Chapter Text
(Visenya’s POV)
Maegor was latched onto my breast, warm and heavy against me, when Daemon barged into our chambers like a storm with legs. He always entered like he owned every room he stepped into — even the ones I had explicitly told him not to disturb.
He had a letter in his hand and that insufferable half-smirk on his face.
He leaned down first to kiss Maegor’s head, then kissed my cheek, before dropping himself lazily beside me like a satisfied dragon stretching its wings.
“Visenya,” he announced dramatically, waving the letter, “we’ve received a wedding invitation.”
I blinked. “To whose wedding?”
“Aemma and Jacaerys," he said, clearly amused. "In one year’s time.”
I stared. For a moment, all I could do was blink at him.
“I thought Father wanted them to wait three more years,” I muttered.
Daemon shrugged. “Rhaenyra convinced him otherwise. And from what I heard that Jacaerys practically begged.” His smirk widened. “Your sister is in love. Poor girl.”
I rolled my eyes, but warmth tugged at my heart. Aemma deserved something good.
“When is the wedding?” I asked, adjusting Maegor slightly.
“A year, so Maegor is old enough to travel by ship,” Daemon said. “We can suffer the sea together.”
I smiled, looking down at the tiny little face nursing peacefully. “My handsome son…” I whispered.
Daemon leaned close, peeking proudly. “Our legacy.”
Then suddenly, without warning, something irrational bubbled inside me — maybe the hormones, maybe Daemon’s smugness, maybe both.
“I love him,” I declared. “So much.” Then I scowled. “But why does he have to look like you?”
Daemon blinked, confused. “That’s… good, is it not?”
“No!” I snapped. “Why couldn’t he look like me?! Why must he smirk like you? Why must he have your hairline? Why must he glare at people like he’s already judging them?”
Daemon burst into laughter. “Visenya—he is three months old! He barely sees past his own hand!”
“He clearly looks like you,” I insisted. “This is your fault.”
“My fault?” Daemon pressed a hand to his chest, like a martyr. “I’m flattered my blood is so strong.”
“Oh shut up,” I muttered.
Maegor suddenly released my breast with a loud, wet pop, then immediately burst into furious crying.
Daemon instantly scooped him up, bouncing him on his shoulder in a rhythm I had trained him into.
He patted Maegor’s back awkwardly — but gently — while making soft, ridiculous sounds only a man who thought he was intimidating would dare to make.
“There, there, little terror,” Daemon murmured. “Try not to scream holes through your mother’s ears.”
I sighed and adjusted my nightgown, leaning into his side.
The sight of him holding Maegor — confident, protective, tender — still softened something deep inside me.
Daemon’s cheek brushed my hair as he rocked our son.
“I love you, you know,” he said quietly.
I snorted. “You love my breasts more.”
“That too,” he agreed immediately.
I flicked his arm, but he only grinned harder.
“Our son is perfect,” he whispered into Maegor’s hair. “And he’ll grow into a troublemaker, just like me.”
“That,” I said smugly, “is exactly why it’s your fault he looks like you.”
Daemon pressed a kiss to my shoulder. “And if he grows into a force of nature,” he murmured, voice dropping lower, “that will be your fault.”
I pretended to scoff, but my cheeks warmed.
Maegor’s cries softened into little hiccups, his tiny fists gripping Daemon’s tunic like he already owned his father’s heart.
Daemon looked at him proudly… then looked at me with heat swirling behind his eyes.
“You know,” he said slowly, “if you want a daughter next—”
I threw a pillow at his face.
---
It took nearly three months for me to finally wear Daemon down. Three months of arguing. Three months of saying, “He is our son, not a fragile glass ornament.”
And three months of Daemon insisting, “Dragons are unpredictable, woman—especially around hatchlings.”
But finally, today, with Maegor bundled securely against my chest, I walked down into the Dragonpit with Daemon trailing anxiously behind me like a mother hen.
The air was warm and thick with the scent of ash and old fire.
Shadows shifted far in the darkness as two ancient beasts stirred.
Vhagar.
And Vermithor.
Two living mountains of scale and flame.
My heart fluttered with excitement as Vhagar lowered her enormous, time-worn head toward me. Vermithor rumbled beside her, sparks drifting from his nostrils like glittering embers.
I bowed my head slightly — a gesture of respect — and spoke in High Valyrian.
“Rytsas, Vhagar. Rytsas, Vermithor. Issa nykeā ābrar jēda syt ao.”
(Hello, Vhagar. Hello, Vermithor. I have someone I want you to meet.)
Maegor squirmed lightly in my arms, making a soft cooing noise as he stared at the massive shadows before him.
I lifted him a little higher so the dragons could catch his scent.
The reaction was immediate.
Vhagar inhaled deeply, her nostrils flaring, taking in the tiny, smoky fragrance of my newborn son.
Vermithor rumbled, shifting closer, eyes glowing like molten bronze.
They liked him.
A warm swell of pride filled my chest.
“They accept him,” I whispered over my shoulder.
But then—
Vhagar’s giant head swerved sharply past me…
…past Maegor…
…and fixed directly on Daemon.
Her pupils narrowed.
Her lips pulled back.
A low, ancient growl rumbled like thunder rolling through stone.
Daemon froze.
“Ah,” he said stiffly. “She remembers.”
Of course she did.
Vhagar had bonded with Laena Velaryon—the only rider she ever truly let close in her old age.
And Daemon—
Daemon had loved Laena, fathered daughters with her…
and then, after her death, he married me.
