"What is a ghost?
Something dead that seems to be alive.
Something dead that doesn't know it's dead. 
You think you live in a place, but really, the place lives on in you."

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇

It was cold.

It was cold and Daenys was drowning again; sinking deeper and deeper into the dark abyss. Her arms and legs thrashed wildly to stay afloat but her limbs felt leaden, making it impossible to break the surface. The water was endless, stretching as far as she could see, and an unseen fist closed around her chest, squeezing the breath from her lungs, crushing her ribcage until it folded in on itself. When it began to drag her deeper into the murky depths, she stopped struggling, surrendering to the will of the gods just as she had done for the past several weeks, every time she returned to this place. 

As she grew more lightheaded, a figure in the distance approached, and as it neared, she could make out its pale waxy skin and the buoyant dark curls that adorned its head. It was always him. 

Her brother's spectral form floated closer, his eyes closed and his face arranged in a peaceful expression as if he were just sleeping. They hovered in front of each other for a few moments, suspended in time, and then his eyes snapped open, a ghastly shade of ocean blue and without pupils, his accusatory gaze piercing through her. He reached out both his hands toward her face and she resisted a flinch when his skin came into contact with hers, the chill seeping into her very bones. When he opened his mouth, he did not have the teeth of a boy, but the maw of a dragon, with multiple rows of razor-sharp teeth that reached as far back as his throat. 

"Why did you abandon me?"

"It was not by choice, Luke." She had run out of apologies to give him so she gave him the truth instead. 

"There is always a choice.

"I did not make the correct one. I never have been able to. Forgive me."

"What are you sorry for sweet girl?"

The question came from a new figure that drifted closer: Rhaenys clad in her gleaming armour that was now rusted beyond recognition, her silver locks billowing out like seaweed behind her. Daenys squinted her eye to try and see better in the pitch blackness but then a strange light filtered down through the water and it danced in strange patterns around her, casting eerie shadows on her grandmother's skin. Her skin, oh gods her skin. It was charred and blackened all over with areas where it had been completely burned away to reveal oozing red open wounds and white bone. Her breastplate was melded to her body, the leather fused to the blistered skin and her hands were contorted into gnarled claws. Only her face was untouched, pristine alabaster with a gentle smile pulling at her lips as she gazed at Daenys.

"What are you sorry for?" Rhaenys asked again, and her grandaughter could only watch aghast. 

It was almost comical how the scene managed to horrify her, despite the number of times it replayed in her head, night after tormented night. 

Next to glide toward her was Joffrey, his face ashen, and his eyes dull and glassy. His lips parted as if he were trying to speak, but instead of words, a trickle of blood seeped from his mouth, blooming in the water like crimson ink. He reached out with trembling hands, clutching at the hem of her dress, his fingers curling into the fabric with a desperate strength that belied his fragile form.

Daenys tried to push him away, to free herself from his grasp, but his grip tightened, the blood from his lips staining her, spreading like a dark, foreboding omen. The weight of his touch pulled her further down, the icy water creeping up her gullet, choking her, drowning her.

"They were all wrong about you," he murmured, an echo of the words he had once said to her in life. "They said you were a traitor, but I knew you weren't. Not you. Never you!"

But she was. She had let him die. He had believed in her and she had let him die. She was worse than a traitor. She was a horrible sister. 

Then she saw the rest of them; her family gathered around her like spectres in the deep. Her mother stood with Daemon, his arm possessively draped over her shoulders, his expression one of cold indifference. Jace and Baela were there too, their faces twisted into masks of disapproval, their eyes filled with a judgment she could not bear to face. They looked at her as if she were a stranger, as if the blood that bound them meant nothing in the face of her betrayal.

She had done everything she could, had given her body and her blood and it still was not enough. 

"Why do you look at me like that?" she wanted to scream, but her voice was lost in the void, swallowed by the silence of the water. "I never wanted this. I never meant for any of this to happen."

They did not respond, their gazes unwavering, piercing her with their silent accusations. Her chest tightened, the pressure unbearable, as if the very air in her lungs was being sucked away, leaving her hollow, empty.

Amongst her disappointed witnesses was Ser Atticus Frey as well, the man who had stood by her side, who had fought for her, bled for her, died for her. His hands were pressed against his side, trying in vain to stem the flow of blood that seeped from his wounds, staining the water around him a cloudy scarlet. 

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"It is not your fault," he returned kindly. "I would never blame you, you know that. It has been my honour to die for you, to have been brave for you. "

The words pierced her heart, the frayed fragments of her soul scraping against her ribs. His gentle acceptance, his refusal to condemn her, was worse than any accusation. It was a mercy she did not deserve, a kindness that only deepened her guilt, her shame.

"Stop," she begged, her voice trembling. "Please, stop."

"It's not your fault," he repeated, his voice fading, slipping away like the last breath of a dying man.

And then she heard another voice, sharp and accusing, cutting through the silence like a blade.

"No, it is your fault," Helaena's voice was soft but firm, carrying an edge that Daenys had never heard before. She turned, her heart lurching in her chest as she saw her with her younger brother cradled in her arms, but it was not the Daeron she had last seen, the young man who had marched off to war. No, this was a child, the little boy she remembered, innocent and sweet, his eyes wide with confusion, with hurt, too much like his sister's and not enough like his brother's. 

"You killed my brother," Helaena accused again, her voice shaking with emotion, with grief. "You killed both my brothers."

