightened around mine as though sealing me to him with every syllable.
When it was done, the Septon lifted his hands. “You are wed, in the sight of gods and men. Let no one sunder what has been joined.”
Daemon did not wait. He drew me close, his hand at my waist, and pressed his lips to mine.
The kiss was deep, fierce, and claiming, as though the ceremony had only given him permission to take what he had already decided was his. Gasps rippled through the hall, but I felt only the heat of him, the fire in his kiss, the dizzying rush of knowing there was no turning back.
The bells rang again, louder, triumphant. Firelight gleamed upon our hair, red and silver tangled together, as Daemon lifted his head from the kiss and whispered, just for me: “Now you are mine, little dragon. Mine, for fire and blood, until the world ends.”
And though my heart still raced, though my hands still trembled, I smiled.
Because I knew I was his—and he was mine.
The feast began with music and laughter echoing through the hall, though my ears were too full of my own heartbeat to care for the sound of harps or pipes.
Father rose to his feet, chalice in hand, his voice booming as he launched into his speech.
I tried to listen—truly, I did—but the words blurred into one another, the weight of them too heavy and too ceremonial. Instead, my attention wandered to the man beside me.
Daemon. My husband now. His presence was like a flame at my side, warm and dangerous, and I could not keep myself from leaning just slightly toward him.
To keep myself from fidgeting beneath the gazes of the lords and ladies, I reached for his hand under the table, my fingers tangling with his. He allowed it, of course, though I caught the faintest twitch at the corner of his lips, that insufferable smirk of his. He always knew when I was restless.
I traced the lines of his knuckles with the tip of my thumb, then dared more. Slowly, I lifted his hand into my lap, shielding it with the folds of my gown, and nibbled softly on one of his fingers. A small bite, then another. Like a secret between us in a room full of people.
Daemon’s smirk widened, his eyes flicking to me with dark amusement, as though daring me to continue.
He did not withdraw his hand, nor chastise me. He only let me tease and taste, the barest squeeze of his fingers betraying how very much he enjoyed my little rebellion.
Father droned on still, speaking of alliances, unity, and the strength of House Targaryen. His voice seemed distant compared to the thrill of having Daemon’s skin against my lips.
Across the table, I noticed Aemma seated between Rhaenyra and Jacaerys. My sister’s face was lit with an unguarded smile, the kind she reserved for those she liked most.
Jacaerys leaned in, whispering something I could not hear. Whatever it was, it made Aemma giggle, a soft, girlish sound quickly muffled behind her hand.
Rhaenyra frowned at them, though her lips betrayed her with the curve of a smile. “Shush,” she told them firmly, but her tone held no real edge. She was pleased to see them happy, and it showed.
Further down the table, Helaena sat beside Mother, who in turn sat close to Rhaenyra. Helaena’s dreamy gaze was fixed on the dancing flames of the torches, her lips moving soundlessly as if whispering secrets only the fire could hear.
Mother’s hands were folded neatly in her lap, her expression serene though her eyes watched everything—always watchful, always weighing.
I turned my head back toward Daemon, and he caught me staring. His hand shifted, his fingers brushing deliberately along the inside of my wrist before he reclaimed his chalice with maddening calm, as if nothing had passed between us.
Father was still speaking, gods help me.
So I slipped my hand back under the table, daring once more to claim his fingers, daring once more to remind him that no matter what grand words were spoken around us, I belonged to him now, and he to me.
(Helaena’s first pov)
After Father finished his speech—his voice droning like the dull hum of bees in a hive—Daemon rose from his seat with a feline grace. He bowed with a flourish and extended his hand to Visenya. “Would my lady niece do me the honor of a dance?”
Visenya’s laughter was bright, sharp like a blade unsheathed. “Of course, uncle!” she declared, and took his hand. They swept into the center of the hall, moving with practiced boldness, Visenya’s silver skirts flaring as if they were set aflame.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Aemma tugging at Jacaerys’s sleeve, whispering something that made him chuckle.
