In the beginning—before wings took flight and halos were set aglow—the realm was forged from whispers and wonder. And so, I, Angelique, guardian and creator of this sanctuary, extend this foretelling to those who dare cross the veil into my celestial domain.
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i will try to update the next chapter for Twins Flame and The Pale-Moon Drgagon soon as possible, but right now that i'm fasting my brain couldn't think something good so hope you all willing to wait till i post the next chapter 🥺🙏🏻
Summary : You had come to King’s Landing searching for a better life. Instead, it seemed the dragons had finally noticed you.
Aemond Targaryen Masterlist.
By the time the gold cloaks came, the air already felt wrong.
You were polishing cups behind the counter when the door opened with a heavy, deliberate creak. The shop fell quiet in that unnatural way rooms do when something important has just walked in.
Three guards.
Gold cloaks. Hard faces.
Your stomach dropped.
“Girl,” the captain said, eyes sweeping over your face with far too much interest. “You’ll come with us.”
The shopkeeper sputtered beside you. “Is… is there some mistake, ser? She’s done nothing wrong.”
The guard’s gaze never left you.
“The king wishes to speak with her.”
Cold slid down your spine, slow and dreadful. Around you, the whispers had already begun again, louder now, bolder.
Your fingers tightened around the cloth in your hand as the weight of something unseen and enormous began to settle over your shoulders.
The Red Keep did not feel like a place meant for girls like you. It loomed, ancient and watchful, its stone corridors swallowing sound until even your own footsteps seemed too loud, too soft, too uncertain all at once. The guards did not hurry you, but neither did they slow.
Every turn of the hallway tightened the knot in your chest. You had only been in King’s Landing a week. A single fragile week of quiet work and careful smiles. Yet now the king himself had summoned you, and the weight of that truth pressed against your ribs until it became difficult to breathe.
When the great doors of the throne room opened, the world seemed to sharpen.
Heat from the braziers curled through the vast chamber, carrying the scent of smoke and metal and too many watching bodies. Lords in fine silks lined the edges of the hall like jeweled statues. Ladies whispered behind delicate hands. Courtiers leaned forward with open curiosity they did not bother to hide. And at the far end, elevated above them all, sat King Viserys Targaryen upon the Iron Throne, the twisted blades catching the firelight like hungry teeth.
You swallowed.
“Come forward, child,” the king said, his voice not unkind but heavy with something far more dangerous than cruelty. Interest.
Your slippers felt impossibly loud against the stone as you stepped forward, each movement careful, graceful, exactly as your mother had taught you long ago. Never rush. Never stumble. Never give them reason to think you do not belong.
But you could feel it. The room already did.
Their eyes dragged over you, sharp and measuring. Not lecherous, not quite, but searching. Hunting. Your long pale hair, impossible to hide. Your delicate features that whispered of old Valyria whether you wished them to or not. Even the way you held yourself, soft but poised, did not help your case.
You dipped into a proper curtsy when you reached the foot of the throne, heart fluttering wildly in your chest.
“Your Grace.”
Viserys studied you in a long, quiet stretch that made the air feel thick. His fingers tapped once against the arm of the throne, slow and thoughtful.
“And you have come to King’s Landing… why?”
You cleared your throat, praying your voice would not betray the nervous tremor climbing your spine. “My mother passed recently, Your Grace. I came to the capital to seek honest work and a better living.” Every word was careful, respectful, precisely what a common girl should say.
A murmur rippled faintly through the court.
Viserys did not look away from you. If anything, his gaze sharpened.
“Yes,” he said slowly. “So you have said.” A pause. Then, more pointed, “And your lineage?”
There it was.
The question that had followed you like a shadow your entire life.
Your fingers tightened just slightly in the folds of your skirt before you forced them still. You had answered this before. To neighbors. To merchants. To suspicious women in market stalls who stared too long at your hair.
You answered it the same way now.
“I do not know my father, Your Grace.” Your voice remained soft but steady, even as your pulse began to pound in your ears. “My mother rarely spoke of him.”
Another stir in the court. Louder this time.
Viserys leaned forward just a fraction on the Iron Throne, the movement small but heavy with meaning. “Rarely,” he repeated. “But she spoke of him at all?”
You hesitated.
“When I was very young,” you admitted carefully. “But never with detail. Even on her deathbed… she would not say more.”
Silence fell like a blade.
You could feel it then, the shift in the room. Not just curiosity anymore. Something sharper. More dangerous. Lords exchanging glances. A lady in the second row leaning forward just slightly. Somewhere to your left, a courtier whispered something too soft to catch but sharp enough to make another go pale.
Because they all saw it.
The blood written plainly in your face.
Viserys’s expression had not hardened, but it had grown intensely thoughtful, his gaze tracing the unmistakable lines of Valyrian ancestry you could never quite hide no matter how modestly you dressed or how sweetly you spoke.
“You understand,” the king said gently, though the gentleness did nothing to ease the tightening in your chest, “that you do not look like a common-born girl.”
Your heart stuttered.
“I mean no deception, Your Grace,” you said quickly, earnest and open in the way that had always made people soften toward you. “I have told only the truth I know.”
The silence in the throne room had already grown heavy enough to choke on when King Viserys shifted forward on the Iron Throne, his fingers steepled beneath his chin in a way that suggested the pieces of some unseen puzzle were sliding, slowly but inexorably, into place. His voice, when it came again, was calm, almost conversational, which somehow made your pulse climb higher. “Tell me, child… from where did you come before King’s Landing?”
Your throat felt dry. Still, you answered plainly, just as you always had. “The Stepstones, Your Grace.”
That did it.
The faint murmur that moved through the gathered court was sharper this time, edged with something dangerously close to excitement. You felt it like a ripple against your skin. Viserys did not speak immediately. His eyes, pale and thoughtful, remained fixed on your face as though he were measuring you against a memory only he could see.
“And why leave there?” he asked at last.
You folded your hands carefully before you, forcing your voice to remain gentle despite the strange, tightening pressure in your chest. “It was… not safe for us after the wars, Your Grace. My mother wished for better prospects. When she passed, I came here alone.”
The king gave a slow nod, but the look in his eyes had sharpened further, his attention now unnervingly precise. “Your age, child.”
There it was.
For the first time since entering the throne room, real hesitation caught you. Your mother’s voice seemed to whisper from memory, soft but urgent: Never tell them too much. Never give them reason to look too closely.
But this was the king.
And every eye in the hall was already cutting into you like fine glass. You swallowed.
“I am one and ten, Your Grace.”
The reaction was immediate.
Not loud. Not dramatic.
King Viserys froze.
