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Alicent Hightower
Queen Alicent Hightower sat curled in the window seat of her chambers, her knees drawn up beneath her green silk gown like a child seeking comfort. The afternoon light streaming through the diamond-paned glass did nothing to warm the ice that had settled in her bones since watching her brother's blood pool on the tournament field. Her hands clutched a piece of torn fabric—all that remained of Gwayne's surcoat after the maesters had cut it away.
My little brother, she thought, pressing the bloodstained silk to her cheek. Who used to steal honey cakes from the kitchens and blame the servants. Who practiced his swordwork until his hands bled because he wanted to be worthy of our name.
The tears came fresh again, silent streams that she no longer bothered to wipe away. Let them fall. Let the world see what grief looked like on a queen's face.
"Alicent." Ser Gerold Hightower's voice was gentle as he approached, his heavy boots muffled against the thick Myrish carpet. "You shouldn't torment yourself like this."
She looked up at him through her tears, seeing echoes of Gwayne in the sharp angles of his face. All Hightowers bore that look—the aristocratic features that marked them as descendants of the Reach's nobility, bred for politics and ambition rather than the raw power of dragons.
"How can I not?" she whispered, her voice hoarse from crying. "He was barely past his twentieth name day, Gerold. He had his whole life ahead of him, and that northern savage cut him down like he was nothing more than—"
"Hush." Gerold settled beside her on the wide stone ledge, his arm coming around her shoulders in the same protective gesture he'd used when she had told him for the first time that their father would take her to King's Landing. "Gwayne died as a knight should—sword in hand, facing his enemy. There's honor in that."
"Honor?" Alicent's laugh was bitter as wormwood. "What honor is there in being murdered by some bastard pretending at nobility? You saw how he fought—like he was born with steel in his hands. No mere sellsword fights like that."
There's something wrong about Daeron and his wife, she thought, her grief sharpening into focused anger. Father was right to be suspicious. No one appears from nowhere with such skills, such confidence. They're playing a game, and my brother paid the price for their ambitions.
"You think he targeted Gwayne deliberately?" Gerold asked, his own voice hardening slightly.
"I know he did." Alicent wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, trying to compose herself. "The way he moved in that melee. He was in control of what he was doing, he could have chosen to not do it, he had already won against Ser Criston, he was in no danger. And when Gwayne tried to help Ser Criston..." She shuddered. "It was like watching a wolf among sheep."
The sound of footsteps in the corridor outside made them both turn toward the door. Alicent recognized that particular cadence.
"Father," she called out before he could knock.
Otto Hightower entered without ceremony, his expression grave as he took in the scene before him. Despite being past his sixtieth year, the Hand of the King still carried himself with the bearing of a man accustomed to command.
"Daughter." His voice was gentler than usual as he approached, though his face remained carefully controlled. "Son." He nodded to Gerold before his gaze returned to Alicent. "How are you bearing up?"
"How do you think?" Alicent's composure cracked again, fresh tears spilling over. "My brother is dead, and his killer walks free. He needs to pay, Father. He needs to pay for what he's done."
Make it right, she pleaded silently. You've always known how to make things right. Show, that House Hightower doesn't simply swallow insults we show them that we make people pay the worst price their life.
Otto's jaw tightened, but his voice remained level. "And what would you have me do, exactly? Challenge the king's justice? Viserys has already ruled that no crime was committed."
"Then we make our own justice," Gerold interjected, his hand moving instinctively to his sword hilt. "I can challenge this Daeron to single combat.I hear he is all about honor he will not reject me father and I will avenge my brother.
"No." Otto's refusal was immediate and absolute. "Absolutely not."
"Father—" Alicent started, but Otto cut her off with a sharp gesture.
"Do you want me to lose another son?" Otto turned to face Gerold fully, his expression stern. "Because that's exactly what will happen if you face that man savage. I watched him fight. We all did. He carved through seasoned knights like they were training dummies."
