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CHAPTER TWO:
THE STREETS
OF FLEA BOTTOM

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REYNA STARED AT THE MAN IN A HEAP AT HER FEET.

The Crown Prince was face down with his ass in the air in the streets of Flea Bottom, just a few paces away from where the sewers emptied into the Blackwater Rush.

It was as if the gods were playing a cruel jape.

Prince Aegon himself commanding her to commit treason and help him flee to Essos.

On his dragon.

She was just grateful he was talking about Sunfyre the Golden and not...

Reyna craned her neck, hoping she wouldn't see what she was expecting to see.

It appeared to be a true drunken stupor after all.

He mumbled something about wanting his mother before Reyna rolled her eyes and placed him on her shoulders, the Targaryen remarkably light in her arms.

His hood fell forward, obscuring his high cheekbones and silver hair from the masses.

She stepped back into the shadows as the sound of metal footsteps echoed through the alley.

Her chest pounded, eyes scanning the area for a place to run.

If they stayed here the Gold Cloaks would be the least of her problems.

The winding streets of the slum were familiar to her as she slipped through abandoned stalls and stepped over bodies beginning to wake from their cups. Most of the men had been pickpocketed, cucked, or fucked, but all of them reeked of wine and ale.

Or perhaps that was just her traveling companion, she sniffed.

The man's habits were well known to the servants of the Red Keep, with the Queen shuffling their positions nearly every day to ensure the Prince would not look upon them more than once a sennight.

After the incident with Dyana, the Queen refused to let any female servant into his chambers.

The alleys grew lighter and chatter filled the streets, wooden spoons clinking against wooden bowls as the inhabitants picked up their bowls of brown.

Reyna's stomach churned.

The smell was bad enough. Or perhaps she'd become spoiled in the Red Keep, where the scent of the kitchen was always a mixture of the sage and rosemary used in Mariel's dishes.

The man on her shoulder did not smell like sage and rosemary, nor a bowl of brown.

He reeked of something much worse.

She wondered how long he'd been indulging himself before he'd noticed her.

Whether he'd simply stumbled out of a whorehouse at the right time, or deliberately went looking for her.

She shook the thought from her head.

Reyna stopped before a wooden door underneath an image of a spool and thread and knocked.

A girl with dark eyes and hair opened the door, a disapproving look on her face. "Seven hells, Reyna," Her narrow eyes widened at the figure hanging from her shoulders. Their gazes met once more.

"What trouble have you gotten into this time?"

The girl before her was shorter and thinner than Reyna, but her coloring was northern. Except for her eyes, which were the dark brown of a Dornishwoman who'd found herself wandering in lands she shouldn't have.

Ivy of White Harbor was not actually of White Harbor, but it was where her father served as a steward before marrying her mother and starting an inn at the crossroads.

Reyna's lips twitched upward, "Pleasure to see you too," She cut through the pleasantries, peeking through the open door to see Lacey sitting at a table with a cup of tea in her hands.

Something dark clawed at her stomach.

"I see nobody decided to tell me about the reunion," Reyna spoke sharply. She crossed over the threshold, inviting herself in as the prince's feet dragged behind her.

"How were we supposed to contact you?" Lacey butted in, standing up from her seat. She was dressed in all the splendor a whore received, with fine silks and jewelry draped across her thicker figure, "Walk up to the Red Keep and knock?"

Reyna cocked her head and stared.

The Reach girl had always been more of a friend of convenience than anything, but she'd foolishly hoped their years in the capital together had changed things.

Clearly they hadn't.

Ivy crossed her arms over her tunic, the blue color complementing her dark trousers "It's nice to see you though, even if it's..." She stared at the body slumped against Reyna's shoulders, the Prince's pale hair poking through his hooded cloak, "Why exactly are you here?"

Reyna threw Prince Aegon's body to the ground.

Both girl's eyes widened in shock.

Lacey pinched her brow like a woman of forty instead of a girl of eight and ten.