It was subtle, the kind of stillness only someone watching closely would notice, but in the charged quiet of the throne room it rang like a struck bell. At the king’s right hand, the Hand of the King stiffened as well, his brows drawing together in sudden, dawning calculation. You felt the shift move through the court like a gathering storm.
Viserys’s voice, when it returned, was quieter.
“Look at me, child.”
Your heartbeat thudded hard against your ribs. Slowly, carefully, you lifted your chin as commanded, tilting your face fully into the torchlight. The movement felt strangely intimate under so many watching eyes, as though you were being peeled open layer by careful layer.
For a long moment, the king simply stared.
It struck his face not like lightning, but like something far more unsettling. Like a memory he had tried very hard to forget suddenly standing alive before him. His eyes widened just slightly, breath catching, and beside him the Hand leaned forward with unmistakable shock written plainly across his features.
Gods.
The room seemed to tilt.
Viserys exhaled slowly, the sound heavy with certainty and something dangerously close to disbelief. When he spoke again, his voice carried clearly through the hall, each word deliberate.
“I can see my brother in you.”
The whisper that followed from the court was immediate and electric.
Your stomach dropped.
Viserys did not look away from your face, his gaze tracing the lines of your features with uncomfortable familiarity. “Eleven years of age,” he continued softly, almost to himself. “Born in the Stepstones… around the time of Daemon’s campaign.”
The Hand’s eyes were still fixed on you, sharp and assessing now, as though you had transformed from curious girl into living political wildfire in the space of a single breath.
Viserys straightened slowly upon the Iron Throne, the metal blades creaking faintly beneath the shift of his weight.
“I would stake my crown on it,” the king said at last, his voice carrying across the stunned silence of the court. “You are my brother’s daughter.”
The words landed like a dropped sword.
Around the hall, the tension snapped tight as a drawn bowstring. Lords leaned forward. Ladies whispered in barely contained shock. Somewhere behind you, someone sucked in a sharp breath.
Because in a single moment, everything had changed. You had walked into the Red Keep a nameless common girl and now the king himself had named you blood of the dragon.
The king’s words still rang in your ears long after the throne room had emptied and the whispers had thinned into distant ghosts. You had barely felt your own feet carry you through the Red Keep’s winding corridors, barely registered the soft fussing of servants as they guided you into chambers far grander than anything you had ever touched in your life. Silk sheets. A carved bed large enough to swallow you whole. A hearth already lit, as if the room had been waiting for you all along. It felt wrong. Too large. Too warm. Too heavy with the weight of a life you had never asked for.
You had tried to protest, your voice small but earnest before the Iron Throne. You told the king you had a place in the city. A job. A life, however modest. But Viserys had only shaken his head with that same quiet certainty that made arguing feel useless.
“I will not have my brother’s blood sleeping in flea-bitten alleys,” he had said simply.
And just like that, your old life had been gently but firmly closed behind you like a locked door.
Now the chamber was quiet.
The maids had just finished helping you wash away the dust of the road, your long pale hair left loose down your back, still slightly damp. They had been kind, if wide-eyed, their hands careful as though you might shatter beneath too-rough touch. When they finally slipped out, the door closing with a soft click, the silence rushed in around you all at once.
You stood in the center of the room, fingers lightly gripping the soft fabric of the borrowed gown they had dressed you in, your heart still struggling to catch up with the storm of the day.
Daemon Targaryen’s daughter.
The words did not feel real.
They felt too large for your chest, too sharp for your thoughts. You had spent your entire life not knowing, not asking too loudly, not looking too closely at the pieces your mother had so carefully hidden. And now the truth or something dangerously close to it had been dropped at your feet by a king who had looked far too certain for comfort.
You were still trying to steady your breathing when the chamber door opened.
Not loudly.
But deliberately.
Your spine straightened instantly, instinct guiding you before thought could catch up. You turned just as Queen Alicent Hightower stepped into the room, her presence quiet but commanding in a way that made the air itself seem to tighten.
You dropped into a proper curtsy at once, heart beginning to pound all over again.
“Your Grace.”
Alicent did not answer immediately.
Her green eyes were already on you, sharp and assessing, and there was nothing soft in the way she studied your face. Slowly, she crossed the chamber, her steps measured, her expression composed into something carefully neutral that somehow made her even more intimidating.
You kept your head bowed until she stopped directly in front of you.
Then her hand lifted.
Her fingers were cool and gentle when they touched your chin, but the gesture carried unmistakable authority. Carefully, almost thoughtfully, she tilted your face upward toward the candlelight, guiding your gaze to meet hers.
You swallowed hard.
Up close, her scrutiny felt even more intense. Her eyes moved over your features with slow precision, taking in every line, every angle, every trait you had never been able to hide no matter how quietly you lived. The resemblance, whatever she saw of it, made something flicker briefly across her face.
At last, she withdrew her hand.
“You have caused quite the stir today,” Alicent said, her voice calm but edged with quiet steel. “The king believes you to be my goodbrother’s daughter.”
Your fingers twisted lightly together in the folds of your skirt. Even now, the words made your stomach flutter uneasily.
“Your Grace… I have told only what I know.”
Her gaze sharpened slightly.
“So you claim you truly do not know who your father is.”
You shook your head softly, earnest and open in the way that had always been your only shield. “My mother never told me. Not even when she was dying.” Your voice dipped just slightly at the memory, grief still tender beneath your ribs. “I asked her many times when I was younger, but she would only say he was… not meant to be part of our lives.”
Alicent watched you for a long, searching moment.
Then, slowly, she nodded once, as though tucking that answer carefully away for later.
“And yet,” she continued, her tone mild but probing, “you chose to come to King’s Landing.”
There it was again.
The question beneath the question.
You drew in a careful breath, steadying yourself. “Only because I had nowhere else to go, Your Grace. The Stepstones grew dangerous after the wars. My mother always said the capital would have more opportunity. After she passed… I thought…” You hesitated, voice softening. “I thought I might build something better here.”
For the first time, something in Alicent’s expression shifted. Not fully softened, but less sharp than before. Still, the tension in the room did not ease. If anything, it coiled tighter, quieter, more watchful.
Because whatever she believed or did not believe, one truth now hung heavy between you both.
Alicent did not linger long after her quiet interrogation. With the same measured composure she seemed to wear like armor, she informed you that you were to attend the king’s solar that very evening.
There, she said, she and His Grace would properly introduce you to her children. The words were gentle enough, but the meaning beneath them coiled tight in your chest. Properly introduce. As though you were not simply a girl pulled from the streets a few hours ago, but something that required careful unveiling. You had only nodded, soft and obedient, because what else could you do? When the queen departed, the chamber seemed to exhale around you. The relief lasted all of three breaths.
Then the maids returned.
