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CHAPTER ONE
BEST LAID PLANS

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THE WIND CHILLED HER TO THE BONE.

The only warmth felt from the flames of the candles surrounding the makeshift altar they'd created.

They hadn't had time to dig enough graves for all who'd died in the Dragonpit, so they'd simply gathered the bodies and placed them to be wheeled to the Grand Sept.

They piled the bodies on top of each other, Ivy's one of the last to be placed.

It had been Lacey and Reyna who'd made the effort, her blacksmith love also having perished in the onslaught.

At least they'd died together, she thought, a bitter taste on the edge of her tongue.

On one side of Ivy lay a graying woman who'd seen more than enough death and war to last a lifetime.

Reyna recognized her from the Street of Seeds, a kindly woman who'd always managed to sneak Reyna a few extra morsels from her shop when she stopped by on her errands.

She thought her name may have been Alys.

The last body to be placed was a girl no older than seven, thin blonde hair matted with dried blood. Her eyes closed as if in an endless sleep that she would soon wake up from.

She'd lost count of the bodies piled beneath them, although she caught a glimpse of the pale hair of the blacksmith who'd eagerly asked for Ivy's hand and slipped a metal band around her finger with the promise of a true ring once they were wed.

Reyna had never met him.

But she knew his father was a well-known smith who'd treated Ivy as his own daughter.

He stood across from her, wife in arm, their little daughter buried in his leathers.

His name was Hugh.

His son's had been also.

Wooden crates and leftover straw were packed between the couple in a makeshift pyre, forever separated in life and reunited in death.

A poor altar for their souls but one nonetheless.

A dark-skinned man stepped forward, dressed in the robes of the begging brothers of the faith, his bowl rattling around his neck.

His name was Lazarus, a man of the faith who'd grown a following for his penchant for giving his profit back to the people, blessing them as they suffered.

"It is not easy to say goodbye to those we love," He began, arms folded across his plain wool robes, "Especially when they have been taken from us so cruelly and unjustly." Lazarus paused as he passed the young girl, tears shining behind his eyes, "This morning the Mother smiled upon her children, ushering them into a new era. An era of peace. Tonight, they find it in the Father's great hall."

Lacey sniffed beside her, eyes glassy.

Reyna wrapped her arm around her friend.

They were all they had now.

"I wish we could spend a day to properly mourn for each and every lost to the dragons," Brother Lazarus shared a rueful smile with the crowd, "But that is impossible.

These men, these women...these children. They are our fathers, our daughters and sons, our mothers and wives. They are our friends. And their lives were snuffed out like a candle in the dead of winter."

Reyna simply stared ahead, barely registering the words of the begging brother. Her thoughts were fuzzy and she couldn't tear her gaze from the ashen body of Ivy of White Harbor.

"But rest assured, tonight they are feasting. Eating from a table that never ends, drinking from a cup that always fills. Whatever comfort you can salvage from this day, know that their lives are greater now than they ever were here."

How was she meant to get word to Ivy's mother? Her father?

How was she meant to tell them their daughter had died long before she was supposed to?

Our Ivy's smart as a whip and twice at pretty , Reyna remembered Ser Alyn of White Harbor telling her with a wink. Got her mother's beauty, brains and a talent with a needle to match.

She's going to make something of herself, Myanna of Plankytown had spoken, serving Reyna up a plate of boiled chicken with a spice often missing from Westerosi food.

Mark my words, one day our little girl will be known as the best in Westeros. Even the Queen will be wearing her dresses.

Mother, Ivy had chided, thirteen and redder than a tomato, The Queen has her own dressmakers.

Aye, and you'll be one of them, Ivy's father jumped in. I can see it now, the Queen Alicent holding service for my daughter, naming Ivy of White Harbor as her personal dressmaker.

The girls had giggled then and talked the night away with dreams of what awaited them in King's Landing. Back when the capital was a place of hope and longing and not a pit of death and despair.

A sob wracked her shoulders, piercing the silence.

