The Ladies of the Realm

Alicent

Grim news had arrived from Driftmark. Laena, poor soul, had died just a fortnight ago while giving birth. Her royal husband and all her children had sailed to Driftmark for her funeral, but Alicent had stayed behind, her own pregnancy keeping her from joining them. Despite their differing allegiances, Alicent couldn't help but feel sympathy for Laena. She rubbed her own large belly and felt the kick of the child within. To claim she wasn't fearful for her own pregnancy would be a lie.

"This is the worst possible outcome for us," her father said, pacing the room restlessly. He had been visiting Red Keep when the news arrived. "Not only has Vhagar remained with the Velaryons, but now Corwyn has taken her."

Her father wasn't wrong. Laena had never been a warrior and showed no interest in the conflicts of war. It was said she only desired to use Vhagar for the joy of flying. Corwyn, however, was a different matter entirely—a skilled and blooded warrior. With Vhagar now as his mount, their hopes of surpassing the Blacks in the strength of dragons seemed to dwindle. Already, some of their allies had begun advising caution, which, as her father put it, was simply a polite way of keeping their distance.

"It's a terrible kind of coincidence," her father continued, pacing with frustration. "Had Corwyn been anywhere else, perhaps we could have sent Aemond to claim Vhagar. But the fact that the only dragonless Velaryon happened to be present when Vhagar needed a new rider is nothing short of catastrophic."

"There's no point in dwelling on what could have been," Alicent said, uneasy with her father's words. Aemond was far too young to attempt claiming a beast as formidable as Vhagar, despite her use for their cause.

Her father halted his pacing and took a steadying breath. "You're right, Daughter. We must deal with the present. If we don't act swiftly, we risk losing even more support." He paused, his tone sharpening. "With Vhagar taken, the only great dragon left is Vermithor. Aemond must claim him posthaste."

Alicent stirred. "He's young."

"We don't have the luxury of time," Otto snapped, his voice low and urgent. "Aemond must claim Vermithor at once. It's the only move that might counter Vhagar. Rhaenyra may protest, but she has no grounds to bar a prince from claiming a dragon. Perhaps we should also have Visenya attempt to claim Silverwing as soon as possible. We need every advantage we can muster."

"That would be a dangerous provocation. Claiming Vermithor alone might be excusable, but taking both Vermithor and Silverwing? The realm will accuse us of overreach," Alicent said firmly. Unlike Corwyn, who simply inherited his sister's dragon, they had no such justification to shield them from criticism should they took those two dragons. The act would be taken as provocation by the Blacks.

"Rhaenyra may think that," her father replied, his tone sharp, "but as long as Viserys has no reason to entertain her grievances, it won't matter. We're sorely lacking in both the number and strength of dragons." He leaned against the wall, and for the first time, Alicent noticed how lined his face had become. The strain of time was unmistakable.

"Was there truly no other choice?" Alicent pleaded, her voice wavering. "My children are Targaryen princes; dragons are their birthright, their destiny—but they're still so young. To involve them at this age… I mislike it."

Her heart ached. Her children were not just princes and princesses—they were her flesh and blood, not tools or weapons to be wielded in the name of power. She wished they could enjoy their childhood.

Otto shook his head, his expression unyielding. "I've told you, we have no time to hesitate. Rhaenyra's eldest son was not given a dragon egg, and we have cause to suspect she plans to give him Vermithor. Wait too long, and the Blacks will claim every dragon of worth. We'd have no chance to win. Is that what you want? For your children to grow up under Rhaenyra's rule? Under the thumb of that petty, mercurial woman who despises us? Think of what will happen to your children under her."

She wondered if it could be so bad. Could Rhaenyra, her childhood friend, truly have fallen so far? Their relationship had soured long ago, poisoned by years of rivalry and mistrust. Yet, Alicent struggled to believe her old friend would stoop to something as heinous as kinslaying. Whatever their differences, they were still blood. Even the Ironborn and wildlings, for all their savagery, rarely killed their own. Could she fix everything still, to rebuild their ties?

But could she risk leaving such matters to chance? Her children lives on Rhaenyra's magnanimity?

