"There is a fox trapped in your ribcage, gnawing slowly on your flesh but you will not let it out.
You will not let it out because what would your mother think?
What would your mother think?"

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇

The one-eyed prince woke up feeling like he would like to crawl out of his skin. His head throbbed with the remnants of last night's sadism, and his body ached with an unfamiliar stiffness. He was mercifully still fully clothed, his limbs tingling as he slowly regained sensation. Hauling himself out of bed, he surveyed his surroundings with a groggy, confused gaze. The previous night was a hazy blur, and it may as well have been another one of his strange night terrors if it wasn't for the way his lower lip throbbed, the fresh scab forming a tangible reminder of what he might have endured.

He touched the wound gingerly, wincing at the tenderness, and cursed under his breath. The strange woman was nowhere to be seen, and he felt a mingling of relief and frustration. Though the idea of never seeing her again brought a measure of solace, he also harboured a burning desire to confront her, to grab her by the throat and shake the truth from her deceitful lips. The fog in his mind lingered, a concoction of alcohol and whatever she had slipped into his drink.

As he staggered towards the door, Aemond barked an order at a passing servant to draw him a bath, for the desire to scrub the remnants of her wretched filth from his skin was undeniable. 

The servant bowed quickly, scurrying off to fulfill the prince's command, and he leaned heavily against the doorframe, trying to steady himself. He was nursing a hangover, a routine that had become disturbingly frequent since the start of the war. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath in an attempt to clear the haze from his mind.

The door creaked open, and he turned to see who had entered, his heart lurching in his chest as he saw her—the very woman from last night—walking through the doorway with a pitcher of water in her hands. His relief turned to a seething rage, and he was upon her in an instant.

"You!" he snarled, slamming her into the wall. The force of the impact sent the pitcher crashing to the floor, shattering into a thousand pieces. Water splashed around their feet, but Aemond paid no mind to it. His hands were around her throat, squeezing as if he intended to snuff the life out of her. Her eyes, however, were full of mirth, her lips curled into a smirk, and this morning she was in her true form. 

"You should have run," he hissed, his voice dripping with venom. "Just because I spared your life once does not mean you can expect the same mercy again."

The woman's expression remained infuriatingly calm. Her dark hair spilled around her like a cascade of black ink, and her eyes—those viridian eyes—reminded him of the dresses his mother wore. Slowly, almost leisurely, she raised her free hand and placed it over his seeing eye, and for a moment, the world went dark.

Aemond's breath hitched, and he felt a cold shiver run down his spine. He wrenched her hand away forcefully, and she grinned at him, her violet eyes no longer her own. His grip on her throat loosened, and she nodded, her voice a whisper that cut through the fog in his mind.

"A smart decision, princeling. You wouldn't wish to hurt your unborn child, now would you? Surely even the Kinslayer cannot be so cruel."

Aemond's eye widened in horror. He stumbled back, blinking rapidly as if trying to clear his head of the illusion she had cast. Her words echoed in his mind, laced with a malicious glee that did not suit the borrowed voice of his wife.

"What trickery is this?" he demanded, his voice trembling with a mixture of rage and fear. "What have you done to me?"

The woman straightened, rubbing her throat where his fingers had left marks, red imprints where the blood pooled beneath her translucent skin. She stepped forward, closing the distance between them with a predatory grace. 

"No trickery, my prince. Only truth. I carry within me the seed of our union. A child born of fire and blood."

"There was no—there couldn't have been—"

"Perhaps, but your blood was just as effective."

"My blood?"

The woman—the witch—smoothed a hand over her swollen belly, a marvel in and of itself since she had been flat as a board the previous night. It was then that the one-eyed prince knew, that whatever she carried could not possibly be from him, or be entirely mortal in flesh and blood. He had watched his sister carry three children to term and watched his mother carry his younger brother. He knew that it took many moons for a woman to swell to such a size and it certainly did not happen over the course of a single night. Still, there was a certainty in her eyes that terrified him, and he almost laughed at himself. 

He was a most fearsome warrior and the rider of the queen of dragons, yet here he was, afraid of a mere woman. 

"You lie," he spat, though his voice lacked conviction. "I would know if such a thing were true."

She chuckled softly, a sound that sent chills down his spine. "Would you?"

His hands clenched into fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms. "And why should I believe you?"

"Because," she said, stepping even closer until she was mere inches from him, "you have no choice. Deny it all you want, but the truth will reveal itself in time. Perhaps you shall be convinced when the babe arrives with your colouring, though heaven help us all if your son inherits your disposition as well."

Aemond's mind was a whirlwind of emotions—anger, fear, confusion, and a sickening sense of inevitability. He took a step back, trying to distance himself from her, but she reached out and grabbed his wrist, holding him in place. He could have easily shaken her off, but there was some magnetic enchantment about her that made it impossible to disobey her silent commands. 

