"Mom, I'm tired
Can I sleep in your house tonight?
Mom, is it alright
If I stay for a year or two?"

111 AC

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Just as Fei had assured her, Willem Stokeworth was found sprawled in the stables at dawn, his neck twisted at an unnatural angle, his corpse slumped amidst the stale stench of ale and straw. The whispers came as swiftly as the morning light, painting him as the hapless casualty of drunken clumsiness—another young lord lost to the bottle's whims. And, oh, the pity that spread through the hallways for his young bride, so newly wed, a widow barely three moons after her vows. The Stokeworths, draped in sombre hues, ushered in the tide of funeral rites and offered condolences that made Naerys sick with each utterance. Every sympathetic murmur, every bowed head weighed upon her, a reminder of her own crime and the part she had played in their loss. Yet her drawn, miserable appearance seemed only to strengthen her in-laws' conviction that she was deep in grief, rather than guilt.

At last, Lady Stokeworth took her pallor and silence as signs that her sorrow was too great to bear in their household. It was decided that the princess would fare better if sent home to her family, to mourn where familiar faces might soothe her wounds. Naerys accepted the suggestion with a muted nod, grateful in some dim, desperate way to escape those walls and the accusing shadows they seemed to hold. When the time came for her departure, it was Arielle who embraced her most fervently, with tearful affection and promises that she would find a way to visit soon enough and for the first time Naerys felt true sorrow, for this girl had been the only friend she had ever made on her own, a friend that wasn't her sister or made in relation to her sister.

The journey back to the Red Keep was a lonely affair, with nothing but the rhythmic clatter of hooves and the cool winds of early dawn to accompany her. Yet, in that long stretch of silent miles, Fei's words proved true again. There were no more dreams—no spectral visions twisting her sleep, no morbid cravings staining her subconscious. In fact, she found all her appetites sated, strangely enough, and she could not stomach a single morsel of food. She found solace in the oblivion, sleeping more in those few days on the road than she had in years, every time she woke to Fei's knowing gaze, she felt a little more like herself and a little less like a haunted creature, though that added another layer of horror. 

Was murder truly that easy to recover from? What sort of monster did that make her if a few nights of rest was all it took to forget? 

She had killed him hadn't she? Or had he simply slipped and fallen over the bannister all by himself and she had only watched. Was that not equally cruel? She found that she couldn't quite remember the details of that night, only the insatiable hunger for something intangible and then nothing. 

Nonetheless, the physical proof of her experience could not be as easily erased, and her scalp still ached where her dead husband had plucked a fistful of her hair. Her fingers though, she kept tucked beneath the billowing sleeves of her mourning gowns. He had broken two of them, and not even the best of Fei's salves could soothe down the discoloured skin, though the maid refused to let her see a maester for it. 

They reached King's Landing under the shroud of night, slipping through the darkened streets and shadowed gates with little fanfare. Naerys had expected no grand return—she was now both a bastard and a widow—but as she entered the Red Keep, she felt a twinge of disappointment at the absence of any welcoming voices. Only Fei's footfalls echoed alongside hers in the vast, empty corridors, leading her back to her chambers in silence—a return so quiet it felt like slipping back into the pages of a forgotten book, the world having already moved on without her.

Suddenly, a shout echoed through the hallway. Naerys turned, startled, just in time to see a streak of silver—bright hair flashing in the moonlight—rushing toward her. In the next instant, she was swept up into an embrace she knew all too well, arms encircling her tightly, a tangle of familiarity that smelled of lemon cakes and faint, smoky dragonfire. For once, Naerys did not stiffen or recoil; instead, she melted into the hold, lifting her uninjured arm to grip the back of her sister's tunic, fingers curling into the fabric as if afraid she might let go. Tears, the first since Willem Stokeworth's passing, rose unbidden, blurring her vision as she pressed her face against Rhaenyra.

The older girl was almost reverent as she confessed into her hair. "We were told you'd arrive tomorrow, but I saw you coming. I was on Syrax, and I saw you coming—I knew you'd be here sooner."

A faint sniffle from Naerys made her draw back slightly, her keen eyes squinting in the dim corridor, a thumb instinctively brushing the moisture from her sister's cheeks. Her gaze softened in concern as she took in her trembling form, her eyes wide with alarm.