It was followed by the murmur of the crowd as she was ripped from the memory and back to the present.

Lacey shoved her arm off to get a better look at what the crowd was mumbling about, brushing the tears from her eyes as she craned her neck.

Her answer came with the sight of a wheelhouse, the white cloaks of the Kingsguard contrasting with the dark night that had descended over the city.

Queen Alicent stepped out first, dressed head to toe in black mourning clothes, the ever present seven pointed star hanging from her neck.

Reyna furrowed her brow, the crowd sharing in her confusion.

The Princess was next, pale skin and silver hair marking her a ghost among men, a dark veil pulled over her gaze. She stared up at the Sept, clinging tightly to the one-eyed prince who'd descended beside her.

Reyna swallowed.

Prince Aemond didn't look like he'd changed at all. Black leathers matching the mourning clothes of his mother and sister.

The last to exit was the Hand of the King himself, still dressed in the green of his house but much less vibrant, a dark cloak swinging from his shoulders with each step.

It was a path the royal family often traveled on the seventh day of the week, lighting their candles in prayer to the gods.

Ser Criston shut the doors of the wheelhouse and Reyna found herself deflating.

The crowd parted, kneeling as they strode up Visenya's hill, only two heads of silver hair among them.

Reyna wasn't sure why she was disappointed.

A dragon's shriek pierced her ears and gold streaked across the sky.

The crowd ducked, gasps and screams going up until they were free from the shadows of its wings.

The ground shook beneath her feet as the dragon landed in front of the doors of the Sept, its scales shining a molten gold in the red of the candlelight.

The pink beneath its wings glowed a soft magenta and it let out another shriek.

Reyna's back erupted into chills.

It almost sounded like a mourning call.

Two large horns jutting out from the corner of the dragon's eyes obscured his rider, but everyone knew who it was.

The King swung down from Sunfyre the Golden's saddle, the conqueror's crown still atop his head.

The clothes he wore now were black, a faded gold thread stitching the image of a three headed dragon across the front of his doublet.

His silver hair seemed to glow, the same ghostly color as his sister's, the candlelight illuminating the circles under his eyes and the cut on his cheek.

Lykyiri, Sunfyre. He uttered in High Valyrian, These people mean you no harm.

The dragon obeyed Aegon as if it were only a dog, sitting back on its hind legs. The seven pointed star hung above the golden beast, framing it in a holy light as the full moon rose behind him.

The King dipped his head at Brother Lazarus, coming to stand beside his mother, brother, and sister in front of the pyre, the doors of the Sept looming high above them.

"Forgive the interruption, Brother," He spoke solemnly, and Reyna almost believed he was sincere, "Please, do continue."

Brother Lazarus stared at the silver-haired man in shock, eyes flickering between the King, his sister-wife, and the Queen.

"Of course, Your Grace, although perhaps if you were to say a few words..."

Aegon's gaze flew to his mother, then to the pyre, then back to his mother.

Reyna's breath caught itself in her throat when his eyes finally met hers.

"We would be honored," Queen Alicent stepped forward, taking her daughter's hand in her own. The princess tensed until Prince Aemond stepped forward with her. The Hand stayed in the shadows.

Aegon tensed as his mother drew near, mouth drawn into a tight line.

"The people are the lifeblood of this kingdom," Alicent began, a prickling exploding across Reyna's chest at her words, "It their hands that keep the wheels turning, their breath which keeps us afloat,"

Solemn faces stared out at the woman, a rare bite to her voice the people had not heard before.

"Today we bled...and tonight we mourn." Alicent choked as she caught sight of the girl on the pyre, "For those whose lives were taken from them too quickly and too hastily before the gods could intervene. For our family..."

Reyna felt the Queen's gaze land on her.

She stared back into deep brown eyes through the flames.

"For our friends. May the Father above judge them justly. And May the Mother above...offer them mercy."

Shoes shuffled against the gravel and Helaena stepped forward, her veil pulled back to reveal her ghostly face to the crowd.

