Chapter Text
“I must object. This endeavor is impractical and costly,” Otto stated, a scowl covering his features.
“Oh? How so, Ser Otto?” Prince Daemon drawled from his seat at the head of the Small Council table, elbow resting casually on the armrest and head tilted into his hand. He was a vision of informality and indifference, and it infuriated Otto to no end.
“Who will sit these smaller courts of law? How will we ensure they are qualified to make rulings in the King’s name? Anyone with sufficient education no doubt has other duties to take their time.”
“I am sure there are plenty of lordlings and second sons who would be happy to take advantage of the opportunity to be known to the Crown. You yourself are a second son, Otto. Where would you be if you had not been blessed with the extraordinary luck that allowed you to enter my grandfather’s court?” Daemon pointed out with a smirk.
Otto sneered. “As are you, my prince. And I am sure you are aware that the education and quality of these sons are not guaranteed merely by their breeding,” he said, allowing the implied insult to saturate his tone.
Daemon, however, either missed his meaning or was wholly unbothered by it. “And yet, we assume just as much for the first sons of the realm when they inherit their fathers’ lands and titles. In any case, Lord Strong has already agreed to undertake the mentoring and supervision of these judges. He will ensure they are adequately educated, capable, and qualified for the title of Justiciar, as they will be representatives of the King’s Laws.”
Otto’s eyes snapped to the Master of Law seated across from him, his frown deepening. The Lord of Harrenhal met his gaze evenly.
“The Crown has always supervised the law and justice of King’s Landing,” Otto argued, through gritted teeth.
”And we will continue to do so,” the Prince replied with a roll of his eye. “The Master of Law reports directly to the Crown, does he not?”
“And the cost?” He continued to press, “You are suggesting constructing several, sizable new buildings. Surely, Lord Beesbury, you cannot think this idea inexpensive.”
Lord Beesbury shifted in his seat. “I admit it is not. But with the adjustments the princess made to my previous proposal, it is within our budget – ” Otto couldn’t believe his ears. Beesbury, forever whinging on every coin, accepting this absurd idea without protest? “—and as I understand it, the treasury will eventually also profit from this system.”
“How, exactly?”
“Fines and fees, Lord Hand,” it was not the Master of Coin who spoke, but the diminutive princess who sat next to him, her presence never failing to make the air at his side chafe. “The Crown will claim a portion of any fine or fee a petition or trial produces.”
“Paltry fines will not cover the cost of construction, Princess.”
“Will it not?” Rhaenyra challenged, “The amount should not be ‘paltry’, as you say, particularly when the number of cases that will be able to be settled multiplies. As it stands now, every day we are forced to turn dozens of people away from the Red Keep’s doors. The Iron Throne can only hear so many pleas in a day, but the population of King’s Landing only continues to grow. And when not in use, the new buildings may be used by nobles or merchants for other business for a price.”
Lord Strong and Lord Beesbury both nodded in agreement.
Otto narrowed his eyes. “It is a still gamble, and even if successful it would take years if not decades before a profit is turned.”
“Is that now the priority of the Crown, then?” the princess arched brow, “Profit? Are we no better than the merchant guilds crowding our docks?”
He gritted his teeth. “I am merely pointing out the impracticalities of the endeavor, Princess. Decentralizing the Crown’s power while bleeding the Crown’s gold can hardly be considered for the good of the Realm.”
Rhaenyra met his gaze coolly. “It will improve the lives of our people, which is entirely for the good of the Realm.”
He scoffed.
“What is the matter, Otto,” Lord Corlys drawled, “Are you not endlessly complaining of the excess of authority enjoyed by the City Watch? This plan of the princess’s will accomplish just what you wanted.”
“Rest assured, Lord Corlys, my Gold Cloaks will always be on hand to execute the justice of the King’s laws,” Daemon smirked. “Patrols of the city will continue, and the safety of its citizens will remain the priority. And when a Justiciar decides that a criminal no longer has need for his head or his cock, well, the City Watch will always be available.”
The Sea Snake snorted into his cup. “I have no doubts of that, Prince Daemon.”
Otto clenched his fists, feeling cornered and, for the first time in a long time, powerless. “I still must object—”
“You can object until the air permanently flees from your lungs, Otto,” Daemon interrupts, “in fact, I encourage you to do so. It will change nothing. Princess Rhaenyra’s proposal has approval from all other members of the Small Council, but more importantly, it has mine. And as Regent, it is I who wield the power of the Iron Throne, by my brother’s own will, not you. The matter is settled.”
