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Shoving a silk handkerchief under her nose, Alicent Hightower fought to keep the distaste from converging on her lovely features as the grand carriage jolted with every dip and divot encountered. The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms had thought the journey would be reminiscent of the one she undertook as a young girl accompanying her father to King’s Landing for the first time. However, Alicent remembered the latter journey did not conjure as much dust as the one she was in at present.

The Old King’s roads have fallen into disrepair, Alicent noted, eyeing the deepening cracks and crumbling brickwork beyond the lattice window, before yanking the curtains closed. She frowned, playing with the lace lining the ends of her sleeves. If she remembered during the last Small Council meeting, the Realm did not lack for coin. Granted, ‘twas not as monumental a figure it had been during the Conciliator’s reign, but it was still a substantial sum. 

And with Princess Rhaenys travelling by dragon more often than not, it seemed fitting she would not be aware of the state of the Realm’s roads. It was something to add to agenda in the next Small Council meeting, Alicent mused as she rested her back against the velvet cushions.

Alicent sighed, revelling in the rare privilege of actually being by her lonesome. Viserys had been conveyed in his own carriage, one much larger than her own, to accommodate the expansive footrest for his weakening legs. Grand Maester Orwyle had been thought necessary to bring along, his wheelhouse trailing closely behind hers. 

Her husband’s absence meant blessed silence and an air free of the stench of rotting flesh, as well as time to calm her mind before reaching Harrenhal. She needed to prepare herself for the hectic few days ahead. 

Her youngest daughter, her beautiful Daenerys, was to be paraded before all the world like an exotic beast. All manner of barbaric, uncouth and uncivilised heathens had been invited to feast their eyes upon the most beautiful woman in the world. Alicent shuddered at the prospect of being within proximity of the beastly masters of Slaver’s Bay. What in the Seven was Viserys thinking? She shook her head, dissuading herself from that train of thought, lest she drive herself to madness. Matters involving the King rarely entailed good sense, she’d come to find. 

Already, Alicent’s patience had been tried before she’d even set foot in Harrenhal proper. Seeing Rhaenyra and her bastards at the Antlers for the first time in three years, lavished and doted upon by her blind husband, who did not see them for the impostors they were. It took everything within the Queen not to strangle and dig her nails into Rhaenyra’s pretty, pale neck. 

“Good things come to those who embody the Mother’s grace,” Alicent reminded herself aloud, clasping the seven-pointed star hanging from her neck. The words written in her father’s last letter to her before her departure from the capital was seared into her mind: "The Strongs will reunite in their family hall once more. Her wickedness will be unveiled, her true nature laid bare. Their likeness to their Strong sire…it will be so that the King would not be able to deny, not beneath the glare of all the world."

Although she misliked the coming event on behalf of her daughter, Alicent could not deny the boon their cause had been presented. Mayhaps all those years Alicent devoted to convince her husband to disinherit Rhaenyra over her children’s obvious bastardy were wasted, when it is Viserys himself who indirectly sought to arrange for his favoured child’s downfall. After all, what could be more humiliating than this?

“Those who bear the Crone’s patience shall find succour in her arms,” the Queen chanted softly, wincing when the carriage jostled, dipping slightly to the left. The future of the Realm may seem dark, but Alicent found comfort at the knowledge that all her children would be together under one roof for the first time in years. Daeron, her sweet, loving babe, was waiting for her. Yet he would not be the boy small enough to curl in her arms, but a man of four-and-ten, ready to be wed and bled in war. All the years she could have seen Daeron grow, lost forever to the wind. Alas, it was yet another one of the many sacrifices Alicent had made since Viserys chose her to be his Queen. 

The terse shouts and hollers from beyond the four walls of her carriage grew sharply in volume, startling the small Queen. It did not escape her notice that the carriage had stopped as well. Bandits? The thought crossed Alicent’s mind and her fingers crept to the dagger stashed beneath the cushioned seats, purposely left there by Criston. What death-loving fools would dare attack the most protected travelling party in the Seven Kingdoms, with seasoned knights and Kingsguards of unparalleled skill? 

A knock on the carriage door pulled her gasp from her lips. 

“My Queen?” 

Alicent sighed in relief. “Ser Criston. Pray tell me why have we stopped? Is there trouble ahead?”

“Nay, my Queen,” the reply came, muffled as it was, “we have passed the God’s Eye and ‘tis a matter of time till we arrive at Harrenhal. But it appears we have reached the Yi-Tish encampment and…by the Seven…‘tis…forgive me, I can’t explain it, Your Grace. The King himself has alighted from his carriage–”

Curious, irritated and alarmed in equal measure, Alicent shoved the door open herself in her impatience. She had barely gleaned what lay beyond that had enraptured all so dearly before yelping at the blinding glare that greeted her. Thrusting an arm in front of her to shield her eyes, Alicent blinked away the spots that clouded her vision, a gasp leaving her lips at the gleaming monstrosity that nestled upon the soft grass. The pavilion beside it, to her shock, was not made of fine silks and upheld with thick wooden poles as was the norm, but hewn from stone. 

As Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and a daughter of the Hightower, Alicent had always been surrounded by luxuries all her life. However, all of this went beyond the pale.

“Mother’s mercy,” Alicent breathed, marvel lacing her voice. 

“Such craftsmanship!” Her husband’s voice drew her away from her awed trance. The Lord of the Seven Kingdoms hobbled ahead to get a closer look, his Kingsguard minders dashing after him, their boots trodding upon the dirt. Alicent picked up her skirts and followed after them once she saw Viserys stumble, Criston instantly shadowing her steps. Although the wounds on His Grace’s legs were easily remedied by the Dittany balms that had mysteriously appeared on the city streets, Viserys’ health remained fragile. Alicent had been doubly concerned over how the travails of such a hard journey would impact Viserys’ well-being, but it was not one the King himself could avoid. Viserys’ pride would not stand for it either, for he understood that he would be the first monarch to preside over a gathering filled with dignified representatives of all kingdoms across the world. Not even Targaryen kings of the past would have such a feat written under their names by the maesters. 

“Why, I have not seen such a marvel in all my years!” Viserys continued, his thin frame drowning in a sea of dark furs and velvets to ward off the slight chill. He leaned on his cane, the rubies on his crown paling next to the sheer brilliance the palanquin exuded. “And how were they able to build such a marvel on such short notice? I must know who is responsible for this. Maesters and masons alike must know!”

“Your Grace–” Alicent began.

“Alicent! Do you not see how utterly marvellous this is?” Viserys exulted, ignoring the anxiety pouring from her eyes. 

“Indeed. It seems none but the Smith could craft such wonders, husband,” Alicent said, a smidge exasperated. “Mayhaps we can learn more once we reach Harrenhal itself? I’m certain we could arrange a proper visit to all the dignitaries once we’ve washed and rested.” She stared pointedly at the hulking eyesore that was Harren’s hubris. However, the sight of a cobalt blue dragon flying about one of its stunted towers caused her heart to skip a beat. Tessarion could fit into the palm of her hand when she saw her last, but now, Daeron’s dragon had grown impressively. 

Viserys’ excitement dimmed slightly, sobering from the realisation that he was in no state to receive visitors, no less foreign princes. “Ah, yes, you may be right, Alicent,” the King murmured, before brightening again. “I suppose Rhaenyra and my grandsons have arrived. Let us not keep them waiting.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” she responded through gritted teeth. 

The rest of the royal party proceeded as intended. Alicent could barely restrain her own excitement as she spotted a neat line of silver heads among a sea of black, brown and yellow, ones she had brushed and caressed so often during their childhood. Her heart soared when she noticed the third boy standing next to Helaena; though she had not seen him since he journeyed for Oldtown when he was but a babe, Alicent would recognise her youngest child under any circumstance.

