Blackwater Bay

120 AC

A few days later

People, at their core, are merely the product of memories and experiences.

This fact was proven by the man he had travelled across the Narrow Sea to see. Once a mouthy, yet uncommonly insightful green boy entrusted to him for training, now he was as fierce as the sigil of his father's house.

The metamorphosis Aenar had undergone gladdened him as much as it saddened him. Leaving the ageing Knight unable to work out how he truly felt. His once-squire had been hardened by life into The Scourge of the Dothraki, yet in doing so, he had lost much of the kindness he had once shown to his fellow man.

Whilst he stood thinking, the ship tilted and waves shook its hull. The Kingsguard adjusted his positioning to avoid stumbling before the waves settled down once more and he returned to his ruminating.

Ten years ago, Steffon could never have even contemplated that Aenar would perpetrate one of the greatest genocides the world had seen since the times of Old Valyria. And yet today, Aenar stood on par with the bloodiest dragonlords who had scoured the Rhoyne and laid waste to the Lockstep Legions of Old Ghis. Undoubtedly history would remember Aenar, his name written in every Essosi record and many in Westeros as well.

But Aenar had hardly accomplished his many feats by himself. His fool of a nephew it seemed had distinguished himself as few other knights had in history. House Darklyn had produced more Kingsguard than any other House in Westeros, and yet it would be his nephew who House Darklyn would be most famed for. As he had navigated the Sealord's Court and dined with many nobles and naval captains, all spoke in awe of Ser Harrold Darke, the Black Knight, the only man in recorded history to slay three Khals in combat.

He could scarcely be more proud of the young man. Gunthor and he had no sisters and so they had doted on their cousin, Harry's mother. Gunthor had even offered him a position in his Household and yet, the lad had marched with him and Aenar to the Stepstones when Prince Daemon had sent out the call for able and willing men to join him in his conquest. He had fought bravely and loyally, and when Aenar had been exiled, had followed him without hesitation across the Narrow Sea.

Steffon had been livid at that, wanting to bend his nephew over his knee as he had when he was younger, but at the same time, he had been proud, immensely so, at the display of loyalty. In another life perhaps, he may have joined the Kingsguard as well, and yet, no Kingsguard could ever rise to the heights that Harry had in Essos.

The Knight sighed, running a hand through his greying beard. He could not be more proud of his two lads.

Turning his attention back to material concerns, he watched the horizon, hoping to catch sight of The Red Keep through the mist. He remained at the stern of the ship amidst the flow of sailors going about their duties, until a cough from behind startled him from his vigil.

Swivelling on the spot, hand on his sword, he ascertained that it was merely a cabin boy, he raised a brow at the boy, "A message from the Captain?"

"Yes, Ser. He wished you to know that we'll be making landfall soon," the boy finished, quickly scarpering off without as much of a by your leave, much to the consternation of the older man.

An hour later and the Kingsguard was disembarking with the force of guards he had brought with him. Steffon wished he could say he missed the grand Capital of Westeros, yet in truth, being in Braavos had left him rather disillusioned with the supposedly great city. But even so, the Red Keep was his home and had been for over a decade now. While the city may stink of shit and piss, he yearned yet for his bed in the White Sword Tower and to spar once again with his brothers.

Otto POV

The Next Day

The Red Keep

Otto Hightower had served for many years as Hand of the King until his dismissal one and ten years ago. During that time, he had served his King and his realm, and House Hightower. Under his reign, he had secured Viserys's rule, firmly reigned in the Sea Snake and his godsdamned wife and seen his daughter crowned Queen. During his reign, the people had prospered, the treasury was full and the realm was peaceful. And then he had been relieved of his office by that fool on the throne.

One and ten years ago, he had left King's Landing and returned to Oldtown. But he had hardly been idle. Even from the Hightower, through his daughter and allies, he had expanded his influence in King's Landing, visited and courted Lords across the Kingdoms to secure his grandson's claim to the Iron Throne. The seeds of conflict had already been sown the day Viserys banished Daemon, and Otto always knew which way the wind was blowing.

