The bells rang through Oldtown.

Their preparations were made to depart for King's Landing. Gwayne's belongings were packed and ready, and the many gifts she'd received from Lady Denyse had been packed for herself. They would proceed together as a house– without Otto, unfortunately– to attend Rhaenyra's wedding. Daella was glad to arrive just in the nick of time for it, minimizing how long she would need to speak with her sister before the event. She didn't want to even see Rhaenyra, but she would tolerate it.

The people of the city waved goodbye at them as they departed, but Daella could not see their faces. She flew high above on Vermithor, who was very happy to be leaving Oldtown after two moons. She'd made sure to stay as long as she could, though Gwayne had told her it was alright if she wished to fly ahead of them– she would, after all, have to slow down for them.

It was important to her, however, that they be seen traveling together. Daella flew with a hand over her belly, barely rigid and still not swollen, but carrying within her first child. The maester had confirmed as much before she readied herself for the trip– she could not explain to anyone the pride she felt.

She was glad that Gwayne hardly spent time in the Hightower during the day. That was when she could be with Otto. She flew, too, explored the city with Gwayne's cousins, went to the Starry Sept and the Citadel to talk to the children and their poor mothers, but always went back to that solar to speak with him... to make love to him. Each day, he filled her, and each night, she would be unbothered when Gwayne simply wanted to chat and go to sleep. She did like him, she liked the way he could make her laugh and the way he would listen to her rants.

He was convinced that two nights together– she'd encouraged him to have her once more, after she noticed her first bleed may be late– were all that it took. The second time had been only a slight step up from the first, wherein he spent a few seconds longer within her. She'd made sure to tuck her legs in and stop him from withdrawing so soon, telling him that if he left too quickly, his seed would go to waste. He didn't know any better. He turned over to pray to the Mother right after, while she sighed and rubbed her belly, knowing in that moment that this was only an assurance for the tale she'd tell. She knew the truth, that the child was not his, that the child belonged to her true lover.

Otto had clearly been wanting to change his mind about her departure for King's Landing. When she came to tell him she was with child, she immediately stated that she'd avoid the nausea of a bumpy carriage ride by flying over the progression and joining them only to make camp. His joy had been dashed when he remembered that she'd very quickly leave him. He could not stop her from going, however, for that would ruin her plan. She'd left him with a final fuck, stepping out of his solar with his seed running down her legs. Gods, she'd be sure to visit Oldtown as soon as the babe was born and old enough for travel. She would give it a sibling, to be sure.

Her belly had grown ever so slightly in the time it took to reach King's Landing. Not enough for her to flaunt to anyone, but sufficient for her to feel satisfied. Ser Criston was the one who came to find her at the Dragonpit and escort her back to the Red Keep. She'd asked him to ride in the carriage with her– she wanted to chat.

She noticed the way he looked at her. She was different in only a couple of months away from the castle– anyone could see it, and would as soon as she made herself known. Though since childhood, she'd dressed in modest fashion using Arryn blue– hardly the bloody Targaryen red– and without excessive jewelry the way Rhaenyra did, she was a married woman now. A princess, rider of Vermithor, righteous and worthy the way her richly-dressing sister was not.

Daella decorated herself now. She'd started doing it for Otto, to look her best for him. First, she'd begun to incorporate the Hightower green into her wardrobe. Then, she began to add golden bracelets, rings, necklaces, and earrings. Then, Gwayne had the idea of a crown and she commissioned a golden band for her head. Two thin gold bands curved and danced around her head like ripples in the water. From them hung different stones– emeralds, peridots, rubies, sapphires, blue topaz, and black diamonds for the colors of her houses.

Ser Criston regarded her differently. Perhaps with more respect and admiration than he ever had– he had hardly noticed her before. A part of her wondered what else was in those dark eyes of his. If it was anger, she could use it. But if it was lust... then she did not much like him for a Kingsguard at all. As much as he'd fallen victim to her sister's little games, she did not think he ought to still be wearing the white cloak. Mostly, she thought it could be fear.

