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Chapter Text

(In this au, Aegon/Aemma and Helaena, who are twins, are 10 . Laela has been married to Daemon for about five years. Aemond/Visenya is 8. It's kinda like the book version with Rhaenyra and Alicent. Rhaenyra's mom died when she was 5-6. Daemon is 28 so he is younger in this timeline. Alicent is the same age in this timeline like the book . Jacaerys is seven years old right now. Lucersy is five years old.)

(Pov Aemma)

“Aemma! Get up for your lessons!” Mother yelled, grabbing my blanket off me. I groan, but sit up quietly not wanting to get slapped again for nothing.

“ If you continue to act like this, no one would want to marry you."

“And you need to pick out a dress for your father's birthday tomorrow!”

“Yes, mother, I will be ready in a few minutes.” I hopped off my bed , and went to take a bath. Mother rolled her eyes at me annoyed, and walked out of my room.

I am glad she didn't hit me again… she will soon.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
After my lessons, I went to see Sunfrye, my beautiful golden dragon. The Dragon pite is one of my safe places because mother would never go near them .

Rhaenyra will be there with her husband that's why mother is being more of a bitch. Bloody Hell! Why does she hate Rhaenyra so much?

 

I asked the keepers to leave Sunfrye and I was alone for a bit. Sunfrye walked towards me happy to see me rubbing his snout on my chest. I returned his gesture with a hug.

“Skorkydoso iksos issa handsome zaldrīzes issare?(How has my handsome dragon been?)” He replied with a low growl.

“I have gotten a dark blue dress with you on the bottom of it. You are golden, of course!” I rubbed his scales.

He noticed my hands are red from my mother hitting my hands with a stick.

“Yes, she still hits me, Sunfrye…” I turned away from his angry glare that he sent me. I am sure she will stop hitting soon…

After riding Sunfrye for an hour, I went to see Helaena. She may say a lot of weird things that no one does , but Visenya understands. I love her very much.

Before I could even get to the halls where Helaena's chamber is. Sir Criston stopped me. “What is it?” I was confused, but deep down I knew.

“Queen Alicent wants you to come to her chambers, my princess.” He answered looking down to the ground. He knows what she is about to do to me…

Everyone knows what she does to me except father, Rhaenyra, and grandfather.

I headed to her chambers…

(Pov Helaena )

“My beautiful granddaughter, what dress did you pick out for your old father's birthday tomorrow!” Rhaenys asked while upside-down.

“Oh, I have a yellow simple dress,” I replied playing with my beetle. I decided to check on Aemma using my deamer.

I closed my eyes and in the flash, I saw my mother with the whip in her hands. She was hitting Aemma’s back repeatedly.

I got out of my dream. Poor Aemma…

“Rhaenys, I can't talk to you right now. Aemma will be on her way here soon.” I can see the ghosts of the conquerors. They said they are binded to us until we
finally have peace.

“That's fine, I will go to see my beautiful wife, Visenya.” Rhaenys said, walking through the wall. At that moment, Aemma opened the door.

“Helaena, our mother is so mean to me.” Aemma wined throwing herself onto my bed.  I got off the floor to sit on the bed next to her patting her head.

“I didn't understand why she is so cruel to me and Visenya! We didn't do anything to her!” Aemma cried, face covered by the blanket.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After I calmed Aemma down, she went to her chambers to sleep. “Bloody hell, that Hightower cunt is awful to y’all.” Visenya the conqueror yelled, clearly pissed off with my mother.

“What kind of mother treats her children like this!” Aegon the conqueror yelled in fury . “If I wasn't a bloody spirit, I would kill this bitch with my bare hands!”

I just signed, and went to bed.

Uncle Daemon is going to show up tomorrow, and I am worried for my baby sister,Visenya…

(Pov Visenya )

Today is my father's birthday which means I have to wear a dress to this party. I , of course, don't want to wear one, but mother will make me one way or another.

At least I get to pick out what color I want to wear. I am wearing a dress  that looks very elegant and stylish.

The color is a deep, rich burgundy that contrasts beautifully with the gray background.

The high neckline and long train give it a sophisticated and graceful look. Overall, it's a stunning dress that's perfect for this occasion.

“My Lady, please get ready for the feast ,” Melissa, my lady in waiting and  also my best friend, announced before walking away from my door.

Melissa is probably busy in the kitchen. Mother is mostly barking orders from left to right.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I slowly walked to the doors of the throne room. The knights opened the door and the announcer started to call my introduce me.

“The fourth daughter of King Visery the first, princess Visenya Targaryen!”

Everyone turned to look at me, and Lords of many different houses stared at me with lust in their eyes most likely for power.

Everyone wants alliance with HouseTargaryen, and marrying one of King Visery’s daughters will give them that power.

I walked towards my seat next to Helaena, who was playing with a bug. Next to Helaena, was Aemma, who was clearly bored, slipping some wine.

Mother was sitting next to father while Rhaenyra was sitting on the other side of him. My father stood up, and started to give a speech.

The room was filled with nobles, knights, servants and a host of ladies. I was sitting off to the side next to Helaena, with an expression of

“I'd rather throw myself into a dragon's mouth than listen to my father give another speech that bores even the gods.”

All of a sudden, the door opened. Everyone turned their heads, surprised by the fact that everyone was here. The man, who walked in, was clearly a Targaryen based on his white hair and violet eyes.

This man…is really handsome.

Wait…This man is Daemon Targaryen, my uncle!

There he was: the exiled prince, my uncle, appearing without warning, as if returning to King's Landing after years of exile.

I didn't quite understand that exile thing, nor why everyone seemed to have frozen at the sight of my uncle, but I did know one thing: my uncle was awesome.

I always love to learn about famous knights , and our family's history.  His battles were always the most interesting to me. He should have been king instead of my father.

Daemon walked, like a dragon had entered the hall, as if he owned the place, every torch, every musician, the king, and, of course,myself.

The man walked with a confidence that stirred passions, each step seemed designed to capture stares and quicken hearts. I felt a wave of heat rise to my face.

The word “handsome” didn't do him justice, Uncle Daemon was... sexy? Although I probably didn't even fully understand what the word meant for the age of eight, I liked the idea.

“What's the matter, Visenya, have you gone smitten? Don't tell me our 'rogue uncle' has stolen your heart already.”

Aemma joked while Helaena looked at our sister with a disappointed glare, warning Aemma about our mother. Aemma stopped laughing after she noticed it.

I just rolled my eyes, ignoring Aemma's comment. I looked back at Uncle Daemon ,who was talking to our father.

I couldn't hear much , but I readed his lip.“I want to be here for your birthday, Visery.”

My father agrees with Uncle Daemon staying here. Father asked Uncle Daemon to sit next to me. Uncle nodded in agreement, and walked towards me.

I blushed, turning my head away from him, looking down at my food as he walked behind me to take his seat.

We all waited for father to finish his speech, once he was done with his speech.

Everyone started to talk to each other celebrating, and the father started to talk with Rhaenyra.

Mother was listening quietly to their conversation. Aemma started talking to Heleana.

I wanted to talk to uncle Daemon, but I didn't know what to talk about. I glanced at him when he wasn't looking.

He is really handsome. His strong jaw line, his short white hair, and…Shit! He noticed me! He was looking at me with a prideful smirk.

I turned my head facing away from him embarrassed by being caught. This is so embarrassing! I mentally cried to myself. I got up from my seat ,and walked towards Melissa.

“Melissa, tell mother that I don't feel well so I am going to the courtyard for fresh air.” I ordered as I walked out of the throne room

(Pov Helaena )

I saw that Visenya had gotten up to leave the room. Her servant , Melissa I think, walked to our mother, and whispered in her ear.

Mother turned to look where Visenya was walking towards the door.

Mother looked worried, but changed her expression quickly. When father had asked what was wrong, Mother told him that Visenya went out for a walk.

Father nodded his head and turned to continue his conversation with Rhaenyra.

Mother gave father a glared before taking a slip of her water. After a few minutes, uncle Daemon had gotten up, and left the room also.

I was hoping that he wouldn't follow Visenya, and that my prophecy was wrong.

Aemma was looking at our uncle also glaring at him. She is protective of us. She would have taken a knife to the chest then lost us forever.

( Pov Aemma)

Why is Uncle Daemon following Visenya? I thought he got up from his chair. I looked at Helaena who had a worried look on her face.

"Can we follow him?" I whispered as I took a slip of my wine. Helaena shook her head 'no'. "Why? I don't trust him..." I complain.

"Nothing will happen to her, she will be fine." Helaena said, but I can tell there is a ' yet' in her voice.

I'll just go talk to Jacaerys then

I walked towards Rhaenyra to ask where's Jacaerys." Sister, where is Jacaerys? If you don't mind, I wanted to go play with him."

Rhaenyra smiled at me before replying." Of course, you can. He should be in his room."

I told her 'thank you' before leaving the room. Once I got there, I knocked on the door. After a few seconds, the maid opened the door.

"I am here to play with my nephew, Jacaerys Velaryon." I glared at the maid who quickly opened the door wider for me.

"Auntie?!"

"Jacaerys, how have you been!?" I ran over to hug him when I saw him. He hugged me back with a smile on his face.

"I missed you, auntie." Jacaerys pouted squeezing me into a tighter hug. "I missed you too, Jace." I said before changing the subject.

"Hey, do you want to play with me?" I asked tilting my head a little bit. He smiled before nodding his head 'yes'.

 

(Pov Visenya)

Once I was in the courtyard, I walked towards the tree that I read at when I wanted to get away from everyone. I took a seat on the ground, closing my eyes.

Listening to the wind, when my instincts told me that someone was here.

Before I could turn to see who it was, someone covered my mouth so I wouldn't shout for help.

I turned slowly to see it was uncle Daemon, who was smirking at me. “Don't yell, it's me,” he whispered close to my ear.

He’s too close. I nodded slowly to let him know that I understood.

He removed his hand from my mouth. We stared at each other for a few minutes before I decided to say something.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, confused about why he was here.

“I noticed you staring at me before I could say something. You run off. Why was that?” He said mischievously, clearly knowing why I was staring at him.

“I wasn't staring at you…” I lied looking away from him.

He grabbed my face roughly, making me straight into his eyes.

“Don't lie to me, my sweet niece” he said seriously, yet flirtatiously. Rubbing my cheek, he smiled staring at my lips.

My blushes were probably noticeable by the way he smirked at me. “I was staring because I wanted to talk to you..."

"I just didn't know what to say to you…” I wanted to look away from him, but I couldn't because he had tightened his grip on my cheek.

Uncle Daemon moved closer to my face before saying “what do you want to talk about?” Is he being serious?

“I-I wanted to talk about what it was like when you were fighting in the war?” I genuinely wanted to know. I like to fight.

“Why does a princess like you want to know that?” He asked, letting go of my face. He has taken a seat next to me on the ground.

“I want to be a knight like you… I know it's stupid ,but-” “I think that is a wonderful goal,” Daemon interrupted with a small genuine smile.

I looked into his eyes to tell if he was lying or not. He doesn't seem like he is lying.

“Really?”

“Yes, you want a knight like a warrior like the woman that you were named after, Visenya the conqueror.”

I smiled brightly, I was so excited that I jumped into his arms giving him a hug. “Father never gave me attention or cared about me, so I knew he wouldn't care if I had asked him to get me a trainer. Hell! He doesn't care about getting me a dragon."

"But?"

" It's my mother , who won't let me train to be a knight. She would probably say ‘no princess should act like a man. It's unladylike! And women's fight is the child's bed!‘ ”

"Aemma makes fun of me not having a dragon all the time. Those bastards help her do it!"

I told him with tears falling down my face. Uncle Daemon put his hand on my head rubbing it gently.

“Shh, it's okay. You can cry, I won't tell anyone” he whispered sweetly and lovely in my ear. I pushed my face into his chest letting it all my tears out.

After I stopped crying, he decided to speak,” if you want someone to train you. Why not the person you wanted to be like to train you? I will even ask your father if it's okay that I train you.”

"But mother-"

"Fuck your mother that cunt!"

My eyes wide realizing what he means by his statement. “Really? You would do that for me,” I questions excitedly tightened my arms around him

Uncle Daemon gave me a nod in response. Before I could say anything, I realized that it was really late, and that I needed to go to bed.

I let go of my uncle's waist, and I looked at him. “I have to go to bed, uncle,” I said looking disappointed that I couldn't talk to him more.

As I started to walk away from him, he grabbed my arm stopping me.

I turned my head looking at him with confusion. He let go of my arm ,and got up from the ground.

“Let me take you to your chambers then, princess.” The tone of his voice told me that he wouldn't take no for an answer, so I nodded my head in agreement.

Chapter Text

(Pov Visenya)

It has been a few days since Uncle Daemon started training me. When Uncle Daemon asked father to train me, father didn't really care and told uncle to be careful not to hurt me.

Mother was upset about it, but she couldn't go against the King's wishes. I told uncle Daemon to not go soft on me that would be more insulting than being punched in the face.

Uncle Daemon promised, and he had kept it for a long time now. I have bruises and cuts all over my body.

After a while, they didn't hurt anymore. I had gotten used to them. Uncle Daemon said he was proud that I had gotten used to them and I am making improvements.

Aemma and Helaena would sometimes watch me train with uncle Daemon.

Aemma would glare at our uncle for some reason that she wouldn't tell me, why.

Helaena would play with her bugs. I love her bugs collection. It makes her happy so I am happy.

Uncle Daemon and I were sword fighting,and I managed to make uncle Daemon fall to the ground by making him tripped on my foot.

I tried to turn around in front of him, so I could point my sword to his chest, but he grabbed me by my waist pulling with him.

My head landed on his chest causing me to freeze. I tried to sit up ,but he wouldn't let me. He then flipped us over where he is on top of me.

I looked up in shock staring at his handsome face. He gave me a small smirk as I felt a cold sharp object on my neck. He had pulled out his knife from his side.

"You are getting better, my little warrior." Uncle Daemon said as he got off me. I quickly stood up flustered, feeling nervous.

"R-really?"

" Hey, you did make me trip, didn't you? You are getting better." He smiled at me. I gave him a hug.

"Thank you, uncle." I gave him a bright smile before he could say anything. I heard my mother calling for me.

 

"Visenya, Aemma, and Helaena! Time for your lessons!" Mother said angrily, glaring at Uncle Daemon. Uncle gave her a glared back , but more murderous and darker, causing is shiver down my spine

I pulled away from my uncle before answering " yes, mother. I just need to clean up first." She nodded before walking back inside with Helaena and Aemma behind her.

Helaena gave me a sad look before following mother.

'What was that about?' I frowned as I turned towards Uncle Daemon.

"Thank you, Uncle. Can we do this tomorrow?" I asked excitedly.

As his smile turned to a frown with a sad expression, my smile dropped realizing that we are not going to be training anymore.

" What is wrong, uncle..." I said disappointingly. it felt like my heart was about to break in two.

" I have to go home with my wife." He sighed, looking away at me pushing a few strands of his hair out of his face.

"W-what!?" I felt like crying, but I wasn't going to cry in front of him.

" I stayed longer than I was supposed to. I need to go back to my wife." He said as he lifted his hand to wipe the mud off my face.

"Can I come with you then?" I suggested.

"No, you can't come with me. Your father and mother wouldn't allow it." He smiled sadly at me rubbing his thumb on my lips.

 

"I talked to your father about your training and he said he will let you train with the others." Uncle Daemon said trying to cheer me up .

I gave him a small smile before saying " thank you, Uncle. It was wonderful training with you. I hope, I will see you soon... Can I send you letters once in a while?" I asked with sadness, nervousness, and hope.

He smiled saying he would like that. He left to go change his clothes as did I .

Once I was in my room, I fell down to the ground crying my eyes out.

When I had finally found someone who understands me, he had to leave. He is leaving me alone. I understand why ,but why does the gods have to play with my feelings. This is just cruel...

(Pov The Conquerors )

"That's so sad, Visenya hold me!" Rhaenys sobbed dramatically falling into Visenya's arms.

Visenya just rolled her eyes at her sister-wife. Aegon was also crying silently.

"Forbidden love at its finest!" Aegon said hugging Rhaenys.

"Can y'all get a grip please!" Visenya yelled at them annoyed.

"How can you not be sad! Our great-something granddaughter has her heart broken for the first time!" Rhaenys cried out, shaking Visenya.

"I don't know . You tell me?" Visenya asked with an emotionless face. ' I can't believe I am stuck with these two people.' Visenya thought.

"I want to speak to Visery to ask him why his daughter doesn't have a dragon yet. What kind of father and Targaryen doesn't get his children a dragon or give them the attention they need to feel love." Aegon demanded in anger with his sister-wives agreeing with him.

"It's because he favors his first born daughter more." Rhaenys said in annoyance rolling her eyes just by thinking about Rhaenyra.

"I don't care about a woman on the throne that doesn't matter to me. It's the fact that she has bastards and wants to put one on the throne. He is not even Velaryon." Aegon declared anger.

"I am very disappointed about Rhaenyra's decisions." Rhaenys sighed before leaving.

Aegon follows her, while Visenya stares at her looked alike ,who is crying really hard.

' I am sure that you will be with him one day. We Targaryens get what we want one way or another.' Visenya thought with a smirk on her face before leaving.

(Pov Helaena)

Visenya looks sad, today.... My guess was right then... Daemon is going back to his wife at Diftmount tomorrow.

When I told Aemma about our uncle leaving today, she was thrilled.

After our lessons with our mother were over, she told us to get ready for dinner with the family.

Today, father is going to announce the betrothals for Aemma and Visenya.

In my dream, my father will announce his decision to wed Aemma and Jacaerys together, so we can have peace with each other.

He is also planning on betrothing Aemma to…Him.

They're not going to be happy...

(Pov Aemma )

Mother wants me to wear this ridiculous, boring, green dress for dinner. We are having dinner with my sister, uncle, and nephews. I threw the dress to the floor.

I hate green! Blue is more my color.

I went to open my closet door to find the blue dress that I had brought. When I found it, I grinned. This would be perfect.

It even has a hint of green mix on it so mother wouldn't be mad.

The sleeves are long and fitted. The material is a soft, supple satin, giving the dress a luxurious feel.

I love this dress!

I went to sit in my vanity to cover my red cheek from the slap my mother gave me…(Pov Aemma)

(An hour later)

My sisters and I are walking to dinner to meet with everyone else. Visenya and Helaena look beautiful in their dresses that they picked out.

“Aemma, are you ready?” Helaena asked not to look my way.

What does she mean by that?

“Ready for what?” I replied confused. I turned to look at Visenya,but she wouldn't look my way either.

“What is going on?” I stopped looking at them.

Visenya signed as she turned to look at me.” Father is planning on betrothing you to Rhaenyra's son, Jacaerys.”

I just stood there in shock before asking ”why?”

“He wants peace so betrothing you and Jacaerys is the only way it would happen.” Helaena said, looking down to the ground.

I just continued walking to dinner not trying to think about it. They follow right behind me.

As we walked in the dinning room, father and Rhaenyra were talking about something.

Probably me and Jace's betrothals, mother doesn't look happy about it.

Grandfather was clearly happy about the betrothal. All he wants is his blood on the throne.

As we sat down on mother's side of the table, Rhaenyra's children sat on her side.

Daemon that bloody bastard sat right in front of Visenya, giving her a smirk.

She gave him a smile back. If I could, I would cut Daemon's throat in his sleep. He probably has a small as dick, if he is flirting with a child.

This is going to be a fun dinner.

“It gladdens my heart to see my children, grandchildren, and my dear brother here tonight. I hope our family will prosper and stand together to all ends,” my father started with his toast.

“ Let us drown all the bitterness of the past and raise our cups for a bright future for our family,” and raise his cup as does everyone.

“And to make sure we have peace. I am going to betrothed Jacaerys and Aemma together,” he announced with a big smile.

I looked at Jacaerys who was looking down at the floor. It's not his fault for the arrangement besides out of all men that father could force me to marry. Jacaerys is the best one .

We will probably marry when he hits the age of sixteen anyway.

"I will try to be the best wife for you, nephew." I smiled at him to reassure him that it is okay. He looked up at me with a happier smile.

"And I will try to be the best husband to you, auntie." He said back to me when he had saw my mother's glared.

My mother's angry face caught my eye, who cares what she thinks at least we will have peace between our families.

Grandfather will get his blood on the throne with my soon to be marriage with Jacaerys.

I am also going to betrothed my daughter, Visenya, to my brother, Larys Strong!” He announced.(Pov Visenya)

Everyone here had turned silent, looking back at each other.

"What!" I yelled looking at father like he was crazy.

"Are you not satisfied with my decision?" Father asked curiously.

"Of course not! Father...Lord Strong is 25 years older than me!" I was in shocked this isn't what I wanted.

"Age doesn't matter, Visenya." Father said clearly annoyed with me.

"Father, think sanely please! I am eight years old, eight! And that man is 25 years older than me. We are not compatible in age!"

Father looked at me as if I was throwing a tantrum. "Don't talk nonsense, Visenya. Let us speak no more of this," said father, tired of my excuses.

"Your Majesty, please listen to me! Lord Strong has 25 years on me! I can't and won't marry him! I'm terrified at the thought!"

"Yes, you will." Father said ignoring me once again with that I had snapped

"I won't marry him! I want to train to be a knight not someone who has to sit on a child's bed. I don't want to die during childbirth just like your wife had died!" I had protested, angrily. Then I smirked I had said to him. I know that remark will strike him badly.

"You are my daughter! You will do what I command! You will marry Larys Strong and put an end to the distasteful rumors about you!" Father- I mean King Visery yelled at me.

(Yes, I am making Visery kind of like Tywin.)

' Is he talking about the rumors between Daemon and me? There has been rumors about uncle trying to court me in a marriage. And also about he wanting me as his second wife. Which are only rumors.

I looked around at everyone. Mother with a face full of guilt, Rhaenyra looking at me with some pity with a hint of anger, my sisters and nephew was looking at the floor, Daemon was glaring at King Visery, and then he looked at me with sadness for me.

Before King Visery could say something, I had got up from a seat and left the room.

(Pov Helaena)

After Visenya had left the room, everything had went silent. No one had said a word to each other.

The conquerors was in the room with us and they are pissed off at father.

"If I could kill him, I would right this second. What kind of father said this to his child!" King Aegon yelled with fury.

Rhaenys was sobbing and had gone after Visenya, my sister.

Visenya the conqueror was the most furious out of all them. My sister looks like Visenya the conqueror a little bit so it is basically an insult towards her. Uncle Daemon looked at father with disappointment before speaking.

"Visery, you need to apologize to your daughter." Father was shocked that uncle had said anything.

"She disrespected me. The king! She is the one who needs to apologize." Father replied waving off Daemon's comment.

"She didn't disrespect the king! She disrespected her father who is forcing her to marry someone far more older than her!"

Daemon said slamming his hand on the table scaring everybody.

"Do you think anyone at her age will be happy with that marriage. Your wife here isn't happy with her arrangement with you." Uncle calling out my mother .

Mother looked down at the food knowing Daemon is right.

"I wasn't happy when you made me marry that bitch!" Daemon yelled as he had gotten up from the table.

"I will be praying that you will come to your senses soon!" And with that he left the room too.

"Well said I might say." King Aegon said with pride clapping his hands

Visenya just was smirking to the quietness in the room.

I just want to leave now. This is hell!

(Pov Aemma)

I might hate that bastard, but I am glad that he protected Visenya and tried to snap some sense in father.

For the rest of dinner, no one had said a word to each other. After dinner, everyone went to their rooms for the night .

I wanted to go talk to Visenya, but mother will be mad if I had went.

I feel bad for her...

Father was out of line saying that to her. Yes, she shouldn't had mentioned his dead wife, but she was angry rightfully so.

She is the youngest daughter. Of course, she didn't think father would have betrothed her to anyone because of her age.

I understand why I was being betrothed to Jacaerys. So we can have peace with in our family.

This is not fair to Visenya not one bit...

Chapter Text

( At Night)

(Pov Visenya)

I want to go to see Daemon before he leaves, but how?

I was pacing in my chamber back and forth, wearing my red nightgown.

Wait! I can use the secret doors to go see him. I walked towards the wall and pushed to open it.

Once it had opened, I grabbed my cloak and put it on before leaving.

I closed the door quickly,but quietly ran towards the dragon pit. Lifting my hood so no one could see my face.

Grandfather's spies might recognize me and tell him about it. He might use that as a reason to get Daemon exiled.

I don't want him to be exiled because of me. Once I had finally gotten to the dragon pit without anyone seeing me, I slowed down and went where Caraxes would be sleeping.

I had a small knife in my hands just in case something happens. After a while, I was in front of Caraxes, who was still asleep, but no signed of Daemon anywhere.

Where is he? I thought he was leaving tonight? I guess I could wait until he is here. I don't want to be too close to Caraxes. I stand there looking at the large red dragon.

Caraxes is known for being brutal and fierce, and is considered one of the most dangerous dragons, but he has beautiful scales.

I understood admiring the dragon until I felt something on my neck. I gasped feeling the knife's sharp blade pressing on my neck.

I didn't move knowing the wrong move could get me killed in less than a second.

"Who are you?" Wait! Uncle Daemon! I guess he can't tell it's me because of my hood.

"Uncle, it's me, Visenya." I said in confidence, smirking a little bit as he removed my hood to see my silver hair.

After he saw my hair, he removed the knife from my neck. I turned around to see his amused smirk.

"What are you doing out here at this time of night?" Uncle Daemon asked as he put his hand on my cheek. I felt heat coming up to my face hoping that he wouldn't notice.

"I-I wanted to see you before you leave, uncle..." I stuttered looking straight into his eyes. He had bent down to his knees to my height.

Dameon was smirking for some reason. "Is that the only reason why you have come here?" Daemon raised an eyebrow.

When Daemon reaches out, cupping my chin with his hand, I don’t pull away. Daemon’s smirk softens as he studies my face.

 

“You burn so brightly. Why do you keep trying to hide it from yourself?” Uncle Daemon stated softly staring down at my lips.

I looked confused at him not knowing what he was talking about. As I was about asked what he had meant, when he had leans in, capturing my lips in a kiss that steals my breath away.

As he kissed me softly, his hand moved to my cheek (her face you perverts) pulling me closer to his chest.

I find myself leaning into it. The kiss feels so good at this moment. My hands just were gripping on to his tunic as if to anchor myself.

 

When we had pulled apart, Daemon’s smirk returned, softer now. “There’s your fire.” Giving me a kiss on my forehead.

I had stepped back, I could feel my heart pounding really fast.

“This—this is wrong, uncle...”

 

“What’s wrong is denying who you are, my sweet niece?” Daemon said as he kissed my cheek.

I didn't say anything, my mind a whirlwind of confusion, desire, and fear as he turns and walks away.

"Goodbye, uncle, please be safe back home!" I told him with a smile on my face. I could feel butterflies in my stomach.

Daemon turned around to look at me with a sweet smile.

"Goodbye, my sweet niece..." Daemon mounted Caraxes as I walked away back to my chamber. I had lifted my hood before I had left the Dragonpit.

I will see you again, Uncle....

 

(A few days later)

 

(Pov Aemma)

Since the day that father had announced me and Visenya's betrothals, father had forced us to spend time with them at least one time a day.

Jace will be leaving soon so I won't have to for long.

So here I am playing with Jacaerys in the garden. We are playing step in stone. You can't let the stone touch your foot. You have to hop.

"You are cheating, auntie!" Jacaerys yelled and pointed at me.

"How can I cheat? I made the game?" I turned around crossing my arms.

Jacaerys frowned as he moved closer to me giving me a hug.

"I'm sorry, auntie..." Jacaerys apologized hugging me tighter.

I blushed a little bit before looking down at him.

 

"It's okay, nephew," I mumbled. Jace smiled sweetly at me.

"Let's go get something to eat okay?" I asked Jace, who agreed with me.

(Pov The Conquerors)

"Aww, Jacaerys and Aemma is a perfect match for each other!" Rhaenys announced looking at the two children playing.

"I have to admit Visery did a good job with this betrothal. Unlike, Visenya and Larys, they are comparable. " Aegon declared as Visenya nodded in agreement.

'Yes, I am confused as to why we are here? It looks like there will be no war anymore, so why did the witch make us ghosts?' Visenya the conqueror thought as she watches Aemma and Jacaerys play.

She then looked at Helaena, who was playing with her bugs.

'She must know something about it. Even if she did, no one can change fate that much.'

Visenya smirked knowing that Helaena is not just a dreamer, but she and her sisters might be the ones who will save everyone.

(One year later)

(Pov Visenya)

It was a pain in the ass at first when training with the boys that included my brother, Dareon. Sir Criston Cole has been a great teacher to me.

Mother was still upset about me fighting when Uncle Daemon left. She was begging to father about not letting me train anymore.

Thankfully, my father didn't listen to her. Uncle Daemon kept his promise to me.

We both send letters to each other at least once or twice a week.

I tell him about Aemma teasing me for not having a dragon along with our nephews, Jacaerys and Lucersy.

My uncle told me a prank I could pull on them when I visited him. To make me happier about not having a dragon.

He sent me a necklace shaped like our house sigil with dark red jewels made of Valyrian steel.

I loved it so much that I wear it everyday except when I am training.

Aemma had asked who gave me this necklace and i told her it was Daemon. Aemma frowned complaining that I was lucky.

I had asked Rhaenyra for some tips of braiding hair and she was happy to help me with them.

I had heard from Aemma about Daemon telling King Visery off.

Trying to convince King Visery to not make me wed Larys Strong.

Unfortunately, he couldn't change King Visery's mind.

King Visery forces me to walk in the garden with Larys Strong at least once a week. I don't feel comfortable with him.

I don't want to get to know him, but I can't disobey the king. After talking to Larys for a bit, I went to my chamber.

Once I had opened the door, I saw a raven at the window. I open the window to get the letter from the raven.

D...

That's our initials in case gets a hold of our letters like his wife or my mother. That wouldn't been good.

I had opened the letter to read it.

Dear, V

I wanted to tell you how I am proud of your approvements. I have to tell you some important news. My wife and I is expecting a baby. I just find out that she is pregnant. I wanted to share this news with you. Continue your training and your studies.

Love, D

 

What!??

I felt my heart break in half at this news. First I went to put the letter in the chess. Then I had taken a seat behind my desk. I took out a piece of paper and a quill to write back to him.

Dear, D

Congratulations on this amazing news, I am happy for you both. I hope that your baby will be as strong and healthy as their father. I had just got done talking to L . Sir C has been a great teacher to me. I had learned a lot from him. I wish you ,your wife, and your new family member well.

Love, V

(a few months later)

( Pov Visenya)

Father, had made me talk to Larys in the morning. I had decided to go to my hiding place that is hidden in the trees.

 

It was a quiet afternoon, I was in the garden, reading my favorite book about the Three Conquerors, when a deafening roar echoed across the sky.

 

I heard the terrified screams of the servants, looked up and saw Vermithor descending. I ran out of my hiding place. I see what was happening.

 

I saw him landing in front of me.  I did not move, simply watched the giant creature gazing at me intently with interest.

 

I slowly walked up to him as he stared at me. I put my hand on his scales. I felt the warmth of the dragon on my skin, I flashed a smile of pure joy.

 

I had claimed one of the most powerful dragons in Westeros, but something doesn't feel right like he doesn't belong to me.

 

I had mounted Vermithor as I called

 

“Soves, Vermithor!”

 

He obeyed instantly with a flap of its wings, it took off in flight, soaring swiftly into the sky.

 

Vermithor circled over King's Landing, his outstretched wings casting shadows over the city.

 

On Vermithor's back, I clung with all my might as the wind whipped my face and the beautiful landscape unfolded before me.

 

The echo of my laughter resounded in the sky, a joyful and sincere laughter.

 

(Pov Aemma)

 

I heard a loud roar of a dragon, but it was one that I did not recognized. I left my room when I heard the servants shouting 'Vermithor had left his cave.'

 

I need to go check on Helaena. I quickly walked to Helaena's chamber, but I saw that Helaena was walking towards me.

 

"Do you know why Vermithor is out?" I ask as she speaks in riddles that makes sense if you understand them.

 

"He wants his future rider out of one rider and she will rule with the cruel." She said as we went with father and mother to find out the noise.

 

"What does that mean?!" I don't understand. She didn't answer me. We was outside when Vermithor had landed to the ground. I saw Visenya on his back slide down on his wing.

 

She had claimed Vermithor one of the largest dragons at the age of eleven! I am so proud of her. Helaena was looking dazed like she was talking to someone? Weird...

 

Everyone didn't move so I decided to walk up to Visenya. "Congratulations on claiming a dragon, sister." I had congratulated giving Visenya a smile. Visenya gave me a side eye before saying thank you.

 

"How did you claim Vermithor, Visenya?" Father asked with worry in his voice that surprised me, mother, and Visenya. He had never cared about our well-being. Mother walked up to Visenya to check to see if Visenya is alright.

 

"I don't know. He came to me. I was reading a book..." Visenya explained to us. Everyone was flabbergasted except for Helaena who was busy playing with her bugs.

 

Wait, so she is one of the first to be claimed by a dragon! That's amazing! And....

 

How is this possible!!!

(A hour ago before the chaos)

 

(The Conquerors Pov)

 

King Aegon with his sister-wives following him went to see the dragons that are asleep in The Dragonpit. Visenya told Aegon that they shouldn't be here, but he didn't listen.

 

Aegon had spotted Vermithor who was peaceful sleeping. Aegon decided to go up to him and touch Vermithor causing Vermithor to wake up angry.

 

"Aegon! Why did you touch him! " Visenya yelled at Aegon the Conqueror who was panicking. "I didn't know he was going to wake up!" Aegon try to calm Visenya down. Rhaenys was just sitting there for the drama wanting a snack.

 

Before Visenya could hit Aegon, Vermithor have taken flight heading towards the castle where the garden was at.

"Damn it! Aegon... If someone died because of your mess, I am going to be beating you until you are blue..." Visenya threatened giving Aegon a deadly look.

Aegon quickly nodded before hiding behind Rhaenys.

'I have a scary, but hot wife' Aegon and Rhaenys thought eyeing Visenya up and down.

(Visenya pov)

 

I was busy reading a book about the conquerors. Daron was playing with his toys on my floor. He usually comes to my room to hide from Mother and grandfather.

 

I just let him to be free from them. Melissa walk into my room quickly. " My lady, the queen is coming!" She announce as she walked to Daron' s hiding place. Daron went inside the secret door.

 

I pretend to be reading my book. Mother walked with a bit of grief on her face. She is never like this. " Mother, what is wrong?" I talked worried about what happened.

 

"Laena Velaryon has sadly passed during her birth to her baby and unfortunately he didn't make it..." Mother responded looking down to the ground. " We will be leaving to attend the funeral."

Chapter Text

a few months later)

( Pov Visenya)

Father, had made me talk to Larys in the morning. I had decided to go to my hiding place that is hidden in the trees.

It was a quiet afternoon, I was in the garden, reading my favorite book about the Three Conquerors, when a deafening roar echoed across the sky.

I heard the terrified screams of the servants, looked up and saw Vermithor descending. I ran out of my hiding place. I see what was happening.

I saw him landing in front of me.  I did not move, simply watched the giant creature gazing at me intently with interest.

I slowly walked up to him as he stared at me. I put my hand on his scales. I felt the warmth of the dragon on my skin, I flashed a smile of pure joy.

I had claimed one of the most powerful dragons in Westeros, but something doesn't feel right like he doesn't belong to me.

I had mounted Vermithor as I called

“Soves, Vermithor!”

He obeyed instantly with a flap of its wings, it took off in flight, soaring swiftly into the sky.

Vermithor circled over King's Landing, his outstretched wings casting shadows over the city.

On Vermithor's back, I clung with all my might as the wind whipped my face and the beautiful landscape unfolded before me.

The echo of my laughter resounded in the sky, a joyful and sincere laughter.

(Pov Aemma)

I heard a loud roar of a dragon, but it was one that I did not recognized. I left my room when I heard the servants shouting 'Vermithor had left his cave.'

I need to go check on Helaena. I quickly walked to Helaena's chamber, but I saw that Helaena was walking towards me.

"Do you know why Vermithor is out?" I ask as she speaks in riddles that makes sense if you understand them.

"He wants a rider out of another and He will rule with the cruel." She said as we went with father and mother to find out the noise.

"What does that mean?!" I don't understand. She didn't answer me. We was outside when Vermithor had landed to the ground. I saw Visenya on his back slide down on his wing.

She had claimed Vermithor one of the largest dragons at the age of eleven! I am so proud of her. Helaena was looking dazed like she was talking to someone? Weird...

Everyone didn't move so I decided to walk up to Visenya. "Congratulations on claiming a dragon, sister." I had congratulated giving Visenya a smile. Visenya gave me a side eye before saying thank you.

"How did you claim Vermithor, Visenya?" Father asked with worry in his voice that surprised me, mother, and Visenya. He had never cared about our well-being. Mother walked up to Visenya to check to see if Visenya is alright.

"I don't know. He came to me. I was reading a book..." Visenya explained to us. Everyone was flabbergasted except for Helaena who was busy playing with her bugs.

Wait, so she is one of the first to be claimed by a dragon! That's amazing!

(The Conquerors Pov)

King Aegon with his sister-wives following him went to see the dragons that are asleep in The Dragonpit. Visenya told Aegon that they shouldn't be here, but he didn't listen.

Aegon had spotted Vermithor who was peaceful sleeping. Aegon decided to go up to him and touch Vermithor causing Vermithor to wake up angry.

"Aegon! Why did you touch him! " Visenya yelled at Aegon the Conqueror who was panicking.

"I didn't know he was going to wake up!" Aegon try to calm Visenya down. Rhaenys was just sitting there for the drama wanting a snack.

Before Visenya could hit Aegon, Vermithor have taken flight heading towards the castle where the garden was at.

"Damn it! Aegon... If someone died because of your mess, I am going to beating you until you are blue..." Visenya threatened giving Aegon a deadly look.

Aegon quickly nodded before hiding behind Rhaenys.

'I have a scary, but hot wife' Aegon and Rhaenys thought eyeing Visenya up and down.

Chapter Text

(Visenya)

I refused to join my family on the  ship and  fly on Vermithor, enjoying the sights and returning to the ship. Only to eat and go to sleep at night.

(Aemma)

It was late at night when we arrived at Driftmark. Thankfully, Visenya hadn’t seen Daemon.

(The next morning)

I took a walk early in the morning, hoping for some peace, but instead, I found Jacaerys sitting by himself, looking as though the weight of the world had settled on his shoulders.

 

His eyes were distant, lost in thought, and I couldn’t help but feel a pang of pity for him. Harwin Strong’s death still hung heavily in the air. I knew the rumors—Harwin Strong was likely the father of Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey.

 

The blood that ran through their veins, branded by the word “bastard,” had not made them less human, though others may see them as such. I couldn’t ignore the pain in Jacaerys' eyes.

 

I walked up to Jacaerys without a word and wrapped my arms around him in a tight hug.

 

He had been rejecting everyone else’s touch, but I didn’t ask for permission. He tensed, trying to push me away, but I didn’t budge.

 

His resistance slowly faded, and after a moment, he gave up and hugged me back. I could feel his tears soaking into my shoulder. The weight of his grief was overwhelming.

 

After a while, he pulled back, lifting his head to look at me. A flush of embarrassment spread across his face, and I could see the faintest tremor in his eyes.

 

He had cried in front of his betrothed, a vulnerability he likely never allowed himself to show.

 

“Do you want to play with my hair, nephew? Or are you too old now?” I teased, smiling softly as memories surfaced—so many moments of his small hands tangling gently through my hair. He had always been enchanted by it.

Jacaerys looked at me with a familiar warmth in his eyes. “I’ll never be too old to play with my soon-to-be wife’s hair,” he declared with quiet conviction.

Before I could respond, he grabbed my hand and tugged me along, leading me somewhere—likely his chambers. I felt a blush creep up my neck, warm and impossible to hide. My heart fluttered, unsure if I should laugh, tease, or simply follow where this affection would take us.

 

(Visenya)

The burial was conducted according to the ancient traditions of House Velaryon.

After Laena's body was dropped in the ocean, everyone went to go talk near the tents. I walked towards the food to grab a cup of wine.

I usually don't drink, but I am a little bit nervous to see Daemon again. I started beginning to believe that, perhaps, Daemon  had lost interest in me.

As I had taken a slip of the wine, I noticed Daemon across from me near my father. I gave him a smile with happiness from seeing him again. Daemon smile back to me before turning his head away from me.

I felt a little disappointed about him not coming towards me, but I understand that it's not the right moment as his wife is dead.

I walked past Daemon to go talk to Lucersy, who is looking sad probably because his (maybe) father, Harwin Strong, died.

I know Rhaenyra's children are most likely bastards, anyone with a brain could see that, but I still care and pity for them.

"Are you feeling okay, Lucersy?" I slowly hold his hand, not knowing what to do as I had never been comforted by my parents.

Lucersy looked up at me with teary eyes. I frowned and hugged him not too tight, to keep him in my hold.

Lucersy had cried his heart out on my shoulder as I rubbed his back to calm down. After awhile of crying, Lucersy had stop crying. I slowly pulled away from Lucersy.

"Thank you, Visenya's," he looked at me and gave me one of his bright smiles.

 

" You are welcome," I smiled back at him. I feel someone looking at me, so I turn around to my father and Daemon staring at me.

Father was smiling at us with happiness. He is probably glad that I am getting along with Rhaenyra's sons.

Daemon wasn't really staring at me, but glaring at Lucersy.

Lucersy probably could feel Daemon's glare as he backed away from me.

"Thank you again, Visenya. I really needed that..." Lucersy looked down most likely feeling embarrassed for crying in front of me.

I smiled and patted his head. " You're welcome!"  I went back to where everyone was looking for Helaena.

Where is she? I was about to go asked Aemma when Rhaenyra stepped in front of me.

I looked up at her with confusion. " Is there something that I can help you with, Rhaenyra?" I looked at with no emotions not really caring about what she is going to say.

Rhaenyra smiled at me before saying" Thank you for cheering up my son, Visenya. He was sad about my sworn sword, Harwin Strong died."

I was about to reply when she interrupted me.

" He is your betroths brother as you know. I will go give me condolences to Daemon." She walks away from, heading towards Daemon to talk to him.

She said that on purpose! I glared at them feeling something in my chest.

I walked down the stairs and was about to go back to the castle when I heard my name being called.

I stopped to see it was Daemon, who called me. "Uncle, is there something you need?" I asked turning around to face him.

“You should be with your daughters, uncle,” I  said, trying to hide the happiness in my voice.

”They are the ones who need you most right now.”

Daemon continued to approach without pausing, his eyes fixed on me.

I started to stare at his handsome face. His hair was long now. I was a little disappointed to see his hair is long now. I loved his short hair.

"Do you want to walk later when everyone is asleep?" He asked looking up and down at me.

I am wearing a dark red dress with a hood  that covers slim-fitting silhouette that hugs my curves and accentuates my figure.

I smiled at the thought of being alone with him. "I would love that. I heading back to my chamber if you want to come with me..." Daemon motion to me to lead the way.

We walked side by side to each other. " I heard that you claimed Vermithor a few months ago." Daemon started the conversation.

"Well, it's more like he claim me l, but...Yes, I did."  I confirm as I look at Damon, who had a mysterious smirk on his face.

" I'm sorry for your wife's and baby passing." I looked at Daemon feeling pity for him. He looked at me surprised before replying to me.

"Thank you, Visenya. Laena 's death was..." Daemon begin to say but change his words.

"She always wanted to die as a Targaryen she got her wish..." Damon smiles slightly at me while squeezing my hand looking for comfort.

As we finally got to my chambers, I looked at him with a smile on my face. Should I ask him to come inside? I looked at him debating what I should do.

"Do...you want to come inside?" Daemon had his signature smirk on, as he walked closer to me. I had back up till my back hit my door.

I looked up at him panicking as he lend closer to my face. As he finally kissed me, I had melted as I felt his lips on mine.

After a while, i kiss him back, trying to follow his movements. We finally pulled away, needing to take a breath.

Griping onto his shoulders, I lend closer to his chest. After a while I looked up at him, clearly blushing from our kiss.

"I will see you later, okay?" Daemon gave me a kiss on the forehead before backing away from me. As he left the only thing I could think of was.

 

What Just Happened!!!!???

(Pov Helaena)

I was walking into a cave that I found. It's too small for a dragon to be in there. I had a vision about this cave, so I wanted to know what that means.

The cave was beautiful as I looked up to see pieces of shiny colorful rocks. After a while looking at them, I heard a noise and I quickly turned around to see a boy with brown, curly hair.

He looks about 2 years older than me. ( She is 14 ) He kind  of reminds me of Harwin Strong. He's... handsome. I was staring at him for some time as he decided to break the silence.

"are you going to keep staring at me or are you going to finally say something?" He is clearly annoyed by me . I am so glad that there is barely any light in the cave.

Because he would have been able to see my embarrassed face. " I-I...My name is Helaena. What is your name?".  I stuttered feeling even more embarrassed.

The boy just looked at me before finally replied to me. " My name is Malachi," he looked away from me. " What house are you from?"

" House Strong, I am the heir of the Strong."  Oh, so Harwin and Malachi are brothers... " I am so sorry for your loss " I feel bad for asking him, now...

" It's okay, I told him not to be the crown princess, Rhaenyra's sworn sword!"  He sighed and took a seat on the ground. I slowly walked towards him and sat right next to him.

" Which house are you from Velaryon or Targaryen?" He looked at me too close to my face. "Targaryen, I am King Visery's daughter." I looked down with disappointment.

" I am sorry for talking bad about your sister..." He apologized as he looked away from me,probably, feeling guilty.

"It's okay, we're not that close anyway." Rhaenyra didn't  get the chance to have a relationship.

Our mother was keeping us away from Rhaenyra. "I see..." He is probably wondering why we are not close.

"Why are you here?" It doesn't make sense. " The king wanted me to come here. I don't know why, but my father ordered me to go, so here I am" I see I started to feel a vision coming as I gasp  I see a wedding, but it is more like a Targaryen wedding.

I look around to see Malachi in the wedding clothes. He is marrying someone in my family, but who?  I was about to see if my clothes changed as they always do.

When I was pulled back to reality, I was gasping for air. Once I came back to my senses, I felt someone's arm on my shoulders.  I looked to see Malachi comforting me.

" Are you okay?" Malachi asked, worried as he put his hand on my face. I nodded my head, yes, he sighed in relief. "What was that?" Malachi demanded. "It's hard to explain..."

"I have time," he cross his arms clearly saying ' I am not going to drop it until you tell me.'

This is going to take a long time...

Chapter Text

Helaena POV)

I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself. The vision still lingered in my mind like a half-remembered dream, the images blurred yet vivid.

I didn’t know where to start, how to explain it to him. But Malachi was waiting, his gaze steady and insistent, the silence between us growing heavy.

“It’s... hard to describe,” I began slowly, my voice shaking just a little. “I have visions. They come to me sometimes, without warning. I see things... things that haven’t happened yet, or things that might happen. It’s like I’m pulled into another world for a moment, but then I’m back, and it’s always... jarring.”

Malachi didn’t interrupt, just nodded, as if he was trying to piece together what I was saying. I wasn’t sure how much he understood, but I needed to tell him something.

“A wedding,” I continued, looking down at my hands, “I saw you there, wearing wedding clothes. But... it wasn’t just any wedding. It felt... important. It felt like something to do with my family— maybe the future?”

His eyes narrowed slightly, his curiosity piqued. “the future?”

I looked up, meeting his gaze. “I don’t know exactly, but you were there. And I was there, too. And... I think it was a Targaryen wedding.”

Malachi’s expression remained unreadable for a long moment. “You’re saying you saw me marrying someone in your family?” His tone was skeptical but calm, like he wasn’t dismissing it completely but was trying to understand.

“I think so,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “It’s hard to explain, but it felt like something that’s meant to happen, something that’s already been set in motion. But I don’t know who you will  marrying or why it was important. I just know it’s connected together, somehow.”

Malachi sat there, his expression thoughtful. I could see him processing everything, trying to make sense of the impossible.

I wanted to explain more, but how could I?

What if I was wrong?

What if it didn’t mean anything at all?

After a long silence, he finally spoke again, his voice softer than before. “Do you get visions like this often?”

“Sometimes,” I answered, trying to push down the uncertainty in my chest. “They’re not always clear, but when they come, they feel real—like I’m seeing something that’s already happened or will happen.

And when I see someone, like you, it’s like the pieces of the puzzle trying to fit together.”

Malachi was quiet for a while, looking out into the darkness of the cave as if contemplating what I had said. “This is... a lot to take in,” he murmured, rubbing his chin. “But you’re telling me that somehow, I’m going to marry into your family?”

“I think so,” I replied hesitantly. “But I don’t know how or why. I don’t even know if it’s going to happen.”

He let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “This is all a bit much.

One minute, I’m grieving my brother’s death, and the next, I’m hearing about a vision of a Targaryen wedding I’m apparently part of.

Are you sure it wasn’t just a dream?”

“I’m sure it wasn’t a dream,” I said, my voice firm. “I’ve had these visions for a long time. They’re not always what I want to see, but they’re real. And I... I can’t ignore them.”

Malachi looked at me again, his expression softening. “I believe you,” he said quietly. “I don’t understand it all, but I believe you.”

I wasn’t sure why his words comforted me so much, but they did. Maybe it was the fact that he didn’t dismiss me outright. That in itself felt like a small miracle.

We sat in silence for a while, the weight of our conversation hanging between us.

The sound of water dripping from the rocks echoed softly in the background. Eventually, Malachi stood up, stretching his arms above his head.

“Well,” he said, breaking the silence, “... if you see anything else, I’d like to know. Maybe we can figure it out together.”

I nodded, my heart beating faster. “I’ll try to—if I see anything.”

He offered me a small, reassuring smile before turning to leave the cave. “I’ll be around, Helaena. Don’t hesitate to tell me if you have another vision. Maybe we can make sense of it together.”

As he disappeared into the dim light outside, I was left standing there, still feeling the strange pull of the vision in my mind.

Malachi’s presence lingered, and I couldn't shake the feeling that this was only the beginning of something far more complicated than I could have imagined.

(Visenya POV)

After dinner, Mother sent Aemma, Helaena, Daeron, and me to our rooms. I waited quietly, knowing Daemon would come for me. As I waited, I changed into my nightgown and let my hair down, brushing it until it fell smoothly over my back.

Just as I set the brush down, I heard a familiar voice behind me.

"You look beautiful, little dragon."

I turned and found Daemon leaning casually against the wall, watching me. His gaze was intense, and I could feel my face flush with heat under it. My heart beat faster.

I stood, smoothing my gown, and walked toward him.

"Thank you, Uncle," I said softly.

He offered his hand to me, the corners of his lips curling into a knowing smirk.