Alicent’s heart demanded that she go and embrace Daeron this instant as she stepped out of her wheelhouse with Ser Criston’s assistance. But her mind, ever chained to duty, firmly held her feet in place. 

All gathered bowed in unison the moment Viserys made his appearance and Alicent hurried to stand by his side. The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms surveyed the scene, her amber gaze instantly locking with of her father’s. Ser Otto Hightower nodded her, as did the fair-haired man who stood beside him, a glint of pride and avarice in his eye as he bowed. Cousin Ormund, Alicent thought. She had not seen him since before his marriage years ago, and she had left for King’s Landing soon after. And now he is Lord of the Hightower. 

Alicent could not let her eyes linger upon her kin for long, her attention quickly moving to the other lords and ladies gathered in Harrenhal’s enormous courtyard. Westerlanders, Riverlanders, Reacher, Valish and Marcher lords stood beneath the cracked spires of Harren the Black’s elephantine horror of a keep. They had likely not seen one another since the Grand Council nearly three decades prior, or were adjusting to the faces, both new and old. 

It did not take long for her to notice the odd tension that appeared to simmer beneath the surface. At first, Alicent assumed that old enmities such as the Brackens and the Blackwoods were the cause. T’would not be illogical to presume with hot-headed, prideful lords rubbing shoulders with one another under a single roof. But it seemed, upon further inspection, that it was something else. 

It did not take long for Alicent to learn why.

All eyes could not help but flit in the direction of the Crown Princess and her three sons. Although they maintained a significant distance from the Strongs, it was a futile effort, and did nothing to stop heads from turning back and forth. Were she to be alone, Alicent would have collapsed onto her knees and sent a prayer of thanks to the Seven above. Now they all know that all I’ve spoken was the truth. ‘Tis she who is proven to be the traitress, the deceiver, the bearer of falsehoods. My prayers to the Father Above for justice has been answered. Alicent bit down on her tongue to prevent the elated smile from bursting onto her features. Even if Viserys remained blind, the rest of the Seven Kingdoms do not. These very same hot-headed, prideful lords would never lower their heads to a bastard. Aegon’s cause was all but assured.

“Your Graces,” Princess Rhaenys greeted, her voice resonant and proud. “I trust your journey was well?”

“Cousin Rhaenys,” Viserys responded warmly, the two cousins clasping their hands for a brief moment, “fear not. There was nothing impeding us from reaching Harrenhal on this blessed day.” The King looked about, frowning in confusion. “Where is Ser Simon? I should like to thank him for proving himself a fine and accommodating host.”

At this juncture, one of the Strongs stepped forward. 

Alicent blinked, eyes widening at the eerie resemblance the man in question bore to the late Ser Harwin. Despite being of a more slender frame than the famed ‘Breakbones’ and far shorter, the facsimile was undeniable. It was undoubtedly a point of pain for Rhaenyra and her sons, with Jacaerys seeming as if he’d just seen a ghost. 

“Your Grace, I beg forgiveness. Mine father, Ser Simon, has taken ill last eve and is unable to rise this morn,”

Alicent caught her husband’s glance, exchanging wary looks. Whispers broke out, and from the corner of her eye, Alicent noted Rhaenyra’s staunch refusal to meet anyone’s gaze, her purple eyes distant. Curiosity and intrigue burned within the Queen. Something must have happened. It was the first time she could say she was eager to speak with her father.

“Has the maester been to see him, ser–?”

“Ser Wylis, my Queen, firstborn son to Ser Simon,” the man bowed, “and aye, our very own…maester,” a look of discomfort flashed in the man’s dark brown eyes, so brief that Alicent would not have caught it had she been any less observant, “has seen to my sire’s every comfort. He is well taken care of.”

“Then we pray for the speedy return of Ser Simon’s good health,” Viserys muttered hastily, before murmuring a quick ‘thank you’ when presented with bread and salt. After the customary welcome was concluded, Alicent went through the motions, plastering a polite smile as Ser Wylis and his family escorted them into the monstrous, dreary castle. The Unsullied seemed to choke the halls and the bridge that led to the tower housing her children, their presence both assuring and unsettling her. Shivers tingling down her spine as she walked, Alicent breathed a sigh of relief once she was left alone in her rooms, her neck and shoulders stiff with tension.

Not long after, a knock on the door diverted her from her painfully brief moment of relaxation.

“My Queen? Ser Wylis ordered me to arrange you a bath–”

“Come in,” Alicent ordered, unable to keep the exhaustion from seeping into her voice.

Once the tub was filled with warm water, Alicent undressed. She washed the dust off of her skin, before moving on to her hair. A maid began to rub fragrant oils into her scalp, using a comb to distribute it to the thick locks falling down her back. Were she in the Red Keep, Alicent would have stayed in the bath for a while longer, but she was not. There were duties she must fulfil as Queen for this ‘Event of the Century’, however, seeing her children, seeing Daeron after so long, was the least onerous of all.

Dressed in green and smelling of roses, Alicent made haste to her children, Ser Criston dogging her steps. The maid had mentioned that they were all congregating in Helaena’s room, likely because it was closest to hers and that she’d be paying a visit. The Kingsguard that stood in front of Helaena’s door, Ser Rickard Thorne, bowed before opening the door and announcing her arrival. Criston took position by the door next to Ser Rickard, a vigilant hand ever on his morningstar.

“Her Grace the Queen,”

“Mother,” Aemond greeted cordially, straightening from where he had sat by the windowsill.

“My children,” Alicent sighed, to see them all together in one room was a blessed sight. She noticed Daenerys, still veiled, gently nudging Daeron forward, encouraging him. With her youngest a mere few steps away from her, she could finally take in her son. Daeron had already overtaken her height by a head. His purple eyes were soft and kind, so unlike the hard glint in Aemond’s and the playful gleam in Aegon’s whenever the boy planned to misbehave. Although Daeron bore the silver hair and purple eyes of a Valyrian, his face, Alicent noticed, were entirely hers. 

“Oh, my sweet boy,” she whispered, her voice cracking slightly as she opened her arms. Her heart soared when Daeron readily stepped forward to embrace her, his head nuzzling into the crook of her neck. She clutched him to her tightly, as if afraid that he’d be wrenched back and sent to Oldtown without delay. “The Mother shines her grace by returning you to me.” Alicent pulled back, cupping Daeron’s face gently. “I trust you are well? Your uncle writes that you’re of good health, with a lusty appetite!” Daeron blushed, Aegon and Daenerys chuckling behind him. 

“I am well, Mother,” Daeron answered, before lowering his gaze. “I am glad to see you as I am my siblings,”

Alicent smiled, caressing his silver hair. Then she looked up, her eyes honing in on her youngest daughter. 

“Daenerys? Remove that veil, child. There is no need to remain hidden amongst kin.”

Daenerys promptly did as she was told. Alicent smothered the gasp that threatened to escape. Daenerys was truly a woman grown now, and with it, trouble was to come, this Alicent was certain. Her beauty was soon to be unveiled to all the world and what man would not be struck by it? Rumours already abound that Daenerys had enticed Daemon away from his third wife with her looks alone. She had tried her hardest to squash such a rumour, but it was a problem with no end when Daemon remained in King’s Landing. Alicent shivered, a sudden discomforting notion that there shall be more men to battle for her daughter’s attention in the coming days.

The sharp gasp that came from Daeron reminded her that he had likely not remembered what Daenerys looked like. Her youngest son stood wide-eyed, eyes clouded before he shook his head as if to right himself.

Resting a hand on Daeron’s shoulder, Alicent looked sternly at the rest of her children.

“I trust that none of you have caused trouble for your nephews?” 

The question was more for Aegon and Aemond, but it was Daenerys who responded.

“They didn’t do anything.”