"The Queen did inform me that she'd told you of our conversation," said Ser Criston, looking anxiously out the small holes in the carriage's window panels. He didn't like to admit this, she knew. It must be difficult for him to see Rhaenyra, to feel used and dirty and victimized by her. She wished he'd been more firm, that he'd told on Rhaenyra to her father, but alas, she understood that her sister did not take 'no' for an answer. Ser Criston had been heavily misled.

"She did," said Daella. "What I remained curious about was why you decided to tell her. You had weeks to say something, between the time when you took Rhaenyra's virtue and when you fessed up about it to Alicent. Why?"

He hesitated, rubbing his wrists anxiously. "We were sailing back from Driftmark. I came to speak to her. She'd told me many times that she loathed the lot of her position, that she did not wish to be married off at the King's whim with no thought given to the yearning of her own heart. I knew she did not choose Ser Laenor, though he is a good and decent man. I offered her a path to freedom. I told her I had deep knowledge of the port at Sunspear, that we could leave on a ship to Essos and not look back. I told her she could be liberated from the burdens and indignities of her inheritance. I said we could marry, a marriage for love and not for the Crown. She said she was the Crown, or would be."

Daella scoffed loudly, perhaps too loud. She lowered her voice, "She is the Crown? What a little fool. When has she done anything for the Crown, when has it mattered to her? She raised complaints then changed her mind when you offered her a solution. She likes her position, do not be mistaken."

"She said as much... she said that while she chafes at her duties, she would not choose infamy in exchange for a bushel of oranges or a ship to Asshai. That was when she offered me another option. She said she had an understanding with Ser Laenor, that she gave him leave to pursue his own interests while he granted her the same. She wanted me to be her whore."

Her hands flicked up in disbelief. No, not truly disbelief anymore, disappointment. She should have expected as much from Rhaenyra. She would continue to sully Ser Criston's name, and he'd get nothing in return for it. "Of course. Of course, she thinks of no one but herself. And to think the risk she'd run, how obvious it would be if she came to be pregnant by you and her children looked Dornish. There would be no way to spin that, not even if you reminded the Realm that our mother was an Arryn and that Laenor's grandmother was a Baratheon. How stupid she is... I see now why you felt the need to go to the Queen."

"If this is to persist," murmured Ser Criston, "she will simply choose another to warm her bed." Daella did not doubt that, for if Laenor was being left free to entertain the current lover he had– a nice and comical lad named Joffrey Lonmouth. They called him the Knight of Kisses, his family's sigil depicting red lips on a yellow field. Moreover, Daella noticed that he liked to blow kisses at the ladies whenever he participated in tourneys.

She was left to determine who, exactly, Rhaenyra intended to replace Ser Criston with. It would need to be someone in the castle, though presumably she'd not risk another Knight of the Kingsguard– no other was as young as Ser Criston. Her sister was treading on dangerous ground, for whoever she chose needed to be convincingly Baratheon or Arryn-seeming, for there was a chance that the children would not have her Valyrian features.

Rhaenyra would need to take for a lover someone from House Velaryon to ensure that... or even a Targaryen. Daella thought about her recently widowed uncle Daemon, who prowled about gods-knew-where. He would certainly not be opposed to being Rhaenyra's whore, but then he would be in close proximity, and Daella could not stand the thought of it.

She went right to Aegon and Helaena, who she had missed for weeks. Aegon had recognized her at once, squealing and rushing to hug her leg. Helaena was a bit less trusting, young enough that she still was not sure of herself. But, upon laying her head on Daella's shoulder, she remembered the sister that had held her and kept her calm.

She whispered to Aegon that she hoped to have a little boy for him to play with, a nephew who would be more like a brother for him to train with. Daella would be glad to see Alicent again, now her sister by marriage as well as her stepmother... and gods, Daella would need to think that her child was to be Alicent's half-sibling rather than nephew or niece. That was certainly confusing.

In asking about her father's condition, she learned he'd remained as unwell as he was when they'd returned from Driftmark. It seemed that her departure had done little to encourage him to rise from his bed. The maesters reported new sores on his back– Daella certainly did not pity Alicent, who was the one always needing to clean him. Her father had been infected with something years ago, and it only seemed to worsen.