They came in a small flurry of purposeful movement, arms full of linens and perfumes and fabrics far too fine for someone who still felt dust from the Stepstones clinging to her bones. Before you could quite gather your thoughts, they had guided you toward the bath, their hands gentle but efficient. Warm water closed around you, fragrant oils clouding the air until the room smelled like roses and something sharper beneath. You let them work, quiet and pliant, even as your stomach slowly tied itself into tighter and tighter knots.
By the time they were done, you hardly recognized the girl staring back from the looking glass.
Your long pale hair had been brushed until it gleamed like spun silver, then carefully braided and pinned with delicate precision. The gown they dressed you in was heavy, the dark fabric rich and fitted in a way that made you suddenly, painfully aware of yourself. Not the simple wine shop girl. Not the quiet daughter of a woman who kept secrets.
You looked… noble.
The thought made your pulse jump uneasily.
One maid reached forward to adjust the final braid near your temple, her fingers light. “There now,” she murmured, almost in awe.
You barely heard her.
Because all you could think about was the solar.
Your fingers had begun twisting together again before you even noticed, the nervous habit curling tight in your lap. You forced yourself to stop, pressing your hands flat against your skirts just as a firm knock sounded at the chamber door.
Every nerve in your body snapped to attention.
When the door opened, Ser Criston Cole stood on the threshold in his white cloak, tall and immovable as carved marble.
“My lady,” he said, voice respectful but brisk. “Her Grace requests your presence at once.”
Your throat felt dry again.
The walk through the Red Keep’s evening corridors felt longer than the journey to the throne room had. The castle had changed with nightfall. Torches flickered low and golden along the walls, shadows stretching long and thin across the stone floors. Your slippers whispered softly with each careful step beside Ser Criston, and still your fingers found each other again, twisting tightly together in front of your skirts.
A nervous habit.
One your mother used to gently scold.
You tried to stop.
Failed.
By the time Ser Criston pushed open the door to the king’s solar, your heart was beating so loudly you were certain the entire court might hear it.
The room inside was warm, lit by a generous hearth and several low-burning candles that painted everything in soft gold. It should have felt welcoming.
It did not.
Viserys sat comfortably near the center, a cup of wine in hand, his expression already softened with something almost like relief when his eyes landed on you. Beside him sat Alicent, poised and composed as ever, her hands folded neatly in her lap.
But it was not them who made your steps falter.
It was the children.
They were already seated.
Aegon lounged with careless sprawl that somehow still managed to look deliberate, pale eyes sharp despite the lazy angle of his posture. Beside him, Prince Aemond sat far more rigidly, his single visible eye cool and intensely focused in a way that made something uneasy crawl down your spine. Helaena was quieter, her gaze distant but curious, as though she were studying something only she could see.
You stepped fully into the room.
The door closed behind you with a soft, final click.
Viserys smiled warmly. Alicent followed a heartbeat later, though hers was more measured, more careful. But the princes’ and princess’s gazes… are curious. You felt them all at once, like the brush of unseen fingers against your skin.
“My dear,” Alicent said smoothly, gesturing toward the open seat prepared near the royal family. “Come. Sit.”
Your stomach fluttered violently.
Dinner had unfolded with a fragile kind of peace, the sort that felt less like comfort and more like glass carefully balanced on the edge of a table. Servants moved quietly, plates were exchanged, wine was poured. Viserys made gentle attempts at conversation, Alicent occasionally guiding the flow with polite grace. You answered when spoken to, soft and careful, every movement measured beneath the weight of so many watchful eyes. For a few suspended moments, it almost felt manageable.
Until Aemond spoke.
His voice cut cleanly through the warm hush of the solar.
“Mother,” he said, precise and cool, his single visible eye fixed squarely on you, “who is she… and why is she dining with us tonight?”
The question struck the table like dropped steel.
Your fingers stilled instantly around the stem of your cup. Slowly, almost involuntarily, you turned your head toward Alicent, your heartbeat beginning to climb again, hard and uneven. The room had gone very, very quiet. Even Aegon’s lazy posture sharpened slightly with interest.
Alicent cleared her throat softly.
For the briefest moment, something passed between her and the king. A look. A silent understanding. Then her gaze flicked toward Viserys in gentle but unmistakable prompting.
Your stomach twisted.
Viserys shifted in his chair, the movement heavier than before. He cleared his throat once, fingers tightening faintly around his goblet before he finally spoke.
“This young lady,” the king said carefully, his voice carrying across the table, “is your uncle Daemon’s daughter.”
The words hung in the air.
Even now, hearing them spoken aloud made something inside your chest feel strangely hollow. Too large. Too sharp. Too unreal to belong to you.
Across the table, the reactions were immediate.
Aegon’s brows shot upward in open surprise, his earlier boredom completely gone. Helaena blinked slowly, her head tilting ever so slightly as though she were trying to fit you into a puzzle only she could see.
But it was Aemond who remained the stillest.
The most calculating.
“I was unaware,” he said slowly, his voice smooth but edged, “that Uncle Daemon had more than two daughters with Lady Laena.”
Alicent answered this time, her tone calm but firm. “She was born earlier. Shortly after the war in the Stepstones.”
Aemond’s gaze sharpened.
“So,” the prince spoke coolly, each word precise as a blade’s edge, “she is Daemon’s bastard.”
Your breath caught.
The word did not come with cruelty. Not quite. But it landed heavily all the same, blunt in a way the court often preferred to avoid. Around the table, the silence deepened, thick and uncomfortable. Viserys did not immediately correct him. Alicent did not soften it.
Because it was the truth.
Heat crept slowly up your spine, but you did not shrink.
You did not look away.
Instead, after a brief moment to steady the sudden tightness in your throat, you cleared it softly. The sound was small, but in the quiet solar it carried.
Prince Aemond’s eye flicked back to you at once.
“I… believe what the prince says is true,” you answered gently, your voice soft but remarkably steady for the way your pulse hammered against your ribs. Your fingers folded neatly together in your lap, no longer twisting. No longer fidgeting. “I take no offense.”
That, more than anything, seemed to catch their attention.
Aegon leaned forward slightly now, curiosity sharpening. Even Alicent’s gaze shifted, studying you more closely.
You continued, honest in the only way you knew how to be.
“Until today,” you said quietly, “I truly did not know who my father was. My mother never spoke his name.” Your eyes dipped briefly toward the table before lifting again, open and earnest. “Whatever I am… I learned it only hours ago.”
The word still lingered faintly in the air when Alicent turned toward you, her expression smoothing into something gentler than before. “You must forgive Aemond,” she said, her tone measured but not unkind.
“He speaks plainly… sometimes too plainly.” There was a quiet reprimand woven into the words, though whether it was meant for her son or the situation itself was harder to tell. You only inclined your head and offered a small, soft smile, the kind that came naturally to you even when your chest still felt tight. You truly had meant what you said. The truth did not wound you the way court gossip seemed to expect it would.
