A/N: I wrote this first as a oneshot (see Sprinting Fox: Unwritten for the chapter with an OC paired with Daemon Targaryen) but then decided to write it as an actual fic. The oneshot avoided the Dance of Dragons but this fic will not. Additionally, several things have been changed, so this first chapter will give a bit of background before transitioning into the show.

As with my previous stories, I wanted to make a note about a few things. One, you can expect the usual Game of Thrones themes of abuse, miscarriage, traumatic childbirth, underage marriage, violence, incest, etc. Two, it will be depressing in many aspects and have a great deal of angst. Three, I am basing this off of the show. And four, as with my past fics, the main point is NOT necessarily the love story, it is about the growth of the character! The majority of the focus is on the OC's journey.

If you're still interested, go right ahead. For reference, the OC's face claim is Synnøve Karlsen. If you look up gifs from her role as Clarice Orsini in Medici, you'll see the image I have of her.

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The Red Keep, King's Landing, 101 AC

During the Great Council: 53rd year of King Jaehaerys the Conciliator's rule

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Her new home reeked of death, and yet with it came life.

Silence hung in the halls. Servants kept their heads low. Whispers passed and all wondered about the ifs, the paths that would never be walked by the whole of the realm. Baelon Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne, was dead.

She'd never met Prince Baelon the Brave, who many thought would be as good a king as his father. The same had been said about his elder brother, Prince Aemon, who had died nine years prior. Her father had known them both, his place having been near court for several years now. Before Baelon's death, it had been at least two years since she'd seen her father, who so often spent his days in King's Landing, a reputable man of learning and authority. He'd spoken highly of both Targaryen Princes, and lamented their passing.

Still, it had brought them an opportunity. She'd wanted for so long to leave the Hightower, discontent with the same sights of Oldtown. At twelve, eldest of her siblings, she felt bored with the same cycle of praying in the Starry Sept and often remaining shut up with her family, reading and helping her mother care for her three brothers and little sister. A smile broke on her face the day her father arrived in Oldtown to tell them that they would all be following him back to court, for he was to be the new Hand of the King.

Jaehaerys, the Old King, had chosen her father to fill his son's role on the Small Council. It was of the highest honor for someone like her father, who was a second son. Her mother said that perhaps that was why he was selected– he would be a true servant to the realm in a way a lord with his own castle never could be. He'd proven his ability tenfold in the years he'd been at court, which he'd been pulled toward due to his known wit in Oldtown.

Not once had she stopped smiling as they journeyed from the Hightower to the magnificent Red Keep. A castle of pale red stone overlooking the mouth of the Blackwater Rush, it had seven massive drum-towers crowned with iron ramparts. Massive curtain walls surrounded it, with nests and crenelations for archers. The outer edge was protected by thick stone parapets, and bronze gazed and portcullises were spaced evenly throughout. She'd pointed at the Tower of the Hand eagerly, eight-year-old Gwayne, six-year-olds Norman and Bryndon, and four-year-old Alicent not sharing her same enthusiasm.

Amalia Hightower had held her father's hand tight as they drifted past mourners, quietly welcoming them for this was not a happy occasion for those who had loved Prince Baelon. Inevitably, he had to be replaced, but her father knew no one could fill the space he'd left behind. He'd guided her past the Great Hall, where she'd been allowed to stop in the doorway and marvel at the Iron Throne, an asymmetric monstrosity made of the swords of Aegon the Conqueror's enemies.

Jaehaerys had been holding court that day, and his words called so many people that it barely allowed her to see the long carpet that stretched from the foot of the throne to the oak-and-bronze doors. The room was gloomy, a cloudy day barely allowing light to pass through the high, narrow windows. Her father had pointed out to her the young man who sat with the council members at the table before the throne– four-and-twenty, Baelon's son Prince Viserys would take his father's place as heir to the Iron Throne.

He was a jolly man, peaceful and pleasant according to her father. He didn't look how she expected a prince to, save for his dark purple robes. Even as a young man, he was more on the plump side, and though he wore a sword at his belt, she didn't think he reminded her of the Hightower knights, who were lithe and seemed more intimidating. She didn't think Prince Viserys could use the sword very well, but she supposed it mattered more that he used his mind.

They'd been greeted formally by Prince Viserys's wife, his cousin the Lady Aemma Arryn. She was very pretty, with a gentle demeanor and long, silver-gold hair. With her was her four-year-old daughter, a bright, bold, and beautiful girl who was known as Princess Rhaenyra, the Realm's Delight. Alicent was taken with her immediately, the two giggling as Lady Aemma showed them to the Tower of the Hand.