Kinslayer. Kinslayer. Kinslayer. 

And then, beyond her aunt, she saw him. The last person she ever wanted to see, but also possibly the only one she desired above all else.

Aemond Targaryen stood there, tall and proud, his single eye gleaming with that infuriating calm, that smug smile playing on his lips as if he found her suffering amusing. He was a new addition to her wraiths, conjured up by her tormented mind after the news of his death. 

Daenys's lips curled into a grimace. "Look at what you have made me!" she snarled, all venom and teeth. "Look at what you have made me do. Look at what you have done!"

He closed the distance between them with a grace that was almost unnerving, his movements fluid and precise. He reached out, his hand cool against her skin as he ran his thumb down the length of her scarred eye, the touch both familiar and foreign. They were the most accursed of mirrors, distorted reflections of each other's worst aversions and desires in equal measure. 

"Did you mean to kill me?" he asked, his voice soft, almost gentle. 

Daenys opened her mouth to respond, but the words would not come. She had no honest response to the question he posed. Did she mean to kill him? Did she regret it? It didn't particularly matter. She had to kill him and so she did. 

"Yes."

"Did you want to kill me?"

"Yes."

"Liar."

Her family watched on, their expressions unreadable, their silence suffocating. They were all waiting for her response, waiting to judge her. 

Did it make her a terrible person? In loving him still, did she claim his sins against them? In regretting it, did she become unworthy of their forgiveness—of her own—not that she had ever been worthy in the first place. Wretched woman, daughter, sister, and wife that she was, unable to do right by any of her relationships.

 Almost as if in confirmation of her fears, her family turned away, their backs to her as they began to drift into the shadowy depths. The living ones moved with a quiet resolve, as if they were moving toward a place she could never reach.

Her mother was the last to turn, gaze lingering on her for a moment, filled with an almost unbearable sadness. Daenys reached out, her hand trembling as she tried to grasp the air, to hold onto her, to pull her back. "Mother, please!" she begged, her voice breaking, "Don't leave me! I'm sorry—I'm so sorry!"

But the queen simply shook her head slowly, her expression one of resigned sorrow. "We cannot take you where we are going," she said softly, her voice carrying the weight of a final goodbye. "There is no place for you in that world, Daenys. Your place is here, with those you have wronged."

"No—no you cannot leave me. Please don't leave me. I'll make it right, I'll do anything, just please don't leave—"

"Do not make promises you cannot keep, sister," Luke interrupted. "You promised to keep me safe."

"All you do is hurt Daenys," Jace added. "You take and take and take. All you know how to give is pain."

"That's not true...please, I would never hurt you."

"You think you are the only one grieving? Do you think we do not suffer for what we have lost?"

"I wasn't—I wasn't thinking, I'm sorry."

Baela rolled her eyes. "You don't even know that you're doing it. That is how ignorant and selfish you are."

Kinslayer. Kinslayer. Kinslayer.

A child's rhyme, repeated until the words lost all meaning, the syllables distorted as the living departed, leaving her with the phantoms of her victims. They began to circle her, slowly at first, and then faster, brushing their dead skin against her, pulling at her limbs and clothes, dragging her deeper down. More people seemed to have joined as well, a whole crowd of broken and deformed bodies forming around her, their blood and gore polluting the water around them. 

She recognized some of them, faceless men from Harrenhall, Tumbleton, the Gullet. The acrid smell of smoke assaulted her senses and Daenys was plunged into darkness once more. Fingers tore at her hair, tried to peel apart her lips and claw inside her mouth, and all she could do was whimper, the blood-steeped water a deadly poison sliding down her throat with every breath. If they wanted to rip her to shreds, she should let them. After all, it was her fault they were in such a state.

With their lips twisted in uniform saccharine smiles and their eyes melting, running down their cheeks in rivulets like liquified yolks, they kissed her cheeks and wailed, pressing their mouths against her ears, holding her down so she could not escape. The sound was high-pitched and guttural, it was the last thing she heard before the forest of hands and teeth swallowed her.

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇

Rhaenyra Targaryen sat on the cold stone floor of her daughter's chambers, the weight of her crown forgotten, the grandeur of her station rendered meaningless in this moment. The formidable queen was now a mother humbled, cradling her broken child in her arms. She had found Daenys like this in the early hours of the morning, curled up by the door as if she had been trying to escape something only she could see, looking small and fragile as she slept fitfully on the unforgiving ground.

She had come to check on her, a habit she had formed since Daenys's return from Harrenhal, though she had rarely been allowed close, because her daughter now kept everyone at a distance, her spirit shrouded in a darkness that not a soul could penetrate. When Rhaenyra found her huddled by the door, she had knelt beside her, brushing her fingers gently against her cheek in an attempt to rouse her. Despite her insistent touch, Daenys did not awaken, but before she could summon the maester, however, she began to cry in her sleep.

In that moment, the sovereign gave way to the parent, unable to resist the instinct to comfort her child. It was selfish, perhaps, but she had not held Daenys like this in so long, not since the girl was a babe in her arms. If this was the only way she could be close to her daughter, she would seize it, grasping the fleeting opportunity with all her might.

She settled herself with her back against the wall, the cold stone pressing into her through the fabric of her gown as she carefully cradled her daughter as she had when she was small. Daenys was no longer a babe; now a grown woman of twenty, too tall and too heavy to fit easily in her mother's lap. Yet to Rhaenyra, she would always be her little girl, and she would never stop holding her, no matter how much time passed.