"You will not run from this. You cannot escape your fate."

"What do you want from me?"

"Nothing more than what you have already given," she replied, releasing his wrist. "The child will be born, and you will see the truth for yourself, though perhaps you might not survive long enough to grace him with your presence."

"You are going to kill me?"

"I do not need to. There is another who desires that privilege far more."

"Daemon," he hissed under his breath, but the woman only grinned as if she knew something he didn't.

"In god's eye lies your truth, princeling, so perhaps you shall find your secrets laid bare in the divine's clear sky."

Aemond shook his head at her cryptic words, taking another step back. "This... this is madness."

"Madness or destiny," she said with a shrug. "The line between the two is often blurred, and you Targaryens like to tempt the balance more often than most."

Then she was gone with a final wink and her strange warning echoed in his head long after he had seen the last of her silver hair. 

Alys Rivers. 

Daenys Velaryon. 

Bastard Strongs were his fate it seemed and no matter where he went, he could not escape them. 

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇

In King's Landing, the one-eyed princess found herself sneaking into her husband's chambers in the dead of night, her single flickering candle casting ominous shadows across the room. The thick black clouds outside obscured the moon, adding to the sense of foreboding that gripped her heart. She did not know why she was here, returning to the scene of a crime committed long ago, but if anything, her heart was the true graveyard. The room had been meticulously restored since the last time she had been there; the broken glass had long since been swept up, and the curtains replaced, erasing the physical traces of her grief. 

It was a terrible place, this room, a mausoleum where the best and worst of her memories tangled in a web of heartache and poison. Her gaze swept across Aemond's vanity, and her lips curled with disgust. She had once teased him in the past about the excessive efforts he afforded his appearance, his meticulous routine rivalling even that of Helaena and her own. Still, her revulsion did not prevent her from rummaging through his drawers. She did not know what she was looking for—letters to clandestine lovers, plans for whatever he was doing at Harrenhall, something, anything?

As if she needed more reasons to despise him. As if there was a single worse thing in the world left for him to do, something crueller than what he had already done. 

She knew she should have just gone back to bed. The days had been long, split between scouring the city's underbelly with Daemon for the runaway false king and helping her brother draft loan agreements for their allies. Yet, sleep eluded her, and the concoctions she kept consuming against her better judgment made it hard to lie still. 

Finally, she found a slender wooden box, tucked into the very back of a drawer, and she pulled it out, her curiosity getting the better of her. She opened it with trembling fingers—a side effect to the stimulants she had been taking, or just the anticipation, only to find clutter, an odd jumble of things. As she brought her candle closer, the hot wax dripping onto her skin with a hiss, she realized with a start that it was an odd jumble of her things, and slowly, she took them out one by one. 

The wooden dragon her grandsire had carved for her, its red ribbon still tied into a pretty knot around its neck, lay nestled at the top. The engravings on its wings had been rubbed smooth as if someone had toyed with it over the years. Then there was the scrap of embroidered silk, the very first she had given her uncle, a crude likeness of Vhagar emblazoned in dark green. So he had seen her letters after the incident at Driftmark, she thought bitterly, or at least he had seen the first one and still had never deigned to reply to her.

Next, she found the dragon pin she had commissioned for his name day, a much more majestic likeness of his dragon, for she knew how great a source of pride it was for him. There were other things too—a litany of ribbons in every colour, for there was a time when he would bring her trinkets and flowers, and she, with nothing else to give him, would pull the latest ribbon from her hair and tie it around his wrist, a gift he most magnanimously accepted, much to the frustration of her lady's maids.

She continued to pull out more items, each one laden with memories. There were stacks of parchment scraps, notes they had passed during their games as children, his handwriting growing more mature with each passing year while hers remained the same frantic messy scrawl as if there was far too much to say and never enough time to put her words down to paper. One note, in particular, caught her eye—a childish caricature of a dragon, fierce and proud, with a small stick figure standing beside it, scrawled with her name. She remembered drawing it for him when she had first told him about Silverwing.

There were also things she had not given him. A hairpin adorned with amethysts, something she had lost years ago and had assumed was gone forever. A small vial of the perfume she had once favoured, its scent now faint but unmistakably hers. A silk pouch embellished with golden butterflies, a creation of Helaena's, filled to the brim with glass marbles from when she was seven. 

Her fingers shook harder as she haphazardly stuffed everything back in its place, feeling a surge of hopelessness. Everything was all wrong now. Helaena would never again smile at her like she used to, the space between them too coloured by violence, and she would never be able to look her husband in the eye without remembering his betrayal. 

This box was all that was left of them, two dragonless children who had been inseparable once, partners in mischief and adventure, confidants in a world that often seemed too harsh and unyielding.