Otto felt his fury boil under his skin, but remained silent, the only sign of his ire the heat in his glare at the infuriating prince. It was no matter, he managed to tell himself, Alicent had reported that the King’s demeanor continued to improve, thus he was certain Viserys would return to his duties within the month. That was hardly enough time for the prince and princess to truly execute this absurd plan, and Otto was confident he could persuade the true King into seeing the fallacy of it. Thanks to his daughter, he knew Viserys truly had no awareness of the mistakes his brother was making during his tenure on the Throne. It was only a matter of bringing them to light.
It was the same thought he had been telling himself throughout this blasted regency – there was only so much damage Daemon could do in this short time period. Otto could right all of it once the King returned.
“Perhaps we can move on to the next matter at hand,” Lord Strong said, “there has been more unrest in the markets from increased prices and scarcer resources.”
“That is hardly under our control,” Lord Beesbury stated, “Outside the harvest, market prices have always depended on the imports from the docks. The tradesman set the prices necessary to turn a fair profit.”
“It seems the overseas traders have raised their prices more than usual for the season.”
“Why?” Rhaenyra asked.
“It is the Stepstones,” Corlys remarked, voice dry but poorly masking his underlying frustration, “The Triarchy have now almost complete ousted the pirates from the islands and have begun exerting their influence over the shipping lanes in tolls and taxes. I warned this council of just this only two moons ago.” The Master of Ships leveled a glare at the Hand.
“We have no confirmation that the developments in the Stepstones are the cause of this,” Otto snapped back.
“What else could it be?” the princess asked, shooting him an exasperated look, “We are months past the Heir’s Tourney and the entire city remains in mourning – there is currently nothing to increase the demands for goods. If the tradesmen are hiking prices, it is because their supply has changed, not the demand. The current harvest has been performing adequately and similar to last year’s, our trade within the Kingdoms remains unchanged, so that leaves the shipping imports.”
Otto scowled at her, while Corlys’s eyes practically glowed with satisfaction.
“We cannot throw the realm into war over a mere theory, princess,” the Hand told her with awful patience. “The prices are not so bad yet. Even if the Triarchy are behind this, I am certain they are simply attempting to replenish their coffers after their wars with the pirates. They will lose interest again in time.”
“And why exactly would they lose interest?” Rhaenyra retorted, “You underestimate the greed of men, Lord Hand.”
“The Stepstones are too broken and troublesome to hold for any significant length of time,” Otto huffed.
“They were troublesome to hold because we made it troublesome to hold,” Corlys argued, “The islands are numerous, it is true, and thus difficult to garrison and defend properly. But they only needed to be so because the Seven Kingdoms, Dorne, and the Free Cities constantly made it the host of our squabbles. After Morion Martell’s embarrassing defeat and death in the Fourth Dornish war, Dorne has been content to isolate herself as she handled the transition of power. If the Crown continues to ignore the Stepstones as well, the Triarchy will have no challenge to their reign over the islands and will continue to profit from them.”
“The Crown has always fought in the Stepstones out of necessity only,” Otto argued back, “If we formally go to war over them, we will always be at war over them. The lords of the Realm would hardly consent to that.”
“The lords of the realm all serve the Crown, do they not? They will consent to it if the Crown commands it.”
“The Crown—”
“This is much discussion over what the Crown will do from men who are not the Crown,” Rhaenyra interjected. She turned to the head of the table. “Uncle?”
Otto barely managed to stop himself from the undignified gesture of rolling his eyes. “I doubt he has been paying attention, Princess,” he said, looking at the prince with disdain. Daemon appeared to be gazing sightlessly over the top of his goblet, fingers tapping aimlessly on the table.
At his words, though, lilac eyes immediately flicked to meet his gaze and a smirk appeared on the prince’s face. Otto’s scowl deepened.
“Well, Daemon?” Corlys prompted.
The prince only continued to silently tap his fingers against the marble for a few more moments, before abruptly standing. “I think that is enough for today. As always, my esteemed lords and niece, thank you for this scintillating meeting. Until tomorrow,” was the Regent’s only remark before leisurely strolling out of the room, golden cloak swishing behind him as Otto glared at his back.
There were sighs released around the room, as everyone shifted and slowly rose from their seats. The princess trotted up to the Sea Snake and departed with him, the two appearing to be deep in discussion. Lord Beesbury and Lord Strong took their own leave, conversing idly with each other and avoiding Otto’s gaze, Grand Maester Mellos following shortly and sluggishly after them.
Otto remained at the table, still and silent as the shadows moved and the chimes of the city bells drifted through the open balcony. He stared at the stone sphere in front of him – once a source of deep pride, now for all intents and purposes nothing but a useless, decorative bauble.