Amalia's new room was more spacious than the one at the Hightower. From her window, she could see towards the Dragonpit. A red dragon landed as she peered out, but was unlikely to be Meleys the Red Queen, for Princess Rhaenys, daughter of Aemon, had not been selected as Jaehaerys's heir. Her father told her that Rhaenys lived on Driftmark with her husband Lord Corlys Velaryon and two young children, Laena and Laenor.

She was allowed to explore the castle with her siblings in the afternoon, once her father had presented himself to the Small Council. Her mother walked with them, together exploring the seemingly never ending castle. As they made for Maegor's Holdfast, the massive fortress in the heart of the Red Keep where the royal apartments and the Queen's Ballroom could be found, a young man strode past them.

He was what she thought Viserys would have looked like. Lean and handsome, his hair braided for dragon riding, armor black and shimmering in the fading sunlight. At his hip was a longsword with an ornate hilt. Its grip was cold steel, ending in a pommel that resembled a burst of flames. The guard curved like sharp tongues of fire, a bright ruby in the center where the blade fed out, mystical Valyrian steel crafted to the tip.

"My Prince," said her mother, curtsying deep and encouraging the children to pay their respects. To her children, she introduced, "Little ones, this is Prince Daemon Targaryen, grandson to the king and brother to the Prince of Dragonstone."

Amalia smiled shyly. Gods, but he was beautiful. He must have been twenty, still to be Viserys's heir until he had a male babe. "It is a pleasure to meet you, My Prince," she said, hoping her voice did not waver. She'd never seen such a handsome young man before and certainly never spoken to one.

"Lady Alyrie," said Daemon to her mother. He didn't sound very enthusiastic. "Wife to the new Lord Hand." He glanced down at Amalia, who looked away quickly when his purple eyes met hers. "My lady." He nodded his head and went on his way without another word. She watched her mother maintain her composure, though it was clear she didn't feel very welcome.

"Mother," asked Amalia once they'd returned to the Tower of the Hand, her mother braiding her hair for bed. "Does the prince dislike us?"

"No, my love," said Alyrie. "He's only just lost his father. He is mourning. His pain is deep, something we cannot see."

She tilted her head, but steadied it quickly so as to not hinder her mother's progress. "Father says he lost his mother when he was a little boy."

"Yes. Princess Alyssa died when he was three. I was your age when that happened. The Realm wept for her. His little brother died as well, a boy the Princess named Aegon. He lost his grandmother a year past, and his grandsire the King is not well. Be patient with him, dearest. It is unlikely you will see him often, but if you do, never be unpleasant. Sometimes, a person simply needs a kind word to remember they are not alone."

Amalia considered those words to be true. She understood why so many things might've taken a toll on Daemon. She didn't think she'd be a very kind person if her father or mother died, either. "Is it true he's married?"

Alyrie nodded. "He was six-and-ten when he was wed to Lady Rhea Royce of Runestone. But I'm sure you overheard your father say he does not attend to his lady wife."

"Yes, I heard. Why?"

"Often, when people are made to marry, they never again have a good rapport with their spouses. Your father and I were lucky. We chose each other. Daemon Targaryen is a complicated person, many say, but I think it is quite simple. It is no easy thing to be a prince, to have so many things expected of you. He's always had to be fierce in the face of many, he's always had to abide by his duty. Many of us would find it hard, were we in his shoes. I do think he could learn to be kinder to his wife... but I fear that possibility was soured the day he was forced into marriage."

Amalia pressed her lips into a thin line. "I do not want a marriage like that. I do not even know if I wish to be married at all."

As Alyrie finished the braid, she turned her daughter to face her, cupping her face gently. "You need not worry, my dearest. I will make you a promise. You will not ever be married by force. There are many ways to do your duty to your family. You are my sweet girl, and I never want you to be unhappy. None will take you to wife unless you wish it to be so."

"You're certain?"

"Yes, my girl." She kissed her forehead. "It will be your choice and your choice alone. You will decide where you place your love. One day you will find someone you fancy very much, someone who you will wish to spend your life with speaking about all those stories in your books. You may want to have children with them, and so you shall if the Mother and Maiden bless you. But there is no rush, dearest. We have all the time in the world, you and I." She tickled her with her own nose, eliciting a giggle.

Within the first week, Amalia learned about the castle and its many inhabitants. Her mother asked her to remember the names and faces of the other ladies at court, for she was expected to converse with them as a young maid would. She'd even met some members of the Small Council: there was Grand Maester Runciter, Lord Lyman Beesbury the Master of Coin and Lord treasurer, and Ser Ryam Redwyne the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. King Jaehaerys mourned his wife, the Good Queen Alysanne, who'd sat on the Council as his advisor until her death just one year prior.

