AEMMA I

101 AC, Dragonstone

The white silk ribbon seemed like a velvety streak of cloud wafting in a sky tinged golden as it was looped around the end of the long, swaying braid. It was a simple enough plait, twisting and coiling strands of silver and of gold criss crossed over each other, ending just below the curve of the girl's waist, past a woven belt of silver-wrought dragons encrusted with moonstones. The white silk of the hair tie was the first in many days for her daughter, meant to compliment the pale sky-blue silk gown worked with silver dragons and pearl teardrops that she wore almost happily today, a rare retreat from the usual austere black and scarlet of her daughter's house. A necklace of white gold was looped around her neck, encrusted with finely cut amethysts that mirrored Rhaenyra's eyes. Pulling away, Aemma Arryn could not help but smile at the sight.

Rhaenyra turned her neck gently as she took in her appearance, one hand delicately tracing the woven pattern, the other holding the toy she had not allowed herself to be parted from limply. Her brows knitted together closely as she appraised Aemma's work, her lips twisted in contemplation before she broke into a bright smile. Her violet eyes, still facing the mirror, met Aemma's blue ones.

"Do you like it, sweetling?" she asked, smoothing over a few loose strands of hair. Rhaenyra nodded happily, both hands returning their vice-like grip upon the plush toy as she turned to face her mother. Her braid swished lazily as she turned with a flourishing step. She was beaming.

"I do, mama," she said, her cheeks blooming red like two apples. She twirled, admired herself once more in the floor length silver mirror and twirled again, her necklace catching the light. "Vhagar says I look pretty. Right, Vhagar?"

Vhagar the plush toy's response was an enthusiastic shake of the head (helped not so discreetly by her daughter's forceful fingers). For all that it was small and misshapen, Aemma had to admit that it was a fairly good attempt at replicating the mighty dragon of Queen Visenya. The body was made of bronze velvet stuffed with a mixture of downy goose feathers and stiff wool, with blue-green felt horns erupting from either side of its head. Shimmering scales of blue-green thread were masterfully worked outwards from the chest and the snout, fading into the bronze velvet that further complimented grass green emerald eyes that sparkled.

"Well, one can hardly refute Vhagar's infinite wisdom," Aemma said, fighting back a laugh. Her hand brushed over the girl's cheek softly, tucking a loose strand of gold behind her ear. "And I do not think there is any other girl even half as beautiful as you, my sweet."

Her blush deepened further, turning crimson. She opened her mouth to speak, the jubilence on her face looking seemingly as steadfast as the walls of Storm's End. But just as quickly as it came, it went, dissipating into oblivion. The grief that had beleaguered her since her grandsire had passed had returned within the span of a few heartbeats. Rhaenyra's grip on the plush toy grew even tighter. It made Aemma's heart ache.

"Oh sweetling," she murmured, lifting the four year old up into her arms with some difficulty. Her own strength had not returned to her yet, she remembered bitterly, a lump forming in her throat. Not after…

Aemma pushed the thought aside, instead helping Rhaenyra's head nestle itself into the crook of her neck. Her skin felt clammy against Aemma's own.

"Miss grandpapa," the girl croaked, sniffling into her neck. Aemma only held her closer.

"I know, sweetling," she replied, pressing a quick kiss to the side of her head. Her arms burned with fatigue, but she forced herself to ignore the ache. "I know, my little girl."

The door suddenly opened with a whine, making Aemma jolt upwards with a start. She turned to face the intruder, filled with a mixture of annoyance and anger, and saw that her husband had been the one to enter. There was a look of concern on his usually genial face, something that had hounded him since his father had died. He strode to Rhaenyra with urgency, his hands already reaching to lift her up. Aemma could not stop the sigh of relief that exited her mouth, her muscles grateful for the small respite Viserys had granted her. Her limbs ached desperately for a bed to lie upon but she stood by her daughter regardless.