I glanced back at him, unable to resist the smirk tugging my lips.
“Well,” I said in High Valyrian so Vhagar could understand, “īlon gūrēñagon ziry. (She likely hates you because…)”
Daemon shot me a warning glare.
No use. I continued sweetly:
“Because you married Laena, who was her rider. And only a few months after Laena’s death… you decided to bed me and wed me.”
Vhagar let out a deeper, sharper growl.
Daemon immediately took three steps back.
“Visenya,” he muttered. “Perhaps you shouldn’t announce that so clearly.”
Vermithor chuffed loudly, as if laughing at him.
“You two are very unhelpful,” Daemon snapped at the dragons.
Vhagar’s growl deepened.
Daemon bolted another two steps back.
I couldn’t help it — I laughed.
Loudly.
“Do not laugh!” he hissed. “She’s older than the Conquest itself—she holds grudges longer than kingdoms last!”
I stroked Vhagar’s enormous snout soothingly, speaking softly.
“Kesīr, Vhagar… ziry iksā Daemon. Udralagon daor.” (Peace, Vhagar… it is only Daemon. Do not roast him.)
Daemon sputtered. “Only?!”
Vermithor nudged me gently, snorting warm air over Maegor, who giggled.
Daemon’s eyes softened at that—just a little.
But Vhagar’s stare remained fixed and judging.
Finally, Daemon said, voice slightly strained, “I think that is enough bonding for today.”
I sighed. “Daemon, she is not going to eat you.”
“That,” he said firmly, “is not a risk I intend to test.”
I rolled my eyes and kissed Maegor’s forehead.
“All right. We will go.”
As we turned to leave, Vhagar huffed one last irritated growl at Daemon’s back.
Daemon flinched.
I smirked.
“Stop enjoying this,” he muttered at me.
“I will enjoy it for the rest of my life,” I replied sweetly.
---
A month later, the loud, shrill roar of Moondancer echoed across the Red Keep, rattling the windowpanes. I stiffened, recognizing Baela’s dragon immediately. Daemon groaned beside me, face buried in the pillows.
“We are busy,” he muttered, voice rough.
“We were,” I corrected, already reaching for my robe. “Past tense.”
Daemon dragged a hand down his face dramatically. “She always arrives at the worst possible time.”
“Your daughter,” I said as I tied my robe. “Take it up with yourself.”
Daemon scowled, but he got up anyway, grumbling as he searched the floor for clothing scattered from our… earlier activities.
Minutes later we stepped out of our chambers, slightly disheveled but pretending otherwise. The servants avoided eye contact — wisely.
We went down the stairs, and the moment I saw Baela’s silver hair and Rhaena’s bright smile, my entire chest warmed.
“Baela! Rhaena!” I called, nearly rushing the last steps. “Oh, how I missed you!”
Baela arched a brow with a smirk far too reminiscent of her father. “Missed us? You mean you missed someone to complain to about Daemon?”
I swept her into a hug anyway. “Daemon has been insufferable. I blame marriage.”
Daemon crossed his arms, posture offended. “I am a delight.”
“No, you are not,” all three of us said in unison.
Baela shoved her father’s shoulder as she walked past him. “Why do you think we live with Grandfather and Grandmother? Peace, quiet—less Daemon.”
Rhaena burst into soft giggles and wrapped her arms around me, hugging me tightly.
Gods, she had grown — gentler than her sister, but with a fire blooming behind those violet eyes.
“How is Maegor?” she asked breathlessly.
Just his name softened my heart. “Restless,” I admitted. “Just like his father. He’s been trying to walk before he can crawl.”
Rhaena clapped her hands excitedly. “Already?”
Daemon smirked. “My son.”
Baela rolled her eyes. “Yes, yes, we know, you’ve bred true.”
I elbowed her playfully. “He’s stubborn. Loud. Always hungry. Truly a miniature Daemon.”
Daemon preened like a peacock. “You’re welcome.”
“You’re impossible,” Baela muttered.
“And you missed me,” Daemon said.
“Unfortunately,” Baela replied.
Rhaena looked up at me with hopeful eyes. “May we see Maegor?”
“Of course!” I said. “Come inside, both of you. Get settled in your rooms first — you’ve been riding all morning.”
Baela immediately launched into a complaint about Moondancer being moody. Rhaena laughed and teased her about spoiling the dragon.
I led them inside, Daemon trailing behind us with that faint, satisfied smile he tried to hide — the smile he only wore when his daughters were home.
The corridor filled with our voices — laughter, teasing, warmth.
For the first time in weeks, the Keep felt full again. Alive.
And as Baela looped her arm through mine and Rhaena chattered beside us, I thought:
This… this was the family I always wanted.
---
With Baela and Rhaena around, I finally had more time to get rid of the baby weight.
The girls were staying for a week or two before returning to Driftmark, and ever since they arrived, they had practically stolen Maegor from me, carrying him everywhere like he was the Driftmark heir instead of mine.
At the moment, I could hear them giggling from inside the nursery — Maegor’s squeals and Baela’s dramatic baby voices echoing through the hallway.
Good.
They were distracted.
Which meant I had dragged Daemon outside to train.
He circled me like I was prey he’d grown fond enough of to toy with.
“Your stance is sloppy,” he taunted.
“I gave birth four months ago,” I snapped back.
Daemon countered with a wicked grin. “Come—again.”