Rhaenyra was busy, of course, surrounded by tailors and seamstresses alike fighting over the final details of her dress. The Velaryon family had already arrived, granting Daella easy access to Laena the moment she'd left the children with their maids. She wished their conversation could have been longer– poor Laena was being dragged into wedding preparations as well, and had only a spare moment to fling herself into Daella's arms, squeal over her wedding, whine that she'd not been invited to this 'eloping,' then squeal once more because her very best friend was pregnant. She would hear more about it at the dinner to open the festivities the following night.

Daella would have loved to tell Laena absolutely everything... from the nature of the prank Rhaenyra tried to pull to the fact that this child was Otto's. But she wasn't sure how well Laena would manage to keep such things a secret. She liked to talk, and Daella knew better than to breathe a word that could come back to bite her later. She'd tell her only about Rhaenyra losing her virtue and lying about it, about wanting to marry Gwayne sooner. When Laena inevitably asked for details of their bedding, she'd tell her everything about her first bedding with Otto... then tell her that Gwayne was far too shy to reveal his sexual prowess and that she ought never question him about it or tease him.

A part of her felt so different now, and wondered if Laena would understand it. Her friend had always been younger than her, less mature, and now Daella was a wife and soon to be a mother. Laena didn't know what either of those things felt like, as she hadn't known what it felt like to have a sister as selfish as Rhaenyra. Daella loved her conversations with Laena, always, yet questioned whether those conversations could continue to bear the same fruit they once did when they were little girls and life wasn't so complicated. Back when Daella didn't truly know how cruel her sister could be.

Daella donned her best clothes for the feast, so as to not let the court and Realm forget that there was still another Princess who knew how to shine. She was dripping in gold over a tight-fitting gown the color of the sea, green and blue dancing together and leaping into the waves made by her crown. Her hair, she had let hang down, so long it often caressed the backs of her knees when she stood naked after a bath. Several braids had been lifted up to keep it out of her face, and charms had been attached with depictions of seahorses and dragons– after all, she should celebrate Laenor's wedding.

It irked her to see Ser Criston there among them, guarding while the guests flowed into the hall. He shouldn't be showing his face here, not with the given situation, and not when he was no longer worthy of the white cloak. Daella would need to talk to him soon about setting that aside, perhaps pursuing another endeavor. She'd gladly send him to serve in Oldtown where Otto could make use of his loathing of Rhaenyra. A Kingsguard, however, he should not remain.

Daella did not think he could trust him lingering around, either, and she needed to be very careful who was around while Rhaenyra went on to think her position would not change. Besides, if for whatever reason Ser Criston fell into temptation again... no, Daella would not let her sister have that. She would send Ser Criston away, not only for his sins, but for Rhaenyra's.

Laena squealed again at the sight of her in the outer hall, cornered by several ladies who were congratulating her on her pregnancy. "You look beautiful, Daella," said Laena enthusiastically, kissing her on both cheeks. "Laenor and I are so happy you are here."

Her brother arrived behind her, dressed more finely than Daella had ever seen. She grinned, drawing him into a hug. "Congratulations, dear cousin. I look forward to the festivities. I hear Ser Joffrey will be riding in the tourney?"

"Yes," said Laenor proudly. "Will Ser Gwayne? Or has impending fatherhood changed his mind about tourneys?"

She shrugged, "I don't quite know if there is a way to stop my husband from wanting to be in tourneys. They excite him and it reminds me of why I started to like him in the first place." Before I realized he was only dashing on top of a horse and never on top of me. At the very least, if he wins, he'd name me Queen of Love and Beauty. I'd like to be that.

Her hand reached out to brush Laenor's arm, drawing him close as people drifted further away, the great houses beginning to receive their introductions into the feast. "I am told there is an understanding between you and my sister," she muttered with a lowered voice. Perhaps Laenor would know who Rhaenyra might have in mind to replace Ser Criston, or if she meant to make amends. "Have you an idea who Rhaenyra has her arrangement with?"

