vaelerys .ᐟ @hotdragonskeep - Tumblr Blog

𝑩𝑹𝑰𝑮𝑯𝑻𝑭𝑰𝑹𝑬

Chapter 01: The Brightfire of King's Landing Word Count: 17,066 words Summary: Beloved daughter, devoted dragonrider, and a perpetual thorn in the side of every knight sworn to protect you, you have never been one to obey a locked door. With your dragon waiting beneath the stars and tomorrow promising yet another ordinary day, you steal away from the Red Keep, unaware that you are flying through the final hours of a life you will never have again. Tags: Reader Insert, Second Person POV, Named Reader (Vaelyra Targaryen), Doting Daemon Targaryen, Sibling Relationship, Fear of Childbirth A/N: I'm so excited to finally post this after two years of sitting in my drafts! Vaelyra has lived in my head for so long, and it means a lot to finally share her with you all. Just a heads up, some of the High Valyrian translations might not be fully accurate since I relied on online resources to piece them together, so feel free to point out mistakes, just be kind about it! I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it, comments and kudos are always appreciated <3 AO3 Link - MASTERLIST

The sun had barely climbed free of the horizon when the sky itself seemed to catch fire, amber and pale blue bleeding together over the Narrow Sea as dawn spread its light across the waking world.

Syrax cut through that glowing expanse with unhurried grace, her golden scales drinking in the early light until she looked less like a creature of flesh and bone than a flame set loose among the clouds.

Astride her rode your sister, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, her silver hair torn free by the wind and streaming behind her like a banner as she guided her dragon with the easy confidence of long practice, her violet eyes fixed on the distant shape of King's Landing rising slowly out of the morning haze.

There was no place on earth she loved better than this one, suspended between sky and sea. Up here, the endless burden of her father's court fell away, the murmured arguments over her succession dissolved into nothing, and for a few precious moments she was not a princess at all, only a girl who happened to love a dragon.

"Sōvēs, Syrax," Rhaenyra murmured, pressing her gloved palm flat against the warm scales beneath her, and the she-dragon answered with a low, satisfied rumble before beating her wings once and rising higher still into the brightening air. (Fly, Syrax).

She had scarcely settled back into the rhythm of the flight when a roar tore through the morning, loud enough to rattle her teeth in her skull. It was not Syrax. Rhaenyra turned sharply toward the sound, finding nothing at first but the slow roll of cloud around them, and then something burst through that white curtain with a speed that made her breath catch.

Draevax.

Your dragon shot across the sky like a spear forged from dark burgundy flame, his wings carving the air with a precision that seemed almost cruel in its beauty. He passed so close beside Syrax that the force of his wake sent her lurching sideways, drawing an irritated growl from deep in the older dragon's throat.

You sat astride him with the easy confidence of a girl who had never once considered falling, younger than your sister by several years and entirely unbothered by it, your laughter already scattered across the wind before your words could catch up to it.

Your silver hair had escaped its braid somewhere over the Blackwater and now whipped wildly about your face, as though you had abandoned any hope of looking presentable long before you'd even left Dragonstone.

You twisted around in the saddle to look back at your sister, grinning in a way that suggested you were entirely too pleased with the trouble you were causing, and called out over the rushing air, "Ao lentor iksā, Nyra!" (You're getting slow, Nyra!)

"You nearly knocked us both from the sky!" Rhaenyra shouted back, though the exasperation in her voice couldn't quite smother the fondness beneath it.

"And yet you are still flying!" you replied, your voice bright and carrying easily across the distance between the two dragons. "I should have flown faster still!"

"You should have flown farther away from me," Rhaenyra called, trying and failing to sound stern.

"I heard that, sister!" you shouted back, laughing.

"I meant for you to hear it!" she answered, unable to keep the smile from her own voice now.

Your laughter rang out again, unrestrained and bright enough that even Syrax's irritation seemed to soften beneath it. You leaned forward in the saddle and pressed your palm affectionately to the side of Draevax's long neck, murmuring to him. "Rȳbagon sīr, ñuha dārilaros! Āo!" (Fly higher, my prince. Go!)

Draevax answered you at once, folding his wings tight against his body, and far above him Rhaenyra felt her heart lurch painfully within her chest at the sight.

"Oh, Seven Hells," she breathed.

You and your dragon plunged together, not in any graceful descent but in a dive so steep it seemed nearly vertical, hurtling toward the earth at a speed that should have terrified anyone watching. The clouds swallowed the two of you whole within moments, leaving nothing behind but the fading echo of your delighted laughter drifting up through the mist.

"She is going to kill herself one day," Rhaenyra muttered under her breath, urging Syrax onward and down. "Or Father will kill her first, once his heart can no longer stand it."

By the time Syrax finally descended toward the rooftops of King's Landing, Draevax had already burst free of the clouds below, skimming so close over the city that startled onlookers scattered into the streets, pointing upward and shouting as the two of you tore toward the Dragonpit with all the restraint of a summer storm rolling in off the sea.

Syrax touched down with practiced elegance on the packed earth outside the Dragonpit, folding her great wings with regal composure as a cluster of Dragonkeepers hurried forward to receive her.

Rhaenyra had not yet managed to swing one leg free of the saddle when every keeper in the courtyard suddenly went still, heads tilting upward in alarm, and one of the older men among them muttered a curse under his breath.

"Princess," he said warily, backing a step away.

Another roar shook the courtyard, closer now, and Draevax dropped from the sky almost straight down, his massive wings tucked tight against his body until the very last possible instant.

The younger Dragonkeepers stumbled backward on instinct, but the eldest of them thrust his spear out to bar their path forward, his voice sharp with warning. "Stand back," he commanded. "Hēn ñuhyz!" (Stand back!)

Only a heartbeat before Draevax would have struck the earth, his wings snapped open with a crack loud enough to echo off the surrounding stone. Dust exploded outward across the Dragonpit, cloaks and hair whipped violently in every direction, and several of the stable boys threw their arms up over their faces to shield themselves from the force of it.

When the dust finally settled, you were still seated calmly astride your dragon, entirely unbothered by the chaos you had just caused. You drew off your riding gloves one finger at a time, in no particular hurry, before looking down at the Dragonkeepers gathered below with an expression of perfect innocence.

"What is it?" you asked, tilting your head as though genuinely puzzled by their alarm.

The eldest keeper stared up at you for a long moment before pressing two fingers to the bridge of his nose. "One day, Princess," he said heavily, "you will give every Dragonkeeper in this pit a head of grey hair before their time."

Your smile only widened at that, sly and entirely unrepentant. "I have always thought silver suited our family rather well," you said sweetly.

Even Rhaenyra, despite her best efforts to look disapproving, laughed at that.

The settling dust had barely cleared when the sound of approaching hooves rang out across the courtyard, and the gathered Dragonkeepers stepped aside, lowering their heads respectfully as a mounted knight rode in through the entrance to the Dragonpit. It was Ser Harrold Westerling, and he drew his horse to a halt before the two of you before inclining his head in formal greeting.

"Welcome back, Princesses," he said, his tone carrying the particular weariness of a man who had said those same words too many times to count.

Rhaenyra glanced up at him from where she knelt adjusting the fastening on one of Syrax's saddlebags. "I trust you found our ride pleasant enough to watch, ser," she said dryly.

"Try not to look too relieved to see us safely returned," she added, a faint smile tugging at her mouth.

"I am relieved, Princess, make no mistake," Harrold replied, a rare note of dry amusement creeping into his otherwise composed voice. "Every time that golden beast brings you back to me unspoiled, it saves my own head from ending up on a spike."

Before Rhaenyra could answer him, another voice drifted lazily across the courtyard, unhurried and full of mischief. "Only your head, ser?" you called out.

Ser Harrold closed his eyes briefly, as though praying for patience.

It was you, Princess Vaelyra, still perched comfortably atop Draevax and making no visible effort to dismount. You had one leg swung idly over the dragon's neck, an elbow propped against your raised knee, looking for all the world as though you had settled in for a leisurely chat rather than just plummeted out of the sky at a speed that had nearly sent half the Dragonpit into a fright.

"I should think Father would have the rest of you mounted up beside it, for good measure," you continued thoughtfully, studying the knight with an air of mock consideration. "It would make for a rather grim display outside the throne room, though I suppose it might discourage visitors."

Ser Harrold regarded you with the weary patience of a man who had endured this precise conversation more times than he cared to remember. "Good morrow, Princess," he said simply, choosing not to rise to the bait.

"It is a good morning indeed," you agreed brightly, swinging your leg back over the saddle at last. "Neither of us has fallen from the sky today, which I count as a fine start."

"I had not yet finished thanking the Seven for that mercy," Harrold said dryly.

"You ought to be thanking Draevax instead, ser," you told him, reaching forward to stroke the scales between the dragon's horns with obvious affection.

As though he understood every word, Draevax lifted his great head and released a low rumble that seemed to vibrate up through the very stones beneath their feet. "He behaved wonderfully today," you said proudly, patting his neck.

One of the nearby Dragonkeepers coughed pointedly. Harrold's gaze traveled from the dragon to the fresh gouges torn into the earth by his landing, and he arched a brow. "If that was him behaving himself, Princess, I confess I do not wish to imagine the alternative."

"It was," you said simply, entirely unbothered by his skepticism.

Ser Harrold sighed. "Then, I fear to imagine otherwise."

You smiled at him with an innocence that was, by now, thoroughly untrustworthy. "Oh, you needn't fear him at all, Ser Harrold," you said sweetly.

The knight arched a brow, clearly unconvinced. "No?" he asked.

"No," you agreed, tilting your head as though something important had just occurred to you. "He only develops a taste for knights on cloudy mornings, you understand."

A heavy silence settled over the courtyard at that, and one of the younger Dragonkeepers went visibly pale.

Harrold stared at you for a long moment, clearly uncertain whether to take you seriously. "I beg your pardon, Princess?" he said carefully.

You glanced down at Draevax and tapped a finger thoughtfully against your chin, as though working through a difficult puzzle. "Or perhaps it was yesterdays," you mused aloud. "I can never quite recall which."

Rhaenyra let out a quiet groan, pressing her fingers briefly to her temple. "Lyra, please stop tormenting the man," she said, though there was no real reproach in it.

"What?" you asked innocently, all wide eyes and false surprise.