His sword struck mine with a ringing clash, each hit forcing me back step by step. My muscles burned, sweat dampened my hairline, and Daemon looked infuriatingly fresh — not even breathing hard.
He feinted left, spun right, and before I even processed the movement, I hit the ground with a soft but humiliating thud.
His sword hovered at my throat.
Daemon’s smirk hovered even closer.
I glared up at him. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re slow,” he replied.
“Say that again,” I hissed.
“I’d rather show you.”
He sheathed his sword and extended a hand.
For a heartbeat, I thought he would pull me up normally.
Idiot.
This was Daemon Targaryen.
He grabbed my wrist, yanked me upright, and in the same motion —threw me over his shoulder like a sack of grain.
“Daemon! Put me down!” I shrieked, pounding his back with my fists.
“No,” he said simply.
“I'm sweaty—”
“Good.”
“Daemon, I swear—!”
He slapped my ass, just to be a menace. “If you wanted a gentler sparring partner, you should have married Larys Strong.”
“I AM GOING TO STAB YOU—”
He kicked open our chamber door, carried me straight inside, and tossed me onto the bed so aggressively the mattress bounced.
What followed was…
well.
Enough to ensure I could not walk properly for two days.
And of course, the worst part wasn’t the soreness.
It was Baela.
The next afternoon, she passed me in the hallway, Maegor in her arms, and said with a grin sharp enough to cut steel:
“Step mother, why are you walking like you rode a dragon?”
I turned red instantly. “BAELA!”
Rhaena poked her head out behind her, whispering, “She meant fought, not rode—”
“RHAENA!”
Daemon strutted past us, smug as a peacock, and kissed my cheek.
“She’s just recovering from training,” he lied smoothly.
---
Baela rolled her eyes. “If that’s what we’re calling it now.”
I threw a slipper at her.
She dodged.
Of course she dodged.
Daemon laughed like this was the best day of his life.
---
Maegor nursed lazily at my breast, one tiny hand gripping the lace of my gown like he owned it — and me. Baela and Rhaena sat with me on the balcony, both pretending not to stare every time Maegor made a soft coo or hiccup.
Baela finally broke. “He looks like you… and father… and a very angry kitten,” she said.
Rhaena elbowed her. “He’s adorable. Stop being rude.”
I smirked, brushing Maegor’s cheek. “He’s perfect. And dramatic. So yes — very much a Targaryen.”
Baela laughed. “Especially dramatic. Look, he already glares like Father.”
I snorted. “Unfortunately.”
We all settled more comfortably, and I asked the question that had been scratching at my mind for days.
“So…” I began, patting Maegor’s back as he suckled, “how in the Seven Hells did my sister and Jacaerys end up getting married next year? Father suddenly changed his mind?”
Rhaena shrugged. “No idea. He just announced it like it was the most natural thing in the world.”
Baela leaned forward conspiratorially. “But Jace told us he asked the king personally. Begged him, actually.”
I blinked. “Begged?”
Baela grinned. “Apparently he wants to marry her as soon as humanly possible.”
My brows lifted. “He really must love my sister… wanting to marry her that quickly.”
Rhaena nodded. “He’s been following her around like a hound. It’s sweet.”
Baela added, “A little pathetic. But still sweet.”
I rolled my eyes fondly. “I’m still shocked they’re marrying in a year. That is… incredibly fast.”
Baela didn’t miss a beat..“You married Father in less than that!”
I felt my whole body freeze.
Rhaena gave her a look. “Baela—”
“What?” Baela said defensively. “It’s true! One minute they were niece and uncle, next minute—married!”
I coughed. “Absolutely not. That is not what happened.”
Baela raised a brow. “Oh? Do tell.”
I adjusted Maegor, who had fallen asleep at my breast mid-suckle, his mouth still slightly parted.
“Well,” I said, choosing every word carefully, “your father courted me for almost a year before we married.”
Almost a year.
More like five.
Five years of lingering looks and stolen touches.
Five years of him being charming, arrogant, protective, reckless, and mine long before Laena's death.
But I was certainly not telling his daughters that.
Baela looked unconvinced. “Mm-hm. Sure.”
Rhaena giggled softly.
I lifted my chin. “It’s true.”
Baela smirked. “Father said you were the cutest daughter out of Uncle Viserys's daughters.”
“He,” I corrected, “was only trying court me.”
Baela laughed so hard she nearly fell off her seat.
Rhaena sighed dreamily. “I hope I marry someone who loves me like Father loves you.”
I opened my mouth to reply — but Baela beat me to it.
“Father doesn’t love her. He worships her,” she said with a smirk.
My cheeks flushed despite myself.
Before I could come up with a retort, Maegor made a soft snuffling sound and curled closer into me.
All three of us melted.
Rhaena whispered, “He’s so precious…”
Baela leaned closer and whispered dramatically, “And absolutely a menace in training.”
I rolled my eyes — but I couldn’t help smiling.
If this little boy inherited even half of his father’s spirit, I was certainly in for a lifetime of chaos.
And love.
And fire.
---
---
(Aemma’s POV)
The days have been long, filled with lace samples, fabric swatches, and the endless clatter of servants carrying things in and out of my chambers.
Planning a wedding in the Red Keep is nothing short of overwhelming—every moment feels as if a hundred eyes are waiting for me to make a decision that will be gossiped about for moons.
I try to include Jacaerys in the choices, of course I do. He is my future husband, and it feels wrong to not at least ask him. But every time I bring him a list of options—flowers, musicians, colors—he only smiles that soft boyish smile of his and says, “Whatever you want, Aemma. I’ll love anything you choose.”