"Oh my sweet Rhaenyra," Viserys murmured softly, his large thumb running across her sodden cheek. Their daughter only let out another sob, pressing Vhagar even closer to her face. "Your grandsire would not want to see his most beloved granddaughter like this, my joy. Especially not on this most auspicious of days."

Aemma fought back the urge to wince. Auspicious was an optimistic way to look at it. She could not last remember a meeting with her cousin that had not been fraught with tension and frosty comments. She was hopeful of course, as she always was. Yet, her sanguineness rarely ever bore ripe fruit. Nay, it seemed all she touched would fall into decline.

Not everything, she forced herself to remember, casting a glance at her little one. Her tears still streaked down her cheeks. But no longer was it a torrent as unyielding and familiar as Alyssa's Tears. It fell softly, slowly, and soon was receding like the ocean tide.

Yes, Aemma thought to herself, a slight smile touching her lips. Not everything.

Rhaenyra was still small for her age, and did not seem to be inclined to inherit her sire's height, yet, she was healthy and bright, the most precocious child this world had ever seen. She was lovely and vibrant, the pride of Aemma and Viserys' worlds.

The reminder lightened the weight on Aemma's heart once more. There was still time to bring forth a boy. She was still only nine-and-ten. She had decades more.

Still, the reminder of how her own mother had passed still seemed to taunt her. Aemma had never even known her, and yet, was her own fate to end as Princess Daella? To give her husband a girl that would stand to inherit nothing and to die soon after?

The thought made her stomach churn. No, it would be no good to think as such. Aemma was hardly more robust than her own mother had been yet she had already braved half a dozen miscarriages and the birthing bed twice and left it still whole. Her soul might have been weary, feeling the strain of so many losses, but her body would not fail her nor would she allow it. The Gods themselves would not tear her away from her daughter, especially not with all the political machinations they would be sure to find themselves dragged into. Even then…

Mayhaps if Viserys were not chosen as heir, she could have some tranquility from the constant pressures of bearing a son. Mayhaps, for the first time in near a decade, she could find some time to mourn all her losses properly.

Yes, Aemma had always been one to hope.

The Heir to the Tides was not at all what Aemma had expected. For one, though he was but a boy of seven, he flew his dragon with a certain confidence. He did not quite have the skill Rhaenys had possessed when she had first ridden Meleys, nor Daemon's, yet he still landed with flair, twisting in mid air and sliding across the courtyard, setting even little Rhaenyra smilling airily.

The dragon itself was wondrous, the envy of Aemma's own childhood, when she had hoped she might ride one herself. Its scales shone, not quite beaten silver yet not quite dull grey as well. Pale blue eyes eyed her own, shining like polished chalcedony. They were keen eyes if not slightly arrogant. The dragon known as Seasmoke even strutted around with an arrogant gait.

Laenor Velaryon was quite different. He was tall for his age, about four feet in length, and climbed down his saddle with care. His garb was Velaryon silver and teal, embellished with sapphires and emeralds, and rounded off with a pale sea-green cape held together by a sea-horse shaped cloak clasp made of white gold. It was less a dragonrider's gear and more a lordling's son. Her cousin, Rhaenys, who arrived a matter of moments later upon her own mighty steed, certainly did not seem to favour any gowns or tunics. She wore her riding clothes instead, all black leather with her even darker hair tied back. Even little Laena and Rhaenyx (who had ridden with their mother) had worn similar clothes unlike their brother.

Mayhaps it was a stylistic choice? Or was Laenor Velaryon as eccentric as they said? Aemma had half-expected him to jump from his saddle in a somersault given how men spoke of him. Some said the Crone herself had given him her favour, giving him the wits of a hundred of the most cunning of maesters. Others said he bore dragon wings upon his back and covered his horns with a flurry of hats. Aemma could safely say she did not see anything protruding from said areas.

Laenor walked obediently to his mother's side despite his capability for evoking interest, a pleasant look upon his face. There was a note of her late uncle Aemon there as well, what little Aemma still remembered of him. In his aquiline nose, his sharp cheekbones, and in his pale eyes. His features were just as fine as his clothing, his body slender and lithe in build. He would grow into an even taller man, that was for sure, though more slender than his own sire was.