"You are tormenting Ser Harrold again," Rhaenyra said, fighting back a smile of her own.

"I am simply educating him," you replied primly.

Ser Harrold's gaze shifted warily toward Draevax, whose amber eyes had settled with unnerving intensity on the knight. The dragon sniffed at the air once, then twice, and a thin ribbon of smoke curled lazily from one nostril.

You leaned down toward him, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper loud enough for Harrold to hear perfectly well. "You see?" you murmured, eyes bright with mischief. "He is considering it already."

Ser Harrold's grip tightened instinctively upon the reins at those words, his knuckles going pale beneath the leather. You held the silence for another heartbeat, watching the color drain slightly from his face, before you burst into laughter so suddenly and so completely that even several of the watching Dragonkeepers could not quite suppress their own smiles.

"Oh, Ser Harrold, you should see your face right now!" you managed to say between fits of laughter, pressing a hand to your ribs. "I was only jesting with you."

He remained perfectly still atop his horse, regarding you with the flat expression of a man who had learned not to trust your humor too quickly. "I sincerely hope that you were, Princess," he said carefully.

"I was, I promise you," you assured him, still grinning as you reached into the small leather pouch fastened at your riding belt and drew out a single gold dragon, flicking it through the air toward him with a flick of your wrist. Harrold caught the coin on pure instinct, his hand snapping up before his mind had even fully registered the motion. "For your nerves, ser," you said with an easy grin. "Buy yourself a cup of ale once your watch has ended."

The older knight looked down at the coin resting in his gloved palm for a long moment before shaking his head with an air of quiet resignation. "I ought to begin saving these, I think," he said dryly.

"Oh?" you asked, tilting your head with feigned curiosity.

"I suspect I shall require a great many of them before you reach your nameday, Princess," Harrold replied, the faintest trace of a smile ghosting across his otherwise composed features.

Rhaenyra laughed outright at that, the sound bright and genuine. "You have my deepest sympathies, Ser Harrold," she said, still smiling.

"They are most appreciated, Princess," Harrold answered gravely, though his eyes betrayed his amusement.

He slipped the coin carefully into his belt pouch before casting one final, wary glance toward you and the young dragon still watching him with unsettling attentiveness, amber eyes unblinking. "I confess I still cannot determine whether the princess is the greater menace," he said slowly, weighing his words.

Draevax chose that precise moment to release another low, rumbling growl from deep in his chest. Harrold's mouth twitched. "Or her dragon."

You beamed at him, delighted. "I shall take that as a compliment, ser," you declared.

Harrold merely sighed, long and suffering. "So you always do, Princess," he said. "So you always do."

His weary sigh had scarcely faded into the morning air before you swung one leg over Draevax's broad neck with the easy, practiced confidence of someone who had performed the same motion a thousand times before.

Rather than dropping carelessly to the ground the way half the courtyard clearly expected, you descended with surprising grace, landing lightly upon the packed earth before turning immediately back toward your dragon. The playful grin you had worn only moments before softened into something quieter and far more tender.

You stepped close enough that your forehead came to rest briefly against the warm scales between Draevax's eyes, your gloved fingers tracing absentmindedly along the familiar grooves of one ivory horn. "Rytsas, ñuha gevie zaldrīzes," you murmured, so softly that only the nearest Dragonkeepers could catch the words at all. (Hello, my sweet dragon).

Draevax lowered his massive head obediently at the sound of your voice, and you smiled, scratching gently beneath his jaw where the scales gave way to softer hide. "Sȳz taoba," you told him warmly. "Kirimvose, sȳz taoba iksa." (Good boy. Thank you, you're a good boy).

The dragon's great eyes slid slowly shut, and a deep, resonant rumble rose from somewhere deep within his chest, vibrating through the very stones of the courtyard around you. It was not a roar, nor even a growl, but something far softer and almost affectionate, a sound the Dragonkeepers rarely heard from any dragon beyond its earliest years of life. One of the younger keepers blinked in open astonishment, leaning toward the elder beside him. "Is he... is he purring?" he asked hesitantly.

The elder keeper only smiled, watching the scene with the fondness of a man who had seen this particular pair together many times before. "That he is," he confirmed quietly.

You laughed softly under your breath at the sound. "There he is," you murmured fondly, giving Draevax's snout one final affectionate pat before stepping back and folding your hands neatly behind you. You turned to address the assembled Dragonkeepers with an expression of unexpected composure, all traces of your earlier teasing set aside for the moment. "Take good care of him today," you instructed.

Every keeper present inclined his head at once, murmuring in near unison, "Of course, Princess."

"He has earned an extra goat," you continued, and a few amused smiles rippled quietly through the gathered men at your tone. "And sheep as well," you added, nodding matter-of-factly as though this were the most reasonable instruction in the world. "The fat ones, mind you."

One of the younger Dragonkeepers could not quite hide his chuckle. "The fat ones specifically, Princess?" he asked, clearly fighting a smile.

"Yes. He flew beautifully today," you explained, glancing up at Draevax, who had already begun nudging insistently at your shoulder with all the impatience of a child demanding further attention. "And because," you added, rubbing gently at the dragon's broad nose once more, "he is quite simply the goodest boy in all the Seven Kingdoms."

Draevax answered you with another deeply pleased rumble, leaning the full weight of his enormous head ever so slightly into your open palm. "There," you whispered to him, smiling. "You see? He agrees with me entirely."

Even the elder Dragonkeeper could not help but smile at that. "As you wish, Princess," he said. "He shall be thoroughly spoiled, I promise you."

"Thank you," you replied primly.

Only then did you finally turn away from Draevax, leaving the Dragonkeepers to lead him back toward the pit.

Across the courtyard, Rhaenyra had watched the entire exchange unfold in silence, a smile lingering on her lips, warm with both amusement and a quiet, genuine admiration. It never failed to astonish her how the very same sister who moments before had flung herself from the heavens with all the caution of a falling star could turn, in the span of a breath, and speak to her dragon with such tenderness that even the great beast seemed reluctant to let you go.

You caught her watching you and raised a brow. "What is it?" you asked.

"You spoil him terribly," Rhaenyra said, shaking her head with fond exasperation.

"Hm," you replied thoughtfully. "I simply reward excellence where I find it."

"Lyra, you reward him every single day," Rhaenyra pointed out.

"So?" you countered, entirely unbothered by the observation. "He is excellent every single day."

Rhaenyra laughed at that, unable to help herself. "I fear you have quite convinced him that he is a prince," she said.

You glanced back over your shoulder toward Draevax, who was now following the Dragonkeepers toward the pit with surprising obedience for a creature of his size. "I have done no such thing," you protested, before pausing thoughtfully. "He believes he is king," you admitted after a moment.

Rhaenyra covered a fresh burst of laughter behind her gloved hand. "And whose fault, precisely, might that be?" she asked.

You considered the question with an air of exaggerated seriousness, tapping one finger against your chin. "I should imagine it is Daemon's fault," you concluded at last.

"Naturally," Rhaenyra said dryly, rolling her eyes.

"Everything somehow becomes Daemon's fault eventually," you added with a shrug.

The laughter had scarcely faded when the sound of footsteps near the entrance to the Dragonpit drew both your attention, for a carriage had just arrived. Standing beside it, dressed in a gown of soft blue, was Lady Alicent Hightower. She smiled warmly as Rhaenyra approached her. "Syrax is growing quickly," Alicent said. "She'll soon be as large as Caraxes."

"That's almost large enough to saddle two," Rhaenyra answered with a smile of her own.

"I believe I'm quite content as a spectator, thank you," Alicent replied lightly.

You slowed your steps several paces behind your sister and offered Alicent a courteous inclination of your head. "Lady Alicent," you said.

"Princess Vaelyra," Alicent answered, her smile widening politely. "You both seem to have enjoyed your morning ride."

"We did," you said, your tone perfectly civil, though you had never quite understood why Rhaenyra enjoyed Alicent's company as much as she did.

You tolerated the daughter of Otto Hightower for your sister's sake. Alicent herself had never wronged you, yet there remained something about the Hightowers that unsettled you in a way you could never quite explain, perhaps Otto's endless scheming, perhaps simple instinct. Whatever the reason, you kept it hidden behind impeccable manners.

Behind you, the elder Dragonkeeper raised his hand toward Syrax. "Dohaeras. Naejot," he commanded, and Syrax lowered her head obediently before allowing the keepers to guide her deeper into the pit.

Draevax lingered a moment longer, turning his massive head back toward you. "Go on," you told him, and he huffed once, almost indignantly. "You'll have your sheep," you promised, and only then did he finally follow after Syrax, the Dragonkeepers exchanging amused glances as the great dragon lumbered off, no doubt already anticipating the feast his rider had so confidently promised him.

The journey back to the Red Keep passed uneventfully for those riding within the royal wheelhouse. Princess Rhaenyra sat opposite Lady Alicent as the carriage rolled through the streets of King's Landing, their conversation drifting from the morning's flight to the approaching tournament.

Every so often, Rhaenyra glanced through the narrow opening of the carriage, searching for a glimpse of silver hair she already knew she would find.

Sure enough, several paces behind the procession rode you. You had refused, quite adamantly, to enter the carriage. Ser Harrold Westerling had argued that it was the King's wish for both princesses to return together, and you had informed him, with all the sincerity in the world, that you had every intention of returning together, you simply preferred to do so on horseback. The distinction had done little to soothe him.

Now, you rode alongside the Kingsguard as though you had been born in the saddle, one hand resting lazily on the reins while the other occasionally lifted to return the waves of children lining the streets. Every few moments someone among the smallfolk recognized you, and soon a chorus of voices followed the procession through Flea Bottom.

"Princess Vaelyra!" one man called.

"Look, Mother! It is the dragon princess!" cried a child, tugging at his mother's sleeve.

You answered each greeting with a bright smile and a graceful inclination of your head.

"They seem rather fond of you, Princess," Ser Harrold observed, after watching the exchange continue for several streets.

"Hm, I should hope they are," you replied, glancing at him. "It would be terribly unfortunate if the people preferred Draevax over me after all the work I put into being charming."

"I suspect the dragon is responsible for at least half your popularity," Harrold said dryly.

"Only half?" you replied, with mock offense. "I was aiming for a respectable third."