For a moment, the tension at the table seemed to loosen.
Then Viserys spoke again.
“I have already sent a raven to Dragonstone,” he said, almost casually.
Your breath stopped.
The words did not fully settle at first, as though your mind refused to catch them. But when they did… cold slid slowly down your spine.
“To inform Daemon of you.”
The solar went very still. You froze where you sat, fingers pressing faintly into the heavy fabric of your gown. Viserys continued, calm and certain. “I imagine my brother will come to King’s Landing within days.”
Alicent turned sharply toward her husband.
“My love,” she said carefully, though the strain beneath her composure was impossible to miss, “was that… necessary?”
Viserys frowned faintly, clearly not expecting resistance. “He deserves to know.”
Alicent’s lips pressed together for a brief moment before she spoke again, quieter now but edged with unmistakable tension. “Or perhaps,” she said, choosing each word with careful precision, “Daemon made his wishes clear when he left the girl’s mother behind all those years ago.”
The words landed softer than Aemond’s earlier bluntness, but they cut deeper.
Your stomach twisted.
Viserys sighed, the sound heavy with the weariness of old arguments. “Whatever my brother’s past choices,” he said firmly, “this child is his blood. He will know of her existence.”
Across from you, Alicent’s fingers tightened slightly against the table’s edge. For a fleeting moment, it looked as though she might press the matter further.
But she didn’t.
Instead, she drew in a slow breath, visibly swallowing whatever sharp reply had risen to her tongue. When she turned back to you, her expression had smoothed once more into something politely composed.
“And you, my dear,” she said gently, shifting the conversation with deliberate grace, “how are you finding your… new circumstances?”
The attention of the table settled on you again, softer this time but no less heavy.
You swallowed.
Honesty had carried you this far. It was the only thing you knew how to offer.
“It feels…” You hesitated, searching for the right words as your fingers folded quietly in your lap. “Like a dream, Your Grace.”
Your voice softened further.
“One I do not think I quite deserve.”
You kept your gaze lowered, not in shame but in quiet sincerity. “There are many bastards of House Targaryen in the realm,” you continued gently. “Many with more claim than I. Yet I am the one sitting here.” Your lashes lifted slightly then, earnest and unguarded. “It does not feel… ordinary.”
For a brief moment, the room held its breath.
Then Viserys leaned forward, something firmer settling into his expression.
“You are not ordinary,” the king said, his voice carrying a quiet weight that stilled the table more effectively than any raised tone could have. His eyes, when they rested on you, held that same unsettling certainty from the throne room. “You carry royal blood within you. That alone sets you apart.”
Author Speaking : in this story reader explain they had valryan features, and i make the reader had same age as aemond so it wouldn't be so confusing because i follow the series timeline. this will be my first mini-series of aemond and i will try to update fast!
In 115 AC When the Stepstones finally stopped bleeding.
Smoke still curled over the jagged islands like the last breath of a dying beast, and Prince Daemon Targaryen stood at the center of it all, crowned not in gold but in victory. The men roared his name that night, drunk on triumph and strongwine, their prince more legend than man beneath the flicker of torchlight. Music thundered through the camp, rough and wild, and Daemon, restless as ever, let himself be swept into the celebration like a blade into silk.
That was when he saw her.
She was only a dancing girl, soft-footed and bright-eyed, with laughter like wind chimes enough to make a man look twice. She had no crown, no name that mattered to history. Only warm hands, a shy smile, and the kind of beauty that bloomed quietly rather than demanded attention.
Daemon did not think of consequences. Daemon rarely did.
He brought her to his bed that night with the same careless hunger he brought to most things in life. By morning, the war called him elsewhere, and the girl became nothing more than a pleasant blur in a long line of indulgences. When Caraxes screamed across the sky, carrying his rider back toward King’s Landing, Daemon did not look back.
He never knew what he left behind.
He never knew that months later, beneath the dim glow of a rented room far from courtly eyes, the same dancing girl would press trembling hands over her belly and realize she was carrying a dragon’s blood.
And he certainly never knew that eleven years later, that forgotten spark would come walking straight toward the Red Keep.
In 126 AC, King’s Landing breathed heat and suspicion in equal measure.
You arrived at its gates with dust on your shoes and grief sitting heavy in your chest. Your mother was gone. Fever had taken her quickly, cruelly, leaving you with nothing but a small bundle of clothes, a few worn coins, and questions she had never answered.
She had always avoided your father’s name. Whenever you asked, her smile would turn thin and distant, like someone staring into a storm only they could see.
“He was no one you need trouble yourself over,” she would say.
But the capital did trouble itself over you.
From the moment your feet touched the crowded streets, eyes followed. Not openly at first. Just quick glances. Lingering stares. Whispers that slithered through taverns and market stalls like curious snakes.
Valyrian.
The word floated behind your back more than once.
Your hair, pale and unmistakable in the sun. Your eyes, bright in that unsettling way the old blood sometimes carried. In a city ruled by dragonlords and sea princes, such features were not easily ignored, especially on a girl who clearly did not belong to any known noble house.
You tried to keep your head down. Truly, you did.
You found work quickly enough at a modest wine shop near the Street of Silk, your sweet nature earning you kindness where your looks earned you trouble. Days passed. Then weeks. And still the whispers grew louder, sharper, more certain.
i'm truly sorry for not posting anything this past days, honestly i keep getting new ideas for making new fics. but for what i currently have (twins flame) i absolutely had nothing and it's really making me angry, inwill post the next chapter soon as possibly after i got the idea 😔💔
You smiled at your reflection as the maid carefully pinned the last strand into place, her hands steady, her expression warm. She caught your happiness in the mirror and could not help but ask why you looked so radiant today.
Today was Aegon’s nameday.
The words alone were enough to make your heart feel lighter, as if the day itself had been made kinder simply because it belonged to him. The maid chuckled softly, warning you to mind your steps as she finished with your hair, but you were already lifting the heavy folds of your skirt, eager, careless with excitement.
The corridors blurred as you moved through them, the echo of your shoes tapping against stone. Whispers followed you as they always did—murmurs of lineage, of beauty, of questions no one dared ask aloud. You heard them and ignored them. You had learned long ago that giving them weight only made them sharper.
The garden greeted you with morning light and the faint scent of flowers. A small table stood beneath the trees just as you had asked, laid with sweet bread and wine watered down enough for daylight. You sat and waited, hands folded neatly in your lap, smile unwavering.
Ten minutes passed.
You told yourself he was delayed—his mother would insist on seeing him first, after all. It was his nameday. Duties came before pleasures, even small ones like this.