Her eyes scanned the pyre with a furrowed brow and downturned lips, hand coming to rest on Ivy's forehead.

"May the Stranger guide them home." She spoke softly, yet her words rippled through the crowd, strangled sobs and low sniffs heard in the silence.

"May the Stranger guide them home." Brother Lazarus repeated, the crowd murmured the prayer in unison.

The begging brother reached for the torch at his side.

"No." Prince–King Aegon's voice cut through like a dagger in the night. Reyna still felt the heat of his gaze upon her.

She does not think it has left her face.

The command in his eyes is clear.

Stand back.

Brother Lazarus dips his head in respect, and forces the crowd back another several feet.

"Sunfyre," The King calls out with a confidence she has never seen from him except when defying his mother and father.

The dragon lets out a whistle of acknowledgement, and Reyna knows what is coming next.

Aegon stares at the altar of bodies before him.

Alicent and Helaena each take a step back.

Aemond remains.

Reyna clenches tight to Lacey's hand, the torn shred of fabric pressed between their palms.

"Dracarys."

Golden flames engulfed her vision.

 ⋆⁺₊⋆ ✵⋆⁺₊⋆

ALICENT HIGHTOWER DOES NOT PRETEND to know the inner workings of her eldest son's mind.

Since he crawled out of her kicking and screaming, Aegon has always been a troubled child, although some part of her recalls when he was not as sour and grim as he was now.

When his smiles were bright and his eyes were wide. Like hers had once been.

It had been the slow curl of a father's lip, the upturned nose of a half-sister's anger, the crushing breath of a grandfather's sigh.

All this had turned her once sweet boy into the creature that hung in the shadows, drowning himself in Arbor Red.

Blood spurts from her fingertips as her own self-examination slips past her.

She makes a mental note to write to her cousins in the Reach, demanding more gold than red, for she knows Aegon is less likely to lose himself in his cups with the sweeter wines.

She wishes he would cut himself off entirely, but the Maesters believe him to be too far gone.

"To force him into withdrawal at this stage would be paramount to murder, Your Grace," Grand Maester Orwyle said with a frown, "It is better to ease him off it with lighter ales and sweet wine, once he has grown weary of the taste, then we can begin the process."

Alicent stares at the Maester with a furrowed brow, their faces betraying the thoughts they do not say.

It is a temporary fix.

Both of them know Aegon would sooner die than give up the drink.

She sees it in the tremor of his hand at the small council meeting, spinning the king's marble to keep busy. It is in the dark circles which line his lilac eyes–so much like Rhaenyra it almost hurts to look at them directly–which flicker between the members of his council as if any one of them could lunge at him and slit his throat.

Alicent would have Ser Criston cut them down before they reached him.

Her body is still trembling from facing down the maw of Meleys, her skin hot from the Red Queen's breath.

And the way she'd seen Sunfyre's breath burn that little girl and Reyna's friend to ashes...

A chill ran down her spine as the doors of the small council chamber closed behind her.

"The first order of business is to begin preparations for Lord Beesbury to be sent back to his house," Her father spoke from beside the King's chair, Aegon refusing to look anywhere but the marble within his hands. "His position of course will be filled by Tyland Lannister, who has so graciously offered a generous donation to help aid the war."

"It was the natural course of action," Tyland's words were almost as honeyed as her father's. "A show of support from the West for their new King."

Silence met his words.

Alicent inhaled sharply.

"We thank you for your service, my lord," She responded, lips twisting up into a tight smile. " I am sure your donation will go a long way in the preparation of Viserys's funeral—"

"My Queen," Orwyle looked toward her father before his gaze moved back to her, the silent language of Hightower and Maesters present for all to see, "I do not believe it wise to bury the dead so quickly."

Alicent's stomach dropped.

Her furrowed brow deepened at the Maester's words. "The customary waiting period is seven days, Grand Maester," She shot back, voice flat and commanding, "We must begin preparations if the people wish to—"

"The people are mourning their own dead," her father spoke up, placing his marble in front of him, "To ask them to throw that aside in favor of the King, it is...distasteful."