Alicent, her sweet little sister, was more than happy with Princess Rhaenyra for company. Amalia remembered the day Alicent was born, a tiny thing that fell asleep in her arms the moment her mother handed her over. She'd loved her ever since. Alicent was shy and in need of a girl as bold as Rhaenyra, who would slowly urge her to be more outspoken.

Her brothers were pleased to be learning to use their swords in the presence of some of the finest knights in the Realm. They liked to rise early to watch the men train with Prince Daemon, ever fascinated by the sight of Dark Sister in action. Even she found fascination in watching him knock men taller and bulkier than him aside as if they were gnats.

(Sometimes, even when her brothers didn't need her company, she went. Sometimes, she hoped for Prince Daemon to look up at her, sometimes it was another knight she wished to observe. She always met their eyes and never said a thing, only admired.)

Gwayne especially hoped to be a great knight one day, though Amalia suspected the twins Norman and Bryndon were more eager to use swords as a means of getting away with mischief. She'd learned very quickly that it was all too easy for them to sneak off in the castle, which meant she had to keep a close watch when she wasn't at her lessons with a new septa, who praised her dancing, singing, reading, writing, and needlework highly.

Often, she passed Prince Daemon in the halls. She always offered him a kind greeting and smile, the way her mother taught her to. Sometimes he acknowledged it with a nod, other times he didn't seem to notice her at all. Regardless, she knew her mother was right, one never knew what another was suffering within.

It made Amalia feel better to think her smile might be the most genuine smile that some people received all day. If she could take away even a piece of their grief, it would be an accomplishment for her. Besides, she never found it difficult to smile at the prince and some of the knights– it was talking to them that was hard. They were a bit older and didn't think much of a young girl who found them handsome. It was better to stay silent, to comfort from afar.

Her mother took her often to pray at the sept and expected her to accompany her in visits to the Lady Aemma, who was braving another pregnancy in the hopes to finally give Prince Viserys a son. She'd even been assigned some responsibilities of her own, to play with Alicent and Rhaenyra and read to King Jaehaerys the way she always did for her brothers at bedtime.

She enjoyed being trusted, being seen as a responsible young lady, to be here at court. Amalia had quickly grown to enjoy life in King's Landing. She liked to watch Prince Daemon and Caraxes fly over the castle. She liked that she could see her father often now, for she'd missed him dearly when her family lived in Oldtown– he must have been so lonely without them. Sometimes, she sat with him, silent and observing, while he drafted letters and thought aloud about proposals he would make to the king.

For a time, no harm reached her. The path ahead seemed clear, delightful, and the unknown did not scare her.

_

It was two years later that the path reached a dead end.

Joyous moments never lasted long. It was a harsh truth everyone had to learn at some point. The past weeks had consisted of highs and lows, the death of the Old King having brought another bout of mourning ended only with the excitement of the Young King's ascension to the Iron Throne. Amalia had seen King Viserys don his new jeweled crown the day he first sat the throne, the same day he first wielded Blackfyre to name his brother, Daemon, Prince of Dragonstone.

Their happiness was short-lived. She'd noticed her mother's grimaces first, little twitches of her mouth here and there after they'd returned from the sept to pray for blessings to fill Viserys's reign. Alyrie Florent had never been a woman who liked to admit she was vulnerable, least of all around her children. But Amalia noticed, no matter how much her mother tried to hide it. By the time the maesters took her seriously, it had become too great a problem.

They'd said they did not know, at first. Her stomach hurt, but no one understood why. Then came the fever, though it was difficult to contain when no one could ascertain the cause. Within a week, Amalia saw her mother's smile fade. She saw her body be packed into a stone coffin that would go on alone to Brightwater Keep, to be buried alongside her Florent family. None of it made sense.

A girl of four-and-ten, she became a mother to four. Alicent was only six at the time, wailing inconsolably the first few days their mother had been gone. Norman and Bryndon were eight, but they didn't understand it any better. Only Gwayne, at ten, seemed more capable of realizing how much things were going to change. Their father was already talking about sending his boys back to Oldtown, to be raised by their uncle Hobert. She seldom saw her father, who shut himself in his rooms to conceal the fact he was crying. But she knew, she always knew.

Where he was absent, she stepped in. As the oldest of her siblings, it was her duty to care for them where her father could not. She'd been the one to ensure septas continued to give them their lessons, the one who asked the master-at-arms to see that her brothers were still trained, the one who wrote in her own hand a letter to her uncle Hobert insisting that the boys would be fine at court, for she could not bear to see them leave her, too.

The time she had for herself became scarce. Where she might've liked to read before bed, she was now needed to help her siblings fall asleep, for they were afraid that if they closed their eyes, death would take them, too. Alicent had nightmares almost every night, and had grown accustomed to sharing Amalia's bed. Sometimes, Amalia lost sleep because Alicent wiggled and woke her up constantly.