"Cousin!" Viserys exclaimed with hardly a warning, smiling and walking to engulf Rhaenys in a crushing hug, "The sight of you here soothes me deeply. So does the sight of your three! The very image of their father your sons are! And your daughter is as fair as you are!"

Aemma felt her lips twitch into a smile. For all her husband was amiable, he could sometimes be daft. None of Rhaenys' boys bore the thicker features of Corlys bar Laena, and even hers was of a finer, more delicate make. Laenor certainly thought the same given he barely seemed to swallow down a chuckle.

Still, Rhaenys surprisingly returned the hug, even if awkwardly. Her amethyst eyes looked at Viserys earnestly, if not exasperated.

"I… It is good to be back, cousin," her eyes turned, landing first on Aemma and then on Rhaenyra. "You all look well."

She paused, her expression clearly conflicted but spoke on,

"I am sorry for your loss, cousin. Truly. I… understand the feeling."

Viserys' face lost some of its mirth at that, making even Aemma's oft jovial husband look morose. It was times like this that she remembered not even a moon had passed since Baelon's funeral. Next to her, her daughter seemed to wilt again. Aemma could only draw her closer to her.

Laenor Velaryon thankfully changed the subject with his infallible enthusiasm.

"Ah, cousin!" he exclaimed, skipping towards Viserys with a bright smile on his face, "Why I can hardly the last time I saw you! I must have been a babe!"

Laenor turned to look at her before Viserys could even respond, his little face brightening even more. "Ah, your beauty makes even the sunsets of Driftmark seem poor, Lady Aemma. Your light could make even the pale white stone of the Eyrie seem as dreary as Dragonstone. Though…" he turned to Rhaenyra, "I must admit your daughter has even you beaten in that regard. Why, she must truly be the Realm's Delight!"

Aemma's eyes and mouth widened in shock, simultaneously flattered and confused at the boy's outburst of flattery. Rhaenyra, on the other hand, was blushing, her grief forgotten.

"Laenor, mama told you not to call them cousin! You're going to get in trouble!" his sister, Laena, called from behind, her arms crossed over her chest. His mother looked very displeased indeed.

"Indeed, Laenor." Rhaenys' voice was stern.

"In trouble," Rhaenyx Velaryon repeated again after the fashion of his elder sister, with all the cockiness of a four year old. Laenor only smiled warmly, shooting his mother an apologetic look.

"You know how pedantic I can be, mama. Besides, we're amongst family, and father's not even here yet to chide me."

"Where is he?" Aemma's daughter asked innocently, no doubt having searched the skies for a third dragon. Laenor grinned at her.

"He takes to the seas upon his swiftest ship with all our belongings in tow, my dearest Rhaenyra. All while we ride the winds. Still, he will not be long and I am positively famished! I am sure my 'nuncle Viserys can lead the way, though I was told there were two I was to expect…"

His voice grew cold at the end, mirroring eyes that darted suspiciously at the skies.

"Ah, my younger brother Daemon has gone off riding his Caraxes, lad," Viserys explained, "But he will be here for dinner, worry not!"

"How very tragic," Laenor sighed, "Truly, it is like the Doom has struck us again! The Seven only know when I shall be able to fill my belly now that the Rogue Prince has gone riding! Woe betide all who crave almond pastries!"

"Laenor," Rhaenys said tiredly, clearly unenthused. Viserys only patted their nephew on the back with a hearty chuckle.

"Oh let the lad be, Rhaenys. No harm done. After all, I myself am eager for some pastries." Aemma shot her husband a withering glare. Viserys winced. "After dinner of course. But enough of that! Come my little Rhaenyra! Come meet your aunt and your cousins!"

And for the first time that day, Rhaenyra ran off towards them laughing.

The children were well away when the two women were finally left to speak, Viserys leading them past tapestries while regaling them with stories. They walked silently for the most part, neither saying more than a few idle words to each other before the silence swallowed them again.