War would be upon them one day, and he would see to it that victory would be a foregone conclusion. Systematically, his Greens had made subtle gains every passing day as the Princess and her bastards turned their nose up on alliances, believing that the might of her dragons would secure her Throne for her.

If Otto were to be fair, however, he had always been wary of the power and the sheer number of dragons that Dragonstone commanded. He knew that in open warfare Caraxes, Meleys, Vhagar, Syrax and Seasmoke would devastate any forces he could gather. But there was more to war than armies. There was a darker, subtler and more ruthless form. One that was played in the shadows, and that was where Otto planned to win.

And then, in the past year, everything changed.

Laena and Laenor's ignoble deaths, Aemond's conflict with the 'Strong' boys, the taming of Vhagar, Rhaenyra's decision to marry Daemon and finally his own return to King's Landing as Hand.

The gods had rolled the dice, and it seemed that they favoured the Greens. They had the alliances, control of King's Landing, the backing of at least two Kingdoms and three large dragons, hopefully four should Tessarion grow large enough before conflict broke out.

And yet something felt off. Since his return, Viserys had been cagey. Closed off from his counsel and that of many of his advisors. The King of Westeros was suddenly becoming difficult to predict, his moods mercurial, and his manner very different from the man who Otto had last seen one and ten years ago.

And since yesterday, he was almost jubilant.

Since yesterday, when Ser Steffon Darklyn returned from his mysterious errand, of which Otto knew little about, for the King had refused to divulge to any and all where he had dispatched the Kingsguard and why.

Oh, there had been rumours, of course, this was the Royal Court after all. Some speculated that he had been dispatched to Dorne as an emissary to broker peace after the recent skirmishing in the Marches. Some believed that he'd absconded with some whore he had taken as wife and the Crown was trying to save face. Others believed he'd been sent to the Stepstones to observe the collapse of Daemon's folly and report back to Viserys on the possibility of a renewed conquest.

The last one held merit. Darklyn had after all been a part of the campaign in the Stepstones, his deeds there earning him his White Cloak. But then he'd heard whispers of a Kingsguard in the Sealord's Court, and his blood had run cold. For there was only one reason, that Viserys would send Steffon Darklyn of all people to Braavos.

Aenar Waters. Now, Aenar Targaryen if his man in the Grand Maester's offices could be believed. If his suspicions were true, Viserys had suddenly grown a spine and sought to change the game altogether.

And that was what brought him to the Small Council's chambers today. For Viserys had summoned his Council and as the saying goes, the King shits and the Hand wipes. Otto feared that he would be drowning in shit by the end of the day.

The Council stood and bowed as the King entered the room. Even on his best days, Viserys looked decades older than his age. But now, he seemed almost jubilant. There was a spring to his step and a wide smile stretched across his face. This did not bode well.

"Be seated, my Lords," said Viserys as he crossed the room and took his seat at the head of the table, "it seems that after a long time, I come to you all bearing good news!"

"That is good to hear, Your Grace. Mayhaps it has something to do with Ser Steffon's recent return?" prodded Corlys Velaryon, the Lord of Driftmark and a constant thorn in Otto's side for many decades now. While he did not hold a position on the Small Council, he had been in King's Landing ostensibly to execute some obligations with the Royal Fleet, but in actuality to shore up support for the Black cause, which had been haemorrhaging after the death of Laena and Laenor.

"Indeed. And Ser Steffon's mission was an unmitigated success," crowed Viserys like a bloated rooster. The glee in his eyes was evident as he frustrated his councillors by refusing to divulge more information.

"And what was his mission, Your Grace?" asked Lyman Beesbury. The Master of Coin had served since the times of the Old King. He had implemented many of Jaehaerys's reforms and would be remembered as one of the longest-serving and capable Masters of Coin to ever serve. And he was reduced to talking to the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms as one would a small child.