Harrold shook his head, though a faint smile tugged at his lips. "I have often wondered, Princess, whether you ever allow yourself a moment of silence."

"Oh, certainly," you answered without hesitation. "I simply find conversation considerably more enjoyable."

By the time the procession reached the Red Keep, Rhaenyra and Alicent had already stepped down from the carriage. You dismounted a heartbeat later, turning immediately toward the stableboy who hurried forward to collect your mare. "She carried me well this morning," you said, stroking the mare's neck, and withdrew a silver stag from your belt to press into the boy's hand. "See that she is given fresh oats and the sweetest apples the kitchens can spare. She has earned both."

"Yes, Princess. I shall," the boy said, wide eyed.

"Thank you," you said warmly, before hurrying after your sister.

The corridors of the Red Keep were already busy, servants carrying basins and linens, maesters hurrying between chambers, every hushed conversation a reminder that the Queen's labor drew nearer. Your own pace quickened for a different reason. You had not seen your mother since before dawn.

Rhaenyra exchanged a knowing look with Alicent as she watched you disappear around the corner ahead of them. "I give her ten heartbeats before Mother hears her," Rhaenyra said.

"I think you are being generous," Alicent answered, smiling.

"Mother!" your voice rang out before you had even reached the doorway.

Queen Aemma looked up from where she reclined on the couch, her ladies attending quietly nearby. Weariness lingered beneath her eyes, but the moment she heard you, her expression softened. "Ah, Rhaenyra," she said, before her gaze shifted past her eldest daughter. "And my little dragon."

You crossed the room without regard for courtly manners and knelt beside the couch, taking her hand between both of yours and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "I have missed you all morning," you confessed, your voice gentler than it had been anywhere else that day. "The Dragonpit is dreadfully dull when you are not there to remind me that I ought not frighten half the kingdom before breakfast."

Aemma laughed quietly, smoothing a strand of hair from your face. "My darling girls, you know I do not like you flying while I am in this condition."

"You do not like me flying while you are in any condition," Rhaenyra said, stepping beside them with a smile.

"I do not," Aemma agreed. "One reckless daughter is more than enough to worry over."

"Only one?" you said, gasping in mock offense. "I had always believed I was your favorite concern."

"You are certainly the loudest," Aemma said.

"I shall treasure that compliment forever, then," you declared.

Alicent stepped forward and lowered herself into a graceful curtsy. "Your Grace," she said.

"Good morrow, Alicent," Aemma answered.

Rhaenyra settled herself at the foot of the couch, her expression turning serious. "Did you sleep?" she asked.

"I slept," Aemma said.

"How long did you sleep, Mother?"

"I do not require mothering, Rhaenyra," Aemma said, giving her a look equal parts amusement and exasperation.

"No," Rhaenyra said gently, "but you are surrounded by attendants whose every thought is fixed on the babe. Someone ought to concern themselves with you instead."

At that, you tightened your hold on Aemma's hand. "She is right," you said softly. "The babe has everyone's attention already. I should like to keep my mother."

Aemma's smile faltered for a moment before she reached over to cup your cheek. "My sweet girl," she murmured.

"You know I mean it," you said.

"I know," she answered.

Aemma drew a slow breath before turning to Rhaenyra, though her words were meant for both of you. "You shall lie in this bed soon enough, Rhaenyra. This discomfort is how we serve the realm."

Rhaenyra wrinkled her nose. "I would far rather serve the realm as a knight," she said. "I would sooner ride into battle with Dark Sister in my hand than spend months confined to this couch."

Aemma laughed, the sound lighter now. "So says every young woman, until the day arrives."

You, who had been quietly tracing circles on the back of your mother's hand, lifted your head at that. "I do not believe I shall ever say it," you said.

"You will," Aemma said, with the calm certainty of a woman who had heard the same defiance many times before.

"I truly do not think so," you insisted.

Aemma smoothed a wrinkle from the coverlet as she regarded her youngest daughter. "You are yet very young," she said.

"Young enough to be ignored, mayhaps, but not too young to think," you answered, lifting your chin.

Aemma laughed quietly. "There is a difference, my love. The years ahead of you will teach lessons that no amount of thinking can."

"It has been long enough for me to notice that every lord speaks of heirs as though they simply appear in cradles," you said, your expression hardening as your gaze fell briefly to the swell of Aemma's belly before returning to her face. "They speak of sons and bloodlines and succession, yet I have never once heard a man speak of the pain that comes before them. They celebrate the babe before it has even drawn breath, while the woman expected to bring it forth is told that suffering is her duty."

The chamber grew quieter at that. Even Alicent lowered her eyes to the floor.

Aemma watched you carefully, tenderness mingling with something almost sorrowful in her expression, and reached out to touch your cheek. "My sweet girl," she said again.

You shook your head gently, unwilling to be soothed just yet. "I know it is expected of us, Mother. I have heard the court often enough. They say we are fortunate to be born princesses, yet the moment a daughter is born, they begin speaking of the sons she must one day bear for another house." You scoffed softly. "It seems to me that men have decided the greatest purpose a woman may have is filling nurseries with children they will later claim as their own achievements."

Rhaenyra's lips curved into a faint smile as she watched her sister. "That sounds remarkably like something our uncle would say," she said.

"No," you replied without missing a beat, a spark of mischief cutting through your seriousness. "Daemon would have said it far less politely."

A reluctant laugh escaped both sisters at once. Aemma sighed, though there was unmistakable affection in it, her hand still resting against your cheek. "We have royal wombs, you and I, girls. The childbed is our battlefield. We must learn to face it with a stiff lip."

You considered this for several heartbeats before looking up with complete sincerity. "Hmm. I should very much prefer a battlefield with dragons," you said.

Aemma smiled, brushing a thumb along your jaw. "I suspected as much," she said.

"I would sooner face Vhagar or Vermithor with nothing but a sword than spend hours bringing a child into the world," you declared.

Rhaenyra laughed outright, pressing a hand to her mouth. "Lyra," she said.

"I mean it," you insisted, entirely unbothered by her amusement. You folded your arms across your chest, entirely convinced of your own argument. "I would rather climb onto Draevax's back and ask him to throw me from the clouds every morning for a year than willingly endure what you have, Mother."

One of Aemma's ladies, standing near the hearth, let out a startled cough as she tried to hide a laugh behind her sleeve. Aemma only smiled, reaching forward to tuck another strand of hair behind your ear. "You speak so confidently now," she said.

"I do," you said.

"And perhaps, one day, there will be someone who changes your mind."

You made a face, as though the suggestion offended you. "I pity the poor fool who thinks himself capable of such a feat," you said.

Rhaenyra grinned. "I almost hope to meet him," she said.

"You shall not," you declared, folding your arms tighter still, "for no such man exists."

The room dissolved into gentle laughter once more, Aemma's included, though her smile lingered on you a heartbeat longer than the moment required, for there was something bittersweet in hearing those words.

You were still young enough to believe you could outrun the expectations placed on women born into House Targaryen, and Aemma, having lived those expectations all her life, watched your flushed, defiant face and hoped, quietly, that whatever fire burned in you now might stay lit for as long as the gods allowed.

.˳·˖✶𓆩𓁺𓆪✶˖·˳.༄

The clamor of horses and crowds from that morning had long since faded by the time steam began curling through the corridors near the royal bathhouse, and it was here, away from Dragonkeepers and Kingsguard alike, that the two of you always found your way back to each other.

The bathhouse was one of the few places in the Red Keep where silence was allowed to linger. Steam drifted through the chamber, curling around marble columns carved with dragons, and water trickled from stone gargoyles into a broad pool, its rhythm blending with the crackle of the brazier in the corner. The scent of lavender and almond oil hung in the warm air.

The servants had withdrawn at your request, since neither of you cared to be fussed over when you were together. It had become something of a ritual after every morning flight. Rhaenyra sat upon the marble ledge while you washed the dragon soot from her hair, complaining all the while that Syrax shed enough ash to blacken the skies.

"You cannot convince me otherwise," you declared, working a handful of soap through Rhaenyra's hair. "Syrax leaves soot wherever she goes. I swear there is more of her upon your cloak than there is upon the Dragonpit."

Rhaenyra laughed quietly, tilting her head back to spare you the trouble of reaching the lower strands. "You have said precisely the same thing every fortnight since you were eight," she said.

"And I have been correct every fortnight since I was eight," you shot back, entirely pleased with yourself.

"You simply enjoy hearing yourself speak," Rhaenyra said.

"I do," you admitted without shame, wringing water from the comb before dipping it again. "If no one else intends to fill the silence, I feel obliged to do it myself."

"There are times," Rhaenyra said, glancing over her shoulder with an amused smile, "when I think silence flees the room the moment it hears your footsteps."

"That sounds terribly rude of silence," you said, clicking your tongue in mock offense.

"It has endured thirteen years of your company," Rhaenyra said.

"And yet it always returns," you replied.

You shared another laugh, and then quiet settled over the chamber. You dipped the comb into the water and drew it through another section of Rhaenyra's hair, and the task usually invited more teasing, another joke, another story from the Dragonpit. Today it did not.

Rhaenyra noticed the change before you spoke. Your hands had slowed, your attention drifting somewhere beyond the strands between your fingers. A bell rang somewhere in the castle, its echo fading into the steam, and only then did you finally break the silence, your voice quiet enough that it might have been swallowed entirely.

"Mother frightened me today," you said.

Rhaenyra lowered her gaze to the water, watching small ripples spread where her fingertips skimmed the surface. "She frightened me as well," she admitted.

You stopped combing, your hand going still against her shoulder. "I do not think she wished us to notice," you said.

"No," Rhaenyra agreed.

"But she looked," you began, searching for the word, "smaller."

The word hung between you in the warm air. "She smiled," you continued softly, "yet it was the sort of smile one gives to ease another person's worry. It was not the smile she wears when Father tells one of his dreadful jests."

Rhaenyra smiled faintly despite herself. "He has only dreadful jests," she said.

"I know," you said.

Another silence settled, heavier than the last. You lowered yourself to sit beside your sister at the edge of the bath, folding your damp hands in your lap. "I have watched the maesters these past few days," you admitted. "They whisper whenever they think no one is listening. They carry herbs at every hour. Even the servants walk more softly outside Mother's chambers."

Rhaenyra turned to study your face. "They are only being cautious," she said.