Alicent stared in shock, a fuzziness impeding her thoughts.

A murmur of agreement echoed through the chamber, "It is far better to wait, to let the pain of the Dragonpit subside. We will mourn Viserys here, just as they mourn their own there."

"A private ceremony, Your grace," Maester Orwyle admitted.

Gods above was she never to be free of this chain? This festering wound that refused to heal?

The last twenty years she'd performed her duty, promised to bury him like the Valyrian Dragonlords of old he loved more than his own children.

Let her bury his rotting corpse and be done with it.

"Where exactly will this private ceremony take place, Grand Maester?"

The council turns to face the King.

It is the first time her son has spoken since the coronation.

He raised his gaze to the older man, expecting an answer.

Orwyle clears his throat and turns to his new King, "The Royal Sept, Your Grace. The Silent Sisters have wrapped and cleansed his body, all that remains is to inter his bones beneath the Iron Throne."

An Andal funeral for a Targaryen King.

Promise me this, my darling wife, even now his words echoed in her mind, do not let them bury me under that ugly chair they call a throne. Send Vhagar or Dreamfyre to burn me, so that I may yet join my ancestors on Dragonstone. A true Targaryen funeral for a true Targaryen king.

"Viserys wished to be buried on Dragonstone with his father. His wife, his son." Her voice wavered, edging ever so slightly to madness, "Surely you do not plan to deny him that?"

Her father sighed, "Your Grace, if we were to send Viserys's ashes to Dragonstone, Rhaenyra might see it as a slight, she may even be tempted to–"

"To what?" Aegon let out a chuckle, a bitter and sour thing that sent Alicent's stomach curling, "To take her throne? Her birthright that I stole?"

"You did not steal it, Your Grace," Otto's tone never wavered, always placating, always the chessmaster placing the pieces on the board, "It is yours by law, and your father wished for you to have it, but the Princess Rhaenyra may not be so understanding–"

"She would have to put you, your sister, and your brothers to the sword, Your Grace" Ser Criston interjected, "Not to mention your heir Jaehaerys and your daughter, Jaehaera."

Aegon's gaze darkened at the mention of his children.

It was a strange thing to see him grow attached to a child he'd been given at six and ten, with Helaena only four and ten when she gave birth.

She was younger than Alicent ever was and still she doted on those children as much as the scorpions and spiders that she brought in from the garden.

"If she believes there is even a threat to her claim..." Otto's words hung in the air.

Alicent stared between her father and son, steel settling in her jaw.

"She cannot know father is dead then," Aegon finally said, catching up with the rest of the small council.

Alicent buried her hands in her skirts.

Silence met the King's words.

His head swung from Orwyle to Otto, a rueful smile tugging on his lips.

"A private ceremony it is" Aegon affirmed with a smile, "Let him rot in the Sept under the eyes of the seven. He was more Andal than Targaryen anyway."

"Aegon..."

"Mother..." His tone was chiding and playful, a mockery of Alicent's own. She swore she saw something dance behind his eyes.

Alicent knows she will not win.

Her battle with her children is one she must tread lightly on, for the wrong move could have him preaching death instead of mercy.

The small council stares between the King and the now Dowager Queen, wondering which the realm will bow to now.

Ser Otto clears his throat and the meeting presses on.

"The next order of business," He places a silver stag in the middle of the table, "House Baratheon of Storm's End. Now that Rhaenys has fled, it is very likely they will declare for Rhaenyra." He meets Alicent's gaze with one of cold emerald, "We must ensure that does not happen."

"Lord Borros has four daughters," Alicent chimes in, the wheels in her mind already setting the plan they previously discussed in motion, "Aemond will fly and treat with the Storm Lord, offering him a royal wedding in return."

"It must be under the eyes of the Seven," Grand Maester Orwyle speaks up, distaste in his mouth. Alicent knows the man is right. Valyrian customs were not as welcomed outside the capital, especially with noble families who did not agree with the Targaryen tradition. "We must show the people we share in their faith."