“We didn’t have to,” Aegon added, “not when everyone could see it.”

“You should have been here, Mother,” Aemond interjected, a satisfactory glint that bordered on cruel manifested in his eye, “hardly anyone could believe their eyes, especially the Strongs. A fly would have taken residence in their mouths with how widely their jaws had dropped.”

“‘Twas mortifying,” Daenerys said, “none more so than for Rhaenyra, I would gather. But I pity my nephews, they’re paying for their mother’s actions.”

A frisson of relief, satisfaction and delight ran through Alicent’s veins, though frustration abound within her. They were the enemy, and Rhaenyra was not a party to sympathise with, not when she’d have no compunction with slaying her half-siblings should she ascend the throne. “Your sister has none to blame but herself. Had she simply done her duty,” she stressed the word Aegon’s way, “this could all be easily avoided.”

Aegon snorted. “But you don’t pray for that, do you? Her missteps are to our gain,”

Alicent’s lips tightened. “Be that as it may, we must ensure that we do not enact any missteps of our own. There will be more eyes upon us than ever, and I must insist that you all comport yourself as befitting your royal status, is that clear?”

A chorus of “Yes, Mother,” followed, and Alicent nodded in satisfaction. It would have to do for now. 

She stiffened when she heard a knock on the door. Alicent frowned, her head turning to see who it was. The door creaked open and Ser Criston poked his head through the gap. 

“My Queen, Ser Otto requests an audience,”

Alicent took a deep breath. “Let him through,”

Ser Criston disappeared momentarily, before reappearing. “He kindly beseeches your presence alone,”

The Queen sighed through her nose. “I see. Children, I shall see all of you for supper–”

“I should like to accompany Daenerys for supper,” Helaena interrupted. Her sweet, innocent girl had thus far stayed silent, barely reacting when either herself or Viserys alighted from their respective carriages. “I do not want her to remain alone,” 

Alicent’s frown deepened. “Will your ladies not sup with you, Daenerys?”

“I could not let them be away from their families, not even to accompany me,” Daenerys said, seemingly unbothered with being by her lonesome, a notion that Alicent found more agreeable as the years passed by. “‘Tis alright, Helaena, I will be perfectly alright by myself,”

Helaena gave her sister an unreadable look, then looked away to stare at a spider crawling along the ceiling.

“If you say so,”

“Go on, all of you,” Alicent gestured with a subtle tilt of her head, “we shall speak again soon,”

As soon as her children left, Otto Hightower emerged. There was a glimmer in his eye, one that suggested he’d been plotting. And yet, when has he not? Alicent had not seen him since he was once more banished from the capital, though he never failed to make his presence known through his many letters. 

“My Queen,” he bowed low. 

“Father, I trust you’re in good spirits?”

A hint of a smile tugged at Otto’s thin lips. “Indeed. I dare say my health and spirits have never been better,” Her father strode further into the room; despite the relaxed gait he espoused, Otto Hightower seemed to command the very room, a trait Alicent herself had never managed in all her years as Queen. 

Grey peppered Otto Hightower’s hair and beard, much more abundantly than last Alicent had seen him. The crow’s feet springing from the corner of his eyes had deepened, and so had the wrinkles lining his forehead. 

“Princess Rhaenyra’s cause is on the brink of collapse,” Otto Hightower continued, filling a chalice with wine. “After the disastrous welcoming the day before, less and less are flocking to her side.”

“Which Houses remain steadfast to her cause?” Alicent asked, accepting a goblet offered her way. 

“Celtigar, Westerling, Bar Emmon, Sunglass and of course, the Vale and the North,” Otto replied, though there was a smirk that stubbornly remained in place. “However, I’ve received reports of…dissenting voices amongst the vassals of Houses Stark and Arryn. Foremost among them are Houses Manderly and Waynwood.”

Alicent’s eyes widened in understanding. “Daenerys’ ladies,”

Otto hummed. “We should have arranged for ladies of esteemed Houses to serve Helaena much earlier. What oversight!” He lamented, before his tone shifted to that of the unfeeling statesman once more. “No matter. Ladies will be found for her as it was for Daenerys. Mayhaps Borros Baratheon would be keen on relieving one of his Four Storms to our care,”

Alicent watched as Otto laid his chalice to the side, the resulting thud seeming to echo throughout the room. Dread filled her at what her father would say next, and how prophetic she was.

“Years have passed, with maesters aplenty to see to them, and yet I see Helaena’s womb remains empty. This is serious, Alicent,” Otto emphasised, his tone making it as if she was at fault for Helaena’s alleged infertility. “Should things proceed as they are, then we would have no choice but to have their marriage annulled.”

Alicent’s head snapped up at that, aghast. 

“Annulled?” She spat out the word as if it were poison. “They were wed before the Seven! Their union has been blessed by the gods–”

“Has it truly?” Otto cut in. “A child further cements the bond between man and wife. You know this. None can so easily tear them asunder should a son be born.”

Rage spiked within her. 

“And so you’d have Helaena humiliated ‘fore all the Realm? That would hurt our cause more than you’d imagine!”

“Our cause is already under threat, Alicent. Aegon’s position is precarious so long as he does not have a son of his own to succeed him.”

“T’was your idea to push Aegon to wed his sister,” Alicent cursed, spittle flying from her lips, “I chose Helaena because she was older, and a more expedient choice rather than having to wait for Daenerys to mature. And now when you’ve considered her a failure, you’re calling for an annulment! I know you care little for any of your children, Father, but must you put your own granddaughter through the shame no woman wishes to experience? She is young yet!”

“I do care, Alicent,” Otto’s voice softened, “I care for Helaena a great deal. But she would suffer further humiliation as a childless Queen. Think of it carefully, Alicent, and dispense with your emotions. Once an annulment is granted, the King would not have any recourse for disallowing Helaena the privilege to wed whomsoever she desires. Unlike her older half-sister, I dare say she would not misuse such a privilege.”

Alicent took a deep breath, her voice nearly shaking as she spoke.

“I trust you have a noble lady in mind for Aegon to be wed to?”

Otto pursed his lips. “I had considered one of Baratheon’s daughters, but we already have the Baratheons on account of Princess Rhaenys, and we need not waste a future King when Daeron’s hand is still unattached. Tyshara Lannister came to mind as well; the wealth of the Lannisters would bolster us immeasurably. I believe Lord Elmo Tully’s daughter is nearly of age, but in short, the possibilities are endless. We should ensure they be invited to serve as Helaena’s ladies once you return to the Red Keep.”

“So my daughter will be served by those who seek to replace her,” Alicent muttered derisively, taking a bitter sip of her wine. 

“And what of Daenerys?” She continued, pacing the room restlessly. “Would her role be…as we discussed it to be?”

“My views have not changed on the matter. Daenerys will do as she is told. She will marry Aemond as the King decreed it, but should Aegon require a more…tender hand to direct him, then we will proceed as discussed.”

Swallowing the stone that seemed lodged in her throat, Alicent let out a humourless laugh.

“The Mother must not think much of me. I’ve allowed one daughter to be repudiated and another to be treated as no better than a whore by her brothers.”

“Both Helaena and Daenerys are dragonriders,” the former Hand stressed, “and royal princesses of the Realm. Their wombs will bear further royal progeny for House Targaryen, possible future dragonriders and a boon for House Hightower. Our House’s name will echo through the ages, our blood carrying through the next generation of Targaryen kings,”

Alicent shook her head. Every word her father said rang hollow, his lofty declarations of greatness experienced by all but her. She was the great sacrifice for her family’s ambitions, another attempt at injecting Hightower blood into the ruling House after Ceryse Hightower’s abject failure. Her House has ascended to greater heights through her marriage and children with Viserys, but it was she who bore the cost. And now…her daughters were to suffer, if possible, a worse situation than she had.

