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It was not as if Rhaenyra could not understand her lord husband’s anger or his thirst for blood. Even she had doubts in her heart when it came to her father’s death for only seven days before he had shown such incredible strength by nigh crawling across the throne room to defend his daughter and grandson.

Did Alicent put on a mummers’ show a sennight before? She must have for only days later she crowned her useless son king in open defiance of her late husband’s formal edict and noted will. But did she go so far as to kill King Viserys to do so? Somehow she doubted that Alicent had the stomach to kill a man—especially not one she had shared a bed with for nearly two full decades.

Her Gods would consider her actions to be nought but damnable to eternal fire, and all now knew how pious Queen Alicent Hightower had become in the past decades. Not that the Reachwoman had been particularly subtle with it—it had galled Rhaenyra to see how her family keep had been stripped bare of its heraldry and histories and had become a shrine to Gods that demanded women be kept subservient and submissive to men.

The Andals were champions in building divides—whether they be between man or woman, or even nobility and smallfolk. In the East—bar the grievous and atrocious sin of bondage, which had made Ghis, Valyria and now the Free Cities and Slavers’ Bay wealthy lands—society was just a tad bit more egalitarian.

When she had asked her husband to wed her and join their families to protect her birthright and that of her children, she had done so out of pragmatism, sure, but also out of a deep love for the man, which a decade apart had not been able to shatter.

It had been the finest choice she ever made for Daemon had brought with him much gold and ships, amassed during his time in Essos—both before and after his marriage to Laena Velaryon, as well as allies made both within the Seven Kingdoms and in Essos.

Dragonstone went through an intense modernisation and rejuvenation process during their six years upon the isle, with many of the old salt and stone mines, lumberyards and fishing villages reopened, and its formerly diminishing population quintupling.

But most of all, Daemon was content standing behind her, rather than taking the lead himself. Her uncle had never enjoyed the intricacies of governance and had no problem leaving that particular hornet’s nest for her—only advising her when asked, which granted, she did quite a bit. The other way around Rhaenyra generally deferred to her lord husband in matters of defence and trade, where he had built an expertise over the years.

To have such support from her husband only made Rhaenyra resent her father even more, for it had been his choice to refuse Daemon as a consort and shackle her to her cousin—who while kind was not fit for life at court. If she had Daemon by her side since the beginning, who knows what she could have accomplished?

Rhaenyra could never regret her sons, nor the man that gave them to her, but she would be a liar if she denied how much she wished her children had been Daemon’s. A decade of happiness had been ripped from her by her father, who had refused to see his brother for what he truly was—loyal and loving—and instead allowed their brotherly relationships to be tainted by the lies of lesser men.

The past six years had proven just how happy and carefree their life could have been. While the first few moons had been spent getting to know one another again—both the children and the parents—the years that followed were spent in loving bliss.

Even those first months brought a smile to Rhaenyra’s lips. Joffrey had been a babe and had immediately taken to the new man in her life, who carried him around everywhere he went—he had been the first to call Daemon father. Baela and Rhaena adored their aunt-turned-mother and enjoyed spending time by her side as she governed Dragonstone. Upon Baela being sent to Driftmark as a ward three years before, she had become their eyes and ears amongst the Velaryons—sending them secret missives every few weeks.

While Jace had eventually warmed to Daemon as well, Luke had been swifter in his thawing to his new father, following not long behind Joffrey in embracing the Rogue Prince. Her middle son had since developed a severe case of hero worship of his new warrior father—much like Harwin and Laenor were, but the first had not been able to openly claim him and the latter had been too occupied with his squires and knights, thus having a father who spent time with him was a bit of a revelation to him.

Laenor had been a good man but Ser Joffrey’s death had him spiral into a pit of despair and only those random bouts of hedonistic pleasure with his favoured knights and squires had the dragonrider feel alive. While Rhaenyra would never doubt how much he had loved his chosen sons, he would have been no aid in this upcoming conflict. Daemon and she had made the right decision, even if it meant turning the Velaryons against her.

Princess Rhaenys’ belief that it was Daemon who slew her son was well-known to all. The two cousins never had a great relationship before—the age difference too big between them. Not to mention Daemon’s rambunctious and violent nature had been a thorn in the eye of many, including Rhaenys.

Daemon had admitted to her that while Rhaenys and he had loved each other as children, their characters were like oil and water, and caused strife more often than not. When her uncle had been one and ten and her father five and ten, the former had defended the latter from a Velaryon knight—shattering the young knight’s back, condemning him to a painful death. Rhaenys' response, as Lady of Driftmark, had not been wholly unexpected, declaring him a cruel boy.

Daemon’s response to her slanders was devastating—for the day after, he slinked into the caves beneath the Dragonpit and by bonded with Caraxes, the dragon once flown by Rhaenys’ father, the late Prince of Dragonstone. Such a claiming only a few moons after Prince Aemon's death and Rhaenys' own disgrace at being passed over had only widened the schism between cousins.

That same bonding with Caraxes had been what had turned Queen Alysanne against her uncle too. Where it had been once been hoped by the royal family and courtiers both that Rhaenys and Rhaenyra's own lord father were to wed to consolidate their blood and claims, the late Winter Princess had always been meant for Daemon.

Neither marriage would ever come to pass—Princess Rhaenys would choose the famed Sea Snake over her cousin, thus sealing her fate, and Princess Gael would be pulled from Prince Daemon’s grasp. Though at the time her uncle had not cared, by the time he had neared his six and tenth name day, the lack of a Valyrian bride had felt like a slap in the face—which had only worsened with the forced marriage to the young heir to Runestone, who was wealthy and was at least not Andal, but did not have a drop of Valyrian blood.

The marriage was said to have been arranged by the Good Queen with the loud approval of her Conciliator husband, thus snatching from Daemon any hope of the betrothal being broken.

One time when she was young, perhaps only three and ten name days old, and during one of her uncle’s far and in-between visits to the capital, she had asked him about it. His response had been as telling as the one from King Viserys had been.

Daemon had declared the late King Jaehaerys a weakling, who had been insulted at his grandson keeping the peace in his own realm. Her father had been disgusted by his brother’s recounting of the matter and had declared him a cruel justiciar.

That had been all they were willing to utter in the presence of the young princess.

It had been two sunturns later that she had learned of the Six Moon War—born of the aggressions between the Ironborn and the West. Prince Daemon, then a squire of five and ten but already considered a renowned warrior, had been permitted to join the war.

A sennight later the war had been over.

Five dozen Ironborn ships burned and hundreds of men were condemned to a fiery death. On Pyke, the prince had gathered all warriors of House Greyjoy, including their kin, and had taken all their heads—placing them on wooden spikes on the sand.

The Rogue Prince had been born but at a great cost for his peaceful grandfather had closed off his heart to him, fearing his fiery nature and seeing in him a mirage of a past long gone.

While it had granted him quite a bit of admiration from the Western houses—especially those located on the shores of the Sunset Sea—the already fraying relationship between grandfather and grandson was permanently severed.

Queen Rhaenyra had always found it odd how none of her kin ever minded that violence when it suited them—for it was Daemon who won them the War in the Stepstones, opening up the shipping lanes and fattening the Velaryon coffers.

At least Corlys had never forgotten his bond with his former comrade-in-arms. The friendship between the two men—even after Laenor and Laena’s deaths—had angered Rhaenys, who was certain that they had a hand in the former’s unexpected passing. And while the Queen That Never Was was not exactly wrong, it had piqued Rhaenyra that she had assumed such heinous things of her own blood.

After all, it had been her and her husband who had Rhaenyra shackled to Laenor—a good man but unsuited to marriage with a woman. All because of some great council and a denied inheritance long before Rhaenyra’s time.

The stabs of pain deep within her belly had the princess-turned-queen groan, losing her thoughts—childbirth had never felt like this before.