The poor man had never forgiven Viserys for marrying Aegon and Helaena in the ways of Old Valyria.

Alicent didn't blame him.

She'd done it to placate Viserys after her actions on Driftmark, wincing as she watched her little girl cut herself open and drink the blood of her brother before taking him as husband.

It still made her queasy when she thought about it too much.

"And if Lord Borros refuses?"

A contemplative silence meets Ironrod's words.

Alicent glared at the Master of Laws.

"Aemond is of age and he is a Targaryen prince," She snaps, indignation simmering underneath her skin, "If having him for a son-in-law will not convince Lord Borros, perhaps staring down the mouth of Vhagar will."

She did not like to force one hand with dragons, but she was confident a marriage would satiate the old Storm Lord. After all, it was enough to calm Viserys once Rhaenyra had been sworn to Laenor.

She thought she spied a smile on her father's face.

"What of Dorne?"

It is Aegon who asks and Alicent blinks in surprise.

No one steps in to answer his question.

Ser Criston fidgets with his sword behind him.

The King stares out at his council, still expecting an answer.

"Where do their loyalties lie?"

"With themselves, Your Grace," Otto replies with a vicious bite, as if entertaining the very idea is offensive to him, "With all due respect, Dorne holds nothing but sand and vipers. Your efforts are best spent on garnering support here in Westeros."

Aegon's hands flop to the arms of the chair, slumped back as he shrugs, a careless gesture he'd been granted in childhood and never grown out of.

"And yet they have the only means to kill dragons."

Otto shared a look with the other members of the council, 'We are...working on that, Your Grace. The smiths are drawing up plans for a scorpion as we speak—"

"Surely they must have some daughter Aemond can wed and bed," Aegon continued as if his grandfather never spoke at all. Alicent hung her head in her hands. "Probably show him a good time too."

His laughter echoed off the walls.

Alicent kept her eyes glued to the table as the small council traded apprehensive looks.

"The Princess Aliandra is but ten and two, Your Grace," Orwyle interjected, "Her flowering is still imminent and by then your sister—"

"Half-sister" Aegon corrected.

Orwyle nodded, swallowing his words, "By then, it is entirely likely she will have won the Stormlands to her side. She has five boys, three with no betrothals."

"Which is exactly why Aemond must promise himself first," Otto said, placing a gold dragon next to the silver stag,.

"Rhaenyra's two sons are already betrothed to their stepsisters in order to keep the Velaryons in line," Alicent chimed in, recalling the closeness of the Targaryen girls and the plain-featured boys, "She will not risk Lord Corlys' ire by breaking those. Nor Princess Rhaenys'."

It was a shame, truly.

The girls were more Laena than Daemon.

It was almost shocking how much they resembled their late mother. Baela was practically a mirror image of the woman. They deserved better than to be married off to two bastards.

Perhaps she should have offered a proposal between Baela and Aemond when she had the chance.

Alicent shivered at the thought of Daemon's child forever tied to her son.

Both wild and impulsive, they would raze the Seven Kingdoms and leave naught but ashes in their wake.

"Let us ensure it," Lord Jasper Wylde pressed, "Send Aemond to Lord Borros, and cut off her chances, root and stem."

Aegon slammed his head against the back of his chair, letting out a defeated sigh.

"To Storm's End then."

Alicent could almost see the moment the world landed on top of him.

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HE STARES AT HIS MOTHER long after the small council meeting ends, unspoken anger curdling in his throat at the sight of her.

And yet it fades the moment her eyes land on his.

He wonders if she gets it from his grandmother, a woman he had never met and never will. A Florent who'd been lauded as cunning as his grandfather, but it had been said she'd held the heart while his grandfather held the head.

He wonders which one his mother is now.

When he was younger he'd watched her fight and argue and yell with a passion that had slowly dissipated over the years, worn down after years of placating a man who refused to acknowledge her.