The princess, still lost in the throes of her troubled sleep, unconsciously clung to her mother, fingers curling into the fabric of Rhaenyra's gown as she trembled. She mumbled incoherently, her voice thick with despair, and every so often, a plaintive plea slipped from her lips. 

"Mother, please...don't leave me...I'm sorry...you cannot leave me..."

Each time she murmured those words, the queen's heart shattered anew, and she would press a gentle kiss to her daughter's temple, whispering reassurances into the silence.

"I'm here, sweetling. I won't leave you. I'm here."

Her fingers stroked through her matted hair, smoothing the tangled strands as she had done when Daenys was a child, when a bad dream was the worst of her troubles. Now, the nightmares were real, the ghosts of war and loss too vivid to be banished by a mother's touch, but still, Rhaenyra tried. She thumbed away the tears that leaked from beneath the girl's closed eyelids, her heart aching with the knowledge that she could not protect her daughter from these wounds, these invisible scars that ran so deep.

Eventually, Daenys's restless movements stilled, her breathing evening out as she blinked awake, the shadows of her dreams clinging to her like a shroud. The moment her gaze focused on her mother, she started to pull away, the instinct to distance herself, to retreat into her isolation, kicking in. Nevertheless, Rhaenyra held her firm, her grip gentle but unyielding, refusing to let her go.

"Don't. Please, Daenys, let me keep you a little while longer."

The princess hesitated, her body tense as if she might flee, but then she went limp. She could not deny her mother anything. She could push everyone away but she could not bear to do so with her. Even now, she craved approval like a parched creature of the sea; a withered leaf that hungered for a single drop of praise, of acceptance from the woman who was everything to her. 

The silence stretched between them, heavy and fraught with unspoken words, but Rhaenyra cherished it, cherished the rare closeness she had been so starved of. She traced the lines of her daughter's face, the familiar contours now marked by grief, by guilt, by burdens that were far too heavy for one so young to bear.

After what felt like an eternity, she broke the silence. "You never told me about Tumbleton," she began, her tone careful, knowing how fragile her daughter was, how easily she could shatter under the weight of her memories. "But I have heard."

She took Daenys's hands in her own, tracing the lines on her palms, the calluses that had formed from wielding a sword, from fighting battles that should never have been hers to fight. "I am so sorry for all you have had to do in my name. For all the burdens you have had to bear."

There were so many who had made oaths to her, who had done terrible deeds in her name, but this was different. This was her own babe. Blood of her blood, marrow of her marrow, sinew sewn together by the gods. It was entirely different for her to have had to taint herself for her mother. A mother was supposed to protect her child after all. 

"They are not yours to carry alone. If you share them with me, I shall hold them for you while you rest."

For a long moment, Daenys said nothing, her throat working as if she were trying to form words but couldn't quite manage it. Then, in a voice raspy from disuse, she croaked out a pitiful, "I'm sorry."

It was the first thing she had said out loud to another person since her return to the Red Keep, and the sound of it startled Rhaenyra. The apology hung in the air between them, fragile and broken, but filled with a sorrow so profound it was almost unbearable. The queen shook her head, her heart breaking for her daughter, for the pain she carried so silently.

"Oh, my love," she whispered, cupping her face in her hands, her thumbs brushing away the tears that had begun to fall again. She pressed a kiss to her cheek, her lips warm against her cold skin. "You have nothing to apologize for. Nothing at all. The gods will forgive you, sweet girl."

For a moment Daenys was overcome with an irrational rage. 

But what of my forgiveness? What good is God's relinquish if I am the one holding the grudge? What about all the crimes he has committed against me? What of all he has taken from me...from you?

Because even now, her greatest indignation was for all the injustices her mother had suffered. Daughters were inheritors of their mother's pain, carrying the rage of generations. They were choked with it, with the fury at what had been done to those that came before them, so how did one put it down, all that frustration; where did it go? 

Would she live with it forever, its fingers wrapped around her neck, claws sinking in? Where did you put your mother's grief? Or even her mother's. How did you get rid of something that wasn't even wholly yours?

"Will you?"

The princess's voice was small, barely more than a whisper, but the question was heavy with the weight of her guilt, her shame. She could endure the judgment of the gods, but it was her mother's forgiveness that she coveted above all else, her mother's love that she feared she had lost. 

You are the only god who has ever mattered. 

"I have nothing to forgive you for, my darling girl. There is nothing you could do that would make me stop loving you. Nothing at all."

Rhaenyra sighed softly, the remnants of their shared tears still glistening on her cheeks as she tenderly wiped away the traces of sorrow from Daenys's face. With a steadying breath, she began to rise, gently helping her daughter to her feet. 

As Daenys stood, she inhaled sharply, the pain in her right leg shooting through her, but when Rhaenyra's eyes flicked to her with immediate concern, she bit her lip, forcing herself to swallow the whimpers that threatened to escape. She had probably dislodged something the previous night, but she couldn't be bothered to voice her concerns. All she wanted to do was collapse into bed and spend the rest of the day decomposing. 

Her mother, ever perceptive, tightened her arm around her waist, offering silent support as she led her forward when suddenly the doorway filled with the flurry of someone's arrival. 

"Oh, Your Grace, let me take care of the princess!" Dyana exclaimed, her words tumbling out in a rush as she hurried forward, her hands already outstretched as if to relieve the queen of her burden.