Then, she tipped what was left of her guttering candle into the collection, watching with dry eyes as the small blaze ignited, consuming the memories and keepsakes. The flames flickered and danced, licking hungrily at the ribbons, parchments, and trinkets. She should have been afraid of the fire, afraid of setting the whole room ablaze, but she simply watched the small pile burn. The heat radiated towards her, warming her face as she stared, unblinking, at the inferno she had created. After a long time, the fire burned itself out, having no more kindling to feed its hunger. What remained was a pile of ashes, smouldering melted metal that fused to the floor, and charred odds and ends that did not burn properly.

In her desire to see it all destroyed, she had not thought to add the sapphire necklace around her throat to the pile. She had worn it so long that it was almost as if it had fused into her skin, a part of her in such a way that to remove it would surely kill her. The necklace itself was a betrayal, but it was nothing new; her body betrayed her time and time again, the memories etched into her very flesh.

With a heavy heart, she turned away and made her way back to her chambers. Pushing the door open, she found her younger brother already inside, curled up on her bed. He looked up at her with wide, guilty eyes, a half-eaten biscuit in his hand.

"Again, Joff?" she asked him wearily, closing the door behind her.

He nodded, nibbling his snack. "I couldn't sleep," he mumbled.

Daenys sighed and nodded, making her way to the bed. She settled beside him, the mattress dipping under her weight. Stretching out her hand, she said, "A toll then, for occupying my bed and getting crumbs all over it too. You might as well share."

Joffrey shook his head stubbornly and mumbled, "Get your own."

Daenys scoffed, exasperated but affectionate. "It's good to share. Didn't Mother teach you that?"

Her brother glowered at her but did not leave. His reluctance was evident, yet he remained, unable to resist the comfort of her presence. 

They sat in silence for a moment, the only sound the soft rustling of the sheets as they settled into a comfortable position. Daenys stretched her arms and let out a long sigh, feeling the weight of the day's events slowly lifting from her shoulders.

"It must be hard for you. Being back here."

Joffrey shrugged, but she could see the tension in his shoulders. "I just don't like sleeping alone. Don't tell Mother."

She reached over and tucked him against herself, wrapping her arm around his shoulders. "You can stay as long as you need to," she said, not minding the crumbs he further spilled onto her nightgown. "I don't mind."

He nestled closer to her, his head resting on her shoulder. "Thank you," he murmured, his voice already growing sleepy as he finished the last of his biscuit.

She stroked his hair gently, her thoughts drifting back to the past. The last time they had truly lived in the Red Keep, Joffrey had been but a babe, and he did not have his own chambers. Over the years, his visits had been rare, so whenever he did come to King's Landing, he always shared a room with Luke. He had always been particular about familiarity, and sleeping alone in a foreign place unsettled him. Now, with Luke gone, his room must feel haunted by their brother's ghost, a constant reminder of their loss.

Momentarily, she closed her eye, trying to find some relief in slumber, when suddenly she was jolted by the sound of her brother coughing. 

"Didn't I tell you not to eat too fast?" she joked, eyes still closed. 

She received no reply from him other than a choking wheeze, and his grip tightened on her arm, forcing her to look at him. His eyes were wide, almost bursting from their sockets, and panic surged through her as she thumped his back, trying to help him catch his breath and dislodge whatever seemed to be stuck in his throat. Instead of relief, his wheezing grew more frantic, a horrifying trail of red-tinged foaming drool escaping his lips.

Without a moment's hesitation, she scrambled out of bed, hauling him into her arms with an agonized grunt. He was getting much too big to pick up, and the weight was havoc on her wounds, but she did it nonetheless. Straining from the effort, she screamed for help, and the door burst open. In ran Ser Harrold Darke, the member of the Queensguard who had been assigned to watch her chambers while Ser Atticus guarded Helaena.

"Princess, what's wrong?" he asked frantically.

"Get a maester! Get my mother, please, now!" Daenys yelled, her voice cracking with desperation. 

Ser Harrold ran off while the princess clutched her brother tighter, beginning to make her way to her mother's chambers as fast as she could. He was still breathing, but the strange choking sounds he made terrified her.

"Please, you are going to be alright. You have to be alright. Please, please, please," she repeated, her words a desperate mantra.

This could not be happening. She would not—could not lose him. Their mother could not lose him. He was their Joffrey, and he could not die. She shook him, and he whimpered, still clinging to her tightly, legs wrapped around her waist as she hurried down the winding hallways, for once wishing that her mother was placed closer. 

She burst into the queen's chambers, where Rhaenyra was pouring over maps on her desk while Aegon slumbered in her bed. Her mother's eyes widened as she took in her distraught state and the pale boy in her arms, who had stopped wheezing and gone utterly still.

"What's wrong?" Rhaenyra asked, her voice filled with alarm as she rushed to Joffrey.