"Mother above, when I said you needed to set your sights higher, I didn't mean fucking the Prince of the Seven Kingdoms."

The blatant accusation smoldered within her, stoking a fire she'd long forgotten about.

Some part of her wondered if Lacey was one of the whores the prince had called to his bed the night before.

The thought made her head spin.

"It's King now, and I didn't–"

"King?! Are you mad–"

"Oh gods," Ivy's eyes looked ready to fall out of her skull, staring at the drunken noble on her floor and turning back to Reyna open-mouthed. Her head kept moving back and forth and back and forth until it landed on Reyna again, "You're with child aren't you?"

She barely had time to form a rebuttal.

"Reyna, I cannot be an accomplice to treason, you know I'm not built for it–"

"If she is with child it will be the luckiest bastard in the Seven Kingdoms," Lacey shot out faster than a whip, "The mistress of the King–"

"Seven hells, I'm not pregnant!"

Her shout silenced both girls and caused the prince to groan in response.

"And do you truly think I would keep it if it were his?"

Both women traded shameful looks before turning back to their friend.

The lump in her throat grew larger, knotting itself into something unable to be swallowed or undone.

She gulped in a breath.

"I have...however, gotten myself into a bit of a...situation."

Lacey and Ivy leaned in expectantly.

Reyna swallowed and confessed what she knew.

"Dead?" Lacey's eyes grew wide, mouth dropping open.

Ivy began to pour herself a cup of ale and collapsed into a chair, "Oh gods, we're fucked."

She plopped down across from the northerner, elbow resting on the table with her head in her hand.

"I thought he would live forever." Lacey paced the wooden floors, pink silks dragging themselves behind her.

Reyna stared up at the blonde with an incredulous look, "He was half a corpse Lacey, it's a miracle he didn't die sooner."

"He did always look ready to keel over at any moment," Ivy admitted.

King Viserys had his good days, but they were rare to be found after the Princess's departure to Dragonstone.

She'd taken the last of the dragonfire with her, people would say, leaving the King an ashen shadow in her wake.

The moments Reyna would walk in and gaze upon his rotting flesh and peeling fingers were the moments she understood what they were talking about.

When King Viserys wore his mask, the castle was happier for it.

"Do you think it was the Queen?" Lacey asked, eyes wide with intrigue.

It was no secret there was no love lost between Queen Alicent and her husband, but she didn't think the woman was capable of murder.

She recalled the affection of which she spoke of the Princess, the careful way she tucked her husband to bed and cleansed his wounds.

If she truly wished to kill the King, she would not have put that much effort into ensuring his survival.

A strict and spiteful missus she may be, but a murderer she was not.

"I don't think so," Reyna interjected, "Besides, she had no reason to kill him. Without him, she's no longer the Queen."

Lacey sighed and stared at the hooded man beneath her feet, "And now we're left with a drunk for a King."

It was an open secret Otto Hightower had no plans to crown Rhaenyra Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. And truth be told, no one really minded.

The Princess had rarely paid attention to them, and everyone agreed the city was better off without Prince Daemon at the helm of the Gold Cloaks.

If the cost meant having a whoremonger on the throne instead of a lunatic, the people would choose a whoremonger every time.

Especially when it came to dragons.

"Maybe it won't be so bad," Ivy said, the slightest hint of optimism dying as she caught sight of the drunken prince, "Princess Helaena at least is kind, and always takes time out of her day to visit with us, and Queen Alicent–"

"The Queen couldn't even keep her own stepdaughter in check, let alone her son," Lacey snapped, the northern girl growing quiet at the sudden change in temperament, "Grow a brain Ivy, or have you forgotten what he did to Dyana–"

"He doesn't want to be King," Reyna's jaw snapped into place, tone even and glaring daggers at Lacey as her words pierced the air.

The implication hung between them all and realization dawned on both girl's faces.

Reyna inhaled sharply, "He asked me to help him escape to Essos."

