Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

to understand how I write and make the story more enjoyable

Disclaimers: I don’t own anything except maybe some wording and plotlines but the characters and stories are all due to GRRM. I don’t make any income out of this. This fic concept is not original in any way, merely my take on the addicting series and my imagination running its course. It’s also inspired by many fics and writers I’ve read, namely; 
stone by stone by lmas5474, Chain of Ice by Khurts110, A Second Time Around by ratclanqueen, if you try to break me, you will bleed by Dialux, A Vow Fulfilled series by tm_writes, His Winter Queen by tm_writes, There and Back Again by NaerysBlakckfyre90, Father of Dragons by NaerysBlackfyre90, Wolves Beneath the Weirwood by In_Da_Nai_El, Rise or Fall (Remember It All) by dark_heretic and more.

As you can see, all the fics I’ve read finally got me writing my own. I began the outlines in November because for the life of me, I could not get that one-eyed man out of my head and HOTD brought back my inner Sansa-stan. But I hadn’t started complete chapters then because my semester was starting to kick-off. This was mainly my release and stress-reliever so there’ll be a lot of wish fulfillment and—spoiler alert—a happy ending. (I don’t need any more reason to be depressed)

In terms of grammar and spelling mistakes, again, I don’t have a beta or much time to reread and rewrite everything more than twice so give me a break. I’ve been speaking English since I was a toddler (as a second language) and it's been taught all throughout school but I’m not a native from America or Britain and I don’t live there either (even they don’t have perfect grammar cuz we’re only humaaan). Please don’t remind me of my English teachers by nitpicking at my words, I’ve been traumatized enough. (One once subtracted 5 points from my finals’ test score in 5th grade cuz I forgot to end a sentence on a period) but if you absolutely have to, at least say it nicely. This fic won’t be perfect. It’ll have a lot of flaws like it could probably end a lot sooner with the more obvious choices Sansa could make like Rhaenys burning the greens to a crispin (get it?) in the dragonpit but I won’t cause I have a lot to say/add to this universe. It's just for fun. 

I’ll be changing the timelines and some background stories and tweaking some characters' personalities/arcs because they’ll be adjusting to Sansa’s presence in their time. Sansa will go through some changes too, given that she'll be a Targaryen but she'll remain a Stark in her core. I’ll try not to make her a Mary Sue but given that she has the gods’ blessing, foreknowledge of the past/future coupled with the fact that many will underestimate her again, she’ll have the advantage and many things will go her way. Also I love parallelism so there’ll be a lot of callbacks to og GOT characters, scenes and dialogues. This will be a long fic cuz I want to capture the majesty and detail of Westeros and not fuck up the main characters’ development (You hear me D&D?!). If this isn’t your cup of tea then feel free to leave.

IRL I am team black, imma just put it out there but I do sympathize with most of the greens. Helaena is my daydreaming unbothered princess. Literally every time she appears on-screen I’m like LISTEN TO HER! I dislike them mainly because of Otto “The Cunt” (yes, that’s his official title) and Ser Crispin, their influence on Alicent and consequently, her decisions because of that. I’m team black because they’re a slightly less dysfunctional family than the greens. You can’t deny the Strong boys are more well-adjusted. And they’re slightly less driven by desire for power and cruel revenge (emphasis on slightly cuz the blacks still have Daemon and Corlys) but no hate to the other team. They all went mad in the end in canon after all. (I’m still team Sansa, though)

I beg for your kudos and encourage comments as long as they aren’t rude, offensive or discriminating. Please be respectful and don’t fight in the comments. (Let’s leave the wars to House Targaryen) Let’s make the comments’ section a stress-free and friendly environment. If you have any toxic bratty comments, keep them to yourselves. I’ll try to take account of your suggestions and wishes but I’ve probably written some chapters ahead of time. Again if you don’t like, don’t read.

So if you’re still here and ready to begin, strap yourselves to your dragon saddles real tight cause this is gonna be a long ride!

Chapter Text

306 AC

The keep was silent. 

It was supposed to be dawn but there was no sun, not even a ray of light to be seen. It was dark as night like it had been for the past moon. The air was sharp and biting, the coldest the North had ever felt.

Half the height of the castle’s outer walls were buried in white, from the speed of snowfall and the lack of upkeep in mere days. Yet the air was still, so unlike the cold blizzards her father and Uncle Benjen described winter storms to be. 

The air. The castle. Everything felt as dead as her ancestors in the crypts.

Not a single person walked through its halls, save herself, torch in hand as she made way to her destination. Each breath that fogged and the sound of her boots touching stone were the only things that disturbed the stillness.

Everyone else had fled on their last ships to Essos on her orders, led by Ser Davos. 

Many urged her to leave with the smallfolk and continue living in the East—but no. She would not abandon her home again. She may not know how to fight or fly dragons but nor would she spend the rest of her days on foreign land knowing everyone she had loved and failed were but walking corpses in her home. 

Sansa will die in the North.

Just like Jon, Arya, Sandor, Brienne, Podrick, Tyrion, Ser Jaime, Daenerys and thousands more. 

Three dragons, the Unsullied, Dothraki, Valemen, Westermen loyal to Ser Jaime and what little Northmen left were not enough against an army three-hundred years in the making.

The Reach and the Stormlands were in tatters. Dorne, ignorant in their leaderless crisis. While Cersei sat the Iron Throne with no true idea of what she would soon face even with the Golden Company. All of them refused to answer the call for help.

A raven from the wall arrived a sennight ago. It was Jon promising he would send word as soon as the second wave of the dead were defeated. 

No such letter came.

What came were a handful of men from their armies, severely wounded and barely standing. The only thing coming out of their lips were mutterings of terror and fallen dragons. And from a boy of only three and ten whose hands were severed from frostbite, came a message from Arya. To leave and never come back.  

The men died mere hours after, succumbing to their wounds or the cold. 

Her sister was dead. Her brother was dead. Soon, she would be too. Perhaps there was a chance of peace in the afterlife and not the blank abyss Jon had described. Perhaps she would see her family again. 

As Sansa stepped into the Godswood, she continued walking until she caught sight of the only family she had left, seated before the Heart Tree waiting for her.

They said nothing as she placed the torch on a nearby notch and stood beside him. 

She looked ahead, processing whatever emotions she could as they awaited their inevitable fate.

Dread. Fear. Grief.

And finally, acceptance.

“I’m sorry.” 

Sansa almost startles at the sound. She nor Bran have spoken much since they sent off their people five days ago.

“I failed and I’m sorry.” He says and turns to face her.

What remained of her brother in the Three-Eyed-Raven looked at her with true regret. She reached for his hand and gave it a firm squeeze.

“So am I.” She had failed too.

Yet despite this, Sansa stood as tall as she could by her brother’s chair as they waited.

They waited and waited for what felt like forever and no time at all. Was it minutes or hours, she couldn’t tell. 

For when they finally heard the stampeding feet of what would be hundreds of thousands of risen corpses marching straight for Winterfell, her heart was beating wildly in her chest and she tried to stay strong and composed. Her shivering gloved hands were clasped at her back. The sound of unhuman-like screeching and groaning became louder and louder. 

She heard the moment they slammed into the outer walls. The loud bang of bones meeting stone. 

At the sound, Bran grabbed her arm from his chair. 

She turned only to see him shaking uncontrollably, head turned upwards the same way it always was when he would warg. But where his eyes would cloud white; one was now blood red.

She rushed to kneel before him and grasped his face in her hands.

“Bran?!”

He was shaking so violently, she had to hold him tight to keep him from sliding off the chair. His nose started to bleed and she could only watch helplessly.

“Brandon! Bran, what’s happening? What are you doing? What do you need, Bran!”

After a few seconds more, his eyes cleared and his shaking stopped. He looked right at her and she swears he seemed to revert to the enthusiastic little boy he used to be. 

The words he spoke next confused her. 

“There’s a way. We’ve been given a chance. Sansa, there’s a way.”  He said it with the most emotion she's ever heard from him since they'd reunited.

Bran's lips quirks up even as his brows furrow. She pulls away and stands frantically.

“A way? A way to what?”

The roar of thundering feet echoed louder as she heard them coming from all sides. 

“To save what has been lost.”

“What are you talking about? Everyone is dead, Bran.” She has no idea how they could possibly save anyone.

“There’s a way, Sansa. The gods have given us a chance.”

“What?” She asked cluelessly. The gods?! Has the Three-Eyed-Raven finally made her brother mad?

“Do you trust me?” He continued persistently.

“Bran—” 

“Do you trust me Sans?” She immediately came to a stop.

The last time he called her that, he was only five namedays. It was her turn to look at him as she used to when they were children. 

He may have been an annoying, overly curious and meddlesome child as much as he was the emotionless, hollow and still meddlesome man now, but he will always be her brother.

“With my life.”

The sound of the barricades splintering in the inner halls jolted their conversation.

“Good. It has to be you.” Must he still be cryptic even in the face of death?

“What has to be me?”  

What can she do?

“It has to be your life blood, spilt on the tree. And it must be the Night King himself that strikes.”

A sharp intake of breath. Sansa looked behind them, where the Heart Tree has stood for thousands of years. Her icy fingertips coming to touch her lips in thought.

Her father once told her of how the smallfolk were allowed to make offerings to the tree years before he was born. They would come to the godswood to pray for guidance or give thanks by offering a drop of blood from their own wounds or their treasured livestock.

A sacrifice.

She would sacrifice herself.

In exchange for what ? She did not know, nor did they have time to discuss it.

“What we’re doing…if we do this, will it—”

“It’s our only chance.” Bran implores her with such certainty that makes her wonder what he saw in that vision.

It was madness. It was ludicrous. 

And she was desperate.

What difference would it make? They were going to die anyway. If there was anyone who’d know a sacrifice of magic that could save them, it would be him. 

She quickly removed her cloak, placing it on Bran’s shivering hands on his lap, the cold biting her back. She reached for the Catspaw dagger in her boot, the last gift her sister will ever give and held it tightly just as the hoard of dead broke through.

The wights tumbled into the godswood from the main hall as more and more spilled from above the walls. 

They were being surrounded in all directions when their violent approach came to a sudden halt. They stayed just a few steps away, forming a perfect circle. Sansa stood frozen from a mix of fear and resolve.

Some of them were skeletal with hollow eyes and sunken cheeks, white and bloodless. But most of them still had flesh, mutilated parts and gruesomely sliced skin with icy blue eyes; their own armies risen. 

She wondered if she would recognize some of the faces and a pang resounded in her heart. Was Jon among them? Arya? Was she to die by the hands of what used to be someone she loved?

She also wondered why they weren’t dead yet. What were they doing?

As if hearing the question in her mind, Bran spoke.

“He wants to kill me himself.” 

I am the memory of the realm and he wants to erase me. It would be his greatest achievement.

Movement at the back of the hoard began as the dead parted, forming an aisle.

The Night King stepped in the circle and Sansa felt the coldest chill run through her at each step he took. It felt as though her blood was freezing drop by drop, burning cold from the inside out. He was as pale and bloodless as the others but the ice spiked head and intricately lined face differed him from the rest. 

“One chance, Sansa.” She hears Bran say.

The dead king’s piercing blue eyes flickered at her for but a moment before he started towards her left.

“One chance.” She whispered.

And she stepped in front of her brother. 

The Night King paused, a small flash of his eyes showing the slightest hint of amusement.

Sansa used the distraction and swung the dagger upwards to his face then took a step back as fast as she could.

He pulled out his sword and stroked in a much more skilled manner, slicing through her left arm as she tried to shield herself. 

Letting out a strangled gasp, she did not allow herself to fall. Not yet.

She swung again and tried to dodge his attack but it cut the front of her bodice, before he twirled the blade in his hand.

He was toying with her. It didn’t matter. 

She swung again and stepped back. Again and stepped back. 

Again and stepped back.

Then finally, with no more room to run, she made to stab directly at his head. 

He simply caught her wrist, and with the other hand, plunged his sword of ice straight through her chest and into the weirwood, the blade lodging itself deeply in its trunk.

She screamed as pain like nothing she felt before tore through her and the dagger slipped from her hand. Her body shook and her arms fell limp at her sides. 

An all-encompassing haze took over but she saw the Night King let go of the hilt and walk to Bran.

Her legs had given out, the sword through her chest the only thing holding her upright. Her vision was blurry and blood pooled in her throat as she forced herself to look at her brother one last time. 

With his empty eyes, Bran gave her a small nod just before his throat was slit, head falling back at the stroke. Sansa whimpered at the sight. All her family dead.

She felt what little strength she had leave when the Night King smiled in victory but stubbornly chose to hold his icy eyes even as she struggled to gasp for air.

She stayed that way until the sting of pain faded into numbness, only a few more seconds passed before her own gaze turned glassy. 

There, impaled to the tree of the Old Gods with blood flowing from her mouth and chest, dripping into the pure white roots surrounded by snow and death, Sansa Stark breathed her last. 

Chapter Text

As children, she and her brothers and a toddling Arya would play in the summer snows in the fields outside Winterfell. When it piled thick enough, they would lay down and use their arms and bodies to imprint shapes and animals onto the snow beds. That was how she felt now. Flat on her back with a slight dampness behind her legs and hair but not as freezing cold as before. 

Sansa opened her eyes to birds chirping and flying in a grey sky. She moved to sit up and realized halfway through that the pain in her chest was gone, there was no blood or gaping wound and she went to check the rest of her body. She was still wearing the woolen gown she had been that night but her hair was unbound from its braids and her gloves and boots were nowhere to be seen. Then she noticed the unblemished skin. Her scars were gone.  

Her hands went to her neck and below her sleeves. Smooth.

This must be a dream. It feels like it. But she can’t be dreaming because she died.

Is this what comes after death?

It seemed that she was on the shallow shore of a wide lake. The water, undisturbed and sooty, like sweet milk settled in tea. The atmosphere was just as misty and thick. She stood and turned around. Far in the distance, peeking through the fog, was the largest mountain she had ever seen with red-orange liquid flowing from its crest. A volcano? How did she come to be in Dragonstone? Looking around further, she surmised that it couldn’t be the Targaryen seat of Westeros. It was too vast. The place looked desolate and abandoned. Charred and broken castles and houses were scattered among the land, smaller volcanoes laid between them. There was only one place she heard of that had been ravaged and abandoned with this much heat and ash.

Somehow in her afterlife, Sansa ended up in the ruins of Old Valyria. 

She studied the destruction before her. A particular dragon statue caught her attention, half of it crumbled into rubble and dust, fitting as they say the dragons of the kingdom choked on ash, unable to flee its thick clouds. 

Was this to be her punishment in death? Being sent alone to an unknown far faraway place after wanting to leave the North her entire childhood? What was the purpose of her sacrifice?

She was about to walk towards the ruined town when the air conspicuously cleared. The fog disappeared entirely and flakes of white started falling from the sky. She thought it was ash but the cool speck in her hand proved otherwise. It was snowing in the afterlife. She gave an exasperated laugh because what is going on?

An answering giggle made her jump out of her skin as she rapidly turned back towards the lake and her mouth parted in shock. 

Massive gravel thrones stood erected at the center of the lake. Occupied by equally massive figures that watched her in silence. They remained statuesque as a small figure walked towards her, feet floating on the waters. His height only reached her waist and his skin was a tinted pale green. When he offered his hand, it came to her.

He was a Child of the Forest. 

She took his hand and allowed him to guide her, taking slow breaths as she walked on the now glass-like clear waters. All kinds of fish swam beneath her through the coloured corals and vibrant sea plants resting on the pebbled lake bed. By the time they stopped, the child had already let her go to stand a few steps behind and with that, Sansa stood alone before the gods. 

*******

There were four and ten seats surrounding her in a moon-curve but only six were occupied while the other four figures present stood between them. They all looked human despite their size but she noticed a distinct difference in their appearance. Those that were seated wore fine robes of white and gold but those that stood tall had robes made astonishingly of nature-sewn garments. One appeared to be made of grass and climbing roots, the other even appeared to be made of flowing waters. An inkling told her that they did not belong here but their presence was just as formidable. 

“Sansa Stark, eldest daughter of Eddard and Catelyn Stark, you stand before the Old Gods of the First Men and Gods of Old Valyria.” The child behind her announced in a deeper voice than the giggle he emitted earlier.

With wide eyes, she instinctively bowed her head and curtsied. She was before the gods of two people. One she clung to in her last few years of life and the other she had never much thought of, let alone prayed to.  She couldn’t help but wonder what of The Seven but dared not ask.

“Rise, child.” The one with crystalline and gem covered robes commanded. Sansa obeyed and met his eyes.

“Your sacrifice has led you here.”

Where is here exactly? 

A seated goddess with blood red lips smirked at her. “We are in-between life and death. You are in neither realm and this is not Old Valyria but a mere illusion born from our will.” 

“We are here, brave child, to acknowledge our mistake.” The standing figure of flowing waters followed quickly. Sansa darted her eyes towards the others in disbelief. 

An old god to her right, covered in all-kinds of fur and a few small animals walking all over him nodded gravely. “The balance of life was toppled through Westeros’ annihilation. Blame is to be put on the folly of men, yes, but we are equally at fault for not doing enough to warn our greenseers and followers. Nor were we able to extinguish the White Walkers before they went into hiding.”

“By failing to stop the dragons’ extinction and allowing the last dragonhold to be consumed by madness, we have robbed the people of their most potent weapon.” Another further added. Her entirely black eyes were rueful.

“I think one doom was enough, too.” The same smirking goddess quipped.

“Which is why we moved for Tessarion, with the agreement of your Old Gods to send Brandon Stark a vision that led you to us.” The golden-haired god inclined his head towards the one seated to the furthest left. 

So this wasn’t meant to be her trial or judgement, she ascertained. They deliberately sent the vision to Bran. The gods summoned her through the blood ritual. It wasn’t all for nothing. 

Tessarion spoke and brought her out of her thoughts.

“A prophecy has long ago been given to Aegon the Conqueror, foretelling a dire threat from the cold north. It was this dream that persuaded him to conquer the seven kingdoms.” The Valyrian goddess continued to speak as she realized that the gods had warned them. They had warned them and were given a chance to prepare but they still failed . 

“He understood the need to prepare the realm but he did not do enough to make them understand. The vital prophecy was lost to a few of whom no one believed and soon, House Targaryen lost sight of their purpose.” 

As people usually do when given too much power, she thought.

“But not you, Sansa Stark. There were many to choose from, many who were heroes in their own right. But it is you who has succeeded in the ritual. We have watched you, child. The more you gained power, the more you understood your purpose to serve your people. As you became smarter, the more you accepted you had more to learn.” The goddess covered in green and brown roots remarked and another Valyrian deity tilted her head appraisingly.

“We need someone with the potential to survive all battlefields.” She said pointedly, her sword of molten fire strapped to her back gleaming in the light landscape.

Someone who could survive the intricacies of court and politics as well as the brutality of war, she means. 

The question she wanted to ask since they started speaking was at the tip of her tongue. 

“My brother said you had given us a chance to save the realm. May I ask how that is to be done?” She spoke carefully, not knowing exactly how to converse with gods. She couldn’t very well address them as your graces, it could be perceived as an insult. 

“We will send you back through time to rewrite the past and save Westeros. But first, we would offer you one chance to refuse. If you do so, you will be allowed to proceed in the afterlife where you may or may not see your family again.”

She let out a shaky breath. “Why wouldn’t I see them again?” 

The Old God shook his head, “The afterlife is only for the dead to see and know of, your body is long gone but your soul has yet to pass that threshold as you stand here before us.”

“And if I choose to return in time? Will I return to my family?” She quickly asked. Surely they would see sense in that. She needed them. She needed the people she loved and trusted the most by her side.

“I ask you, in your life as Sansa Stark, what was it that your people truly needed to defeat the dead?” The same goddess with the sword of fire asked.

The answer to that had been in her mind for the past moons of struggling and haggling with Jon and the other lords.

“A Westeros that wasn’t torn apart by wars. A Westeros that had more. More men, more food, more weapons. More time to prepare, more unity among the kingdoms and…” With conceding recognition, she breathily added, “and…more fire, more dragons.” 

The gods nodded in agreement.

“You would need to go back to when both the Seven Kingdoms and the House of Dragons were at their most prosperous. It would be your job to stop their decline. To ensure the seven regions remained united under their rule and to ensure the dragons’ continued survival.” She revealed. 

Sansa spent only a moment recalling her lessons because there was no question as to when House Targaryen was at their most powerful, as to when the Seven Kingdoms thrived under their rule. When they rose so high that their decline began… 

No, no they couldn’t possibly—

“You want me to stop the Dance?” She asked, feeling quite uneasy. Arrax, who she now recognized as the golden-haired god from one of Daenerys’ tapestries, shook his head firmly. 

“It cannot be stopped. The members of the royal family in that time are intent on dooming themselves with their stubbornness and pride. And taking you back to when King Jaehaerys was alive could change too much and possibly make the succeeding events unpredictable.” He explained. And unpredictability was dangerous.

The dark-eyed goddess clasped her hands in her lap and continued after him. 

“You must understand, there will be fixed points in time. Events you cannot change no matter how much you try. We would help as much as we could but even for gods, time is a tricky thing to trifle with.” She looked on sympathetically. “And we are already sending our most powerful instrument of change, you. The Dance of Dragons is unavoidable but it can be changed. Its outcome, its victor will depend upon you.”

“You would have me choose a side and help them win?” 

As far as she knew, the complications that resulted in the infamous civil war were very very difficult to resolve, mostly because of the unyielding royals. The records of history were biased at best and faulty at worst, distorted by various witnesses that no one truly knows the accuracy of the written accounts. Greens or Blacks, she wouldn’t know which choice would be right until she knew the full truth of them. 

“You could do that.” The same goddess with the flaming sword leaned forward on her elbows in consideration. “But does one side’s victory ultimately mean the welfare of the kingdoms? You said so yourself, we need a united Westeros. A united House Targaryen. There is more than one way to end a war than slaughtering one side.”

A parley then. A truce like Jon had done with Daenerys. But that was different. They were able to come to an agreement because they didn’t have personal slights against each other and because they had common enemies. Cersei and the Night King were both tangible existing threats. The only existing threat the past Targaryens would recognize were each other. 

An alliance made by mending relationships or forging new ones by marriage could work. That, she thinks, was much harder than choosing a side. She’d have to endear herself to both sides, sway and play them without making either think of her as duplicitous and untrustworthy or worse, an enemy. 

It would be a difficult task and if obtaining a truce fails, she’d still have to choose a side.

“Of course, even if you decide to act as mediator, you would still need to get rid of those that would work against that truce, those that would pit players against each other for their own gain.” The blood-red lipped deity was now twirling a dagger in her hands suggestively. 

That was a given, she supposed, remembering the destruction wrought by Littlefinger when he plotted the conflict between House Stark and House Lannister. Thousands of lives lost for a single man’s greed.

“What is your choice, Sansa Stark?” The most beautiful silver-blonde goddess asked beseechingly. But it wasn’t a decision she could make hastily. There was something important she wanted to know first. 

“Would they be born in the future? My parents and my brothers and sister. Would they exist if I choose to live again?” The gods looked to each other in accordance before she spoke again. 

“Ned and Catelyn Stark are fated to be Lord and Lady of Winterfell. They are fated to bear many children, but whether that marriage is to be borne from war or peace is another thing entirely. Their manner and ages of death would be determined by your success.”

Sansa closed her eyes amidst the beautiful, painful implication. If she chose to finally rest, it wasn’t a sure thing if she would see her family. But if she chose to live, it was certain she would never see them again.

She imagines her father and mother warmly inviting the smallfolk for supper to ask after their well-being. She sees Robb charmingly standing at their side then dancing with all the blushing ladies and laughing with Theon and Jon. Sees him one day proudly being hailed Lord of Winterfell. She sees Jon with Aunt Lyanna, riding together, perhaps even being the broodiest prince there was, but still true and kind. She sees Arya sneaking about the keep to escape from Septa Mordane and sewing circles. Arya with a sword in her hand, beating all those she sparred with as she grew older. She saw Bran, practicing with Ser Rodrick in the training yard then climbing the castle walls with every confidence in his abilities. She imagines him being knighted. And she sees Rickon, her sweet wild brother running and causing havoc in the keep naked as the day he was born, refusing to bathe. Years later, growing into his curly red hair that he looked so much like Robb. He’d travel the kingdoms, free and unafraid knowing he always had Winterfell to come home to. She sees them all in the Godswood, father praying, mother and her siblings with him as they sat in the snow. She imagines them all dying old and grey in their beds.

In that moment, she let go of what small hope she had of reuniting with them after mourning for so long. 

Because that’s just it isn’t it? If she goes back into the past and succeeds, the gods themselves said they would be born again. They wouldn’t mourn as painfully as she did. They would get another chance to live. To never be torn from each other or watch each other die. A chance to win against the dead. A chance to thrive in happiness and peace.

That chance was all she needed to make her choice. That and the bravery to move forward. Brave. She was a Stark, she could be brave.

“I understand.” Sansa whispered in the quiet, then pulling her shoulders back and standing taller, she said in a steadier voice. “And I accept. I will go back in time to change the Dance. I will secure the realm.”

“Good. Well done, child.” The Old Goddess with clothes of flowing waters smiled and the others nodded in approval.

“Before we proceed, do you have any other queries?” The dark-eyed goddess asked patiently.

“Would I still be a Stark?” When the gods’ faces returned to being solemn, Sansa already had her answer.

“You will still have the blood of the First Men and followers loyal to the Old Gods.” She continued, “But to steer the dragons of House Targaryen, you must be one yourself.” 

Seven hells, of course she had to be. But which one? 

This time the gods no longer delayed to answer her as Tessarion swiftly started in a foreboding voice and she began to feel faint.

“Heed our words and warnings. First Men and Valyria reborn as one. The lady’s past cannot be known or all truths and fates shall be overthrown. Beautiful with a kind heart. Loyal with a fierce spirit. Wise with a spine of steel; the princess a blessing from time, given a blessing from each and both. Eyes that see, Breaths that burn and Blooms that bear fruit—”

Everything faded into darkness.

“And a chance never before blessed with.” Meleys whispered as Sansa Stark vanished from the plain between life and death.

Chapter Text

105 AC

Rhea

She was pretty sure her screams and curses reached the houses down the valley. She’d been laboring for the better part of twenty hours before the maester finally declared the babe ready to come out.

“Ahhhh! Fucking hell, father of demons! Get this fucking babe out of me!” 

“The babe is crowning, my lady! You only need to push more.” The maester coaxed urgingly.

Linen sheets crumpled in her hands as she pushed harder and cried out.  She was sweating all over, not even the open window letting in the air of summer snowfall cooled her down. Her small clothes clung to wet skin and her hair stuck to her face. Gods, this child was tearing her cunt apart.

“Push my lady, push!” 

“What the fuck else do you think I’ve been doing?!” She snapped and gritted her teeth as she pushed and pushed.  

“Breathe and push, my lady. Breathe and push!” She screamed again, shaking from the pain.

“It’s almost out, my lady. Just a little more!” 

That’s it! She roared gutturally. She’s fucking ending this. Rhea grabbed the hand a maid offered and squeezed as she gave one last hard push. 

“Ah! Urghhh!” A splashing sound was heard as the maester hastily bent to catch the babe. She slumped against the pillows, completely spent and out of breath as Ellyn winced, cradling her hand.  

“Fuck. Apologies, Ellyn.” She rasped. She thinks she broke the poor woman’s fingers but her maid just shook her head and laughed softly. “Quite all right, my lady. I remember breaking mine own sister’s hand when I birthed my eldest.” 

Rhea laughed deliriously in response until she noticed the rest of the room was blanketed in silence. 

“What is it?” Worry was plastered on their faces, none of them answered while Maester Willem held her babe, his back to her.

“Give me my child.” She demanded.

“Just a moment. We must wake her, my lady.” 

Wake her? Was she not awake? Shouldn’t a babe be wailing to be nursed by now? She leaned forward on her elbows, trying to get a better look.

The midwives reached for her babe’s head as the maester moved to hold them upside down. He tapped the small feet once, twice, three times before a cry permeated through the bedchamber. It was a soft, chiming sound that lasted only a moment but it had everyone breathing a sigh of relief. 

“A hale and healthy daughter, my lady.” Maester Willem declared proudly after examining her fully and the room gushed with joy.

“Give her to me.” She reached tiredly towards him. The swaddled babe was placed carefully in her arms and she brought her closer before untying her nightgown and leading the babe to suckle on her teat.   

“A daughter.” She whispered, gazing at her reverently, ignoring the others’ scrambling to carry out one task or another.

The bloody squishy creature she just pushed out of her womb was a silent little thing, no wonder they thought her stillborn. But Rhea knew she was a fighter, she would teach her to be. She stroked the soft and sticky skin, knuckles grazing her closed eyes, plump cheeks and lips, her rising chest and stomach,  down to her tiny feet. 

Her daughter is her heir. She knows that this will be her only child and is honestly thankful she’d never have to suffer childbed again. Her conception alone was an anomaly in of itself. Daemon, her loathsome excuse of a husband, arrived on a tumultuous night from being exiled, again. He landed his bloody dragon near the livestock and she went to confront the feral fool. Lo and behold, the prick was already drunk as he lumbered into the nearby woods. Unfortunately, she was also inebriated from the festivities of cousin Gerold’s nameday. They taunted each other, argued and fought but somehow he ended up taking her against a tree then leaving the next day despite barely being able to walk straight. The day after, they received a raven announcing Princess Rhaenyra’s campaign across the kingdoms to find a husband and his more horrid than usual disposition made sense, the sick bastard.

A moon later, the maester told her she was with child. 

“What shall be the name of the princess, my lady?” Maester Willem approached with a quill and parchment in hand for records. 

"Alysanne." She says much to everyone's surprise. Rhea swallowed thickly before repeating, “Alysanne Targaryen.” 

She names her after the departed queen, the woman responsible for her travesty of a marriage, for the only good thing it brought. This was the one thing she is thankful to Queen Alysanne for and so she’ll give her this honor.

She also wasn't stupid. This child is a Targaryen, no matter how loathe she is to admit it and as much as Rhea wanted to give her a Vale name— even came close to naming her after her mother —she knew people would see her as the only princess that didn’t honor the royal family. She’ll already be criticized for not having any previous connections to Valyrian blood like the half Hightower son of the king. A Targaryen name would protect her to an extent. 

However, she will make sure her daughter's name will be the only Targaryen thing about her. Rhea will raise her as a Royce, who takes pride in the Blood of the First Men in their veins, of their history as Bronze Kings and relations in the Vale. Alysanne will learn to manage their keep and ports, embrace their rocky lands and care for their solemn but steadfast people. She will learn to shoot an arrow, hunt, ride astride and hawk like many Royces before her. This she swore.

Rhea felt light discomfort between her legs and knew that it was the afterbirth. Ellyn dabbed a warm cloth on her forehead and a midwife reached for her child. 

“Let me clean her, my lady. You need rest.” 

She allowed her to take Alysanne as exhaustion overtook her and she drifted into unconsciousness.

*******

Her pregnancy nor her daughter’s birth were loudly announced. She didn’t hide who Alysanne’s father was and whenever anyone asked, she told the truth, it was Daemon the mongrel of a prince. Trying to hide her or claim her as a bastard was treason against the King and she'd be damned before she put her child and house in danger. But Rhea also didn’t publicly declare it to court or send a letter of announcement. 

It’s the boldest form of hiding Alysanne she could get away with, without being questioned or put on trial. She especially doesn’t send him any letter. The news will trickle there eventually and she’s going to keep her away from the burden of House Targaryen for as long as she can. As far away from Daemon’s hateful reach as she can. She hopes he never comes back, that he dies for the sake of her daughter’s peace. Rhea would gladly trade that. That he commits a crime and forces the King to finally execute him, or even that he succumbs to his twisted desire for his niece and runs off with her. Anything as long as he never meets Alysanne.

In the sennight after her birth, this is what Rhea prays for to the Old Gods and the New. She visits their sept for an entire morning. She carves protective runes into her bassinet and doors in the afternoon then she goes to the forest and prays again. She prays that her daughter never claims a dragon or be involved in the madness of House Targaryen. On her trek back to the keep, a cold gust of wind blew towards her, shaking the leaves and making the hairs on her skin rise. A feeling of dread crept inside her, it was as if the gods had heard her prayers and their answer was not in her favor. 

Household of Runestone

There was no doubt that in the years after Alysanne II Targaryen’s birth, the household of Runestone became fascinated by the princess’ peculiar temperament and interests. They knew their lady wanted to keep her away from King’s Landing and willingly did their part in keeping her existence discreet. The servants and commonfolk were so taken by their future lady that when the time came for her to leave, they mourned her absence and swore to remain loyal to her no matter where she was.

Lynn thought the young princess was a quiet babe, sometimes too quiet that she’d put her finger under her nose just to make sure she was still breathing. That aside, she was an easy babe, truly different from any other newborns she and her fellow wet-nurses have cared for. Not once did she have a tantrum. She almost never cried, save for when she wanted to be fed or when she soiled her cloth. Some of the younger ones thought it had something to do with her being of royal descent but Lynn knew better. Having royal blood didn’t mean an even temper or a sane mind; a glimpse at history would prove that.

Anya’s first encounter with Lady Sansa, as Lady Royce insisted she be called — She is a Royce and heir of Runestone first. I won’t have her involved in the ruling family more than she has to — was a confusing experience. She had been charged to watch her just a year after her birth and the first thing she noticed other than her bright eyes was her solemness. Often, the toddler would play absently with her doll with a far-off look in her eyes like she wasn’t really interested in playing but did so anyway. When Anya tried to show her different toys or engage her in games, she would decline politely and say she wanted her doll. The cotton figure wasn’t even anything special or expensively made with black straw hair, gray eyes and a brown cloth that looked more like a tunic and breeches than a dress. Thinking about it now, it looked a lot like Lady Rhea whenever she went hunting. What was even more perplexing was that when Anya accompanied her to maester’s lessons, the girl became more present and enthusiastic.

Despite her bouts of seriousness that bordered on melancholy and her eagerness for lessons than play, Lady Sansa was unfailingly warm and kind to everyone she met. Whenever they went for walks, she would pick flowers and give them to servants and guards alike. She greeted everyone she passed sweetly and thanked them for accomplishing their tasks. She asked those who attended to her about their lives and families and even raised concerns to her lady mother if she thought they could be of help to some problem or another.

Ser Jon Belmore, a young knight who had been posted with Runestone’s heir since her third nameday, escorted the lady and her year-old cousin to the courtyards. Lady Sansa had been sharing all sorts of information about the flowers and animals they saw when the boy suddenly threw a fit, scooped mud into his hands and flung it toward the girl.  He expected an outraged cry or a responding fit. Instead, the princess began to sing a calming melody and took the babe’s muddied hand in hers. She kept singing until he was pacified and the maids had finished cleaning them. Then she changed into an upbeat tune and pulled the boy, Anya and Ellyn into a dance, smiling as the others laughed in response and ignoring her stained gown.