Rhaenyra shook her head, her expression gentle but firm. "Do not concern yourself with it, child. I carried her within me for many moons. I can carry her now."

With tender care, she helped Daenys hobble the last few steps to the bed, her touch steady and sure as she guided her daughter to sit down. The mattress dipped under her weight, and Rhaenyra leaned down to press a final, lingering kiss to her forehead. 

"Today, the realm gathers to swear fealty to your brother as my heir. It would mean a great deal to him if you attended...but I do not wish to force you. Do you think you can manage to make a brief appearance?"

Daenys turned her head away, her gaze drifting toward the far wall as she shifted to lie on her side, her back to her mother. The idea of facing the world, of stepping out from the solitude of her chambers, filled her with a deep, suffocating dread. She did not wish to go. She did not wish to see the faces of others, to hear their voices, their whispered judgments and empty condolences. She longed for the quiet refuge of her room, where the only company she kept were her thoughts and memories.

But then, she thought of Jace, of how he had come to her the night before, trying to console her with his quiet presence. Today was about him, not her. She could not, would not, make it about herself. With a heavy heart, she gave a reluctant nod, a gesture so slight it could have been missed, but Rhaenyra caught it, a small smile of gratitude gracing her lips.

"Thank you. Dyana will help you prepare when you feel ready. You are free to change your mind if you wish. I will not fault you for it."

Once her mother was gone, the princess allowed herself to sink further into the bed, the exhaustion that had plagued her since her return weighing heavily on her. She remained listless, her thoughts a muddled tangle of incoherence, until Dyana returned to her side. 

The maid's touch was gentle as she bathed her, hands warm and soothing against bruised skin that had grown cold, and later, every time the comb caught on a tangle in her hair, she murmured soft apologies.

"Oh, Princess," she implored as she worked through another knot, her tone filled with concern, "you really should start taking your meals regularly. Your hair is thinning."

Daenys didn't respond, her eye unfocused as she sat there, letting the girl do her work. The truth of her words echoed faintly in her mind, but she couldn't find it in herself to care. She had lost so much already—what was a little more? It was only hair. 

Once her locks were finally tamed, wrangled into an elaborate braid that fell over her shoulder, Dyana laid out a dress for her. It was a beautiful ensemble, all black with delicate crimson details woven into the fabric. The colours were regal, a subtle nod to her Targaryen heritage, but as Daenys gazed at it, a wave of unease washed over her. It would be the first shred of colour she would voluntarily wear since Luke's death, and even the inconspicuous embroidery clashed with the plain mourning black she had taken as her constant attire. The thought of donning it, of presenting herself to the world as if she were anything other than the worst sort of sinner, filled her with a sudden, overwhelming dread.

Dyana, sensing her distress, quickly spoke up. "Your mother had this especially made for you, princess. She would appreciate it greatly if you honoured her wish, might you return to your usual garments after the event?"

The thought of disappointing her mother, of refusing her even this small request, tightened Daenys's chest, and with great reluctance, she nodded, allowing the girl to dress her, the fabric of the gown heavy against her skin. 

"Would you like me to throw this out?" Dyana asked eventually. 

Massaging her temples, the princess turned her attention to the fragments cradled in the serving girl's hands, and she jerked her head suddenly, snatching the pieces to clench them between her fists. 

"My apologies," Dyana spluttered. "I was not thinking. But you cannot wear that anymore, so maybe this one will do in the meantime."

She held up the ruby pendant Jace had gifted her and reluctantly Daenys allowed her to clasp it around her neck. It aligned well with her apparel, and perhaps it was a sign to let go of the past and make peace with her present. Even so, she had never been one to cope in healthy ways or to forget. She latched on to every memory with an aching mania, just as she clutched the broken shards of the sapphire necklace despite the way they cut into her palms. 

She could not and would not let go. 

When Dyana finally declared her ready and stripped one of the mirrors of its concealing shroud, Daenys felt ill. 

"You look beautiful, princess. Truly. There has never been anyone lovelier."

I had no idea my wife could look so beautiful. 

A look of hurt flashed across Dyana's face when the princess flinched at her words, unaware of the disembodied voices that slithered through her ears, rendering her compliment insignificant. In fact, she did not know anything of Daenys's afflictions, but she felt the distance between them all the same. The serving girl had expected the princess's cold demeanour, particularly when she thought of their last interaction—when she had so rudely sent her away despite the fact that Daenys had come to her door in the dead of night to check up on her. Dyana had been cruel, the circumstances had demanded it, and so she expected cruelty in return, not this listless apathy. 

The war had changed much, and both of them had been victims of violence of various sorts.  Nonetheless, Dyana found herself wishing almost foolishly that they could return to the carefree days of their childhood, when she would wipe the flour from the princess's cheeks and was granted her giddy laughter in return every time she snuck into the palace kitchens. 

Meanwhile, Daenys stood before the mirror, her eyes remained steadfastly downcast, refusing to meet the gaze of the man who lingered behind her, his presence as haunting as it was inevitable. She tried, in vain, not to flinch when she felt the ghost of a kiss brush against her cheek—a touch that was not real, and yet, to her, it might as well have been. Slowly, almost against her will, she forced herself to look up, her reflection catching the glint of his single eye, cold and piercing as it met hers. His lips curled into a grin as he stroked the ruby at her throat, with a mocking expression that seemed to taunt her from beyond the grave, as if he took pleasure in her torment, in the power he still held over her.