How could they after all? It had been so long. It was Rhaenys who broke the quietness proper.

"You look well, Aemma," she said, one hand on each hip. Even now as women-grown, she was so much taller than Aemma. Nearly a whole foot taller. "How have you been?"

Aemma's lips moved wordlessly, unable to make even the slightest of sounds. What could she say? Weary of all these sorrows? Envious of Rhaenys' ease at delivering two sons? Her nails scratched at her palms in discomfort, trying to ward away the weakness that not only afflicted her body, but her very soul. Despite herself, she wanted to cry on her cousin's shoulder, to just sob.

"I am well," she said instead, the lie etched in not only her mouth, but on her face. A well practiced smile. Rhaenys frowned at the sight of it, her lips thinned.

The silence began again.

They both knew Aemma was far from well. They both knew the reason why.

The silence stretched.

"I am sorry, cousin," Rhaenys said after a moment. Her eyes looked genuinely concerned. "Truly, I am."

Aemma's nails only dug deeper into the flesh of her palms, breeding a sharp sting that was only second to the ache that still clung to her heart. She should not be upset, no. It was not Rhaenys' fault she had lost another one. It was not her fault the only life she had brought to term that had survived past the cradle was that of her little dragon's.

"I am not upset, cousin," Aemma replied shakily. Her breath still trembled despite her efforts. "It is not your fault."

Rhaenys' grimace only deepened. She looked ready to counter that, but swallowed down whatever words of rebuttal she might have thought of. "Mayhaps not," she said instead, squeezing Aemma's shoulder in comfort, "but I can commiserate with you, cousin. Whatever quarrels between our grandfather and I."

Aemma turned to glance at her. Rhaenys' pale violet eyes seemed almost sad. It made her think of that girl she had all but worshipped during her younger days. The girl who had taken her on flights upon a dragon as scarlet as the colours she once wore so proudly.

A memory. An impression. A distant echo in the dark.

All lost to the spiteful swords of the Iron Throne.

LAENA III

The first thing she thought as the great gold-and-silver doors closed behind them was the world of difference between High Tide and Dragonstone. The walls of High Tide were pale, made of stone quarried from the mountains of the Vale upnorth, with slender towers crowned with roofs of beaten silver sheets sprawling out into a massive complex, its architecture a mix of both the East and the West. Somewhat like them, her father was wont to say. There were frescoes from artists her father had patroned, with fine mosaics gracing the marble walls and ground, depicting scenes of relief or of mythical encounters and ancestors of ages past. Tapestries from the Freehold hung over its walls, with scented candles encroached in finely made silver sconces artfully shaped into wonderful shapes - of seahorses and merlins, of even the lowly driftwood that gave the island its name. The smell of the warm sea breeze flowing in from half-open ornate windows of stained glass clashed with the heady incense that burned in each room, leaving in a scent that she could only describe as the scent of home. It was light and airy, decadent without being outlandish.

It seemed the antithesis of Dragonstone.

She could not remember when she had last visited the island, but it had been long enough that the sight of the last true masterwork made by the hands of Valyrian sorcerers made her stop and stare. Even grim Driftmark, for all that its walls were caked with salt and its interior damp and flooded, had more appeal than Dragonstone in her opinion. It was egregious in its beauty and lush, worked not by chisels but by sorceries long forgotten. The different towers were not shaped into tall spires; instead the towers themselves were forged to resemble menacing dragons luring in their prey. Like an invitation to an early death to all those who dared trespass.

