↳ xii. ME AND THE DEVIL
SEASON 1
EPISODE 8: THE LORDS OF THE TIDE
—HOUSE OF THE DRAGON—

HEAVY IS THE CROWN

KINGSLANDING

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|| AN EERIE SILENCE FELL OVER THE TABLE OF THE ROYAL TARGARYEN FAMILY. Where only the clinking of forks and knife's upon metal plates filled the air. And for added convenience, the awkward coughs and throat clearing here and there. It all seemed to nibble at Alicent's already broken mind.

She had placed her cup down promptly upon her idea being thwarted. It felt as mockery to her. Fiddling within her seat, before returning to picking at her fingers. Under the cover of the table, where she uttered curses beneath her breath. Ones vied towards the ailing Manderly lord. For how dare he say no to her proposal.

In forth of everyone that is... she was the kings decision maker and had been for months now. This had been something the green Queen had been rounding around in her mind for hours in the lone hours. Waltzing around the entirety of her chambers, reciting what she'd say over and over.

Only for the Manderly lord to shut her down immediately—without giving her the chance to explain. And her husband, well, he wasn't much help either. Particularly making her out like a crazy for not supporting her choice. Aemond needed someone to bound him down —to control him. Alicent feared her control upon him was slowly slipping and he was becoming what she feared he would.

But, if he had a woman whose heart was just... dark—then perhaps he could be saved.

Alicent Hightower had been a bird wounded, her eyes of blue locked upon the Manderly lord as she began to sling curses his way. Otto noted his daughter's sudden distress, leaning in to her ear. "Do not fret my daughter. There will come a time..." was all he said before returning his attention to Helaena's speech.

Whilst Baela and Rhaena listened in part to the shy princess's remarks, Jacaerys found himself deadlocked. He clicked his jaw side to side, his fists clenching and unclenching.. before his leg began to dance bounce up and down. It wasn't right, fair even.... He had been there since the beginning.

His sight flickered to his mother then to faintly to Vyselyra. For once, she met his gaze. Their shared look spoke volumes, conveying the silent agony that tore at their souls like ravenous wolves in the dead of night.

How could this proposal to the northern lord bring anything? How could his grandsire allow such a thing? He could plead forth his desire for Vyselyra? To finally admit his love for her and be granted to take her as his? Before someone else got the chance.

Jacaerys bite his tongue, trying to keep himself from blurting out how he truly felt. The Velaryon felt a surge of emotions so potent, so overwhelming, that he feared he might drown in the tempestuous sea of his own despair. Betrayed by the fickle hand of fate, he could do nothing but stand by and watch as the woman he loved slipped through his fingers—carried away on the tides of duty and obligation.

He held a sort of betrayal deep within, it wasn't like he knew about the pact made between her mother and Princess Rhaenys. Frankly, if Jacaerys did know, he wouldn't have accept the proposal. He kind deeply for Baela, it was true, but not in the way he held for Vyselyra. Perhaps this anger was what Vyselyra felt. Honestly Jacaerys couldn't tell by her facial expressions, frankly she was hard to read.

But Aemond seemed more annoyed than angry. It wasn't the first time Vyselyra was offered as a proposal only to be snapped away. It felt as though the very foundations of his world had been shattered into irreparable fragments. For years he had trod the arduous path of courtship, his every action and deed guided by the unwavering belief that one day he would claim her hand in marriage.

Now, to see that dream evaporate like mist in the morning sun, replaced by the frigid reality of political alliances and ancestral duties, was a torment beyond compare.

Aemond grappled with unspoken truths that gnawed at the recesses of his mind like relentless vipers. The forbidden whispers of Vyselyra's impending nuptials, but at least it was not to the hapless bastard—Jacaerys.

And so, Aemond held his tongue, the weight of his unspoken truths casting a shadow over his every move. To utter such harsh words would be a folly beyond redemption, a breach of decorum that even Aemond could ill afford. The very idea of Vyselyra bound to the lowly Jacaerys churned his stomach with a primal fury, a fire that burned with the intensity of a thousand suns. The mere thought of it was a dagger plunged deep into his heart, a wound that festered with each passing moment.