"What's wrong? Are you hurt? Is everything alright?"

Naerys's face crumpled further, Rhaenyra glanced around, a frantic edge in her eyes as if she might wake the whole of King's Landing to discover what had wounded her sister so. Gently, she wrapped an arm around the younger girl's shoulder, guiding her to the sanctuary of her own chambers where a few candles cast an inviting glow. Only when they were alone did Rhaenyra finally take in the details she'd missed in the haste of her embrace: the furrowed brows and the way the girl clutched her hand close to her chest, as if cradling a wound.

"Sister..." she questioned.

"You didn't... you didn't visit," Naerys hiccuped. "You promised you would visit. You didn't come a single time."

The words sank like stones, and Rhaenyra's face fell, her head dipping in shame. She had promised—and now, she had become a liar.

"I... I'm sorry."

"You promised. Why didn't you come?"

Kneeling before her sister, the older princess's hands reached out, looking up into her face with pleading eyes. "I wanted to, I swear it. I truly did. But Father said I mustn't. He said it would make you more homesick, that you should spend the first few moons learning to be a wife."

"Well, I didn't. I hated it. I hate being a wife. I just want to stay here and be your sister."

"Oh," Rhaenyra blinked, her brow furrowing. Of course, her sister hated being a wife. She was her sister, after all, and the older girl hated the idea of it all too; being someone's wife, forced to push out heir after heir for an ungrateful man. She almost thanked the gods that the oaf had died before her sweet Naerys was forced into a fate like their mother. "I know he was a drunkard fool, but was he cruel?"

At the mention of her husband, the younger girl flinched and Rhaenyra saw in her bearing, a flicker of wrath she rarely ever saw from her timid sister. This prompted her to reach out, taking her left hand carefully and turning it over to trace her fingers along the bruises that marred her pale skin, her gaze narrowing as she took in the swollen, reddened knuckles.

"What happened?" she demanded.

Naerys drew her hand back swiftly, tugging her sleeve back down. "It's nothing," she muttered, looking away. "My lady's maid says it's already healing."

Rhaenyra's hand moved from her sister's arm to her shoulders, grasping her tightly, her gaze steely and fierce. "Yes, but what happened? Who did this to you?"

"Nobody."

"It has to be somebody."

"It...wasn't. It just happened."

"Do not lie to me, sister!" Rhaenyra's grip tightened. "You barely go outside and you don't have a dragon to ride. All your hobbies involve you just sitting around. Things like this don't just happen. People like you don't just fucking break their fingers."

Naerys bit her lip to prevent them from trembling and forced a shrug. "It doesn't matter."

"Of course, it matters." 

"It doesn't. It's fine."

Rhaenyra's voice hardened in frustration, fury igniting in her eyes. "It matters because when I have a name, I'm going to feed them to Syrax." She shook Naerys more insistently. "Now, tell me."

But Naerys shook her head, eyes cast down. "It's okay. You'll just get in trouble with Father."

And besides, there's nothing left to feed Syrax. 

Rhaenyra's expression softened, her initial anger tempered by a pang of guilt. In obeying their father's command to keep her distance, she had not been there when her sister needed her most. She couldn't help but feel she had failed, but she owed it to Naerys to make amends—and that meant getting a name, no matter how many times she had to pry, though she had a sinking suspicion she already knew. Inebriates like Willem Stokeworth often had reputations, and she had never known of a man who was kind when he drank. 

"You must tell me, sister," she coaxed again. "I thought we agreed a long time ago not to keep things from each other."

Naerys's shoulders tensed, and a strangled sob escaped her. Oh, if only Rhaenyra knew of all the things she kept to herself, of the creature she kept leashed so desperately. She couldn't bring herself to answer, so instead, she threw her arms around her neck, burying her face in her shoulder, her bruised hand tucked between them like a relic she could neither bear to release nor reveal. The lie she held in her silence was bitter and every fibre of her being resisted unearthing it here, in this sanctuary of sisterhood. For if she told Rhaenyra the truth about Willem Stokeworth, if she dared lay bare the monstrous thing she had become, the veil between them would be rent irreparably.

