Hello everyone. Here is the new chapter, a Rhaenyra pov. Time to start getting the ball rolling.

If you are enjoying the story, please leave a review. It is one of the things that gives me the motivation to write the story and shows me that there is interest for it.

Rhaenyra II

Rhaenyra watched Daemon sleep.

She had always considered her uncle a handsome man.

Daemon did not sport a constant smile. He often appeared silent and pensive, looking like a prince from one of her storybooks.

Yet, sometimes he did smile, and Rhaenyra knew each and one of them.

The most common one was a smug one; the arrogant turn of his lips gave him an air of confidence that Rhaenyra had always found comfort and security in. Other times, he would flash a crooked grin, convincing the girl he was about to do something that would greatly amuse her. And, on rare occasions, Rhaenyra would catch a charming - almost boyish - curl of his lips that never failed to bring a similar reaction out of the girl.

Rhaenyra also found, and quite embarrassed to admit, that his smiles were not the only of his expressions she found pleasing. Daemon often snarled, baring his teeth with a vicious glint. It gave him the appearance of a wild beast, of a Dragon. It never failed to fill Rhaenyra with a kind of excitement she did not fully understand.

Her uncle had grown more handsome since she had last seen him; also in a sense she did not fully understand.

Rhaenyra swallowed and kept her eyes on Daemon's sleeping visage.

Sleep eluded her tonight. Daemon's words earlier in the day swam in her mind.

The Blood of the Dragon

She had no doubt that the blood ran thick through Daemon. It was not only in his temperament that she saw it, for her uncle had always been hot to the touch. Even now she could feel it with the one hand that had slipped through a window in his nightwear and touched his bare chest.

It had landed there by accident. Daemon slept deeply, so he had yet to notice. And Rhaenyra had not removed it. There was slight creeping blush coloring her face because of it.

But she could feel it, along with the gentle rise and fall of his breathing. A pulsing heat throbbed with the rhythm of his breathing – as if carried by the blood following through his veins, the Blood of the Dragon.

Rhaenyra could feel that heat seep into her, all the way into her chest. There, she could feel a small but constant pounding. Was this what it felt like?

Daemon said her blood sang. Did his own do so as well? If so, was this their combined melody? Their blood calling to each other?

Did blood beckon blood?

Rhaenyra hoped it did; for tonight she questioned her very nature.

To her uncle, she had always been his little dragon; fierce and wild in equal measure, he claimed. But she had also been something else to someone else.

"My Dove," she heard her mother's voice almost as if pressed against her ear.

She slipped out of bed with Aemma Arryn's voice still echoing in her head.

The slumbering Daemon did not even notice. He gave a sleepy groan and shifted within the covers. Rhaenyra stood beside the bed momentarily, wondering if her uncle would wake up. But she only heard the man smack his lips before he found himself in a comfortable position once more and almost snored.

With her destination in mind, Rhaenyra quietly exited her chambers.

She walked through the halls of the Eyrie with a new and strange unease. This had been home for her entire life. These were chambers and corridors Rhaenyra knew like the back of her hand. Yet, that familiarity did not bring any comfort.

Despite remaining the same the Eyrie felt different, changed.

She continued her musings as she walked through the dark halls. The only illumination came from the moonlight, entering the castle through great windows.

She had no doubt as to the nature of her uncle.

Daemon was the Blood of The Dragon. Son of Baelon and Alyssa, who had been Dragons in their own right. He was one of the most dangerous men in the Realm, the Rogue Prince. Not even the Old King Jaehaerys could control him.

But what about her own nature?

Her thoughts drifted toward the king, her father. Though in all truth, those were not the things he was to Rhaenyra. Viserys, whose name felt alien to her, was a distant figure, a man who had abandoned her and her mother. Still, even that perception of him was something recent. The reality is that the king had never been a presence in her life.

Beyond occasional fantasies wherein she imagined what it would be like to have a father, the king had been mostly absent from her consciousness. The death of her mother had changed that. Disparate pieces of knowledge and information coalesced into a coherent image of the man.