He found solace in the silence that veiled his thoughts, channeling his inner turmoil into the rhythmic dance of his digits - the soft crackling of his thumb upon his index finger a muted symphony of restraint.

The announcement carried in the air like a fierce gale, disrupting the tranquil waters of Vyselyra's world. Her entire being trembled as the words reached her ears, causing her to sputter involuntarily in disbelief. Was she no more than a mere piece in a grand game, to be bartered and traded like a plaything? The thought sent shivers down her spine, the notion of being wed off to a northern lord a fate worse than the darkest abyss. For everyone was aware that dragons despised the icy chill that gripped the northern lands so mercilessly.

As Helaena attempted to soothe the mounting tension with her honeyed words, Vyselyra's temper only flared, her gaze fixing sharply upon her brother Medrick. His eyes darted nervously between Baela and their father, a silent testament to the unspoken truths that lingered in the shadows of the grand hall. It was an open secret that the eldest Velaryon princess held a tender regard for the heir of House Manderly, a sentiment that added layers of complexity to the unfolding drama.

The subtle dance of alliances and ambitions played out before Vyselyra's eyes, each gesture laden with hidden meanings and unspoken promises. She felt a surge of defiance rising within her, a rebellious fire that threatened to consume the delicate ties that bound their family together. In that moment, she vowed to chart her own course, to defy the expectations that sought to confine her within the confines of tradition.

In that moment when Vyselyra beheld the sight of Baela leaning in towards Jacaerys, a single strand of fury threaded through her veins. Did she harbor genuine affections for him, or was it but the spirit of competition that stirred the tempest within her breast? With eyes ablaze like embers in the dark of night, surveyed the tableau unfolding before her – the betrothed souls engaged in conversation, oblivious to the storm brewing in her heart.

Nevertheless, the Manderly princess maintained a façade of calm elegance, her gaze ablaze with an intensity that could rival even the fiercest dragon.

If this was Jacaerys' subtle retaliation against her, then let it be known that two could partake in the dance of vendetta. Despite her disdain for Aemond, there lingered within her bosom a remnant of the boy he once was—a flickering ember of a long-extinguished flame.

With a graceful rise that drew all eyes upon her, Vyselyra swept her languid gaze across the opulent hall—a silent command falling from her lips like caressing silk as she motioned to the musicians ensconced in their alcove. "Something livelier, if you please," she murmured, her tone cold as a winter's frost but still soft as the rustle of silk, "I feel the need for a dance."

The subtle shift in the music seemed to mirror the shifting currents of her mood, as if the very melody itself bent to her will. A flicker of disapproval crossed her mother's countenance, yet Vyselyra met it with a knowing smile, her mind already set on the game she would play. Which Naemera feared her daughter might pull.

Turning her attention to the brooding figure of Aemond beside her, she extended a slender hand with an offer that hung in the air like a delicate promise. "Would you care to dance?" she inquired, the question slipping from her lips without a second thought. Aemond's gaze shifted to her outstretched hand, his jaw clenched with uncertainty, unable to discern whether her gesture was born of jest or sincerity.

"Ah, splendid," Viserys interjected, a faint cough heralding his words, "At last, a soul at this table endeavors to make amends. I implore you all to follow suit."

Aegon's mischievous gaze fell upon his youngest brother. The older prince's lips twitched with barely concealed mirth. For it was not Aemond who had graciously extended an invitation for the dance, but rather the audacious Manderly Princess. This was more than hilarious to Aegon.

Jacaerys, however, was less than enthusiastic about this. His eyes of honey bore into that of Aemond Targaryen. And anger towards Vyselyra... How dare she do such a thing? After what Aemond had did to Lucerys?

"Oh brother," Aegon teased, his voice laced with amusement, "you must accept this proposal. Is she not the very maiden who haunts your dreams?" Aemond never had much luck with the ladies, of course his first was the head lady of the whore house. And now, the young prince found himself at the mercy of a woman's whims once more.

"As if you are any better Aegon.." Vyselyra sneered, with words that dripped like venom. The older Targaryen's smug expression slowly dissipated from his lips at her accusation. Even Otto felt the slightest of his lip curve upward.