"Are they?" you asked. There was no challenge in it, only fear, plain and unguarded. "I cannot rid myself of this feeling."

You looked down at the water, watching the lanterns waver beneath the surface. "Everyone speaks of the babe as though it shall be the realm's greatest blessing. Father smiles more than he has in years. The council speaks of heirs. The septons speak of the gods' favor." Your jaw tightened. "Yet every time I look at Mother, I cannot bring myself to rejoice with them."

Rhaenyra reached across and laid her hand over yours. "You are afraid," she said.

You gave the smallest nod. "I am," you said, your words coming quicker now, as though once begun they could not be held back. "She has endured this before. That is precisely what frightens me. She has endured it again and again, Nyra. The babes that never cried. The little prince who lived only a day. The long weeks afterward when Father scarcely left her side." You swallowed hard. "Every time the court speaks of another child, they speak as though it is Mother alone who must bear the cost."

Rhaenyra's own expression darkened, for she could not deny it. She had seen the same things.

"I hate the way they speak of it," you went on, your voice gaining a quiet conviction even as your hands trembled in your lap. "The lords praise strong sons and noble bloodlines, yet they speak of women as though our bodies exist only to provide them. They call it an honor to bear heirs for the realm, but no one asks whether the women wish to pay the price." You glanced toward the doorway to be sure you remained alone, then lowered your voice further. "It is as though they believe the only purpose the gods granted us was to place babes in cradles."

Rhaenyra studied you for a long moment. "When did you begin thinking such thoughts?" she asked.

You gave a humorless smile that did not reach your eyes. "I think I began the first time I saw Mother weeping after another babe was lost," you said.

The answer settled heavily over you both. Steam drifted between you, softening the edges of the room until the world beyond the bathhouse felt distant. After a while, you spoke again, your voice smaller than before.

"There is something else," you said.

Rhaenyra squeezed your hand gently. "You may tell me anything," she said.

You drew in a slow breath. "I am afraid," you said.

"Of Mother?" Rhaenyra asked.

"No." You hesitated, your gaze dropping to your joined hands. "I… I am afraid of becoming her."

Rhaenyra frowned, her grip tightening. "What do you mean?" she asked.

"I mean," you said, looking away toward the carved dragon curling around one of the pillars, as though the stone might offer you the words you needed, "one day Father shall choose a husband for me. Perhaps a lord. Perhaps a prince. Whoever he is, I shall smile because it will be expected of me." You laughed softly, though there was no mirth in it, only something brittle. "Then… everyone shall wait for the day I carry his child."

Your fingers tightened unconsciously around hers. "It is inevitable," you said.

Rhaenyra remained silent, letting you continue.

"I know it is my duty. I know what it means to be born a princess. But every memory I possess of childbirth is filled with grief." Your voice trembled for the first time, cracking slightly. "How am I meant to greet such a future with joy when all I have ever seen is Mother's suffering?"

You looked back at her, your eyes glistening with unshed tears. "I would sooner climb onto Draevax's back and challenge Vhagar herself than willingly lie in a birthing bed," you said.

Despite the ache in her chest, Rhaenyra smiled, small and sad. "I suspected you might say something very much like that," she said.

"I mean every word," you said.

"I know," Rhaenyra answered, and she drew you into her arms, the steam curling quietly around you both as the bell outside faded into silence once more.

Rhaenyra reached forward and brushed a damp strand of silver hair behind your ear, the gesture so like their mother's that it seemed to steady you both. "You are young," she said gently, "and you're allowed to be afraid of what tomorrow might bring."

Your lips quivered into the faintest smile. "I always thought princesses were expected to fear nothing at all," you said, "that we were meant to smile through everything and call it duty."

"They expect a great many things of us, yes," Rhaenyra said, her voice softening, gentle as the steam curling around you both. "But that doesn't mean every expectation they hold is one worth honoring."

For the first time since entering the bathhouse, you allowed yourself to lean forward until your forehead rested lightly against your sister's shoulder. Rhaenyra wrapped an arm around you without hesitation, drawing you close, and neither of you spoke for a long while, the steam curling slowly around you as the water in the pool stilled.

Only when the warmth had begun to fade did she press a kiss to the crown of your damp hair before rising to her feet, water sluicing quietly from the hem of her shift.

"Come," she said, extending a hand toward you. "If Mother were to find us still lingering here, she would swear we had decided to dissolve into the bath rather than face the rest of the day."

You accepted her hand and let yourself be pulled upright with a reluctant sigh, though a faint smile had already begun creeping back onto your face. "I should think dissolving sounds rather preferable to growing older," you said, wringing water from the ends of your hair with both fists. "At least the bath asks nothing of me."

Rhaenyra laughed under her breath, steadying you as you found your footing on the damp marble floor. "You were declaring yourself thoroughly grown only yesterday, if I recall correctly," she said. "Now, you wish to be a puddle?"

"I have changed my mind since then," you said airily, tossing your wet hair over one shoulder with the exaggerated grace of a woman twice your age. "A woman is permitted to change her mind as often as she likes. It is one of the few freedoms they have not yet found a way to take from us."

"You do that often," Rhaenyra observed, reaching for a length of linen to blot at her own hair.

"Change my mind, or remind you of my freedoms?" you asked, arching a brow of your own.

"Both, though I suspect you enjoy the second rather more than the first," Rhaenyra said.

Servants entered quietly at your summons and laid fresh linen and folded gowns upon a cedar bench before withdrawing again. You and your sister dressed in companionable silence, the only sound the rustle of fabric and the last drip of water falling into the pool behind you.

Rhaenyra fastened the clasp of a pale lavender gown at her shoulder before turning to find you wrestling with the ribbons at the back of your own dress, your arms twisted awkwardly behind you and your face screwed up in concentration.

"You've managed to tie yourself into a knot rather more complicated than anything the Maester's Guild has produced in a century," Rhaenyra said, biting back a laugh.

"I was experimenting with a new method," you grunted, still tugging at the tangled ribbon. "I was very close to perfecting it, I believe."

"You were very close to strangling yourself, mayhaps," Rhaenyra said, crossing the chamber toward you, laughter plain in her voice, "but I would hardly call that winning."

She stepped behind you and took the ribbons firmly in hand. "Stand still, Lyra, or I shall never untangle this before supper."

"I am standing still," you protested, shifting your weight restlessly from one foot to the other. "I am simply standing still while also existing, which apparently requires movement of some kind."

"Then, exist more quietly," Rhaenyra said, tugging gently at a stubborn knot, "and perhaps I shall have you laced before you are old enough to lace yourself."

"I am attempting to be still, truly I am," you said, forcing your shoulders into rigid, theatrical stillness, though your fingers kept drumming lightly against your skirts. "You will simply have to accept that this is the stillest I am capable of being."

Rhaenyra laughed and undid the tangle before lacing the gown properly, the work of an elder sister who had performed the task more times than either of you could count. Once finished, she reached for the ivory comb resting on the marble counter. "Sit," she said, gesturing toward the cushioned stool, "and see if you can manage obedience for longer than you managed stillness."

You obeyed without argument, settling before the bronze mirror and folding your hands neatly in your lap with exaggerated good behavior. "There," you said proudly, catching her eye in the mirror. "You see? I can be perfectly obedient when the occasion calls for it."

"For nearly three whole breaths, by my count," Rhaenyra said dryly, beginning to draw the comb through your damp hair.

"Then I shall strive for four, and you may consider it a personal triumph," you promised, already beginning to fidget again despite yourself.

Rhaenyra continued combing through the silver strands that reached nearly to your waist, and for several moments you seemed content merely to watch your reflections in the mirror and listen to the quiet sound of it. Then you cleared your throat, softly, your gaze dropping from the mirror to your own folded hands.

"Nyra," you began, "might I ask you something, though I confess I am not entirely certain how to ask it properly?"

"You may ask me anything you like, however improperly you manage it," Rhaenyra murmured, not looking up, her attention on a stubborn tangle near your shoulder. "You rarely require my permission for that."

"It is only that I have been thinking about something," you said, staring hard at a point on the floor as though it might offer some assistance, "and I find I do not entirely know how to put it into words without sounding foolish."

"You have never once in your life worried about sounding foolish," Rhaenyra said, a smile tugging at her mouth, "so I confess this hesitation intrigues me a great deal."

"Perhaps I have decided to begin worrying about it today, as an experiment," you murmured, still not meeting her eyes in the mirror. "Consider it another of my methods."

"Another dangerous method, like the ribbon," Rhaenyra said. "Go on, then. I am listening, and I promise to laugh at you only a little."

You hesitated a moment longer, your cheeks coloring before you had even spoken. "How does one know," you finally asked, the words rushing out all at once, "whether they have begun to admire someone? Not admire as one admires a skilled rider or a well made sword, but admire in the other way, the way the songs speak of, though I have always thought the songs rather exaggerated everything."

The comb paused in Rhaenyra's hand for only a heartbeat before it continued its slow path through your hair as though nothing at all had happened. "That depends rather a great deal on the sort of admiration you mean," she said, keeping her tone carefully light, though her smile had grown noticeably more knowing. "There are a great many kinds, and I suspect you already know which kind troubles you, or you would not have asked so carefully."

"I do not know precisely what I mean," you said, picking at a loose thread on your sleeve, your ears going pink to match your cheeks. "That is rather the trouble. I only know that I have been thinking of someone more often than I used to, and I cannot decide whether that is ordinary or whether it means something I am not prepared for."

"And this thinking has nothing whatsoever to do with any particular person residing within these very walls?" Rhaenyra asked, resuming her combing with an air of consideration she did not truly feel.

"I never said it had anything to do with a person within these walls at all," you said, spinning halfway around on the stool to stare at her directly rather than through the mirror, heedless of your half finished braid. "You have invented that part entirely on your own."

"I have invented nothing," Rhaenyra said serenely. "You are the one who mentioned smiles and thinking and admiration all in the same breath, sister. I have simply been listening rather carefully, as any good sister would."

"I never said smile," you said quickly, spinning back around on the stool so fast that she was forced to catch the comb before it flew from her hand.

"You did not," Rhaenyra agreed, biting back a grin that showed plainly in her eyes despite her best efforts to hide it, "though I notice you have not denied it either, which tells me rather more than the smile would have."