They too joined the dance floor, Aemma’s giggles spilling into the music like soft bells. Rhaenyra hushed them fondly, but she was smiling all the same, her eyes alight in the candle glow.
I remained still, my hands folded neatly upon my lap, watching the shifting colors of gowns and banners blur together as the lords and ladies took their steps. The music was sweet, yet I did not rise. I felt the weight of eyes, unseen but ever there—specters whose presence lingered like cobwebs upon my shoulders.
Then, a voice cut through. Warm, steady. “May I have this dance, princess?”
I lifted my gaze to find Malachi, bowing before me, his hand outstretched. His smile was uncertain, though his eyes glimmered with something that made the world tilt softer around me.
A rare smile curled my lips. “Why, you may,” I answered, laying my hand in his. His palm was warm, real, anchoring. He helped me rise, and together we stepped into the swirl of music.
As we moved, I felt them. The Conquerors. They never left me long. Their shadows drifted at the edges of the hall, unseen by all but me.
Aegon the Conqueror leaned lazily against a pillar, his smirk broad and taunting. “Careful, little dreamer,” he called, voice curling like smoke. “You’ll trip over your feet, and all shall laugh.”
Rhaenys, his sister-wife, laughed brightly beside him, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “Oh, let her be, brother. Look how red her cheeks turn! She’s sweeter than she knows.”
I lowered my head, trying to hide the flush in my face, though Malachi only tightened his hold and guided me with gentle patience.
But it was Visenya—the warrior queen—who held my gaze. She was not smirking nor laughing. She stood like a blade in human form, her arms crossed, her dark stare fixed upon Daemon as he spun my namesake, his hands possessive upon her waist.
Her mouth was a thin, cruel line. “Fool girl,” she hissed, but whether she spoke to Visenya dancing or to me, I could not tell.
I faltered a step, but Malachi steadied me for a fleeting heartbeat, I did.
The music swelled, laughter and chatter ringing through the hall, but all I heard were whispers—half in the world of the living, half in the world of the dead.
(Aemma Pov)
I let Jacaerys twirl me once before I leaned closer, my voice lowering so only he could hear above the music and chatter of the hall.
“Do you want to go to Flea Bottom with me?” I asked, my eyes glittering with mischief.
He blinked, clearly surprised. “Flea Bottom? Tonight?”
I nodded, smiling. “The orphans… I want to bring them food, see how they fare. I’ve not been since we came to court. I miss them.”
Jacaerys tilted his head, the faintest of grins pulling at his lips. “Always sneaking off to feed half of King’s Landing, cousin. But… aye. I’ll come with you.”
We slipped away from the dancing and laughter, careful not to draw attention. The corridors of the Red Keep seemed darker at night, the torches burning low as we hurried to my chamber. Once inside, I pulled open a chest and tossed him a plain woolen tunic. “Change,” I said, already tugging at the laces of my gown.
He raised a brow at me, amused. “You’ve thought this through, haven’t you?”
“Of course,” I teased, pulling on a faded cloak, the hood shadowing my silver hair. “We’ll never pass for smallfolk in silks and velvet.”
Once dressed, we gathered the baskets of food—bread, cheese, dried fish, apples—four in all. The weight of them bit into my arms, but I held them close, determined. Jacaerys took two from me, shaking his head with a laugh. “You’ll drop them before we reach the gates.”
“I would not,” I protested, though I gave him one with a grin.
The night air was cool when we slipped past the outer walls. The city was alive even under the moon, with lanterns glowing in the taverns and laughter spilling into the crooked streets. Flea Bottom smelled of smoke and roasting meat, but also of mud and worse. Yet to me, it always felt alive—real in a way the Red Keep never did.
As we wound our way through the alleys, Jacaerys glanced at me sidelong. “When was the last time you came here? Truly. You’ve been with us at Driftmark more often than King’s Landing.”