He's right, Alicent realized with a fresh stab of anguish. you are strong and fast brother but even if you can defeat him I would never take chances with my only brother. And Daeron... there was something almost inhuman about the way he moved. Like death itself had taken the shape of a man.
"Then what?" Gerold's voice carried frustrated anger. "We simply accept Gwayne's murder and move on? What manner of men does that make us?"
"It makes us living men," Otto replied coldly. "Which is preferable to dead heroes, I assure you. This Daeron has proven he can best any knight in single combat. But combat isn't the only field of battle."
Otto tapped his temple with one long finger, his smile sharp as a blade. "What good is strength when your enemies have what truly matters up here? Swords can kill a man, but the right words can destroy entire houses."
Alicent leaned forward, her grief beginning to transform into something harder and more focused. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that our mysterious Northern has made several very dangerous enemies today," Otto said, settling into the chair across from them with the satisfied air of a chess master contemplating his next move. "He has allies like Lord Corlys who Daeron saved his son kind of at least that is how he saw it and also he has princess Rhaenyra but I can turn tables around for him. Lord Corlys and the princess alone can't save him."
Yes, Alicent thought, her mind beginning to work along the same lines as her father's. Turn them all against him. Make him see what it costs to spill Hightower blood.
"I want him to suffer. I want him to know fear the way Gwayne knew fear in his final moments. I want to hear him scream and beg for his life."
The venom in her own voice surprised her. But grief had burned away those careful restraints, leaving something rawer and more dangerous in their place.
Otto studied her for a long moment.
"Your anger is justified, but you need to focus my daughter that's all I ask from you. Daeron has supporters—powerful ones. The king himself seems taken with the man, and Princess Rhaenyra..." He paused meaningfully. "Well, let's say her interest appears to extend beyond mere courtesy."
"Then how?" Alicent demanded. "How do we make him pay?"
"Patience," Otto replied. "And careful planning. There are pieces, we just need to find them and simply need to guide them to the proper conclusion." His green eyes glittered with cold intelligence. "But I need both of you to swear to me that you'll do nothing rash. No challenges, no public accusations, no midnight attempts at revenge. Our enemies are watching for exactly such mistakes."
He's treating this like one of his political campaigns, Alicent realized. this should comfort me, but all I want is to see that bastard's blood on the stones.
"I want justice for Gwayne," she said, her voice steady despite the fire burning in her chest. "Whatever it takes."
"Justice will come," Otto promised, rising from his chair. "But it will come on our terms, in our time, and in such a way that no one can question our righteousness." He moved toward the door, then paused to look back at them. "House Hightower has survived and thrived for centuries because we understand that the mind is mightier than the sword. Daeron will learn that lesson."
After he left, Alicent remained in the window seat, her brother's arm still around her shoulders. The anger Otto had awakened still burned in her chest, but it was controlled now, focused.
Gwayne, she thought, pressing her brother's bloodstained fabric to her heart. I swear by the Seven, by the memory of our mother, by everything we held dear—your death will not go unavenged. That northern savage may have won today, but he has no idea what he's truly awakened.
.
.
The Great Sept had never felt more suffocating. Hundreds of candles flickered in the sacred space, their light dancing across the seven-pointed stars carved into every surface, but the warmth they provided seemed to stop short of the assembled mourners.
Ser Gwayne Hightower's body had been dressed in his finest armor—polished steel that bore no trace of yesterday's blood, the green and gold of his house displayed prominently across his chest. His hands were folded over his sword, and someone had arranged his auburn hair to hide the terrible wound that had ended his life. He looked peaceful, almost serene, but the illusion couldn't hide what everyone in attendance knew: this was a young man cut down in his prime.
King Viserys stood at the front of the assembly, his crown heavy on his brow and his bandaged hand carefully concealed within his robes. This was his wife's brother, and as a loving husband, he needed to be there for during such dark hours.