"I am beginning to think you are enjoying this far too much," you muttered, folding your arms across your chest and turning back to the mirror with as much wounded dignity as you could summon.

"I am enjoying it precisely as much as it deserves," Rhaenyra said, setting the comb aside and resting her hands lightly on your shoulders. "And if, by some chance, this entirely imaginary person you refuse to name were to admire you in return, what then? Would that frighten you as much as the rest of today has?"

"That would seem rather unlikely," you said quietly, your earlier bravado draining away as you looked down and examined the loose thread on your sleeve as though it demanded your full and undivided attention.

The confidence with which you usually carried yourself had disappeared entirely, your shoulders curling inward in a way that made you look younger than your thirteen years, small and unsure upon the cushioned stool. Rhaenyra noticed at once, and her teasing smile softened into something infinitely more affectionate, all trace of mischief gone from her expression.

"Oh, Lyra," she said, reaching forward to smooth a loose strand of silver hair behind your ear. "There is nothing so extraordinary about being admired, and certainly nothing in it that ought to frighten you the way this seems to be doing."

"There is not?" you asked, finally lifting your gaze to meet your sister's in the mirror, uncertainty still plain on your face.

"No," Rhaenyra said, "though I confess I understand why it might feel that way, when every song and every septa's lesson seems determined to make more of it than it deserves."

"Then why does everyone speak of it as though it were the most extraordinary thing in the world?" you asked. "The singers act as though a person's whole life turns upon a single glance, as though nothing that came before it mattered at all."

"Because the poets make a dreadful habit of exaggerating everything they touch," Rhaenyra said, "and I suspect they would starve if they ever told the plainer, quieter truth of how these things actually happen."

"I suppose they would, at that," you said, a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of your mouth despite yourself.

"They always have," Rhaenyra said, and she finished the final braid, tying it neatly with a pale ribbon before smoothing her palm once against your back in quiet reassurance. "There. Now you look far too composed to still be worrying so."

"You have still not answered my question," you said, reaching back to feel the braid with curious fingers.

"Have I not?" Rhaenyra asked, feigning surprise rather badly. "I was rather hoping you would forget you had asked it at all."

"When does one know?" you pressed, refusing to let her escape so easily.

"I think," Rhaenyra began carefully, meeting your eyes in the mirror rather than looking away, "one knows they have begun to admire someone the moment they start inventing questions that are not truly questions at all, but confessions dressed up to look like curiosity."

"I have done no such thing," you said immediately, shaking your head, though the color rushing back into your cheeks betrayed you completely.

"No?" Rhaenyra asked, clearly unconvinced but willing to let you have the argument.

"No," you said, with as much conviction as you could gather.

"So there truly is no one at all, in the whole of the Red Keep, who occupies even a small corner of your thoughts," Rhaenyra said.

"There is no one," you said, folding your hands primly in your lap as though that settled the matter entirely.

"Very well," Rhaenyra said. She leaned down to press a light kiss against the top of your head, lingering there a moment longer than usual, her hand resting warm against your shoulder. "Then we shall simply speak again once this no one, quite inevitably, becomes someone."

"You are impossible," you groaned, the sound loud enough to echo around the bathhouse as you dropped your face into both hands.

"And yet," Rhaenyra replied with a satisfied smile, offering her hand once more, palm open and waiting, "you adore me all the same, and we both know it."

"I suppose I do, though I cannot for the life of me understand why," you said, after a moment's theatrical reluctance complete with a heavy, put upon sigh, slipping your hand into hers and allowing yourself to be pulled to your feet at last.

You crossed the bathhouse together toward the carved cedar chests where fresh garments waited, the servants having long since withdrawn and left everything arranged in quiet anticipation of your return.

Rhaenyra reached first for her gown, fashioned from soft ivory silk embroidered with threads of beaten gold that caught the morning light with every movement, the high collar and long sleeves lending it a quiet elegance befitting the named heir to the Iron Throne.

"It suits you," you remarked, fastening the final clasp at the back of her gown with practiced fingers, before stepping back to consider the whole effect. "You look every bit Father's precious heir, every inch the picture the court expects you to be."

Rhaenyra rolled her eyes, though she was smiling as she smoothed the silk over her hips. "I am uncertain whether that was meant as a compliment or a complaint, sister."

"It was a compliment," you assured her, already turning toward your own gown. "Mostly a compliment, at any rate, and I shall let you decide for yourself what the remainder was."

Your own gown was deep burgundy velvet, dark enough to border on black wherever the light failed to reach it, with silver embroidery winding across the sleeves in the likeness of dragonfire and a narrow leather belt fastened at your waist with a ruby clasp shaped like the three headed dragon.

Rhaenyra regarded you with approval, circling you once. "You have always preferred the darker colors, even as a small girl. I remember you refusing every pale gown Mother ever tried to put you in."

"They make far less of a spectacle when Draevax decides to shake soot over me without warning," you said, smoothing the velvet skirt with both hands, "which, as you well know, happens rather more often than anyone would like."

"I rather suspect you enjoy the spectacle a good deal more than you let on," Rhaenyra said, raising a brow.

"I enjoy pretending that I do not, which I think is nearly as satisfying," you said, grinning.

Once dressed, Rhaenyra reached for a small vial of scented oil and dabbed a touch behind each ear before fastening a golden necklace at her throat. You watched her with narrowed eyes, arms slowly crossing over your chest, before stepping forward without warning.

Rhaenyra blinked, pausing with her fingers still on the clasp. "What in the world are you doing?"

"Hush, I am conducting an investigation," you said, waving a hand for silence.

You leaned closer, wrinkling your nose as you took an exaggerated breath before stepping back again, one hand pressed dramatically to your chest. "You still smell of dragon, sister, in spite of everything you have just done to yourself in that bath."

Rhaenyra laughed, fastening the necklace at last. "I have only just bathed for the better part of an hour."

"I know, and yet here we are," you said, nodding solemnly, as though delivering grave news.

"I washed my hair twice, and used what must have been half the lavender oil remaining in this castle," Rhaenyra protested.

"Yes, you did all of that, and still," you said, folding your arms triumphantly and pointing an accusing finger at her, "dragon. It cannot be escaped, Nyra. You may as well accept your fate."

Rhaenyra sighed in mock defeat, spreading her hands wide. "It is not so easily washed away, I fear. Dragonfire lingers in one's clothes, one's hair, even beneath the fingernails, and Mother has complained of it since the very day I first rode Syrax."

"I should have guessed as much," you said, smirking, before lifting one sleeve of your own gown and sniffing it with great seriousness, your nose wrinkling in concentration. "What of me, then? Tell me honestly."

Rhaenyra stepped closer, obliging the question, and leaned in to breathe in the faint scent lingering upon you before smiling. "No dragon at all, as it happens."

"None?" you repeated, thoroughly pleased with yourself.

"None whatsoever," Rhaenyra confirmed.

"Then, what do I smell of, if not dragon?" you asked, practically preening already.

Rhaenyra pretended to consider the matter with great seriousness, tapping a finger against her chin. "Hm, lavender, and rosemary, I should think, and perhaps," she added, leaning in once more, "just a little cedarwood as well."

"A sensible choice of oils, then," you said, quite pleased with the verdict.

Rhaenyra's smile softened as she reached up to adjust the silver braid resting over your shoulder. "But mostly, Lyra, you simply smell wonderful, dragon or no dragon."

A grin spread slowly across your face. "I knew all that washing was worth the effort in the end."

"It usually is," Rhaenyra said, laughing softly, before your eyes suddenly widened at some thought that had only just occurred to you.

"Oh," you said, straightening abruptly.

"What is it now?" Rhaenyra asked, catching the change in your expression at once.

"Father," you said. "You are meant to be his cupbearer this morning, and you are already dreadfully late for it!"

The elder princess stared blankly for a heartbeat before the realization struck her fully, her eyes going wide with horror. "Oh, gods, the Small Council!"

You laughed as Rhaenyra hurried to fasten the goblet chain around her wrist, fumbling badly with the clasp in her haste. "I cannot believe you very nearly missed the Small Council entirely, and over hair oil of all things!"

"I did not nearly miss it," Rhaenyra said, still fumbling with the clasp.

"You absolutely did, and you know it as well as I do," you said, arms crossed and clearly enjoying yourself far too much.

Rhaenyra shook her head, smiling despite herself, and made for the door before pausing with her hand upon the frame. "Are you coming with me, then?"

"No," you said, your hand already settled upon the handle of the opposite door leading toward your own chambers. "I have no desire whatsoever to spend my morning listening to Lord Beesbury complain endlessly about coin, or Lord Strong drone on about laws, or Lord Mellos insist that every ailment in the realm requires six leeches and a prayer to cure it."

Rhaenyra laughed, one hand still braced on the doorframe. "You have attended precisely three council meetings in your whole life, Lyra."

"And three were more than sufficient to teach me everything I ever needed to know," you said, quite firmly.

"You may come to find them more interesting one day, when you are older," Rhaenyra offered.

"I sincerely doubt that very much," you said, wrinkling your nose at the very idea.

Rhaenyra folded her arms, though her expression stayed gentle rather than scolding. "You are still a princess of House Targaryen, whatever you may think of council meetings."

"I am, and I have never once denied it," you agreed.

"Then, you ought to learn something of how the realm is governed, in time," Rhaenyra said.

Your smile turned almost sheepish, though there was quiet certainty behind it. "I know enough already to understand that you are Father's heir, Nyra, and that one day you shall sit upon the Iron Throne itself."

You reached out to straighten the golden dragon brooch upon her shoulder with gentle fingers. "You will need every single lesson those old lords have to offer you, however dull they may seem to me now."

"And you?" Rhaenyra asked, watching your hands work at the brooch. "What of your own lessons, then?"

You shrugged lightly, letting your hands fall back to your sides. "I shall not be the one wearing the crown one day, so I hardly think the treasury or the laws of inheritance need concern me quite so much as they concern you."

There was no resentment in your voice at all, only simple acceptance. "My place will be wherever Father, or you after him, have need of me. Besides," you added, your lips curving into a mischievous smile once more, "someone ought to remain outside the council chamber, if only to preserve what little sanity still exists within these walls."

Rhaenyra laughed and leaned forward to kiss your forehead. "I shall see you at supper, then, sanity permitting."