"Ready to go?"

Daemon held out his hand for me to take, and without a word, I placed mine in his. His fingers were warm—steady—and for a brief moment, I allowed myself to draw strength from them.

Once we were finally out of the castle, we walked side by side along the sand. The sea breeze tugged at my hair, and the quiet between us settled like a soft veil.

“So,” he said after a long pause, “tell me about your betrothal. Larry Stone, was it?” His voice was dry, amused. He’d butchered Larys Strong’s name on purpose.

I let out a bitter laugh. “He’s a cripple. A snake. And I don’t trust him.”

Daemon didn’t answer immediately. I could feel his eyes on me, but I kept mine on the horizon.

“I don’t know why Father thought we’d be a good match,” I said, my voice catching on the last word. “Maybe he thinks I’m just... something to be traded. Like a sword or a jewel.”

My throat burned. I hadn’t meant to say so much.

I turned to him. “Mother says it’s my duty as a princess. That it doesn’t matter what I want.”

Daemon slowed his steps. “And what do you want, little dragon?”

I couldn’t answer. Not yet. So I looked away, hoping the sea would swallow my thoughts before I spoke them aloud.

"I don't want to marry him," I sighed, the words slipping out before I could stop them. I leaned in closer to Daemon, drawn to the steady warmth of his presence like a moth to flame.

Daemon slid his arm around my waist, grounding me. "What kind of man do you want to marry?" he asked, his voice low, almost tender.

The question stole my breath. For a moment, I didn’t know how to answer. Then, quietly, I said, “Someone strong. Someone who can fight… who would burn the world for me. Someone who sees me—and still thinks I’m worthy.”

I stared ahead, afraid to meet his eyes. Admitting this felt like handing over a piece of my soul.

Daemon didn’t speak, but I felt the weight of his gaze. Slowly, I turned to him.

He was already looking at me.

And in that moment, something shifted. Everything else faded away.

'This feels… familiar,' I thought, 'Like we’re back in Dragonstone.'

He moved closer. My heart stuttered.

Then Daemon kissed me—soft, deliberate, full of unspoken promise. I closed my eyes and melted into him, kissing him back with everything I had tried to hide.

When we broke apart, I gasped quietly, his breath still lingering on my lips.

"You're so cute," he whispered, lifting my chin with tender fingers. A blush warmed my cheeks as he kissed them softly, sending shivers down my spine.

Daemon smiled—gentle this time—and led me toward the wooden canopy bed like I was something precious.

Daemon’s fingers brushed the side of Visenya’s face, tracing the curve of her cheek as if committing it to memory. The flicker of torchlight danced across his eyes, turning them molten—dark and tender, intense with want.

“Is this what you want?” he asked softly, his voice barely more than a breath, rough with restraint.

Visenya’s breath caught in her throat. Her heart thundered, but she nodded, her fingers curling around the front of his tunic. “Yes,” she whispered.

That was all the permission he needed.

Daemon leaned in, his mouth meeting hers again—not with the softness of their earlier kiss, but with something deeper.

His lips moved against hers with a hunger that had been building in silence. She responded in kind, her fingers tightening, her body leaning into his.

His hands framed her waist, pulling her closer until their bodies aligned. She could feel the warmth of him even through the layers between them.

Every movement he made was careful, reverent, but filled with heat, as if each moment was a promise kept.

He kissed the hollow of her throat, slowly, his lips brushing reverently along her collarbone. Her skin tingled beneath his touch, her breath shivering with each kiss that moved lower—never rushed, always deliberate.

“You’re radiant,” he murmured against her skin, his voice a husky caress. “Every time I look at you, I forget the rest of the world.”

Visenya’s hands slid to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair. She could barely think past the warmth flooding through her, the way he looked at her like she was something sacred.

He guided her gently back toward the bed, but his gaze never left hers—watching, asking, worshipping.

And in that moment, there was no court, no throne, no whispering walls of the Red Keep. There was only her and Daemon, and the fire between them.

 

( I am not writing a sex between Daemon and Visenya as I feel weird writing 12 year old and a adult doing stuff.)

Chapter Text

(Visenya’s POV)

The warmth of his body still lingered beside me, the scent of fire and salt clinging to the air. I blinked slowly, The crept through the fabric of the tent. When I turned, Daemon was no longer lying beside me.

The bed felt colder without him.

I sat up, the weight of everything that had happened resting gently on my chest, not heavy—just real.

Wrapping the sheet around me for a moment, I watched as he stood by the open flap of the tent, his shirt was open, the sea breeze stirring his silver hair.

His silhouette was framed against the pale blue of dawn, his arms folded as he looked out across the crashing waves below the cliff.

I quietly reached for my clothes, dressing with careful fingers. Each layer felt like armor I hadn’t worn in hours.

When I was done, I stood and walked softly to where he stood.

He didn’t look at me at first, just kept watching the sea, as though it held the answer to some question he was too proud to ask.

“I should go back now,” I said gently.

His eyes flickered to mine. Something unreadable passed across his face—concern, maybe, or regret, or just the deep well of thought he often buried under charm and smirks.

" If I’m gone too long, someone will notice.”

Daemon nodded slowly. His fingers twitched at his side, as though he wanted to reach for me but thought better of it. Instead, he looked back at the sea.

“I’ll see you again soon?” I asked, my voice softer now, unsure.

He turned to me fully then. The smirk he gave was faint, almost tired, but the way he looked at me—it was like I was something fragile and rare, something he’d held and wasn’t sure he deserved.

“You will,” he said. “Sooner than you think.”

I smiled, stepping back, the wind tugging at my hair.

And as I slipped through the hidden path once more, I carried with me the scent of the sea, the memory of his hands, and the warmth of something that felt like both danger and home.

(The Next Morning – Visenya’s POV)

The morning air was thick with tension, heavy with ash and sea wind. Word had spread quickly—Lord Corlys Velaryon wished for one of his granddaughters, Baela or Rhaena, to try and claim Vhagar.

Everyone gathered at the clearing near the cliffs, the makeshift dragonpit where the great she-dragon rested—riderless, grieving.

She was a mountain of shadowed bronze and green flame, wings curled like ancient sails, her massive head lowered but alert.

I watched from the edge of the crowd, hood drawn low over my face.

Daemon stood near his daughters, expression carved from stone, but I saw the flicker in his eyes when Rhaena stepped forward.

Baela had tried first. She was bold, her High Valyrian crisp and unwavering. But Vhagar had only blinked once and let out a slow breath of smoke—unimpressed, unmoved.

Now Rhaena approached.

She trembled. Even from a distance, I could see her small fists clenched at her sides, her lips moving around shaky Valyrian.

“Dohaeris... Vhagar. Rytsas.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “I am of your blood. Of Laena’s blood. Please...”

Vhagar stirred. Her great head lifted slightly, breath hissing hot through flared nostrils.

Then—without warning—she snarled.

The ground trembled beneath our feet. Her wings snapped open like thunder, the sound like sails tearing in a storm.

Rhaena flinched, stumbled, terror seizing her features.

“Dracarys?” she croaked, her voice cracking. It was a plea, not a command.

Vhagar growled deeper, louder. Her massive claws scraped against stone. Sorrow burned off her like smoke turned to rage.

“RHAENA!” Daemon’s shout cracked the air.

But he was too far. And she was too close.

I didn’t think. I ran.

I shoved past Baela. Past Daemon. I barely registered Rhaenys’s cry behind me as I raced toward death itself.

“Vhagar!” I screamed. “Lykirī!” Calm.

Vhagar’s head snapped toward me.

The heat of her breath slammed into me, wild and blistering. My legs quaked, but I stood firm—between her and Rhaena, arms slightly out, chest rising and falling with panicked breath.

“She’s not your enemy,” I whispered. “She’s just a girl. Scared. Like you.”

Vhagar’s eyes, deep and ancient, stared into mine.

“I know what it’s like... to burn inside,” I added, barely audible.

For a heartbeat, the world held still.

Then came a low rumble from Vhagar’s chest—not a growl, but something older. Something questioning. Her great wings slowly lowered.

I took one step forward.

“Nykeā rūklon,” I breathed. A shadow. Maybe I was talking to her. Maybe I was talking to myself.

I reached out—slowly—and touched the ridge of her scaled snout.

The moment our skin met scale, something inside me cracked open.

A rush, wild and deep, seared through my veins. A tether unseen but undeniable snapped into place.

I gasped.

And Vhagar lowered her head.

Silence.

Then came the gasps, soft and stunned, behind me.

I turned, my hand still on the ancient dragon, heart pounding like drums. Vhagar bowed—to me.

Daemon stared, expression unreadable but burning with something fierce.

Baela looked stunned. Rhaena... heartbroken.

Corlys and Rhaenys exchanged a look I couldn’t decipher.

I hadn’t meant for this. I hadn’t even thought.

But Vhagar had chosen me.

The bond still thrummed beneath my skin, wild and searing—but my first thought wasn’t for the dragon. It was for her.

I turned sharply.

“Rhaena!” I rushed to her side, heart pounding louder than Vhagar’s roar. “Are you hurt?”

She stood frozen, her wide violet eyes glassy with unshed tears. Her breathing came in sharp little gulps. I reached out gently, hands hovering before I dared to touch her.

She flinched.

“I—I’m fine,” she said quickly, voice trembling. “I didn’t think she would —she just—” Her voice cracked.

“I know,” I said softly. “It’s not your fault.”

She blinked up at me, and for a moment, the only thing between us was shared shock. Shared hurt.

 

Her lips parted like she might say more, but then her gaze flicked past me—to where Vhagar waited, bowed and breathing slowly.

And her face crumpled.

“She was supposed to be mine,” Rhaena whispered.

I had no words.

I didn’t want this victory. I hadn’t asked for it. But the dragon had chosen. And in doing so, she’d left someone else behind.

“I’m sorry,” I murmured, truly meaning it.

Rhaena just turned away.

I stood there, torn between awe and guilt, with Vhagar behind me—and Rhaena walking away from me.

Before I could gather myself, another voice cut through the murmurs of the crowd.

“Visenya.”

I turned.

Father—King Viserys—was striding toward me, his face pale beneath the salt of his beard, worry etched deep in his brow. His gaze darted between me and Vhagar like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“You… claimed her?” he asked, his voice low and grave.

I nodded slowly. “I didn’t mean to. I am already a rider so I didn't think she would claim me. Rhaena—she was in danger. I was only trying to calm Vhagar down.”

His expression tightened.

“That may be,” he said, voice carefully measured, “but you must understand what this means. Vhagar is not just any dragon. She is the oldest living creature from the time of Aegon the Conqueror. And now she belongs to you.”

His eyes held mine, and I felt the weight of it—of power I never meant to seize.

“You’ve claimed two dragons now. Some will see that as a threat.”

A threat… to Rhaenyra he means.

I felt the anger bloom in my chest. I didn’t choose Vhagar. She choose me. No one owns Dragons. I didn’t want to be another reason for war.

“She didn’t choose Vhagar,” another voice interrupted softly.

Alicent.

She had reached me quietly, brushing my hair from my cheek with a trembling hand. Her eyes were warm and full of fear—not for the realm, but for me.

“Are you hurt, my sweet girl?”

“No,” I said, voice cracking.

Aemma came up beside her, face glowing with pride. “That was brave, Visenya.”

Helaena followed, eyes dreamy but bright. “She chose you. Maybe she always did. Maybe you’ve always belonged to her—even before.”

Before?

I looked at Vhagar again. That ancient eye still rested on me. And I felt it—the strange, echoing pull in my soul. Like finding something I had lost long ago, something that had once been mine.

Maybe I was hers… maybe she was mine… in another life.

I clenched my jaw, holding back the tears.

“I didn’t mean to take her from Rhaena,” I said softly to no one in particular. “It just happened.”

“I know,” Alicent murmured, wrapping her arms around me.

But behind her, I could see Father still watching—quiet, unreadable

Chapter Text

(Visenya’s POV)

The wind whipped through my hair, salt and smoke tangled in each breath as I soared above the ship on Vhagar’s back. She moved like a shadow of thunder across the sky, her massive wings casting a long ripple over the water below.

I looked down and saw them—Mother, Father, Helaena, Aemma, Daeron—all on deck, their heads tilted upward. Watching me.

I didn’t know what they were thinking. Pride? Fear? Suspicion? Maybe all of it.

It still didn’t feel real.

Vhagar had answered me. Chosen me. Or… remembered me? Sometimes, when her eyes met mine, I swore something old stirred in my blood. Something ancient and aching.

Beside us, Caraxes roared—Daemon’s dragon, long and sinuous, like fire given flesh. Daemon looked over his shoulder at me, lips curled in a half-smirk. Not mocking—just amused. Maybe even impressed.

I wasn’t sure I liked that.

I steadied my seat and let Vhagar dive lower, just to feel her wings slice through the clouds. She was so large that every beat of her wings felt like the sky itself was shifting. Below, the ship rocked slightly. I hoped that was just the wind.

Helaena waved up at me. Aemma shielded her eyes from the sun, grinning. Daeron tried to wave too, but the motion was small—nervous.

My mother did not wave.

My mother stood stiff as marble near the stern, her hands folded tight, her gaze unreadable. Father stood beside her, visibly shaken. His mouth moved in what looked like prayer—or maybe just stunned muttering.

I wondered what they would say when we landed.

 

I was the girl with Vermithor and Vhagar.

A dragon that once belonged to conqueror.

And now—mine.

Was this what I wanted?

I glanced toward Daemon and then to Vermithor.

A part of me still burned—not with fire, but with guilt. Rhaena had cried after. And I hadn’t meant to steal anything. I just hadn’t wanted her to get hurt.

Vhagar let out a low, echoing growl beneath me.

I reached forward and stroked her neck.

“Easy, girl,” I whispered. “We’re almost home.”

King’s Landing rose in the distance—black stone and red roofs gleaming in the sun. The Red Keep loomed like a crown.

And above it all… three dragons.

Mine and Daemon’s.

I wondered how long the peace would last.

 

l

Vhagar landed with the weight of a falling star, the earth groaning beneath her. Dust spiraled upward in thick waves as her talons dug into the hillside just beyond the Dragonpit’s perimeter.

 

Vermithor went to his place in Dragonpit not before giving me a look.

Is Vermithor jealous? I thought to myself before paying attention back to Vhagar.

 

She was simply too large—too ancient, too mighty—to be caged or housed like the others. She belonged to sky and fire, not stone and chains.

 

I slid down her side carefully, boots hitting the scorched grass with a dull thud. She let out a rumble as I stepped away, and I turned to press my palm to her scaled hide one last time.

 

“You’ll be safe here,” I murmured, though I wasn’t sure for whose benefit the words were meant—hers or mine.

 

Then I turned and walked.

 

The climb down the slope was steep, but I knew the path well. The Dragonpit loomed ahead like a broken shell—half-ruined from old rebellions and never quite the same afterward. It still stank of ash, blood, and old heat. I passed through the archways, the shadows swallowing me whole for a moment.

 

And then I heard it.

The low, vibrating growl of something waking.

 

Vermithor.

 

He was restless again.

I moved slowly down the narrow corridor that led to his cavernous holding—if it could be called that. It was more tomb than stable. Vermithor had not been flown in decades before me. They called him the Bronze Fury. He was younger than Vhagar, but not by much.

 

And he was mine, too.

 

When I reached the edge of the enclosure, I saw his eyes gleaming in the dark. Bronze and gold, like molten coins. He stepped forward, massive and hulking, nostrils flaring as he scented me.

 

“It’s me,” I said, my voice steady. “I didn’t forget you.”

 

He bared his teeth—not a snarl, but something close. A question. A challenge. Perhaps a jealousy he didn’t understand.

 

“I didn’t trade you,” I told him, stepping closer, until I could see my reflection in the wet glint of his eye. “I didn't mean to claim her. She choose me.”

Vermithor huffed, smoke curling from his snout. The air smelled of singed stone.

"Don't look at me like that!"

“I flew with her on the way home,” I confessed. “But I belong to you also...”

A moment passed.

Then he lowered his head, pressing it lightly to the ground at my feet.

 

A benediction.

 

A claiming.

 

Or maybe… a forgiveness.

I touched his brow, cool compared to Vhagar’s burning hide. And I exhaled for what felt like the first time since we’d left Driftmark.

Outside, I could hear the city stirring—the bells ringing faintly from the Sept, the echo of hooves on cobblestone. Soon, word would spread.

 

A soft scrape of boots on stone echoed behind me.

 

Daemon.

 

He said nothing at first, just stepped up beside me and looked Vermithor over with a half-lidded gaze.

 

“Still clings to you,” he said, tone light but not mocking. “Even with Vhagar now under your legs.”

 

I didn’t answer. I kept my hand pressed to Vermithor’s brow, feeling the slow thrum of his pulse beneath bone and scale.

 

“Most would be content with one,” he continued, stepping just close enough that I could feel the heat of him. “But you—two dragons?”

 

“I didn’t plan it,” I murmured.

 

“No,” he agreed, folding his hands behind his back as he took a slow step forward. “But Vhagar doesn't choose just anyone. Vhagar could’ve burned you to ash if she wished. She didn’t.”

 

A pause.

 

It was like she knew me...

 

I finally turned to look at him. His expression was unreadable—amused, maybe. But also searching. There was something sharper in his eyes than usual.

 

His glaze made me bristle, but only a little. He always said things like that—half-truths wrapped in provocation. Compliments meant to unsettle.

 

She came to me like she was waiting...Like she recognize me.

 

He looked past me to Vermithor, then back toward the open sky beyond the broken dome of the pit.

 

We stood there in silence for a long moment.

 

Then he nodded toward the exit. “Walk with me.”

 

I hesitated—but followed.

 

The corridors were cool and shadowed, the sounds of the city returning in distant waves as we climbed the outer path along the ruins. When we stepped out into the sun, the air tasted of smoke and salt, still heavy from the wind Vhagar had stirred.

"You're quiet," I said, my voice soft. It echoed faintly off the stone.

He glanced at me, eyes sharp and unreadable in the dim light. “You flew well.”

 

“That’s not what you want to say.”

 

He smirked, faintly. “No. It’s not.”

 

We walked a few more paces before he added, “You’ve claimed the mightiest of living dragons, niece. That’s no small thing.”

 

I swallowed, uncertain. “I didn’t mean to. I just… didn’t want Rhaena to get hurt.”

 

“And yet here you are,” he said, halting beneath one of the arched passageways that led to the inner courtyard. He looked at me closely. “You acted without hesitation. Without fear.”

 

“I was afraid,” I said quietly.

 

Daemon tilted his head. “Good. Only fools aren’t.”

 

I glanced up at the castle, golden light flickering from the towers above. “Everyone’s going to talk, aren’t they?”

 

“They already are,” he said, blunt. “Viserys will fret. Alicent will pray. Rhaenyra will sharpen her smile. And the court will start whispering about dragons, succession, blood, and more.”

 

I felt cold, despite the warmth in the air. “Do you think I did the wrong thing?”

 

He was silent again for a long moment, then said, “No.”

 

I looked at him.

 

“You didn’t choose power for its own sake,” he said. “It chose you. She chose you. That means something.”

 

We reached the doors of the castle. The guards nodded and opened them, but Daemon raised a hand to pause.

 

He turned to face me fully. “But now that you have her, Visenya… people will expect things from you. They’ll want you to pick sides. You’ll have to decide who you are. Not just a rider—but what kind of dragon you mean to be.”

 

I stared at him, and for a moment, I could see the shadow of the prince he once was—the rogue, the warrior, the dreamer with blood on his hands and fire in his eyes.

 

And then he smiled.

 

“You did good, little dragon.”

 

He walked inside, his cloak fluttering behind him.

 

I stood there a moment longer, heart thudding. Then I followed.

 

(Helaena’s POV)

 

The Red Keep always whispered at night.

Most people didn’t notice it—the way the stones hummed softly, the wind curled into voices only I could hear, the ghosts that lingered in long-forgotten halls. But I did. I always did.

Everyone else was asleep, or pretending to be. I wandered the dark garden near Maegor’s Holdfast, feet bare, the moonlight silvering the path ahead.

They came to me here, most often. When the veil was thin and the world quiet enough to listen.

“Aegon,” I whispered. “Rhaenys. Visenya.”

And like mist rising from marble, they were there.

Aegon the Conqueror stood straight-backed in black and red, his gaze heavy, hair pale like starlight. He always looked as though he carried the whole realm on his shoulders—and knew it would never thank him for it.

 

Rhaenys lounged beside the old stone bench, playing with a flower she hadn't picked. She never picked them. “Too pretty to die for no reason,” she said.

 

Visenya stood farther back, arms crossed, her expression eternally unimpressed. A sword always at her hip—even in death.

 

“Well,” Rhaenys said with a musical lilt, “looks like the little Visenya claimed the big one.”

 

“I told you she would,” Aegon muttered.

 

“You said someone would, not her,” Visenya snapped. “I thought it would be Baela.”

 

“I thought it would eat her,” Rhaenys added brightly.

 

I sat on the bench and looked up at them. “Vhagar chose Visenya,” I murmured.

 

Visenya the First snorted. “Bit of irony in that, isn’t it?”

 

Rhaenys grinned. “Maybe it’s fate. We Targaryens love fate.”

 

I fiddled with the edge of my sleeve. “Do you think… it’s wrong? That she has two dragons now?”

 

“She has what she was meant to have,” Aegon said quietly. “The dragon chooses. That was always the way.”

 

I looked down at my hands. “Father’s afraid. Mother is worried. And Rhaenyra…”

 

“She’s calculating,” Visenya said. “Always has been. She’ll either adapt or strike.”

 

Rhaenys tilted her head. “You don’t like politics, do you, little dreamer?”

 

“I see too much of what comes after,” I whispered. “The crowns, the fire, the blood. They never stop burning.”

 

Silence hung between us.

 

Then Visenya stepped forward, her eyes unusually soft. “You can’t change all of it, Helaena. But maybe you can change enough.”

 

I met her gaze. “ so you're saying that's what I should do”

 

Visenya cracked a rare smile. “If you think that's your faith...your path..."

 

Rhaenys leaned closer, winked. “Don’t let anyone tell you being strange is a flaw. It’s often a gift.”

 

Aegon inclined his head. “Remember this: the throne matters, but the dragon matters more. That fire inside you? It’s older than crowns.”

 

They had left , but the silence they left behind lingered.

 

I remained on the bench, the scent of night flowers curling around me like a lullaby. My fingers traced the grooves of the stone, my thoughts wandering—not to crowns or dragons or dreams this time.

 

But to him.

 

Malachi.

 

He wasn’t of the court. Not truly. He didn’t belong in the glittering halls or the golden cages we called home. He walked through them like smoke, like he was never truly tethered to this world.

 

Maybe that’s why I saw him. Really saw him.

 

Where others saw a quiet boy with dark eyes and shadowed silences, I saw… gentleness. A warmth hidden beneath his caution. He never looked at me like I was broken or strange, even when I spoke of webs and wings and things yet to pass.

 

He listened.

 

He believed.

 

And gods, that was more terrifying than any prophecy.

 

Sometimes I wonder if he sees the same things I do—if he has his own way of touching the world beyond, of hearing the whispers on the wind. Maybe that’s why he never flinches when I speak of dragons that haven’t hatched or battles not yet fought.

 

Maybe he’s part of the dream. Or the end of it.

 

I pressed my hand to my chest, just above my heart, where the ache always sat after I saw him. Not pain, exactly. Just… longing. Gentle. Patient. Unanswered.

 

What would he say now, if he were here?

 

He’d probably sit in the grass beside me, quiet at first, then softly ask what I saw. He never pushed. Never judged.

 

And if I told him I saw fire swallowing the sky, he would only ask if I was safe.

 

Maybe one day I’ll tell him the pressure.

 

Maybe one day I’ll kiss him, and the ghosts will finally stop whispering.

 

But not tonight.

 

Tonight, I watch the stars—and wonder if he’s watching them too.

Later that night when she went to bed.

The air shimmered—soft as silk and sharp as glass.

I knew I was dreaming. The weight of it was familiar. Too vivid. Too still. The silence beneath the music was always louder here.

I stood in the middle of a grand hall, draped in gold and red. Candles flickered high above, their flames bending in unseen winds. Laughter rang like distant bells, hollow and too bright.

It was a betrothal celebration.

Visenya’s.

She stood near the high table in a dress of deep violet and black, her hair twisted in braids like Valyrian steel. She was radiant, but her eyes…

Her eyes searched the room like she was lost.

Then I saw him. Larys Strong.

He stood at the edge of the crowd, hands folded like a patient spider. His smile was polite, thin, but his eyes were always moving—calculating. Watching Visenya like she was a piece of rare game finally caught.

And yet, it wasn’t him she looked for.

Across the room stood Daemon.

He was speaking with Rhaenyra.

They were close—too close—and though they spoke quietly, I could feel the old fire between them crackling like coals. They didn’t touch, not yet, but their eyes spoke a language I didn’t understand.

And then—Daemon laughed.

It was a quiet sound, but Visenya heard it.

She turned slowly, gaze falling on them. Her face didn’t change at first—trained, composed—but then her frown slipped through. A crack in the mask. Her eyes glistened, just for a breath.

Rhaenyra placed a hand on Daemon’s arm.

They walked together to the center of the room as the musicians began to play again—low strings and ghostly notes—and then they danced.

The Targaryen dragon watched from every wall.

Visenya stood still. Alone.

No one noticed her. No one asked her to dance.

Not even Larys.

Her hand touched her stomach briefly—was she sick? No… No. She was heartbroken.

The air shifted.

The fire in the hearth flared blue.

I heard whispering in a language older than Valyria.

And then the dream ended.

I awoke in my bed, my throat tight with unshed tears, the taste of ash in my mouth.

Oh, Visenya…

Chapter Text

(Helaena’s POV – After the Dream)

The dream clung to me like spider silk—fine, near invisible, but impossible to shake. Even awake, I could feel its threads wrapped around my thoughts, whispering truths I never asked to hear.

Visenya’s face wouldn’t leave me.

That hollow sadness in her eyes. The way her hand drifted to her stomach, like she was cradling something broken inside her.

She smiled through it—pretended she was fine. That’s what we all do in this family.

But I saw.

And I would not let it happen. Not again.

I sat by the window as the moon sank behind the towers of the Red Keep, my fingers twisting the hem of my sleeve. The dragons carved into the stone outside looked down like judges. I refused to flinch.

Visenya couldn’t know I was a dreamer. Not yet. Not now.

She already carried too much.

But I could act.

Larys Strong must go.

The thought settled in my chest like a stone dropped in still water. No ripple. No regret.

He was poison.

I had seen it in the way he watched her. The curve of his smile when she wasn’t looking. Like she was something to be possessed, a prize in a long, quiet game. I don’t care if the Queen Mother trusts him. I don’t care if Father pretends not to see.

If I have to walk into his web and cut every thread myself, I will.

I won’t let her become a prisoner in a gilded cage.

Not like Aemma.

I will save both of them.

I would speak to Visenya, gently. Guide her toward a different path without revealing how I knew.

But first—I needed to listen. To watch. To find the spider’s weakness.

I smiled softly, surprised by the sharpness blooming in my chest.

I may love beetles and flowers…
But I am still a dragon.

And dragons protect their own.

---

The castle slept, lulled by the hush of midnight tides and the distant breath of Vhagar resting beyond the walls. I moved like a shadow, barefoot, silent, the hem of my nightgown sweeping the stone floor.

My chambers was filled with —dim, cluttered with jars and scrolls, bundles of dried herbs tied with silk thread. No one questioned the oddities I kept. They thought them the harmless habits of a peculiar girl.

Let them.

I knelt beside the cedar chest tucked beneath my bed. Its iron latch creaked open to reveal velvet-lined boxes of beetle shells, glass vials, old sketches of flowers… and my journal.

Its leather cover was cracked with age, the corners stained with ink and time. I ran my fingers over it fondly. I had started it when I was barely ten—curious about the plants the maesters wouldn’t speak of. The ones that healed. And the ones that harmed.

Inside, each page was carefully labeled—powdered wolfsbane, basilisk blood, dreamwine laced with shade-of-the-evening. I had even drawn the roots, petals, and leaves in exact detail. Each entry noted the taste, the symptoms, the cure. And when there was none.

Mother says you read too much, I remembered Aemma saying once. You’ll go blind staring at paper all day.

Maybe.

But now, flipping through the pages, I felt powerful. Dangerous.

Larys Strong thought himself clever—patient and quiet, lurking in the corners like a rat.

But he had never dreamed like I had. Never felt prophecy curl like smoke beneath his skin, whispering loss before it came.

He would not touch Visenya.

 

He would not trap her with whispers and knives.

 

He would not finish what he began with Aemma.

 

Not this time.

 

I paused on a page marked with a pressed belladonna blossom. My quill hovered thoughtfully.

He likes sweet wine, I recalled. He drinks it slowly.

I smiled, not cruelly—just with certainty.

I would begin planting the pieces soon.

I would weave my own web.

And when the spider stepped into it…

He wouldn’t even see it close.

 

(Aemma's POV)

The streets of King’s Landing smelled of smoke and wet stone. Cloaked and hooded, I kept my head down as I walked among the smallfolk—an echo of footsteps over muddy cobblestones, a world away from the marble halls of the Red Keep.

 

No one recognized me here. That was the point.

 

I came alone, slipping past the guards just after the sun had risen. I had hidden a basket of food under my cloak: crusty bread, dried fruits, and a few coins I had taken from my own allowance.

 

It wasn’t much, but it was something.

 

Children huddled near the bakers’ alley. A boy no older than Daeron tugged at his sister’s sleeve, asking if they would eat today.

 

Their faces were thin, tired. I knelt beside them quietly, offering what I had. The girl looked at me like I was a ghost.

 

"Take it," I said softly. "I’ll come again soon."

 

Her hand trembled as she took the bread. “Are you an angel?”

 

“No,” I whispered. “Just a sister.”

 

I didn’t know why I kept coming here. Maybe because Mother never would. Maybe because being near the hungry, the forgotten, reminded me of who I didn’t want to become.

 

How lucky I am... I want to help them as much as I can.

 

Later, I returned to the Red Keep with mud on my boots and a stray leaf caught in my braid. I lied to the guards—said I had gone riding near the Sept. They never questioned me.

 

In the courtyard, I saw Visenya and Daemon already at the training grounds. Her hair was tied back, sword in hand, moving with a grace that could slice through any man.

 

Uncle Daemon circled her like a prowling cat, testing her reflexes, speaking low in Valyrian.

 

Watching them was… strange. They said little in public. But there was something in the way they looked at each other, something that wasn’t uncle and niece.

 

I decided to join them again that afternoon.

 

Not because I wanted to be a warrior. I didn’t. But because when I was sparring, I wasn’t a pawn in my mother’s games.

 

I wasn’t a disappointment. I was just Aemma—breathing hard, holding a blade, trying to stay on my feet.

 

And when I trained with them, I could pretend—just for a little while—that I belonged somewhere.

 

(Visenya’s POV)

 

Days passed, gilded with pretense.

In public, Daemon and I were uncle and niece—nothing more, nothing less. Our connection wore the mask of propriety. Distant. Controlled. Occasionally affectionate in the way family is allowed to be.

 

We walked side by side through the training yard, blades clashing beneath the pale sun, sweat gleaming on our skin.

 

He corrected my form with a hand at my hip, a nudge at my shoulder, touches that lingered just long enough to make me burn beneath my armor.

 

I laughed too easily at his dry wit. He looked at me too long when I smiled.

 

No one seemed to notice.

 

Not even Aemma.

 

She had begun joining us in the yard, claiming she wanted to learn to fight. But I recognized that look in her eyes—the need to be away from Mother, from the court, from the lies that stained every wall of the Red Keep.

 

I had worn that same look once.

 

Daemon never refused her. With Aemma, he was patient, kind, even careful. But when it was me his blade met, something in him shifted.

 

Sharper.

 

Harsher.

 

Hungrier.

 

He tested me with each clash of steel, pushed me harder, faster. Always a little too close. Always just shy of something irreversible.

 

But it was at night that the mask came off.

 

When the castle hushed and the torches dimmed, when the guards began to doze and the wind howled low outside our windows—he came to me.

 

No words. No fanfare. Just him, stepping into the quiet like he belonged there.

 

Sometimes we talked. Sometimes we didn’t. Sometimes we sat by the open window, drinking in the salt air and each other’s silence. Sometimes he brought wine.

 

Sometimes all he brought was himself—and it was enough.

 

He would touch my hand. Then my face. Eyes always searching, as if asking permission for feelings he had already let bloom.

 

I never asked what this was. What we were.

 

Some things are too fragile to name.

 

Last night, he had brushed my hair behind my ear and pressed his lips to the pulse at my throat.

 

He didn’t speak.

 

Neither did I.

But I didn’t sleep. I watched him instead, memorizing every line of him—the curve of his mouth, the old scar by his collarbone, the way he curled inward slightly when he dreamed. Like he was still guarding something in sleep.

 

Now, in the courtyard again, our blades sang against each other. Aemma jumped at the clang.

 

“Focus,” Daemon warned, but his eyes were on me.

 

I grinned, twirling my sword. “She is focused,” I said. “You’re just distracting her.”

 

His smirk was slow and devastating. “Am I?”

 

My next strike came hard, and fast.

 

(Later That Night)

 

Moonlight washed my chamber in silver, soft and pale as memory. The fire had dwindled to embers, casting faint shadows that danced across the walls.

 

The only sound was the distant murmur of waves crashing against the cliffs below.

 

Daemon lay beside me. One arm tucked beneath my head. The other skimming lazy, absent circles along the bare skin of my back.

 

The sheets tangled around us, still warm from our breath and bodies. He smelled of leather, salt, smoke—him.

 

Neither of us spoke. We rarely did, afterward. Words felt too small for what stretched between us.

 

Then, softly, he said, “You’ll look beautiful in your betrothal gown.”

 

I froze.

 

His voice wasn’t cruel.

 

It wasn’t mocking.

 

It was quiet.

 

Honest.

 

Maybe even sad.

 

But it cut all the same.

 

I pressed my face against his chest, lips brushing the spot where his heart beat, steady and slow.

 

“I don’t want to wear it,” I whispered. “Not for him.”

 

Daemon’s hand stilled.

 

“Visenya…”

 

I raised my head. Met his eyes.

 

Shadows clung to his features, but couldn’t hide what lived behind them—yearning, sharp and bruised. A war he fought every time we were alone.

 

“I want to marry you,” I said. “Not him. Not anyone else.”

 

He didn’t speak. Just looked at me. The silence was heavier than any answer.

 

So I reached for truth the way I’d always known it—through our shared tongue, through words older than the Seven.

 

"Take me to Dragonstone and make me your wife."

 

His eyes closed, like the weight of it all had finally fallen. Like he had been waiting to hear it and dreading it in the same breath.

 

When he opened them again, they burned.

 

He took my hand, lacing our fingers together.

 

“I want to,” he said hoarsely. “Gods, I want to. But if I steal my brother’s daughter…”

 

He trailed off. He didn’t need to finish.

 

Instead, he kissed me—slow, aching, reverent.

 

The kind of kiss that says if this is all we ever have, let it matter.

 

When it ended, we stayed close, foreheads pressed, breath mingled.

 

And then… his expression shifted.

 

Still soft.

 

Still warm.

 

But now there was purpose in it. Danger.

 

“If we are to be together,” he said quietly, “we must get rid of Larys Strong.”

 

The name shattered the fragile peace.

 

Larys.

 

The spider.

 

The whisperer.

 

The leash waiting to be fastened around my throat.

 

The man they promised me to—like a cage in the shape of a husband.

 

Daemon’s voice dropped lower. “He’s not just an obstacle. He’s a poison. He thrives in your mother’s court. And he’s watching you.”

 

I didn’t flinch.

 

I had known this.

 

I had felt it.

 

“He wants to use me,” I said. “Turn me into something he owns.”

 

Daemon nodded once. “He won’t let you go once he has you.”

 

A chill slid down my spine. But beneath it, something else stirred.

 

Resolve.

 

“What do we do?” I asked.

 

His eyes gleamed in the dying firelight. “We wait. We watch. We plan. The court has eyes. My brother’s among them.”

 

“And when?”

 

“When the time is right…” He brushed a lock of hair from my cheek. “…we cut the spider from his web.”

 

His voice was quiet.

 

Final.

 

I didn’t ask how.

 

Daemon had killed before.

 

And I would help him if I had to.

 

Because I wanted freedom.

 

I want love.

 

I want him.

 

And for that, Larys Strong had to die.

Chapter Text

The Conquerors )

“I had died a few centuries ago ” Aegon I muttered, arms crossed as I floated above the Red Keep, “and somehow this is what my descendants are up to.”

Below them , Visenya II was sneaking glances at Daemon like a maiden at her first feast. Daemon, who was absolutely not being subtle either. Not at all.

 

“I like this one,” Visenya said, grinning with a wicked glint in her ghostly eye. “She’s got guts. And she claimed Vhagar? I could kiss her.”

“You tried to stab me once just for trying to kiss you,” Aegon I reminded her.

“That was different,” she said primly. “That is how I show my love.”

 

“I think it’s romantic!” Rhaenys sighed, twirling in the air like a wistful breeze. “Forbidden love! Secret meetings! Betrothal sabotage! It’s all very dramatic. Very… theater.”

“She’s engaged to Larys Strong,” Aegon said, horrified.

“The one with the weird feet thing?” Visenya raised a ghostly brow. “Really? No wonder she’s sneaking off with Daemon. Honestly, I’d would rather run off with Caraxes than him.”

Aegon I groaned, rubbing his temples. “Our bloodline has survived wars, rebellions, and dragons eating their own riders. But this family’s biggest threat might just be horniness and bad decisions.”

“Speak for yourself,” Visenya said. “You married both of your sisters?"

“Alright, that’s fair.”

 

“Shh! Look! Look! She just told him to take her to Dragonstone and marry her!” Rhaenys squealed. “I love her. Can we adopt her? Is that a thing?”

“She’s already in the family,” Aegon I said wearily.

“I mean formally. Like a ghost-great granddaughter. I’ll haunt her wedding dress with pride.”

 

“Hmm,” Visenya mused. “Do you think she knows how to wield Dark Sister?”

“I don’t think that’s what they’re calling it in this context,” Rhaenys giggled.

“Rhaenys!” Visenya hissed.

But even Aegon couldn’t stop the corners of his mouth from twitching. These descendants of theirs… absolute disasters. But gods, they were entertaining.

 

(Aemma’s POV)

 

In the Training Yard , it was midmorning.

 

The sun beat down on us in waves, sweat already clinging to my skin as I pulled another arrow from the quiver strapped to my back. Visenya stood a few feet away, eyes narrowed with sharp focus as she adjusted her stance.

 

Daeron was already boasting about hitting the target twice in a row, and I was determined not to let him outshoot me again.

 

Then, one of the boys—Ser Lorent’s son, maybe?—lowered his bow and asked with a smirk, “Where’s your other sister? Isn’t she going to join us too?”

 

“Helaena?” I asked, wiping my brow.

 

“Yeah,” he said, drawing laughter from a few others. “Or is she too busy whispering to spiders and naming beetles again?”

 

A few of the squires chuckled.

 

Visenya’s lips twitched, but she didn’t laugh. I frowned, mouth opening to snap back when—

 

“I’m right here,” came Helaena’s soft voice.

 

We turned.

 

She stood at the edge of the yard in her pale yellow gown, hair plaited with a thin braid across her brow, eyes calm and unblinking as ever. No shoes. Just like always. In her hands was a small parchment journal, likely full of sketches and odd mutterings, but she closed it gently as she stepped forward.

 

The boys blinked.

 

“You're not dressed for training,” one of them muttered, less sure of himself now.

 

“I don't need to train,” Helaena replied serenely.

 

Then, without asking, she walked over, plucked the bow from the boy’s hands—Daeron’s friend, I realized—and lifted it with startling ease.

 

“What,” the boy said under his breath.

 

Helaena didn’t respond. She notched an arrow with hands steady as stone. No stance, no dramatic pause. Just one breath…

 

*Thwip.

 

The arrow sailed clean and fast, striking the bullseye with a satisfying thud.

 

Silence.

 

Even Visenya looked mildly impressed.

 

Helaena handed the bow back. “I can bite too,” she said, turning without another word.

 

I stifled a grin as the boys stood gaping. Daeron whistled low. Visenya gave a single, appreciative nod.

 

“That,” I muttered as I shot my next arrow, “was poetic justice.”

 

Daeron puffed out his chest, a grin splitting across his face. “Told you my sisters were the best,” he said to the stunned squires, as if he had personally trained each of us himself.

 

“You were just calling Helaena weird yesterday,” I reminded him with a snort.

 

“I never said weird,” he countered quickly, “I said... mysterious. There's a difference.”

 

Visenya raised an eyebrow. “You said she talks to bugs and it’s creepy.”

 

Daeron shrugged, unfazed. “And now she shoots arrows like a knight. Creepy and deadly. That makes her even cooler.”

 

The boys all laughed, half-impressed, half-embarrassed. I could see their egos trying to patch themselves back together after being shown up by a barefoot girl in a dress.

 

“She’s a dragon,” Daeron added proudly, voice loud enough for Helaena—who was already halfway across the courtyard—to hear. “All three of my sisters are. Just different kinds.”

 

I smirked at that, nudging him with my elbow. “That might be the smartest thing you’ve said all year.”

 

“I’m full of wisdom,” he said smugly, missing his next shot entirely as the arrow thunked into the ground well short of the target.

 

Visenya snorted. “Full of something, anyway.”

 

( A few days later)

The sun blazed over the Red Keep’s stone courtyard, banners whipping in the wind, gold and red and green shimmering together like uneasy truce. I stood just behind Mother, my hands clasped neatly in front of me as we waited.

 

Visenya’s betrothal party was in two days, and already the halls were filled with silk, politics, and forced smiles. But nothing made my stomach twist like the carriage rolling through the gates now.

 

Princess Rhaenyra had arrived.

 

Her husband, Laenor Velaryon, rode beside the carriage on a fine silver mare, looking as dazzling as always—smiling, even. But it was the three boys tumbling out ahead of him that drew every eye. Jacaerys, Lucerys, and little Joffrey—her sons, dark-haired and bright-eyed.

 

Mother straightened beside me, stiff as a drawn bowstring. “Smile, Aemma,” she whispered, lips not moving. “We are gracious hosts.”

 

I did as she said, of course. I always do. But I could feel her tension like static in the air.

 

Rhaenyra stepped out last, regal and radiant in her crimson and black. Her hand lingered on the edge of the carriage, her eyes sweeping the courtyard like a hawk. When she spotted Mother, something flickered in her gaze—something unreadable.

 

“Queen Alicent,” Rhaenyra said with a courtier’s smile.

 

“Princess Rhaenyra,” Mother replied. “It has been too long.”

 

“Yes,” Rhaenyra murmured. “It has.”

 

She turned to me next. “Aemma. You’ve grown.”

 

I dipped into a graceful curtsy, as I'd been taught. “Welcome to King’s Landing, Princess. I hope your journey was comfortable.”

 

Jacaerys was already glancing around curiously. Lucerys had one hand on his younger brother’s shoulder, while Joffrey stared up at the looming towers of the Red Keep with awe.

 

I forced my smile to stay in place.

 

I thought about Visenya, about the way she’d stared into Vhagar’s eyes and stepped into flame as if it were water. About the way she looked at Daemon when no one else was watching.

 

This party would be many things.

 

Peaceful wasn’t one of them.

 

As our mothers exchanged pleasantries thick with thorns, I stepped away, my eyes catching Jacaerys’s across the courtyard. He smiled—soft, familiar—and I couldn’t help but return it, despite the swirl of nerves in my chest.

 

“Jace,” I said, my voice gentler than I expected. “It’s good to see you again.”

 

He looked older, taller, and more sure of himself than when I last saw him. “Aemma,” he said with a half-grin. “You’ve grown taller than me, haven’t you?”

 

I laughed. “Only when I wear my riding boots.”

 

We walked slowly away from the adults, slipping between the towering pillars of the courtyard garden. The shade was cooler there, scented with lemon trees and sea breeze, and for a moment, it felt like we weren’t the children of two women locked in a silent war.

 

“I missed King’s Landing,” Jace admitted, glancing up at the towers. “Not the court, but... I missed people.”

 

I knew who he meant, and I let my hand brush his briefly in understanding.

 

“I missed you too,” I said, more honestly than I meant to. My cheeks warmed, but I didn’t look away.

 

He smiled again, softer now. “You still help the smallfolk?”

 

“I try,” I said. “When no one’s looking. I bring bread and herbs. Sometimes I teach the littlest ones to read.”

 

He looked impressed. “You’re braver than half the knights here.”

 

“You’ve never seen me try swordplay,” I teased.

 

We paused beneath an olive tree, the chatter of our mothers still drifting faintly behind us like background noise.

 

“You think she’s happy?” Jace asked after a moment.

 

“Who?”

 

“Visenya,” he said. “About the betrothal.”

 

I glanced away, watching the flutter of birds in the distance. “I think... she’s trying to be.”

 

He nodded, not pushing further. That was always something I liked about him—he didn’t pry, but he listened.

 

“Come,” I said, reaching for his hand this time. “I’ll show you the new training yard. Daeron's made a game of archery lately.”

 

“Should I be scared?”

 

I laughed. “Only if Helaena joins. She doesn’t miss.”

 

And we walked on—two children of dragons trying to pretend we were just two old friends walking under the trees.

 

( Visenya)

 

I stood in front of the tall mirror, the soft candlelight reflecting off the polished glass and casting a warm, flickering glow across the room. My hands trembled slightly as I smoothed the deep sapphire fabric of my dress over my shoulders.

 

The gown was exquisite—silk so fine it felt like water running over my skin—but the weight of it wasn’t just in the fabric. It was in the expectations wrapped around me, tightening like a noose with every breath.

 

The silence of the chamber settled heavily. Outside, the castle hummed with distant voices and laughter, but here, it was still—too still.

 

A soft, deliberate step broke through the quiet. Before I could turn, the door creaked open, and Helaena stepped inside, her face composed, almost serene. Her presence filled the room like a shadow—graceful, yet somehow cold.

 

Without a word, she approached the vanity, where my hairbrush lay tangled in its usual mess. She set down a small, delicate vial—crystal clear, the liquid inside catching the candlelight like a shard of night.

 

“For you,” she said, voice low, almost a breath. The simplicity of her words sent a chill deeper than the draft slipping beneath the door.

 

I blinked, heart skipping a beat, and tried to find some warmth in her gaze. “Helaena, what is this? Why—?”

 

But she had already turned away, her footsteps retreating quickly down the hall, the door clicking shut behind her with a finality that echoed through the chamber.

 

I was left alone, staring at the vial, the weight of it heavier than any dress. The liquid inside looked like darkness itself, promising nothing good. My fingers hovered over it, hesitant, cold sweat slicking my palms.

 

Why had she left this here?  The questions churned inside me, unanswered, as the silence closed back in.

 

I swallowed hard, my mind racing. Whatever Helaena knows... it's clear that she knows what I am planning on doing.

Chapter Text

(Visenya Pov)

I stared at the vial for what felt like hours, though it could only have been minutes.

My pulse drummed in my ears louder than the distant music below. It sat there-still and gleaming, an innocent little thing, and yet it felt like it was screaming at me.

Not just a gift.

 

A message.

 

A weapon.

 

A choice.

 

Why had Helaena brought it to me?

 

She had said nothing.

 

Left no note..

 

Gave no instructions.

 

But her silence spoke volumes. Helaena was never careless. She was odd, yes-dreamy, soft-spoken, half-lost in a world no one else could see-but not careless.

 

She'd seen something.

 

And she was giving me a means to act.

 

I pressed my hands against the cool edge of the vanity, grounding myself. My reflection in the mirror was pale, thoughtful, tense.

 

Larys Strong was no man.

 

He was a spider.

 

A whisper with a smile.

 

A leash no one could see until it was wrapped tight around your throat.

 

If I married him, he would own me.

 

But if he died...

 

My breath caught.

 

A quiet sort of clarity settled over me, not unlike when I flew Vhagar-when I gave into the storm instead of fighting it.

I will use it as long as I was careful and clever.

And if Helaena truly meant what I thought she wants me to do, then she had given me an escape.

 

A way out.

Not with fire and blood, but with silence.

I reached for the vial, the glass cool and smooth against my fingertips.

"I will not be his puppet," I whispered to the candlelight. "I will not be his prize."

The vial disappeared into the folds of my cloak as I turned toward the balcony, letting the breeze lift the heavy curtains. Below, the keep flickered with gold and crimson light. The world carried on, unaware of the choice I now held in my palm.

And soon, I thought, Larys Strong would learn what it truly meant to mess with me.

 

(Aemma – First Person)

I sat by the window, the sunlight warm against my cheeks, the air still and thick with the scent of late summer roses. I heard the door open behind me and didn’t need to look.

“Your hair’s longer,” Jace said, voice soft, almost fond.

I smiled faintly. “Is it?”

He moved closer, fingers brushing lightly through my hair, testing the strands with care. “Can I braid it?”

I nodded, unable to speak past the sudden tightness in my throat.

This was his way. He always braided my hair when we saw each other again—like time hadn’t passed, like we were still just children stealing peace in a world that never seemed to have any for us.

His fingers began to move—gentle, sure, threading through locks of hair with more reverence than most men had for their swords. And I sat still, breathing slow, letting him work, while my mind drifted somewhere far less quiet.

Our mothers.

My mother, Queen Alicent. His, Rhaenyra.

Once friends. Now rivals, enemies, queens at war in all but name. I’d heard the whispers since I was old enough to understand what power tasted like. Every move, every smile between Jace and me watched, measured, judged.

We were not just children.

Not anymore.

 

We were checker pieces.

 

Symbols.

 

Pieces.

 

Would they let us marry?

 

Would they ever truly allow it?

 

Would they let us love?

A knot tightened in my stomach. Even now, I could feel the weight of it pressing down on me—the burden of legacy.

 

Of blood.

 

Of expectation.

 

I wondered if Jace felt it too, or if he braided my hair because it was the one thing no one else could twist or claim.

 

“I missed this,” he said quietly.

“I missed you,” I replied, and meant it more than he could know.

 

He didn’t speak again, just kept working in silence, like the braid was something sacred—like by weaving it, he could hold back the storm.

When he finished, he tied it with a ribbon the color of old blood.

“There,” he said, stepping back. “Now you look more beautiful.”

I turned to him, my heart aching. “Did I ever stop?”

He hesitated. “No. But sometimes… I think you forget that you are.”I took his hand, holding it tight.

His grip tightened in return.

( Helaena's pov)

 

The garden was quieter in the mornings.

When the sky still clung to its pink edges and the dew hadn’t yet dried from the petals, I could almost pretend the Red Keep was only a place of stone and flowers, not whispers and watching eyes.