Then, Norman was afraid to drown in his bath, so she had to bathe him. Bryndon became afraid to eat, and she had to coax him into remaining fed. Gwayne had cuts and scrapes that needed tending to, or he'd neglect his lessons. Alicent's hair was a mess when she got up after tossing and turning all night, which certainly could not be seen in such a state by the court.

Moreover, Queen Aemma continued to suffer through stillbirth s and miscarriages. Who was to be at her side without Alyrie there? Amalia kept her company. She sang to her, she told her how Rhaenyra was helping Alicent through the death of their mother. How she vowed to see her siblings grow into well-rounded youths despite this, for it was what their mother would have wanted.

Not once did Amalia think that she, herself, was still a child. That she needed her mother. All she saw was four children who needed a mother more than she needed one. She became a child with no mother, raising four others, and watching her father disappear further into himself. He barely had the strength to continue being Hand. Being a father was out of the question at the moment.

Then came the retort. Words she never thought to hear from Daemon Targaryen, who she once defended in her mind from her father because he'd lost his own parents, he'd been grieving now his grandmother and grandsire as well. Of all the people who would speak about her mother, he was the last she thought of.

The last time she'd spoken to her father, Daemon had been named Master of Laws and failed miserably. Then, he'd been named Master of Coin. When he began to fail in those duties as well, her father had removed him from his office and convinced the king to name him Commander of the City Watch. In retaliation, Daemon asked the Council how much coin it was costing the Crown to keep Otto in his apartments with a large bed that was now only half being used. He even questioned what laws there were to punish men who were such raging cunts that their wives died to avoid them.

She wasn't meant to find out about that. Her father likely would have kept it a secret, as he kept everything a secret those days. But he'd not closed his door that day, when he stormed back to the Tower of the Hand late in the night. She'd heard him sobbing. When she went to him, hugging him, he told her what Daemon had said. Otto Hightower had forgotten Amalia was still a child. He told her the truth the way he would have told Alyrie.

Though her own eyes had welled with tears, she'd not let one slip out. She'd held her father as he cried, her own chest tight and rage burning like a fire in her chest. She decided that she felt no pity for Daemon Targaryen. She hated him. Her father had been right– he was selfish, cruel, and terrible. He should not be allowed to be king after Viserys. Let the gods finally bless Queen Aemma with a son, let this child detrothe Daemon at long last. Let him suffer an accident– she'd gladly trade his life for her mother's. She couldn't believe she ever admired him, that she ever thought him handsome. Never again.

She offered him no smiles when she saw him in the halls. She swept past him with her siblings in tow as quickly as possible. With what she knew now, she could be allowed to hear every last complaint her father had about Daemon. She was glad to hear her father speaking to her again, to know that he still had a voice somewhere in there. She assured him that she would take care of her siblings, so that they didn't need to be separated. She'd listen to him as her mother had, so he might still be a good Hand to the Young King. Not once did he question her.

"Will Father ever be Father again?" Gwayne looked up at her as she tucked him in, a new cut on his forehead covered in a healing balm after he'd taken a fall in the yard.

She smoothed her hand through his hair, shrugging. "I don't know. Father is busier than ever with a new king's reign to worry about. He loved Mother very much. It will be difficult for him to be himself again. A part of him was lost with her, Gwayne. We can't expect him to regain it while she lingers with the Stranger."

He nodded solemnly. "I don't want you to go away, Lia. Ever."

"I won't. Mother promised I would never be married against my will. Father will keep that promise. I will be here to take care of all of you. Father and I have already spoken about the betrothal he thought of between me and Borros Baratheon. Nothing will be said. I'll be permitted to remain here. We will not be separated, I won't allow it."

She'd never wavered on that promise. As often as she could, she resolved matters with her siblings before they even reached her father's ear. She allowed him peace to remain focused on what was best for the Realm. She took on the role as leader of her family, as caretaker to the lot of them. Often, she was called by the ladies of the court a 'dutiful daughter.' It was exactly what she expected to be, exactly what her mother would have appreciated. Her family would not fall apart under her watch.

Yet as she grew, she did wonder what it would have been like to put herself before all of them. To choose Amalia and Amalia's happiness before Otto's sanity, Gwayne's entertainment, Norman's comfort, Bryndon's safety, Alicent's wellbeing, and Aemma's peace. She wondered what it would have been like to be like Daemon Targaryen, who never cared whose feelings he hurt while nursing his own.

She might've held less upon her shoulders if she'd chosen to be selfish, if she'd let her duty to her family end before it coiled into a rope that turned and turned, a noose forming around her neck growing tighter each year.

The smoke had cleared, but she walked wearily down the same path, its influence never gone and making it more difficult to breathe.