Daenys's breaths came out in short panicked gasps. "He was fine just a moment ago. I—I don't know. I don't know! Just please, fix him!" she babbled, tears streaming down her face. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, please."

The queen took her son, his limp head lolling onto her shoulder as she transferred him, frothy red still streaming from his mouth. Aegon had woken up now, disturbed by his mother's strangled whimpers as she begged his older brother to wake up, and he crawled out of bed, timidly inching his way toward the crowd in the center of the room as if afraid of what he'd find there. 

Moments later, Ser Harrold was there with a maester in tow. 

"Lay him down, Your Grace," the elderly man instructed. 

Rhaenyra did as she was told, gently placing Joffrey on her bed. The maester placed his hand on the young prince's chest and listened for signs of a heartbeat. When he found it—a fragile thread thing—he frowned deeply, swiping at the bloody drool smeared on his chin and raising it to his nose cautiously. 

"Poisoned, I think, Your Grace," he said with a grimace. 

Rhaenyra inhaled sharply, and the maester continued his examination, pulling out a small vial and carefully pouring a few drops into the prince's mouth. 

"A precaution, until we discover what it is he ingested so that we may administer the appropriate antidote."

"Will he survive?"

"I cannot say, Your Grace. If he is not treated in time, it could be fatal."

The queen knelt beside her son, holding his hand and pressing a kiss to his fingers. "You have to live sweet boy. You have to survive. You cannot leave us just yet."

Daenys could only watch in agony, as once again she was powerless to help those she loved. She wondered if it was futile to hope for a miracle. perhaps the gods had already exhausted their favours upon her when they saved Jace, and now they had nothing left for her anymore. 

No, nononono—please.

She wasn't done mourning Luke or her grandsire. She hadn't even begun to properly mourn Jaehaerys or her grandmother. There was a mountain of things to process, to digest, to acknowledge, to come to terms with, but there was seldom time to breathe, much less ruminate on how she felt. She wanted to halt the relentless march of time, to beg for a moment of peace, but the gods barely ever listened to the saints, so why would they bother with a sinner like her? 

Please. I am not done with him. 

He was her brother and she needed more time because she wasn't done loving him. She needed the war to wait just a little longer; she needed the flames to burn lower; she needed the Stranger to retreat just so she could hold his hand once more. She wasn't done with him. 

Then her veins full of ice water started to boil. Someone had done this to him. 

"The servants must all be sharply questioned," she muttered brusquely. "All the kitchen staff, and every person who has ever had access to him."

Rhaenyra nodded wearily. "And we must double security around my children," she turned toward Ser Harrold. "See to it that it is taken care of."

Her reign had only begun and already everything was beginning to crumble. Her efforts to remain peaceful, to carve a path forward without violence and bloodshed were becoming increasingly futile. The Greens were determined to make her an accursed Kinslayer, despite her best efforts. She was not deaf to the whispers that floated about the Red Keep, of her nephew's horrific slaughter and the part she unknowingly played in it, though she hadn't had the opportunity to fully investigate the matter. There was already the trouble with the empty treasuries and battles they seemed to be losing to the Hightowers as Lord Ormund's army drew closer, not to mention all three of Alicent's dragon-rider sons were still at large. 

There was simply too much to keep up with, and Rhaenyra Targaryen grew weary. Sometimes she resented her father a little, for not making the matters of succession clearer, for not reiterating his decision once Aegon had been born so that the blasphemous lords of the kingdom couldn't question her rule. He should have prepared her better for the trials she would face because some days she felt herself wholly unprepared to protect both her children and the realm. 

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇

The morning light brought only more bad news for the queen. She had spent the entire night in vigil, watching over Joffrey as he lay barely breathing, her mind plagued by memories of another time when she had sat in a similar vigil for her heir, holding onto hope desperately, praying for another deliverance from the cruel hand of fate. At some point during the night, Rhaena had joined her as well, offering silent support when Daenys had left abruptly after growing tired of pacing the room. 

When morning came, Rhaenyra was summoned to the council chamber by one of her squires, disrupting the fragile peace of the night. She hesitated to leave her son's side, but her youngest daughter assured her that she would send for her immediately if there was any change in his condition. Here the queen was reminded once again that she had a duty to her people, and sometimes it required her to choose, so with a heavy heart and lingering anxiety, she made her way to the council chamber, where her lords and advisors awaited her.

Lord Celtigar stood gravely at the head of the table, his expression grim. He began without preamble, his voice heavy with the weight of the news he carried. "Your Grace, Tumbleton has fallen."

"It was a massacre of the cruellest kind," Lord Manderly continued, detailing the events that had unfolded. "Traitors infiltrated our ranks, and among them was our very own Ser Hugh, rider of Vermithor."