The thought made her insides freeze over as she once again thought of what she would be attempting that night. Every crook and cranny seemed to carry a reminder of Valyria, with dragons dominating statues, sconces, stairs and even doorways amidst a clutch of other monstrous creatures, all carved to such exquisite detail that it stole the breath away. The most wonderful of tapestries showed off the burning of men who dared oppose the dragonlords, their faces contorted into an everfrozen stilled portrait of agony while their wives, their children and all their possessions, however meagre, were claimed as spoils of war. They were few and far between, having been replaced with tapestries of the age of the Conquerors and their successors, but those were a pale shadow of the ones that preceded them. It was violent enough that it made her feel a wave of nausea wash over her, and for 'Nyx to start crying at even a glimpse of all these terribly beautiful terrible things that covered every foot of the keep. Laenor seemed more entranced than anything. He did not smile; even he was not so barbarous. But there was an appreciation in his eyes that always made Laena wonder what he was thinking. Laenor seemed to find beauty in even the most crude of stuff, and fault in all that was thought pure and proper.

Like Dragonstone and High Tide, she thought with a frown.

He played the role of the heir to the Tides well today: his mouth was always smiling, speaking animatedly to Prince Viserys and his wife, ever so often complimenting their young cousin who blushed. It had done enough to smooth out the beginnings of awkwardness, enough that her mother spoke to them with a familiarity that Laena had never known existed. A part of her wondered if Laenor was putting on an act on purpose. For all he claimed he wanted nothing to do with being king, Laena could not help but think he would be suited for it. There was nothing in his face that showed any hint of nervousness of what he had been planning ever since they had received the news that evening in his chambers.

It made Laena all the more nervous. She trusted her little brother - truly she did. But even she could not help but wonder if this plan they had been concocting since mother had been invited to Dragonstone would go even reasonably well.

Just thinking about it again made her swell up with guilt. The thought of her mother's wrath did not help. She did not know which would be more frightening: coming face to face with the greatest dragon in the world, or having to confront a very angry Lady of the Tides. Mayhaps her father might be of help given he and mother had quarreled recently. But even father might be disappointed!

She glanced at Laenor once more, now walking arm in arm with their cousin, Rhaenyra, and grimaced.

At least she could use one brother as a shield. The other, to her exasperation and amusement, was now dragging her off to look at a stray kitten from the kitchens.

"His name is Fluffles," Rhaenyx Velaryon stated proudly, his freshly-claimed tabby curled securely under his armpit as he showed the kitten off. A pleased grin was stretched over his face as he puffed up his chest even more at the sound of Rhaenyra's awwing. Fluffles, in contrast, seemed content to just hang limply, almost as if playing dead. The prospect of being claimed by a boy of four seemed to be grimmer to Fluffles than a life of living off of kitchen scraps. The sight of her brother's despondent new pet left her giggling despite her attempts at keeping her composure. It made Laena almost forget her agitation.

"She," corrected Laenor tiredly as he lifted the kitten's tail from behind and crinkled his nose. "And she looks more willing to brave the waters of the Smoking Sea than to be named Fluffles, dear brother."

Rhaenyx snorted in distaste. "Jealous baby," her youngest brother muttered ever so childishly, sticking his tongue out at him. Laenor stared back at him, affronted. His lips worked to form words, no doubt eager to begin another lecture on the importance of respecting your elders, but Rhaenyra thankfully squashed any further attempt at that with a soft coo.

"She is so beautiful, Rhaenyx," she exclaimed. Rhaenyx's smug smile only grew larger.

"Of course she is, coz," he said haughtily, "Fluffles is fiercer than a dragon."

The mention of a dragon cut Laena's joy short. Once again, anxiety crept into the confines of her chest, begging to be heard. She saw Laenor frown at her, lips thinning as his lilac eyes seemed to scream at her for showing even the slightest sign of worry. Laena swallowed her fear down with haste.

"I think a dragon is fiercer," Rhaenyra continued on obliviously, a white smile brightening up her features. There was a certain fondness traced in her voice, etched into the very curve of her lips. Her violet eyes seemed almost morose for the flicker of a second, though it was gone as soon as it came. It made Laena frown. She opened her mouth to speak, feeling concerned, but Rhaenyx cut her off nonchalantly.

"Well mama says I am a dragon and a seahorse! So I'm fiercer than you," he reaffirmed loftily. Laena and Laenor both let out simultaneous sighs of exasperation. Of course Rhaenyx had to say that.