I looked at him, lips curving into a soft smile. “Last week.”
He stopped for a heartbeat, staring at me. “Last week?” His laugh was incredulous. “And you never said a word?”
“Would you have let me?” I countered gently, tilting my head.
He shook his head, but his grin was warm, admiring almost. “You’re braver than I thought, Aemma. Or madder.”
I only laughed, shifting the basket in my arms. “Perhaps both. But come—there are children waiting, and they will be happier for full bellies than clever words.”
Together, we walked deeper into the heart of Flea Bottom, cloaks drawn close, the baskets heavy but our steps light.
---
We finally arrived at Maelin’s small but tidy home, tucked into the crooked lane where the stones seemed older than the Red Keep itself. I raised my hand and knocked gently, the baskets on my arm weighing heavy but filling me with excitement. The door creaked open, and there she was—Maelin, her kind eyes crinkling into a smile the moment she saw us.
“Aemma! Jace! It’s good to see you again,” she greeted warmly, pulling both of us into a hug that smelled faintly of woodsmoke and fresh bread.
I smiled wide, lifting the two baskets in my hands. “We brought baskets of food,” I exclaimed proudly, almost like a child showing off a prize. Beside me, Jacaerys hefted his baskets as well, a grin tugging at his lips.
Maelin shook her head, though her eyes glistened with gratitude. “You two need to stop bringing us this much food. I swear, one day you’ll empty the royal kitchens just for us.”
I laughed softly, pressing the baskets closer into her hands. “You and the children need it more than we do,” I insisted. “It would only go to waste if left in those grand halls. Here, it can fill bellies and bring smiles.”
Jace nodded firmly in agreement, his voice gentle. “It’s nothing compared to what you give to them every day.”
We stepped inside, and before I could even catch my breath, a whirlwind came darting through the narrow corridor.
Little Mari, with her tangled hair and wide grin, threw herself into my arms. “Aemma! I missed you!” she cried, clinging to my waist with surprising strength.
I laughed, heart swelling, and bent down to kiss the top of her head. “I missed you too, my little bird.”
Jace, ever the helpful one, took the baskets from me and carried them into the kitchen where Maelin’s eldest, Catherine, hurried to help him unpack.
Meanwhile, the others came tumbling out of their corners like chicks to a mother hen. Bran was first, followed by mischievous Garth and shy Rose. Ella, sweet as ever, grabbed onto my sleeve, tugging me toward the small hearth.
Then came Joseph and Lily, their hands sticky with whatever fruit they had been nibbling, both demanding I sit down and tell them a story. Even baby Angel and baby Mannis were squirming in their makeshift cradle, their coos filling the room like music.
And Jacob—the youngest boy able to walk—ran straight to me, his tiny arms outstretched as he squealed my name. I knelt and scooped him up, spinning him in the air until his laughter rang through the room.
Within moments, I was on the floor surrounded by children, little hands tugging at my hair, my sleeves, asking questions all at once. Rose wanted to show me the ragdoll she had stitched herself.
Bran was eager to tell me about the fight he won with a boy twice his size. Ella asked if I’d braid her hair like I did last time, while Joseph and Lily argued about whose turn it was to sit on my lap.
I let their chatter wash over me, my smile stretching until my cheeks ached. These children, these bright souls in such a dim corner of the city, made me feel lighter than I ever did at court.
Here, I wasn’t a princess or a pawn in someone else’s game—I was just Aemma, the girl they loved because I loved them first.
And as I glanced up, I caught Jace watching me from the doorway, his arms folded, his smile soft. For a moment, the clamor of the children seemed to fade, and all I saw was him, his eyes filled with quiet admiration.
When Jacaerys was putting away the food, I caught him glancing back at us. His hands were still busy, placing loaves of bread neatly on the shelves and stacking jars in their proper places, but his eyes softened when they landed on me and the children.