Laenor thought nothing serious of the question; Daella had always known about his attraction to men and he'd never hidden from her his feelings for Ser Joffrey. "No, she refuses to say anything," said Laenor. "Not that I've truly confirmed for her who mine is... she suspects but we never had a conversation. I was never as close with Rhaenyra as I was with you. I'm sure she will tell me eventually." He gritted his teeth slightly, "I do not look forward to attempting a bedding. But we must, for she needs heirs."

Daella hardly saw how that would work, unless Laenor perhaps had Joffrey there to whisper in his ear while Rhaenyra remained silent. She wasn't sure of their dynamic, however, and if Laenor ever was the one within. "I do not envy you in that regard," said Daella. "Beddings ought to be fun and fruitful." Not that I can say so about my bedding with Gwayne.Laena wiggled her eyebrows with intrigue, but Daella only winked dismissively.

She was left with a plan in her head to watch Rhaenyra carefully during the feast and tourney, to see if anyone was lingering too close. The prospect of seeing her sister and father again did not excite her, but in the end Daella had to escort Gwayne to the high table to be seated with her kin. Alicent had not made herself known yet, leaving Daella and Gwayne to take the empty seats to the right of where she ought to be.

"Father." Daella leaned down to kiss his cheek, the charms on her crown and braid dangling across his face. "You remember my husband, Ser Gwayne Hightower."

"I do," said Viserys, not entirely warm. He likely resented that she'd not allowed him to see her wed, to deliver her into her husband's protection. Not that she needed it; if she wanted to be delivered into such a thing, it made more sense for anyone in the world to escort her to Vermithor. "I hear you are with child."

"I am," said Daella proudly. "You wanted to be a proud grandsire, and so you shall be. The maesters in Oldtown say it is far too early to tell, but I am like to have a son. A little prince." She knew she was asking for more than her father might be willing to concede, but Daella knew that talk of grandchildren had softened him at once.

"Of course he shall be a prince," said Viserys with a gentle smile. "He is to be the grandson of the King." In his eyes Daella saw a sadness, and she wondered if he was thinking that she would have the son that her mother could not. Only, I won't be whelped to death the way my mother was. If I encountered the problems my mother did, neither Gwayne or Otto would willingly put me through it again. "Ser Gwayne, I thank you for taking care of my daughter."

"If I may say, Your Grace," he replied, "it is she who takes care of me. Many in Oldtown adore her and Vermithor. The children interned at the Citadel will miss her visits."

"They are fortunate to experience her kindness," chimed in Rhaenyra, eyes wide and scared. Daella had never seen her sister look so afraid. She knew that Rhaenyra was thinking that Daella knew about the prank, perhaps knew about all the lies. Gods, she relished in her sister's paranoia.

Daella offered her a wry smile. "Congratulations on your nuptials, sister. May your marriage be fruitful." She looked right into her eyes. "After all, a loving marriage should plant many seeds in the garden. The right watering should make it grow strong." She saw the fear grow, the way there was no shine in Rhaenyra's eyes– Daella wanted her to know she would be watching and waiting to see what her first child with 'Laenor' would look like.

(Rhaenyra watched Daella and Gwayne step back to her seat, watched her sister's smile grow genuine when she saw a wetnurse was letting little Aegon and Helaena greet the Hightower family before they were taken to bed. She'd never seen her sister so warm with anyone before, not the way she was with Alicent's children. She wondered why that was. In her mind, the only thing that made sense was that the babes showed her the attention that Daella felt she'd never had. It made her feel worth something when the babes returned her love. Gods, Daella would remember this always, she'd crave it. She'd have children only to feel their love returned to her. And she never forgot an insult... Daella never forgot anything.)

She cared little for the feast as it carried on. Alicent had arrived late, purposely, dressed in a deep green to echo the Hightower's war cry. She'd given up entirely on Rhaenyra, Daella knew, and came to sit beside her with a smug smile on her face. Rhaenyra looked embarrassed, but none seemed to notice it. Everyone wanted to eat and dance; Daella included.