The king was a man that lacked the courage to face his daughter of ten and three. A man that had lacked the courage to come to the deathbed of the woman he supposedly loved. A man that, if the rumors were correct, could not even mention their names.

It was not a flattering picture—the picture of a man and a weak one. Not of a dragon, no, Rhaenyra thought. If the king had any of the Blood of the Dragon, it certainly did not run thick.

Yet, in an ironic twist of fate, the king had the same parentage as Daemon. Could the blood be diluted so in just a single generation, was the king simply a dud? And what did that mean for Rhaenyra, his daughter?

She found herself in front very familiar door. Her father was pushed to the back of her mind but remained a present prickling.

"My Dove," Rhaenyra heard the voice of her mother call. She remembered her smiling face she couped her face. "Beautiful, compassionate, and kind," she would sing as she kissed Rhaenyra's forehead. "More than any mother has a right to ask."

Rhaenyra swallowed and pushed the door open. She peaked from across the threshold into that dark abyss. The barest of moonlight came in from one of the windows highlighting the single bed that stood surrounded by darkness.

It was her mother's room, the one she had died in. Rhaenyra felt cold.

Her breath quickened, and Rhaenyra had half a mind to run back to her room, back to Daemon. She felt the need to tightly curl against him, press her bare skin into his own. To envelope herself in that all-consuming heat and let their blood sing.

But she did not. Eventually, her breathing slowed. And instead, she took a step forward and then another one.

After a few difficult steps, Rhaenyra was now inside, and a strange calmness came to her. Her eyes traveled the room. This room had too many memories to focus on a single one. Strangely, all Rhaenyra could think about was how the room felt smaller, how the walls seemed to have closed in.

This had been a refuge for her once. It no longer was one, she coolly noticed. Despite remaining exactly the same, the room felt different, changed, just as the rest of the Eyrie.

And so, her thoughts turned to her mother, also the offspring of the Targaryen lineage. What was the nature of Aemma Arryn?

Her eyes reached the bed.

"Viserys, my love…."

Rhaenyra remembered asking her mother why things were the way they were. It had happened one time after Daemon left for King's Landing. She had asked her mother why she could not go with him. Of course, that had led to questions about why she was different. About why she had so much less than her older sister.

Aemma had explained in words a child could understand. However, the reasons she gave Rhaenyra were long lost to time and memory, for Rhaenyra was very young when she asked. But the lesson Aemma had sought to impart remained crystallized in her mind.

"There are many things out of our control," Aemma had claimed while gently cupping her daughter's face. "All we can truly change is what is in here," she continued, tapping a finger on her chest above her heart. "As for me, I know that all I need to live a good life – a happy life – is you, my Dove," she had cooed sweetly then. "We must learn to make the best of what we are given, to be…."

Content, she finished for the mother that still lived in her memories. It was a lesson she had taken to heart for many years. Rhaenyra had always desired to be the Dragon Daemon claimed her to be, but she had also loved being her mother's Dove.

But she did not seem "content" as she died crying out for a man who had abandoned her more than a decade ago, Rhaenyra thought bitterly.

So, another word slithered into Rhaenyra's mind. One decidedly less sweet.

Resigned.

Rhaenyra's gaze swept across the room once more as the word echoed in her head. She sighed; it was a beautiful room with an incredible view of the Mountains of the Moon. She could even see the silhouettes of the mountain peaks cast by the moonlight.

Its beauty did not change what she now saw as, a prison. The place where Aemma Arryn had been made to live and die on the whims of a King half a world away.

Oh, but she had been "content" through it all.

A part of Rhaenyra wanted to laugh. Aemma Arryn had not been content with her fate; she had been resigned to it. Whether her mother had been aware of it until her last moments or not, Rhaenyra did not know. All Rhaenyra knew was that that bed in front of her, she had seen the end of it. And it had not been her Dove that she longed for, but a long-lost past. One in which her wings had yet to be clipped.

Not a Dragon's life. Not a Dragon's end. But rather a pretty bird, a dove, in a gilded cage lulling itself into complacency with the familiarity and beauty of its home.

