"Will you remember that I existed,
and that I stood next to you here like this?"

111 AC

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Naerys lay adrift on her bed, limbs sprawled wide and head tipped back over the edge so her unbound hair spilled like an inky river toward the floor. She had been this way for over an hour, suspended in a strange, almost trancelike silence, the blood pooling in her skull until her pulse throbbed at her temples. She felt it, deep and steady, pressing behind her eyes in a rhythm that matched her heartbeat, a distant reminder of the world around her. And yet, she remained still, neither opening her eyes nor shifting from her place. She was listening.

The sounds crept around her from every corner, and even though her mind drifted in and out of focus, she could sense them, woven into the air like gossamer threads too fine to touch but impossible to ignore. They had revealed themselves only since her return from Stokeworth—a cacophony that seemed to rise from the stone walls themselves, faint murmurs from distant places that somehow reached her in these quiet chambers. She couldn't precisely hear them, not as one might listen to a conversation or a song. No, it was more like the way she was aware of her own pulse, the gentle hum of her blood through her veins.

Below, the kitchen maids shuffled about with brisk, precise movements as they prepared for the tourney's accompanying feast, their footsteps like whispers against the cold stones. The maesters were somewhere too, their murmurs barely there but laced with concern as they fussed over the angry, spreading sores that mottled her father's skin. Then, farther off in the depths of the Red Keep, her mother lay restless in her bed. Naerys could feel the low rustle of bedclothes, an erratic sound like a brush of air just past her ear. The sounds curled around her, half-phantom, half-real, filling her with a strange, prickling awareness that seemed to be growing stronger each day. Fei said that she had to learn how to tune them out or she'd never be able to function properly, but the woman had not elaborated further on how exactly Naerys was meant to accomplish such an impossible task. 

Still, none of it compared to the creature—no sound was as bad as the creature's had been, and she foolishly hoped that if he hadn't made himself known for so long, he would stay away forever.

It was the morning of the tourney, a grand event to celebrate the new babe—a brother, if the gods had listened to any of the fervent prayers that rose from every corner of the realm. Naerys had no intention of attending, despite her sister's cajoling, despite the promises of marvels on the field and talk of Alicent's brother's rumoured prowess. She already knew what folly would await her there, knew better than to stir her own mind with illusions it could not afford. No, she would not fall prey to that today. Her place was beside her mother.

But the sound of approaching footsteps broke her reverie. She knew it was Rhaenyra long before her sister's shadow stretched across the chamber floor. With a sweep of motion and a grin too broad for such an early hour, the Targaryen girl burst through the door, her arms laden with silks and a determined gleam in her eye, as if she already knew how the day would unfold. The door swung wide, the clang echoing in the quiet of the room, and Naerys winced, the cacophony of sounds now crowded by her sister's radiant energy. 

She squeezed her eyes shut, as though closing herself to the older girl's entrance might somehow make her disappear, but Rhaenyra was undeterred. She leaned forward at the waist, coming level with Naerys's face that dangled off the bed. Naerys felt her resolve falter and cracked her eyes open, just a fraction, to find Rhaenyra filling her vision with all the radiance of a rising sun.

The Targaryen was already dressed, her crimson gown vivid and opulent in the early light, glowing like a ruby against the muted walls. Even at this early hour, she seemed prepared for the day's festivities, her expression eager, and her smile spread wider as she caught Naerys's eye, holding up a gown of pale blue with a flourish.

From the doorway, one of the maidservants—a sombre, older woman Rhaenyra had swept along in her exuberance—spoke up condescendingly. "The princess cannot wear that. She is still in mourning."

The girl's eyes flicked sideways, and she rolled them theatrically. "My sister has been draped in those dull gowns all week. A little colour will brighten her, and besides, Mother will like it, too." She turned back to Naerys with a wink. "I told the seamstress to make you something new for the tourney when she came to take my measurements a few weeks ago."

"You couldn't possibly have known I'd attend," Naerys finally murmured, though her gaze lingered on the dress despite herself.