The exhale was quick, hissing through gritted teeth.

"Now help me hide him before the Kingsguard come looking."

The words rendered her friends speechless.

The three girls all turned to look at the sleeping Targaryen on the freshly sweeped floors of the shop.

Reyna stood up, hand gripping tightly to the edge of the chair, "Lacey..."

The golden haired girl turned to her, worry creasing her delicate features. Reyna had always thought it rather ironic the unwanted daughter of a Septa had inherited a beauty to tempt men into sin.

"You know the best places to hide in the city, surely you must have an idea of where he can sleep this off."

Lacey let out a sigh as her gaze flickered from Reyna, to Ivy, to the Prince now decorating the floor.

She chewed on her lip, scraping away the skin while her brow furrowed in thought.

"Promise me you'll leave us out of it."

The words cut through Reyna like a knife, splitting her chest in two.

Lacey's bright blue eyes churned the color of a storm, "Whatever the prince promised you....you'll leave me and Ivy out of it."

The knot in her stomach churned, weighing her down.

Reyna forced herself to nod.

"I promise."

The blonde sighed and gestured for them to follow her.

The girls were quick and within minutes, Reyna had changed out of her smelly dresses and into something much more suitable for the task they were about to undertake.

Reyna and Ivy grabbed each end of the Prince, covering him in blankets to make him appear sickly. The fact that he was already passed out and pale from drunkenness helped quite a bit.

Lacey returned after stepping next door to speak with her Madame, explaining that her services would be unavailable for the day.

The woman in charge was apparently a miserable woman from Yi-Ti, who demanded an extra hour of Lacey's time when she returned.

"Lady Misery, we call her," the blonde whore exclaimed with a frown as she led them through the back alleys of Flea Bottom up toward the Grand Sept, "All pent up because her Lord tossed her away for some bitch from another house."

It was always the high lords who tossed them away, Reyna mused, staring down at the man in her arms. It did no good to play their games, for they would be stripped of everything soon enough.

Whether title, land, or life, it would all be taken from them eventually.

It always was when they played their game of thrones.

Reyna stared up at the skies and sent a prayer to whatever gods were listening.

She wasn't sure how long the trip up to the Grand Sept took, but she did know that the sun was beginning to rise high in the sky by the time she finished.

Sweat dripped down her back, and Reyna reminded herself to wash her clothes when she returned so they would last.

And no more trips to the sewer unless absolutely necessary , Ivy had chided after handing her several pieces deemed "too gaudy" for a noble to wear.

The skirt fell in faded colors resembling a sunset, with a yellow embroidered bodice to accompany it. It landed just above her ankles, giving her plenty of room to maneuver.

Reyna finally felt like herself again, instead of stuck in clothes that she was forced to wear every day as a handmaiden.

The girls grabbed a quick cup of ale at one of the many taverns near the Sept before swearing each other to secrecy and going their separate ways so as not to draw undue attention to themselves.

Ivy slipped through the cracks like she always did, unnoticed, while Lacey drew attention wherever she went, keeping the men's eyes off the other two.

Reyna hummed on her way down the Street of Sisters, busying herself with faux smiles and pleasant greetings as the merchants passed by.

Some knew her and stopped for a brief conversation, while others knew of her and did little else but smile.

A flash of gold here and there unsettled her stomach, but she simply waited out the men passing by before continuing on her way.

She'd hardly taken a step onto the Street of Silk when she stopped in her tracks.

A pair of men were staring at her, trading whispers.

They wore the same clothes as the smallfolk, and perhaps they would have blended in better if not for the single black eyepatch over his right eye. The man beside him carried himself the way Reyna did, hunched and small and trying to blend in as much as he could.

She recognized the man as one of the only other people of Dornish descent in Westeros.

Ser Criston Cole blended in with the smallfolk around him, his white cloak nowhere to be found.

But the one-eyed man had done little to conceal his appearance beyond placing a black cloak over his leather doublet and bringing the hood around his silver hair.