"You are not!" Rhaenyra cried out angrily in retaliation.

"Am too!" 'Nyx repeatedly stubbornly, Fluffles flailing wildly in his arms.

"Gods be good," Laenor lamented quietly, his face a portrait of weariness.

"Are not," continued Rhaenyra, ignoring her brother's words.

"Am t-"

"It is not polite to speak to a princess as such, boy."

The sudden sound of a male voice made Laena freeze on the spot. It was more of a drawl than a reprimand, yet it made Laena tense up all the same. Against her better judgement she turned to look at its owner, someone who she could barely recall but knew of greatly.

Prince Daemon Targaryen leaned languidly onto the slick stone wall, dressed in clothes of the finest make, scarlet upon black with golden thread dancing along the hems and sleeves in flame motifs. A cloth of gold half-cape was lazily swung over his broad shoulder, pinned to his breast with an intricately carved dragon-shaped brooch wrought of red-gold and inlaid with spinels carefully placed to seem almost like the scales of a real dragon. His silver hair ended at his shoulders, worn in a loosely kept braid that bespoke of a certain dastardly charm. His face was tanned brown from hours in the sun (a handsome countenance Laena had to admit) though slightly thicker than the usual Valyrian's finer features. His dark purple eyes eyed them with amusement, his right hand loosely gripping the sword at his belt. Its golden flame pommel vanished from sight as he played with the handle almost like a dance, there for one moment and hidden behind his hand or his cape the next.

The sight of him made Laenor's weak smile curdle like spoiled milk. Laena could feel her brother approach her, his hand lightly nudging her to his side while he tried to direct their younger brother towards them from behind. Their little brother, however, ignored the tug. Instead, he scowled stubbornly at the man, his lips curled in distaste. Either he did not know that Daemon was a prince with a dragon of his own, or he did not care much about it. 'Nyx had always been too brash for his own good.

"I have a name, boy," Rhaenyx riposted mockingly, imitating Daemon's languorous tone. "And me and 'Nyra did not invite you to play."

Rhaenyra's face flickered uncomfortably at the mention. Laena could tell by the smile she had worn at the sight of him that the girl was fond of her uncle and plainly did not want to take any sides. She chewed at her lip, frowning, as she stared between the two of them.

"Uncle…" she began, "'Nyx is right. We were just playing with Fluffles."

Daemon's smile split into an even wider grin as he chuckled long and deep, his hands clutching his sides as his laughs grew more plentiful. "Rhaenyra, you had not told me your father had given you a jester of your own. He certainly is small enough to rival Mushroom, and has just as much wit."

Rhaenyx's face flushed with embarrassment, turning beetroot red. His confidence was withering and Daemon knew it. Laena grabbed her brother's hand into her own and felt it hang limply. There were hot tears in his eyes. Daemon seemed not to notice as he cast the cat another glance and laughed again. It made Laenor's face turn graver.

"Is there something you find amusing, cousin? I had thought you would be out riding," Laenor said coldly. His eyes glowered at Daemon.

"Why, your brother's mount has caught my fancy, boy! A mount worthy of a seahorse indeed. My Caraxes pales before her feline splendour." His voice had turned into a drawl again. Laena felt her own anger rise to the fore, burning as white hot as a dragon's flame.

"Better a brave seahorse than an arrogant bully like you," she retorted back. His features contorted in anger at the insult before his face faltered, almost as if he was realising no one else had found it as funny as he had. He turned to look at his niece, obviously looking for some support but she only looked at him reproachingly, her brows knitted together to form a scowl. Her small mouth was slanted in petulance. Her good mood had all but dissipated.

"That was not nice, uncle," Rhaenyra reprimanded sourly. "We were only playing."

"Is that so? It seemed to me, dearest niece, that the boy was claiming that him being Velaryon's whelp makes him more of a dragon than you are. And yet I am the bully?" Condescension seemed to overflow from his lips.