I crouched beneath the arbor where the lavender bloomed thick and wild, tracing a ladybug’s slow crawl along my sleeve. It tickled, and I smiled.

“You always find the quiet places.”

I gasped, nearly dropping the small book I’d tucked into my lap. The ladybug took flight in a blur of red.

“Malachi,” I breathed, pressing a hand to my chest. “You startled me.”

He was leaning against the archway like he belonged there, dark hair mussed by the breeze, a crooked grin playing on his lips.

“I didn’t mean to,” he said, stepping forward. “I called your name, but you were… somewhere else.”

“I often am,” I murmured, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “You’re not supposed to be in the garden.”

“Says who?” he asked, lowering himself to the grass beside me like he had all the right in the world. “Is there a rule that says knights can’t enjoy flowers?”

“You’re not a knight yet.”

He chuckled. “Cruel, my lady.”

I shook my head, trying not to smile. He had a way of slipping past defenses without even trying.

“Did you follow me?” I asked, more curious than accusing.

His grin softened. “No. I was just… hoping I’d find you.”

That made me go still.

 

I studied him, his eyes—not court eyes, not heavy with calculation. Just watching. Waiting.

“Why?”

He hesitated. Then: “Because you look at the world like it still surprises you.”

“And that’s unusual?”

“It is here.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. So I looked away, at the bees busy in the lavender, and said instead, “There’s a nest near the olive tree. Sparrows. I think they hatched yesterday.”

“Will you show me?” he asked.

I nodded, then stood, smoothing my skirts. When he offered his hand, I took it without thinking.

And as we walked beneath the climbing ivy, I found myself smiling again—because Malachi had surprised me. And maybe that was what made me trust him, just a little.

 

( Third point of view)

The great hall of the Red Keep glittered like a jewel, ablaze with a thousand candles and the scent of myrrh, rosewater, and baked honey apples wafting through the air.

Gold and crimson banners swayed gently from the high rafters, while lords and ladies shimmered in silks and velvets, their jewels catching every flicker of light.

Musicians played low, expectant notes-an elegant tension thrumming beneath every footstep.

Then came the sound of the herald's staff striking the marble floor-once, twice, thrice-commanding silence.

"All rise for their Royal Majesties and the House of the Dragon!" the herald bellowed, his voice echoing across the vaulted ceiling.

The crowd turned toward the towering doors, now opening with ceremonious slowness.

"Presenting-His Grace, King Viserys Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm-"

King Viserys appeared, regal despite the wear of years and pain etched subtly into his features. At his side- "Her Majesty, Queen Alicent Hightower, of the noble House Hightower."

Alicent walked with practiced grace, her hands poised and smile composed, eyes scanning the court like a blade behind green silk.

"Princess Aemma Targaryen, first daughter of the king and queen."

Aemma followed them, head high, clad in silver-white with hints of pink flame, a subtle smirk curving her lips as she caught the eye of the assembled noble sons.

"Princess Helaena Targaryen, second daughter of the king and queen."

Helaena trailed behind in a gown of pale lilac threaded with dragonflies. Her steps were quiet, her gaze far away-but her presence carried strange gravity.

"Prince Daeron Targaryen, son of the king and queen!"

Daeron strode forward with all the enthusiasm of a golden boy, his youthful grin wide as he waved with a flourish.

"And-Prince Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince, rider of Caraxes."

Daemon swept in like a shadow wrapped in wine-red and black, expression unreadable, his violet gaze lingering a moment too long on Visenya before moving on.

"And-Her Grace, Crown princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne, rider of Syrax-and Lord Laenor Velaryon, rider of Seasmoke, and their sons-Prince Jacaerys, Prince Lucerys, and Prince Joffrey Velaryon."

The room buzzed as the Crown Princess arrived with practiced regality. Rhaenyra looked radiant and untouchable, gold threads worked into her black gown, her chin raised as if to remind all that she was the realm's future.

"And now," the herald paused, letting the moment hang-

"Princess Visenya Targaryen, rider of Vhagar and Vermithor, soon to be wedded!"

Gasps rippled through the crowd as Visenya entered in a gown of midnight blue and fire-gold embroidery, her white hair twisted back with sapphires and a dragon-winged tiara resting lightly atop her head.

Her face was calm, cold, and radiant. Behind her, whispers flared. The girl with two dragons. The girl with Vhagar.

Eyes swept between her and Visenya-rival beauties, rival powers, blood of the same house yet divided by more than lineage.

And the party had only just begun.

(Visenya POV)

King's Landing was on fire with color-red and gold and silver streaming from every tower, every balcony of the Red Keep.

Inside the great hall, the world was even louder: laughter, music, the clinking of goblets.

A hundred flames flickered from chandeliers overhead. Every house that mattered had sent someone, dressed in jewels and polished pride. And at the center of it all was me.

I sat on the high dais beside my betrothed-Larys Strong. His smile was mild, unreadable, like parchment that hadn't been written on yet. I barely glanced at him.

Father stood at the head of the room, hands raised, a goblet half-forgotten in one hand. "My lords and ladies," he began.

And just like that, the light in the room dimmed-not because the candles went out, but because my mind did. His speeches always had that effect. Long, winding things about duty and legacy and the Seven's blessings. I could recite them myself by now.

I let my eyes wander. My sisters sat farther down the table, Daeron grinning brightly between them, whispering something to Aemma, who smacked his shoulder without looking away from the roasted boar in front of her.

And then I felt it.

A prickling heat, like flame touching the side of my face.

I turned, slowly, subtly-and found Daemon watching me.

He sat beside my mother, his goblet untouched. The lighting caught the curve of his jaw, the glint of his rings, the way his dark gaze burned as if he could slice through the silk of this night and peel the truth out of it.

He didn't look away.

Neither did I.

It was a moment suspended in amber. The roar of voices dulled, the king's speech faded into the background like a distant tide. I could hear my own heartbeat louder than Father's words.

Then someone laughed-too loudly-and Daemon looked away, slow and deliberate. He raised his goblet and drank like it was nothing. Like I hadn't just drowned in that look.

I pressed my fingers against the tablecloth, willing them not to tremble.

Larys turned to whisper something in my ear. I nodded, not hearing a word.

The party had only just begun. And already, the room was too full of secrets.

I smiled, because I was supposed to. My face was carved into polite perfection, but inside, my lungs felt tight, as though the corset had been laced by invisible hands with cruel fingers.

The musicians began to play-soft strings and flutes drifting like perfume over the gathering crowd. The speech had ended, I realized, to the scattered clapping of those who still pretended to listen. Father raised his cup and toasted the union like it was already sealed by the Seven and sung by the bards.

Larys shifted beside me. "You look beautiful," he murmured. "You carry yourself well."

I gave him a nod with a fake smile, but my attention was still on Daemon.

He had leaned back in his seat, legs spread in that lazy, careless way of his, like nothing in the room could touch him. His eyes wandered-but not aimlessly. They always found their way back to me. Every glance felt like a stolen moment, a rebellion dressed in silk.

And I... I was betraying my own betrothal with just the way I breathed around him.

I turned back to my cup, fingers curling around the stem of the goblet like it was an anchor.

The poison was hidden in the folds of my sleeve, tucked inside a small pearl-colored vial. I could feel its cold shape pressing against my wrist like a second pulse. Helaena's gift-her silent help, the secret weapon.

My gaze found her at the far end of the table, serene as ever, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She looked like a dream of spring-soft, blooming, otherworldly.

But I knew better now. Helaena was not made of petals and air. There was steel beneath her softness.

I caught her eye.

For a moment, she held my gaze.

She didn't smile.

And then she looked away.

Daemon rose from his seat.

He moved through the hall like a shadow slicing through light, stopping to say a few words to Aemma, ruffling Daeron's hair as he passed, offering nothing but a smirk to Larys as he stopped in front of us.

He didn't speak to me.

He only stood at the edge of the platform, hands clasped behind his back, eyes flicking to the dancers that were beginning to gather in the center of the hall.

" I hope you don't mind, but I like to dance with my niece." Daemon said, but he wasn't really asking Larys.

Larys smiled before saying" that is fine with me."

My breath hitched. Larys walks away to talk to someone-probaby to talk something about House Strong's future, about legacy, about alliances. But the music was swelling. My blood sang with it.

Daemon turned slightly, just enough for me to see the side of his face. That half-smile of his curved like a secret, like a dare.

I stood and followed him.

Chapter Text

(Visenya POV)

 

I stared at Daemon’s outstretched hand.

 

His fingers were bare tonight—no gloves, no rings. Just skin and heat and promise.

 

I didn’t hesitate.

 

I placed my hand in his.

 

The touch sent something bright and unbearable up my arm, blooming in my chest like wildfire trapped under my ribs. He didn’t say anything—just turned with me in tow as the music swelled.

 

We walked to the center of the great hall. The crowd shifted to make room. Courtiers looked on, whispering behind fans and jeweled fingers.

 

I didn’t care.

 

Let them watch.

 

He turned to face me, hand on my waist, the other holding mine aloft. His touch was firm, familiar. Our eyes met.

 

“You look beautiful,” he murmured, so softly it was barely real. “But I think you already know that.”

 

I did. But I wanted to hear it from him.

 

“You clean up well yourself,” I replied, lifting my chin with a faint smirk. But my heart beat too loud for jest.

 

The music shifted—low and slow and swaying—and we moved.

 

I didn’t stumble. He wouldn’t let me.

 

We circled each other like twin stars caught in orbit. I could feel his breath when he leaned in near my ear, could see the way his mouth curved when I rolled my eyes at his smirk. The dance was innocent—technically. But every touch said something else entirely.

 

“You should enjoy your party,” he said casually, though his gaze dropped to my lips. “After all, it is for your betrothal.”

 

I pressed closer, just slightly. “Perhaps I’m not celebrating for the same reason they are.”

 

He said nothing to that.

 

He didn’t have to.

 

We danced until the song ended—but even when the musicians shifted to something lighter, we didn’t break apart.

 

His hand lingered.

 

So did mine.

 

The music faded into something lighter, a merry tune meant to push back the shadows of tension, but for me, everything had narrowed—his eyes, his hand still lingering against the small of my back, the way our bodies leaned a breath too close.

 

Daemon's mouth curved, faint and sharp, before he leaned down, speaking in High Valyrian, his voice low like the promise of a storm.

 

“Ñuha dōna riña(My sweet girl)...  Are you truly prepared to be bound to that limp-legged spider?”

 

I held his gaze, feeling something flicker deep in my chest—both anger and longing. "I would rather you-" I stopped myself from saying anything else.

 

Daemon’s eyes searched mine, something dangerous and tender lurking in their depths. He stepped closer.

 

Our bodies weren’t touching, but the air between us crackled—thick and hot like dragonfire.

 

“Say it,” he murmured.

 

I didn’t hesitate.

 

“Atra nyke naejot Dragonstone se dīnagon nyke iā ñuha ābrazȳrys. Zaldrīzoti dāriot īlūvī,” I whispered. (Take me to Dragonstone and make me your wife.We have the blood of the dragon) I responded in kind, the old tongue flowing easily from my lips.

 

His hand came up fast, cupping my face, thumb brushing just beneath my cheekbone. My breath caught. He pulled me closer, so close our foreheads nearly touched, so close I could feel his breath, smell the smoke and steel clinging to his skin.

 

But he didn’t kiss me.

 

The restraint in him only made my heart ache harder. The heat between us burned like a secret only we understood.

 

I didn’t have to turn to know we were being watched. I could feel it—heavy, suspicious, seething. I shifted my eyes just enough to see father, his face pale and tense, and Mother, seated beside him, her mouth pressed into a tight line.

 

Still, Daemon didn’t look away from me.

 

And neither did I.

 

(Aemma POV)

 

The music was loud and cheerful, the air thick with perfume, roasted meats, and cloying expectations. I sat at the edge of it all, a painted doll in a corseted dress, smiling when I had to, nodding when spoken to, but my eyes… my eyes were elsewhere.

 

I saw them.

 

Daemon and Visenya.

 

It wasn't just the way he asked her to dance, or how she took his hand like she had done it a hundred times before—it was the way they looked at each other.

 

Too long.

 

Too close.

 

Too familiar.

 

I wasn’t blind, nor was I stupid. There was something between them, something smoldering beneath the polished surface of propriety. And I knew, in my gut, that it had not started tonight.

 

I pressed my fingers into the rim of my goblet until the metal bit into my skin.

 

It should’ve been obvious to everyone, but no one was saying a word.

 

Not Father.

 

Not Mother.

 

And certainly not Larys, who had smiled like he didn’t just walk away from his supposed betrothed with the grace of a man who knew he would win either way.

 

I needed air—space to think. Or at the very least, someone who wouldn’t fill the silence with their own ambitions.

 

That was when I saw her.

 

Rhaenyra.

 

She stood across the hall with her boys and Laenor at her side, dressed in soft golds and crimson, smiling politely at whatever meaningless words were being exchanged. But her eyes flicked up, caught mine—and suddenly, her whole expression shifted.

 

Genuine warmth.

 

Surprise.

 

Joy.

 

She excused herself quickly and made her way toward me, weaving through lords and ladies like a flame moving through fog.

 

When she reached me, she didn't hesitate to pull me into a hug, one that startled me with its familiarity. I let myself melt into it.

 

“You look radiant,” she said, brushing a strand of my hair back. “Alicent must’ve nearly wept when she saw you in that gown.”

 

I gave her a tight smile. “She only weeps when I disobey her.”

 

Rhaenyra chuckled, her eyes twinkling with something between mischief and nostalgia. “You sound more like me every time I see you.”

 

I raised an eyebrow. “Is that a compliment? Nyra.”

 

“It’s the highest one I give,” she said. Then, softer: “Would you like to speak with Jacaerys? He’s been talking about you all the time.”

 

I paused.

 

There were a thousand thoughts in my mind.

 

About Daemon.

 

About Visenya.

 

About how everything felt like it was slowly, quietly unraveling.

 

But I didn’t say a word of it.

 

Instead, I looked toward Jacaerys, who was laughing with Lucerys and holding a goblet far too confidently for someone still growing into his voice. He glanced our way just then, and when his eyes met mine, his grin widened.

 

“He’s taller,” I murmured. “And not as clumsy.”

 

Rhaenyra smiled knowingly. “He still trips over his own boots when he sees a pretty girl.”

 

I rolled my eyes, but my lips curved against my will. “Fine. I’ll talk to him. But only if you promise not to tell anyone.” ( clearly implying that anyone means her mother.)

 

“Who would I tell?” she said with mock offense. “Certainly not your mother.” ( She understands what anyone means.)

 

We both laughed, and for the first time that night, something in me relaxed.

 

Even if everything had.

 

Jacaerys broke away from his younger brother with a boyish bounce in his step, his grin stretching wider as he approached me.

 

His dark curls were windswept and a little damp at the edges—no doubt from running about earlier. His cheeks were flushed, and though he tried to look composed, I could see the flicker of nerves beneath his smile.

 

“Aemma,” he said breathlessly, like he hadn’t expected me to say yes. “You look…” He paused, fumbling, trying to find the right words without making a fool of himself. “You look very regal.”

 

I quirked a brow at him, trying not to laugh. “Regal? That’s what you’re going with?”

 

His ears turned pink. “Well, I wasn’t going to say ‘pretty.’ I thought that might be too—”

 

I snorted. “Too honest?”

 

He rubbed the back of his neck, the way he always did when flustered. “You’re teasing me.”

 

“Of course I am,” I said, walking with him toward one of the quieter alcoves in the hall, away from the watchful eyes of the court. “I have to keep you humble, don’t I?”

 

He glanced at me, half-smiling. “I missed this.”

 

“What? Being made fun of?”

 

“No.” He shook his head. “You. Just… us. Talking.”

 

We stopped beside one of the tall windows overlooking the inner courtyard. The music from the feast still drifted over, mingling with the clinking of goblets and murmurs of nobility, but here, in this pocket of calm, it felt like the world was just ours.

 

I gave him a sideways glance, a small smirk tugging at my lips. “Why? You just braided my hair this morning.”

 

Jacaerys laughed, the sound quick and real. “That’s different. You were reading. You didn’t even look at me the whole time.”

 

“That’s because you kept pulling,” I teased, nudging his shoulder gently with mine. “My scalp still remembers the trauma.”

 

He gasped dramatically. “I braided it perfectly. Better than any maid. You said so yourself!”

 

“I did, didn’t I?” I feigned contemplation. “But I also remember when you first started to braid my hair. You tangling a ribbon so badly that Helaena had to cut it out with scissors.”

 

Jace turned crimson. “I told you not to bring that up again.”

 

I giggled then—really giggled—and it felt good.

 

Easy.

 

Light.

 

The way things used to feel when we were younger, before dragons and duty and secrets began curling like smoke through everything we touched.

 

He looked at me for a long moment, the laughter fading from his eyes but not the warmth. “You’re different now.”

 

“So are you.”

 

“Not taller,” he muttered.

 

I tilted my head. “A little.”

 

He straightened his back proudly. “Good.”

 

We stood in silence for a moment, not awkward, just… aware.

 

Of time passing.

 

Of growing up.

 

Of the uncertain future ahead.

 

“Promise me something?” he said quietly.

 

“What?”

 

“That even when we get married that nothing will change."

 

I looked at him, really looked. The boy who had once been like a best friend and who soon—in a few years—will be my long time partner.

 

I reached over and gave his shirt a gentle tug. “Only if you stop pulling my hair.”

 

He grinned. “Deal.”

 

(Helaena)

 

I watched the party through the shimmer of my goblet, tilting it back and forth so the deep red wine reflected the candlelight in warped waves.

 

My sisters flitted through the hall like sun-dappled birds, silk gowns trailing behind them, all smiles and charm and whispered secrets.

 

Visenya danced.

 

Aemma laughed.

 

Even Mother smiled, though it didn’t reach her eyes.

 

I stayed seated, fingers curled around the stem of my glass, untouched. The music swelled, viols and lutes singing a song that felt a little too joyous for what tonight truly was.

 

A celebration, yes, but beneath it, there was tension—whispers woven into every smile, plans hiding behind every toast.

 

And then I felt it—a presence at my side. Not the cold, ghostly brush of the Conquerors, who often drifted in and out of my vision like forgotten dreams, but something real. Solid. Alive.

 

“Princess Helaena?”

 

His voice was soft but certain. I turned, startled at how close he stood.

 

Malachi.

 

Though more bookish than brawny, with thoughtful brown eyes and a gaze that never lingered too long.

 

He was always kind, always respectful—and I always found myself watching him more than I should.

 

“Malachi,” I said, more breath than voice. “You startled me.”

 

“My apologies.” He offered a small bow, not too deep—he never made a show of it.

 

“I only meant to ask…” He glanced toward the dance floor, where couples twirled in practiced elegance. “Would you honor me with a dance?”

 

I blinked at him.

 

For a moment, I thought I’d misheard.

 

Me?

 

I looked down at my hands—fidgeting, pale, ink-stained from too many hours scribbling into my journals.

 

I wasn’t like Aemma or Visenya.

 

I didn’t dazzle.

 

I didn’t charm.

 

I knew what the court whispered—strange girl, odd girl, the one who speaks to shadows and watches insects crawl.

 

And yet… he had asked.

 

I looked up, meeting his eyes.

 

There was no mockery in them, no pity.

 

Only quiet sincerity.

 

As if he had waited for this moment with patience I hadn’t noticed until now.

 

“Yes,” I said, my voice steady.

 

A smile broke over his face—small, genuine, and it made something flutter in my chest like wings against a jar.

 

He held out his hand, and I placed mine in his. His grip was gentle but sure, like he knew I might bolt at the first misstep.

 

As he guided me to the floor, I caught the surprised glance of Aemma across the room and the flicker of amusement in Rhaenys the Conqueror’s ghost as she perched on a nearby bannister, feet swinging like a girl at a summer fair.

 

“Oh-ho,” she muttered, only loud enough for me to hear. “The little beetle has found a mate.”

 

I ignored her, focused instead on the warmth of Malachi’s hand and the music rising around us.

 

He stepped close, guiding me into the dance, and for the first time that evening, I didn’t feel like a curiosity or a shadow.

 

I felt seen.

 

Malachi’s hand was warm in mine, steady and sure as he guided me to the dance floor. The music swelled gently, the strings and pipes filling the hall with a rhythm that felt like it belonged to another world—a quieter, kinder one.

 

I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t think of who might be watching or what it might mean. I just followed.

 

“You seem surprised,” he said as we turned. His eyes caught the lanternlight—amber, gold, calm.

 

“I’m not,” I replied, and it was mostly true. “Just… unused to being asked.”

 

“Well,” he said with a small smile, “you shouldn’t be.” His tone wasn’t flirtatious, not bold or sharp. It was simple, honest. And somehow that made it more dangerous.

 

We danced, slow and easy. I didn’t count steps or try to impress. My shoes skimmed across the polished stone like I’d been born to do this, and maybe in some strange way, I had. Dancing didn’t feel like pretending. It felt like breathing.

 

“I thought you’d say no,” Malachi murmured.

 

“Why?” I asked, genuinely curious.

 

He shrugged slightly. “You always seem far away. Like your mind’s in a dream.”

 

I smiled. “It usually is.”

 

“Not now, though?”

 

“No,” I said. “Not now.”

 

His fingers tightened just slightly around mine, grounding me. There was no pressure, no probing questions, no masks. Just two people moving to music, and I was glad for it. I was glad for him.

 

The world didn’t matter for a little while. Not the thrones or titles or secrets. Not the poison I hid in pages or the visions I never spoke aloud.

 

Only the music, and Malachi, and the ease of it all.

 

For once, I wasn’t thinking of what might come next.

 

I was simply here.

 

Dancing.

 

(Visenya POV)

The music drifted into silence around us, but I barely heard it.

 

Daemon’s hand was still lightly wrapped around mine. His fingers, calloused from years of swordplay and dragon reins, held me like I was something delicate—something dangerous.

 

His other hand rested at my waist, just barely. The space between us had shrunk to nothing, but he didn’t kiss me. He only held me there, close enough to burn, close enough to ruin.

 

My breath was shallow. His eyes, dark and wild with restraint, searched mine.

 

I didn’t want to pull away. I wanted time to stop.

 

But we both knew it couldn’t.

 

So, slowly—slowly—we let go. The moment passed between us like a whispered secret. His hand dropped from my waist. Mine from his shoulder. Still, neither of us looked away.

 

And then—

 

“Visenya,” came a voice, sharp and cutting through the haze like a cold wind.

 

I turned. Larys Strong was walking toward us, smiling like he already owned me. His eyes swept over my face, then flicked—just briefly—to Daemon. “I’ve been looking for you,” he said, voice smooth. “Come, my lady. I want to show my future wife off a bit more. They’re asking about you.”

 

I didn’t answer right away. The weight of Daemon’s gaze hadn’t left me. I could feel it between my shoulder blades even as I took a step toward Larys.

 

“Yes, my lord,” I murmured, letting the words fall like stones in my mouth.

 

Larys offered his arm, and I placed my hand on it with practiced grace, even as everything in me wanted to turn back.

 

He said something—I don’t remember what. I was too aware of the man I was leaving behind. I didn’t look at Daemon again.

 

But I could feel it.

 

The heat of his stare.

 

The possessiveness in it.

 

The promise.

 

And when Larys turned his back to him, I knew. I just knew.

 

Daemon was glaring at him with the kind of fire that could melt stone.

 

And I—I felt like I was walking away from the only person who truly understands me...

 

Larys’ grip on my arm was light, gentlemanly even. But to me, it felt like shackles. Silk-draped, perfumed shackles.

 

He led me through the gathered crowd, weaving past lords and ladies with that slow, deliberate limp of his—meant to garner sympathy, I suspected. To make him seem harmless.

 

I knew better.

 

"My lady," he said with a quiet chuckle, "you look beautiful tonight. They’ll be talking about you for weeks."

 

"How lucky I am to be such a conversation piece," I replied sweetly, plastering on a smile that could have been carved from porcelain.

 

He didn’t notice the venom behind it. Or he didn’t care.

 

We stopped before a cluster of men in fine velvets, all laughing too loudly and drinking too much Arbor gold. Larys introduced them with names I barely heard.

 

Lord this.

 

Ser that.

 

One of them reached for my hand and pressed a kiss to my knuckles. Another offered a compliment about my hair.

 

My gown.

 

My figure.

 

My smile stayed fixed in place like armor.

 

“She’ll make a fine wife, won’t she?” Larys said, amusement purring in his voice. "Fire and blood. The Targaryens always do light up a room."

 

I wanted to spit. Instead, I laughed—lightly, the way a well-bred lady should. I tilted my head just so. Let the sapphire gems at my throat catch the candlelight. I performed my role to perfection.

 

They saw a prize.

 

A dragon princess to flaunt and own.

 

None of them saw the fury curling beneath my ribs. The rage in my blood. The scream building behind my smile.

 

I glanced around the room.

 

Daemon was gone. Or at least out of sight. A part of me ached at that, like I'd lost my sword in a room full of enemies.

 

But I held the smile. I let them look.

 

Because one day, they'd see more than a prize.

 

They’d see a storm.

 

And I would not be caged.

 

I had smiled enough to make my cheeks ache, nodded enough to make my neck stiff. Larys’ “friends” were nothing but wolves in silk, fangs hidden behind polished teeth and empty flattery. And I—a dragon in a velvet cage—was passed from gaze to gaze like something auctioned.

 

“My lord,” I said sweetly, cutting into his latest humble boast. “You must be thirsty from all this talking. Shall I fetch you a cup of wine?”

 

Larys blinked, surprised. Perhaps touched. “How considerate of you, my lady. Yes… Red, if they have it.”

 

“Of course,” I said, and turned with a light bow of my head.

 

I slipped away quickly, skirts swishing over stone floors. No one paid me much mind—what was a betrothed girl without her lord but a wandering shadow? The servant I passed barely looked up when I murmured the request. A gold cup was pressed into my hands, the wine within glimmering like garnet.

 

I turned the corner and vanished behind a tall decorative tapestry. The moment I was hidden from sight, I slipped my fingers into the folds of my sleeve.

 

The vial was still there.

 

Cold.

 

Silent.

 

Waiting.

 

I held it between two fingers, my hand shaking just slightly as I pulled the stopper. The scent was faint but sharp—almost sweet, almost floral, like the ghosts of crushed nightshade blossoms. I tipped the contents into the wine, watching the liquid swirl darkly for only a moment before returning to its rich, red stillness.

 

As if nothing had happened.

 

As if death hadn’t just kissed the surface.

 

I corked the empty vial and slid it back into my sleeve. My chest rose and fell with one deep breath. The poison wouldn’t kill him—not right away. That would be too easy, too suspicious. But over time?

 

Illness.

 

Weakness.

 

Confusion.

 

A slow withering.

 

A way out.

 

A future reclaimed.

 

I stepped out from behind the tapestry, my face smooth and smiling once again. The perfect bride, returning with wine.

 

“Here you are, my lord,” I said sweetly, offering the goblet with both hands.

 

He took it with a small, pleased nod. “You’re an angel,” he said.

 

No, I thought, watching him raise the cup to his lips.

 

I’m a dragon.

 

And you are about to be burn.

 

Larys sipped his wine, humming in approval. “Perfect vintage. Sweet, but bold,” he murmured, swirling the cup like a man who knew the taste of power but mistook poison for perfume.

 

I tilted my head and smiled—pleasant, practiced. Inside, I counted the seconds.

 

One…

 

two…

 

three…

 

“I’m going to go sit,” I said, stepping back with practiced grace. “It’s been a long evening. And I’d like to speak with my uncle for a moment.” I made it sound casual, innocent.

 

Just a niece catching her breath.

 

No malice in sight.

 

Larys lowered the cup from his lips, pausing. “So soon?” he asked, eyes flicking up to me.

 

“Mm.” I nodded, the kind of nod that ended conversations without ever being rude. “You can finish charming your guests. I’ll be nearby.”

 

I didn’t wait for his response. I turned before he could try to follow, letting my heels click gently against the stone floor, carrying me back toward the torchlit archways of the grand hall. I didn’t look over my shoulder.

 

I didn’t need to.

 

He would keep drinking.

 

He would keep boasting.

 

And he would never see it coming.

 

Daemon was exactly where I had left him—bored, lounging with that lazy predator’s stillness he wore so well. As I approached, I watched his eyes flick toward me beneath his lashes. A flicker of a smirk played on his lips.

 

“You look like a cat with blood on her claws,” he said, low and amused, as I settled beside him.

 

I didn’t deny it.

 

Instead, I leaned just slightly closer, my voice a whisper only for him.

 

“Soon,” I said in High Valyrian, smooth as silk and just as dangerous. “Very soon.”

 

The party raged on.

 

Laughter echoed off the stone pillars, music swelled from the minstrels near the dais, and servants weaved through the glittering crowd with trays of honeyed cakes and goblets of Arbor gold.

 

The flames of a hundred candles danced above polished heads, casting golden halos over everyone’s deceit.

 

Thirty minutes had passed since I handed him the wine.

 

I kept count—every second like a thread winding tighter around my ribs. Every heartbeat, a silent drum of inevitability.

 

Larys had returned to the center of the room like he belonged there, smiling that horrible, smug smile, speaking with a group of lords who barely veiled their disgust. He drank. Of course he had gotten another cup of wine and another.

 

I stood nearby, watching him from over the rim of my own goblet, wine brushing my lips as if I were simply another lady enjoying her celebration.

 

Daemon stood just beside me, speaking with one of the Stormland bannermen, but I could feel his eyes slide over to Larys every so often, watching… waiting.

 

Then it began.

 

At first, it was subtle. Larys lifted a hand to his throat, clearing it, once, then again. His words faltered slightly—enough to make his companions glance at him but not enough to raise alarm.

 

He coughed.

 

Again.

 

Harder.

 

Then the wine spilled from his cup.

 

“Lord Strong?” one of the lords asked, frowning as Larys doubled over slightly.

 

Another cough. Then a gurgle. His knees buckled. His body twisted oddly—like a marionette yanked by fraying strings—and he collapsed onto the floor with a loud thud that pierced through the music.

 

Gasps filled the room.

 

I let my eyes widen.

 

A second later, I rushed forward.

 

“Larys?” I called, my voice sharp, concerned. I fell to my knees beside him, skirts billowing around me. I forced my hands to tremble, clutching his shoulder like a frightened bride-to-be. “Someone—someone fetch the Maester!”

 

The room buzzed.

 

People shifted.

 

A servant darted off, calling for help.

 

The music had stopped.

 

My heart beat calmly.

 

Slowly.

 

He convulsed slightly, blood at the corner of his mouth, eyes fluttering.

 

I let my lip tremble. “Hold on,” I whispered, leaning in close, bringing my face beside his as if in fear, as if in mourning.

 

But only he would hear what came next.

 

“Go to hell,” I whispered, soft as a lover’s promise. “You bloody snake.”

 

His breath hitched. His eyes met mine—just once. I smiled.

 

And then he died

 

I let out a strangled sob and buried my face in his shoulder.

 

The crowd began to stir behind me. Confusion and whispers. Let them all see the grieving girl, broken over the body of her betrothed. Let them pity me.

 

The murmurs grew louder. I could feel the heat of a hundred eyes crawling up my spine, the weight of suspicion hanging in the air like a blade just waiting to fall.

 

Behind me, shoes scraped against stone. A few people cried out. Others stood frozen, shocked.

 

Then I felt him.

 

Daemon’s hand slid gently under my arm, steadying me—not just to lift me, but to claim me. His other hand settled firmly at the small of my back, pulling me to his chest with the force of a man who dared the world to question it.

 

My breath caught.

 

He held me there, against him, in full view of everyone. Possessive. Protective. His heart beat steadily beneath the black of his tunic, strong and even, as if this moment didn’t shake him—only steeled him.

 

His chin brushed the top of my head when he leaned down slightly, and though he said nothing, the message was clear:

 

She is mine.

 

To any who dared look too long, to those whispering their theories already, he offered only his narrowed eyes and a threat unspoken.

 

But to me…

 

To me, he was warm. Solid. The one truth in this room of lies and masks.

 

I allowed myself to tremble in his arms, just slightly, playing my part to the very end.

 

My hands clutched at the fabric of his coat, and I turned my face into his chest, letting the heat of his body seep into my bones.

 

Daemon leaned his mouth toward my ear and murmured in High Valyrian, low and quiet, “You did well, little dragon.”

 

I had hide my smile by putting my face in his chest.

 

And now, the path to Dragonstone was clear.

Chapter Text

(Visenya First POV)

The morning sunlight streamed through the high windows of my chamber, golden and unbothered-as if the night before hadn't happened.

 

As if Larys Strong hadn't died gasping on the floor, choking on poisoned wine while I cried convincingly at his side.

 

The scent of roses and sea salt clung to the breeze, carried in from the open balcony, and yet... all I could taste was iron and smoke.

 

I sat at my vanity, staring at my reflection. My eyes were rimmed with just enough redness to pass as mourning.

 

Not too swollen, not too dry.

 

Believable.

 

I had learned from the best.

 

The King's and Queen's daughter is a killer now.

 

A knock at the door.

 

Before I could speak, it opened.

 

Daemon.

 

He entered like he always did-without hesitation.

 

Without permission.

 

Without apology.

 

He closed the door softly behind him, his eyes landing on me like a blade unsheathed.

 

"Everyone's talking," he said calmly.

 

"Some think it was his heart. Others wonder if it was foul play."

 

I held his gaze in the mirror.

 

"And you?"

 

"I think it was entertaining," he said simply.

 

He crossed the room in three strides and stood behind me. His hands found my shoulders-warm, grounding.

 

His thumbs stroked once, twice, against the base of my neck.

 

"You didn't have to cry for him."

 

"I know," I murmured. "But I wanted them to believe I cared. I needed them to believe it."

 

Daemon leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. "They believe."

 

A quiet pause.

 

"Soon," he added, "we leave for Dragonstone. After the mourning period ends."

 

My heart thudded.

 

"So long!" I wined, wanting to run away now.

 

He straightened. "No one can stop us now."

 

I nodded, rising slowly from the chair. My silk dress straps fell off my shoulders. I turned to face him.

 

He was already watching me-like he always did-with eyes full of desire.

 

"Then take me," I said. "Before the my mother comes to my room."

 

His mouth curved-not into a smile, but something older.

 

Darker.

 

Fiercer.

 

"I will." Daemon said as he starts sucking on my neck. I had sighed in pleasure as he starts nibbling on my neck. As his hands were playing with my breasts.

 

All of a sudden the door opened, Daemon quickly pulled away from me.

 

(Aemma First POV)

 

I didn't bother knocking.

 

The door to Visenya's chamber creaked open under my hand, the hinges groaning with as much disapproval as I felt in my chest.

 

Helaena stood beside me, fingers folded neatly in front of her, eyes flitting everywhere except toward the door.

 

And sure enough, there he was.

 

Daemon.

 

Perched on the edge of my sister's vanity like he owned the room.

 

Like he belonged there.

 

His hand was still on Visenya's shoulder, and they turned to look at us together, caught but unbothered.

 

Of course he wasn't surprised. Daemon Targaryen wasn't startled by anything. But Visenya-my sister-her eyes widened the smallest bit, and her shoulders stiffened beneath her nightgown.

 

My jaw clenched. "Really?" I said flatly, raising an eyebrow. "Gods, you couldn't wait until the ashes were cold?"

 

Daemon stood slowly, the movement fluid and deliberate, like a cat rising from a sunbeam.

 

"Good morning to you too, niece," he said, smooth as ever, but his eyes sharpened when they landed on me. "We were just talking."

 

I stepped inside, arms crossed. "Talk somewhere else."

 

His lips twitched like he might argue, but he glanced once at Helaena-who met his gaze with that unblinking calm of hers-and then at me again.

 

For a long second, it hung in the air like a duel unspoken.

 

Then, to my surprise, he nodded. "Very well," he said, brushing past me. "Princess."

 

He gave a half-bow, mocking and elegant, then vanished through the door.

 

I closed it behind him.

 

The silence returned, but it wasn't empty now. It was full of tension, grief, unspoken things.

 

Visenya was quiet, standing by her mirror.

 

She hadn't put on her mask yet.

 

No cool smirk.

 

No dagger-edge stare.

 

She looked... exhausted.

 

Helaena moved first, gliding toward her like she always did-soft and sure.

 

She wrapped her arms around our sister without a word, and Visenya melted into her like she'd been waiting to fall apart all morning.

 

I joined them a moment later, slipping my arms around both of them, burying my face in the crown of Visenya's white hair.

 

We stood like that for a while. Three sisters, bound by blood, by expectation, by secrets.

Eventually, Visenya whispered, "He's really gone."

 

I didn't know what she meant exactly-Larys?

 

I pulled back slightly. "You don't have to pretend with us."

 

Visenya gave me a soft, crooked smile. "I'm not."

 

Helaena said nothing, her hand gently rubbing our sister's back in steady circles.

 

Her eyes were distant, thoughtful. I knew that look.

 

She was cataloging things-poison vials, dreams, meanings only she understood.

 

I turned to Visenya again, trying to lighten the weight in the room.

 

"So," I said, tapping my chin, "should I be expecting Daemon to come back with a wedding cloak any moment now? Or was that just a 'friendly uncle visit'?"

 

Visenya's face flushed instantly. "Aemma!"

 

"Oh gods," I laughed, nudging her shoulder. "That's a yes."

 

"It's not-" she tried, cheeks burning now.

 

"Oh please," I said. "The way he was looking at you like a starving dragon at a roast. You should've heard him when he said 'we were just talking.' All smug like he was the one who killed Larys just to get you single ."

 

Helaena chuckled softly, her head resting lightly on Visenya's shoulder. "He does watch her too closely."

 

"Creepy," I muttered, though I didn't say it as cruelly as I had meant to before.

 

There was something real there-real and dangerous. I didn't like it, but I wasn't blind to it either.

 

Visenya groaned and buried her face in her hands. "Can we talk about something else?"

 

"Absolutely not," I smirked.

 

We all laughed then, and for a moment, it was just us again-no court, no expectations, no blood on anyone's hands.

 

Just three sisters, tangled in secrets and love, holding on to each other before the world claimed us again.

 

The laughter hadn't quite faded when the door creaked open again.

 

"Gods, have you all forgotten about me?" Daeron's voice rang out, full of mock offense and theatrical flair.

 

"Here I was, alone, unloved, surviving on crumbs and court gossip, while my sisters are holed up in here-hugging and teasing our emotionally-repressed champion like I'm not part of this family!"

 

He sauntered in like a storm of sunshine, arms wide and eyes twinkling with mischief. His white hair was slightly windblown, his cheeks flushed from either running or flirting-most likely both.

 

Visenya turned sharply toward him, folding her arms, clearly trying to compose herself again, but her violet eyes and flushed cheeks betrayed her.

 

She scowled. "I am not emotionless."

 

"You are to everyone who isn't us," Daeron grinned, throwing himself onto the couch like it was a throne. "And even we have to work for it."

 

"I didn't cry at your naming day and you've never forgiven me," Visenya muttered, trying to maintain her edge.

 

"I was a baby!" Daeron exclaimed. "It was a momentous occasion. I expected tears."

 

"She gave you a sword, Daeron," Aemma added, leaning against the table. "At six years old."

 

"She said it would build character," he sniffed.

 

Visenya finally cracked a smile, and Helaena giggled into her sleeve.

 

Without waiting for an invitation, Daeron jumped up again and swooped into the group, wrapping his arms around all three of us in an exaggerated bear hug.

 

"Come now, sisters," he said, head poking between mine and Helaena's, "let's all suffocate our cold-hearted killer with love, shall we?"

 

Visenya groaned, muffled by the tangle of limbs. "I am never showing emotion again."

 

"We've heard that before," Helaena said with a soft smile.

 

"I'll take a dagger to the ribs before I let this become a regular occurrence," Visenya muttered.

 

Daeron grinned. "Then it's already a success."

 

We laughed again-loud, real, and full of the strange, sweet chaos only we could make out of grief and suspicion and unspoken truths.

 

Even if the castle was crawling with whispers and secrets, in that room, for just a moment, we were only siblings again.

 

And Visenya didn't pull away.

 

Not once.

 

( Flashback)

 

(the Conqueror’s  POV)

 

“I built this bloody realm for this?” Aegon muttered, arms folded, expression unimpressed as he floated above the dancing nobles. “I conquered six kingdoms. These people can’t even get through one party without a poisoning,  inappropriate glances, and enough incestual tension that can roast a sheep.”

 

“Incest is kind of our fault,” Rhaenys said brightly, sipping on what looked like ghostwine. “At least they're keeping some traditions alive.”

 

“Poor Visenya,” their sister—the other Visenya—added dryly, hovering just behind her namesake like a looming storm cloud. “She's clearly meant for war, not courtly pretense. I wish could taught her how to handle a blade and a husband. Instead, she’s forced to marry a cripple and try not to stab him in the eye.”

 

“Isn’t that what you did with our husband?” Rhaenys asked sweetly.

 

Visenya narrowed her ghostly eyes. “He earned it.” Aegon gave her a glare.

 

Below them, Daemon and Visenya danced slowly, speaking in High Valyrian, while Larys Strong lingered like a leech with a title. Aegon rubbed his temples.

 

“Daemon’s about to ruin everything,” he muttered.

 

“He already has,” Visenya replied. “And I like it.”

 

Rhaenys twirled mid-air, ghost skirts rippling. “Oh, but it’s so romantic. They’re clearly in love. And did you see the way she poisoned that greasy lord like it was just another sip of wine? I’m proud.”

 

“She didn't blink,” Visenya said with a wicked grin. “That’s the kind of girl who rides dragons and kills without hestation”

 

Aegon groaned. “The realm is going to burn.”

 

“Again,” his sisters said in unison.

 

Then Helaena walked by below, laughing while dancing with a boy—Malachi—serene as a river.

 

Rhaenys clasped her hands to her chest. “I love her. She sees everything, and yet she still chooses kindness. I’d adopt her ghost-self if we weren’t already kind of her ancestors.”

 

Aegon pointed down at Daeron laughing with some noble ladies. “At least the boy’s got some sense. A bit too pretty for a soldier, but the realm needs charmers too.”

 

“I bet he stabs someone by next year,” Visenya said.

 

“You say that about everyone,” Rhaenys sighed.

 

“Because I’m usually right.”

 

Then, Larys Strong began coughing, collapsing to the floor. Ghost Visenya raised a brow as living Visenya performed her award-winning act of shock and horror.

 

“She even cried on cue,” Rhaenys whispered.

 

“She’s the best of us,” Visenya I said proudly. “Let the girls run the realm this time. The boys are just scenery.”

 

“Except Daemon,” Aegon grunted.

 

“He's mostly scenery,” Visenya smirked. “With very sharp edges.”

 

As the chaos swelled below and whispers began flying, the three conquerors hovered over the hall like forgotten gods of war and scandal.

 

“I give the realm a year,” Aegon said.

 

“I give it six months,” Visenya replied.

 

“I’m just here for the drama,” Rhaenys beamed.

 

( The night of Larys Strong's Death)

 

(Aemma’s  POV)

 

The cloak was too warm for the weather, but necessary. Its deep, mottled green color was dull enough to blend into the crowd and wide enough to shadow most of my face.

 

I pulled the hood lower as I passed a pair of drunk soldiers leaning against a tavern wall, their laughter slurred and thick. They didn’t even look at me. Good. That’s how I wanted it.

My hands gripped the basket tighter. It was filled with leftovers from the feast—sweet rolls and roasted meat, honeyed fruits still gleaming beneath linen wraps.

 

Most of the nobles had eaten themselves into a stupor, too distracted by Larys Strong’s death and my sister’s betrothal to notice what was being scraped into the kitchens.

 

I had slipped into the kitchen when no one was looking, like I always did, and filled the basket with what I could carry.

 

The alleys of Flea Bottom twisted like roots beneath the shining Red Keep. I knew every turn, every shortcut, every creaking step through the broken slats near the butcher’s market.

 

I had done this so many times.

 

Always alone.

 

People talked about Flea Bottom like it was another world—some dark, festering pit full of crime and disease. But to me, it was where the children smiled the brightest when they saw bread. Where a piece of meat meant more than a crown.

 

Just as I was about to turn the  near the corner to Flea Bottom.

 

“Aemma?”

 

The voice hit me like a thrown stone, low but distinct, familiar in a way that made my heart lurch. I froze, my breath catching mid-step.

 

No.

 

Slowly, I turned around, lifting my head just slightly.

 

Jacaerys stood a few feet away, a small loaf tucked beneath his arm, eyes narrowed slightly in confusion. His chestnut hair was tousled, curls brushing the edge of his jaw. He was dressed plainly, but his princely bearing was not hard to hide.

 

“What are you doing here?” I asked, more sharply than I intended.

 

He blinked, as if surprised I was scolding him instead of the other way around. “I could ask you the same thing. Where are you going?”

 

I hesitated.

 

I could lie.

 

I could make something up and walk away.

 

But then... it was him.

 

Jace.

 

And I didn’t like lying to him.

 

So I sighed and shifted the basket in my arms. “To the orphan house near the smithy. They’re always hungry after a feast.”

 

He looked down at the basket, then back at me. “You’re alone?”

 

“I always go alone,” I said, my voice firmer now, more sure of myself. “It’s easier that way. Less attention.”

 

“You’ve been doing this all this time?” he asked softly, a crease forming between his brows. “Without telling anyone?”

 

I nodded.

 

He shook his head—not in disapproval, but more like he was trying to understand. “Gods, Aemma… You’re the daughter of the king.”

 

“And they’re his people,” I replied, lifting my chin. “They deserve more than silence and crumbs.”

 

He smiled then, small but genuine. There was something in his eyes—pride, maybe, or admiration. I wasn’t used to seeing that in people when they looked at me.

 

“Can I come with you?” he asked.

 

I blinked. “You? You’ve never even been to this part of the city before.”

 

“Then it’s about time,” he said. “Besides, it’s not fair that you’ve been doing all the good while I’ve been pretending to like the Lords at parties.”

 

I tried not to smile, but it tugged at the corners of my mouth anyway. “Fine. But if anyone recognizes you, you’re carrying the basket.”

 

He grinned. “Deal.”

 

And so we walked together, side by side through the alleyways.

 

Not prince and princess, not heirs to anything—just two people with full hands, heading toward the hungry.

 

The narrow paths of Flea Bottom grew quieter the deeper we walked, the sounds of King’s Landing’s chaos replaced by the soft murmur of low fires, coughing children, and the rustling of rags as the smallfolk settled in for the night.

 

The air smelled of damp straw and ash. To most, it would be foul. To me, it was familiar.

 

Jace walked beside me, quieter than usual, his earlier teasing replaced by something more thoughtful.

 

He glanced around often, taking in every broken door, every soot-streaked face that peeked from behind hanging cloth or tattered blankets. There was no disgust in his expression—just quiet awe and sadness.

 

We turned a corner and I pointed ahead. “There. That’s Maelin’s place.”

 

It wasn’t much—just a leaning structure patched together with worn stone and weathered boards.

 

A flickering lantern outside the door swayed in the breeze, casting long shadows. But there was warmth in the light and the sound of soft humming from inside.

 

As we approached, the door creaked open, and a girl no older than seven peeked out. Her face brightened the moment she saw me.

 

Mari.

 

“Egg!” she cried, flinging the door wide.

 

In seconds, more children followed, gathering around me with eager hands and wide eyes. I knelt down and lowered the basket I’d brought.

 

Sticky buns disappeared first.

 

Bits of roasted meat were clutched like treasures.

 

One boy hugged a heel of bread to his chest like it was gold.

 

Jace stood just behind me, blinking in quiet amazement.

 

“Is he your husband?” one of the girls asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

 

Jace, of course, couldn’t help himself. “Not yet,” he muttered under his breath.

 

I choked on a laugh "No! He's just a friend." I smacked his arm lightly, giving him a warning look, but the children roared with laughter, delighted by the exchange as Jace held his hands up in defeat.

 

Maelin, the old woman who looked after this cluster of children, hobbled to the door with her cane, her lined face breaking into a smile. Her eyes were soft, her voice warm.

 

“My sweet Egg,” she said, grasping my hand. “You’ve brought enough bread, carrots, and candies for days. Oh! and a pretty boy, too.”

 

“His name’s Jace,” I said quickly. “And he’s harmless.”

 

Maelin cackled, clearly unconvinced of that last part. “He can stay, if he brings more of those sweet rolls.”

 

Jace chuckled and handed her the last one from the basket. “Then I’m staying.”

 

As the children settled to eat, Maelin leaned close and squeezed my hand.

 

“The gods will bless you for all of your good deeds, my dear.”

 

Her words sank into me, warm as the bread we’d brought. I gave her hand a squeeze in return.

 

“I just do what I can,” I murmured.

 

Maelin order us to put the three baskets of food in the kitchen for her.

 

We walked side by side in silence until he finally said, “Why don’t you tell anyone you do this?”

 

I glanced over at him. There was no judgment in his voice—just curiosity.

 

“I want to help them because it’s the right thing to do,” I said simply. “Not for praises.”

 

He was quiet after that, for a long while. I thought maybe he didn’t know what to say. But then he nodded and murmured, “That’s what makes it matter most.”

 

I smiled softly, not replying, letting the quiet between us say what words couldn’t as we went back to the children's room.

 

The sky had darkened into a navy velvet, pierced only by the stars. The soft hum of crickets echoed in the quiet corners of Flea Bottom as the warmth of the hearth inside Maelin’s house offered a sanctuary from the night.

 

Most of the children had eaten their fill and were now curled up in their straw-filled pallets and thin quilts. A few lingered—tugging at my skirts, clinging to my arms, eyes bright and still wide with energy.

 

“Tell us a story!” one of the younger boys pleaded, yawning even as he said it.

 

“Yes, a story, please!” the other children chimed in, gathering around me like tiny moths to flame.

 

I glanced helplessly at Jace, who was kneeling beside one of the smallest boys, helping him tuck a threadbare blanket around his feet.

 

He gave me a crooked smile. “You heard them, Aemma. They want a story. You can’t say no now.”

 

I rolled my eyes with a smile tugging at my lips. “Alright, alright. But only if you help me get them settled while I tell it.”

 

“I’m already on it,” he said, scooping up a toddler with such ease that Kate giggled and hugged his neck.

 

I sat on the edge of one of the beds, the low fire casting shadows on the cracked walls.

 

The children nestled in, some resting their heads on each other, some wrapping thin arms around their knees, but all waiting—wide-eyed and eager in their beds.

 

I took a breath and began, my voice soft and melodic.

 

“There was once a girl… she had no title, no land, and no riches. She lived in a little cottage by the woods, and while she had nothing of value, she had a heart as big as the world. She spent her days helping those in need—feeding the hungry, mending clothes for strangers, and playing with the village children who had no families.”

 

The children listened in rapt silence, little faces glowing in the firelight.