Helaena may be granted the freedom of marrying whom she wished, but the stain wrought upon by repudiation was not one easily cleansed. Who will take her to wife? Alicent thought, her mind run rife with a myriad of horrifying scenarios. Who will wed her willingly once allegations of infertility proliferate should the annulment be granted? Father may say he cares for Helaena, but there is no possibility that he could not foresee this future for her. Helaena’s potential fate as an unwed spinster cut Alicent deeply, yet disappointment arose within her–an emotion she had begun to associate with Otto Hightower.

Her father sighed, exasperated and seeing further need to placate her. “As their mother, you will be given final approval on the list of prospective brides, that I promise you. Helaena will be released from the duty of queenship and spared the rigours of childbed.”

With a faraway look in her eyes, the next few words slipped past her lips unintentionally, tinged with the years of buried resentment. 

“Did you ever thought to spare me from such burdens, Father?”

Silence met her and yet, it was all the answer she needed.

“I see,” Alicent said, her face blank. She should have expected it, in fact, she’d known it all along. However, despite the confirmation she received, it was but a mere flesh wound that had scabbed over time. Were she two decades younger, nothing but the innocuous, naive Lady Hightower, the hurt she’d have felt would have been unbearable. Now…now I care not. 

“Alicent–”

“I shall see you at supper, Ser Otto,”

Taking it for the dismissal it was, Otto reluctantly stood and left the room, unable to glimpse the lone tear that fell from an amber eye.

“–and as I understand it, your husband is away on another of his voyages?”

Rhaenys drummed her fingers against the table, endlessly bored, though mindful to continuously entertain the Myrrish diplomat.

“Indeed,” Rhaenys smiled wanly at the wizened old woman, “Gods willing he shall find his way back to Westerosi shores in time,”

Blessedly, the conversation petered out, and Rhaenys was left to observe the goings-on about the Strongs’ hall.

The Hall of a Hundred Hearths was filled to the brim with the highest echelons of society the world could offer. It had likely not borne witness to such a sea of people since The Great Council, and would likely never see its like again. The hall was extremely well-lit, its chandeliers painstakingly dusted until it gleamed, candles numbering in the thousands illuminating the otherwise gloamy castle. The unpleasant hole in the great hall’s ceiling had been patched over, as Ser Simon promised. She was relieved none of their esteemed guests could see how hasty a job it was, due to the sheer colossal scale Harren built his keep.

The King of the Seven Kingdoms stood at the head of a table that extended to almost every corner of the vast chamber. Plates piled high with delicacies of all kinds were laid out in a neat line, with a seemingly endless trail of servants milling into the hall bearing steaming dishes, their fragrant aroma filling the air. The Westerosi nobles were mingling with the Braavosi, likely discussing trade deals over a plate of figs. She spied her cousin Daemon wearing an affable expression as he spoke to who was most likely to be Prince Reggio Haratis of Pentos. Pentos. Her heart squeezed in pain as she thought of Laena, her fierce, beautiful girl dead for eight years, time never lessening the pain that came with her death. And now Laenor…

Rhaenys curled her hand into a fist, shifting her gaze away from Daemon lest she lose composure and spew hatred from her eyes. Her spies were close, she could feel it. The last missive she’d read, her spies had traced Laenor’s steps to Lys, or a man who bore remarkable resemblance to her son. Furthermore, t’was his companion who gave his identity away–Ser Qarl Correy, Laenor’s lover and co-conspirator in his ‘murder’. As she had expected, Laenor had shaved his head, but Ser Qarl did not bother changing any such aspect of his appearance, as witnesses attested. But it was all for her benefit. Her son shall return and justice will be served for all the ills House Velaryon had suffered.

She shifted her focus away from Daemon, unable to stomach the sight of him for long. 

The Northerners had arrived earlier this eve and once rested and dressed in their rather drab attire, joined the feast upon invitation of the King. However, they appeared regretful of ever agreeing to the latter, standing awkwardly to the side and eyeing with suspicion the collection of foreigners garbed in vibrant colours and flouncing feathers. All the Westerosi lords gave the Masters of Slaver’s Bay a wide berth, unable to keep the disdainful stares from clouding their eyes. They were hard to ignore, slathered head to toe in gold, with golden rings hanging from their nose, ears, necks and wrists. The slavemasters themselves were otherwise unbothered by the tidal wave of hatred emanating from the Westerosi, instead making good conversation with the newly arrived Qartheen delegation. 

Swathed in colourful, vibrant silks and gems hanging from their wrists and ears and sprinkled in their hair, the Qartheen were certainly an odd lot with their extremely pale, milky skin. Rhaenys understood that their women dressed with one breast bare, but she appreciated that they were well-aware and adjusted accordingly. Delegates were sent from the Pureborn, but their rivals amongst the Thirteen, the Tourmaline Brotherhood, and the Ancient Guild of Spicers had sent their own representatives as well, glaring at one another throughout the duration of the event. Rhaenys shifted uneasily in her seat. She knew how extremely cutthroat the situation is in Qarth and she dearly hoped that they were not stupid enough to poison one another whilst being foreign guests.  

Prince Bu Jian was engaged in lively talks with a group of ladies hailing from the Westerlands. The prouncing peacock was bedecked with jewels of all shapes and sizes, his odd–was that a dress?–attire flashing its appreciative audience with the intricacy of the wingless dragons of Yi Ti painted onto his silks. Rhaenys could not help the amusement she sported as the debonair fool snapped his silver fan open to his congregation of brainless hens, resulting in a chorus of oohs and aahs. But it was not the preening ponce that ultimately drew the eyes of all–of both men and women–nay, t’was the man who stood a table down from the Yi-Tish prince that bore that particular privilege. 

Towering over all and failing to appear conspicuous even if attempted, the Lengii were as scandalously garbed as most of the Essosi. Their women bared their abdomens with pride, graceful limbs adorned with golden cuffs and pearl tassels. They wore thin circlets with a small, green gem at its centre, while the men kept their heads bare to exhibit their long, silky raven hair. Prince Haigos was no exception, though he was dressed more finely than his entourage, with thick, heavy golden necklaces encircling his neck. He wore a long-sleeved silk robe of the most pristine white, silver stitching lining the hem and collar. 

Rhaenys admitted that Haigos might be one of the handsomest men present. Even her granddaughter Baela was shooting him longing looks, as were a dozen or more ladies of fine breeding. Rhaena, she found, could not resist admiring him either, with his fine features, soft lips and high cheekbones, and the stark contrast between his pale skin and black hair, he seemed created to lure attention.

The Hand had heard the whispers emanating from Harrenhal’s training yard, how the handsome Prince Haigos had made, mayhaps, a daring first move for Daenerys despite the King making it clear t’was not a gathering for suitors. Brave…or foolish? Indeed, neither Daenerys’ betrothed nor her oldest brother Aegon semed pleased, sending glacial stares poot Haigos’ way. Rhaenys snorted into her goblet at the scene. Alicent’s older sons appeared threatened by the appearance of a charming, handsome suitor in the shape of the Lengii Prince, and it seemed, according to one of the Velaryon guards, that Daenerys was quite receptive to his attentions. She’d even accepted a gift of incomparable value from the Prince. 

Mayhaps they have the right of it…to feel threatened, that is, Rhaenys thought, as she watched Haigos look about the room, his initial intrigue turned into one of disappointment and disinterest. It was clear to Rhaenys that he was looking for, mayhaps even expecting someone. Who else than Viserys’ famously beautiful daughter, who foiled the Triarchy’s plans by bewitching their pawn with her looks alone? 

