four.

"Hush now, sweetest girl." It was Lady Jeyne Arryn who engulfs her into her arms, an hour after their caused commotion, after Daemon was ushered out by two of his brother's Kingsguard, her uncle quite the same. After a tense moment, the King had promised them justice and a private council and, afterwards, had stepped up to the quivering Ysilla with a pained pinch to his face, wether from his reopening wounds or the child's plight, no one could say for certain.

"My niece," the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms had addressed, had run a finger through Targaryen silver silk. "Please, what do they call you?"

She had told him her name—by the Gods, did Daemon even know of it?—and then proclaimed herself Royce instead of her lawful, intended right—a Targaryen Princess.

Viserys conceded, and decided, then: let the girl have this, let no one question her succession as they do his daughter's after two sons born, now. "Lady Royce, my sincerest condolences. If there is anything I can do for you, you only need name it."

But the tiny girl, donning her small bronze armour and her too-grown brown dress, can only form one word, one wish: her mother.

That is when the Lady of the Vale comes along, and places dainty hands atop the metal shielding her small shoulders. "Your Royal Highness, please allow me and Lady Ysilla pardon; I will tend to her rest, and see to it that this matter is resumed in the morrow, in a more appropriate setting."

"Thank you, Lady Jayne." There's relief coloring the King's mouth, his affection towards his lady love's house ever present, and the crowd finally breaks the deafening silence that had befallen the festivities. Speculations and jabs fly all across the room and, predictably, the celebration of the union of the Realm's Delight and her future King Consort turn secondary.

Instead: everyone marvels at the Targaryen hatchling, and the cruelty of her father—the unlawfulness of his actions. The start of the Heir's wedding ceremonies is eclipsed by her uncle's questionable fate.

Mayhaps that's why Alicent Hightower joins the Maiden of the Vale in her comforts; perhaps she saw the sorrowful look paint itself across Rhaenyra's face on her day of days.

She has learned now—learned better than to trust that tearful smile, the reassuring squeeze of hands that were just as soft as hers. Their bridge has been burnt to ashes in her father's departure, at her relishing deception.

Tainted, is what Rhaenyra is to Alicent. By her lies, her improprieties, her white knight, and her uncle most of all.

"Your Grace," Lady Arryn greets her, the little girl sniffling at her skirts, spooked and scared and in anguish. Alicent's heart seizes, and she thinks mournfully—this could be Heleana, or Aegon, or Aemond, when my time comes; when Rhaenyra inherits the throne and does away with me as father had said.

But that will be then, and this is now, and Alicent leans down, a gentle caress landing upon the Lady Royce's cheek.

"You have shown bravery beyond your years, dragoness," the Queen Consort professes, green sleeve brushing across Ysilla's wet jaw. She is a beautiful child, a true Targaryen—all white gold and amber. The child gives a wobbly curtsy in turn, as even in her grief, she recognises who this woman is, to her and the Vale and the Realm, and knows she should feel honoured by her kind words.

Despite Alicent's undesired circumstance, she knows her Lord Husband well now, and knows what he would give, what he would sacrifice for his rogue brother.

She wonders now, which of her sons will be offered on a silver platter to appease the Vale: her oldest, or her youngest?

Whichever way the winds will blow once the sun breaks, Alicent thinks: it would work in their favour; she would seldom oppose the union, nor would her father, if she still had his council to rely on.

Ysilla will grow to despise the dragon prince who sired her, in time—that is apparent, in motion; and Alicent is ready to fan the dragon's fire. She, as well as the entire court, has seen the animosity displayed by her house of bronze, the disapproval of the Arryns. Daemon had looked to be less than impressed by his daughter; Alicent wagers she must resemble her late mother well.

She has learned now, learned better than to stay idle, than to only play the role of broodmare for her King Husband. She needs to ensure her children will be safe and secure once the time came for the crown to be passed onto another's head.

Ysilla Royce is a comely match, to be sure—Valyria in her veins, a descendant of Kings of Kings, unlike what her own Hightower blood could claim. She thinks of Rhaenyra, then, thinks of reports from the shadowed corners of Flea Bottom, and knows in her bones that, come what may, Daemon Targaryen will stand with his Princess above all others, and has killed for his niece, killed his own lady wife for her, and would surely do it again.

But, in doing so, he has now lost a daughter,—his eldest—mayhaps for good, if her big brown eyes, full of fear and intensity once they had looked upon her lord father were anything to go by.

Alicent, however, is more than happy to soothe at her brow, to let Ysilla fall into her outstretched arms once the cries come on again, and thinks—let this be a blow to the Princess.

They won't feel it now, not even tomorrow, or the day after that. But in years' time, once the seasons shift and the dragons turn, they will feel the sting.

She will make sure of it.

The Trial of the Dragon

written by Archmaester Gyldain

"The events that took place on that fateful day, after the meats, long-infested, lay abandoned on the wedding table, as accounted by the young Ysilla Royce, only four and orphaned, to her good Maester at Runestone upon her return, are as follows:

It has been said, and confirmed by the then-child herself, that whilst the Lord Flea Bottom recounted his Golden days in the famed Black cells, Ysilla was housed and laid to rest her head in the royal wing of the Red Keep, reserved only for Targaryen nobility—a small arrangement made by the Queen Consort Alicent Hightower. It would appear, even then, she had plans, long-term and concrete, and harmful to the Realm's Delight, if only sinister in nature.