Then you saw Queen Alicent pass through the hall beyond the garden, her green gown unmistakable. Aemond followed close behind, rigid and watchful. Helaena trailed them, quiet as ever.
Aegon was not with them.
Your smile faded.
A thousand thoughts rushed in at once—too loud, too fast. You knew his habits. You knew how often he slipped beyond the walls at night, chasing distractions the court pretended not to see. What if something had gone wrong? What if he had returned injured, or not returned at all?
You rose from your seat.
You hesitated only a heartbeat before leaving the garden behind. It was improper. You knew that. A princess did not simply walk into a prince’s chambers, especially one she was not meant to be so attached to. But worry was louder than propriety, and your feet carried you forward before doubt could root you in place.
Aegon’s door stood slightly ajar.
You slipped inside and closed it quietly behind you. The room smelled faintly of wine and smoke, curtains drawn against the morning light. There, sprawled across his bed without ceremony or care, lay Aegon—boots discarded, hair tousled, chest rising and falling in the deep rhythm of sleep. A wine glass lay tipped on the floor nearby, its contents long since spilled.
Relief washed over you first.
Then you stepped closer.
You did not see the glass until it was too late.
Your foot caught, balance betrayed you, and you stumbled forward with a soft gasp—hands landing against the edge of his bed as the impact jolted him awake.
Aegon’s eyes flew open.
For a heartbeat, neither of you moved.
Your face was far too close to his, close enough to see the faint crease between his brows, the way his lashes fluttered as sleep released its hold. His breath hitched, confusion giving way to recognition.
“You,” he muttered, voice rough, still heavy with wine and dreams.
You froze, mortified, pulse racing as you pushed yourself back just enough to give him space. “I—I didn’t mean to—there was a glass—”
He sat up slowly, rubbing a hand down his face, then looked at you again—really looked at you this time. The irritation you expected never came. Instead, something softer crossed his expression, quickly hidden but not fast enough for you to miss it.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, not unkindly.
“I know,” you answered at once, chin lifting in quiet defiance. “You didn’t come to the garden. I was worried.”
That made him pause.
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, quietly, almost to himself, “You waited.”
“Of course I did.”
The room felt smaller then, charged with all the things neither of you said. Aegon leaned back against the headboard, eyes never leaving you, as if grounding himself in the sight of you standing there—unharmed, earnest, real.
“I’m fine,” he finally said. “Just… stayed out too late.”
Your shoulders loosened at that, tension easing though the closeness remained, unbroken. You glanced at the overturned glass, then back at him, lips pressing together in a familiar expression he had learned to read far too well.
“Happy nameday,” you said softly.
Something in his gaze shifted—surprise, then something warmer, more dangerous in its quietness.
“Thank you,” he replied.
You were still standing too close to his bed when Aegon spoke again, low and hurried, the fog of sleep finally gone from his eyes.
“You should go,” he said. “Back to the garden. If anyone—”
You nodded, already stepping back, but the loose sheets pooled at the edge of the bed betrayed you. The fabric caught around your ankle, and before you could steady yourself, the world tilted.
Aegon reacted on instinct, arms coming up to catch you before you could hit the floor. The impact sent you both back onto the mattress—your weight light but sudden, his breath knocked from his chest.
For a heartbeat, everything stilled.
Your face was inches from his, close enough to see the faint bruise beneath one eye, the tension in his jaw as he realized how it must look. Neither of you spoke. Neither of you moved. The silence felt loud, dangerous.
The door opened.
A soft gasp filled the room.
You turned just enough to see the maid frozen in the doorway, eyes wide, color draining from her face as she took in the sight of you in Aegon’s arms, his hands still braced at your back to keep you from falling.
“I—” she stammered, then dropped into a hurried curtsy. “Forgive me, My prince.”
She was gone before either of you could speak, the door closing far too loudly behind her.
Reality crashed down all at once.
You pulled away as if burned, scrambling to your feet, heart pounding so hard it hurt. “I—I have to go,” you said, words tumbling over each other.
Before Aegon could stop you, you were already out the door, skirts gathered, breath uneven.
The corridor was empty.
Your stomach twisted.
Behind you, Aegon’s voice followed, urgent but controlled. “Go to the garden. I’ll come. Just—wait for me."
You nodded without looking back and hurried away, the whispers already beginning to coil at the edges of the keep.
You were almost there—almost free of the halls—when a hand closed painfully around your wrist.
“Come with me.”
Jace’s voice was sharp, unyielding.
Before you could protest, he was already pulling you along, his grip tight enough to hurt. Your feet stumbled to keep pace as he dragged you toward your mother’s chambers.
“Jace,” you said, trying to pull free. “You’re hurting me.”
He didn’t answer. Didn’t even look at you.
By the time you reached the door, your wrist ached and your chest felt too tight to breathe properly. He released you abruptly, and you turned on him, anger and confusion spilling over.
“What is wrong with you?” you demanded.
Before he could answer, your mother’s voice cut through the room.
“Why,” Rhaenyra asked, cold and controlled, “are the maids whispering that they saw you in Prince Aegon’s bed this morning?”
You froze.
She stood near the window, hands clasped behind her back, her expression unreadable but her eyes blazing. You opened your mouth, words rushing forward.
“It wasn’t like that—Mother, please, I can explain—”
“Explain?” Jace cut in harshly. “Or lie again? Perhaps Aegon already took what he wanted. A nameday gift, after all.”
Your breath left you in a sharp gasp.
“That’s not true,” you cried, horrified. “How could you even say that?”
You turned to your mother, desperate now. “Mother, please, listen to me—”
The slap came without warning.
The sound echoed through the chamber, sharp and final. Your head snapped to the side, ears ringing, vision blurring as pain bloomed across your cheek. You tasted metal and staggered, barely catching yourself.
Then Rhaenyra was in front of you.
Her hand closed around your jaw, fingers tight, forcing you to look at her. You whimpered softly, shock and fear overtaking anger as you met her gaze.
She was furious—more than you had ever seen her. Not the measured wrath of a ruler, but the raw fear of a mother who believed she was watching history repeat itself.
“I know men like Aegon,” she said, voice low and shaking with restrained rage. “I know what they want from girls like you—girls who mistake attention for devotion, who think kindness is love.”
Her grip tightened just enough to make tears spill down your cheeks.
“You have embarrassed yourself,” she continued. “You have endangered yourself. And you have placed a blade in the hands of those who already wish to see us fall.”
You shook your head as much as her hold allowed, tears blurring your sight. “I didn’t do anything wrong,” you whispered.
Your mother’s hand was still gripping your jaw, fingers firm enough to ache, forcing your face upward as tears blurred your sight. You kept shaking your head, words spilling out between sobs as you tried—desperately—to make her hear you.