No. Her resolve hardened as the thought took root. She wouldn't gamble with the lives of her children, not when so much was at stake. Even if Rhaenyra chose to let them live, they would never be happy or free under her power. She would not trust Rhaenyra's mercy or the thin bond of shared blood.

Aegon would be king.

It was no longer a matter of ambition but of necessity. The safety of her children, the stability of the realm—it all hinged on this. She knew this long ago. Whatever she had to endure, whatever steps she had to take, she would ensure that her son sat the Iron Throne. Rhaenyra's claim would be contested, and the Blacks would learn that the Hightowers were not to be underestimated.

"I will arrange for Aemond to claim Vermithor," Alicent said at last, her tone steady despite the storm of emotions within her. "I will wait for their return and speak with both Aemond and Viserys, but it will be done. As for Visenya… perhaps in another year or two, I will allow her to attempt to claim Silverwing, but not before."

Otto's eyes narrowed, his disapproval clear. "If we dawdle, one of Rhaenyra's children might claim Silverwing first."

"Then so be it," Alicent replied firmly. "Visenya can still hatch her own dragon if that happens. But if we send her to claim Silverwing now, and the unthinkable occurs…" She paused, her voice growing colder as she pictured the terrible possibility in her mind. "Then we will have lost not just a daughter but a potential dragonrider. Is that a risk you will take, Father?"

Otto raised his chin, his expression calculating. For a moment, it seemed he might argue, but instead, he inclined his head. "Very well," he said, his voice clipped. "Your words are sound. I see no reason to object."

"With no dragons, it will be far harder to attract new allies," he continued. "Make sure Aemond understands his duty. If he fails to claim Vermithor, then we'll be left with no choice but to bow meekly to Rhaenyra in the days ahead."

"I will." Alicent said firmly. She might not be a dragon rider, but she was not powerless. She would do what she could to protect her children.

For family.

Rhaenys

Her daughter was dead.

A moonturn had passed, yet the pain remained, raw and unrelenting. The funeral was over, the mourners long gone, but the memories lingered, etched into her mind as if carved with a blade. She could still see it vividly—the blood-soaked bed, her daughter's lifeless body, pale and still.

She had always understood the fragility of life. People died—warriors felled on the battlefield, mothers lost in childbirth, lives snuffed out by disease or accident. It was the way of the world. Yet understanding did nothing to dull the ache in her chest. This was her child, her flesh and blood. The loss was unlike anything she had endured before.

What stung just as deeply was the unspoken expectation that she should be over it by now. She was royalty, after all, and royalty were not allowed to crumble. Every glance from her courtiers, every word of well-meaning advice, seemed to carry the same weight: Be strong. Do not falter. Do not cry.

But how could she not? When had royalty come to mean burying her heart alongside her child? Why was she expected to bear this grief in silence, to carry it alone like some unfeeling statue?

Late that evening, she sat in her chambers, the fire crackling softly in the hearth. The room was quiet except for the occasional sigh of the wind beyond the stone walls. Her hands rested in her lap, trembling as she stared into the flames.

"I miss her," she whispered, her voice breaking. Her gaze flickered toward her husband, who sat across the room, his face shadowed and weary. "She was still so young… too young."

He looked up, his expression heavy with his own grief. For a long moment, he said nothing, as if searching for the right words in the vast silence between them. Finally, he rose and crossed the room to kneel beside her.

"I know," he said softly, his voice hoarse. He placed a hand over hers, his grip firm yet gentle, as if anchoring her in the storm. "I know."

"I wish there were a way to exchange our places," she said, her voice trembling with the weight of her grief. "I've lived long enough, seen everything life has to offer. But her life... it was just beginning."

Her husband sighed softly, not out of exasperation but sorrow. He reached out, his hand brushing against hers in a gesture of comfort. "You've said it before," he replied, his tone gentle but firm. "And I understand, but the answer remains the same. There's nothing you can do to change what's happened. None of your children—her least of all—would ever wish for you to die in her place."

His words hung in the air, and though they didn't take away the pain, they offered a small measure of solace. For a moment, she allowed herself to lean into his embrace, her grief shared, if not lessened.

"Rhaenyra sent word," he said, his voice carefully measured as if unsure how to deliver the news. "Daemon was on Dragonstone."