"We gather today," the High Septon intoned, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling, "to commend the soul of Ser Gwayne Hightower to the Seven's eternal care. He was a knight of honor, a son of the Faith, a brother beloved..."
Behind the king, Lords of many great houses had gathered here, but Alicent was sure they weren't here to grieve, no, they had never known him, so why would they care, instead, this was a chance to talk with important people of the Realm. Nothing more. There was no sadness in their eyes.
Lord Corlys Velaryon stood near the King, his weathered face betraying nothing as his violet eyes surveyed the crowd. Beside him, Lady Rhaenys maintained the composure expected of her station, though her frequent glances toward her son spoke of deeper concerns.
Laenor Velaryon swayed slightly where he stood, the sharp scent of wine rising from his disheveled form like incense. His silver hair hung lank and unwashed, his usually immaculate court attire wrinkled and stained. When he shifted his weight, the movement was too loose, too uncontrolled.
Princess Rhaenyra stood two paces away from her betrothed, her violet eyes flashing with disgust. The distance between them might as well have been a chasm.
Near the front of the sept, Queen Alicent clutched young Prince Aegon's hand with white-knuckled intensity. Tears streamed down her face in an endless river, but she held herself upright through sheer force of will. Her other children flanked her—Princess Helaena staring at the candle flames like they were interesting fire flies, while Prince Aemond fidgeted restlessly.
The High Septon continued his sermon, speaking of honor and duty, of the warrior's path and the rewards that awaited the faithful in the Seven's embrace. The words washed over the assembled mourners like waves against stone, offering little comfort but fulfilling the necessary forms.
"Mother," Princess Helaena whispered, her young voice cutting through the holy man's droning, "why don't they call the dragon to burn him?"
"Hush, my love," Alicent whispered back.
"But I wanted to see Silverwing, again." She insisted, but a look from Alicent made the little girl close her mouth, and look at her nearest brother, Aegon, a look that asked the same question, but Aegon merely shrugged his shoulders.
But her daughter's words had sparked something in her grief-addled mind. Dragons. The missing dragons. The mysterious couple of savages who had appeared just as Silverwing and Vermithor had disappeared from Dragonstone.
The idea struck her like lightning. What if Daemon's suspicions were correct? During the Meele the Prince had claimed that Daeron had stolen either Vermithor or Silverwing, at least that's what Alicent was told later by a servant. What if Vermithor and Silverwing were indeed stolen by Daeron and his whore wife? The thought should have terrified her, but instead, it filled her with a cold satisfaction. Dragons or no dragons, accusations alone might be enough to destroy them.
"—and so we commit his body to the earth," the High Septon concluded, "secure in the knowledge that his soul has found peace in the Seven's embrace."
As the ceremony drew to a close, the assembled mourners began to shift and murmur among themselves.
Lord Beesbury leaned close to Lord Caswell, his whisper carrying despite his attempt at discretion. "Tragic business. The queen will want satisfaction, mark my words."
"She already demanded it from the king," came the reply. "Viserys refused. Called it the fortune of battle."
"The fortune of battle," Otto Hightower repeated coldly, having overheard the exchange. His green eyes remained fixed on the altar, but his voice carried the sharp edge of winter steel. "Yes, fortune indeed. Some seem to have rather more of it than others."
As the royal family began their procession from the sept, Laenor stumbled slightly, catching himself against a pillar with an audible grunt. The sound echoed embarrassingly in the sacred space.
"Seven hells," Princess Rhaenyra muttered under her breath, her cheeks flushing with mortification. "Can he not maintain even the pretense of sobriety at least when he is close to me?"
Alicent heard Prince Daemon say something to the Princess, and the latter giggled slightly.
As the mourners filed out into the afternoon sun, Queen Alicent remained beside her brother's bier for a moment longer, her mind thinking of new ways to destroy Daeron and his whore wife. Dragons. Mystery riders.
"Rest well, sweet brother," she whispered to Gwayne's still form. "Your death will not be in vain."