All the nobles say he resembles Viserys or Jaehaerys.

"A great likeness. Sure to bring forth another great Targaryen dynasty."

His mother always pinched her lips and smiled tightly at the words.

Sometimes when he looks in the mirror he spies a glimmer of brown in his irises.

It disappears just as quickly.

He wonders if there is a world where he is born a Hightower instead of a Targaryen, with deep brown eyes and red hair. A world where his mother looks at him and sees herself instead of his father.

He still would have no inheritance to his name.

He would still have a schemer for a grandfather.

But perhaps the look in his mother's eyes would resemble the one Helaena wears when she plays with the twins instead of the one she wears now.

For all his faults, he cannot bring himself to hate her.

Not in the way he despises his father.

Her constant push toward mercy is aggravating to say the least, and she has spent the last day and a half forcing him to present terms to the cunt across the bay.

A sister who never cared for him.

His mind conjures up a time when she'd saved him from accidentally wandering too far into the Dragonpit. He puts it out just as quickly.

There is no sister but the one he wed. No family but the one he has now. To think of Rhaenyra as something other than a challenge to his throne would mean weakness. And he already had enough fools in his court without adding himself to the litter.

It is the main reason he does not let his mother rule him anymore.

He will not let her make a fool of him.

Like his grandfather had done with his father.

Viserys had been a fool. A peaceful, mad fool who's eyes were always focused on the past to pay much attention to the children at the foot of his throne.

And now it seems the realm was paying for his lack of attention.

War brewing as the Houses gathered, each clamoring for favors and alliances while they could.

Aegon has never been prepared for war.

He had never been prepared to rule.

Never invited to a small council meeting nor taught the delicate push and pull between King and subject.

Despite this, he knows an independent kingdom with no loyalty to dragons is dangerous.

The same way he knows a bastard born in the streets of Flea Bottom with silver hair and violet eyes was dangerous.

A pale-hair held no name, no loyalties, nothing to lose but his life.

Targaryens, however, were always in the position to lose everything.

It is safer to be without name. A freedom granted to many but enjoyed by a few.

"Are you mad?" His mother asks with a scoff.

He's lost count of how many times she's asked him that question.

He still does not know the answer.

"Sending Aemond to Dorne? With Vhagar? They would be shot down before they hit the Boneway!"

His mother's anger still makes him quake with unbridled shame.

She stands from her position at the council table and begins to pace, "I was foolish to think a crown would give you some sense."

"Then what do you suggest we do?" The question had been posited by every Targaryen King since Aegon the Conqueror, and still the house of the dragon could not seem to bring the desert kingdom to heel. Aegon often thought of his mother as the smartest woman he'd ever known–not that he'd known many smart women–but even she could not come up with a suitable answer to his question.

"Dorne is a problem for another day," Alicent asserted, fingers tugging on her black skirts, clutching her hands together like she usually did when she'd come to a decision. "Right now you need allies and Aemond must be sent to Storm's End."

Aegon let out a sigh.

His mother froze where she stood and exhaled.

He recognized it.

The sound of reluctant disappointment which would soon be followed by a lecture.

"You are no longer a boy, Aegon."

He rolled his eyes. Gods, women could be so predictable at times.

"Right now Rhaenyra does not see you as a legitimate threat, but once she learns of your father's death that will all change–"

"Would you have made her Queen?"

The question weighs on his mind, and yet he cannot bring himself to regret the moment it leaves him.

His mother blinked.

"What?"

Aegon shifted in his seat, a damnably uncomfortable chair he'd never been invited to sit in, no matter how clear his father's schedule was.

He was a first born son who'd been disinherited and told to be content with it.

His children would receive nothing.

Helaena and his brothers would receive nothing.

The only possessions that were theirs by right were their dragons, and even then it had only been Sunfyre and Tessarion who'd hatched.

Helaena and Aemond had been forced to fend for themselves, and both had paid the price for it.

He'd convinced himself he hadn't wanted the throne, what was his by Andal law, but when he stood in the Dragonpit and watched the crowds cheer his name...