Aemond's response was not one of amusement but a jaw that clenched with silent indignation at the playful accusation. Yet he made no protest as he slowly rose from his velvet-clad chair—the serpentine flicker of the candlelight casting a dance of shadows upon his noble features.

With a composed grace that belied the tumultuous storm raging within his breast, he extended his hand towards the Lady, the golden light catching the glint of hidden steel in his stormy blue eye.

"Very well..." as he gently enclosed Vyselyra's delicate hand in his firm grasp. With measured steps, he guided her towards the heart of the polished marbled floor, where the harmonious melodies of the orchestra enveloped the hollow space—setting the stage.

As they stood arm's length apart, a crackling tension hung in the air, palpable as the unspoken words that lingered on their lips. Vyselyra with a sly smile playing at the corners of her mouth, finally broke the silence by uttering in a tone laden with subtle mockery, "How about the dance of dragons..." The words dripped from her lips like honey, sweet yet tainted with a hint of venom.

Aemond, catching the glimmer of insolence in her gaze, narrowed his steely grey eyes ever so slightly—a flicker of realization flashing across his visage. He had been a fool to think that her affections ran deep, for in her eyes, he was but a pawn in her intricate game of deceit and desire. The revelation stung his pride, yet fueled the fire of determination that raged within his soul.

The chamber grew hushed as the two dragons of House Targaryen glided with seamless elegance—their every step echoing the fluidity of silk ribbons stirred gently by a zephyr. Around each other they moved, a mesmerizing spectacle of predator and prey engaged in a delicate ballet, their gazes locked in a fierce exchange of past slights and unspoken desires. Hands clasped firmly, their dance spoke of a silent battle of wills.

"So you would consort with a northerner..." Aemond's voice rumbled low as they twirled, their forms intertwined. Vyselyra's lip curled in a subtle sneer. "Are you suggesting that Lord Cregan Stark is beneath me?"

As they twirled and wove through the air, Aemond's retort came swift and sharp, his grasp unyielding. "No. I merely contend that the blood of House Targaryen should mingle with its own, not that of mere men..."

"But he is no mere man, he is a lord..." Vyselyra shot back, a sardonic glint in her eyes. But Aemond needed to have the upper hand—"Yet, does he command the mightiest of dragons?"

"No he does not, but perhaps jealousy breeds such words. Seizing a heart is no easy feat as seizing a dragon," Vyselyra countered in a murmur, before she took charge once more.

Vyselyra, her silver locks cascading like a river of moonlight down her back, guided Aemond with a regal grace that defied the laws of nature. Her hazel orbs blazed with a fervor brighter than the mightiest stronghold's hearth, casting a spellbinding aura around them. As she extended her arms in a sinuous motion, it was as if a dragon took to the skies, their dance a tapestry of passion and power woven with the threads of destiny.

She was the traditional beauty of House Targaryen, so ethereal it was as if the gods themselves had carved her from the purest marble. The flowing gown of green— blue marked of Manderly colors shimmered like the scales of a dragon.

As the dance unfolded, Jacaerys watched from the sidelines with a mixture of adoration and envy. His heart, which had once beat solely for Vyselyra, now found itself torn between loyalty to his betrothed and desire for the unattainable beauty that twirled before him.

The music swirled around them like a storm at sea, the notes rising and falling in perfect harmony with the dancers' movements. Aemond and Vyselyra spun and twirled, their bodies moving as one in a display of otherworldly elegance. Whilst she was much better at the dance, having years of being forced to learn it by her mother, Aemond wasn't so lucky.

Though he was older, she outmaneuvered him every time. Swirling around him—before he could even complete his turn.

But the tension that lurked beneath Jacaerys was as thick as the walls of Winterfell. His jealousy grew with each passing moment, his gaze darkening as he watched the closeness shared between his cousin and the Manderly maiden.

So the Velaryon Prince took it upon himself to request the honor of a dance from Heleana—much to the surprise and concealed displeasure of Alicent and Aegon. Whether it was because he felt bad for the treatment the fair lady received or he just wanted to make Vyselyra just as jealous.