"You shall indeed," you promised warmly. "And do try not to fall asleep while Lord Beesbury explains the treasury to you at length, as he always does."

"I shall make no promises on that account," Rhaenyra said, already halfway through the door.

"And do remind Father, if you would, that I am still expecting him to inspect Draevax with me this evening, as he promised last week," you called after her.

"I shall remind him," Rhaenyra called back, disappearing down the corridor, her golden skirts whispering over the stone floor as she hurried to make up for lost time.

You watched her go before turning in the opposite direction, the deep burgundy of your gown flowing behind you as you made your way back toward your own chambers, content to leave the politics of the realm to those who delighted in endless debate over coin and law.

You had barely closed the door of your own chambers behind you, still smiling at the thought of an empty morning ahead, when you realized that the day had other plans for you entirely.

For one more morning, you were free to be nothing more than the King's youngest daughter, with the rest of the day stretching before you like an unwritten page. Or so you believed, walking the quiet corridors back toward your chambers with nothing weightier on your mind than what the kitchens might have prepared for the morning meal.

The corridors leading to your apartments lay pleasantly quiet, interrupted only by the occasional servant hurrying past with folded linens or polished silver, and you returned every greeting with an easy smile before pushing open the carved oak doors to your chambers. At once you noticed something was amiss.

The doors to your balcony stood open, and a cool breeze drifted through the room, stirring the crimson curtains and carrying with it the familiar scent of salt from Blackwater Bay. Sunlight poured across the polished floor, leading your gaze toward the solitary figure standing upon the balcony beyond.

His back was turned to you. One hand rested upon the stone balustrade while the other idly toyed with the pommel of the sword hanging at his hip, and his silver hair danced in the wind as the black cloak draped across his shoulders lifted with each passing gust. He had not moved, not even when you entered.

You folded your arms across your chest, a grin already threatening to betray you, and leaned one shoulder against the doorframe. "You know," you began, loud enough for him to hear, "most people announce themselves before wandering uninvited into a princess's chambers, uncle, whatever their name or rank might be."

"I considered knocking," he replied, his voice carrying easily over the breeze, his gaze still fixed on the city spread out below. "Then I remembered whose chambers these were, and recalled that you have never once in your life understood the meaning of a closed door, so knocking seemed rather a waste of my effort."

You laughed, pushing off from the doorframe and crossing your arms tighter as you came further into the room. "That is only because doors imply that someone wishes to be left alone, and I have never seen much sense in indulging that particular wish, especially not from you."

"And?" he asked, not bothering to turn, one finger tapping idly against the stone rail.

"And so I have never bothered respecting them, from you least of all," you said, shrugging as though the matter were settled well beyond argument.

A quiet chuckle escaped him, his shoulders loosening slightly at the sound of your voice. "So I have noticed, on a great many occasions now."

You crossed the chamber, the hem of your burgundy gown whispering over the floor, until you stepped out beside him upon the balcony, close enough that your elbow nearly brushed his sleeve. King's Landing stretched beneath you both in all its sprawling chaos. Ships drifted lazily across Blackwater Bay, merchants crowded the streets below, and beyond it all the Dragonpit rose proudly against the skyline. High above, a dragon circled, and you tilted your head back to follow its silhouette until it vanished behind the hill.

"You heard him, did you not?" you asked, glancing sideways at Daemon with a knowing look.

Daemon's eyes remained fixed upon the sky, though the corner of his mouth had already begun to curve upward. "I heard him before I had even reached the city gates, Lyra," he said. "Draevax has developed the rather charming habit of announcing his existence to half the kingdom whenever he pleases, whether or not the kingdom has asked to hear it."

You looked absurdly pleased at that, rocking once on your heels. "He was excited, uncle. He had every reason to be."

"He sounded triumphant, if I am honest," Daemon said, a note of dry amusement coloring his voice as he finally glanced down at you.

"He beat Syrax back to the Dragonpit yesterday," you said, lifting your chin proudly, as though daring him to argue the point.

"I imagine your sister remembers that particular race rather differently than you do," Daemon said, turning just enough for you to catch the ghost of a smile pulling at his mouth.

"She insists there was no race at all, which I think is simply her way of avoiding the fact that she lost," you said, waving a dismissive hand through the air.

"And naturally you disagree with her account of things," he said, one brow lifting slowly.

"I should be a rather poor dragonrider if I allowed such an obvious victory to go unclaimed," you said, entirely serious, though your eyes danced with mischief the whole time.

Daemon gave a quiet hum, folding his arms across his chest. "It would seem Draevax has inherited your own inability to lose gracefully, along with your hair and your temperament."

You placed a hand over your heart, feigning deep hurt, your mouth falling open in mock scandal. "I lose with exceptional grace, uncle, I will have you know."

"I have personally watched you argue with stable boys after footraces you had already lost fairly," he said, unimpressed, one brow still raised.

"They cheated," you said, chin lifting further, your nose tilting into the air.

"They were eight years old, Lyra," Daemon said flatly.

"They were surprisingly swift for their age, which I still maintain amounts to the same thing," you insisted, entirely unbothered by the absurdity of your own argument.

A genuine laugh escaped Daemon then, low and unrestrained, his head tipping back slightly with it, and for a brief moment he looked less like the feared Prince of the City and more like the younger brother Viserys had once grown up beside. His attention returned to the Dragonpit, his gaze settling and softening as it lingered there. "Draevax has grown again since I last saw him," he observed.

"He has," you answered, leaning beside him against the stone railing and resting your forearms upon the warm stone. "The saddlers have already begun complaining bitterly. They say I ask them to alter his harness every few moons, as though that were somehow my fault rather than his."

"They are not wrong to complain, from what I have seen of him," Daemon said, glancing at you sidelong, the ghost of a smile still lingering at the corner of his mouth.

"I know they are not," you said, smiling to yourself as you gazed out toward the Dragonpit. "Though I rather enjoy proving them wrong each time they insist he has finally stopped growing at last."

Daemon studied you from the corner of his eye, his expression turning thoughtful. "You believe he has not yet reached even half his eventual size, then."

"I know he has not," you said, without the slightest hesitation, your voice firm and certain.

"What makes you so certain of that, when even the Dragonkeepers cannot say for sure?" he asked, watching you closely now.

You did not answer him immediately. Instead you watched a flock of gulls scatter as another dragon passed somewhere overhead, your eyes following their path before you finally spoke. "When I stand beside him," you said thoughtfully, "I can still see the awkwardness of youth clinging to him. His wings are growing faster than the rest of his body can keep pace with. His shoulders have broadened a great deal since last winter, and yet his neck has not caught up to match them. Even the Dragonkeepers have begun remarking upon it themselves, when they think I am not listening."

"Hm," Daemon nodded almost imperceptibly, his gaze drifting back toward the horizon. "They have good reason to remark upon it, from everything I have seen."

You looked at him then, excitement gradually brightening your features until your whole body had turned toward him. "I truly believe that he shall rival Vermithor himself one day, and perhaps sooner than anyone expects."

"The Bronze Fury?" Daemon asked, his brow arching higher, clearly caught off guard by the boldness of the claim.

"Yes," you said firmly, holding his gaze without flinching in the slightest.

"That is no small claim to make about a dragon not yet grown," he said, studying you carefully now, as though searching for some sign that you did not truly mean it.

"I know precisely how large a claim it is," you said simply.

"And Vermithor was once the mount of King Jaehaerys himself, ridden for decades and grown to a size few dragons living today can match," Daemon pressed, watching for any flicker of hesitation in your face.

"Indeed he was," you said, unmoved.

"He is counted among the greatest dragons now living, by every measure that matters."

"I know that as well, and I still say it," you said, and there was not a shred of doubt anywhere in your voice as your chin lifted once more. "I still think Draevax shall surpass him, given time."

Daemon regarded you for a long moment, his arms still crossed over his chest, before asking quietly, "And what of Vhagar, then? Would you make the same claim of her?"

Your smile only widened at that, something bright and stubborn kindling behind your eyes. "I think that one day people shall mistake Draevax for Vhagar herself when he passes overhead, and I do not say that lightly."

Daemon folded his arms tighter still, tilting his head as he considered you with new interest. "You mean to say, then, that he shall one day rival the oldest and greatest dragon alive in all the Seven Kingdoms."

"I mean to say," you corrected with quiet confidence, meeting his eyes squarely and without flinching, "that I believe he shall one day eclipse them both entirely, Vermithor and Vhagar alike."

The prince's eyes lingered on you a moment longer, something unreadable passing behind them that you could not quite name. "So much faith placed in a dragon scarcely past his youth," he said at last.

"So much faith placed in my dragon, which I think is rather different," you said simply, without a trace of doubt anywhere in your voice.

Daemon was silent for a long moment, studying your face as though searching for something hidden there. Then, almost too quietly to hear over the wind, he said, "That certainty of yours will either make you truly extraordinary one day, or it will get you killed rather young. I confess I am not yet certain which."

You smiled, entirely unbothered by the warning folded into his words, and tilted your head. "Mayhaps it shall do both. I see no reason it could not."

For the first time that morning, Daemon turned fully toward you, his full attention settling on your face, and there was the smallest hint of pride hidden beneath his usual practiced indifference. "You sound more like a true Targaryen with every year that passes," he said.

"I should certainly hope so, given whose blood runs in me," you said, beaming up at him.

"You are beginning to think like one as well, which I confess concerns me rather more," he added, something almost wry creeping into his tone.

"I learned from watching the very best example available to me," you said, tilting your head with false sincerity, your eyes gone deliberately wide and innocent.

"And who might that be, precisely?" he asked, one brow rising in open challenge.

"I wonder," you said, pressing a finger thoughtfully to your chin, as though the answer required deep consideration.

Daemon gave you a thoroughly unimpressed look, though his mouth twitched despite himself. "You flatter me, and we both know it."

"I was speaking of Father, naturally," you said, entirely too innocent, batting your eyes at him.

"Liar," he said, though he was fighting a smile now that had nearly won.

"I was," you admitted, grinning openly at last, giving up the pretense entirely.

"You have inherited that particular talent from me as well, along with everything else," Daemon said, shaking his head slowly.

You laughed, and without another thought you hurried the remaining distance between you both, your skirts catching the breeze as you went. "Daemon!"