 

“One day, while she was playing with the children in the meadow, a prince from the nearby castle saw her. Not her clothes, not her bare feet—he saw her kindness. Her laughter. Her love. And something inside him changed.

 

“He dressed as a poor man,” I continued, smiling softly, “so he could walk among the people and be closer to her. He helped her feed the children and told her jokes to make her laugh. And as time passed, she found herself looking forward to seeing him more and more."

 

“One day, he told her the truth—that he was a prince. That he was never just a poor man. She was shocked, of course. But when she looked into his eyes, she didn’t see a crown. She saw the boy who helped carry water. Who shared his bread. Who made the children smile.”

 

Several of the little ones sighed. I spotted Jace from the corner of my eye. He was perched on a stool by the fire now, his arms resting on his knees, listening with the same quiet attentiveness as the children.

 

“The girl thought that was the end. After all, princes don’t marry girls like her. But soon, word spread—there would be a royal announcement. The whole kingdom was invited. She didn’t want to go, but the children begged her, pleaded with her. So, she went.”

 

I paused. The fire cracked.

 

“And when the prince stood in front of the kingdom, he said, ‘I have found the woman I love. She is not of noble birth. She does not have jewels or silks. But she has the kindest soul I have ever known. I will marry her, if she’ll have me.’”

 

I glanced around the room to see wide eyes and held breaths.

 

“The girl burst into tears. Happy ones. She had never dreamed a prince would choose someone like her. But he had. Because he saw her heart.”

 

I smiled, brushing a curl from the forehead of the youngest child, Alexis.

 

“They were married not long after, surrounded by everyone they had helped. And together, they ruled with kindness and love. And they never once forget how they fall in love with each other and share their love story from their children to their grandchildren. And their children and their grandchildren had learned that it doesn't matter if you are rich or poor. Love is the most important thing.”

 

The silence that followed was full and soft—like the hush after a snowfall.

 

Then one little voice whispered, “Did they have children?”

 

I chuckled. “They had a dozen.”

 

“And a dog?” another asked.

 

“A dog, a cat, a goat, and a very mischievous chicken,” I said, grinning.

 

The children giggled, finally starting to drift to sleep one by one.

 

Jace walked over to me, his voice low, barely above the crackle of the fire. “That was a beautiful story.”

 

I looked at him, my heart full. “It’s just something I made up.”

 

We stood there for a moment longer, watching over the sleeping children like silent guardians of something soft and sacred—before slowly stepping back into the cool night air.

 

The streets were quiet as we walked back toward the Red Keep, our footsteps soft against the uneven cobblestone. The moon hung high above us like a silent witness, casting silver light over the slumbering city.

 

The warmth from Maelin’s hearth still clung to my skin, and the laughter of children echoed faintly in my ears, a fragile memory already slipping into the hush of night.

 

Jace walked beside me, hands in his pockets, silent for a while.

 

Then, softly, “You love them, don’t you?”

 

I didn’t even need to think. I nodded.

 

It wasn’t a loud kind of love. Not like the grand romances in the ballads. No, this love was quiet and steady—a love forged in shared bread, scraped knees I’d wrapped with bandages, and the way their faces lit up when I walked through the door with just a little something warm to eat.

 

Jace looked down, kicking a loose stone. “What will happen to them when…”

 

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to. I knew what he meant.

 

When I marry.

 

When Maelin sadly passes away.

 

When I’m no longer free to slip through the gates in a worn cloak, whenever I want to anymore.

 

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

 

“I don’t know,” I admitted, my voice barely louder than the breeze. “I hope that nothing will happen to them, but… I know it can’t be me.”

 

I looked up at the stars. They didn’t offer any answers.

 

“I can bring food,” I said, more to myself than him. “I can always find a way to do that. But I can’t stay with them all day. I can’t teach them or keep them safe or make sure they grow up happy. I pray—every time I leave—I pray I can find a solution before that happens.”

 

Jace didn’t say anything, but I felt his eyes on me. There was no judgment in them. Just quiet understanding.

 

And maybe a little sadness.

 

We walked the rest of the way in silence, the kind that wasn’t heavy, just… thoughtful.

 

The kind that settled around two people carrying the same question neither one knew how to answer.

Chapter Text

(Visenya  POV)

 

The halls of the Red Keep were colder than usual today.

 

Or perhaps it was just me.

 

The black silk of my mourning dress clung to my skin like shadow, a dramatic drape of fabric meant to signal sorrow… and regret… and all the appropriate emotions that came with the loss of a betrothed.

 

The silk was smooth, heavy, elegant—and suffocating.

 

I walked slowly, hands folded in front of me, head bowed just enough to look appropriately brokenhearted.

 

Servants passed me with wary glances, bowing their heads or offering sympathetic nods. I returned them with a small, hollow smile that didn’t reach my eyes.

 

If only they knew.

 

The chamber doors to the Small Council stood tall and imposing at the end of the corridor.

 

Two guards stood on either side, spears upright, posture stiff. As I approached, they exchanged uncertain glances.

 

“My lady… the council is in session,” one of them said quietly, not harsh, just cautious.

 

“I know,” I replied softly, gaze steady. “I’d like to observe. Please announce me.”

 

They hesitated—just for a moment—then opened the door.

 

Inside, the room buzzed with low murmurs and the scratching of quills. Maps and scrolls were spread across the table. Father—King Viserys—sat at the head, looking older than he had last week.

 

His fingers were curled around the arm of his chair, the crown heavy upon his brow. Rhaenyra was seated near him, her posture rigid and sharp, a thin quill dancing between her fingers as she annotated something in the margins of a parchment.

 

All eyes turned to me.

 

Viserys blinked, as if unsure I was truly there.

 

“Visenya?” he asked, startled.

 

“What are you doing here, sweet girl?”

 

I stepped into the room with slow, graceful poise, my voice quiet but clear. “I apologize, Father. I only wished to… be present. To feel useful.”

 

Rhaenyra leaned forward slightly, her tone polite—but clipped. “There is no need for her to be here, Father. This is a meeting of the Small Council. Only members may attend.”

 

I turned to her, face schooled into something between sadness and resignation. “I understand, Princess. I do not mean to overstep. I just… I lost someone important to me. I thought perhaps… seeing the kingdom still move forward would bring me some comfort.”

 

Viserys looked between us, clearly torn. I caught his eye and made my expression just a bit more fragile—eyes damp, lips trembling just enough.

 

No tears, though.

 

Real tears were precious and not to be wasted.

 

He frowned, rubbing his fingers together, glancing back toward Rhaenyra, whose mouth had tightened into a thin line. But then he looked at me again… and softened.

 

“You may stay,” he said, lifting a hand to quiet the murmurs of the others. “So long as you remain silent and don’t disrupt the proceedings.”

 

“Thank you, Father,” I said with a soft nod.

 

“Perhaps I could… serve as cupbearer?” I offered, gesturing to the pitcher of wine beside the table. “It would give me something to do. I won’t interrupt.”

 

The room was silent for a beat.

 

Viserys gave a tired sigh. “Very well.”

 

I stepped forward, pouring wine into the king’s cup, then making my way around the table with measured grace.

 

As I moved behind Rhaenyra, I caught the briefest flicker of irritation in her eyes before she looked away, back to her maps and ink.

 

Good.

 

Let her be irritated.

 

Let them all believe the story they wanted to see: the grieving girl, devoted to duty and tradition.

 

Not a murderer, not a schemer. Just a loyal daughter, trying to find her place in the world.

 

I finished pouring and stepped back, taking my quiet place in the corner of the chamber.

 

From there, I could watch.

 

Listen.

 

Learn.

 

The weight of the goblet felt light in my hands now, the wine within rippling slightly as I stood in the quiet corner of the council room.

 

I remained as still and dutiful as I could, the perfect image of the king’s grieving daughter, silent and obedient, not so much as breathing too loudly.

 

But my ears were wide open.

 

At the head of the table, my father leaned back into his chair, the lines in his face deepening.

 

Rhaenyra sat to his right, her voice calm but threaded with a quiet insistence that I had come to recognize as her own form of command.

 

She wasn’t  direct like Mother—she was composed, but beneath that surface was fire, and I could hear it in the way she began to speak.

 

“Father,” she said, gently setting her quill down, “now that Aemma and Jacaerys are older, I’d like to formally request that Aemma come to live at Driftmark with me for a time.”

 

Viserys raised an eyebrow, surprised. “Live with you?”

 

“Yes,” she said, her eyes steady. “Only for a season or two. Long enough for her and Jace to get to know one another properly. They are still so young, and if we are to expect a stable marriage between them, it would help if they knew more than each other's names and titles.”

 

I caught the way Rhaenyra’s lips twitched with the faintest trace of bitterness before she continued.

 

“It is more than I was given, Father,” she said softly. “You arranged my marriage to Laenor when I barely knew him. We were courteous, respectful… but never truly companions. I would not wish that same distance upon Aemma.”

 

That made my father pause. He tilted his head slightly, the silence stretching just long enough for me to feel it tighten in my chest. His gaze moved to the flickering candelabras on the wall, thoughtful, heavy.

 

Rhaenyra wasn’t wrong.

 

She was never given the luxury of time or closeness in her arranged match.

 

It had been all duty, sealed with titles and blood.

 

And yet, her words were more than practical.

 

They were strategic.

 

Clever.

 

She wanted Aemma under her roof—under her influence. A thread of silk wound around my sister, pulling her slowly away from our side and deeper into Rhaenyra’s side.

 

I clenched my jaw—just slightly.

 

No one noticed.

 

Aemma isn't stupid, but she trusts Rhaenyra more than she should. They do have a better bond than the rest of us.

 

Aemma and Jace had been talking more, laughing in the gardens, walking together after meals.

 

There was fondness there, I saw it blooming in the soft looks they exchanged.

 

Across the room, Grandfather shifted in his seat, his fingers laced tightly. I didn’t need to see his face to know he was calculating.

 

I knew that look by heart.

 

Father’s voice eventually broke the silence.

 

“I will… consider it,” he said slowly. “You raise a fair point, Rhaenyra. But Aemma is still young. It would need her mother’s consent as well.”

 

Rhaenyra gave a graceful nod, her expression unreadable. “Of course.”

 

No one looked at me.

 

I wasn’t part of this decision.

 

And yet… I knew that if Aemma left with Rhaenyra, everything would change. My sister—our golden, brave, sharp-tongued Aemma—would be surrounded by Rhaenyra’s family, her children, and her teachings.

 

A quiet tension settled in my chest.

 

I kept my eyes down, feigning calm, watching the way Rhaenyra tucked her hand beneath her chin, the way her gaze flicked briefly toward me.

 

Assessing.

 

I dipped my head lower, letting my veil hide the hard edge growing in my thoughts.

 

Aemma may be betrothed to Jacaerys… but she is my sister and if she is hurt in any way I will kill them all.

 

After what felt like hours of dull murmurs and drawn-out parchment shuffling, Father dismissed us from the council room.

 

“You may both leave now,” he said with a sigh, waving a tired hand. “The rest of these matters concern trade and treaties. I can manage.”

 

I bowed my head politely. “Of course, Your Grace.”

 

Rhaenyra gave him a faint smile before turning on her heel. Her skirts whispered against the stone as she walked out ahead of me, her posture proud.

 

We said nothing to one another. Her path curved to the left, most likely heading to her chambers. I turned right, toward the quieter halls.

 

Only… I didn’t keep walking.

 

Once I was sure the corridor was clear and no guards lingered nearby, I slipped into a side chamber—a forgotten room of worn tapestries and dust-covered books. The scent of old stone and time greeted me like an old friend.

 

I pressed my hand to the right wall.

 

It gave way under the pressure, as I pushed it open with a soft, grinding click. A narrow passage yawned behind it, black as a dragon’s throat.

 

The secret paths of Maegor the Cruel.

 

Most had forgotten them…

 

But I wasn’t most.

 

I stepped inside and let the wall close behind me, sealing me into silence and shadow. The path was tight, but I knew where I was going. I moved quickly, silently—downward toward the council chamber, where I knew they weren’t finished.

 

Because I had felt it.

 

There had been something in the air.

 

Something else they had wanted to say—only they wouldn’t with me and Rhaenyra in the room.

 

Now I’d know what.

 

I reached the narrow grate in the wall that overlooked the chamber from behind the large carved columns. The council didn’t know it was there—it was set too high, nearly buried in shadow. But from here, I could see them. Hear them.

 

I reached the alcove behind the tapestry-lined wall of the council chamber and stilled my breath.

 

The sliver of carved stone allowed just enough space to hear them, and what I heard made the blood in my veins burn hot.

 

“…I say again, Your Grace,” came the deep voice of Lord Jasper Wylde, the Master of Laws, “this… development with Visenya Targaryen cannot be ignored. Two dragons, Vhagar among them.  It is not treason to say aloud what we are all thinking."

 

“And what is that, Lord Jasper?” my father’s voice was tired, but tense.

 

“That the girl may be another Aegon in the making,” Wylde answered without hesitation. “Or perhaps something more dangerous still. A second Visenya or worse...a second Maegor”

 

There was a murmur of unease.

 

A long pause.

 

My hands clenched into fists at my sides.

 

“She is but a child,” my mother’s voice cut through the air like a blade. Queen Alicent—calm, firm. “How dare you accuse my daughter of such things? Visenya is not cruel. She has shown more composure than most men in this room.”

 

“She claimed Vhagar,” Lord Beesbury added warily. “A dragon known for war and death. And she did it with no warning, no guidance.”

 

"No one owns a dragon! The dragon choose who is their rider!" Alicent argues back.

 

“And what of Daemon?” Ser Harrold Westerling chimed in. “They’ve grown close. The two of them are too alike—bold, unpredictable, passionate. She could be his match in every way. That should unsettle us.”

 

“Are we truly debating the behavior of a girl who has done nothing more than act as a dragonrider and noblewoman?” Otto’s voice came then—sharp, cool. But… to my surprise, not unkind.

 

“She is my granddaughter,” he said clearly, the room going quiet under his voice. “You forget that. Visenya may be bold, but she is also brilliant and observant. She is a child of both my blood and the king’s. You speak of her as if she were a threat to be managed. That is dangerous, and frankly, insulting.”

 

A tense silence stretched again.

 

Alicent, for once, did not interrupt him. She only nodded—subtly, but it was there. An agreement. A rare alliance between them.

 

“And Daemon?” Corlys asked from the other end of the table. “You say nothing of him.”

 

Otto’s voice cooled. “Daemon is… Daemon. He will never be tamed. But Visenya is not him. She may walk beside him, she may even understand him—but she is not him. Do not make the mistake of conflating their fates.”

 

Corlys scoffed softly. “You seem quite convinced of that, Lord Hand.”

 

“She is my granddaughter,” Otto replied without turning to her. “And unlike some, I do not assume she is a reflection of her uncle’s sins. She is way better than Daemon in everything, but sword.”

 

My breath trembled, but I held it tight.

 

King Viserys didn't say anything.

 

My mother didn’t either.

 

And my father… he sounded tired.

 

“She has lost her betrothed,” Viserys finally said. “Let us not burden her with suspicion. Let her grieve. Let her grow.”

 

Wylde didn’t speak again. Neither did Beesbury. But I could feel the tension still simmering beneath the table.

 

This was not over.

 

Their fear of me had already begun to spread.

 

Like wildfire in dry grass.

 

I stepped away from the wall as carefully as I had come.

 

They would keep watching me.

 

But I would watch them closer.

 

Let them forget—

 

That the first Visenya was the one who built the throne they all fight to protect.

 

The hidden corridor was narrow and cold, shadows flickering with each torch along the wall. I had retreated quickly after hearing everything.

 

I didn’t want to know more.

 

Or maybe I did.

 

Either way, I had heard enough.

 

The echo of the council’s words still clung to me like smoke.

 

A threat.

 

A second Maegor.

 

Reborn Visenya.

 

I had never felt more like a stranger in my own home.

 

I made my way through the empty halls, the chill of stone under my slippers. I just wanted to reach my chambers.

 

To think.

 

To breathe.

 

But I didn’t make it that far.

 

A hand grabbed me.

 

I gasped as my back slammed softly against a columned wall, the shadows swallowing us whole.

 

My heart jumped to my throat until I looked up—into a familiar smirk and a too-close gaze that made my knees wobble.

 

Daemon's smirk deepened as he felt my blush against his lips as he gave me a kiss. He knew exactly how to disarm me, how to make my words stutter and my breath hitch.

 

He pressed his body against mine, pinning me gently against the wall as he trailed kisses down my neck.

 

“Gods—Uncle!” I breathed, blinking. “What are you—?”

 

Daemon leaned in, his hand braced beside my head, his voice low and dangerous with mischief. “Your sister had interrupted our fun…” His lips brushed close to my cheek, his breath warm and smug. “So I thought I’d find you elsewhere.”

 

I felt heat rise to my face as I tried not to look at his mouth. “I—I was just walking,” I lied terribly.

 

“Hmm.” He tilted his head, narrowing his eyes at me like a dragon watching prey. “Funny, I thought I saw a little mouse sneaking out of a wall near the council chamber.”

 

I looked away, quickly. “Maybe you imagined it.”

 

Daemon’s grin widened. “Visenya,” he drawled, voice like silk soaked in wildfire, “were you spying on the council?”

 

“No,” I said—far too fast.

 

He raised an eyebrow. “Truly?”

 

I clenched my jaw, folding my arms across my chest, wishing my face wasn’t so red. “I didn’t stay long.”

 

“That’s not a no.”

 

“I didn’t hear everything!” I blurted. Then immediately winced.

 

Daemon’s eyes flicked down to my mouth for a second, then back up. “You are a terrible liar,” he said, with something oddly close to pride.

 

Daemon leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "You know what I think? I think my little niece has a secret she wants to share with her uncle."

 

His hand slid from the wall to gently cup my cheek, thumb brushing over my lips. "Shall we discuss it?"

 

I nodded my head 'yes' feeling weak to my knees. I accidentally whined after I realized what I did. I blushed as red as a bloody cherry. I looked up to see Daemon's reaction.

 

Daemon’s eyes glinted with amusement at my little whine. He pressed his thumb against my lips, pushing gently before I could open my mouth to protest.

 

"Mmm?" He mocked softly. "No clever retort? No more lies?" His thumb slid into your mouth.

 

Daemon groaned softly as I sucked on his thumb, his hips pressing forward involuntarily. The sensation was intoxicating - my lips warm and soft around his digit.

 

He could feel his cock stirring in his breeches. He withdrew his thumb slowly, bringing it to his mouth to lick my saliva off.

 

"Let's go back to your chambers," Daemon said backing away from me. I nodded and walked a different way from him so no one will see us together.

 

Daemon went to the other direction. When I finally got to my chambers, I decided to change my dress into my nightgown. Waiting for Daemon to show up.

 

I brushed my hair as I waited. I finally feel someone's hand on my waist.

 

The hand on my waist pulled me back against a hard chest. Daemon's arms wrapped around my middle, his face burying in the crook of my neck.

 

He inhaled my scent deeply before placing open-mouthed kisses along my jaw and down my throat. "Took you long enough," I said with a smile.

 

" Uncle..." I sighed, leaning my head back. " The council thinks I am a threat" I teased as I turned around to face Daemon.

 

" Do you think I am a threat?" I asked with the most innocent expression on my face.

 

Daemon's hands slid down to grip my hips possessively as he looked into my innocent face.

 

A dark chuckle escaped him. "The only threat you pose is to my self-control." He leaned in close, his lips hovering just above yours. "And yes, you are very dangerous."

Chapter Text

Helaena  POV)

The wind carried the scent of lavender and the salt of the sea as I walked through the castle gardens, the sun dipping low in the sky. The golden light turned the towers of the Red Keep into flame-tipped spires, casting long shadows over the stone paths.

Malachi was waiting, just as I hoped he would be.

He stood near the edge of the terrace, his hands tucked behind his back, eyes focused on the sky as if he was trying to memorize the clouds. He always looked slightly out of place among us—quiet, observant, always careful with his words—but he made me feel like I could breathe a little easier when he was near.

“Malachi,” I called softly.

He turned to face me, offering a small smile. “Princess.”

I hesitated for only a breath before stepping closer. “Would you like to ride with me?” I asked, watching his face. “On Dreamfyre.”

His eyes widened, surprise flickering across his face like a sudden gust of wind. “Your dragon?”

I nodded, gently. “She’s calm today. And I trust you.”

He didn’t answer right away. I could see the storm of questions behind his eyes—fear, awe, excitement. I offered my hand, palm up, fingers slightly trembling from nerves I couldn’t quite name.

Malachi took it.

We walked together to the dragonpit, our steps quiet on the stone, his grip firm but gentle in mine.

Dreamfyre loomed ahead, curled in a wide crescent of silver-blue scales that shimmered in the light. She watched us approach with eyes like twin stars—bright, ancient, and knowing.

“She won’t hurt you,” I whispered. “She knows you’re with me.”

Malachi nodded stiffly, trying to keep composed. I could see his heartbeat in his throat. I moved first, climbing the saddle with practiced ease. I turned, extending my hand once more.

He hesitated—but only for a moment—before gripping my wrist and pulling himself up behind me.

I felt him tense as he settled into place, both arms wrapping cautiously around my waist. I tried not to blush. He smelled like pine and ink. His cheek brushed against the back of my neck for a second too long.
“Are you ready?” I asked over my shoulder, smiling.

“No,” he said honestly. “But I trust you.”

I tightened my grip on the reins and whispered the word: “Soves.” Fly.

Dreamfyre rose with a thunderous flap of her wings, lifting us into the sky like a windblown feather. The ground fell away, the Red Keep shrinking beneath us, the sea opening wide and endless.

Malachi held me tighter, his breath catching as we soared over the city. I felt his heart pounding against my back—terrified and thrilled. I laughed, the sound swept away by the wind.

We flew higher, letting the dragon dip and glide, the sun painting the sky with molten pink and lavender hues. The breeze tangled our hair, pulled laughter from my lungs, and for the first time in a long time, I forgot the weight of my dreams.

“It’s beautiful,” Malachi murmured behind me, his voice almost lost to the wind. “You’re beautiful.”

I closed my eyes, leaning slightly into him, warmth blooming in my chest.

“I’m glad you came with me,” I said, softly.

His grip tightened just a little. “I’d follow you anywhere, Helaena.”

We didn’t speak again for a while—just rode together, wrapped in silence, sky, and dragonfire.

And high above the world, with nothing but stars and wind to witness it… I felt like I could almost believe in peace.

(Aemma's POV)

The corridor was quiet, but each step I took sent a dull throb through my side, like the echo of a wound trying to scream beneath my skin. I kept my hand close to my ribs, fingers gently pressing against the tender spot through the folds of my cloak.

The bruise was fresh—raw, angry. Mother's latest lesson had been particularly harsh today. I could still hear her voice, cold as steel, whispering how kindness would make me weak, how softness would ruin me.

But what she didn’t understand—what she would never understand—was that I didn’t care about her kind of strength.

I winced as I reached the top of the stairs, pausing for just a breath. My room was just down the next hall. I could make it. I just needed to—

"Aemma?"

I flinched.

Jacaerys.

He was walking toward me from the opposite end of the hallway, looking effortlessly at ease, a slow smile blooming across his face.

His dark hair was tousled, his cheeks flushed with wind or laughter. He always looked like he had just come back from something daring. And now, he was walking right toward me.

I straightened up quickly, hiding the wince behind a too-bright smile. “What? Did the stablehands run out of mud for you to fall in again?” I teased, cocking my head and forcing a lightness I didn’t feel.

He chuckled, eyes crinkling. “No, not today. Though I’ll admit I missed hearing your delightful insults.”

“Well, someone has to keep your ego from soaring higher than your dragon,” I said with a smirk, though my voice wavered slightly from the pain creeping up my spine.

His gaze softened then—just a flicker of concern beneath the amusement. He stepped closer. “You okay?”

I blinked. “Of course. Just tired,” I said, too quickly. “It’s been a long day. I was heading to bed.”

He didn’t believe me. I could see it in the way his lips pressed into a thin line, the way his brow drew together. Jace was never good at hiding his thoughts—not with me.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I added before he could ask more. I turned and walked carefully away, forcing myself not to limp, not to favor the side that ached with every breath.

Behind me, I could feel his eyes following me. I didn’t have to look to know that he had stopped walking.

“Goodnight, Aemma,” he said gently, his voice lower now.

“Goodnight, Jace.”

I didn’t look back.

Only once I turned the corner did I let myself lean against the wall, exhaling slowly through my nose. My ribs burned, my eyes stung, but I clenched my jaw and kept going.

He couldn’t know.

No one could.

This was my pain to bear—and I wouldn’t let it be his burden, too.

By the time I reached my chamber, the pain had settled into something heavy and nauseating, like a bruise behind my ribs that pulsed with every heartbeat.

I closed the door behind me quietly, locking it with a soft click. The moment I was alone, I let out a shaky breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

The fire in the hearth had burned low, casting long shadows on the stone walls. My room was dim and cool—too quiet.

I hated how the silence made the echoes of Mother's words louder.

"You're soft, Aemma. And softness breaks."

I clenched my jaw and stepped toward the table where a jug of wine and a cup sat, untouched from earlier. The ache in my side throbbed as I moved, but I forced myself not to cry out.

I refused to cry.

Not again.

Not over this.

Not over her.

With trembling fingers, I poured the wine.

Deep red, thick and smooth. The scent of it rose immediately, sharp and familiar, almost comforting.

Just a sip, I told myself.

Just enough to dull the pain.

I brought the cup to my lips—but just before the wine could touch them—

Jacaerys.

His name exploded in my mind like thunder.

The way he looked at me in the hall.

The way his brow furrowed with worry.

The way he didn’t believe me when I said I was fine.

I froze.

His voice whispered through my head like wind in the trees.

"You okay?"

I couldn’t do it.

I couldn’t drink.

Not now.

Not after seeing that look on his face—the one that said he saw me.

That he cared.

My hands began to shake.

And then the cup slipped from my fingers.

It shattered on the floor with a sharp crack, splashing wine across the stone tiles.

The jug wobbled and rocked to the side, tipping over with a slow, final glug, bleeding its contents in a spreading crimson stain like blood.

I stumbled back, heart hammering, breath caught in my throat. And then—without warning—it all broke.

The wall behind me caught my spine as I slid down against it, my legs folding uselessly beneath me. I clutched my arms around my ribs, as if holding myself together would somehow stop the pain.

I cried.

Not the quiet, graceful tears my mother would call acceptable.

No.

These were hot, ugly sobs that tore out of my chest like a storm, echoing off the stone and curling through the air like ghosts.

The kind of tears that made your throat raw and your breath short.

The kind that left you empty.

Tears for the pain.

For the bruises.

For the lies I had to tell.

For the kindness I still wanted to give the world even when it kept cutting me.

For the boy with the soft eyes who deserved to know the truth.

For the girl I used to be before I was taught to bleed in silence.

I don’t know how long I stayed there, curled up on the floor in a puddle of wine and shame, but eventually, the sobs quieted. My breathing steadied.

The pain was still there.

But so was the part of me that refused to let it define me.

And for the first time in a long while, I let myself whisper a prayer—not to the gods. But to hope.

Let there be more than this.

I don’t know how long I sat there, knees pulled to my chest, face buried in my arms.

The wine had soaked into the hem of my gown, staining it a deep, accusing red. My head throbbed from crying, and my ribs pulsed with dull, gnawing pain beneath my skin.

I didn’t even hear the knock—just the quiet creak of the door opening.

“Aemma?”

The voice was soft.

Familiar.

Helaena.

I didn’t lift my head.

I couldn’t.

I didn’t want her to see me like this—spilled out on the floor like something broken and discarded.

But of course, Helaena always saw more than I wanted her to. That was her gift. Or her curse.

I felt her before I saw her. The gentle rustle of her skirts, the faint scent of lavender and old books. She stepped carefully around the shattered cup and knelt beside me, her hand finding my back, light and tentative.

She didn’t ask me what happened. She never did. She simply sat with me.

For a moment, we didn’t speak. We just breathed together, in the thick quiet of my ruined chamber.

When I finally lifted my face from my arms, she was already watching me.

Her expression wasn’t pity—it was something far softer.

Understanding.

Empathy.

“You didn’t come to supper,” she said quietly.

“I wasn’t hungry,” I murmured. My voice cracked, rough and small.

Helaena nodded.

She didn’t push.

She never did.

Her eyes flicked to the spilled wine, to the bruising on my wrist that I’d stopped trying to hide, to the way I winced when I shifted against the wall.

“You should let me help you clean up,” she offered gently.

“No,” I said quickly, shaking my head. “Just… just stay.”

She did.

Helaena reached out and brushed a strand of hair from my cheek, tucking it behind my ear like she used to when we were younger, when Mother hadn’t yet learned to be disappointed in me.

“You don’t deserve this,” she whispered.

A fresh wave of tears surged in my throat. I bit the inside of my cheek, forcing them back.

“I’m fine,” I lied. “It’s just… been a long day.”

Helaena tilted her head. “You know you never have to lie to me, Aemma.”

I nodded, but I didn’t speak. I couldn’t.

She reached into her sleeve and pulled out a small cloth bundle. Unwrapping it carefully, she revealed a bit of salve—one she made herself. The smell of herbs and crushed violets filled the air.

“For the bruises,” she said. “And your ribs.”

I looked at it. At her. And for the first time that day, I didn’t feel completely alone.

“Thank you,” I whispered. My fingers closed around the bundle.

Helaena smiled, small and sad.

“You’re always the one taking care of others,” she said. “Let someone take care of you, just this once.”

“I don’t know how,” I admitted, the words slipping out like a confession.

She just leaned her head against mine and sighed. “Then I’ll teach you.”

The silence settled again after Helaena’s words, this time softer. Like a blanket instead of a weight. She didn’t rush me. She just sat there, close enough that I could feel her warmth but not so close as to make me feel caged.

Eventually, my breathing evened out. My cheeks were dry, though my eyes still burned. I looked down at the small bundle of salve in my lap. I hadn’t realized my fingers were shaking until I tried to unwrap it.

“Come,” Helaena murmured, standing with that graceful quiet she always moved with. “Let’s get you off the floor. I’ll help.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but the strength I normally clung to had deserted me. So I nodded, and let her loop an arm around my back.

It was humiliating how much effort it took just to rise from the ground. I hissed when the bruised side of my ribs screamed in protest.

Helaena didn’t say anything, but her grip tightened just a bit, holding me steady. Her touch was careful—gentle in a way that made my throat tighten again.

She guided me to the bed like I was something fragile. I probably looked it.

I sat down slowly, trying not to wince. Helaena didn’t speak as she fetched a clean cloth from my trunk and poured some water into a bowl from the ewer nearby.

She worked quietly, her movements precise—purposeful.

“Lift your sleeve,” she said softly.

I did. The bruise on my arm was blooming into deep purples and blues. Helaena didn’t react to it—not with shock, not with anger.

Just a small furrow of her brow as she dipped the cloth in water and gently pressed it to the skin.

I hissed, more from surprise than pain.

“Sorry,” she murmured. “Cold helps with swelling.”

“I know.” My voice was barely a whisper.

She dabbed at the worst of it before spreading the salve. It was cool and soothing, the herbal scent mixing with the sharp tang of the spilled wine that still clung to the room.

“You were always the strongest of us,” she said quietly. “Even if no one saw it.”

I didn’t respond.

What could I say to that?

After a moment, Helaena looked at me—really looked at me.

“Do you want me to stay tonight?”

Part of me wanted to say yes. Desperately. But I also knew how easily I could fall apart again if someone stayed too long—if someone was kind too long.

“No,” I said gently. “I think I just need to sleep.”

She nodded. “If you change your mind… you know where to find me.”

She stood, gave my hand one last squeeze, then turned toward the door.

“Helaena?” I called softly, just as she reached it.

She looked back, head tilted in that soft, curious way of hers.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

Her smile, faint and full of something unspoken, was the last thing I saw before the door closed behind her.

I laid back slowly, curling toward the side that hurt less. The salve numbed the sting, but not the ache under my ribs. Nor the ache I kept deeper, the one I didn’t have a name for.

But for the first time in days, I let my eyes close and allowed sleep to find me.

And I wasn’t afraid of the dreams.

 

(Visenya's POV)

 

The morning light bled in soft golden slants through the heavy velvet curtains.

 

For a moment, I simply laid still, enjoying the silence, the warmth of my bed, the soft silk sheets tangled around my legs. My eyes fluttered shut again, heavy with the kind of sleep that never felt quite deep enough.

 

But then, a sudden wave rolled through my stomach.

 

A tight, coiling churn.

 

I blinked.

 

Frowned.

 

It passed, at first, like a ripple.

 

But then—another came.

 

Stronger.

 

Faster.

 

No.

 

No.

 

No.

 

I bolted upright, clutching my middle as nausea twisted through me like a storm-wind.

 

My mouth flooded with that unmistakable taste—sharp, bitter, vile. I clapped a hand over my lips, swung my legs over the bed, and staggered to my feet.

 

The privy was too far.

 

I wouldn’t make it.

 

I barely had time to drop to my knees before I wretched into the pot near my vanity—a poor potted fern that had survived every season until now.

 

I gripped its edges as my body convulsed, the dry heaves scraping through me like fire and salt.

 

It was over in moments, but my knees remained rooted to the stone floor. My chest rose and fell with shaky breath, strands of silver hair sticking to the sweat on my forehead.

 

My thoughts reeled.

 

Am I ill?

 

But I didn’t feel sick.

 

Not really.

 

My limbs didn’t ache.

 

My head wasn’t spinning.

 

I had no fever, no chills.

 

No signs of a fever-sickness or something one could catch in the halls or on the wind.

 

And yet…

 

It wasn’t just today. There had been other moments—subtle things I’d dismissed.

 

I hadn’t bled this last moon. I thought it was stress that ran high, or I trained too hard. But the second time?

 

My appetite had shifted too—I was hungrier some days, but when food was in front of me, my stomach turned. My sense of smell was sharper. The wine I’d tried to sip last night had tasted too strong. Too bitter.

 

My hand moved—slowly, as if I were not entirely conscious of it—to my stomach.

 

And suddenly, the truth slammed into me like a falling stone.

 

No… no.

 

It can’t be.

 

But it could.

 

And it was.

 

I was pregnant.

 

The realization rooted itself deep in my chest, burning with panic and awe all at once. My throat closed. I stood slowly, pressing the back of my hand to my mouth, willing my body not to betray me again.

 

A child.

 

His child.

 

Daemon.

 

I felt lightheaded—spun around and sat heavily on the edge of the bed, staring at the embroidered edge of the blanket as if it would offer me answers.

 

A strange cocktail of emotions churned in me—fear, disbelief, fury, tenderness.

 

I wanted to cry and laugh and scream all at once.

 

How could I have been so foolish?

 

The world would see it as a scandal.

 

A disgrace.

 

I pressed both hands flat against my abdomen, trying to feel something, anything. But it was still too early.

 

There was no movement. No sign beyond my own nausea and the terrifying absence of blood.

 

Still, I knew.

 

A child now grew inside me.

Chapter Text

(Visenya's POV)

 

The day dragged on with agonizing slowness.

 

Every tick of the sun across the sky felt like it was pushing down on me, like time itself had turned heavy and cruel.

 

My body moved through the motions—eating, speaking, walking through the halls—but my mind was elsewhere, spiraling around the same thought again and again.

 

I’m pregnant.

 

I hadn’t told anyone.

 

Not yet.

 

Not until I figured out what to do.

 

What this meant.

 

But the secret clung to me like damp silk, pressing into my skin, stealing the air from my lungs with every breath.

 

My stomach churned every few hours, and though I tried to hide it, I could feel the edges of worry clawing at my insides.

 

I caught myself picking at the skin around my fingernails, digging into my cuticle with quiet desperation as I walked the garden paths with Helaena. I didn’t even notice the red blooming on my knuckle until she reached out and took my hand gently in hers.

 

“You’re bleeding,” she said softly, her fingers cool against mine.

 

I blinked, startled. “It’s nothing,” I replied, too quickly, pulling my hand back.

 

Helaena didn’t press.

 

She never did. But her eyes—those strange, distant eyes—lingered on me longer than usual.

 

There was knowing in them.

 

The kind that didn’t need words.

 

She said nothing. Just tucked a loose strand of my hair behind my ear and turned away, humming faintly to herself about spiders and dreams.

 

But she knew. I could feel it in my bones.

 

Later, in the training yard, I tried to distract myself. I swung a practice sword with deliberate, mechanical focus, parrying Aemma’s strikes, dodging Daeron’s mock attacks. But my movements were slower than usual.

 

Sloppy.

 

My mind was clouded, too full. My hand trembled when I went to pick up the water skin, and I dropped it.

 

Daemon saw.

 

He was across the yard, speaking with Ser Harrold, but the moment the water hit the stones and I bent down too quickly, his gaze snapped to me.

 

Our eyes met.

 

And for a moment, the world narrowed to just him.

 

He didn’t speak. He didn’t call out. But his brows furrowed slightly, his jaw tightened, and he took a single step in my direction—before stopping himself. He looked at me as if he was seeing through me.

 

I turned away.

 

I didn’t want him to know.

 

Not yet.

 

Not when I didn’t even know what he would say.

 

Not when I didn’t know if he would still look at me the same way, with that smirk that only I ever got. That softness he wore only in shadows.

 

I returned to my chambers early, feigning fatigue. But even alone, I couldn’t sit still.

 

My hands twisted in my lap. My fingers found their way back to the sore patch beside my nail, pressing, digging, worrying the skin raw.

 

I kept whispering to myself in High Valyrian, small words of comfort, like the ones Targaryen mothers used to say to their children.

 

But they didn’t help.

 

Not when the weight in my belly felt heavier than a crown.

 

Not when the future I had so carefully imagined began to unravel, thread by thread.

 

I couldn’t sleep.

 

The moonlight poured through the tall windows like a cold, silver veil. I sat on the edge of my bed in silence, the room around me feeling far too large, too empty—like a void waiting to swallow me whole.

 

The soft whisper of silk brushing stone pulled my attention to the door.

 

It creaked open.

 

And there he was.

 

Daemon.

 

He didn’t speak right away.

 

He closed the door quietly behind him, his eyes never leaving mine. His presence filled the space like thunder—not loud, but impossible to ignore.

 

“You’ve been picking at your fingers,” he said quietly, crossing the room.

 

I tucked my hands under the folds of my robe.

 

“I’m fine,” I said, forcing my voice steady.

 

He stood in front of me now, close enough that I could see the way his jaw clenched when I avoided his eyes.

 

“You’re not,” he replied simply.

 

I looked up at him. The words were a storm in my throat, but none of them would come out.

 

He knelt in front of me, gently taking my hand from my lap. His thumb brushed over the angry red mark beside my nail. Then his fingers curled around mine—not possessive, but firm. Grounding.

 

“Tell me what’s wrong.”

 

I swallowed.

 

My mouth opened, then closed.

 

I wanted to lie.

 

To say I was tired.

 

Or stressed.

 

But the weight was too heavy to carry alone.

 

“I’m late,” I whispered.

 

He stilled. “Late?”

 

I nodded, heart thudding like war drums. “I—I was sick this morning. But I don’t feel ill. I just knew. I miss my period for the past one moon.”

 

Daemon’s face didn’t change at first. He looked at me for a long moment—long enough that I felt my stomach twist again with fear.

 

“I think I’m pregnant,” I said.

 

Stillness.

 

And then—

 

His hand moved to my cheek, rough palm warm against my skin. His thumb brushed beneath my eye where, I realized, a tear had fallen.

 

“You’re certain?” he asked quietly, not with anger, but something like awe.

 

“No. Not if I go to a maester. But I feel it. In my bones.”

 

Another silence. Then he stood, pacing once to the window before turning back.

 

“This changes everything,” he said softly.

 

“I know.”

 

Daemon looked at me with something raw in his eyes—conflict, yearning, guilt, and something deeper, something only for me.

 

Then he came back to me, bending to press his forehead to mine.

 

“Whatever happens,” he murmured, “I will not abandon you. Or my child.”

 

I closed my eyes, letting his words wrap around me like armor.

 

“I’m afraid,” I whispered.

 

“I’m not,” he said. “Because you are mine, Visenya. And I will burn the world before I let anyone take you from me now.”

 

The fire had long since turned to embers in the hearth, but I didn’t move from the bed. Daemon sat beside me now, one hand gently tracing the length of my spine through my robe, his other resting on the hilt of his dagger—always armed, always ready. But tonight, we were not at war. Not yet.

 

Only planning for one.

 

“I heard something today,” I murmured, voice soft against the thick silence of the room. “During the council meeting. Rhaenyra… she wants Aemma to go live with her in Driftmark. She thinks it will give her and Jacaerys more time to bond. Something she says she never got to do—with Laenor.”

 

Daemon didn’t react right away. He stared into the hearth, eyes like smoke.

 

Then: “Interesting.”

 

He said it as though the pieces had just fallen into place.

 

“She wants Aemma out of King’s Landing,” he continued, thoughtfully. “That’s good.”

 

I turned my head slightly to look at him. “You think we can use that.”

 

He met my eyes then. “I know we can.”

 

A flicker of unease coiled low in my belly, but I didn’t let it show. Daemon’s mind was already turning, wheels grinding toward inevitability.

 

“If Rhaenyra, Laenor, Aemma, and the boys leave for Driftmark,” he said, “that gives us time. Time to plan. If we should tell Visery and hope he will aprove.”

 

“She wouldn’t know about the child,” I said, fingers ghosting across my stomach, not yet rounded, but already mine. “And she wouldn’t be able to use it against me.”

 

Daemon nodded. “Precisely. Viserys… he’ll find out soon enough. And when he does, he’ll be backed into a corner. Either he gives us his blessing—publicly—or he exiles me.”

 

He turned to face me fully, expression unreadable. “And if it’s exile…”

 

“I will be taking you with me and we will wed in the old way,” I finished for him. “By Valyrian rite. Blood and fire.”

 

A pause stretched between us like the space between stars.

 

“I don’t want to use Aemma,” I admitted quietly. “She’s good. She loves Rhaenyra already. And I know she’ll be happier there, away from mother’s sharp hands and grandfather’s schemes.”

 

Daemon studied me.

 

His gaze softened a fraction.

 

“You won’t harm her,” he said. “You’ll protect her by keeping her out of this storm.”

 

“I know,” I whispered. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t feel the guilt of letting her be a part of our chessboard.”

 

“Then let me feel it for you,” Daemon replied. “You carry the child. I’ll carry the sins.”

 

I swallowed hard.

 

It should have made me feel better.

 

It didn’t.

 

But it did make me love him more.

 

He reached for my hand, lifting it to his lips. “Visenya... soon, the time for secrecy will end. Let them whisper. Let them accuse. When the truth comes out, we will already be bound. One way or another.”

 

I leaned into him, pressing my forehead to his shoulder.

 

(Helaena’s POV)

 

The sky was clear, a soft blue painted with lazy clouds that drifted like slow-moving ships. The grass beneath us was warm from the sun, and I could feel it tickling my arms where my sleeves had slipped.

 

I lay stretched out beside Malachi, the crown of his head resting in my lap. The steady rise and fall of his chest made me feel calm, like I could drift off if I let myself.

 

I hummed quietly. Some old tune I didn’t remember the words to. One of Mother’s lullabies, I think. Or maybe something I heard in the gardens once when I was small.

 

Malachi’s hair was soft between my fingers, dark and curling at the ends. I ran my hand through it gently, watching the sunlight catch in its sheen. I liked the way he closed his eyes when I touched his hair, like he trusted me without question.

 

He looked up at me then, his eyes—so steady, so full of quiet warmth—locking with mine.

 

“What do you want to do?” he asked, voice low and slow, like he didn’t want to shatter the peace between us.

 

I blinked, the hum dying on my lips. “What do you mean?” I asked, not pulling my hand from his hair.

 

He smiled, just a little. That smile that never pushed, never demanded, just waited.

 

“Do you want to explore the world?” he said, eyes half-lidded, dreamy. “See far places, climb mountains, cross the sea? Or would you rather live in a small place... quiet, safe. A home to grow old in. To just be.”

 

I stared at him. The question felt so simple, and yet so... vast.

 

I had never thought about it before.

 

I lived by dreams and omens, by whispers no one else heard. By duty, by family. No one had ever asked me what I wanted—not like that. Not without strings attached.

 

“I… I don’t know,” I said softly, looking up at the sky instead. “I suppose... I’ve always just been here. Gardens. Books. The little creatures I keep in jars.”

 

Malachi chuckled, and I felt the vibrations of it through my legs.

 

It made me smile.

 

“You can have more than one kind of life, you know,” he said. “You’re allowed to wonder. To want.”

 

“I wonder,” I whispered. “All the time. But wanting... that feels dangerous.”

 

His hand reached up, fingers curling lightly around mine where they still played in his hair.

 

“Then I’ll teach you,” he murmured. “How to want. How to choose. You won’t have to do it alone.”

 

My breath caught. Just for a moment. A tiny blush bloomed on my cheeks, and I was grateful he had closed his eyes again—though maybe he knew anyway.

 

He always seemed to know.

 

I smiled, a small thing, but real.

 

I kept running my fingers through his hair, slower now. The sun warmed our skin, and the air smelled of crushed grass and summer blooms. I heard bees buzzing nearby, but they didn’t come too close.

 

They never did.

 

For the first time in a long while, I didn’t feel strange. I didn’t feel like a dreamer caught between two worlds. I felt… here. Grounded.

 

Because Malachi saw me—not as something broken or strange or fragile—but just as Helaena.

 

And maybe that was enough.

 

For now.

 

(Aemma POV)

 

The doors to the council room loomed taller than usual. I hesitated for only a moment before pushing them open, the sound echoing through the chamber like a soft warning.

 

The stone walls held the scent of parchment and smoke, but what struck me most was the presence of everyone already seated—my father, King Viserys, with his tired but firm expression; Rhaenyra beside him, regal and calm, though her eyes flickered toward me with something warmer, something familiar; my mother, Alicent, sitting too straight, too tense; and across from her, Grandfather Otto Hightower, his fingers laced neatly, his face unreadable.

 

Something was wrong.

 

Or something was happening.

 

I bowed my head respectfully before stepping further inside, my fingers lightly curled at my sides. The silence that followed felt brittle.

 

“Come, Aemma,” my father said, motioning to the empty chair beside him. “Sit.”

 

I did so, smoothing my skirts, my heart thumping a little faster. No one said anything right away. My eyes met Rhaenyra’s briefly, and I thought I saw something there—hope? Sadness? A strange mixture of both.

 

It was my father who finally broke the silence.

 

“Rhaenyra has made a request,” he said slowly, as though testing every word before speaking it aloud. “She believes it would be… beneficial… for you to spend some time in Driftmark.”

 

My brows lifted slightly.

 

Driftmark?

 

“With her and her sons,” he continued. “In particular, with Jacaerys. She believes it would allow you both the opportunity to grow… closer.”

 

A beat of stunned silence followed.

 

I felt the air shift—mother’s breath caught, sharp and pointed.

 

“What?” she said, her voice calm but with a thinly veiled edge. “Viserys, this has not been discussed—”

 

“It has now,” Rhaenyra interrupted, her tone still soft, but firm beneath. “She is to be wed to my son, is she not? Why not give them what I was never allowed? Time.”

 

Mother’s jaw twitched. “It’s improper. She belongs here. Under our guidance.”

 

“She’s not a child,” Rhaenyra said, more gently this time. “She’s old enough to have her own say.”

 

Just as my mother opened her mouth to protest again, it was Grandfather Otto who interrupted. “I think it’s an excellent idea,” he said smoothly, leaning back in his chair. His voice was quiet, but it carried enough weight to freeze the room. “Time spent away from the court might offer the girl clarity. Perspective. And this will help Aemma and Jacaerys form a strong bond.”

 

He gave my mother a look—one that said do not challenge me on this.

 

A rare chill ran down my spine.

 

I turned to my father just as he looked at me, his fingers steepled together over the table.

 

“And what do you want, Aemma?” he asked, his voice gentler now. “If it is your wish to remain here, say so. But if your heart leans toward Driftmark…”

 

My mouth opened, but no words came at first.

 

I should’ve been cautious.

 

I should’ve looked to my mother for some subtle signal. But something inside me, raw and tender, rose up like a tide.

 

About the way Rhaenyra had smiled at me.

 

About Jacaerys and the quiet understanding he had when he looked at me.

 

I thought about peace.

 

About the absence of pain.

 

And then I thought about my mother.

 

Watching.

 

Measuring.

 

Waiting to punish.

 

My hands folded in my lap, as I schooled my expression into careful neutrality.

 

“If it pleases you, Your Grace,” I said softly, “I think it would be… good. For me to go.”

 

There was a beat of stillness.

 

“Very well,” Viserys said, with a nod. Relief bloomed in his expression, faint but visible.

 

Rhaenyra gave me a warm, proud smile.

 

My mother, however, went still. Her face froze in polite disappointment, but I could feel her eyes on me—piercing. Judging.

 

I did not look at her.

 

“I will begin preparing,” I added quickly, still looking down. “If that is all?”

 

Viserys nodded again, dismissing me with a small gesture.

 

I stood, bowed once more, and turned toward the door.

 

As I walked out, heart hammering behind my ribs, I let a small smile tug at the corner of my lips—just for myself.

 

I was leaving.

 

And for the first time in a long while, I felt like I could breathe.

Chapter Text

(Aemma's Pov)

 

The heavy doors of the council room closed behind me with a soft click, and I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. My footsteps echoed down the corridor, and for a moment, I felt like I was floating. Not quite joyous—but lighter, freer, like the chains around my ribs had loosened just enough to let me breathe again.

 

I was going to Driftmark.

 

With Rhaenyra.

 

With Jacaerys.

 

And far, far away from Mother's cold stares and carefully measured punishments.

 

I knew I should keep my face composed until I was alone—but I couldn’t help it. A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth, small and hesitant, like it was afraid to bloom.

 

I needed to tell them.

 

My siblings.

 

They were in the solar, I guessed. Or maybe the gardens. It was still early enough in the day for them to be lingering before supper.

 

I quickened my pace down the corridor, tugging off the gloves I always wore to hide the bruises on my wrists. I didn’t want to feel bound anymore—not today.

 

When I reached the west garden, I spotted them: Visenya sitting in her usual place under the willow tree, a book in her lap but unread, her eyes flickering with whatever secret storm lived behind them.

 

Helaena was crouched in the grass nearby, humming to a beetle she held tenderly in her palms.

 

Daeron was lounging on a bench with his boots kicked up, balancing a plum on the edge of his dagger, trying to keep it from falling.

 

“Oi,” I called softly.

 

All three heads turned.

 

“You look like you just kissed a boy,” Daeron said, smirking. “Or set something on fire.”

 

“Neither,” I replied, grinning. “Well. Not yet.”