Septa Rowena was circumspect upon the birth of Princess Alysanne. The child’s father was a known heretic who indulged in sin shamelessly. Supporting the abomination of marrying siblings on the account of their extinct lands and being disloyal to his wife by laying with whores. And while she respected Lady Royce, her inability to wholly convert to the Faith of the Seven was what she blamed for her unladylike tendencies. Which was why she was absolutely delighted when the princess turned out to be everything a lady should be. She preferred dresses and gowns compared to the leathers of her mother. She prayed frequently and had an even temper, never one to raise her voice or act wildly. She was able to walk and curtsy without tripping at two namedays and excelled at needlepoint at only four, stitching all kinds of things and embroidering house sigils, though she seemed to favor those of the northern kingdoms of Westeros. She even made and mended clothes to give the servants and the poor. What a benevolent princess! With her continued guidance, the child would become a perfect lady, the most graceful of dancers and the most beautiful of singers. She would fit perfectly with the royal family if only they called upon her to court.

Maester Willem believed the young lady a prodigy. At only three namedays, she could speak full sentences and by her fifth, she was so well-spoken many would think they were talking to a grown woman. Her intellect was worthy of praise as she absorbed their lessons, became proficient in her numbers and letters and committed all houses and their words to memory with ease. She was a curious thing and he was often caught off-guard with her thoughtful stream of questions. She was partial to studying specific subjects such as politics, trading economies and kingdom relations, as well as previous wars where she’d recount their missteps and discuss what they could have done to avoid them. She read zealously about Westerosi and Valyrian history and asked him if he could teach her to speak other languages. Namely Old Tongue, Bastard and High Valyrian. But for all his time in The Citadel, he had received no training in them and reported this request to Lady Rhea. She immediately agreed to hire a tutor for Old Tongue but was worried about the girl’s interest in Valyrian. He explained that Lady Sansa’s interest in the Targaryen-related subjects seem to stem less from her desire to find a connection with her father and more on the general thirst for knowledge. With this, the lady was placated and had more Valyrian books purchased and delivered. Hiring a tutor would draw too much attention since they had to send a request directly to the Red Keep. 

What intrigued him as well, was her fascination for myths and creatures of the north and beyond the wall. She was not a child to be enraptured with fanciful stories and songs but he supposed this was one of the odd childish curiosities she had to amuse herself with. 

Ser Gerold was extremely proud of what his niece was becoming. In her early years, he found her to be the complete opposite of Daemon, thank the gods. But she was also quite different from Rhea. He chuckled every time he saw their septa’s relieved face whenever she acted as a lady should. It was why he was surprised when Sansa took to beginning archery, riding and hunting lessons from her mother without complaint. Septa Rowena was adamant she’d dislike those activities but the day they took her to the training yard and handed her a bow, the child merely studied the weapon in her hand then asked how to shoot it properly. He saw his cousin smirk before beginning her instruction. Despite their obvious differences, Rhea loved her daughter very much. She never doted or smothered her with affection but Sansa seemed happy with it. They would break their fast together every morning then his niece attended her maester’s lessons right after, they’d hawk, ride or shoot in the afternoon and in the evenings, Rhea would be in her solar where Sansa determinedly assisted her when she wasn’t sewing or reading somewhere in the keep. She also enjoyed games of cyvasse and strategy boards, oft asking him or the maester to play with her. This became their routine unless they had sudden duties to see to and life in Runestone became significantly more content, more peaceful knowing they had a well-rounded and worthy future lady after living in teetering worry for so long because of Daemon. 

Sansa Targaryen was a treasure to House Royce and he agreed that she needed to be kept away from her father. 

The first thing Jeyne noted about her was her appearance and frankly, how jarring it was. She expected either another copy of the Targaryens with silver hair and purple eyes or Rhea’s double with black curls and green-brown eyes; most likely the latter given how her friend had spoken proudly of her in the few letters she was mentioned in. But halfway through the valley, Jeyne spotted a small child with the most shocking hair of red. Shimmering like a torch amidst the grey landscape, it was a difficult thing not to notice. As it was her first visit since Rhea gave birth, she and her party were admittedly awed by the child’s sheer beauty as she stood by her mother’s side. Probably inheriting the color from Rhea’s own mother, Alayne Redfort but theirs were never quite this eye-catching. When she got a closer look, she surmised they were a shade brighter than the famous Tully auburn but darker than the orange tint of the Redforts. It was neatly braided and fell in soft waves behind her back, a tamed version of Rhea’s curls. The next thing she noticed were the clear lilac eyes that met her own. The exact same shade as her father’s. Jeyne musingly wondered what Rhea thought about that. 

Of all the Vale lords and ladies, even more than Rhea herself, she was the one who saw the second-born prince the most. She was often at court for one gathering or another and was even there at Daemon and her dear friend’s unfortunate wedding. She knew what he looked like and could definitely say that their child was a perfect mix of them. 

Aside from her grandmother’s red hair, Alysanne inherited her mother’s soft cheeks, heart-shaped lips and long curled lashes. And despite the eye color clearly inherited from her father, its almond shape was Rhea’s. 

She had Daemon’s thin arched brows, high cheekbones, slender aquiline nose and a peek of his angular jaw in the softened youth of her face. She guesses she also had the pale milky skin the prince did when he was younger, before he began to spend time under the sun on his dragon or on the battlefield. Who knew that two mismatched parents who despised each other and most likely coupled out of hate could produce such a beautiful child? Jeyne snorted internally. Guess that’d teach the arrogant prince a thing or two about marrying outside the family. She doubts he’ll take the lesson. 

Over the course of her stay, her lady’s maids and servants continued to fawn over the girl’s enchanting countenance, the household’s own servants were no help in abating that, they worshipped their little lady. 

However as time moved forward, what piqued Jeyne's interest more than her beauty was the atypical behavior for a child her age. Upon their arrival, Alysanne greeted and welcomed them with all the grace of a princess, offering their party food, drink and lush baths, personally escorting her to her guest chambers which were much more polished than she remembered the rooms here to be. Asking after their journey and inviting them to seek her should they have any concerns. She even gifted her a shawl of Arryn blue embroidered with silver strokes of wind and the falcon and moon of her sigil. It was thoughtfully made, thick enough not to easily be blown away by the winds in the Eyrie but not too heavy to wear, and as she found out from Rhea, was sewn by the girl herself.

The feast held for their arrival was apparently also arranged by her.

Jeyne was amused and slightly baffled that Rhea let her five-year-old daughter lead the reins of their proceedings. Her friend simply laughed with her, saying she was in for quite a visit. And oh, how she was. Alysanne—Sansa, she discovered everyone called her, was a child of contrasts. A pensive girl who preferred to have time alone transformed into a sweet, sociable lady when surrounded by people and spoken to. She wore pretty dresses and was exceptionally skilled at everything a high-born lady was expected to be but she didn't turn her nose up at her mother’s coarser hobbies; she was adept at it even. Jeyne watched them shoot and hawk during a hunting excursion, riding astride side by side, one in her embroidered bronze riding gown and the other in brown leather breeches, both with a bow in their hand and a quiver of arrows strapped to their saddles. They led the paths as if they'd done it a thousand times and laughed at their septa’s grumbling complaints when they returned. The girl's admirable capability in assisting her mother manage the household and land was what many great ladies could only wish for in a daughter. At only five, she took on half the duties of a ruling lady and performed them diligently. When Jeyne jested with Rhea about shedding duties to her child so she could spend the rest of her days hunting, Rhea smirkingly told her Sansa wanted the duties, insisted on them in fact. 

But what impressed her the most was her skill in navigating politics and how good she was at dealing with people. All kinds of people. 

In their petitions, the heir stood by the Lady of Runestone who allowed her to speak and contribute to the exchanges. She smiled warmly and was kind and compassionate to those who asked for help, offered impartial solutions to disputes and had no problem sorting out complications that left attendees satisfied. 

In the last few to be heard, a particular offender was brought before them with a petition to reduce his sentence. The chained man was a confessed criminal who attacked a married couple in their home after being unable to pay their debt of four silver stags, beating the husband bloody before raping his wife. He claimed that a sentence to The Wall was too severe as he had the right to seek compensation and that both husband and wife were left alive. He was no murderer he said. Jeyne scoffed, unbelieving of the man’s impudence.

Of course Rhea refused, firmly stating that he committed grave crimes and that no one had the right to rape. Most rapists were banished to the wall and he will suffer the same punishment. The middle-aged man looked around for sympathy but was met with looks of disgust.

Then his gaze landed on Sansa. His stance softened unnaturally fast and a doleful look appeared on his face. 

“My princess, my actions were horrid and shameful. I beg for another chance to right my wrongs and in penance, hope to pay them tenfold for my sins. I know that your kind and merciful heart would spare me from such fate.” He begged in an aggrieved voice, walking closer to plead with her.

Rhea and Ser Gerold stood in anger at his gall but Jeyne was intrigued in how she’d respond and so were the rest of those gathered. She looked at Sansa and was rather taken aback by the cold empty gaze that swept across her eyes like a shutter. She was no longer smiling but remained the picture of grace, hands clasped in front of her.

“I hear your plea, ser. Allow me to convene with my mother’s council to reconsider your sentence.” 

All over the room, people began whispering in discontent, some even in disappointment about the unfolding situation while the man slackened with a triumphant grin on his face.

Rhea looked at Sansa, brows furrowed and lips pursed for a moment before leading her and her advisors to the connecting antechamber. Rhea had looked at her in invitation but Jeyne shook her head, much more entertained by the reactions of the others. Besides, she’d rather be surprised. Some of her own advisors and maids shared their disbelief but somehow she didn’t share the same feeling. Something else was going on and she felt all she had to do was wait.

They soon walked back into the hall and returned to their seats. Some of their faces were grim with approval while others were visibly proud, her distant cousins’ among the latter. Sansa returned to her position beside her mother but now? Now, her eyes glinted. She looked like the esteemed birds of prey her house used for hawking. A predator waiting to strike. 

Maester Willem stood and unravelled the scroll, “On the account of three witnesses and a confession, Yorwyk Tobyn, charged with trespassing, violent assault and rape is found guilty of all these crimes. You are hereby sentenced to be gelded—” Strangled gasps filled the room, none louder than the man’s himself, “—Four of your fingers shall also be taken as compensation before you are to be banished to The Wall to join the Night’s Watch.” 

Yorwyk Tobyn was dragged out of the hall screaming and crying.  

The last of the petitions went smoothly. The audience recovered from their shock and began to look bewilderingly at little Sansa for the rest of it. The girl herself reverted to her welcoming disposition, accommodating all that attended with patience and charm as if she just hadn't sent a man to be tortured moments before. 

When Jeyne spoke to her after, giving her own approval by saying she was a clever thing and that it was a just punishment, she replied evenly, “Thank you, my lady. I hope he finds peace in his penance.” 

She hadn’t laughed in such an undignified way since she was a child. The man clearly expected some sort of relief from the wall on behalf of the princess’ wishes, perhaps even tears and a tantrum to have mercy on the poor man. He certainly didn’t expect to lose a cock.

Jeyne knew then that Rhea's quest to keep the girl away and overlooked by the kingdoms and the Targaryen family was futile. Sansa was a child born to be seen, a child born to make changes. 

She was a beautiful, intelligent and adored princess who was kind but vicious when necessary. Add that to being a girl who knew how to spot lies and manipulation.  Who lacked the naivety and meekness many sought to instill in women? She was bound to be discovered. She was still a Targaryen after all and no Targaryen remained hidden for long. If only she could see her up against the lords at court one day. Alysanne would be a player to watch out for.

Daemon

He learns about his hypothetical spawn with his bronze bitch four years after the unfortunate lapse of fucking her. He’d been travelling in the Summer Isles three years straight since his brother exiled him—again. And only recently arrived to coordinate the battle for the Stepstones with Corlys Velaryon when he discovered that her womb was apparently not much of a harsh condition to survive in if they’d manage to conceive after only one fuck. A shame, really. If she was barren, it would’ve been enough grounds for an annulment.

He considered coming to see the child but dismissed the thought just as quickly after hearing she had red hair and not much Valyrian features. Winning this war was more important than whatever half-blood she birthed. Besides, the bitch already had the girl for years and likely raised her as a damned rock-keeping, rune-carving future lady of sheep. It did not matter, she wasn’t sent a dragon egg and he didn't plan on giving her one. She was no dragon. 

At Rhaenyra’s wedding four years into the war, he expected to see his unwanted spawn invited by Viserys to slight him, if only to check if she was even actually his. But the only Vale noble that attended was the Arryn girl and another lesser house. His niece, who looked the vision of Valyrian beauty in the painful celebration occupied much of his time and attention. He escaped quickly after their dance and headed back into the war, not sparing a thought to the child he left behind. 

Chapter Text

114 AC

Sansa 

Being reborn to House Royce was a relief. 

It made sense. Unless the gods added a new marriage that didn’t originally exist, there was little else choice in placing her where she’d have both First Men and Valyrian blood. The only other debatable option was House Strong and being met with speculation of bastardry left and right was not an ideal situation to start with. 

The familiarity of Runestone brought her some solace, positioned in a house she trusted in her previous life. They’ve retained their status for hundreds of years as a respected and powerful enough family that had the ear of the ruling house of the Vale; known for their honor almost as much as the Arryns. In this time specifically, Rhea’s father, Lord Yorbert Royce had acted as regent and protected the Vale heir’s rightful seat. Jeyne grew up with Rhea and their continued friendship gave her an easy opening to obtain the region’s loyalty. 

It helped that both rulers were women, her opinions were valued and she was allowed to study and accomplish duties that many lords wouldn’t allow their daughters, no matter how highborn. The separation from Winterfell, from where living and breathing Starks, her blood and family ruled and thrived in their rightful seat thousands of miles away from her yet again was painful but it was probably for the best. And so was the distance from King’s Landing. Sansa needed the remoteness of Runestone to relearn a world she’d only read about and prepare herself before engaging with Targaryens. 

As for her new parents…replace Catelyn Stark she never will, Rhea Royce was a good mother despite the differences in methods expected of a southern lady. She provided for her and spent time with her. She supported her in pursuits that others thought odd or too advanced for a child, fiercely defending her from the rare visitors who dared to insult or belittle her interests. She didn’t mind that her daughter wasn’t exactly like her. Didn’t mind that she preferred dresses and sometimes favored sewing than accompanying her for hunts. Didn’t mind that she joined the counsels with her advisors and made suggestions freely. 

But most of all, she’d come to respect Rhea because she was as practical as can be. She had no hesitation telling her harsh truths. Unlike her lord father and lady mother, she didn’t seek to hide the ugliness and cruelties of reality, content in making her believe everything was good in the world when it wasn’t. Not that she didn’t already know but if Rhea had a true daughter her age, the child would’ve been a lot more prepared than she was at three and ten.

Having Daemon Targaryen as her sire horrified her at first. She was glad he was away during her birth and presently occupied with the Stepstones. He was as far from Ned Stark as anyone could be and her heart ached as it always did thinking about her honorable, dead father. Then she realized the advantages it gave her. Better a feared warrior prince than an ailing king, a consort with questioned preferences or a disgraced sworn shield who all died before the war began. 

It was also wearisome fighting against the limitations of a child’s body. As good as a pretender she became from those years surrounded by enemies, no one had ever needed to pretend to be a babe again. But she managed, after reverting back to an unlearned body, Sansa had somehow adopted a few unperfected mannerisms that made acting like a child easier. Like wanting to play again and relearning to speak, ride and sew the more complicated ways. A year after her birth she had started hinting at everyone to call her Sansa. Her first word, Sans was dismissed as gibberish but she continued calling herself that in musings and plays until Rhea indulged her. Little by little, the people in the Vale used the shortened name to separate her from her Targaryen relations and namesake. 

*******

In the mid-afternoon, she was kneeling by a patch of blood-blooms and gillyflowers on a hill a few ways from the keep, collecting herbs and smiling as she thought of her old friend and Little Sam when the faint sound of hooves hitting the ground reached her. She looked up and saw Ser Gerold approaching on horseback from the west.

Once again, she was haunted by the sight of a Royce in armor galloping on this side of the castle. He looked so much like his distant descendant, Bronze Yohn, that she often remembered the first time she saw him teaching Robin Arryn to fight. Her affection for Lord Yohn now extended to the Vale house that’d been loyal and brave to the cold bitter end.

Shaking out of her stupor, Sansa stood and placed her collection in the basket held by Ser Aether.

“Thank you, Ser.” She said, dusting her hands just as Uncle Gerold stopped before them, face contorted in a disgruntled grimace.

“Sansa, your mother wants to see you.” He succinctly informed, not even getting down from his steed. Her brows furrowed.

“Is it the lesson house? Has something happened to the other children?” She asked, thinking about what problems could’ve possibly arisen when she’d just checked their status this morning. Two years ago, she sketched a plan to create a center for the smallfolk children. One of the reasons they had difficulty after the War of Five Kings was because most of the people left were the younger ones and those deemed uneducated and incapable of aiding Robb’s army. The best sellswords, smiths, hunters and healers had all gone with the soldiers while the rest were used by the Boltons and worked to death by hard times. Some knew how to farm and fish but few knew how to read, write, fight or treat extensive wounds. It made preparing for the Long Night all the more grueling.  

With the maester, she found roughly twenty orphans and thirty more peasant families with children in the southeast of the Vale that thought only about surviving, let alone spending the scant coin or time they had on educational pursuits that won’t immediately put food in their bellies. 

She came up with this project to help them and also make them contributors to their towns. Rhea liked the idea and with the excess gold they had from the ports, bought an old crofter’s cottage by the main road in the lands between Runestone and Gulltown. Those without homes of their own were given board in the castle, some in Lord Grafton’s keep and the rest stayed in the lesson house managed by a castellan, maester and cook.  With a few moons of renovations and arrangements, it became functional within the year and continued to flourish today. Children of all ages were taught basic lessons in reading, writing, numbers and wound treating and were given choices to learn cooking, farming, fishing, forging, building, hunting, sewing and fighting. After the age of two and ten, they were hired by keeps and ports, offered a place to help the lesson house or given supplies to find their own livelihood elsewhere. 

“No, it's not the lesson house but it is urgent business.” His curt tone didn’t bode well for whatever was coming next.  

“Then we’ll return right away, uncle.” She replied, mounting her grey mare with little assistance from her guard. She was never one for riding in her first life, preferring the wheelhouse, that was always Arya and her brothers. But being reborn to Rhea taught her to become a more than competent rider. Sansa recognized she needed to hone her talent in the skills she severely lacked in her past, skills that were necessary to survive. Getting better at horse-riding was one of them.  

They were leaving their mounts at the stables in less than ten minutes and began to walk down the stone corridors. 

“Ser Aether, would you be so kind as to give these to Maester Willem. I think the ones we’ve picked could help his stores for healing pastes and tinctures.” 

“At once, my lady.” He bowed his head with the basketful of flowers hung on his arm and an upward quirk of his lips before turning towards the Maester’s tower. Despite the tense ride back, her uncle gave a low chuckle.

“So well-mannered and polite." He tutted, "It’s a wonder who you inherit it from. Your mother was already cussing like a pirate at your age and…well…” 

The inadvertent reminder of her sire made his smile pinch as they turned the next hallway to Rhea’s solar. 

They entered after three rapts for permission with Ser Gerold closing the door behind them. The first thing that drew her attention was the Lady of Runestone pacing like a caged animal in front of the hearth, leather gambeson and boots creaking in her brusque movements.  

Her eyes flitted to the desk, at the center was an opened letter with the half-broken wax seal of a three-headed dragon. Here we go.

Sansa took a seat in the chair by the table and waited for the agitated lady to calm down. 

“Mother?” She called out after more pacing and grumbling.

Rhea stopped abruptly then walked behind her desk to face them. Hunching her shoulders and laying her palms flat on the wooden surface, she tersely announced, “King Viserys has summoned you to be presented at court.” 

She looked back down at the scroll and thumbed it harshly, nearly crumpling the edges before handing it to her. Sansa accepted and read its contents as the two adults started talking back and forth.

To the Lady Royce of Runestone,

It is with considerable merriment that King Viserys summons Princess Alysanne to be presented at court in lieu of celebrating the birth of his first grandchild and her father, Prince Daemon Targaryen’s victory in the War for the Steptones. I write in the King’s stead as a gesture of faith that the princess has been raised a virtuous and genteel lady to be a pleasant addition for our esteemed court. As she nears her tenth nameday, my husband and I believe it is time for his only niece to be presented as a member of House Targaryen and join the royal family in King’s Landing. We expect your arrival within the fortnight and look forward to your attendance.

Queen Alicent Hightower, 

In the name of King Viserys of House Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.
   

“What I don’t understand is why now?” She hears Ser Gerold ask as he stands beside her. 

“In lieu of the celebration for his first grandchild,” Rhea scoffed, “And your miserable cur of a father’s victory.”

“But he didn't call for her in past celebrations. Not in any of his other children’s births nor in Princess Rhaenyra’s wedding.” He recounted. True enough, they’d been sent invitations but their presence was never demanded after King Viserys sent a letter of acknowledgement and congratulations for her birth. 

“You know why that is, Gerold. I’ve told you.” Rhea looked at him pointedly. 

“So again why now? Do you think Daemon has anything to do with it? What, he wants to lord his victory in our faces?” 

“I don’t know!” She responded, throwing her arms in exasperation and sitting down heavily with a thump. “He better not have but I wouldn’t put it past the cunt. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’ll send a reply as I always do, thanking him for the gracious invitation but we’re afraid we must decline—” 

“We can’t refuse the king.” Sansa said simply. Rhea shook her head, “The letter was penned by Queen Alicent.”

“In the King’s name.” She repeats, “And even if it wasn’t, we can’t exactly refuse the Queen either.”

“No, not unless we had some dire reason that results in us only barely being able to crawl to King’s Landing. It’s the only excuse they’ll accept without taking offense.” Ser Gerold mullingly added. 

“For years, I’ve convinced him it was best to keep you away from that cursed place. Ever since that first invitation. He agreed for fuck’s sake—I can convince him again.”

“Those were invitations. We’ve never been summoned before. Whatever reason he has for changing his mind must’ve been big, something that we can’t easily dissuade.” Sansa softened upon seeing her distress, “Mother, it was only a matter of time.”

Rhea gripped the armrests tightly and thinned her lips conveying disagreement. There must be some way out of this. 

She looked to Ser Gerold imploringly knowing the stubborn woman wouldn’t budge without their urging. They both knew it was unlikely they could refuse the summons. 

His eyes went back to his cousin and he sighed heavily, “We’ve considered this eventuality, Rhea. We knew there was going to be a time we couldn’t avoid going. At least now we’re much more equipped with Sansa older and our lands more prosperous than ever. We can leave with the strongest party we have and Runestone’ll be well looked after. ” 

“It isn’t Runestone I’m worried about, you know—”

“Daemon won’t try anything while she’s under the king’s watch. Not with us there, he’s wild but not stupid. He’s already treading dangerous waters with the war he waged without permission but if he does, we’ll stop him. Everyone knows the fucker doesn't want anything to do with us anyway.” Gerold says decisively, knowing their people were loyal and would defend his house with their lives. No harm will come to his niece, he'll make sure of that. If Daemon tried to take her away, the entirety of the Vale would be outraged on their behalf. Hells, even Viserys knew she was safer with them than with his gallivanting brother. The heir of Runestone will remain in Runestone.

Rhea pinched the bridge of her nose and leaned back, resigned. Sansa gave her a reassuring smile until she nodded and stood with determination, her voice commanding once more, “Sansa, you stick with me at all times. If you aren’t with me, you go nowhere without Gerold or your sworn shield, do you understand?”

“Yes, mother.” She answered honestly, she had no plans of being caught alone and vulnerable in that rotten place.  

“Good, alert the household. We travel with thirty guards along with our cousins and leave Maester Willem as castellan.” 

“I’ll ready the ship.” Uncle Gerold said, already by the door and bowing before he walked out the solar.

“Sansa—” Rhea rested her hand on her shoulder and she reached to clasp it in her own.

“I’ll call for the advisors to meet you then go to have the maids pack our trunks.” She echoes the presumed duties they tended to whenever they travelled.

“Thank you, sweetling.” Rhea sighed, placing a kiss on her head before letting her leave.

*******

The following night, Sansa returned to her chambers a little more tired than her young body was used to. The hasty summons had the keep bustling for preparations. With a larger party sailing than usual and farther than they ever had before—which was outside the Vale—no effort was spared to get them ready in time.

She picked up her embroidery in the chair by the open window and busied her fingers as she revisited her plans. It was true what she said in Rhea’s solar. It was only a matter of time before she had to go to the Red Keep and even if the king didn’t invite her, she would’ve had to find a way to get there. And though she felt nothing but dread when thinking of that place, it wasn’t only her fears that delayed her. She wanted to have worked out a plan before going. If she arrived there too early, no one would listen to her and there was only so much she could do in a child’s body without drawing suspicion, so she focused on the Vale first.

In the eight years of this life, Sansa had managed to gain unwavering influence and presence in the region, obviously with Houses Royce and Redfort, her maternal grandmother’s house. House Belmore with her sworn shield Ser Jon, the younger brother of their lord. The surrounding smaller houses through their relations and of course, winning the loyalty of the rest through House Arryn. Despite Rhea’s restrictions in travelling, she’s had frequent visits to the Eyrie and steady correspondence with Lady Jeyne. From the visits, she was able to get more information about the other kingdoms aside from learning them from the maester and assisting Rhea. 

King Viserys Targaryen was said to be a good king with Westeros continuing to do well after he inherited it from King Jaehaerys. He attended small councils and heard petitions. He started no unnecessary wars nor sought more power or gold. He enjoyed tourneys and balls and was said to be a dreamer.

But he also ordered his wife cut open for a son he saw in said dreams, a son that died a mere day later. He married his daughter’s lady-in-waiting and thought that bearing children with her wouldn’t cause problems. That the Hightowers would agree with Rhaenyra inheriting the throne when Alicent gave him sons. The greens and the blacks became divided under his roof, his own daughter and wife leading them yet he did nothing or whatever little he did was not enough to stop it. 

He was said to be kind and considerate of his council’s advice. They said he thought about decisions before making them but that didn’t mean he made the right ones. Because somehow he thought marrying his daughter’s closest friend instead of a stranger would be any less painful for her. That having them live in the Red Keep together would mend their friendship, that their children would forge close bonds and prevent them from fighting each other for the throne. That blatantly favoring his eldest from his second wife’s children would make the people accept her as queen. With the still fresh precedent of Prince Aegon the Uncrowned and Maegor the Cruel’s succession war, he should’ve known better than siring children from two wives.  

Neither faction was remembered well in history, many of them resorted to war crimes and almost all of them were called some type of mad by the end of it, even the dowager queen who wasn’t a Targaryen by blood and the newly crowned Aegon the Younger.  

Sansa considered those she was sure to meet in King’s Landing. There were the blacks.

Rhaenyra Targaryen had many titles in history. The Realm’s Delight, the Half-Year Queen, Maegor with Teats but there wasn’t much of her character or reputation she knew of now. Just that she was the eldest princess and chosen heir to the kingdoms. She married Ser Laenor Velaryon in 113 ac and became a mother to her first son, Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, a rumored bastard two moons ago.  

Ser Laenor was similarly surrounded by hearsays, specifically about his preference for the male sex and his former lover, Ser Joffrey Lonmouth. The Prince Consort was said to be blase and carefree, spending most of his time in the training yard and running around the crownlands with another knight. He fought in the Stepstones alongside his father and got along well enough with his wife despite not being in love. In history, he’d also unreservedly claimed all of Rhaenyra’s children as his own. 

Then there were the greens. Alicent Hightower, the second Queen Consort to Viserys Targaryen and mother to four in-line for the throne was said to be a gracious and pious woman, completely devoted to the Seven but Sansa is yet to know if it wasn’t a front for something cruel inside as she knew queens could be. She did crown her son before her husband’s body was even burned and went against the Viserys’ known will. Her father, the former Hand and one of the key perpetrators to the dance was residing in Old Town at the moment and won’t be at the capital during her stay.

Once she’s presented, she can observe the political climate and get a better grasp on how to proceed. She’d know who among them were possible allies and who needed to be convinced to align with her, who among them she can sway and use. And who among them were enemies who posed a threat against herself and her cause, which among them she had to eliminate. All while giving a good impression to both sides and remaining non-threatening and inconspicuous. 

And finally there was her first objective other than introducing herself to court, her father, the Rogue Prince himself.  

Lady Jeyne’s ravens, one addressed to each lady of Runestone arrived precisely at sunset after they announced their trip that morning. Their personal correspondences always varied in topics from economics and politics to idle everyday ongoings, more often it was her asking questions and Lady Jeyne injecting jests and gossips. This letter, however started with the same lightness, expressed serious concern. 

Sansa,

I had hoped to be the one to take you to your first trip to court along with your mother, just to see the lords and ladies blundering at your feet. I can just about imagine their gobsmacked faces at your wit. Many of them deserve to be knocked down a peg or two, or ten, Perhaps you could still do it and write to me your accounts. Alas, I can’t accompany you because cousin Arnold has again chosen to contest my inheritance on the claim that I had yet to wed and bear an heir at twenty, as if I hadn’t been successfully ruling alone for more than a decade. But I won’t burden you further with such talk, I’ve been handling the fool’s whining since I was three. You have more important things to prepare for. Be careful in the capital, child. I know Rhea and Gerold will guide and protect you exhaustively to the point of hovering and I have every confidence that you can take care of yourself but it is still a new place filled with treacherous and selfish people, quite unlike those we have come to care for in our homelands. Their greed and pride know no bounds and you might often feel like the air itself is filled with their poison. I find myself seeking the keep’s gardens whenever I feel the same, perhaps you will find some peace there if you need it, there’s even a heart tree I know you and Rhea would appreciate. 

What worries me and most likely your mother, is Daemon. He’s always been volatile and unpredictable and gods know how he’d act once he meets you. Do not falter in the face of his mockery or ignorance as I’m certain he’ll try. You have never needed him. You are a terribly smart and brave girl who has thrived without a father. Show him who you are, daughter of the Vale. Should you have any inquiries or encounter any trouble, do not hesitate to pen me and know that you and Rhea will always have my support. Goodluck, my child. 

Your Staunchest Ally, 

Jeyne Arryn

While Sansa appreciated her honest advice, there wasn’t any question that meeting Daemon would be a tricky affair. He was the most dangerous Black. It's exactly for that reason it was important to gain some sway over him and there was no closer opportunity than being his daughter, albeit from a woman he loathed. She’ll simply have to find a way around that. 

The last part of the gods’ words, the lady’s past cannot be known or all truths and fates shall be overthrown, could only mean she can’t tell anyone of her life as Sansa Stark, people will surely think her mad as Targaryens tend to become. No one would believe her, they’d isolate her far away or send her to the Silent Sisters and this quest will be all for naught.  

The princess a blessing from time, given a blessing from each and both, was simple enough to understand.

She wasn’t quite sure what eyes that see and blooms that bear fruit meant, she had a few guesses but there were many ways it could be interpreted. The other one however…

Breaths that burn. 

Every Targaryen in this world had the right to a dragon and everyone in the dance eventually did. She needed to have one if she wanted their respect and acceptance. Her dearest father was crucial to her plan of acquiring one. Besides, she had the inkling he wasn’t as unpredictable to the trained eye as everyone thought him to be.

Otto

He left Hobert’s solar after they've read the raven sent by his daughter. Moons ago, they discussed what to do if Daemon won the Battle for the Stepstones. It was possible that the king would reward him. A victory was a victory after all, even if they didn’t permit to start that war and Viserys always forgot his brother’s sins eventually. The rogue prince will then have even more power and praise and without him there to deter the flighty king, he might even install him into the council again. 

Despite the fact that Daemon practically spat at the crown’s offer of aid, he would still be lauded by the people. They will counter that by bringing his neglected daughter to the Red Keep where she would greet him in “celebration.” He instructed Alicent and told her they needed to remind everyone of what Daemon truly was to keep his influence weak. An irresponsible father and a savage godless man was hardly to be admired even with his war exploits, as long as they controlled the people’s beliefs. They had already sent missives to the Great Sept of Baelor to spread similar words to the streets. 

Father, 

I’ve done what you advised and spoke to Viserys. He’s been rightfully persuaded that it is time to take Daemon’s daughter to court. We sent a summons to Runestone and expect her to be presented for the festivities. Our son Daeron is a hale and healthy boy but he is overshadowed by Rhaenyra shamelessly flaunting her bastard. My husband’s favor for her suprasses whatever fondness he showed to Aegon in his birth and his attention to all our children combined. She is becoming more and more reckless and I cannot fathom why he still chooses to be blind to her treason. I pray to the Seven for the strength to remain a dutiful wife and queen and wish everyday for your wisdom and support.

Your daughter,
Alicent

They've made Viserys believe reuniting Daemon with his child was a fitting reward to greet his brother with. That would put a damper on the smug barbarian’s celebration and hopefully, anger him enough to make him lash out. They’d exile him once more or punish him by forcing him to raise his daughter back in Runestone. The entirety of court was privy to the knowledge that Daemon hated his wife and couldn’t care less about his daughter, all except Viserys who thought unification was the solution to everything. In the similar fashion he chose to remain ignorant of his daughter’s incompetence, trying to pretend they are a family in good graces with each other.  

The man still refused to set her aside and name Aegon heir, as was law. His weakness for his Arryn wife stopped him from acknowledging that Aemma and Rhaenyra failed where his daughter did not. Alicent has birthed him three trueborn sons yet he still acted the fool. He and Hobert agreed to send for Daeron to Old Town because of this. At least one Hightower son should be raised without the fear of exposing the lies of the princess’ place as future queen. Aegon and Aemond must remain in King’s Landing, the true heir and spare needed to be in sight of the people, to always remind them of their rightful king. But as the third born, Daeron and his dragon will be raised to become a loyal warrior to House Hightower and devoted supporter to his brothers when the time comes.

It wasn’t ideal that Rhaenyra bore any child and proved she was more fertile than her mother but she was doing just fine destroying her own claim by siring a bastard and insulting the Velaryons. Her mistake gave them the upper hand. Her son did not have the Valyrian colouring, not the hair nor eyes and his young features bore no resemblance to her husband despite the excuse for Baratheon ancestry. Daemon’s daughter has also been rumored as an unremarkable, docile child with red hair.  

Neither Jacaerys nor Alysanne could compare to his grandchildren who were undeniably trueborn, undeniably better suited for the Targaryen throne. Viserys may turn a blind eye to it all but the rest of the kingdoms do not. Even so, kings with fast-spreading illnesses don’t live long. Once that happens, he and his allies will take control and the court will support them. Just a little more maneuvering and their plans will come to fruition. House Hightower will rise to its highest heights and he will have control over the Iron Throne. No one can stand in his way.

Chapter Text

Standing on the deck of Yorbert’s Remembrance, Sansa steeled herself, spotting the castle that started it all looming in the horizon. Its red stone towers gleamed harshly against the sun, making it even more painful to look at. The place where everything fell apart. 

“We’re approaching the bay.” Uncle Gerold told her, walking to the parapet, “Are you ready?” 