“It’s not true,” you cried. “What Jace said—it isn’t true. Please, Mother, please believe me.”
You turned your eyes toward Jace, panic sharp in your chest. “Tell her,” you begged. “You can see she’s hurting me—Jace, please.”
He said nothing.
The more you spoke, the tighter Rhaenyra’s expression became, fury rising like a tide she could no longer hold back. Her grip loosened for the briefest moment— Then her hand struck your cheek again.
You let out a loud, broken whimper as pain flared across your face, your knees threatening to give way beneath you. Your ears rang, your vision swimming as you clutched at your skirts, trying to stay upright.
“I’m still a maiden,” you sobbed, voice raw and shaking. “I swear it—Mother, you have to believe me.”
She laughed.
It was a sharp, bitter sound that cut deeper than the slap.
Her hand seized your jaw once more, harder this time, forcing you to meet her eyes as tears streamed freely down your cheeks.
“I heard those same words once,” she said, her voice trembling with old fury and older wounds. “At your age. With the same whispers circling me like vultures. And no one believed me. Not the court. Not the realm. Not even my own father.”
Her grip tightened until you cried out again, hands coming up instinctively to grab at her wrist. “Please,” you choked. “Let me go—Mother, please—”
She did not.
“If no one believed me then,” she went on, eyes blazing, “why should I believe you now?”
You tried to pull her hand away, fingers weak against her strength, but her hold only grew firmer, unrelenting. Your cries broke into uneven, choking sobs, your body trembling beneath her grasp.
Then she spoke words that shattered something inside you.
“You are the reason they look at your brothers differently,” she said coldly. “Your face. Your hair. Your very existence makes them question what should never be questioned. You make them seem less Targaryen than they are.”
Your breath hitched painfully.
“If you had never been born,” she continued, voice sharp with accusation, “they might have had peaceful lives—without comparison, without whispers, without you standing beside them as a reminder.”
A sound tore out of your chest that didn’t even feel human.
“I never wanted that,” you said, voice small but steady beneath the hurt. “I never wanted the court to see them differently. I can’t change what people see… or what they choose to hear.”
Rhaenyra’s grip loosened only long enough for her next words to land.
“You will not see Aegon again.”
The sentence was final, cold, delivered as judgment rather than warning.
Your head snapped up, eyes wide, breath catching painfully in your chest. “No,” you whispered, then louder as panic surged, “no—Mother, please—”
“You will be sent to the Vale,” she continued, unmoved. “To live with House Arryn. Blood of my mother’s line. You will remain there until this… foolishness is forgotten.”
You shook your head violently, tears spilling faster as you grabbed her wrist, clinging to her as if she were the only solid thing left in the world. “I don’t want to go,” you sobbed. “Please, I don’t want to leave—”
“It is the best thing for you,” she snapped. “And for your brothers. They deserve at least some peace here, away from your… complications.”
Her words cut deeper than any slap.
You cried harder, body folding in on itself as your strength finally gave out. You sank to the floor at her feet, skirts pooling around you as you begged openly now, pride forgotten.
“I’ll behave,” you pleaded, voice breaking. “I swear I will. I won’t see him again, I promise—just don’t send me away. Please, Mother, let me stay with you.”
Your cries filled the chamber.
They meant nothing.
Rhaenyra stepped closer, fury flaring anew as she grabbed your jaw again, forcing your tear-streaked face upward. Her eyes were wild now, grief and anger twisting together into something sharp and unforgiving.
“I was a fool,” she said, voice shaking with venom. “A fool not to take the moon tea back then. To rid myself of you before you ever drew breath.”
The words shattered what little you had left.
You cried out, a broken, wounded sound, hands clutching at her wrists. “You’re hurting me,” you sobbed. “Please—Mother—you’re hurting me—”
The door to the chamber slammed open.
The sound was loud enough to make you flinch.
Alicent Hightower strode in, Ser Criston Cole close behind her. Her sharp gaze took in the scene at once—your collapsed form, your red, swollen cheeks, the tears that would not stop, the way your body trembled where you knelt.
“Enough,” Alicent said, voice hard with fury.
Rhaenyra released you abruptly, You stumbled backward, nearly falling as the sudden absence of her grip left you dizzy. Alicent was at your side in an instant, hands steady as she helped you to your feet.
“What is the meaning of this?” Alicent demanded, turning her glare on Rhaenyra. “Why are you laying hands on your own daughter?”
Silence, Rhaenyra did not answer neither did Jace.
Alicent’s jaw tightened. She looked back at you, her voice softening just slightly. “What happened?”
You opened your mouth—then froze.
Your mother met your eyes.
The look she gave you was sharp, warning, filled with a promise of consequences yet to come. Fear crawled up your spine. You shook your head faintly, unable to force the words past your throat.
Alicent exhaled slowly, understanding more than you had said.
“That is enough,” she said, straightening. “She will come with me.”
Before you could take a single step, Rhaenyra lunged forward and seized your arm, yanking you back hard. You yelped as pain shot through your shoulder, stumbling back into her reach.
“She is mine,” Rhaenyra snapped. “You have no right to her.”
Alicent stepped forward without hesitation, placing herself between you and your mother. Her voice was cold now, resolute.
“And you have no right to treat her this way,” she said. “She is a princess of the realm. You should never have laid a hand on her.”
The two women stood glaring at one another, fury crackling in the air like lightning before a storm.
“I will not let you hurt her again,” Alicent continued. “Not today.”
She turned, guiding you firmly but gently away, Ser Criston moving to flank you protectively as they led you from the chamber.
Alicent’s chambers were quieter than your mother’s—softer, heavy curtains drawn just enough to let in the pale morning light. The moment the doors closed behind you, the sharp tension you had been holding finally cracked.
“Tea,” Alicent said firmly to her maid. “Something calming. And send for the maester. Her cheeks are swelling.”
You flinched faintly at the mention, hands rising instinctively to your face as the ache throbbed anew. Alicent guided you to a cushioned seat near the window and sat beside you, close enough that you could feel her presence without it pressing on you.
“Tell me,” she said quietly. “What happened in there?”
You shook your head, tears threatening again. “My mother was just… disciplining me,” you whispered. “For being bad this morning.”
Alicent’s brows drew together at once. Discipline did not look like trembling hands and tear-soaked lashes. Nor did it sound like fear.
She studied you carefully, then spoke again, slower. “I did not come unannounced without reason. I heard… things. That your brother dragged you from the garden. That maids were whispering.”
Your fingers curled into the fabric of your skirt.
Then she asked, gently but directly, “Does this have anything to do with what is being said this morning? About you being seen in my son’s bed with him?”
You froze.
Your breath caught painfully, fear flashing through you as you looked at her. You knew how devout she was, how strict, how unforgiving the court could be when faith and scandal mixed. Your hands trembled in your lap.