 

Visenya raised an eyebrow.

 

Helaena stood, brushing off her skirts, her expression curious.

 

I stepped closer, hands clasped behind my back like I had a secret. “Father has asked me if I want to go live with Rhaenyra at Driftmark and I agree,” I said, voice low, giddy. “I’m going to live in Driftmark. With Rhaenyra. With Jacaerys.”

 

The reaction came in a ripple.

 

Daeron nearly dropped his dagger. “What?”

 

Visenya blinked once, slowly. “You’re… leaving?”

 

“I’ll be back,” I reassured. “It’s not forever. Just for two years and I will be visiting. Of course. Rhaenyra thinks Jacaerys and I should… get to know each other. Since we’re to be married.”

 

Helaena clapped her hands softly, her beetle momentarily forgotten. “That’s wonderful, Aemma. You’ll love the sea air.”

 

“You will be free,” Daeron said, half-laughing. “I mean… you really did it. You will slip out of  Mother’s claws.”

 

Visenya still hadn’t said anything. She was watching me, thoughtful. “Did she fight it?” she asked.

 

I hesitated, then nodded. “Of course. But Grandfather agreed. And Father made the final decision.”

 

“Hmm,” Visenya murmured. “Convenient timing.”

 

I tilted my head. “What do you mean?”

 

She shook her head, lips curving in that unreadable way of hers. “Nothing.”

 

Daeron stood and came over, wrapping his arms around me in a tight, jostling hug. “You better write,” he said, ruffling my hair like I was still ten. “Or I’ll come steal you back.”

 

“I’ll write,” I promised, hugging him back. “I’ll send drawings and letters soaked in perfume.”

 

He wrinkled his nose. “Gross.”

 

Helaena stepped in next, her embrace softer. “I’ll give you one of the dream beetles,” she whispered against my shoulder. “They know when you’re sad. They hum lullabies.”

 

“I’d like that,” I said with a laugh, blinking away the prick of tears in my eyes. My siblings love me. And that makes me so happy.

 

And then there was Visenya.

 

She stood slowly, closing the book she hadn’t been reading. “Be careful,” she said. Her voice was quiet, serious. “There are more dangers at sea than storms.”

 

I looked at her, brow furrowing. “What are you not saying?”

 

But she only stepped forward, pulled me in, and hugged me for a heartbeat longer than expected. “You’ll be happier there,” she said into my ear.

 

And I believed her.

 

I just didn’t know what that happiness would cost.

 

The halls of the Red Keep had never felt so empty.

 

I walked quietly, my slippers barely making a sound against the stone floor as I climbed the familiar path to my chambers.

 

My fingers were still curled tightly around the edge of my cloak, the one I’d worn earlier to the council meeting. I hadn't loosened it yet—it felt like a shield, like armor I couldn't quite remove.

 

Everything was changing so quickly.

 

Rhaenyra had asked for me. Father had agreed. I was to leave for Driftmark soon, to live with her, to marry Jacaerys—something that had once seemed so far away it may as well have been in a dream.

 

I should have been happy. But joy was a fragile thing in this family. It shattered far too easily.

 

I stepped into my chambers and closed the door softly behind me, exhaling the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

 

I went to the basin, splashing cool water on my face, hoping to quiet the tension building behind my eyes. The faintest hint of a smile lingered—thinking of Jace, his laughter, his kindness. He had looked at me like I was a person, not a pawn.

 

But the door slammed open behind me.

 

I didn’t have time to turn before the sting of a hand cracked across my cheek.

 

Pain bloomed hot and immediate. I stumbled, one hand catching the edge of the dresser.

 

Alicent.

 

Her eyes were ablaze, but not with grief—not with disappointment. No. This was rage.

 

“You stupid, stupid girl,” she spat, her voice like poison. “You were supposed to say no.”

 

I opened my mouth, but no words came.

 

Her hand shot forward again, this time curling around the back of my head—fingers gripping into my hair, yanking me backward.

 

I gasped, trying not to cry out as tears stung my eyes.

 

“You dare make a choice without me? You embarrassed me. Sitting there like a little maiden waiting to be picked like fruit from a branch!” she hissed, her breath hot against my ear.

 

“I–I didn’t—” I choked out, barely above a whisper.

 

Another slap. This one harsher. My face burned, and I swayed again.

 

“You think you’ll be safe with her? That she cares for you?” Alicent's voice cracked. “You are my daughter. You will not throw away your duty for dreams of love or freedom.”

 

I trembled, silent tears streaking down my face now.

 

I didn’t fight.

 

I didn’t speak.

 

“You are weak,” she snarled. “Like your father. You break so easily.”

 

She stood over me for a moment longer, breathing heavily—then smoothed her skirts with icy calm. Her eyes landed on me one last time, full of contempt.

 

“You deserve what you get,” she said, her voice low, final.

 

And then she was gone.

 

The door closed behind her with a click that echoed like a scream in the silence.

 

I slid to the floor slowly, my knees curling into my chest, pressing my bruised cheek against the cool wood of the wardrobe. My chest heaved, but I didn’t sob—not loudly. I was too used to silence. Too used to hiding what hurt.

 

But the tears still fell, soaking into the fabric of my cloak.

 

No one had seen.

 

No one would ask.

 

And I didn’t have the strength to tell them.

 

(Helaena Pov)

 

I woke with a gasp.

 

The world felt heavier than before. The air in my room was thick—tainted with something bitter, something sour.

 

I sat up in bed, the covers twisted around my legs, my hands clammy from a dream that hadn’t belonged to me. Not entirely.

 

I had seen Aemma.

 

I had seen Mother strike her.

 

Again and again.

 

I could still hear Aemma’s breath catch, the way she crumpled as Alicent’s voice rose, sharp and cruel, echoing through the chamber.

 

I sat there, frozen in place as that image replayed again and again in my mind’s eye.

 

But I wasn’t confused.

 

I was furious.

 

It took a moment to understand what I was feeling—this quiet rage that rose like a tide inside me. I rarely felt things so vividly. My world was usually soft, blurred around the edges. But not tonight.

 

Tonight, it burned sharp and clear.

 

I stood from my bed slowly, my nightgown brushing against my ankles. My feet carried me across the room without thought, as though something had awakened in me—something old, deep, and rooted in blood.

 

The gift, or the curse, of our line. Whatever it was, it had never felt like this before.

 

I moved to my window, looked out at the moon hanging low in the sky.

 

"She thinks no one sees," I whispered, voice trembling with restrained fury. "But I see."

 

I placed my hand over my heart, steadying my breath.

 

And then I reached.

 

It wasn’t like falling asleep—it was more like stepping sideways into another world. Into someone else’s skin.

 

I could feel her—Mother—tossing in her bed, somewhere down the long hall of stone and secrets. Her mind was restless. I could taste the bitterness on her tongue.

 

She had no remorse.

 

No guilt.

 

Just cold calculation wrapped in silk and prayer.

 

So I slipped in.

 

Like shadow sliding beneath a door.

 

No.

 

I showed her.

 

Her father’s hand, raised.

 

The sting of his belt across her legs.

 

The locked doors.

 

The whispered prayers.

 

The shame.

 

The weight of expectation that suffocated, crushed, branded.

 

I made her feel it all again.

 

In the dream, she is now living her own abuse.

 

The girl.

 

The child.

 

The broken mirror.

 

The bruised wrist.

 

The helpless silence.

 

Over and over.

 

Until she begged for it to stop.

 

She screamed—in the dream, and I hoped aloud. I couldn’t hear her from here, but I imagined the twist of her body under the sheets.

 

The cry caught in her throat. Her fingers clawing at the bed, at the past, at something she couldn’t change.

 

She had called Aemma weak.

 

She had raised her hand like a god.

 

Now let her tremble like a sinner.

 

When I finally opened my eyes again, the moon was higher, and I was breathless. Cold sweat clung to my skin.

 

My arms trembled with the power of it—the rightness of it. My dream gift had never felt like a weapon before.

 

But tonight, it had been.

 

And I did not regret it.

 

I lay back down, curling beneath the sheets.

 

The shadows in my room no longer frightened me.

 

I whispered one last thing into the dark before sleep took me again.

 

"Don't touch her again, Mother."

 

(Aemma Pov)

 

The silence in my room felt deafening after Mother left.

 

I didn’t move for a few hours. I just sat there on the cold stone floor, cheek pressed against the wood, breath hitching as I blinked back the tears that kept coming. My face ached.

 

My scalp throbbed. But it was the feeling in my chest that hurt the most—like something inside me had finally cracked open and couldn’t be closed again.

 

Eventually, I stood.

 

Slowly.

 

Quietly.

 

As though if I moved too quickly, I might fall apart entirely.

 

I made my way across the room, the firelight flickering low on the hearth. My feet carried me to my vanity. My hands moved before my mind could catch up—reaching for the pair of embroidery scissors tucked inside a carved wooden box. I pulled them out with trembling fingers.

 

The candlelight glinted along the blades.

 

For a moment, I just stared.

 

Then I looked at my reflection.

 

My eyes were red and puffy. My cheek was still flushed from the slap. But it wasn’t the bruise that caught my attention. It was my hair. The long, honey-gold waves fell nearly to my waist, smooth and untouched, the way she had always insisted.

 

Mother loved my hair and that is the only thing she loves about me.

 

“Never cut it,” she once said. “It’s a sign of your virtue. Your worth. No proper lady would ever shear her own beauty away.”

 

Her voice rang in my mind, thick with judgment.

 

Always watching.

 

Always controlling.

 

I curled my fingers tighter around the scissors.

 

And then I whispered, “Good.”

 

I stepped back from the mirror and rang the small silver bell near my bedside.

 

A few moments later, a servant entered—young, probably close to my age, with wide eyes and careful steps.

 

“Your Grace?” she asked gently, seeing my pale face, my trembling hands.

 

“Bring me a chair,” I said quietly, lifting the scissors. “And... cut it. To my shoulders.”

 

The girl hesitated. “Princess... are you sure?”

 

I looked up at her with steady eyes. “Yes.”

 

Without another word, she retrieved a stool and guided me to sit. I let my hair fall over my shoulders and down my back. She lifted the first section with reverence, perhaps expecting me to stop her.

 

I didn’t.

 

The scissors made a shhk sound, sharp and final.

 

Strand after strand fell to the floor. Locks of golden silk, snipped away like pieces of another life. My breath came slower. My heart calmed.

 

I wasn’t trembling anymore.

 

When she was done, she stepped back. My hair now rested at my shoulders, lighter, freer. I reached up, ran my fingers through the ends.

 

For the first time in my life, I felt like I had claimed something for myself.

 

“It suits you, my lady,” the servant offered gently.

 

I gave her the faintest smile. “Thank you. That will be all.”

 

When she left, I sat alone again, brushing my fingers through my shorter hair. My scalp still ached from where Mother had pulled it. But now, there was a barrier between her and me—something she could never take back.

 

She wanted to control me.

 

She wanted to define me.

 

But now... she wouldn’t recognize me in the mirror.

 

And I liked that.

Chapter Text

(The Conqueror's pov)

Visenya the Conqueror was pacing.

Sword in hand.

And yes, she could still pace angrily with the full fury of a thousand years of disappointment.

“I want to kill him,” she growled, teeth clenched.

 

“I want to cut off that smug little cock and shove it down his throat!”

From the misty corner of the fog-bound afterlife, Aegon the Conqueror raised a ghostly brow, reclining on a spectral throne made of dragonbones and bad decisions.

“You say that about everyone, sister.”

Visenya whirled. Her ghostly braid whipped behind her like a vengeful tail.

“He impregnated her. My namesake. My legacy. She’s a child of fire, a sword in the forge—and this worm thinks he can mount her like a common mare and plant his seed. Without consequences?!”

“That’s how pregnancies work,” Aegon said dryly, sipping from a goblet of cursed wine that refilled itself whenever the plot thickened.

“You’re not helping,” she snapped. “You never help. You just sit there, drinking, brooding, and looking smug.”

"And yet I conquered Westeros.”

“With my help, you idiot.”

“With Rhaenys’s charm.”

“With my patience!”

“Which clearly ran out four hundred years ago.”

Across the misty plane, Rhaenys was lounging peacefully on a floating cloud made entirely of old lullabies and scandalous rumors. She was feeding ghostly breadcrumbs to a spectral cat.

“I think it’s romantic,” she said sweetly.

“Rhaenys,” Visenya snapped, “you would think a dagger to the kidney was romantic if it was dipped in roses.”

“Only if it came with a poem.”

Rhaenys drifted closer, her expression dreamy and mischievous.

" I mean we know about their affairs. Why are you mad now?"

 

Visenya hissed like a Valyrian tea kettle. “She is a child and now she’s with child!”

 

Rhaenys beamed. “A cycle of life!”

 

“A cycle of mistakes,” Visenya snarled.

 

Aegon grunted. “He’s a Targaryen. This was always going to happen. Honestly, I’m just shocked it wasn’t sooner. That man tries to seduce everyone who breathes and half the statues that don’t.”

 

“He stole her,” Visenya raged. “Snatched her from her birthright, made a mockery of her name—my name! He’s a slippery, silver-haired goat!”

 

“To be fair,” Rhaenys said, “he is handsome.”

 

Visenya whirled on her. “So is a venomous snake. Doesn’t mean I want one marrying my great-great-grandniece!”

 

“They love each other,” Rhaenys said gently.

 

“Daemon is horny and traumatized.”

 

“Same thing in our family.”

 

Aegon rubbed his temples with both hands. “Can we focus on the pregnancy?”

 

Visenya snorted. “Focus? She’s doomed. Her body isn’t ready, her heart is naive, and he’s going to ruin everything like he always does. I say we haunt him. Knock over his wine. Whisper in his ear while he’s trying to sleep.”

 

Rhaenys grinned. “Can we move his sword when he isn’t looking? Maybe leave his trousers hanging from the ceiling?”

 

“No,” Aegon sighed.

 

“Yes,” said Visenya.

 

“Absolutely,” said Rhaenys.

 

The three of them fell into silence, watching the mortal plane flicker like candlelight far below. A vague image shimmered in the mists: Visenya, young and happy, hand on her belly. Daemon, at her side, eyes uncharacteristically soft.

 

Visenya scowled. Aegon frowned. Rhaenys sighed like a woman who knew too many sad songs.

 

“They look happy,” Aegon said finally.

 

“For now,” Visenya growled.

 

“You know,” Rhaenys said with a wink, “I bet the baby will look like her.”

 

“Or like him,” Aegon said.

 

Visenya’s ghost let out a scream of such undead fury that it knocked over three ethereal chairs and sent a cloud of ghostly ravens fleeing across the sky.

 

“If that child has Daemon’s smirk, I swear by the gods old and new, I will possess a knight and slap Daemon!”

 

(Aemma’s POV)

 

The wind off the Blackwater Bay bit at my cheeks, the air thick with salt and farewells. My cloak tugged against my shoulders like it, too, didn’t want me to leave.

 

The ship behind us bobbed gently in the harbor, its sails still furled. House Velaryon’s banners rippled high above, silver seahorse on sea-green silk, snapping in the breeze like impatient hands waving us on.

 

Rhaenyra was already aboard, giving space for goodbyes, though I could feel her eyes on me even from the deck. I think she understood this mattered—this parting.

 

It wasn’t just distance; it was a line drawn in the sand, and once I stepped past it, nothing would be quite the same again.

 

My siblings were gathered at the edge of the dock, lined up in a fractured, wobbly row. Helaena clutched a handkerchief embroidered with bees, already blotting at her eyes.

 

Daeron stood stiffly, hands clenched at his sides. Visenya stared out at the water, unreadable as ever.

 

“I suppose this is it,” I said, forcing a smile. It trembled at the corners.

 

Helaena rushed forward first, wrapping her arms around me so tightly I almost staggered. “The sea speaks in riddles,” she whispered into my ear, voice trembling. “But it’s kinder than stone.”

 

I had no idea what that meant. Not even a clue. But I smiled anyway and held her tighter. “I’ll write to you. Every week.”

 

She nodded and pulled back, her pale lashes damp with tears. “And I’ll answer. In poems.”

 

I wasn’t sure if that was a promise or a threat.

 

Daeron hugged me next. No tears from him, but his eyes were red-rimmed. “You’ll be happier there,” he mumbled. “I know it.”

 

“I hope so,” I whispered. I kissed the top of his head like I used to when he was little, and he didn’t flinch away.

 

Then came Visenya.

 

She looked straight ahead, jaw tight, arms still folded over her chest like she’d rather die than admit she might feel something.

 

“I’m not going to cry,” she muttered.

 

“I know,” I said, pulling her into a hug anyway. She went stiff in my arms, but after a second, she hugged me back. Not tightly, not long—but enough.

 

As I held her, I looked past her shoulder and locked eyes with Daemon.

 

He stood just a few feet away, watching us with that unreadable smirk of his, arms crossed, sword hanging casually from his hip.

 

His hair gleamed silver in the sunlight, his expression casual. But I saw the twitch in his jaw, the way his gaze flicked from me to Visenya and back again.

 

I tightened my grip on her one last second, then pulled away and turned slightly, still holding her hand, and glared at him.

 

I didn’t need to say a word. The look said it all:

 

If you hurt her, I will gut you like a fish and hang your entrails from the gate.

 

Daemon blinked. His smirk twitched a little wider. He gave me the smallest of nods—acknowledging the threat. Maybe even respecting it.

 

When I stepped away, he approached. “You’ll be missed, Aemma,” he said, and to my surprise, his voice was softer than usual. “Driftmark’s gain is our loss.”

 

I raised a brow. “You, getting sentimental?”

 

He laughed. “Gods, no. I just know Rhaenyra’s going to spoil you worse than she spoils Joffrey.”

 

I rolled my eyes, but I hugged him anyway. Daemon smelled like leather, steel, and wind. His hug was brief, but it wasn’t hollow. There was something in it—some quiet acceptance.

 

And then my grandfather stepped forward.

 

Otto Hightower.

 

The King’s Hand.

 

Stoic.

 

Cold. But not today.

 

He placed a hand on my shoulder, warm and solid, and looked me straight in the eye. “I am proud of you,” he said.

 

My throat closed. “Thank you,” I whispered.

 

I waited… waited for her to come forward.

 

My mother.

 

Alicent stood apart from the others, her green cloak wrapped tight around her like armor. She looked beautiful, as she always did—composed, graceful, commanding, but she looks tired.

 

But her eyes were locked on my face. Or rather, on my hair.

 

I saw it in her stare—that silent fury, that disappointment she didn’t dare voice in front of others. My newly-cropped hair curled just at my shoulders, soft and loose in the breeze.

 

She’d always made me keep it long, said it was part of a lady’s beauty, a woman’s dignity. I did love my hair long, but I need to show her that I will be fighting back.

 

She didn’t say a word.

 

Didn’t hug me.

 

Didn’t smile.

 

Didn’t even say goodbye.

 

But her knuckles were white around her prayer book.

 

I forced myself to smile at her anyway. If she would not give me warmth, I would not beg for it.

 

Instead, I turned toward the gangplank. Rhaenyra met me at the top, her eyes unreadable, but her hand reached for mine.

 

I took it.

 

We stood at the edge of the deck together as the crew raised the plank and the ship slowly began to drift from the dock.

 

Below, my siblings waved. Helaena was crying again. Daeron raised a hand. Visenya had gone back to looking emotionless, but I saw her raise two fingers to her temple in a subtle goodbye salute.

 

Even Daemon gave me a lazy wave.

 

Alicent remained still, a statue in green.

 

And yet… as the distance grew, I thought—maybe—I saw her lips move. Just once.

 

My name.

 

Or maybe that was just the sea playing tricks on me.

 

I lifted my hand and waved until the Red Keep began to fade into the horizon. Until the banners were specks. Until all I could see was water and sky.

 

And then I let the wind whip through my short hair, and I breathed.

 

For the first time in a long time, it felt like mine.

 

( Visenya's POV)

 

( A few days later)

 

I had not known what Daemon would say that morning, only that something weighed heavy on his tongue.

 

He was quieter than usual at breakfast, poking at his eggs while Helaena and Aemma talked about wedding gowns, dragonbone combs, and other girlish things that felt galaxies away from the thundercloud forming above my head. Daemon's fingers brushed mine beneath the table once—warm, steady, reassuring.

 

I clung to that touch.

 

After the meal, he asked Father—King Viserys—for a private audience. His voice was smooth, careful, but I saw the flicker of worry in his eyes when my father agreed too easily.

 

We followed him into his solar, sunlight bleeding across tapestries and shelves stacked with more histories than he'd ever read. The doors shut with a finality that made my stomach lurch.

 

Father turned to face us, folding his arms.

 

“Well?” His voice was sharp, already suspicious.

 

Daemon cleared his throat. “Brother… Viserys. I ask something of you. Not lightly.”

 

I felt my throat dry.

 

Viserys raised a brow, expectant.

 

“I wish to marry Visenya,” Daemon said.

 

Simply.

 

Plainly.

 

As if he were asking to borrow a cup of wine.

 

Time froze.

 

My father's face turned the color of ash and flame all at once. “You what?”

 

“I wish to marry her,” Daemon repeated, calm as the gods. “Properly. With your blessing.”

 

“You’re mad,” Viserys barked. “Mad and depraved. She’s a child. She’s my daughter. My blood!”

 

I stood still, heart hammering, waiting to see if Daemon would flinch.

 

He didn’t.

“You said,” Daemon replied, voice low, “that when I gave up the crown, I could have anything I wanted.”

 

“Yes,” Viserys snapped, “a castle! A dragon egg! Not—” his hand flew toward me in disgust “—not my daughter, you twisted fuck!”

 

Daemon stepped forward, not defiant, but sure. “I want Visenya.”

 

That was when the storm broke.

 

“You’ll be exiled,” Viserys shouted. “Exiled again and never allowed to return! I will see your name struck from—”

 

“I’m pregnant,” I said quietly.

 

The silence that followed was so loud it roared.

 

Father turned to me, blinking. “You’re… what?”

 

“Pregnant,” I repeated, squaring my shoulders even though my hands trembled. “Daemon’s child. His child...”

 

For a second, I believed the King might faint.

 

Instead, he grabbed the nearest book—an old tome on Valyrian metallurgy—and flung it at Daemon’s head. Daemon dodged, swearing as another book came flying, this one heavier and bound in red leather.

 

“You disgusting bastard!” Father screamed. “How dare you—with my daughter! You couldn’t keep your cock in your breeches for one godsdamned moon? Or inside someone else!”

 

Daemon stood there, arms crossed, letting the storm come.

 

I flinched as another volume flew past me and smacked against the stone wall.

 

“Seven hells,” Father muttered after, out of breath, chest heaving. “Seven fucking hells.”

 

There was a long pause. Daemon finally spoke again, voice quieter now, but firm. “It’s done. We will marry with or without your blessing."

 

“I should have you gelded,” Viserys muttered, eyes glassy with fury and helplessness.

 

I stepped forward. “Father,” I said. “Please. If we marry quickly, it can be spun. No one outside the family knows yet.”

 

He looked at me—really looked at me—for the first time since I’d spoken. The anger cracked, just for a moment, and I saw grief buried beneath it.

 

“You’re my daughter, Visenya,” he said softly. “You were supposed to have a childhood. A courtship. Not… this. ”

 

“I chose this,” I said gently.

 

He shut his eyes, ran a hand over his face. “Then we have no choice.”

 

My heart fluttered.

 

“I’ll announce it,” he muttered. “We’ll host the wedding in four weeks. That gives time for preparations if we rush. The sooner it’s done, the better.”

 

Daemon nodded. “Thank you, brother.”

 

Viserys gave him a withering glare. “Don’t thank me. If you ever so much as make her cry, I’ll throw you from the top of Maegor’s Holdfast.”

 

I couldn’t help the smile that spread across my lips.

 

Daemon reached for my hand.

 

I laced my fingers with his.

 

Four weeks. We would marry in four weeks.

 

Despite everything, my heart soared.

 

I was going to be Daemon’s wife.

 

And our child—our child would be born of Targaryen fire and blood.

 

The night after Father agreed to the wedding

 

The words stuck in my throat the entire day.

 

I hadn’t been able to say them aloud—not to anyone but Father and Daemon. Not even to myself. Every time I tried, they twisted inside me, like fire caught in my chest.

 

But it had to be done. Secrets always found a way to rot from the inside.

 

So I waited until after supper, when the rest of the Keep had quieted and the servants had gone. The moonlight bled through the red-painted windows of Maegor’s Holdfast, silvering the rugs and the embroidered walls as if the gods were watching.

 

Helaena had curled herself into one of the cushioned chairs, a half-finished tapestry draped across her knees. Daeron sat sprawled on the floor, back against the hearth, holding a cup of watered wine.

 

I stood in the center of the room, heart pounding, watching their faces.

 

“I have something to tell you both.”

 

Helaena didn’t look up at first. “If this is about Father marrying you off to Lord Staunton again, you can tell him he should be ashamed. He’s dull, and his eyes are too close together.”

 

“It’s not Staunton,” I said.

 

Daeron raised a brow. “Then who is it?”

 

I swallowed. “It’s Daemon.”

 

They both looked up then.

 

Helaena blinked. “What?”

 

“I’m going to marry Daemon,” I said, voice low but steady. “Daemon asked father for my hand in marriage. The wedding will take place in three weeks.”

 

The silence was immediate.

 

Daeron’s expression didn’t change at first—he just stared, cup frozen in midair—then set it down with too much force. “You’re joking.”

 

“I’m not.”

 

“You’re serious?” he snapped, rising to his feet. “Daemon? Uncle Daemon? The man who got banished from court twice, and insulted Father every time he came back? The man whose wife died a few moons ago? Did you agree to this marriage.”

 

“Yes,” I said, keeping my voice calm.

 

Helaena looked up from her lap, confusion knitting her brow or what looks like confusion.

 

The words tumbled out faster than I meant, as though they’d leapt from my throat to beat the shame to the punch.

 

Another silence.

 

This time longer.

Helaena looked as though the tapestry might unravel between her fingers. Daeron froze again, then laughed—too sharply. “You’re mad for agreeing to this marriage! Absolutely mad! Has the sun cooked your brains?”

 

“I’m not mad,” I snapped.

 

“l" Daeron hissed. “You’re marrying the man who cheats on his wives!"

 

Helaena stood.

 

“Stop,” she said softly.

 

I turned to her, tears burning behind my eyes.

 

But she wasn’t angry.

 

She looked at me the way she used to when I scraped my knee as a child.

 

Gently.

 

Sadly.

 

“You’ve always been strong,” she whispered. “Too strong for your own good. I only wish you didn’t have to be.”

 

I moved toward her. She wrapped her arms around me without hesitation, pressing her cheek to mine.

 

“You’re going to be a mother,” she whispered so Daeron wouldn't hear. “That child will have dragon blood, and fire in its lungs, and a mother who fought the world for it.”

 

I let the tears come then. Just for a moment.

 

Daeron was still standing off to the side, watching us like he didn’t quite recognize either of us anymore.

 

“I didn’t mean for it to happen this way,” I told him through the tears.

 

Daeron sighed and rubbed a hand through his pale hair.

 

“Father shouldn't force you to marry Daemon, but what's done is done.”

 

I looked at him, searching for any hint of forgiveness.

 

He didn’t offer it aloud.

 

But after a moment, he stepped forward, placed a hand on my shoulder, and muttered, “Daemon better be good to you. Or I’ll kill him myself.”

 

I gave him a watery smile. “I’ll let him know.”

 

We stood there a long time after that—together, the three of us.

 

Not whole.

 

Not the same.

 

But still… family.

 

I heard the shouting before I even stepped into the corridor.

 

My heart sank.

 

Mother.

 

I quickened my pace, skirts whispering around my legs as I followed the echo of her voice. Servants pressed against the walls, eyes wide, heads bowed. No one dared intervene—not when Queen Alicent was enraged.

 

I reached the solar door just as it flew open with a slam that made me jump. My mother’s voice—sharp as a blade and trembling with fury—pierced the air.

 

“You disgusting vulture! She is your niece! You have always been vile, but this—this is unforgivable!”

 

I stopped just short of the entrance. I could see them through the open doors. Daemon stood at the hearth, wine in hand, his expression as maddeningly calm as ever.

 

My mother, flushed with rage, pointed at him like she wished her finger alone could strike him down. And Father… he sat between them, rubbing his temples, clearly already exhausted.

 

Daemon tilted his head, unbothered. “I’d think you'd be used to our family's bloodlines twisting around each other by now. You married my brother when you were in love with Rhaenyra?”

 

“Don’t speak of those false rumors,” Mother spat. “You think bedding a girl barely of age and planting a bastard in her womb makes you clever? You’ve ruined her!”

 

“Ruined?” Daemon echoed, and his voice dropped dangerously. “I am going to marry her. She’s my wife-to-be. Or would you prefer she had been tucked away somewhere to grow fat and silent like some pious little maiden while you find someone who will treat her like shit?"

 

I gasped softly.

 

That struck too close to truth.

 

“You arrogant piece of—”

 

“Enough!” Father’s voice thundered, his chair scraping as he stood. “This is not the court of smallfolk gossiping in the streets! You are both rulers of this realm—act like it!”

 

The silence that followed was so heavy, I could feel it pressing against my chest.

 

Mother’s eyes shone with unshed tears, but she said nothing more. She turned and swept from the room like a storm, brushing past me without a glance. The doors closed behind her, and the room grew still.

 

Daemon didn’t look at me, but I felt his eyes shift toward me as he drank from his goblet. Viserys sat back down, sighing like all the air had gone out of him.

 

“You should speak to her,” hemuttered, eyes now on me. “Make her understand this was your choice.”

 

I wanted to say I’d tried. That I had gone to her. That I’d found her praying and whispered the truth—and watched her crumble, watched her eyes go cold.

 

But instead, I simply nodded and turned away.

 

---

 

Later That Night

 

The godswood was quiet. The weirwood’s pale bark glowed silver under the moonlight, and I sat curled on a bench beneath it, hands resting on the small rise of my stomach. I wasn’t yet showing, not truly, but I could feel him there.

 

A presence.

 

A weight.

 

A warmth.

 

“You’re not alone, you know,” came a soft voice.

 

I turned and saw Helaena approaching, her long hair loose, her eyes dreamy and unfocused as always.

 

“You should be inside,” I murmured. “It’s late.”

 

“So should you,” she said gently. She sat beside me without asking and folded her hands in her lap.

 

For a time, we sat in silence. She stared at the stars, and I stared at the white leaves above us.

 

“She’s only afraid,” Helaena said at last. “Mother, I mean. She loves fiercely, even when she pretends not to.”

 

“She screamed at him like she wanted him dead.”

 

“She probably did,” Helaena said with a little smile. “But you’re not her. And this child will bring change. I saw it.”

 

I looked at her, startled. “What do you mean?”

 

Helaena blinked slowly. “He will have Daemon’s fire,” she murmured. “But your eyes. Both of yours strength. He’ll ride a dragon with wings like shadows and teeth like stars.”

 

I frowned. “He?”

 

She turned toward me, lips parted—but then she blinked again, realization dawning in her face. “Oh.”

 

I stared at her, breath caught in my throat. " Did you mean to say he?”

 

My heart was racing. I looked down at my belly again, and for the first time, I truly saw him there.

 

A son.

 

A little boy with Daemon’s fire.

 

I bit my lip, a giddy sort of joy bubbling beneath my ribs. I hadn’t thought of what the babe would be—not truly. I’d been so lost in the fear, the scandal, the weight of it all.

 

A boy.

 

I smiled.

 

A quiet, secret smile.

 

Daemon would be overjoyed. But I wouldn’t tell him. Not yet. Not when everything was still raw and fragile. This would be mine for now. Just me and the babe.

 

Helaena reached out and took my hand in hers. “You’ll be a good mother,” she said simply. “Better than most.”

 

“Even better than her?” I asked softly, though I wasn’t sure if I meant Mother or Rhaenyra.

 

Helaena didn’t answer.

 

She just squeezed my hand.

 

And beneath the stars and the weirwood’s leaves, I felt—for the first time in weeks—at peace.

Chapter Text

(Visenya’s POV)

The firelight made the shadows in my chamber stretch long and sharp, dancing against the walls like restless ghosts. I sat curled in the chair nearest the hearth, my knees tucked to my chest, watching the flames devour the last of the logs.

The door creaked open, soft and deliberate. I didn’t need to turn my head to know it was my mother.

“Visenya,” she said quietly, stepping inside. Her voice was gentle, but there was steel beneath it.

She came to stand before me, hands folded, her green gown whispering against the floor. “Why?” she asked, her gaze searching my face. “Why did you agree to this marriage? We could have found someone who would marry you.”

Yeah, and he would want me only because I am a Targaryen.

I let the silence stretch between us, staring into the fire until my vision blurred. My throat tightened, with fake guilt, but from the weight of the answer I was about to give.

 

“I… I didn’t want to disappoint grandfather,” I said at last, my voice breaking on the first word. The lie came easily, though it was wrapped around a thread of truth. “He hasn’t said anything, but I know how tense things are. If—if Aemma's betrothal to Jacaerys ever ended, if things shifted… we’d need allies. We’d have to be ready.”

I lowered my gaze, letting my lashes shield my eyes. “I just wanted to help.”

The tears came then—some real, some carefully coaxed. I let my shoulders tremble, let my breath catch, the way I’d learned to as a girl when I needed comfort.

 

“I thought if I married Daemon, we’d be stronger,” I whispered. “I thought it would keep us from being pushed aside. I thought you’d be proud.”

Mother’s expression softened, and before I could blink, she knelt before me, her warm hands cupping my face. “Oh, sweet girl…” she murmured.

I leaned into her touch, swallowing the ache in my throat.

“You were only trying to help,” she said, her thumbs brushing away my tears. “I know you. You’ve always tried to carry more than you should.”

“I didn’t want to trouble you,” I murmured, my voice small. “I thought this was something I could do on my own.”

Her arms wrapped around me, pulling me close until my cheek rested against her shoulder. “You should have come to me first,” she said softly. “But I understand. You’re right—things may change. Nothing is certain, not even Rhaenyra’s plans.”

 

I nodded into her embrace, breathing in the familiar scent of her perfume, warm and soothing. “I don’t feel brave,” I admitted. “I feel… alone.”

“You’re not,” she promised, her voice firm now. “You will never be alone, not while I draw breath. You are mine, and I will love you no matter what you choose.”

 

I closed my eyes, letting her words wrap around me like armor. In that moment, there were no dragons, no politics, no wedding looming over my head—just my mother’s heartbeat against my ear and the certainty that, no matter what happened, she would be on my side.

 

(Aemma's POV)

Driftmark was nothing like King's Landing.

There was salt in the air here, not ash and smoke. The wind tangled my short curls and pulled at my cloak like a playful child. The sun was brighter, and the sea seemed endless.

For the first time in what felt like forever, I smiled without thinking. My chest didn't feel so tight all the time. I could breathe.

Rhaenyra treated me... differently. She never snapped or sneered the way Mother sometimes did. She didn't make me feel like I was broken for speaking my mind or wanting to ride Sunfrye.

 

She listened.

 

When I laughed, she laughed too. And when I was quiet, she gave me space instead of accusing me of sulking.

 

She even braided my hair once - short as it was now - clumsily, but with a patience I never expected from a future queen. She told me I reminded her of myself. I didn't know what to say to that, but it stayed with me.

 

Jacaerys had been kind since we arrived, always near. He walked with me by the cliffs and asked questions like he genuinely wanted to know the answers.

 

Sometimes he looked at me like I was something special - and I didn't feel awkward beneath his gaze.

 

I felt seen.

That morning, I had woken up early, too excited to sit still. Sunfrye had been restless too, pacing the shore like he could feel my energy buzzing. I hurried down to the beach where he waited and pressed my forehead to his golden snout.

 

"Let's fly," I whispered.

I climbed up without waking anyone - or so I thought.

"Leaving without me?"

I turned, startled, and found Jacaerys standing barefoot in the sand, tunic half-laced, hair tousled by sleep. He looked far too handsome for someone who had just rolled out of bed.

"You're slow," I teased, smirking. "I need the sky."

He laughed and whistled. His dragon, Vermax, responded from the cliffs, already alert. "Then let's race."

We took off together, the wind screaming past us. I leaned into Sunfrye's neck, his warmth seeping into me as we climbed higher and higher.

The sea spread out below us like molten sapphire. I felt free - like I belonged to the sky and not the Red Keep's golden cage.

"Try to keep up!" I shouted.

"Is that a challenge?" Jacaerys called back.

 

I grinned wildly and shouted the command in High Valyrian. "naejot pryjagon!"
Sunfrye responded instantly, tucking his wings and diving toward the sea.

I heard Jacaerys shout my name behind me, but the rush of wind drowned everything out. The water rushed closer, closer - and then we plunged beneath the surface.

 

The cold was biting.

 

My breath caught.

 

Salt stung my eyes.

But I laughed.

Sunfrye rose just as quickly, water cascading off his scales as he surged back up. The sun caught the droplets, scattering rainbows around us. Vermax was circling above, and Jacaerys gaped at me, slack-jawed.

"That was madness!" he called.

"That was freedom!" I yelled back, beaming.

We flew side by side for a while after that, hearts still racing. Eventually, we landed on one of the smaller isles where the cliffs broke into a shallow, rocky beach. There were no guards. No watchful eyes. Just us and the ocean.

Jacaerys helped me down. Our fingers touched - and lingered.

"You're... incredible," he said softly.

I looked up at him, blinking water from my lashes. "You're just now realizing that?"

He laughed, that bright, warm sound that made my chest flutter. "I knew it from the moment I saw you in the throne room - hair shorn, eyes blazing. I just didn't know how much I'd end up-"

He stopped himself.

I tilted my head. "How much you'd end up what?"

He flushed. "Liking you."

The words weren't grand.

 

They weren't poetic.

 

But they made something bloom in my chest.

 

Something soft and real.

I stepped closer, and this time, I was the one who kissed him.

It was sweet at first - uncertain, sun-warmed - but then his arms wrapped around me, and my fingers curled into his damp curls, and the world melted away. There was only him, and the soft sigh of waves, and the steady thud of my heart trying to memorize the moment.

 

When we finally pulled apart, breathless, he rested his forehead against mine.

"You terrify me, you know that?" he whispered.

 

"Good," I smiled. "You need someone who keeps you on your toes."

He laughed again, and I felt it - this sense of rightness.

 

This life, this place.

 

It could be mine.

 

I wasn't the wild daughter of Alicent here.

 

I was Aemma.

 

Dragonrider.

 

Free.

 

And maybe, just maybe... loved.

 

The sun dipped low over the horizon, casting golden light across the sea as Aemma and Jacaerys landed their dragons on Driftmark’s cliffs. Wind still tousled their hair, cheeks flushed with exhilaration.

 

They were both grinning—laughing even—as they dismounted, breathless from racing one another above the waves. The air smelled like salt and home.

 

“We’re late,” Jacaerys muttered as they walked toward High Tide’s main hall.

 

Aemma’s eyes widened. “Oh gods, we are.”

 

He laughed softly. “You think my mother will scold you?”

 

“She’s not the one I’m worried about.” Aemma rolled her eyes. “Lady Rhaenys gives the kind of looks that could freeze a dragon.”

 

“Then you’ll need armor.” He leaned close, voice dropping. “Or perhaps… something blue.”

 

Aemma blinked, confused, but Jacaerys only winked and nudged her toward her chambers.

---

Her room was dim with the soft amber glow of sunset filtering through the tall windows. She moved to pull off her riding gloves when she saw it—laid carefully across her bed like a secret waiting to be unwrapped.

 

A gown.

 

Silken, flowing, elegant. The color of deep ocean waters just before dawn: Velaryon blue. Silver embroidery shimmered across the bodice in the pattern of waves. It was beautiful. Luxurious. And unlike anything she owned.

 

Nestled on top of the fabric was a folded note. Her name was written in strong, familiar script.

 

“You looked radiant in green, but you’d glow in my house colors. –J.”

 

Aemma stared.

 

A courting gift.

 

Her heart skipped, breath catching in her throat. Jacaerys… she had thought the flirtations were lighthearted, playful. But this? This was bold. Public. It meant something.

 

Blushing furiously, she pressed the note to her lips before setting it gently aside. Her fingers trembled as she slipped into the gown.

 

The fabric hugged her like a whisper, making her feel older, surer—like she belonged.

 

When she looked at her reflection, she didn’t see the anxious girl trying to please her mother.

 

She saw someone blooming.

---

The great dining hall of High Tide was alive with voices and the scent of roast meats, garlic, and fresh bread. Rhaenyra sat at the head, silver-gold hair shining beneath the candlelight, deep in quiet conversation with her cousin Laenor and her youngest sons, Lucerys and Joffrey.

 

Baela and Rhaena were already seated, passing a plate of olives between them. Corlys and Rhaenys sat together near the end of the table—Rhaenys with her ever-watchful gaze, and Corlys with a goblet in hand, relaxed but observant.

 

Aemma hesitated in the doorway before stepping inside with Jacaerys at her side.

 

As they entered, Jacaerys pulled out her chair, and everyone’s eyes turned to her. The hall stilled slightly—not with judgment, but with surprise. The gown shimmered under the flickering torches, unmistakably Velaryon.

 

Rhaenyra was the first to smile. “I see the two of you had a rather… enjoyable flight.”

 

Aemma flushed and gave a hurried curtsy. “Forgive us, Princess. We didn’t mean to be late.”

 

Rhaenyra waved her off gently. “Please. You’ve nothing to apologize for. I’m simply glad to see the two of you enjoying each other’s company.”

 

Laenor lifted his goblet and gave a nod of approval, clearly amused.

 

Baela smirked as she elbowed Rhaena, who stifled a giggle. Lucerys wrinkled his nose playfully at his brother, and Joffrey whispered something behind his hand. Rhaenys only quirked an eyebrow, lips pursed like she was calculating a thousand outcomes at once.

 

But Corlys?

 

Corlys looked Aemma up and down—took in the dress, the color, the fit—and offered a subtle, satisfied nod.

That meant more to her than she could say.

As the meal resumed, Aemma tried to focus on the food—on the spiced duck and lemon cakes—but her thoughts kept drifting. Every now and then, Jacaerys leaned over to whisper something that made her laugh.

His hand brushed hers when he passed her the wine. And when their knees touched beneath the table, he didn’t move away.

Neither did she.

No one mentioned the dress aloud, but the message had been received: Jacaerys Velaryon was courting her.

And the moment she looked across the table and caught Rhaenyra smiling—truly smiling, with warmth in her eyes—Aemma felt something shift.

 

For the first time in her life…
She wasn’t trying to belong.

 

She already did.

The laughter floated like candlelight through the hall, golden and warm. It shimmered over the clink of goblets and the scrape of silver across plates. I hadn't expected to feel so... full.

Not just from food, though there had been plenty of that-roasted duck glazed with honeyed wine, soft bread still warm from the oven, and spiced pears that melted on the tongue.

But it was the warmth of the people that surprised me.

Lucerys and Joffrey were bickering about dragons. Baela was rolling her eyes but smiling, nudging Rhaena whenever she agreed with one of them.

Lord Corlys and Laenor were deep in some quiet conversation, speaking in low, rhythmic tones like waves pulling back from the shore. Princess Rhaenyra sat like a queen already crowned-watchful, proud, and at ease.

And beside me, Jacaerys.

His presence was steady. That was the word I kept thinking: steady. He didn't crowd me or press, but he stayed close enough to refill my wine, to pass the honeyed root vegetables I hadn't noticed, to ask, in his quiet voice, if I liked them.

I did. I liked everything.

Even Rhaenys, who had been watching me all evening with that sharp, unreadable gaze, now seemed... settled. Not smiling exactly, but no longer searching me for cracks. I hadn't won her, not truly, but I wasn't losing either. And that felt like a triumph in itself.

Then the harp began.

The notes were soft and aching-like starlight in sound. A few heads turned. The song was old and romantic, one I'd heard in passing in King's Landing but never really listened to. I knew it now, though. It was about a lover returning across the sea. About dancing barefoot beneath the moonlight. About a promise whispered instead of spoken.

I turned to say something-to make a joke or shift the tension.

But Jacaerys was already looking at me.

"Would you like to dance?" he asked.

My breath caught.

Not because I didn't want to-but because I did, so very much. I had never danced with anyone before. Not like this. Not while wearing a gown gifted to me by a prince, not with firelight gleaming off silver goblets and everyone watching. Not while feeling like I might float up and never come down again.

I swallowed. "Yes."

He rose with the kind of grace that made everything else disappear. And then he held out his hand.

I placed mine in his.

It was warm, callused, confident.

When I stood, the room didn't go quiet exactly, but something shifted. It noticed. I noticed. Joffrey was smiling so wide it made me bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.

Baela bumped Lucerys, who turned and gawked. Rhaenyra's eyes shone like a proud mother hen, and even Rhaenys arched a brow that said, Careful, girl. They're all watching now.

But I didn't care.

He led me to the open space near the fire, where the stone had been cleared. The harpist's tune wrapped around us like silk.

Jacaerys bowed.

I curtsied, praying I didn't trip.

Then he took my hand again and rested the other lightly-so, so lightly-against the small of my back.

I couldn't breathe.

Not in a bad way. Not like panic. It was the opposite. I couldn't breathe because everything inside me had gone still.

"Velaryon blue suits you," he murmured.

I blinked up at him, nerves curling in my stomach. "I suppose I'll keep it, then."

"You should," he said. "You should wear it always."

He said it like he meant it.

Like he wanted me to wear his colors forever.

The thought made me blush.

I let him lead. I'd been drilled enough by Rhaenys to know the steps, though my heart thudded in my chest so loudly I feared he might hear it. He danced like he flew-smooth, sure, never faltering.

"You didn't have to give me a gift," I said quietly.

"I know," he replied, tilting his head toward mine. "I wanted to."

"Why?"

His eyes didn't waver. "Because you looked so alone in green."

The words cracked something open in me. I felt it-a sting behind my eyes, a hollow ache in my throat.

I looked down, afraid he might see too much.

"I don't want you to feel alone anymore," he said, gentler this time. "Not here. Not anywhere."

Gods.

How was I supposed to speak after that?

"I don't," I whispered. "Not when I'm with you."

And it was true. I didn't. When he looked at me like that, I felt like I belonged here. Like I was someone worth noticing.

The music slowed, and our steps did too.

He didn't kiss me. But he could have. I would have let him. The space between us pulsed with something electric-something delicate and reverent. Like if we moved too fast, we might break it.

I didn't want it to end.

I wanted to dance until the stars gave out.

But the song drifted into stillness, and we stood there, unmoving, his forehead nearly touching mine.

Then-

"Ahem," Baela said loudly.

Lucerys coughed, not subtly.

Joffrey clapped with far too much enthusiasm, and I heard Laenor mutter something approving.

Still, I didn't let go.

And neither did he.

In that moment, nothing else mattered.

Just his hand in mine.

And the way he looked at me like I was already his.

Dinner was warm, full of laughter and wine. Lucerys had just cracked a joke about seaweed in Joffrey’s hair during their last swim, and

Baela nearly choked from laughing. Even Rhaenyra, who had seemed weighed down since our return, smiled at the silliness. I caught her watching her sons with a look that was soft, almost wistful. For the first time in days, everything felt... light.

Then the raven came.

The doors opened with a quiet groan, and a page approached Rhaenyra with a letter sealed in black wax. The sigil of House Targaryen glinted in the candlelight.

She took it, lips parting just slightly.

I watched her hands as she broke the seal.

I knew it instantly—something was wrong.

Her eyes scanned the page quickly, but her expression froze mid-sentence. The smile fell away, and I saw her fingers curl tighter around the parchment.

“What is it?” Laenor asked, sitting up straighter.

Rhaenyra didn’t answer him. Not right away. She just looked at the letter a moment longer. Then she said in a quiet, strained voice:

“It is with great joy that we announce the upcoming marriage of Prince Daemon Targaryen and Princess Visenya Targaryen...”

I felt the world tilt.

My ears rang. I must have misheard her.

Daemon… and Visenya?

I blinked, stunned into silence. My mind reeled. I couldn’t breathe.

He was marrying my sister?

The air around the table shifted like a cold wind had passed through. Conversation stopped. Silver spoons hovered halfway to mouths, forgotten. The fire crackled in the hearth, the only sound breaking the stunned quiet.

I stared at the tablecloth, willing myself not to react. I could feel everyone glancing at me. My throat was dry, but I swallowed hard, forcing myself to speak. “Are you sure that’s what it says?” My voice cracked.

Rhaenyra handed the letter to Laenor, her face carefully blank. Too blank.

He read it quickly, lips pressed into a line. “It’s true,” he said. “They’re to be wed at the end of the moon.”

Rhaenyra looked down at her plate. She didn’t touch her food again.

I could feel the heat rising in my face. It wasn’t just the announcement—it was the way it was delivered. No warning. Just this cold, impersonal letter dropped onto our table like we were nothing.
My stomach turned.

My mind raced with questions—Had they planned this for long? Was it love? Politics? A power move? Or both?

“I suppose congratulations are in order,” Rhaenyra finally said, her voice hollow.

No one responded. The silence that followed was almost cruel.

Baela looked like she wanted to throw something. Rhaena was biting her lip. Even Corlys seemed unusually quiet, his fingers tapping against his goblet.

I glanced at Rhaenyra. Her gaze was on the flames, but her jaw was tight, eyes glittering with something she refused to let fall. Pain. Betrayal. She had loved Daemon once. Still might.

And Visenya—my sister—knew that.

I sat in silence, the taste of bitterness rising in my throat. I clenched my hands beneath the table, willing them not to shake.

I didn’t know what to say.

So I said nothing.

And the silence said everything.

(Visenya's Pov)

The sun cast its last golden rays through the high, stained-glass windows of the royal library, painting streaks of amber and rose across the stone floors. Dust floated lazily in the light, undisturbed and unbothered, like ancient ghosts too tired to haunt.

The library had begun to empty, as it always did at dusk-most courtiers preferred gossip in gardens or feasts in warm halls, not the smell of vellum and wax, not the hush of secrets bound in leather.

I preferred silence.

After a long morning of sword drills with Ser Cristina Cole and an even longer series of meetings with my septa and the seamstresses regarding my wedding dress-lace or embroidery, gold thread or pearls-I'd had enough.

I escaped here with aching feet and a headache that pulsed behind my eyes. The babe in my belly had been fluttering all morning, insistent and wild like a dragon testing its wings. I needed stillness. I needed the comfort of forgotten words.

Tucked between shelves in the back corner, my sanctuary, I curled up on the velvet-cushioned window seat with a book older than Aegon's Conquest.

My fingertips traced the faded ink, my eyes devouring Valyrian histories with the hunger of a girl who still believed knowledge could protect her.

The soft murmuring of a few remaining readers filled the air like whispers in a cathedral. Fingers turned pages. Pens scratched parchment. The faint scent of ink, beeswax, and age wrapped around me like a shroud.