But could Daenerys resist this Prince Haigos? She dearly hoped the girl was not like Rhaenyra, who would not hesitate to hop into bed with whoever caught her fancy. Gods knows all the travails that had befallen Rhaenyra and those around her were the result of her inability to be dutiful. 

The woman in question sat close to the King’s table, surrounded by her sons. She did not appear to be enjoying herself, not even taking the opportunity to dance and mingle with their guests. Her eyes remained resolutely on her plate, only deigning to converse with her sons in an attempt to distract them from the elephant in the room. For in spite of Prince Haigos’ monopoly over the eyes of many, Rhaenys could not help but notice the eyes that first settled on the Strongs–seated across Princess Rhaenyra’s table, in visible discomfort–then naturally strayed to her three brown-haired sons. Some smirked, others laughed, while a majority clutched at their pearls. Even the rotten slavemasters could see it, Rhaenys thought, pushing down the urge to laugh scornfully. 

The Lord of the Seven Kingdoms may command his Westerosi subjects to follow his will, yet in truth, he could not command the same of his foreign guests. Viserys was King, but he was not their king. And he could not cut out the tongues of foreign princes and dignitaries without risking an all-out war with a foreign power. If that were to happen, then even Rhaenys herself would refuse to be party to such foolishness. She doubted that Viserys would ever do such a thing, incongruent as it is to his character, but she never expected her gentle, lily-livered cousin to lock his daughter in a tower and purchase the Unsullied to guard it. 

But doing harm to a dignitary who is already protected under guest right would blacken Viserys’ name and reign until the end of time, Rhaenys thought, and it seemed her cousin knew it well.

Viserys’ previously bright mood had soured a tad. Although many within the King’s Court believed him to turn a blind eye when it suited him, in this case, it seemed that he could no longer do so. The stares were too obvious for the King to ignore, and even Viserys could not help flitting his gaze between the Strong men and Harwin’s misbegotten get. Do you see now, Viserys? Rhaenys hummed beneath her breath. She then locked eyes with the Queen, who was the complete opposite of her husband. 

Alicent Hightower sat with her chin raised high, her shoulders relaxed in a way Rhaenys had never once seen. Her lovely face was pulled into a soft, albeit triumphant smile as her daughter is honoured while her enemies have been dealt a fatal blow without the need for swords drawn. The Queen called for joyous tunes to be played and confectionaries to be distributed to guests earlier than planned. Nothing could ruin her mood, it seemed, appearing resplendent in her dark green gown lined with ermine. The Hightowers mirrored their Queen’s mood, despite the girl of the hour purposely left out of the celebrations by the King himself.

“I shall ask him to dance,” Baela’s voice pulled her from her musings, causing Rhaenys to turn to her granddaughter. Rhaena, who sat to Baela’s right, frowned.

“‘Tis always the man who should ask the lady to dance,” Rhaena reminded Baela. Rhaenys smiled warmly at her youngest grandchild, always mindful of her courtesies and her dogged determination on what she considers to be ‘right’. “And would you not look silly? Prince Haigos would appear as if he was toting around a babe!”

Baela snapped her head around to shoot her twin a look of betrayal. 

“Rhaena! As my sister, you are meant to support me!”

“I am supportive of you, by saving you from humiliating yourself,”

“Fine, then I will ask grandmother for support!” Rhaenys smiled in amusement at the exchange, readily turning to find Baela’s features firm and resolute. “Grandmother, I intend to dance with Prince Haigos of Leng ‘fore the night ends.”

“So I’ve heard,” Rhaenys smirked at the dark blush rising on Baela’s cheeks. “He’s quite the handsome man, isn’t he?”

Baela’s blush deepened. “I-It isn’t just that!” She insisted, though her eyes couldn’t resist sneaking another peek at the handsome Lengii royal, who was conversing with one of his men. “He was most courteous and kind, and he is a skilled warrior. I saw him in the training yard and I dare say he could almost be on par with Father,”

Rhaenys cocked her brow, a slight uptick plucking the corner of her mouth. Oh, her poor girl was besotted. 

“Is he? Well, let not your father hear you say such things. He would challenge Prince Haigos to a duel in an instant.” At that, Baela giggled, nodding. “But I agree with Rhaena. A lady, especially a member of House Targaryen and a dragonrider, could not be seen asking - nay, begging - for a dance from a man, Prince or no. Should he desire it, Prince Haigos must rise and ask for the honour himself,”

Baela pouted, then sighed. 

“There are many eligible Westerosi lords who would crave a moment of your time. Mayhaps even one of your cousins will ask you to dance…?” Rhaenys paused at the look of absolute revulsion on Baela’s face. “I do not mean Princes Aegon and Aemond. Your cousin Daeron has returned. It would be a good opportunity to meet him seeing as you have never did so before.” She gestured at Viserys’ youngest son, a good-looking boy that bore much of Alicent’s soft features while espousing the Valyrian colouring. And he rides a dragon of his own, known as The Blue Queen, I gather. Rhaenys nodded to herself. Aye, it would not be so bad. 

It seemed Alicent bore the same line of thought as she did, watching as the auburn-haired Queen leaned over to whisper to Daeron, her amber eyes locking with her own briefly before directing it to Baela. Rhaenys liked that the boy listened without protest, rising to his feet and walking over to Baela’s end of the table. She watched as Daeron stopped before Baela, offering a courteous bow and politely asking her to a dance. Baela stilled, purple eyes widening in surprise, her head snapping to the side so quickly that her silver curls bounced erratically at the movement. 

“Go on,” Rhaenys urged her granddaughter. 

Baela only hesitated for a second more, before abruptly taking Daeron by the hand, almost dragging him away. Daeron appeared nonplussed, most likely unused to the fiery nature of Targaryen women in comparison to the meek ladies he must’ve been surrounded with at Oldtown. The boy bore it well, however, erasing all traces of his surprise to mellow acceptance and subtle interest. It was what made Rhaenys pause and think, and focus on them all the more. 

With Laenor unable to have children, it had become more and more likely that the seat of Driftmark would pass on to Baela. It had become difficult for Rhaenys to find a suitor that would complement Baela’s future position well and not use it as a means for usurpation. Second sons of minor Houses were too low a rank for a dragonriding Targaryen woman, and second sons of greater Houses were bursting at the seams with greed. She needed someone who would understand that they would be secondary in a marriage to Baela, who as Lady of the Tides, would maintain supremacy in the union. Someone who understood their place, and would instead support Baela in ruling over Driftmark in her own right. 

And who better than one’s own kin? 

Already Daeron showed promise. He did not show offense at Baela’s more headstrong nature, allowing her to take the lead in where she wants to go and what she wants to do. He was kindly and not prone to bouts of rage and instability that his brothers had at some times shown. He also had a dragon and could bolster House Velaryon’s numbers when it came to the fire-breathing creatures, a number that had fallen only to Meleys after Laena’s death and Laenor’s forced exile. 

She supposed the only downside to a union between Baela and Daeron would be whether the boy would be gullible to the manipulations of his Hightower kin. The boy had been raised in Oldtown after all, and had grown up alongside the future Lord Hightower. Rhaenys required more assurances that Prince Daeron would be wholly for House Velaryon should he wed Baela. 

“They look like quite the pair already, don’t you think, Grandmother?”  

Rhaenys smiled, nodded and patted Rhaena’s hand affectionately. “And what about you, sweet girl? Has anyone caught your eye?”

“Not as of late. There are quite a few handsome, eligible lords and princes in the crowd, but I know they’re all here for cousin Daenerys,”

“You are a beautiful girl, Rhaena, do not disqualify yourself,” Rhaenys assured her, at the sight of Rhaena’s glum expression. “We will find someone worthy for you to wed, do not fret,”

Rhaena’s pretty face bore a look of concern and confusion. 