You have replaced me already? Will you forget me just as quick?

Aemond's gaze traced over her features in the looking glass, his presence a dark shadow at her back, and Daenys felt a wave of revulsion sweep through her. The wound she had given herself, in a moment of despair and madness, had begun to heal. It had been a year now, a long and agonizing year, but the scar remained—a jagged, angry line etched into her skin, a permanent reminder of the man she had bound herself to, of the betrayal that had destroyed her family.

She could hardly bear to look at it, at herself. The sight of that scar, of what she had become, filled her with a desperate, clawing urge to tear at her own face, to rip away the flesh until there was nothing left, until she no longer existed in this world that had become a living nightmare. With a sharp, almost violent motion, she turned away from the mirror, her hand reaching out to grasp the sheet that had once obscured it from view. In one swift motion, she threw it over the mirror once more, shrouding her reflection in darkness. 

Her breath came in shallow, ragged gasps as she stumbled back toward the bed, her mind reeling with the intensity of her emotions. Dyana, ever attentive, moved to steady her, reaching out to grasp her elbow, but Daenys flinched away from the touch as if it had burned her. She didn't want to be touched, didn't want to feel anything that might tether her to the reality she was so desperate to escape. With trembling hands, she settled herself back onto the bed, her body tense and rigid, trying to hold herself together when all she wanted to do was fall apart.

She had barely managed to compose herself when a knock sounded at the door. The sharp rap echoed through the chamber, and Daenys's heart sank, her frustration bubbling to the surface. She had no desire to see anyone, no energy to spare for conversations or company, wishing only to preserve what little strength she had for Jace's ceremony, for the moment when she would have to present herself to the world once more. However, before she could deny the intruder entry, Dyana was already opening the door.

The princess exhaled in exasperation, her patience fraying at the edges, but when she saw who had entered, she wiped her disgruntled expression clean. It was her grandsire who approached, his expression grave, the lines of age and worry etched deeply into his weathered face.

"I meant to come see you yesterday," he began, his voice low and gentle, as if afraid of startling her. "But I was told you did not wish to see anyone."

Daenys didn't respond, her gaze fixed on the floor, her hands clenched into fists in her lap. She didn't know what to say, didn't have the strength to offer any sort of explanation. What could she say that would make a difference? It was true enough. Her name day was not a day to be spent in the company of others, but a time to contemplate self-loathing and plead to the wraiths of those she had failed. 

Corlys sighed, the sound heavy with a desolation he did not often show. In his hands, he held a cane, crafted from polished wood, the handle engraved with the sigil of House Velaryon. Gently, he pressed the gift into her vacant hands, guiding her fingers to curl around the smooth wood.

When she finally raised her head to meet his gaze, he reached out to pat her head, his touch paternal. 

"To help you with your gait. The maesters say you need the support, so I had it made for you."

Daenys shrugged. 

The Sea Snake's gaze then fell upon the Valyrian steel sword that stood propped against the wall, its gleaming blade catching the light. A fond smile touched his lips as he stepped toward it, his hand reaching out to grasp the familiar hilt. Laenor's sword, now his daughter's. 

"They call you the slayer of Vhagar...and Vermithor. Did you know that?"

Daenys's stomach twisted at the reminder, the title feeling like a curse rather than a badge of honour. Vermithor she had only defeated because he had been riderless and did not wish to put up a proper fight against his own mate, and as for Vhagar...that had been no great feat of valour either, particularly if it had cost her the life of her beloved Silverwing. Both victories had simply been a confluence of fate, an end to a tragedy that had already claimed too many lives.

And what honour was there in slaying the very creatures that symbolized the might and pride of her own house. A dragon's death was to be mourned, not celebrated. 

Corlys, unaware of the turmoil within her, continued, his tone filled with quiet resolve. "Your father would have been proud of you, child. My son would have been proud of you."

No, he would not. 

The malicious whispers would not leave her be, even now, unable to allow her the smallest of compliments. 

"You and Jacaerys are the last of what is left of him. Do not give up on each other, for his sake."

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇

Jacaerys Velaryon stood before the grand mirror in his chambers, his reflection staring back at him with a familiar mix of trepidation and self-doubt. His fingers traced the contours of his eyes, lingering on the shape that was undeniably his mother's, yet unmistakably different. They were a deep brown, like dirt, like rot, and in them, he saw a reflection of all his insecurities. His brunette curls framed his face, a constant reminder of the heritage that many questioned. How often had he stood here, in front of this very mirror, trying to dissect what it was about his appearance that made the court regard him with suspicion, with those thinly veiled looks of disdain that had haunted him since he was a boy?

As a child, he had been innocent, too young to understand the weight of whispers and the burden of lineage, but as he grew older, the realization had dawned upon him with cruel clarity. He did not have the silver hair of Old Valyria, nor the violet eyes that spoke of dragonfire and ancient bloodlines. He was, in many ways, a mirror of his father, and not the Velaryon his mother wished to claim. Jace had spent countless hours imagining himself with the features of his sister, wondering if the world would have treated him differently if he bore the telltale signs of his Targaryen blood like she did. Perhaps then, they wouldn't snigger behind his back, wouldn't slander him in hushed tones as a bastard unworthy of the crown.