And then-noise.

Bootsteps. Louder than they should've been. Men outside the library, rushing, shouting in clipped tones. The click-clack of boots against marble grated against my nerves. I scowled but didn't look up. No one ever dared disturb me in here. They knew better.

Until he walked in.

Daemon.

I heard him before I saw him-his gait was distinct, too confident, too lazy to be proper. The guards didn't stop him.

Of course not. He moved through the library like a man in his own home, like he owned every brick and book and breath in this place.

I didn't need to look up to know it was him. I knew him too well-his energy always preceded him like thunder before a storm.

Still, I refused to move. I turned the page, slowly, deliberately. Maybe he'd walk past. Maybe he'd find a scribe to annoy or a scroll to burn.

But then I heard him stop. And I knew.

"Niece," he said, voice velvet-soft, mocking, familiar.

I sighed, closing my book with more force than necessary. "What are you doing here?" I snapped, irritation rolling off my tongue before I could soften it. The pregnancy made my moods swing like a pendulum. I hated how little control I had over them.

Daemon didn't flinch. Didn't even blink. Of course not. He smiled like the cat that caught the canary, leaning forward slightly, one arm braced on the shelf behind me. His silver hair gleamed in the sunset light, his violet eyes flickering with amusement.

"I was bored," he said, simply.

"Then go bother someone else."

"I wanted to bother you," he replied, utterly unapologetic. "You've been hiding from me since our last fitting."

I turned my face toward the window, trying to focus on the horizon instead of how his presence made my skin tighten. "I haven't been hiding," I lied. "I've been busy. I still have a realm of relatives arriving for this absurdly rushed wedding your seed has cursed me into."

"My seed?" Daemon echoed, eyebrows raising. "So possessive. I like it."

I groaned and stood, holding my lower back as the movement sent a dull ache through my spine. "If you came here to be insufferable, congratulations. You've succeeded. Now go."

He stepped closer instead, and I hated how my heart responded, thudding stupidly in my chest like I was some blushing maiden and not a trained warrior carrying the child of my war-hardened uncle.

"You're glowing," he murmured, his hand lifting-hesitating for once-before it brushed a lock of hair behind my ear.

"I'm sweating," I corrected dryly. "This gown is too tight."

"You're still the most beautiful thing in this castle."

I scowled at him. "Are you trying to seduce me in a library?"

"Wouldn't be the first time," he smirked. "But no. I just wanted to see you. You've barely looked at me since we told your father."

My mouth twisted at the memory. "Can you blame me? He nearly beheaded you."

"He missed," Daemon said, shrugging.

"By inches. And only because I distracted him."

Daemon reached for my hand, lacing his fingers with mine, and this time I let him. I was tired of fighting. Tired of pretending I didn't want him close. Even when I hated him, I still wanted him.

He kissed my knuckles. "Three more days."

I nodded, letting myself lean into him, just a little. "Three more days."

---

I stood tall beside my mother, my chin lifted the way Daemon taught me when I was little. The breeze pulled at the hem of my dark red gown, and I pressed my hand down to keep it in place.

 

The banners above the gates flapped noisily, announcing to the world what would happen tomorrow. My wedding. My triumph.

 

I could hear the sound of hooves before I saw them-the thundering of dragons and horses alike. They came early. Of course they did. Rhaenyra never liked waiting to make an entrance.

 

My eyes narrowed when I saw her at the front, radiant in Targaryen black and red, her silver hair braided like a queen already crowned. Aemma rode beside her, practically glowing with health and youth, looking around like she hadn't seen the Red Keep in years.

 

Behind them came their little pack-Lucerys, Joffrey, Laenor, Baela, Rhaena, even the Velaryon twins.

 

All smiling.

 

All pretending.

 

My father stepped forward, arms spread, voice full of delight. "Rhaenyra! You've arrived early. A happy surprise."

 

Rhaenyra dismounted smoothly and walked over, brushing off the greeting with a smile that was all teeth and venom. "We wouldn't dream of missing your precious wedding," she said. Then she turned to me and dipped her head, just barely. "Congratulations, Visenya."

 

I tilted my head and gave her my best sweet-lipped smile. "Thank you... Princess."

 

We stared at each other.

 

Neither of us blinked.

 

I felt Daemon beside me shift, probably amused by the silent battle. I didn't need to look to know he was enjoying this. Of course he was. He always did like sharp things, and Rhaenyra and I were blades in the same forge.

 

No one noticed the way our eyes locked, not even Mother. She was too busy smiling at Aemma, complimenting her on how tall she'd gotten, how pretty she looked, how much like a woman she'd become.

 

Good for her.

 

Let the girl enjoy her moment.

 

But mine was tomorrow. And Rhaenyra knew it. I could see it in her eyes-that flicker of something bitter and bruised. Like she thought this should've been her. Like I'd taken something from her.

 

Perhaps I had.

 

I stepped forward, just a little, enough that our shoulders brushed as I walked past her.

 

"Welcome home, Princess," I whispered under my breath, just loud enough for her alone. "Try not to get too comfortable."

 

She didn't answer.

 

But I didn't need her to. The look she gave me said it all.

 

The war had never ended. It had only changed battlegrounds.

 

Mother was smiling at Aemma now, oblivious to the tension simmering between her daughter and her stepdaughter. "My sweet girl," she said, her voice warm. "You've grown so tall. And such a beauty. You're almost a woman now."

 

Aemma flushed, dismounted with the help of a guard, and stepped forward.

 

I let the Rhaenyra standoff break. It was over for now.

 

Aemma opened her arms, and I embraced her without hesitation. I let my hand press against her back just a little tighter than I might've before. I had missed her. That, at least, was true.

 

"I missed you," Aemma murmured.

 

"I know," I whispered back. "I missed you too."

 

When we pulled apart, her eyes flicked toward Daemon-and the warmth in them evaporated. Her brows knit tightly, her lips pressed into a thin line. She didn't say a word. Not yet.

 

But I saw the way her jaw clenched, like she was swallowing down all the things she wanted to scream.

 

Daemon, of course, only smirked at her, utterly unbothered by the storm gathering behind her eyes. He leaned lazily on his cane, ever the picture of arrogance and calculation.

 

"Aemma," he said with a mock bow.

 

"Uncle," she bit out.

 

Mother had moved to greet Laenor and Rhaena, chattering about how lovely the weather was for the wedding. Servants moved behind us, directing the dragons to the mews, carrying bags, preparing rooms.

 

But none of it mattered.

 

Only the looks did.

 

And the unspoken things.

 

As I walked past Rhaenyra, our shoulders brushed, a deliberate move. I could smell dragon smoke and firemilk perfume on her skin. I tilted my head just slightly and whispered, just for her:

 

"Welcome home, Princess. Try not to get too comfortable."

 

She didn't reply.

 

But her eyes said enough.

 

There would be no peace.

 

Not truly.

 

The war had never ended.

 

It had simply... changed battlegrounds.

---

The gown shimmered like a constellation brought to earth.

I stood before the tall glass mirror, the silk and crystal flowing down my frame in perfect, celestial harmony. The sleeves sparkled faintly as I lifted my hands. Every stitch had been placed with reverence-like the seamstresses knew I'd be wearing this not just as a bride, but as a dragon.

Melissa stood behind me, silent at first. Not with hesitation, but awe.

"It's longer," she said quietly, stepping forward. "They extended the train since the last fitting."

"They said the wind off the cliffs would carry it better this way," I murmured, turning slowly so the fabric swept behind me like a tide of stars.

The sheer cape trailed several feet longer now, lined in delicate beadwork that caught even the faintest flicker of candlelight. The skirt moved like fog over water-soft, ethereal, unknowable.

And the bodice... it looked carved rather than sewn, the embroidery a tapestry of ancient Valyrian sigils and dragon-scale patterns in silver and ash-gold.

I caught Melissa's reflection behind me-lips parted slightly, eyes shining.

"You should say something," I teased gently, though my voice trembled. "Before I burst into tears and ruin the embroidery."

She blinked, smiled, then stepped forward and wrapped her arms around me from behind.

"I'm trying to find the words," she said. "But you've taken them with you."

My throat closed.

Melissa rested her cheek against my shoulder. "You look beautiful... "

Melissa turned me gently until I was facing her. She cupped my face with both hands, smiling through the wetness that shimmered in her eyes.

"I remember when you swore you'd never marry anyone who couldn't match your fire," she said. "That you'd rather burn the world than dim yourself for a man."

"And now I'm marrying the one man who'd burn it with me," I said softly.

She laughed, a rich, teary sound. "Daemon Targaryen won't know what hit him."

"He'll pretend he does," I smirked, "but I can always tell when he's awed."

Melissa stepped back to take me in again. "Visenya... you look like everything you were meant to be."

She placed something in my hand then-a small silver pin in the shape of a dragon curled around a star. It was warm from her palm.

"It was my mother's," she said, softly. "She used to say women who wore it always found their strength when they needed it most."

I clutched it gently, heart swelling with the weight of memory and love.

"Thank you," I said.

"No," she shook her head, voice catching. "Thank you. For letting me see this. For letting me stay beside you through it all."

I hugged her tightly, the layers of the gown falling between us like soft waves, but our grip didn't loosen.

Tomorrow I would walk to Daemon in this gown-draped in stars, trailing fire.

But tonight, I stood with the one who'd stitched my heart back together a hundred times over.
And that, too, was sacred.

Chapter Text

(Aemma's Pov)

I found Visenya in the gardens, where she so often lingered when she wished to be seen. She wore that crimson dress again, the one that drew every eye the moment she stepped into a room. Even now, sitting beneath the arbor with a book in her lap, she looked as if she were posing for some painted portrait, perfectly arranged, perfectly untouchable.

 

I clenched my hands at my sides. I cannot let this fester inside me any longer.

 

“Visenya,” I called, my voice sharper than I intended.

 

She looked up, her lips curving into that small, knowing smile of hers. “Sister,” she said lightly, as though the word were a jest. “To what do I owe this surprise?”

 

Behind me, I heard the rustle of skirts. Helaena drifted into the garden, quiet and dreamlike as always, Daeron trailing at her side with wide eyes. Of course they had followed me. Helaena hated arguments but would never leave me alone to face one.

 

I stepped closer until I stood above Visenya. “I want to know why you are marrying him.” My voice shook, but not from fear. “Daemon. He is too old, too reckless—and you know Rhaenyra loves him! Everyone in the whole Kingdom knows that!”

 

Visenya tilted her head, considering me like a cat watching a trapped bird. “Why?” she asked simply, as though the answer were obvious.

 

I felt the heat rising in my cheeks. “Because you are my sister. Because this union… it feels wrong. You are only thirteen, Visenya, and he—he has lived a life full of scandal. It is not fair to you.”

 

Her laughter was soft but cut like glass. “Not fair to me? Aemma, sweet Aemma, you worry too much. Do you think me a child to be led about by the hand? Daemon sees me for what I am. Strong. Clever. Worthy of his attention. Can you say the same of the men who would have been pushed toward you?”

 

Her words twisted in my chest. She sounded so certain, so proud, while I felt only confusion. Helaena fidgeted, whispering to herself, “Snakes in the garden, petals on the water…” Daeron glanced between us, his mouth opening and closing, too nervous to speak.

 

I swallowed. “It is not strength to bind yourself to a man who craves only power. You are letting him use you, Visenya.”

 

Her smile widened, though her eyes cooled. “Or perhaps I am the one using him. Perhaps this is my chance to shape my own future, rather than wait meekly for Grandfather—or Father—or the realm to decide it for me. You should understand that, sister. You are the eldest of us, and yet what choice do you truly have? You are to be bartered like the rest of us.”

 

Her words struck deep, deeper than I wished to admit. I had thought myself above being compared to her games, but she had touched something raw inside me. I blinked hard, my throat aching. “I only wanted to protect you,” I whispered.

 

Visenya’s gaze softened suddenly, as if a mask had slipped. She rose gracefully and reached for my hands, her touch warm and deceptively gentle. “I know,” she murmured. “And I am grateful. Truly, I am. But you must trust me, Aemma. I know what I am doing.”

 

Her confidence made me falter.

 

Perhaps she was right.

 

Perhaps I was wrong to challenge her.

 

Tears pricked at my eyes before I could stop them. “I am sorry,” I breathed. “I should not have spoken so harshly.”

 

She drew me into her arms, and for a moment, it felt real—that closeness we used to share as children. Her hand smoothed over my hair, soothing, almost tender. “There is nothing to forgive,” she whispered against my ear.

 

I clung to her, believing her, even as some small, uneasy voice deep within me whispered that she had won.

 

---

( Helaena's Pov)

I sat at the window, hands folded neatly in my lap, the cool morning air spilling in. The hall outside hummed with preparations for Visenya’s wedding, but here in the quiet, I had company of a stranger sort.

 

“You’re slouching again, little one,” came the deep, rumbling voice of Aegon the Conqueror.

 

I straightened my back immediately, lips twitching. “You always say that.”

 

“Because it’s true.” His tone was firm, but I could hear the smile buried beneath the iron.

 

“You’re one to talk,” Rhaenys chimed in, laughter dancing in her words. “Do you recall how you used to slump over tables during council meetings, head in your hands, pretending to listen while Visenya did all the work?”

 

“I did not,” Aegon grumbled.

 

“You absolutely did,” Visenya the Conqueror’s voice cut sharp and amused. “You nearly fell asleep more than once.”

 

I giggled softly, earning a confused look from Malachi, who stood nearby pretending to busy himself with a parchment. His brow furrowed, lips pressed into a line, but I knew he was listening — to me, not to them. He couldn’t hear them. No one could.

 

“She’s laughing again,” Rhaenys teased. “Poor boy. He thinks it’s for him.”

 

“Or maybe he wishes it was for him,” Aegon said, his voice sly in a way that made my cheeks warm.

 

“Don’t torment him,” Visenya said with a wicked chuckle. “Though, really, he does stare at her like a pup who’s been given a piece of meat.”

 

I covered my mouth to keep from laughing outright. “Stop it,” I whispered under my breath.

 

“Stop what?” Malachi asked cautiously, turning his sharp green eyes on me. He already knew, of course. He always knew.

 

“Stop… making faces,” I said quickly, looking away.

 

The Conquerors roared with laughter, their voices overlapping in a storm of mirth.

 

“She’s terrible at lying,” Rhaenys said fondly.

 

“Terrible, but adorable,” Aegon agreed.

 

“She’ll give herself away one day,” Visenya added, calm but amused. “And then he’ll know exactly how much of his hopeless staring we see.”

 

My cheeks burned hotter, and I peeked at Malachi through my lashes. He had gone very still, as though waiting for me to say something more.

 

“You like her, don’t you?” Rhaenys sing-songed in his direction, even though he couldn’t hear her.

 

“Of course he does,” Aegon said with a snort. “It’s written all over his face. The poor boy is smitten with our little dreamer.”

 

“Poor boy?” Visenya corrected. “Fortunate boy. Few are lucky enough to stand this close to one who hears the dead.”

 

I bit my lip to hide my smile. Malachi’s lips pressed thin, his gaze flicking away as though he suspected he was being mocked. Which, in truth, he was — just not by me.

 

“Don’t worry,” Rhaenys purred into my ear. “We’ll keep your secret… for now.”

 

I exhaled slowly, a smile tugging at my lips despite my attempt to keep straight-faced.

 

Malachi narrowed his eyes at me. “You’re laughing at me again, aren’t you?”

 

I blinked innocently. “No. Never.”

 

The Conquerors erupted into another round of laughter, and I knew I would never hear the end of it.

 

( Visenya Pov)

 

I slipped away from the keep as the shadows grew long, the air cool and heavy with the scent of salt and stone. My feet carried me to the dragonpit as though I were a child again, sneaking to see the beasts that once felt like kin.

 

The guards at the entrance gave me wary glances, but none dared stop me. They knew as well as I did that the bond between dragon and rider was not so easily denied.

 

Inside, the world shifted. The air was thicker, warmer, humming with the deep, thrumming power of the creatures housed here. Vermithor stirred first—his massive head lifting from where he had been curled, scales of bronze gleaming like aged metal in the dim light. His eyes fixed on me, molten gold, ancient and knowing.

 

“Have you been treating well, old friend?” I whispered, voice soft, reverent. My hand hovered in the air, not yet daring to touch. “I have missed you more than words can hold. This wedding planning stuff has been draining me to visit you.”

 

A low rumble shuddered from his chest, the ground beneath my boots trembling with it. The sound was not hostile—it was recognition. My heart swelled, aching with the years I had spent without this presence, this fire.

 

Slowly, I reached forward, brushing my hand against the warm scales of his snout. He leaned into the touch, and a shaky breath escaped me, a mix of relief and longing.

 

But it was Vhagar’s shadow that fell next across the cavern, vast and suffocating. The great she-dragon moved with a slow, deliberate grace, her wings folding against her sides, her eyes like burning coals. Vhagar, the ancient terror, the might of old Valyria herself. My throat tightened, and I found myself bowing my head slightly—not out of fear, but out of respect.

 

“I have missed you too,” I said, louder this time, my words echoing faintly. “You were always more than a legend to me. More than fire and death. You were freedom. You still are.”

 

Vhagar’s nostrils flared, a huff of smoke and heat rolling over me, searing the air but not burning me. I felt small beneath her gaze, but there was comfort in that smallness.

 

I had not been forgotten.

 

Neither dragon turned away.

 

Neither rejected me.

 

“I will not let them cage you,” I whispered fiercely, looking from Vermithor to Vhagar. “Not with chains, nor with crowns, nor with war. I will fight for you, as you once fought for us.”

 

The words left me like a vow, and as if in answer, Vermithor rumbled again while Vhagar loosed a low, deep growl that resonated in my chest, rattling my bones. It felt like an oath returned.

 

I pressed my forehead against Vermithor’s warm scales, closing my eyes. “I will come back to you,” I promised. “I will not stay away so long again.”

 

When I finally stepped back, both dragons watched me—silent, solemn, eternal. And for the first time in many days, I felt whole.

---

 

The morning of my wedding dawned softer than I had expected. I thought the skies would split open, that thunder might herald the end of my maidenhood, or that the bells of King’s Landing would never cease their tolling.

 

Instead, pale golden light crept through the heavy curtains of my chamber, drawing sharp edges along the carved wood of my bed and gilding the gowns Melissa had laid out the night before.

 

I lingered beneath the coverlets for a moment, my chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. Sleep had been a fleeting thing last night—every time I closed my eyes, I saw Daemon’s smirk, the curve of his hand upon his sword hilt, the way his violet eyes burned when they landed on me.

 

Was it pride?

 

Possession?

 

Or something far darker that he saw when he looked at me?

 

The door creaked open and Melissa slipped in, her hair tied neatly back, her steps quick yet quiet. She had been mine since we were children, my shadow and my confidante. She knew me too well, enough to see past the calm mask I tried to wear now.

 

“You’re awake already,” she said softly, almost in relief. “I worried you would not rise until the sept bells pulled you out of bed.”

 

I forced a smile. “And let my mother think I was trembling with fear? Never.”

 

Melissa arched a brow but said nothing, simply crossing the room to pull the curtains wider. Sunlight spilled in like fire across the chamber, warming the cold stone floors.

 

Then she moved to the stand where my wedding dress hung—a masterpiece of black silk embroidered with threads of crimson and silver. The Targaryen colors. My colors now.

 

I sat at the edge of the bed as Melissa fussed over the gown, smoothing the skirts and lifting the sleeves as though it were a sacred relic. “It’s heavy,” she murmured, testing the weight of the fabric. “Are you certain you will not faint beneath it? You are not made of iron, Visenya.”

 

I tilted my chin. “If I must carry the weight of a dragon’s name, I can carry a gown.”

 

Melissa gave me a look, the kind that always seemed to pierce me deeper than words. Then she knelt at my feet, lifting the hem of my nightdress so she could slip silken stockings up my legs, fastening the garters with quick, practiced fingers.

 

I felt like a child again, being dressed for a feast, except now there was no hiding what I was stepping into. This was no simple supper in the Red Keep—it was a marriage to Daemon Targaryen, a binding I had chosen… and yet, in some corner of my mind, it felt like I was stepping into a dragon’s maw.

 

Melissa rose, her hands warm on my shoulders as she helped me out of my nightdress and into the chemise that clung cool against my skin.

 

She moved behind me to braid my hair, her fingers nimble as they wove silver strands into an intricate crown. “You look every inch the dragon’s bride,” she said quietly, her voice catching. “I can hardly bear it.”

 

I met her eyes in the mirror. There was something raw there, something unspoken.

 

Perhaps love for me.

 

Perhaps envy.

 

Perhaps both.

“Do not cry,” I teased gently, though my own throat tightened. “Or you will ruin my face before the septon has a chance to see it.”

 

She laughed shakily, brushing away a tear before it could fall. “You always were too proud.”

 

“And today I must be prouder still.”

 

When at last the gown was drawn over my head and settled into place, Melissa fastened each row of tiny buttons at my back, tugging the bodice until it cinched my waist.

 

The skirts pooled around me like molten shadow, the crimson threads shimmering where the sunlight struck. She adjusted the sleeves, then placed a delicate silver circlet atop my braided crown, a glimmer of dragon wings stretching across my brow.

 

I stood, heavy with silk and expectation, and turned to face her. For a heartbeat, the chamber was silent. Melissa’s eyes brimmed again, though she tried to mask it.

 

“You are ready,” she whispered.

 

I exhaled slowly, drawing every fragment of strength into myself, letting it harden in my chest like dragonstone. “Yes,” I said, though the truth was that readiness had nothing to do with it. The moment had come, whether I wished it or not.

 

Melissa took my hands in hers, squeezing them tight. “Then let the world see what you were born to be.”

 

And I smiled, even as my heart thundered beneath the weight of the gown, the crown, and the fire of the dragons who would surely watch from the skies above.

---

I sat on the cushioned bench by the window, hands folded neatly in my lap, though my nails tapped restlessly against the silk of my gown. The hour grew late, and every sound from the corridors beyond made my heart leap, thinking someone might come for me.

 

Melissa had gone to fetch something from the seamstress, leaving me alone in the chamber, waiting…waiting for the wedding that would bind me to Daemon Targaryen.

 

The door creaked open behind me.

 

My head snapped up, my breath catching.

 

When I turned, my eyes widened.

 

“Daemon?” The word trembled from my lips, equal parts shock and disbelief.

 

He shouldn’t be here. He couldn’t be here. “You can’t see me,” I stammered, rising to my feet and turning sharply so my back was to him, the skirts of my gown whispering against the floor. “Not today, not before the vows—”

 

Before I could finish, I felt him—his presence, his warmth—closing the space between us. Strong arms slid around my waist from behind, firm but tender, drawing me back against him. My breath hitched, the air stolen from my lungs as he pressed his face near the curve of my neck.

 

“Daemon—”

 

He bent lower, until he was on his knees before me, his forehead resting lightly against the small of my back as though in reverence. “I had to see you,” he murmured, voice rough with something that sent shivers through me. “I couldn’t wait.”

 

I swallowed hard, staring at the stone wall in front of me, refusing to turn, refusing to let him see the turmoil written plain on my face. “Why?” My voice was soft, though it carried an edge. “What could you possibly want so badly?”

 

He chuckled under his breath, and I felt the smirk in the way his lips brushed against the fabric of my gown. “To give you a gift,” he whispered, the words curling around me like smoked.

 

A frown tugged at my brow. My fingers twisted into the silk at my sides. “A gift? On our wedding day?”

 

His grip on my waist tightened, pulling me closer still. “Not just any gift,” Daemon said, and I could hear the dangerous amusement in his voice, that reckless charm that both infuriated and bewitched me.

 

Against my better judgment, my heart pounded wildly. “What gift, Daemon?” I asked at last, my voice no more than a breath.

 

When he finally answered, I could feel him going down to his knees and lift my wedding dress up. And went under it..

 

His tongue traced a slow, deliberate path along the sensitive flesh beneath the lace, his breath hot against me as he leaned in. His hands held my hips firmly, grounding me as he explored with a hunger that left no room for hesitation.

 

"You taste like honey and fire," he murmured, his voice thick with something dangerously close to reverence.

 

He moved with practiced ease, his mouth working its magic with a confidence that both thrilled and terrified me. His fingers dug gently into my thighs, holding me in place as he lost himself in the act, his moans vibrating against my skin.

 

"You belong to me," he whispered, lifting his head just enough to look up at me. "Even now, even like this, you're mine. No one else will ever have you like this."

 

His laughter was low, almost a growl, as he tilted my skirt up with deliberate care, his fingers brushing against the bare skin of my thigh. His touch was reverent, yet possessive, as if he were claiming something sacred.

 

"You're already mine," he murmured against my skin, his breath warm against my flesh. "But I want you to remember this moment—this night. When you're old and grey, when your husband has forgotten your name, I want you to recall how I made you feel."

 

He kissed the inside of my knee, then slowly climbed higher, his hands steady and sure. His fingers found the delicate lace of my undergarment, and he paused, letting the silence stretch between me.

 

"You're trembling," he observed, his voice smooth as velvet. "Are you afraid of me, Visenya?"

 

" oh, Daemon!" I lend back my vanity, and grab his hair pushing him closer.

 

His eyes burned with something fierce and wild as I pulled him closer, my fingers tangled in his white hair, guiding him deeper. He groaned, low and guttural, and shifted his weight, pressing his body fully against mine as his tongue worked faster, more urgently.

 

"You're so wet for me," he panted, his voice a mix of triumph and raw desire. "So eager."

 

One hand slid up my back, gripping the fabric of my gown, while the other under my dress snaked around to cup my ass, pulling me harder against him. His teeth scraped lightly across my clit, and I gasped, arching into him without thinking.

 

I nearly jumped out of my skin when I heard the knock at my chamber door, followed by my sister’s gentle voice.

 

“Visenya? Are you ready? May I come in?” Aemma called.

 

My heart dropped straight into my stomach. I spun toward the door in panic, hands fluttering like a fool.

 

“No! You can’t—!” My words choked halfway, because when I glanced down, Daemon was grinning like a wolf with his next hunt in sight. Before I could stop him, he slid lower, lowering himself at my feet.

 

“What are you doing?!” I hissed, my voice nothing more than a strangled whisper.

 

Daemon only smirked and, with the sort of audacity only he could possess, slipped beneath the heavy folds of my gown.

 

“Daemon!” I mouthed, teeth clenched, my palms pressed against my skirts to still their trembling.

 

From beneath, his voice was muffled but laced with wicked amusement. “Relax, sweet girl. I said I’d give you a gift, didn’t I?”

 

I bit down a groan of pure horror. “This is not a gift—this is madness!”

 

Another knock came, firmer this time. “Visenya?” Aemma’s voice was curious now, tinged with suspicion.

 

I whirled back toward the door, my pulse hammering in my ears. “Yes! Yes, I’m—uh—I’m almost ready!” My voice cracked with false brightness. “Just give me a moment!”

 

Underneath my skirts, I could feel Daemon’s low chuckle vibrating against me. I froze, clutching at my gown as though that could possibly disguise the warmth blooming through me.

 

If Aemma came in now…

 

Seven Hells.

 

And then—Seven above—he crouched, hands sliding around my hips as he disappeared beneath the fall of my gown, his silver hair brushing scandalously against the back of my knees.

 

“Daemon!” I hissed, swatting uselessly at the air where his head had been.

 

He chuckled darkly from under the fabric. “Shh, sweet girl. Let’s see if you can play the innocent with your sister while I… enjoy my hiding place.”

 

My entire body flushed crimson.

 

“Visenya?” Aemma called again, the doorknob rattling softly.

 

Panic seized me. I smoothed my skirts—trying to mask the very obvious shape of a man beneath them—and forced my voice steady. “Come in, Aemma.”

 

The door creaked open and my sister slipped inside, candlelight flickering across her gentle face. Her eyes fell upon me, sitting stiffly on the edge of my bed, hands clasped tight in my lap.

 

“You look pale,” Aemma said softly, frowning. “Are you unwell?”

 

“Unwell? No—no, I’m… perfectly well!” I squeaked, voice an octave too high. I cleared my throat quickly, trying to compose myself, while beneath my skirts Daemon shifted. The movement made me jolt, my breath catching in my throat.

 

Aemma tilted her head, her concern deepening. “Visenya, you’re trembling.”

 

“I am not!” I snapped too fast. Too sharp. My hands clenched tighter in my lap as Daemon’s fingers teased the inside of my knee, tracing idle circles like this was some great amusement.

 

A low rumble of laughter vibrated against my thighs. My skin prickled with heat.

 

Stay still. Stay still.

 

Aemma, oblivious, sat beside me on the bed, her hand brushing mine. “You seem… distracted. Is something troubling you? With the wedding coming, I thought perhaps…”

 

“Yes, yes, the wedding,” I said quickly, nearly choking on the words as Daemon dared to shift again. I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to sting, forcing a smile. “There’s much to think about, that’s all.”

 

Daemon’s breath was hot against me through the thin layers of silk, his whisper muffled but dripping with mischief.

 

Aemma then asked looking confused " do you want me to stay?"

 

My nails dug crescents into my palms. “No!” I barked, then winced at Aemma’s startled expression.

 

“No?” she echoed, confused.

 

“I mean—no, nothing is troubling me,” I stammered, heat racing up my neck. “You needn’t worry, dearest sister. I’m simply… overwhelmed.”

 

Aemma softened, her hand squeezing mine. “I only wished to make sure you’re not lonely. I can stay a while, if you’d like. We could talk as we used to.”

Seven hells. No, no, no.

 

“Th-that’s very kind, Aemma, but I will fine.”

 

Under my skirts, Daemon shifted again, the rogue undoubtedly grinning ear to ear. His fingers pressed against the backs of my thighs, the pressure both torment and temptation. I had to bite my lip to keep from gasping.

 

Aemma leaned closer, studying me intently. “Are you certain? Your face is quite red.”

 

“It’s hot in here,” I blurted, fanning my cheeks.

 

I kicked my leg, subtle as I could, trying to shut him up. He nipped playfully at my thigh in return. I nearly yelped.

 

Aemma stood, smoothing her gown. “Very well, sister. I’ll let you rest. But remember, you can always come to me, no matter what weighs on your heart.”

 

“Yes, of course. Always.” I forced a smile, every muscle in my body rigid.

 

She kissed my cheek gently and made her way to the door. “See you later, Visenya.”

 

“See you later, Aemma,” I croaked, hardly daring to breathe until the door closed behind her.

 

Silence stretched.

 

Then Daemon burst into laughter, muffled at first beneath the folds of my dress, before he crawled out, silver hair disheveled, eyes gleaming with triumph. He collapsed onto the bed beside me, laughing so hard his shoulders shook.

 

“You—gods—I wish I had seen your face,” he wheezed, wiping tears from his eyes. “Seven hells, you’re as red as Caraxes’s scales!”

 

“You vile, wretched man!” I hissed, smacking his chest with both hands. “What possessed you—hiding beneath my gown like some—some—”

 

Daemon kisses me.

 

Daemon grinned, low and hungry, as I pulled him closer, his hands coming up to grip my wrists.

 

"My, my," he purred, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. "So demanding. So bold."

 

In one swift motion, he spun me around, pinning me against the vanity. His body pressed against my back, his lips finding the nape of my neck as his hands roamed freely, slipping beneath my gown once more.

 

"But you should know," he breathed against my ear, his teeth grazing the lobe, "that I never leave things unfinished."

 

His fingers found their mark, teasing and exploring with a skill that left me breathless. He worked methodically, relentlessly, each touch calculated to drive me mad with want.

 

" Daemon...please..." I whined, grinding against his cock.  He chuckled low in his throat, the sound vibrating against my back as he ground against me, his hardness evident even through his clothing.

 

His hands slid up my sides, fingertips tracing the curves of my breasts before cupping them fully, thumbs brushing over my nipples.

 

"Please what, little dragon?" he murmured, his breath hot against my ear. "Tell me exactly what you want. Beg properly, and perhaps I’ll consider granting your wish."

 

His hips rolled against mine, the friction delicious and maddening all at once. One hand slipped lower, dipping beneath the hem of my gown to tease the sensitive skin of my inner thigh.

 

"Do you want me to stop?" he taunted, his voice a seductive purr. "Or do you want me to make you scream my name until they hear it in the Seven Kingdoms?" I whined and after a while I finally begged.

 

" Please..."

 

His laugh was dark and filled with promise, his teeth sinking into the soft flesh of my shoulder as his hands gripped my hips hard enough to bruise.

 

In one fluid motion, he lifted me onto the vanity, sending perfume bottles crashing to the floor. My legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, pulling him closer as he fumbled with his breeches, freeing his achingly hard length.

 

"Such filthy thoughts," he growled, lining himself up with your entrance. "My proper little bride, wanting to be defiled before her wedding day."

 

Without warning, he thrust into me, burying himself deep in one smooth stroke. I cried out, my nails digging into his shoulders as he set a brutal pace, each snap of his hips driving me further into the vanity.

 

The world narrowed to the sensation of him filling me, stretching me, claiming me in the most primal way. His rhythm was relentless, each thrust designed to push me closer to the edge, to unravel me completely.

 

"That's it," he panted, his voice strained with pleasure. "Take every inch of me. Let everyone know who you belong to."

 

One hand tangled in my hair, tilting my head back to expose my throat. His mouth descended upon it, sucking and biting, marking me as his. The other hand reached between our bodies, his thumb circling my clit with expert precision.

 

"Come for me," he commanded, his voice a dark promise. "Let me feel you squeeze around me. Show me how much you love being ruined by your husband-to-be."

 

The coil within me snapped, my climax hitting me like a tidal wave. I screamed his name, my body shaking uncontrollably as waves of ecstasy crashed over me.

 

Daemon followed moments later, his release hot and pulsing inside me as he drove himself deep one final time.

 

"Mine,"he growled, collapsing against you, his forehead pressed against mine. "Always mine."

 

For a long moment, neither of us moved, simply breathing heavily, savoring the aftermath. Then, slowly, he withdrew, tucking himself back into his breeches with a satisfied smirk.

 

"There," he said, straightening his clothes and fixing his hair with a few deft strokes. "Your gift..."

 

I laughed and said "I prefer a real sword."

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.

Chapter Text

(Aemma’s POV)

 

The little ones had all been tucked away, curled up beneath their worn quilts, safe and warm. I kissed each brow, smoothing tangled hair from foreheads, and Jacaerys stood beside me the whole while, smiling so softly I thought my heart might burst. By the time the last child drifted to sleep, the quiet of Maelin’s home settled around us like a gentle blanket.

 

Maelin herself stood in the doorway, her eyes shining with gratitude she tried to hide. She reached for my hands, clasping them tightly. “You bring too much,” she whispered, though her voice trembled. “Always too much. You and your prince have hearts far larger than you ought.”

 

Jacaerys laughed warmly, shaking his head. “It is no trouble at all,” he assured her, his voice carrying that familiar steadiness that always calmed me. “Truly, Maelin. We are happy to do it. You’ve given Aemma so much love over the years. It is only right we give something back.”

 

I nodded eagerly, hugging Maelin tight enough that her breath caught. “He speaks true. You and the children need it more than we do. And besides—” I smiled as I pulled back, brushing a tear from her cheek, “—it gives me reason to visit you.”

 

We lingered a little longer, reluctant to leave, but at last goodbyes had to be said. When the door closed behind us, I clutched my cloak tighter about my shoulders, the cool night air of King’s Landing slipping against my skin. Beside me, Jacaerys offered his arm without a word, and I took it, falling easily into step with him as we wound our way back toward the Red Keep.

 

The streets were quiet at this hour, shadows clinging to every corner, but with Jace at my side I felt no fear. Instead, my heart was light, almost giddy, from the laughter of children and the warmth of Maelin’s embrace. I glanced up at him once, the moonlight catching the curve of his cheek, and found myself smiling without realizing it.

 

At last, the looming walls of the castle came into view. The guards at the gate let us pass without question, and soon we were ascending the familiar steps. Jacaerys did not release my arm until we reached the door of my chamber.

 

“See you at breakfast?” he asked softly, his voice holding that little lilt of hope that made my chest ache. His smile was boyish then, not the practiced grin of a prince, but something gentler, unguarded.

 

I couldn’t help myself. Rising up on my toes, I leaned in and pressed a quick, delicate kiss to his cheek. His skin was warm beneath my lips.

 

“Goodnight, my prince,” I whispered, close enough that I felt his breath catch.

 

Pulling back, I smiled at him one last time before slipping inside. The heavy door closed softly behind me, muffling the stillness of the corridor.

 

But before it shut completely, I caught the glimpse of his face—his cheeks flushed deep crimson, his hand frozen halfway to his cheek where my lips had touched him. The sight made a bubble of laughter rise in my throat, and I pressed a hand to my mouth to stifle the giggle that escaped.

 

Only when I was safe within my chamber did I allow myself to laugh freely, my heart fluttering like a bird set free.

 

For all the weight of duty and the shadows that seemed to cling to our family, in that moment, with Jace’s blush burned into my memory, everything felt simple. Everything felt bright.

(Visenya’s POV)

 

The morning light spilled through the high windows of the dining hall, catching on the silverware and glittering across polished platters.

 

My wedding night had passed into memory, and though I was still a touch sore, I found myself humming inside with satisfaction, the ruby ring on my finger glinting every time I turned my hand. I could not stop staring at it, could not stop smiling as though it were some charm that bound my joy.

 

Daemon sat beside me, ever the conqueror, his grin sharp and smug, his presence filling the room like the roar of a dragon even in silence. His hand brushed mine beneath the table once or twice, a private reminder of the bond sealed between us.

 

Aemma and Jacaerys were speaking animatedly across from us, their voices rising and falling with laughter.

 

Something about dragon saddles, or flying higher than the clouds—I hardly paid them any mind. Their childish excitement mattered little to me. My focus was on my ring, on Daemon’s grin, on the way the room bent around us.

 

Not everyone shared my delight.

 

Rhaenyra sat stiffly, her plate barely touched. The glow she usually carried seemed dimmed, as though some shadow had settled over her.

 

Her husband, Laenor, leaned toward her, his expression gentle but strained, and laid his hand atop hers.

 

“Eat, love,” he murmured, quiet enough that only those nearest might hear. “At least a little.”

 

Her lips pressed together as if she wanted to refuse him, but at last she reached for her spoon. Before she could, I tilted my head, feigning sweetness while barbing my words in silk.

 

“Are you well, sister? You’ve barely touched your food,” I asked, my smile painted as wide and false as it could be.

 

Her eyes lifted to mine, and I saw the weariness there, the fury she dared not unleash in front of everyone. “No, I am fine,” she answered, her voice delicate as glass. Then, after a pause that tasted of venom, she added, “I believe it is the baby.”

 

The baby. Ah. Now the thought turned in my mind, sharp as a blade’s edge. I had been with Daemon nearly every hour of the day and night these past moons, well before my belly had even begun to swell. Whatever grew inside her was not his. And if not Daemon’s… then whose?

 

I leaned back, let my ruby catch the light, and fixed her with my most radiant smile. “Well,” I purred, “I do hope this one will favor you, cousin. It would be a pity if the resemblance grew more… questionable.”

 

The words landed like stones tossed into still water. Ripples moved through the hall, subtle but unmistakable. Laenor stiffened beside her, his jaw tightening as he forced himself to answer.

 

“Thank you,” he said flatly, his discomfort written plain on his face.

 

I could feel their stares then—hot and heavy upon me. Rhaenyra’s gaze burned with fury barely contained. Aemma’s face, dear sweet Aemma, was pale with horror at my words. Jacaerys and Lucerys both froze, their eyes flicking between their mother and me as though they weren’t sure what storm was about to break.

 

Daemon only smirked, drinking from his cup with a leisurely air, as though the chaos of family tension were a fine wine he enjoyed sipping. My mother, meanwhile, sat straighter in her chair, pride glimmering in her eyes as if I had struck some blow on her behalf.

 

The hall was suddenly quieter, the weight of my words clinging like smoke. I lifted my cup, sipped as though nothing were amiss, and let them all stew in the silence I had woven.

 

Inside, I smiled all the more.

 

I let my cup rest on the table, fingers still stroking the rim of the goblet as though nothing at all had happened. My heart thrummed with satisfaction, a private rhythm no one could hear.

 

I thought of Baela and Rhaena—my cousins, my little shadows whenever they came to the Keep. If they had been here at breakfast, seated beside their father or whoever, I would have held my tongue. They had a way of softening me, those girls.

 

Luckily, I mused, biting back a smirk, they’re eating with Rhaenys this morning. Rhaenys has them wrapped in her silken wings.

 

I liked them more than I should, truth be told. Rhaena with her gentle sweetness, who loved nothing better than tea parties where we would talk for hours about everything and nothing.

 

Sometimes she told me her little secrets, fears about whether she would ever hatch a dragon egg of her own, and I would squeeze her hand and tell her she would—of course she would. Rhaena always glowed when I said such things.

 

And Baela—ah, Baela was fire itself. My sparring partner, my fierce little blade in training. She had a temper sharp enough to split steel and a courage to match.

 

I had told her once during practice, panting between swings of our blunted swords: “You’ll be a great warrior, Baela. None shall best you.” She had smiled then, a wolfish grin that reminded me of Daemon more than she probably realized.

 

No, I wasn’t using them. I liked being with them. They were… family. My family. Not pawns, not weapons. Just girls I found myself genuinely fond of.

 

I was still lingering on that thought when Father cleared his throat, the sound loud enough to silence the clatter of cutlery. His voice filled the hall, warm but edged with the weight of kingship.

 

“Visenya. Daemon.”

 

I blinked, startled, my eyes darting to where he sat at the head of the table. Daemon beside me straightened, one dark brow arched in mild curiosity.

 

“I have decided,” Father said slowly, his hands folded before him, “that you will live at Dragonstone. Rhaenyra resides in Driftmark with her husband, and so it is fitting that you, too, have a seat of your own.”

 

For a moment, the words did not settle. I had thought—truly—that Dragonstone would be given to Aemma when she wed Jacaerys.

 

That was how it should have gone, was it not? The eldest daughter, the heir’s bride? My lips parted in surprise before I schooled them into something softer.

 

Daemon, though, wasted no time. His grin curled like smoke as he reached across and took my hand, lifting it gently from the table so all might see the ruby ring again. “Thank you, brother,” he said smoothly, his voice dipped in charm. “Dragonstone will suit us well.”

 

I tilted my head toward Father, forcing a smile so practiced it almost looked real. “Yes,” I echoed sweetly, “thank you.”

 

But my eyes slid sideways, catching Rhaenyra in my peripheral vision. Oh, how her face betrayed her. Pink crept up her neck, staining her cheeks as she lowered her gaze to her plate. Her fingers curled around her spoon with more force than necessary, her smile brittle as glass.

 

I nearly laughed, nearly let the sound slip out into the air. It was delicious, this quiet little victory. To see her seethe while she tried so hard to hold her composure. To know that Father had chosen me, chosen us, over her yet again.

 

Gods, I thought, savoring the moment, I enjoy pissing Rhaenyra off more than I would enjoy wearing a crown of seven kingdoms.

 

And Daemon—clever, wicked Daemon—squeezed my hand beneath the table, as if he knew exactly what thought had just run through my head.

 

“ Well,” I said, pushing my chair back ever so slightly, my tone light and sweet, though my words were meant to cut through the heavy air like a blade, “as much as I would love to stay and continue this pleasant family breakfast, I made a promise to Baela. She’s expecting me for training this morning, and I would not break my word to her.”

 

Daemon, who had been sipping his wine like a victorious conqueror, turned his eyes toward me. His smirk deepened, as if amused by my choice of escape. I leaned close, placing my hand gently on his shoulder, and pressed a kiss to his lips — brief, but full enough that I could feel the weight of Rhaenyra’s glare sharpen across the table.

 

My father’s brows rose at the display, though he said nothing. I turned to him next, walking around the table to place a soft kiss upon his forehead. “I shall return later, Father,” I said, my smile warm but practiced. He gave me a look — part pride, part worry — but nodded, allowing me to slip away.
I could feel eyes burning into my back as I left the hall, the rustle of silks and hushed whispers following me. Oh, how it thrilled me.

 

Once I reached the quiet of my chambers, I drew in a long breath, allowing myself to shed the performance I had kept at breakfast. My fingers moved quickly, unlacing my gown, trading the weight of heavy fabric for the comfort of my training clothes — a fitted tunic and breeches, dark and unassuming. It felt good, practical, like slipping into my true skin.

 

I sat before the polished silver mirror, brushing out my hair until it gleamed like molten silver under the morning sun streaming through the windows. With deft fingers, I gathered it into a single long braid, weaving it tightly, each twist a quiet preparation for the sparring ahead. I tied it off at the end with a strip of leather, tugging it once to ensure it would not unravel in the midst of swordplay.

 

“Baela will be here soon,” I murmured to myself, a small smile tugging at my lips. My cousin was fierce, wild in her own way, and her company always filled me with a sense of ease. When she came to visit, we trained together until our arms ached, sparred until sweat slicked our brows. I remembered once telling her, after a particularly heated session, “You’ll be a warrior unmatched. No one will best you.” The way her eyes had lit with pride made me glad of my words.

 

I did not flatter her to gain favor, nor use her as some piece in a game. No — I liked Baela, truly. She carried herself with a freedom I admired, unburdened by the endless games of court. And Rhaena, sweet Rhaena, was just as dear to me. With her, our time was softer: tea parties filled with laughter, idle chatter about everything and nothing. I enjoyed those moments too, as though I were allowed to be simply a girl, not a princess married to a man who thrived on chaos.

 

As I adjusted the cuffs of my sleeves, ready for the day, I let myself savor that thought — that for the next hour or two, I could spar, laugh, and breathe without anyone demanding I play my part as Daemon’s bride or Viserys’s daughter.

 

At last, I made my way to the training yard, braid swaying down my back, my steps light but purposeful. I leaned against the stone wall just outside, crossing my arms, the morning air cool on my face as I waited for Baela to arrive.

 

And though the memory of Rhaenyra’s flushed, furious face still lingered sweetly in my mind, I pushed it aside for now. Soon enough, there would be time to prod at that wound again. But this morning belonged to steel, sweat, and the bond I had forged with Baela.

 

The sound of boots striking stone echoed down the corridor before I saw her. Baela appeared in the archway, hair pulled back tight, her leather jerkin already marked with scrapes from previous matches. Her eyes lit up when she spotted me waiting, and she quickened her pace, a grin tugging at her lips.

 

“Cousin,” she greeted, voice carrying a touch of mischief, “I half-expected you to still be trapped at breakfast, listening to Rhaenyra sigh into her porridge.”

 

I laughed, the sound sharp and genuine. “Oh, I escaped. You gave me the perfect excuse.”

 

Her brows rose, but she didn’t press — she knew better than most when not to poke at me. Instead, she strode to the rack of wooden swords, selecting one and tossing another to me. I caught it easily, the familiar weight grounding me.

 

We stepped into the yard, the morning sun warming the flagstones. The clatter of blades in the distance told me the yard was already alive with squires and guards training, but in our corner, it felt like our own private arena.

 

Baela twirled her sword once in her hand, eyes glittering. “Ready to be humiliated, cousin?”

 

“Humiliated?” I arched a brow, falling into my stance. “Baela, dear, you forget something.” I let the pause stretch until her smirk widened in challenge. Then, with a wicked smile, I added, “I’m your stepmother now. Best you show me proper respect.”

 

For a heartbeat, Baela blinked — and then she doubled over, laughter spilling from her like bells. “Seven hells, Visenya! You can’t say that with a straight face.”

 

“Oh, but it’s true,” I pressed, advancing a step, my grin predatory. “I married your father. That makes me your mother. Should I start demanding respect?”

 

She swung her sword up to meet mine with a sharp crack, still laughing. “If you think I’m ever curtsying to you, you’re madder than my father!”

 

I feigned offense, staggering back as though wounded. “Mad? I’ll have you know, I’m the very picture of grace and dignity. Ask anyone.”

 

“Grace?” she echoed between strikes, her blows fast and sharp. “You nearly split your gown last time we climbed the rookery tower. I had to drag you down myself.”

 

I parried, the memory flashing in my mind — torn silk, scraped knees, both of us breathless with laughter despite the scolding that had followed. “A minor mishap,” I said loftily, lunging forward. “Besides, that was your idea.”

 

Baela dodged, circling me with quick footwork. “And you loved it. Admit it.”

 

I lunged again, forcing her back a step. Our blades rang out, the sound sharp and satisfying. “I’ll admit nothing,” I said, though my grin betrayed me.

 

She swung low; I blocked, twisting my wrist to force her off balance. She stumbled, recovered quickly, and swung again.

 

Her skill had grown sharper since our last bout — her strength steady, her movements honed. It filled me with a strange pride, even as sweat prickled the back of my neck.

 

“You’re better,” I admitted at last, locking our blades together. “All those hours training are paying off.”

 

Her eyes shone at the praise, though she tried to hide it behind a cocky smirk. “Careful, cousin. I might beat you yet.”

 

“You might try,” I retorted, shoving her back. The force sent her skidding a step, and I followed with a swift strike that nearly grazed her shoulder.

 

She blocked just in time, laughing breathlessly. “If you weren’t married to my father, I’d swear you were born with a sword in your hand.”

 

“Careful,” I teased, circling her, “you’ll make me blush.”

 

The bout went on, sweat dampening our brows, our laughter punctuating each clash of wood. At one point, Baela nearly disarmed me — nearly — and I had to twist my body in a maneuver that left us both gasping with laughter.

 

At last, we broke apart, lowering our swords. My braid clung to the back of my neck with sweat, and Baela’s cheeks were flushed pink with exertion.

 

“You’ve improved,” I said again, more serious this time. “Truly, Baela. You’ll be a warrior no one can best. Not even me.”

 

She beamed at that, pride swelling in her gaze. “That means more coming from you than anyone else.”

 

I tilted my head, letting the moment linger. “Remember it well, stepdaughter,” I said with exaggerated sweetness, earning another round of laughter from her.

 

We collapsed onto the stone bench at the edge of the yard, catching our breath. For a while, neither of us spoke, content with the easy silence — the kind that came only with trust, with love that did not need to be spoken aloud.

 

And though I would never admit it to Rhaenyra or anyone else, I cherished these moments. In this yard, with Baela at my side, I could forget the games, the glares, the venomous smiles. Here, I was not just a bride or a rival — I was simply Visenya.

 

(Aemma's pov)

 

Later, walking through the gardens, I saw Helaena beneath the great tree, sunlight pouring over her like a blessing. She was not alone.

 

There was a boy with her—his dark head resting on her lap while she carefully wove little white flowers into his hair. They looked so… gentle together, so soft, as if the world’s ugliness could never touch them.