Jacaerys and Heleana started their dance out slow, with them jumping around—and twirling before entering into the movements of Vyselyra and Aemond. As the quartet intertwined in a harmonious display, it was the profound gazes exchanged between Jacaerys and Vyselyra that captivated all in attendance.

They spun and swirled in synchronized elegance, their steps guided by an invisible thread of fate that drew them closer with each graceful turn. Despite his earnest attempts to capture her attention, Vyselyra's gaze remained steadfast, her demeanor aloof yet subtly alluring as she danced on the edges of his reach.

As the music swelled and the dance evolved, only then Jacaerys found the time to break away from Helaena, swirling her into the arms of Aemond. As he inadvertently switched places with the Targaryen prince. Aemond was not thrilled by this and with a subtle grunt, soon found himself waltzing back to his seat. Seating down with a loud huff—gaining a reassuring nod from his mother.

Helaena, feeling a tad overwhelmed, quickly took her seat like a little mouse in the night. Now Vyselyra found herself entwined in a duet with Jacaerys—a dance of unspoken desires and untold secrets. Their hands clasped in a silent vow, like a death spiral as they twirled and whirled— souls entwined in a dance as old as time itself.

In a moment of vulnerability, Jacaerys broke the spell with a question that hung heavy in the air like a forbidden fruit between them. "Is the North truly what you want?" he inquired—his voice a whisper that carried the weight of a thousand unspoken truths.

Vyselyra responded with a soft laughter that danced in the air like a fleeting whisper. "Bold of you to ask such a question when you're betrothed ," she teased. Yet it were her eyes that betrayed a hint of the turmoil that lay beneath her composure.

As they continued to waltz in a delicate dance of words and emotions, Jacaerys pressed on with a sincerity that matched the intensity of their shared gaze. "I mean it," he confessed, his heart laid bare before her in a moment of exquisite vulnerability.

Whilst Alicent had been locked on watching the way Aemond and Vyselyra acted—-coming up with every possible solution in her mind, Otto was focused on Jacaerys and Vyselyra. He did not like the way both glanced to another, the way their bodies moved as one. Anyone with eyes could see what this meant.

Vyselyra, an ethereal beauty with eyes as piercing as fire, stood with an air of disdain as Jacaerys, the charming prince with a silver tongue, attempted to sway her affections.

With a flick of her silver hair, Vyselyra merely rolled her eyes as both of them began to fail their arms up and down in sync like a dragon's flight. With a subtle scoff she answered, "I'd prefer not to be in the cold. I would rather be burned."

Jacaerys, ever the persistent suitor, tilted his head slightly over his shoulder, his eyes alight with a mischievous glint. "So you wouldn't marry the northern lord?"

"No, do you honestly think I would? I mean, I've met him before..."

The prince's words hung in the frosty air, laden with an unspoken accusation that cut through Vyselyra's facade like a sharpened dagger. "Wait, what? You met with the northern lord?"

The revelation seemed to strike Jacaerys like a thunderbolt, his features contorting in a mix of disbelief and hurt, as if an arrow had been fired right into his heart.

"Yes, but I did not realize it was for my father's sake. I thought it was just fun trips," Vyselyra tried to reason, her voice a melodic lament in the stillness of the night. It seemed her father had misread her interactions with the Stark lord as something other than the innocent friendship she believed it to be.

As the couple twirled around once more, their backs meeting against each other, Jacaerys cleared his throat, his resolve unwavering. "Well, I can give you everything... riches... Dragonstone..."

The princess of House Manderly, her pride as formidable as her beauty, pushed him back with a force that nearly threw him off balance. With a gaze as cold as the northern winds, she turned her head slightly over her shoulder, her words dripping with icy disdain. "As if, my family is one of the richest houses. You know that."

But Jacaerys, ever the master of intrigue, was not one to back down. "Yes, but it is my family that holds the crown."

Vyselyra furrowed her darkened brows, a flicker of curiosity dancing in her azure eyes, before swiveling upon her heel to face the prince head-on. "What are you trying to get at?"

Meanwhile, King Viserys observed from afar, his gaze a mixture of concern and unspoken wishes for the happiness of his children and grandchildren, the future of his dynasty hanging precariously in the balance.

In the depths of the aging king's soul, a flicker of nostalgia bloomed as he observed the darling features of his niece. As the years had etched lines on his aging face, he couldn't help but be captivated by the striking resemblance she held to his late mother, Alyssa.

Her eyes, shimmering with wisdom beyond her years, held the same spark of mischief that had once adorned his mother's gentle gaze. The king's heart fluttered with each tender smile Princess shared as twirled around with Heleana—for it mirrored the affectionate curve of his mother's lips.

In his mind, he began to trace the similarities between the two, connecting the threads of their identities with an eccentric imagination that only a king's love could foster. From the cascading waves of silver hair to the delicate grace in her movements, it was as if his mother's essence had been reincarnated within his beloved niece.

As Rhaenyra cast her gaze upon her sire, her vision drifted inexorably toward Vyselyra and Jace—their forms entwined in the graceful movements of a dance. The radiance of their smiles and the profound depth in their gazes bespoke of an unspoken bond—weaving them together in a tapestry of elegance.

As the quartet spun and pirouetted in perfect synchrony, a wave of bittersweet recollections washed over Rhae's consciousness. Her eyelids grew heavy with the weight of nostalgia, as the figures of her companions melted away into the ethereal mists of memory. In their place materialized a tender tableau of yesteryears, wherein she and Harwin were the sole actors upon a clandestine stage.

Bound by a love that transcended all temporal constraints, they danced with an ethereal gracefulness, their hearts beating in symphony with the music that enveloped them. The cares of the world evaporated into the ether, leaving behind only the ineffable delight of being held close by the one who held the key to her soul.

As the echoes of their waltz resounded in the chambers of her mind, Rhae found herself adrift in a bygone era, where the tendrils of love twined around her being like ivy upon a weathered stone wall. The mirth and laughter that once filled her days now lingered as fleeting phantoms, whispering secrets of a past that seemed both distant and yet achingly close.

In the embrace of memory's cruel caress, Rhaenyra danced once more with her beloved Harwin, their steps tracing patterns of devotion upon the sands of time. But just as quickly as the dance had started with peace, it dissipated like the flick of a finger.

King Viserys, frail as he was, began a coughing fit—making it unbearable to watch. Queen Alicent fraught with worry, ordered for the ailing Targaryen king to be taken out. As much as he pleaded he was already, the guards came and gently took him away upon his pedestal. Even lord Manderly wasn't feeling the greatest, as beads of sweat had formed upon his forehead.

Naemera was quite displeased with her husband's current appearance, "perhaps we should go as well." She muttered lightly over her shoulder at Desmond. But the lord feared it wasn't for his health, but because Vyselyra was getting to close to that of Jacaerys.

Aemond had been fed up with the strong boys always taking what was rightfully his. Jacaerys was once again in the way of Vyselyra and him. And for a moment as the pair swirled around another, the Velaryon prince's hands slipped upon Vyselyra's slender waist imperceptibly—sending a pang of jealousy through Aemond. So the young Targaryen jutted his seat out loudly before slamming his cup down.

Like the snap of a figure, the music immediately stops and everyone's attention averts to Aemond. "Final tribute..." he mutters, raising his cup into the air, " to the health of my nephews; Jace... Luke... and Joffrey." He eyes everyone of the Velaryon boys with a deepened glare.

Alicent's disapproving face says it all as she needly nips at her fingers. Vyselyra and Jacaerys had halted their dance for the toast, each breathing heavily from the wear. But the Princess knew what Aemond was getting at.

"Each of them, handsome, wise.. strong... now come..." he points his cup towards the eldest Velaryon then to Vyselyra. "Let us drain our cups to these three, strong boys..." Lord Desmond sighs heavily, dropping his silverware down upon his dish with a loud thud. Naemera is quick to place her hand on her husband's shoulder, gently tapping it to calm him.

"Indeed... thank you for such kind words..." Vyselyra remarks with exasperation riding upon her tone. "Vyselyra..." Her mother says quite disappointed, looking slightly over her shoulder at her youngest daughter.

"I dare you say that again..." Jacaerys sudden blurts out, taking a subtle step towards the young Targaryen. "Why? ''Twas only a compliment?" Aemond then moves towards the young man, "Do you not think yourself strong?" Vyselyra follows behind Jacaerys, at the ready—her fists clenched tightly.

In a single breath, the tranquility of the opulent ballroom was shattered as though by a thunderous clap from the heavens. The cause of their agitation? None other than the Aemond and Jacaerys. The delicate peace of the evening shattered when Aegon, in his foolish rage, made a move towards the young Lucerys.

Jacaerys was, of course, the first to throw punch straight across aemond's jaw. Even Baela and Rhaena jumped to their feet in attempt to calm the fury.

Vyselyra, noticing Lucerys being tossed upon table by Aegon, comes to his rescue. With a swift and decisive motion, she seized the aggressor by his silken locks, wrenching him from his intended target before delivering a stinging blow to his haughty nose—sending him reeling in disbelief.

Aegon, bloodied and enraged, staggered backward, clutching his injured nose in disbelief. "You impudent wretch!" he spat, his voice laced with venom. In a blind frenzy, he lunged once more at the valiant princess, a wild creature driven by primal instinct.

But Vyselyra, embodiment of the dragons of old, met his savage onslaught with a ferocity unmatched. Like a mythical beast unleashed from the annals of history, she clawed and tore at his flesh with a primal savagery, her nails leaving crimson trails in their wake.

Lord Manderly, though taken aback by the sudden turn of events, found his resolve tested as he rose to his feet in defense of his daughter. His voice, deep and resonant, cut through the clamor of the room like a clarion call, demanding attention and respect. "Guards!"

Upon his command, the palace guards surged forth to quell the escalating feud among the nobles, particularly attending to Jacaerys who found himself sprawled upon the floor in the midst of the melee. "Medrick!" Naemera's voice rang out as she rose from her seat, her concern evident as she clung to her beloved husband.

Soon, the stalwart Manderly guards arrived swiftly, led by Isen, who deftly intervened to restrain the ferocious Vyselyra, preventing further harm to Aegon's now bloodied countenance.

With a heavy heart and a furrowed brow, Lord Manderly tried to rise from his seat, though age and infirmity had not been kind to him, and his limbs protested the effort. Nevertheless, with a stern resolve and a proud bearing, he made his way towards the center of the tumult.

Medrick stood guard by his sister's side, bravely fending off Aegon's unwelcome advances with unwavering determination. "Bugger off!" The proud Manderly exclaimed, forcefully rebuffing Aegon to the cold stone floor.

Meanwhile, Aemond sat smugly in his seat, a sly smile playing upon his lips as he found amusement in the chaos that he had sown. His enjoyment heightened by witnessing Vyselyra's spirited confrontation with his brother once more. The Targaryen prince took a perverse delight in the discord.

Desmond's patience wore thin as he erupted, his voice thundering through the hall, "can have one dinner without issue?" His palm struck the table with a resounding thud, causing his children to cast worried glances towards their visibly distressed father.

Vyselyra shared a poignant glance with Jacaerys, a silent understanding passing between them, before Naemera guided her away from him. "I warned you..." Naemera murmured—her resolve unwavering as she stood steadfastly beside Torrhen. Her brother appeared bewildered by the sudden turn of events, swept away from his seat.

With great effort, Lord Desmond nearly collapsed to the floor, his knees having given up on him. Ben and Isen were right there to help the older Manderly to his feet. Before carrying him out of the chamber. His frail form at the mercy of his loyal companions.

Rhaenyra said her goodbyes to Queen Alicent then Naemera. " We will head out in the morning back to dragonstone. I suggest you do the same..." she says before placing a comforting pat upon Naemera's shoulder. Rhaenyra then takes her leave with Daemon at her side.

Displeased and vexed, Vyselyra and her brothers found themselves hastily ushered out by their mother, Naemera, her countenance a stormy tempest of disquiet. Once they stood in the dimly lit hallway, Naemera wasted no time in seizing each by the ear—her voice a relentless symphony of discontent that reverberated around the ancient manor.

"We shall depart for White Harbor on the morrow's first light. Ensure your belongings are readied," she declared firmly as she strode ahead—her gait quick and purposeful.

As they traversed the marble corridors, the siblings could feel the weight of their mother's displeasure heavy upon them. Medrick, eldest of the brood, struggled to restrain the wanderlust of Torrhen, whose eyes flitted eagerly to the unknown beyond certain doors.

Whilst Vyselyra, with a disdainful snort, gathered her skirts and hastened to catch up with her mother's brisk pace.

"But our father ails, mother. It would be unwise to transport him in such a fragile state," Vyselyra interjected, her voice tinged with concern as she struggled to keep up with the imposing figure of Naemera. Their hushed debate echoing through the corridors like a haunting melody that stirred the ancient tapestries that adorned the walls.

Naemera ground her teeth in frustration, the lines of worry etched deeply upon her brow as she forcefully pushed open the door to her chamber—Vyselyra trailing in her wake like a shadow born of light.

Your father is made of sterner stuff than you give him credit for," Naemera proclaimed, her hands moving deftly as she prepared her belongings for the impending journey to the distant White Harbor."He will weather this storm, as he has weathered all others before.", her hands deftly arranging her garments and possessions in preparation for their imminent departure upon the morn.

"But, mother, consider his condition. The journey to White Harbor is no trifling matter, and time is a luxury we may ill afford," Vyselyra persisted, her features wrought with anxiety at the sight of her father succumbing to an enigmatic ailment that seemed to defy the very essence of time itself.

"Mother," she implored, her voice tinged with a tremulous note of urgency, "we must fetch the milk of the poppy for Father.."

But the eldest Targaryen, her silver locks ablaze in the soft glow of the dwindling candles, remained adamant in her stance. "No," she countered, "I will not have your father succumb to the same fate as my hapless half-brother, Viserys. The milk of the poppy is but a fleeting respite, a poisoned chalice that promises sweet oblivion but delivers naught but despair."

"But father will never make it... why can't you just listen to me for once? I can stay here with father while you go back to White Harbor."

"Enough!" Naemera's gaze narrowed with steely determination, her countenance as firm as the granite cliffs that graced the shoreline of White Harbor. "Cease this discourse at once, Vyselyra," she pronounced with unwavering resolve. "I shall endure no further mention of such matters."

"Is this because of Jace? Is that why you will not let me stay here?"

Naemera's entire body stiffens at the mention of the velaryon boy. "I think it is best you retire to your room now."

The grand tapestries that draped the walls of the opulent drawing-room, woven with threads of red and black, seemed to quiver in response to the palpable tension that filled the air.

Vyselyra, eyes aglow with a defiant spark, lowered her sight. With a curt nod of reluctant acceptance, she softly uttered, "Very well... mother..." Then, with a graceful yet determined step, she turned away from the chamber, the whisper of her silk skirts creating a melody against the carpets that adorned the gleaming marble floor. The fading echoes of her departure lingered in the stillness that followed her exit, leaving a poignant silence in its wake.

Meanwhile, Naemera sank delicately onto her bed, a hand pressed against her quivering lips as a storm of emotions raged within her. As Vyselyra retreated to her own quarters, the weighty oaken door closed with a thunderous finality, sealing her within the confines of her turmoil.

The tempest of anger swirled within her, the princess allowed herself a moment of unrestrained frustration—casting cups and pillows to the ground in a display of inner turmoil. Leaning back against a small table, she endeavored to quiet the fiery tempest that roared fiercely within her soul.

Hours passed like fleeting shadows dancing in the flickering light of a candle, until a soft rap resonated on the door—breaking the eerie stillness of the room. Vyselyra released an exasperated groan, muttering a begrudging invitation, "Come in," under her breath.

Almost hoping for the presence of Jacaerys, though a nervous anticipation pulsed through her veins. To her surprise, it was Isen who crossed the threshold, his countenance betraying a rare expression of concern that marred his usual composed facade.

"Is everything in order, Princess ?" The Manderly Princess inquired with a tone laced with unease. Just as the guard took tentative steps further into the room—his eyes scanning the disarray with a flicker of dismay.

"It is your father, Princess," Isen's voice was grave, carrying the weight of unwelcome news, "His condition has taken a turn for the worse, and Arthur's efforts have been... lacking. Lord Desmond has urgently requested your presence." With a tight swallow, Vyselyra steeled herself, a whirlwind of emotions churning beneath her stoic exterior, as the shadows of destiny unfurled before her with ominous foreboding.

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KINGSLANDING,
TARGARYEN DINING ROOM

|| ALICENT HAD REMAINED BY HER FATHER'S SIDE FOLLOWING THE FAMILY'S EXODUS. Her countenance betraying a mixture of worry and resignation. The Queen's delicate fingers fidgeted nervously as she surveyed the disarrayed table before her—the remnants of a once-lavish dinner now a stark reminder of their recent upheaval. Her gaze lingered on the closed door through which her kin had departed, leaving her to dwell in the emptiness of their absence.

The Queen's porcelain hands continued to tremble with a mix of nerves and longing—her gaze fixated upon the floor.

"It appears Lord Manderly's fortunes are waning, a victim to the cruel grasp of winter fever," murmured the verdant Queen with a weariness that betrayed years of courtly subterfuge. Ser Otto let out a somber sigh before drawing closer to his daughter, his voice laced with a sense of urgency.

"We must seize this moment, my dear daughter," he imparted, his steely gaze locking with hers in silent understanding. Confusion knit her brow as she sought clarity from her father's cryptic words.

"And What do you propose?" she inquired, her voice a delicate symphony of curiosity and apprehension.

"The time has come for a daring gambit," Otto declared, his tone filled with a shrewd wisdom that belied his years of political maneuvering. Alicent's disbelief was palpable as she grappled with the implications of his revelation.

"But Father, Lord Desmond's decree was final... the alliance with House Stark is set in stone," she protested, her voice tinged with the echoes of familial duty and honor. "There is nothing I can do."

A knowing chuckle escaped Lord Otto's lips, a sound that reverberated with a sense of clandestine knowledge. "Oh, my dear daughter, heed my words and look beyond the surface. The bond between Jacaerys and Vyselyra holds secrets that transcend mere friendship," he elucidated, his eyes alight with a flicker of intrigue.

Alicent bore the weight of her father's words with a grace that belied the storm brewing within her heart. The burden of understanding the intricate dance of politics, of calculated risks taken in the name of power and legacy, settled upon her slender shoulders like a mantle of responsibility.

"Are you insinuating that the stark proposal might be naught but a clever ruse?" She inquired, her voice a low murmur laced with suspicion. Otto's hands clasped together before him in a display of composed deliberation.

Otto met his daughter's gaze with a steely resolve, her emerald eyes unwavering in their intensity. "We are well aware of Princess Rhaenyra's proclivities," he stated, his tone measured yet betraying a hint of disdain, "but you wouldn't want tk tarnish Vyselyra's virtue with the stain of that bastard boy... I cannot bear the thought."

The Queen, ever mindful of her own reputation, let out a scoff at the weight of the accusation laid upon her by her own flesh and blood. "Indeed, father, I share your concerns," she conceded, her words a delicate dance of diplomacy and steel, "but you know as well as I that the King's will is unwavering in this matter. What can I do?"

Otto's expression softened slightly, his gaze shifting to a distant point beyond the opulent chamber where they held court. "We must do what is necessary to secure White Harbor under our dominion," he pronounced, his voice low yet commanding, "for the Manderlys hold the key to the northern allegiance, and where they lead, the Starks shall surely follow."

And so, in the dimly lit chambers of the Red Keep, amidst whispers of courtly intrigue and the subtle dance of power, Alicent found herself faced with a choice that would determine not only her own fate but the fate of an entire realm embroiled in the deceitful machinations of those who would stop at nothing to claim the Iron Throne.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE
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What do you think Alicent is going to do???

Also, remember those scenes for coming chapters 👀👀

Who's ready for more Jace and Vyselyra????