He barely had time to brace himself before you threw your arms around his neck, and instinct took over as his own arms wrapped securely around your waist, lifting you effortlessly from the ground. He spun you once beneath the bright morning sky, your delighted laughter ringing across the balcony as the wind caught both your silver hair at once, tangling the strands together.

"There you are," he said, his own laughter rumbling warmly in his chest as he set you back down only partway, still holding you close against him. "For one dreadful moment, I feared Draevax had finally decided to keep you for himself, and that I should have to fight a dragon for the privilege of your company."

"He tried," you replied through another laugh, still catching your breath. "I believe he would happily carry me off to Dragonstone and never bring me back, if no one were there to stop him."

"I do not doubt that in the slightest," Daemon said, smoothing a hand briefly over your hair.

"He has become terribly possessive of me lately," you said, still grinning up at him.

"I wonder from whom he might have learned such behavior," Daemon said, one brow arching pointedly in your direction.

You narrowed your eyes playfully, poking a finger against his chest. "I was rather hoping you might answer that question yourself, uncle, since you seem to have an opinion ready."

Daemon smirked but said nothing in reply. Instead he held you a heartbeat longer before finally setting you back upon the stone floor of the balcony. The moment your feet touched down, you looked up at him with the same bright smile you had worn since childhood, though something softer crept into your voice as you spoke again. "I missed you, uncle."

The teasing faded from Daemon's expression entirely at that. He reached out almost absentmindedly and smoothed a stray strand of silver hair away from your face, his fingers lingering there a moment longer than necessary.

"I know you did," he said quietly. "And despite whatever my brother insists to the contrary, Dragonstone grows a great deal quieter whenever you are not there to fill every hall of it with your endless chatter."

You gasped in exaggerated offense, pressing both hands to your chest as though mortally wounded. "I do not chatter, though I hold meaningful conversations, and there is a considerable difference between the two."

"With everyone you happen to meet?" he asked, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"With dragons most of all," you said, lifting your chin higher still, "though I extend the courtesy to people as well, when they deserve it."

Daemon's smile returned in full at that. "I know you do."

"And dragons, at least, have the good sense to actually listen when I speak," you added, quite pleased with yourself.

"Hmm, so they do, from everything I have observed," he said, shaking his head fondly.

The warmth of the embrace still lingered between you both, but as the wind shifted and the laughter slowly faded into quiet, something in your easy manner began to slip, and Daemon, watching you closely now, was not a man easily fooled by a smile worn too carefully over whatever lay beneath it.

"And do these meaningful conversations of yours extend beyond dragons," Daemon asked, leaning one hip against the balustrade, "or have they become your preferred company over everyone else within these castle walls, myself included?"

Your smile lingered, though it softened noticeably around the edges, your gaze drifting out toward the bay rather than meeting his. "Dragons are wonderfully uncomplicated creatures," you said. "They never pretend to mean one thing while speaking another entirely different one. They are honest, through and through. If they are angry, they roar and let the whole world know it. If they are pleased, they let you know just as plainly, without games or riddles attached. I think there is something rather admirable in that kind of honesty, Daemon, something people seem to have forgotten how to practice."

"There is admirable in it, I agree entirely," Daemon said without hesitation, watching your profile now rather than the view spread out below you both. "It is precisely why I have always preferred their company to that of most people I have known."

The breeze drifted lazily between you both, carrying the distant cries of gulls across Blackwater Bay, and for a time neither of you spoke at all. You rested both hands upon the stone railing, your gaze wandering over the city below, though Daemon noticed soon enough that you were no longer truly looking at any of it. Your smile had disappeared somewhere in the last few moments, so gradually that another man might not have caught the change at all. He did.

"You have spoken more in the last few moments than I heard you speak all morning before this," he observed quietly, studying the tense line of your shoulders, "and yet you have not once looked pleased by your own words, which usually means something has found its way into that head of yours and refuses to leave it be."

You let out a slow breath through your nose, your fingers tightening slightly on the stone. "I thought I had hidden it rather better than that."

"You did hide it well," he said simply.

You turned to him with a doubtful look, your brow furrowing. "I did?"

"From everyone else in this castle, perhaps, but not from me," Daemon said, and there was no mockery in his voice at all, only quiet certainty. "I have known you since the very day you were born, Lyra. You smile differently when you are trying to spare someone else your worries, and you have been smiling that particular smile since I first stepped onto this balcony."

You looked away again, out toward the Dragonpit, and for several heartbeats you said nothing at all. Then you laughed softly, though the sound carried none of its usual brightness. "I sometimes forget how terribly inconvenient you are, uncle, and then you go and remind me all at once."

"I have been called far worse than inconvenient in my life," Daemon said, the corner of his mouth twitching faintly.

"I imagine you have, given everything I have heard said of you at court," you said, a ghost of your old humor returning briefly to your voice.

The silence settled once more before you spoke again, your voice quieter now, more hesitant than it had been a moment ago. "May I tell you something that is likely to make you think rather less of me than you do now?" you asked.

"There is very little you could say to me that would accomplish that, whatever it is," Daemon said, without a moment's hesitation, his gaze steady on your face.

You drew another slow breath, bracing both hands against the railing as though you needed the stone to hold you upright. "I think I hate men, uncle. I have thought it for some time now, and saying it aloud feels rather like admitting to a crime."

Daemon turned his head just enough to look at you properly, one brow lifting. "That is a rather sweeping judgment to carry around with you, even for someone as fond of sweeping judgments as you generally are."

"I know that it is sweeping," you admitted.

"And yet, you believe it all the same, sweeping or not," he said, watching you closely.

You nodded, staring down at your own hands where they gripped the stone. "I know there are good men among them. Father is a good man, whatever else may be said of kings. Ser Harwin is kind, and has always been courteous toward me, even when I have given him little reason to be." You paused briefly, shaking your head, your eyes going wide as though you had only just heard your own words. "That is not truly what I mean, though. I have said it badly."

"Then tell me what you do mean, in your own time," Daemon said, his voice low and patient.

Your fingers tightened further against the stone. "I hate what they expect of us, uncle. That is closer to the truth of it." Your voice remained calm, though there was unmistakable frustration threaded beneath it. "It seems that no matter how clever a woman proves herself to be, how brave she is in the face of danger, or how fiercely she loves her family and her home, the measure of her worth always returns to the very same question in the end." You looked at him then, your eyes searching his face for something you could not quite name. "Whether or not she can give a man a son, as though that were the whole sum of her."

Daemon was quiet, giving you the space you needed to continue.

"Every lesson I have ever been taught, every conversation at court, every lady who has ever advised me speaks as though it is the greatest purpose the gods ever saw fit to give us," you went on, your words gathering speed now that you had begun.

"We are taught how to smile properly, how to sit, how to sew a fine seam, how to please a husband we have never even met, and then everyone waits patiently to see whether we succeed in giving him heirs, as though that were the final examination of our whole lives."

A bitter smile touched your lips. "Sometimes I wonder whether anyone remembers we are people at all, before we are wombs meant to be filled."

A quiet, almost rueful chuckle escaped Daemon, though his eyes stayed serious throughout. "There are lords the length and breadth of Westeros who would faint dead away if they heard a princess of the realm speak so plainly about such things."

You looked at him, entirely unamused, your arms crossing over your chest. "I was not attempting to entertain them, uncle, nor you either, if it comes to that."

His smile faded at once. "No," he admitted gently. "You were not, and I ought not have made light of it."

You lowered your eyes to your hands, your voice dropping lower still. "I love Father dearly, whatever else I have said this morning."

"I know that you do," Daemon said quietly.

"I truly do love him. I have never once doubted that he loves Mother with every piece of his heart that he has to give." Your voice grew noticeably quieter, almost swallowed entirely by the wind coming off the bay. "But I think he loves the son he has not yet held almost as fiercely as he loves her, and that frightens me more than I know how to say."

Daemon remained silent, watching you, allowing you to continue at whatever pace you needed.

"They have spent years now trying to bring that son into the world," you said. "Every single time Mother carries another child, the whole castle celebrates before the babe has even been born, as though the celebration itself might will it into happening." You swallowed hard, your throat working visibly. "And then the castle grows quiet again, always, without fail."

Your gaze drifted somewhere beyond the city, unfocused and far away. "I remember little Baelon. I remember the babe before him too, though I was younger then and understood less of what I was seeing. I remember the whispers that followed each loss, the way the servants would go quiet when they thought I had passed out of earshot. I remember Mother smiling at me even when I could plainly see she had been crying only moments before."

You paused, your hands twisting together in your lap. "There were others besides those I have named. I was not meant to hear the maesters speaking of it, but I did hear them, all the same." Your voice had nearly disappeared entirely by the end. "They said her body had grown weary of it."

Daemon's expression hardened at that, though not at you, his jaw tightening visibly. "I know what they said," he answered grimly. "I have heard it said more than once myself."

"I keep telling myself that this time will be different," you whispered, your eyes fixed on some middle distance neither of you could name. "I pray every single night that it will be different this time. And yet every morning I look at Mother, and I cannot rid myself of the feeling that something is wrong, that something has been wrong for longer than any of us have wished to admit."

You fell silent after that. Daemon watched you for a long moment before speaking again, his voice gentle but entirely certain. "You are frightened," he said. It was not a question, and he did not phrase it as one.

You closed your eyes briefly before nodding, your shoulders curling further inward. "Yes," you said. "I am."

When you opened your eyes again, there was no attempt left in you to hide the fear you had carried since before dawn. "I am terrified, uncle, if I am honest with you." You looked toward the Queen's apartments as though you might somehow see straight through the walls of the Red Keep to where your mother lay. "I have never once feared dragons in my life. I have never feared falling from the sky, not truly, not even when Draevax dives the way he does. I have never feared the stories people tell about our family, however dark some of them may be." A shaky breath escaped you. "But I am afraid, more afraid than I have ever been of anything, that this child will ask Mother for more than she has left to give."

The words lingered between you both for a long moment. Daemon did not answer right away. Instead he stepped beside you, resting both forearms upon the stone balustrade just as you had done earlier, his gaze settling upon the city below, thoughtful and distant.

"When I was a boy," he began quietly, "our grandmother once told me that fear is a peculiar thing, Lyra. It has no respect whatsoever for princes or kings, and it settles wherever it pleases, convincing us each time that tomorrow has already been written and there is nothing left to be done but wait for it."