She paused, her fingers tightening slightly around the cup of heated wine she had been holding. The warmth of the liquid seeped through the glass. "He's grieving," she replied softly, her gaze distant as though she could picture him there, alone on the shore. "I've never seen him so saddened before."

"He should be here, helping his son," her husband said, his tone edged with frustration. "Not leaving him the first chance he got."

"Everyone carries their grief differently," she replied softly, her gaze steady but understanding. "Give my cousin the chance to find his way through this."

"There's another message," her husband continued, his tone heavy with something that sounded like disapproval. "Aemond plans to visit Dragonstone within a sennight to claim a dragon. According to Rhaenys, Viserys has already given him permission."

Rhaenys scoffed, a sharp sound that echoed in the quiet room. Of course. Dragons. It seemed they were all anyone cared about these days. Her daughter's death—Laena's death—felt like an afterthought to some of their so-called allies.

She could still picture the barely concealed relief on their faces when word spread that Vhagar remained loyal, tethered to their cause by Corwyn even in the wake of Laena's loss. As if the creature's allegiance somehow outweighed the life that had been taken. As if Corwyn had wanted it. It sickened her.

She was tempted to throttle the lot of them.

"Let him." Rhaenys answered. "It's likely he's there to claim Vermithor."

"Rhaenyra intended for her oldest son to claim Vermithor." Her husband answered. "He would be a good match for him. The dragon of King Jaehaerys, inherited by the king of the future."

"Aenar was five." Rhaenys replied tersely. "Almost six. If Rhaenyra was willing to gamble his life merely for the realm's second largest dragon, then she wasn't worthy to be a queen."

Claiming a dragon was no straightforward endeavor. It demanded not just courage and knowledge, but also an element of luck. It was known that dragons were as much the choosers as the chosen. While rare, there were records of dragons reacting badly to some would-be riders.

"As long as we retained Vhagar," Rhaenys continued, not entirely without bitterness. "They can take Vermithor. I've heard enough of dragons these past few days."

Rhaenyra had likely been the one spurring her second son to claim Vhagar; of that, she was certain. She knew her actions were nothing if not logical. With the impending royal visit, it was only prudent to secure Vhagar before anyone else could stake their claim.

Yet she couldn't help but feel a lingering sense of disrespect toward both Laena and Corwyn—a subtle irritation that irked at her. Laena was recently passed, and Corwyn was grieving no less than herself. Yet their worth was seemingly less than Vhagar's.

There was nothing to be done now, she knew. By binding their house to her through marriage, and her giving birth to their grandchildren, their fates had become irrevocably entwined. She would stand by Rhaenyra, support her in the battles to come, and serve her faithfully should she prevail. Yet one truth remained unshakable: no one, not even a queen, would ever come before her children.

Rhaenyra

"Again."

The command was curt, almost dismissive, but Aemond couldn't obey. He lay on the ground, struggling to catch his breath after being effortlessly felled by Daemon. Nearby, Rhaenyra concealed a smirk. Aemond, lauded as the most martially talented of Alicent's brood and no doubt the most arrogant. Seeing him so thoroughly humbled brought her a quiet satisfaction.

Grinding his teeth, Aemond pushed himself upright and launched another attack. But his strikes were easily parried; Damon's movements were efficient, almost casual. In moments, Aemond was back on the ground.

"Is the prince tired?" Daemon asked, his tone thick with mockery. "If so, we can end here."

Aemond scoffed, refusing the offer. He staggered to his feet once more, bracing for yet another doomed attempt. A wiser man might have seen the futility of challenging someone larger, stronger, and far more experienced. But the boy's arrogance blinded him to the inevitability of his defeat.

Alicent had somehow persuaded her father to grant this boy the right to claim any dragon on her island, and her father, to Rhaenyra's dismay, had agreed. It was clear to everyone which dragon he would seek—Vermithor. The most infuriating part was that Rhaenyra had no legitimate grounds to oppose him, even though it was obvious his aim was to use the Bronze Fury as a weapon against her.

Very well, then. If she couldn't stop him, she certainly wouldn't make it easy.

Daemon had arrived unexpectedly in Dragonstone a moonturn ago. She had thought him in Driftmark with Aegon, but here he was. Her uncle had been uncharacteristically melancholic in recent months, a side of him she had never seen before. While Daemon was far from the unfeeling brute some whispered about, neither was he one given to such quiet brooding.