“I want my husband,” Rhaenyra spat out as sweat dripped from her forehead and tears gathered in the corners of her eyes, “Bring me the king.”

If anyone noticed her slip of the tongue, none said anything about it.

“I will go see if I can find him for you, Your Grace,” Lady Elinda Massey assured her—the oldest and most loyal of the handmaidens she took with her to Dragonstone.

“No need,” a gruff voice rang through their bedchambers, “I am already here.”

Rhaenyra’s face turned toward the sound, as did all others, and she smiled at her strong husband standing at the door. Though she could see the sickly white pallor, as well as the fear in his eyes, she could not help but smile, “Uncle.”

“My love,” he ran forward, falling to his knees before her and grasping her hands in his before pressing his forehead against them, “Iksan vaoreznuni.  Īlen nākostōbā [I am sorry. I was weak].”

Rhaenyra snorted and shrugged her shoulders, bringing forth another painful twinge, “Ao could dōrī sagon nākostōbā.  Iksā kesīr sir [You could never be weak. You are here now].”

Her husband swept the sweaty locks away from her forehead, before caressing her heated skin with a cold hand towel, “Konīr iksis daor tolie dīnagon syt nyke yn ondoso aōha paktot [There is no other place for me but by your side].”

Rhaenyra’s forehead fell to her kneeling husband’s shoulder.

She knew that death had come for her blood—once by way of her father and another soon enough by way of the much-loved child in her womb. Alicent and her mongrels had taken from here so much already, but with Daemon by her side, she knew she could survive all they threw at her.

───※ ·♛· ※───

The sheer audacity is what truly struck Daemon. Imagine usurping a throne and then sailing to the island home of the woman whose crown you stole and then offering a false peace.

It had been only a day since their family had laid to rest their daughter—stolen from them by way of the Greens’ treachery—and Daemon had formally crowned his wife queen with the Conciliator’s crown, and now a ship bearing a white flag and a green banner with upon it a golden three-headed dragon had docked at one of Dragonstone’s many ports, bringing forth a delegation of Andal cunts with at its head his brother’s traitor Hand.

Viserys should have taken that one’s head many years ago. To this day, Daemon could not grasp his brother’s utter stupidity at bringing back the man, who plotted against his daughter and heir.

“I come at the behest of the Dowager Queen Alicent, mother of King Aegon, Second of His Name, Lord and Protector of the Seven Kingdoms. I've been directed to deliver her message only to Princess Rhaenyra. Where is the Princess?” the smug cunt announced and yet all smugness disappeared when a loud screech rang loud through the sky. The Reachman must remember the last time he was at Dragonstone—then only saved by the woman he had now usurped.

Gracefully Syrax landed behind the Green delegation—his lady wife’s dragon had thrived since settling on Dragonstone. No longer chained in the dragonpit, she had nearly doubled in size in the last six years.

His wife glided from the dragon’s saddle and walked toward her lord husband, the crowd parting for her—no doubt fearful of her dragon.

“Princess Rhaenyra–

“Silence, rat,” his wife commanded and Daemon loudly guffawed, “I'm Queen Rhaenyra now,” she gestured toward them all, “And you all are traitors to the realm.”

“King Aegon of the House Targaryen, the Second of His Name, in his wisdom and desire for peace, is offering terms of peace. Acknowledge Aegon as the rightful king of these lands and swear obeisance before the Iron Throne. In exchange, His Grace shall confirm your eternal possession of the Principality of Dragonstone. It will pass to your trueborn son, Prince Jacaerys, upon your death. Prince Lucerys will once more be confirmed as the legitimate heir to Driftmark and all the lands, titles and holdings of House Velaryon. Your sons by Prince Daemon will also be given places of high honour at court: Prince Aegon the Younger will serve the King as his squire and Prince Viserys will be his cupbearer,” hostages in all but name all knew, “Finally, King Aegon, in his good grace, will pardon any knight or lord who conspired against his rightful ascent,” the man did not seem to realize how his words were like dust in the wind. Rhaenyra would never bend the knee—especially not after the hand they had in their Visenya’s death.

“I would rather feed my sons to the dragons than have them carry shields and cups for your drunken, usurper, half-breed cunt of a grandson.”

Otto did not look taken aback, no doubt having expected Daemon’s opposition.

“King Aegon sits the Iron Throne. He wears the Conqueror's crown, wields the Conqueror's sword, and bears the Conqueror's name. He was anointed by a septon of the Faith before the eyes of thousands. Within his grasp he holds every symbol of the kingship—of legitimacy,” the man was smug about it, “And then there is Stark, Tully, and Baratheon. Houses that have also received, and are at present, considering generous terms from their king.”

Neither Daemon nor Rhaenyra missed the omission of the other great houses—Arryn, Lannister, Greyjoy and Tyrell—the first three will no doubt side with the usurpers. The Greyjoys had never forgotten Daemon’s role in the Three Moon War, and the Lannister and Tyrells were pious cunts, spending hours every day praying to false gods. Much like those three not being mentioned, the lack of negotiation with House Arryn proved they were not fools and knew that the Defender of the Vale, despite disliking Daemon, would no doubt side with her cousin.

The Starks would never break an oath, Daemon knew. He was also certain that neither Tully nor Baratheon would side against a male heir, and so their allies would have to come from the great houses’ bannermen.

“Stark, Tully, and Baratheon all swore to me in perpetuity when King Viserys named me his heir,” his wife pointed out.

“Stale oaths will not put you on the Iron Throne, Princess. The succession changed the day your father sired a son,” the traitor replied, “I only regret that you and he were the last to see the truth of it.”

His wife laughed—the sound harsh and primal, “Do I have to explain to you what perpetuity means, Otto?” Rhaenyra’s mocking brought a red flush to the Reachman’s face, “You are no more Hand than Aegon is king,” Rhaenyra marched toward the man and pulled the Hand’s pin from his chest—none of the guards intervened, cowed into submission by Syrax as they were, “Fucking traitor.”

Though taken aback, the Hand seemed unwilling to cease his attempts, “Grand Maester,” he summoned the man at the back, who handed over a folded piece of paper.

“What the fuck is this?”

“Queen Alicent has not forgotten the love you once had for each other. No blood needs to be spilled, so the realm can carry on in peace. Queen Alicent eagerly awaits your answer.”

Emotional blackmail—Daemon wished to roll his eyes in exasperation, “She can have her answer now, stuffed in her father's mouth along with his withered cock,” the new Protector of the Realm proclaimed, “ Let's end this mummer's farce. Ser Erryk, bring me the traitor, so I may take the pleasure myself.”

A roar from Syrax had the Kingsguard halt his steps and Otto expelled a sigh of relief.

“No,” the queen commanded.

Daemon narrowed his eyes but said nought more. His wife had made her queenly command known.

“My husband will not kill you,” his queen announced and Daemon wished to grumble but the steeliness with which she said it had him pause, “Dark Sister is a noble blade, wielded by some of my house’s finest warriors—my king consort chief amongst them.”

Daemon smirked widely at both the emphasis on their house being hers to command, as well as her calling him her king consort.

After decades of his brother’s disrespect, it always warmed his heart to have his wife honour and respect him. Daemon never had much interest in sitting their family’s ugly chair but would do all to ensure it never left their hands.

The Rogue Prince—no, the Rogue King—would never allow any Hightower spawn to sit the Conquerors’ throne. He would bleed for his wife’s rights—die for it if needed. Not to mention his son’s, whose blood right he would not allow to be stolen because of these Andals’ hatred and their narrow-minded beliefs.

“Dark Sister deserves worthier tasks than slaying Andal dogs,” Rhaenyra’s voice was almost as cold as her face—not a single emotion to see. The insult had struck home though for Otto grew bright red, as did many of those standing behind him.