A little smile tugged at his lips—quiet, tender, almost unguarded in a way that made my heart warm. I felt my cheeks flush without meaning to, and when I turned my head to meet his gaze, I couldn’t help smiling back.
Mari had her arms looped around my waist, tugging me down so she could whisper secrets in my ear, while little Jacob tried clambering into my lap with stubborn determination.
Rose and Ella were laughing as they pretended to braid my hair with strands of flowers, their giggles echoing through the small room. Catherine and Lily were drawing pictures in the dust on the floor, while baby Angel fussed until I reached out to rock her in my arms. It was chaos, but the sort of chaos that filled me with joy.
When Jace finally finished in the kitchen, he dusted his hands together and walked over. “Seems I’m missing all the fun,” he teased, crouching down beside me. Immediately, the children swarmed him as if he were one of their own—Bran leaping onto his back with a triumphant shout, Garth handing him a wooden toy sword, daring him into play.
I laughed as Jace staggered dramatically beneath their weight, pretending he could hardly keep upright. “The mighty prince felled by a single blow!” he cried, collapsing gently onto the floor, much to the delight of the little ones. Their laughter filled the room, bright and carefree, and I felt something deep in my chest stir—a sense of belonging I hadn’t known I needed.
Watching him there, surrounded by their small hands and bright eyes, I thought he had never looked more at home.
The sound of laughter filled Maelin’s modest home, warm and bright like sunlight spilling through the cracks of the shutters. I found myself on the floor surrounded by little hands tugging at my sleeves, voices calling my name, and the clatter of toys and wooden blocks echoing about.
Mari was in my lap, her soft curls tickling my chin as she giggled, while Rose and Ella fought playfully for my attention. Catherine leaned against my shoulder, humming a little tune, while the littlest ones toddled about or gurgled in their cradles. My heart ached in the sweetest of ways.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of Jacaerys carrying the baskets into the kitchen. His shoulders looked broader these days, his movements strong and steady, like he was growing into the man he was meant to become.
When he turned and his gaze fell upon me sitting in the chaos of children, his lips curved into a smile so tender it made my chest tighten. I couldn’t help but return it, warmth blooming between us with nothing spoken at all.
When he returned, the children swarmed him eagerly, tugging at his arms, begging for games. He didn’t hesitate—never did. He scooped Bran up and spun him around, making the boy squeal with joy. Little Mari climbed onto his back, declaring him a dragon to ride. Jace laughed, his deepening voice ringing rich through the small room. He was so natural with them, as though he’d been born to it.
I watched him closely as he knelt down to help Garth and Joseph build a tower of blocks, his long fingers gentle and careful with the fragile structure. He spoke softly to them, patient when they grew frustrated, encouraging when they grew shy. My heart swelled painfully at the sight.
I imagined him in a few years’ time, his arms around our own children. Dark-haired little ones with his smile, perhaps a daughter with my eyes, or a boy who clung to his leg as these children clung to mine. I pictured myself in our own hearth-warmed home, rocking a babe while he played on the floor with the others, his laughter filling the air just as it did now.
The thought both thrilled and frightened me. We were still so young, and the world we lived in was cruel and uncertain. Yet, watching him there, with Mari giggling on his shoulders and Joseph clutching his hand, I knew in my bones that Jace would be a good father. Perhaps the best father.
The children loved him as much as they loved me, maybe even more, for he had a way of making each one feel seen, valued, cherished. He looked so alive here, among the small joys of life, rather than in the shadows of duty and war that loomed over us all.
And deep inside, a quiet yearning stirred within me—one I dared not voice aloud. The yearning to make this vision of family not just a dream, but a truth. To give Jacaerys this kind of happiness, and to share it with him.
I bit my lip, trying to push the thought away as Ella tugged at my sleeve, begging me to braid her hair. But even as I laughed and obliged, my eyes flickered back to Jace, and the smile he gave me told me he was thinking the same thing.