Rhaenyra Targaryen
The godswood of the Red Keep offered little in the way of true wilderness—a few ancient oaks and a modest heart tree surrounded by manicured paths—but it provided the privacy Princess Rhaenyra needed after the suffocating atmosphere of Gwayne's funeral.
She hadn't expected to find Daemon lounging against the heart tree as he cleaned his fingernails with a small knife. But then again, her uncle had always possessed an uncanny ability to appear exactly where he wasn't supposed to be.
"Following me now, Uncle?" she asked, settling onto the bench. "How... predictable."
"Following?" Daemon's violet eyes glittered with amusement as he sheathed the knife. "I was here first, dear niece. If anyone's doing the following, it's you."
"My apologies," she replied with mock contrition. "I didn't realize you'd claimed this particular patch of greenery as your brooding ground. Though I suppose you need somewhere quiet to nurse your wounded pride."
"Wounded pride?" Daemon pushed away from the tree with fluid grace, his eyebrow arching in that infuriating way that had always made her want to both slap him and kiss him. "Whatever could you mean?"
"Oh, I don't know." Rhaenyra's smile was sharp as a blade. "Perhaps the fact that you—the legendary Rogue Prince, wielder of Dark Sister, terror of the Stepstones—got beaten by some mysterious northern in front of half the Seven Kingdoms?"
Got you, she thought with satisfaction as she watched a muscle twitch in Daemon's jaw. For all your swagger and confidence, you're still just a man who doesn't like losing.
"I wasn't beaten," Daemon replied, settling beside her on the bench. "I was... temporarily outmaneuvered."
"Temporarily outmaneuvered? Uncle, he had Stormsong at your throat. You yielded. In front of everyone."
"The important thing," Daemon said through gritted teeth, "is that I learned something valuable about our mysterious Ser Daeron."
"Such as?" she asked, unable to keep the teasing lilt from her voice.
"Such as the fact that he's far more dangerous than he pretends to be," Daemon replied, his voice dropping to little more than a murmur. "Tell me, niece—did you hear about Ser Criston's unfortunate demise?"
The abrupt change of subject made her blink, but she recovered quickly. "Cole? Of course I heard. Someone cut his throat in the infirmary. Terribly tragic." Her smile suggested she found it anything but. "Though I can't say I'm particularly grief-stricken about it."
Good riddance, she thought privately. The man was a viper in white silk, and his obsession with me had grown tedious years ago.
"Indeed," Daemon's smile was sharp as a blade. "And who do you suppose might have wanted the good Ser Criston dead?"
"Any number of people," Rhaenyra replied without hesitation. "The man made enemies the way other men make water. But if I had to guess..." She paused, thinking of Laenor's rage-filled face during the melee, the way he'd screamed Cole's name like a curse. "Laenor. It's obvious, really. Cole killed his lover, Laenor wanted revenge."
"Perhaps," Daemon said slowly. "Or perhaps it was someone else entirely. Someone who had his own reasons for wanting Cole silenced permanently."
Something in his tone made her look at him more carefully. "You think Daeron killed Cole?"
"I think," Daemon said, "that our Northern has been very busy since arriving at court. And very successful at eliminating obstacles."
Rhaenyra felt a thrill run through her at the suggestion, though she tried to hide it behind a mask of skepticism. The idea of Daeron—strong, dangerous, magnificent Daeron—cutting Cole's throat in the darkness was... arousing in a way that probably said disturbing things about her nature.
"Even if that were true," she said carefully, "I fail to see why I should be troubled by it. Cole was no friend of mine, and if Daeron removed a threat..." She shrugged elegantly. "Well, perhaps such decisive action deserves a reward. For him and his lovely wife both."
The look Daemon shot her was positively venomous. "Careful, niece. Your appetites are showing."
"Are they?" She smiled innocently. "How shocking. A Targaryen with appetites. Whatever will people think?"