When his mother had named Daenys as her heir, a strange sense of relief had washed over him. It meant he could avoid the brunt of the realm's judgment. He would not have to bear the weight of their scorn, their impossible expectations, but today, that respite felt like a distant memory, slipping through his fingers like sand. The reality had caught up to him, harsh and unforgiving. Nobles from every corner of the realm would soon gather to swear fealty to the rightful queen, his mother, and her named heir—him. The thought twisted his stomach into knots, and he could feel the bile rising in his throat. 

All those years spent longing to be like his sister, to possess her strength, her confidence, her undeniable Valyrian heritage, seemed laughable now. When he looked into the mirror, it was not Daenys he saw, but the ghosts of his brothers, Luke's eyes staring back at him through the glass and Joffrey's sullen mouth. The brothers he had loved so dearly, the brothers he had failed to protect. He wondered if this was how Luke had felt when he was named heir to Driftmark, when the weight of expectation had settled upon his young shoulders. Surely, he must have felt the same anxieties gnawing at his insides. They had more in common than anyone realized, for they both carried the burden of being the second choice, the ones who were not meant to rule.

The loss of Vermax had only solidified these fears. Without a dragon, what was he? A dragonrider without a dragon, a prince without a kingdom, a pretender to a throne that he felt he did not deserve. The shame burned within him, a bitter reminder that he was, in his own eyes, unworthy of the titles bestowed upon him. He wondered, not for the first time, if the realm would eventually look to his younger brother Aegon as the next true heir, as someone more deserving of the crown. 

He clenched his fists, trying to suppress the storm of self-doubt that threatened to consume him. He could almost hear the court's whispers, the cruel laughter echoing in his mind. They would see through him, they would know he was an imposter, a charlatan. He could not be the heir his mother wanted him to be. He could not be the man the realm needed.

Just as the weight of his thoughts began to crush him, the door to his chambers creaked open, drawing him out of his spiralling despair. He didn't need to turn to know who had entered. The air in the room shifted, the tension easing just slightly as the familiar scent of lavender and incense reached him. He caught her reflection in the mirror before he saw her, a figure of strength and grace, a beacon of light in his darkest moments.

His betrothed, no—his wife, stood there, resplendent in an elaborate gown of burgundy brocade that clung to her form with an elegance that took his breath away. She was radiant, a true daughter of the dragon, her silver curls cascading down her back like molten moonlight, and in her, he saw the embodiment of everything he had ever desired to be—noble, fierce, unyielding. As their eyes met in the mirror, the storm within him seemed to calm, if only for a moment.

Sensing his anguish, Baela crossed the room with purposeful strides, her gaze never leaving his. Reaching him, she gently turned him away from the mirror, her hands resting on his shoulders as she guided him to face her. Without a word, she rose on the tips of her toes and pressed a tender kiss to his forehead, a gesture of reassurance that nearly brought him to tears. He had to stoop slightly to meet her lips, and the intimacy of the moment made him want to weep. 

When she pulled away, she kept her hands on his face, her fingers tracing the lines of his jaw, his cheeks, as if searching for something beneath the surface. Jace found himself wanting to shrink away, to hide from her gaze. What if she, too, saw the truth? What if she, too, found him unworthy?

"Jace," she whispered, her voice a balm to his tortured soul. "You're in your head again."

He mumbled an apology, unable to meet her eyes, but she only sighed, the sound filled with understanding rather than frustration. Baela had always known him better than he knew himself. She could see through the walls he built, and the facades he wore for the sake of others.

"It will be just fine. You will be fine."

"But what if I'm not?" The words slipped out before he could stop them, a desperate confession of the fears he had buried deep within. 

"You won't fail. You are worthy. You are noble, brave, and steadfast. That is what the realm needs. You are the prince of Dragonstone, and one day, you will make a wonderful king."

"But I am not a dragon rider anymore."

"So? Your grandsire, King Viserys was not one either, and yet he was a good king."

"Yes, but before that, he claimed the Black Dread himself," Jace paused, swallowing nervously before making his next confession. "When the dragonseeds claimed their dragons...I was afraid. I thought... I thought that one of them might challenge my claim. Or worse, betray my mother. They rode bigger dragons than I, more powerful ones, and then they did betray her."

Baela's expression softened as she listened, her eyes never leaving his. She stepped closer, her hands sliding up his arms to rest on his shoulders, grounding him. "You don't have to worry about that anymore. Your sister took care of the traitor. He is gone, and those who remain are loyal to you, to your family."

"But now the realm knows that any lowborn with enough Targaryen blood can claim a dragon. Where does that leave me? I don't even look like I have a drop of it. How can I hope to lead, when others will always doubt my claim, when they might turn to someone who seems more... legitimate?"

"Listen to me, Jace. You are the trueborn son of Rhaenyra Targaryen, and that is what matters. It's not about the colour of your hair or the dragon you ride. It's about the blood in your veins, the blood of the dragon. And you have that. You've proven your worth time and time again."

"But will they still support me if my mother is no longer here to back my claim? Will the men on her council, and even the rest of the realm that's loyal to her, will they fight for me? Or will they see me as just a placeholder, a poor substitute for her?"

Reaching up to cup his face in her hands, his wife's thumbs brushed away the moisture at the corners of his eyes. "Jace, your mother's strength, her legacy, it lives on in you. The realm has seen you grow, they've seen you fight, they know your heart. And there are those who will follow you, not because of the crown on your head, but because of the man you are."