Holding up the hand clutching the book page Otto had handed her in an attempt to emotionally blackmail her, his wife sneered at the treacherous Reachman, “This means nought to me,” upon crumbling up the parchment, she tossed it over the side of the bridge, “Any friendship between Alicent and I died when she slipped into my grieving father’s bed only days after my beloved queen mother returned to the embrace of our ancestors.”

The former Hand looked taken aback at her response, clearly not expecting such harshness. No doubt he had expected his wife to have been cowed at the prospect of war, but Otto never saw Rhaenyra for what she was—a dragon.

“Princess—

“Your Grace, Otto,” the queen taunted his long-time rival, “You are addressing a queen.”

“The realm will never accept you,” it seemed as if Otto was no longer able to keep his arrogance at bay, having come face-to-face with a dragon-come-flesh.

“If they do not wish to kneel of their own accord, that is perfectly fine with me,” Rhaenyra smirked, “I shall break their knees and make them kneel.”

Otto looked disgusted with Rhaenyra’s defiance.

“Those who fly the usurper’s ugly banner will burn.”

“You are mad,” the Hightower knight exclaimed—the fear from the Green peace envoy palpable to all. One by one they edged backwards—foolishly coming closer and closer to his wife’s beloved Syrax.

“What you call madness and defiance, we call brilliance and strength,” Daemon mocked the man’s words.

His wife looked at him with a pleased smile. Daemon had made sure not to undermine her—he was her sword and shield—for it would not do for anyone to think Rhaenyra was anything but the queen she was born to be.

“Dark Sister,” his wife once more turned to Otto Hightower and his fellow traitors, “is far too noble a blade to use to slay any of you,” Daemon watched the Reachman shiver with fright, enjoying how far the man had fallen. He was no doubt regretting coming to Dragonstone now, “Instead you will be useful perhaps for the first time in a long time, and feed my beautiful Syrax.”

The horror on their faces was almost comical, as was the begging that followed.

The false Grand Maester fell to his knees, holding up his hands in a planting manner, “It was not my idea, Your Grace. Ser Otto threatened my life.”

“Coward,” the Hand hissed before turning back to Rhaenyra, “To kill a peace envoy is to break the ancient laws and traditions of these lands.”

“Laws and traditions of men,” Daemon chimed in before Rhaenyra finished his sentence—no doubt knowing what he was getting at, “Gods have no such restrictions.”

Otto laughed sourly—the quiver of fear in his voice evident to all, “Gods?! You Targaryens grow more arrogant with every passing day! You are not Gods! You bleed as everyone else, and you will die should you harm us,” a tinge of smugness made itself known, “We have Vhagar.”

“To kill a dragon is considered a grievous sin,” Daemon smirked, “But as you never failed to announce: I am a sinful man.”

The promise was as clear as day—Daemon would kill his nephew and dragon both.

“May your Gods—should they even exist—show mercy on your souls,” Rhaenyra proclaimed.

The inevitable weeping and begging did not halt his queen, who looked her dragon straight in the eyes, “Dracarys [dragonfire].”

The traitor Otto Hightower and his fellow oathbreakers barely had time to scream before dragonflame took them all and Syrax enjoyed herself a veritable feast.

Rhaenyra walked toward him, grabbing his hand, “Let’s go to war, shall we?”

Together, husband and wife walked back toward their castle—their men following close behind.

───※ ·♛· ※───

The small council had been lively the past few days for many a raven had arrived proclaiming their fealty to the one true king, amongst which the ones from Highgarden, Pyke, Riverrun and Casterly Rock—the great houses of the Reach, the Iron Islands, the Riverlands and the Westerlands respectively.

And yet, to Alicent it was the omissions that had her fear of conflict. The Vale of Arryn had been silent, though because of their blood ties to Rhaenyra that was not wholly unexpected, and the North had not sent a missive either, nor had Storm’s End.

Many vassals had also sent ravens declaring their fealty, though even more had not, which had angered the dowager queen and caused the king to declare them all traitors. From the Reach nought had been heard from Goldengrove and Horn Hill—both powerful houses. Even from the West, a few houses had seemingly ignored the Crown’s ravens.

It seemed as if some houses had forgotten the teachings of the Seven-That-Are-One: the man rules the land and the woman rules the home.

A sennight prior her father had set out for Dragonstone with at his back a small contingent of household knights and other notables—flying a peace banner. Alicent truly hoped war could be avoided. If Rhaenyra had any decency within her she would see opposition was futile—the crown belonged rightfully to Aegon. Her husband had so willed it on his deathbed, and even if he had not, the laws of Gods and men were clear to all.

No, soon her lord father would return from Dragonstone and peace would return once more. Then they could deal with those houses who had failed to declare their fealty properly.

King Aegon’s offer of peace had been a generous one: Dragonstone would remain with Rhaenyra and Lucerys would be confirmed once more as the heir to Driftmark, her sons with her uncle would be squire and cupbearer to their new king, and all those who had proclaimed for Rhaenyra would be forgiven.

It was truly more than many would have offered—after all, Jacaerys and Lucerys were bastards born of vile lust. Prince Aegon and Prince Viserys in their grasp would ensure the Rogue Prince’s compliance, who was their biggest threat. Though neither the Master of Laws nor Master of Ships had wavered in their loyalty, even they had been weary at war with Daemon Targaryen.

No, it would be best for all if peace talks were successful, and her father understood that better than most—he would ensure victory without bloodshed, she was certain.

“We still have not received any news from Storm’s End?” the Master of Laws, a gruff man on his best day, asked.

Maester Drakul, second to Grand Maester Orwyle—who had joined her father on his peace mission to Dragonstone—had joined the council during the last seven days, “No ravens, my lord.”

“Dragonstone?” her second son asked from his place of honour at the end of the table, where Ser Tyland had once sat.

“Nothing, my prince,” the maester replied.

“My liege lord is an arrogant man,” the Lord of the Rain House said, “He is not particularly bright but he fields a large army and is a fine commander and warrior himself. We cannot stand to lose him—especially with the lack of ravens from many vassals across the realm.”

“Their liege lords have sworn to the king,” Alicent had grown rather defensive.

“In the Reach, the Houses Tyrell, Hightower, Peake, Redwyne, Fossoway, Roxton and Graceford have declared for King Aegon but many other powerful houses have not, not in the least the Tarlys, Ashfords, Caswells, Rowans, Oakhearts and Merryweathers,” Lord Jasper Wylde pointed out, angering Alicent even further, “These houses amount to nearly half of the Reach’s bannermen and if they side against the king any armies from the Reach will be halted.”

“Then they shall burn,” Aemond drawled.

Alicent flinched and glanced away for while she loved her second son most of all, she could not claim to be comfortable with his harsh nature for it reminded her too much of another Targaryen prince.

“You will burn everyone, my prince?” the Master of Laws mocked, “How will you differentiate ally from foe?”

The prince clenched his jaw at the arrogant rebuke but did not respond.

It was Aegon who spoke up at long last, “I assume neither the North nor the Vale have sent a raven back yet?”

“No, Your Grace,” the maester responded with a solemn face.

“They will not bend the knee to you, Your Grace,” Ser Tyland pointed out, “The North supported Princess Rhaenys during the Great Council and the Vale shares blood with your half-sister.”

“And what of the West?” Aemond turned his ire toward the Master of Ships and acting Master of Coin, “House Lannister has recognized their king but many of their bannermen have not. Where is the loyalty of the Houses Farman, Banefort, Kenning, Prester, Crakehall, Estren and Westerling? Three of them have openly declared their fealty to the Whore of Dragonstone, not the least of which the house of your brother’s wife!”

The Westerman flinched, “Prince Daemon remains a much-loved figure amongst the houses of the Sunset Sea—his actions in defence of them during the Three Moon War have been well-remembered.”