It was more intoxicating than any wine he'd ever tasted.

He wanted to get drunk on it until he was mad.

Aegon stared at his mother, bile rising in the back of his throat at the thought of his sister sweeping in and taking it all from him.

It was the first time he'd felt useful in a long time.

The first time he felt more than a waste of space.

More than the drunkard and failure his family all believed he was.

It was the first time he felt loved.

A pair of violet eyes attached to a bowing smirk appeared in his head.

"If father hadn't changed his mind," He choked, suddenly growing hot in his velvet doublet, "Would Rhaenyra be sitting here now instead of me?"

His mother sighed and collapsed back into her seat, head in her hands, "Aegon–"

"You wish she were here now don't you?" His voice catches in his throat. He needs to know his mother is on his side. He needs to know that he is not alone. "That she was crowned instead of me."

She stares up at him and his hope is shattered.

The look in her eyes was all the confirmation he needed.

It was the shame of a mother who did not love her child.

The resentment of a woman who'd lost her childhood companion the minute he began to form in her belly.

Something deep in Aegon's gut curled, stirring a feeling he'd almost forgotten he'd possessed.

It snaked its way up into his chest, squeezing tightly around his heart.

The pressure behind his eyes burst.

"Aemond will go to Storm's End," His voice was flat, his throat growing thick with unshed tears, "He will take one of Lord Borros's daughters to wife as you so requested, and when he is done he will return home and take his place at my side."

His mother couldn't even muster the energy to utter a word against him.

"He and Vhagar are both needed here, to keep my half-sister and uncle at bay."

Wood scraped against marble as he stood up from his seat, the tightness still in his chest.

His hand ached for wine or ale.

Something to ease the dryness in his throat, something to taste other than the salt of his own tears.

Aegon had always known his father did not love him.

For years he believed his mother capable of the same until she'd sent out her sworn shield and her favorite son to ensure Aegon was crowned.

To know it was never truly what she wanted...

That the inheritance of her oldest son was never a thought in her mind....

He wanted the warmth of a cunt wrapped around him, the dizziness of drinking until the world disappeared from view, anything to cease the tightness in his chest and the knotting of his stomach.

He wanted his whores, his wine and his dragon.

Not necessarily in that order.

"Ser Criston told me you spoke to the Dornish maid who hid me underneath the Sept."

His mind has been filled with the thought of her since his coronation.

The smirk that crossed her full lips as she bowed at the back of the Dragonpit, the first sign of acceptance from the smallfolk.

He wondered if it would be the last.

Her scream echoed in the back of his mind, a violent thing that shook the ground beneath him.

"Yes," Alicent cleared her throat, removing her head from her hands. She still refused to look at him. "Reyna...she'll be setting off for Starfall soon, I imagine."

Starfall?

The curves of her face appeared in his mind, recalling how her skin had glown golden in the light of the pyre, swallowed by the ebony black of her hair.

He'd tried his best to wrest any information about her from Helaena, but all she knew was that she was Dornish and she was very good at her job.

His sister was fond of her, and the whole castle knew how much Helaena detested change, especially in her staff.

Reyna. He tasted the name on his tongue.

It was a traditional Targaryen name, yet from what he'd seen in the books, it was not spelled the same.

His mind drifted to the way her lips felt under his hand, the arch of her sloped brows as she threw his words in his face.

He imagined tracing every curve of her body until he was finished. Her face as he bent her over and took her like one of his whores.

She'd probably stab him in the neck for even trying.

He laughed.

To his mother he probably looked mad.

Reyna...

He turned to Ser Arryk Cargyll, "Take a group of soldiers to the harbor."

"Aegon–"

"Find her and have her brought to me immediately."

He paid no attention to his mother's words, conjuring the serving girl in his mind's eye as if he could make her appear through sheer will.

"We promised her we would let her go–"

"Your King," He emphasized the last word, "commands it."

He stared directly at his mother as he said it.

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