"Oh, nonsense! As if even your scum of a husband could keep you from Father's tourney. Of course, I knew you'd attend. And it's in your favourite colour!" She lifted the dress higher, letting it catch the light, and her grin softened into something almost pleading. "Please, Naerys. At least try it on. Just let me see how it looks. I had a very specific vision of you in mind, at least let me see it realized."

Naerys frowned, but the pull of her sister's petitions was a force she could seldom resist, and with a resigned nod, she allowed Rhaenyra to help her to her feet, already aware that resistance was futile. The entourage of maids the older princess had brought with her sprang into action, each one as orchestrated by Rhaenyra's whim as puppets on strings. They poked and prodded, tightened and loosened until Naerys was lifted from her cocoon of grief and draped in elegance. It felt strange—wrong, even—to be wearing anything but the sombre reflection of her crime, but Rhaenyra's excitement was relentless, her hands fluttering about like a conductor guiding a grand symphony.

As her sister finally stepped back to survey her work, Naerys caught sight of herself in the mirror, and she barely recognized the person who stared back. Rhaenyra always dressed to command attention, with diamonds glittering on her bodice, her attire a cascade of rich jewel-toned velvets and intricate Myrish lace. But the gown she had chosen for Naerys was thankfully far less flamboyant, and more to her tastes. 

It was a deep robin's egg blue, inspired by one of their mother's beloveds from years past, a style she had worn before her most recent pregnancy forced it back into storage. The neckline was a modest, raised collar of white lace, crafted to mirror the graceful lines of Rhaenyra's own, and the silk sleeves tapered at the wrists, their edges embroidered with opalescent seed pearls. The bodice was adorned with subtle but intricate embroidery in silver threads, trailing like ivy across the fabric, and the skirt flowed freely, layers of diaphanous fabric giving the dress an airy quality that swayed with each step, faintly reminiscent of springtime.

For the first time in weeks, Naerys felt less like a creature and more like a girl. 

Her hair had been braided and wound around her head in a similar style to her sister's, the crown of dark plaits exposing her errant eyes, making her flinch away from the reflection, her gaze landing instead on Rhaenyra's necklace. Raising an eyebrow, she turned to face her sister with a knowing look.

The older princess, sensing her curiosity, instinctively raised a hand to her neck, fingers brushing over the trinket. Then she huffed, "You can't borrow it!"

"Now I certainly must, seeing how you're so attached to it."

"Naerys!" 

The girl only chuckled, though her curiosity was piqued. She was certain the necklace was new. As sisters, they shared a habit of rifling through each other's things, and she was sure she'd never seen this piece before. It was beautiful—a design of interlocking circular disks, with silvery ripples etched into each one, like drops of water frozen mid-motion—telltale signs of Valyrian Steel.

Rhaenyra turned to the maids, waving them away until they slipped quietly from the room, and as soon as they were alone, the confident smirk she had worn shifted into something shy and half-bashful, a rare expression that incited curiosity within Naerys. 

"Which eager yet foolish man has bequeathed you a token of his affection this time, sister?" she asked, her tone half-mocking, half-amused. She could only assume it was another knight or a young squire, all hoping for a chance to claim even a sliver of Rhaenyra Targaryen's goodwill.

But her sister's voice dropped to a whisper. "I know what you're thinking, but it was no knight or squire this time."

"Then pray tell, who was it?"

"Uncle has returned to King's Landing," Rhaenyra revealed with a glint of satisfaction, a secret pleasure she could barely keep contained.

"That does not answer my question—wait is he the one who—"

But the older girl pressed on, eager to forestall further questioning. "He brought you something as well." From the folds of her dress, she withdrew a jewelled pin—a falcon wrought from dark, gleaming metal, its wings unfurled as if frozen mid-flight and feathers inlaid with tiny sapphires.

Naerys's eyes widened, her breath catching. "You cannot be serious."

"Oh, I am. Perhaps you might thank him the next time he graces us with his presence."

The girl stared at the opulent gift, feeling a surge of disbelief; such a grand token seemed far too ceremonious for one such as her, but Rhaenyra, undeterred, simply fastened the ornament to the front of her gown. 