The memory was faded and full of holes in her mind, but she remembered the way terror unspooled his defences, exposing something vulnerable within him. She remembered her own hands, trembling yet decisive, as they hovered inches away, refusing to pull him back. She remembered the taste of him too, coppery and potent, the stain of his fear tangling with her own, wrapping itself around her like a serpentine noose. It was this part that curdled her stomach most, this perverse flash of satisfaction that had shivered through her as his blood slicked her tongue—equal parts revolting and ambrosian. 

If her beloved sister—so bright, fierce, and loyal—ever learned of this ravenous thing within her, she would cease to exist. For as long as they had lived, Rhaenyra had seen her as something delicate, something to shield, as if Naerys were spun of glass that might shatter at the slightest touch. She couldn't bear for that image to fracture. To show her that the sister she cherished was not someone who needed protection but rather something who was capable of sacrilegious horrors.

It would mean shattering the trust Rhaenyra had so freely offered, and for what? To ease her own conscience, to purge her guilt? No, she could not bear the cost of that truth. She could not bear the look of disgust or horror that might stain her sister's face, could not stand to have Rhaenyra look upon her as if she were an aberration rather than a sister.

So she pressed herself deeper into her embrace, clinging to the illusion, selfish and silent. Because more than redemption, she wanted to be loved. She wanted Rhaenyra to look upon her with the same unwavering adoration, even if it meant carrying this secret to her grave. In her sister's arms, she could still be the Naerys Rhaenyra believed her to be, the mild girl with no teeth and no appetite for flesh. 

Rhaenyra on the other hand stiffened in surprise at her actions. Naerys was rarely the one to initiate touch, reserved in her gestures, but when she did reach out, she felt the weight of it like a plea. She drew her little sister close, wrapping her arms around her with a fierce protectiveness, her jaw set as she silently vowed to find out who had hurt her, even if she had to ask their mother to coax it from her.

For now, though, she understood her need for solace and she began to guide her toward her bed. "You'll spend the night here with me, then. I haven't seen you in so long—I won't be denied your company now."

Naerys hesitated, looking up with a glimmer of longing. "And Mother? Is she... is she alright? Where is she?"

Rhaenyra sighed, brushing a dark lock of hair from her tear-streaked face. "She's abed. The babe has been difficult, I'm afraid. Let her sleep, won't you? I'm sure she'll be thrilled to see you in the morning."

When her younger sister opened her mouth to argue further, she swiped her thumb across her damp cheek, giving her a look that left no room for debate. With a quiet nod, Naerys fell silent, allowing her sister to tuck her into bed and then slide in beside her, pressing a final kiss to her temple. She could feel the pull of sleep, of blissful empty sleep lulled by the reliable presence of her sister's embrace, but she resisted. She could not sleep just yet. 

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇

That is how Naerys found herself in the corridor outside her mother's chambers, much later that night, having slipped out when her sister's breathing had grown heavy and rhythmic. The darkness was still, but she still felt the familiar hum of dread stir beneath her skin. It was the kind of fear that had plagued her for moons now, though she could not fully name it; only that it was cloying. She pressed a hand to her chest to calm the frantic drum of her heartbeat as she stood there, half-afraid to enter and half-determined not to leave. Just a quick look, she reminded herself, clutching the thick wool of the mourning gown she was still clad in. She would peer in only briefly. She would look at her mother, and perhaps then, she might silence the memory that lingered, of the dream where the faceless maester had feasted upon her ribs, feeding her morsels she could neither spit out nor refuse.

In that dream, horror was woven into her very marrow, but tonight, she whispered to herself that it was done. Her oaf of a husband was gone. Surely his death was the omen she had sensed. It had to be, and her family would be safe now; there was no more horror left to endure.

When Naerys finally eased the door open, it yielded without a sound, and she slipped inside on light feet. The moon bathed the room in a silvery glow, casting her mother's slumbering form into an ethereal light. She lay still, the frown upon her brow betraying the discomfort that even sleep could not smooth away, and for an instant, Naerys felt the urge to crawl beneath the covers, to press herself into the warmth of her side as she had done when she was small, to bury her face in the well-loved scent of lavender and feel once again that all-encompassing comfort of being held. But she restrained herself; her mother's sleep was troubled enough, and the babe's restlessness already robbed her of true slumber.