It’s sweet… too sweet. Almost frustrating. I want him to care more, to have opinions, to say something besides that. But in the end, I decide it’s kindness, not disinterest.
He trusts me. He wants me to shape the celebration in whatever way makes me happiest. Still, sometimes I ask just to hear his voice, to feel like we’re doing this together. He leans over the parchment, hums thoughtfully, then kisses my cheek and says, “Perfect.” And that’s that.
So I turn to Rhaenyra.
She helps me without hesitation—graciously, warmly. She is a queen in every room she enters, and yet she sits with me cross-legged on the floor sorting through color palettes like any ordinary sister might.
She holds up fabrics to the light, gives thoughtful suggestions, laughs with me over the absurdly large bouquets Alicent prefers for royal weddings.
We settle on a wedding cloak that feels right: the proud, blazing, three-headed dragon of House Targaryen on one side, the seahorse of House Velaryon on the other. Red, black, and deep cerulean woven together in silk and thread-of-gold. It looks like unity.
It looks like home. It looks like the future I could have never imagined for myself when I was a girl.
My mother writes to me often. Too often. At first I read the letters despite the bitterness I felt. Critiques disguised as advice, suggestions wrapped in disapproval. “Your hair would look better pinned this way.” “A smaller ceremony would be more appropriate.” “Do not let Rhaenyra overshadow you.”
On and on and on.
She never wanted this match to begin with—never wanted me tied to the Blacks, never wanted me leaving her control.
Eventually, I stopped opening her letters altogether. I simply toss them into the fire as soon as they arrive. Watching the parchment curl and blacken soothes me more than anything she writes ever could. Maybe that makes me cruel. Maybe it makes me free.
Visenya’s letter was… unexpected. Honest, blunt, exactly like her. She congratulated me, though she admitted outright that she doesn’t care much for Jacaerys.
I snorted when I read it—typical Visenya, speaking her mind even on parchment. But she ended it kindly, with a line that surprised me: “Marriage is difficult enough without wishing ill upon the bride. I hope it brings you joy.” I held onto that.
Helaena also wrote. Her letter was softer, filled with gentle wishes and little sketches of flowers along the border. She wrote about dreams—hers always come with hidden meanings—and said she prayed mine would be blooming ones. Her words made my chest warm in a way my own mother’s never did.
Sometimes, late at night, when the torches burn low and the corridors fall silent, I sit by the window with my wedding cloak draped across my lap. I trace the threads with my fingertips and wonder what my life will look like after the vows are spoken.
Will Jacaerys still smile at me like that?
Will the realm accept us?
Will I be happy?
I don’t know. But what I do know is that movement is stirring all around me—change, fate, dragons, destiny. And whether I am ready or not, I am walking straight into it.
---
Rhaenyra went into labor in the early hours of the morning, and by noon the Red Keep was buzzing like a shaken hive. Word reached even my lessons: Princess Rhaenyra has delivered a healthy boy.
When I was finally dismissed, I hurried to the corridor overlooking the sea-breeze terraces, where the midwives’ whispers floated through the air like smoke.
Laenor was grinning so wide I thought his face might split in two. He scooped the child into his arms again and again, barely able to contain himself. His fourth son—seven hells, he practically glowed.
The babe was lovely. A down of soft silver-white hair already curled at his crown like moonlit frost. His skin was a warm, gentle bronze, like the faintest kiss of summer sun. He had Rhaenyra’s nose and Laenor’s eyes—, though I’d never say this out loud, but this child looks like Laenor.
They named him Rhaeger.
A beautiful name.
A proud name.
A name that sounds like it belongs to a prince who will do great things.
I felt a flutter in my chest for him—for all of them, really. Rhaenyra looked tired but radiant, and Laenor… well, he was happier than I had ever seen him. I slipped away after a respectful moment, not wanting to crowd them.
Later that afternoon, Helaena came to visit me, gliding down the hallway with that soft, dreamy smile she always carries. She had Malachi at her side, of course. He hovered near her like a devoted shadow, eyes lingering on her with a tenderness that anyone could see. They thought they hid it well. They didn’t.
They sat with me while I embroidered the hem of a new gown. Helaena talked dreamily about Rhaeger, about the strange patterns she saw in the swirls of his silver hair, about how his cry reminded her of “mornings before storms.” I nodded along, used to her peculiar way of seeing the world. It comforts me now, in a strange way.
When she excused herself to fetch something from her chambers—some little trinket she wanted to show me—I found myself alone with Malachi.
He shifted from foot to foot, glancing toward the door Helaena disappeared through.
He truly adored her.
“So,” I said, trying to sound casual but failing miserably, “when are you going to marry her?”
His head snapped toward me, face flushing scarlet so fast it made me grin. “M-marry her?” he sputtered, rubbing at the back of his neck. “We’re betrothed already, I know, but… I only want to wed her when she wants it. I don’t want to rush her, or—or make her feel cornered.”
His voice was quiet, earnest. No hesitation. Just devotion.
I studied him for a long moment. I had wondered what he would say. Whether he wanted the match for duty, or for her.
But there it was—the truth written all over his face.
I smiled.
Warm.
Genuine.
“You passed.”
“Huh?” He blinked.
“My little test,” I said simply. “If you had said you wanted to marry her right this moment, I would’ve told you to stay far away from her. Helaena blooms slowly. You’re right not to rush her.”