She gave a small nod.  

“You’ll do well, you have nothing to worry about.” 

“Is that why mother had me take a second sworn shield?” Sansa jested wryly. 

“You know her, Rhea is only taking precaution. No harm will come to you.” He said determinedly. No one can protect her but she was glad to have him by her side nonetheless.

“I know. Thank you, uncle.” She said, turning forward.

She recalls also swearing once she’d never go this far south again but here she was, heading straight to the gilded cage of her torment and misery. 

*******

It had been twelve days since they received the summons and seven since they left Runestone. They’d stopped by the lesson house and Gulltown first to ensure the children were taken care of before heading for Runesport where they’d set sail. They were tallying the supplies being hauled onto the ship when a frantic maidservant reached them. A distress raven had been sent to the port house addressed to Rhea and an hour later, one of their faster messengers arrived on horseback.  

The exhausted pageboy refused to rest, pleading urgency of his news.

“I rode as fast as I could in hopes of catching you before you sailed, my lady. Maester Willem told me to report directly to you and ask for orders.” Kyn said, panting heavily in the portmaster’s solar. “The livestock have been plagued with sickness for three days now and the keepers don't know what it is. They’d get boils and scabs and start scratching at themselves, hours later they’re tongues turn blue and they lay down and don’t get back up.”

“Do you know where it started?” Rhea asked, brows furrowing in consternation as they tried to identify what it could be. 

He nodded. “It started with the sheep, my lady, then the goats and the cattle and pigs. Maester didn’t want to bother you on the first day and we thought we'd stop it by locking them in one barn shed but it's only gotten worse. They get sick so suddenly and die just after a day.” 

“How many have we lost?”

“Four and ten sheep, six and ten cattle, nine goats and seven pigs. More are sick, thirty in all, my lady. They’re being tended to by the keepers.”

“What of the poultry and horses?” 

“None have caught it yet, my lady.” Kyn answered, not looking the slightest bit comforted. 

“The coops and stables are much farther from the pens, that might be why.” Ser Gerold offered and Kyn nodded, that’s what they thought too.

“What about the herders? Has anyone caught it after tending to the animals?” Sansa piped in, some sicknesses show slower and differently in people.

The boy shook his head, “No, my lady, none of us are sick but it acts so fast and we fear it might kill all the livestock before the sennight ends. The townsfolk think it might spread to their herds, too.” 

He was sent to be served a bath and meal soon after, leaving the three of them to discuss what to do.

Rhea was intent on cancelling their trip, this was a matter she had to deal with herself but she won’t allow Sansa to go to King’s Landing without her. And though the plague was an alarming problem, she couldn’t help but think it was the excuse she was hoping for. King Viserys would find this sensible. 

But then Gerold disagreed and believed otherwise. 

And so did Sansa. She knew the court wouldn't care about the state of a few livestock but they’d care that a ruling lady and princess refused a summons from the King. Her Royce mother was out of her mind with agitation by the time they came to a decision. 

Sansa was dismissed from the solar, no doubt so Rhea could give a firm talking to to her uncle, while she went straight for the small port yard to safeguard the implications of their change in plan. From her knowledge of the past, Rhea died in a hunting accident when she was alone in 115 ac. It was a year away but the gods said some things may happen differently this time. Prince Daemon and Lord Corlys warred in the Stepstones much later and Princess Rhaenyra married Laenor Velaryon a year earlier than she supposedly did. 

Leaving for King’s Landing meant Rhea would hunt alone as she loved doing before Sansa was born. It was her form of respite, she said, her few treasured moments of peace away from ruling. The only other person she permitted with her sometimes was Uncle Gerold and he was going with her.

She found Sers Lymond and Gunther by the weapons rack. The guards posted to her mother during official business were returning their blades, having finished from their bout of sparring. They bowed when they saw her coming. 

“My lady, has Lady Royce called for us?” Ser Gunther asked, both preparing to leave. 

“No, she hasn’t. Pardon my haste sers but I’d like to speak with you and it does concern her.” She said, leading them to the less busy side of the yard. 

“Is it something to do with Kyn’s news, my lady?” All in the port knew a distress raven arrived but they didn’t know what it was about, so they passed time in the training yard until Lady Royce ended her counsel.

“The boy was still gasping for breath last time we saw him.” Ser Lymond chuckled but stopped upon seeing Sansa's thin smile. 

“There is a plague spreading in the livestock at home.” She shared, quickly continuing at their stricken faces, “None of our people are sick. Our families are safe for now but mother will be staying behind to attend to it while Uncle Gerold and I journey to the capital.”

She looked them in the eye before speaking again, “I suppose you will both remain with her and I ask that you make sure she doesn’t hunt. Accompany her if she persists.”

They came out of their stupor to shift uncertainly, “My lady, we would protect your mother with our lives but I’m afraid we can’t dictate her actions .” Ser Gunther replied carefully.

“I will speak to her about it but please, it’s important to me that she doesn’t ride alone.”

"Lady Royce used to go hunting alone all the time. She is a seasoned hunter, my lady.” Ser Lymond followed the older knight’s lead.

Seeing their young heir this troubled was confusing despite the understandable circumstances, she was always a composed girl when faced with problems. He guessed it was because this was the first time she was to be separated from her mother more than a keep away. 

“I worry for her, ser. She shouldn’t be unaccompanied with the plague going around.” She pleaded. 

The men shared a look before nodding soberly, “Of course, Lady Sansa, as long as we have her permission.”

“Aye, she’ll not get even a scratch or bug’s bite under our vigilant watch, my lady.” Ser Lymond seconded.

“Thank you.” Sansa said, minutely relieved and asked them to escort her to the docks to assist with the changes.

The next morning, they were gathered with the port attendants and some of the household to send them off. Rhea refused to take more guards from their party saying they needed it more. Ser Gunther, Ser Lymond and Kyn were enough to ride with her back to the keep. She also arrived at the ramp with Ser Aether Mavery at her side, he and Ser Jon greeted each other with an understanding nod. Rhea wanted to have another knight sworn to her alongside Ser Jon. Two guards whose sole purpose will be to protect her in King’s Landing.

“I’ll only take a second sworn shield if you promise me something, too.”

Having gone through this many times before, Rhea laughed, breaking the tense atmosphere. Sansa bargaining like a little merchant was nothing new and her requests more often than not turn out to be beneficial for all of them. “Oh? And what does my headstrong daughter want? A parting gift mayhaps? Or some gold to purchase new livestock from the capital?” She asked, crossing her arms playfully.

“Promise me you won’t go hunting.” Her smile faded.

“I spoke with your guards, at least let them accompany you if you really have to, please mother.” Rhea glanced at the knights and tried to speak but Sansa hurriedly explained, “We don’t know if the horses will remain unaffected by the disease. It might not make them sick but it could affect their senses with all the other animals dying around them. It’s dangerous.”

She hugged her waist tightly and the older woman’s arms wrapped around her in an instant. She looked up and said in the most serious tone her young voice allowed, “Promise me.”

They stayed that way for a while. Rhea took in her small face that had the most beautiful solemn eyes she’d ever seen. She knew others were amused, chalking it up to excessive fear from being parted from her. Some may see it as a child not wanting to be left out, upset that her mother will do things that won’t include her but anyone who truly knew Sansa, knew she was never childish or petty. Her daughter was worried for her. And Rhea didn’t want her worrying about anything or anyone else but herself in the capital. If that meant swearing off hunting for a while then so be it.

Sansa felt gentle fingers card through her hair and the words she was waiting for spoken, “Alright sweet girl, I promise,” Rhea carried on in a softer voice, “The trip will be short, a sennight at most. You’ll be home in no time and we’ll hunt together first thing when you return.” 

She placed a kiss on her forehead before bidding in the Old Tongue her precious daughter taught her, “ Safe travels, my girl.”

“Safe travels, mother.” Sansa replied, gifting her a bright smile and another embrace that she returned tightly before moving to say her farewells to the rest of the household.

Sansa made her way down the line and when she was faced with the two knights, asked one more time, “You’ll watch over her?”

“Aye, my lady.” They said, having heard Rhea’s concurrence. 

Sansa felt more reassured with leaving her and boarded the ship after she and Ser Aether swore their oaths. All four knights stood steadfast by their ladies’ side, watching until land and ship were no longer in sight from each other.

*******

“We’ve dropped anchor, my lady, ser.” The captain informed, “The trunks are being unloaded.”  

“Have the steward oversee its transportation.” Uncle Gerold instructed and they all prepared to disembark.

Walking along the stone wharf she noted how different the private shore was compared to when they sent Myrcella off to Dorne. The pungent smell of piss and shit used to seep from the ground itself and reach a few leagues into the ocean but there wasn’t a hint of it now. The few commonfolk present were dressed better and cleaner than the scrapped garbs of the starving mob that attacked them, content as they worked about the bay.

“I’ve arranged for a wheelhouse to take us to the castle.” Uncle Gerold said.

“It should be right over the stai—" A deep screech interrupted him and she shivered, the sound reminding her of wights.

They all stopped, following the locals in searching for its origin. They heard it again as it reverberated even in the open area. This time closer, not so much similar to a wight’s screech but a mix of whistling and croaking that could only be emitted by something larger. And it came from above them accompanied by the heavy flapping of wings.

“Dragon!” A man forewarned. Searching for it in the blue skies, she couldn’t see anything but clouds. No hide or tail of one.

The beach was watchful and silent yet they were still taken by surprise when a strong wave of air blew from behind and the skies darkened for a second, making many fall forward. Ducking, Anya held her closer as Uncle Gerold, Ser Aether and Ser Jon all bent to shield them from dust and small pebbles falling. Around them people did the same and yelled at each other to find cover.

“It’s Prince Daemon!” Someone exclaimed as the beast surged forward and knocked into the bronze sails of their ship, almost tipping it over. Sailors shouted in alarm and grabbed for rails and posts, trying to prevent themselves from going overboard.

“Are you hurt Sansa?!”

“Are you alright, my lady?”

Uncle Gerold and Ser Aether asked at the same time, Anya worriedly looked her over.

Sansa paused her maid’s fussing hands, “I’m fine. Are you?”

“Y-yes, my lady.” 

She turned to the others, “Is everyone else alright?”

They nodded. Appearing shaken but physically unharmed.

“You must check on those still onboard for injuries.” She directed to the captain who was only escorting them to the docks. He didn’t have to be told twice and ran for his crew.

“The stupid fool could’ve killed us!” Gerold shouted.

“If he wanted to kill us we’d already be dead, uncle.” She said absently, “He probably sighted our sails and wanted to make a spectacle of himself, as you told me he had a habit of.”

Sansa eyed the creature flying farther from the beach before it began circling north towards a huge dome-like structure. Different from Jon and Daenerys’ mounts, the red beast had a distinctly long neck, almost unnaturally so but what was even more unique was the way it flew. Blood Wyrm was an apt name for the historic dragon was more like a serpent slithering in the ocean of blue sky than any bird in flight. She couldn’t make out the features of its equally infamous rider but the speck on its back confirmed his presence.

“I gather he wanted to scare us.” Ser Jon remarked. 

“That, too.” She replied.

Uncle Gerold scoffed indignantly while Ser Aether mumbled a few words under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, almost pissed my breeches.

Ignoring her younger sworn shield, she saw Captain Borrel wave to them from the ship, signalling no one was hurt badly and the side to side rocking of boats and larger splashes of waves rippling to shore were the only aftermath left of the prince’s antics. 

“It was nothing but a petty display, we should get going.” Sansa said, calming her party significantly as they took her lead. 

Uncle Gerold pointed upwards, “It seems we weren’t the only ones that didn’t expect him.” 

Four knights cloaked in red and black were racing down the stairway that connected the bay to the streets above.

“My princess!” One of them called.

“Princess?—Oh.” Ser Aether paused, ”Should we call you princess, my lady?”

“I forgot about that.” Gerold muttered, so used to addressing her as lady at Rhea’s instruction. 

Sansa smiled gently at Aether. He wasn’t of noble birth like Ser Jon and was understandably less knowledgeable about its particularities.

“No, it’s alright Ser Aether but perhaps it’s best to do so in the presence of the king and his family.” He nodded just as the knights reached them.

“Princess Alysanne.” They bowed hurriedly, “Welcome to King’s Landing, your highness. I’m afraid we are to take you to the keep with haste. King and Queen’s orders, my princess.” 

The jittery castle guards escorted their carriage, informing them that everyone was already gathered in the throne room. Prince Jacaerys was being introduced to court and she was to be presented immediately after to cater to Prince Daemon’s early arrival. He wasn’t expected till tomorrow. 

Given only a few minutes to change out of her travelling wear, Sansa let her hair loose from its side braid and tied two smaller braids to the back, the simple Northern style saving her from the normally time-consuming task. Anya laced her into a dress of wedgewood blue glossed cotton with gold embroidered branch patterns throughout, light bronze piping made its way around the neckline and down the front of the gown that just about grazed the floor. Its thick cream lantern sleeves ballooned out between the wrist and the elbow, gathering again around the wrist with the same bronze fabric. 

A quick look in the mirror then they were ushered to the main hall.  

She stood waiting before the doors of the throne room. Behind them she heard the muffled voices and applause of the court. Behind them stood her purpose, her fate. 

Glancing over her shoulder, Uncle Gerold gave her an encouraging nod. She squared her shoulders and raised her chin when a booming voice announced, “Presenting Alysanne of Houses Targaryen and Royce, Princess of the Realm and Heir to Runestone.”

The heavy doors opened and the first look brought flashes of memories. The vine-plated columns narrowing menacingly when she spoke about having children with Septa Mordane. The mezzanine landing where she witnessed her betrothal with Joffrey broken. The smoothly waxed floors she knelt on, begging, beaten and bruised. 

Sansa buried them all and walked. 

Hundreds of faces greeted her, lords and ladies dressed in their fine gowns and doublets. Some smiling, some curious and some guarded. They all watched, picking at her like crows at a carcass, gauging her worth and her use to them. 

But she was no innocent dreamy pawn this time around. 

As Sansa made her way down the aisle, she honed in on the almost unrecognizable iron chair at the end of the hall, true to the fables of a thousand melted swords that spread out in an uneven tangle of jagged and twisted blades crawling down the steps to the marble floor with the large stained-glass behind it refracting rays of sunlight to each sharp point. 

A macabre reminder of Targaryen power and victory, it was made to instill fear and obeisance to those that looked upon it…yet there was no spike of terror as she approached. Nothing close to what she felt every time she faced it before.

Massive as it was than the cleaner-cut version Robert Baratheon used after the rebellion, it couldn’t hurt her in any way the Lannister throne already hadn’t. 

The blonde king that sat on it was no Joffrey. His gold crown sat on his silver-blonde hair that touched his shoulders and a Valyrian steel sword, Blackfyre, was on his lap almost more like a handrest than a weapon.

In front of the dais of swords, to its left was a woman with tightly braided brown hair knotted behind her neck. Queen Alicent Hightower wore her tell-tale emerald gown and a sizeable necklace of the seven-pointed star. Beside her stood her son in matching green, Prince Aegon, the king who took his half-sister’s crown upon their father’s death, plunging the realm to war. The man who fed his sibling to his beast before being poisoned by his own council was now only a boy of seven who shifted his weight from heel to toe, head darting around restlessly, wanting to be anywhere else but at tedious court. 

Two silver-haired figures stood across them on the other side. Princess Rhaenyra was an undeniably stunning woman, more beautiful than Cersei and resembling Daenerys with her otherworldly features. Her hair the same shade as her father’s but far longer and pulled into thick intricate twists.

Unlike the Hightower queen, she wasn’t wearing the colours of her house but of blue seafoam. Her husband wore it too, with the exception of the seahorse argent on his jerkin. From a distance she sees Ser Laenor’s violet eyes and blonde hair but he also had the dark skin, a combination distinctly associated with the Velaryons. 

The swaddled babe in Princess Rhaenyra’s arms had tufts of dark hair peeking from his wrap. His pale skin matched his mother but his dark blinking eyes did not. With very little of the princess and nothing of Ser Laenor, it explained why their deliberate choice of dressing in Velaryon colours did nothing to quiet the rumors of his paternity.

There was very little record of Prince Jacaerys’ character. Described as a staunch supporter of his mother, it was his idea to recruit dragonseeds and was politically capable enough to acquire House Arryn and House Manderly’s allegiance. Also interestingly, fostered a close friendship with Cregan Stark that her ancestor fought for his cause even after he’d died. Though the rumored dalliance and marriage he had with his half-sister could’ve played a part.

Hmm, there was more to consider in that regard. She’d have to confirm Ser Harwin Strong as their sire herself and proceed very carefully not to sow more animosity no matter the truth. 

Saving the rest for later, Sansa made her way down the aisle, passing the second pillars of the hall. King Viserys stood at her approach and began walking down the stairs. He had a welcoming smile that wrinkled his eyes and mouth and when he got to the foot of the throne, handed his heavy ancestral sword to the closest guard, waving it away. 

Sansa stopped in-line with the front row of spectators, black cloaks that lined the path towards the throne met with white. All members of Kingsguard followed his tread until one broke away and headed to the green queen’s side. That must be Ser Criston Cole, his simple act quite telling.

She trusted none of the Kingsguard. They were another matter to deal with altogether.

So was Lord Lyonel Strong, the stout man with the Hand of the King’s pin fastened to his simple black robes who bowed as King Viserys passed him.

As another monarch came within her reach, Sansa bent before the Iron Throne.

******* 

“Presenting Alysanne of Houses Targaryen and Royce, Princess of the Realm and Heir to Runestone!”

When the bronze oaken doors opened, everyone tittered in anticipation. They never thought they’d get to see the reclused princess. There wasn’t any indication of a visit or fostering from the Targaryens, probably to pacify House Royce and appease the Vale after all the insults they tolerated from the rogue prince.

When they heard Lady Rhea had given birth, there were doubts of the child’s legitimacy, after all her and the prince’s marriage was a disastrous mismatch and many assumed they’d never produce an heir. The king’s affirmation and Valemen having seen the red dragon leaving Runestone in the wee hours of the morning moons before the princess was born was enough to hold Lady Royce to her truth for a while. Then news spread of how she looked. 

Princess Alysanne stepped into the hall and small gasps emanated throughout.

Whispers started immediately.

There were now two Targaryens without the Valyrian hair but unlike Princess Rhaenyra’s common looking babe, the young girl had vibrant red tresses and luminous pale lilac eyes. Only Prince Daemon, and now his daughter possessed that shade in Westeros.

No wonder she was kept from court for so long. Her delicate features and unique colouring left no doubt that she would blossom into a beautiful woman. And with her station and inheritance…the most sought-after to wed. The lords and ladies present already had every intention to write Lady Royce as soon as the presentation was over to offer themselves, their heirs and sons up for bartering. 

All heads turned and followed her path as she passed them. They were quite a procession.

Ser Gerold Royce, Lady Rhea’s cousin, marched behind his niece and two knights in full bronze armour flanked them. Their heavy boots countered her light pace and with her skirts fluidly skimming the floor it made her appear like she was gliding and floating at the same time.

Princess Alysanne carried herself with every surety and confidence of a highborn lady. The girl didn’t fidget with her hands or glance around nervously, eyes fixed to the Iron Throne. And oddly enough, her gaze was one of curiosity.

Not of awe or fear. But intrigue.

They reached the throne and she dipped to a low curtsy as the king approached. King Viserys stopped a few steps away after ridding himself of Aegon the Conqueror's sword.

“Arise, my niece.” He bid, gesturing for her party as well. The young princess did as told and his grace crouched lower to take a closer look, placing his hands gently on her shoulders. 

He observed her for a moment, then smiled fondly, “You have my brother’s eyes. And your hair, how positively beautiful. We’re glad to finally have you visit, Alysanne.” 

“Thank you, you grace. I am honoured to be here.” Princess Alysanne’s tinkling voice replied. 

Their king turned to the crowd jovially, “My grandson was born hale and healthy and my dear niece has arrived. King’s Landing welcomes another prince and princess! Let us rejoice in the bounty of family!” 

They all broke into applause and cheers. Princess Rhaenyra straightened proudly and moved closer to her father while the younger princess blushed adorably.

Queen Alicent remained by the throne, hand on her eldest’s shoulder.

“I hope your journey was pleasant?” He inquired to Ser Gerold when the exuberance calmed, a warm smile still on his face.

“It was, my king. We encountered no trouble and the weather was agreeable for sailing.” Ser Gerold answered.

“I’m glad to hear it. You must be weary after your travel. You will rest after the feast then perhaps we might give Alysanne a tour of the keep. Would you like that?” King Viserys asked her and the girl nodded with an eager smile, “Very much, your grace.”

“Cousin.” Princess Rhaenyra called, “We were unable to greet privately with the haste of this morning. I’d like you to meet my son, Jacaerys.”

The Realm’s Delight bent to show her babe but paused when a guard started making his way to Ser Harrold Westerling, armour clinking all the way. The black cloak whispered to his ear and the lord commander’s jaw locked tight in acknowledgement.

“Your grace, Prince Daemon approaches the hall.” Ser Harrold announced. Just like that, the merry atmosphere gave way to tension and uncertainty.

“Rhaenyra,” King Viserys prompted and the princess hesitantly returned to her husband’s side. He gave what he probably hoped to be a reassuring smile to his niece before returning to the throne while Princess Alysanne was guided by her uncle to the side to join the spectators.

The king retook his ancestral sword from the steward and held it like one would a sceptre or cane, one end to the ground as the Kingsguard lined up in a defensive barrier in front of him and the royal family.

Heavy footsteps began to echo in the corridors and the crowd went quieter and quieter with each one like the air was slowly being sucked from the room. Not a single whisper was heard until they caught sight of the fearsome prince turning the corner into the hall.

On his head of shorn hair was a coronet of sanded bone tied by polished leather. He had one hand on his sword and the other carrying a hammer that was the center of many Westerosi sailors' terror-filled tales. Exhibiting a distinct lack of fear with his arrogantly slow stride.

Prince Daemon walked past his young daughter without a single glance but perhaps he simply didn’t know of her presence and the king’s ill-hidden surprise was somehow a success. Word quickly spread of the her impending arrival but information can easily get lost in a war zone.

The Kingsguard all drew their swords when he neared them, the castle forged steel of Ser Harrold’s sword tip hit Daemon’s chest, stopping him effectively and all watched with bated breath how he’d respond. But the prince remained unconcerned and tossed the large mallet at the king’s feet. It landed with a loud clang.

“Add it to the chair.” He said.

The king barely glanced at the weapon, “You wear a crown. Do you also call yourself king?”

“Once we smashed the Triarchy, they named me King of the Narrow Sea.” Prince Daemon languidly retold amidst the gasps and murmurs, as if he was sharing a mere story and not suggesting treason.

“But I know there is only one true king, your grace.” He proclaimed, “My crown and the Stepstones are yours.” 

When the rogue prince kneeled and took off his crown, they all released a collective breath of relief. The King and the other royals' postures eased significantly and his grace amiably searched among the crowd, “Well, where is Lord Corlys?” 

“He sailed home to Driftmark.” 

“Who holds the Stepstones?” He asked, brows furrowed.

The prince answered, annunciating each word, “The tides, the crabs and two thousand dead Triarchy corsairs, staked to the sand to warn those who might follow.” 

Terrifying indeed but not at all surprising from him, especially with recent whispers that called him Maegor reborn. 

King Viserys descended in front of his brother and briefly observed the Stepstones’ crown in his hands. Still kneeling, the prince looked behind him, dismissively over Queen Alicent and Prince Aegon, then intensely to Princess Rhaenyra and the babe in her arms.

“Rise.” His brother said and reached for him, pulling him to his shoulder for a rare embrace. At the sign of reconciliation, they applauded again. There would be no punishment or exiles today.

“The realm owes you a great debt brother.” King Viserys stated.

“To allay that debt, we thought it fitting to reunite you with family.” Prince Daemon’s eyes narrowed, “It’s about time you met your daughter, Daemon. The noble cause of the Stepstones kept you from her but no longer. Alysanne, come dear niece.”

The princess stepped forward from the cluster of bronze knights who followed her closely and stopped beside the king.

Neither father nor daughter said a word when faced with each other and an awkward silence overtook the hall. There were no hugs or pleasantries as they met for what the court knew was the first time but Prince Daemon plainly surveyed his child from head to toe, tilting his head when he got her face, lilac eyes clear to see. Princess Alysanne stared right back, not breaking from his unimpressed expression. 

Then Daemon shifted his gaze to the bronze knights that flanked her, their stances wide and protective. The rogue prince grinned and his right hand slowly, purposely grazed the hilt of Dark Sister.

The reaction was immediate, in a second three gloved hands went to their own swords and the Kingsguard moved to intervene, grabbing the king. Queen Alicent and Princess Rhaenyra stepped back with their children.

“Stand down!” Viserys ordered when blades were halfway out of their scabbards. To their horror, the young princess suddenly stepped closely in front of her father such that she’d most definitely get hit if a fight occurred and everyone tensed.

“Sansa!” Ser Gerold Royce exclaimed, sheathing his sword and ordering his men to do the same. 

“Congratulations on your victory, my prince.” She chimed with another curtsy, unbelievably flippant to the threat of violence.

Prince Daemon said nothing in response but his brow arched and his arms fell to the side as he released the hold on his sword. 

“Just a misunderstanding, my brother always has his hand on his favored blade.” King Viserys came between them and hastily encouraged, “Come, let us feast together.”

His grace guided his brother out the hall and the rest of the royal family followed.

 *******

Sansa

Uncle Gerold was summoned by the king and queen to discuss their settlements and she was given a few minutes of respite in her guest chambers while the staff prepared the feast. 

Her presentation went as well as it could, especially compared to the prince’s arrival that was filled with such dramatics it was ridiculous.

Sansa had to stop her eyes from rolling when he ignored her then unnecessarily mentioned his very brief time as “king” and of course, boasted of his killings in battle. Then he couldn’t even exchange the simplest of greetings and proceeded to goad her party by making them believe he’d draw his stupid sword on her. It was easy enough to stop. 

Ser Jon and Ser Aether accompanied her to the Small Hall by the Tower of the Hand shortly after, however only she was allowed to enter the dining chamber. 

Upon entering, Sansa saw most of the Targaryens were already there save for the one that sired her. None of the other children were present and given the number of seats at the table, they won’t be coming.

King Viserys noticed her first and opened his arms in a welcoming gesture. “My niece! Come, you must meet the rest of our family.”

She was brought before the newly celebrated parents. “My daughter, your cousin Rhaenyra and her husband, Laenor.” He introduced happily and continued without pause, facing her to the queen. “And my wife, Alicent.”

“My felicitations to the birth of your son, Princess, Ser Laenor. My mother said the first births are always difficult. On behalf of House Royce, I rejoice upon your swift recovery and give my best wishes to Prince Jacaerys.” Sansa congratulated.

“Thank you, cousin. It’s not something one easily gets used to but my son has made it all rewarding.” The princess smiled proudly.

She smiled back before turning to the queen, “And to Prince Daeron as well, your graces. I pray for his continued health and happiness.”

“That is kind of you, princess. We are grateful for your prayers. Unfortunately, our children will be dining with their nurses this eve.” She said courteously but gave no other explanation.   

“Ah, Daemon. Last to arrive as always.” Viserys jested and they all turned to see the prince sauntering into the room. He gave his brother a grin but headed straight for a chair, acknowledging no other.

They followed to their respective seats at the round table. The king at the center, facing the doors, Queen Alicent on his right, his daughter to his left and Ser Laenor on hers. The prince sat directly across from his brother and Sansa was led to the seat to his left, to the right of the queen.

Viserys restarted conversation upon the first course, “I spoke to Ser Gerold on my way to the hall, he told me everyone calls you Sansa in the Vale. Is that true?”

“Yes, your grace.” She nodded. Everyone looked at her curiously.

“Isn’t that a Northern name? How did you come to be called so?” 

“I believe it was one of my first babblings, your grace. Mother said I spoke it quite often and she soon thought it fitting to call me that.”

“Did she? Why, what does it mean?” 

“A praise, an invocation.” Sansa answered softly. Beside her, Prince Daemon snorted.

“As every parent hopes for their child to be.” King Viserys spoke kindly, “And as I’m sure you are worthy of.”

She smiled shyly in response.

“It is regrettable Lady Royce is unable to be here with us, princess.” Queen Alicent expressed.

“Ah yes, how’s my bronze bitch?” 

“Daemon.” The king said in a warning tone as the prince finally spoke.

Sansa guessed there was no better opportunity.

“My mother is quite well, your graces. I suppose we’ve been lucky for the past few years. The lack of any unpleasant encounters has greatly helped with her health.” She shared gayly, flicking her eyes to the seat beside her. 

Across her, Ser Laenor slapped a hand over his mouth to hold back a laugh. 

Solely out of fear of being on the receiving end of Daemon’s ire, he’ll assure you, because his eight-year-old daughter did not just call him unpleasant to his face. His good uncle’s gaze sharpened on his daughter despite the quirk on his lips while the king remained unaware of the stab at his brother, “Good, that’s good. Though the current sickness plaguing your livestock must be troublesome enough to worry about. I’d never expect her to let you come here without her otherwise, she was adamant—” 

“Yes, whatever else would you do without your most treasured companions.” Daemon derided.

Sansa kept her sincere gaze to the king, “Thank you for your concern, your grace. Our maester said it was spreading so quickly because the bugs carried the disease with their bites. I’m sure it’ll end soon, Uncle Gerold says they managed to get rid of a terrible pest infestation nine moons before I was born and have been successful in keeping it from coming back.” 

This time, Laenor did choke on the wine he was drinking, coughing and heaving while his wife tried to pat his back. He honestly half-admired her gall and half-feared for her safety. No one ever dared to provoke Daemon so blatantly. Not his father, not Uncle Vaemond and not even Otto Hightower.

The queen looked cautiously to the prince beside her but continued to eat in observance. 

“Are you alright, Ser Laenor?” Sansa asked, concerned.

The man cleared his throat, “Yes, wine just went down the wrong path, princess.”

“I had hoped to extend my congratulations to you as well, Ser.” She smiled reticently and everyone’s faces turned curious.

“Whatever for?” He asked, puzzled as to what she could possibly be referring to.

“Well, I learned it was your plan sent by raven that gave way for the victory in the Stepstones, Ser.” She blushed, “I have no expertise but maester and I think it was a very admirable strategy that accounted for tactical risks.”

The table stared in flummoxed silence.

Laenor spared a glance at Daemon and winced. His patience seemed to be running thin by the way his eye twitched while Sansa was almost sorry for putting the focus on the Velaryon consort.

“Uhm, that is high praise Princess Alysanne, thank you.” He shifted uncomfortably but mustered a grin, “But it was a mere suggestion, I believe the victory is owed to Prince Daemon and thousands of our men.”

“Oh of course, ser. It is always admirable how our soldiers fight bravely for our causes.” Sansa smiled and continued with her meal.

“You are quite informed with the ongoings of your household and the kingdoms." King Viserys questioned blithely, intrigued by her knowledge. "How do you know such matters?" 

"Maester Willem informs me of them as part of my lessons but I participate in my mother's councils as well, your grace." She explained.

Those around the table, save for the prince whom she steadfastly paid no attention to, all looked surprised.

“Truly? And since when have you been attending them? Rhaenyra has been my cupbearer for mine since she was eight. It helped her education in ruling matters quite a lot, hadn’t it Rhaenyra?” 

“It did, father. It’s certainly prepared me for when the time comes and I ascend the throne.” The princess agreed.

Sansa doesn’t think anyone noticed how the queen tensed at the statement. It appeared no one really paid much attention to her.

“I’d been allowed to sit in since I was four namedays, you grace. But mother gave me the duty of managing the household when I was five and advisor of trade soon after.”

“Such a young age! That is quite an accomplishment! Daemon could barely sit still when we were children, always wreaking havoc in the keep and flying with our mother, let alone discuss hours upon hours in a council room.” He laughed fondly.

“Mayhaps they had no one else who wanted to govern the wasteland and were desperate enough to fill the council with a child.” A snide voice snapped back.

“Daemon, stop such nonsense.” Viserys frowned at his brother but the prince only leaned back, arms crossing behind his head in a deceptively restful manner.

Princess Rhaenyra interrupted the failed admonishment, “I heard from reports that Runestone has doubled in trading profits and increased docking of foreign ships to almost twenty a day in the past year, that’s not even including the increase in local activity and shipments.” She added thoughtfully, “The sudden influx must be a burden to oversee. Are you still the trade advisor?” 

“I am.” Sansa nodded affirmatively.

“And do you have advisors of your own to aid in handling accounts?” She asked, wondering how her young cousin could spend all her hours writing scrolls.

“Only Uncle Gerold on occasion, princess. It is difficult but I am grateful to have been entrusted to hold the position in our family’s council for so long.” Sansa said with childlike excitement, “More than a year! My uncle said that’s longer than some have served even in his graces’ council!”

It seemed to be the proverbial straw that broke the dragon prince’s back as he shoved his plate of food away and leaned forward to face her.

“You have a sharp tongue, daughter.”

She turned to him, eyes wide with shock.

“My prince?” Speaking shakily and putting down her silverware.

“You think yourself worthy of praise? You think your education from that pile of rocks you call home, commendable?” Daemon sneered and released a sharp cruel laugh, “You think your eyes are enough to prove you're my daughter. No girl, there is only one thing that proves that. Why don’t we see if all those years growing with sheep has made you a match for a dragon.”

“Daemon!” King Viserys burst sharply as the others stilled with the direction the supper was heading to.

“What? I meant getting her own of course. I’ll take her to Dragonstone myself.” He offered with a savage grin. 

“You’ll force her to do no such thing. Claiming a dragon should be a joyous occasion. A sacred gift, not a threat to scare young girls.”  Viserys firmly rebuked.

Daemon scoffed, “I’m not forcing her to do anything. Alysanne here is of our blood, we know that much…now. She must have one as the rest of us. It’s her birthright.” 

And no one could argue that.

“Perhaps an egg from Syrax’s new clutch.” Laenor suggested with false cheer, trying diffuse the irate prince’s spur of the moment idea. The poor girl didn’t deserve his anger just because of a few choice words. After all, how was she supposed to know what he was like? It was the first time she’s met her father, if anything her quick-wit was akin to his.

He looked to Rhaenyra in incitement, who caught his intent and nodded. 

“Yes, she had just birthed four eggs you see, my Jacaerys already has one and another can be spared for you, cousin. There are the two other hatchlings in the pit and I believe Dreamfyre also remains unclaimed.” Princess Rhaenyra voiced but the rogue prince was relentless.

“No, she’s old enough to claim one herself, don’t you think so, daughter ? A grown dragon for a smart girl like you.” 

“She’s just a child, surely it is far too dangerous.” Alicent injected.

“And what would you know of claiming dragons, Queen Alicent Hightower? Have your children hatched theirs yet?” He mockingly drawled.

“Daemon, enough. Her mother, Lady Rhea should be here when that happens, she’ll have a say—”

“Nonsense, dragon riding is the mark of our house. But I’m sure being a descendant of the brave Bronze Kings only makes her more eager. Doesn’t it, Alysanne?” Daemon needled, challenging her to back down, knowing she wouldn’t—couldn’t unless she cowered openly. 