And what did that mean for Rhaenyra? What did it make her? What was the daughter of two scions of house Targaryen, yet neither of the two a dragon?

Daemon claimed that her blood sang. Yet, something felt horribly mismatched. If two and two made four, then Rhaenyra was five. Not the expected outcome. Something was missing. Or at least, Rhaenyra felt like it did.

She sat on the bed, immersed in her own thoughts, and imagined her mother's "content" end for herself. Dying in the gilded cage that was the Eyrie. Mayhap, even after living a comfortable life with all her needs met. But nevertheless, amounting to nothing more than the bastard of a feckless man.

And something inside her roared in opposition. Smoldering embers left dormant since the night after her mother's death roared back to life. Yet, her breathing remained calm even as her anger rose.

Perhaps there was more to the dragon than simply blood. Perhaps the dragon needed the will to match its blood – the want to match its fire. Rhaenyra could feel them now, both the will and want. For she would not allow herself that end.

Rhaenyra turned on her heels and made her way to her room, to Daemon. She went to his heat; to feel her blood sing once more.

This time, the urge did not come as a covinient opportunity to escape what was in front of her; but out of the desire to reaffirm what she was.

Rhaenyra woke up like many previous mornings, curled against her uncle. Yet, something was different this morning.

She felt… peaceful.

"Stare long enough into the fire, and it becomes serene," she heard her uncle's voice. Daemon snored, almost as if to punctuate the thought.

Rhaenyra smiled at the sound. It was like everything had simply clicked into place. Her emotions – grief, anger, and countless others – remained. But they no longer warred with one another.

The tumult was gone, and the calm left space for other things. In this case, curiosity.

Rhaenyra's thoughts turned toward the previous night's supper with Daemon. She was keenly aware of it from the moment her uncle had been summoned by Lady Jeyne Arryn. Something was going on, something she was not supposed to know.

The spark of curiosity had appeared instantly, but she had been too deep in her own head to pay it much mind. But now it wormed itself back into her head. She was almost insulted at the fact that they attempted to keep something from her.

Rhaenyra looked out the window and then back up at her uncle. Good, it was still the morrow. Her uncle was not made for the early mornings. Left to his own devices, he would sleep for a few more hours. That would give her time to investigate.

Mirroring her late-night excursion, she carefully left his arms and snuck out of bed. Daemon, a guttural grunt escaped his lips, but he did not wake. Rhaenyra exited the room with the same care.

First, she thought of going to the kitchens. The baker was in early in the morning. The plump woman had taken a liking to Rhaenyra and occasionally snuck her some pastries. If the baker was there, the girl would be welcomed. And more importantly, the serving girls in the kitchens always had the finest of gossip, plucked from the lips of knights and lords deep into their coups. If something had happened in the Eyrie, they were likely to know.

However, as she neared the kitchens, something felt off. Whatever it was that she ought not to know concerned her uncle. Moreover, it was something that had required his urgent attention.

And what business of the Eyrie concerned him so greatly?

The answer was not much. Or at least, not something that could be learned from the common gossip of the banquet halls of the Eyrie. That meant it most likely came from somewhere else, from outside the Eyrie and perhaps even the Vale.

Her eyes widened with realization, a raven!

So, Rhaenyra turned heel and headed towards the Maester's Tower. The way was familiar, for she had spent many hours in the tower. Maester Clemon was one of her only genuine companions in the Eyrie.

She had not visited the tower since the arrival of Daemon, and part of her felt guilty. Lightly guilt-ridden, she went up the stairs and softly knocked on the door. She hared the slow shuffling of papers and tomes as Maester Coleman approached the door.

"Yes?" he asked as he opened it. His face split into a genuine smile as he looked down to see her. "Rhaenyra, child, you look better."

Rhaenyra nodded with more enthusiasm than she expected. It was good to see the Maester.

"May I come in?"

"Of course, of course!" the old man exclaimed while moving out of the way and opening the door wide. His small genuine smile shifted to a large genuine one as he did so.

Rhaenyra stepped into the chamber. Her senses were immediately inundated with the smell of ink, old paper, and ravens. It was a comforting smell. She had just realized it, but she missed being here, among all the missives and news coming from the seven kingdoms.