"Ser Steffon travelled to Braavos at my command," began Viserys finally, "to treat with my brother Aenar and convey to him my request for him to return to Westeros!"

Pin-drop silence.

Otto took the time to observe each man in the room as they processed the news. A variety of expressions marred their faces, each carefully hidden, but evident to Otto's practised eye. Alarm, shock, worry and even fear were quickly masked as the Small Council gathered their wits and proceeded to congratulate the King as he clearly expected a positive response to his news. The only other face in the room that mirrored his own expression of grim acceptance, was that of Corlys Velaryon.

'So he knew as well.'

"That is excellent news, Your Grace. Ser Aenar's deeds are legendary. I am sure that his return will only strengthen House Targaryen," replied Grand Maester Mellos.

"Indeed. Despite our differences in past," replied Viserys, potentially the only man in the world who would call imprisonment in the black cells, treason and bounties as differences, "Aenar has agreed to return to Westeros and take his rightful place as a Prince of House Targaryen."

"A Prince, Your Grace?" questioned Tyland Lannister, the Master of Ships.

"Aye. As King and Head of House Targaryen, I have legitimised Aenar. Surely, he deserves it after ridding the world of the Dothraki."

"It is indeed heartening news, Your Grace. One and ten years of exile is sufficient punishment for his crimes. I am sure that my grandsons and gooddaughter will be overjoyed at their uncle's return," remarked Corlys, finally venturing into the conversation.

"I should never have placed that damned bounty on his head in the first place," growled Viserys, throwing a quick look at Otto, who felt slightly unnerved at the almost threatening tone the generally genial man adopted. After all, it was Otto who had advised Viserys all those years ago to place a bounty on Aenar's head whereas Corlys had only recommended exile for a few years. A fact that undoubtedly the Sea Snake would make very well known to the Court in the coming days.

In turn, Otto would ensure that the entire Court knew of Corlys's efforts to have the Darklyns audited and censured for their rather obvious economic ties with the Lord Commander of the Sons of the Dragon. But that was just how the game was played.

"But regardless," continued Viserys, suddenly cheerful again, "what is done is done. And now we can only look towards the future. We must turn our attention to welcoming Aenar back to Westeros."

"When will Prince Aenar be arriving and how long will the Prince remain here before returning to Braavos, Your Grace?" asked Larys Strong. The crippled Lord of Harrenhall had just joined the council a turn of the moon ago, after the death of his father and brother. One of his daughter's creatures, he was a dangerous man nonetheless, one who even Otto was wary of.

"Why would he be returning to Braavos?" asked a confused Viserys, confirming Otto's suspicions, "he will be returning to Westeros permanently of course!"

"Permanently, Your Grace? Are we sure that is wise?" bumbled Cristan Cole. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, although loyal to his cause and a deadly warrior, was a fool most of the time.

"And why would that be unwise? He is my brother, is he not?" replied the King of Westeros, his tone soft but steely as he narrowed his gaze at the Kingsguard.

Realising his error, Cole hastily tried to correct himself, "Your Grace I meant no offence, but surely Ser Aenar would loath to part with all his wealth and influence in Essos to return to Westeros."

"Well, then we must endeavour to ensure that he shall have all that in Westeros. Some accommodations will have to be made of course, but I am sure that you will figure it out."

"And what exactly would be these accommodations, Your Grace?" said Otto, speaking up for the first time.

Viserys almost sobered up at that question, probably realising that his next words would receive a rather unimpressed reaction from his council.

"A lordship of course. Crackclaw Point to be more specific. I am keen on granting that. A tax waiver, some concessions regarding royal taxes on investment, citizenship for his men, many of whom will be settling in his lands and of course, lands and appointments for his more senior functionaries."