The room fell silent as the gravity of the betrayal sank in. Rhaenyra swallowed thickly. She had trusted the man, bestowed honours upon him, knighted him even, and now he had turned against her, his dragon adding its deadly fire to the destruction of Tumbleton. 

"With the traitor's fire added to your half-brother's, the town was consumed by flames," Lord Bar Emmon reported grimly. "And the youngest prince's army holds it still."

"Close the city gates. Bar them. No one enters or leaves King's Landing," the queen commanded, her voice trembling with restrained anger. "I will not allow turncloaks to steal into my city and open its gates to rebels."

Her advisors exchanged worried glances, understanding the gravity of the situation. The Hightowers and their forces could be at their gates within days, and the traitorous dragon rider even sooner. The threat was imminent, but it seemed perilous to simply sit by and wait for them to arrive. 

Still, who were they to disobey their queen, and Lord Celtigar nodded. "It shall be done, Your Grace."

As the council chamber buzzed with urgent activity, messengers were dispatched, orders were relayed, and preparations were made to fortify the city against the impending siege. Rhaenyra's mind raced with plans and strategies, mulling over her dwindling number of dragons and loyal fighters. The dragon pit housed the beasts most useless to her, Joffrey's Tyraxes, the young dragons Morghul and Shrykos, bound to her sister's children and Dreamfyre, the mount of Helaena herself. 

"You need not worry yourself, Your Grace," one of her lords consoled. "We still possess four dragons that can fight, and your husband and daughter will surely defend the city if it comes to that."

Yes, they still had Caraxes, Sheepstealer, Silverwing, and Seasmoke, although suddenly she was not sure about where the loyalties of the remaining dragonseeds lay.

"I would not say that we have four, my lord," Lord Celtigar argued. "If Hugh Hammer has gone over to the enemy, who is to say there are no more traitors in our midst."

Ser Luthor Largent, Commander of her City Watch, nodded. "What of Addam of Hull and the girl Nettles? They have been born of bastard stock as well. Can they be trusted?"

"They have fought bravely by my side," Jace interrupted. "They would not betray us."

"As did Hugh, my prince," Lord Celtigar countered. "I only wish to be cautious."

"But Ser Addam would not do such a thing," Baela insisted. "He stands to inherit Driftmark, and we know him to be a man of honour. He would not betray our queen like that."

"It is in his blood, princess. Betrayal comes as easily to abastard as loyalty to trueborn men."

It was perhaps the wrong thing to say because the Targaryen girl's jaw tightened and her hands curled into fists. She might have lunged at him too if not for her husband's placating hand on her wrist, forcing her to exhale sharply and jerking her head to the side. 

"I urge you, Your Grace," Lord Celtigar continued, "to have the two baseborn dragonriders seized immediately, before they too join the enemy with their dragons."

"Best take no chances," Ser Torrhen Manderly agreed. "If the foe gains two more dragons, we are indeed lost."

"But we have no proof of any disloyalty on their part," Grand Maester Gerardys tried to advise. "The path of wisdom is to seek such proof before making any judgments."

"Perhaps you might go tend to the young prince who is abed instead of offering war counsel," Lord Bar Emmon said tersely. 

"Ser Addam and his brother are true Velaryons, worthy heirs to Driftmark," the Lord of Driftmark finally thundered. "It would be ill-conceived to act rashly, and would only drive them further from our cause."

The queen sighed, massaging her temples, feeling a headache building as her councilmen continued to argue. The matter weighed heavily upon her and heavier still was her oldest child's utter silence, a storm brewing behind her single eye. Rhaenyra could see her, clinging to the shadows as she often did during these meetings, but today she seemed even more inside her head than usual, and she feared whatever was going on in her head. She had been spending far too much time with Daemon, and though not of his blood entirely, he seemed to be imbuing her with his temper and recklessness. 

Or perhaps she had always been that way and the war was simply bringing out the worst in her. Rhaenyra Targaryen was ashamed to say she was not quite sure. It was true that with so many other children to raise, she had not spent much time raising her eldest, as firstborns often had a way of raising themselves. She would not know the depths of what her daughter was feeling because Daenys had never been one for sharing her troubles. Perhaps in her childhood, Rhaenyra should have tried harder to rid her of the practice for now she would certainly never know what was going on inside her head. 

"I shall think on the matter," she finally stated. 

Jace nodded at her, "Maester Gerardys is right, Your Grace. We cannot rush into such a decision without proof. Allow me time to find it and prove that our remaining dragonseeds are indeed loyal to you and you alone."

It was all he could do, now that he was a rider without a dragon, his feet permanently earthbound. He could not fly about the kingdom to punish the traitors for their treachery so he'd do this for her instead, bring her a modicum of peace at least for he firmly believed that Ser Addam Velaryon was one of the most loyal men he had ever known, despite the brevity of their time together. 