Let him stew in his jealousy, she thought with satisfaction. He's always assumed he was the only men I might desire. Time he learned otherwise.
"There's more," Daemon said, clearly struggling to regain control of the conversation. "The missing dragons from Dragonstone—Vermithor and Silverwing. I believe our mysterious guests have claimed them."
That gave her pause. "That's... that's quite an accusation, Uncle. Do you have proof?"
"Proof?" Daemon laughed bitterly. "What proof does one need beyond timing and opportunity? Two dragons disappear precisely when two mysterious Valyrians appear at court."
Rhaenyra considered this, weighing the implications. If Daeron and Daenerys truly commanded dragons... the thought was both thrilling and terrifying. "Even if you're right," she said slowly, "what of it? If they have Targaryen blood—which they clearly do, judging by their appearance—then they have as much right to dragons as anyone."
"As much right as you?" Daemon's voice was dangerously soft. "As much right as me? These are not just any dragons, Rhaenyra. Vermithor was the Bronze Fury, King Jaehaerys's mount. Silverwing bore Queen Alysanne. They are symbols of Targaryen power, not prizes for ambitious pretenders."
"Pretenders?" Rhaenyra laughed, genuinely amused now. "Uncle, I think your pride is showing. You proclaimed quite boldly that you would emerge victorious from the melee, didn't you? How did that work out for you?"
Daemon's face darkened. "This has nothing to do with—"
"Doesn't it?" She leaned forward, enjoying his discomfort. "You've spent years being Father's heir, then his brother the Rogue Prince, always the most dangerous man in any room. And now suddenly there's someone younger, stronger, more skilled with a blade. Someone who makes you look... ordinary."
The word hit him like a physical blow, she could see it in the way his entire body went rigid.
"I am many things, niece, but ordinary is not one of them."
"Perhaps not," she conceded with mock graciousness. "But you're also not the victor of the Grand Melee, are you? That honor belongs to Ser Daeron. Along with Father's favor, a knighthood, and..." She smiled wickedly. "The grateful attention of a certain princess."
Daemon stood abruptly, his hand moving instinctively toward Dark Sister's hilt before stopping. For a moment, she wondered if she'd pushed too far. But then his expression shifted, becoming coldly calculating rather than simply furious.
"Enjoy your northern wolf, dear niece," he said softly. "But remember—wolves may wear pretty faces and speak sweet words, but they never stop being predators. And when this one shows his true nature..." He smiled without warmth. "Don't say I didn't warn you."
As he disappeared into the shadows between the trees, Rhaenyra remained on the bench, her mind churning with possibilities. If Daemon was right about the dragons, it changed everything. But if he was simply a jealous man lashing out at his own defeat...
She found herself hoping it was the latter. The idea of Daeron commanding the Bronze Fury was intoxicating, but it also made him infinitely more dangerous than she'd realized. And she wasn't entirely certain she was ready for that level of danger.
Viserys Targaryen
King Viserys Targaryen sat heavily in his favorite chair by the fire, his crown resting on the side table like a golden paperweight that had suddenly become too heavy to bear. The afternoon light streaming through the tall windows of his chambers highlighted every line of exhaustion etched into his face, every gray hair that had sprouted since his wife's brother had decided to get himself killed in a tournament.
Gods, I'm tired, he thought, flexing his bandaged hand carefully. The amputation Mellos had performed that morning throbbed with each heartbeat, a constant reminder that he was quite literally falling apart piece by piece. When did kingship become such a bloody complicated affair? Grandfather never had to deal with grieving wives demanding executions for tournament deaths.
The soft rustle of silk announced Alicent's presence before she spoke. She glided into the chamber with a beauty that had first caught his attention all those years ago, but her usual serene composure was nowhere to be found. Her green eyes were red-rimmed from weeping, her auburn hair slightly disheveled despite her handmaidens' best efforts.
"Husband," she said, her voice carefully controlled despite the emotion threatening to spill over. "We need to speak."