“But I am a dragonrider. I cannot wed outside of House Targaryen and the only options remaining to me are either Jacaerys or Lucerys,” Rhaenys pursed her lips. If only those boys were truly Laenor’s, then she would not be in a quandary with regards to suitors for Rhaena. Alicent had no other spare sons and she could hardly wait for babes to spring forth from either Helaena or Daenerys’ wombs. Mayhaps a son of House Celtigar? One thing was for certain: she was not marrying any of her granddaughters to bastard princes with tenuous claims, dragon or no dragon.

“Do you want to marry Luke?”

“It seems what’s best for the Realm and to keep dragons within House Targaryen. Luke is kind, but he still seems a child to me. However, I wish I to be free to see what my options were before…they’re decided for me.”

“If Luke is not to your taste, then we shall search elsewhere. A worthy match will be made for you, my little dragonling,” Rhaenys affirmed. Then a thought came to her. “Your mother was once betrothed to a son of the Sealord of Braavos. If you are amenable, a match with a foreign prince or lord could be made,”

Rhaena mulled over the proposition. “I have sorely missed Pentos.”

Rhaenys reached over to caress her thick curls. Her lovely grandchild was likely thinking of her mother. 

“Then this would be the perfect occasion to survey prospective suitors,” 

However, a furrow formed between Rhaena’s brows. “But would not the same problem remain? Yet this time, a dragonrider beyond the bounds of even Westeros itself?”

“It is good that you’re thinking of such things. It shows that you possess a level of worldly consideration beyond your years. But let me worry about that, sweet girl,” Rhaenys proceeded to tap Rhaena lightly on the nose, causing the girl to laugh. Her heart squeezed with pain. T’was Laena’s laughter. “As Hand, I might be able to work out a compromise with the King.”

Her concerns assuaged, Rhaena returned to watching the noblemen and noblewomen dance. Most of the foreign dignitaries and princes chose to watch, likely a majority of them were unfamiliar with the steps. Most unexpectedly, a son of House Costayne approached, outpacing all others in the honour of being Lady Rhaena’s first dancing partner of the night. Rhaenys nodded her permission and watched as Laena’s youngest child excitedly rose from her chair to join her twin on the ballroom floor, taking the rather plain-looking boy by the hand to commence their dance. 

If only Laena had lived to see her daughters grow to women, Rhaenys lamented, but she’d realised she had a great many things to lament over as she aged. She hoped, however, with Laenor’s return, that her sorrow would abate, and that she would have more occasions of joy and celebration in future. 

Loud gasps pulled Rhaenys from her reverie and she instinctively looked to the side, only to see the one person she did not expect to walk through. Gasping aloud herself, Rhaenys hurriedly got to her feet as her husband walked into the Hall of a Hundred Hearths, noblemen and women alike making way for him to pass through. 

“Corlys…” she whispered, still in the throes of disbelief.

“Lord Corlys!” The King exulted, as surprised as everyone else. “We were not expecting you to come. I had thought you were still away on voyage!”

Corlys Velaryon appeared far older than when she’d seen him last, but the sight of him still caused her heart to race as it did forty years before. Weathered from the Eastern sun, the Sea Snake exhibited his physique–remaining broad and powerful at his age–in a light blue velvet jerkin with the seahorse of House Velaryon stamped on his shoulders, his great silver beard washed and combed til it gleamed. His pantaloons were of white and gold brocade, with fine blue threads weaving through the hem. 

Her husband bowed low to Viserys, before straightening. 

“I was on voyage, Your Grace, but even the Event of the Century failed to escape mine ears so far away in Velos. And there is not much trade to be made when half of the known world has congregated in Westeros,”

Viserys laughed good-naturedly. Pride was seeping from every pore of the King’s frail body, as he was the architect of all the laid before him at this moment, who had done what none of his predecessors thought possible. 

“With your return, our family is made whole once more,” the King announced loudly, the minstrels and lutists having long stopped playing the moment Corlys revealed himself. “Go and make merry! We welcome you most warmly and pray it shall be longer still until the sea calls upon you again.”

All clapped and cheered, though some were less enthusiastic than others. Rhaenys cared not for it, however, leaving her table to greet the husband she had not lain eyes on for nearly five years. By the time she reached him past the throngs of people, he found Corlys embracing Baela and Rhaena, kissing them on the forehead and generally marvelling over them. Corlys paused as if sensing her presence and looked up, eyes softening at the sight of her.

“Corlys,” she said again.

“Rhaenys–nay, my Lady Hand,” Corlys bowed, pride shining in his purple eyes. “It looked much better on you than it ever did that snake Hightower.”

“I shall speak with you more later,” her husband said to her granddaughters, “and ‘fore you retire, come to my wing, I have gifts prepared for the two of you,”

Sufficiently appeased and enthusiastic over the prospect of receiving exotic gifts from their grandsire, the twins curtsied then hurried back to dance. Rhaenys slid her hand through her husband’s arm, leading him back to her table, where an extra chair had been prepared next to hers. 

“The last letter I received from you you said you were in Volantis,” Rhaenys said quietly as she sat, mindful of where they were. “Why did you not tell me you were returning?”

“I did not lie to the King, nor to you. My last location was Volantis and I hardly bandied words with Viserys as often as I do you,” Corlys explained, snorting at the end. 

“Did you really hasten your return due to this?” Rhaenys gestured around them.

“Partly,” Corlys admitted, before lowering his voice even further, “but t’was one of your missives that alerted me that something is amiss.”

Rhaenys took a deep breath, then spoke. “What I learned was too weighty a revelation to be committed to parchment. And I must warn you, Corlys, to mind your expression. Rhaenyra and Daemon are watching us very closely.”

Corlys jerked in surprise, then made a show of leaning back into his chair. His eyes were as sharp as ever, however, and they quickly found the Crown Princess and the Rogue Prince staring at him and his wife. Rhaenyra had an expression of earnest, and dare he say it, desperate hope, while Daemon appeared on edge, as if he would swing Dark Sister at the slightest provocation. Corlys’ curiosity was piqued, his need to know practically a swirling tempest within him.

“Understood. Now, tell me, what is so important you could not send a raven?”

“Laenor is alive.”

Corlys stilled, before turning to her slowly. “Rhaenys,” she knew that tone, for it was made to sound conciliatory, a sure sign he did not believe her, “our children’s deaths have severely hurt us both–”

“Daemon confirmed it himself,”

At that, Corlys’ eyes widened, speechless for the first time in his life. “What?”

And so Rhaenys told him everything. How Daenerys had Dreamt of Laenor’s farce of a murder and Rhaenyra and Daemon’s treachery, and how Daemon folded as soon as she had confronted him. By the end of her recounting, she could tell Corlys was trying his utmost not to explode in rage. 

“That lying, scheming whore,” Corlys hissed beneath his breath. “I readily protected her sons from the executioner’s axe and named Lucerys my heir, and she repays me by scheming with that whoreson Daemon to send our son away from us, making us grieve for a child that is still living?” He gripped the edge of the table, his fingers turning white. “This goes beyond the pale. Lucerys, I fear, cannot remain my heir over this atrocious insult,”

“Rhaenyra tells me that Daemon has accepted a betrothal between our Rhaena and Lucerys,” Corlys cursed a litany of words that would send any highborn lady reeling. “She desired Jacaerys to wed Baela, but I refused because of what I knew of our son,”

“The mere thought of kneeling to her in the near future sickens me. Our House’s standing has been on the decline due to her actions. I cannot be seen to be made a fool of any longer,” Corlys sighed heavily, then gave her an apologetic look. “You’ve only ever spoken truly to me, Rhaenys. I should have listened ages ago when you told me not to wed Laenor to that vile temptress. And I suppose, I must apologise deeply to Vaemond as well, as caustic as his protestations have been. My ambitions have clouded my good judgement and it has only brought us sorrow and ruin. But what is done is done and we cannot undo it.”