"His men! Crackclaw Point?" Larys Strong almost choked out.

"Aye of course. Aenar will bring some thousand and five hundred men from his company and their families with him to Westeros. And Crackclaw Point has needed a lord to reign in its people for centuries now."

The Cannibal. A thousand and five hundred fighting men. In addition to the rather substantial levies he could raise in Crackclaw Point, dominion over which would make him the single largest landholder in the Crownlands after House Targaryen itself. Less than a sennight's march from King's Landing. Aenar would hold a knife to the throat of Greens should he choose to oppose his grandson. Concurrently, he was also just a few days from Dragonstone by ship.

"There is actually some merit to granting Prince Aenar the Point," said Tyland Lannister eventually, drawing a sharp look from Otto. While the Westerlander was generally considered a member of the Green faction, he was not as closely tied to Aegon's cause as Otto would like. On occasion, he would cross factional lines when it suited him or Lannister's interests.

"The Clawmen are sworn directly to the Iron Throne, but their constant in-fighting and feuds between the Knightly Houses have prevented anything remotely resembling development and progress in the region for centuries now. Undoubtedly, having one of the greatest dragonlords of our time as their Lord would cow them into submission and bring order. An order that the Prince could enforce with a thousand and five hundred fighting men," continued the Master of Ships. And undoubtedly, the Lannisters through their influence in King's Landing's industry would be able to sell Aenar whatever services and material that he would need to develop his lands and build his keep.

"Indeed, I am sure that Crackclaw Point will thrive under my brother's leadership," replied Viserys, beaming at receiving validation from one of his councillors. It was obvious to Otto that the King had his mind set and there was little he or anyone else could say to dissuade him from his decision. The man could be inordinately stubborn on the rare occasions when he had made up his mind.

"And these tax concessions, Your Grace?" asked a concerned Lyman Beesbury. The Master of Coin seemed concerned and excited simultaneously. Concerned at the potential repercussions of granting tax waivers but also practically salivating at the stimulus that an infusion of gold from Aenar into the Westerosi economy would bring.

"Well, my brother has done rather well for himself. And while I am no expert in matters of coin, he says that there are some taxes that the Crown levies on foreign investment that would damage his coffers substantially. I won't get into the details, that is your job after all Lyman, but I want you to ensure that Aenar faces no great losses in returning to Westeros."

Corlys Velaryon's face took on an interesting shade of red at that, obviously seething at the blatant favouritism of the Crown. After all, the man had been forced to pay a substantial tax to the Crown after each of the voyages he undertook. The same taxes that Viserys was now ordering be waived for Aenar. Wisely, however, the man kept his thoughts to himself. Instead, and no matter what enmity might exist between them, Otto would always acknowledge that the Sea Snake was undoubtedly no craven, the man decided to boldly ask the question that was on the tip of every man present's tongue.

"Why now, Your Grace? After all these years? We do not question your decision. But it has been one and ten years since Ser Aenar absconded with the Cannibal. Why would you summon him back now?" asked the Velaryon Lord.

Viserys seemed almost taken aback at the question, as though expecting that none would question him for a sudden reversal in policy after a decade. He seemed almost pensive as he considered his response. His hands steepled below his chin as he turned his gaze to Corlys Velaryon.

"Banishing Aenar and placing a bounty on his head was a decision that I have always regretted. It was a decision made in anger and emotion and one that some argued was necessary. Now, however, the situation is different. None can argue that Aenar is not worthy of a dragon. No Lord can dispute his accomplishments. House Targaryen must stand united against all threats to the realm. And for that, I need Aenar by my side."

Murmured agreement spread across the room as the varied members of the Small Council realised that the King expected agreement and that any opinion to the contrary would not be well received.

"Otto," continued Viserys, "I want you to personally oversee all the particulars relating to Aenar's return. See to it that the realm is informed. Aenar's future banners must also be brought into the fold. I don't wish for him to be challenged on the very day of his return by some half-wildling Clawman knight. His men will also need to be accommodated. Lands and appointments. Make sure that they are welcomed. I leave it to you."

