Summary: In the span of a week, the peaceful life of Princess Valaena Velaryon is destroyed. At its start, the Iron Throne is usurped, casting the realm headlong into war. Her mother is annointed Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and she Princess of Dragonstone. At its end, her brother Lucerys is slain by her husband, Aemond Targaryen. In a story of love and tragedy, betrayal and hope, Valaena must embark on a perilous journey to win a war against her own kin, daunted by friends and foes on either side of the fray.
Author's Note: I have changed the summary for this fic.
Chapter Twenty-Six: Dreamwine
Sat on Dragonstone’s throne, Aegon cannot hide his grin as Valaena and Baela are dragged into the Great Hall. Both are fettered wrist and ankle, Baela’s chain singing as she thrashes wildly. Valaena is impassive as Criston leads her to the foot of the throne, her steps careful. Both girls are bloody and singed, the soot on Valaena’s face streaked through with tears.
As the girls are brought to a stop, their guards leave them but do not stray far, lest either doxy rush him. Stood to the right of the throne, Marston Waters calls, “All hail King Aegon! Aegon the Dragonheart, Second of His Name, King of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.”
Baela spits as high as she can, though this does nothing to diminish Aegon’s joy. He spreads out his arms in greeting. “My dear cousins, how glad I am to see you both again.” His eyes fasten to Valaena, who is rounder than he remembers. “Valaena, you’ve gotten fat.”
Inflamed, Baela answers for her, “Fuck you.”
Ignoring her, he points to Valaena’s rotund belly, pronounced by her flimsy, blood-soaked nightgown. “Do you know, it is treason for you to have stepped outside of your marriage to mine brother. And now, you’ve married again, Lady Stark. It will be a wonder that you are not remembered as the second whore of Dragonstone.”
Whereas Valaena had scowled somewhat when called Stark, this latter appellation fails to make its mark. “Call me what you like,” she dispassionately replies. “So long as you admit the order of things.”
At the implication that she is Princess of Dragonstone, a title which he feels should not exist, he smarts. Grasping Blackfyre’s hilt, leant against the side of the throne, he poses, “Is it not a man who should sit this throne? Any throne? Is that not the order of things?”
She raises her chin. “Her Grace my mother has created a new order.”
“As you say, Niece,” he allows, smiling pleasantly, though his grip on Blackfyre tightens. Pivoting, he announces, “Now, enough fanfare,” and nods to Marston.
Marston steps away from Daeron, who he has minded till now. Idly, Aegon eyes his youngest and only remaining brother, not quite sure what to make of him. This night, Daeron has not been nearly so obliging as Aegon would expect. Notwithstanding, he stops short of interfering with Aegon’s plans, staying put as when left alone.
Moving to stand behind Valaena and Baela, Marston places a hand on either girl’s shoulder. He orders, “Kneel and swear obeisance before the king.”
Valaena declines, shrugging off Marston’s hand. Baela refuses with yet more vehemence, whirling and slashing him across the cheek with her nails. “My cousins the Queen Rhaenyra and the Princess Valaena can command me. You cannot.”
Marston does not seem to appreciate this slight, though neither does he possess the nerve to give the girl the clip she deserves. Undaunted himself, Aegon needles her, “Come now, Baela, I should not like for us to get off on the wrong foot.”
Looking back to him, Baela rakes her eyes over him and remarks scathingly, “That would be your left foot, yes?”
Incensed, Aegon feels a sharp twitch in his left cheek, the flesh there thick and stiff. Resentment broils within him, hot enough to burn, just as Valaena had done to him near a year past. Malice bubbling beneath his mangled skin, he turns his eyes onto her. Discreetly, she casts her gaze aside.
Too late, with his attention already fixed on her. “Valaena,” he calls. She glances back up at him. “Have you put more thought to how you should like to pay the debt you owe me?” Her lip curling slightly, she appears confused, so he clarifies, “Words or flesh?”
The words evoke a memory, so clear he can see it in her eyes. Two boys and a girl, he had demanded of her in Rook’s Rest. A year past his children’s disappearance now, and she has not yet made satisfaction his loss.