"We were playing, uncle," the girl reaffirmed, though less confidently than before. Her own cheeks burned pink at Daemon's accusation and her voice had lost its firmness.

"A cruel game," Daemon noted casually, shrugging his shoulders."Yet it is always the children who are most cruel." He looked at his niece affectionately, something Laena had not thought a man like him possible of even conceiving. "There is no need to protect them, dear niece."

"Not always children," Laenor snapped back in retort, taking a step forward. His lilac eyes burned with rage.

Daemon only smirked.

"If you have something to say, child, then I suggest you say it plainly instead of speaking in riddles."

"I fear even that would be beyond your comprehension," Laenor snarked back hotly. The prince's eyes lost their warmth in a heartbeat.

"You certainly have your mother's fire," Daemon scoffed, "Would that you had inherited some of her better judgement."

"Would that you had inherited some of your father's tolerance," Laenor answered with a sneer.

Daemon's muscles tensed almost at once at the mention of his dead sire. His hands balled up in fists on either side of him, making the branches of his veins stand out. His eyes burned with a mad fury, one that made Laena step back warily. His nostrils flared out in anger.

"Watch your tongue, boy," Daemon said through gritted teeth, his grip on Dark Sister tightening. Laenor only stood taller, defiant.

"I suggest the same to you, cousin," Princess Rhaenys Targaryen remarked sharply, The Lady of the Tides' voice carried over the corridor in a ring of rage, accompanied by the heavy footfalls of her boots upon the marble ground. Her every muscle seemed on the cusp of wanton violence. Daemon stood straighter and let go of his sword, though his complacent smile had returned.

"Cousin," he greeted with that annoying smirk back on his face. He swaggered towards her with a certain nonchalance. "I thought my brother was busy dragging you off to taste the custard pies. With the way he's been indulging recently, they might go the way of Valyria if you tarry here any longer."

Her mother's eyes only narrowed. "And I had thought you would be dragging yourself back to Runestone. I hear Lord Yorbert is in ill health. I am sure your lady wife would appreciate your support."

Daemon only snorted derisively, his lips turned downward. There was a certain pique to his tone despite the unconcern it tried to carry. "I am very glad to be rid of my bronze bitch and her upstart begetter. May the Gods take him swiftly so he can stop bothering me with all these ravens demanding I fuck her. And may they take her swiftly as well. I'd sooner take one of their sheep from behind. They're far comelier than the women there."

Laena cringed at the vulgar language. Impropriety was not befit a scion of noble blood, their mother always said.

"Crass," Laenor muttered quietly next to her, one arm around 'Nyx's shoulder. The Princess Rhaenys seemed to think similarly.

"I would suggest you keep such words out of my children's hearing. Unless you are fond of the taste of lye soap of course."

There was no amusement or warmth in her voice, just frigidity. Daemon did not seem affected by it at all.

"The years have not changed you, have they cousin? Still so bitter… Come, Rhaenyra," he called, his smirk deepening at the sight of the little girl's hurried steps. Laenor's face grew grimmer at the sight. Their mother only walked past Daemon as if he were no more than a small, irrelevant pest, and lifted Rhaenyx into her arms. Then, with not a word, their mother began to move forward, clearly expecting her children to follow suit obediently. Laena did not dare show any cheek.

"It matters little," Laenor whispered to her as they walked, his eyes narrowed on the flowing gold cloak disappearing into the distance. His voice shook with rage. "When we are done here, none of this will matter at all."

Laena did not reply. Her mouth had dried up again at the thought of what she would be doing tonight. Laenor had hammered his scheme into her mind till she knew it as well as she knew her own hand.

In her mind's eye, the colossus figure seemed to drown High Tide in its shadow again, leaving that young girl green with envy.

Vhagar, last of the Conquering dragons, of the ties that harkened back to the days where the Targaryens looked East, and not West. The greatest dragon of all the Known World and tonight, she would go and claim her.

A/N: Little note about Rhaenyx before he's compared to Joffrey or something. He's just a cocky kid, don't worry.