With a sharp nod at the rest of the council, the King rose and made to leave.

Glancing at the rest of the council, Green and Black alike, Otto could see that like him, they too, were for lack of a better word, shitting bricks. Aenar Waters, now Targaryen, was a dangerous piece to add to the board. A complete unknown, unpredictable, mercurial, wealthy, powerful and ruthless. In many ways, he was more dangerous than Daemon, but far more tempered.

Viserys had changed the game completely. And now, Otto would have to play it.

Rhaenyra POV

The Next Day

Dragonstone

The missive from King's Landing lay open on the Painted Table. Rhaenyra took a deep breath as she stared out of the window, the rolling waves of Blackwater Bay were particularly harsh that day. The sky was overcast, the sailors murmuring of an incoming storm. The smallfolk would soon be making their way back to their homes to seek shelter.

And now this.

In a different world, in a different time, Rhaenyra would have been overjoyed at the news. She loved her uncle in truth. Aenar had been like an elder brother to her when they had been children. With just seven years separating them, he'd been the one who she could turn to whenever she needed comfort. He'd take her riding in the Kingswood, sneak her sweets in the night and spend hours telling her fantastical tales when she couldn't sleep.

He had been her protector, in ways she could not fathom at the time. In ways that she could appreciate only in hindsight. She remembered when he'd decided to march to the Stepstones with Daemon. She'd cried herself to sleep that night. Her father had just stood by, almost betrayed by Aenar's decision to stand by Daemon. And she could not help her own anger as well. She'd said words that she'd immediately regretted. The words of a child of barely nine namedays. Cruel words.

And yet three years later when he'd returned, he'd hugged her nonetheless, placed a kiss on her brow and ruffled her hair as was his wont. Nothing had needed to be said. The irony that the bastard was the one member of her family who had nothing but good intentions when it came to her was palpable.

And then she'd fucked up. And Aenar had suffered for it. Guilt and shame filled her as she remembered that day. The day everything had changed. Rhaenyra could freely admit that in her youth she'd made some stupid fucking decisions. But even then, gallivanting around King's Landing with Daemon had been moronic beyond measure. Time, experience and motherhood had taught her much. Enough to know that she should have listened more to her other uncle.

If she had, maybe things would have been very different today. Perhaps she'd not have had to marry Daemon to secure Caraxes and his support. Mayhaps she'd not have had to marry Laenor in the first place.

She'd missed Aenar dearly when he'd fled to Essos after claiming the Cannibal, she'd fought her father fiercely when he had decided to place the bounty on his head, egged on by his power hungry Hand. She could never write to him, for she could not afford to be seen consorting with a supposed traitor, lest she give even more cause for complaint to the Greens. But she had known it was Aenar when an anonymous well-wisher from Essos had gifted her a sapphire brooch when she'd married Laenor. Or when she received a pearl necklace from Lys on her six and tenth name day.

She had treasured those gifts. And while Jace, Luke and Joff did not know, their favourite carved dragon figurines were also gifts from Aenar. He had always been a good man. But now, one and ten years later she'd married Daemon, perhaps one of the few men in Westeros who Aenar truly hated. And now he was to return.

"You called Mother?" Jace's soft voice interrupted her thoughts as the little boy toddled into the room. Following behind him were Luke and baby Joff held in the hands of their nursemaids. Daemon was the last to enter as he strode into the room. He met her eyes questioningly and she just shook her head, indicating that she would tell him soon. He nodded silently and took a seat on the far end of the Painted Table even as the nursemaids settled Jace and Luke into chairs while the other handed Joff over to her.

She bounced her lad in her hands, Gods he was getting bigger each day. She loved her boys, all three of them. But they were a handful and a half. After the incident with Aemond at Driftmark, she'd kept her boys close, terrified at the prospect of them getting into bladed fights when they were little more than toddlers.