She says nothing, so he asks again, simpler, “Where are Helaena and the children?”
Before the war, he little minded when his children were absent. He found them bothersome, often shrill and unpleasantly sticky, but they were his. Jaehaerys, in particular, he thinks especially valuable, as the boy is to be his successor. For near the entirety of the war, he has been without his heir, having to settle for Aemond and, worse now, Aenar, Valaena’s own son. His queen consort being absent has also been a great inconvenience, the vacancy left by Helaena granting Alicent far too much latitude.
Just as she had in Rook’s Rest, Valaena remains silent. Aegon raises his brow, though he is largely unsurprised. “Do you not wish to answer?” He gives her yet another chance to make good, but foolish, she flaunts it. “Then I think we require a whipping girl.” With the prompt spoken, the doors to the hall creak open, and Valaena’s handmaid is led into the room.
As the girl—comely enough to distract him on some other day—is made to kneel, horror dawns on her mistress’s face. With no small amount of glee, Aegon recalls how fond of her servants Valaena has always been. “Aegon,” she begins before biting her tongue. After a moment’s thought, she tries again, “Uncle,” and stops again, hearing her blunder as he does. This address, more deferential than the last, is an admission of defeat. Still, she presses on as he grins. “I do not know.”
At this, he feels his face contort in surprise. Whilst before, Valaena told him she had Helaena’s trust, she now claims no such confidence exists. “You do not know?” She shakes her head. He sighs, disappointed. “You do your handmaid no favors.” Lifting his hand from Blackfyre, he signals to a nearby guard, designated a headsman, who readies his own sword.
“No! Aegon! Aegon,” she cries, panic gripping her. Earnestly, she entreats him to believe, “I do not know where they are. I told Helaena to go someplace where she and your children would be safe, and none, including myself, would ever find them. I could not possibly tell you where they are. I could tell you a lie to satisfy you now, but it would be a lie.”
As if credulous, he leans forward, a look of contemplation pinned to his face. After a moment, he looks to the handmaid. “Girl, what is your name?”
At first, the woman does not seem to realize he speaks to her. When she does, she answers, her voice shaking like a leaf, “Aster, Your Grace.”
He smiles warmly. “Good-bye, Aster.”
Valaena screeches, lunging toward Aster, but Marston withholds her. The sword drops, and she hits the floor in the same moment as does Aster’s head, having gone limp in Marston’s grip.
Blood pools along the floor, seeping into the cracks in the stone. Aegon straightens in his seat. He suggests, “Let us try this again.”
Two men step forward to drag Baela away from Valaena. Gasping wetly, Valaena tries to grasp for her, her hands clenching in her skirts, but Marston keeps his grip on her, and the fabric slips through her fingers. Even as the men push at her, Baela still refuses to kneel, choosing instead to go slack and let her body hang awkwardly between them. Aegon rolls his eyes.
His solace is that, at last, Valaena takes him seriously. She begins sniveling, her voice nasally. “No, I don’t know. I don’t know.” Finally, she gives in, kneeling before him, her hands clutched as high as her chain will permit. She blubbers, “Please. I swear—I swear, I do not know where they are. I don’t know, I swear. I swear to the Seven, to the old gods, to the gods of Old Valyria! I swear on my life.” She must realize he does not think much of that. “I swear on Aenar’s—on my son’s life, I swear—”
“All right,” he interrupts, grown tired of her weeping, whatever pleasure it gave him at first. Besides, he supposes, Baela is a useful pawn so long as her father and grandsire live. By contrast, Valaena does him more harm than good. He makes this clear, informing her, “Do you realize, if you’ve no knowledge of my family’s whereabouts, you’re of no use to me.”
Valaena, still shivering from fear, takes his meaning. She protests, “I’m your kin.”
Amused by this newest attempt at groveling, he replies, “So, what?”
Hysteria threatening to return, her breath comes fast, and her voice cracks. “I’m with child.”
His amusement waning, his voice hardens. “So, what.” He waves the headsman forward.