Oh, wonderful, Viserys thought with weary resignation. Here comes the storm I've been dreading all day.
"Alicent," he replied gently, gesturing to the chair across from him. "Please, sit. You look exhausted."
"I am exhausted," she said, but remained standing, her hands clasped tightly before her. "Exhausted from grief. Exhausted from watching my brother's killer walk free or should i be precise lay in bed free. Exhausted from waiting for my husband—my king—to deliver the justice he swore to uphold."
Ah, there it is, Viserys thought, suppressing a sigh. The justice speech. I knew it was coming. At least she's being direct about it—I do appreciate when people skip the preamble and get straight to the demands.
"Alicent," he began carefully, "we've discussed this. What happened to Gwayne was tragic, but it wasn't murder. It was combat. Sanctioned combat in a royal tournament."
"Sanctioned murder, you mean," Alicent's voice cracked slightly. "That northern savage cut my brother's throat like he was slaughtering a pig. In what world is that justice?"
In the world where your brother decided to attack a man who was clearly superior with a blade, and from behind on top of that, Viserys thought, though he was wise enough not to voice such an observation aloud.
"In the world where men choose to enter melees knowing the risks," he said instead. "Gwayne was a knight, Alicent. He understood what could happen when he stepped onto that field."
"Did he understand that he would face a man who fights like he was born with steel in his hands?" Alicent's composure finally cracked, tears spilling down her cheeks. "Did he understand that this Daeron—whoever he truly is—would show no mercy to the queen's brother?"
"Alicent," he said aloud, rising from his chair with more effort than he cared to admit, "I understand your grief. Truly, I do. But I cannot—I will not—execute a man for winning a tournament fairly. What manner of king would that make me?"
"It would make you a king who protects his family," she replied, her voice hardening. "A king who values his queen's pain over some nobody's life."
"And what of justice?" he countered. "What of the law? Should I simply ignore both whenever they inconvenience my personal feelings?"
"Justice?" Alicent laughed bitterly. "What justice was there for Gwayne? What law protected him from that monster?"
"The same law that would protect any man who enters combat," Viserys replied. "The same justice that says a man cannot be punished for defending himself in legal combat."
Alicent sank into the chair he had offered earlier, burying her face in her hands. "You don't understand," she whispered through her tears. "There's something wrong about them—about both of them. They're not what they pretend to be."
"What do you mean?" he asked, though he suspected he already knew where this conversation was heading.
Alicent looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes that suddenly blazed with desperate conviction. "The dragons, Viserys. What happened to Vermithor and Silverwing?"
Oh, for the love of— Viserys barely managed not to roll his eyes.
"You cannot seriously believe—" he began, but Alicent cut him off.
"They disappeared shortly after those two arrived at court," she pressed on, her voice gaining strength. "One of them looks exactly like your daughter—the other on looks like you had sex with a Northerner whore. How is that not suspicious?"
"Because," Viserys said with exaggerated patience, "dragons don't simply accept new riders, Alicent. Even those with Targaryen blood often fail and end up dead trying to bond with them. You think some sellsword and his wife just walked up to two of the most ancient dragons in existence and convinced them to play along?"
The very idea is absurd, he thought. Vermithor bonded with my grandfather when he was barely fourteen, and he was as Targaryen as they come. The notion that some northern bastard could simply whistle and have a dragon come running is the stuff of children's tales.
"Stranger things have happened," Alicent insisted. "And even if they haven't claimed the dragons, they killed my brother. Your wife's brother. Your queen's brother."
She leaned forward in her chair, her green eyes boring into his. "What's more important, Viserys? My justice, or some nobody's justice? You are the dragon—you make the justice, not them. What you say and what you do is law and justice. So make justice for your queen, for your wife for the mother of your children."
The silence stretched between them, broken only by the crackling of the fire and Alicent's quiet sobs. Viserys found himself staring into the flames, watching them dance and flicker like the political implications of whatever decision he made.