Seizing the moment, she asked him to spar with Aemond, and he obliged. If nothing else, the exercise seemed to lift his spirits.

Another clash, another fall. Aemond crumpled to the ground once more. Rhaenyra glanced up at the sun, now high in the sky, before turning her attention back to her brother. His breaths were ragged as he struggled to rise, his lips split and an angry welt blooming on his cheek. Who could say how many bruises marred his skin beneath the gambeson?

Despite everything, a faintest flicker of worry stirred in Rhaenyra's chest.

"Uncle," she called to Damon, her voice carefully measured. "Perhaps that's enough for today? He's learned plenty, I'm sure."

"I can still go on," Aemond rasped, though the tremor in his voice betrayed his exhaustion.

Daemon snorted, his tone sharp. "Don't deceive yourself. A breeze would knock you over. For once, listen to your sister. Or do you think a broken arm will make a dragon more likely to choose you?"

Aemond's jaw clenched, but he said nothing. To respond would be to admit weakness—a humiliation he refused to endure. Instead, he tore off his sparring gear and threw it to the ground in frustration before stalking off without another word.

"Rash. And stupid." Rhaenyra said as she approached Daemon's side. "Do you think Vermithor will accept him?"

"He will," Damon said without hesitation. "He has fire in him, and strength—both essential to make a dragon bow. You should be grateful he's a second son and not the first." He cast a sidelong glance at Rhaenyra. "He'd see your concern as an insult, no matter how well-meant. A boy like him? He would rather be beaten unconscious than endure pity."

"The way you speak of him," Rhaenyra replied, her tone thoughtful, "it's almost as if you're describing yourself."

Daemon fell silent for a moment, his gaze distant. "Perhaps," he said quietly, "I see a part of myself in him."

The highest praise he could've given anyone.

Daemon had stripped off his practice gear, his movements unhurried, and made his way back inside, with Rhaenyra walking at his side. The weight that had seemed to press on him for months appeared lighter now; his steps were steadier, his expression calmer. There was a glimmer of something she hadn't seen in a while—perhaps not joy, but a faint contentment that eased the tension in his face.

"It's good to see you like this," Rhaenyra said softly, breaking the comfortable silence. "You seem... lighter. Happier, even."

Damon glanced at her, the corner of his mouth twitching in what might have been the start of a smile. "Sparring has a way of clearing the mind," he replied.

Rhaenyra flushed. It reminded her of old times, when she was a young girl with Daemon charming her with his tales. Everything was simpler then. "Whatever it is, I'm glad. It suits you better."

Damon nodded slowly, his gaze fixed ahead. "I'm sorry for darkening the mood in your castle," he said, his voice quieter now, edged with weariness. "These past months… it has been trying."

The words hung heavy in the air, and for a moment silence descended. Her mind flashed to her friend. "No apology is needed, Uncle. Grief is... a heavy companion, and it doesn't let go easily. You've carried it with strength, but even it had limits."

Daemon's lips pressed into a thin line, and his handsome face turned unreadable. After a moment, he inclined his head slightly, a gesture of acknowledgment. "Perhaps," he murmured. "But strength is all I've ever known to lean on, all my life."

Rhaenyra caught his hands in hers, her grip firm.

"You don't have to bear it alone," she said, her voice quiet but unwavering. The words spilled from her, unbidden, driven by the moment. She didn't care if they felt impulsive or improper. She couldn't stand to see Daemon this way—burdened, hollow, a shadow of the man she once knew. She wanted everything to return to how it was before. She wanted to share joy with him again. She wanted them to be happy together.

"Let me carry it with you," she whispered. "Share it with me."

Before she could second-guess herself, she leaned in and kissed him. It began as a tentative brush of her lips against his, gentle and searching, but the tenderness soon gave way to a growing hunger. She wasn't sure when they parted or how long the moment had lasted—it felt both fleeting and eternal.

When she opened her eyes, her breath unsteady, she found herself searching his face for a reaction, for understanding, for something unspoken they both might share. She could see Daemon's hunger, but over it she could also see his restraint.

"Should your husband be concerned?" he asked; something unspoken was implied by his tone.

Rhaenyra had the distinct feeling he wasn't referring to Laenor.

"Laenor is in Driftmark," she replied, though, she thought bitterly, not that it would matter much if he were here. They got along very well, but their bond was never one of deep love. Rhaenyra had found his relationship with Sir Joffrey tantalizing, but the truth was that neither Laenor nor she had ever truly belonged to one another. They were simply two souls bound by circumstance, brought together by fate, but never truly of it.

As for Corwyn...

How peculiar, she thought. Despite their contrasting temperaments, there was an undeniable similarity between Daemon and Corwyn. Daemon was not one to hide any facet of himself, while Corwyn preferred to keep everything of himself a secret. Yet beneath the surface, each harbored a depth that few could discern. Both were prone to moments of unpredictability, their mercurial natures setting them apart. They also saw the world differently than most. Could that be why they understood each other so well? Corwyn might be one of the very few people Daemon respected.

She had always felt regretful whenever she thought of Corwyn.

She knew he was right, after he had left Dragonstone that time. He needed to be wed—not only to secure alliances but also to produce an heir. She understood that he had no choice but to honor his parents' betrothal. In time, she even began to regret the impulsive vow she had forced upon him, a decision driven more by her emotions than any sense of reason.

She had even refrained from seeking another partner, waiting patiently for him to understand, holding onto the hope that he might speak to her again so they might mend their ties. Instead, he ignored her entirely, acting as though she didn't exist. By the time their paths crossed once more, his heart already belonged to the Strong girl. How quickly he had forgotten her—just a few months, and she was nothing but a memory. What was it about the Strong girl that had so thoroughly enamored him?

She had held back for long enough, tethered by the remnants of what they once shared. Corwyn had given her three beautiful children, and for that, she would always be grateful. Though she doubted her feelings for him would ever fade completely, nor could she guess if he even had any feelings left for her, she knew she couldn't keep tormenting herself. They both deserved a chance at happiness, even if it meant finding it apart from one another.

If happiness for her meant Daemon, then so be it.

Elinor

Months slipped by, and life unfolded in its steady rhythm.

Elinor woke up later than her husband, as she always did. It never ceased to amaze her how much of an early riser Corwyn was—until he bluntly pointed out that it wasn't he who woke early, but she who rose late. The southern sun, it seemed, made a habit of appearing earlier than she was accustomed to.

After dressing, she descended to the dining hall. It wasn't a long journey; Corwyn was right about South Haven Castle—a name he still disliked but hadn't yet replaced—not being particularly large. Yet, knowing her husband's ambition and talent, she suspected it was only a matter of time before the castle grew in grandeur. He had a knack for conjuring wealth as if from thin air.

As she entered the hall, she found Corwyn already seated.

"Good morning, lord husband," she greeted him warmly. "You should've woken me if you were up first."

"I tried," he replied, "but I just couldn't bring myself to. I've told you before—your sleeping face is far too lovely to disturb. Besides, there are always plenty of things to keep me busy before our morning meals."

She tilted her head in acknowledgment and nodded. Corwyn clapped his hands, summoning the servants, who glided in with quiet efficiency. They carried trays laden with warm bread and smoked cod, accompanied by dishes of butter, honey, and pitchers of freshly squeezed orange juice and milk—a simple yet hearty breakfast spread.

As Elinor carefully spread honey over her bread, she resumed the conversation with casual ease. "Has Vhagar finally settled?"

Corwyn nodded, his butter knife poised over the cod, an absent gesture that matched his tone. Elinor had learned over time that he preferred his without frills.

"Better than last month," he said, "which was better than the month before that, and the one before that. If anything, I'm the one who hasn't quite adjusted to her being here yet. She eats as much as the entire household combined."

With that, he returned his focus to his meal, signaling the end of the conversation. After a year of living with him, Elinor could recognize the subtle cues that marked his disinterest in pursuing certain topics. He always grew quiet when their discussions veered toward Vhagar. At first, she thought it was because the memory of Laema was still fresh, but while it had a part, it wasn't just her either. He avoided any talk of dragons or the looming troubles with the same guarded detachment.