Relief softened his whole posture, his shoulders dropping as if he had been holding up a castle tower.
“She’s worth waiting for,” he murmured.
“She is,” I agreed. “And so are you.”
Helaena returned a moment later clutching some carved wooden beetle, oblivious to the conversation she had missed—but Malachi kept sneaking glances at her, softer than before, as if he had just been granted permission to breathe.
And I felt strangely proud.
As if I’d helped nudge two hearts just a little closer together.
We visited later in the day—Helaena, Malachi, and me—joining the Velaryons as they made their way through the corridors toward Rhaenyra and Laenor’s chambers.
Rhaenys walked ahead with her usual commanding grace, her silver braid swinging like a banner behind her. Corlys strode beside her, proud and towering, the Sea Snake himself practically glowing at the arrival of yet another Velaryon prince.
Lucerys and Joffrey hurried ahead, eager to see their new baby brother again, nearly tripping over their own feet in their excitement. Jacaerys stayed near me, his hand brushing mine every so often in a silent little nudge, as if reassuring himself that I was still beside him.
Baela and Rhaena weren’t with us—they were staying with Daemon and Visenya on Dragonstone—but their absence made the Keep a little quieter, the hallways less chaotic.
When we entered the chamber, the warm scent of lavender and fire met us, along with the soft cooing of a newborn.
Laenor was cradling Rhaeger protectively, but when he saw us, he stepped aside so we could come closer. The babe blinked sleepily, tiny fingers curling and uncurling in the air.
Helaena immediately drifted forward, hands clasped to her chest as she admired him with the reverence one might give a sacred relic. Malachi stood just behind her, watching her more than the baby.
Rhaenyra rested back against her pillows, tired but radiant in that effortless way only she could manage. There was pride in her smile—pride, joy, and that fierce sense of protectiveness she always had for her children.
We gathered around the bedside, admiring the tiny prince, offering our congratulations and warm words.
Then Rhaenyra’s eyes found mine.
There was mischief in her expression—dangerous, knowing mischief that made my stomach twist in warnings.
“You know,” she said lightly, her voice carrying that teasing lilt she used when she enjoyed cornering someone, “you will be a good mother to my grandchildren one day.
The chamber went still.
Heat flooded my face so quickly I thought I might faint. Rhaenys raised an eyebrow, perfectly amused. Corlys tried and failed to hide a grin behind his beard.
Lucerys and Joffrey snickered openly, delighted at my mortification.
I refused—absolutely refused—to look at Jacaerys.
But I could feel him looking at me.
And then—gods help me—I heard him.
A horribly lovesick, utterly besotted little laugh.
I peeked at him from the corner of my eye.
He was smiling like an idiot. Bright-eyed. Blushing. As if Rhaenyra had just handed him the Iron Throne itself.
My face burned hotter. “I—I—Princess—” I stammered, but Rhaenyra only waved me off, too pleased with herself to relent.
“Oh, hush. It will happen sooner than you think.”
Rhaenys actually chuckled. Corlys clapped Jace on the shoulder as if congratulating him on winning a tournament.
Jacaerys stepped closer to me then, leaning slightly so his shoulder brushed mine. “Don’t worry,” he murmured quietly, though his grin betrayed him. “She just likes to tease the ones she loves.”
“That doesn’t help,” I hissed under my breath.
He only laughed again, softer this time—warm, boyish, and so utterly infatuated that I had to look away before my knees gave out.
Rhaenyra watched us with the smug satisfaction of someone who knew exactly what she’d started.
And as I stood there, crimson-faced while everyone around us fussed over Rhaeger, I realized something with embarrassing clarity: This family had already begun treating me as one of their own.
And despite the teasing, despite the heat blossoming in my cheeks…
I didn’t mind it.
Not one bit.
---
(Visenya’s POV)
Well. To absolutely no one’s surprise—least of all mine—I am pregnant again.
The maester delivered the news with all the calm solemnity one might use to announce the weather. I, on the other hand, felt something inside me snap. Slowly, deliberately, I turned my glare on my husband.
Daemon Targaryen had the audacity to grin.
Not a sheepish smile.
Not a wince of regret.
A grin—wide, smug, infuriatingly pleased with himself, as if the Seven themselves had personally congratulated him.
“Our son is eight months old,” I said, each word sharp enough to draw blood, “and you have already gotten me with child again.”
Daemon shrugged, entirely unrepentant. “You’re very convincing.”
I reached for the closest object—some rolled parchment, a goblet, I didn’t even know—and hurled it at his head. He ducked easily, the bastard, laughing as it shattered against the wall behind him.
I turned on my heel, scooped Maegor up from his cradle, and pressed him against my chest. He giggled, blissfully unaware that his father’s life expectancy had just plummeted.
“Your father,” I informed my son sweetly, kissing his chubby cheek, “is going to be a dead man.”
Maegor squealed in delight, gripping my hair with surprising strength.
Daemon leaned against the doorframe, still smiling, silver hair loose around his shoulders like he was some kind of smug dragonlord out of legend. “Now, now. Think of it this way—you might get a daughter this time.”
I froze.
Slowly, I turned back to him.“And if this baby is a girl,” I said coldly, “I will raise her to help me kill you.”
Daemon’s grin only widened.
Gods curse him.
“She’ll be fierce, then. Clearly yours.”
I stalked toward him, Maegor balanced on my hip, my finger jabbing into Daemon’s chest. “You are reckless, insatiable, and have absolutely no sense of timing.”