She paused, letting her words sink in before continuing. "Yes, there will always be those who question, who doubt, but you cannot let their whispers dictate your worth. You must draw strength from those who love you, from those who believe in you. And I believe in you, with all my heart."

"What if it's not enough? What if I'm not enough?" His voice cracked on the last word, and he hated himself for the weakness that had seeped into it. Regardless, Baela did not flinch. Instead, she leaned in closer, pressing her forehead against his, her breath warm against his skin.

"You are enough, my prince," she murmured, her voice filled with unwavering conviction. "You've always been enough. You just need to believe it. Your mother believes it, I believe it, and so do those who stand with you. You do not have to carry this burden alone."

Her words wrapped around him like a protective cloak, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he allowed himself to hope, to believe that maybe, just maybe, she was right. He was not his sister, he was not his brother, but he was himself, and perhaps that was enough.

"You do not have to be perfect, Jace. You just have to be you. The realm needs a leader, yes, but it also needs someone who is compassionate, who is strong enough to admit when he is afraid. That's what makes you worthy of the crown."

She leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his lips, her touch gentle yet filled with the fierce love she had always had for him. When she pulled away, she smiled, a small but reassuring curve of her lips. "We will face whatever comes together. And whatever happens, know that I will always stand by your side. You are never alone in this."

The prince stared at her, his heart swelling with a mixture of love and gratitude. In her eyes, he saw the reflection of the man he wanted to be, the man he could be, if only he allowed himself to believe it. 

"Thank you...I do not know what I'd do without you."

She grinned, brushing a stray curl from his forehead. "You'll never have to find out, because I'm not going anywhere. Now, let us get through today, and then tomorrow, and then the rest of our days after that."

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇

In Rhaenyra Targaryen's chambers, the air was thick with tension, an unspoken storm brewing between the queen and her consort. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, but it did little to dispel the chill that had settled over the room. Daemon watched his wife with cautious eyes, his usual smirk absent, replaced by a sombre stillness that was rare for the Rogue Prince. He perched by the window, the familiar sight of King's Landing sprawling out beneath him, but his attention never left Rhaenyra.

She paced back and forth across the room, the hem of her gown sweeping the floor with every turn. Her fingers fidgeted with the rings on her hands, twisting the metal as if she could wring the frustration out of herself. Daemon's hands itched to reach out, to still her nervous movements, to offer the comfort of his touch, but he did not dare. Not yet. Not while she was still angry with him, while her heart was still wounded by the secrets and the blood that lay between them.

Rhaenyra stopped suddenly, turning toward him with a flash of anger in her violet eyes. The letter she clutched in her hands crinkled as her grip tightened, and her voice, though low, carried the weight of her fury. "I have not forgiven you yet," she said, her tone as sharp as Valyrian steel.

"I shall wait then, however long it takes. For I remain as I always have been, devoted to you."

"Devoted?" His wife rolled her eyes, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. "That did not stop you from taking matters into your own hands. I have not forgotten the murder of my sister's child."

Daemon stood abruptly, the tension in his body manifesting in clenched fists and a rigid stance. "Well, you have spared her brother in return," he argued, his voice rising. "You have allowed the man who killed Luke to go free. Surely that has made up for it."

"That does not condone what you did, Daemon. The blood on your hands—"

"And what of the blood on his?" he interrupted, his eyes flashing with anger. "How is he to make up for that? How do you expect justice when you refuse to see it done?"

She turned away from him, her shoulders tense, but her husband would not be dismissed so easily. He crossed the room in a few quick strides, his hands finding hers and holding them tightly, his voice softening as he pleaded with her. "Do not be angry with me, at least not today of all days. Today is your day, and Jace's. The day the kingdom bends the knee to you and swears obeisance, one by one, every single one of them."

Rhaenyra's frown did not disappear, but he continued in High Valyrian, his voice filled with the fervour of his fidelity. "You and I are made of fire, ñuha jorrāelagon, we have always been meant to burn together. Try as I might, I cannot sever myself from you. I am meant to serve you until my final breath, until the gods declare my story to be ended."

"But—"

"Be angry with me another day...but not today."

The queen's lips twitched, the familiar adoration in his tone soothing some of the anger that had been festering within her, but then she remembered the letter in her hands, and her heart grew heavy once more. She withdrew from him slightly, changing the subject as she held up the letter. 

"Ser Qarl has written," she said quietly.

"What has he said? Does he bring news of Laenor?"

"He says Laenor is dead."

Daemon stilled, surprise flickering across his face. He had not expected this. 

Rhaenyra continued, pressing a trembling hand to her lips, her voice wavering as she spoke. "I had always wondered if I should have summoned him, to ask for his aid in the war, but then I thought, I should not drag him back to a place that stifled him. I believed it was kinder to let him live out his days in peace, far from the burdens and tragedies that have haunted our house."

"When did he die?"

"Ser Qarl says he had been ill when he heard of Luke's passing, and that the Stranger took him mere days later."

Daemon pulled her into his arms, and for once, she did not resist. She allowed herself to be held, her cheek resting against his chest as he stroked her hair gently, his voice a low rumble in her ear. "It makes sense then, that Seasmoke chose a new rider when he did."

"And now he is gone too. Both Laenor and his dragon..."

"Best not to say anything to the children. It will only bring them more pain."