She looked up at the Master once more and was surprised by a hand gently but firmly gripping her chin. Immersed in his own little world, the Master examined her. He turned her head sideways, examining her profile while nodding to himself.

"Yes, yes," he muttered under his breath. "Much better complexion. Rested eyes-" Rhaenyra could not hear the rest as it became incomprehensibly fast murmurs clearly meant for himself. Finally, Clemon released her.

The man had always been a healer.

"You look better, healthier," he repeated and gave her a sad smile. "I do hope you feel better," he continued with a lower voice.

"I…." she stopped, but the truth was Rhaenyra did not have to lie. "I do," she nodded. Not everything was well, but she was better.

"Good, good, good," the Maesters jovial tone returned. "For the ravens and me have missed you terribly!"

"I have not been here in a spell. I was wondering if you had some of the missives lying around. I long to get back in touch with the Realm."

"Yes, you see…" he gave her a sheepish smile. "My assistant has not been feeling well the last few days, and we have a pile of messages just begging to be cataloged." He pointed towards a drawer on the far side of the room. "They should be right over there."

Rhaenyra smiled and touted over to the drawer. From the corner of her eye, he could see the Maester returning to his work. She sat down, opened the drawer, and beamed at the collection of papers she saw inside.

She knew she would not find the information she was looking for in this pile of parchment. Any messages with sensitive content would have been removed by Maester Clemon and then handed to Jeyne Arryn directly. Yet she enjoyed reading them. There was much exciting news from across the Realm. "Men of the Nightswatch approach the Eyrie," one said, and Rhaenyra wondered if she would meet one who wore the black. Another "Lannister fleet arrived at Sunspear," another read. There was even some interesting gossip here and there.

Even as she read the numerous pieces of parchment, Rhaenyra kept a side eye on the Maester. It was not Clemon she was interested in, but the book he was scribbling in. The Maester allowed no one but the Lady of the Vale to see the most sensitive messages, but he did log every single one in that book. The Maester did it to keep track of all the correspondence that traveled through the tower. Rhaenyra was convinced Clemon was unaware she knew about the log, for she had used it before to glimpse at the information she ought not to know.

It was not long before there was a knock at the door, someone else calling for the services of Maester Clemon. The old man gave her a kind look.

"Stay for as long as you want, child."

With that, he answered the door and left Maester's tower shortly.

Rhaenyra waited for his footfalls to go silent before standing up and heading to the Maester's desk. She opened the heavy tome. The Master's notation method was familiar to her – date, origin, sender, and then a summary of the message's contents.

She flipped through the pages, looking for anything out of the ordinary that stood out.

Then she saw it.

"22nd day of the 6th Moon, 110 AC – King's Landing – Archmaster Mellos – Otto Hightower to head for the Ceremony."

Otto Hightower.

Searching through her memories, she found that she had hearted of him before. Primarily through Daemon calling him a "cunt." Rhaenyra remembered the deadly eyes of her mother once she had done so in front of her.

In any case, while Rhaenyra instantly understood he was an important man – for she knew of the might of house Hightower – it took a little more digging to truly understand how truly important he was.

He was the Hand of the King.

It sparked a sense of wonder and excitement in Rhaenyra. The fact that both Daemon and Lady Arryn were making an effort to keep it from her only served to charge these feelings. It put one thought in her mind; he was coming here for her.

Or at least, she liked to think so, for it made her feel seen and that she mattered in a way she had never experienced before. It made her believe that she was on the minds of the lords at court, on the mind of the king.

The imminent arrival of the Hand also provided a distraction from her mother's looming ceremony. It gave Rhaenyra something to look forward to and occupy her time.

Rhaenyra spent the days leading to the ceremony gathering information on both Otto and the Hightowers while trying to keep Daemon off her tracks. It proved easier than expected, as her uncle seemed simply pleased with her new independence and did not question it.

There was something more than mere curiosity to her studies. For Otto Hightower was an important man, a powerful man.

A way out, a part of her mind supplied.