"My justice is more important than a nobody's justice," Alicent repeated softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm your queen, Viserys. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"
Of course it means something, he thought, looking at her tear-stained face and feeling his heart clench with sympathy. You're my wife, the mother of my children, my partner in this impossible task of ruling. But if I start executing people because my wife demands it, where does it end?
But even as his logical mind rejected her arguments, another part of him—the part that loved her, that hated seeing her in pain—whispered that perhaps one compromise wouldn't hurt. Perhaps one small exception to prove that House Targaryen protected its own wouldn't be the beginning of people calling him tyrant.
Dangerous thinking, he warned himself. That's how good kings become terrible ones—one compromise at a time, one exception at a time, until justice becomes whatever serves their immediate needs.
Viserys placed his hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off, Alicent rose from her chair. "Think about what matters more—a monster sellsword or the people you love."
She moved toward the door, then paused without turning around. "My dead brother deserves justice. And so do I."
After she left, Viserys remained by the fire, staring into the flames as doubt gnawed at his conscience like a persistent ache. He had done the right thing—he was certain of that. The law was the law, justice was justice, and kings who ignored both for personal reasons rarely ended well.
But what if she's right about the dragons? the treacherous voice whispered again. What if there's more to these mysterious strangers than meets the eye? What if I'm protecting potential enemies of the realm because I'm too principled to see the truth?
Madness, Madness and Stupidity, he told himself firmly. Next I'll be executing people for having purple eyes and good sword skills. Alicent is grieving, and grief makes people see conspiracies where none exist.
Laenor Velayron
The wine had turned the world soft around the edges, blurring the harsh lines of grief into something more manageable. Lord Laenor Velaryon stumbled through the corridors of the Red Keep, one hand trailing along the cold stone walls for balance, the other clutching a half-empty flagon of Arbor gold that had become his constant companion since the death of his friend.
Just need to find somewhere quiet, he thought, his silver hair hanging lank in his eyes. Somewhere the whispers can't follow. Somewhere Joffrey might still be waiting...
The rational part of his mind—what little remained undrowned by wine—knew that Joffrey was gone. Buried. Rotting in the ground while the world moved on as if the Knight of Kisses had never existed at all. But the wine whispered sweeter lies, promising that if he just looked hard enough, searched long enough, he might find his beloved around the next corner.
The courtyard stretched before him, mostly empty in the late afternoon light. Most of the servants had finished their daily tasks and retired to whatever hovels they called home, leaving only a few stragglers to tend to the endless needs of the royal household.
One such servant was hauling a massive wooden bucket from the well, his broad back straining against a rough-spun tunic that stretched across shoulders wide as a castle door. He was huge—taller than any man had a right to be, with arms like tree trunks and hands that could probably crush a man's skull without effort.
Now there's a handsome men, Laenor thought, his wine-addled mind fixating on the raw masculinity before him. Built like the Warrior himself. Wonder what those hands would feel like...
The servant straightened, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of one massive hand, and Laenor felt something stir in his chest that had nothing to do with grief and everything to do with the aching loneliness that had consumed him since Joffrey's death.
"You there," he called out, his voice slurring slightly as he approached. "Big fellow. What's your name?"
The servant turned, revealing a face that matched his impressive frame—square-jawed, weathered by hard work, with dark eyes.
"Tomard, m'lord," the man replied with a respectful bow, though his posture remained tense. "Tomard Stone. I serve in the kitchen."
A bastard, Laenor noted with interest.
"Tomard," Laenor repeated, savoring the name as he moved closer. "Strong name. Suits you." He reached out to touch the man's arm, feeling the solid muscle beneath the coarse fabric. "Very strong indeed."
Tomard's eyes widened in alarm as he recognized the direction of the conversation. He took a step backward, but Laenor followed, the wine making him bold in ways that sobriety never had.