And if he knew anything about his sister, he knew that if anyone would hunt their mother's traitors down, it would be her. He recognized the fire that burned in her gaze and knew her intentions even before she declared them. 

She would punish them in the way they deserved and perhaps together they might assuage their mother's fears while her worrisome heart still ached for Joffrey. 

"And what of Tumbleton?" the prince asked after the room had cleared and the council had been dismissed. "Your Grace, are we not going to deal with matters there? Perhaps we might send Ser Addam—"

"You would ask me to send more traitors into the fray?" the queen demanded, arching an eyebrow. 

"But, I thought...I thought you believed him innocent until we found proof of guilt."

Rhaenyra sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose while she appraised her three children. Jace and Baela continued regarding their support for the dragonseeds, while Daenys remained silent. She would say her piece too, the queen was sure of it. 

"You have to trust me, Your Grace. I know them to be steadfast," Jace repeated. "And besides, you saw how Lord Corlys defended them. To imprison them would be to make an enemy of the Sea Snake too, and we cannot afford to lose his support too."

The queen had been betrayed far too many times to keep blind faith like her son did, but she trusted in his wisdom, and if he said the future lord of Driftmark was a loyal member of her cavalry, she would try her best to believe it. There was little else she could do, for he was right, she could not make an enemy of Corlys Velaryon, who was already tense with her after the death of his wife at the hands of her half-brothers. The other lords would have to be dealt with though, for they would not be silenced regarding the matter either. 

"What would you have me do then?"

"Send me," Daenys finally declared. "If you do not think you can trust them, send me along too. I shall ensure that they do not betray you, and if they do, I shall deliver them to you for punishment as you see fit."

"You cannot possibly—" Jace began.

"No," Baela interrupted. "She is right. One of us has to go, for Her Grace's peace if nothing else. She cannot rest easy here if she keeps thinking about whether or not Addam and Nettles will prove to be traitors."

"And you think I shall rest easy if I send one of my children to their deaths?"

"Please," Daenys pleaded. "You have not allowed me to be useful to you. Let me do this one thing. The Greens cannot be allowed to grow in strength in numbers on your lands."

"Useful?" Rhaenyra snapped, nearing the end of her patience. She had already lost two sons and a third lay dying. She would not hear sermons from her own children. "And how would you prove to be useful, child? Every other time you have ridden out, it has resulted in disaster. You went to Storm's End, and you fucking killed their lord. Do not think that did not have consequences. I had to placate the council for weeks regarding your rash behaviour. Then you rode to Rook's Rest, but were unsuccessful there as well, and we lost Rhaenys. The Gullet too was hardly a victory, and most certainly not something I can attribute to your skill. In fact the only reason you did not die there is because we had the numbers on our side, so do not speak to me about being useful."

She did not know why she spoke so callously but it was not entirely untrue and if this was the only way to dissuade her daughter from risking her life, then so be it. She would be cruel, if only to keep her children safe. 

Daenys flinched as if struck. 

Useless, useless, useless. 

The voices returned, sounding eerily like Luke's, slithering from one ear to the other. 

So fucking useless. All your words about bravery and loyalty, and yet you have done nothing at all. Your family sees you for what you are, utterly pathetic. 

When she looked down at her fingers, spiders scuttled out from beneath her nailbeds and crawled up her arms, disappearing under her sleeves. She resisted the urge to flinch again and shake them off, not wanting to give her family more reasons to think her insane. She had never seen them on her person before, but now they were everywhere and nowhere was safe from the filthy creatures. They were not the gentle-looking ones Helaena liked to collect, but bulbous and grotesque, their spindly legs attached to bursting bodies that sometimes spilled with blood and left trails of red wherever they marched. 

"That is not fair, Mothe—Your Grace," Jace reproached. "Daenys did what she could. We may have lost grandmother at Rook's Rest but at least the usurper's army was dealt with and they were unable to take the town for themselves. And at the Gullet, she saved my life!"

"And Lord Borros deserved his death," Baela added with a scowl. "He allowed the Kinslayer to go after our brother and betrayed his oath to you, his queen."

Three against one, Rhaenyra was outnumbered; she was simply too weary to argue, and perhaps all the betrayal and loss she had suffered made her compliant. Finally, after several long moments, she nodded, much to everyone's surprise. A part of her simply knew that to deny her daughter this would mean nothing because she had already made up her mind. Whether or not she received the queen's permission, Daenys would go, so at least this way she would not have to steal away under the cover of night. 

"Very well, I shall let you go, but under one condition only. You will make an oath to me, an oath to return alive and to do everything in your power to do so. If you do not, I will consider you a traitor of the worst kind. If you die, you will die a turncoat, to your queen and your mother, and I shall never forgive you."