A noise of disgust came forth from their new Lord Commander’s throat, “He used his dragon to burn a fleet. Nothing more and nothing less,” not exactly the truth but none was willing to anger the volatile knight, who barely three weeks before had brutally murdered a lord of the realm, “Not exactly the actions of a man who cares about the West, merely those of a man who brings chaos, deviance and bloodshed everywhere he goes.”

“And yet they remember their daughters and sons brought home by way of him cowing the Ironborn into submission,” the maester—a Westerman himself—chimed in.

Just as her former sworn shield was about to respond a knock rang through the small council chambers. Ser Arryk, who stood guard within the council chambers, glanced toward the king, who rather belatedly nodded his head, permitting him to let enter whoever knocked.

With his hand falling to his steel, the Cargyll knight opened the door, allowing entry an acolyte, “Your Grace, Your Highnesses, Maester Drakul, most honourable councillors,” bows in between all three he addressed, “A raven has arrived from Dragonstone.”

Hope bloomed in Alicent’s chest for if Rhaenyra was willing to send a raven, her father’s peace talks must have been successful. Around the council chambers, many faces held the same hope.

“Well, hand it to the maester,” the king ordered.

The acolyte swiftly ran toward the maester, who accepted the large canister holding Princess Rhaenyra’s missive before dismissing the maester-in-training. Upon Ser Arryk closing the doors once more, the maester opened it and an object fell out—the Hand’s pin.

Silence reigned over the small council chamber as a more careful maester unfurled the scroll, before clearing his throat and commencing his reading.

To the traitors and the oathbreakers

The Hand is dead. He, along with his cowardly cronies, burned—their bodies turned to ashes.

There shall be no peace. There shall be no mercy.

My father’s will was clear and yet greed prevailed.

Where before I would have granted the Lady Alicent’s half-breed spawn clemency, now I shall not. The one who calls himself king shall burn, as will his wife and children. The One-Eye will be struck from the sky and the Hightower Prince will perish alongside his Andal masters.

The time for peace has ended.

Fire and blood shall reign.

Her Grace, Queen Rhaenyra of the House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men and Lady of the Seven Kingdoms

Not a noise was uttered—war was at their doors.

───※ ·♛· ※───

Only hours before her husband and her had arrived at Dragonstone, offering House Velaryon’s fealty to their new queen—reuniting with their grandson and heir, who had been overjoyed to behold the Sea Snake in fine enough health to travel.

While at times Rhaenys struggled with the knowledge that Rhaenyra’s children were not of Laenor’s loins, in the privacy of her chambers she could not deny the role she had in chaining her son to the Princess of Dragonstone, condemning him to a life of unhappiness.

Her son’s death had broken her. Both her children had been taken from her in the span of a mere moon. Laena lost to the horrors of childbirth—pregnant once more in the hopes of giving her husband a son, while Laenor had been killed by that same husband, who would go on to wed his widow.

Daemon had no shame and it galled Rhaenys to have to do fealty to him as King Consort and Protector of the Realm. The Rogue Prince’s entire life had been dedicated to creating chaos and the Queen That Never Was doubted her cousin would cease those endeavours now.

Rhaenys had not lied when she told Corlys that she believed Rhaenyra was the only way forward, though she was a tad dismayed that since then she had named Daemon her King and Protector, as well as formally declared war on the usurpers by killing their peace envoy.

Still, the die had been cast, and better the devil you know than the devil you don’t. Daemon and Rhaenyra loved their children—at least this Rhaenys knew for certain—and would never let any harm befall any of them, which is more than she could say for the Green usurpers, to whom they were a threat.

During their travels to Dragonstone, Rhaenys had expressed her regret at not killing them all in the dragonpit but Corlys had assured her she had done the right thing—the war was not hers to start.

Rather predictably, Corlys was looking forward to standing side-by-side with his former good-son on the battlefield—comrades-at-arms once more. Rhaenys loved her husband but she knew the Lord of the Tides was a sailor and warrior first and a lord only second—he thrived with his battle-axe in hand.

“What of sending an envoy?” Prince Jacaerys chimed in with an idea. The young prince had been formally proclaimed Prince of Dragonstone and Heir to the Iron Throne minutes after Daemon crowned his mother—the Rogue Prince placing a golden circlet on the heir’s head, as he did with Queen Rhaenyra and the Conciliator’s crown, “The Arryns of the Eyrie and the Baratheons of Storm’s End are our kin, and while Lady Jeyne already sent a raven proclaiming her fealty, she did ask for a dragonrider to protect her lands.”

“It is not a terrible idea, Your Grace,” Maester Gerardys said, “We can send Prince Joffrey to the Eyrie, where he will be safe,” the queen was pondering her well-beloved advisors’ words, who counselled her some more, “As for the Baratheons, mayhaps seeing a dragonrider stand before him could sway the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands to our side.”

“Borros Baratheon is an illiterate fool who can barely differentiate left from right,” Daemon mocked her cousin, “He has been nigh shackling his Caron wife to his bed in the hopes of bringing forth his spawn.”

“He wants an heir,” Rhaenys spoke up in defence of her cousin, “Can you blame him for that?”

“He has four daughters already,” her cousin waved away her comment.

So now Daemon was pro-absolute inheritance? After he snatched the crown from her head and placed it on Viserys’ head? “So you believe a woman should inherit before a man if born first?”

“I believe that a man that is so obsessed with bringing forth a son would not be jumping up and down with excitement at having to bend the knee to a queen regnant,” the Rogue Prince pointed out—suddenly the voice of reason, “My opinion on the matters of inheritance are irrelevant for I am a mere consort. It is your queen’s prerogative to change or keep the laws of inheritance.”

“Then what of–

Daemon interrupted her question geared toward their new queen, “Was my late lady wife not born first? Laena and her brother were twins but she was born first, no?”

Rhaenys chose not to respond to such a blatant provocation. Her cousin knew that she had no say in who Corlys named his heir, and used that knowledge to mock her in front of all.

“An envoy might not be a bad idea, Your Grace,” her lord husband tried to steer the conversation back to more pressing matters.

“I agree,” the Lord of Claw Isle agreed with the Sea Snake, which was an oddity on its own for Lord Bartimos was known not to be very fond of his Valyrian compatriot, “But who should we send?”

It had already been decided that the Velaryon fleet would use half its ships to close the Gullet and the other half to patrol the Stepstones in case the Greens tried to use Corlys and Daemon’s antagonism with the Triarchy against them.

“Send us,” Jace lifted his chin, looking every bit the Targaryen prince—that same pride is something he had in common with his stepfather, “Lucerys and I should bear those messages. Dragons can fly faster than ravens and they're more convincing than a mere written missive.”

Before any could respond Daemon denied the young man, “No.”

Jace looked angered, especially when Queen Rhaenyra voiced her agreement at her lord husband’s one-word decree, “Why not? We are–

“What you are is children,” Daemon cut off his stepson, “We do not know whether we can trust the Baratheons. Sending one of you there alone would be a fool’s choice. Who knows what that brute would do?”

Rhaenys’ blood boiled at yet another insult aimed at her late mother’s house, “The Baratheons have been faithful vassals since the time of the Conquest.”

Daemon furrowed his brows at her in a mocking manner, “I am pretty sure I remember your maternal grandfather rebelling against your paternal grandfather at one point, no? Or did I misread my history books?”

Rhaenys looked away.

“The Baratheons were lifted up by the Conquerors and it would behove them well to remember that,” Daemon sneered.

“Then send me,” Rhaenys offered, “I agree with not sending the children, but send me, and I shall return with Lord Borros’ fealty.”

Even her own lord husband looked unconvinced.

“I vow to you, Your Grace, upon the blood that flows through my veins—the blood of the Conqueror, as yours—that I shall not fail.”

Queen Rhaenyra looked at her seemingly unconvinced, “Very well, you shall fly to Storm’s End,” she eventually said, bringing forth a sigh of relief from the Lady of Driftmark, “But Daemon shall join you.”