Instead, she knelt beside the bed, folding her hands before her in the posture of a prayer. She watched Aemma intently, her breath shallow, as if even the sound of it might disturb her mother's sleep. Though her legs soon ached and her fingers tingled with numbness, she did not shift. The aching stiffness was a penance she embraced willingly, a small price to pay to stay by her mother's side, to keep vigil over her through the night.

In the quiet moonlight, Aemma's features had softened, their beauty distilled into delicate lines and gentle curves. Naerys' gaze traced her face with a mixture of longing and admiration, lingering on the elegant sweep of her nose and the graceful arc of her jaw—both mirrored in Rhaenyra, whose proud, high cheekbones and radiant smiles bore their mother's unmistakable beauty.

Sometimes, she wished fervently that Aemma were her true mother. If she could claim the woman's blood as her own, perhaps she might have inherited that same enchanting expression, that effortless grace that seemed to surround her mother like a second skin. If only she had inherited her blood and not the rot of whatever had birthed her, she would have been a better person. She could have been good and noble like her sister. 

Her mother's beauty felt like something sacred—a light that shone even in times of hardship, radiating perseverance, and she harboured the impossible wish that she too could look in the mirror one day and see a reflection of Aemma's loveliness staring back. But for now, she was content to watch, to commit every detail to memory, each trait she admired. 

Then, as the minutes stretched on, Naerys realized how very much she resembled the worshippers in the sept. She knelt there, hands clasped beneath her chin, her gaze mirroring the serene fervour she had so often seen in Alicent Hightower's quiet devotions. Yet here, beside her mother, this felt somehow truer, more holy, than the chill of that silent cavern ever had. Perhaps this was her altar, where she knelt as a supplicant, her heart more sincere than it had ever been, her very spirit quivering with piety.

Was this not the reverence one was supposed to show the gods? Was there a god more deserving of it than one's mother?

The faintest sigh escaped Aemma Arryn's lips, and Naerys watched intently, searching for any sign of pain. In the sepulchral quiet of the chamber, she spun stories in her head to keep herself awake, fables of faraway histories that her mother used to tell her. Perhaps she would do this night after night, she decided, until her mother was safely delivered from the peril of childbirth, until the new babe was cradled in her arms and the worry line disappeared from her brow.

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇

Aemma awoke to the insistent, almost demanding kicks of the babe within her, the dull ache combined with the burning morning light on her face pulling her from slumber. With a groan, she opened her eyes, only to be greeted by her slumbering youngest daughter. Naerys had curled up beside the bed, her head resting on her folded arms, lips slightly parted in sleep. A dried sliver of drool marked her cheek, and Aemma couldn't help it when her lips lifted in contentment as she wiped it away.

Just as she was about to wake her, the door creaked open, and in stepped her husband, his expression startled at the rare sight of her smile—a smile that, to his dismay, dimmed but didn't disappear entirely upon his entry. In the past three moons since Naerys had left home, his queen had only grown more withdrawn, more melancholy, and his heart ached with the knowledge that Otto's advice had been wrong. Seeing Ren's daughter curled up on the floor, her dark hair spilling around her like a shadow, filled him with regret. In that moment, she was a spectral reflection of her true father, who also had a penchant for drifting off in the oddest places, his long hair spilling across the pages of ancient scrolls during their nights in Yiti's grand libraries. Ren had always fallen asleep first, head bowed as if in prayer over the books, lost in dreams while Viserys kept reading by his side.

Viserys had written to him, informing him of Naerys's impending nuptials, but he had received no reply. It felt like another silent condemnation of his choice, another sign that his old friend would not have approved. Nonetheless, he consoled himself with the thought that the letter might not have reached him yet, or that Ren, now emperor of Yiti, would have been too busy to receive news of a daughter he barely knew when he was surrounded by his many true-blooded sons. 

With a sigh, he settled on the edge of his wife's bed and, hesitantly, ran a hand over Naerys's head, watching as her breathing remained even. He felt the weight of Aemma's sharp glare, a warning that made his hand pause, almost flinch, but he continued, attempting a lighthearted tone.

"Rhaenyra did say she would be back early, but I didn't realize she'd be here."