Prince Aemond carried himself the way most Targaryens did, with an air of self-importance given to him by the gods and their dragons.

It was the first time Reyna had ever gotten a good look at the one-eyed prince outside of his trips on Vhagar.

He was tall and lean, with sharp features and an even sharper eye.

She thought he looked more like a prince and future king than the drunk she'd hidden under the altar of the Grand Sept.

But she was no fool.

She knows why the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and a prince of the realm are wandering the streets of Kings Landing in disguise—albeit poor ones, but that was neither here nor there.

Prince Aemond's eye landed on her.

Her breathing stopped.

He'd recognized her.

She could feel her heart pounding in her chest, blood rushing through her veins as she began to chart a course to freedom.

The prince leans down and whispers something to Ser Criston that Reyna can't hear.

She bolts.

The girl is quick on her feet and used to running, but the men are taller and larger and push past her obstacles with little help.

Ser Criston follows behind her, keeping pace but falling behind whenever she turns a corner or ducks behind a merchant cart.

It is the Prince that worries her.

He is quick and lithe and she barely makes it to the Muddy Way when she's pushed against the wall, wrists tight in his grasp.

"Where is he?" Prince Aemond demands, his singular eye scanning her face.

Reyna writhes against his touch, his right hand tougher and more calloused than his left, yet both are still smooth and soft.

There is no cracked skin nor dirty fingernails, and his scent wafts through her nose.

He smells like the sea.

He smells like Dorne.

"I don't know what you're talking about," She spits in his face, his eye dark as it meets hers.

"My brother," Aemond continues, pressing her deeper into the stone, "He's gone missing, and something tells me you know where he's hiding."

Reyna grits her teeth and steels her jaw, Aegon's threat in the back of her mind.

They would cut out your tongue after wresting the truth from you .

She knows they would do far worse if the Queen found out she'd helped hide her son the day he was supposed to take the throne.

She is a servant, a bastard at the whims of men more powerful than her.

She cannot say no to a Prince, even if it means forfeiting her life.

That was what her station dictated.

But what about when those Princes contradicted each other?

"I am just a maid, my prince," She spoke carefully, her tone even, gaze still focused on the man's marbled face, "What use would Prince Aegon have for me?"

Aemond's eye drifted down her frame before meeting her gaze once more, "More use than you might believe."

Her stomach twisted.

"Besides, what do you gain from protecting him?" the one-eyed prince asked, curiosity dancing in his gaze.

My life . She answers silently, but the prince doesn't wait for an answer.

"Unless he's promised you something else entirely. A title, lands..." His lips twisted upward in a smirk, "A place at court."

It takes all her strength to shove the prince off and into an abandoned stall across the way.

He is stronger than his brother and she does not have the advantage of inebriation when it comes to him.

His words set a fire blazing under her skin, the implication clawing at her insides until it forced its way out by shoving him aside.

Prince Aemond almost looked impressed.

"He has promised me nothing," Reyna snaps, defiance swelling in her chest, "It is my life I am protecting, not the prince."

"Then it is your life we will give you."

Reyna and Aemond turned toward the new voice, Ser Criston striding forward with a sense of purpose.

The man now held himself like a knight, all semblance of disguise gone.

She stared at him, his unmistakable Dornish features sending her stomach curling at the thought of where she'd come from.

She wondered what House his mother came from or if she, like Reyna, was a bastard who'd charmed her way into marrying a steward.

Perhaps his mother had known hers.

"The Queen will not have your head, nor your tongue," He continued, sending a stern look Aemond's way.

The prince looked put out by the knight's words.

"You will be able to keep your job at the Red Keep as the maid to Princess Helaena, and perhaps even see a rise in pay."

The lump in Reyna's throat returned.

How long had Ser Criston had his eye on her?

"Or if you would like," Ser Criston continued, hands placed behind his back, "We can ship you back to Dorne with several months advance in a purse and a promise to let you be for the rest of your life...however long that may be."