 

I almost turned away, not wishing to intrude, but I lingered. Something about the sight made me pause. The boy’s features tugged at my memory. Then it struck me—I had seen him before. At the wedding. He had sat with House Strong.

 

At the time, I paid him little heed, distracted by all the noise, the pomp, and the looks Lords kept casting me. But now… now he seemed different. Calmer. More real, somehow, when placed beside Helaena’s quiet smile.

 

They looked so right together, like something from the stories septas tell children, when knights rescue maidens and the world is simple.

 

I almost laughed at myself for thinking so—was he a knight? A lord’s son? He must have been someone of note to sit with House Strong.

 

And yet… part of me softened watching them. My sister’s laughter carried on the breeze as she tucked another bloom into his hair. They looked like they were building a little world of their own, one untouched by duty or crowns.

 

For a moment, I wondered—what would it be like, to have such a thing for myself? A family not forged of politics or power, but of closeness, warmth, and choice.

 

To sit in the gardens, not as a Targaryen daughter tied to blood and throne, but simply as a woman with someone who cared for her.

 

I should not think on it, yet I do. Perhaps it is foolish, but seeing them together made something ache in me. If Helaena could have this, could I not dream too? A husband, children, a home that was more than stone halls and dragon roars.

 

Duty will demand otherwise, I know. But still, as I stood there, watching them, I could not help the thought that crept into my heart—they look so happy. Could I ever be as happy as they are?

 

(Helaena's pov)

 

The woods were hushed that morning, the canopy overhead filtering sunlight into dappled patterns that danced across the ground. The air smelled of earth and moss, damp with the promise of rain, though the sky above was still clear.

 

I sat before Malachi on the saddle, the leather creaking softly as the horse picked its careful way through the underbrush.

 

A bow rested across my lap, though my fingers traced the polished wood more than gripped it.

 

I knew how to use it, of course — I had learned with my brothers — but today I let myself feign clumsiness, let my movements appear hesitant. There was something curious in letting Malachi believe I needed his guidance.

 

He leaned close, his voice a low murmur by my ear. “Keep your eyes sharp, princess. The woods are alive if you know how to listen.”

 

I did not tell him that I listened always, even to what others could not hear. I merely nodded, my lips curving faintly.

 

A sudden stillness swept the glade ahead, a silence that told me something living and breathing was near.

 

Malachi’s hand brushed mine, steadying the bow as his eyes lit with recognition. “There,” he whispered, pointing.

 

Through the trees, a stag stood, antlers proud, ears twitching at the slightest sound. My breath caught, not at the deer but at the warmth of Malachi’s hand enveloping mine.

 

He guided me gently, patient, his arm firm around me as he angled the bow into position.

 

“Draw back,” he murmured. His voice was steady, but I could feel the quick rhythm of his heart against my back.

 

I let him guide me, though I could have done it alone. The string pressed against my fingers, taut, humming with tension.

 

I tilted my head slightly, and in that moment, our gazes met — his eyes bright, focused, yet softening as they lingered on me.

 

The world seemed to narrow until it was only the two of us, breath mingling in the cool air, the deer forgotten for the span of a heartbeat. My lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. His hand still held mine, steady, grounding me.

 

We lingered there too long, staring. His eyes searched mine as though for something I could not name. Perhaps he already knew.

 

At last, I let the string slip from my fingers. The arrow cut through the silence, swift and sure. The stag gave a startled cry before falling, the forest exhaling around us.

 

A small smile tugged at my lips as I lowered the bow. “It seems your teaching is most effective,” I said softly, though I had aimed true myself.

 

Malachi laughed under his breath, relief and pride mingling in the sound. “Or perhaps you are simply a natural, princess.”

 

I turned slightly in the saddle, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath, close enough to see the faint flush on his cheeks. “Perhaps,” I allowed, though the truth lay elsewhere.

 

The horse shifted beneath us, yet still we lingered in the hush of the woods, our hands brushing even after the bow was lowered.

 

It was not the deer that quickened my pulse, but the man at my back — steady and nervous, bold and gentle all at once.

 

And in that quiet, I realized I did not wish to hunt again, for no quarry could match the strange thrill of this moment.

 

I couldn’t help the smile tugging at my lips as I lowered the bow. The deer lay still now, but my attention lingered only on Malachi’s expression — proud, relieved, and a little flushed. I tilted my head, letting the truth slip out.

 

“I knew how to use a bow and arrow already,” I confessed lightly, my smile widening. “It’s my favorite weapon.”

 

His brows shot up, and then he laughed — a warm, rich sound that filled the quiet woods and made my chest ache in a way I could not name. “Gods, princess,” he said, shaking his head, “I wish I’d known before I spent all that time guiding your hand like a fool.”

 

I laughed with him, the sound bubbling up easier than I expected. “If I had told you, you wouldn’t have leaned so close. I didn’t mind.”

 

That earned me another smile from him — softer this time, almost shy — before he urged the horse onward. We rode for a while, until the sound of rushing water caught my ear.

 

The forest opened, and there before us was a waterfall, tumbling white and frothing into a clear pool below. Sunlight touched the water, making it sparkle like scattered jewels.

 

We dismounted, leaving the stag behind for others to find, and wandered closer. Smooth stones jutted across the shallow end of the pool, leading toward the waterfall itself. Malachi, bold as ever, stepped onto the first one and held out his hand. “Come, princess. Trust me.”

 

I placed my hand in his and followed, careful with each step, though the moss was slick beneath my slippers. The spray from the falls dampened my face, cool and refreshing.

 

For a few moments, I felt steady enough. But then my foot slipped against the slick stone, and I lurched forward with a startled gasp.

 

“Careful!” Malachi said quickly, reaching out to steady me — only for me to grab his wrist and tug him down with me.

We fell into the water with a great splash, the cold shock stealing my breath for a heartbeat. Then laughter spilled out of me, ringing against the stones as I surfaced, pushing wet hair from my eyes.

 

Malachi came up sputtering beside me, wide-eyed, water streaming down his face. “You— you pulled me in!” he accused, though his grin betrayed his delight.

 

I laughed harder, sending little ripples dancing across the pool. “Perhaps you should have trusted me less, ser knight.”

 

Before he could retort, I cupped my hand and splashed water at him. He blinked in surprise, then smirked. “Oh, so that’s how it is?”

 

The next moment, his hands swept the surface, sending a wave of cold water right into my face. I shrieked, half laughing, half scolding, and splashed him back with all the strength I could muster.

 

Soon we were both laughing so hard that our sides ached, the two of us like children again, playing in the pool as though there were no wars, no thrones, no duties pressing at our shoulders.

 

I looked at him through dripping lashes, and my chest tightened at the sight — Malachi, laughing freely, the stern heir of House Strong turned boyish in the water, his eyes bright and alive.

 

For a heartbeat, I forgot everything else. I forgot the voices that haunted me, the weight of dreams and prophecies. There was only this moment, the waterfall’s song, and him.

 

When he caught me by the wrist and tugged me closer, water still dripping from his dark hair, I didn’t pull away. I only smiled, breathless, as his laughter softened into something quieter, something meant for me alone.

 

The candlelight quivered faintly against the vaulted ceiling, their soft glow caught in the silver threads of the tapestries. Somewhere beyond the windows, the night carried the hush of crickets and the faintest hum of wind, a sound like the breathing of the world itself.

 

I sat beside Malachi, close enough that the warmth of his shoulder brushed mine when either of us shifted. For a time, neither of us spoke.

 

We simply sat in the silence, as though the stillness had been made for us alone. The quiet was not heavy, not awkward—no, it was something sacred, a silence that felt like a prayer whispered between two souls.

 

When I tilted my head, I found him already watching me. His expression was not the kind of intensity that burned but the gentler flame that warms, steady and unyielding. My breath caught in my throat. How strange it was, to feel both utterly seen and utterly safe in the same moment.

 

“I could stay like this forever,” I whispered before I could stop myself. My words were soft, like notes slipping from a half-forgotten lullaby.

 

He gave a small, almost incredulous laugh, but there was no jest in his eyes. “So could I,” he murmured, voice roughened at the edges, as if the truth cost him something to admit.

 

Then, more firmly, he said, “Sometimes I wish… I wish I could stop time itself. Freeze this moment, hold it tight, never let it fade.”

 

My heart fluttered as though it were wings pressed against a cage. I wanted to tell him I understood, that I too felt the ache of moments too perfect to last. Instead, I leaned closer, letting my temple rest against his shoulder. His breath stilled for a heartbeat, then released in the quietest sigh, a sound of surrender.

 

The candles flickered. Their light played across his face, carving his features in a thousand shades of gold and shadow.

 

He turned slightly, not enough to break the fragile balance between us, but enough that I could hear his next words as though they were meant only for me.

 

“I have never…” he faltered, then tried again. “I have never wanted so desperately for something to last. Not battles. Not victories. Not even dreams. Only this.”

 

His hand brushed mine—hesitant, reverent—and when our fingers finally twined together, it was not a spark but a stillness, as if the world itself had exhaled and stilled to listen.

 

And for the first time, I thought perhaps he was right. Perhaps if the heavens were kind, they might let this night remain untouched, unbroken, a small eternity carved from fleeting hours.

Chapter Text

(Visenya's Pov)

 

It had been some moons since our wedding, and life on Dragonstone had settled into a strange, heated rhythm. The halls that once felt like cold stone and shadow now thrummed with warmth, laughter, and desire. Daemon and I had carved a world here together—one made of fire, steel, and far too much passion for anyone else’s good.

 

My hand often drifted to my belly, where the child within grew strong and steady. I could feel the life inside me, a reminder with every flutter that my body was not wholly mine anymore. And yet, Daemon—gods, Daemon—seemed to forget that at every turn.

 

He doted on me, yes, in his own wicked way. He would run his hands over my swollen belly, mutter in High Valyrian to the babe, even sharpen his sword while seated at my side as if daring the world itself to challenge me. But more often than not, his mouth found its way where it did not belong.

 

“Daemon,” I hissed one night, pushing at his shoulder as his lips latched greedily at my breast. His silver hair spilled over my chest, his smirk hidden against my skin. “That is not for you.”

 

He looked up, his violet eyes gleaming with the mischief of a man who never once obeyed a rule in his life. “Not for me? Visenya, everything of yours is mine.” His tongue darted over his lower lip, shameless and hungry.

 

I swatted at him, though my face flushed. “It is for the babe, not your insatiable behind.”

 

Daemon only chuckled, low and dark, the sound vibrating against my chest as he refused to pull away. “The babe will share. There is enough of you to go around.”

 

Seven hells, he was impossible. And yet I could not truly be angry with him. My scolding was half-hearted at best, for every time I threatened to push him away, I only found myself dragging him back. His hunger for me was endless, and mine for him no less so.

 

It did not matter the time or the place. In our chambers, at the edge of the dragonpit, even once in the gods-forsaken library where the candle flames flickered in shock—we would come together, bodies tangled, breathless and burning. The stones of Dragonstone had become our witnesses, each wall and hall carrying echoes of our moans and whispers.

 

I often caught myself laughing after, flushed and disheveled, scolding him even as I lay wrapped in his arms. “You are shameless, husband. What if the servants hear?”

 

“They already have,” he would reply with a grin sharp enough to make me weak. “Let them. Let them know you are mine.”

 

And though I pretended to sigh in exasperation, the truth was I loved it. I loved the way he could not control himself around me, the way his hands shook if I pulled away for too long, the way his eyes burned brighter than dragonfire when they fell upon me.

 

Yet still, I worried for the child. When he suckled at me like a starving man, when he whispered that my body belonged to him first and always, I had to remind him—remind myself—that another life depended on me now.

 

One morning, after another of his indulgences, I pressed my palm against his cheek, forcing him to look at me. “You must learn restraint, Daemon. This milk is not yours to claim.”

 

He only kissed my hand, his smile infuriatingly tender. “I will not deny myself what is mine. Not now, not ever.”

 

Gods help me, I melted anyway. Because beneath his hunger was love, fierce and consuming, the kind that bound me to him as surely as dragon to rider. And though I scolded him, though I told myself he was too reckless, too selfish, I knew the truth.

 

I would let him have me a thousand times over, in every room, in every way, because he was mine just as much as I was his.

 

And if the babe inside me kicked at the sound of his voice, well…perhaps it already knew what kind of father it would have.

 

The pregnancy had turned me into a storm. One moment I was calm as the sea at dawn, the next I was roaring like Balerion in the sky. I could not help it. My body, my mind, my heart—they were no longer my own.

 

Daemon bore the brunt of it, of course. Who else would dare?

 

It began with small things: the way he breathed too loudly when sharpening his sword, or how he smirked at me from across the chamber as though my temper amused him. Gods, it did amuse him, and that only made it worse.

 

“Stop looking at me like that!” I snapped one afternoon, throwing a pillow at his head. He dodged it easily, his grin widening.

 

“Like what, wife?”

 

“Like I am some amusing creature to you!”

 

He spread his arms as if to show his innocence, though the sparkle in his eyes betrayed him. “But you are amusing, Visenya. My fiery little storm.”

 

I nearly hurled my goblet at him then, though I thought better of it. Wine stains were far too difficult to wash out of the tapestries. Instead, I scowled and turned away, muttering curses under my breath.

 

And yet not a moment later, when he came to sit beside me, when his arm slid around my waist and his lips pressed against my temple, all my fury melted like snow in the sun. I leaned into him with a sigh, clutching at his tunic.

 

“Do not ever leave me,” I whispered, softer than I intended.
“I could not, even if I tried,” he replied, and I believed him.

 

But then, as swiftly as tenderness came, insecurity followed. That evening, I stood before the looking glass, hands on the swell of my belly, my cheeks damp with frustrated tears.

 

“Look at me,” I muttered. “I am fat. Disgusting.”

 

Daemon lifted his head from the bed, where he lounged like a king without a care in the world. “You are carrying our child,” he said. “You are beautiful.”

 

“Beautiful? I look like I’ve swallowed a bloody watermelon!” I shouted, throwing my hairbrush at him. He caught it mid-air, laughing.

 

“You are only angry because I made you this way,” I accused, pointing at him with fury. “This is your fault, Daemon Targaryen! You put this child in me, and now I am fat, swollen, and cross as a bear!”

 

“And still you are the most desirable creature I have ever seen,” he said, his voice low, hungry, utterly maddening.

 

The worst part? I wanted to believe him. My cheeks burned, my chest heaved, and even as I glared at him, heat coiled in my belly.

 

“Gods, you infuriate me,” I muttered, storming toward him. He smirked as though he knew precisely where this was headed.

 

“Do I?”

 

“Yes,” I growled, pushing him back onto the bed. “And now you will pay for it.”

 

He let me climb astride him, his hands settling on my hips with that possessive grip I both loathed and craved. My anger burned away into something else—something hotter, needier. I ground down against him, tearing at the ties of his shirt.

 

I had never felt so desperate, so insatiable. One moment I was cursing him, the next I was forcing him to lie still while I took what I wanted. My body screamed for release, and he was the only one who could give it.

 

“You will not move,” I ordered, breathless as I sank onto him, my nails digging into his chest. “This time I am in control.”

 

His laugh was hoarse, choked by pleasure. “As you command, my lady.”

 

I rode him hard, faster than I should have in my state, but I could not stop. Every thrust was a mix of fury and hunger, every gasp a curse and a prayer. Daemon only groaned beneath me, his hands clutching tighter as though he might lose his mind entirely.

 

When at last the storm broke, I collapsed against his chest, trembling and flushed, tears stinging my eyes for no reason at all.

 

“Do not look at me,” I whispered, half-shamed, half-sated.
He stroked my hair, kissing the crown of my head. “I will always look at you,” he murmured. “Through every storm, every flame, every madness. You are mine, Visenya. Mine.”

 

And though I wanted to scold him again, though I wanted to remind him that this was all his fault, I could only cling to him and whisper the truth that burned in my heart.

 

“I am yours.”

---

I had always been quick to temper, but the pregnancy had turned me into something else entirely. A wildfire, barely contained. I could not decide if I wanted to cry, throw goblets, or kiss Daemon senseless—oftentimes, I wished to do all three at once.

 

And the worst part? Everyone seemed determined to test me.

 

When Father, Mother, Helaena, and Daeron came to visit Dragonstone, the halls filled with laughter and chatter, servants scurrying about to please them. I should have been happy, but instead I bristled at every word, every look.

 

Viserys kissed my brow and called me “his sweet daughter.” I nearly wept at that, clinging to him as though he might vanish. Then, in the very next breath, I turned and snapped at a poor servant for spilling a drop of wine on the floor.

 

Daemon swept in before I could throw my goblet at the boy, catching my wrist and whispering in my ear, “Not here, my love. Save it for me later.” His smirk was infuriating, but it stopped me from launching into a tirade.

 

But it was Jacaerys that roused my ire the most. Gods, how I loathed him. The smug little heir with his practiced smile and those Velaryon curls. It felt as though every time he opened his mouth, it was to mock me—even when he spoke plain.

 

One afternoon, Aemma had brought him along for a meal in the great hall. He sat across from me, speaking sweetly to her, his hand brushing hers beneath the table. I saw it and my blood boiled.

 

“Careful, Aemma,” I said, my voice sharp as a dagger. “Hold his hand too long and you may catch his bastardy.”

 

The hall went still. Aemma blinked in shock, and Jacaerys’ jaw tightened, his cheeks flushing red.

 

Daemon’s hand slid over mine, squeezing hard enough to warn me. “Visenya,” he said softly, almost in a growl. “Enough.”

 

But I was not finished. My tongue itched with venom. “What is it, Cousin? Can you not defend yourself without running to your mother’s skirts? Or will you have your grandsire do it for you?”

 

Jacaerys stood half from his chair, his face twisted in anger, but Aemma tugged at his sleeve, whispering for him to sit. I smirked, pleased with myself.

 

That smirk lasted until Daemon’s hand clamped around my thigh under the table. He leaned in close, whispering so only I could hear. “If you throw another word, I’ll put you over my knee before supper’s end.”

 

Heat shot through me, both fury and something darker. I bit back another insult, though it nearly tore me in two.

 

Later, when we gathered in the solar, I could not resist. Jacaerys boasted of his training at arms, how he was teaching Lucerys new maneuvers. I snorted loud enough to cut him off.

 

“You teaching swordplay? That is like a fish teaching a bird how to fly. Perhaps next you’ll tell us you are a dragon yourself, instead of playing at it.”

 

Daemon caught the candlestick just as I hurled it across the table, his reflexes saving Jacaerys’ smug face from being bloodied. He set it down with a sigh, rubbing his temple.

 

“Gods preserve me,” he muttered. Then louder: “Wife. Enough.”

 

But the others were already staring. Viserys frowned, Alicent pursed her lips, and poor Helaena hid her laughter behind her hand. Daeron tried to smother a grin, as though he found me entertaining.

 

“I will not be silenced in my own hall!” I snapped, rising to my feet.

 

Daemon rose too, catching me by the waist before I could launch myself at Jacaerys. His arms were iron around me, his mouth at my ear. “Visenya, if you keep this up, I will carry you to our chambers before them all.”

 

I thrashed in his hold for a moment before slumping against him, seething. His smirk told me he knew he had won—for now.

 

When the guests finally departed that evening, Daemon led me to our chambers with a grip firm enough to make me blush. “You are going to be the death of me,” he said, half laughing, half scolding.

 

“Then perhaps you should not have made me fat and mad with child,” I snapped.

 

“And yet,” he purred, tilting my chin up, “you are more glorious than ever.”

 

I hated him for saying it. Hated how it made my heart skip, hated how it softened my rage into need. I kissed him then, hard enough to bruise, and thought—perhaps Jacaerys was not the only one I wished to conquer.

---

(Aemma's Pov)

 

Driftmark smelled always of salt and storms. The waves struck hard against the cliffs below, spray catching the light like shattered glass, while gulls wheeled overhead and screamed their endless cries. I found the sound both lonely and comforting.

 

Princess Rhaenyra’s household bustled with life. Rhaena and Baela spent their mornings sparring in the yard, their laughter loud enough to reach every window. Lord Corlys stood with hands folded behind his back, pride gleaming in his eyes, while Lady Rhaenys pretended to scold them but never truly hid her approval. Lucerys scampered after them like a pup, always a beat behind.

 

And Jacaerys… Jace was different. He was always near me, steady as the tide. He teased, yes—he had a clever tongue and knew it—but he studied with me, listened to me, even walked with me along Driftmark’s stony shores as if I were not a stranger at all. He felt like warmth in a place I should have felt cold.

 

But in the quiet moments, when my laughter faded, my thoughts drifted to Dragonstone. To her.

 

To Visenya.

 

She and I were sisters, bound by blood and fire and all the ways sisters could wound one another. She was carrying Daemon’s child, swelling with a life she had claimed as her own, and though I told myself I did not care, the truth was I thought of her every night before sleep. I thought of her sharp voice, her cruel smirk, the way she always knew how to make me furious. Gods, I missed her.

 

So I wrote.

 

The sea wind tugged at my hair as I bent over parchment in Rhaenys’s solar, the smell of salt mixing with the ink.

 

How are you and the babe? Tell me truly. If you lie, I will know. I would claw my way across the Narrow Sea just to hear you curse at me in person again. And since I cannot, I’ll settle for this instead: go fuck yourself.

 

I smirked as I sealed it. The only way I could ever tell her I missed her was with an insult. She would know what I meant.

 

When her reply came days later, I snatched it from the servant before anyone else could see. I unfolded the parchment with greedy fingers.

 

Her writing was hurried, bold, sharp as her tongue.

 

We are good. The babe is strong, already kicking like Daemon himself. I am round as a boar and quick to fury, but it pleases him somehow. As for your message—Daemon says, “You too.”

 

I laughed before I could stop myself, biting the inside of my cheek to smother it. The ache that filled my chest was ridiculous. I hated her, I loved her, I wanted to strangle her, I wanted to hold her hand. That was Visenya. That was us.

 

Jacaerys appeared at my side then, holding out a seashell he had plucked from the strand below. “You’re smiling,” he said curiously. “What’s in that letter to make you grin so?”

 

I folded the parchment quickly, tucking it beneath my sleeve. “Only that my sister is still alive, and still as sharp-tongued as ever.”

 

He tilted his head, studying me as though he could see straight through me. His hand lingered, offering the shell, waiting. I took it, even though my fingers trembled.

 

But no seashell, no letter, no warm smile from Jacaerys could loosen the tether that bound me to Visenya. She was my sister, my curse, my heart. No distance—not even the sea between Driftmark and Dragonstone—could sever that.

---

 

( Helaena's Pov)

 

The air at Harrenhal was heavy with stories. Some said the stones were cursed, others that the very walls remembered fire and blood. To me, though, it was simply quiet—quiet in a way King’s Landing had never been. Perhaps that was why I found myself breathing easier, my thoughts clearer, even when they still ran down strange, winding paths no one else seemed to follow.

 

Malachi had insisted I should enjoy myself here, and he meant it. We spent the mornings riding through the rolling fields that stretched beyond the ruin’s shadow. My mare, a dapple-grey creature with quick feet, was not nearly as fast as his stallion, but Malachi always slowed to keep pace with me. When the wind tangled my hair and the grass blurred beneath us, I felt—just for a moment—like I could be nothing more than a girl, not a daughter of kings.

 

Sometimes, though, I left the horses behind for Dreamfyre. She loved the skies above Harrenhal, wide and open, no narrow streets or looming Red Keep to hem her in. I would climb into her saddle, and Malachi would stand far below, his head tipped back, one hand shading his eyes as he followed our flight. I always wondered what he thought in those moments—did he see me as a dragonrider, fierce and untouchable, or simply as Helaena, who tripped over words and preferred bugs to jewels?

 

Archery was different. Archery was mine. With a bow in my hands, the world sharpened. Malachi would lean against the fence, arms folded, watching me loose arrow after arrow into the straw target. His eyes followed not the arrows, but me, his gaze warm, almost reverent. Sometimes I missed the target on purpose, just to see the way his brow furrowed, as if he wanted to rush forward and steady my hands, though he never did.

 

Afterward, when sweat dampened my hair and my arms ached, I would talk to him about the things that truly mattered: beetles, moths, ants, bees. “Did you know,” I told him once, “that certain beetles roll dung twice their own size across miles of land, following the line of the moon? And if you take them away from the moonlight, they become lost. It is as though the heavens themselves are their compass.”

 

He laughed softly, but not cruelly, never cruelly. His smile was patient, his eyes gentle. “You could talk of beetles all day, Helaena, and I would not mind. Your voice is better than any song.”

 

I flushed and looked away, pretending to adjust my quiver. No one else ever listened so intently. At court, my words were brushed aside, my curiosities mocked. But here, Malachi listened, truly listened, as though my thoughts were jewels worth keeping.

 

When the evenings came, I wrote letters. My hand cramped from the effort, for I always wrote too much.

 

To Visenya, my wild sister, I wrote of my rides on Dreamfyre, how the air smelled of freedom here. I told her I knew of her temper, and though I scolded her gently, I reminded her she was not alone. Your child will grow strong, like you, I penned. Even when you think yourself cruel, you are not. You are fire, and fire makes life as much as it destroys.

 

To Aemma, I wrote of Malachi’s kindness, when riding Dreamfyre a memory lingered in my mind of riding our dragons together . Do not let Jacaerys trouble you too much, I teased, knowing well she blushed when his name was spoken. I expect a letter from you, and if it does not come, I shall send you a jar of beetles to remind you of your neglect.

 

To Daeron, my youngest brother, I wrote differently. My words to him were softer, protective. You are away in Oldtown, surrounded by Hightowers and their whispers. Remember that you are Targaryen still, a dragon through and through. I miss you. Do not forget me.

 

By candlelight, I sealed each letter with wax, humming softly under my breath. Malachi sometimes sat across the table, sharpening a blade or mending tack, but always close enough that I felt the weight of his presence.

 

In Harrenhal’s ruined halls, with ash-blackened stone surrounding me, I found something unexpected: not fear, but peace. With my dragon above, my bow in hand, my bugs in thought, and Malachi watching me with eyes full of quiet devotion, I almost believed I could stay here forever.

---

 

The first letter to return was from Aemma. It arrived tied with a blue ribbon, the wax seal pressed slightly uneven, as though she had been in too much of a hurry to get her thoughts onto parchment. I read it by the window, Dreamfyre curled below in the yard, her scales shimmering in the afternoon light.

 

"Dearest Helaena," it began. "You always make me laugh. I nearly dropped your letter into the sea when I read about sending me a jar of beetles. I would never forgive you if you did! Driftmark is beautiful this time of year—the sea is wild, the air sharp. Jace insists on dragging me to fly with him, but I do not mind it as much as I used to. He says the wind clears the head. I think he means it clears mine, for he already spends too much time in the sky. You needn’t worry about me, sister. I am well, though I miss you dearly. Write again soon, and tell me more about this Malachi who looks at you as though the sun itself lives in your hair. I will expect all the details."

 

I pressed the letter to my chest, smiling, hearing Aemma’s voice in every word, her gentle teasing about Malachi, her fondness for Jace bleeding through every line even when she tried to mask it. She was in love, though she might not yet admit it, even to herself.

 

The second letter bore no ribbon, only a smudge of ink across the corner where the writer’s hand had slipped. That was Visenya’s way—impatience bleeding even into her penmanship.

 

"Helaena," it read, the letters bold, sprawling. "You tell me not to be cruel, but you forget that cruelty is sometimes the only language people understand. Do you think Rhaenyra would not tear me apart if she had the chance? Do you think the court does not already whisper that I am Daemon’s puppet, his little conquest? Let them. I would rather be fire and feared than soft and forgotten. Still, I will not lie—it is different when I feel the baby stir. It is as if the world shifts for a moment, and I remember what it is to care. Daemon fusses too much, drinks too much, and loves me with a hunger that could swallow us both whole. I cannot decide whether to scold him or cling to him tighter. As for you, little dreamer—keep writing. I would rather your words than the simpering of ladies who bow their heads and whisper like sparrows. And tell Malachi if he breaks your heart, I will cut him down myself."

 

I laughed despite myself, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. Visenya was unyielding, fierce, so sure of herself—and yet, I could feel her fear tucked into those lines. She did not admit it, but I knew her well enough to see it. She was softer than she believed, and her child would show her that truth whether she wanted it or not.

 

The last letter came from Daeron. His handwriting was neat, each letter precise, as though he feared a single blot would bring shame upon him. It was the sort of care only the very young—or the very lonely—took when writing.

 

"Sister," it began simply. "Your letter reached me in Oldtown. It has been months since I felt truly seen, and you did that with your words. The Hightowers are kind enough, but their kindness is not without purpose. I feel always as though I am being measured, weighed, tested for something I cannot yet see. I miss you. I miss Mother, even when she does not hear me, and I miss Visenya’s sharp tongue and Aemma’s gentleness. You told me not to forget I am Targaryen. I will not. Sometimes I whisper our house words to myself when I walk alone through the gardens: Fire and Blood. They remind me of who I am. Dreamfyre must be radiant in Harrenhal’s skies. One day I will see her fly again, and perhaps Sunfyre too, if I am lucky. Write to me again. Your words are my anchor."

 

I read his letter three times over, my heart aching. My little brother, far away, already burdened with more than he deserved. I wished I could pluck him from Oldtown’s grasp, bring him here, let him ride at my side and laugh again without fear of who might be watching.

 

That evening, I sat at my desk with quill in hand, Malachi nearby mending tack again, though he watched me more than his work. The candlelight flickered, and I dipped my pen, ready to answer.

 

To Aemma, I promised to describe Malachi in detail, though my cheeks burned at the thought of her teasing. To Visenya, I wrote that her child would one day be her undoing in the best way, and that she was not fire alone but fire and warmth, though she might deny it. To Daeron, I vowed that I would write every week, no matter what, until his loneliness lessened.

 

When at last I sealed the letters, I sat back, closing my eyes. Harrenhal might have been cursed, but for me, it had become a place of connection—strings of love and longing stretched across kingdoms, binding us all together even when we were apart.

 

And in the quiet, with Malachi humming softly under his breath, I thought to myself: perhaps this is what home is meant to feel like.

Chapter Text

(Visenya's Pov)

 

I drifted into a strange, heavy sleep that night, the kind where the air feels thick and the shadows cling. In my dream, he came to me—Maegor the Cruel. He stood tall, broad as a mountain, a sword clutched in his hand, the Iron Throne burning behind him.

 

His eyes glowed like embers, his voice echoing deep into my bones. “Strength is what holds crowns, child. Weakness is death. Remember my name.”

 

I jolted awake in the darkness, sweat clinging to my skin, my heart thundering. Daemon’s arm was draped lazily across my waist, his breathing slow, but I could not return to sleep. The name haunted me, circling in my head like a dragon in the sky. Maegor.

 

By morning, I had decided.

 

When Daemon was stretching beside me, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, I propped myself up on my elbow and announced, “I want to name our son Maegor.”

 

His hand froze mid-motion. “What?”

 

“Maegor,” I repeated, sitting up straighter, heat rising in my chest. “It is strong. A name fit for the son of Daemon Targaryen. He was the most powerful king—Visenya the Conqueror’s son.” I said it proudly, as though daring him to disagree.

 

Daemon’s lips quirked, though not with amusement. He gave me that look, the one that meant I was testing him. “Little dragon, you know as well as I do your father despises that name. If you insist, he’ll grow more paranoid than he already is. Naming our boy after Maegor? When your name is Visenya? You’ll have him thinking we mean to build a second dynasty out of fire and rebellion.”

 

I pouted, jutting out my lip, twirling a strand of hair around my finger like a stubborn child though my blood ran hot with purpose. “Why not? Maegor was strength. He was fear, yes, but fear commands respect. Let them whisper it behind their hands—Maegor Targaryen, son of Daemon Targaryen and Visenya Targaryen. Tell me it does not sound like thunder.”

 

Daemon groaned, dragging a hand down his face, though I saw the smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Seven hells, Visenya, you’ll drive me to madness.”

 

I leaned into him, my eyes bright. “Please,” I murmured, pressing my lips against his cheek, then the corner of his mouth. “Say yes, Daemon. Say it for me.”

 

His sigh rumbled against my skin as he turned his face fully to mine, capturing my lips in a kiss that was meant to silence me. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against mine, his violet eyes dark with indulgence. “Fine,” he said at last. “You can have your Maegor.”

 

Triumph surged through me, and before he could draw another breath, I kissed him again—harder this time, hungrier. His hands found my waist, but I did not let him take control. No, this was mine. I pushed him back toward the bed, climbing over him, my hair tumbling around us like a curtain of silver.

 

“Visenya—” he began, but I swallowed his words with another kiss, grinding my hips against him until his growl rumbled through his chest. The smirk returned to his lips, but he let me take him, let me command him.

 

I whispered against his mouth, “Our son will be Maegor, and he will be strong. Stronger than any who came before him.”

 

Daemon’s laughter was low and rough, his hands gripping me tighter as I rocked against him. “Gods, you’re so beautiful,” he muttered, though his eyes burned with the same hunger that devoured me.

 

And so I rode him, the rest of the day lost to sweat and fire, my name and Maegor’s echoing in my head like a promise carved into stone.

 

( A month later)

 

It was an ordinary day. I sat curled against the cushions, a heavy tome spread across my lap. My eyes traced the lines of ink, though truly I could hardly concentrate with the weight of my belly pressing against my lungs.

 

I shifted with a huff, muttering under my breath. Then—suddenly—the sharpest pain lanced through me. My whole body stiffened, the book tumbling to the floor.

 

“Daemon!” I gasped, clutching my swollen stomach as another wave hit me, harder, sharper. “Daemon! I think—ahhh—the baby is coming!”

 

The door slammed open almost before I finished. Daemon’s face, usually so controlled, paled in an instant. He rushed to me, dropping to his knees, hands hovering as though afraid to touch. “Seven hells—Visenya, breathe. I’ll call the maesters.” His voice shook. He never let his voice shake.

 

Within moments, the chamber filled with the wet nurses, maesters, and attendants. They guided me onto the birthing bed, though I cursed and snapped at them all the while. My body felt like it was being split in two, every muscle straining beyond reason.

 

I clutched Daemon’s hand so tightly I was sure I might break his fingers. “This is your fault, you bloody bastard!” I screamed at him. Another contraction tore through me, and I nearly crushed his hand in mine. “You did this to me—oh, gods—I hate you!”

 

Daemon grimaced but didn’t let go. He wiped the sweat from my brow with his free hand, voice low and soothing though his knuckles had gone white. “Curse me all you want, sweetling. Just…hold on. You’re strong. Stronger than any dragon.”

 

The wet nurses pressed me to push, their voices layering over each other. “Breathe, princess—again, push—hold, hold—”

 

“Shut up!” I snarled at them, my hair plastered to my damp face. “All of you—shut your mouths before I—ahhh—before I burn this damned castle down!”

 

Daemon leaned close, whispering against my temple. “Almost there. Almost, Visenya. I can see his head.”

 

His words rang strange—his head. It was a boy. That thought cut through the haze for the briefest heartbeat before the next wave of pain dragged me under. I screamed, the sound raw enough to shred my throat, and bore down with every shred of strength left in me.At last—a shrill cry split the air.

 

The maester lifted him high for us to see, bloodied and squalling, his tiny limbs flailing. “A boy!” he announced. “A healthy boy!”

 

Relief crashed through me like a tidal wave, though my whole body trembled with exhaustion. Tears pricked my eyes unbidden. My boy. My son.

 

They cleaned him quickly and placed him into my arms. I stared down at him, hardly able to breathe. His skin was flushed, his silver hair already damp and curling against his tiny head. He was perfect.

 

Daemon’s arm circled around me from behind, his cheek pressed to my damp hair as he looked over my shoulder. His voice was hoarse. “Our son.”

 

I turned my head just enough to glare weakly at him. “You’re still the reason I’m fat and near broken.”

 

He chuckled softly, pressing a kiss to my temple, uncaring of the sweat clinging to me. “Aye. And you can curse me for it every day, so long as I can curse you back for giving me something this precious.”

 

I looked down at the babe again, his cries softening as he nuzzled against my breast. My heart clenched painfully, fiercely. He was mine—ours. And though I had cursed every moment, I knew I would do it all again for him.

---

(Helaena's Pov)

 

The sea winds greeted us first as we climbed the stone steps of Dragonstone, and I could not help but glance at Malachi beside me. His dark hair had been whipped wild by the salt air, but his eyes never wavered from the looming towers.

 

He looked at everything with wonder, as though he had stepped into the heart of a tale. My own heart beat strangely fast. It was not the first time I had come here, yet the knowledge that a child awaited us within — my sister’s first child — made each step feel heavier, charged with something sacred.

 

Daemon met us at the threshold. His smile was sharp, but not unkind, and he drew my father into an embrace that startled me in its warmth.

 

“Congratulations,” Father said, his voice carrying more strength than I had heard from him in months. Perhaps it was the joy of a grandson that lifted him.

 

Daemon clapped his shoulder with genuine pride. “You should say that to Visenya,” he answered, his voice low, edged with satisfaction. “She was the one who gave birth to my son.”

 

I saw Father’s lips twitch, half amusement, half unease, before he nodded in agreement. His gaze softened, if only for a moment.

 

Mother, however, was colder. She stepped forward, her gown trailing against the dark stones, her eyes sharp as steel. “Where is my daughter?” she asked Daemon, her tone clipped, as though she were scolding rather than inquiring.

 

Daemon’s smile tightened. “Inside,” he said smoothly, a touch too smooth. “She rests with the boy.”

 

Mother did not thank him, nor did she look relieved. She merely inclined her head and swept past him into the halls, her skirts whispering like blades against the floor.
.

I hesitated, caught between them all. The air between Daemon and Mother was thick, sparking with something unspoken, something dangerous. But I did not linger long. I turned to Daemon, tilting my head with a small smile.

 

“Congratulations, Daemon,” I said softly.

 

His sharp eyes landed on me, assessing, weighing. For a heartbeat I feared he might brush me aside, but instead he gave a short nod, almost respectful.

 

I glanced to Malachi, who bowed with earnest reverence, his hand brushing the hilt of his sword as if to say I come in peace. Daemon’s mouth quirked, a ghost of a smirk, and I knew he had already measured Malachi — and found him harmless.

 

So I followed my mother inside, Malachi a step behind me. The corridors of Dragonstone were familiar, yet they felt different today, filled with the hum of expectation, the scent of herbs and new linens. Somewhere above us, my sister lay with her child. My heart leapt at the thought — Visenya, fierce as storm winds, now cradling a fragile life.

 

Would she be softened by him, or would she raise him to match her fire? I could not yet tell.

 

Malachi leaned closer, his voice a murmur meant only for me. “You seem nervous, my lady.”

 

I smiled faintly, pressing a hand against my skirts to still them. “Not nervous,” I whispered. “Only curious. I wonder what sort of mother my sister will be.”

 

We walked on, deeper into the fortress, toward the chambers where my mother’s sharp footsteps had already gone ahead.

 

Visenya’s chambers were filled with the soft golden glow of firelight when I stepped inside behind Mother. The air smelled of herbs and milk, a sweetness that clung to the air.

 

My sister sat propped against cushions of crimson and black, her silver hair falling loose about her shoulders, her cheeks flushed from both exhaustion and pride. In her arms, swaddled in fine cloth, lay the boy — the newest dragon of our blood.

 

Mother stopped in her tracks. The cold mask she had worn at the door, the stiff tone she had used with Daemon, melted away in an instant. Her lips parted, her eyes softening as though she had been struck. I had not seen that look on her face in years — something unguarded, something tender.

 

“Mother,” Visenya said, her voice bright with both weariness and triumph. “Would you like to meet your grandson?”

 

Alicent’s hands trembled slightly, though she tried to hide it by clasping them together. “May I…hold him?” she asked, almost timidly.

 

Visenya smiled, a rare, gentle smile, and carefully placed the bundle into her arms. Mother sat on the edge of the bed, cradling the child as if the world had gone still around her.

 

Her lips brushed the babe’s brow, and she let out a quiet, almost inaudible laugh — a sound I had not heard since we were children.

 

“He is…beautiful,” Mother whispered.

 

Visenya’s sharp edges softened as she watched. For all her fire, for all her temper, she seemed in that moment nothing but a daughter, pleased to have won her mother’s approval.

 

I lingered near the foot of the bed, my eyes drawn not to Mother but to my sister. I had seen her through so many moods, so many storms of fury and passion. But now she was radiant, alight with something new, something that made my chest ache.

 

When she looked up and caught my gaze, her lips curved. She shifted carefully, rising from the pillows, and crossed to me despite my protests for her to rest. Her arms came around me suddenly, fiercely, and I felt her heart beating fast against my shoulder.

 

“You were right,” she whispered in my ear, her breath warm. “Like always.”

 

I blinked, a smile tugging at my lips. “I know,” I whispered back, the words slipping out naturally. They made her laugh softly, her body trembling against mine.

 

I pulled back enough to look at her, brushing a strand of hair from her flushed cheek. “He will be strong,” I said quietly. “Not only because of Daemon, but because of you. And he will be loved.”

 

Her eyes glistened, though she tried to hide it with another small laugh. “Loved, yes. Though I fear he will know his mother’s temper too well.”

 

“Then he will need his aunt,” I teased gently, “to teach him patience.”

 

Malachi shifted near the doorway, watching quietly, and when my eyes flicked to him, he smiled softly, as though he were proud of me for knowing exactly what to say.

 

Behind us, Mother murmured to the baby again, her lips brushing his hair, her face unguarded in a way that stunned me.

 

For a fleeting moment, it was as if she had forgotten all her grievances, all the battles fought in whispers and glares. There was only her, her daughter, and her grandson — and the bond between us that had, despite all storms, endured.

---

(Aemma's Pov)

 

The journey to Dragonstone had been long, the sea winds tugging at my braids until my scalp ached. But nothing prepared me for the sight of Daemon waiting at the landing, his posture proud, his face alight with something almost…soft. I had not seen him so softened since before he wed my sister.

 

Rhaenyra dismounted first, her heavy skirts brushing the stones as she approached him.

 

“Congratulations, uncle,” she said warmly enough, though her eyes flickered with the guarded sharpness that always came when dealing with him.

 

Daemon’s lips curled into a wolfish smile. “Thank you, princess. But truly—you should say it to my wife. Visenya deserves all the credit.”

 

I caught it—the faint twitch at Rhaenyra’s brow, the way her mouth pressed a little tighter. She inclined her head, but her eyes did not shine.

 

I stepped forward, my arms crossed, and glared at him. “I would say congratulations, but Visenya did all of the work. So, I’ll save my words for her.”

 

His smirk widened, as if my jab pleased him, though I swept past before he could answer. The stone halls of Dragonstone were cooler than the sun outside, shadows flickering from the torches lining the walls. I beckoned a servant. “Take me to my sister,” I demanded, my voice sharper than intended.

 

The servant bowed quickly and led me to Visenya’s chambers. My heart beat faster as the heavy doors swung open.

 

The chamber was hushed, golden firelight spilling across crimson hangings. Mother sat in a chair with the babe in her arms, gazing down at him as though the world beyond that tiny face did not exist.

 

Father stood behind her, one hand on her shoulder, his face unreadable yet softer than usual. Daeron sat nearby, looking both restless and awkward, his long fingers tapping against his knee.

 

And then—Visenya.

 

My sister looked up at me, her face pale with exhaustion but bright with a rare and startling smile. Before I could say a word, she rose carefully from her pillows and came to me. Then—unexpectedly—she wrapped her arms around me.

 

I froze. Visenya was not one for embraces, not unless she wanted something or meant to mock. But this…this was different.
felt her trembling slightly, her warmth pressing close, and when I pulled back, I saw her eyes glistening with something that looked dangerously close to joy.

 

“Aemma,” she said softly, her smile still in place. “Do you want to hold him?”

 

I blinked. “Me?”

 

“Of course,” she said, as though it were the simplest thing in the world. “He is your nephew.”

 

I nodded, my throat tight, and moved closer. Mother looked reluctant to let go of him, but at Visenya’s nod, she carefully placed the bundle into my arms.

 

He was so small. Smaller than I had imagined. His tiny fists clenched and unclenched, his silver hair glimmering in the firelight, his mouth forming little shapes as he shifted in his swaddle. I felt an odd pull in my chest, a tenderness I hadn’t expected.

 

“He’s…” I struggled for words, swallowing the lump in my throat. “He’s perfect.”

 

Visenya smiled again, softer this time. “I know.”

 

Her words made me laugh, and I leaned down, brushing my lips against the baby’s forehead. His skin was warm, soft as silk. For once, all the noise of our family — the sharp edges, the rivalries, the endless politics — seemed to fade away. For once, there was only this: my sister, her child, and the fragile peace of this moment.

---

(Visenya's Pov)

 

The chamber door creaked open again, and when I lifted my head from where I reclined against the pillows, my breath caught in delight. Baela and Rhaena slipped inside, skirts whispering across the stone floor, their faces bright as the morning sun.

 

“Baela! Rhaena!” I exclaimed, my voice lifting with more joy than I had shown anyone else that day. I pushed myself up from the cushions, ignoring the slight ache in my body, and rushed forward as quickly as my sore frame allowed.

 

I pulled them both into my arms, hugging them tightly, breathing in the familiar scents of home and salt air that clung to them.

 

“I have missed you both so much,” I murmured into their hair, my throat tight with emotion.

 

Baela chuckled softly when I finally drew back. “We should be the ones asking how you have been, not the other way around.” Her sharp eyes flicked over me, no doubt taking in the paleness of my skin, the lingering tiredness in my body, the faint shadow of pain still tucked in the corners of my eyes.

 

I laughed, waving her concern away with a flick of my hand. “I am fine. Better than fine. Look.” I turned, glancing toward the cradle and then to Aemma, who still cradled my son in her arms. “Do you want to hold your brother?”

 

Rhaena’s face lit up like a lantern. “Truly? May I?” she asked, her voice high with excitement.

 

“Of course,” I said warmly. “He is your family too.”

 

I nodded to Aemma, and she moved carefully, gently transferring the tiny bundle into Rhaena’s waiting arms.

 

Rhaena held him with the kind of delicate care that made my heart swell—her hands trembling just slightly, her eyes wide with awe.

 

Rhaena gasped softly as she looked down at him. “He’s so small,” she whispered, her smile spreading across her face. “So soft and warm…he looks like you, Visenya.”

 

I felt my chest tighten with pride and affection. “He doesn’t! He looks just like his father. Unfortunately!” I said, though my gaze flickered toward Daemon for just a heartbeat—I could see his features too, in the set of the tiny nose, in the shape of the mouth.

 

Baela leaned over her twin’s shoulder, her curls brushing against the baby’s blanket as she peered down at him. She didn’t reach to touch, not yet, but her stare lingered, deep and intent.

 

I caught something unspoken in her expression—curiosity, yes, but also a strange protectiveness, as though she were already judging the world unworthy of him.

 

“He’s strong,” Baela said softly after a long silence, her voice almost reverent. “I can see it already. He’ll grow fierce.”

 

I laughed quietly, brushing my hair back from my damp forehead. “He will, if I have anything to say about it.”

 

Baela glanced at me, her mouth twitching into a smirk. “And if you don’t get some rest, sister, he’ll have no mother left to raise him.”

 

I rolled my eyes, waving her words away. “I’ve rested enough. Do not worry for me, Baela. I am stronger than I look.”

 

But the truth was, I felt lighter than I had in weeks—perhaps months. Seeing them there, my sisters gathered close, my son safe in Rhaena’s arms, Baela watching over him with her sharp gaze, Aemma hovering protectively nearby—it filled me with a happiness I could not put to words.

 

For the first time, Dragonstone felt like more than stone walls and flickering fires.

 

For the first time, it felt like home.

 

The chamber was full now—too full, in truth. The air was thick with bodies, voices, the faint crackle of fire in the hearth. My son had already made his rounds, passed tenderly from Aemma to Rhaena, and now rested in Baela’s steady arms, his silver hair catching the light like spun moonlight.

 

Daemon stood at my side, a proud smirk tugging at his lips as though he had conquered a kingdom rather than simply fathered a child.

 

I cleared my throat, and the hum of chatter quieted. All eyes shifted to me and Daemon, expectant. A hush settled over the room.

 

“We have chosen a name for our son,” Daemon announced, his voice carrying with a certain weight that silenced even the whispers in the corners. He turned to me, giving me the floor with a flourish of his hand.

 

I straightened my spine, pride surging in my chest. “We are naming him—Maegor.”

 

The word rang out like a blade unsheathed.

 

For a heartbeat, nothing. No cough, no shifting footstep, not even the crack of the fire. Just silence—thick, heavy, suffocating silence.

 

My father’s face tightened first. His lips parted, and I could see the words forming, the objection sitting ready on his tongue. But then his jaw snapped shut with an audible click of teeth, and after a long pause he forced a nod.

 

“A…strong name,” he said finally, though his tone carried the weight of stone dragged across marble. “A great name.”

 

Daemon’s smirk widened, pleased at the forced approval. I hid my own satisfaction behind a faint smile, though my heart beat faster.

 

Alicent, ever the careful queen, schooled her features into composure and dipped her head slightly. “Yes,” she murmured, her voice low, measured. “A worthy name.” But I caught the faint tremor in her gaze, the way her eyes flicked quickly toward my father as if weighing his reaction more than the babe’s.

 

And then, without waiting for more, she glided forward, her skirts whispering against the floor. Her hands reached out—not toward me, not toward Daemon, but toward Baela, who still held the child.

“May I?” she asked, her voice soft, almost reverent.

 

Baela hesitated, her arms tightening protectively around the bundle. Her eyes darted toward me, silent question plain.

 

“Let her,” I said, my voice gentler than most had ever heard from me. I inclined my head toward my mother. “He is her grandson as much as he is my son.”

 

Baela’s jaw tightened, but she obeyed, carefully passing the babe into Alicent’s waiting arms.

 

The change in my mother’s expression was startling. The cool mask she wore like armor cracked and fell away the moment the babe settled against her breast.

 

Her lips parted, trembling slightly as she gazed down at him. Her eyes softened, shimmering with a sheen of unshed tears. For once, the cold queen was not before us—only a mother, a grandmother, her heart bare and unguarded.

 

“My sweet boy,” she whispered, so quietly I almost thought I had imagined it. She brushed a trembling finger across his tiny brow, and the baby stirred but did not cry. “My grandson.”

 

I swallowed hard, caught between pride and a strange ache in my chest. To see her so undone, so unmasked—it was not a sight I was accustomed to.

 

At my side, Daemon leaned in, his lips brushing my ear. “Well done, wife. You’ve stunned them all.”

 

I tilted my head slightly, watching the room—the forced nod of Viserys, the uneasy glance of Rhaenyra, the stillness of my sisters, the raw joy on my mother’s face. Yes, I thought, with a spark of wicked triumph. Let them all choke on the name Maegor. Let them see the strength I have brought forth.