“And yet,” he said, catching my wrist before I could strike him, “you married me.”
I yanked my hand free. “That was a mistake I make daily.”
He laughed, low and pleased, as if that were the highest compliment I could give him.
Despite myself—despite the rage simmering in my veins—I glanced down at Maegor, at the way his silver hair curled at his brow, at the steady warmth of him in my arms. Another child. Another life forged in fire and blood.
I exhaled slowly.
“If I die in childbirth,” I warned Daemon, “I will haunt you.”
Daemon stepped closer, voice softer now, hand resting briefly at my back. “You won’t. I won’t allow it.”
I scoffed. “You don’t allow much of anything.”
“True,” he admitted. “But I protect what’s mine.”
I hated how that made my chest tighten.
I shifted Maegor and pressed another kiss to his cheek. “You’re getting a sibling,” I murmured.
“Gods help us all.”
Maegor babbled happily.
Daemon only laughed.
---
(After two months)
Aemma’s wedding is almost here, and the whole court seems to be vibrating with excitement.
Everyone but me.
Don’t misunderstand—I am happy for her. Truly. Aemma deserves joy, softness, and a life that does not chew her up and spit her out like so many royal marriages do. But Jacaerys Velaryon? I don’t like him. Never have.
He smiles too easily. Looks at her like she’s something precious he’s afraid to drop. It irritates me. Aemma could do better than a boy who looks as though he’s never broken anything in his life.
Daemon says that’s precisely why she chose him.
Daemon is wrong about many things. This is just one more to add to the list.
We were meant to fly to the wedding, of course. Dragonback would have been faster, cleaner, right. But no—I am pregnant. Again. Which means I am forced onto a ship, swaying and creaking and smelling faintly of salt and regret. All Daemon’s fault. Entirely. He had the good sense not to say a word during the journey, though his smug looks suggested he was enjoying my misery.
When we arrived, Dragonstone rising dark and sharp against the horizon, we were greeted by nearly everyone.
Nearly.
Rhaenyra was conspicuously absent.
I noticed. Of course I did. I always notice.
I stepped onto the dock with Maegor in my arms, his weight familiar and grounding.
He squirmed happily, fascinated by the banners snapping in the wind. The sight of him softened people immediately—guards smiling, ladies cooing, even the sour-faced ones bending just a little.
Father came to us first.
.
He looked pleased. Proud. He always does when it comes to grandchildren—especially male ones.
“My congratulations,” he said, clasping Daemon’s arm before turning to me. “I will pray it is another son. Strong. Like Maegor."
I smiled politely as I handed Maegor over, watching my father cradle his grandson with surprising gentleness.
'And I will pray for a girl,' I thought dryly. 'One sharp enough to terrify you all.'
Mother came next, her hands already on my arms, her eyes scanning my face, my posture, the way I held myself.
“Are you well?” she whispered. Then, softer still, “Is he hurting you?”
I smiled for her. A real one—because she needed it.
“No, Mother,” I said. “He is not.”
Aemma reached me then, wrapping her arms around me carefully, mindful of my belly. Helaena followed, gentler still, her hug light as a breeze. Daeron joined them, grinning like he always does when he thinks he’s being charming.
I returned their embraces, feeling—briefly—something close to peace.
“Daeron,” I asked as we stepped apart, “how was Oldtown?”
He scoffed dramatically. “Better than here, that’s for certain.”
I rolled my eyes. “I give you one more hour before you start missing the chaos.”
He laughed, conceding the point.
I turned to Aemma then, taking her hands. She looked beautiful already—radiant, glowing with anticipation. Too young, perhaps. Too kind. But determined.
“Congratulations,” I said sincerely. “Even if I still think you could have done better.”
She smirked. “I know you do.”
Then, lowering her voice conspiratorially, she added, “I think you should let me kill your husband as a wedding gift. For getting you pregnant again.”
I didn’t hesitate.
“You have my permission.”
Daemon snorted. Helaena giggled. Daeron laughed outright. Even Aemma’s shoulders shook as she tried—and failed—to look solemn.
For a moment, surrounded by laughter and family and the promise of celebration, I allowed myself to relax.
The wedding was coming.
Change was coming.
Another child was coming.
And gods help anyone who thought I wouldn’t survive it all.
I noticed him almost by instinct.
A man standing just a little apart from the others, posture relaxed but observant, as if he were used to watching rooms rather than commanding them. He had Mother’s face—or rather, the shape of it.
The same strong brow, the same knowing eyes. But his hair was a reddish brown, darker than hers, threaded faintly with silver at the temples.
I found myself staring.
Mother noticed immediately. Of course she did. She always notices when something unsettles me.
Her hand came to my arm, gentle but guiding, steering me through the cluster of courtiers and family until we stood before him. She smiled—a real smile, softer than the one she wears for the court.
“Visenya,” she said warmly, “this is your uncle, Gwayne.”
Then she turned to him. “Brother, this is my daughter.”
I straightened, shifting Maegor’s weight slightly on my hip, and offered him a proper smile before stepping forward.
“Uncle Gwayne,” I said, inclining my head. “It is good to finally meet you. How have you been?”
His smile was charming—easy, genuine, the kind that made you feel as though he’d already decided to like you. He took my hand with care, mindful of my condition, and pressed a kiss to my knuckles.
“I have been well, Princess,” he replied. “But I should be asking after you. Word travels quickly—especially when it concerns heirs.” His gaze flicked briefly to my belly, respectful rather than intrusive. “You carry yourself strongly.”