But Alicent did not raise her voice.
Instead, she reached out, palm open. “Explain it to me,” she said softly. “I will listen.”
You swallowed hard.
“I went to his chambers because he didn’t come to the garden,” you began, voice unsteady. “He promised he would. I was worried something happened to him… I know he sneaks into the city at night.”
Your eyes dropped to the floor as tears slipped free again. “I swear on my life, I didn’t do anything wrong. I tripped—that’s all. It was an accident.”
You looked back up at her then, desperate. “My mother didn’t let me explain.”
Alicent sighed, a long breath filled with something like understanding—and something like regret.
“And she struck you because of this?” she asked quietly.
You nodded. “Jace said… he said I gave Aegon my maidenhood. That it was his nameday gift.”
Alicent stiffened. “And is that true?”
“No,” you said immediately, shaking your head. “No, it’s not. I’m still a maiden. I swear it. Please—please believe me.”
Your voice broke completely then. You slid from the seat to your knees before her, hands clasped together as you sobbed openly. “I’m telling the truth.”
Alicent gasped softly. “Gods, sweet girl —no,” she said, standing at once and lifting you back up. “Do not kneel to me.”
She pulled you into her arms before you could protest, holding you firmly, protectively. One hand cradled the back of your head, fingers stroking slowly through your hair as your sobs shook against her shoulder.
“I believe you,” she said, voice steady despite the storm in her eyes. “I know my son’s faults. I know his recklessness. He has taken servant girls to his bed without thought or care.”
She pulled back just enough to look at you. “But I also know this: Aegon would not do that to you.”
Her thumb brushed gently beneath your eye, wiping away tears. “Not like that. Not in secret. Not by force or deceit.”
You clung to her then, breathing uneven, as the maids returned quietly with tea and the maester lingered just outside. For the first time that day, the weight crushing your chest eased—only slightly, but enough to breathe.
Alicent had ordered the chamber kept quiet.
The curtains were half drawn, letting the pale afternoon light spill softly across the room, turning the carved wood and pale linens gentle, almost kind. You lay asleep on her bed, small against the expanse of it, hair spread across the pillow like spilled moonlight. Your breathing was slow now, even—unnaturally calm, the milk of the poppy having finally coaxed your trembling body into rest.
Alicent sat near the window, hands folded tightly in her lap, eyes never leaving you.
The maester had already come and gone. He had checked your jaw, your cheek, the faint marks blooming beneath the skin. He had said nothing aloud, but his silence had spoken enough. Alicent had dismissed him with a sharp nod, her mouth set in a thin, controlled line.
She exhaled slowly.
Daemon Targaryen’s daughter.
She had always known it. Anyone with eyes could see it—the hair, the sharpness of your features, the unmistakable fire hidden beneath gentleness. You were not Laenor’s child, no matter how the court pretended otherwise. And if Daemon had known… if he had ever been told—
Her fingers tightened.
He would be furious.
Not the careless, mocking fury he wore like armor, but something colder. Something lethal. Daemon did not forgive wounds inflicted on what he claimed as his. And though he had never been part of your life, Alicent knew—she knew—that blood like his did not forget its own.
If he learned that Rhaenyra had struck you, humiliated you, broken you down until you begged on the floor…
Alicent’s jaw clenched.
This would not be left unanswered.
And yes—she was not blind to her own thoughts. You were vulnerable now. Hurt. Safe with her. A piece on the board that had not yet chosen a side, because you had never been allowed one. Alicent was well aware of the danger—and the opportunity.
But as she watched you sleep, chest rising softly, lashes still damp even in rest, something unfamiliar pressed against her ribs..
The door burst open.
Alicent jolted in her chair, heart leaping as the sound cracked through the quiet chamber.
“Gods—” she began, then stopped.
It was Aegon.
He stood in the doorway, hair disheveled, eyes wide and frantic, breath uneven as if he had run through half the keep to get there.
He stepped forward without thinking. “Mother—have you seen her? I waited in the garden. She never came. Then I heard—maids were whispering, saying Jace dragged her away—”
Alicent rose at once. “Aegon—”
But he barely heard her.
His eyes were finally fixed on you, sleeping in unfamiliar sheets, your face pale beneath the swelling on your cheek. Whatever relief he’d felt at seeing you alive vanished, replaced by something darker, sharper.
“What happened to her?” he demanded, voice tight. “Why is she here? Why is she—”
Alicent crossed the room quickly, placing herself in front of him before he could reach the bed. She turned and nodded to one of the maids.
“Fetch the Hand of the King,” she said quietly. “Now.”
The maid hesitated only a second before hurrying out.
Aegon dragged a hand down his face, eyes never leaving you. “She was supposed to be with me,” he muttered. “I told her to wait in the garden. I make her waited for me —gods, I made her waited—”
“Aegon,” Alicent said firmly, placing a hand on his arm. “Sit.”
He didn’t look at her. “I don’t want to sit.”
“I said sit.”
There was no room for argument in her tone.
Reluctantly, stiffly, he moved to the chair she indicated, though it was positioned far too far from the bed for his liking. He sat on the edge of it, body tense, hands clenched into fists, gaze still glued to you as if afraid you might vanish if he blinked.
“She’s sleeping,” Alicent said, softer now. “The maester gave her milk of the poppy. She needed rest.”
Aegon swallowed. “She looks hurt.”
Alicent didn’t answer.
His jaw tightened, nostrils flaring as anger crept in beneath the worry. “Who did this to her?”
Again—silence.
He leaned forward instinctively, stopped only by the sound of Alicent’s sharp intake of breath.
“Aegon,” she warned.
He closed his eyes briefly, forcing himself to stay seated, but his voice dropped, dangerous and low. “If someone touched her—”
“You will stay where you are,” Alicent said. “And you will listen.”
He opened his eyes again, still fixed on you, fear and fury twisting together in his chest.
“She came to me,” he said quietly. “She came looking for me in my chambers.”
Alicent watched him carefully then. Not the drunken prince the court mocked, not the reckless boy who shamed her daily—but her son, stripped bare by worry, sitting helplessly while someone he cared for lay broken a few steps away.
Otto Hightower arrived with the measured calm of a man who had learned to expect chaos behind closed doors.
The instant he stepped into Alicent’s chambers, his eyes took in everything—the guarded maids, the tension in the air, Aegon seated stiffly with his gaze fixed on the bed, and finally you, sleeping pale and bruised beneath soft linens not your own.
Alicent did not waste time.
“I intend to propose a betrothal,” she said evenly, “between Aegon and the princess.”
Aegon’s head snapped toward her so fast it startled even him.