Her meal was soured when her uncle Daemon arrived– uninvited, as always. Gwayne had stiffened when Daemon had to sit near him, bored and making faces. Why, then, did he care to come? Why did he have to sour the mood? Daella had a feeling it had something to do with Rhaenyra. Gods, if her sister was stupid enough to trust Daemon, then she'd easily be able to take him as a lover and produce for herself children that would look every bit Targaryen. Daella didn't like the idea of that, it would make Rhaenyra seem perfectly dutiful. No, if Daella could, she would put a stop to it.

"Dance with me," she said dismissively to Gwayne, yanking him out of his seat as the music intensified, Rhaenyra and Laenor having completed their first dance. Her husband wasn't entirely willing, but followed her if only to avoid any nagging. Daella wished for the feast to end already, for the tourney to start. At least then, maybe she could watch Daemon's face be dragged and scraped through mud. Perhaps she could pay someone to do some real damage to him.

"Are you alright?" asked Gwayne, seeing how her eyes darted around, following Rhaenyra each time she moved to a different partner– everyone seemed to want to dance with her. It didn't escape her notice how she spun around Ser Harwin Strong for a moment, offering him a smile. Daella felt Gwayne shrink away as she squeezed his arm too tightly.

"I am tired of this," said Daella flatly. "Of her hypocrisy." Her eyes caught more movement– Daemon and Laena, of all people. Gods, this night couldn't get any worse. She remembered Laena thinking him handsome... Daella certainly didn't understand what Laena could possibly see in him. She still wasn't entirely convinced that Daemon didn't kill poor Rhea Royce.

Gwayne heaved a sigh– sometimes he didn't follow her anger the way Otto did. Gods, Otto knew how to stoke the fires within her in every which way. Her favorite thing was to fuck him while they were both angry about something, it was so intense that it hurt deliciously. Once, he'd left bruises on her hips in the shape of fingers. Another time, he'd sucked on the skin at her shoulders so hard that love bites had remained for several days. "Well, it will be slow and steady progress to achieve our goal... the more mistakes she makes, the better for us."

He had a point. Daella wondered if perhaps it was a good idea to leave Ser Criston here, to keep with the temptation. Perhaps she could ask Ser Criston to play a role, to pretend he wasn't upset with Rhaenyra. Daella could orchestrate for them to be caught, and ensure a more lenient punishment for Ser Criston. Or, she could be rid of both of them at once.

She felt his hand on her wrist, dragged away from where her fingers were squeezing him. "You still carry a blade on an occasion like this?" he questioned. "What, precisely, are you expecting to do with it?"

"I carry a blade with me everywhere," said Daella dismissively. He ought to know that. Sometimes he did not pay attention to these things. Even when she went to see Otto, she had a blade, if only for the fun of having him take it out of her sleeve and sometimes let her caress his cheeks with the blunt end, all to let him overpower her and show that he could give her the thrill she wanted.

Her eyes narrowed when she saw that Daemon had now abandoned Laena, cutting in to Rhaenyra's dance with Ser Harwin. She glanced at the high table, where her father had noticed the same thing. He didn't look happy, but her father didn't entirely look well, either. He seemed to be having trouble stomaching his food. Daella wanted to gag at the sight of Rhaenyra and Daemon as well– she saw the way he grabbed her face, the way they seemed to be whispering angry words to each other, though their bodies leaned so close that Daella imagined they'd have ripped one another's clothes off if no one was around.

Then, a scream tore out from the crowd– a woman's shrill cry of horror. Everyone turned the wrong way, and suddenly Daella didn't know what was happening. Guests that were still seated were starting to rise, trying to see what was going on. Some people began to flee the scene and others ran towards it. Gwayne had to hug her to him to keep her from being knocked aside as a woman rushed away.

She saw Laenor making his way towards the commotion and started to follow. She didn't see Daemon or Rhaenyra anymore, and didn't see Laena, either. "Daella, Daella!" hissed Gwayne, trying to pull her back. She shoved her way forward, listening to blows landing and more shrieks– there was some sort of fight happening. Gods, her father would not be happy.