I smiled, unexpectedly warmed by the sincerity in his voice.
“I am well, Uncle. Truly,” I said. “I am pretty sure that Daeron was… a handful at Oldtown.”
That earned a soft laugh from him. He reached up and gently tucked a loose strand of my hair behind my ear—an oddly nice familiar gesture. It startled me for a moment, then settled into something comfortable.
“I can imagine,” he said dryly. “Though I will say—Daeron is an impressive swordsman. Very disciplined. He reminds me of myself at his age except that he is a troublemaker.”
Before I could respond, a loud, indignant shout echoed across the courtyard.
“Hey!”
Daeron stood several paces away, arms crossed, scowling at us as if he’d just witnessed a betrayal of the highest order.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he called.
Uncle Gwayne laughed openly this time, the sound rich and warm. I couldn’t help but join him, my shoulders shaking as Maegor giggled along, delighted by the noise.
“Seven save me,” I muttered fondly. “He never did grow out of that.”
“Nor should he,” Gwayne said, eyes crinkling.
I glanced back at Daeron, who was now pretending not to look offended, and then at my uncle—this new piece of family history standing suddenly, unexpectedly before me.
It struck me then how strange bloodlines are. How pieces of us echo forward and backward through generations.
And for the first time since arriving, I felt a little more… anchored.
---
(Helaena’s POV)
I smiled at Uncle Gwayne and Visenya as their laughter drifted across the courtyard. Laughter always settles me—it smooths the sharp edges of the world, even if only for a moment. Their voices sounded warm together, like bells ringing in harmony. For a heartbeat, everything felt light.
Then I felt it.
The air shifted, subtle as the pause before a breath.
I turned just as Rhaenyra appeared, her presence unmistakable even before I saw her face. She carried her son, Rhaeger, swaddled close to her chest, his silver hair catching the light like spun glass. People moved aside for her without realizing they were doing it, as if the world itself knew to make space.
She greeted Daemon, and he answered her easily enough—words exchanged, smiles worn, the appearance of peace carefully arranged between them. But the feeling in my chest tightened. It was like standing at the edge of a cliff and pretending not to see the drop.
Something is going to happen.
I didn’t know what.
Only that it would not be good.
My fingers began to pick at my nails, a small, unconscious habit, tracing little half-moons into my skin. I hadn’t realized I was doing it until Malachi’s hand closed over mine—firm, grounding, warm. His thumb brushed my knuckles once, a silent question.
I looked up at him, startled, and he was already watching me with quiet concern. The Conquerors—my sweet insects—buzzed softly around us, their wings glinting faintly in the sunlight. Even they hovered closer, uneasy.
I shook my head gently and mouthed the words I am okay, though I wasn’t certain it was true. They watched me a moment longer before settling, though not far.
Visenya had noticed too. She always does. Her gaze was sharp and unyielding, fixed on Rhaenyra like a blade held just out of sight. But she did not interrupt.
Instead, she turned back to Uncle Gwayne, continuing their conversation with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
Rhaenyra shifted Rhaeger in her arms, and the baby made a small sound—soft, almost questioning. It echoed strangely in my ears, like a bell rung underwater.
Storms always begin that way, I thought.
Quietly.
Malachi squeezed my hand once more, anchoring me to the present, and I focused on the feel of him—solid, real, here. I breathed slowly, counting each inhale and exhale, watching the way sunlight caught on dragon banners overhead.
Still, the feeling did not leave.
Threads were tightening.
Wheels were turning.
And something—something sharp and inevitable—was drawing closer.
I only hoped we would all see it in time.
---
(The Conquerors’ POV)
We linger where memory clings strongest—between stone and wind, between flame and prayer. The living do not see us, but the castle remembers. It always remembers.
Rhaenys is radiant tonight, her spirit humming with excitement in a way it rarely does anymore. She drifts closer to the balconies where banners have been hung, red and blue twisting together in the breeze.
“Aemma and Jacaerys are finally getting married,” Rhaenys says, her voice bright, almost girlish. “After all this time.”
Visenya stands beside her, arms folded, gaze sharp even in death. She inclines her head once. “They are a strong match. Fire and tide. Dragon and sea. It is how House Targaryen once bound the realm to itself.”
Aegon steps forward then, tall and grave as he ever was, the weight of crowns still clinging to him even now. His eyes rest not on the banners, but on the shadows beneath them.
“Yes,” he says slowly. “This marriage brings stability. It closes wounds before they can fester. It may yet prevent the Dance of the Dragons.”
Rhaenys turns to him, hope flaring bright and dangerous. “Then we may finally be at peace.”
For a moment, the wind stills.
Visenya exhales—a sound like steel sliding from its sheath. “It is not so simple, sister.”
Rhaenys’ smile falters. “Why must you always—”
“Because hope alone has never saved our House,” Visenya says gently, but firmly. “We forged the Seven Kingdoms with fire and blood, not weddings and smiles. Love may bind hearts, but ambition still sharpens knives."
Rhaenys’ expression softens, sorrow threading through her joy. She drifts closer to Visenya and wraps her arms around her sister, the way she once did long ago—before the realm, before conquest, before ghosts.
“Well,” she says quietly, resting her head against Visenya’s shoulder, “a wedding is still a lovely thing. Even in dark times."
Visenya does not pull away. Her hand comes up, resting at Rhaenys’ back.
“Yes,” she admits at last. “It is.”