He was supposed to be the second most powerful man in the Realm. He had been so for over ten years, and had served in his position faithfully. When the Old King was so old and ill he could hardly rise from bed, Otto had effectively and efficiently ruled the Seven Kingdoms for years before Viserys ascended the throne. Then, he had become mentor to the new, woefully undertrained King, guiding him with a sure hand and ease of experience.
Now, he was relegated to matching wits with an arrogant prince, an overdressed sailor, and a naïve girl. Younger than his own daughter, no less, princess or no.
It was humiliating.
Otto’s hand lashed out, smacking the stone ball from its pocket, sending it streaking across the table and onto the floor. He stalked out of the Small Council room, the sharp sounds of the orb’s bounces along the stone floor echoing in his wake.
Some days were easier, Viserys found.
Peaceful mornings in his rooms, working on his model. Sun-filled lunches in the gardens, sometimes with company and other times in comfortable solitude. Afternoons walking though the Keep, or lounging in the royal family’s personal library, reading Valyrian histories he had not seen in years. Dinners with his family, bantering with his brother and laughing with his daughter.
Other days were harder.
Finding a handkerchief or ribbon of his wife’s, tucked in some corner of his chambers the servants had missed. Hours spent staring at the bushes that grew Aemma’s favorite flowers, fingers itching to pick a bouquet for a woman that would never receive them. Passing the Queen’s chambers, or her favorite nooks in the castle, looking so frozen in time Viserys could almost smell her sweet scent in the air.
Grief came in waves, Viserys discovered, and while they came fewer and farther between, at times they crested so high that he wondered if he would ever resurface.
Today was one such day. For no particular reason, just acutely missing his love to the point of pain, and wrecked by the guilt that it was his own order, his own ambition, that killed her. Viserys sat in his favored seat by the hearth, gently rolling her small, gold ring in his fingers, stroking the etched falcon on the surface. The fire crackled before him, its warmth heating the metal beneath his touch, and somberly he brought the keepsake to his lips, futilely imagining that it was his wife’s own soft, warm skin.
He was a poor dreamer, indeed.
Wallowing as he was, the knock at his doors was not exactly welcome, but he was expecting both his brother and daughter tonight, and by that point he had grown to understand that these evening meals with his family were just as precious to him as his memories of Aemma.
So when Ser Ryam informed him that it was the Hand, not the prince and princess, at his door, one could imagine the strength of his disappointment.
“Turn him away, Lord Commander,” Viserys grunted, turning back to the fire. The old knight bowed, returning to his post outside the door, and after a moment the Viserys could hear escalating voices, to his great irritation. After some minutes the noises ceased, but the blessed silence only lasted moments before another knock echoed through the chambers.
His patience worn thin, Viserys stalked to his doors to yank them open. “You will cease this at once, Otto, and leave. I have not called for you, I will not admit you.”
“Ah, I suppose this would explain the very irate Hand I just crossed paths with,” said a higher, much more welcome, and amused voice.
He sighed in relief. “Rhaenyra,” he stepped aside to let her through, pressing a kiss to her cheek in greeting.
“Has he been doing that every evening?” his daughter asked, seating herself on another chair by the fire.
Viserys rubbed a hand over his brow tiredly, sinking into his own chair. “No, but he is growing more and more persistent of late.”
“And you are sure you do not want to hear of anything Uncle and I are doing with the Small Council? We are not sitting idly, I’ll have you know. Well, perhaps Uncle is, but I am not.”
“I assumed so, given Otto’s growing racket, but no.”
“You might not recognize your own kingdom when you return then, father,” she joked lightly, a small smile on her lips.
Viserys let out a weak chuckle, but only poured himself a generous cup of wine from the table.
Rhaenyra watched him, her eyes somber, and reached to gently pluck Aemma’s ring from the side table. “One of those days?” she asked quietly. Since Aemma’s death, they had talked extensively of their shared grief. Had reminisced together, cried together, and each time was a balm to his wounded heart. Once more he thanked whatever gods that existed that had mercifully kept him from making the mistake of pushing his daughter away during the darkest time of his life.
“Yes,” he told her, taking a long pull of his drink.
She continued to examine her mother’s ring quietly, the light from the flames flickering over her contemplative face. “Have you thought yet on when you would return? I have found that having work, something to occupy my mind, has helped me, father.”
He could not help but smile at the words. And understatement if he heard one – his daughter was blossoming under her new role and work in the governance of the realm. He might not know of the particulars, but the new confidence flowing from the princess’s form spoke plenty.