Daenys hung her head, half in shame, half in regret, for her plans included more than just Tumbleton, and the final battle toward which she was headed, she was not guaranteed to survive. 

"Yes, Your Grace, of course."

It was perhaps the worst kind of threat to her, for her to be cemented in her mother's memory as someone who betrayed her when in reality she would shed the very skin from her flesh and flesh from her bones for the woman. 

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After the council meeting, Rhaenyra returned to her chambers, her steps heavy with fatigue and sorrow. She found Rhaena still at Joffrey's bedside, her eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep and worry. She sent her off with orders to rest, taking her place beside her ailing son, her hand brushing his forehead. His breathing was shallow, his skin pale and clammy. 

Then there was a knock on the door. 

"Enter."

Rhaenyra turned to see Alicent Hightower entering the room, followed closely by the guard assigned to watch her chambers. The guard hesitated, clearly uncomfortable, before speaking.

"Apologies, Your Grace. The queen wished a word with you."

The Black Queen's eyes narrowed, irritation flaring within her. She had no desire to speak with this woman, not now, not ever, but she nodded curtly, allowing her to proceed. 

"Rhaenyra," Alicent began, addressing her by her name to maintain the illusion of familiarity, "I come to you not as an enemy, but as a mother who has lost children, just as you have. This war has taken too much from all of us."

You have lost not a single child, not yet anyway.

"And whose fault is that? Whose machinations set this war in motion, Alicent, yours or your father, but it certainly wasn't mine. You speak of loss, but you are the one who instigated this bloodshed."

Alicent flinched at the accusation but pressed on. "Perhaps we can find a way to end this. A divided realm, where you retain King's Landing, the Crownlands, the North, the Vale of Arryn, the Riverlands, and the Isles. My son can rule the Stormlands, the Westerlands, and the Reach from Oldtown. It would spare us all further suffering."

Rhaenyra almost laughed at the absurdity. "You would bargain with me here, in this very room where my son lies at death's door? Your son's actions have cost me everything, and now you seek to divide the realm as if that would make amends?"

"I seek only to prevent more death. Think of your children, Rhaenyra. Think of the future, their future. Do not betray them."

"You speak to me of betrayal? You, who have betrayed me in every possible way? I trusted you. I entrusted my heart to you, my daughter to your care, and look at what your kinslayer son did to her."

Alicent winced, memories of her daughter-in-law's mutilated face flashing before her eyes. "He would not do such a thing. I do not know how it happened but he would never—"

"Do not presume to tell me what your son may or may not be capable of. I know perfectly well already."

"It was never my intention to walk this path of violence. I have tried to broker peace, to offer you terms and places of honour for your sons at my son's court. I only implore you to do the same."

Rhaenyra's sneer was filled with bitterness and she wanted to scream, but she did not wish to awaken Ageon who had curled up to sleep beside his older brother. He had been sleeping much these past few days, a fact that concerned her, for he had lost all his energy and his liveliness after losing Viserys. 

"Places of honour?" she hissed. "Your sons might have had places of honour at my court if they had kept faith, but they sought to rob me of my birthright, and the blood of my sons is on their hands."

The dowager queen's composure cracked, her voice rising with anger. "And what of the blood on your hands, Princess? You speak of kinslaying as if you are free of the title. My grandson was innocent, and you had him slaughtered like an animal. Beheaded! You had a babe beheaded for the crime of existing. How many more must die to slake your thirst for vengeance?"

"I played no hand in that crime. I was not even aware of it until after the fact!" Rhaenyra retorted sharply. 

"It was you! It had to have been you. The murderers were taking the boy's head to Harrenhal, to your husband. Who else holds the leash to that heinous madman but you? Who else has the power to order him about but you? It had to have been you!"

"Daemon acts on his own, and you know it. Do not place his crimes at my feet. You seek to deflect your guilt, but it will not work. Your son is a kinslayer, and you have sown the seeds of this war. Now you must reap what you have sown."

Alicent's shoulders sagged, defeat creeping into her posture. "Rhaenyra, please. Let us end this. For the sake of our children, for the sake of the realm."

Rhaenyra, please.

It was a familiar sound, once said with humour and goodwill, but it no longer had the power to move her. Once she might have acquiesced to her childhood friend's tears, might have accepted her terms, but her heart had been hardened by the year of betrayal and loss. 

"There can be no peace while your son seeks to sit upon the throne that is rightfully mine. Go back to your chambers, Alicent. Pray for your son's soul, for he will need it."

"But—"

"Leave, before I lose my patience and listen to the counsel of my children to have you locked in the black cells like your father was."

As Alicent left, the door opened to reveal Daemon, just stepping inside. His eyes glinted with mischief as he smirked at the Dowager Queen. Alicent bristled at the sight of him, a surge of hatred coursing through her veins. She wanted nothing more than to wrap her hands around his wicked throat and throttle him, to see him beheaded just as he had her grandson and father beheaded. But she held herself in check, reminding herself that her sons would return. All three of her sons would return to reclaim the city, and when they did, Daemon's head would be the first mounted on the city gates.