Therefore, she woke up the day of the ceremony with conflicting emotions, trepidation and excitement in equal measure. However, that day she also found the secrecy of Daemon and Lady Jeyne turned from exciting to frustrating.

Rhaenyra stood in the main hall of the Eyrie, clad in a black dress of mourning highlighted by Arryn blue details. She had never been among so Many lords of the Realm. In truth, she would have been somewhat intimidated if it not for her uncle, who stood beside her.

Daemon Targaryen also wore a black robe, although his had Targaryen red details to it. It did not look much different from his usual wear, Rhaenyra thought. Perhaps a bit less red. He stood a step behind her with a hand on her shoulder.

"Why can't we go to the throne room?" Rhaenyra asked, looking up at him. "I want to see the Lords arriving."

"There is no need," answered Daemon with a small smile but a tone that broached no quarter. "You may see them later."

Rhaenyra frowned, and her lips formed a pout.

They are keeping me from him, she thought with frustration as she lowered her head and stared back into the crowd. It only reasserted her belief that the Hand was coming here for her.

As her gaze traveled the crowd, her mind left Otto Hightower behind. These were all lords coming to honor her mother, to mourn her. Yet, Rhaenyra was not feeling as she thought she would. She thought she would feel bereft and inconsolable in the days leading up to the ceremony. That was one of the reasons she had spent those days trying to occupy her mind with other things.

While she could still feel the grief deep in her gut, it all felt strangely normal. The event felt almost wholly foreign to her. She felt like any previous days before the ceremony; there was no new sorrowful blow.

This is not for me, realized Rhaenyra.

She had already said her farewells to her mother. Once when Lady Jeyne had taken her to see her mother's body. And a second time in her mother's empty room a few nights ago. She had no need for a third.

Rhaenyra's eyes continued to travel the crowd, and then she noticed someone.

The first thing that caught her eye was the hair. It was not the deep brown of the Valemen but a light auburn with an almost reddish and fire-kissed tint. The second thing she noticed was how the owner of the mane, a girl that seemed slightly older than herself, stuck out like a sore thumb. While the many lords and ladies around the girl stood in their own cliques deep in conversation, the girl was utterly alone. Moreover, the girls seemed to be looking for someone. Rhaenyra's eyes scanned the girl. She wore a black dress, but the details were a deep green.

Green, clicked in Rhaenyra's mind.

She carefully inspected the girl once more, and her eyes fell on a silver broach holding one of the fabrics. It was the Hightower.

Rhaenyra instantly whipped her eyes away, the motion filled with barely concealed excitement. She did not want Daemon to notice the girl. However, he did notice her sudden movement.

"Everything alright, Sweetling?" he asked with a hint of worry.

Rhaenyra nodded; too fast, she noticed far too late.

Daemon raised a curious eyebrow and opened his mouth, but the words never came. A servant came behind him and whispered into his ear. His expression turned to a frown and then shifted to a scowl.

He brought both hands to her shoulder and squeezed. "I have to leave," he brought his head down and laid a kiss on the crown of her head. "Be careful; these are all vultures and snakes," he muttered against her hair.

She nodded, her motions slow this time.

Daemon gave her another squeeze of her shoulders and leaned back up. She watched him exit the hall, escorted by the servant that had brought him the summons. Rhaenyra knew what it was probably about. She would have been frustrated had she not found her own opening moments ago.

Rhaenyra made sure he was truly gone, keeping her eyes in the general direction he had left through, before turning her eyes to the Hightower girl. She still looked horribly out of place and had a fresh expression of distress.

Rhaenyra approached the girl, taking care to be unseen. It was not an easy task, for once she had exited the private corner she had been standing in, and without Daemon to scare onlookers away, everyone wanted to glimpse the "Bastard of the Vale."

Yet, the Hightower girl seemed overwhelmed or distressed enough to not notice the wave of turning heads toward Rhaenyra's direction. It also helped that many of those gazes remained on her for only a second. No one knew where the Rogue Prince might be lurking.

"Greetings," Rhaenyra exclaimed with a slight curtsy when close to the Hightower girl, startling her. "I am Rhaenyra. It seems you are looking for someone. Perhaps I might help?" she introduced herself politely, though the girl probably already knew who she was.