Naerys found herself unsure of what to think about their uncle, and she realized, with a faint pang of embarrassment, that she didn't really know him at all—she could hardly remember ever speaking to him directly. He was courteous enough to their mother, and undeniably kind to Rhaenyra, who harboured for him the sort of childishly unnoticed affection she recognized. 

It seemed to her that Daemon was...well, alright, though her father seemed endlessly vexed with him, perpetually simmering with some silent irritation whenever his name arose. But wasn't that just the way of siblings? She and Rhaenyra certainly knew how to annoy each other well enough.

And yet, the present was puzzling. He had always brought novelties when he returned to the Red Keep, one for each of the two sisters, though there was one curious difference. Rhaenyra's gifts seemed carefully chosen—elegant, glittering pieces of jewelry that reflected her tastes and demands, but Naerys's had always seemed more...absentminded. Odd little tokens, as if selected in a hurry or with the notion that she was still the squalling babe his brother had brought home from distant shores. It was as though, in his mind, she had not truly aged, her growth frozen at a stage he barely recalled, or maybe it was because she did not make demands like her sister did, and in that way, he knew as little of her as she did of him. 

That was why the falcon was an odd choice. Did he somehow sense her quiet yearning to integrate herself fully into her mother's bloodline, and had granted her a symbol of her house? Or was it something less flattering—a jest at her dubious heritage?

"He knows of your fondness for birds," Rhaenyra muttered, breaking through her musings. "Told me to congratulate you on your newfound freedom."

At that, Naerys's lips twisted ever so slightly, a hint of bitterness at the mention of her so-called freedom and the unspeakable acts she had committed to achieve it. Yet she remained silent as Rhaenyra tucked away errant hairs and smoothed her hands over the folds of her skirts, her gaze sharp and appraising, until finally she stepped back with a satisfied nod, proud of her work.

"You're ready for the day now," she affirmed brightly. Placing her hands on Naerys's shoulders, she steered her toward the door. "Come, let us go show Mother. She will adore it."

For a fleeting moment, she felt like one of the porcelain dolls her sister used to dress and play with as children, moulded to Rhaenyra's liking and paraded about. But somehow, she didn't mind. She cherished being the sole object of her older sister's attention, yet, a selfish, sudden fear flickered in her heart—what if, when the new babe arrived, this closeness faded? What if her sister's affections drifted toward the child, the true-blooded sibling?

The thought unsettled her, and she held Rhaenyra's arm just a little tighter as they walked, clinging with a quiet desperation she could scarcely name.

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In the queen's chambers, Aemma Arryn reclined against a cascade of pillows, the morning's exhaustion etched faintly on her face. Yet, the sight of her daughters bursting in without a knock lit her weary features with a serene smile. Before Naerys could scramble onto the bed in her usual impetuous way, Rhaenyra caught her by the arm and yanked her back with an exasperated sigh.

"Stay still!" she commanded, brushing a hand down the girl's dress to smooth out invisible creases, her lips pursed with irritation.

Naerys simply hummed in nonchalance, her cheeks bulging as she chewed on the remnants of stolen treats from the kitchens while Rhaenyra swatted at her, dusting away the few stray crumbs with a glare.

"Honestly, you're impossible," she muttered before hauling her closer to the bed where their mother watched bemused. Once they were before Aemma, Rhaenyra spun her sister in a dizzying circle, her hands firm on her shoulders as she announced, "Mother, doesn't she look marvellous? No more of those drab tablecloths for her."

Aemma chuckled at her daughter's dramatic flair and nodded indulgently. "You've done well, Rhaenyra. She is lovely."

Her smile grew as she reached out a hand, and Naerys eagerly broke away from her sister's grasp to take it, climbing onto the bed as if seeking sanctuary. Aemma's fingers then brushed over her cheeks, where the faint bulge betrayed her hoarded snack, and with a giggle, she pressed her thumbs into the little swell.

"Swallow, sweet girl, or you'll choke," she chided, brushing crumbs from her lips. "We don't want you getting sick today."