“Perhaps, but I am not ready, Rhaenyra. Not just yet,” he said. In truth, he could quietly admit to himself in these dim evenings, he was not certain he ever would be ready. He was not like his brother – he had never been ambitious, with an insatiable drive to prove himself. He was not like his daughter either – to him, ruling the Kingdoms was a duty, and he would never shirk that responsibility, but he had never found any particular motivation or satisfaction from performing it. For years, his inspiration came from that dream of his legacy, and in return that dream had led to the death of his wife.
But he knew, eventually, he would have to return to his duties. He was King, after all. And he owed it to the memory of his dear wife, his brother, and daughter to keep their House strong.
Rhaenyra hummed in acceptance, then offered the ring back to him. He looked at it for a moment, but did not take it. Here was another task he owed Aemma to complete, but had been pushing off out of selfishness. “You should keep it,” he said, trying his level best to keep the reluctance from his voice.
Rhaenyra’s violet eyes, the same shade as her mother’s, widened. “What?”
“Your mother’s ring, it’s yours by right.” It was a thought he had been considering for some time, but in truth he had been too selfish to make the offer until now. Aemma had worn that ring nearly every day he had known her. It was the ring her father had gifted her mother, Daella Targaryen, before she had died in childbed. It had passed from mother to daughter, and should do so again. He should not allow his grief and attachment to rob his daughter of an important family heirloom, one of the few connections she had left to her mother’s Arryn blood.
To his surprise, however, Rhaenyra smiled softly and pushed the ring into his hand and closed his fingers over it. “No, you should keep it, father. She would have wanted you to.”
Viserys shook his head. “It was passed down from her mother, and should go to you, her daughter.”
Rhaenyra gently kept her grip around his closed fist, lowering herself to the rug to kneel before him. “She told me. But it was important to her because it was one of her last connections to the mother she never knew. It was a comfort to her. If she knew how much of a comfort it has become to you, she would want you to keep it, I know it.”
Viserys’s felt his eyes fill with tears, and brought his hand, still clasped around the piece, to his chest. He took in Rhaenyra’s features, so similar to his wife’s, but even more similar was her kind heart, Aemma’s daughter in truth. “Thank you, my child,” he rasped, leaning forward to press a kiss to the top of her head. “I did not deserve either of you.”
He watched as Rhaenyra’s own eyes watered, but she only coughed as she stood. “I would not know what to do with it besides. Daemon gifts me so many jewels and trinkets I can hardly keep track of them and most sit collecting dust anyway.”
“Is that ungratefulness I hear, dear niece? I’ll be sure to never waste a single copper on you again,” a voice called from a corner of the room, causing both father and daughter to nearly jump from their skins.
“Gods be good, Daemon!” Viserys yelped, pressing his hand to his laboring heart, “How in Seven Hells did you get in here without us noticing?”
His brother did not respond as he approached them, and Viserys arched a brow as he came into the fire’s light. “Interesting dining attire, brother,” he remarked drily. Daemon wore a dark, long, hooded cloak, his face shadowed. To others he might appear mysterious and dangerous, but in the warmth of the King’s gilded chambers, he just looked ridiculous. “Have you come to dine with your family or skulk through the bowels of the Flea Bottom?”
Daemon only smirked from under his hood, and held out a cloth sack to him and Rhaenyra each. “Both. Neither,” he said cryptically, gesturing for them to take his offerings.
Viserys furrowed his brow, perusing the contents and pulling out a linen shirt, a simple brown doublet, and nondescript breeches. From the corner of his eye he could see Rhaenyra pulling out a similarly plain dress. “What is this?”
“Put them on.”
Viserys barked a laugh. “Why?”
“Because it would be a terrible inconvenience if anyone realized the entire royal family was out and about in the city,” his brother rolled his eyes.
“We’re going out?” Rhaenyra asked excitedly.
“Yes, zaldrītsos.”
“Daemon, we could not possibly – it’s too much of a risk,” Viserys protested.
“Come, brother,” Daemon cajoled, “We used to sneak out all the time without our father or grandparents being any the wiser.”
“Really? You, Father?” Rhaenyra exclaimed, delighted.
“Oh yes, dear niece. Your father used to be one of the top clients of the Street of S—”
“That was before I was King,” Viserys quickly interjected before his brother could share too much of his sordid past.
“Which will only make it easier – now we only have the dullard Kingsguard to fool, rather than father and grandmother.”
“You wish to leave behind the Kingsguard?” Viserys said with incredulity, “You want the King of the Seven Kingdoms and his only two heirs to traipse around Flea Bottom without protection? Daemon, have you lost your senses?”
“I am more than enough protection for the three of us,” Daemon sniffed, pushing back his cloak to conspicuously rest his hand on Dark Sister’s pommel. “And we are not going to Flea Bottom, I am not that daft. King’s Landing is quite a large city, you realize.”