Rhaenys clenched her jaw but nodded, “As you wish, Your Grace.”

Rhaenyra nodded at her before giving her a small, nigh unnoticeable smile, “It has been decided, King Daemon and Princess Rhaenys shall fly to Storm’s End. As for the Eyrie and Winterfell, an envoy must be sent to both as well, especially if we were to send any children into their care.”

Daemon seemed annoyed but still answered, “Upon our return, my cousin and I can each take one,” a quick smirk upon his lips had Rhaenys narrow her eyes, “Perhaps it would be better if Rhaenys were to take the Eyrie and I Winterfell. I am not particularly beloved in the Vale.”

Not particularly beloved. More like outright hated.

“That will take too long, kepus,” the eldest of her granddaughters interjected, “Envoys must be sent at once. Allow Jace and I to journey to the Eyrie and Winterfell. House Stark is an honourable and ancient house, and the Warden of the North would not harm us, I am certain.”

“Baela…,” Daemon sighed. At least Rhaenys did not have to intervene here for there was no chance her cousin would allow his daughter to act as an envoy to a lord whose loyalty they were certain of.

“Husband,” Rhaenyra gestured for Daemon to come closer, and the queen started whispering in her consort’s ears.

“Very well,” the new King Consort said, “Prince Jacaerys and Princess Baela shall fly first to the Eyrie and then to Winterfell. With Lady Jeyne they shall come to an accord about her armies gathering and marching for the Riverlands and the Crownlands, as well as regarding any of our children fostering with the Defender of the Vale until this conflict ends, while with the Lord of Winterfell, they shall just convince him to fly our queen’s banner and order his armies toward the South.”

Both Jace and Baela smiled, first at each other and then at their parents.

Rhaenys did not know whether to feel dismayed at her cousin’s permittance of her granddaughter joining the war—even as an envoy—or impressed with how swiftly Rhaenyra brought him to heel.

“So, it has been decided,” the queen spoke, leaning against her husband.

───※ ·♛· ※───

Storm’s End was a massive keep, if a tad ugly. Consisting of only one massive round tower, the Baratheon stronghold was surrounded by a smooth and curving behemothian outer wall made out of a pale grey stone—thirty meters tall and twelve meters thick, and this was on its thinnest side. On the seaward side, the wall was nearly four and twenty meters thick, and there was a five and forty meters drop below the wall and into the stormy sea.

The ancient Durrandon castle was nigh impregnatable and was considered to be one of the Realm’s strongest castles—Aemond was duly impressed.

Upon his arrival, the prince had kept Vhagar on the beach. It would not do to have the volatile and chagrined dragon wreaking havoc while he was attempting to gain House Baratheon’s loyalty.

They needed it, for more and more houses were declaring for the old cunt on Dragonstone. In the Vale, House Arryn and almost all its bannermen had declared his brother a usurper and declared Rhaenyra the rightful monarch. In the Riverlands, despite House Tully’s support, all of the powerful vassal houses, bar the Vances of Atranta and the Strongs, had sided with Rhaenyra.

The same could be said for the West, where the remaining four of the seven Sunset Sea houses that had not yet declared for the Black Queen upon news of his grandfather’s death reaching the capital, had since joined their fellow treacherous houses.

It seemed as if the Rogue Prince was going to remain quite the thorn in their sides, at least until Aemond finally had a chance to face him.

The Reach, which all had assumed would be loyal as they were some of the more pious lords and ladies of the realm, had been divided with about half siding with Aegon and the other half with Rhaenyra.

The loyalty of Storm’s End and the Stormlands was necessary if they were to win this war, the Small Council had insisted. His mother had suggested he offer a betrothal to one of the famed Four Storms—Lord Borros’ daughters.

And so he had done.

The proud Lord of Storm’s End had agreed to support Aegon upon Aemond agreeing to wed Lady Floris Baratheon—the youngest but most visually appealing of the Stormlord’s daughters. The one-eyed prince would not mind bedding the young woman, only five and ten name days old.

Just as they were at long last agreeing on a dowry and bridal price, the loud storm, which had served as the background sound for the entirety of his visit, was interspersed by a roar.

Aemond’s head snapped toward the doors, narrowing his eyes, “That is not my mount,” he announced, “It seems like the whore has sent her own envoy.”

The Lord of Storm’s End and his daughters all laughed at the insult levied toward the Queen on Dragonstone.

“Step behind the throne,” Borros commanded, “It would be best that whoever she sent not immediately see you.”

Aemond did as he was bid and waited—though not for long.

“Cousin,” a melodious if weary voice rang forth.

Princess Rhaenys Velaryon.

It seems as if the Velaryons cast in with his sister, not that it was wholly unanticipated for them to do so—the Sea Snake had always been strangely fond of the bastards Rhaenyra paraded around as Velaryons.

“Princess Rhaenys,” the Lord of Storm’s End replied, “To what do I owe this unexpected and unannounced visit.”

“Are we to pretend there is not a giant war dragon slumbering on your beach?” the Queen That Never Was asked, “Where are you hiding the one-eyed prince?”

Aemond closed his eyes, ‘Of course, she had seen Vhagar.’

The prince sauntered from where he had been hiding, “Princess, are you here to do the whore’s bidding?”

The woman clenched her jaw, “Mind your tongue while you speak of your queen, boy!”

“Boy?!” Aemond grew red, “You are speaking to a prince of the blood.”

“Prince of half the blood,” Princess Rhaenys mocked him.

“What is it you want, cousin?” the Lord of Storm’s End ended their squabbling.

“For you to kneel,” the princess deadpanned.

Lord Borros looked flabbergasted at his cousin’s audacity, “What?”

“I have with me a missive from your queen but since you can’t read, I assume there is no reason for me to hand it to you,” she pushed the dagger in deeper, “So, as such, the sole thing I want for you is to kneel.”

“How dare you!” the enraged lord stood from his throne, “Seize her!”

“Ah, ah, ah,” she held up her finger, “You do not think I came alone, do you?”

“What are you talking–

The shriek that followed gave all of them chills.

‘Prince Daemon,’ Aemond’s sole remaining eye widened.

It did not take long before the doors were thrown open and his uncle came sauntering in—Dark Sister in his hand, dripping with blood, “Your guards were quite unaccommodating,” he addressed their host.

If Aemond remembered well there were at least half a dozen guards outside. Did he slay them all?

“To use violence against my men is to break guest right!” Borros bellowed in the hopes of regaining the upper hand but all could hear the shaking of his voice..

Not that Aemond could blame him—his home was under siege by three dragons. Even the prince was feeling a tad nervous for their foes were not wholly unwilling to break ancient customs—his grandfather’s death whilst flying a peace banner was the perfect example of their aberrance and willingness to insult the Gods.

“What guest right?” the Queen That Never Was mocked the Lord of Storm’s End, “No salt nor bread were offered as we entered. You have sided with usurpers. We are not guests of yours, we are foes!”

Lord Borros grew bright red, “Seize her!”

“I am of the blood of the Houses Durrandon and Baratheon just as much as my cousin. My mother was the daughter of Lord Rogar Baratheon and Queen Alyssa Velaryon,” Princess Rhaenys was a commanding figure, even Aemond could admit, “Your lord has chosen his path and it is one that leads toward certain death. Do not blindly follow him toward your deaths.”

The guards hesitated, no doubt remembering who the princess’ mother was, as well as fearful of drawing the Rogue Prince’s ire.

“Seize them!” Lord Borros tried again but his guards ignored him once more.

“Is this your lord?” Daemon addressed the armed men clad in yellow and black, “Is this the man you will follow into the maws of death? Because that is exactly where he shall lead you.”

Aemond did not like where this was going—they were convincing them, he could see.