Shipped back to Dorne.

Back to the waters of the Summer Sea and the rush of the Torrentine.

To the Red Mountains and an endless summer.

Back to Lady Dayne and her disdainful looks around every corner.

But in Dorne she was free from the whims of Kings and Princes. In Dorne, she could catch a ship to the Summer Isles or Lys.

In Dorne she could be free.

"Granted," Ser Criston sauntered closer, his face dropping into something more serious, "All of this is dependent on if you know where Prince Aegon is. Otherwise, your life truly is forfeit."

Reyna weighed her options.

It was clear which path she should take.

But she needed insurance.

"I want it in writing," She demanded, "If I take you to where the Prince is, I want a letter promising no harm will come to me...or my family, including the women who

helped me."

Ser Criston and Prince Aemond shared a look.

"You have my word," Ser Criston answered, "And that is not something I take lightly."

Without another word, Reyna escorted them to the Grand Sept.

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THE LIGHT BURNED.

Aegon hated it.

He turned his cheek to the cool stone floor he'd found himself on, and silently thanked the Dornish girl for finding him someplace comfortable and cold to soothe the boiling temperature that always followed his hangovers.

His relief was cut short when he was wrenched into the light once more. "No!" He screamed, recognizing the harsh grip on his shoulders...and what it meant, "No...no, agh!"

His shouts echoed off the wall of the cool chambers, panicked eyes catching sight of the lit candles and the shadowed statues.

It is a horrific reminder of where he now stands, trapped on Visenya's Hill under the eye of gods who'd never given him a second thought.

He cursed that Dornish whore for putting him in a place ripe for the capture.

"Where is she?" He yelled, half-drunk and slurring his words until they sounded coherent enough to his own ears.

They never did.

"Where is she?!"

"The White Worm sold you out," Ser Erryk speaks with a half-smile, "For a price."

"And why have you paid it?" The words come naturally to him, seeing double as the twin Kingsguard knights tightened their grasp.

He stares between the four men in his vision, as if he may see a glimpse of his mother in them.

His father never wanted him, never liked him.

It was Rhaenyra he wanted until his miserable, lonely end.

If anyone would understand that, it would be the woman who'd brought him into this miserable existence. The woman who'd never wished for him to be King in the first place.

The faces of the seven stared at him from all corners.

Fear burned in his stomach and suddenly he was sixteen again, crawling into bed beside his mother after watching the maester stitch up his brother's broken flesh and his sister call for his head.

"I want my mother," He slurs.

Ser Arryk stares at him with a matching half-smile, "Your grandfather, the Hand, will meet you outside the city walls."

The words send him running.

Feet beat against the stone and marble of the Grand Sept, echoing a familiar refrain he'd held in his head since he'd abandoned the Red Keep.

Not me.

Not me.

Not me.

He hopes his pleas are enough to carry him to Essos.

To Braavos or Pentos where he can waste his life away a sour drunk with no expectations, no responsibility. Just wealth and drink and enough cunt to keep him happy until he dies with his cock in a beautiful woman. The woman he conjures in his mind is Dornish.

He thinks she has purple eyes.

His feet disappear out from under him.

Ser Arryk pins him beneath his muscle, "You flee what other men die seeking, Aegon."

His head pounds in rhythm with his heart.

It craves Arbor Red and Dornish bitters and a cup of ale to wash it all down with.

His stomach churns as the twins pull him up from the floor, dizziness threatening to overcome him.

The feeling is familiar and he thinks if someone pokes him the alcohol will come spilling back out.

Bells toll, a ringing in his ears as he's forced into the burning light.

Two hooded figures enter his vision, he thinks he recognizes them as Ser Criston and his brother.

A glint of steel flashes across his vision.

"I do regret this friend."

He flees once more.

Step by step, one by one, he is faster than Aemond, but Aemond is taller.