“Still, it is too much risk,” Viserys continued to protest, shaking his head, “to have the entirety of our House outside the walls of the Keep, with no one else aware of our true whereabouts.”
“No one will recognize us, brother.”
“Even one slip of our hair will reveal our identities, Daemon.”
“No, it will not, not tonight. Look better at my gifts.” He gestured again at the sack still resting on his lap.
Frowning, Viserys opened the bag once more and saw another dark shape at the very bottom. Reaching for it, his frown deepened at the strange texture beneath his fingertips. Grasping it, he pulled it out and studied what appeared to be a bundle of dark, curly strands of hair. “What—” he began to ask, looking back up at the prince, but was rendered speechless at the sight before him.
His brother had at last lowered his hood.
Viserys could not help it. He tilted his head back and roared with laughter.
His brother crossed his arms and scowled at the hysterical King, the short dark brown locks on his head flipped gracelessly across his brow.
Rhaenyra fiddled with the ends of the auburn strands now framing her face as she followed her uncle and father through the lively streets of King’s Landing. The sun was beginning its descent behind the city, casting long shadows with its red glow, and making the Keep appear an even more vivid crimson. Like fire and blood in truth, Rhaenyra could not help but think.
After a long laugh at his brother’s appearance in his wig, the three royals of House Targaryen had donned their disguises and successfully snuck out of the King’s chambers and the castle through the secret passageways her uncle seemed all too familiar with, in contrast to her father, who had absolutely no awareness of their existence. His discovery of them had sent him into another fit of hysterics. At that point, her uncle’s patience, already worn thin by her father’s ridicule of his appearance, had evaporated entirely, and he had threatened to push his brother down the stairs if he did not get a grip. That had sobered the King, but only so he could start arguing with him. (“Why in Seven Hells have you not revealed this to me until now, Daemon? Do you realize how incredible a security risk this is?” “For fuck’s sake, Viserys, you’ve always known there were secret passages throughout the Keep. Maegor was a paranoid cunt.” “Yes, but to the King’s own chambers?!” “It is Maegor’s Holdfast built when Maegor was King! What the fuck did you expect?”)
They’re bickering had continued as they descended to the Keep’s underground. It had continued as they passed the Black Dread’s altar. It had continued as they finally met the open air of King’s Landing.
And it still continued now, as they meandered through streets of the capital.
It had amused Rhaenyra at first, to see her father, the King of the Seven Kingdoms, and her uncle, the Rogue Prince, reduced to such childish behavior. It also sparked a certain warmth in her heart, to see them finally behaving like true brothers, with lighthearted japes and jabs, in stark contrast to what their relationship had been only months ago. She could almost envision them on similar adventures in years past, when they were young, brash, unattached, and in the prime of their youths.
Now, however, she was bored of their squabbling, and focused on absorbing as much of this new experience as possible.
They had reached one of the major market districts of the city, and though the evening grew late, the square remained bustling. The din of buyers bargaining and sellers cajoling bounced throughout the air, and everywhere Rhaenyra looked there was a new spectacle to admire. Many of the grocer’s stands and other shops of more serious or necessary goods had closed for the day, but in their stead eagerly stepped merchants of more frivolous businesses, showing off their flashiest wares to any vulnerable passerby. Bolts of colorful fabrics, bright bowls of spices, decadent perfumes…all displayed in their finest relief to attract as many customers as possible.
She gravitated toward one of the jewelry stands, fingers reaching out to stroke a beautiful hair piece of coral and pearls. The stand’s owner noticed her interest, and approached her, some suspicion in his gaze at her plain dress, but evidently not enough to completely ignore the chance for a potential sale. “My lady has a keen eye and taste,” the portly man remarked, “the coral was cultivated from our very own reefs at White Harbor, and you’ll not find more perfection in color or symmetry than in Lyseni pearls.”
“Indeed,” Rhaenyra agreed, gently picking it up to admire it closer.
“It is worth at least ten gold dragons,” the jeweler told her, “but for a pretty face like yours I will let it go for eight.”
“Interesting, when I saw a similar piece not three months ago for nearly half that price,” a voice interjected from behind. Rhaenyra felt a large hand come to rest on between her shoulder blades, and she glanced up to the looming figure of her uncle. He smiled mischievously at her, as her father approached from her other side.
The jeweler sniffed. “Months ago I could let it go for such a price. But Lyseni pearls are even harder to come by these days, and I am a businessman first and foremost, my good sir.”
Daemon snorted. Rhaenyra shrugged and made to move on, but her uncle’s strong hand on her back pushed her to stay. Shoving a hand into his belt purse, he offered the merchant the requested sum of gold dragons.