“However, there is one suggestion you have made that is within my power to enact,”

Rhaenys’ eyes widened, hope rising within her. “Do you mean–?”

Corlys nodded. “As soon as this event ends, we shall return to Driftmark where I shall proclaim Baela my heir. And after? After, I shall devote all of my and our House’s resources to bringing our son home.”

Rhaenys could not help herself, leaning over to plant a kiss on her husband’s lips. Her enemies had every right to be afraid, for her husband had returned to her side and soon, it would be Laenor’s turn.

It was the perfect moment.

T’was as if whatever gods had chosen to smile upon her, letting this opportune moment fall to her lap. 

With all the guests–both foreign and noble–gathered in the Hall of a Hundred Hearths, that meant Dany was free to roam largely unimpeded and accomplish what she had meant to do ever since she'd spoken to the spectre of Berta Blackwood. The godswood in Harrenhal lay on the opposite end from the Hall of a Hundred Hearths, almost beyond the castle walls. 

Garbed not too dissimilarly from how she appeared when hunting for the ghost, Dany had consumed half of her meal before deciding it was time. White Snake had stood guard outside her door, but swore to keep her absence a secret, though not before drawing a promise from her to return as quickly as possible. The Commander of the Unsullied reorganised where his men were stationed, allowing Dany a clear path to leave the Widow’s Tower unimpeded.

Casting the Disillusionment charm over herself, Dany hastened down the corridor, exiting the tower without issue. As before, she had to remain quiet whenever a stray guard or servant milled past in the direction of the Hall of a Hundred Hearths, and while a certain section of Harrenhal was bursting with music, laughter and general sounds of merriment, the rest of the keep was a silent as a tomb. Sparsely lit as always, Dany crept down a flight of steps to find herself in a massive cloistered hallway. 

She made haste and made a sharp to the right through an archway, squinting her eyes as she attempted to navigate in the near-darkness. Only the luminous rays of the moon served as her guiding light, though it was hardly enough to stop her from occasionally stumbling over an uneven step. The deeper she traversed this tight passage, the more she began to notice the oddest decorations otherwise unseen of in Westeros, both noble and common. Animal skulls and bones hung from the low ceiling, the calming night breeze causing it to rattle eerily into the quiet.

A warm, yellow light that could only be given off by a candle made her slow down, even more so when she heard muffled voices ahead. Shuffling closer, she noticed two figures, their shadows cast wide and tall against the walls. One seemed to be female judging by her voice and physique, while the other had stooped shoulders, and a low, droning baritone. 

Pressing herself against the wall, Daenerys crept closer, only to stiffen when she recognised who the man was. How could she forget that slimy voice, always sounding as if he knew something you didn’t, while making it seem as if a thousand serpents were slithering down your back. She took a deep breath and remained quiet as she listened in. Discovery was never an option, especially to the Master of Whisperers himself!

“–and you are certain that mine nuncle Simon shall remain indisposed?”

“Until the end of this dull event, aye, I’ve told you,” the woman replied, her accent was one Dany would liken to that of the Scottish brogue in her first life. How curious to hear it here again. 

“He better remain so, Alys, else you shall return to your whore mother’s peasant hovel outside Harrentown,”

Alys?! Alys Rivers? The one Lady Berta warned against? Now, her interest was truly piqued. 

“When have you known any of my concoctions to fail, hm?” Alys shot back, her voice steady, unperturbed by the threat Larys had thrown her way. “And why do you need that lump out of the way? All he’s been is frazzled and wringing his fingers like a kitchen maid the moment t’was announced the King and his guests would gather here,”

Larys tapped his fingernails against the knob of his cane.

“Because he’s a nosy, unpleasant busybody…never mind the fact that he believes I had mine brother and father killed, of which, of course, he can never prove.” 

Dany choked down the gasp building in her throat. She heard Alys respond with an amused snort.

“Then ‘tis a blessed thing he never thought to look in places closer to home,” 

“Quite,” Larys murmured, “though I suppose your bastardy stains you as well as protects you. After all, who would think a baseborn, allegedly mind-addled witch sired by Lord Lyonel Strong possess the temerity to commit the doubly heinous acts of patricide and fratricide? We cannot blame Ser Simon for his lack of creativity, I suppose,”

She stiffened, heart beating at a rapid pace. The casual mentions of murder of the most abominable kind–killing one’s own family–was being discussed as if one was commenting on the state of the rosebushes in the Red Keep’s gardens. She had always known there was something decidedly off about Larys Strong. His ability to commit kinslaying without batting an eye, combined with the fact that he was supposedly able to be two places at once heightened the danger he represented. And this Alys Rivers…aside from drugging whoever she or Larys desired, she as well, had no compunctions with killing whomever to suit her goals. 

Dany had seen how closely Alicent and Larys worked together. She could see how the murder of Lyonel Strong could give way for Otto’s return. However, was there a need to kill Harwin as well in spite of him voluntarily exiling himself from King’s Landing? What is worse, Dany thought, is whether Alicent conspired to be rid of Lyonel and Harwin to arrange for Otto Hightower to be reinstated as Hand? It was deeply troubling if true, and would certainly make her view Alicent Hightower in a different light.

“He’ll have more matters to worry about once this party ends. I’ve heard about Princess Rhaenyra’s sons…and how much like us they look,” Dany could see the woman’s sly smirk and laughing eyes in her mind’s eye. “Harwin has been dead nigh a decade and he is still able to cause trouble,” 

“My brother has never been the brightest. He fell for the first cunt that was willing to have him despite Criston Cole having gotten there first, and had the audacity to plague House Strong with three bastards masquerading as Princes,”

“Your nephews,” she reminded, though she did so with amusement.

“A pox to the family legacy, to be more precise,” Larys snarled. “A bastard remains a bastard. Neither a scroll of parchment nor a dragon could ever change the circumstances of their birth.”

“You have them under your roof. All three of them. Would it not be an opportune moment to strike?”

Dany began to tremble, her eyes widening.

“Don’t be absurd, Alys. An investigation would naturally be launched and what further disaster to the Strong prestige than to have the deaths of the Crown Princess’ children under my roof. Nay, all three deaths must occur naturally.”

“Ah. And what is more natural and easily dismissed than a civil war?”

“Precisely so,”

Good gods. Dany wanted to curse Larys, Harwin, Lyonel, Alys Rivers, and Rhaenyra all at once. Harwin may have been kind and woefully naive for a grown man, but both Rhaenyra and Harwin were unaware of the cold brutality that embodied a man like Larys Strong. The man may have killed his father and older brother for the Greens, but Dany was not blind to the fact that that left Larys as Lord of Harrenhal. It striked Dany that Larys Strong was a man that cared deeply for the legacy of his House to the point of obsession; it might have been another factor for why he chose to murder his nearest and dearest when they were deemed to damage the Strong name. 

The name Strong was now used as an insult in King’s Landing and the King’s Court, with usage bleeding into the Crownlands and the Reach. Strong was a topic of mockery, of derisive, smug laughter due to the fruits of Harwin and Rhaenyra’s ill-considered affair. It stood to reason, then, that Larys would not stop until Harwin’s bastards were removed from the tapestry as well, just as Ser Lucamore had been.

Children pay for the sins of their parents, Dany mused, quickly Occluding her mind to prevent emotions such as panic and rage from overwhelming her. The notion that Larys would use the inevitable civil war within House Targaryen to conceal and redirect suspicion concerning the deaths of Rhaenyra’s sons was clever, Dany begrudgingly admitted. Men and boys die the fastest during a war. And in a civil war involving dragons? Dragon and dragonrider would be one of the first casualties in a battle for supremacy.

“Then aside from Ser Simon, what do you need me for?”