Rhaenyra shook her head. "Laenor wrote to them. Ser Qarl has sent the letters. They deserve to bear witness to the last words of the man who raised them, but I am afraid to reopen old wounds. Daenys in particular... I fear she would not recover. Already I worry for her. The maesters say her body is healing, but I can only find her to be slipping further away from me. Hearing of Laenor would devastate her, but I feel even worse keeping his letters from them."

Daemon sighed, his grip on her tightening slightly as he considered her words. "I will trust your judgment on this. I know you will do what is best for them, and whatever decision you make will be out of love."

The queen nodded, but the weight of the decision still hung heavily on her shoulders. She pulled away from him, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand as she looked down at the letter in her hands. "I never wanted this," she whispered, more to herself than to her husband. "I never wanted any of this."

The Rogue Prince watched her, his heart aching for the woman he loved. He reached out, taking her hand in his and squeezing it gently. "None of us did, but it is the path we were given, and we must walk it together."

"Together?"

"Always. I shall never be parted from you, not by choice, not by fate."

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇

Meanwhile, Daenys wandered the shadowed hallways of the Red Keep, her steps slow and measured as she made her way through the labyrinthine corridors. Each footfall echoed softly against the stone walls, the sound barely more than a whisper, as if the castle itself was holding its breath in her presence. She knew the way to the throne room—how could she not, when she had spent countless days there as a child, perched on her grandsire's knee? Yet today, the path felt unfamiliar, almost foreboding, and she hesitated at every turn.

Her right knee, still troublesome after last night's fall, protested with every step, but Lord Corlys's cane was a small comfort. She leaned heavily on it, grateful for its support as she hobbled along the less frequented corridors of the keep. She had no desire to encounter anyone, and she was thankful that, so far, she had avoided prying eyes.

Her mind was far from the present moment, wandering back to Harrenhal and the dragon she had left behind. If she obeyed her mother today, if she played the dutiful daughter and sister, would she be allowed to return there? To bid a final farewell to her Qelos, to say a prayer over her resting place? The thoughts consumed her so completely that she paid little attention to her surroundings, and it wasn't until she rounded a corner that she collided with someone.

The impact was jarring, and she stumbled, her weight shifting dangerously onto her bad leg. A sharp hiss of pain escaped her lips before she could stifle it, and the knight she had bumped into stammered an apology, his voice full of concern.

"Princess?"

Daenys, who had been staring at the floor in an attempt to hide from the world, raised her head to meet his gaze. She recognized him at once, and the knight—Ser Percival—looked just as startled as she felt. His eyes widened with recognition, and then, almost as if he was afraid she might order him beheaded, he quickly added, "I have sworn fealty to the rightful queen."

For a moment, Daenys said nothing, her gaze flickering over him as she considered his words. She knew many of the old guards of the Red Keep must have been executed, traitors to her mother's cause, but it seemed Rhaenyra had shown mercy to those who had bent the knee. 

Ser Percival had been the one who guarded her husband's chambers—her own prison—and he had been the one to let her go, and because of that, Daenys could not muster the same fierce hatred she held for so many others. He, for all his faults, had shown her a sliver of kindness in a place devoid of it.

He seemed to sense her internal struggle, offering her an earnest smile. "I am glad to see you alive, princess."

Daenys only scowled in response. Her face remained impassive, her single eye cold and distant, a far cry from the warmth his words had intended. Yet, despite her silence, Ser Percival couldn't help but notice the fire that still burned within her, even if it was diminished, a flame that flickered but had not yet gone out. Her gaze, though marred by the scar that had taken her other eye, held the fierce intensity that once belonged to the late commander of the City Watch, and while she did not speak, her presence alone carried the authority of his voice.

"Are you going to the throne room? Might I accompany you?"

The princess did not answer. She simply turned and continued down the corridor, her steps slow and deliberate, her silence an unspoken acceptance of his offer. Ser Percival hesitated for only a moment before falling into step behind her, careful to keep his distance, yet close enough to offer assistance if needed.

The silence between them was thick, almost oppressive, but the knight felt a renewed determination rise within him. He had been haunted by guilt since her imprisonment, the memory of his inaction a constant source of shame. He had failed her then, failed to protect her when she needed it most, having betrayed the child of his deceased mentor, but now, with every step he took beside her, he vowed to do better, to make amends for the past.

The voice of Ser Harwin Strong echoed in his mind, a reminder of the values he had once held dear but had lost sight of in the chaos of war. Strong had always spoken of honour, of loyalty, and of the duty a knight owed to those he served. Ser Percival had faltered, but he would not do so again. He would earn the princess's trust, if not her forgiveness, and in doing so, he hoped to honour the memory of the man who had trained him, even if it was only through serving his daughter.

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇

A/N: whoops this chapter is mostly dialogue/filler but I hope yall enjoyed it regardless. Just wanted to get more into everyone's post-war psychology lol, but I may have waffled a bit. Also, apologies if it feels like I don't spend enough time on Aemond/Daenys scenes. I enjoy fleshing out the other characters/relationships but then I rmbr this is an aemond fic lol so I hope yall don't mind me rambling about everyone else's inner thoughts :) 

LOL I feel like the HOTd writers, giving yall endless chapters of Daenys's Harrenhall haunted house experience except the haunted house is her body and the ghosts are in her head. I promise this is the last one (last one for her, aemond deserves one more lmao). I def feel like I've written more dream sequences for these two than actual interactions but oh well, they're nutty like that. 

As always, I live for yalls comments/questions/concerns/reactions, even a keyboard smash is highly appreciated and encouraged! <3