They look down then—through stone and time—at the living. At Aemma laughing, at Jacaerys watching her as though she were the sun itself. At children who do not yet know how heavy crowns can be.
Aegon closes his eyes.
“May they be wiser than we were,” he says.
And for the first time in a long while, the ghosts hope—carefully, painfully—that the future might yet choose a different path.
---
(Visenya’s POV)
“May I walk you to your chambers?” Uncle Gwayne asked, offering his arm with a courtesy that felt old-fashioned in the best way.
I accepted without hesitation. The fatigue from the journey and the weight of the day had settled into my bones, and I welcomed the calm.
Before we left, I crossed the courtyard to where Daemon stood speaking with Rhaenyra. Their voices were low, measured, polite in the way that never truly meant peace.
“Daemon,” I said, slipping between them just enough to be unavoidable, “Uncle Gwayne is taking me to my chambers.”
Daemon turned at once, that familiar dangerous smile softening when it found me.
He leaned in and pressed a kiss to my cheek, lingering just long enough to remind everyone watching that I was his.
“I will see you later, my little dragon.”
Rhaenyra’s eyes narrowed—sharp, assessing.
I smirked.
I couldn’t help it.
Uncle Gwayne offered his arm again, and I took it, already feeling lighter as we walked away. I handed Maegor to my mother before we left; she accepted him eagerly, murmuring to him as if he were the only soul in the world worth her attention.
The halls were quieter as we moved farther from the courtyard, torchlight flickering against stone.
“I hear from your mother,” Gwayne said after a moment, “that you have taken up the sword.”
I smiled. “Yes. I love the weight of it. The balance. The way it listens if you treat it properly.” I hesitated only a breath before adding, “I never liked the idea of marriage much. It felt like a cage.”
Then the words tumbled out before I could stop them. “I suppose it helped that my first betrothed died.”
I realized too late how pleased I sounded.
I opened my mouth to soften it, to explain, to pretend decorum—but Gwayne’s face was calm.
Understanding, even.
No judgment.
No shock.
“I understand,” he said simply. “I did not like the match your grandfather arranged for your mother either. She was young. The King was old. Power was the only love in that union.”
I glanced at him, surprised.
“You are married to an older man as well,” he continued gently, “but the difference is clear. You chose Daemon. You love him. Your mother never loved the king. I know your mother was planning on marrying you off to Larys Strong, which wasn't right.”
I smiled then—slow, genuine. It was strange how relieving it felt to hear someone say aloud what I had always known.
“I know,” I said quietly. “It was obvious. Still… it is nice to speak of it with someone who understands.”
Gwayne nodded.
His expression darkened just a little, shadowed by regret. “I wish I had stopped your grandfather from bringing Alicent with him,” he admitted. “I should have said something. I should have done more.”
The words hung heavy between us as we reached my chamber door.
Some wounds never healed.
Some choices echoed for generations.
And yet—walking beside my uncle, speaking truths long buried—I felt something loosen in my chest.
It is understanding.
When we reached my chambers, I paused with my hand on the door.
“Would you like to come inside?” I asked.
Uncle Gwayne hesitated just a fraction of a second—long enough to show he was considering propriety—then inclined his head. “If you wish.”
I did.
The door opened to familiar warmth: candlelight flickering against stone, the faint scent of herbs and dragonstone smoke clinging to the air.
It felt good to be somewhere quiet, somewhere that belonged to me. We took seats on the couch near the window, the distant sound of the sea barely audible through the glass.
For a
moment, neither of us spoke.
Then I filled the silence, as I always do.
“How is Oldtown?” I asked, drawing one knee up beneath me. “What is it like?”
I had heard stories—of white stone towers, of bells and books and gardens—but stories are never the same as truth.
Gwayne smiled, and it softened his whole face. “It’s… calmer,” he said thoughtfully. “The people are kinder than one would expect. They greet strangers without suspicion. The streets are clean, the buildings bright. There’s knowledge everywhere—libraries, schools, places where minds are sharpened instead of blades.”
He pa
used, then added with a grin, “And it smells far better than King’s Landing. Less sewage. More flowers.”
I laughed—an actual giggle escaping me before I could stop it.
“That alone makes it sound heavenly,” I said.
“I would like to visit one day. It sounds… perfect.”
His eyes warmed. “If you ever do, I would gladly give you a tour.”
“I would like that,” I replied quietly.
We fell into silence again—but this one was different. Comfortable. Heavy in a way that didn’t press down but settled around us like a blanket.
I studied him without meaning to. He had Mother’s hair—reddish brown, thick, touched faintly by silver. But his eyes were green. A deep, striking green, steady and observant.
They held none of the hunger for power I had grown used to seeing in men at court.
Just thoughtfulness.
And something like relief.
I wondered what he saw when he looked at me.
We sat like that for a long while, neither speaking, neither rushing to fill the space.
It felt… rare , honestly.
Eventually, Gwayne cleared his throat, the sound breaking the spell gently.
“Well,” he said, rising to his feet, “I had better be leaving.”
I nodded, standing as well. “Yes,” I said simply. “You should.”
We walked to the door together. He hesitated again, then offered a small, respectful bow.
“It was good to speak with you, Visenya.”
“It was,” I replied. “Truly.”
He smiled once more before turning away, the door closing softly behind him.
When I was alone again, I stood there for a moment longer than necessary.
Not unsettled.
Not confused.
Just… thoughtful.
It is strange, I reflected, how rare it is to be seen without being judged—or wanted—or feared.
How much I had needed that, without ever realizing it.