"Where else would she be?" Where else if not at my side?

He swallowed, forcing a smile to his lips. "I only hope she didn't disturb your rest. Her... fits wouldn't be good for the babe."

Aemma ignored the comment, lifting Naerys's limp hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles, which had taken on a deep blue-purple hue. "She's been a silent lamb, poor dear. Not a sound. I hadn't even realized she was here until I woke up."

Viserys nodded, guilt flickering across his face as he looked away. "Perhaps I might call for a maid, have her taken to her own chambers. She deserves the rest."

"No! Let her stay. The gods know I need her with me as much as she needs to be here."

There was a brittle silence, and the king's face softened. "I... care for her too."

"You do not act like it, Your Grace."

Her words stung as much as the title did, a truth he didn't want to hear, but he accepted it with a quiet nod. "I am sorry. My actions have caused you pain, endangered the babe, and for that... I am sorry."

Gently, he reached out and placed his hand on her swollen belly, but she tensed at the touch, an ache settling in her throat. He was speaking of the future heir again—of the child yet to arrive. And while a tremor of weeping threatened to rise in her chest, she held it back, feeling as if her heart was a ship tossed against sharp rocks. The closer she got to the impending birth, the more his focus seemed to hone in on the babe she carried rather than the children they already had. 

"I do care for her," Viserys repeated, "and I am glad she is home. Perhaps you'll feel better too now that she's here."

"Rhaenyra must be particularly happy," Aemma responded. "She was terribly upset when you forbade her from seeing her sister."

"Yes, our eldest makes her displeasure known quite openly."

The queen's eyes drifted down to where her daughter lay, her hand still in her grip. "Our youngest does not."

Viserys chuckled, attempting lightness. "I suppose I should thank the gods for one obedient daughter, at least."

Aemma turned her gaze up to him, her expression unwavering, and whispered, "Then make me a promise."

"If it is within my power, I shall do my best, Aemma." Her husband leaned forward to brush his lips against her temple apologetically.

"Do not wed her off again."

Viserys paused, his mouth half-open with a reply that seemed to evaporate under her gaze.

"You do not need to," Aemma continued, words clipped and trembling at the edges. "Not truly. She is not... she will not yield any fruitful alliances. Do not force her into another union."

His frown deepened, and he found himself searching her face, trying to understand. "She chose it. I gave her a choice, and she said yes."

"How does a child refuse her father when he is also her king?"

Viserys's shoulders stiffened, and he looked away, his expression torn. "But I only asked. I did not mean to compel her."

"Look!" Aemma thrust Naerys's bruised hand toward him in accusation. "Look at what they did to my girl. Promise me it will not happen again. To either of our girls. You must promise to protect them above all else. You must give them a choice in all matters. Naerys's next husband must be of her choosing, if she wants it. And if she does not..." Her voice lowered, pleading, "...then you must leave her be."

Viserys felt the weight of her words, the inkling of truth in them, and he could not deny it. Naerys, with her features so unlike his own, would never be accepted as a bargaining tool, never welcomed with open arms by a great house seeking ties with Targaryen blood. The very shape of her eyes, her uncanny colouring, bore no semblance to him, not enough for any powerful alliance to hinge upon her lineage.

He nodded slowly, unable to deny her plea. "I promise."

Aemma let out a long, exhausted sigh. "I hope you keep it."

"This time, I shall. Even Rhaenyra may choose her own husband, when the time comes."

"She doesn't wish for marriage, that one."

"I know," the king's smile was doting. "What difficult girls we have."

"Rhaenyra will learn," Aemma replied with a sorrowful wisdom. "Her royal blood will teach her the lesson in time. I only hope it is painless." Her gaze shifted downward to Naerys, thumbing her cheek. "But this one... she'd make a fine Septa, don't you think? She'd enjoy the silence and the peace of the worship."

Viserys snorted, breaking into a grin. "Only if it is at your altar."

That finally drew a weary chuckle from his wife and it was like the sun had finally shone down upon him after weeks of a storm. In truth, he had always been a little envious of the quiet reverence Naerys reserved for her. As Ren's daughter, he had expected her to carry her father's same fondness for him, especially after the journey back to Westeros when as a babe she'd seemed so entranced by him. He had thought himself the favoured parent, but over time, he saw it was Aemma who held her heart, the same way she held Rhaenyra's, for although the older princess followed him like a shadow and enjoyed their spirited discussions, it was her mother she pledged herself to truly. 