She lost sight of Laenor for a moment, until the crowd broke open and she saw him on the ground holding a bruised cheek– he'd been hit. On the floor was Joffrey with a blade, his mouth bleeding nose broken. Over him was Ser Criston, mailed fist beating at him and easily casting aside his knife. They were screaming at each other– Joffrey was fighting to get up and Ser Criston wasn't letting him, he snarled and beat him and shoved Laenor aside again when he tried to rush at him. That was when Daella saw Laena trying to get to them, only for her to be knocked aside by someone more interested in seeing.

There was blood everywhere, blood and flesh as Joffrey's face was being torn off. Laenor had fallen again and looked on horrified as did several other useless ladies and lords who for whatever reason were doing nothing to stop Ser Criston. Guards were trying to get to them but no one was going to reach them in time– was nobody brave enough to do anything?

The blade slipped out from Daella's sleeve without much effort. She gave one short flick through the line that connected her watching form to Ser Criston's fury, the veins in his neck bulging as he shouted and raged and used every bit of his strength to beat Joffrey. In the moment where he lifted his arm and exposed part of his neck beneath the armor, the blade found its home beneath his jaw.

The beating stopped immediately. Ser Criston gagged and stumbled back, his hands turning on himself and grabbing at the hilt of the blade. She saw his eyes widen, she heard him choke, and in a second he'd taken the blade and ripped it out of his throat. Blood burst out onto his armor, the pressure so intense that it exploded onto the sleeves of the nearest lord, who jumped away at once.

Laenor leapt to Joffrey, and at once let escape a wail. Daella rushed forward as Ser Criston fell, writhing and staring at nothing as a crimson river escaped him and surrounded his body. Joffrey was already dead, his face beat in so badly that Daella no longer recognized him. The lords and ladies were looking at her now, at the way her hand was still extended out in the way it'd been to let the knife lodge itself into Ser Criston. He was gone, too.

She'd thought of nothing in that moment but stopping it, of helping Laenor. All eyes were on her, and none of them looked proud, none of them looked pleased, they seemed scared and disgusted. Daella saw Daemon again for a moment, helping Laena to her feet so she might reach her brother. Her uncle's eyes bore holes into her skull, and she felt a darkness from them.

He was realizing something he might have never acknowledged before– Daella was dangerous in her own way, she could and would kill in a given circumstance. She just had. She had taken a life. She didn't know her anger could ever reach such heights. It never had before. She'd thought about it so many times but never pursued the deed. She took a step back, not even bothering to retrieve her blade. Her stomach churned and she let Gwayne pull her away from the crowd, but not once did their stares cease to follow her.

There was no tourney. There was hardly a wedding. A ceremony held hastily where the blood had dried. Rhaenyra did not speak to Daella for the remainder of the night or even in the days that followed. She expected that silence from Laenor, who was grieving, but not from her sister. She realized that Rhaenyra was upset with her.

It wasn't as though Daella wanted that to happen, it wasn't as though she had planned it. It was a bad thing, truly– now they had no testimony from Ser Criston, now there was no way to tempt Rhaenyra. Otto would be disappointed in her, although she could reason that Ser Criston was unpredictable and untrustworthy and shouldn't have been there anyway.

Even Alicent demonstrated cold feelings towards her. She asked her why she'd done it, said that she could have had him reassigned or pardoned him for his outburst. Daella had snarled that she didn't understand how Alicent could have hoped to pardon him without someone asking questions. Daella did not think he had deserved forgiveness, not for sleeping with Rhaenyra and certainly not for killing Joffrey.

Daella hated the castle, she hated that no one even remotely understood what she'd done. Laena had been hesitant in their next conversation, then next thing she knew, was writing a letter to say she was marrying Daemon. Laenor had never struck up another genuine conversation and Rhaenyra kept her distance.

I will show them, I will show them all. Those fools, they think they are so clever but they don't understand anything. They don't see me, they don't care, and I will make them see how wrong they have been.