“I need you to…befriend a certain someone.” A pause, before Larys spoke the words that took all of her subpar Occlumency skills to withhold the rage she felt. “Princess Daenerys,”

“Princess Daenerys?” Alys sounded surprised. “The most beautiful woman in the world?” The woman then scoffed. “A bastard trying to befriend a Princess? Surely you jest,”

“Do you know me as one to jest?”

“But to what end?” She asked, intrigued. “You already have the Hightower Queen in your grip. T’would make much more sense to have me target Princess Helaena instead. What further need have you for this one, when her older sister would be Queen?”

“Our would-be King listens not to his mother, but only to one woman who is soon to be wed to Prince Aemond. In fact, the very reason we all gather here today,” Dany curled her fingers around her cloak in an attempt to stop them from shaking. “Prince Aegon pants after her like a dog who’d been starved for days, and coincidentally, so does Princes Aemond and Daemon. I hazard she’ll be the most powerful person in the Realm the moment Prince Aegon becomes King,”

Alys hummed. “I suppose you desire me to bewitch her to the point she’ll have me in her retinue?”

Dany snorted quietly beneath her breath. Bewitch? Alys Rivers did not know the true meaning of the word.

“Be quick about it. You only have seven days before the Court leaves for King’s Landing, and what further opportunity have you then?”

“Aye, aye–”

Hearing enough, Dany quickly leaned down to tap her wand against her feet, silencing her steps. She swiftly recast the Disillusionment Charm before creeping along the passage, avoiding the chamber bearing Larys and Alys. She hastened her steps the further she got away from them, launching herself into a full sprint when their voices dissipated entirely. Dany exhaled, feeling as if she could breathe once more and escape the choking sensation brought upon by those nefarious actors.

She cursed when she nearly stumbled over a tree root, righting herself just in time before she tumbled over and cause serious injury to herself. Amidst the small copse of birches, oaks and pine trees, the heart tree loomed like a harbinger of doom ahead of her, its thick, gnarled roots extending far and wide around the godswood, barely an inch of ground remained uncovered. Some of the roots stretched and crept up the keep’s walls, with some even infiltrating the castle through cracks in the stone. 

Eerie, yet beautiful, Dany believed that mooncalves would not be out of place in such a setting, almost deeming it perfect for one of their rare dances. She took a few tentative steps, only to be blown back with the unexpected gust of wind that threatened to throw her off her feet entirely. Grimacing, she felt the hood of her cloak be wrenched back as she cast a minor Shield charm as she braced herself against the gale. 

Come.

Dany stiffened, head whipping about. There was no one. 

Come, the voice hissed again, insistent. 

She pursed her lips, expression wary. Her eyes were instantly drawn in to the heart tree, to the ghoulish face weeping red sap that seemed to glare daggers at her. Come, it almost shouted, the raspy, sibilant noise ringing in her ears. 

Lifting her wand, she began to cast, whispering “Repello Muggletum,” repeatedly, until a transparent, almost filmy shield formed to cover the godswood. She cared not to be disturbed at this moment, nor had she the patience to guide drunks straying from the party. Once the spell had settled, Dany undid the charms enshrouding her body and steadily approached the massive heart tree in the centre. As with all godswoods Dany had the displeasure of standing in, not a single living creature was seen or heard, and the oppressive feeling she always had whenever she stepped foot in one was a consistent experience. No bird or squirrel was seen skittering about the branches of the trees around them, their towering silhouettes standing like silent sentinels over her. 

It was not long until she stood beneath the shadow of the heart tree, her eyes locking with their hollow, bleeding sockets. Upon closer inspection, she noticed that the sap leaking from the face carved into the bark had long dried, though its vibrancy had not faded with time. She took a deep breath and steeled herself, leaning forward towards the tree. Dany gasped sharply when crimson sap bubbled and seeped out of its openings anew, causing her to tense and hold on tightly to her wand.

Yes, the voice appeared again, carried by the wind. The spectre of Lady Blackwood hath told thou what we doth desire. 

Dany was not too keen to offer her blood to anyone, let alone a symbol long associated with an unknown entity as the Old Gods. However, she was out of options and time. Raising her wand, she made a quick, horizontal slice at her left palm, hissing at the sting as the wound met the chilly air. She swiftly placed her bleeding palm directly against the face of the heart tree, letting her blood smear onto its twisted lips. 

She stepped back, hand still wet with blood, crimson droplets dripping onto the roots of the weirwood tree. Dany watched as her blood mixed with the red sap oozing from the heart tree’s face until she could hardly tell the difference. She kept staring, waiting for something to happen–

Dany stumbled back and craned her neck to the sky when she heard an unfamiliar, yet terrifying, roar tear the heavens above. A gasp left her lips when she saw a shadow, much larger than Vhagar, cover the entire span of the sky. The dragon soon left, however, and it was what she saw after which shook her immeasurably.

It was morning. 

She was sure it was evening, nearing the hour of ghosts. Had time passed so quickly that the sun had arisen without her realising? Dany’s eyes instantly turned to the heart tree, but was left gawking at what surrounded it. The oaks and birches that had once surrounded the heart tree had shrunk. In fact, all that was left of them were stumps, with saplings just sprouting from the ground. 

“What in Hecate is happening…?” Dany whispered to herself, barely feeling the pain from her wounded hand.

“My lady, my lady!” She jerked in surprise, turning right back around. To add to her surprise, Dany found herself staring at a middle-aged woman she had never seen before. Initially she thought the woman was addressing her, only for her to look past Dany entirely. “My lady!” The woman continued, looking harried, her tired eyes wide with panic. Dany followed the woman, her expression turned into one of incredulity as she found a woman standing not far from where she stood.

How could I not have noticed her earlier?

“My lady–”

“I heard thou the first time, Anne,” Dany recognised that voice. She watched as the woman turned around to regard Anne. Berta Blackwood was akin to how she appeared as a ghost, though the gaping wound in her abdomen was blessedly missing. She wore the very same headdress and gown Dany saw her in in the Widow’s Tower.

Then it struck her like the bells of the Grand Sept.

The Old Gods had most likely brought her to the very day Berta Blackwood was last alive.

“It appears Lord Aegon hath reached mine husband’s humble keep,” Berta said, her tone indifferent, almost careless. Alysanne’s ancestress held a single rose in hand, its petals fluttering to the floor with every step. “I prayed to the Old Gods that he would soon meet his end anon ‘neath a dragon’s wrath.”

“My lady!” Anne chastised, before leaning closer to whisper. “Never utter things where they could hearest thou,”

Berta snorted, tossing the rose to the ground. “Pah! They cower ‘fore the sight of Aegon’s dread beast. They know of what is to come,”

Anne wrung her fingers at Berta’s statement. Her face was plain with fear and Dany did not blame her. No one was fool enough to dare battle against dragonflame. 

Berta seemed to realise this as well, reaching forward to clasp her hands firmly. “Our troubles are at an end, Annie. Harren’s reign of terror is nigh over,”

Anne stared, before nodding reluctantly. She was still afraid but shoved it down in order to comport herself appropriately. “Come, my lady. His Grace is due to meet Lord Aegon. He has summoned thee ‘fore he is to leave the keep,”

Berta looked to the sky, as if pleading for Balerion to return. She then sighed, shoulders slumping slightly. “Lead on then,”

The two ladies walked forward, their eyes unseeing as they walked through her. Dany gasped. She felt nothing, but the fact that she was naught more than a phantom, a seemingly incorporeal spectator to events that occurred nearly two centuries ago.

She looked at the heart tree, staring at the dark pits that made up its sightless eyes. The heart tree seemed to mock her, just as sap bubbled and spilled over its left eye. Dany huffed, picked up her skirts and hurried after the visions of those long past.