 

As the room began to stir again—conversation blooming awkwardly after the weight of my son’s name settled—one of the few faces that didn’t seem strained or uncertain was Lucerys’s.

 

He stood a little apart from his mother and brothers, the faintest smile on his lips. When our eyes met, he hesitated, then gathered his courage and stepped forward.

 

He bowed his head slightly in that sweet, polite way of his. “I think it’s a great name, Aunt Visenya,” he said, his tone earnest, his blue eyes bright. “Maegor… sounds strong. Like someone who won’t let anything stand in his way.”

 

For a heartbeat, I was taken aback. Of all of them, I hadn’t expected kind words from Lucerys. Rhaenyra’s brood tended to follow her mood, and she, at the moment, was wearing her bitterness like perfume.

 

But Lucerys’s smile was genuine. Soft.

 

I couldn’t help myself—I smiled back. Not my usual smirk or my half-mocking grin, but something real, small, and surprising even to me. “Thank you, Lucerys,” I said, my voice gentler than I intended. “That’s kind of you.”

 

His eyes widened, as if he hadn’t expected kindness in return. And before he could retreat back to his mother’s shadow, I reached out, pulling him into a sudden hug. He stiffened at first—poor boy, caught between shock and embarrassment—but then relaxed slightly as I held him.

When I drew back, I gave him a playful smile and, to his further surprise, pressed a kiss to his cheek. “You are so sweet, nephew,” I said softly.

The poor boy turned red all the way to his ears. “T-thank you, Aunt Visenya,” he stammered, his hand brushing over the spot where I’d kissed him, as though unsure what to do with the gesture.

 

I leaned closer, lowering my voice so only he could hear. “Unlike your brother,” I murmured, amusement curling in my tone.

 

Lucerys’s lips twitched, and then he laughed—quietly, but genuinely. The sound of it warmed the room more than the fire did.

 

Daemon, watching from nearby, raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by my sudden display of affection. Across the chamber, Rhaenyra’s jaw tightened, her gaze flicking between me and her son with the faintest glimmer of irritation.

 

Good. Let her stew in it.

 

But for the moment, I ignored her. My heart softened as I looked back at Lucerys—his shy smile, his youth, his sincerity. Whatever else could be said of the tangled web that bound our family, the boy had his mother’s heart and none of her temper.

 

I gave him a final squeeze on the shoulder and said lightly, “You’ll make a fine dragonrider yet, sweet one. Strong in spirit, like a true Targaryen.”

 

Lucerys blushed again but grinned. “I’ll try, Aunt Visenya.”

 

Daemon leaned closer, smirking. “Careful, wife. You’ll have the poor lad writing you poems by supper.”

 

I rolled my eyes, but laughter tugged at my lips. For once, the tension in the room didn’t matter. My son slept peacefully, my sisters smiled, and even amid all the whispers and old rivalries, there was this small, unexpected spark of warmth—family, fragile but real.

 

As the laughter and soft chatter died down, I cleared my throat and said, “All right, everyone. My son needs to be fed, and I’d like some privacy. If you’d be so kind as to leave us.” My tone was gentle but firm—one they all knew better than to question.

 

One by one, they began to file out of the chamber—Alicent giving the baby one last loving glance, Baela and Rhaena curtsying lightly before stepping out, and Helaena brushing her fingers against my arm in silent understanding.

 

When the door finally shut, the room grew quiet except for the soft crackle of the fire and the tiny sounds my son made in his cradle. I exhaled, relieved, and began to unlace the top of my gown when I noticed a shadow still standing in the corner.

 

“Why are you still here?” I asked sharply, narrowing my eyes.

 

Daemon leaned lazily against the bedpost, his smirk playing across his lips like a man who’d been waiting for this exact question. “You said you were feeding,” he said, voice low and teasing.

 

It took me a heartbeat to catch his meaning, and when I did, I glared so fiercely that he almost laughed. “Yes—feeding our son, not you!” I snapped, trying not to smile. “Now get out!”

 

He clutched his chest dramatically, feigning hurt. “You wound me, wife. Truly. You’re far too cruel to your husband. I only wanted to help.”

I rolled my eyes and crossed my arms, though amusement tugged at the corners of my mouth. “Help? You’d be more of a distraction than anything else.”

 

Daemon stepped closer, his voice dropping to a playful whisper. “A beautiful distraction, perhaps.”

 

“Out,” I said again, pointing toward the door.

 

He sighed theatrically, then muttered, “I’m getting you a wet nurse, whether you like it or not.”

 

My head snapped toward him, defiant fire flashing in my chest. “I don’t want one, Daemon! I can care for my son myself.”

 

He raised an eyebrow, studying me for a moment—my disheveled hair, the exhaustion in my eyes, the stubborn set of my jaw. “You’re as proud as ever,” he said quietly, almost fondly. “But even a princess need rest.”

 

“I’ll rest when he does,” I replied firmly, softening as I looked down at my son, now stirring slightly. “He’s mine. He needs me. Not another woman.”

 

Daemon’s expression softened—just a little. “Very well,” he murmured, brushing his fingers briefly against my shoulder before stepping back. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you when you collapse from stubbornness.”

 

I smirked faintly. “I’ve survived you this long, haven’t I?”

 

He chuckled under his breath, eyes glinting with pride and affection. “That you have, my fierce dragon.”

 

As he turned to leave, I called after him softly, “Daemon?”

 

He paused, glancing back.

 

“Thank you,” I said quietly.

 

He gave me one last smirk and said, “Don’t thank me yet. You’ll regret sending me away soon enough.”

 

I threw a small pillow at him, which he dodged easily, laughing as he slipped out the door.

 

Once he was gone, the room fell silent again. I looked down at my son, his tiny hand curling around my finger. “It’s just us now, my Maegor,” I whispered softly. “Just us.”

 

(The Conquerors’ Pov)

 

From the dark expanse of whatever realm lies beyond life—the place where dragonlords rest and dream of fire—the Conquerors watched.

 

Visenya Targaryen, the first of her name—the warrior queen who had ridden Vhagar and carved the Seven Kingdoms with her sword and will—stood tall beside her brother-husband Aegon and their beloved sister Rhaenys. The air shimmered faintly around them, as though Dragonstone itself still remembered their presence.

 

And then they heard it.

 

“We are naming him Maegor,” said the younger Visenya, her voice proud and steady.

 

The name echoed across time and blood—Maegor. The air shifted, heavy with the weight of history.

 

Visenya the Conqueror froze for a moment, her sharp eyes gleaming like molten silver. Then, slowly, a smile spread across her face—one that was fierce, proud, and unrepentant. “She named him for me,” she said softly, almost reverently. “For my son.”

 

Rhaenys looked up from where she sat upon a carved basalt bench of memory. Her gaze, ever gentle yet filled with sorrow, flicked to her sister. “You sound proud,” she murmured. “Even after all he did?”

 

Visenya’s expression hardened. “He was a king,” she said. “My son was strong. The realm may have cursed his name, but none can deny his power. He ruled with fire, as dragons must. My namesake knows this—she feels it. Blood calls to blood.”

 

Aegon the Conqueror stood silent beside them, his great shadow cast across the hall of flame and mist. His face was unreadable, carved in that same calm restraint he’d always borne in life. But behind his eyes was conflict.

 

“Maegor…” he said at last, his voice deep and echoing like thunder over Dragonstone’s cliffs. “

 

Rhaenys turned to him, her lips curving faintly. “You disapprove?”

 

“I understand,” Aegon said slowly. “Names are more than words. They are promises. Perhaps she seeks to reclaim his legacy—to prove that strength does not always need to lead to ruin.”

 

Rhaenys tilted her head, her eyes softening as she gazed upon the image of the young mother in the mortal world—Visenya, weary from birth yet radiant, her newborn in her arms. “She is bold,” Rhaenys said, admiration lacing her tone. “To name a child after one the realm fears still… it takes courage. And perhaps love for the fire that runs through our blood.”

 

Visenya the Conqueror crossed her arms, pride shining in her eyes. “She understands what it means to bear our name. To defy fear. To command fire rather than cower from it. If she has a son named Maegor, then may he be a dragon worthy of that name.”

 

But Aegon’s brow furrowed slightly. “Or may he be wiser,” he murmured. “May he wield fire without letting it consume him.”

 

Rhaenys smiled faintly at that, her golden hair shimmering like sunlight. “Let us hope her Maegor learns from ours.”

 

The elder Visenya’s gaze softened—not much, but enough to show the faintest glimmer of something like longing. “He will,” she said. “For this Maegor is born not of conquest, but of love.”

 

A silence fell among the three of them, the kind that feels eternal. And then, from far below, the newborn’s cry echoed faintly through the realms beyond—strong, fierce, demanding the world take notice.

 

Aegon inclined his head, as though honoring it. “So the blood of the dragon endures.”

 

Visenya the Conqueror smiled, sharp as a drawn blade. “And once more,” she said, “the name Maegor breathes fire.”

 

---

(Aemma’s Pov)

 

After my sister had told everyone to leave, the warmth and laughter from the birthing chamber slowly faded into the quiet halls of the keep. We all went our separate ways to rest from the long journey—Mother and Father to their chambers, Helaena and Alicent to theirs. I found myself walking beside Jacaerys, the soft echo of our steps filling the corridor.

 

By the time we reached my room, I felt exhaustion pulling at my limbs, though my heart was still light from seeing Visenya and her child. I sank onto the edge of my bed, loosening the ribbons at my sleeves when Jace’s voice came softly from behind me.

 

“May I braid your hair?” he asked.

 

A small smile touched my lips. He’d always asked so gently, as if I’d ever refuse him. “Of course,” I said, shifting so that he could sit behind me.

 

The bed dipped slightly under his weight, and then his fingers found their way into my hair—slow and careful, combing through the strands before beginning to braid. The touch was so familiar, so tender, it made my shoulders relax almost instantly. His hands were warm, his movements steady and unhurried. I could feel his breath near my ear, the faint brush of his knuckles against my neck as he worked.

 

I loved moments like this—quiet and unspoken. The world outside could be chaotic, full of politics, dragons, and whispered plans, but here in this room, with his fingers weaving through my hair, everything felt peaceful.

 

He hummed softly, a tune I didn’t recognize but one that made me close my eyes and simply listen. His fingertips grazed my scalp as he adjusted a strand, and the soft rhythm of his touch made my heart flutter in my chest.

 

When he finished, he tied the end neatly and rested his hands lightly on my shoulders. For a moment, neither of us spoke. Then, as always, he leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to the top of my forehead.

 

It was such a small thing, but it meant more to me than any courtly gesture ever could. I smiled to myself, whispering, “Thank you, Jace.”

 

He murmured back, “Always,” and his voice was so full of quiet warmth that it made my heart ache in the best way.

---

Dinner that evening was quiet—too quiet, really. The clinking of silverware against plates echoed faintly through the grand hall of Dragonstone. Candles flickered in the draft, and the smell of roasted meat and herbs filled the air. Yet, even with so many of us gathered around the long table—Father at the head, Mother beside him, my siblings and cousins filling the rest of the seats—there was an emptiness to it.

 

Because there was no Visenya.

 

Her absence pressed against me like a weight. I stared at the empty chair beside Daemon, half expecting her to walk in at any moment with that composed, untouchable look of hers. But she didn’t.

I turned to Daemon, trying to sound casual though my curiosity gnawed at me. “Where’s Visenya?” I asked, setting down my fork.

 

Daemon looked up from his plate, a hint of amusement flickering in his violet eyes. “Resting,” he said simply. “With Maegor. The both of them are sleeping. They’ve earned it.”

 

Across the table, Helaena smiled softly, her hands folded neatly in her lap. “That’s good,” she said in her dreamy way. “Rest is important after giving life.”

 

Mother’s smile widened at that, her eyes glowing with that familiar light—warm, adoring, proud. “I am just glad that she’s resting,” she said. “I’m so proud of Visenya. She’s strong—always has been. A mother now… just like me.”

 

Her words made something twist deep inside my chest. That tone—so full of pride and affection—was one I’d heard countless times, but never directed at me.

 

Visenya was her perfect daughter.

 

Helaena was her sweet daughter.

 

And I… I was her mistake.

 

I tried to hide the bitterness rising up in my throat by lowering my gaze to my plate. I cut at my food without really seeing it, pushing it around with the edge of my fork. My stomach turned; I couldn’t eat.

 

Then I felt it—warm fingers brushing against mine under the table. Jacaerys.

 

I hadn’t even noticed I’d been digging into my cuticles until his touch stopped me. My fingertips stung faintly, and when I glanced down, I saw small beads of blood on my skin. Gods.

 

I looked up to find his eyes on me—soft, worried, searching. His thumb rubbed gentle circles over my knuckles, wordless comfort in the way only he could give.

 

“Oh,” I murmured, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach my eyes. “I’m fine.”

 

He didn’t believe me—of course he didn’t—but he didn’t call me out either. He just squeezed my hand once more, firm but reassuring, and let it rest there, hidden beneath the tablecloth.

 

I took a deep breath and forced myself to eat, chewing even though the food felt like ash on my tongue. Mother’s laughter filled the room as she spoke with Father about Visenya’s strength. Helaena nodded and smiled, and Daemon chuckled proudly.

 

And all I could think was how small I felt sitting there—so small that even my shadow seemed to fade next to hers.

 

Yet, Jace’s hand never left mine.

Chapter Text

(The Conquerors' Pov)

From the dark expanse of whatever realm lies beyond life-the place where dragonlords rest and dream of fire-the Conquerors watched.

 

Visenya Targaryen, the first of her name-the warrior queen who had ridden Vhagar and carved the Seven Kingdoms with her sword and will-stood tall beside her brother-husband Aegon and their beloved sister Rhaenys. The air shimmered faintly around them, as though Dragonstone itself still remembered their presence.

 

And then they heard it.

 

"We are naming him Maegor," said the younger Visenya, her voice proud and steady.

 

The name echoed across time and blood-Maegor. The air shifted, heavy with the weight of history.

 

Visenya the Conqueror froze for a moment, her sharp eyes gleaming like molten silver. Then, slowly, a smile spread across her face-one that was fierce, proud, and unrepentant. "She named him for me," she said softly, almost reverently. "For my son."

 

Rhaenys looked up from where she sat upon a carved basalt bench of memory. Her gaze, ever gentle yet filled with sorrow, flicked to her sister. "You sound proud," she murmured. "Even after all he did?"

 

Visenya's expression hardened. "He was a king," she said. "My son was strong. The realm may have cursed his name, but none can deny his power. He ruled with fire, as dragons must. My namesake knows this-she feels it. Blood calls to blood."

 

Aegon the Conqueror stood silent beside them, his great shadow cast across the hall of flame and mist. His face was unreadable, carved in that same calm restraint he'd always borne in life. But behind his eyes was conflict.

 

"Maegor..." he said at last, his voice deep and echoing like thunder over Dragonstone's cliffs. "It is a name both blessed and cursed."

 

Rhaenys turned to him, her lips curving faintly. "You disapprove?"

 

"I understand," Aegon said slowly. "Names are more than words. They are promises. Perhaps she seeks to reclaim his legacy-to prove that strength does not always need to lead to ruin."

 

Rhaenys tilted her head, her eyes softening as she gazed upon the image of the young mother in the mortal world-Visenya, weary from birth yet radiant, her newborn in her arms. "She is bold," Rhaenys said, admiration lacing her tone. "To name a child after one the realm fears still... it takes courage. And perhaps love for the fire that runs through our blood."

 

Visenya the Conqueror crossed her arms, pride shining in her eyes. "She understands what it means to bear our name. To defy fear. To command fire rather than cower from it. If she has a son named Maegor, then may he be a dragon worthy of that name."

 

But Aegon's brow furrowed slightly. "Or may he be wiser," he murmured. "May he wield fire without letting it consume him."

 

Rhaenys smiled faintly at that, her golden hair shimmering like sunlight. "Let us hope her Maegor learns from ours."

 

The elder Visenya's gaze softened-not much, but enough to show the faintest glimmer of something like longing. "He will," she said. "For this Maegor is born not of conquest, but of love."

 

A silence fell among the three of them, the kind that feels eternal. And then, from far below, the newborn's cry echoed faintly through the realms beyond-strong, fierce, demanding the world take notice.

 

Aegon inclined his head, as though honoring it. "So the blood of the dragon endures."

 

Visenya the Conqueror smiled, sharp as a drawn blade. "And once more," she said, "the name Maegor breathes fire."

 

---

 

(Helaena's Pov)

 

Dinner had been lively, in that strange, uncomfortable way that often followed whenever my father and Daemon sat at the same table. The hall glowed with candlelight, shadows flickering along the stone walls of Dragonstone as servants moved between us, pouring wine and setting down steaming platters of roast fish and honeyed bread.

 

Father cleared his throat between bites, his tone casual but his expression far from it. "Daemon," he began, folding his hands atop the table, "I am glad that you and Visenya are starting a family together, but..." His gaze softened, yet uncertainty lingered behind it. "Is Maegor truly a good name for him?"

 

Daemon, sitting beside my mother and looking far too pleased with himself, leaned back in his chair with an easy shrug. "It's what Visenya wanted to name him," he said, swirling his cup of wine lazily. "So I let her."

 

Mother, ever so quick to speak when it came to Daemon, lifted her chin, her tone edged with something cold but controlled. "He is your son too, Daemon," she said. "You should have had a say in choosing his name."

 

Daemon smiled faintly, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. "Aye, perhaps I should have," he replied, smirking. "But it is what Visenya wanted, and I think it's a strong name for our son-as long as we don't name the next one Aenys."

 

For a moment, there was stunned silence. Then Daemon's grin widened, and laughter broke around the table. Aemma laughed first, her voice soft but genuine. Lucerys followed, nearly choking on his wine. Even Malachi, sitting beside me, chuckled lowly, the sound deep and warm.

 

I smiled too-just a little. Not because the jest was particularly clever, but because the sound of laughter felt rare in this hall, fleeting like a dragon's shadow in the clouds.

 

They did not know, of course.

 

None of them did.

 

I lowered my gaze to my plate, my fingers brushing the rim of my cup. I knew what Daemon and Visenya's next child would be. I knew the gender, the name, the color of their eyes before they even took their first breath. But it was not my secret to tell. The threads of fate are delicate things-tug too hard, and the whole weave unravels.

 

So I said nothing.

 

After dinner, I excused myself quietly. Malachi, ever the gentleman, stood and offered to walk me to my chambers. I didn't refuse him.

 

The corridors of Dragonstone were dimly lit, the torches flickering against the black stone. Our footsteps echoed softly. He walked beside me, his hand occasionally brushing mine in that hesitant way that made my heart flutter. When we reached my door, he bowed his head slightly, his curls falling over his brow.

 

"Goodnight, my lady," he said softly.

 

I smiled-truly smiled-and leaned in to press a quick kiss to his cheek. His face flushed immediately, and I giggled under my breath before slipping into my room and closing the door.

 

The chamber was quiet save for the soft crackle of the hearth. I changed into my nightgown and brushed out my hair, humming to myself as I looked toward the window. The sea beyond was dark and endless, the moonlight painting silver ribbons on the waves.

 

And then-I felt it.

 

A shift in the air.

 

The faint hum of something ancient.

 

When I turned, three figures stood before me.

 

Not spirits-no, they were too vivid for that.

 

The air around them shimmered with power, and the scent of smoke and salt filled the room.

 

The Conquerors.

 

Aegon, regal and silent, his violet eyes steady and knowing.
Rhaenys, warm and radiant, her smile touched with sadness.
And Visenya-the first of her name-her gaze sharp as a blade, her bearing proud as if she still wore her armor.

 

For a moment, I simply stared. I had dreamt of them many times before, but never had they come to me awake.

 

"I know," I whispered, clutching my hands to still their trembling. "You've come about... Maegor, haven't you?"

 

Visenya the Conqueror's lips curved into something between pride and defiance. "Aye," she said. "My namesake has honored me. She has chosen strength, even if the world may not understand her."

 

Aegon's voice rumbled low, deep as thunder. "But strength must be tempered," he warned. "The name carries both legacy and burden."

 

I nodded slowly, glancing toward the fire. "She loves him fiercely. She'll raise him to be strong-but she won't let him become cruel. I've seen it."

 

Visenya's gaze softened, if only slightly. "Good," she murmured. "Then perhaps this Maegor will not repeat his forebear's sins."

 

Rhaenys stepped closer, her presence warm and kind, a sharp contrast to the steel in her sister. "Tell your sister this, little dreamer: that blood remembers, but it can also heal. The name may be old, but destiny is not fixed."

 

"I will," I whispered. "I promise."

 

The three exchanged glances, their figures already beginning to fade into mist and firelight.

 

Before they vanished completely, Visenya the Conqueror's voice lingered in my mind-soft yet unyielding. Watch over her. The fire in her burns bright... but even dragons can be consumed by their own flame.

 

When the last trace of their presence vanished, I sank to my knees beside the bed, the weight of what I had witnessed pressing down on me. I stared into the dying embers of the fire, my heart still racing.

 

I would not tell anyone-not yet. But I knew now that the old blood stirred again in my sister's son. And that the Conquerors themselves were watching.

 

---

 

(Visenya's Pov)

 

The morning came far too soon.

 

I woke to the sound of seabirds crying beyond the window and the slow, steady breathing of my son asleep beside me.

 

Maegor's tiny fingers were curled around the edge of his blanket, his silver hair glinting faintly in the sunlight streaming through the curtains.

 

For a long while, I simply watched him-watched the soft rise and fall of his chest, the peacefulness I had never known before him.

 

But then the sound of movement drifted up from below-the clatter of armor, the bustle of servants loading trunks, the distant voices of my family preparing to leave. The hall was alive again, full of farewells and goodbyes.

 

I sighed, leaning down to kiss Maegor's warm little brow before carefully passing him to Melissa, his nursemaid and my best friend. "Keep him wrapped," I murmured, straightening my gown. "And if Daemon tries to feed him, hit him with the nearest object."

 

The nurse laughed softly. "Yes, princess." I know she wouldn't actually throw something at Daemon as she is afraid of him. He wouldn't hurt her as I told him if he did. He can say goodbye to his cock.

 

By the time I stepped outside, the courtyard was awash in morning light, the sky painted gold and blue. The smell of the sea was sharp, and the wind tugged at my hair as I descended the steps.

 

Everyone was gathered-Aemma with Rhaenyra and her sons, Mother and Father standing close together, and Helaena beside Malachi near the dragons.

 

Daemon was already in the midst of it all, his hand resting on his sword hilt as he exchanged words with my father.

 

Even from a distance, I could see the tightness around Father's eyes, the faint exhaustion there. Daemon said something that made him laugh softly, though it was more weary than amused.

 

As I approached, all eyes turned to me. I smiled-genuine this time, though faint-and inclined my head. "You're all leaving so soon?"

 

Father nodded. "We've lingered long enough, my dear. The realm does not rest, even for family."

 

Mother came to me first. Her expression was softer than I expected, her eyes lingering on Maegor, who was nestled against the Melissa's shoulder. "He's beautiful," she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. "You've done well, Visenya."

 

I felt something ache in my chest-something like pride and pain tangled together. "Thank you, Mother."

 

Then Helaena approached. Her smile was gentle, her pale hair shimmering like silk in the sunlight. She wrapped her arms around me before I could say a word, hugging me tight. "I wish you and Maegor well," she said quietly. "May he grow strong and kind, like his mother."

 

I blinked, surprised at the warmth in her voice, and returned the embrace. "Thank you, Helaena. I'll make certain he knows his aunt loves him."

 

She then turned to Aemma, pulling her into a hug as well. "Be good," she said with a teasing lilt, and Aemma rolled her eyes but smiled anyway.

 

Helaena's dragon, Dreamfyre, waited nearby, her scales gleaming like polished moonstone. Malachi stood ready beside her, offering Helaena his hand to help her mount. Helaena took it, glancing back one last time at us all.

 

She lifted a hand in farewell, her eyes meeting mine across the courtyard. "Goodbye, Visenya! Kiss Maegor for me!"

 

"I will!" I called back, raising my hand in return.

 

With a thunderous beat of wings, Dreamfyre launched into the sky, the gust of wind from her wings whipping through my hair. Helaena's laughter carried faintly through the air as the dragon soared higher, Malachi's dark figure seated behind her.

 

I watched until they were nothing but a glimmer against the clouds.

 

Daemon came up behind me, wrapping an arm around my waist. "She's fond of you," he said, his voice low. "And that boy of ours."

 

I leaned back against him, my gaze still on the fading dragon in the sky. "She always was. Helaena has a heart too kind for this world."

 

He hummed in agreement, pressing a kiss to the side of my neck. "Then let's hope Maegor inherits some of it-otherwise, we may have another conqueror on our hands."

 

I smiled faintly at that, turning to glance up at him. "If he does, he'll have me to thank for the fire, and you for the chaos."

 

Daemon chuckled softly, brushing his thumb over my knuckles. "Then the realm should start praying now."

 

I laughed under my breath and looked toward the sea again, where the last traces of Dreamfyre's shadow vanished into the morning light.

 

The others would soon depart as well, but for now, I held the moment close-the warmth of my family, the weight of my son's future, and the strange, fierce peace of knowing this was only the beginning.

 

Aemma was the next to approach me. She hugged me tightly, her tone teasing yet affectionate as she muttered, "Don't have another Daemon spawn anytime soon."

 

I couldn't help but laugh, the sound soft and genuine this time. "Trust me, I'm not," I replied with a smirk. "One is enough-for now."

 

Jacaerys stood a few steps behind her, his hands clasped behind his back in that formal way of his. "Goodbye, Visenya," he said, his voice calm but kind, polite as ever.

 

I smiled back at him, though it felt faint-more of a reflex than real warmth. I didn't quite know what to say to him, so I just nodded, "Goodbye, Jace."

 

Then Lucerys stepped forward, his expression open and gentle. "I wish you well, Visenya," he said earnestly.

 

Something about the sincerity in his eyes broke through the thin wall I had built around myself. My smile came easier this time. "Thank you, Lucerys," I said softly. "That means more than you know."

 

Baela and Rhaena were next-those two were never apart, not even for a farewell. They both came at me at once, throwing their arms around me so tightly that I almost stumbled back.

 

"Careful!" I laughed, wrapping my arms around them in return. Their warmth and laughter made the cold wind bite a little less.

 

When they finally pulled back, I looked between them, their faces so bright, so alive. "You must promise to come visit," I said, brushing a lock of hair from Rhaena's face. "Both of you. As often as you like. Dragonstone won't be the same without you two."

 

Rhaena's eyes sparkled, and she grinned from ear to ear. "In that case, I'll come visit you a lot!"

 

Baela nodded eagerly beside her. "Same here. You can't get rid of us that easily, cousin."

 

Their enthusiasm made my heart lift.

 

For a moment, everything felt... normal.

 

Like we weren't all bound by politics, bloodlines, and duty.

 

Just family.

 

Just love.

 

"I mean it," I said with a smile that reached my eyes. "You'll always be welcome here."

 

When I looked up, I caught Daemon watching us.

 

There was a smile on his lips-not one of his sharp, smug grins, but something softer.

 

Warmer.

 

It was the kind of smile he rarely showed anyone. It made my chest ache in a way I couldn't quite name.

 

I reached out and took his hand. "They're our family," I said quietly, almost to myself. "They should visit whenever they please."

 

Daemon's thumb brushed across my knuckles. "Of course," he murmured. "You need not even ask."

 

As the wind picked up and the dragons roared in the distance, I looked around one last time-at the family I had fought so long to understand. Helaena already gone into the sky, Aemma teasing, Jacaerys composed, Lucerys kind, Rhaena and Baela radiant with youth and laughter.

 

For the first time in a long while, I felt something that almost resembled peace.

 

"Until next time," I whispered as I watched them begin to depart, holding Maegor close to my chest.

 

---

 

After a month had passed, the castle had grown quieter, softer - just the three of us now. I sat in the nursery, feeding Maegor as sunlight poured through the window, turning his silver hair into strands of pale gold. Daemon was sitting nearby, rubbing my feet with a smirk tugging at his lips.

 

"You know," I murmured, leaning back in the chair, "I love you so much."

 

Daemon chuckled, his thumb drawing lazy circles over my ankle. "You love me because I'm rubbing your feet?"

 

I nodded solemnly, fighting the smile that wanted to break through. "Yes. Exactly that."

 

He laughed under his breath, shaking his head. "You are impossible, wife."

 

When Maegor finally drifted to sleep, I rose carefully and tucked him into his cradle. His little hand twitched, and I brushed my fingers over his cheek before turning back to Daemon. He was watching me - the kind of look that always made my heart race faster, even when I pretended not to notice.

 

I walked toward him slowly, deliberately, the hem of my gown whispering against the stone floor. "You know," I said, tilting my head, "I think you deserve a reward for being such a good husband."

 

Daemon arched a brow, his grin deepening. "Oh? And what kind of reward did my lady have in mind?"

 

I stopped before him, resting my hands on his shoulders. "Something that will remind you," I whispered, leaning close so my breath brushed his ear, "how much I love you."

 

As I slowly unfastened his belt and pulled down his trousers, Daemon's eyes darkened with desire. He watched me with a mix of amusement and lust, his breathing growing heavier. When I slid onto my knees before him, he let out a low chuckle.

 

"Well now, isn't this a pleasant surprise," he murmured, his voice husky. "I suppose I should be flattered by such...attentive service."
Daemon reached down, tangling his fingers in my hair as I began to undo his manhood. A shiver ran through him at my touch, and he leaned back against the wall, letting out a soft groan.

 

"Mmm, that's it, my dear. Show your appreciation properly," Daemon groan, guiding my head closer to his throbbing member.

 

"After all, a prince does deserve rewards for his
...patience and understanding," he finished with a smirk, his eyes glinting with wicked intent. "Now, let's see just how grateful you really are..."

 

With a gentle tug, he guided my mouth to his waiting cock, the tip brushing against my lips. Daemon's breath caught as he savored the anticipation, his hands gripping my hair tighter. Then, with a low moan, he pushed forward, sliding into the warmth of my mouth.

 

"Ahh, fuck...that's it," he hissed, his hips rocking slightly as he began to thrust gently, savoring the sensation of my tongue and lips around him. "Such a good little wife, taking care of her husband's needs so well..."

 

As I worked to pleasure him, Daemon's grip on my hair tightened further, his movements becoming more urgent. His thrusts quickened, each one deeper and more forceful as he lost himself in the pleasure of my oral attentions. Daemon's eyes rolled back, a look of pure bliss crossing his face.

 

"Oh gods, yes...just like that," he gasped, his voice strained with need. "Suck my cock, Visenya. Show me how much you want to please me."

 

With a final, powerful surge, Daemon buried himself to the hilt in my mouth, holding me there as he spilled his seed down my throat. He shuddered and groaned, his grip my hair almost painful in its intensity.

 

"That's it...swallow every drop," he commanded, his chest heaving as he rode out the waves of his climax. "You've earned your reward, my sweet wife."

 

I had stand up and sit on Daemon's lap and asked," What did you have in mind?". He grinned, his breath still heavy from the release, and ran his hands down my thighs, lingering on the curve of my hips.

 

"Oh, I think we both know exactly what I had in mind," he murmured, his fingers tracing the edge of my dress as he lifted it up slightly, pressing his still-hard cock against my bare skin.

 

"You're wearing far too many clothes, my dear," he added, his voice laced with amusement and something darker, hungrier.

 

Daemon tilted my chin up, locking eyes with me, his lilac gaze burning with something that wasn't quite tenderness-but it wasn't cruelty either. It was hunger, and maybe, just maybe, a flicker of something more complicated.

 

"So tell me, Visenya... what exactly did you have in mind?"He shifted under me, his hands moving to the ties of my dress, his fingers deft and sure as he worked them loose. The fabric slipped from my shoulders, revealing the pale skin beneath, and he let out a slow, appreciative hum.

 

"I've waited long enough for this," Daemon muttered, his breath warm against my neck as he kissed the sensitive skin there. "You've been teasing me all night, and now you're sitting on my lap like a temptress. Don't pretend you don't know what you're doing."

 

His hands moved lower, slipping beneath the hem of my skirt, his fingers grazing the inside of my thigh before finding their way to the damp heat between my legs.

 

A slow, deliberate stroke sent a shiver through you, and he chuckled, his lips brushing against my ear.

 

"You're wet for me," he whisper.

 

Noticing my embarrassment, Daemon's expression softened, though his touch remained intimate. He cupped your face in his hand, tilting it up to meet his gaze.

 

"Now, none of that," he said gently, his thumb stroking my cheek.  "There's no shame in wanting your husband. In fact, it pleases me greatly to know you desire me."

 

He leaned in, capturing my lips in a tender kiss, his tongue sweeping across the seam of my mouth in a slow, sensual dance. Breaking the kiss, he whispered against my lips, "You're beautiful, Visenya. Inside and out ."

 

With renewed confidence, Daemon's fingers resumed our exploration, sliding through my slick folds and circling my clit with deliberate pressure.

 

A low, approving rumble escaped Daemon's chest as he felt my body respond to his touch. He curled his fingers inside me, stroking that sensitive spot within, and I cried out, arching into his hand.

 

"That's it, my love," he coaxed, his voice a husky murmur. "Let go. Give yourself to me completely."

 

He increased the pace of his fingers, pumping them in and out of my dripping heat, his thumb working in tandem to rub my clit. The room filled with the sounds of my pleasure, my moans and gasps mingling with the rustle of fabric and the creak of the chair.

 

Daemon's own arousal grew, straining against the confines of his trousers once more. He ached to bury himself deep inside me, to feel my walls clenching around him as I came undone.

 

His lips found mine again, sealing my desperate plea with a hungry kiss as his fingers drove into me harder, faster. I feel myself trembled beneath him, my breath coming in short, broken gasps as my body teetered on the edge.

 

"Please..."

 

"Please what, my love?" Daemon murmured against my lips, his voice thick with want. "Tell me what you need."

 

He withdrew his fingers just enough to tease the entrance of my sex, his thumb pressing lightly against my swollen clit. I whimpered as my fingers digging into his shoulders as my body begged for more.

 

"Say it," he demanded, his voice rough with desire.

 

"Daemon...Please!"

 

His hands gripped hips, lifting me slightly as he positioned himself at my entrance.

 

Without another word, he drove into me in one brutal, swift motion, filling you completely. I gasped, my nails digging into his back as he held me still for a heartbeat before pulling back and slamming into me again, hard and fast.

 

"Is this what you wanted?"

 

"Y-yes!"

 

His answering grin was feral, his fingers digging into my hips as he pistoned into me with relentless force. Every thrust sent a jolt of pleasure through my body, and I clung to him, my breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps.

 

He leaned in close, his breath hot against my ear as he continued to pound into me, his words dripping with mockery and passion."You are so cute when you are blushing to like that."

 

My cries of pleasure echoed through the room as Daemon's relentless pace showed no signs of slowing. Daemon gripped my hips with bruising force, using the leverage to drive himself even deeper into my quivering flesh.

 

"That's it, take it all," he snarled, his voice raw with lust. "You're mine, Visenya. My beautiful cute wife."

 

His words only fueled my desire, my inner walls clenching around him as he fucked me with brutal precision. I could feel the coil of tension building within me, threatening to snap at any moment.

 

"Do you want to come, my love?" Daemon demanded, his thrusts growing erratic as his own release approached. "Do you want to cum on my cock?"

 

At your desperate, whining plea, Daemon's control snapped. With a roar of triumph, he buried himself to the hilt and stilled, his cock pulsing as he flooded my spasming channel with his hot seed. The sensation of his release triggered my own, and I came apart in his arms, my body convulsing with the force of my orgasm.

 

"Fuck, yes!" Daemon bellowed, his hips jerking erratically as he emptied himself into me. My combined releases coated my joined bodies, sticky and warm, as Daemon held me tight, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

 

For a long moment, we simply clung to each other, savoring the aftermath of our intense coupling.

---

(Helaena's Pov)

 

I was lying in bed as the moonlight slipped through the curtains, spilling pale silver across the floor. Sleep came, but it was uneasy — it never truly was.

 

And then, I was dreaming again.

 

I stood in the middle of a room I recognized — Aemma’s chamber at Driftmark. The fire roared too high, shadows twisting along the walls. Aemma stood before the hearth, her face hard and unreadable. In her hand was a letter, sealed with dark wax — our mother's seal.

 

Without hesitation, she threw it into the flames.

 

The parchment curled and blackened, the wax melting like blood as she said something to Jacaerys,but I didn't get the chance to hear it.

 

My heart clenched. I wanted to call out to her — but before I could, the scene shifted.

 

I saw Jacaerys. His jaw was tight, his fists balled. His eyes burned with anger — not at Aemma, but at something unseen. His mouth moved, though no sound came, only the flicker of firelight against his face.

 

Then everything dissolved into darkness.

 

A single glow appeared — faint and pulsing. I stepped closer and saw it: a black dragon egg, resting on a bed of stone in some hidden cave. It pulsed with heat, the air thick with smoke and sorrow. The sound of a heartbeat filled my ears — steady, strong, frighteningly alive.

 

When I looked up, I wasn’t in the cave anymore.

 

Visenya stood before me. But she wasn’t the sister I knew. Her hair was tangled, her gown soaked in blood. Her eyes — gods, her eyes — were cold as winter steel. She stared straight through me, as though I were nothing but air.

 

“Visenya,” I whispered, trembling. “What happened to you?”

 

She didn’t answer. Only turned away, the blood dripping from her hands to the stone beneath her feet.

 

Then I woke — gasping, my heart racing.

 

The fire in my chamber had burned low, I pressed my hand to my chest, trying to still the pounding inside.

 

But I could still see Visenya’s eyes.

 

And I knew this dream — like all the others — wasn’t just a dream.

 

I sat up slowly, pressing a trembling hand to my temple. My breath came uneven, and the shadows in the corners of my chamber seemed to move. I whispered a prayer to the Seven, though my voice shook.

 

Then I heard her — that soft, echoing voice I had come to recognize in my quietest moments.

 

“Child?”

 

I looked toward the window, and there she stood — Rhaenys the Conqueror, her form faint and silver in the moonlight. Her eyes were calm, kind, but there was something unearthly in the way her presence filled the room.

 

“Rhaenys…” I whispered, clutching the blanket. “You came again.”

 

She nodded gently, her long dark hair flowing as if stirred by some invisible wind. “You were crying out in your sleep,” she said softly. “Are you unwell, my dear?”

 

I hesitated, the words caught in my throat. “I… I had another dream.”

 

Rhaenys stepped closer, her expression tender yet worried. “Tell me, child. What did you see this time?”

 

I swallowed hard. “I saw Aemma. She burned a letter — one from mother. I think Aemma might be calling off the wedding, but I am not sure.”

 

Rhaenys frowned slightly, confusion crossing her ethereal features. “Calling it off? Why would she do that?”

 

I shook my head, gripping the blanket tighter. “I don’t know. Then I saw a black dragon egg, resting in a cave… it was glowing. And after that—” My voice faltered. “I saw Visenya. She was older. Covered in blood. Her eyes were… cold. Not like her. Not anymore.”

 

Rhaenys’s brows knit together. “Visenya… your sister?”

 

“Yes,” I whispered. “It felt real, not like a dream. As if I were there, watching the future.”

 

For a moment, Rhaenys said nothing. She only looked at me with quiet concern. “Your gift grows stronger, Helaena,” she murmured finally. “But it is also a heavy burden.”

 

I met her gaze, my eyes burning. “Do you think it will come true?”

 

Rhaenys sighed — the sound like wind over ancient stone. “Dreams have power, but power can change with choice. What you saw may be one path… but not the only one.”

 

Her words brought little comfort.

 

I rubbed my arms, shivering despite the warmth of the fire. “It feels like something dark is coming. I can feel it pressing closer each time I close my eyes.”

 

Rhaenys reached out, her translucent hand brushing against my cheek. I couldn’t feel her touch — only a faint coolness, like mist. “Then we will watch together, child. And when the time comes, you must be brave enough to speak of what you’ve seen.”

 

I nodded slowly, though fear still clawed at me.

 

When I blinked, she was gone — leaving only silence and the faint shimmer of moonlight where she had stood.

 

And I lay awake for the rest of the night, staring at the window, wondering what my dream was warning me about.

---

 

(Aemma's Pov)

 

I sat by the window, the sea wind from Driftmark whispering through the curtains. A raven had come earlier that morning — the Hightower crest on its ribbon. I knew before I even opened it that it was from Mother.

 

For a long moment, I just stared at the seal, tracing it with my thumb. I didn’t want to read it. I already knew what kind of words would be waiting for me inside — sharp ones wrapped in silk.

 

Finally, I broke the seal.

 

Dear Aemma,

You should call off this betrothal. He is Rhaenyra’s bastard. I don’t want my daughter to be married to one. You don’t have to marry her son. Besides, if he wasn't a bastard, you don't deserve him as a husband. I don’t care if you don’t want to — it is what’s best for the realm. If you do this, I will be proud.

 

The words blurred as my eyes filled with tears. My hands trembled, the parchment shaking between my fingers.

 

I read it again — slower this time, each word like a dagger pressing deeper into my chest.

 

“She doesn’t even say she loves me…” I whispered, voice breaking.

 

Not once.

 

Not even one kind word.

 

Only what she wanted from me.

 

What would make her proud.

 

I pressed the letter against my chest and let out a shaky sob. “Why can’t you just let me be happy, Mother?”

 

The tears came harder then — hot, angry, helpless. I had thought, foolishly, that maybe she had changed after Visenya’s child was born, after everything we’d all gone through. But no. She still saw me as a tool. A piece on the board to move wherever she wished.

 

I thought of Jacaerys — his smile when he braided my hair, his soft laughter when he teased me for overthinking. The way his eyes warmed when he looked at me.

 

I couldn’t imagine writing to him and saying it was over.

 

But I could already hear her voice in my head: It’s for the realm, Aemma. Do not fail me.

 

A sob tore out of my throat. I sank onto the bed, clutching the letter tightly, crumpling it against my heart. “I can’t do this,” I whispered. “Not to him.”

 

The wind howled outside, the sea crashing against the rocks below Driftmark, as if echoing the storm inside me.

 

For a long time, I just sat there, crying softly into my hands — a princess caught between duty and love, knowing that no matter what I chose, someone would break.
And it might just be me.

 

I stood on the balcony, gripping Mother’s letter so tightly the edges had begun to crumple. The sea wind tugged at my hair, lifting the short strands around my face, but I barely felt it. My heart wouldn’t stop pounding. My breath came uneven.

 

When the door opened behind me, I didn’t turn.

 

“Aemma?”

 

Jacaerys’s voice was soft, careful. “The maid said you wanted to see me. Is… something wrong?”

 

I closed my eyes. For a moment I almost told him everything—how cruel the letter had been, how torn it made me feel, how much it hurt to even think of losing him.

 

But Mother’s words rang in my head…

 

You will make me proud.

 

It is what is best for the realm.

 

I swallowed hard.

 

“I…” My voice cracked. “I think we should…”

 

I couldn’t say it. Not when he was standing there, warm and real and looking at me like I mattered.

 

Jacaerys stepped closer. “Aemma, what is it?”

 

I forced the words out on a trembling breath.

 

“I think we should… call off our betrothal.”

 

Silence.

 

Not the soft kind—this one fell like a sword between us.

 

Jacaerys stared at me, confusion pulling at every line of his face. “What? Why?”

 

I kept my eyes on the letter in my hands. “I think it’s for the best. It means you can choose who you want to marry. Someone better than me. Someone who fits better. I won’t— I won’t be a perfect wife for you.”

 

My voice cracked again. “You deserve better. Not me.”

 

There was a pause. Then I heard his footsteps—slow, deliberate—until he was standing right in front of me.

 

“Aemma,” he said quietly, “why are you changing your mind now? Did someone say something to you?”

 

I shook my head too quickly. “No. It’s just—”

 

But Jacaerys’s eyes had already found the letter clenched in my fingers.

 

“Aemma,” he said softly, “what is in that?”

 

“It’s nothing—really, I—”

 

He gently tightened his hand around mine—not hurting me, just firm enough that I couldn’t pull away—and he took the letter from me.

 

“Jace, please don’t—”

 

But he already was.

 

His eyes moved steadily across the lines. His jaw tensed. His hands clenched.

 

Without a word, he crossed the room, tossed the letter into the fireplace, and watched it catch flame. The parchment curled, blackened, and turned to ash.

 

His voice was low and trembling with anger—not at me, but at her.

 

“Your mother wants the betrothal to end,” he said, “not you. And I refuse to believe you don’t want to marry me.”

 

My throat tightened. Tears blurred my vision. I stepped backward onto the balcony, away from him, needing the cold air to breathe.

 

“But she’s right,” I whispered. “I’m not good enough for you. You need someone who—who isn’t a disappointment. Someone better than—than whatever I am!”

 

Before I could retreat any farther, he grabbed my arms—not harshly, but with desperate urgency.

 

“Aemma.” His voice wasn’t angry now. It was raw. Wounded. “I don’t want anyone else. I want you. Only you.”

 

I stared at him, breath shaking.

 

He stepped closer, lifting his hands to my face—his thumbs brushing tears I didn’t realize had already fallen.

 

And before I could speak another word—

 

He kissed me.

 

Not softly.

 

Not cautiously.

 

It was fierce, full of everything he couldn’t say—fear, anger, longing, love.

 

I froze in shock for half a heartbeat.

 

Then my eyes fluttered shut, and I kissed him back, my fingers curling into his shirt as the sea wind rushed around us. Every doubt, every fear, every cruel word in Mother’s letter seemed to burn away from my skin, leaving only warmth. Only him.

 

When we broke apart, I leaned my forehead against his chest, breathless.

 

For the first time in my life, I felt chosen.

---

 

The next morning, I woke up feeling… lighter. Not completely free — Mother’s words lingered in the cracks of my heart — but better. Jacaerys’s kiss still warmed my lips, like a lingering flame I could hold onto.

 

But peace never lasted long.

 

The door creaked open, and a young servant stepped inside carrying a silver tray.

 

“Princess Aemma,” she said softly, “Prince Jacaerys asked me to bring this for you. And Princess Rhaenyra requests that you join her for tea at noon.”

 

I nodded, pushing strands of hair from my face. “Thank you. You may leave now.”

 

She curtseyed and slipped out.

 

I pulled myself out of bed and walked to the small table. My breath caught.

 

The tray was filled with all my favorites — honeyed bread, spiced oranges, soft cheese, berry tarts, and warm tea scented with jasmine. Everything I loved and rarely got unless I asked.

 

A smile crept onto my lips.

 

Then I noticed the folded note beside the plate.

 

My heart fluttered as I opened it.

 

> Here is a nice breakfast for my princess.
Love, Jacaerys

 

A giggle escaped me — soft and surprised. Gods, he was sweet. Sweeter than he had any right to be.

 

I ate everything slowly, savoring each bite as if he had made it himself. Maybe that was silly — but I didn’t care. Every mouthful tasted like comfort and affection.

 

After breakfast, I chose a Velaryon-blue dress — the same soft ocean shade Jace always said looked beautiful on me. The fabric hugged my waist and flowed around me like seafoam.

 

I rang for my servant.

 

“Can you do something elegant?” I asked. “Not too formal — but… pretty.”

 

She smiled knowingly and set to work.

 

She brushed my short hair until it shone, then braided two delicate sections from the front, pulling them back and weaving them together into a small crown braid. She pinned sea pearls along the braid — tiny ones, soft and glimmering like drops of moonlight.

 

The rest of my curls fell freely around my shoulders, soft and natural.

 

When she finished, I stared at my reflection.

 

The pearls looked like they’d been scattered by the waves. The blue dress made my eyes brighter. And the small braid made me look older — not a child, not a pawn, but someone choosing her own path.

 

For once, I liked what I saw.

 

I touched one of the pearls gently.

 

Jacaerys would see this.

 

And Rhaenyra.

 

And I wondered — was this what it felt like, to have a future that belonged to me?

---

Lessons with Baela and Rhaena always felt more like spending time with sisters than actual instruction. We were supposed to be practicing High Valyrian grammar and reviewing the histories of Dragonstone, but half the time Baela complained about the text and Rhaena drifted into daydreams.

 

Today, I decided to tease them a little.

 

“You know,” I said as I settled beside them on the cushions, “since Visenya is your stepmother now, that means I’m technically… your aunt.”

 

Both girls froze mid-sentence.

 

Baela’s face twisted immediately. “Absolutely not.”

 

I burst out laughing. “You don’t have to call me that! Gods, please don’t. I’d would feel ancient.”

 

Rhaena giggled behind her hand. “You would make a very sweet aunt, though.”

 

“No,” Baela insisted, pointing at me. “She is NOT my aunt. She is Aemma. And she’s younger than you by only two years!”

 

I stuck out my tongue at her.

 

The three of us dissolved into laughter, the kind that made my ribs hurt.

 

After lessons ended, they hugged me before running off to meet with Maester Gerardys.

 

I took a breath, smoothed my dress, and headed to the garden for tea with Rhaenyra.

---

The garden at Dragonstone was warm, kissed with sea breeze and sunlight. Rhaenyra was already seated beneath the flowering arch, a pot of steaming tea between us. She looked up and smiled when she saw me.

 

“Aemma,” she greeted gently. “Come, sit.”

 

I folded my dress beneath me and sat across from her. She poured me tea — lavender with a hint of honey — and asked, “How were your lessons today?”

 

I told her everything.

 

About Baela’s dramatic refusal.

 

About Rhaena’s sweetness.

 

About how Baela had almost knocked over the ink jar again.

 

Rhaenyra chuckled softly, her eyes warm. “Those two keep everyone on their toes. I remember being just like Baela at that age.” She took a sip of tea, then added casually, “Speaking of … Jacaerys asked me to send a raven to our father.”

 

I tilted my head. “What for?”

 

“To request that your wedding be moved earlier,” she said with a small smile. “He told me he couldn’t wait any longer.”

 

My jaw nearly dropped. My face went hot instantly. “I—he—WHAT?!”

 

Rhaenyra laughed outright, setting down her cup. “There is nothing to be embarrassed about, Aemma. My son is deeply fond of you.”

 

My heart thumped so loudly I thought she might hear it. I lowered my gaze, hands trembling around the teacup.

 

“I… I love your son also,” I whispered.

 

Rhaenyra’s expression softened in a way I’d never seen from Mother — warm, proud, gentle. She reached across the table and took my hands, squeezing them.

 

“And he loves you,” she said. “Anyone can see it.”

 

My eyes burned, and before I could stop myself, a small tear slid down my cheek. Rhaenyra rose and came around the table, pulling me into a hug.

 

I hugged her back tightly — the kind of embrace a mother gives when she is truly glad for you.

 

It felt like sunlight.

 

And safety.

 

And home.

 

For once, I wasn’t a mistake.

 

I wasn’t unloved.

 

I wasn’t a burden.

 

I was Aemma — someone worth loving.

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.