Naerys grinned, puckering her mouth in mock defiance as she finished chewing, then swallowed with a pronounced gulp. She sat back, pouting for effect. "Nyra didn't let me have breakfast!"

"There's no time for breakfast," Rhaenyra snapped, folding her arms and tapping her foot impatiently. "We must be at the tourney field immediately. Don't you want to see everyone come out?"

"I do not!"

"You have to. I told Alicent we'd meet her."

"Then you go meet her," Naerys said with a shrug, nestling closer to their mother.

"Naerys, stop being childish!" 

Aemma snorted, her mirth spilling over in a quiet laugh. "Your sister is a child."

"She's too spoiled," Rhaenyra grumbled, rolling her eyes. "You coddle her far too much."

Naerys beamed mischievously and wrapped her arms around their mother, sticking her tongue out at her older sister. "Mother enjoys it, don't you, Mother?"

Rhaenyra's expression twisted into a sneer, and she mimicked her in a high-pitched, exaggerated voice, drawing out each word with theatrical disdain.

The queen shook her head as she patted her youngest child on the back. "Enough, girls. Rhaenyra, stop teasing your sister, and Naerys, behave."

Nonetheless, Naerys's impish delight remained undimmed. "See, Mother sides with me."

"I am surrounded by traitors!"

"No one is betraying you, Nyra. You are being dramatic."

"I am not!"

Aemma nudged her daughter gently, urging her off the bed. "Don't you girls have a tourney to attend?"

Naerys shook her head. "I've changed my mind. I'm going to stay here with you."

"It is you who is coddling me now. I can spend a few hours by myself, my love."

Rhaenyra's brow furrowed immediately, her gaze flickering to her mother's face, concern writ plain in her eyes. "She's right. Maybe we should stay with you. What if the babe comes today?"

The queen beamed through the faintest clench of her teeth, her hand drifting instinctively to her rounded belly. She could feel the babe stirring, shifting heavily within her, a reminder that the maesters had declared the time was near—any day now—but she refused to burden her daughters with such thoughts, especially not today. This day was meant for their enjoyment, for laughter and revelry, not worry and waiting.

"You will return from the tourney," she stated firmly, "and I will still be here. So go, my darlings, and have a good time on my behalf. You know how I adore a tourney, so enjoy it for me. And when you return, you must tell me everything. Who came out victorious, who competed against whom, all of it. I want every detail."

"Can't you just come with us?" Naerys's glower deepened. 

"Don't be silly, sister," Rhaenyra cut in with the imperious tone of an older sibling. "She can't be out in the stands, in the heat, in her condition. She needs to rest."

"You sound like Father!"

The older girl's mouth opened, a sharp retort forming on her tongue, but their mother lifted a hand to cut her off. "Enough arguing, girls. You're giving me a headache. I will be just fine. The two of you don't need to keep your eyes on me at all hours of the day."

"I'm still not leaving," Naerys refuted stubbornly.

Aemma softened, leaning down to press three tender kisses to her temple before beckoning Rhaenyra closer to do the same to her. "My brave, beautiful girls. My sun and moon, the two of you are."

And it was true, especially as she scrutinized them now—both dressed in matching updos, their features set in identical, petulant scowls—she could not help but marvel at how similar they appeared, despite looking nothing alike. 

"Take care of each other, won't you?" she began with an unexpected note of gravity. "Be good to one another. Be kind, be honest, be loyal. Do not argue, and do not let the world come between you. You must be each other's greatest support. If you have ever loved me, then you must love each other most, no matter what."

Rhaenyra swallowed thickly, the weight of her mother's words scraping a wound open in her chest, raw and ugly. What had begun as a lighthearted morning had suddenly turned sombre, the gravity of the queen's impending labour settling like a shadow over them all, and no one understood better than her eldest daughter, the danger each of her pregnancies presented. 

Perhaps Naerys was right. Perhaps they should forgo the tourney and stay here, curled up in their mother's bed. Surely she wouldn't mind their presence, even if it meant delaying her rest. Surely each moment spent in her company before the babe arrived to distract her from them would be a moment well spent, and their father couldn't very well contest their reasoning. 