Then again, he couldn't blame either of them. No one in all the Seven Kingdoms could help but love Aemma Arryn.

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇

Hours after the king's departure, Naerys's eyes fluttered open to find herself tucked into bed by her mother's side. A steady breeze played across her face—Aemma waving a fan languidly in her direction, keeping the midday heat at bay. The room was dim; the curtains were drawn, muting the sunlight, and the air was filled with the faintest aroma of lavender and fresh linen.

The queen smiled down at her. "Good morning, my dearest love. Finally awake, are we?"

Naerys scrambled upright, eyes widening. "Morning?"

"More like afternoon, darling. Why so startled?" Aemma giggled. 

The girl's face fell, a shadow of disappointment passing over her features. "I fell asleep?"

"You did. And you slept so well too. No bad dreams, I hope?"

Naerys shook her head, though the guilt curdled in her stomach like spoilt milk. She had meant to stay vigilant, to watch over her mother—yet it seemed her mother had been watching over her instead.

Before she could dwell on her disappointment, Aemma pressed something warm and fragrant against her lips. She flinched, the gesture unsettling her, recalling more macabre mouthfuls forced upon her, but her mother only pulled away with a frown. 

"It's just a tart, Naerys. Your favourite." She held it up again. "I thought you might be hungry when you awoke. This is the longest I've ever seen you sleep."

The scent of apples and buttery pastry filled her nose, and as Naerys hesitantly licked her cracked lips, the sweetness clung to her tongue, chasing away all memory of rust and rot. 

Aemma smiled encouragingly, holding the tart out once more, and this time, she accepted, chewing as the sweet, rich flavours blossomed on her tongue. She felt no hunger, though she knew she hadn't eaten in days, but the joy in her mother's eyes was more than enough to quench her parched soul. 

The queen's countenance turned mischievous as she took a bite herself, rubbing her belly with a wink. "Shall I get someone to bring us more? I'm afraid I've eaten the rest of them. The babe makes me ravenous. Your sister already shares your father's taste for lemon cakes, but you, my sweet girl, have my preferences."

Naerys only shrugged, wriggling back down to lay beside her, snuggling close, taking care not to press too hard; always so careful with her. 

Aemma chuckled and thumbed her cheek, teasing, "Clingy, aren't you? One might assume you are the babe we all await."

The girl shrugged again.

With practiced ease, her mother's hand began to sift through her hair, drawing a contented hum. The simple rhythm was a comfort older than she could remember, but when her fingers reached the back of her daughter's left ear, Aemma froze, pausing over a small, irritated patch of bare scalp.

The queen knew every line, every strand of both her daughters' heads by memory, and this patch was new, something she hadn't felt before. She knew she should probe but, for now, chose to hold her silence, and instead, she pressed a kiss to the tender spot, feeling Naerys relax beneath her touch.

"You're safe now, my darling girl.

Naerys's voice came muffled through the bedclothes. "Can I stay with you?"

"Of course. You may stay with me forever if you wish it." Aemma wrapped an arm around her side.

Naerys peeked up at her, a slow grin pulling at her lips. "Promise?"

"Of course."

"You better not break your promise."

Aemma gasped, her hand flying to her heart. "When have I ever lied to you?"

"Never. And you cannot start now!"

"I shall not, my little babe."

The child lifted her head, her cheeks flushing as she grumbled. "I am not a babe."

Aemma's smile deepened as she tucked the sheets around them both, her fingers tracing familiar paths over her daughter's brow. "My grown child of eleven, and yet always my babe. I named you, I fed you, I bathed you... of course, you are my babe. You may stay with me, always."

"And is she your only babe?" came a whine from the doorway where Rhaenyra stood, a plate of confectionaries balanced in her hands, her smirk catching the light that spilled through the drapery.

Aemma chuckled affectionately. "Of course not. How could I ever forget my first?"

Rhaenyra rolled her eyes, setting the plate down on the bedside table. "And I brought offerings, too," she announced grandly.