Pleased, the jeweler accepted the payment, tucking the coins safely away, while her father rolled his eyes. “Must you always spoil her, brother?”
“Do not think I take my title as your daughter’s favorite uncle for granted, brother. And besides, if pieces like these are indeed to become rarer in this city’s markets, it is even more worth the gold,” Daemon remarked as they watched the merchant begin to carefully wrap the delicate hair comb.
“Tis the truth, sir. In fact, I am uncertain how much longer you’ll be able to find them in King’s Landing. You’ve made an excellent choice.”
“Really,” Viserys asked, “Why?”
The sale had clearly elevated the jeweler’s mood and loosened his tongue, for he told him readily, “Fewer and fewer ships coming to port from those parts, sir. The Free Cities have a chokehold on the shipping lanes, the sailors tell us, and more and more are starting to think it’s too much trouble to deal with the violence and the cost.”
Her father’s brow furrowed at this, while Daemon only hummed nonchalantly, “Hmm, a shame.”
“It really is,” the jeweler told them, handing them their purchase. “Mark my words, though, the lords will feel the effects soon enough, when they are robbed of their precious Essosi luxuries.”
“Of course.”
Rhaenyra had observed the conversation with interest, and when they at last moved away she let her father step ahead of them, his eyes drawn to one of the book stands. Rhaenyra grasped her uncles hand, and when she secured his attention, arched a brow at him. “This little escapade would not have anything to do with today’s Council meeting, would it?” she whispered, the two of them watching the King flip through one of the tomes and chat with the wizened shop keeper.
“I don’t see how it would,” Daemon replied, a smirk crossing his features.
She only rolled her eyes in response. “And did you not say you would not spend another copper on me?” she remarked, nodding at the wrapped package in his grasp.
“Who said this is for you?” he challenged, moving to hide it behind his back. “I have learned my lesson, princess, and will gift this to someone who appreciates my presents.”
Rhaenyra glared. She knew he was likely teasing, but that did not stop the jealousy rising in her chest, hot and bitter. Dragons were possessive creatures after all, and with all the uninterrupted attention she had been enjoying from her uncle these months past, the thought of sharing him with another, lady or whore, left a bitter taste on her tongue. She turned away with a huff. “Of course, I am sure your whores must miss you dearly, occupied as you are with your newfound responsibilities. A gift to sweeten their tempers then?” she sniffed.
“And why would you think my newfound responsibilities would be any such obstacle? I am an excellent multitasker, you know.”
Her ire intensified, and she made to stalk away, but a firm grip on her wrist stopped her and tugged her back. She refused to meet his eye, glaring past his shoulder, when she felt warm fingers brushing back the fake strands of hair at her temple.
“Nothing to your natural hair, of course,” he murmured as he tucked the comb in place, “but I suppose it will do, for now.”
Rhaenyra felt a blush rise beneath her cheeks as she reached up to gently touch the coral and pearls. Her skin felt hot and prickly, made even worse by the warm proximity of his broad chest. She looked up at him and was greeted with a smug but warm lilac gaze. “I was lying before, you know,” she told him, “I treasure every gift you’ve brought me.”
He kissed her forehead. “I know, zaldrītsos.”
They smiled at each other and went to rejoin her father, hands remaining fast together.
“Look at this Rhaenyra,” Viserys told her, handing her a thin, tightly bound leather book with tarnished gold accents along the cover and spine.
She opened it, and was surprised to find the High Valyrian script within. Her fingers gently traced the ink, quickly finding the runes for two very familiar names on the page.
“The myth of Syrax and Caraxes,” she mused with a smile.
“A slightly different telling than the one currently documented in our library at the Keep,” her father told her.
“We have at it Dragonstone, though,” Daemon said, looking over her shoulder.
“Do we? I think it still worth the purchase, though, don’t you? The calligraphy is well done.”
“Yes, and the grammar is perfect,” Daemon agreed, “I’m impressed, brother, you are usually so absorbed in that dull model of yours you typically have no interest in our mythology.”
Viserys scowled at his younger sibling but said, “Yes, well, I have been recently inspired to reread some of our family’s personal texts. Lady Alicent has taken an interest in Valyrian histories and we’ve been working through some of our volumes together.”
Rhaenyra blinked in surprise. Beside her, she felt Daemon stiffen as well. “She has?”
Her father frowned. “Has she not spoken of it with you? She told me her motivation was to have more to connect over and discuss with you.”