But as Rhaenyra wrestled with the thought, Aemma forced her lips into one final smile, her hands nudging her daughters toward the door even when every part of her screamed to drag them back, to crush them against her breast and bind them there, as if by sheer force of will she could fuse their flesh to hers once more. If it came to it, she might have swallowed them whole, burying them under her skin, encasing them in the viscera that had first nurtured their lives. There was no safer haven for a child than the cradle of its mother's womb. Even her lost babes, stilled before their first breaths, had been untouched by the world's cruelty until they were plucked from her, lifeless and small, offered up as empty shells for her king's ambition.

Her daughters were hers in every sense of the word. Their blood was her blood, even when it was not; their very existence had once been carved from her own body, and as the babe within her twisted and kicked, she knew in the marrow of her bones what the maesters had only guessed: today was the day. The child in her belly would demand its due, tearing through her like a blade through flesh, and she could only pray it wouldn't be the world's next casualty.

"Go now, my loves. Your father will want you by his side on such an important day, and I shall be right here waiting for you when you return."

But as they walked to the door, their steps reluctant, the sight clawed at her like talons raking across her ribs. The air between them was thick with finality, as if unseen hands were wrenching them from her grasp, leaving her raw and exposed, and their silent acquiescence was worse than screams, each step scraping through her tender, beating heart.

I will not see them again. 

The thought came unbidden, curdling in her mind like milk left too long in the sun, putrid and choking, impossible to ignore. She tried to swallow it, tried to dismiss it as the paranoia of a woman heavy with child, but the feeling rooted itself far too deeply. 

She was afraid. She was so deeply afraid. For them, and for herself. 

As the door closed behind them, the room felt hollow, emptied, as though they had carried pieces of her very soul away with them, and the babe inside her writhed with wilder frenzy, a reminder of the toll her body was soon to pay. Blood would be spilled before the day was done, and whether it would be hers, her child's, or both, she did not know. Only one certainty remained—she had sent her girls away to spare them the carnage, but the ache in her chest was as agonizing as any open wound.

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"Stop pulling me, I'm coming," Naerys whined, dragging her feet in resistance as Rhaenyra stormed ahead, her hand a firm anchor around her wrist, tugging her toward the tourney grounds. 

The older princess halted abruptly, turning back to fix her with a knowing glare. "You're not," she countered. "The moment I let go of your hand, you'll run back to Mother."

"I will not!" 

"Do not lie. Lying is a sin." Rhaenyra turned her gaze to Alicent who trailed behind them with her brother, imploring her with a tilt of her head. "Tell her, Alicent. Tell my sister that the gods shall punish her if she tells lies."

Alicent raised a hand to hide a smirk. "You must not use the gods in your petty quarrels, Rhaenyra."

"And besides," Gwayne added with a wink, his eyes darting between the two sisters like a spectator at a game, "you never know when they might be listening."

"Surely the gods have nothing better to do if they are listening to our conversations," Naerys muttered plaintively as she tried to wrestle away from Rhaenyra. "I feel ill, Nyra. I think I ought to lie down."

"You feel ill because you swallowed five sweetcakes without chewing," her sister retorted. "I told you to slow down."

"You did not! You told me to hurry up."

"I didn't mean for you to make yourself sick. Come now, Father will be expecting us. We are expected to attend."

"He will be expecting you, not me."

Sensing the weight of the moment, Alicent attempted a gentle interjection. "Perhaps one of the participants will ask for your favour," she coaxed. "Won't that be fun?"

"No, thank you," Naerys replied bluntly. "I do not care for knights, and I hate the sun. I want to sleep."

Rhaenyra grinned, a teasing glint in her eye. "Alicent is right. Someone might catch your fancy. And who knows? They might even ask you to dance at the feast tonight, but how would they do that if you don't attend the tourney? You must give them the chance to see you."

"I do not like dancing either, makes my feet hurt."

"You just haven't found someone you'd enjoy it with."

"Mother said she would after she recovers from the babe. I don't need anyone else."