“Y-yes. It would be an honor, my prince.” She replied, stuttering.

“Good. We leave at dawn.” 

The king sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, “She just arrived, Daemon. You'll let her rest for at least a day.” 

“Then we leave the day after tomorrow.” He brushed off unfazed before standing, “Lovely dinner, brother but I’d rather reap the rewards of this victory elsewhere, somewhere more… satisfying to the senses.” 

The prince strode out without a hint of care or regret. Sansa ducked her head and resumed eating in silence as the rest of the group took in what just happened.

It was Princess Rhaenyra who recovered first, “You needn't worry, cousin. Daemon is well-versed in dragons, you’re in capable hands.” She encouraged, “Having a dragon matches little to no other feeling in the world. It’s the most wonderful thing. Is it not Laenor?” 

“Uh, yes. Yes it is.” He said, trying to match her tone unsuccessfully. The queen gave her a pitying look.

“Thank you, your graces.” She replied weakly, fidgeting with the napkin in her lap. 

“You must excuse him, sweet child.” King Viserys conciliated, “You’ve probably heard a few things about my brother. He’s not known for his…discretion. I will speak to him. Your father can be a hot-headed man but he would never harm his blood.”  

Oh, if only he knew. 

Sansa nodded with a small smile and the rest of supper went quietly.

From rumors to recalled history, the Rogue Prince was a man who relished in confrontations, as long as he won of course because who liked to lose. A few rightly timed barbs and hidden provocations would’ve done the trick, she only thought it would take longer to gain his inevitable response.

Let a man think he is in control and you can make him do anything you want. Daemon Targaryen was taking her to Dragonstone.

*******

It was now Uncle Gerold who paced back and forth, steaming red in outrage. He was anxious enough when he nor her sworn shields were bid to join the intimate supper, immediately coming to check on her after the meal. When they returned to the guest hall where she shared their new travel plans with the prince, he burst into a string of profanities and insults that could incite another war on its own.

Thankfully, she’d asked Ser Jon and Ser Aether to inform them of any passing ears prior to entering the room. Threatening a prince in his own home, justified or not wouldn’t end well for them.

Sansa waited until the barrage of expletives died down.

“The nerve of that arrogant miscreant scum! How dare he!? We will not stand for this. The Vale will not stand for this!” Gerold spat, pulling a chair to sit on.

He rubbed his beard in fixation, “I’ll station more guards at your door tonight and we’ll sail home as soon as I request an audience with the king, he’ll see reason. We don’t cater to Daemon Targaryen’s whims.” 

Sansa placed her clasped hands on the desk between them and revealed carefully, “I want to do it, uncle.” 

His jaw slackened, “You—what? No, Sansa you don’t. It’s outrageous. Daemon’s a scoundrel high on his bloody pride that he couldn’t even take a few jibes from a child. You have nothing to prove to him.” 

“To him, no. But to the rest of the kingdoms? I couldn’t just cower from him.”

“You are not cowering! He shouldn’t have suggested it in the first place! It’s madness, demanding a child face fully grown dragons. Let alone unclaimed wild beasts!” His voice climbing once more.

“It’s not the safest option.” She conceded gently, “But it has been done before and I want to do it because if I refuse and Prince Daemon doesn’t sing it to the masses himself, word will get out somehow and everyone will hear how I feared to claim my birthright. The only Targaryen princess without a dragon and they’ll say it’s because I come from the Vale.” 

“There were many Targaryens who didn’t have dragons. The queen’s children don’t have any.” 

“Not those who were born from a different region, nor are any of them alive now when everyone has one. And those Targaryens were still given the chance to, just as Queen Alicent’s children will have every opportunity. How many will I get? They live in the capital and they’re still young.”

“You’re only eight! If it’s because of his insults Sansa, House Royce will seek repayment. We remember. But we must get back to Runestone unburnt and unmauled or your mother will make a target practice out of me.” He argued.

“He's insulted mother and the Vale with his actions far more than he could ever bother me with his words. It isn’t about what he said to me but this might be the only time I visit King’s Landing." Sansa explained but he was already shaking his head, "I want to try or I’ll be the only Targaryen that refuses the chance to.”

“If you truly wish to have one, we can request it from the king. He will give you an egg. Or a chance to claim one from the pit, a dragon that is chained and restrained. Even that Dreamfyre is tamer.” He suggested vehemently.

Pressing her lips tightly, she opted for another approach.

“Uncle.”

“What?” He asked.

“I think—I think my dragon is there.” At his confounded expression, she resumed, “Do you know how they say dragons and their riders have a special bond? How…how they sometimes know if the other is close? How they can tell what the other is feeling or if they’re in pain?”

“Yes, we’ve all heard a story or two. It doesn’t mean it’s true.” Gerold says disbelievingly.

“It’s hard to explain but I think I feel it. Just a hint of it, but it’s there. Something’s calling me to Dragonstone and I think it’s my dragon.” She confesses. "It's why I didn't reject his offer." 

It was a half-truth. Sansa did feel that her dragon was at the ancient Targaryen seat but only because she knows a dragon egg won’t help her much. Even if it hatched right away it would be too small to intimidate anyone, especially during the dance, and the only other dragons in the pit were meant to be claimed by the queen's children. Asking for an egg was her last resort but she needed to go to Dragonstone first and try for a grown one.

And she needed someone to take her there.

Queen Alicent and King Viserys were not an option for obvious reasons. Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor have a newborn and reside in the Red Keep despite Dragonstone being theirs. Daemon was the only one. 

She could see her uncle wavering despite his doubtful expression.

“Sansa—”

“We'll be as safe as we can be. King Viserys has sent for the best dragon keepers to assist me.” She tried to reassure, “I'll be cautious, uncle. I'll follow their every word and I'll stop at the first sign of something wrong.”

“This is madness.” He whispered.

“It’s the truth. Please, uncle. I wouldn’t lie about something like this.” She pleaded.

“Fine.” He groaned, giving in, “Fine. If you—if you truly think you can do this. We will take every precaution.”  

“Thank you, uncle!”

“But Sansa.” He called and pointed to her desk where quills and scrolls were laid out, “You're telling Rhea.”

Chapter Text

Sansa was combing her hair at the vanity undoing her braids for the night when a knock rapped at her door. 

“Come in.” She allowed. She takes a second look when no one entered. Mayhaps Anya didn’t hear her.

“Come in.” Sansa says louder. The breeze of King’s Landing’s air reaches her and she stands, quickening her gait to the balcony upon smelling a foul stench. She shut the drapes only to see a shadow of a dark hunkering figure reflected right beside her. Sansa jumped screaming but steel-gloved hands covered her mouth and waist and kept a tight hold even as she thrashed against him, scratching uselessly. He lifted her from the ground and threw her on the bed.

”Help! Someone help!” She scrambled for her bow by the nightstand but her limbs felt heavy and slow like she was swimming against a current. The man dragged her by her feet to the edge of the mattress and crawled on top of her. “Stop! No, no please stop! Please, help! Help!”

Where were her guards?!  

Sansa struggled against his weight, his fingers bruising on her wrists then he let go only to swing and bash the hilt of his sword. Her head whipped to the side and a sharp pain lanced at her temple. 

She could only groan as he moved behind her and restrained her arms. The door burst from its hinges and—no, no, no. 

No.

He was dead. Poisoned. Dead dead dead.

“I knew you’d come back.” 

Joffrey leered. “Still desperate for the king aren’t you, traitorous whore that you are.” 

Through blurry vision, Sansa saw a man in armour to her right, a white cloak carrying something covered by a sheet. He lowered it beside her face and swiped it away. 

She recoiled in horror, a harrowed cry escaping her before she heaved violently into the air. Gods.

Her brother.  

Robb’s head on a silver tray. Blue eyes empty, mouth frozen open. A beaten bronze crown on his auburn curls.

“I promised I’d serve you his head. And now he’ll get to watch, isn’t that fun?” 

He laughed as she screamed.

“Joff,” Cersei Lannister stepped into the room in all her golden glory, shawl wrapped delicately around her elbows and a concerned look on her face, “It’s the middle of the night, you’ll wake Tommen and Myrcella. Perhaps a gag, my love.”

“No.” Joffrey refused petulantly, his wormy lips curling to a cruel smirk, “I want the North to hear her scream.”

Two monsters came into sight and she was seized with terror. “Ser Meryn, Ser Boros. Hold her down.”

They came bearing down at her all at once and Sansa thrashed desperately again.

This can’t be happening. It can’t. She escaped them. They’re dead.

Multiple hands landed on her and she felt like she was being squeezed out of her own body. 

“Lady Sansa!” A distant voice shouted.

“Lady Sansa! Wake up, my lady!” 

Sitting up with a jolt, Sansa saw another armored man and retreated frantically to the headboard. With a graceless swoop, she had her bow pointed at him. 

Just the bow.

“Woah! It’s alright my lady.” The man held his arms out in surrender. She didn’t see a weapon on him, his scabbard empty. 

“It’s just us. You’re safe. It was a dream, Lady Sansa. Just a dream.” He said, staying in place a few feet from the bed and watching her like a cornered prey.

“It’s Ser Jon, my lady.” He repeated softly. “It was a dream, you’re safe.”

“Ser Jon.” She whispers, slowly coming to and lowering her bow. She turned to the other man by the doorway who had a helpless, stricken look on his face. “Ser Aether.” 

Two more knights peeked from the outside, eyes wide at her bedraggled state.

Sansa shook the haze of sleep and uncurled from her position, steadying her breath.

“Apologies sers. I don’t know what came over me.” She placed the bow in its stand and tried to calm the slight shaking still in her movements as she sat back down.

“It’s alright, my lady.” Jon comforted then addressed the others in a much sterner tone, “Keep watch. Shut the doors, Ser Aether.”

They prudently did as told.

“We should call for a maester.” Aether suggested.

“No!”

“No.” She protested quickly as Ser Jon.

“Maester Willem advised space and time to calm her. Lady Sansa wishes for discretion in the matter, do you understand Aether?” He said firmly.

His resulting confusion was directed at the Belmore knight but she saw the moment he realized this wasn’t the first time this had happened.

“Understood, ser.” Aether answered. Later, Jon’s eyes promised.

“Thank you.” Sansa gave him a smile he tried to return.

“May I come closer, my lady?” Ser Jon asked and approached when she permitted.

He kneeled before her, taking off his glove and checking her forehead for any sign of fever or cold sweats then backed away when he found none. 

“Would you like some tea? I can have Anya—”

“No, I don’t want to wake her. I’ll be fine.” 

“Are you certain?”

“Yes, I apologize for the commotion.” She patted his hand in gratitude, “I’d like some time alone now, if you please sers.”

“Of course. Rest well, my lady.” He nodded obligingly and they left the room after giving her one last glance.

Alone, Sansa poured herself some water and retrieved her embroidery. She walked to the open windows and breathed in the fresh city air that reassured her when she was and when she was not.

In.

Out. 

In.

Out.

She should’ve seen this coming. Sansa thought she had the nightmares under control but apparently not. This was after all, where all her horrors began. She should’ve known being back here would worsen them. 

She remained awake the rest of the night.

Best to avoid any chance of it happening again. The walls had ears.

*******

Aether Mavery

When the doors closed, Ser Jon picked up his sword from the ground and gestured for them to follow him.

The rest of them drew their weapons upon hearing their lady’s whimpers but were dumbfounded when the sworn shield quickly disarmed himself before entering her rooms.

They gathered across the hallway further from the doors but still in sight of it.

“What in the seven hells was that?” Ser Edwyn asked, baffled. 

None but Ser Jon had ever been posted to Lady Sansa’s chambers at night. As a household guard before his oath, Aether always took watch at dawn during important visits and sometimes in the afternoons before supper but never after. 

He's pretty certain this was why.

“She had a night terror.” Ser Jon sighed, “She has them on occasion.”

Ser Rodar’s worried tone followed, “We shouldn’t leave her like that. We should call for someone. Her uncle."

“Lady Sansa doesn’t wish to be disturbed right now.” Ser Jon explained, “Maester Willem says time alone afterward is what helps and that’s what we’ll give her. Aether and l will inform Ser Gerold as per Lady Rhea’s instruction but we will do it on the morrow. ”

They nodded in compliance, never having seen her in such a state before. Aether couldn’t help but voice as much, “I haven’t seen anyone have nightmares that bad.” 

Ser Edwyn agreed. “How long has she been having them?”

“I think it’s more pertinent to ask how she got them. Was there an incident that led to this?” Ser Rodar asked forthright.

He meant an incident that terrified her enough to haunt her even in sleep.

But there can’t be. Lady Rhea ensured she was always protected. No one in Runestone would dream of harming her. Or think they’d get away with it.

“No, I don’t believe there is.” Ser Jon paused, thinking about it for a moment himself before he shook his head, “And it isn’t in our place to poke and prod. It is our duty to keep her safe. Lady Royce doesn’t want anyone else knowing about it for her own health and protection.”

Aether had only been in King’s Landing a day but he learned enough from courtiers in the Vale to know why it was important to keep this from their knowledge.

It would be gossip fodder. A rumor to be used against Lady Sansa to discredit her sanity and question her fitness as heir to a powerful house.

Aether knew envy and greed bred cruelty, thinking about how the court pounced at the chance to mock Princess Rhaenyra and her son even though he was just a babe. The japes he heard in the armory from the Red Keep’s own guards still repulsed him.

“Aside from Lady Royce and I, only Ser Gerold, Maester Willem and Anya know of it. Now that you do as well, let me make this clear. You will keep this to yourselves.” Ser Jon warned, eyes turning hard, “If it gets out, we’ll know it was one of you and I’ll happily execute whatever punishment Lady Royce asks of me. Do you understand?” 

“Aye.”

“Aye, ser.” He and Edwyn answered quickly. 

Ser Rodar straightened. The eldest knight amongst them was greatly respected in Runestone for still being able to put up a tough fight at sixty.

“No need for threats Jon. I’ve served House Royce loyally more than half my life and will continue to do so until its end. Lady Sansa’s discretions are mine.”

“Ours.” Edwyn amended, “Lady Sansa’s discretions are ours.”

Jon gave a sharp nod. “Good. Return to your posts.”

The others went back by the chamber but Aether lingered behind hoping Ser Jon noticed. When he did, he turned back, stance tensing. “Something the matter, Mavery?” 

Aether looked around again and made sure no one else was in earshot then shifted in place, wondering if he would overstep. He wouldn’t know if he didn’t ask.

“I don’t mean to pry ser but I think I should ask how often she gets them?” 

Jon raised a brow and Aether rushed to explain himself, “I—I think it important to know when to expect it so I can be prepared to help her and…and prevent others from witnessing.”

The knight studied him. “From what I’ve seen, there isn’t an exact day it happens or intervals between them. But they’ve come at least twice a moon since she was four and some of them come when a day’s been particularly burdensome for her.”

“You think her duties cause them?” He asked in surprise. Surely they’d have lessened them by now.

“No.” Jon sighed, “I think they serve as her purpose to overcome them. A distraction and one of the reasons Lady Rhea lets her do as she pleases. Have you noticed days when she’s quieter than others?”

Aether’s eyes widened.

“Aye, that’s what I meant by burdensome for her.”

He opened his mouth to speak but quickly shut it again, fearing he’d already prodded too much but Ser Jon waved his hand, “Go on.”

“How do I wake her? If it happens and I’m the only one posted?” 

“You think you’re up for that task?” Jon appraised. 

He’s determined to be.

Since the journey began, they had both always been with Lady Sansa. But sometime soon they’d take watches alone and he can’t fail her when it was his.

“I am ser. Lady Royce told me long ago there was more to being a protector than fighting and killing. She trusted me to be Lady Sansa’s sworn shield and I’ll do my best to serve her as you have.”

He saw the approval in the knight’s eyes while he explained what to do and Aether knew he made the right choice to ask. 

Neither saw a blue-eyed rat scurrying down a hole in the corner.

*******

Her children were soon to finish their lessons for the day when Elyse knocked at her solar.

“Princess Alysanne has returned to the guest hall, my queen.” The maid informed.

“Thank you, Elyse. Have her brought to me.”

“Yes, your grace.” She left and Alicent rose from her seat to look at the city.

It had been a busy morning. There weren’t any councils scheduled but she had to oversee accommodations of the nobles who came for the celebration. Viserys felt tired from last evening’s festivities and remained abed by the grandmaester's suggestion so they all broke their fast separately. 

Rhaenyra spent hers with her new bastard son, Ser Laenor off at the training yard with his companion once again. And gods know which brothel the prince disappeared to since supper while one of her maids reported that his daughter was already up at dawn making preparations for their journey. 

Alicent pitied the girl for having him as a father. She picked at her nails, feeling the pinch of guilt for thrusting her to Daemon's mercy or rather, his lack of it. Guilt that this was how they’d end up reminding the people of his monstrousness, necessary though it was.

She hadn’t anticipated this at all.

Alicent anticipated crudeness to the Royce party, ridiculous demands as rewards for his victory and violent outbursts in the city streets as was his wont but this…it was madness. The child could be dead by the morrow and not a single one of them could do a thing about it. 

And as always, she thought derisively, Viserys let his brother do whatever he wanted because he had the blood of the dragon. As if that was enough of a reason for Daemon to murder his own daughter and insult their children, princes and a princess higher than him in the line of succession. As if it was justifiable enough to risk the wrath of the Vale. 

As if having dragonblood was a reasonable excuse to act like a beast. 

While as for the new young princess herself…Alicent’s father once said she was the comeliest girl at court but she knew it wasn’t true, for how could she have compared to the Realm’s Delight?

Alysanne, on the other hand… only time will tell if she’d surpass Rhaenyra. She was the prettiest eight-year-old Alicent had seen in and outside of court. She’d enraptured everyone when she stepped into the hall. Different from the silver-golden haired Valyrian royals before her yet unmistakably Targaryen. Unmistakably the daughter of the brute who was now forcing her to face those beasts. 

She didn’t deserve such treatment, especially when she seemed to be nothing like Daemon. 

Being raised away from him was the best thing for the child. So far Alysanne had been gentle and ladylike as opposed to what she heard Lady Royce was. Knowledgeable in courtly manners for a princess raised isolated from the capital. Well-behaved, if not a little careless with her words at last evening’s formal supper and only towards Daemon who understandably didn’t have a favorable reputation in her home. 

If only the rest of the kingdoms saw and repugnated his true nature the same way.

She seemed dutiful too, given that she’d truly been holding a position in Runestone’s council since she was five. Certainly enough to obey a father who’d ignored her existence.

“My queen, Princess Alysanne is here.” Ser Criston voiced behind closed doors.

“Let her in, Ser Criston.” 

Alysanne entered with Elyse and curtsied. “Good afternoon, your grace.” 

She was in a gold and brown day dress of crisp taffeta. The colors combined made her shine bronze and while white opaque underdress peeked out in soft puffs through the cutholes along her sleeves in the latest fashions, she was covered from neck to toe. Modest and appropriate. 

“Princess.” Alicent greeted and was immediately reminded of how tall the child is when she straightened, head reaching her own shoulders. Another Targaryen attribute. 

“Come have a seat. Elyse, pour us some tea.” She gestured to the lounge.

“The servants told me you’ve just returned from preparing for your journey. I hope I haven’t disturbed your rest.” 

Alysanne sat across her as she settled on the divan. 

“Not at all, your grace.” The Royce princess replied, “It wasn’t so wearisome. We haven’t unpacked yet and the ship remains ready to sail.”

Alicent held back her grimace as Elyse handed their refreshment, “If there is anything you shall need, the king and I are happy to provide.” 

It was the least they could do for what they’d put her through. 

“Thank you, your grace but you’ve provided every generosity. We couldn’t need anything more.” Alysanne says, sipping delicately at her tea.

“I’m glad. Regardless, you must come to me if there is.”

“Thank you, your grace.” She smiled, “I will.”

“Good.” 

There was a pause of unsureness.

“You did wonderfully in your presentation.” Alicent commended, “I remember when I first arrived at court. I wasn’t much younger than you and I’d never seen so many nobles in one place before. It was quite intimidating but my father guided me faithfully and the royal family welcomed me.”

She put her cup down. The princess mirrors her and she reached for her small hand over the table. “I wish the same for you Alysanne. You see, I had planned for you to join Helaena and her septa during your visit but since you are to leave earlier than expected, perhaps you’d like to meet them now?”

Alysanne’s face lit up. “I'd like that very much your grace.”

“Lovely, let us walk to the nursery.” She stood and the girl followed. “They’ve just finished their lessons. I’m sure they’d be more than happy to play with you.”

They come out of the solar and Alicent sees two bronze-armoured men standing across the corridor from Ser Criston. The same ones who accompanied Alysanne in her presentation and drew their swords against Daemon. 

“Your guards?” She asked in confirmation.

“Yes, your grace. Ser Aether Mavery and Ser Jon Belmore, they’re my sworn shields.” Alysanne introduced and the men bowed, paying their respects with “Your grace.”

Alicent blinked. Having two sworn shields was unusual, some might say excessive even for a princess and insulting to them as hosts. But with the threat of Daemon, she couldn’t find it in herself to blame Lady Royce. If the presentation and supper were to go by, two men were not enough to curb his savageries.

Alicent looked to her own shield who sported a tight look. “It’s alright Ser Criston, they may accompany us.” 

“As you will it, my queen.” He replied. 

She placed her arm behind Alysanne and directed her to the nursery. “How do you feel about claiming your dragon tomorrow? I can only imagine how daunting it is.”

“I’m a little nervous, your grace but I’m certain the prince… I’m certain my father will help me succeed.” 

Alicent glanced down to see her rubbing her clasped hands uneasily. 

No, he won’t.

But we are all beholden to the desires of our fathers no matter what it costs us. Such is our duty. 

She only hoped they hadn’t sealed her death by bringing her to Daemon. Pursing her lips, Alicent decides to share a different truth that might give the girl some comfort. “I never understood their obsession with such creatures, even after I married the king and had our children.” 

Alysanne gave a feeble laugh. “Nor do I, your grace but mother says we are all partial to the sigils of our houses.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s true.” Alicent agreed as they arrived at the nursery, Ser Arryk and Ser Willis by the doors.

Aemond, who’d been reading at the table promptly stood and approached at their entrance. Aegon however, begrudgingly rose from where he laid on the day bed, dragging his feet until he was in front of them.

Indolent, ungrateful child. How was anyone supposed to be persuaded that he was the true heir when he acted as such? She inhaled a deep breath, aware of Alysanne beside her; she’ll chastise him later. 

*******

“Children. This is your cousin Alysanne.” Queen Alicent gestured to her, “Prince Daemon’s daughter.” 

“I’m delighted to meet you my princes.” Sansa curtsied, getting the impression Alicent was one for strict decorum even with her children. 

In closer view, she perceived Prince Aegon had indigo eyes and almost all of Alicent’s features from the eye shape, nose, lips and brows. He was scrawny and tall despite his lax stance. The same height as Sansa. His silver hair was long and unruly and completely opposite to the boy beside him.

Four-year-old Aemond Targaryen was combed and groomed to faultlessness without a single wrinkle in his pressed clothing. He had purple irises and pale, neatly coiffed silver hair. Sansa couldn’t tell which parent he looked like. The boy who can still be called a toddler and a head shorter than his brother stood stiffly. While Aegon had an expression of overt boredom, Aemond was watching Sansa with intense suspicion. 

The queen swept her gaze around the room. “Septa Cordene, where is Heleana?” 

“The princess wished to be in the gardens, your grace. Septa Muryelle is with her.” 

Two septas. Her pious reputation was holding true. 

“Then it’s best not to disturb her.” Alicent told Sansa, “My daughter enjoys turns about the gardens. You’ll have supper here and meet her then.”

“Yes, your grace. Shall Prince Daeron also be joining us then?”

Barely concealed disdain wiped across her face. “I’m afraid not. He nurses with Princess Rhaenyra’s son.”

The king’s choice no doubt.

The queen turned back to her children. “Alysanne is only here for a day’s visit and you shall play with her this afternoon.”

Prince Aemond acknowledged her first and stepped forward. “You’re a Targaryen?” 

“I am.” She replied, the words coarse on her tongue.

“Your hair is red.”

“It is, my prince.” 

His eyes narrowed. “Why?” 

“Aemond.” Alicent chided. Gods do not mention anything of bastards, boy.

“Oh, mother says I got it from my grandmother. Lady Alayne Redfort. She had red hair, too!” Sansa answered and heard the queen’s breath of relief.

Aemond unstiffened. “From House Redfort?”

“Yes, my prince.”

“Their words are A-as strong as stone. I’m learning house words with Grandmaester Mellos.” He shared, watchful of her response.

Sansa nodded with appreciation, “An important lesson for sure. I studied them with our maester as well.” 

Alicent thinks her son deemed it an acceptable answer as he looked at the girl in approval. Remembering his lessons in propriety, he straightened his short limbs and bowed, “Well met, cousin Alysanne.”

Aegon snorted then, “Proper introductions don’t work if you’ve already talked to her, idiot.” 

Little Aemond flushed.

“Aegon! Apologize to your brother.” Alicent ordered but the insolent boy only shrugged and ran off to the playing rug.

“Well met, cousin.” Sansa says, ignoring his obvious embarrassment and pointing to the table. “Is that what your book is about? House words?”

Aemond shook his head. “It’s about the capital city of Old Valyria. Father likes it.” He looked to Alicent in askance until she nodded in permission. “I can show you if you’d like.”

“I would. I enjoyed reading about Old Valyria in my home but I suppose the Red Keep has more books?” She inquired interestedly.

Aemond’s face shifts to pride. “We have thousands! Come see!” He exclaimed and took Sansa’s hand, pulling her to his table, “This one’s my third but you can have it for now.”

“That’s very kind of you, my prince. Thank you.”

“You're welcome.” He replied politely as they sat down.

“I trust their care to you to, Septa.” Alicent said to Septa Cordene and the nursemaids by the far corner. The children’s introduction was settled and she had more nobles to attend to. “I’ll keep strict watch, your grace.” She replied lowly.

“Good.” The queen spared a brief glance at her more sensible son keeping the girl company. “Return Helaena to the nursery before dark.” She instructed, leaving Daemon’s daughter with her children.

Sansa perused the book Prince Aemond handed her. It had more illustrations than words and was one she’d gone through minutes after it was delivered to Runestone as the first part of her Valyrian studies. Prince Aemond himself flipped through a similar one beside her, colorful drawings took up most of the space with single-line descriptions underneath. 

Sansa vaguely remembers seeing his own portrait as a child in her lessons at Winterfell. She doesn’t know if it was the right likeness; all Targaryens looked similar anyway, but one feature stood out back then. His eyepatch. It had made her more terrified of his tales.

Prince Aemond One-Eye, the ravager of the Riverlands who burned thousands of rivermen from the fire of his war dragon, lashing out his fury when the Blacks took King’s Landing. Who burned keeps, villages and campsites alike even when there were no banners or soldiers, just commonfolk settlers. How it was a time when people became accustomed to the smell of burnt flesh and braved the cold nights without fires just to avoid being spotted. When rare was a day they saw blue skies or white clouds, grey-black smoke wafting from all directions. It took her mother’s homeland decades to recover and haltingly so with all the succeeding wars.

She was pulled out of her reverie when Aemond paused longer at one of the pages and smoothed his fingers over the portrait of a Valyrian figure. The man was decked in gemmed armour standing above the stonewall gates of Qohor, arms outstretched as he addressed an army with the shadow of a black dragon behind him.

“I believe that is Aurion.” She says softly. Aemond looks at her in surprise. “You know who it is?”

Sansa nods and flips to the next page depicting the same man flying over a molten river. “He was one of the dragonlord survivors of the Doom. There were a few others aside from our ancestors.”

“He wasn’t a Targaryen?” He asked. “No, my prince.”

“But grandmaester said we were the only dragonlords that survived.” 

“Targaryens are the only ones that live to this day.” She agreed and points back at the sheet. “Some of them were visitors of Lys and Tyrosh but they and their dragons were quickly killed by the people. Aurion was visiting Qohor when he learned of what happened. He declared himself the Emperor of Valyria and amassed an army of thirty-thousand men.”

Aemond listened in rapt attention to the story he hadn’t heard before and the clinking of Aegon’s figurines went quiet as he too listened to Sansa. “Atop his dragon said to be larger than Balerion, he flew south to reclaim what was left of the freehold but he and his 30,000 were never seen again, vanishing forever and making Aurion the first and last Emperor of Valyria.”

“Woah.” Aemond whispered in wonder. How can an army just disappear?

“His dragon can’t be bigger than Balerion!” Aegon protested and stalked to them. “Father’s dragon was the conqueror’s and his was the largest.” 

“It is only a rumor, my prince. Mayhaps they thought so because Aurion’s dragon lived while Valyria still stood.” 

“I think it’s true.” Aemond said thoughtfully, “Dragons don’t stop growing and Old Valyria was thousands years old.” 

Aegon argued that dragons can’t live to a thousand years otherwise Balerion would have done so. He was from Old Valyria, too. They haven’t been told of Princess Aerea’s ill-fated journey, deemed too young for its gruesome details.

“Well, whether it’s true or not, I imagine he was a mighty creature just like Balerion.” Sansa deflected. “They say his dark wings can cast a shadow over a whole city and it’s the reason they called him the Black Dread.”

“It is! We have his skull just downstairs.” Aegon volunteered proudly. “I can show you.”

“Queen Alicent requires you remain here young princes, my lady.” Septa Cordene’s austere voice interjected from the corner of the apartment. 

“Perhaps we may ask her another time Prince Aegon.” Sansa says at his put-out expression while Aemond who was accepting of the restriction, returned his curiosity to her, “Do you know more stories about dragonlords?”  

“Yes. I learned them from our own books and scrolls in Runestone.”

“You should send for them or we can go to the royal library tomorrow! And visit Balerion and father’s model!” He spouted in quick succession, excited to finally have someone to learn and study with that wasn’t lazy Aegon.

“I’m afraid I depart for Dragonstone in the morning, Prince Aemond.” 

Oh, right. She was only visiting for a day. Aemond couldn’t help but be disappointed—wait. “Dragonstone? You're not going home to Runestone?” 

“Not yet, my prince. My father is taking me so I may claim a dragon.” Aemond nearly fell out of his seat. He vibrated with shock and glee. 

“Your egg didn’t hatch?” Aegon demanded, both boys unknowingly seeking confirmation they weren’t the only ones who couldn’t because they weren’t pure Valyrian like their favored sister.

“I wasn’t given one.” Sansa explained. “Father was at war and dragons eggs are too important to transport so far without a Targaryen.”

Oh no, not being given an egg in the cradle was worse. It was their right. Still…“I wish I could go. Do you think uncle can take me with you?” Aemond asked, his hopes rising.

He wanted a dragon. If his daughter asked, surely Prince Daemon will let him come.

“I suppose if the king and queen permit it.” Sansa answered generously. The rogue prince would do no such thing. 

Aemond’s shoulders sagged. Mother won’t. Dragonstone was given to Rhaenyra even if it should be Aegon’s and they were to stay away from anything of hers. Alysanne bounced beside him. “Don’t worry! If I claim one, I’ll try to return here at once so you can meet them.”

“You must.” Aemond said assertively. He had yet to see a living dragon up close, just glimpses of Seasmoke and Syrax in the skies above the keep. “Then we can go flying together when I get my own!”

“Pshh. You can’t even go to the dragon pit yet. Mother says you’re too young. A babe.” His older brother cajoled and patted his head. “How are you to claim one? Beg screaming from the gardens?”

He scowled and shoved his hand away. “I’ll be five soon! Father said I can go then.”

“Father doesn’t care—“It’s alright, cousin. I haven’t been to the pit either.” Sansa cut in, noting the pattern of relentless teasing from Aegon.

“None of us have dragons yet but we’ll all get one and then we can go to the dragon pit whenever we want.” Sansa heartened. 

Aemond stilled when Alysanne placed a hand on his shoulder. Unlike Aegon’s touch, hers was warm and comforting. He allowed it to stay, dismayed when she shortly let go. “You believe I can claim one? A grown one?”

Aegon who’d grown tired of his brother’s repeated whinging for a dragon, went back to play with his toys and the nursemaid. The boy beside Sansa obviously craved the support he lacked from his brother and likely his father as well. And she knew more than anyone how small kindnesses go a long way in winning someone over.

“I do. It may take time but I know you can.” She said. Although it caused thousands of deaths in another lifetime and something she’ll endeavor to stop in this one.

“You will too.” Aemond stated resolutely.

As the afternoon passed, he determined Alysanne was his true cousin. Mother thought so and she was right about his half-sister’s son. A bastard with plain hair and eyes. Even though she didn’t have hair like theirs, cousin Alysanne had purple eyes but a little lighter. Alright, a lot lighter. Aemond had never met his Uncle Daemon but father mentioned he was one of the fiercest warriors to live and an even more fearsome dragonrider. It was hard to imagine him having her kind light eyes.  

Alysanne catches him staring and his cheeks pinken when she gives him a wordless smile. He hid it by reaching for another tome and resumed reading.

*******

The Queen’s only daughter returned to the nursery within an hour and Sansa comes to her, excusing herself from Aemond.

“Hello, Princess Helaena.” She said with a gentle wave. “I’m Alysanne. Your cousin.”

To her shock, the cherubic princess unceremoniously dropped in the middle of the room. She plopped on the floor and crossed her legs soundlessly.

“Hello.” Helaena muttered, speaking directly to the creature in her palm. Sansa glanced at the princess’ septa, whose eyes were trained on them like a hawk. Then she joined her on the floor, tucking her legs beneath her. Sansa looked closer at the iridescent creature. “That’s a beautiful dragonfly. Did you find her in the garden?” 

“In the bushes. She’s lost her wings you see, so she can’t fly yet.” The princess announced in a dream-like voice and inspected the bug with large dusky violet eyes, entranced as she rotated her hand at face level.

Sansa ignored the lapse in her statement, “Then it’s a good thing you’ve spotted and rescued her princess. Wingless dragonflies can’t feed on their own.”

“Oh, she’ll get her wings soon.” The princess hummed. 

Sansa was both confused and amused. Maybe she thought they grew back like other insects. Before she could ask, a scathing voice spoke.

“It can’t fly again, stupid.” Aegon scoffed, “Ignore her, she’s a freak.”

Helaena gave no sign of hearing her brother but Aemond did, frowning.  “Don’t speak to her like that. She’s our sister.” 

“Doesn’t make her not an idiot. I thought she got all the stupid in our family but maybe you got some, too.” 

“I don’t think any of you is an idiot.” Sansa interfered. The septas and maids still haven’t.

“That’s because you haven’t spent enough time around them.” 

“Y-you aren’t that smart, either!” Aemond tried to retaliate and Helaena hushed them when the dragonfly tried to escape.  Sansa bit her lip. How similar was this to her and her siblings back in Winterfell? No wonder mother was always exasperated. It made her ponder if the Targaryen brothers’ relationship especially, was similar to Theon and Jon or hers and Arya’s. Were they still like this when the dance came about? 