She turned to Jace, answering his previous question, "Indeed, son. We have received word from King's Landing. It seems your grandfather has decided to surprise us with some joyous news."

"What is it?" asked an excited Luke, at just five, he was tall for his age. All her sons were, but Luke was a tall and strapping lad. Maester Gerardys was of the opinion that he had a bright future as a knight. Mayhaps in a few years she would have him squire for Daemon or even Ser Steffon.

"It seems that your grandfather has decided that it is time for your Uncle Aenar to return to Westeros," said Rhaenrya.

"The Black Dragon!?" questioned Jace excitedly having heard many a tale about Aenar, some from Rhaenrya herself.

"Indeed, It seems that he will be returning to Westeros soon. Your grandfather has decided to legitimise him as a Prince of House Targaryen and as Lord of Crackclaw Point."

"Wowww," chorused her boys, their eyes wide in wonderment. She smiled slightly at that. At six, five and three name days, she did not expect her children to be worried about the political fallout of such a move. They would undoubtedly be clamouring at the opportunity to meet their famous uncle who they had heard so much about and admired greatly. Few dragonlords had achieved the level of acclaim that Aenar had. Undoubtedly, all three of her children, dragon riders themselves, aspired to be like him.

"Would Uncle Aenar take us for a ride on the Cannibal? When Vermax is big enough to ride, do you think he would teach me how to? Could you imagine Luke? We could be taught to ride by Black Dragon himself?" Jace rattled off a flurry of questions even as the three boys continued babbling, enraptured by the idea of flying alongside Aenar and the Cannibal.

Her boys. And their three young, tiny dragons, right next to the fucking Cannibal. Oh Mother, have mercy thought Rhaenyra. Obviously the meaning of the name Cannibal was lost to her children. But she didn't have the heart to burst their bubble just yet. She'd deal with this issue at a later time.

She looked at Daemon, who had been silent the entire time. His face was pale. His fist clenched. And his jaw set in what was almost a grimace. Daemon fucking Targaryen, the Rogue Prince, was afraid.

Their eyes met, and she could see that he was deeply conflicted. They had spoken of Aenar before. While there was no great love between them, their marriage being one of convenience, they were still husband and wife. Aenar had always been a sore point between the two of them. Daemon was not a man who dwelled in the past. But he could hold a grudge. And he nursed one hell of a grudge against Aenar.

It was hypocrisy of the highest order, Daemon blaming Aenar for the punishment he had received from Viserys, when Aenar had been the one who had faced much worse and then eventually exiled.

But even so, Daemon was not as heartless as everyone believed. He did regret his actions as well. Aenar and Daemon had been very close when they were younger. He'd followed him to the Stepstones. They'd fought and bled together. Daemon's feelings when it came to Aenar were very complicated. And with Aenar now entering the game, it would be critical for them to make peace, if she was to convince Aenar to back her claim.

"Boys, why don't you go play with your dragons for some time. Daemon and I have grown up things to discuss anyways. I promise, I will answer all your questions about your Uncle Aenar soon enough," said Rhaenyra eventually as she gestured for the nursemaids to take the boys away.

Joff pouted at that even as Luke and Jace nodded excitedly at the idea of playing with their dragons. The Dragonkeepers would have their hands full with the three boys and the flying menaces that were Vermax, Arrax and Tyraxes.

A minute later, the room was blessedly silent as Rhaenyra and Daemon were left alone. Nothing was said for a few moments as the two contemplated the news, Daemon reading the letter that Rhaenyra had left for him to peruse on the table. The game had changed again. As it had when Laena died. And when Laenor did. Or when Aemond claimed Vhagar. As it had when she married Daemon. The Game was the game. Ever changing. Ever deadly. But it was always well stacked in her favour.