That damned Hightower height is once more his downfall as his brother pounces, chin knocking against the stone of the streets as Aegon goes tumbling down.

He hears the singing of steel, Ser Criston and Ser Arryk fighting over who will deliver the lamb to the slaughter, over who will crown the new King and gain the

prestige that comes with it.

He shouts, he screams, he begs.

But his brother has wormed his way atop him once more, just as they did when they were children.

Aemond is victorious as Aegon finds himself pinned beneath his brother's leaner frame.

"I was hoping you disappeared." Even his own kin cannot keep the disappointment from leaking through.

First his father, then his mother, and now his brother and sister.

And yet still they toiled to put him on a seat that he was never meant to have.

Some part of him hoped the rumors were just rumors.

That his damnable father managed once again to elude the jaws of death.

He remembered one night when Ser Erryk had brought him to his father's chambers after a late night excursion to the Street of Silk once his betrothal to Helaena had been finalized.

Sixteen and already the drunken fool his grandfather prophesied, Aegon had slumped down in a chair across from his rotting father as he yelled at him and demanded he get his life together, the way a man of his station was expected to.

You are a prince of the realm for seven's sake!

I am not your heir father, what does it matter what I do?

You are a Targaryen, boy, and I will not have you sully our house with brothels and drink. Your tastes lie far from duty, but it is high time you served the realm, for both gods and men.

The gods gave me a sister to wed, He'd spoken wryly, anger still rumbling in his stomach, and I will take her to wife as every good lord does.

Aegon...His mother had stepped in, something akin to grief in her face. It was not the first time he'd disappointed her, and it would not be the last. Your father–

My father simply wishes I'd never been born.

Watch your tongue boy or I will have it cut out.

And you will be without heir until my sister pops out a new child to replace her bastard sons.

He'd earned a slap across the face and a ringing in his ears.

If by some miracle or design, Rhaenyra and her children do go missing, then I will simply deny you the crown and outlive you all. You will never seat the iron throne, boy, I promise you that.

"Is our father truly dead?" was the only thing to leave Aegon's mouth.

Aemond rolled his eye, "Yes and they're going to make you king."

He could hear the resentment in his brother's voice.

The words that had gone unspoken between them since his wedding to Helaena.

It should be me.

The son who reads. The son who fights. The son who cares.

Claimant of the largest dragon in the world.

It should be me on the throne and you in the pits of Flea Bottom.

Aegon spat in his brother's face.

It gave him an opening but it didn't last for long.

"No!" His scream was guttural, another plea to the gods who abandoned him the minute he was born, "Let me go!" Aemond's arms wrapped around his neck. Aegon wondered if he was going to kill him.

"I have no wish to rule!"

It was the first time he'd vocalized the thought. A weight lifted from his chest.

"No taste for duty!" He echoed his father's words, "I'm not suited!"

"You'll get no argument from me," Aemond grumbled, grasp tightening until Aegon felt the wind leave his stomach.

His brother's words sparked the last of the dragonfire in his veins.

It was his last plea.

His last chance.

He breaks from his brother's grasp enough to turn around and grip his face, fingernails digging into the skin with a desperation he didn't know he possessed.

He almost thinks he spies a glimpse of ebony hair out of the corner of his eye.

"You let me go," He begs, voice cracking, "I will take Sunfyre and fly away, never to be found."

Aemond stares at him blankly.

He almost thinks he's considering it.

Brother...he begs silently, please.

Let me go.

He can see the wheels in Aemond's mind turn, the idea of him ruling the throne simmering underneath his skin.

King Aemond Targaryen, first of his name.

Aegon imagines his brother on the iron throne while he rots away in Pentos. It is almost enough to provide him relief.

Blood pounds in his temples, his brother's grip weakening slightly.

A hand grips his neck, foreign and familiar at the same time.

The smug voice of Ser Criston Cole pierces his thoughts.

"The Queen awaits."

It would be months before Aegon forgave his brother for his hesitation.

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