She didn’t want to be caught in the middle of their squabble. The septas will report everything to the queen despite their silence and what will she think of her instigating a fight with her children?

“Perhaps you’re all just smart in different ways.” She offered. “We could play some games to decide who’s the smartest?” 

“But you’re far older! That’s not fair!” Aegon argued and Aemond nodded beside him. 

“Alright then. To be fair, we’ll only play three games. Each of your own choosing. You might even choose a game I've never played before.” Sansa added, “And the winner gets a prize.”

Aemond perked up. “What prize?

“Well, I heard from the cook that we're to be allowed some cakes after supper tonight for my arrival. Do you like cakes?” 

Naturally, all their eyes glazed over. Aegon swallowed. He could already taste the sweet spongey treat in his mouth.

“We can’t ask for more cakes. Mother won’t allow it.” Aemond said with surety.

Sansa shrugged, “We won’t ask for more. Whoever wins may have mine.”

Aegon’s eyes gleamed while the younger boy didn’t seem fully convinced. 

“You’d give us your cake?” Helaena spoke quietly.

“Only if you win, princess.” 

“And if you win?” Aemond asked.

“You’ll each give me half of yours.” Even little Helaena gasps at that.

“Not fair again!” Aegon protested and she teased, “Oh? Are you scared I’ll win then, cousin?” 

“No, I’m not!” His eyes narrowed before he crossed his arms and puffed his chest. “Fine! I’ll choose first.” 

Pshh, girls. He’ll show her. 

Prince Aegon chose one of the most common games boys played in their childhood. Spinning tops. They all gathered around the flat surface outside the play rug. “Whoever spins the longest, wins!” 

Sure enough, the eldest Targaryen prince jumped victoriously when his top remained spinning long after the others’ stopped. “I’m the smartest!” He yelled. 

Aemond was always terrible at it and Helaena never liked to play with them but to Aegon’s surprise, it seemed Alysanne didn’t even know how to throw one. Hers barely spun a few seconds before it wobbled and dropped. She looked terribly embarrassed. “Yes, you won. But we’ve still got two games! Who’s next?”

Aegon snickered. Aemond gives his sister a soft nudge, “You can choose next, Helaena.” 

“I’d like to race.” 

“Ha! Girls can’t run fast in dresses! See? Stupid.” Aegon jeered, but Helaena shook her head. “I want to race my bugs.” She corrected and the boy’s face morphed to horror. 

“I don’t want to touch those things!”

“Then you’ll lose by…def-defo—” Aemond struggled.

“Default.” Sansa supplied encouragingly, “You’re right, my prince.”

He blushed and smiled at her. 

Aegon on the other hand was thinking how he didn’t want to lose. He wanted cake. “Ugh, fine! Get on with it, then!”

Princess Helaena had a surprising number of little creatures in her collection at five years old. The stewards brought box after box of them into the nursery at her request. Eight, she counted. This must be a hobby of hers and one not included in the history books. Why would it be, when there were more pressing topics of discussion, say like one of the most destructive Targaryen wars that existed. 

Aegon frustratedly chose the largest grasshopper. It was spotted brown with long legs and an even longer torso. He refused to touch it until the others had their racers at the mark. He also laughed when Helaena chose a striped lizard the size of her tiny pinky finger. 

Sansa picked a dark-gray millipede the length of her palm and hid her smile when Aemond chose a brown-winged beetle. The only rule Helaena declared was for their insects to reach the honey-coated breadcrumb first without any of them touching it. Crafty young prince he is, for Aemond likely hoped his beetle would fly to the treat. 

“Alright. One, two, three!” Sansa counted and they all let go of their players. 

To Aegon’s indignance, Helaena’s lizard immediately went for his grasshopper and attacked its neck. Aemond’s beetle did fly but in the direction of the wooden chair beside him, landing on the backrest and he sighed in disappointment. In the chaos, Sansa blew on her millipede and the worm curled itself into a ring. 

When the grasshopper was no longer moving, Princess Helaena’s contender speedily crawled to the crumb and won their second game. She clapped happily at her own victory.

“Congratulations, Princess.” Sansa cheered. 

“That’s not fair! Your vile pest ate mine. We’ll go again!” Aegon demanded, forgetting he never wanted to touch one in the first place. 

Helaena shrugged. “Cape-dwarf lizards like eating grasshopers. You took yours from the feeding box.” 

“There was no rule against it.” Added Aemond but Aegon was already stomping his foot, “This is stupid! I don’t want to play anymore!” 

He turned to sulk away. “Are you certain? The stewards said they’re serving apple custard cakes tonight.” Sansa informed.

Queen Alicent had sent a kitchen maid to ask what she liked as the honored guest for supper. In turn, Sansa asked her what the royal children’s favoured sweets were and chose them to be served. A little tip from Olenna Tyrell. The three answers differed but the younger two apparently liked the eldest’s choice just fine. 

Aegon pauses in his step. Apple custard cakes were his favourite and he hadn’t had them in forever. Mother didn’t allow them made anymore because she said he was always bad. He’s not sure when he’ll ever get a chance to eat one again!

Sansa’s eyes met with Helaena and Aemond, whose lips were tight trying to suppress his smirk. They watched Aegon sit right back down grouchily. “Next game.” He grumbled. 

Aemond chooses a puzzle and they move to sit around the table with a map of the Seven Kingdoms for each to solve. He knew Aegon hated puzzles. He once said it was like forcing themselves to attend lessons. 

Helaena was the first to finish only because she was satisfied with the few pieces she put together that definitely did not form Westeros or any other kingdom. Aegon gave up halfway with an exaggerated groan, sliding down his seat while Sansa watched Aemond out of the corner of her eye. He worked quietly, placing one piece after the other until he cried out triumphantly. “I’m done!”

He cleared his throat when he saw her finish a second after he did, “I completed it first.” 

“You did, Prince Aemond.” She agreed without complaint. “You were very fast.”

He grinned with pride. 

A previously pouting Aegon slapped his hands on the table, jolting everyone including the septas. He laughed uproariously. “Aemond beat you, Alysanne! And you’re older by years!” 

Aemond gapes at the indirect and rare compliment from his brother. Then Aegon opened his mouth again. “You lost all three games! I thought you’d be a worse swot than him. Smart in different ways.” Saying the last part in a high-pitched girly shrill.

“It was just bad luck!” Sansa defended, “I’ve never raced insects or spun a top before!” 

“At least she finished the puzzle. Grandmaester Mellos made us do it twice before!” Aemond shot back. He was always insulting him and Helaena and now he was insulting their cousin. It was rude to insult guests. Mother said so! 

Aegon merely rolled his eyes so Aemond turned to reassure her. “I think you did well, cousin.” 

“Thank you, my prince.” Sansa flashed him a thankful smile. The younger of the two boys was proving to be more well-mannered and wasn’t that a surprise. 

Aemond thought Alysanne was smart and kind. She let them choose the games to play. Helaena was odd with her bugs, even he had no idea about them and who cared about Aegon’s useless spinning tops anyway. She liked to read like him! And if she likes him, they can become friends and maybe she could take him flying when she claims a dragon. 

“You may call me Aemond.” He offered shyly, delighted when she brightly reciprocated. “And you may call me Sansa, cousin.”

“Hmm, who will get your cake now, Sansa?” Helaena questioned from her seat. 

The two princes looked confused until they remembered they were at a draw and eyed one another suspiciously. 

Sansa ended up slicing her cake in three—they crowded around her at the dinner table to make sure she cut it equally— and gave one to each.

Chapter Text

She’d just left supper with the queen’s children, a surprisingly pleasant enough affair even though she had to play the buffer between three ridiculously different Targaryen siblings. And it was by the grand staircase of Maegor’s Holdfast that she came across the Hand and the gold cloak she’d spotted trailing behind Princess Rhaenyra. 

Both men had the same nose and hair. The exact same locks as the babe in the Targaryen heir’s arms this afternoon but it didn’t prove anything yet. Many people had curly brown hair. 

“Good evening, Princess.” Lord Strong tipped his head, him and his son stopping their climb. 

“Good eve, my lord.” 

“I believe you’ve yet been introduced to my son, Harwin. The Lord Commander of the City Watch and sworn shield to Princess Rhaenyra.” He explained with pride and the accommodating forbearance one usually gives a child.

Sansa looked up at the man towering over them all, though he was three steps below. “An honor to be introduced, lord commander.”

“Ser Harwin if it pleases you, princess.” He bowed, gold cloak sliding over his left shoulder. “And the honor is mine.” 

Harwin Strong had the most off-putting physical similarity to Sandor Clegane. But Sansa found that his expressions were the farthest thing from the leers and sneers permanently etched on the Hound’s face. He sported an easy grin and it didn’t make her feel uncomfortable like many others did. Still, it would be a stupid thing to ever think the man in front of her was harmless. 

“This is Ser Jon and Ser Aether.” She introduces cheerfully, “They’re sworn shields, too!” 

His grin widened. “Yes, I’ve seen them in the yard. They are fine fighters, princess and I look forward to having a spar.” It was a challenge but his tone was good-natured and playful in contrast to the superior chin Ser Criston Cole gave her guards.

Ser Aether more so than Ser Jon shifted behind her, surely trying not to show any fear along with excitement at the chance to go against the man said to be the strongest knight in the seven kingdoms. 

“Let’s not discuss training yard matters in front of a princess, Harwin.” Lord Lyonel interjected. Brutish violence was inappropriate to discuss with a lady, let alone a royal one. “Are you on your way to supper?”

Sansa shakes her head. “I’ve just finished dining with the king and queen’s children, my lord.” 

“Ah, you are on your way to retire for the night?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Then I hope you rest easy, princess. And I’d like to convey my apologies if the promise of a tour of the Red Keep wasn’t kept. King Viserys had wanted to do it himself but he took ill after the feast.” He said in explanation.

She nods solemnly. “Oh, I understand, my lord. I only wish for his grace to feel better. He and the household have welcomed us. I’ve been having a wonderful time at the keep! Everyone is lovely and the gardens are beautiful.” 

Lyonel gave a contained smile and hid the fact that most people in court were anything but lovely. Who was he to disillusion a young princess enamoured with the capital. 

Sansa snorted internally at his face knowing exactly what he was thinking. It was a blessing she had to spend most of the day preparing at the bay, out of reach of courtiers then with the royal children in the nursery after. She’d seen the gardens from the balconies but steered clear of it, not eager to see another corner of the prison she’d spent most of her time as timid Lady Lannister while everyone around her whispered about treacherous Starks. 

That aside, Sansa wanted to take more measure of the Lord of Harrenhal. “Lord hand, I was wondering if you’d know where Prince Daemon is? I haven’t seen him today and I wanted to ask him about our journey.” 

Lyonel shared a look with his son. “He’s been handling business in the city, princess. He owns an…establishment that needs tending to but I believe he arrived just an hour ago and is now preparing for an audience with the king.” 

The hand’s reply was a honey-covered lie but it was without excessive flowery words meant to make a fool of her with the backhandedness of it. 

He didn’t have much more motive than to save her, rather, a young girl from the lewdness of her father’s business. He didn’t insert implications or even use the happenstance to discredit the prince and the bit about the private audience was helpful information.

Littlefinger would’ve barraged her with made-up intentions and conversations to make her pliable with whatever plot he had in mind.

However, this was only their first encounter. He could just be waiting and measuring her as she was him.

“Oh, I suppose I mustn’t disturb them.” She says bashfully.

“Quite right, princess.” Lyonel concurred. He passed Daemon briefly a few minutes ago. The hailed prince reeked of sex, sweat and pungent wine. It was better for the girl not to see her father. 

Sansa smiles at his approval. “Thank you, my lord. I bid you goodnight.” She nodded to his son, “Ser Harwin.” 

“You as well, princess.” The knight returned kindly and they parted ways.

Just like yesterday, Uncle Gerold met them outside the Holdfast along with her two other guards for the night. He still hadn’t spoken to her about her nightmares but he’d hovered around her all day. 

Gerold only kept quiet because he didn’t want to scare her by talking about it so soon. They were in the corridor of her chambers when he finally broached the subject. 

“Ser Jon and Ser Aether mentioned something about last night.”

Sansa didn’t need to peek at her shields to know they wore mildly guilty expressions and sighed, “It was nothing, truly.”

“It’s not nothing. It happened again.” He asserted.

“It was a bad dream. Everyone gets them, uncle.”

Not like this, he thought. Soldiers and sailors that have seen unspeakable horrors but not children. Then, given they were at the Red Keep, the center of Targaryen power, a thought that never occurred to him before struck. 

Was it possible? Were they dragon drea — no. It can’t be. Sansa would tell them if it were.

Still, he won’t have her ignore this. Rhea would box his ears.

“It sounded worse than just a bad dream. They said you were whimpering and twisting like you were in pain.” He persisted, “You didn’t even recognize them when you woke and almost whacked Ser Jon with your bow!”

“A night terror then. We’re in an unfamiliar place far from home without mother, while an unknown sickness plagues our town. It was heightened by worry.” 

“What kind of worry does that?” He scoffed. “It’s Dragonstone isn’t it?” 

Sansa groaned. Her nightmares had such timing.

“Perhaps.” She knows she can’t make him completely believe otherwise. “Perhaps it’s claiming a dragon. Perhaps it really is just travelling to a new place or travelling without mother. Perhaps it’s all those things. I don’t know where they come from uncle but I know they aren’t real and I know it won’t stop me. I can handle it.”

She can hide it.

“If you had let me speak to the king, we’d be on our way home now and you wouldn’t have to.”

“Uncle.” Sansa said tiredly.

“Alright, alright.” Gerold conceded, “You're certain you’re feeling well enough to travel?”

“I’m sure. I can hardly remember what it was even about.”

“And would you…do you wish to take the remedy Maester Willem used to prevent more?” Gerold proffered quietly.

She pauses. “Just for tonight. Thank you, uncle.”

Anya prepared her tea with a pinch of sweetsleep that evening.

It was a dangerous thing to do here, but it was better than risk waking the keep with her screams.

*******

She wasn’t what he expected.

Well, he hadn’t thought of her enough to have much expectation but still, Daemon mused as he staggered to Viserys’ chambers.

Prettier for one. He chortled. Most of the population was prettier than his bronze bitch.

She had spunk too, he’ll admit. Refusing to look away first. Jumping in front of him while her guards scrambled like headless chickens to pull her back. It was amusing…then the chit had slipped barb by barb until it pricked at his skin. Then it wasn’t so amusing anymore.

Vindication returned when his proposition brought the helpless stupefied fear on her face. She was no child of his. False fronts and words were all she had.

Tainted, weak and unworthy of a dragon just like her mother. 

He drowned away the niggling feeling there was more to her than met the eye and blamed it on the wine. She was simply…strange. Strange but impotent and useless owed to his brutish bitch and however her sheep-worshipping house raised children. 

Westerling and Darklyn guarded his brother’s apartments tonight, the former always ten times more cautious around him. Daemon smirked at the old man. “Westerling.” 

“Prince Daemon to speak with you, my king.” He stiffly announced. Soon enough, permission rang through.

“Daemon.” Viserys greets and motions to the hearth. Drunk as he is, he still noted how his brother uses a cane to rise from his bed. 

“Finally satisfied celebrating in the whorehouses?“ He asked. Daemon walked to the wine cart and nabbed the arbor gold before slumping on the chair across his brother. “Not quite.”

He raises the decanter to Viserys who waves it off with fondness and resignation as he set his cane on his side, already knowing this was to be a tiresome conversation. “Of course, not. What other prize do you want for this victory of yours.” 

Daemon feigned offense. “Am I not allowed to wish to see my brother after a long time apart?” 

Viserys laughed, “You are and I’m glad that you do but I suspect it’s more than that. I knew you’d come by sooner or later. I don’t usually sleep this late anymore, you know.” 

“You’ve been unwell.” Daemon figured. “What have the maesters done about it?” 

If he was being left untreated by those snivelling—“It’s nothing. The maesters attend to me well enough, you needn’t concern yourself.”

“It’s my concern if your own servants don’t do their duty to their king.” 

“You are many things Daemon but magnanimous is not one of them.” Viserys must see the brief but true hurt flashing across his face when he shakes his head to clarify, “You didn’t war in the Stepstones out of sympathy for Lord Corlys’ cause.”

Ah.

“I warred in the Stepstones because it was necessary. The Triarchy slaughtering Westerosi men without repercussion made you look weak. It made our house look weak.”

“You went behind my back.” Viserys expounded, “You acted out and rebelled because I chose Rhaenyra as heir and refused to marry her to you.”  

“You want to talk about going behind each other’s back?” Daemon sniped, “How about blindsiding me with the obnoxious chit.”

“Who—Alysanne?” Viserys is calm even in his disbelief. His brother always had a way of twisting things in his own mind. “Uniting you with your daughter is not a punishment, Daemon. In fact, it’s just as much a punishment as giving you the Stepstones and naming you its lord.” 

It was a small revelation and most would be pleased with titled land. 

Daemon was not. What the fuck would he do with that wasteland? 

“Thank you brother, your own magnanimity moves me.” He says with sarcasm and a mocking half-bow in his seat. 

Used to his theatrics, Viserys continued, “I’m sure it does. But I know it’s not what you desire so I ask again. What other rewards do you think you are owed?” 

“What I always wanted and already had once before. A place by your side in the council.” 

“Because that went so well last time.” 

“It only went that way because Otto Hightower kept poisoning you against me.” Daemon replied with growing vexation. Viserys never listened when it came to that cunt. Now, he was gone but not before he managed to make his whore of a daughter queen.

“He’s not the reason I sent you into exile and you know it.” Viserys warned carefully. “Do not forget the slights you bestowed me. Ones I so easily forgave.” 

Daemon’s fist clenches around the iron goblet. “Easily forgave? It was a drunken mistake and you banished me without thought.” 

“Enough!” Viserys yelled and turned to stare at the fire. “…I no longer wish to speak of it. It’s in the past.”

Silence reigned the room as they reached an impasse. This was going in a different direction from what Viserys imagined but he still believed Alysanne’s arrival can bring good changes for his brother.

Eventually, he released a heavy sigh. “Not yet.” He tells Daemon. “I can’t give you a seat in the council so soon. The court itself won’t see it as an appropriate prize. You went against my decision in starting war and you insulted the crown when you spurned my very council’s offer of aid.”

“Who gives a fuck what they think? The council is not king, you are!” Daemon said angrily. 

“Have I not proven myself more than they ever could? I fought for this kingdom while you let those spineless codgers spend their days flattening their asses in our own keep.” He spat with venom, the buzzing in his head spurring him on. “I fought for your city, however bloody it was to restore order while you let them leech themselves fat off the crown just because they laugh at your jests and lick at your feet.” 

“You say letting our enemies speak and act without repercussion makes me look weak so what does it make me when I let my own brother do the same?” Viserys replied as evenly as he can. “I appreciate your efforts to curb pirates and criminals but cease doing it by undermining me. There is more to ruling a kingdom than wars and battles. There is more to being king than demanding.”

Daemon didn’t want to hear Viserys lecture him about being king. Not when his brother never believed him capable of it. Not when he didn’t choose him as heir.

And even if he did, he would’ve made sure to be a different king. A stronger one.  

He threw the contents of the decanter down his throat and repeated, “I want a seat in your council.”

“That’s all?” Viserys knew it was not.

“An annulment.”

There it is. He sighed and rolled his cane in his hand,  “Must we go back to this over and over again?”

“I’ve done what our grandmother wanted. I’ve done what you wanted, the reason you kept refusing to break my farce of a marriage and provided a Targaryen heir for Runestone. If there’s one use of the chit’s presence here, it’s that.” 

“Annuling your marriage would make Alysanne a bastard. You’d do that to your own daughter?” He asked in frustration.

Daemon shrugged, “Then legitimize her. I care not how she keeps the seat. I’ve done my part.” And because he couldn’t help it, “It’s not like you have a particular protest against bastards inheriting.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Daemon smirked. Still in denial, brother dearest.

Viserys slid a hand over his eyes wearily. He didn’t have the strength nor desire to try and understand whatever ridiculous implication Daemon was trying to say so he ignored it and returned to the matter he hoped to discuss. “Do you know why I haven’t annulled your marriage?”

Because you enjoy my misery? Daemon thought bitterly.

“Securing the Vale was our grandmother’s wish and I wanted to honor that but I also wanted you to have a family.” 

 “I have a family.” He bites out.

“A family of your own, Daemon. A proper wife in Lady Rhea. Sons and daughters to teach and care for. I'm giving you the Stepstones so you may learn how to handle responsibilities. Hold it and build something for yourself. You fought for that land and you can’t just leave it. Just as you can’t ignore Alysanne.”  

Viserys’ eyes glazed over. “You have the opportunity to bear her more children and become a true family. To be happy.”   

His face soured, “I’d have done all that gladly if you had upheld the tradition of preserving our line. It evades me why you and our old crone of a grandmother insisted on marrying into the frigid ungrateful kingdom that already had enough of their toes dipped in our inheritance with—” 

Whatever left of his sober mind stopped him short but Viserys didn’t need to hear the end of it as the image of Aemma and Baelon cleared from his mind. He looked at his brother with disappointment. 

“We both value our Valyrian heritage Daemon but even if my line was in danger, continuing it will never be yours to do.” 

His mellow tone didn’t bely the sting of his words and Daemon snaps. “Jaehaerys thought otherwise when he declared my children be given royal titles.” 

Viserys tapped his cane on the ground as if he’d just won their argument. “He declared your children with Lady Rhea be given royal titles to honor the Vale. Alysanne is your firstborn. Heir to her own land because as of yesterday you didn’t have any—”

“Rhaenyra was your first-born but that didn’t stop you from wanting for someone else, did it? It didn’t stop you from taking a different wife and naming her children princes did it?” 

“You will let me finish!” Viserys roared, slamming his arm on his chair. “Unless you sire another child with Lady Royce, Alysanne will be heir to the Stepsones as well. It is your duty to guide her.”

Daemon’s smile was dark as night, “You mean like you so dutifully guided Rhaenyra as heir before Aemma died? Before you knew she couldn’t give you a son.” 

Viserys couldn’t even attempt to argue. A sudden pain shot up his spine and he jerked forward in an arch, “Argh!” His flesh stung to the bone. 

Ser Harrold hears and rushes into the room. Daemon also sluggishly reached for him but Viserys ordered them to stay where they were in between groans. 

“My king.” Westerling called out when Viserys forced himself to stand. He wobbled many times, leaning against his cane until he caught his breath. He then faced Daemon with somewhat strength in his voice.

“You will be granted the Stepstones. You will be titled its lord and master. Lord Beesbury will give you the funds and men to guard the islands for six moons. But that’s it. As your king, I shall not entertain any more of your senseless desires. It’s time to grow up, Daemon.” 

Westerling approached and supported the king’s elbow. “You must rest now, your grace.” He glared at Daemon, “I believe it’s time to retire.” 

Concern for his brother’s health was the only reason he made to leave. 

“Wait.” Viserys whispered once he was by his bed and Daemon stopped

When he spoke again, it wasn’t with the kingly mien he pronounced a while ago. Instead, it was raw with pain and regret even Ser Harrold averted his gaze.

“You’re right.” He croaked, “I did want for more and it was the biggest mistake I ever made. Spend time with your wife and daughter, Daemon. That you have the chance to is a precious reward itself. Don’t waste it as I had.” 

Daemon hardened slightly but left without a word.

His brother would never understand that Daemon wasn’t him. His bronze bitch wasn’t Aemma and unlike Rhaenyra, nothing about their spawn was precious.

Chapter Text

“Princess Alysanne, tis’ an honour.” 

A bald man dressed in humble monk-like robes approached them by the gangplank of their ship. Uncle Gerold was conversing with his steward by the stern while Ser Jon and Aether stood by her as always.

“It’s my own pleasure to have you. Are you the dragonkeepers to travel with us?” He and his companion were granted passage to the docks by Targaryen knights despite carrying quarterstaves themselves. 

“Yes, princess. I am Gaemyn, an Elder keeper and this is Ralzo.” The tanned and thin, black-eyed man bowed quietly beside him. “We’ll be assisting you along with the keepers in Dragonstone.”

“You have my gratitude. I had wanted a chance to speak with you before we began looking for a dragon.”

“Tis’ not looking for one you must worry about, princess.” Gaemyn said gruffly, authoritative and severe but not filled with any animosity. Sansa supposed there was little time for dallying and japing for those who dealt with dragons every day.

“Tis’ important you first learn the commands in High Valyrian before any attempt to face them. Dragons don't often respond to the common tongue. Ralzo here is our most fluent speaker, twas’ his language since birth.”

“Ivestragon zirȳla hen vīlībāzma.” Ralzo spoke though his eyes were stuck to the floor.

“Tell her of the dangers.”

Gaemyn glanced at her shields, “Take this not as a threat but a simple truth. This will be extremely dangerous, deadly even if you heed our instruction. But tis’ the king’s will and we shall do our best.” 

He paused then, deliberating and Sansa gave her encouragement. She’ll take all the help she could get. “I’d be thankful for any knowledge you have to impart.” 

Gaemyn nodded, “No dragon is truly tamed, not even a rider’s egg that hatched upon their birth and no wild one’s ever been claimed with a score of dragonkeepers. I suggest trying for those previously claimed, princess. They might be more accepting of human presence.”

There were only two.

“I appreciate your honesty, Gaemyn. I want you to know I take this task very seriously.” She affirms, “We must speak more on our journey but for now, please allow our steward to help you settle in the cabins.”

Sansa gestures and a steward steps forward to escort them up the ramp. 

“Committed all their advice to memory should I forget any, uncle?” She remarked as they watched the dragonkeepers, certain Gerold was eavesdropping the whole time. 

He pursed his lips, “You still want to do this?”

“I do.” 

“Because you can back out whenever you like. Fuck Daemon.”

“I know, uncle.” She said, aware he was still second-guessing their plans and diverted lightly. “It seems you’ve taken it upon yourself to fill mother’s place with all this cursing.” 

And Gerold really really was. Torn between supporting his niece’s preposterous urge to claim a dragon from a feeling or stealing the nearest horse and fleeing with her to Runestone, consequences be damned.

Instead he scoffed, “No one can beat your mother’s profanities. I don’t even know how she comes up with half of them.”

They all laughed at that.

No matter how daunting the task that awaited, Sansa was just relieved she didn’t have to stay in this place any longer. 

*******

Caraxes flew above as Daemon sauntered onto the dock. He sees the ship he almost plunged a day ago in closer view and smirked. 

Looks like his bronze bitch was trying to catch up their piss-poor excuse of a fleet.

This one was carved with golden swirls by the deck's bow and had some old man with a sword for a figurehead. The girl wore a fucking cloak to match, too.

She and her posse bowed at his approach.

“Redecorated the old boats, daughter? The bitch must at least know paint doesn’t do much against rot.” He remarked.

The bronze uncle gritted his teeth, “That is solid copper, Prince Daemon. Yorbert’s Remembrance is House Royce’s newest flagship. The first of its sort in the seven kingdoms. She has two—”

“Harold is it?” He snorted, “I have no interest in your—”

“But you should, my prince.” Gerold interrupted in kind and everyone paused. 

It was the first time the knight’s encountered the prince since he demanded his niece risk her life for a dragon. Daemon barely gave her a day’s rest and told them they’d leave first thing in the morning only to delay without reason. They were made to wait at the docks well into the afternoon until they had to ask if they were to even continue with the trip. Daemon’s steward said they were but the prince was spent from evening activities and required more sleep.  

At the end of his patience, Gerold’s words were heavy with meaning, “It's in your interest to know that House Royce takes the safety of our heir utmost paramount and any attempt to harm her won’t be taken lightly.”

“Ah, yes.” Daemon cocked his head to the side, “Is that what the two sworn shields and retinue are for?” 

He feels Caraxes dive. People scattered and yelped behind him as he landed at the cliff by the edge of the bay none-too-gently. The party in front of him stiffens and he gives them a shark-like grin. “Tell me, what foreseen threat do you think thirty-eight men and your newest ship can win against?”

Caraxes lowers his head toward the vessel with a long drawn-out croak. 

“Pirates, my prince” The girl chirps up between them.

The mini-bitch already had the habit of inserting herself everywhere.

“Pirates.” Daemon mimicked. 

“Yes, my prince. The Narrow Sea has long been waylaid by pirates and we wanted to take caution.” 

An irritating innocent smile was on her face, as if merely proud of her explanation and oblivious to his threat. But her own underhanded barbs a day ago hinted that perhaps she wasn’t.

Daemon retracts his previous conclusion on her impotence. Snidely insulting one moment then purposefully pleasant the next, her inconsistency grated at him. The fucking child was playing games with him, that or she was touched in the head.

He spoke down to her. “Well, let’s hope pirates don’t waylay you on the sail to Dragonstone. You’ve yet to ride a dragon, girl and we don’t want you dying beforehand.” 

He makes his way to his dragon, done with the exchange. He’s going to need more than a barrel of wine if he was to suffer her presence tonight. 

*******

Dragonstone was nothing like the Red Keep. Those who didn’t know Westerosi history probably wouldn’t even think they were lived in by people of one heritage. It made Sansa wonder just how advanced Old Valyria was based on this single piece of architecture.

The stronghold was said to be made by sorcerers capable of liquefying and reshaping stone with flames and spells. A show of power to the then foreign and uninvaded Westeros.

She once thought it an exaggeration to make the Targaryens seem more special than the rest of them, more worthy of worship than they already were with dragons.

But taking in the monstrous structure of black stone, there was clearly something else than human labor at work. It looked more like a creature springing from the ground than a castle, with multiple dragons emerging out of the central keep, curling around as twisted towers and claws holding torchlights that bounced red against obsidian. Great dragon-wing imitations spread out and roofed over the eastern side. Dragon tails covered archways, the stair railings were scaled and large snarling snouts were carved open as doorways.

Along the curtain walls and battlements, there were several crenelations of gargoyles, hellhounds and other grotesque statues with melded features she’d never seen. Almost none of it was Westerosi.

The Dragonmount volcano gave the illusion of being part of the fortress, too. Their colours blended together in the mist even though it stood far behind the keep, tall and imposing. The treeless mountain emitted smokes of grey from its summit and more fumes flowed out of its sides from vents, mixing with the already dreary atmosphere.

It was indeed a grim and dark place but she’d take anything that wasn’t the Red Keep.

A small group of people approached from the Dragonhead Gates as they departed off the ship.

“My princess, welcome to Dragonstone.” A maid greeted. Five maids, two castle guards and based on their clothing, they weren’t of any significant rank. None of them expected Daemon waiting to welcome them with open arms but that their greeting party didn’t even include the maester, head housekeeper or castle steward was just another petty slight.

Gerold shifted beside her and she spoke before he rose to the bait. “Good day.” She smiles, “What are your names?”

“Maron, my princess.” The young maid answered and the rest followed. Stating their names with more curtsies and bows. Vera, Narene, Gladys, Mae, Ser Denys Caspar, Ser Alfred Broome and Maron began leading them up the long winding path.

“Where are the rest of Dragonstone’s household? Was there a more pressing concern that needed attendance than receiving a princess?” Gerold asked and Sansa sighed. Her uncle was apparently incapable of letting it go.

“Maester Gerardys and the dragonkeepers received Prince Daemon, my lord.” Maron replied carefully.

“He arrived long before us on dragonback did he not?”

Her eyes darted to Sansa, “Yes, my lord.”

“And the castle steward, head maid and master-at-arms?” Gerold interrogated. Maron bit her lip and the others avoided his gaze.

“I’m sure all of the household was working hard to the last second to prepare the castle for our sudden visit and we are very grateful for it.” Sansa stated and the servants sagged in relief. Maron smiled weakly at her.

“Let’s not dwell on this simple oversight, uncle.” She says reproachingly and Gerold had the decency to look ashamed at his short temper. Though understandable given the headache that was Daemon and growing fear for Sansa, the servants weren’t to blame for any of it. “My apologies.”

His niece nods, satisfied. Then in usual Sansa fashion, she started asking each of them about their families and how they’d come to serve the castle.

Gerold softened as he watched her natural curiosity win over the handful of Dragonstone staff. By the time they arrived at the castle proper, they were all smiling and laughing with her. She was shining bright as ever and nothing Daemon says or does will stop that.

*******

Sansa observed the dining hall while she waited for the prince. Upon being brought to their chambers, they were informed that she was to sup with Daemon yet it had nearly been two hours since she sat at the table with no rogue prince in sight. The evening was getting late and the food cold and untouched despite Uncle Gerold insisting she forgo propriety and eat.

She definitely sees how the Targaryen seat was intended as a military outpost than a palace. It was defensible with a small garrison due to the simple fact that attacking forces would have difficulties launching a siege on an island or face the handful of territorial wild dragons.

It’s interior was as gloomy as its outside but less dramatic and more functional. Torches were lined in close distances from each other to light the dimness caused by the windowless enclosed walls. There were hundreds, if not thousands more of dragon statues and carvings of odd creatures but aside from that, it was sparse and undecorated. There was little color in the chambers, save for the black and red cushions and one tapestry—of Aegon, Rhaenys and Visenya riding their dragons.

There's a clattering crash on the left hall and the double doors open to reveal the dragon prince swaying on his feet, a miniature iron gargoyle rolled on the floor behind him. His short hair was a sweaty matted mess and pink wine stained his crumpled tunic exposed by a haphazardly open doublet and breeches. It left no queries to what he was doing beforehand and it was by all means vulgar. She immediately turns to a revolted Gerold. “Do not, uncle.”

“Sansa—”

“No.” She repeated sternly and rose from her chair.

Gerold clamped his mouth shut but gave a look to Aether and Jon. One wrong move and the swine of a prince was to be subdued.

Daemon doesn’t even hear them, loosely and lethargically wandering down the stairs.

“My prince.” Sansa curtsied. He dropped heavily to his seat at the head of the table by her left and sprawled like an octopus, stretching his limbs out the sides of his chair. She returned to her own and began cutting some roasted lamb. A cupbearer pours for him and makes to move to her but Daemon snatched the flagon from his hands, startling the poor boy.

“W-would you like to me to fetch some for you milady?” He asked awkwardly. Sansa declined with a sympathetic gaze.

The already inebriated prince poured more of the arbor gold into his goblet, filling it to the rim. Only after he finished one cup in straight gulps and refilled it again does he actually look at her.

“Leave us.” He commanded and the two servants swiftly vacated the room. Another moment passes when Daemon’s head tilts—or more accurately lolls to the side. “Have your men gone deaf from all the fleece in their ears?”

“My niece is not be left alone with you for a single second.” Uncle Gerold instantly refuted.

Sansa had planned to simply let the supper run its course. She didn’t have a particular objective until after it but now there was a risk of allowing herself to be alone with a deadly prince. Daemon’s face flared with annoyance at Gerold.

They can’t refuse. It was different this time, antagonizing him had no purpose. He was also drunk and there wasn’t anyone here who’d placate him that he’d listen to. “It’s alright, uncle.”

He brought her here first and foremost to see her fail at claiming a dragon, not just because there’d be fewer witnesses if he killed her.