“Mother—”
Otto raised a brow, his expression sharpening as he looked from Alicent to Aegon, then back to you. “That is a bold suggestion,” he said slowly. “Explain your reasoning.”
Alicent folded her hands in front of her. “There are already rumors,” she replied. “This morning. The whispers of them being seen together—in his chambers. Whether true or not, the realm will not care.”
Aegon stood abruptly. “Nothing happened,” he said fiercely. “She tripped. That’s all. I swear it.”
“I know,” Alicent said without hesitation. “She told me. And I believe her.”
That silenced him.
“But belief does not stop tongues,” she continued. “If this reaches the wider court, her reputation will suffer for it. No lord will look at her without wondering. No match will ever be clean again.”
Aegon’s jaw tightened. He looked back at you, sleeping, unaware that your future was being weighed in careful, dangerous words.
Otto nodded slowly. “That is true,” he admitted. “But a betrothal like this is not a small thing.”
“It is also useful,” Alicent said calmly.
That earned Otto’s full attention.
“She is Rhaenyra’s daughter,” Alicent continued. “But more importantly—Daemon’s.”
Otto exhaled through his nose. “Daemon would never side with us. He worships Rhaenyra.”
“He would,” Alicent replied, her voice lowering, sharpening, “if he knew what Rhaenyra did to their child.”
Otto went still.
“She struck her,” Alicent said. “More than once. For an accusation made by a frightened boy and whispered lies. If Daemon learns that his daughter was beaten, humiliated, and cast aside—”
“He would burn the world,” Otto finished quietly.
“And he would choose the side that protects her,” Alicent said.
Silence stretched between them as Otto considered it—really considered it. The political advantage. The emotional leverage. The way you could anchor Daemon where nothing else ever had.
Aegon shook his head. “No,” he said hoarsely. “I won’t let her be dragged into this. Whatever you’re planning—I won’t use her.”
Alicent turned to him, her gaze steady. “This is not about using her.”
“It sounds like it,” he shot back.
Otto looked between mother and son, then toward the bed once more. “I will speak to the king,” he said finally. “No promises. But… it is worth consideration.”
With that, he turned and left the chamber, the door closing softly behind him.
The room felt smaller after he was gone.
Aegon waited a moment—then moved.
He crossed the distance to the bed slowly, as if afraid of waking you, kneeling beside it. His hand hovered near your bruised cheek, trembling slightly, never quite daring to touch.
“They hurt you,” he murmured, voice thick. “Because of me.”
Alicent watched him closely.
“I don’t want you caught in their games,” Aegon said quietly. “Crown or no crown. I won’t have it.”
He finally glanced back at his mother, eyes burning with something fierce and sincere. “I love her.”
The words landed heavy, undeniable.
“If I marry her,” he continued, “it won’t be for power or plans. It will be because I choose her.”
His fingers brushed the air just beside your cheek, stopping himself at the last second.
“And because I’ll never let anyone lay a hand on her again.”
“I was a fool,” she said lowly, venom trembling beneath the words. “A fool not to take moon tea when I had the chance. A fool to let sentiment keep you alive.”
I love to write Mean!Rhaenyra but als my heart shattered when i wrote this one
In the year 115 AC, when the bells of King’s Landing rang for a birth long awaited and quietly feared, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen delivered a healthy daughter within the red stone walls of Maegor’s Holdfast.
You were born swaddled in pale cloth the color of moonlight, your first cry sharp and strong, your hair already a unmistakable silver-white—too bright, some whispered, too purely Valyrian for a child said to be sired by Ser Laenor Velaryon. The court smiled, bowed, and offered its blessings, yet behind fans and tapestries, tongues loosened. Some spoke of a reckless night years before, of wine and laughter and a brothel lit by candles, of Prince Daemon Targaryen’s shadow lingering far longer than propriety allowed. Others noted, not unkindly but pointedly, that Ser Laenor’s affections had never been a secret, and that his heart had always strayed where custom said it must not.
Nothing was ever said aloud in the presence of the Iron Throne—nothing that could be proven, nothing that could not be denied. And so you were named, celebrated, and presented to the realm as Rhaenyra’s trueborn daughter, the Princess of Dragonstone’s first child and greatest vulnerability.
Years followed, and with them came your brothers—three dark-haired boys with brown eyes and the unmistakable look of Ser Harwin Strong. Again, the court averted its gaze. Again, silence was chosen over truth. Only Queen Alicent Hightower dared to speak plainly, her green eyes sharp with accusation whenever your brothers were brought before the court, her voice carrying doubts that others swallowed whole.
Yet you were different.
From the moment you could walk beside your mother through the halls of the Red Keep, it was clear you belonged to another lineage of rumor. Your silver hair grew long and bright, your bearing composed beyond your years, your presence drawing notice even when you spoke little. Lords and ladies watched you with open curiosity, some with calculation, others with something like awe. By your tenth nameday, fine gifts arrived from distant houses—jewels too heavy for a child’s hands, letters too formal for a girl barely grown. Some spoke boldly of future matches, of alliances sealed not by swords but by vows yet unspoken.
You heard it all. You understood more than they thought.
And through it all, there was Aegon.
Prince Aegon—your uncle by law, your kin by blood—was never meant to be central to your story, yet he lingered at its edges from your earliest memories. Where others treated you as a symbol or a piece upon the board, Aegon treated you as a person: sometimes careless, sometimes sharp-tongued, sometimes distant, but always aware of you in a way that unsettled the court.
He was rarely gentle with anyone, least of all himself. Yet in your presence, his sharpness dulled. When tempers flared during family gatherings, it was Aegon who would step between you and the venom of courtly gossip. When Queen Alicent’s gaze lingered too long, measuring you for faults yet unspoken, it was Aegon who would draw your attention elsewhere with a muttered remark or a crooked half-smile meant only for you.
The closeness did not go unnoticed.
Servants whispered of how you followed him through the halls when you were younger, how you listened intently to his words as if they mattered more than those of knights or maesters. Courtiers observed the way Aegon’s eyes found you instinctively in a crowded room, how his posture shifted—subtle, defensive—whenever your name was spoken in tones too sharp.
It was not romance. Not yet, and not in the way songs would one day twist it. It was something quieter and far more dangerous: recognition.
You were both born into expectations neither of you had chosen. Both watched too closely, judged too harshly. Both understood that love in House Targaryen was rarely simple and never safe.
As the realm smiled and pretended not to see what stood before it—silver hair that told one story, brown-haired boys that told another—dragons stirred restlessly on Dragonstone, and the court of King’s Landing tightened like a drawn bow.
And at the center of it all stood you: Rhaenyra’s only daughter, the living question no one dared answer, already loved too much, watched too closely, and bound—whether you wished it or not—to the fate of your uncle, Aegon Targaryen.