"I do not wish to see you right now," Rhaenyra snapped at her husband once the door had closed and they were alone. 

Daemon's face fell, hurt flickering in his eyes. "I only came to see my boys," he said softly, gesturing towards Aegon and Joffrey, who lay together.

"You had no right," his queen spat, her voice trembling.

Daemon, who had overheard Alicent's accusations through the door, knew that she referred to the death of the false king's son. He sighed heavily, trying to explain. 

"It was necessary, Your Grace. I will admit, my initial target was my one-eyed nephew, but nonetheless, what happened was necessary. The usurper needed to be humbled."

Rhaenyra's fury erupted. She slammed her fist into the wall, her knuckles splitting open. Blood oozed from the wounds, but she barely felt the pain. Daemon reached out to her instinctively, wanting to comfort her, but she recoiled, hissing. 

"You have betrayed me too. You have made me a kinslayer. You have weakened my claim. You have turned me into a monster who would kill a child in her quest for the throne. How dare you?"

Daemon's face hardened, his own temper rising. "I did it for Luke," he shouted back. "I did it to avenge him!"

"But you did not ask me first," his wife retaliated, her voice breaking with anguish. "You betrayed me by keeping it from me, by making me hear it through rumours so that Alicent Hightower of all people, could fling it in my face."

"I did not wish to burden you with the knowledge!"

"So you thought me weak? Do you even recognize me as your queen and ruler?"

Daemon's response was immediate, not wanting to give her even a moment of doubt. "Of course. There is no one else, there could never be anyone else. You are not weak, but I had to do it. For Luke."

Rhaenyra wanted to scream at him, to tell him that Luke was not even his son, that he was her sweet boy and that Daemon had no right to sully his name and memory with such a brutal act. But her voice failed her, and she was unable to push the venomous words past her lips and fling them at the man who had raised all her children as his own. 

"Then why did you do it?" she managed to whisper. "Why did you not seek my counsel?"

"I thought it best to act swiftly. I did not want to burden you with the decision, but you have to understand my intention was never to undermine you," the Rogue Prince beseeched desperately. 

"Well, whatever your intentions were, it is exactly what you have done. You have made us just as wretched as them, you have made me as wretched as my half-brother. You have stolen my sister's son just as he stole mine!"

Her poor sweet sister and that poor child. 

Rhaenyra swallowed thickly, cradling her injured hand. Even her guilt sounded hollow because as much as she hated what happened to Helaena, there was no way to atone for it. It would not bring the babe back, and it was not like she could punish Daemon for his insolence. He was her husband, her prince consort, who had fought most valiantly for her cause and ensured the loyalties of countless. Her grudge had never been against Helaena, but it had been against Aegon, and in the coming days she would be taking all the remaining brothers from the poor girl. It was far too late for an apology, for any attempt to make amends. 

"If we are to gain victory over the monsters, we have to be a little monstrous ourselves," Daemon murmured and Rhaenyra only stared at him, tears in her eyes. 

"At the cost of our souls then?"

"At the cost of mine, but not yours. Never yours. The act was mine, and mine alone."

"The realm does not see it that way, and your betrayal is no less harmful, despite your intentions. You are utterly pathetic."

"Don't you dare—"

"I dare to do exactly as I please Daemon. You killed a fucking child, do not speak to me about what I can and cannot do."

His wife turned away from him then, focusing on their sons while Daemon simply watched her for a moment longer before quietly leaving the room, his heart weighed down by the chasm that had opened between them. 

He had always been a man of fierce devotion, and his affection, boundless and erratic, often manifested in ways that even he could not comprehend. It was why when Rhaenyra struggled to birth Visenya, he could not bear to be in the room, for he could not have watched her suffer the same fate as Laena. It was why he refused to shed tears in front of anyone but shouted and broke things until his hands were bloody and his throat raw after every death. He had done so after the loss of Laena, his brother, his daughter and then his sons.

His grief often found release in destruction, leaving no room for half-measures or compromises. It was why he fought so fiercely, why he killed without hesitation, why he was willing to cross any line for those he held dear.

It a pity then, that he was seldom understood, for violence only ever inspired fear. 

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇

A/N: Happy HOTD Sunday yall! Also friendly reminder, Aemond does not cheat lol, it's just a mess but it's not cheating. He may be an obsessive psycho but he's loyal. I can excuse murder but I draw the line at cheating :) 

As usual, don't be a ghost reader. I live for yalls comments/questions/concerns/reactions, even a keyboard smash is highly appreciated and encouraged! Would love to hear your predictions/hopes for future battles/events :)