"Bribes more like. You know your mother's appetite for them these days."

The queen stretched out one arm, and her older daughter slid onto her free side with an ease born of years of familiarity. She picked up one of the tarts and, with a cheerful wink, popped it into her mother's mouth. Then, reaching over her, she gave her little sister's ear a tug.

"Oi, you! I thought I told you not to bother Mother while she was resting. And then imagine my surprise when I wake up to find you gone."

Naerys stuck her tongue out peevishly. "I did not bother her," she argued, glancing up at Aemma for support. "Tell her, Mother."

Aemma swallowed chewed thoughtfully and nodded in agreement, a conspiratorial glint in her eye. "It's true. She was perfectly well-behaved. Don't go bullying your sister, Rhaenyra."

"I am not bullying her!"

"You are, Nyra. Now go away—it's my turn to spend time with Mother. You've had her all to yourself these past few weeks."

Rhaenyra shook her head, folding her arms with stubborn resolve. "You can't make me go away, and I shan't. She was my mother first."

"She was not!"

"She was. I am older, aren't I?"

"But that is not fair!"

Aemma burst into laughter, her eyes crinkling with amusement as she reached out to pull both girls close, smothering each in kisses. "There's more than enough of my time to go around, my darlings. No need to squabble over your old mother."

"You're not old, Mother!" Naerys exclaimed. 

"Am I not? Are you quite certain?" Aemma rotated her wrist and winced when the sound of her bones creaking filled the air. "I feel as old as King Jaehaerys himself."

"Enough jesting, Mother," Rhaenyra quipped. "You are not nearly that old. You have many many years to go before you get there."

"The babe has aged me far more, I assure you."

"And it shall age you even more after it arrives. Best use your time to rest now."

"But you have to promise to spend time with us even after the babe comes," Naerys added. 

"Yes, Mother. I shall not have you stolen away by yet another tiresome child," her sister agreed, giving her a faux sneer. 

The queen let out a drained sigh. "I imagine your father will keep himself occupied with the new babe, as he seems most eager for its arrival, so your poor mother shall remain all yours."

"All the better for us," Naerys beamed. 

"What if it's a girl?" Rhaenyra inquired. 

Her sister nodded. "I'd like another sister."

"Something wrong with your old one?" She raised an eyebrow. 

"She's mean to me sometimes. My next sister will be sweet and gentle."

"Are you saying I'm not sweet and gentle?"

"No, you are not, Nyra."

"Why you little—"

"But I like you better that way," Naerys interrupted, making her fall silent. "Who else would threaten to feed people to their dragon for me."

"You did what?" Aemma's voice rose in disbelief.

"Well," Rhaenyra hurried on quickly to avoid the subject, "I say, our new sister shall be bold and fierce, and we will call her Visenya. You'll see."

"But if she is not, then do I get to name her?" Naerys protested. 

Rhaenyra relented with a petty flick to her nose. "Very well, but we must wait and see. What would you name her anyways."

The dark-haired girl shrugged. She didn't have any particular name in mind, but she was eager for the babe, mostly for it to be finally out of the way, because then her mother would be safe and well. She couldn't care less what the babe was called or what it was like if she was being honest. But if she really thought about it, she imagined her new sister would be compassionate and mellow like Aemma Arryn. Yes, their new sister would be just like their mother. 

Perhaps she might call her Elaena. She did not know where the name had come from, she had probably overheard it from someone, but it seemed fitting. A sweet name for a sweet girl. 

Another truth if she was being honest with herself. She did not want a brother. She knew her father desired one above all else, but she hoped it wouldn't be a boy. Boys turned out cruel sometimes, and she didn't want to think about her brother growing up to become a man like Willem Stokeworth. No, it was better not to have a brother at all, than to have one who was wicked and liked to hurt people, or worse, a drunken disgrace to their noble mother. 

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A/N: lmfaooo rip Brokeback YiTi (jkjk). Gwayne interaction in the next chapter I promise people, I'm just tryna milk all the Aemma scenes for what they're worth before you know....I did say SLOWBURN lol. 

As usual, don't be a ghost reader. I live for yalls comments/questions/concerns/reactions, even a keyboard smash is highly appreciated and encouraged!