Rhaenyra noticed it instantly, the apprehension bordering on hostility that filled someone's eyes when meeting a bastard. She was used to it. Most people would politely look for an excuse to leave.

The Hightower girl did not.

"Alicent Hightower, well met," she responded with a small voice and the most profound curtsy Rhaenyra had ever seen done toward her. "I – I am not," she stuttered out nervously. "The truth is I do not know anyone here. I would be glad for the company" she gave a shy yet strained smile.

A lie, Rhaenyra recognized. It was followed by another exciting thought: she was told to find me.

It explained her extreme politeness, why she was making no effort to disengage.

The Hand of the King is here for me.

Rhaenyra felt a peculiar sort of kinship with Otto Hightower then. Both plotted on their own for their meeting to happen; both acted in concert, and their goals aligned.

Rhaenyra smiled, not at Alicent but at her own inner thoughts. "My own escort has left me," Rhaenyra began. "So, I would be glad to be of company."

"Prince Daemon?" asked Alicent, eyes lighting up.

So carelessly had Alicent revealed her hand, Rhaenyra thought.

"Oh, he is oh so handsome," she blurted out, red coloring her cheeks as she noticed her words.

"He is," Rhaenyra smiled sweetly, pushing her irritation at the moment away. "Perhaps I can tell you stories about his time in the Vale. We can delight in the views of the Eyrie as we do so." she latched onto Alicent's arm; she felt the girl tense but walking anyway.

The Hightower's eyes lit up with interest, but her steps faltered. "My father told me to stay in the main hall," she quickly excused. "Perhaps we can talk here?"

"Oh," Rhaenyra began with a feigned saddened sigh. "The views of the Mountains of The Moon are some of the Prince's favorites in all of the Eyrie. I thought we might find him there." She lied, gave the girl a coquettish smile, and began unclasping her arm from Alicent. "I do miss my escort after all."

Perhaps it was her presumed orders to keep an eye on Rhaenyra. Or perhaps it was the possibility of seeing the Prince. Most likely, it was a combination of both. The end remained the same. The Hightower garbed Rhaenyra's arm before she could fully unlatch it.

"It would not bother me to get some air," Alicent said, still with a nervous tremble in her voice.

Good, Rhaenyra began walking with a smile on her face. If she was to meet Otto Hightower, then it would be on her own terms.

When they returned to the main hall, Alicent's nervousness was evident. Not only had she disobeyed her father, but she had gotten no Prince Daemon out of it. A part of Rhaenyra felt guilty; Alicent was a sweet girl. Once the awkwardness of her bastardry was out of the way, Alicent had treated her decently.

But at this moment, Rhaenyra did not care.

Almost at the center of the room stood the center of her plotting.

Otto Hightower.

He was a hard man to miss, tall and thin. He wore deep green robes, so deep was the color that it could pass for the black of mourning. And in his cloak, the sigil of House Hightower stood emblazoned.

He was accompanied by a boy close to Rhaenyra's age, also wearing Hightopwer colors. And he was clearly frustrated, looking around the hall for his daughter. Rhaenyra felt Alicent squirm next to her.

With steady and purposeful steps, she approached the Hand of The King. Rhaenyra would not deny the lump that formed in her throat. She would not deny that she had to focus on preventing her steps from faltering.

"My Lord Hand," she said once she was near. Rhaenyra did not wait for him to turn around and executed the perfect curtsy.

When she raised her eyes, she saw it. The Hand's pin on his chest. His eyes burning with unconcealed interest.

"Well met," he answered.

So, a few things I wanted to mention.

I have nothing against Aemma. Rhaenyra's thoughts in this chapter are the product of two things. One, I find the concept of The Blood of The Dragon an inherently aggressive and exceptionalist one that does not fit Aemma's more gentle nature very well. Second, Daemon did not tell Rhaenyra it was her Aemma called out for on her deathbed.

Apart from that, we are getting Otto POV next chapter. I love writing Otto. So I am very excited.

As always, feedback is greatly appreciated.