“To side against your rightful queen would be to sign your warrant of death,” his uncle proclaimed, “But choose right and nought need happen to you and yours.”

It seemed like the Lord of Storm’s End was fed up with his guards’ disobedience so he grabbed the nearest by the scruff of the neck before seizing his sword and cutting his head near clean off.

Aemond smirked, greatly enjoying the bloody spectacle for there was little as titillating to him than the spilling of blood. However, as swiftly as his grin appeared, it disappeared just as quickly when his uncle charged the Stormlord—Dark Sister in hand.

The duel was harsh and even the Four Storms were no longer their haughty selves, clinging to the walls in the hopes of disappearing in the background.

It took his uncle exactly three strikes before he brought Lord Borros Baratheon to the ground by cutting the back of his knees. Aemond’s heart rate picked up and no longer was he certain of himself—his mission had gone awry. Without the protection of the Lord of Storm’s End, who knew what they would do to him?

“Run, little prince!” his uncle shouted at him as Aemond high-tailed it out of the Round Hall, terror having seized his heart.

The Rogue Prince was mad. All of his mother’s words were true.

The loud cries that followed were no doubt because Prince Daemon had killed the Lord of Storm’s End.

“Fuck!” Aemond swore as he ran as quickly as he could toward his dragon. Vhagar was a magnificent beast but Caraxes was a war dragon, and he would have the aid of Rhaenys’ Red Queen, so he needed to be swifter than them.

No, better he return to King’s Landing and strategize with the small council—his mother would know better on what to do next.

In the distance, he heard roars as he finally reached the queen of dragons, who had her head laid on the sand—slumbering lazily. Grabbing the rope hanging from Vhagar’s side, Aemond hoisted himself up into the saddle. Glancing toward Storm’s End, the prince could see Meleys and Caraxes drop to the ground—no doubt summoned by their riders.

“Soves [fly]!” the great slumbering beast ignored his command, and so the prince grabbed the reigns connecting to his dragon’s neck and pulled, “Soves [fly]!” Once again the war dragon denied him, shaking her head before laying back down, “Dohaeris, Vhagar! Soves [obey, Vhagar! Soves]!”

Begrudgingly the ancient dragon started rising from her prone position—though a tad too late. Turning his head to the right when a roar sounded a bit too close for comfort, Aemond shrieked when Meleys and Caraxes both descended upon Vhagar from the sky, using both dragonfire and teeth—tearing chunks of flesh out of her whilst simultaneously burning her thick hide.

Vhagar was a grand war dragon but her age and size meant she was slow and so the two younger dragons did great damage to her. When she tried to flex her massive wings, Caraxes and Meleys started tearing them to shreds—effectively grounding the ancient dragon.

The roar brought forth from the queen of dragon’s maw was deafening.

Abandoning ship, Aemond used the same rope he had made use of to climb his dragon, to drop down from her back.

Running as quickly as he could, Aemond did all he could to flee the carnage.

“Coward!” the prince heard behind him. Glancing back, the panicking prince saw his enraged uncle running after him. Fear and dread took hold of Aemond’s entire being as he ran and ran until an unnoticed rock sticking out of the sand ended his fleeing.

Falling face first into the sand, the second son of the late King Viserys tried to turn to his back to clamber up but the last thing he saw was Dark Sister coming at his head.

───※ ·♛· ※───

The royal family and the lords and ladies of the Black Council were enjoying their supper when a loud screech had Luke glance toward the windows whilst nigh jumping up and down on his chair.

His mother seemed amused at his antics before she turned toward Lord Corlys, who had been named Hand of the Queen hours before his grandmother and father flew for Storm’s End, “It seems the first of our envoys has returned.”

The Sea Snake was a fine choice for Hand—his grandfather was amongst the finest men he knew—though many had assumed Queen Rhaenyra would name her husband, who instead was named King and Protector of the Realm.

“Is the king alone?” his grandfather fidgeted where he sat for only the Blood Wyrm’s shrill roar was heard.

Ser Erryk Cargyll, one of her mother’s queensguard strolled toward the window and peered out, “It seems like, my lord. I can only see the King’s dragon.”

“I am certain all is well, grandfather,” Lucerys tried to reassure the Sea Snake.

“Yes, yes,” the man smiled at him, if a tad brittle, “I am certain you are right, my boy.”

“Ser Steffon,” the queen laid her utensils down, “Could you ride out toward my husband and tell him we are having supper? Perhaps after freshening up, he’d like to join us?”

“Certainly, Your Grace,” the new Lord Commander of the Queensguard bowed to the queen before marching out of the dining hall.

Suppers at Dragonstone had always been pleasant. They regularly hosted the lords and ladies of the Narrow Sea, as well as his mother and stepfather’s allies—both Westerosi and Essosi—at the ancient Targaryen keep.

The past six years had been truly blissful for their family and Lucerys was angered at how their peace was shattered because of the Hightowers’ greed—first by conspiring with the late Ser Vaemond and then by usurping his mother’s rightful rule over the Seven Kingdoms.

Their father had been right—the Greens had to pay.

Something the Sea Snake wholeheartedly agreed with as well. Though he had never been particularly fond of Lucerys’ mother, he did love her children and her new husband—his former good-son and his former comrade-at-arms.

Lord Corlys Velaryon was a proud man—both of his own legacy and that of his house—which is why Luke found it so odd that he was willing to acknowledge a bastard as his grandson.

The second of Queen Rhaenyra’s sons was no fool—Jace, Joff and he looked nought like their named father, the late Ser Laenor Velaryon. They were the natural-born sons of their mother’s late sworn shield and Lord Commander of the City Watch, Ser Harwin Strong—all knew it, and so did he.

The day before, Luke had cornered the still-recovering Lord of the Tides whilst he was inspecting the harbour closest to the castle and had outright asked him why. At first, the Sea Snake had acted dumb but eventually, he had relented, explaining that unless you are a Targaryen, blood means nought compared to names, and they were Velaryons by name, which was plenty enough for him.

Still, Lucerys had not been satisfied with that answer, pondering aloud whether he would not prefer Baela or Rhaena to be his heir, which Lord Corlys to be tempting. He admitted to almost doing so after Laen’s passing but he had never wished to hurt them and then his parents had wed, and so he had refrained from doing so. His newly-announced betrothal to Rhaena was a godsend, he had proclaimed—an assurance that Velaryon blood survived.

The lord and his heir had spent the remainder of the day together—inspecting docks and ships, and at the end of the eve they had a private supper, including his betrothed, to talk of matters pertaining to Driftmark and its lands and holdings. Their grandfather had been very patient but also truly dazzled with their knowledge.

Lucerys was quite gifted with sums, which is something he had in common with Daemon, who hid it but was always more than just a brute force—he and his late lady wife, Lucerys’ paternal aunt, had done a great deal of trading from their palace in Pentos.

Rhaena on the other hand knew languages, speaking the Common Tongue, High Valyrian, Pentoshi Valyrian, Volantene Valyrian, the Summer Tongue, and Rhoynish—much like her parents, who each spoke more than a dozen languages themselves. His sister bragged that while their new king consort also spoke Dothraki and Bastard Ghiscari, from his time warring in the East, many decades prior, as well as Braavosi Valyrian, her late mother had mastered the trade talk, which King Daemon had not been able to do. This had the Sea Snake grin because the trade talk was a sailor’s language and his dear Laena was always one at heart.

The Lord of the Tides had impressed upon his betrothed and Luke both that as his successors they must be one, for House Velaryon only became this powerful in recent years because while he warred in the Stepstones and sailed toward the East, his lady wife ruled Driftmark and enlarged their treasury threefold through her trading.

He had sworn them to secrecy but had admitted to making errors in the past, like not naming Laena, who was the eldest of his twins, his heir. He urged them to take only the best of their parents and grandparents and leave behind their bad qualities.