“I have not seen her much, recently,” Rhaenyra admitted, a knot of guilt bubbling in her stomach. She knew she had been neglecting her friend, but she had been incredibly busy, meeting with the various Small Council members to earn their support for her small courts proposal and working with Rhaenys to also reimplement the women’s courts. Still, to discover that her friend had instead been spending time with her father, the King, was…disquieting.
“I know you have taken to your new duties with relish, but I think your friend misses your company,” Viserys remarked, oblivious to Rhaenyra’s conflicted expression.
“Come,” Daemon said when Rhaenyra struggled to respond. “Make your purchase, brother, we have other places to visit.”
They continued to explore the market, examining various wares and occasionally buying them. Rhaenyra did not typically carry coin herself, but evidently both her father and uncle had experience in outings like this and had brought full purses. At many stands, Daemon managed to casually remark on the prices, receiving earfuls from merchants and clients alike on the steadily rising tolls suffered by imports from the docks. Each time, her father would frown while Rhaenyra and Daemon exchanged conspiratorial looks behind him.
Eventually their stomachs let their dissatisfaction become known, and the three Targaryens engorged themselves on hot pastries filled with cheese and grilled skewers of meat sold right in the square. They continued to explore as they ate, watching small performances of flaming sticks and juggled blades. When their bellies were warm and full, Daemon began leading them out of the market. The sun sunk completely below the horizon, and torches blazed around them bathing the night in a warm and fiery glow.
It was the best night of Rhaenyra’s life since her mother’s death. She had never experienced the city in this way before. Saw her home in a new light. Had never felt so simultaneously liberated and cocooned before. Relished being arm in arm with her father, hand in hand with her uncle.
Under the stars and surrounded by the cloak of anonymity, she could pretend this had always been her life.
The three heads of the dragon, but a family in truth.
Eventually, they found themselves in a tavern humorously named The Dancing Dragon, earning itself a laugh from both Viserys and Rhaenyra. Daemon smirked to himself as he led them inside. The place was busy, men and women of all walks of life talking and chatting over ale. To their left, a bard sat on a stool on raised stage, lute resting on his lap, some other musicians behind him. He was in the middle of one of the many songs inspired by Aegon the Conqueror, although this one in particular appeared to be one of the bawdier ones (“Reluctant was he in the elder wife’s bed, the Dragon unleashed ten-fold on the younger’s pleasure instead”).
Daemon guided them to the bar, ordering an ale for himself and his brother, and honeyed mead for his niece. The barkeep filled their orders quickly, before leaving them to their own devices to attend to the many other patrons present. They took their drinks to an empty booth and sank into their seats, however, Rhaenyra was quick to abandon them to dance with the crowd as the musicians began to play an even livelier tune.
“I must admit, Daemon,” his brother said to him, “I had my doubts, but your disguises appear to be working well.”
Daemon scoffed, “Of course they are.”
“This night as been good,” Viserys admitted, turning his mug in his hands, “It has been good to see and experience the city like this again. I had not realized how…disconnected I had become from the very people I took an oath to protect. Your moniker of Prince of the City has served you well, brother.”
He shrugged. “King’s Landing has simply been able to hold my interest better than the bores at court.”
“And now? Does court hold your interest better with your regency?” the king asked carefully.
Daemon took a moment to take a long gulp of his ale, silently contemplating his answer. He was not sure if he was ready to answer this question yet, though, so instead he said evasively, “I thought you wished to hear nothing of matters of state, yet.”
“You are correct, I do not,” Viserys stated, though there was an infuriatingly knowing glint in his eye as he raised his own mug to his lips. “Rhaenyra has blossomed with her promotion, though.”
“She has,” Daemon readily agreed, “At times to my detriment. She’s created terribly more work for me.”
Viserys tossed his head back in laughter. “And now you understand how I felt dealing with you, dear brother, although you created work of a different kind. Significantly more headache inducing.”
Daemon chuckled, eyes fixed on Rhaenyra twirling and spinning on the open floor, the comb he had just gifted her glinting in the low light. His niece was effervescent among the small folk, the dull, artificial hair and drab clothes doing nothing to disguise her brilliance. The rosy glow to her cheeks and flashing violet eyes set in her perfect Valyrian features were all that was needed to set her apart from the crowd, for everyone to become aware that there was someone of superior ilk in their midst.
He did not miss the leers of the pathetic cunts who called themselves men around her.
It was no matter, however, because just as Daemon began to feel his tolerance of their hungry looks run short, his niece returned to them, chest heaving and a beguiling smile on her lips. “Come, father, uncle,” she cajoled, extending a hand out to each of them, “Dance with me.”
His brother immediately shook his head, waving his daughter off. “Heavens no, dearest. It has been ages, and I would like to survive this night with my dignity intact.”