Her husband was... odd. She wouldn't claim to understand men entirely, but Corwyn was unlike any she had encountered. Most men bristled with excitement—or at least some opinion—at the mention of war or dragons. But Corwyn seemed unmoved. He brushed aside the news of Prince Aemond's claim over Vermithor and paid little attention to the sharpening tensions in the capital, as though such matters existed in a world apart from his own.

'If they tell me to fight, I'll fight.' Was all he said on the matter.

How strange, Elinor mused, someone who's so blessed with a martial talent and the mightiest dragon in the realm to be the one least interested in them. In that way he resembled his sister, who was said to love dragons for their ability to fly than their might.

Still, she wished he had told her what ailed him.

He was secretive, and that fact bothered her more than she'd admit. She thought she had found the man beneath the mask, but as it was, she barely scratched the surface. She wanted to help, but he seemed to intend to do everything himself. He was loyal to her, she was certain, but something in him always made him look like he carried a sort of guilt.

Were all couples like this? Oh, if only her mother were alive to tell her.

"What are your plans for today?" Elinor asked, wanting to break the silence.

"I'll be visiting the town. There have been some disturbances from the newcomers, so a reminder of the lord's authority may be in order. I'll return by midday to attend to the petitions, so there's no need for concern."

It's not what I'm worried about.

"What kind of disturbances? This is the first time I've heard of it."

"Nothing too serious," he replied. "Just a clash between newcomers and old-timers over border stones and such, along with some misunderstandings about the law. You know my people come from all sorts of places, each with their own customs and rules. Many don't anticipate how different things might be here. It's been this way since the very first day I set foot on this island."

She hadn't known that—partly because the law was her husband's domain and partly because it had never occurred to her to ask. The people sworn to Harrenhal were all Riverlanders, generations rooted in shared laws and traditions. Clashing over differing customs was a foreign concept to her. People disagreed all the time of how laws ought to be implemented, but they all agreed of what the laws were.

Still, she wanted to help.

"Why don't you leave today's petitions to me?" she asked, hesitantly. "I've seen enough of you to understand your judgment—and I'd like to do my part."

He studied her closely, his gaze lingering, unreadable.

"Why?"

"Because we're a couple now, and I want to share the burden. You already have so much on your shoulders."

"You've done plenty enough," he said plainly.

She disagreed. Maintaining the castle might have been necessary duty expexted from a noble wife, but to her, it was a small task—though she knew better than to say so aloud. He'd likely assume she meant the castle was too small for her liking again.

"I want to do more," she insisted. "You've been carrying so much for both our sakes."

He seemed to mull it over, weighing something unseen. Finally, he nodded.

"Very well. If you come across difficult cases, ask my steward for guidance." He paused, thoughtful. "While I'm in town, I may as well look into a few other matters."

She was grateful for that. Month by month, the wall between them had grown thinner. That was one of Corwyn's virtues—his temper was slow to rise, and good sense had a way of persuading him.

They finished their meal in companionable silence, and once the table was cleared, she helped him prepare for the day's excursion. Just before he departed, she leaned in and gave him a kiss.

"What do you think?"

He chuckled. "Fishy. But tasty."

She flushed. Corwyn had always carried an air of aloofness back at the Red Keep, and even now, his blunt demeanor remained unchanged. Yet, it was his unexpected moments of teasing that caught her off guard—and he seemed to enjoy doing it often.

"Before you leave, I may have one more thing to share. It's good news, actually," she said.

It wasn't just good—it was exhilarating and, in its own way, a little terrifying. She had known since yesterday but had waited until this morning to tell Corwyn. She had even sworn the maester to secrecy until she could share it herself.

"What good news?" he asked, his curiosity piqued.

She met his gaze, her lips curving into a soft smile. "I'm pregnant."

The look on his face made everything worthwhile.

AN: Update time!

I actually feel less awkwardness writing romance as long as it doesn't involve Corwyn for some reason. I ended up deleting some 1k words in Dragonstone part just to make it more straightforward and less dominating this chapter. This kind of interlude should have all viewpoints' lined up equally.

Also with the release of this chapter, the story finally hit the 100k words mark! I genuinely didn't expect my lazy ass is capable to dedicate my attention to that level. It's all thanks to the readers' support. There's no way I can just sit down and write 100k words without anyone's help.

Enjoy the story!