When Rhaena had asked what that was, the Sea Snake had laughed and proclaimed that while the Rogue Prince was his brother-in-arms and arguably the finest warrior House Targaryen had seen in decades, if not centuries, he was also impulsive and filled with rage. His loyalty to his blood was nigh legendary but so was his inability to forgive and forget.

He had whispered that his beloved Laena was as impulsive as her widower at times—preferring the heady feel of adventure over duty, much like her father and husband.

Laenor loved too deeply and had no sense of duty, he had proclaimed with a sad look upon his weary face, and neither he nor Rhaenys had listened to his concerns. While his late heir had truly loved all three of his sons, he had not been cut out for courtly life. Corlys had expressed his regret at how he treated his son in life, and that once they reunited upon his ascendance to the Halls of their ancestors in the Great Beyond, he would never let go of his boy again.

They had not spoken after for almost five minutes—all three reminiscing. While Rhaena had only met her uncle a few times, the love Laena and Daemon had for him was well-known to their second daughter.

Smiling at the memory of his father taking him for his first sailing lesson only three moons before he passed brought a smile to his face, which widened when he realized that during their supper, the Sea Snake had never voiced aloud their new queen’s negative traits.

None could evade repercussions and protect his hide quite like Lord Corlys Velaryon.

Noise at the mouth of the hall they were dining in had Luke turn his head—nigh cracking it with the force of it all.

Standing there in all his glory was King Daemon Targaryen, clad in his armour still—soot and blood caking its blackened steel. In his right hand the Protector of the Realm, their father clutched a hand-crafted jute satchel, while his left was, as always, resting on Dark Sister’s pommel, “Dear wife, I bring with you the loyalty of Storm’s End.”

His mother looked satisfied, “So, Rhaenys and you managed to convince Borros after all?”

Daemon’s lips twitched with amusement, “Not exactly.” The man strode forward, toward the grand table, where all seated stared at the imposing figure, “When we arrived the One-Eye was present and Borros allies with him already, betrothing to the boy one of his stormlings.”

Lord Bartimos was hesitant but voiced  his question nonetheless, “Then how do we have House Baratheon–

“There is no more House Baratheon,” Daemon proclaimed.

Silence met his announcement and the king consort pulled from the satchel a bloodied head—Lord Borros.

Luke glanced at his mother, who had a devilish smirk on her lips, “And Alicent’s boy and Vhagar?” Though it was clear she knew the answer already.

The king’s hand went in the bag again and he placed Prince Aemond’s head on the table, next to Borros’, “Vhagar rots on the beaches of Storm’s End while the new Lady Paramount of the Stormlands awaits your commands.”

“Which one of Borros’ daughters–

“None of them,” Daemon replied, “They died alongside their father and mother, but I did not wish to carry their heads around, so we left them at Storm’s End, where Princess Rhaenys now sits as its hereditary lady as the last of the Baratheons.”

“Good,” his mother said before turning to the Sea Snake, “Congratulations, Corlys, it seems like House Velaryon had become a great house.”

The Lord of the Tides was stunned but Luke recognized the signs of satisfaction, including the faint twitching of his lips—signalling his happiness at the unexpected turn of events, “I thank you for the honour, Your Grace.”

“No honour, Corlys,” Daemon jested, “Your wife earned her new lands when we tore Vhagar to pieces.”

The image of the ancient wyrm dying was one Lucerys found both difficult and uncomfortable to imagine.

“What of the Stormlords?” Lord Bartimos asked, “And the guards.”

“The guards remembered my cousin’s mother still,” Daemon retorted, “They have bent the knee. Though Meleys probably helped.”

“Should we send a fleet to Storm’s End?” Rhaenyra asked her husband—her foremost martial advisor.

“Perhaps a dozen war galleys would not be a bad idea,” Daemon leaned on the back of Baela’s chair, ruffling her hair—annoying his eldest daughter, “Storm’s End could be a fine base of operations should the Triarchy come to the Greens’ aid.”

“I shall send fifteen galleys to Storm’s End under the command of one of my most trusted captains,” Corlys announced, “The remainder shall be split in two with half setting sail for King’s Landing and the other half for the Stepstones, as was planned.”

“Good,” the queen answered, leaning back in her chair, seemingly satisfied with how all unfolded, before narrowing her eyes at the two heads before her, “What happened to the One-Eye’s ostentatious sapphire?”

Her husband reached into his armour and pulled from it the precious gem, “I thought we could send another missive to King’s Landing?”

The resulting smirk from their queen was almost diabolical.

───※ ·♛· ※───

Aemond had flown for Storm’s End two days before—in the early morn—and he had not yet returned nor had a raven arrived. His mother had been frantic since the eve before when they had expected his brother back—pacing the halls and barking commands at guards and servants both.

Truly, she was becoming a nuisance and Aegon had never been that fond of his mother to begin with.

“We must send an army to Storm’s End!” his mother shouted from where she stood at the side of the Small Council table—the new king’s small councillors were close to losing it at the dowager queen’s hysteria, “Are you listening, Aegon! That beastly Baratheon lord must have harmed your brother!”

“Prince Aemond flies the greatest dragon alive today, Your Grace,” Ser Tyland tried to pacify the Hightower queen—as always the peacekeeper, “There is none that can harm the prince as long as he is in the presence of his dragon.”

Queen Alicent turned to the Master of Ship and Coin, “What do you know of dragons, ser?”

“What do you?” Maester Drakul chimed in. Aegon was certain that there was some prior relationship between the acting Grand Maester and the Lannister knight, for the two seemed to defend each other every chance they got, “You Grace,” the learned man remembered his place, if a tad late.

“I birthed four of them,” his mother answered haughtily and Aegon felt a smirk coming up.

“Borros might be an arrogant fool on his best day, Your Grace,” the Master of Laws, Lord Jasper Wylde, who was a bannerman of Storm’s End tried to ease the tension, “But he would never stand for having to kneel to a woman. The prince is probably negotiating the size of the Stormlands’ armies. He is a smart lad.”

His mother still looked unconvinced and yet as Aegon was about to say something, his new Lord Commander and his mother's long-time sworn shield instead agreed with the Lord of the Rain House, “Lord Jasper is right. Prince Aemond is one of the finest warriors and minds I have ever had the pleasure of knowing—the skill with the sword of Ser Ryam Redwyne and the mind of Septon Barth.”

His mother looked proud at those words. Far prouder than she had ever been of her kingly son.

“Aemond is an honourable young man, who knows his duty and is no doubt ensuring the Crown receives the full support of Storm’s End,” Ser Criston smiled at his mother, who smiled back.

Aegon wished to sneer. Those two were sickening—they could at least pretend not to want to fuck each other whilst in his council chamber, “Perhaps my brother had already chosen which one of Borros’ little Storms he wishes to wed and is putting a babe in her belly as we speak?”

As one, his councillors turned their gazes toward where their king sat at the head of the table. He saw a hint of amusement on Lord Jasper’s face, whose lips twitched with mirth, though his mother and Ser Criston looked far less impressed.

“Your brother–

Aegon interrupted her, “My brother knows what he must do. He either returns with Storm’s End’s support or he does not return at all. If my brother fails in his duties, he has no purpose to me.”

His mother grew angry, “Aegon–

“Your Grace,” the king cut her off once more, “I am your king and you shall address me as such. The next time you fail to do so, I shall order my kingsguard to cut your tongue from your mouth.”

It felt liberating to be stronger than his mother at long last. For far too long he had been forced to ensure her nails in his face, her unexpected slaps and her sanctimonious little talks, but no longer.  He was the king now. All answered to him and only him.

“Your Grace,” Ser Criston held up his hands as if to placate him, “I am certain the Queen Mother did not mean any disrespect.”