Rhaenyra twisted her lips in exaggerated disappointment, but then set her sights on him.
Daemon only smirked at her, silent and unmoving, but she would not be deterred. Reaching, she clasped his hand between both of hers and tugged. “Please, uncle?” she pleaded, widening her eyes and turning up her brows just so in a way that reminded him of a pup, fur still full of down and whimpers escaping its throat.
It was a good thing he had no interest in denying her anything, because at this point he wondered if he was even capable of it, although he would never admit it to himself.
With a sigh, he allowed her to drag him to standing, her pitiful expression quickly morphing to something pleased and smug, and Viserys laughed at his expense yet again. He followed her back to the open floor, ignoring the sneers and glares of her unimportant admirers, and indulgently spun his niece in dizzying circles to the rhythm of the music. Her hand never left his, warm and small and dwarfed in his grasp, and each time he caught her waist after a twirl she dipped her head back to smile into his eyes. In the corner of his gaze he saw his brother watching them closely, but with a contented smile, finger tapping along with the beat on the table.
Daemon had accumulated many monikers over his lifetime. Prince of the City. Lord Flea Bottom. The Rogue Prince. Each was voiced with an even greater variety of emotions behind them. He knew he was loved and hated in equal measure, feared and underestimated, sought after and avoided.
But if there was one trait of his that all, including himself, could agree on, it was his restlessness. His itch to be doing. The constant desire for more. He was a dragon, and a dragon could not be tamed.
Maybe it was age. Maybe it was the responsibility. But tonight, with his niece in his arms and his brother at his back, for the first time since he claimed his mount of the skies, Daemon was beginning to feel…settled.
And he was unsure how he liked it.
“Well, uncle, do you feel you accomplished your goal last night?”
“Whatever do you mean, princess?”
The two dragonriders lounged on the rocky outcropping that had become a routine stop during their morning flights. Sometimes they would quietly observe the sunrise, listening to waves crash against the rocks in comfortable silence. Other times they would discuss their plans and politics, or, more accurately, Rhaenyra would discuss, and Daemon would either whine or play at obtuse. Today, it appeared Daemon was in the mood for the latter.
“I mean our little escapade out of the Keep. You cannot pretend that your only objective was to give poor Ser Ryam an apoplexy.”
“Is my amusement not a sufficient objective?”
“No,” Rhaenyra said, tone flat. She picked at a weed that had managed to break through the stone. “Not with your pointed little marketplace chats on the raised prices and stymied imports. It is unlike you, uncle – subtlety is not typically your strong suit.”
Daemon leaned back against the bluff, the silver strands by his temples blowing in the winds. “Your father still refuses to hear anything on the ruling of the Seven Kingdoms. It would be poor form for a Regent to return a Realm to her King ensconced in war without warning.”
“You think it will come to war? With the Stepstones?”
“It must, zaldrītsos. You know it. For more reasons than just our trade and markets. Whispers have come from the South with the tides. Talk of alliances with foolish Martells.”
Rhaenyra frowned. Dorne, admittedly, was not a matter she had thought of much during her father’s reign. Ever since their humiliation at the hands of King Jaehaerys and his two eldest sons on dragonback, they had retreated with their tail tucked neatly between their legs and had hardly made the smallest noise since. She supposed such boons were always fated to be temporary.
“Otto Hightower had a point, you know,” she said, the words alone prompting a scowl on her uncle’s expression. “Dominion over the Stepstones has changed hands so often because they are difficult to maintain. With each conquest they will need to be properly garrisoned and fortified, which will require gold and men.”
“The Velaryons have plenty of gold.”
“But not enough men.”
“It is good that House Targaryen rules over the Seven Kingdoms, then, not just Driftmark.”
“The Seven Kingdoms may have bent the knee to Aegon the Conqueror, but a call to war during a regency will be weak at best, Uncle. You know that.”
Daemon only hummed, unfolding his long form. Pushing himself to stand, he went to Caraxes and mounted the beast. Rhaenyra followed him, Syrax at trilling at her back.
“Well, uncle? What will you do?” she called, squinting up at him against the morning sun. His distinctive profile was shadowed, but Rhaenyra could discern the small, smug smile on his lips. “Or what have you done?” she realized.
With a great shriek that shook the very air around them, the Blood Wyrm leapt into the air.
To the Lord Admirals of the Triarchy,
The Seven Kingdoms thank you for your considerate eradication of the pirate plague that had afflicted the Stepstones for decades. In return for this favor you have so graciously bestowed on us, we invite you to celebrate your victories and treat with us in King’s Landing.
The last descendants of Valyria look forward to its daughters’ visit.
Daemon of House Targaryen
Regent of Viserys, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm