"My mind is filled with cataclysm and apocalypse:
I wish for earthquakes, eruptions, flood.
Only that seems large enough to hold all of my rage and grief.
I want the world overturned like a bowl of eggs, smashed at my feet."

111 AC

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇

The hours bled into one another, or perhaps it was days—time had become meaningless for Naerys—until eventually she was dragged from her bed to be shrouded once again in the oppressive weight of black. It was her second funeral of the week, but she was just as unaware of her surroundings as she had been at the first. They had plied her full of mind-numbing opiates again, perhaps fearing that she would cause another commotion, but her ignorance was far from blissful. Her world swayed, blurred at the edges as she was passed from one attendant to another, until finally, she found herself beneath the late evening sky.

The sun, in its last moments of descent, cast feeble rays that kissed her with no warmth, leaving her bones as cold as the sepulchral timber nearby. The nobles gathered around her were silent, their collective breath held in reverence or discomfort, but Naerys saw none of them—only the two forms before her, swathed and still.

Her gaze caught on her mother's figure, her lips trembling with unspoken demands to undo the cocoon of linen that obscured her face from view. Already she was beginning to forget the precise hue of her eyes, or the side of her face that creased more when she smiled. The caricature laying out here could not possibly be her mother then, she decided. The woman she knew loved the softness of silks and the whisper of fine-spun threads. Surely, she would abhor the scratch of the planks beneath her, this wooden bier that would soon be devoured by flame. 

When Naerys's knees threatened to give way and she swayed on her feet, her sister's hand steadied her. Rhaenyra's fingers were manacles around her own bruised ones, and though the pain was sharp, the young girl welcomed its ability to ground her. Who needed the other more? It did not matter. They stood as one against the cruel whims of the gods, clutching each other with the kind of ferocity born only from shared loss.

"They're waiting for you."

Daemon's hushed tone broke Rhaenyra out of whatever trance she had been lost in, and as she stepped forward, her sister's grip tightened. 

Don't.

When the older girl looked down, Naerys shook her head imploringly. She knew what would happen now. Rhaenyra was the only one who could perform the final rites, to give the command that would sever all ties and steal away their mother, once and for all. She couldn't let her do it. 

Rhaenyra paused, her lips twisting into a half sneer. "I wonder if, during those few hours that my brother lived, my father finally found happiness."

She spoke High Valyrian, her complaint meant only for her uncle and sister to hear, and Naerys's gaze locked onto the hunched figure of their father. His face bore the deep lines of mourning, a furrowed brow that seemed carved into his very skull, and she had to restrain the feral urge to claw at it, to rake her nails down that sorrowful mask and demand: Who do you mourn, truly? Was it the woman he had butchered, or the pathetic carcass he had mined from her body, a useless babe, gone before it could live?

Her thoughts corroded the inside of her head, acrid as bile, because she knew the answer already. He had proven where his heart lay when he gambled her mother's life on the altar of his ambition. In the end, he had lost his precious son too, and there was a grim satisfaction in it. If they were to mourn their mother, then let him mourn, too. Let them all drown in their collective misery.

Beside her, Rhaenyra shifted, trying to step forward, but Naerys clung to her still, her fingers like talons digging into her arm. Only Daemon could pry her loose, his grasp anchoring her to his side as her sister was finally allowed to carry out the grim task required of her, while the young girl continued to glare at the king. 

Just as intended, he felt the smothering weight of her distaste, and when his eyes finally found hers, he winced. Such smouldering hatred did not belong on the face of his borrowed daughter, and Viserys found himself almost startled. She had always been a mild little thing, a perfect echo of her father, gentle in her manner, but now, she looked as though she would spring at him, ready to maul, were it not for Daemon's iron grip tethering her in place.

The venom in her odd eyes unsettled him, and for a moment, he wondered if his fears had been correct all along. His brother had said he'd found her near the queen's chambers—too near. How much had she heard? How much of Aemma's anguished screams had echoed in her young ears, rattling her fragile mind? Perhaps the madness of that morning had already taken root, festering within her like a sickness. He resolved to speak with her later, to ease whatever fears the experience had instilled within her. Ren would have expected at least this much from him, and he had been an inattentive father long enough. 

Yes, he would try and soothe both his girls, to remind them that though the gods had taken one, they still had a parent left in him. But then, Rhaenyra's voice broke the fragile stillness, and Viserys's thoughts turned to ash along with the corpses. 

The fire devoured all. His beloved wife, his almost heir—both lost to the irrational will of higher beings. He stared as the smoke twisted upward, carrying the last remnants of Aemma's serenity into the heavens. And then babe—his son, this time, a son—was gone, too.

Most men sired sons with ease, scattering their seed across the realm like careless farmers, but Viserys, who had been faithful, who had held his duties above all else, was denied. Why? What flaw had the gods found in him, to punish him so mercilessly? He had loved Aemma, honoured her, never strayed into the arms of whores or mistresses like others, like his own brother. Did that not make him worthy? Did he not deserve a son, an heir to carry forth his noble legacy?

As the inferno before him roared, he felt the answer in its glow. Smoke stung his eyes, but the tears that fell were not for his wife alone. They were for himself, for all that had been denied him, and for the bitter realization that even now, he remained an inadequate man begging for scraps at the gods' table.

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇

Gwayne Hightower watched the flames falter as the sun sank, its descent painting the sky in muted gold and dusky lavender. The sight tugged at something deep within him, a chord struck by memory. All funerals bore a sameness, a ritual of farewells cloaked in solemnity, and this one was no different, yet it stirred echoes of another.

His mother's funeral. He had been younger then, a child ill-prepared for such a monumental loss. The details of that day were a scattered mosaic in his mind, fragments preserved in peculiar clarity. The scratchy tunic they had dressed him in, the way his sister had gnawed at her fingers until he'd had to pull them away, again and again, fearing she'd leave nothing but bone. And most vivid of all, the fleeting image of his father—a man he had always believed to be unfeeling—looking defeated. It was the first and last time Otto Hightower had donned such an expression. 

That night, Alicent had retreated to the sept, seeking solace in prayer beneath the gaze of their mother's gods. Gwayne had followed, reluctant but honour-bound by the need to be there for her. It was the first night she'd spent there—the beginning of her piety—and the last he ever would. Since then, the sanctity of such spaces had felt hollow, their promises of peace unfulfilled.

Now, as the funeral grounds began to clear, he stayed behind. His gaze shifted to Rhaenyra, who was attempting to coax her younger sister away from the pyre. The older girl's movements were weary, her grief etched in the sag of her shoulders, her hands trembling as she reached for Naerys, but she would not be moved. 

Ultimately, the princess's patience waned, and she turned to Alicent, whose hand she took in a silent gesture of surrender. Together, they retreated toward the Red Keep, their figures swallowed by the growing shadows. Gwayne watched them go, pitying the stoic girl who stood alone before the glowing embers of her mother's final resting place.

For a moment, he considered stepping forward to offer his condolences, but who was he to say anything to her? He had butchered their last conversation, flinging words he did not mean, all because his pride had been wounded, and though he longed to apologize, he didn't think he had the appropriate words for it. 

He shifted on his feet, glancing toward the looming walls of the Red Keep in the distance. His father had already informed him of his decision—Gwayne was to return to Oldtown immediately—and though the prospect of home should have filled him with relief, it only infused him with dread. It was not the journey itself, but the dismissal. His father's orders had been curt, devoid of acknowledgment for his efforts, no matter how flawed. The still-healing scrapes on his face bore testimony to his failures during this visit, yet they had not earned the man's reproach or praise. Only indifference. 

Very well then, he would go. Yet his departure felt incomplete, laden with a sense of abandonment. If only he could take his sister with him. During his visits to the Red Keep as a child, he had pleaded with her to return with him, but neither of them dared to act upon their childish yearnings and bring the matter to their father's attention, so year after year, Gwayne was sent back to be raised by their kin while Alicent was kept at Otto's side. Regardless, the Red Keep could not be the place for her—it seemed to devour joy, swallowing even the brightest spirits whole. She belonged in the serenity of Oldtown, in the halls where they had grown, in the comfort of a home that had once been theirs together.

Suddenly there was a faint crash as the wooden pyre collapsed in on itself in haphazard intervals, and Gwayne caught Naerys's movement before he registered what she was doing. Her arm was outstretched, reaching toward a jagged chunk of charred wood that had tumbled from the pile, and though she didn't pick it up as he feared, she didn't lower her hand either. 

For a moment, he hesitated, rooted in place by uncertainty, but the potential for disaster—a princess burning her delicate fingers, succumbing to whatever strange compulsion grief had planted in her—spurred him forward. He crossed the space between them in a few long strides until he was at her side.

Then, without warning, the words he'd been keeping at bay for so long lurched from his lips, raw and unformed. "I am sorry."

Naerys flinched at the sound, her body stiffening as if he'd struck her. She had been utterly oblivious to him, but here he was, his apology hanging in the air, unanswered. 

Somewhere in the dark, Fei was watching. This much at least, Naerys knew, feeling her presence as surely as she felt the heat licking at her fingertips. Fei always watched, her hawkish eyes tracking every gesture, every fleeting impulse. She rarely intervened, but she was always there, and she wondered if the woman was waiting for her to finally pick up what she was reaching for. 

Waiting to see if she would obey the voice. Waiting to see if she would pick it up and stuff it in her mouth. 

The suggestion lingered, grotesque in its simplicity, and she felt the faintest twitch in her jaw. Fei would enjoy that, wouldn't she? To watch her shove the lump between her teeth, to see her flesh sear and blister. It would prove whatever theory she had been nurturing, the one Naerys had yet to unravel. 

Her hand wavered but did not drop. It would be a relief. If the ember burned hot enough, it might scorch away the part of her tongue that remembered the gelatinous sludge the maester had fed her in the dark. The briny taste lingered even now, and she struggled to swallow the memory, her stomach churning. Perhaps it would purge her. 

Cleansing by holy fire. And what was more holy than a funeral's blaze? 

She inched closer and Gwayne's hand shot forward instantly, his fingers curling around her wrist with a firm, urgent grip. He used more force than he intended, dragging her a few steps away from the hazardous heap.

"Careful!" he barked, gaze darting to the hem of her dress, half-expecting to see it catch a stray spark and burst into flames.

Naerys finally looked at him then, her countenance more irritated than frightened, something halfway between defiance and disdain, and for a moment, Gwayne faltered. If she disliked him before, she must loathe him now. By the gods, he had just manhandled a princess, and the enormity of his mistake crashed down on him, loosening his grip as he released her hastily, stepping back as if burned himself.

"I'm sorry," he repeated. "I didn't— I wasn't thinking. I—"

The girl's fists curled tightly at her sides, but to his relief, she made no more moves towards self-destruction, making the tension in his shoulders ease slightly. 

"I am sorry, you...for your mother."

For a moment, Naerys was motionless, her frown deepening. Then, her eyes began to glisten, tears welling up despite her best efforts to hold them back.

No one had said that to her. Not like that. The courtiers and lords had offered their polished condolences for the queen, for Viserys's wife, for Rhaenyra's mother. But no one had told her that they were sorry she had lost a mother too. Even one of her own maids had dismissed her earlier fit as improper. 

The queen wasn't her mother to mourn. 

It was as though she had no right to grieve, and the entire kingdom expected her to bear it with the same quiet dignity that held her father and sister together. She hated them all for it, and the voices in her head thrived in that rancour. They slithered through her thoughts like eels in murky waters, hissing their approval whenever her anger flared. It delighted them when she wanted others to hurt as she did, to feel their ribs crack with despair, their stomachs blister with the acid like hers did. They whispered promises of satisfaction too, if only she would consider the violence they offered.

Their suggestions were far more depraved than anything she could ever conceive on her own—or so she hoped. The ideas skulked into her consciousness like maggots in rotting flesh, burrowing deep and leaving trails of filth. They spoke of things no child, no human, could accomplish, each notion more macabre than the last, but she couldn't help but wonder: were they simply figments of her fractured psyche, or instruments of some darker force, poised to act if she dared loosen their leash? 

She did not know where that leash began or ended, or who held which end of it. Nevertheless, they pleaded incessantly, and it terrified her; the serpentine hisses and guttural clicks amongst the myriad of noises they filled her with. Some had no lips while others had too many sets, as if overcompensating for some other fundamental thing they all lacked. Their skin was both parchment and leather, splitting to reveal pulsing sinew beneath, and sometimes, they turned themselves inside out, but sometimes they turned her inside out too until she begged them to set her right again. 

They enjoyed games above all else. 

Naerys could feel their presence against the confines of her skull, clawing at the fragile bone as if they might tear free. It was tiresome, being their unwilling warden, and sometimes when she spoke, she was afraid that it would be their blackened limbs and puckered hooves that would distend instead of her voice. 

Gwayne broke through her spiralling thoughts as he bent to look her in the eye, and though she wanted to snap at him to leave her alone, she didn't dare to open her mouth. 

"I owe you an apology for my behaviour, too," he added sincerely, oblivious to her predicament. "I spoke harshly when you didn't deserve it. My defeat wasn't your fault—it was a lack of skill on my part." He scoffed, the sound rough in his throat. "I've been blinded by my pride."

Naerys shrugged, the movement subtle but dismissive. He was wrong. He had been right the first time.

Bad luck. That's what he'd called her. And wasn't she? She had been right there when her mother was slaughtered and devoured. An ill omen; he'd just seen it before anyone else had. Perhaps she should have tolerated Willem Stokeworth a while longer. Perhaps if she had stayed away, her mother would be alive. 

She did not tell the Hightower boy any of this, of course. She couldn't trust herself yet, not knowing if someone else would speak on her behalf if she tried, so instead she simply turned and trudged back toward the castle. If she lingered any longer, she might have acted on the next impulse tapping insistently in the back of her mind—to step into the ashes herself and be carried away to wherever they had taken her mother.

It was indisputably futile of course, but her youthful naiveté shielded her from this truth. Naerys was no dragon, and when the Stranger came to claim her, it would not be with the familiar warmth of fire, but the frigididity of her lonely lineage. 

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇

Naerys spent the following days in solitude, retreating to the faraway confines of her chambers and bolting the doors against all intrusion. Whether she sought to shield herself from the judgement of the world or protect them from the horror of herself, she could not say, but both were in vain. The lords of the realm gathered like carrion birds around the newly widowed king, their propositions honeyed with false condolences, eager to thrust their daughters into the place her mother had once occupied. Their ambitions reached her regardless, uttered directly into her ear rather than her father's.

At least she had the freedom to disappear, a luxury not afforded to her sister. Rhaenyra remained the king's constant shadow, his cupbearer and ornament, a spectator to the schemes woven around them. They spoke of alliances and heirs as if she were no more than a decorative chalice left unattended on a banquet table, relevant only when called upon to refill their cups. Naerys, by contrast, was allowed to macerate in her delirium, her isolation granting her no respite from the growing madness she struggled to tame. 

Each night, she woke screaming and drenched in cold sweat, her mouth smeared crimson, her nightgown and hands streaked with the same damning colour, and the sutures in her palm torn open anew. The metallic tang adhered to her tongue, but she told herself the blood was hers, that the missing patches from her lips were her own doing. It was a lie she clung to as tightly as her shredded sanity. No barred door could prevent her feet from finding their way into the bowels of the Red Keep and she would often wake in unfamiliar corridors, the walls glistening and the air thick with a fetid smell that both turned her stomach and made it ache with a hunger no feast could satisfy. 

Unbeknownst to her, her fevered descent rippled through the castle like an infection. The rational minds of the court attributed the unease to the queen's unfortunate end, but the signs were there for the few who could recognize them. There were the anomalous sightings, of course, the worst of them sending Maester Mellos tumbling down the grand staircase, resulting in two broken wrists. When he was carried back to his chambers, all he could do was recite passages from the Seven-Pointed Star repeatedly, murmuring about the unsanctified thing he had seen in the dark. 

The dreams came next, creeping into the minds of those who had attended Aemma Arryn on her birthing bed. Maesters, midwives, and maids alike awoke with their sheets tangled around their legs, their faces pale as milk. They spoke of grotesqueries looming over them, with carmine-slicked hooves and beaks that split into mandibles. 

The tragedy had unmoored their minds, they collectively decided, hastening the king to choose a new wife so that the Red Keep could finally have something to celebrate, freeing them all from the miasma that permeated the air. Not a single one of them thought to suspect that the root of their misfortune was the girl who sat alone in her chambers, gagging and retching as she choked down the unholy things that wormed across her tongue, or that the creatures who plagued them drummed a tune of approval as they pirouetted around her. 

Tonight was the same, though mercifully, the princess was in her chambers when Fei went to check in on her. She lay sprawled on the floor beside her bed, her dark hair unbound, her nightgown crumpled and smudged with charcoal and ink. Scraps of parchment were strewn around her in a chaotic halo, each adorned with her sketches—the amorphous shapes of her nightmares spilling out onto the page. Her hands at least, were stained grey rather than red.

"The hour is late, princess. Why are you awake?"

Naerys stirred sluggishly, her sticky lashes clumping together as she blinked up at the woman. "I do not wish to sleep. I do not know where I will wake up."

She waited for Fei's reaction, bracing herself for the storm. On some nights, she would shout, while on others, she would cradle her, sobbing like Naerys's torment was her own. There was no predicting which version of her would emerge, and she wasn't sure which she preferred; her fiercest protector or her harshest critic.

With a sigh, the older woman sank to the floor beside her. "You have to forgive them, princess."

Naerys shrugged, feigning indifference, though the words sent the beasts hissing in disapproval. She didn't answer, instead lowering her head to mutter conspiratorially. "They do not like it when I do not sleep, did you know that?"

Fei nodded. "I know. They feel closest to you when you sleep."

Her gaze drifted to the scattered parchments. With a grimace, she picked one up, holding it between thumb and forefinger as though it might bite her—her sister's had sometimes. The creature drawn on it had webbed feet curling beneath a twisted torso, its face a blend of features that seemed almost mortal, almost familiar. She swore under her breath, crumpling the parchment in her fist. The late queen's practice—having the girl sketch out her visions in the hope of understanding her better—had persisted since Naerys was a babe. Fei doubted its value; giving form to such abominations only made them more real, giving them power over you. Nonetheless, she could not deny Aemma's effort, even when no one would have blamed her for forsaking her husband's bastard. 

"You've gotten better," she admitted reluctantly, waving the scrap at Naerys with forced levity. "Perhaps you might put your skill to something prettier."

The girl's lips curled into a faint, joyless smile. "I thought you didn't like my scribbles."

"I do not. They're heinous. But they wouldn't be if you chose more appealing subjects."

"I don't think they'd like that very much."

"I'm sure they would not."

"They like the drawings, though." Naerys paused then, listening for something, and then an absurd giggle burst out of her. It wasn't as if the apparitions sat demurely to pose for her sketches like the nobles did for their commissioned portraits, but the notion of them mimicking the living was morbidly comedic. She drew them mostly from memory, but at least they approved of her caricatures. Their amusement was always more welcome than their malevolence.

Fei's patience snapped, and she seized Naerys by the shoulders.

"It isn't about what they might or might not like," she hissed. "It is about you. You. It is you who has hold of their leash, not the other way around. Act like it, child!" Her grip tightened briefly, then softened as she added, "This is why I'm telling you. You must forgive them all. You must forgive your father. You can not let them feed off your malice."

Naerys yanked herself free and retreated across the floor, her hands scrubbing her face and smearing charcoal streaks into her pale skin. Did she even understand what she was asking of her? Did she grasp the depth of the sin she wanted her to forgive? Of course, she did. Fei always knew everything, and yet she asked anyway.

"The king is a good man," the Yitish woman went on. "You must forgive him. Do you know how much he suffers? What he sees when he closes his eyes?"

Naerys's lips curled into a snarl. "Good! It is what he deserves." Her breaths were ragged, panicked bursts, her chest heaving as her thoughts teetered on the edge of the forbidden. "You know what he did!" 

Fei moved closer, crawling across the mess of parchment. "And what of you? Is this what you deserve? You suffer threefold. Whatever affliction he endures, you pay a worse price for it. Will you not forgive him, if only for your own sake?"

No. 

She deserved every ounce of her suffering, bearing the guilt of the queen's ruin like a parasite. But perhaps she didn't need to say it aloud—Fei knew, didn't she? She always knew.

The woman cupped her face in both hands, her palms feverish against Naerys's wet cheeks. "Oh, my sweet girl," she hummed soothingly. "You have to forgive him. You have to forgive them all. You have to forgive yourself. People like you do not have the luxury of holding grudges. It will hollow you out. It will devour you, too."

"Let them. As long as they are all miserable."

Two sets of hands cradled her now—one tender and supplicating, the other spectral, making opposing demands. 

"Your father will visit eventually, and he will ask for your understanding. You must give it. Lie to yourself if you must, lie to them, and forgive. You cannot hold a grudge. You cannot desire things. You must be good, and kind, and patient. Saintly even. You can afford nothing less."

You must devour your father. We must gorge on his misery. 

I am so very hungry.

The girl's scowl darkened. Why should she have to be agreeable? Where had that gotten her mother? The famine within her roared in triumph, surging with her defiance, and then she crumpled to her knees with a groan. 

Fei caught her before she hit the ground, holding her tightly, whispering prayers into her hair. She spoke in a foreign tongue, but the words came to Naerys like echoes from a forgotten dream, their meaning carved into the marrow of her being. She recognized all the names too, gods long forgotten by most, except for her. How did one forget what one saw every day? 

D'endrrah the Divine, mistress of mirrors. Ny-Rakath, the goat-fiend. Nug and Yeb, the hooved twins who liked to play tricks, and Psuchawrl with the beak and an appetite for eyes. 

Fei only called upon the minor deities of the pantheon, not daring to commune with their master. It was a force of habit rather than a true orison, because even she wasn't foolish enough to believe that they'd be so easily dismissed. Her experiences did not allow her to be foolish, and for the umpteenth time, she considered doing what her sister should have done all those years ago. 

The princess's chambers were already strewn with cushions; there was one right here within arm's reach. It would be easy enough, though perhaps not as effortless as smothering her own girls had been, but easy enough. Eleven-year-olds were harder to subdue than babes, but it was not impossible. 

A babe merely startled, its cries muffled swiftly into silence, its tiny limbs twitching with the confusion of a life snuffed too soon. But a grown child? She would thrash, her thin arms clawing at Fei's, her legs kicking out in frantic protest as the world betrayed her once again. There would be a wet, rattling final exhale.

And then, stillness.

Everything would stop; Naerys would deflate, her body collapsing inward, indicative of the empty vessel it had always been. Her eyes—proof of her mother's betrayal—would glass over, and her burdens would be lifted at last. 

No one would know. No one would care. Their cursed bloodline would end with a rustle instead of a reckoning. The world would turn, indifferent, as it always had, and Fei would have done her part—cleansed her hands of their shared sin.

But her arms refused to move.

The thought crumbled into ash as she looked at the girl sprawled on the floor, her hair blanketing Fei's lap reminiscent of a spider's gossamer web. Who would have ever suspected what she housed inside of her when she looked like that, suckling the open wound on her palm like a fledgling needing to be weaned? 

Weak. Like her father. 

But then again, there were worse fathers to embody. At least she was not wicked like Fei's, wicked like she would have been if he had sired her. What sort of man sired his own daughter's children? The worst sort. So perhaps for all her foolishness, at least her sister had accomplished something Fei herself could not. She had chosen to escape, even if she had died for it, and not for the first time, Fei found herself envying the dead woman—girl, she had only been a girl. 

Instead of asphyxiating her niece, she pulled something from her pocket and started to peel it, the juices running down her wrist and filling the air with a citrusy scent. 

Eleven-year-olds were harder to kill than babes, not just because they resisted more, but because they lived more too. They had time to nestle into the corners of your heart, weaving themselves into your soul. Naerys had burrowed into hers like a thorn, impossible to remove without tearing herself apart in the process, and in the end, Fei could not do the very thing she had scorned her sister for. 

My darling, you will suffer. But you will live. At least for now.

When the woman pressed something spongy to Naerys's lips, she recoiled, thinking it another phantom offering of poisoned sweetness. But it was only a lemon slice, its pale flesh yielding under the press of her teeth, the sourness startling her out of her stupor. Nectar spilled from her chin in thin rivulets, sticky and sharp, a fleeting distraction as Fei continued her prayers, infusing her desperation into every syllable. 

The beings within the princess stirred, sneering at her efforts. The prayers were nothing to them, an impotent charm against the yawning chasm they embodied, the eternal master they served. But the cloying tartness cut through the bile rising in her throat, momentarily halting the curdling roil of her insides. Her nursemaid pressed another slice to her lips, and Naerys took it obediently, the citrus a welcome respite from the copper she was often fed in times like this. 

You will suffer. But you will live. A sacrifice is not yet needed. 

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇

The king called for her the very next morning, just as Fei predicted, and Naerys found him in the stables, his shadow stretched long against the pale morning light. The scent of hay and damp wood mingled with the earthy musk of horses, and Viserys looked tired—his face more hollowed than she remembered, the grooves etched into his brow and cheeks like hatching on a map. He regarded her cautiously, his comportment unreadable, and she, in turn, avoided his gaze.

She was practicing patience just as Fei had instructed, a lesson in forgiveness, but Naerys was not a diligent pupil—never had been, and every time she looked at him, she thought of her mother's forlorn invocations.

"I did not think you would accept my invitation." 

Naerys shrugged.

Viserys hesitated before continuing. "Walk with me. Your attendants tell me you haven't left your chambers in days. It is unbecoming of a girl your age, you will only become sicker. You must allow the good weather and sun to lift your spirits."

The girl kept her eyes on the ground, her lips pressed into a thin line. The pantheon hated the sun. She hated the sun.

"Will you not speak?" he then demanded with the faintest hint of frustration.

She swallowed. "...I...apologies, Your Grace." The words felt mechanical. 

Your Grace. She never called him father like Rhaenyra did. There had always been a ravine of formality between them, and now it seemed unbridgeable.

Viserys stepped closer and placed something on her head. She stiffened at the touch as a wreath of wilted peonies and forget-me-nots settled on her hair—the crown she had made for the queen to bring her luck. 

"You left this in her chambers. She would want you to have it back."

Naerys tried not to flinch as his fingers brushed her hair, nor when he patted her head in what could only be described as a forced mimicry of paternal affection.

"She loved you very much," he added. "More than I expected her to." 

But he didn't stop there—he never did, pressing on, in an attempt to fill the decaying space between them with something alive. Taking her hand in his, he traced his fingers over the fresh linen bandage.

"You are always getting hurt. I am sorry I cannot shield you better. With Rhaenyra... I do not have to try as hard. If something displeases her, she makes it known. I sometimes forget that you are not her."

What was he asking of her—what did he expect? Did he want her to rage at him, to scream and hurl accusations, to strike him for all the pain he had caused? Naerys wanted to. The words were a morsel in her throat, but she swallowed it down like she swallowed everything. He was still the king and her father, and that made him her god. 

Her skin still crawled when he pressed a kiss to her knuckles, the gesture a parody of tenderness. Fei's warning echoed in her mind. She had to forgive him. But it was hard. Gods, it was so hard. His kindness felt like a blade hidden in velvet, a lie too steeped in expectation, reminding her of the kindness he had once shown her mother—and what little it had amounted to in the end. She had begged for her life, and he had denied her even that. 

"I loved her very much, you know. Aemma—she was the only one I ever loved." 

If that is love, I pray it never finds me.

"She is angry with me, I think," he finally confessed. "Though I cannot imagine one so kind as our beloved queen to be angry. But she must be. She is all I see these days, and she is always angry."

He did not tell her of the creatures that stalked his dreams, or the fact that they wore his face. He did not speak of the nights when he dreamt of himself ingesting her whole. Or of the nights when reached into his own throat to pull his scorched and blackened son out of his stomach, still tethered to his screaming mother by a gruesome cord of flesh. He spared her those tales, but she already knew, for they were shown to her first. 

When Naerys met his gaze, he seemed hopeful and she searched his face for a reason to release him from his torment. He seemed sincere enough, as sincere as a man like him could be. She remembered how, on rare occasions, he tried. When he sat Rhaenyra on his knee to tell her tales of Old Valyria, he allowed her to loiter in the doorway. He never invited her to join them, but he never sent her away either, and in this way, he always tried to be an adequate father. Not good, but adequate, and Naerys tried to be grateful because it was more than she deserved. 

There were things she could forgive. She could forgive him for the moments he spoke as though he forgot she was his. She could forgive him for the careless slights, the overlooked hurts. She could forgive him for Willem Stokeworth and the way he had dismissed her as a trifling inconvenience. She could forgive all his wrongs against her, but she could not forgive him for her mother. For not letting her live. For not choosing her life over a damned son.

"Then why did you do it?"

The words slipped from her lips before she could stop them, and the voices snickered in chorus to mock her audacity.

Viserys did not look surprised. Instead, his expression was resigned, as if he had been waiting for her to finally speak aloud what haunted them both. He thought of his brother's jest: "Scurrying around in the walls like a rat outside the queen's chambers, she was, your bastard." He hadn't believed it then, but now he had proof.

"Whatever you heard..." he faltered, searching for some way to deny the truth.

"I saw it," Naerys interrupted. If he was going to have her executed for the truth, so be it. "I heard you. I saw you all."

"Then I am sorry, truly. For a child to witness such a thing...I have failed you as your guardian. It seems I have been failing at a great many things."

For a moment, the king's gaze drifted to somewhere beyond. He wondered what Ren might have said, had he known how little Viserys protected his daughter. How he might have reacted to the knowledge that his child had borne witness to such a harrowing scene? Even Rhaenyra would not have been able to endure it, and she was far sturdier. 

"You must not have told Rhaenyra," he scrutinized her cautiously, probing for a confirmation that would absolve him of further guilt. "She grieves, yes, but she does not have your..." He paused, searching for the right word, fumbling with the inadequacy of language to describe whatever rankled within the girl before him. Finally, he settled on, "...patience. If she had known, she would have said something. She would have—"

He broke off, and he visibly shuddered. He knew his eldest too well. She was a tempest, wild and unrelenting when provoked. There was no telling what she would have done if she learned the truth, of the wretched choice he had made in the name of duty. She would never understand the necessity of it, the inevitability of sacrifice.

"You cannot tell her," he declared firmly, his gaze locking on Naerys. "It will only amplify her grief. You do not want to be the cause of more pain, do you?"

Naerys stiffened, her nails biting bloody crescents into her palms. A surge of indignation rose in her chest, and she wanted to spit in his face, to sink her teeth into the veneer of authority he wore so poorly. How dare he? How dare he suggest that by speaking the truth, she would be the cause of her sister's pain? As if it wasn't his fault entirely. As if his hands weren't stained with the blood of the woman she loved. How dare he pretend he was blameless?

Viserys, oblivious or willfully blind to the fury simmering just beneath her surface, shifted his tone. He became almost cajoling then, trying to barter for her silence.

"I am sorry for the business with the Stokeworth lad—truly, I am. I did not know that he would perish so soon,  but I swear it will not happen again. You are free to remain unwed for as long as you wish. I will not force another union upon you. The queen, in her wisdom, reminded me that your station does not require you to forge alliances, and so I made her this promise, one I repeat to you. You may live as you please. Become a Septa if you like."

He leaned closer furtively. "Only grant me your understanding of this matter," he urged, "and swear to me in return that you will never speak of this. Let us put it behind us."

He punctuated his request by leading her deeper into one of the nearby stalls, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder to prevent her from fleeing. Here the light filtered in through the gaps in the wooden slats, painting it a soft gold as he took her hand to gently place it on the muscled neck of the horse within. 

The beast's coat shimmered in the pale light, a dappled grey so luminous it seemed almost molten silver. It was velvety beneath Naerys's palm, warm and alive with the steady pulse of a heartbeat.

Another bribe. 

"She's yours if you'll have her," Viserys beamed. "Named Quicksilver, after the great mount of King Aenys. Your egg never hatched, did it? Though if I recall correctly, it never seemed to bother you. Well, now you have a steed as fine as any dragon. I think you'll quite enjoy riding."

He paused, stroking the horse's mane wistfully. "You remind me of someone else who did. Finest equestrian I ever knew."

Naerys's lips twitched, the beginnings of a scowl. Did he speak of her mother—her real mother? He had never mentioned her, not once in all her years under his roof, but surely, there must have been something to her that had drawn him, some essence that had passed to Naerys herself. For all his claims to have loved Aemma Arryn, he had betrayed her all those years ago too.

And now Naerys wondered if he refused to speak of her birth mother because he had betrayed her too. Or was it worse? Had her mother willingly abandoned her, allowing her to be carried an entire continent away, her existence erased from one life and smudged into another?

"Your sister is to be named my heir." The king was still speaking, his tone a mixture of pride and solemnity. "Let us make sure this new honour is not tarnished for her, hmm?" He reached out and patted her head again with practiced familiarity, though the gesture felt more like a master mollifying a neglected hound. "Let us help leave her grief behind so she may prepare herself for this great task."

Daughters were like dogs really, in the way they always came scrabbling back with an unquenchable appetite for approval. 

Naerys looked up at him, her visage carefully neutral, but the battle inside her raged fiercely. She had been warring with herself since that fateful night, and now, at last, she made her choice. The conflict ended, but she couldn't tell who emerged victorious. Victory was not meant to taste this acrid.

She could never forgive him, but he was still her father, still her blood—more than anyone on this forsaken side of the world—and for that alone, she owed him something. For her very existence, she owed him obedience.

And so she obeyed.

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A/N: hated to get into Viserys's headspace lol but it had to be done I fear. I definitely feel like he'd be the self-pitying man-child type. This man was thirsting for underage Alicent only months after Aemma's death and married her purely because of his own disgusting desires (because as a daughter of a second son, Alicent brought zero political advantage). 

Anyway, sorry it's been so long, my motivation is very on again, off again for this, probably cuz it's like the slowest slow burn I've written lmfao. But I am enjoying writing horror movie Naerys (don't give creepy eldritch powers to kids, they will never use them responsibly lol). She's gonna be such a little menace to everyone when she grows up. Also, I realize the horror lore might seem confusing but I am tryna unravel it slowly, but feel free to ask questions if you have any. I am probably straying a little too far away from House of the Dragon lore, but I hope y'all don't mind, I promise it all does tie back lol, at least for Naerys and her devotion to Aemma/Rhaenyra. All the eldritch god stuff is Lovecraft inspired btw. 

Also since this will be the last update of this year, happy new year folks. Thank you for sticking with me so far, it has been an honour to share this story with you. I hope you all have a wonderful year ahead of you, and I hope you'll stick around to see where this goes <33