“You heard the chit. Run along, little flock of sheep.” He said, swatting his hand like they were flies at his table.

Gerold balked at her and ignored the prince. “Sansa, it’s your mother’s command. I’m not leaving you with him, especially in this state.” Directing a look of pure disgust at Daemon.

“It’s only for the meal. You can wait just outside the doors.” She suggested.

Absolutely not, she read in his gaze. He leaned over her shoulder and whispered furiously. “Sansa, he can’t be trusted.”

“No but I trust you’ll come if I call for you.” She conveyed with confidence, “And I know you trust me to notice if I need help.”

She didn’t have to glance at the prince to know he was finding this entertaining. Gerold’s mouth pressed into a thin line, his fists clenching and unclenching until Ser Jon stepped up, “My lady—”

“Should I have you dragged away?” Daemon cut off and swirled the wine in his goblet lazily.

His smug grin indicated he’d like nothing more and Gerold realizes this. Threatening and insulting them was all he’s done since he met Sansa and she'd refused to give him the satisfaction of reacting. Refused to be offended or scared. At this moment, Daemon was practically daring them to escalate so Gerold reigned in his anger, loathed as he did to leave his niece.

“We’ll be just outside.” He reasserted and Sansa nodded, gentle yet unyielding. She’s sure they’ll argue about it later but for now Gerold turns to the smirking prince as if to say something, a warning or a threat but thinks better of it. He does glare at him all the way out though.

Daemon swallowed down what’s left of his goblet after they’ve gone. He drummed his fingers on the ebony wooden table and Sansa feels him scrutinizing her as she ate.

“Thought you’d have shit brown hair and shit brown eyes like her.” He started crassly, reaching for the flagon again. He’d only get drunker as the night progressed.

“Mother’s eyes are a deep russet, my prince. With flecks of brown and dark green.” She replies slowly.

“Colorful shit then.” He said, taking another sip and piling meat onto his plate. “My bitch keep any foreign company in that rotten keep?”

“We’ve had some visitors from—”

“Company she fucks, girl.” Daemon sniggered, “Perhaps a desperate red-haired Lyseni with a taste for cold cunt.”

Sansa paused. Implying she was a bastard was an attempt to upset her but she thinks he half believed it himself. Or at least he wanted it badly, so willful in his denial that he’s delusioned himself she was one. After all, Sansa was living proof of Rhea’s ability to have children. She was the greatest hindrance for an annulment and disproving her legitimacy was the only way he could get it now. 

“I don’t believe so, my prince.” She eventually answers.

“Am I offending your delicate sensibilities?” Asked Daemon amusedly, taking her thoughtful delay as a sign he’d affronted her.

“Not at all my prince. Mother calls you much worse things.” Sansa replied, this time without missing a beat. 

Primped Up Prince of Pricks. Red Worm Rider. Flea Bottom Fucker. Daemon the Rabid Demon. Craven Little Cockroach. Scumsucker of the Seven Kingdoms. 

Honestly, pirates and sailors would call her a poet.

Daemon grinned wickedly, “And wailing those names is all she’ll be able to do after I’m done with you on the morrow.”

“Oh no, I believe mother would only be most grateful for your assistance, my prince.” Sansa insisted with appreciation. Being forced to dine with Lannisters and Boltons while they threatened her and degraded her family made sure no one could play this farce better. “As I am, for being given the generous opportunity to claim a dragon.”

He slouches further in his seat and points at her, smirk still plastered on. “I saw your face that night. No use putting on a brave front. Heh, scared little girl. Nothing plucks out the truth like fear of a dragon.”

“I was surprised, my prince but I wasn’t scared.”

“No? Not of being roasted alive?” Daemon taunted, eyes glinting predatorily, “Or perhaps being gorged to bits of mangled flesh or crushed by clawed feet the size of your horses?”

“No, your grace.” She answers.

Daemon scoffed a maniacal laugh, “Because you fancy yourself a fierce bronze warrior! We should purchase bronze armour for you to wear.” He waved the hand that held his goblet, losing his limbs to the drink more and more. As his arm swung clumsily, red liquid sloshed to the table tops and floor right by her feet. “Will you shoot an arrow at a dragon like the bitch would? Or do you actually think you can claim one?”

Sansa’s cordial smile didn’t drop but her eyes morphed to piercing iciness. “I’m not scared because no matter what happens tomorrow I know I am secure in my position.” She then enumerates, “In my family. In my house and in my inheritance. After all, I was never second son nor spare.”

'Unlike you.' Was unsaid but understood when the prince clucked. “Ah! There’s the little bitch I knew you were hiding.”

Daemon sneered forward from across the table. It might’ve been intimidating if he didn’t drunkenly sway side to side. “My blood alone is worth more than your whole fucking house. Your inheritance is nothing. Remember that girl.”

He emptied the last drops from the flagon to his cup and mumbled something into it. Sansa recognized it was High Valyrian but his vowels were blended together. “Pardon, my prince?”

“Iksā daor ānogar hen zaldrīzes.” Daemon slurred again, voice dripping with condescension as though she were the more pathetic sight of the two of them.

You’re no blood of the dragon, he said.

Sansa’s pretty certain wine now coursed through his veins and replaced his precious Targaryen blood entirely.

He chuckled at her perceived cluelessness and took another generous swig from his cup.

“More wine!” The prince yelled through the hall. Footsteps scurry outside and a servant enters. It’s Mae but she’s without a pitcher. “She’s ready, my prince.”

“Who?” Daemon asked, squinting his bleary eyes. Mae doesn’t respond, gaze darting reluctantly at Sansa. Then he laughed out loud, remembering,  “Answer maid, don’t be shy.”

“My smart witty daughter knows what a whore is. Don’t you little chit?” He returned an expectant frown at Mae without waiting for Sansa’s reply. “Well?”

Poor Mae stumbled over her words, “A-alamyra, your whore is waiting in your chambers, Prince Daemon.” 

Unfortunately for him, long gone were the days Sansa would’ve been mortified like she was during Robert Baratheon’s feast in Winterfell. At least Daemon wasn’t nearly fucking the woman on their table like he did, she thought wryly.

“Good! ‘Bout fucking time.” The prince makes his undignified leave from the hall, almost toppling over on the stairs.

Gerold and her guards came in a second later and Sansa stood. “Supper was delicious, Mae. Please extend my compliments to the kitchen and those who prepared it.”

“I’ll do so, Princess Alysanne.” The discomfitted maid scrambled to make a hasty retreat and she spoke quickly to halt her. “Please call me Sansa. I was wondering if I could ask you something?” 

Mae fidgeted with her apron and stammered once more. “I’m not sure I’m the best authority to explain what a w-whore is, my princess—Princess Sansa.”

Gerold raised an inquiring brow at her though his expression darkened at what it implied was discussed during their supper.

“It isn’t about whores.” Sansa says dismissively. “You see, it’s my first time in the castle and I don’t want to get lost. I thought mayhaps you could help me with that?”

She wouldn’t want to accidentally stumble upon the prince’s chamber and interrupt.

“Oh.” Mae exhaled with relief, “Of course, princess. I’d be honored.”

“You have our thanks.” She quipped when they walked out. “My uncle often gets confused with corridors.”

“Sansa, I do not!” He denied indignantly and glared at Jon and Aether as they laughed.

                                                                                                                  *******                                                                                                                               

Rhea had stayed up late waiting word from Sansa and Gerold the day before.

What she got was a flock of more than thirty ravensworth of letters with seals from all over the kingdoms. Their paiges scrambled up and down the rookery all night retrieving them as one came after the other. None from her daughter, all from noble houses and merchant families that attended the presentations.

It had only been a day for fuck’s sake. Gerold better be keeping them at bay.

Best get it over with, she thought, irritation bubbling as she tore through the scrolls.

Most were from minor houses hoping to enter discussions and snag Sansa before the greater ones made their offers. Some tried to be subtle but others didn’t even bother.

She snorted at Lady Merryweather writing how she just had to inform Rhea how charming Alysanne was and how they had perfectly handsome sons she can choose from to make a perfectly handsome couple.

Lord Armin Peake invited her to Starpike to discuss the common interest of betrothing their children to heirs of respectable houses—his sixteen nameday old son has fucked his way through the population of the Reach, respectable her ass.

Lord Lydden of Deep Den went on with how he can offer Sansa a life worthy of a princess…he’s sodding thirty.

Lady Lysel Mallister listed profitable benefits of coastal houses creating an alliance with the marriage of Sansa and her second son while Lady Errol discussed how her third son was an avid hunter like those of House Royce and was willing to arrange an excursion together. At least neither were offensively delusional.

But the next two made her cackle like a woodswitch.

Lord Dieter Follard assured her that his brother was a skilled fighter and capable of protecting her sweet daughter. Ser Morrison Thorne, a second son loyal to house Targaryen says his first wife allowed him the patience to be up to the task of helping Sansa rule as Lord of Runestone…again, they’ve got to be fucking kidding her.

Lady Crakehall suggested Sansa foster with their family. She’d get along with their lonely daughter and only child Ceryse Crakehall. Ah yes, they had no sons—but her eldest Marbrand nephew just happened to be squiring for her husband was he?

Then there was Lord Tully mentioning he had two sons of courtship age, proposing to coordinate a visit to see if Sansa got along with either.

On and on it fucking went.

Rhea had responded to Tully, Mallister and Errol but left the rest to Willem on the verge of cussing them all to seven hells.

The replies were more or less the same, thanking them for their gracious interest and inquiries but the decision was not to be made lightly, or currently with the plague. 

Then Rhea finally received Sansa’s awaited letter the next morning. She broke the seal impatiently and smiled when she saw her daughter’s elegant script.

Dearest mother,

We docked safely at the bay and were welcomed warmly at court. We’ve been given generous accommodations and the presentation went well, although it had to happen immediately as Prince Daemon arrived earlier than anticipated. I was invited to a private feast with the royal family.

As she read the next part however, Rhea’s marginally better mood granted by the reprieve of sleep vanished and made way for pure unadulterated fury.

During the supper, the prince insisted I acquire a dragon and the king acquiesced. We are to set sail for Dragonstone at once. Uncle Gerold wanted to stop it but I believe I should go. Please do not worry. I shall write again as soon as I’ve claimed a dragon unharmed.

Your loving daughter,
Sansa

The prince insisted I acquire a dragon.

I believe I should go.

Do not worry.

All of Runestone’s household winced when they heard their lady’s guttural roar. As if yelling for the rogue prince would summon him from King’s Landing straight to her solar. 

Fuck!

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!

Rhea grabbed the first thing she could get her hands on—a heavy brass paperweight—and punted it across the room. It crashed into the objects on her bedside table. She threw  another and another and another in a blinding haze of fear and anger. 

That monster.

That fucking cunt. She’ll fucking kill him. 

How could Gerold let this happen? How could the fucking king let this happen?

He aquiesced , Sansa said. Which meant the fool happily allowed his brother the chance to murde—she chokes in a breath, no, she can’t think that. 

And her headstrong stubborn daughter. 

Rhea couldn’t help but be angry at her, too. 

She couldn’t only be doing this to defy him. Sansa had a talent in choosing her words very carefully and revealing only what she wanted with the recipient none the wiser. But Rhea knew by the request to trust her that she wasn’t telling her the whole truth of it. Sansa wasn’t impulsive to agree to this without thought or perhaps…without grave threat.

She had to get to her. Immediately.

Rhea summoned Willem. By this time, they were probably already at Dragonstone. The plague was mostly under control, she was retrieving Sansa from the capital herself and demanding justice. She tells Willem to have the galleon ships prepared in two days.

“Both sister ships, my lady?”

“Yes.”

Willem held his tongue and stopped himself from reminding Lady Rhea that it took at least three days to fully provision their newest gargantuan ships. One of them was still undergoing final constructions. 

But after the explosive fit he heard all the way from the Maester’s tower and her solar that looked raided by wildlings, their liege was still vibrating with a fury he didn’t want to take any brunt of.  

Willem wouldn’t dare advise her to calm down either. He wasn’t calm. The prince was taking his bloodthirst out on an innocent child, their heir.

It went beyond cruelty. It was evil. 

Willem will find a way to ready those ships if he had to load supplies night and day himself. 

“...To what capacity shall they be filled?” He asks grimly.

To their full capacity , Rhea wanted to say. Four-hundred crew and one-hundred more men-at-arms each. She wanted to take her daughter and storm the Red Keep. She wanted to write Jeyne, who would call the banners for Sansa.

Her daughter was leered at by lords and surrounded by crowds of gossiping idiots but Sansa could handle herself against them. There had never been a Royce with a sharper mind than her. But she was still a child and now Daemon….

Rhea caught herself on the table, head between her hands and elbows. Her stomach was rolling and she wanted to retch. It was like someone was reaching down her throat and pulling her insides up her mouth while a thick rope tightened around her neck like a noose.

This was exactly what Rhea had feared. Sansa was in danger and she wasn’t there to protect her. It was her fault. 

She should have sent more guards. She should have claimed the invitation never arrived or denied it outright, offense to the queen be damned.

She shouldn’t have let Sansa go at all. 

“My lady….” Willem says in concern but she shook her head. “A moment, Willem.”

Rhea slowed and deepened her breaths, calming herself the way her daughter always did when her capricious temper erupted. She can’t act in panic. Sansa’s life was in their hands. Taking a thousand men and calling their banners would be taken as an insurgency. Treason. 

“A quarter.” She choked out. “Twenty-five men per ship save the crew.”

“At once, my lady.” 

Willem left to execute her orders and Rhea’s eyes drifted to the hidden compartment of her desk where her darkest secrets lay. 

A reminder that she’s done things she never thought she’d do in her life. All for Sansa.

One thing was certain. Army or not, there will be hell to pay. 

And if anything happens to her daughter, dragon or not, Rhea will find a way to kill Daemon herself.

*******

Sansa woke two hours before the break of dawn, all the rumpus from the princes’ indulgences five rooms away having gone quiet sometime in her sleep. 

Holding the map of Dragonstone drawn by Mae, she went over her marked trail despite already having committed it to memory. 

She was claiming a dragon tonight.

Unfortunately and as less intelligent as it may seem, considering it was better to have help from dragonkeepers and riders, doing so without their guidance was more beneficial for her.

For one, the small rebellion of claiming a dragon in the middle of the night without Daemon would appeal to the greens. It’d tell them that despite coming here at the prince’s demand, she resented him enough to disobey him. 

Sansa had already seceded to him in the two suppers they had together. She had to show everyone she wasn’t just going to follow him because he was her father. That she wasn’t completely under his control.

Secondly, was because Daemon Targaryen reminded her of Jaime Lannister. 

Well, if Ser Jaime was a whoring drunk who had a dragon.

They were both exceedingly arrogant men who enjoyed battle and insulting people as a pastime. But they had another commonality useful to her now. A trait she only learned about Ser Jaime when he came back to Winterfell but instantly recognized in Daemon.

Their attention was drawn by challenge. 

If one wanted to gain it, one had to actively get in their way otherwise they’d be ignored and forgotten. Like Brienne and Bronn did…like Cersei did with Ser Jaime.

The prince’s offer was made in a fitful moment not because he was interested in helping her claim the Targaryen birthright but to humiliate her and House Royce after she provoked him. The idea that it was an opportunity to have Viserys end his marriage by proving she and Rhea were not worthy of their precious Targaryen blood likely only dawned to him after.

It was possible he’d ignore her again even if she did manage to get a dragon. His disappearances and lateness at the docks were already hints of his waning investment.

There were limits of course, nothing too threatening. Getting in Daemon’s way would pique his interest and tempered acts of defiance will keep it. Only then can she begin cultivating some kind of relationship.

As for the third reason…well, his mocking supervision will only lessen her odds of claiming one.

Sansa’s studied as much as she could and recalled all of Jon’s sharings despite his lack of expertise. She’d discreetly inquired more information from Gaemyn and Ralzo sailing here. It had to be enough.

She changed into one of her horse-riding dresses, clasped on a dark cloak and put on her boots to blend with the night—not the ideal attire she’d seen Daenerys wear for dragonriding but it’ll have to do. It’s not as if Daemon cared to fashion one for her. 

Sansa grabbed the satchel that contained a flask of water, some fruit and bread and the map just to be certain. Blowing out her candles, she carefully peered outside. It was the few minutes in between her sworn shields’ watches so the corridor was empty. She made her way through the inner passages quickly, not encountering anyone but a drooling guard at the end of the guest hall then entered one of the kitchens and crossed it to a door Mae told her led to the barn stores outside. It was locked for safety without a guard stationed other than occasional passing knights. She dug out the angled bolt and common nail from her satchel and pressed her ear to the door, working the lock until she heard a click, unbolted two others and got out; cool air hitting her face once she did.

The first part was done, the next will be much harder. Hopefully, the gods didn’t send her back only to make her a treat for those beasts.

Pulling her hood on tighter, Sansa moved behind the barn and lit a small lamp. She followed her charted path even as it got harder to find footing in the ground strewn with sharp rocks and blunt roots. The journey was dark and unfamiliar and the only reason she remained unharmed was through hard-learned caution from hiking to the Eyrie and the harsh travel fleeing Winterfell. 

By the time the Dragonmount and commonfolk village at its foot were in sight, the sun’s curve was starting to peek through the sky. Sansa skirted around the small settlement and kept behind the treeline, making sure her lamp was covered by her cloak. 

She arrived at the infamous volcano slightly out of breath and took a minute’s rest, sitting against its wall to sip some water and take a few bites of sweetbread. She changed out her candle and found herself standing beneath the menacing entrance. Its dark stone was all-surrounding with fog-like smoke being emitted from its cracks. Huge foreboding carved dragons stared down at her. More terrifying than the ones at the castle simply because it warned of what lurked within.

Sansa Stark had never really spent any time or gotten the chance to know Jon and Daenerys’ dragons, let alone take a liking to them. Arya had been more enthused than her and eagerly asked Jon for rides when he claimed Rhaegal. She had been more worried about what to feed them and too occupied with hosting multiple armies and their people. 

Since the first war, she had prided herself in being a Stark through and through. Aside from the enjoyment of pools and rivers her mother’s family passed on, she preferred having her feet firmly on the ground.

Yet she had also proven herself capable of breaking her limits before. Out of necessity, she surpassed them. 

In this time, Sansa learned to be an archer and better horse-rider to become a Royce for she wasn’t only a Stark and a Tully anymore. So she walked forward and made her way deeper into the volcano’s dark crevices. It was strangely a clear path with few smoking shafts along the walls and cone-like stalagmites above the ceiling. 

When the entrance was but a speck behind her, Sansa came to a vastly spacious cavern. It could easily fit a small fleet of boats and across the generous space was a fork of three diverging tunnels. She examined each.

The left had the most bones as far as the eye could see. Goat horns, human femurs and what could only be little dragon skulls. Sansa shivered at the sight.

She moved to the middle one next. It had the smallest opening that could probably fit smaller dragons but looked to be the most perilous with boulders and spikes blocking her view. She could barely see through a few feet.

The rightmost one was similar to the first. It had an upward incline and a few bones scattered on the ground but what grabbed her attention were the barely discernible markings further into its walls. Ambling closer to them, Sansa shined the light higher up the stone and sucked in a sharp breath. 

Wights. 

The white chalked paint and severe etchings took shape of wights and spread up and over the walls to the ceiling. She made her way further and saw a carved image of spirals that sprouted circles in a curve. Eventually, at the edge of the tunnel before a bend was the form of the Night King himself surrounded by his generals, long spears in hand. And unlike the carved army, had blue-painted eyes that stared her in death.

This had to be the right path.

She wondered if anyone on this island talked about them. Surely someone had seen and questioned why there would be such markings in a Valyrian stronghold. Were they here long before the Targaryens arrived or were they made by Aegon himself? 

Either way, it was a reminder what was at stake if she failed.

“Loyal with a fierce spirit. Wise with a spine of steel.” Sansa whispers, eyes closed. The gods trusted her with this chance and she can’t waste it.

Fierce Spirit. 

Spine of Steel.

Sansa marches on and follows the tunnel. It rounded a right bend going downwards and she kept a hand along the walls to serve as a guide. Then her fingertips grazed air and there wasn’t a wall to touch anymore.

She had reached another abyss of space and she can’t tell where it ended. This cavern was far larger than the last and therefore darker than the last, engulfed in black no matter where she shined her lamp. And Sansa knew the second she stepped in…she wasn’t alone. 

It was completely silent but she felt that she wasn’t. Without much of a choice she entered the cave. Not a moment after she does, a deep rumble of a growl echoes through the air and she freezes.

No. 

Growls.  

The earth shook and Sansa planted her feet in place while she could only guess where the dragons moved about. It came to a stop followed by ominous silence and she still couldn’t see a single thing. 

Suddenly, a strong stream of flame lit the cavern as the largest beast Sansa had ever seen roared its neck in an arch. She staggered back, raising her arm to shield her eyes from the bursting hot light. 

The place became brightened with slow burning fires on the walls and it exposed her to the beasts she came for less than ten feet away staring at her.

Sansa had never felt so small in her whole life. Not even seeing The Wall compared to how tiny she felt standing in front of two maws that could devour her at any second. No amount of expectations and studying could’ve prepared her for this. Sansa had been through almost everything but face dragons before. She was profoundly out of her depth.

The larger of the two was more fearsome to behold. It must be at least five times bigger than she thinks Drogon was. Eyes a dark golden colour with streaks of black, it had long inky black teeth and each appeared to be strategically spread as if to ensure it could pierce through anything and anywhere it bit. A webbed crown formed around its head and circled around his face giving the image of a spiked beard. His teeth were bared and ready to snap. 

He was fierce. A dragon meant for war. 

And his scales were a perfect mix of copper and gold blending with the cave walls. 

Sansa quickly sifted through her limited knowledge of dragons. 

This was the Bronze Fury. Mount of King Jaehaerys the Conciliator and the second largest dragon alive.

If this was Vermithor then the dragon next to him, the one always seen by his side and always coiled with was…she turns left. Silverwing.   

Sansa released a breath she didn’t know she was holding because gods, she was just beautiful. 

Absolutely mesmerizing. 

Her head was smaller and smoother than her mate’s with two perfectly slanted horns, lined and pulled back from her snout. Teeth just as sharp but shorter and less spread through her mouth. 

She had glowing silvery blue eyes and the rest of her slender body was as sleek as her face, covered in silver scales that glittered majestically against the flames around them. 

Silverwing dips her head forward and Sansa startles.

The she-dragon made a crooning sound she thinks was meant to be a greeting, curious rather than threatening. She almost laughed aloud. Never had she imagined such a thing as a non-threatening, fire-breathing, human eating beast; not even one said to be friendly and docile. 

Yet somehow the silver dragon before her did come across as so, gentle and waiting as she stared almost encouragingly at Sansa. 

Encouraging…

 Oh.

The mount of Alysanne Targaryen.

She glanced back and forth between the two great dragons. A brief and unexpected thought to try and claim Vermithor struck her. Solely to see Daemon’s expression when he found out she claimed the Bronze Fury and throw back in his face the disregard he bestowed his wife .

Bronze bitch he proclaimed to the kingdoms, Bronze bitch he called Rhea in front of the royal family, bronze armor he mockingly offered to purchase for her, his supposedly innocent eight-year old daughter. Though the insults weren’t something she nor Rhea were bothered by, Sansa never got to defend her mother and father or Robb from the court’s humiliation. She could with Rhea. 

But Gaemyn’s words came to mind.

Dragons are especially intelligent, with far more awareness than any other creature. They sense if you mean them harm, they sense your intentions…

Vermithor would know she was claiming him to spite Daemon. 

Jon told her he followed his instincts and well…her first instinct told her to run, the second was that claiming him wasn’t right. Somehow Sansa knew it in her very being. The Bronze Fury wasn’t for her.

So she focused on the dragon she felt immensely drawn to. She put the lamp on the ground carefully so as not to spook them and took off her right glove. She began taking slow measured steps as golden eyes followed her path protectively. 

…they sense your fear and hesitance. You must overcome that fear or face the consequence of them finding you unworthy. 

She pushed down every reservation, every urge to flee and braved the space between them until she was merely an arms-length away.

Follow your instincts.

Follow your instincts.

Silverwing had greeted her and Sansa wanted to return the gesture. She keeps her gaze on silvery eyes and no other as she lowered her chin, lifted her skirts between her thumb and forefinger on either side and placed her right foot in a pivot behind her left. Then she bends as low as she could go and showed true deference and respect in the way that was ingrained in her since childhood long ago. The way she’d done a thousand times yet utterly different this once. 

Unlike most times in King’s Landing during both lives, it didn’t feel like a sham. She didn’t feel disingenuous or silly or stupid at the mercy of monsters.

Instead, Sansa felt jarring anticipation. 

She stays still when Silverwing moves toward her. She stays still when her snout skims around her hair first, then her chest and then her stomach. 

She was smelling her, she realized and jolted slightly when Silverwing snuffled, letting out a puff of vapor through the slits of her nose and moistening Sansa’s face as she drew back. Other than that, neither her nor Vermithor displayed any sign of rejection or hostility and she stands back up. Knowing what she had to do next, Sansa reached out to Silverwing slowly. 

Her open palm meets thick warm scales and everything else fades. Even the keen awareness she had on the bronze dragon vanishes from perception. 

It was just her and this beautiful dragon.

She was touching Silverwing, Sansa thought in unmatched astonishment. A historic dragon that hasn’t been ridden in twenty years was letting Sansa touch her. She slackens as a wave of calm washes over her and presses her forehead against the large muzzle. Entranced in their own little world, dragon and human felt the beginnings of a bond like a small root plant itself, connecting them to each other. 

“Rystas, Silverwing. Brōzio ñuha iksis Sānsa Stārke se Alysanne Targārien.  Iksan both.  Jittan rȳ jēda naejot paktot se wrongs nyke could se naejot prepare se realm naejot laehurlion greater evil. Would ao join nyke se rual nyke se rigle naejot sagon aōha tȳne kipagīros?” She whispers the words she had practiced over and over again.

“Hello, Silverwing.  My name is Sansa Stark and Alysanne Targaryen. I am both. Sent through time to right the wrongs I could and prepare the realm to face greater evil. Would you join me and allow me the honor to be your second rider?”

The lovely beast purred and Sansa swears she felt a shoot of delight, Silverwing’s delight in finally claiming a rider, too.

She accepted. 

Sansa covered her mouth. A shaky gasp left her and her knees buckled from shock and relief because she’s actually done it. 

She’d claimed and bonded with a dragon!

She knew she’d needed to but it was different from actually having a real and tangible one to ride and fly. By the gods, if only her family could see her now. Her brothers and sister would go wild. Mother would most definitely faint. Father…father would be scared for her. But he’d be proud too, she knows he would’ve been. And Rhea, well…. 

Vermithor and Silverwing moved and it brought Sansa back to reality. The enormous creatures quaking the ground no longer scared her as much and she watched curiously as they maneuvered their bodies to turn around, Silverwing— her dragon —curled herself tighter to avoid hitting her new rider. 

Sansa didn’t miss how the roped nets wrapped around their torsos constricted at the movement. 

When they were fully facing the other side, Silverwing looked back and she reminded Sansa of Lady for a moment, neck craned and head tilted expectantly. Vermithor huffed and she comprehends they were waiting for her. With a better view of the space behind them, Sansa saw that it wasn’t a dead end but a huge tunnel, another way out.

She picked up her glove and lamp and smiled at Silverwing as she passed her. They followed her prudently, letting her walk ahead and moving only once in a while to accommodate her steps. As far as she could tell, it was only a long straight path and a left given by the spot of brightness bouncing off the corner in the distance.

While they trekked, Sansa tried to settle the heady feeling from claiming Silverwing.

What next? What happens when they get out? Should she ride Silverwing…she didn’t exactly know how, did she? 

And the sun was out, everyone would see her. Did it matter? She’ll have to let them know anyway. 

Contemplating her options, Sansa turned the last stretch left and squinted her eyes to adjust to the brightness. When it did, she halted abruptly, barely registering Vermithor’s gruff of annoyance. 

Right outside the edge of the short tunnel on the sands of the beach, was a dragon sitting on its haunches facing them, its figure outlined by a dark colour. Sansa could only see up to its neck as the dragon’s head was higher than the roof of the cave’s mouth and kept it out of sight.

How come they were so silent?! They were the size of hills for heaven’s sake!  

The shore rippled beside the dragon blocking their escape only to reveal a spiked head half-floating in the waves. Sansa squeaked and stumbled back into Silverwing, dropping her lamp as the newly bonded dragon duly caught her. 

She remained there, her back to Silverwing’s snout, not knowing how to proceed. While the taller dragon hadn’t seen them yet, the one in the water was looking right at them. The Dragonmount was a lair for many dragons, they might let them pass. They probably passed each other all the time. 

Not her though. She was an intruder in their territory.

Will they ignore her or will they attack? These were wild dragons for sure, the only two to have been ridden before were behind her. 

Sansa claimed Silverwing but she didn’t know how to ride her and she couldn’t very well have them fight each other in a tunnel with little room for escape. It’s better to turn around and return to the cave. They can go out through where she came from. 

Vermithor released an impatient growl and Sansa turns to him in a panic. 

“Shh, keep quiet.” She whispered only to realize she just tried to hush the dragon that wasn’t hers and apologized immediately when said dragon glared at her, “Shijetra nyke.”

“Pardon me.”

Silverwing flicked her tail at her mate as if telling him not to scare her rider then nudged her forward, which in human equivalence was more of a shove and Sansa turned the panicked gaze to her. The pair of silver-blue eyes were fixed intently at the two dragons and had the same imploring look she gave when she welcomed Sansa. 

She didn't understand. Was she trying to say it was safe to pass? The wild dragons haven’t moved a muscle at the noise they were making. Did that mean they wouldn’t mind their presence?

No, it was safer to go back.

But that choice was taken from her when Silverwing bolted over her as she yelped and crouched down, crawling straight ahead at an alarming speed like an eager dog with her tail swishing and all.

“Silverwing, what are you doing?!” Sansa hissed and hurried after her. The she-dragon’s long limbs was closing the distance quickly and she waved her arms to catch her attention. 

“Daor, umbagon!” 

“No, wait!”

Despite her enthusiasm, Silverwing stopped right away. She nudged her again when Sansa caught up to her, “Skoros issi ao sylugon naejot ivestragon? Skoros jaelā naejot gaomagon?” 

“What are you trying to tell me? What do you want to do?”

Her dragon answered with an assuring croon and returned her gaze to the wild dragons. Sansa’s chewed on her lip while she tried to understand.

It’s alright. 

They won’t hurt us.

Silverwing wanted her to meet them. Why? 

They’re waiting for us. 

They seemed to be. Again she wanted to ask why but she didn’t want to lose the respect of her newly gained dragon. If she insisted it was safe then Sansa had to trust that. 

“Sȳrje.” She nods, conceding to her dragon who trilled with glee.

“Alright.”

Silverwing crawled forward again, this time more sedately. Perhaps she was just an overly friendly dragon. Sansa continued to walk alongside her, heartbeat rising with each step. They got closer,  the wild dragons remained perfectly still but it only made her more nervous. 

When they exited the cave, Sansa paused to crane her neck up and her mouth dropped to an o at the full sight.

The dragon on the left sat on her haunches and limbed wings. She had her neck straight and head held high as she stared down at Sansa with steady ocean blue eyes. She was smaller than Silverwing but where her silver dragon was lithe and deft, this dragon was incredibly robust. She had a solid imposing build with filled-out limbs that shapely bulged beneath her scales.

She also had two long white horns pulled back but they curved sharply upward midway, appearing like a wolf's ears on high alert when they sensed danger. Her underbelly was bone white as her horns but the rest, the dark colour that outlined her against the sun revealed a pure deep red that shone like rubies and contrasted the unreflective belly.

A heart tree, Sansa immediately thought.

She was the heart tree in dragon form.

With smooth and opaque white bark and weirwood red leaves for scales.

And those ocean blue eyes. Sansa hadn’t seen those in a long while but it was a shade she can never forget. She used to see them everyday in the mirror, in her mother and brothers.

She sifted through her mind, shoving the ache in her chest away. There was no dragon with this appearance or features ever recorded. She must’ve never been seen in Westeros…or didn’t exist the first time around, for a dragon like this wouldn’t have gone unnoticed.

It couldn’t be a coincidence. This one was brought along with Alysanne Targaryen’s life. 

Sansa’s brows furrowed in deliberation… but she already had a dragon.

Unless—

Sansa sucked in gasp, the answer staring her in the face all along. The blessing from the gods of Old Valyria. Breaths that burn.

Breaths

They meant her to have more than one. 

And the fact that the dragon bobbing in the water watched her as intently as the other two and she didn’t feel the wrongness she had with Vermithor but a familiar tug pulling at her, Sansa realized they meant her to have three.

Seven hells, did they?

She turns to Silverwing for confirmation. Her bonded only stood blocking the cave entrance with that friendly expression that told her, yes, they did.

Vermithor laid curled behind Silverwing watching the scene unfold and Sansa, beyond overwhelmed surrounded by four beasts, released a garbled sound of disbelief. Her eyes widened when the red dragon hummed in response, satisfied their human came to the right conclusion and inclined her head to the one submerged in the shallows. 

The dragon rises and sea water cascades down his scales. 

This was indisputably Grey Ghost. He blended so well with the fog she’d have missed him earlier if she wasn’t so alert. He was a pale grey-white and his eyes, contrary to popular claims, weren’t of the same colour as the rest of him but were also blue. The palest of slate blue mistaken for grey in the few and far sightings of him. Sansa thought he’d fit right in above Winterfell’s skies.

He was a skinny dragon with a narrow face and instead of horns, had dozens of thin spikes around his head almost like an urchin. It made him look completely wild and dangerous despite his significantly smaller size.

He emerged on all fours and crawled far around her, circling to the side of the cave before he stopped beside Silverwing. Sansa had taken a mere single step when his breathing quickened through his nose. Any doubt in the gods' intention to give her more than one dragon dissipated as she became more concerned with the smallest dragon’s increasing nervousness. 

“Shh, lykirī…lykirī. Ziry iksos sȳrje, nyke nūmāzma daor ōdrikagon.” She soothed, stretching her arms out in a gesture of peace.

“Shh, calm…calm. It’s alright, I mean no harm.” 

“Kostagon nyke renigon ao?” She coaxed.

“May I touch you?”

Grey Ghost hesitated with a torn expression. He glanced at Silverwing and the red dragon behind her before lowering his head by her feet and shutting his eyes. 

The precious dragon trembled at her touch.

“Konīr, konīr. Ūndegon? īlon're mirre raqirossa kesīr.” She strokes his snout comfortingly, mindful of the thin spikes at the back of his head. “Yn nyke shifang skoro syt ao sagon zūgagon, iksan wary hen arlie, tolī.”

“There, there. See? We're all friends here.” 

“But I understand why you're nervous, I get wary of meeting new people, too.”

He began to relax under her fingers and Sansa continued her ministrations for quite a while, the crashing of waves on the shore the only indication of time passing. 