You listened without interrupting, your eyes fixed on his face.

"I have spent enough years now watching men march into battles they were entirely certain they would survive, only to fall before the day itself was even done," Daemon continued. "I have also watched other men prepare themselves for a grief that never came at all, that turned out to be nothing more than a fear given too much room to grow."

He turned toward you fully now, his eyes meeting yours directly. "The truth of it, as far as I have ever learned, is that neither hope nor fear possesses the gift of prophecy, whatever either of them might promise you in the moment."

You studied his face, searching it for something. "I know that already, in my head at least."

"I think you do know it, in your head," he said, holding your gaze steadily. He reached out and rested a reassuring hand against your shoulder. "But knowing something with your head and believing it with the rest of you are seldom the same thing at all, and I suspect you know that too, if you are honest."

You let out a quiet breath, your shoulders sagging slightly beneath the weight of his hand. "No," you admitted. "They are not the same thing."

"They are not," Daemon agreed, his voice softening further still. "Your mother is a great deal stronger than you give her credit for being, Lyra. She has endured more than most queens in the history of this realm ever shall, and she still finds it in her to laugh with her daughters every single morning. Do not bury her before the gods themselves have made their choice in the matter."

You looked down at his hand upon your shoulder before slowly lifting your eyes to meet his. "And if my fears prove true, uncle?" you asked, barely above a whisper now.

Daemon's expression remained steady, entirely unflinching. "Then you will face that day when it comes to you, and not one moment before it," he said. He offered you the smallest of smiles. "But until that day arrives, if it ever does, your mother still lives, she still laughs, and she still has two daughters who adore her beyond all measure." His thumb gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze. "I think Queen Aemma would very much rather spend today hearing your laughter than mourning a tomorrow that has not yet arrived and may never arrive at all."

For the first time since the conversation had begun, the tightness in your chest eased, not entirely, but enough that you found yourself believing, if only for a little while, that perhaps hope deserved as much room in your heart as fear had been given.

Neither of you moved to break the moment right away, content simply to let the quiet stretch comfortably between you, and it was Daemon who finally stirred first, as though something had only just come back to him. "I very nearly forgot," he said, straightening slightly from where he had been leaning against the balustrade.

You looked up at him curiously, your attention pulled fully away from the view below. "Forgot what, uncle? You rarely forget anything, by your own account."

Instead of answering right away, Daemon reached beneath the folds of his cloak, his movements unhurried, almost absent minded, as though whatever lay hidden there required no particular ceremony at all. Your eyes narrowed immediately, and you took one cautious step backward. "Daemon," you said warily.

"Hm?" he said, not yet looking up from what he was doing.

"What exactly are you reaching for under there?" you asked, watching his hand with open suspicion.

"A gift," he said simply, as though that settled the matter entirely.

You looked deeply unconvinced by that answer, your arms crossing over your chest. "I have known you long enough now, uncle, to understand that those two particular words have never once filled me with confidence when they come from your mouth."

Daemon's mouth curved ever so slightly at that, though he continued searching beneath his cloak without any particular hurry. "It is perfectly harmless, I assure you."

"You say that far too calmly for my liking, old man," you said, taking another half step back for good measure.

The moment the polished hilt of a blade emerged from beneath the black leather of his cloak, your eyes widened dramatically, and you pointed an accusing finger straight at him. "I knew it," you declared. "I knew this morning was going far too well to last."

Daemon looked genuinely puzzled by that, pausing with the hilt still half hidden in his hand. "You knew what, precisely?"

"You are trying to kill me," you announced, backing further still across the balcony.

"I beg your pardon?" he said, his brow furrowing in open disbelief.

"I leave you alone for scarcely a fortnight, uncle, and this is how you choose to welcome me home again?" You shook your head in theatrical disappointment, though your eyes stayed fixed on the blade the entire time. "You draw a weapon before I have even had my breakfast. Have you finally grown tired of my company at last?"

Daemon let out a low chuckle at that, the sound warm with amusement as he shook his head slowly. "If I had truly wished to kill you, brightfire, I should very much hope you would offer me rather more of a challenge than simply pointing your finger at the weapon and declaring your own doom."

You placed both hands upon your hips, your chin lifting in defiance. "I could remove your head from your shoulders before you finished saying your own name aloud, uncle, make no mistake about that."

"You could certainly attempt it, I have no doubt," Daemon said, entirely unbothered by the threat.

"I would succeed, and handily," you insisted.

"And I admire your confidence a great deal, misplaced though it may be," he said, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"I inherited that confidence from you, I believe, so you have no one but yourself to blame for it," you shot back.

"That," Daemon admitted with a quiet laugh, "is regrettably true, and I shall own it."

He turned the blade over in his hand before extending it toward you, the hilt resting across both his palms in a gesture that transformed the weapon at once from something threatening into something offered freely. "It is yours, Lyra," he said, his voice quieter now than it had been a moment before.

The teasing vanished from your expression entirely at that, your hands falling still at your sides. "Mine?" you asked.

Daemon inclined his head once, watching your face carefully as he did. "I commissioned it in Lys nearly a year ago now. The smith who forged it claimed his father had once worked Valyrian steel with his own hands, though I suspect that particular part of the tale grew more impressive with every telling of it."

You accepted the sword with a care usually reserved for dragon eggs, taking the hilt in both hands and letting its weight settle across your palms. It was exquisitely balanced, lighter than you had expected for its length, and the blade itself gleamed with a dark, rippling sheen that put you in mind of smoke trapped beneath polished glass.

Its edge caught the sunlight without ever truly reflecting it back, while the hilt had been wrapped in black dragonhide so finely stitched that it seemed almost seamless beneath your fingers, and the crossguard curved outward in the shape of narrow, folded wings.

Nestled within the pommel rested a single deep crimson ruby, no larger than the tip of your thumb, yet it burned like a living ember caught in the stone.

"It is beautiful, uncle," you whispered, turning it slowly in your hands to catch the light from every angle.

You admired every careful detail of the thing until something etched near the base of the blade caught your attention properly. Tiny High Valyrian letters had been engraved into the steel itself, and you frowned slightly as you traced them with the tip of one finger before reading them aloud.

"Dārilaros dārȳsa. Ānogar dēmalion syt. Skorī morghūlza, sīmonza."

The words lingered in the air between you both for a moment. You lifted your eyes to his. "What does it mean, exactly?" you asked.

Daemon rested one shoulder against the balcony pillar, watching you rather than the sword in your hands. "The smith asked me whether I wished to leave the blade bare, without any inscription at all," he said.

"And you said no, naturally," you guessed, a faint smile returning to your face.

"I have never been fond of plain things, as you well know," he said, and a smile ghosted across his lips before he finally answered your earlier question properly. "It means, roughly, 'The heir shall reign; blood for the throne; what dies shall rise.'"

You repeated the translation quietly beneath your breath, testing the weight of the words on your own tongue. "For the one destined to reign," you murmured, and then your brows knitted together as understanding caught up with you at last. "But I am not destined to reign over anything, uncle. You know that as well as I do."

"No," Daemon agreed calmly, entirely unbothered by the contradiction. "You are not, as things presently stand."

"You know full well that Father intends to name his unborn son his heir, should the babe be a son and survive," you said, watching him closely now.

"I do know that," he said.

You looked back down at the inscription, running your thumb over the letters once more. "Then, why choose those particular words for my blade, of all the words you might have chosen?"

Daemon's gaze drifted toward the city spread out below, his expression unreadable in that moment. "I cannot rightly tell you why," he said.

"You do not know yourself?" you pressed, unwilling to let the matter drop so easily.

"I know only that I liked the sound of them, and that they pleased me when the smith first read them aloud to me," he said, shrugging one shoulder as though the matter were of no great importance.

"The old Freehold was fond of grand declarations of this sort. Most of them meant nothing at all beyond making the owner of the blade feel rather more important than he truly was."

You smiled faintly at that, some of the earlier weight lifting from your expression at last. "So... it is simply a dramatic inscription, then, and nothing more?"

"I should be sorely disappointed if it were anything less dramatic than that," Daemon said, entirely deadpan.

You laughed quietly before adjusting your grip upon the hilt, testing the sword's weight with a slow, careful sweep through the morning air. "I shall treasure it regardless of what it means, uncle."

Daemon watched as you tested the blade's balance with a few more careful movements, your wrist turning naturally with each pass, the sword becoming an extension of your own arm almost immediately despite its length. "It suits you well," he observed.

"It feels," you said, searching for the proper word before you found it, "comfortable, somehow. As though it had always belonged to me."

"That is precisely how a blade ought to feel in the hand," he said.

You looked down at it again, admiration plain upon your face. "I believe this is the finest gift anyone has ever given me in my whole life."

Daemon stared at you, one brow raised high. "The finest, truly? Above all others?"

You nodded enthusiastically, still turning the sword to catch the light. "It truly is the finest, uncle, I mean every word of it."

His brow lifted higher still. "I distinctly recall presenting you with an entire dragon, some years ago now."

You looked up at him with exaggerated patience, as though explaining something quite simple to a rather slow child. "You presented me with an egg, uncle, nothing more than that."

"It hatched into a dragon soon enough, did it not?" he pointed out.

"That was Draevax's own decision to make, not yours," you said, primly.

"I selected the egg myself, out of a great many others," Daemon countered.

"You selected a very handsome egg, I will grant you that much," you allowed.

"I am pleased that you appreciate my efforts, even now," he said, dry as ever.

You laughed at that, carefully resting the sword against the balustrade before stepping forward to throw one arm around him in another brief embrace. "I do appreciate them, truly I do," you said.

Your voice softened as you drew back just enough to look up at him, still smiling in that open, unguarded way you never offered to anyone else in the whole of the Red Keep. "Thank you, Daemon. I shall carry this blade for the rest of my life, however long that proves to be."

Something unreadable passed briefly across Daemon's face at those words, there and gone again before you could name it properly. "I expect nothing less from you," he said quietly.

Neither of you noticed the morning sun glancing across the ancient Valyrian words engraved into the blade between you. Nor could either of you have known that, more than a century later, those same words would be read by another silver haired woman who bore the very same face as yours.

A queen born in another age entirely. A queen for whom the inscription had, in its own way, been waiting all along.

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

vaelerys .ᐟ