Rhaenyra paused, momentarily taken aback, but quickly recovered. "Very well then," she declared, pivoting toward Gwayne with a mischievous expression. "If no one else can convince you, surely we can count on dear Ser Hightower here."

Naerys's eyes widened, her brows shooting up in surprise. The young Lord Hightower was a knight? She had never known. He seemed far too juvenile, though possibly, that was how things worked. It wasn't as though she understood the intricacies of knighthood or the requirements to become one. Perhaps Rhaenyra would become one next. 

Gwayne, however, was quick to balk. "But I was going to wear my sister's favour!" he protested, glancing at Alicent for support.

Alicent, however, turned to him with a glare, elbowing him in the ribs with a swift jab. 

"Ow!" he exclaimed, clutching his side in indignation.

"You'll certainly not be wearing it today," she retorted with the kind of brazen authority only a sister could muster. 

"You can't do that!" Gwayne complained, his tone climbing in pitch as though he was the younger sibling. "I always participate with yours! You can't alter tradition."

"Two tourneys can hardly be counted as tradition, brother. You have not participated in any more than that."

"It does not matter, it was your token that delivered me victory."

Alicent cleared her throat, biting her lip to smother a smile. "Victory, you say? I distinctly recall you losing both of those tourneys."

"Well, you recall incorrectly," Gwayne fumed, eyes darting around to ensure no one had heard. 

"I assure you, I have an excellent memory."

"You do not, sister."

"Come now, Gwayne, not having my favour this one time shall not bring doomsday upon you."

Gwayne threw his hands up in defeat. "You do not know that. And besides, Father will be watching, and it is my first tourney of such significance."

Alicent's eyes narrowed. "Didn't you tell me about that one in Oldtown for our uncle's name-day celebration? Surely that was—"

"That was not nearly as momentous!"

"You are being childish, brother. Do try and act more chivalrous, now that you're a knight, or we shall have to find someone to strip you of the title."

In his peevish state, Gwayne failed to notice how the younger princess's face fell further at his adamant refusal. It wasn't as though anyone had demanded it of him, but the way he recoiled at the mere suggestion of asking her struck a nerve. A flicker of hurt passed across Naerys's face, a shadow too fleeting for most to catch—except Rhaenyra, who saw everything. Her jaw tightened, a subtle herald of words unsaid, but Naerys sensed them rising and imperceptibly shook her head. Before her sister could object, Naerys quickened her pace, towing her along as though she were the one now leading, desperate to escape the discomfort of the moment.

As Naerys darted past him, Gwayne's gaze flickered to her hands. She gripped the folds of her dress tightly, twisting the once-smooth fabric until it wrinkled between her fingers. The sight pricked at his conscience. He hadn't meant to be unkind—surely, she would understand. His refusal was not born of cruelty but of habit, a ritual as ingrained in him as the motions of wielding a sword. His sister's trinkets had always brought him luck, a talisman against failure, and today, of all days, he needed that luck more than ever.

Every visit to King's Landing was another chance to prove himself, another opportunity to show his father that Oldtown was shaping him into the son he ought to be. Not just a knight, but a man of worth, of promise, the kind of son he might one day hold in regard—not unlike the way he held Alicent. Gwayne did not begrudge his sister her position as their father's favoured child, but he often wondered what it meant to bask in Otto Hightower's light—a pale and flickering thing that could just as easily scorch as illuminate. To be their father's chosen was not unlike standing on the edge of a blade: precarious.

It was a fate that glittered, but Gwayne had yet to decide if it glittered like gold or the sheen of steel before the plunge into unsuspecting flesh. 

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A/N: welcome back book! Rhaenyra, fashionista extraordinaire. Also hope yall are not getting bored with all the character exposition lol I just like to yap. I feel like my chapters for this fic are kinda long (5k to 8k words) which I feel could be tedious so I split this one into two parts. But I'd love to know how y'all feel about chapter lengths. Do you prefer the long ones, or do you want me to split them? As someone who has a terrible attention span myself, long chapters can be overwhelming to read but if you want I can continue as before, or just put out two shorter chapters every time I update.