When he seemed calm enough, Sansa placed her hands under his maw and urged him to lift it up. Grey Ghost followed and his eyes opened, filled with adoration. 

“Rystas. Ziry iksos iā rigle naejot rhaenagon ao lanta.” She said tenderly.

“Hello. It's an honor to meet you and your companion.” 

“Brōzio ñuha iksis Sānsa Stārke se Alysanne Targārien. Would ao rual nyke naejot bo—?”

“My name is Sansa Stark and Alysanne Targaryen. Would you allow me to bo—” Grey Ghost shrieked with joy before she even finished and nuzzled deeper into her hand. 

Sansa giggled, feeling his drastic change in mood before she looked behind her. The proud weirwood-coloured dragon appeared strangely amused but bent her head as well, letting Sansa pet her snout. 

There was profound acceptance in Tully blue as it met Targaryen lilac and with the last of the bond being sealed, Sansa felt something snap into place. The gods’ magic flowed between the four of them. Where she only felt intuitions with Silverwing from the tendril of a bond, she was almost blown over by the powerful surge of their thoughts and emotions, anchoring each of them to her. 

We are with you.

She choked and unbidden tears welled in her eyes. They knew where she came from.

They knew what she had been through and they knew why she was here. The gods made it so and a heavy weight lifted from her shoulders.

For the first time since being born here, Sansa felt like she wasn’t truly alone. 

They were the missing link that tethered her to this world and their bond felt as true as to what she had with her beloved Lady. 

Yet she knew it was also different. While she knew without a doubt that Lady would have stuck by her through the wars if she had lived, their bond was forged in a time of peace and happiness. Lady was her innocence, her childhood killed too soon. 

These magnificent creatures were fully aware of the duties they’d be subjected to by bonding with her. They knew they’d have a crucial part in the battles to come and take the brunt of the blows while Sansa tried to mediate peace between two destructive factions. They knew they’d have to share her pain and suffering and still readily accepted her.

She was theirs and they were hers in a way Lady never had the chance to be. 

When the bond settled, leaving a thrum of peace and contentment between them, Sansa whispered a single word. “Heartfyre.” 

“Skorkydoso ao hae se brōzi Heartfyre?”

“Do you like the name Heartfyre?”

For she couldn’t think of one more befitting the Valyrian blessing that represented her past.

The red dragon hummed approvingly and Sansa beamed, “Heartfyre it is.” 

Then she surprised even herself. “Might you all fly with me?” 

The sun had fully risen, there was no point in trying to sneak back to the keep. Anya would’ve found her room empty by now and walking back to the castle with three dragons in tow would raise just as much alarm as flying. 

Most critically though, she ought to do it now while her relief coupled with the excitement of her three dragons overruled her fears. 

She was just about to ask who she should ride first when Heartfyre started lowering her body to the ground. Sansa regarded Silverwing and Grey Ghost. Neither protested and it seemed they’ve collectively agreed on Heartfyre going first.

Grey Ghost was more than ready to fly. He’d never been bonded before! He was excited but nervous, but more excited.Their rider was lovely! His fellow bondmates said his avoidance of humans made his flying a little too nimble and prone to stunts that might scare their rider for her first flight. He didn’t want to scare her! He will wait for her to be comfortable like she did with him then they could fly together and avoid other people to their heart's content.

While Silverwing missed being flown by a rider, she was fine not being this Alysanne’s first. She was already the first to bond with her after all and neither of the other two have ever been claimed before. Silverwing can be generous this once. She also knew their sweet rider would feel bad for adding burden to the saddle ropes that have admittedly become tight over the years.

Sansa walked around Hearfyre and inspected how to climb her. She placed a tentative step on her left wing then put her full weight when the she-dragon didn’t object. She grasped at the edge of her wing next, the scales rough under her leather gloves and pulled herself up, kneeling on her dragon. Heartfyre looked back at her and Sansa stilled as she felt herself being lifted from the ground, the dragon carefully raised her wings until it reached her back. 

Despite her limbs wobbling from nerves, Sansa crawled onto Hearfyre’s crest—the place where she saw Daenerys sit on Drogon—grabbing every ridge she could and settled herself between two spines, legs astride on each side. She peeked at Silverwing and Grey Ghost who had moved to either side of Heartfyre, the former was rolling her wings in preparation while the latter was stomping his own rapidly and spraying sand everywhere. 

Sansa gazed to the horizon in front of them. 

Gods, this was it.

Time slowed down as she bent her body closer, plastering herself around Heartfyre’s back and tightened her hands on her spine; the pounding in her ears the only thing she could hear.

Alright, alright. You can do this. Be brave.

“Issi ao lēda nyke?” She exhales shakily.

“Are you with me?” 

Heartfyre vibrates beneath her. All three dragons open their maws wide, drew back and roared thunderously, nearly deafening her in the few seconds it lasted. Invigorated by their response, Sansa finds the sliver of strength to voice her command. 

“Sōvegon.”

Heartfyre launched up into the air and Sansa’s heart jumped to her throat at the force of wind that pushed her back. 

A piercing scream left her lips followed by another and another, utterly unladylike and drowned out by the strong breeze as they got higher to the heavens. Sansa couldn’t even look anywhere. She just knew she was already so far off the ground as she hung on for her life. She wrapped her limbs around Heartfyre and hid her face in her arms, eyes closed.

Oh, gods, oh gods, oh gods. She was going to die!

This was nothing like riding a horse! She should’ve waited for the dragonkeepers.

Sansa Stark sent to the past to save Westeros only to plummet unceremoniously to her death. What a jape.

Just when she was about to plead with them to go back down the tug that threatened to pull her from behind disappeared. Heartfyre had stopped their ascent. Her weight evens out, levelled like she was merely sitting in a chair back in her rooms. The brief stability gives Sansa the clarity of mind to notice her dragons were trying to tell her something as she refused to move from her tucked position.

We are with you.  

We won’t let you fall.

A bit of coherent reason returned her to her senses. Sansa knew that. She had to trust that they won’t let her fall. She had to get used to this and learn to fly competently if she had any hope of succeeding.

Slowly but surely, she straightens her arms and pushes up from where she had every surface of her body stuck to Heartfyre. 

Then Sansa opened her eyes and gasps out loud unrestrainedly. It was a never ending expanse of blue and white. She glances to her sides and sees Silverwing and Grey Ghost close by and surprisingly, Vermithor flying behind them. Then she braved a peek below and saw they were indeed thousands of feet from the ground. 

The view was so different from The Wall’s.

She could see the entirety of Dragonstone outlined like a puzzle piece in the blue ocean. The Dragonmount and castle were miniscule and the few trees only dots of green. Far ahead where the sky seemed to meet the sea, there was an undefined dark and unmoving shape. 

Driftmark. She could see Driftmark from here.

Her shoulders were shaking and she realized she was laughing, quietly at first, then full-blown as the fear subsided, replaced with sheer awe. 

They circled in the air. Grey Ghost and Silverwing screeched beside her and joined in her mirth. Sansa smiles wide, she closed her eyes again to soak in the morning’s first sunbeams on her face. She welcomes the whipping winds that prickled her cheeks and combed through her hair and the misty white coldness against her neck. 

She was flying through clouds, for gods’ sake!

It was the most extraordinary thing she’s ever felt. And she’ll get to feel it again and again because she could now.

Oh, she was still very much terrified. The fear of falling hadn’t vanished completely if the numbingly tight grip she had on Heartfyre’s spikes were anything to go by. But it was overpowered by a potent, vivifying thrill. 

She felt it in the blood rushing from her head, through her veins and to the tips of her fingers. 

It was absolutely exhilarating.

Sansa felt like her heart was about to burst out of her chest. She had never felt so alive. “Dracarys!” 

The dragons roar and to her amazement, a volley of black flames streams from Heartfyre’s mouth reaching far ahead and grew wider as it did, wider than Drogon’s ever was during the long night.

Beside her Grey Ghost giddily joined in, his flames a vivid violet fireball swirling with silver. Another record in the history books for her shy dragon. Silverwing shot her own bright blue jets with veins of red and orange that reached the farthest in front of them. Once they passed through the dissolving steam Heartfyre surged down and Sansa shrieks, her stomach swooping all the way as they dove nosefirst toward the island.

“Heartfyre, gīda!” She yelled half-laughing.

“Heartfyre, steady!”

Her dragon stretched her broad wings and flattened gradually, gliding closer above Dragonstone. The others follow and Sansa watches in joyous wonder as they began to spiral over and under Heartfyre like a wheel. They breathed their flames whenever they could and created a flurry of colourful banners all around her. 

Sansa glimpsed with a little understanding why the Targaryens’ were so obsessed with them. Why they believed themselves above everyone else and thought themselves akin to gods. 

One can easily imagine conquering the world sitting atop these creatures.

The power that came with dragons was a dangerous thing. Yet Sansa had long ago built immunity, repulsion against letting the desire for power control her after seeing what it did to people. Instead, she lets the strongest feeling other than elation surround her.

Safety. The power not to harm others, but simply to protect herself. 

Up here with three dragons given by the gods themselves even just for a short while, Sansa felt she could leave her worries behind and be at peace. Up her, no schemes and plots could follow her, no people could attempt to use her and no one around who can bother her. 

Isn’t that hilarious? She once thought there wasn’t a place in the world that was truly safe anymore, not even Winterfell but she could feel safe on a dragon where one wrong move can plunge her to her death. 

Sansa looked down below them. They were flying lower, just in height with the Dragonmount’s peak, its opening spewing liquid flames and billowing smoke. There was the fishing village and the castle separated by a smattering of trees. 

And people gathered in the courtyard, their small faces turned up. 

Well, there was no turning back now.

Chapter Text

Daemon was pulled from slumber by the pounding in his head and the chamber doors. He peeked at the window to find it was the arse crack of dawn.

“My prince! Prince Daemon! Apologies but the dragons have taken to the skies!” A very dead man’s frenzied shouts muffled its way to the room.

With an annoyed growl, he swipes the arm draped on his chest, pulls off the blanket and reaches for Dark Sister. He headed to the door and swung it open, simultaneously pointing the Valyrian steel to the idiot's neck whose panicked eyes widened.

“This is Dragonstone, boy. There are always dragons in the sky. If your next words don't send me to war in urgency, the rest of the castle will be greeted this morn by your head on a spike.” He drawls, pressing the tip of his sword deeper into his flesh.

The steward gulped loudly before speaking. “It’s Silverwing, Vermithor, Grey Ghost and a large dragon no one’s seen before. The villagers heard them roar from the Dragonmount and take to the skies. Chasing each other and spewing fire! We fear a battle above the castle and…”

The boy paused, nervousness evident in his expression. Daemon raised a brow, “And what?” 

He’s answered by the sound of stampeding. Harold Royce rounded the hall’s corner with a pinched red face and his chit’s two bronze apes behind him. A handful of Daemon’s own gold cloaks stalked closely after. 

Great. Just what he fucking needed. 

“Daemon! Where is she?!” The oaf bellowed.

“Ser Gerold!” A bronze knight put his arm out to hold back his sire. “Wait!”

Three gold cloaks ran ahead and did the same. One of them, Ser Kent shouted. “Watch yourself!”

Daemon drops his sword from the steward’s neck and leans against the doorframe with a grunt. “I’m in no mood for this, Harold. Spit your feathers elsewhere. Take him away.”

His men made to obey but Royce got all up on their faces and shouted, “I’m not leaving until you’ve returned her!” 

“What?” He said impatiently, not really wanting to hear the answer.

The commander of Dragonstone’s guard, Ser Brondyl, stepped forward. He steadies a hand at the men, signalling them to wait before they drag the knight by force. “My prince, Princess Alysanne cannot be found. She wasn’t in her chambers when her maid came to wake her.” 

This only irritated Daemon more. The little brat probably got lost after fancying herself some exploring at night and cried herself to sleep in some alcove after failing to find her way back. Daemon crossed his arms. 

“So you lost your lamb and you want me to what? Act the fretful shepherd?” He asks, tone patronizing.

“Don’t pretend at cluelessness! This is your doing, I know it! What’ve you done to her?” Harold yelled back.

“Tsk tsk, are you accusing me of something, Harold? This must be the part where I call a witness to attest my innocence.” Daemon grinned and pushed the half-open door wide, revealing the naked whore sitting on his bed, clutching the sheets to her chest. 

“The only thing she proves is that you’re exactly the shameless monster we know you are! Where. Is. Sansa!” He demanded. 

Daemon rolled his eyes and was consequently hit by a wave of dizziness. “Urgh. Get me some fucking Oleander.” He mutters, ordering the nasty hangover concoction. Ser Brondyl tipped his head at the bug-eyed steward who scrambled off, happy to get away while Daemon pulled at his hair and tried to relieve the pressure on his throbbing temples.

“Daemon! Where is she?!” 

Fucking hell.

He growled, “Perhaps she’s seeking respite from your blubbering self.”

“You think this is a jest? If she’s been harmed in any way—” “Then you’ve failed your duty. Do not blame me for your incompetence. If you don’t fuck off right this moment, I’ll feed you to Caraxes myself.”

As if on cue, a chorus of roars thundered above the castle. 

Right. The dragons. 

Daemon looked over his shoulder to the windows of his room that faced east toward the Narrow Sea instead of the Dragonmount. It displayed nary a passing bird but nevertheless, he knew they were out there. One problem at a time. 

Unless of course…a thought begins to simmer in his mind and he almost groans at the likeliness of it.

In contrast to the contemplative state that overtook Daemon, Gerold was further alarmed by the dragons’ restlessness and tried to shove past Ser Kent and Ser Teck. 

Daemon turns back and watches the fool struggle as they restrain him.

“Royce, cease this! Accusing and attacking the prince is treason. Our liege could’ve had you put to the sword the second you charged at him.” Ser Brondyl said bluntly.

“Ser, this isn’t helping us find Lady Sansa.” The Belmore knight reasoned.

“Listen to your man.” Ser Teck injects. “Turn your efforts to her search.”

Gerold breaks free from the guards who let go and points a finger at him. He felt the impulse to cut it off with a swipe of Dark Sister. “If you had anything to do with this I swear to the Old Gods and the New. You will pay.”

The threat was laughable. Sheep did not scare dragons. 

He sneered at the cunt. “If this was my doing you’d have disappeared with her. Now, if you’re done caterwauling, might we go see what is actually going on?” He slammed his door shut and started traversing the hall, the others hot on his heels. “Then we’ll find the errant child and I can be rid of you by noon.” 

He’ll send them out of Dragonstone as fast as he can. This entire hoax had been more trouble than it was worth. She had been more trouble than it was worth. 

They strode to the courtyard, him with a jerkin thrown on and Oleander downed in his stomach given by a chasing maid. Despite what he said to the knights, Daemon already had an idea of what’s happened or rather, what failed to happen.

The bronze brat tried to claim a dragon and he was going to reap the rewards of her idiocy.

The dragons were either annoyed and fleeing from her disturbance or they were currently fighting over her remains. The others wouldn’t know it, terrified as they were of the wrestling beasts in the sky but then again, they were no Targaryen.

If a dragonless child of their descent goes missing in the middle of the night on an island full of unclaimed dragons there really was only one possibility. He remembers his own escapade as a boy, sneaking out of the Red Keep and into the pit to claim his Caraxes. The completeness and power he felt reaping the true superiority of their bloodline.

His spawn with his bronze bitch was as far as a Targaryen could be. If it weren’t for her eyes he’d have refused to acknowledge her. Proven her a bastard, her mother an adulterer and had the marriage struck from existence. 

Alas, here they fucking were. He’ll have to endure another scolding from his brother and the bitch’s whining if she died. If she hadn’t, well now she’d know her place and Viserys will see how the union only weakened their house. 

Two guards cleared the path to the massive archway where some people were clustered and he walked out to the balcony overlooking the Eastern concourse. Maids, stableboys and knights below them were staring at the sky yet they gathered close to the walls, prepared to run inside at a second’s notice. They were also clamouring for the handful of dragonkeepers to do something. He glances at Caraxes on the roof of the Stone Drum keep. He wasn’t hostile in his perch but his eyes were trained solely above, tracking his brethren’s movements. Daemon likewise, set his eyes heavenward. 

Four dragons flew in a diamond formation northwest of them.

Vermithor was visibly the largest of the bunch. He was at the tail end of the group slightly separated from the rest while Silverwing, his meddling grandmother’s dragon, flew closest to him diagonally on the left. Those two wouldn’t harm each other. 

He shifts his gaze to the third largest dragon at the front and true enough, one he’d never seen before. It was huge. By familiarity, similar in size to Caraxes and blood red too if it weren’t for the white stretch under its tail to its neck. Daemon takes it in rather smugly. 

A new dragon ripe for House Targaryen’s taking. 

People gasped in surprise as the four abruptly folded their wings and plunged down to the earth. They didn’t come close to the castle when they stopped but settled flying by the peak of the Dragonmount where Silverwing and the smallest beast who had to be Grey Ghost proceeded to roll around the new dragon like a wheel, their flames swirling in the wind. 

The stunt told Daemon all he needed to know. Spaced apart and gliding easily. Roars of freedom rather than of anger or aggression. They were practically dancing around each other while Vermithor cruised behind. 

This wasn’t a battle. 

But it still begged the question why. Why the public display? He’s glimpsed Grey Ghost exactly twice in his life. Silverwing and Vermithor haven’t left the Dragonmount in years and were never seen with any other dragon. 

Behind him, Daemon hears Harold barking orders to the Royce men for the search party, making him reacknowledge the increasingly glaring connection between the girl’s disappearance and the dragons—ones that weren’t annoyed or fighting over any remains. 

He squinted his bleary eyes and inspected each beast. Silverwing and Vermithor’s saddles were empty. Grey Ghost was spinning and jerking too fast for him to pinpoint a rider but he didn’t need to linger on the smaller beast. A rippling of black and red right on the new dragon’s crest catches his attention. So easily mistaken for one of its spikes by a passing eye but not if one actually paid enough focus to it. To her.

Huh.

So, not a bastard.

Daemon’s jaw clicked at the confirmation, not only because his first presumption had been wrong. But that the other possibility he hadn’t deigned to consider and certainly never desired when he brought the girl here had just become the irreversible reality. 

The new dragon ripe for the taking has been plucked and he was…disappointed. That she managed to claim one obliterated any chance of annulment and his freedom to sire pure heirs. 

A child of his line was on the back of a dragon. Something that had been cemented in his ambitions since he was a boy yet here he stood, unable to summon any pride. Whatever scrap of it was snuffed out by resentment. Were it a daughter he actually wanted from a wife of his own choosing, Daemon wouldn’t have hesitated to get on Caraxes and fly alongside her for their first flight. A milestone for every Targaryen parent and child and now another thing taken from him. 

Nevertheless, a dragon was a dragon and no spawn of his with one will be raised in their sheepshit-filled valley. His Bronze Bitch will put up a fight but it was a matter even Viserys won’t budge on. She’d stay under his authority—as dragons are under House Targaryen—away from her railing mother and bleating uncle in Runestone and they can all hate it as much as he.

The servants looked at Daemon in confused horror when low embittered chuckles escaped him, afraid for their fates as the rogue prince merely laughed at the imminent threat hovering over them. Harold stopped and glared at him. He was in the middle of directing his men to “search with haste” in hopes of catching up to her non-existent abductors.

“You’re not catching up to her.” Daemon remarked.

“What?”

“She’s not on the island.” He said vaguely and Harold charges over to him then, “So you do know where she is?! Don’t speak in tongues you blasted drunk. Tell me plainly!” 

Servants tittered at the commotion. Royce spoke again in a hushed grave tone. “Confess and if she is returned safely, House Royce may not demand a trial for your perpetration.” 

The man couldn’t lie. His words might as well have been blown out of his nose. Trying in vain to have Viserys put him on trial was exactly what their self-righteous upstart house would do but he’s surprised the Valeman tried to deceive him. It showed just how desperate he was. 

Hopefully, the new development will rouse more entertaining outrage from their party to distract him from being stuck with the insufferable girl in the foreseeable future.

“Even if I were to tell you where she is,” He dallied and sees the Royce knights gear for a fight, “You still won’t get her back unless you suddenly grow capable of sprouting wings.”

Gerold was just about to tackle Daemon after he didn’t deny his involvement this time around but paused involuntarily, failing to understand the rest of what he said. 

“Is there…who is that!?” A stableboy in the crowd pointed to the sky.

Finally.

“Who?” A trembling maid asked.

“There’s someone on the red one’s back!” He exclaimed as the dragons came to hover closer to the left of Windwyrm Tower.

“No there isn’t!” Another said.

“Yes, there is. Look!”

“P-Princess Rhaenys?” The same maid offered meekly. A less fearful maid beside her hissed. “That’s not Meleys, idiot.”

“Oh, fuck.” The younger bronze shield gasped comically. “Ser Gerold, could it be…is it?”

Gerold whipped his head to Aether then to the sky then back to Daemon and his dreadfully knowing expression made his heart sink to his stomach. He swayed on his feet. His pallor once red with rage turned sickly blue in a second. “No. Gods, no.”

The other shield supplied in a whisper. “Lady Sansa?” 

“It must be.” Kardos, Dragonstone’s head dragonkeeper separated from his ilk behind them concurred. Daemon took satisfaction at the dawning fear in their expressions. The household stared at them curiously, unable to hear the low exchange but didn’t get the chance to ask who they thought was on the dragon. The four beasts curved their trajectory and flew straight for them.

“They’re coming!”

“Watch out!”

“Get inside!” 

Fifty or so castle residents shrieked and scattered. Some called to him for help while many ran inside and left the others to brace themselves against the walls. “Take cover!”

People held onto each other and covered their eyes from whirling dust as their clothes and hair blew in all directions from the downdraft brought by the combined force of four pairs of beating wings. 

Daemon on the other hand, descended the stairs of the grand balcony before standing in the courtyard. He was unmoved, facing the dragons head-on as they landed. Both for protection by keeping the danger in front of him and because the last time he witnessed so many grown dragons flying together was when his own father and grandfather still lived. 

To witness it again was a gratifying sight he’d never look away from, in spite of why they were here. 

The dragons took the last quick flaps as their hind legs stretched out and landed on the three jagged stone pillars just beyond the terrace with rocky impact. Silverwing and Grey Ghost shared the rightmost boulder, the little one landed askew, leaning sideways to make space for two. His long talons dug into the stone and shards crumbled to the ocean beneath. Silverwing folded her wings synchronously with Vermithor who took the left pillar connected to the mainland cliff that supported his enormous size and weight.  

Though fully aware of all this, Daemon keeps his appraisal on the red one who landed on the center pillar in a manner too steady and controlled for a wild dragon on its first bonded flight. She was a large and powerful-looking beast. Yet also unfortunate enough to be the one claimed by his half-bred child. 

Eventually, Daemon looked up at said rider. She was straddled on the dragon’s bare back gripping ridges of spine and he withheld a snort. That’s going to hurt. She must’ve been holding on for dear life and nearly fallen to death numerous times. 

Would that he was that lucky. 

The girl with her windblown hair with flyaways and cheeks flushed pink, glanced around before locking onto his gaze. Fire sparked in her purple irises. They were quickly replaced by ancient deep blue ones as her brawny beast rose and crawled forward. One foot on the coal-dark balustrade then the other. The dragon lowered herself, extending her neck past the railing until her head was right in the emptied space in the middle of the concourse. Close to the ground, directly in front of him.

“Who’s that?” A man pressed against a wall shakily asked. Few on the island still didn’t know of her unplanned visit and most had no clue what she looked like. 

“It’s the prince’s daughter.” A servant replied. “Princess Sansa.”

The dragon’s throat rumbles at the name and Daemon awaits the ear-splitting roar to his face. After he’d ensured the girl’s every discomfort and insult he knew she wouldn’t let the opportunity pass. 

And yet the roar never came.  

The girl only quietly climbed down from blood-red wings in her rumpled dark cloak and gown, her limbs carefully testing and finding each footing on the way before giggling when she gets to the ground. She’s out of breath and her knees wobbled slightly on the first few steps. Daemon observed as she stopped at the crook of the beast’s neck to run a hand along its scaled hide. 

“Thank you.” She whispered, the intimacy between dragon and rider heard by the courtyard. She moves away and her dragon straightens on the balustrade. Alysanne turns and faces him. All softness disappeared. She raises her chin, quiet yet bold in her defiant stare. Challenging him to deny her victory. 

Daemon raises a dismissive, almost amused brow.

How quaint. She thought she was special. Did she expect he’d fall to his knees with praise and apologies for a privilege she only had because of his blood flowing inside her?

“Congratulations, princess.” Kardos walked past him in greeting after his cold reception made it clear he wasn’t going to. There was a tightness to the man’s voice. 

Other keepers started to approach with the same reluctant cheer but no one else made to. The cries of panic from the remaining crowd subsided when they learned it was their prince’s daughter who claimed the dragon but they were very much still afraid to move an inch. The potent scent of sulfur had doubled in the atmosphere after the dragons had released torrent after torrent of flame and the air crackled with latent energy, only amplifying the fact that they were exposed and vulnerable surrounded by so many of the beasts. 

Kardos’ next words did nothing to assuage their fear either. “I think it’s mayhaps best you send your bonded for another flight and keep a distance from the other dragons. They might be amiable now but their moods can change very quickly. You should go inside, princess.” 

He gestured to usher her but the girl didn’t move. She blinked at them.

“They won’t attack each other.” She said, voice tinged with bafflement. 

It had been unknown to him then, but like the thick molten sea of magma bubbling underneath the island, Daemon was at the precipice of something that would explode in his face in the next moment.

“They’re my dragons. And Vermithor is their friend.”

What the fuck did she just say?

*******

Her statement was met with stunned silence. Everyone stared at her like she'd grown two heads or...three and Sansa didn't blame them.

She realized they had misunderstood what was happening when Kardos asked to escort her inside to prevent a dragon battle. They think only Heartfyre is hers and the others had simply flown along. 

Daemon Targaryen had his lips curled sardonically, taking on an expression of arrogance only a prince can achieve. He was looking at her like she was an idiot. 

“Princess, I’m afraid that’s not possible.” Dragonstone’s head dragonkeeper spoke. 

“Isn’t it? I know it’s unusual but why else would they go with me?” 

“A coincidence.” He said patiently, much like a mother correcting her child. 

“They follow my commands.” She responds. 

“Sansa—” Uncle Gerold tried to get a word in.

“You misunderstand, princess. Sometimes unclaimed dragons listen to those of Valyrian descent and dragonkeepers but it does not mean they have bonded.” Kardos continued to explain.

Sansa regards her uncle then, who was as confused as the rest but also concerned. He appeared ready to snatch her away from the dragons. She turns to the prince, obviously less concerned and more mocking in his stance. The entire courtyard wore varied expressions of confusion, incredulity and pity. 

They wouldn’t believe her from words alone. 

She fixed her stare on Daemon. “Sȳrje pār. Kessa nyke sylugon ziry?” 

“Very well. Shall I try again?” 

He froze instantly. As did many of those who understood Valyrian.

His eyes flickered with interest, a momentary break from his usual condescension before it was gone. 

“Silverwing, Grey Ghost.” She calls out. “Māzigon va.” 

“Silverwing, Grey Ghost. Come to me.”

The two dragons moved on command. People cried out when Grey Ghost jumped from his shared boulder with the silver queen to perch on the railing, settling by her left shoulder while Silverwing, large enough to reach her without crawling, slid her slender neck lowly around Sansa’s right, curling her snout by her legs. Heartfyre remained unmoving, haunched straight directly behind her.

Only then does the implication, the sheer magnitude of what their obedience meant begin to sink in. In front of the ancient mountain where Valyria’s most prized treasures made their lair, three of them wrapped around a mere slip of a girl as if claiming her for themselves, painting a glorious picture of raw and overwhelming power. 

The prince who had been so sure of himself, stumbled three steps back as if he’d had the wind gradually knocked out of him. Confidence shattered and mouth hung open—he gave the uncanny yet fascinating impression of a man simultaneously struck by lightning and slapped in the face with wet fish.

Dragonstone’s residents gaped similarly, eyes wide as saucers and unflatteringly gobsmacked. Another minute passed with everyone suspended in disbelief, completely arrested by what they were seeing.

“I—that’s. It can’t be.” A dragonkeeper blusters. 

It was Sansa’s turn to smile patiently, laying her right hand on Silverwing’s neck, the other stroking Grey Ghost’s sharp spiky snout like a pet, which to everyone watching was downright ridiculous. “I’ve bonded with them, ser. Just because it hasn’t been done before doesn’t mean it can’t be.”

“B-but it’s never…”

“The princess must speak true.” Gaemyn, who'd been silent since her landing, spoke up amidst the jarring scene. “Tis’ a known fact dragons cannot have more than one rider whilst that rider is alive but there was never one claiming inversely. T’was never proven a rider couldn’t be bonded to more than one dragon for no one’s ever tried and succeeded. We merely…assumed.”

Murmurs of debate sounded around the courtyard. 

“Dragons listen to a few commands by those like us,” Kardos said between awed breaths. “But they won't obey to cast fire from anyone but their rider.” He provided, staring at the three dragons around the princess.

“Hae vermithor. Ziry gōntan daor paghagon perzys.” Ralzo seconded. 

“Like Vermithor. He did not breathe fire while they flew.” 

Sansa’s eyes lit up. “Yes, thank you, Ralzo. That is a great idea.”

They all blinked again as she clearly understood him. Sansa walked to the balustrade looking at Vermithor who was separated from the three other dragons on the leftmost pillar of stone. 

“Vermithor, dracarys .” She ordered without preamble. Everyone waited with bated breath for the blaze of fire but the largest dragon’s maw stayed firmly closed, puffing smoke through his nose. Vermithor shot a look at his mate before spreading his vast leather wings and flying away back to the Dragonmount. The princess turns to them with a grin. “See? He’s not mine but they are.” 

Everyone stared back dumbly. She was actually telling the truth. How can they deny it after what she’s done right before their very eyes, smacking them with startling proof?

The prince stalks forward and Grey Ghost bares his teeth with a warning snarl. He halted immediately but Caraxes responded croaking behind him, no longer lying curled but crouching down on the roof. 

Daemon knew how ugly it could get if he continued. He rested his hands at his sides and not on Dark Sister, having no faith the child knew how to control her beasts and holding a weapon to three dragons is a death wish. 

The girl seemed to grasp the situation and looked back at her dragons. “Īlon kessa rhaenagon arlī tolī ao arghugon. Sōvētēs.”

“We shall meet again after you hunt. Fly.”

It was just a second confirmation of the truth when they took off immediately.

Ignoring the whispers rising around her, the girl approached him, tilting her head up at him. “Iksis bona zaldrīzes ānogar, my prince?”

“Is that enough dragonblood for you, my prince?”

He was confused for a few beats until his cloudy memory of their supper cleared. When he’d repeated again and again in his mind and words how she was no dragon. 

She’d understood him all along. 

Daemon looked at her then, truly and possibly for the first time. Her nerve, the insolent glint in her lilac eyes and the smugness hidden beneath her cold impassive face.

And he saw an echo of himself.

Perhaps he’d been too distracted to realize it. But maybe, she was his daughter after all. 

“How?” His arm shot out and grabbed her shoulder before he could think.

Gerold Royce and his men crowded around her. “Unhand her at once!” 

Daemon did so. “To the Painted Table.” He commanded.

“She must see the maester first!” 

“Now.” His tone brokered no argument. 

Alysanne calmly picked up her skirts and brushed past him, climbing up the steps. 

Everyone else just about managed to scrape their jaws off the floor to scramble after the prince who stalked closely behind his daughter.

*******

Uncle Gerold had the maester brought to the hall anyway, insisting to do a full assessment of her health. At one point, Maester Gerardys had to tell him to move away so he could work properly.

Sansa let him fuss as she was instructed to roll up her sleeves and gloves, remove her boots to check for scratches and turned her head about to inspect for bumps. Obediently followed when they made her wiggle her toes and fingers, roll her neck and shoulders and had her balance on each foot. 

The others allowed in the hall, dragonkeepers, a few guards and maids save Anya who was by her side, were led to the far corner by Sers Jon and Aether to give her some privacy. All while Daemon watched her on the opposite side of the infamous Painted Table. With its meticulous craftsmanship of Westeros’ landscape made for Aegon’s campaign, it was a piece of history even Sansa would take a moment to admire any other time. But not right now. 

The prince had been suspiciously silent and patient since he grabbed her at the terrace. He was observing her with a gleam in his eye she knew was a favorable sign for her plans but couldn’t help be unnerved by.

It was a stare of morbid fascination and covetous greed. 

“Tell me.” He asked in a calm, quiet voice but one that still demanded an answer. 

“I felt the pull of a bond when we arrived.” She began, “And I couldn’t ignore it any longer when I was trying to sleep so I went to the Dragonmount.”

Uncle Gerold makes a strangled noise from the back of his throat beside her.

“I walked into the tunnels until I found a dark cavern, Vermithor lit the walls with his fire and Silverwing was with him.” 

Everyone was listening raptly. “I knew she was mine, so I claimed her.”

“But not Vermithor.” Daemon stated. 

“No.”

“You speak High Valyrian, princess.” Kardos stepped forward.

 “I do.” She confirmed, meeting Daemon’s eyes briefly.

“Skoro syt gōntan daor vestrā?” Ralzo asked curiously.

“Why didn’t you say?” 

“I only learned it from books with our maester and we have not held conversations with other speakers or faced dragons.” Sansa admitted, “I did not want to get ahead of myself.”

“But you followed our suggestions on how to claim one and it worked? For all of them?” Gaemyn queried. 

“I used the commands you taught. But for the most part, I did what I felt was right.”

“And what was that?” Daemon asked, interested. 

“Silverwing greeted me warmly and I returned the gesture by curtsying.”

“...curtsying?” The Dragonstone dragonkeeper blinked.

Everyone spoke amongst themselves and she expected some laughter but there wasn’t any. The only one who dared to bark a dry laugh at the princess who just claimed three dragons was her sire, “You curtsied. To a dragon.” 

“Yes, it’s a sign of respect and deference.”

“Then what?” Daemon urged, almost too invested in her story. Which was hilarious considering the most emotion he’d expressed towards her since they met moved from a spectrum of indifference to irritation. 

“She let me touch her. I asked for the honour of being her rider and she accepted.” 

“And the other two? Grey Ghost and…”

“Heartfyre. Her name is Heartfyre.” Sansa finished, and they all stored the new dragon’s hailed name without protest. “After Silverwing and I bonded, she and Vermithor wanted to pass through a different tunnel from where I came from so we did.”

There was that strangled sound again.

“When I turned the last stretch, Heartfyre and Grey Ghost were waiting outside by the beach.” She added with a smile, “Grey Ghost was in the water. I almost didn’t see him.” 

“You saw two wild dragons blocking the cave and you thought it was a good idea to still go through it?” Gerold questioned frustratedly.

Sansa shrugs. “I thought about turning around but Silverwing ran to them.”

“She what?!” 

“She was excited, uncle. But Heartfyre and Grey Ghost didn’t rouse and I managed to calm her down before she crashed into them. We went out together and I felt the same pull I did with Silverwing.”