“I care little for what she meant,” Aegon replied, “I care for what I hear, and what I hear is the dowager queen thinking she may speak to her king as she pleases. I am not my father, I shall not allow some woman to believe she may disrespect the Crown. I do not care whether it is the Whore on Dragonstone or my own mother.”

Queen Alicent Hightower looked insulted at being compared to his half-sister, who had killed her father only days before.

“I apologize, my king,” Aegon could hear the ingenuity but before he could say something about it, a heavy knock sounded at the door.

Ser Arryk, who had taken up his usual position at the inside of the council chambers’ doorway, looked toward his king, who nodded in response.

Upon the white cloak allowing whoever knocked entry, the same acolyte from a few days before entered, and the king experienced an uncomfortable feeling of déjà vu.

“Another raven has arrived from Dragonstone,” the young man announced.

Rather than allow the maester to open the missive as he had last time, Aegon gestured for the acolyte to hand it to him before dismissing it.

Much like last time, it was a small canister, and upon the king shaking it up and down, all heard the clinking within. Already Aegon dreaded what the Whore had sent them. Carefully Aegon opened the cannister and peered within and was dumbfounded at what he found, “There is no letter.”

“Then what–

His mother’s words were cut by her son harshly tipping over the canister and allowing the object within to fall upon the council table—bringing forth a large sapphire.

Prince Aemond’s sapphire.

───※ ·♛· ※───

Half a year is how long the First Dance of the Dragons would last. With their greatest weapon snatched from them by King Daemon I Targaryen and Princess Rhaenys I Velaryon, the Greens were forced to rely on their field armies rather than their believed advantage in the sky.

In the days after Prince Aemond’s slaying, the late Ser Otto Hightower was succeeded as the Usurper’s Hand by the treacherous Lord Commander and false knight Ser Criston Cole. The Kingmaker would gain himself a new epithet and would perish himself a mere moon later while attempting to bring to heel to the Crownlords who openly flew the Dragon Queen’s banner during the Battle at Cracklaw Point, which would also nigh cripple the usurper he served.

Though he managed to escape the pandemonium after the battle, Prince Aegon’s dragon would not be that lucky for Sunfyre would fall at the hands of Syrax, Queen Rhaenyra’s mount. Queen Rhaenyra commanded her loyalist armies herself from upon dragonback, with her armies on the ground led by Ser Harrold Westerling, the former Lord Commander of King Viserys’ Kingsguard and the Dragon Queen’s new Master of War.

It was that same Ser Harrold who slew Ser Criston Cole during the battle, though the grizzled knight was so badly injured that he would never lift a sword again, instead serving his new queen on her council until his final days. It is whispered that after he took the Cole knight’s head, Ser Harrold crawled across the battlefield to snatch from the dead knight’s back his white cloak—dishonouring the traitor one final time in death.

Though he sat the Iron Throne and held the capital for barely six moons, the fled Raper Prince would have a whopping four Hands, for after Ser Criston, the Greens’ Master of Ships and Coin, Ser Tyland Lannister succeeded him.

Though competent, Ser Tyland was confronted with a rebellious smallfolk, a diminishing slate of allies, a shrinking treasury—he had sent three-fourths of the treasury away from the capital before the Velaryon fleet had started sieging them from Blackwater Bay—and several failed alliances, including the one with Triarchy, commenced by his two predecessors.

The same day Ser Tyland was named Hand, news reached the capital that the Triarchy navy was destroyed by the Velaryon fleet before they could even sail past the Stepstones.

The bad news would not end there for only a week into his term as Hand, Highgarden would fall to the royalist armies and Queen Rhaenyra and King Daemon upon dragonback. Caraxes and Syrax, the former a renowned war dragon and the latter has since successfully earned her stripes in battle by killing the Golden Lady of the usurper.

A fortnight after Highgarden fell, so would Riverrun, where its ornery old lord was executed but his grandson was allowed to bend the knee and make fealty to the Lady of the Seven Kingdoms—though was stripped of the Paramountcy over the Trident, which was granted to the young Lord of Raventree Hall, who also received the lands of House Bracken and dominion over the lands of the Stoney Sept.

The greatest naval battle was fought near the Iron Islands, where the Ironborn fleet met with a large Velaryon force and was completely obliterated, claiming the life of the Red Kraken, thus spelling the end of House Greyjoy’s rule over the smallest of the Seven Kingdoms’ constituent provinces.

Two moons later, as the realm was gradually falling to the Black armies and dragons, and all their allies were being routed out, Ser Tyland would perish during the smallfolk’s attack on the Red Keep, which would also claim the lives of Lord Jasper Wylde, Septon Eustace and the dowager queen, as well as young Prince Jaehaerys—the uncrowned Prince of Dragonstone.

With King’s Landing having fallen to the smallfolk and the City Watch, the usurper requested the aid of his Lord Confessor-turned-Hand of the King, Lord Larys Strong of Harrenhal, and fled toward the man’s seat at the God’s Eye, leaving behind his consort and two living heirs in his haste—though some claim he did so purposefully because Princess Helaena was growing ever more defiant, and he hoped for a new marriage alliance with the West.

That alliance would never come to be because at Harrenhal Aegon and his Hand were met by King Daemon Targaryen and his queen’s Black armies. The False Dragon would be executed by the new king—not even considered worthy enough to be brought before his lady wife. The same went for the Clubfoot and Aegon’s remaining loyalists.

In Oldtown, the High Septon would crown Prince Daeron Targaryen as King Daeron I, though only a fortnight later the city would fall to the royalists' forces from the Reach. Prince Daeron famously defended the city upon the back of his Blue Queen but would not stand a chance against the overwhelming efforts of Vermax and Moondancer, the dragons of the Prince of Dragonstone, and his sister and betrothed. The Prince of Dragonstone ordered all living Hightowers executed—from the eldest to the youngest—thus ending a proud line going back to the times of Garth the Greenhand.

The final battle of the Green Rebellion was fought in the Westerlands, where House Lannister fell to the Black Armies, commanded by Prince Daemon—who famously slew the Last Lion in combat himself. Casterly Rock fell to the royalists and House Lannister was exterminated, though Lord Jason’s children and lady wife were allowed to live and take on the name Westerling, at the request of the Lord of the Crag and Queen Rhaenyra’s Master of War.

Six moons after King Viserys’ death, Queen Rhaenyra first sat her rightful throne—amidst a completely changed landscape. In the days after they arrived in King’s Landing, Queen Rhaenyra and King Daemon formally announced successors to the paramount lords and their vassals who sided with the usurpers. Princess Rhaenys and House Velaryon were formally recognized as receiving dominion over the ancient Storm Kingdom, while the same was done with House Blackwood and the Riverlands.

House Westerling was named the great house of the West, though Casterly Rock and its mines remained with the Crown, who did the same in the Reach, granting Oldtown to House Beesbury but keeping Highgarden and its fertile lands. Quite surprisingly the Iron Islands were granted to House Blackwood as well, thus reuniting the old kingdom of the Isles and the Rivers under one Lord Paramount.

The last of the Greens, Princess Helaena and her two surviving children, Princess Jaehaera and Prince Maelor, were granted clemency by Queen Rhaenyra, with the queen’s sister living out her life in a keep on Bloodstone, where she wrote her famed book ‘An Extensive Collection of the Stepstones Native Fauna and Flora’. Princess Jaehaera would go on to serve the Crown as Master of Coin and later Governor of the Triarchy, and would wed Lord Ben Blackwood, giving him three sons and three daughters, while her younger brother would become one of Queen Rhaenyra’s finest generals, serving her in the East.

Though peace had been restored, the new queen’s bloodlust had not been tempered, as she and her newly-named co-ruler set their sights on the East (see chapter nine: The Fall of the Secret City and the Daughters of Valyria).

An excerpt from Chapter Six: The Folly of the Greens of A Dragon Pair: The Reign of the First Targaryen Diarchy by Archmaestress Jyzene