Of course, that is what the dwarf Mushroom would like you to believe. I myself would wager that there was no nefarious intent there, so much as a calculated move that backfired once the Lady of Runestone awoke to greet another day, and was then met with her would-be betrothed, Aegon II.

Aegon the Elder was reported to be as difficult a youth as one may become growing up in his most privileged station. He detested sharing his toys at six most of all, even when the tender girl—a potential match, Alicent had tried to explain, but to no avail, it is known—had reached out for his carved horse. She may have gotten interested and been reminded of her mother's famed brood, Greymore, who had fallen atop of the late Lady Rhea, causing her grave injury—or so most had believed for a while, at least

Regardless of what had transpired between the two Targaryen children, the encounter ended with the little Lady pressing a swollen wrist to her heaving chest. The Queen Alicent was then called in to intervene, for no knight nor servant had dared to grasp at the firstborn male of their Sire. Mushroom had spun tales of reenactments, of another Targaryen trying to trample a Royce heir into the ground, but there was little to no evidence to support his far-fetched claims.

In fact, Ysilla had told her Maester Gryan that he had simply rammed down the wooden toy upon her hand once she had tried to tuck it out of his grasp, and the bump gracing her fragile bone was what caused the Lady of Runes to shriek her protest only several hours later, when King Viserys I had called the trial to start at dusk and dared suggest marriage between the younglings.

In attendance that evening were the banners of the Vale, of Targaryen and Royce, of Velaryon and Strong. This had caused quite the disarray, for lords and ladies all across the Realm had gathered for a wedding most spoiled, and were slighted even further for not being allowed through the doors hiding away the judgement most curious and intriguing between the two families and their ruling heads.

It is reported that Prince Daemon, chained as he still was in front of the intimate court of distinct relatives and Valemen, in front of his niece, now wedded, had laughed at his daughter. Mushroom has written him thinking her pathetic, but taking into account his disdain for any child of Viserys not named Rhaenyra, I would beg to differ that it was at Aegon's burning cheeks in the face of the girl's repulsion that his bark was directed to.

In fact, famous is the report addressed to Otto Hightower in Oldtown by his queenly daughter: Daemon Targaryen had apparently kneeled in front of his firstborn: perhaps thinking she will embrace him in forgiveness if he showed her false remorse for his actions; perhaps deciding her too young to be capable of comprehension in subjects as mature as life and death. Whichever was his reasoning, the Prince of the City must have surely been disappointed to garner only a cold stare from the Royce Heir, his own child of four. This, of course, famously marked the start of their decline.

Contrary to its impact for years to follow, The Trial of the Dragon had been a short-spoken affair.

Where Lord Royce had attempted to push forth with the match of the eldest son and his cousin's issue, had demanded the Rogue Prince's body mounted on a bronze spike, the Lady Jeyne had suggested a number of compromises that would serve to benefit not only her loyal Royce vassals, but herself as well; compromises that King Viserys I could simply not refuse in good faith. He would risk an uprising in the Vale if their wishes had not been addressed and met for the killing of one of their own, and even though the rulling House had dragons beasts on their side to tame the uproar, it would not bode well to have unlawfulness answered with further crimes against good Targaryen subjects.

Certain terms were agreed upon that night, beneath the throne of iron swords and the melting wax of candles: ones that shaped our history as we know it.

The Maiden of the Vale, she herself unmarried and dying as such years later, had suggested for the children to grow first, and find love amongst themselves later. She was famously quoted saying: I will have no more heirs to Runestone dead at the feet of Targaryen husbands who refused to perform their duties to their lady wives out of lack of respect and love. Queen Alicent could do nothing but concede.

She made a promise to all in the hall as well, in front of hues of greens and blacks and blues: she will be my ward, and with my tutelage, growing under my wing, she will grow to be a fine asset to both Valemen and the blood of Old Valyria, I assure you now, my Lords and Ladies. Lord Royce could do nothing but concede.

As for the fate of Prince Daemon Targaryen, Lady Jeyne had only two suggestions for the crown, and King Viserys the Peaceful had chosen the lesser of two evils presented to him: give the girl of bronze and silver a dragon, as is her birthright, and exile the Rogue Prince to Essos, never to be seen again, less you wish to grant the Vale his severed head instead.

King Viserys I could, too, do nothing more but concede to the Lady of the Vale's demands.

Prince Daemon, it is said, had risen from the ground after his kingly brother condemned him to a life of exile once more, had spared but a single, scathing look at his child—seeing his late wife in her bolden eyes—and allowed Sers Criston Cole and Arryk Cargyll to take him away with little to no resistance.

Mushroom had condemned the impropriety of Princess Rhaenyra as she rushed out after her uncle for one last, final farewell, whatever that may have entailed, leaving her Future King Consort to watch his Lady wife push and shove past Lannisters and Starks and the rest of the lordlings waiting outside the doors now sprung opened.

At the end of the day most now know as the Trial of the Dragon, after Caraxes carried off the unchained, Rogue Prince east, Queen Alicent had this to add in her letter to her own estranged father: rare a sight it is, to watch a daughter defy her father so as she. She will not miss Daemon Targaryen but, rest assured, I will see to it that she looks favourably towards us, soon. I will light the way for my children, as you did for your own.