“And did you...curtsy to them as well, princess?” One of the black and red cloaks asked.

She laughed lightly, “No, I didn’t have to. I wasn’t even able to finish asking to be their rider when I felt the bond complete itself.”

The silence that came after was filled with busy minds trying to find fault with the princess’ story, trying to conjure reasons why she was lying or mistaken but they came up empty. 

There was nothing to suggest she hadn’t just done what they thought impossible. Seven hells, they’ve witnessed it themselves but they seemed to be in a perpetual state of shock and incomprehension. To her credit, the princess seemed to bear the severe hesitance to believe her without any offense. 

“This is extraordinary, Princess Alysanne.” Kardos professed. The dragonkeepers nodded vigorously in agreement while the rest of the staff remained in stupor. 

“You must excuse our skepticism, no dragonrider has ever claimed more than one.” Dragonstone’s keeper marveled. 

“You are the first.” Gaemyn proclaimed.

No, she wasn’t and supposedly there wouldn’t be a first in a hundred years yet, if that even happens again. Daenerys would’ve been put out if she found out Sansa accomplished the same feat as her. 

“Why didn’t you ride Silverwing, my princess? She has a saddle.” Gaemyn wondered.

“That is a concern I wish to raise.” Sansa said and Daemon’s brow arched,  “I think Silverwing and Vermithor have outgrown their ropes and I didn’t want to burden her further. Is there a way to loosen them or should they have to be replaced?”

“There’s a way to loosen them, Princess Sansa.” Kardos turned to Daemon. “My prince?”

The prince took his sweet time before nodding curtly. “Adjust the ropes. Have Grey Ghost and… Heartfyre fitted for saddles.” 

“We might have trouble with Vermithor. He hasn’t been claimed.” Another keeper pointed out.

“Silverwing and I can come. I believe he’d accept the help then.” She offered. If his grumpiness in the cave gave any indication, he was more bothered by the constrictions than her dragon was. 

“Good. Now get out, all of you.” Daemon ordered the household once more.

“I’d like for my uncle and sworn shields to stay if you permit it, my prince.” Sansa replied respectfully just as she did last night. However, the prince did not seem to mind. His stranger-may-care attitude suddenly vanished when everyone left and switched to one of single-minded intensity. 

“Tell me the truth.” His deep voice echoed in the emptier chamber as he placed his arms on the table and leaned forward, palms pressing against the ridges of Blackwater Bay and Crackclaw Point. “How did you really do it?”

It becomes clear he’d only been indulging her earlier and didn’t believe her story. 

“I’ve already—” She was cut off. “Have you come across something in your pursuit of learning High Valyrian without the citadel or the crown’s knowledge? The blood magic of Old Valyria? Some sort of obscure witchcraft?” Daemon interrogated with growing scorn by the second as if trying to uncover some dark secret, “—a curse from your fucking runes?”

Uncle Gerold intervened incensedly, “How dare—Tell me everything, girl.” Daemon finished.

“I have, my prince.”

“Don’t lie!” He slammed his hands on the Painted Table.

“I’m not.” She said with conviction. 

“If my niece says she’s not lying then she isn’t! She already told you everything that happened.”

“Stay the fuck out of this, Royce.” He snarled.

“I’m not lying, your grace. If I’ve studied dragonlore correctly, which as far as I know is not restricted to be learned by anyone, it’s that not even Valyrian blood magic can make a rider bond with more than one dragon. Dragons don’t bend to anyone’s command unwillingly, otherwise those in the freehold would have done so.” She explained. 

His mouth twisted dryly. “And that proves you’ve done this naturally?”

“You give me too much credit if you think I’m capable of cursing them into obedience. You may yell and threaten me as much as you wish. I don’t know why three dragons allowed me to bond with them. I swear it to the Old Gods and the Fourteen Flames. If you seek answers only they can give it to you for I am as shocked and confused as you are, my prince.” 

May the gods forgive her blasphemy but she’d really rather not get attacked by a feral prince. This seemed to have shaken him to his very core more than anyone else. Even her.

“I don’t care a whit what you swear.” He replied and straightened from the table, sensing he wouldn’t get anything else from her. “But for your sake, you better not be lying.”

“I have nothing to hide, Prince Daemon.” Sansa says softly.

He stormed out without another word.

*******

“Have you lost all sense, Sansa? Do you have any idea how worried we were? I thought you were smarter than this!" She winced at the volume of his bellow.

“Disappearing in the middle of the night? Sneaking into a volcano to claim a dragon?! Three, no less! You could’ve died!”

Telling him that she didn’t plan to claim more than one definitely won’t help.

“The Cannibal nests there! He could have swallowed you in one go and we’d be none the wiser. What would’ve happened then, huh? We’d have searched for you without end or mayhaps until we found your bones after they’ve spewed it out? What were you thinking?!”

Sansa opened her mouth to answer, “You weren’t!” Gerold finished.

“I didn’t do it on a whim, uncle.” She said.

“Oh, really?” He snapped then paused abruptly at her face. “No,” He denied, “Don’t tell me you…planned this. You meant to claim a dragon alone? Before we even left King’s Landing.” 

“I did.”

“Why?!” He asked desperately.

“I didn’t want to owe it to Daemon.” 

“You wouldn’t owe it to him even if he was there! You owe him nothing. We’ve been over this, child!” He exclaimed, seething. 

“And again, it’s not how everyone else would see it. I’m sure that’s not how he’ll see it soon enough. I’m his daughter by blood. If I had done it with his help, he’d claim it as his own victory.” She reasoned, “Now people can see differently. He had no part in it. He may have sired me but I claimed three dragons alone as a daughter raised solely by House Royce.”

Understanding briefly spread across his face before it returned to grimness. “What others think won’t matter if you’re dead.”

“But I’m not dead. I exercised great caution and followed all the instructions the dragonkeepers gave me. I swear.” 

Sansa says contritely, “I know it isn’t an excuse for worrying you or putting myself in danger and I’m sorry.” 

But not sorry for doing it, Gerold thought. Stubborn, headstrong girl.

“Did you know you’d have three?” He asked sharply.

“No. I didn’t lie about that uncle I promise. I felt mine was here and thought I’d have one like every other Targaryen.”

Gerold sat down heavily, drained from the toll of helplessness since he’d been told her room was found empty this morning. Now he was just…tired and weary and still a little bit in shock. “Still, why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you would’ve stopped me.” 

He pressed the pad of his thumb against the bridge of his nose, a headache growing like a hot knife behind his eyes. “Of course, I would’ve. It was mad.”

“I prepared as much as I could. The most any dragon claimer could do, really and I emerged unharmed.” It was mad though, no denying that.

“We would’ve gone with you, my lady.” Aether offered gallantly.

“Not before informing uncle or trying to dissuade me.” Sansa said, “And I’d rather not test the theory only Targaryens can survive encounters with wild dragons with people I care about.”

“Alysanne.” Gerold reproached her untimely humor. 

“I told you I felt the bond. I knew what I was doing.”

“Like you always do?” He groaned, not particularly appreciative of her uncommon intelligence at the moment. He was still too busy wrapping his head around everything to accept that she probably did know what she was doing because seven hells— three dragons.

She’ll be the death of him and her moth…

Gerold shot up in his seat, eyes spiking with genuine panic and they all stare at his sudden move. “Gods...Rhea’s going to murder me.” 

Her sworn shields blanched. 

“Us.” Aether croaked. “Lady Royce will kill us . Litter us with arrows—”

“Torture first.” Ser Jon nodded in all seriousness and Sansa rolled her eyes.  

As she watched them bicker on how to tell Lady Rhea, Sansa’s thoughts went to her plans. So much for remaining inconspicuous and not attracting too much attention. Having three dragons is a huge advantage but operating in the shadows will be much more difficult with all eyes stuck on her.

This changed the game and her mind was already readjusting the pieces on the board. She will make do as she always does.

Chapter Text

The scent of incense clung to the air in the king’s apartments, mixing with the musk of parchment and pumice stone from Viserys’ ever-growing model of Old Valyria. It took up almost half the room now. Alicent stood beside it, waiting for her husband to return from the morning stroll their maesters prescribed he take.

It’s become part of their weekly practice. Her waiting to speak to him about Rhaenyra’s bastard. Viserys refusing to listen. Her giving reasonable arguments. Him, dismissing every word. But she can’t stop until she’s made Viserys see the truth and restore the line of succession to its lawful order. Her children’s lives depended on it. 

Alicent was also in part, hiding from Lord Larys. There was something restless about the castle today. The servants and visiting households were abuzz more than usual, likely with some gossip involving one noble or another. If the information was noteworthy enough, he’d find a way to approach her. But she did not wish for the Lord Confessor’s unwanted stares at the moment. 

The doors croak open and Viserys comes in unsteadily, maesters and guards bowing behind him before taking leave. 

"Alicent." He greeted, "Good morrow."

"Husband," She replied with a pleasant smile. "How was your walk?"

"Well enough." He said fondly.

His legs shook a little and Alicent met him midway, catching his elbow. “You were able to forego your cane today, it’s a most encouraging sign. Let us pray your strength continues to return.”

She guided him to rest against the edge of the Valyrian model then moved to face him. She took a pace back, folding her hands before her. He hadn’t immediately taken a piece to fiddle with, looking tired but attentive at the least, so she drew in a measured breath. “I also hope the fresh air has given you the opportunity to clear your mind, my king. We need to speak about Rhaenyra.”  

Viserys’ expression faltered. “Alicent, not this again, please.” 

“You cannot keep dismissing this.” She said frustratedly. “We must give thought to the consequences of ignoring what she’s done. What this means for the legitimacy of the succession—”

“There is nothing to ignore because Rhaenyra has done nothing but give birth to a healthy boy— my grandson and her heir. ” He shook his head. “We should be rejoicing this event, not sullying it with endless suspicion. The crown’s line is secure now more than ever.”

“How can you say such a thing?” She gasped, aghast and voice rising despite herself. “Viserys, that child is not Ser Laenor’s! You see it as well as I. If we do not confront this grievous mistake, she might resume to—”

“That is enough.” Viserys stopped firmly. “This perceived mistake is not to be raised again, Alicent. I forbid you from speaking of it.”

The words struck her. Never before had he commanded her so explicitly. So unknowingly reminding her of her place as subject to his decrees and desires. The seconds that followed crackled with everything she could not say. Had just been silenced by her own king and husband to say. 

That against all decency, a bastard shall inherit the throne. 

He was truly forsaking this for Rhaenyra. Choosing her over the stability and good of the realm. Alicent reclaimed courage, a final attempt at reason burning on her lips even as she braced to comply. 

Three measured knocks cut the air. 

“Enter.” Viserys sighed.

Ser Harrold Westerling steps inside with Lord Larys shadowing him. “Your Graces, Lord Strong seeks an audience.”

Alicent turned to the Lord at the interruption and bristled wearily. “We are presently occupied, Lord Larys. I shall receive you in due course, perhaps this afternoon.” She responded with curtness. 

Whatever it was could wait. If she lost this chance to change Viserys’ mind, he’ll be too stubborn to ever listen again.

“With respect, Your Grace,” Ser Harrold spoke, “The Lord Confessor petitioned to speak with the king.”

Alicent went still, betraying her surprise from the misstep. She’d assumed his request was for her and in doing so, revealed more than she intended of their familiarity with each other. Though it was Ser Westerling who seemed to take notice more than her own husband. 

Larys shuffled forward, hands folded above his cane with an inscrutably sincere expression.

“This urgent matter may benefit from discretion but if His Grace permits,” he said, glancing at Viserys before landing on Alicent, “I would obligingly counsel with the queen in private as well.”

She restrained her alarm. What is he thinking, playing with imputation in front of others?

Gratefully, Viserys waved Ser Harrold away. He made to sit and she followed to assist him. “What is it, Lord Larys?”

“A troubling hearsay borne from Dragonstone’s winds has been making its way around the city, your grace.” He offered, gently leaning on his cane.

“Ah.” Viserys grinned crookedly, “It’s not yet been a day since Daemon arrived there. Has he declared himself king again? Or perhaps regaled them with scandalously sordid exploits in the Stepstones that people are now ravenously feeding on?”

“While the rumor has flown leagues beyond reason with every retelling, the one I have traced to be the first doesn’t endorse any rationality itself, my king.” He inclined his head, as though testing the weight of his next words. “Nor does it center on the prince, but our recently presented princess.” 

Alicent froze from arranging Viserys’ cushions, Larys’ eyes on her. Dread crept around her like a vine and she gripped the wooden backrest. This was what she and her father had been counting on. Yet it was also too soon. What could Daemon have already done in one night? Had he rushed to cast his daughter to the dragons? 

Viserys’ head perked in attention. “Alysanne?”

“Has something befallen her?” She quickly asked. May the Seven forgive them if the child was dead.

“No, my queen.” He intoned evenly, suggesting neither worry nor reassurance of the girl’s fate. “If it is to be believed, it’s the princess herself who has taken action.”

Alicent exhaled at the absolution. Then her brows pinched. “What has she done?”

Lord Larys reveals the tale spun by the smallfolk.

Alicent couldn’t help scoffing at the absurdity of it. She gazed at Viserys and after a beat, breathless laughter broke from him—a sharp wheeze through his nose. He shifted in his chair with amusement.

“The people must be in sore want of distraction if they’ve gone to such lengths weaving stories that defy our very history.” Her husband said, easing from the news. “A rider may bond with one—if gods and dragons grant it both. That itself is a rare alignment, Lord Larys. Whatever is being told has been crafted purely for entertainment now that the Stepstones are settled. Dullness is the privilege and burden of peace.”

“That would be so, your grace. But people have taken it upon themselves to see it proven or denied.” Larys answered.

“What do you mean?” She said, handing Viserys a cup of warmed water.

“Crowds have been stirring since dawn. Fishermen, tradesmen, even commonfolk have attempted to sail for Dragonstone. Port masters at Blackwater Rush are filtering through vessels and denying passage to those who have no business on the island.”

The king gave an incredulous sigh. “Seven hells, and what do they expect to see? My niece soaring through the sky with Vermithor in one hand and Silverwing in the other?”

Larys added, “More than a dozen of the wealthier merchants and braver commonfolk have also petitioned an audience with you, my king to inquire directly. They were turned away by castle guards due to the preposterous claims but they grow bolder by the hour. I’ve come to observe some in the keep have been whispering of it as well.” 

“Why has the Lord Hand not informed us any of this?” Alicent questioned the oversight.

The Lord Confessor looked down as if humbly. “It was my father’s instruction shortly after his appointment to ignore gossipmongers who sought petitions, your grace. To avoid fanning the flames of scandals and disturbing you with them.”

“Well, now the flames have caught and we have a more difficult situation to face. He should have consulted us before giving the order.” She said with more heat to her words.

“Lord Lyonel’s instruction was sound, Alicent. We cannot worry about every idle rumor. This happens to be an exception.” Viserys placated.

Her father knew the power of the smallfolk’s words. He wouldn’t have allowed lies to escalate to this. 

Unaware, she’d begun pressing at her fingertips again from the mounting sense of their control slipping. What fresh insanity was the rogue prince attempting? To what end would he spread this kind of rumor? For pride? He hated the girl. He took offense to meeting her as a reward for the Stepstones just as they planned. They surmised he would lash out; in violence or debasing himself but this…was it just to further make a fool of his daughter when she couldn’t claim a beast or died trying? A petty insult?

Regardless, she must push through with their cause until they find out what truly happened to the girl. The disorder Daemon is bringing may still serve them and prove to everyone—to Viserys, his unsuitability to be raised to any position of import and render him powerless in King’s Landing. With any grace, the prince may yet abscond and leave Westeros once more.

She must go with reason and act carefully. 

“We should call for the council, Viserys.”

“A council? For a child’s tale?” 

She paced around them. “If it has roused the crowds then we ought to be prudent in managing it and understand why. Dragonstone is at the center of it but Alysanne, who has never caused any issue before cannot be behind this.” She bluntly stated, “The fabrication is too rich in arrogance and pride, husband. It reeks of Daemon’s mischief.” 

Viserys rubbed at his temple in thought, not disagreeing.

“Pardon me, your graces. While the prince does thrive in stirring the pot, it is our silence that won’t bode well for the crown’s reputation. It could be mistaken for affirmation or cluelessness.” Larys Strong’s eyes flicked to her as he supported her suggestion. “The council may provide more insight to effectively restore calm, my king.”

“Gods…very well.” Viserys agreed. “Convene the council before I address petitioners. Let us put an end to this nonsense.”

*******

Rhaenyra swept into the room after they’d settled into their seats and already placed their marker spheres. “Father, I was not informed the council was holding session today.” 

“It has just been decided, Princess Rhaenyra. We did not plan to exclude you from anything.” Alicent explained, slight exasperation in her tone.

“Rightfully so, your grace.” Rhaenyra retorted and took the seat across her, arrogant and unapologetic even though she was the one who arrived late. 

“We’re glad you made it in short notice.” Viserys said indulgently. “You were with Jacaerys, were you not? How is my grandson?”

“Wonderful, father. He’s been a peaceful babe since he was born. Rarely fusses.”

“He must get that from Laenor then.” Father and daughter laughed together. 

Rhaenyra grasped his hand smilingly. “You must come visit him again. He livens in your company.”

“I shall come this afternoon.” Viserys replied and Alicent bit the inside of her cheek. He hasn’t visited Daeron since he was born. He’s not asked about him or even mentioned him except to tell her he was to be nursed with the bastard. He’s never called Daeron his son out loud so proudly. 

“Viserys.” She forced out mildly, reminding him they were at council for a reason. 

“Ah, right. I’ve called you here about a small matter but one that we must discuss nonetheless. Lord Larys has informed us that a rumor from Dragonstone has been circulating throughout the city this morning and has caused tumult among the people.”

The table took a collective intake of breath. Most around the council assume it was about Princess Alysanne. They were already anticipating to receive news that she’d been hurt or worse, killed when they found out what the king had allowed Daemon to do. Permitting him free rein over a child he loathed in the isolated castle with men and a beast under his full command was courting disaster. Now they had to face outrage from the Vale and a possible rebellion if the child had died. 

Not that they had the chance to persuade the king to revoke his decision in the first place. His grace had been ill abed for all two days after the feast and his brother and niece left so abruptly. 

“Has something happened to Princess Alysanne’s claiming, my king?” Lord Jasper Wylde asked.

“Was she injured in an attempt?” Grandmaester Mellos offered. “I can make preparations to treat her here or send some assistance to the island.”

“No, that’s not it. Although…” Viserys shakes his head. “It is spreading fast among the commonfolk that Alysanne snuck into the Dragonmount last evening to claim a dragon by herself.” 

“Oh, dear.” Lord Beesbury remarked.

“Indeed.” Viserys chuckled weakly. “Her stubbornness would have come to life in Daemon’s presence if anything.” 

The lords reciprocated the laughter hesitantly but Alicent did not join in. 

Viserys cleared his throat. “It’s said that not only has she succeeded but also that she claimed more than one dragon. Three, to be precise.”

It was Rhaenyra who laughed next. “What?” 

“A most audacious lie!” Ser Tyland exclaimed. Beesbury nodded in agreement. “Indeed. We must not pay it any mind, your graces.” 

Why do they insist on ignorance? “Not paying it mind has caused trouble in our harbor and a surge of petitions calling on the crown for answers.”

“My son and the City Watch have calmed the harbor, your graces. I have seen to it.” Lord Strong assured.

“The people of King’s Landing cannot truly be entertaining the rumor, especially those who have resided in the city for years. Even without Valyrian education, they have witnessed every rider have only one dragon since Aegon the Conqueror.” Rhaenyra dismissed, eyeing Alicent. “Many gossips of late have been maliciously unfounded.”

Have they?

Alicent stared back but refused to lower herself to the instigation.

“Princess, the commonfolk believe it because they have found credence in its origin.” Lord Larys piped in solemnly.

Viserys gestured to him. “Lord Larys has identified the first whisper of the rumor and brought the matter to the queen and I.” 

Lyonel Strong sent a look to his son, displeased that he did not bring this up and consult him first so they needn't have worried the king.

The Lord Confessor illuminated the table. “Upon hour of the nightingale, a fisherman who sailed from Dragonstone to trade his catch told the story. He swore by it, undetailed as it was and the commonfolk did the rest, saying their relatives from Dragonstone sent letters. Soon, other traders and fishermen from the island came to shore swearing the same. The tellings vary from Princess Alysanne claiming Grey Ghost to Vermithor to the Cannibal and almost every other dragon on the island as part of three.”

“But we have not heard from the castle ourselves.” The Lord Hand said, “We must simply write to Dragonstone and seek clarification. Until then, we should remain calm and not hasten to assumptions.”

“Remain silent to the lies being spread about members of the royal family?” Alicent questioned.

“You have not had any problems with that before, your grace.” Rhaenyra retorts, fidgeting with her sphere. Alicent nearly scoffs, no longer knowing to which apparent lie she refers. Her bastard, her adultery or indulging sin with Daemon in a pleasure house as a maiden. 

Lord Lyonel reiterated, “I merely suggest we should avoid inviting calamity from something that may not even be true, my queen. Responding to the people without an absolute answer may only kindle the rumors more. And in this case, they shall only be unravelled when they hear from Prince Daemon himself.” 

Alicent countered bitingly, “And if it is Daemon himself who started it? He’s known to have made fictions to cause unrest before.”

“You should consider your suggestions more carefully, Queen Alicent, before casting aspersions on a prince of the realm. Daemon would do no such thing.” 

How quickly Rhaenyra always came to his defense. 

“Your faith in the rogue prince is admirable, princess but if you remember his last stunt on Dragonstone? Stealing a dragon egg for his falsely impregnated mistress—I was there, your grace. I remember.” Rhaenyra glared at her. “And I can say this isn’t the same. Daemon wouldn’t dare diminish or besmirch Valyrian history by spreading these lies.” 

Both Alicent and Rhaenyra gazed beseechingly at Viserys. The discussion had veered closely to blaming and insulting the king’s brother without substantial evidence and the rest of the council had seen it play out before. So they waited quietly for him as he deliberated, leaning back in his chair. 

Finally, he stated with a nod to the princess.  “My daughter raises a good point. Daemon never jests about dragons. There are very few things he holds sacred and dragonlore is one of them.”

Alicent turned away silently. How could they not acknowledge he had already dishonored it by giving his whore’s bastard an egg and offering up his legitimate daughter to wild beasts? Daemon held nothing sacred. She accidentally catches Larys’ eyes down the table, expressing understanding. He was the only one to do so and her stomach curdles. 

“I agree with Lords Lyonel and Beesbury, father.” Rhaenyra said. “We should ignore it until confirmation comes from Dragonstone. We needn’t have even called a council. It’s simply a rumor that got out of hand.”

Yes, waiting for problems to solve themselves for her was Rhaenyra’s response to everything. What else would someone who’s never suffered any consequence for her irresponsibilities expect? 

“If I may, your graces,” Grandmaester Mellos gently croaked, “It could also be that Princess Alysanne has successfully claimed a dragon but the commonfolk of Dragonstone have exaggerated their accounts.”

Ser Tyland hummed. “They are prone to flights of fancy when it comes to imagining the life of nobility, your grace. They come up with the most absurd things indeed.”

The tall doors to the council chambers open. “Keeper of the Dragons, Maedros.” Ser Arryk announced.

King’s Landing’s head dragonkeeper rushed in with a troubled brow, out of breath as he bowed in greeting. Absent from his right hand was the stave they usually never went without, which instead was holding three rolls of parchment.

“I’ve received ravens from Dragonstone, my king.” He declared.

“Ah, good.” Viserys said, slightly relieved. “We can put these ridiculous claims to rest.” 

The dragonkeeper must be clearly aware of what claims he meant yet he did not swiftly refute them. His mouth opened and closed multiple times. “My king…”

Lord Lyonel urged. “Speak, Keeper Maedros.”

Maedros approached Viserys. “The letters claim that Princess Alysanne has bonded with three dragons.”

A hush settled in the room. 

Then the lords erupted. “What lies!”

“Falsehoods!”

“That cannot be.” Mellos said with certainty.

The dragonkeeper handed the rolls of parchment to the king, who scoured the words as Lyonel Strong rationalized, “Perhaps the letter has been intercepted and tampered with… or penned by someone who seeks to sow discord in the crown—” Ser Tyland cut in. “A fisherman, more like! Seeking coin for his tale.”

Maedros disproved them, “We have received three missives sent by three different ravens, my lords. From Gaemyn and Ralzo, the dragonkeepers we sent to accompany them and Dragonstone’s own head keeper, Kardos. All of whose handscript I attest to. They all say the same thing. Princess Alysanne has claimed Silverwing, Grey Ghost and a wild red dragon we’ve no record of. One she has apparently already named.”

Viserys lifted his gaze from the letter. His previous levity and passivity, his humorous smile—gone. Instead, their king’s face was fraught with incomprehension.

He looked lost. 

Maedros continued, “They say the castle woke to the princess riding and flying her without a saddle from the Dragonmount to the eastern courtyard of the Stone Drum Keep. Silverwing and Grey Ghost on either side.” 

Alicent and Rhaenyra both reach out their hands. “Viserys—“May I see, father?”

He gives it to Rhaenyra absently, who was firmer and more defiant as she inspected it, seeking to find fault. “It says she has not ridden the other two.”

“And carries on to say they obeyed her command to breathe fire and take flight whereas Vermithor did not.” The dragonkeeper answered.

“That isn’t possible.” Viserys said, almost to himself.

“What of Vermithor?” Alicent asked. Do they mean to imply the girl has claimed him, too?

“Ralzo says he trailed after them during the flight, presumably to accompany Silverwing but left after refusing to obey the princess.”

“Are you certain they weren’t tampered with?” She insisted again. “Their words copied by a skilled forger?”

“They were written in High Valyrian, my queen.”

The council awaited the king’s response but he was still speechless. Alicent saw this and took over, restating with confidence she did not truly have. “As the king said, it isn’t possible.”  

Gods, it mustn’t be.

Viserys thumbs one of the letters between his fingers. It was too much to simply accept. He swallowed, briefly passing Alicent’s expectant expression. “What of Daemon, Maedros?” 

“We haven’t heard from the prince or any other member of Dragonstone’s household. I can only assume they are in shock as the rest of us.” 

“And yet the island folk have already been able to send word to their kin in the city and spread rumors.” Lord Jasper Wylde punctuated.

“I should take Syrax and fly there myself.” Rhaenyra proclaimed, ever reckless.

Grandmaester Mellos replies. “You’ve just birthed a babe, princess. I do not advise—”

“No, Rhaenyra.” Viserys stood with the strength none of them thought he still possessed. His voice rang. “Summon them. Upon command of the king, Daemon is to come back here with Alysanne forthwith. Send a raven and keep sending them until you receive a reply from my brother himself. Keep sending them until Caraxes and her dragon—” He paused, wavering,  “Until their dragons are spotted in the sky. I want the council and every dragonkeeper ready to receive them at the Dragon Pit.”

“Go at once!” He yelled before dropping back into the chair from the exertion.

King Viserys rarely raised his voice in council. The last time he did was years ago, overcome with grief and anger for discussing future heirs mere days after Queen Aemma and Prince Baelon’s deaths. 

This tone was marred with desperation.

The lords of the council immediately bowed and left the chamber; Maedros, the Lord Hand and Grandmaester posthaste to do the King’s bidding. 

With only her husband and stepdaughter left, Alicent turned to them. “It can’t be true, Viserys. I’ve spoken to the girl before she left and she was apprehensive to even visit the island. Daemon must be up to something. Perhaps he coerced them to lie—” Viserys raised his hand. “Stop, Alicent. We will have the truth when they arrive.”

Rhaenyra stared at him with just as much confoundment then made to stand. “I will inform Laenor. Mayhaps he has received news of this from Driftmark.” 

“Pen the call for them as well. I want the Velaryons here when Daemon lands.” He told her and Rhaenyra nodded. Though he did not believe Rhaenys would withhold this kind of news from him, he cannot say the same for Lord Corlys.

As for the rattling claim itself…he did not know what to hope for. 

That it was a lie or a boon the gods have granted. And if so, why? For what reason?

“I need a moment, Alicent.” He murmured and the queen, unable to summon any more words herself, left the council room

Once outside, she spots Lord Larys watching her from the shadows of a corner. She debated for a second before heading toward him, signalling Ser Criston to guard from a distance. 

The Lord Confessor began smoothly, tone oiled with confusion yet sharp with insinuation. “My queen, you honor me with your presence. I had thought myself at fault for something in light of your increased…evasiveness.” 

Alicent fought a wince, her avoidance of him clearly noted.

“I do not know what you speak of, my lord. The days have been overwrought with activity that has kept us both occupied.” She parried with the composure she could muster. “And now this news.” 

He’d been deliberately ambiguous since the revelation in Viserys’ chambers, always trying to catch her eye since and Alicent knew what it meant. She wasn’t stupid. His interest in her had been clear since she married Viserys, and so has his desire for her to be the one to come to him. Using his knowledge and her lack of support in court to lure her every time. 

And despite her skin crawling, Alicent softened her expression intently and leaned closer. “Is there anything else you have learned, Lord Larys? Your allies in Dragonstone must know what truly happened.”

His spies and methods had the reach across the kingdoms she needed since her father’s departure from the capital.

“I’ve reported everything credible I have gathered within my power. To consider otherwise would be treasonous to the crown and my devotion to the Queen of the Seven.” Larys answered with that practiced deference draped behind the docile mask he always wore. But it’s times when he had the leverage of information that his hunger slipped through just enough to remind her of the dangerous, repulsive man beneath. “Although a private discussion this evening with your grace may remedy my humble memory of any…unintended omissions.”

Bile rose in her throat. She cannot succumb to the atrocity for this news. It was not worth it. Alicent was sure it was false. No Targaryen in history ever had more than one dragon.

She pulled away from him, prompting Ser Criston to approach from behind. “No. Your service has been satisfactory, Lord Larys. You may go.” 

“As ever, I remain your loyal servant.” He accepted without protest. Just as he walked past her, his voice leaked into the air with the faintest of smiles. “There is no need to worry, my queen. The truth will come out soon enough.”

Alicent watched him retreat and pushed down the part of her that, out of fear, was compelled to take him up on the discussion he sought. 

No. The only audience she’ll have is that of the Seven. To wash away the very thought of the sins she had committed and considered today.

“I shall visit the city Sept for prayers. We need the gods' mercy now more than ever.” She tells Ser Criston, who ordered for the wheelhouse.

*******

Daemon was in the middle of the dark, cavernous Audience Chamber lords and princes of Dragonstone had held court in since the Doom, unmade and unmoored. He lingered on the steps toward the dragonglass throne, staring unblinkingly at it, willing it to yield answers it could not give. If he burned his gaze long enough, maybe the age-old seat would wake the shadows of his ancestors so they may provide a fucking explanation. But the thing only glimmered slick as obsidian ice, a mirror that reflected nothing but his own hollow stare.

He’d had half a mind to confine the girl to her rooms after what happened but the doddering old coot of an uncle would lose his wits. And a cry of distress from her lips might beset the wrath of the freshly bonded dragons upon the castle or worse, on Caraxes. 

A harsh laugh threatened to break out. How the bloody tables have turned that he was now at the mercy of a little girl.

Daemon couldn’t wrap his head around it. He briefly wondered if it had been a foul illusion conjured in the haze of cups. But each hour since, the reality only sank deeper. Especially when the girl stepped out that afternoon and commanded her dragons to escort Vermithor to them for the keepers to readjust his ropes.

In that same balcony, the world had shaken beneath his feet and thrown him off-kilter a second time as though the indomitable stone they’d stood on for five millennia and the certainty it provided was mere sand, crumbling overnight. For the bond between dragon and rider was as singular as fire to wick. Eternally paired. This was the truth that sustained their bloodline. The truth that girded the very foundation of Old Valyria. 

And it had just been upended by his half-blooded, eight-year-old daughter.

It made no sense.

The words repeated, a drumbeat in his skull. No sense. No sense.

At the height of the Freehold’s power with a thousand bred beasts of wing and scale, each dragonlord was claimant to one and every descendant of the 40 Ruling Families, who had known and tightly guarded the blood mages’ secrets of dragon-taming bent to that legacy with no exception. 

The sight of the dragons circling the girl flashed clear and raw.

The greatest Targaryen who lived had Balerion, Visenya had Vhagar and Rhaenys, Meraxes. Three separate riders, three dragons. 

What was special about her, of all people? 

Many in the keep already whisper, likening her to Aegon. Though some were bold enough to declare she has eclipsed him. With frustrating scorn, Daemon could not even deny it. Any formidable warrior with enough men and guts could conquer kingdoms. He was not that delusional. It was dragons that made them different, that solidified them as gods to every race and hers was a feat Aegon could’ve only dreamt of.

For a few precious seconds, the glorious moment itself had filled Daemon with irrepressible awe and wonder. It stirred in him excitement and pride akin to the first time he remembered flying Meleys on his mother’s lap as a boy. But it had also wrought the keenest sting of envy he ever felt. More than his brother’s crown roused. Because it meant that if the girl had surpassed The Conqueror then she had surpassed him. 

A callow whelp from some backwater hill of muck and cattle, not he, a Prince of the Blood with pure ancestry had achieved the impossible. This day shall be sung for a hundred years to come and immortalize her with the recognition and glory he coveted all his life. It tasted like cinders in his mouth. He had taken her as a posturing, shrewish burden borne, and yet by his folly, failed to recognize brazenness and tenacity fit for a dragonrider, this time with beasts to match. 

It was then that Daemon realized, he knew nothing of her. His daughter. The word itself was unfamiliar and before today, unclaimed.

She was all but a stranger.  

Daemon did not even look as the same steward who woke him disrupted the quiet and entered the hall, barely passing the threshold. “My prince, there have been multiple ravens from King’s Landing addressed to you and the household.” 

He closed his eyes, head tilting up. So the flies have buzzed their way across the bay. 

The boy continued. “Summons from his grace, King Viserys. He requires yours and Princess Alysanne’s presence at the soonest. They say you are to be received at the Dragon Pit.” 

Daemon scoffed wryly. “Demanding a reckoning?” 

“Seeking clarity of today’s events, my prince.” 

He stepped back from the throne, his cuttingly careless mask hardening back to place. “We depart on the morrow. Tell the girl and her men.”

“Will you not dine in the hall with the princess tonight, your grace?” The steward asked with a healthy amount of fear. Though at whom it was aimed, him or the chit, he could only snort.

“Send my meal to the library.” He’d rather spend the night poring over their records for traces of dragonlore that could be precedent to this than see her more than necessary. “I am not to be disturbed.”

The memory of her with three seared him like salt to a wound but tomorrow, he would arrive astride Caraxes and bear her at his side. The realm will roar in triumph of his lineage. Stranger or no, it was his blood in her veins that made this possible. No Royce rune could spark fire in stone. 

Alysanne was tethered to him. He was her father and what was hers was his.

The thought brought him a grim smile. Perhaps he would toast the victory with Arbor red and drink until pride, regardless of how bruised, drowned envy.