She controlled Dragonstone. And with it, the hatcheries, the unclaimed dragons and the centre of dragonlore and Targaryen power in Westeros. And even though her father had practically barred her from King's Landing after the incident on Driftmark, she had been securing her power base in the Narrow Sea and the Riverlands and creating her own court at Dragonstone.

But now Aenar would return. He would be Lord of Crackclaw Point. With a thousand and five hundred hardened killers at his side. And one of, if not the largest dragons in the world as his mount.

"That bitch Alicent will definitely be courting him. She always had a soft spot for Aenar and he for her. Otto will be shitting bricks though," said Daemon eventually.

"We need to make sure that we welcome Aenar back with open arms. We cannot afford for the Greens to get their claws into him," replied Rhaenyra.

"Aenar hates Otto. He always did. Viserys may have allowed him a dragon years earlier if it wasn't for Otto whispering poison in his ears."

"Otto Hightower is not the only one Aenar has cause to despise."

Daemon fell silent at that. Clenching and unclenching his fingers. A tic that Rhaenyra had realised over the years, was a sign that Daemon was nervous.

"You will have to apologise. Properly."

"Why must I apologise to the brat. He should never have stood against me in the first place."

"You know damn well that your response was far from proportional."

"So I smacked him a little and sent him to the black cells to cool off for the night. He wasn't supposed to be there for longer than a few hours anyway."

"Smacked him around a little!?" replied Rhaenyra disbelievingly, "you broke his jaw and fractured two ribs. He was left there to rot for days while you spent the night fucking half the whores on the Street of Silk."

"You weren't there Daemon," continued Rhaenyra, her voice raised now, "when they pulled him out of the cells. He looked half dead. He spent near a moon confined to the bed. The master said that he was bleeding internally and that it was a miracle he had survived the cells for as long as he did without treatment."

"I was exiled, Rhaenyra!" shouted back Daemon, "in case you forgot about that little bit. I couldn't have had him released from the cells because I was too busy having Blackfyre held to my neck by Viserys because he thought I'd fucked you. And for that matter what about you? You were also aware that he was in the cells. You didn't give a whit about him back then because you were too busy seducing Cristan fucking Cole."

Rhaenyra returned a roar of her own, "Fuck you Daemon, you don't know what I went through. You think you were the only one to suffer because Father thought that you had bedded me. I was practically confined to my rooms. I was a prisoner in the Red Keep!"

"Oh yes, a prisoner," retorted Daemon scathingly, "must have been quite the travesty being grounded in your luxurious royal quarters. I'm sure Aenar will empathise with you for the utterly traumatising experience that you underwent while he was rotting in the black fucking cells."

The words struck her like a blow to the gut. Familiar guilt and shame welled up as Rhaenyra collapsed into her chair. It was not the first time that Rhaenyra had felt guilt for her actions. And there was little she could say to defend herself. In truth she had no real defence. To this day, she could not figure out how it was that she had completely forgotten about the fact that Daemon had consigned an injured Aenar to the black cells.

She had tried to rationalise that someone else should have noticed that the King's half brother was in the black cells. Or that Aenar would have been able to get himself out. But it turns out that it is very difficult to convince the gaoler to let you out when your jaw is broken and you cannot speak. Or when you are forced to lie still on your back to ensure that your fractured ribs do not pierce your lungs.

Fuck.

"Aenar loves his family. And he is not one to nurse a grudge. He has sent gifts to me and the children over the years. He would not have done so if he misliked us."

"He has given gifts to Alicent's children as well. I am almost certain that the ornate dagger that Aegon always carries around is from Aenar as well. Although I doubt the dunce realises that the mysterious well wisher from Essos is actually his uncle."

"Then it is even more imperative that Aenar side with us. I will apologise to him. And so will you," said Rhaenyra in a tone that brooked no argument.

"I'll consider it," grunted Daemon, his pride and ego obviously hurt.

Well that's about as much as she could hope for.