Laenor was about to do something really stupid, when the servant grabbed his shirt filled with dust an wine and lifted him up in full anger he grabbed his head
"Stop!" The voice cracked across the courtyard like a whip. "He needs his head still!"
Ser Harwin Strong strode into the courtyard with the help of a walking stick.
Tomard immediately stepped back, his fist unclenching as recognition dawned. "Ser Harwin," he said with obvious relief. "I was just—"
"You were just leaving," Harwin said firmly, reaching into his purse and producing a gold coin. "For your discretion, and your... patience."
The servant's eyes widened at the sight of more coin than he probably saw in a year. He snatched the gold and bobbed a hasty bow before disappearing back toward the kitchens as quickly as his massive frame would allow.
Laenor watched him go with bleary disappointment, then turned to glare at his unexpected savior. "Do you have any idea who you're talking to?" he demanded, swaying slightly on his feet.
Harwin Strong, his wine-soaked mind supplied. Rhaenyra's lapdog. Always so bloody noble, so bloody perfect....
Harwin moved closer, his expression a mixture of concern and exasperation. "Of course. I'm trying to protect you. I'm your friend."
"Hmm," Laenor said, his voice heavy with drunken speculation. "Only friends? Are you sure?"
Harwin looked annoyed. "Yes."
Harwin took him by the arm, and guided him toward a shadowed alcove where their conversation couldn't be overheard by passing servants or curious courtiers.
"You are in public," Harwin said in a low voice, his brown eyes serious. "You need to protect your image—if not for yourself, then for Princess Rhaenyra."
"Rhaenyra," Laenor repeated with a bitter laugh. "The dragon princess who has everything except the one thing she actually needs—a husband who can give her heirs." He took another drink from his flagon, relishing the burn of the wine. "I already destroyed my image, Harwin. Gods, when I was born, they put a great curse on me. And now I'm sentenced to live with it."
The curse of being born wrong, built wrong, made for love that dare not speak its name. Mother always said the gods had a plan, but what manner of gods would create a man like me.
"You're going to be married to the princess," Harwin pressed, his voice urgent. "You can't destroy your image like this—just before the wedding. Think of your family, your house. Think of the alliance."
The alliance, Laenor thought with another bitter laugh. Everything comes back to that, doesn't it? Not love, not happiness, not even basic human decency—just politics and power and the eternal dance of noble houses seeking advantage. Joffrey understood that. He knew what we were to each other, what we could never be to the world.
Harwin looked down at him with something approaching pity, and Laenor felt his control finally snap. The tears came then—harsh, wrenching sobs that shook his entire frame as he wept for everything he'd lost and everything he'd never been allowed to have.
Joffrey, he thought desperately. I'm sorry. I'm so bloody sorry I couldn't protect you, couldn't save you. I'm just a broken thing now, a walking scandal waiting to destroy everything Father built.
Above him, Harwin Strong watched with the helpless expression of a man who wanted to help but didn't know how, and Laenor wept alone in the gathering shadows of the Red Keep.
Daeron and Daenerys
Daeron winces as he shifts against the pillows, the movement sending fresh spikes of pain through his bruised ribs. The maesters had cleaned and bound the worst of it, but Daemon's Valyrian steel had left it's mark on his chest.
"Stop moving," Daenerys chides from beside him, though her fingers trace gentle patterns around the worst of the bruising. "You'll tear the wrapping."
"I've had worse," he reminds her, catching her hand. *Though not recently. Not since before we came back.*
She straddles him carefully, mindful of his injuries, wearing nothing but moonlight from the window. "I know. I've seen all your scars, remember?" Her hands ghost over the faded marks that tell the story of Jon Snow's life.
"This is different," he says, watching her settle above him. "Gwayne Hightower's death changes things. Alicent was already suspicious, but now..."
"Now she wants your head on a spike." Daenerys rolls her hips slowly, drawing a groan from him despite the pain. "Let her try. The Queen might have her own power but we have dragons."
He grips her waist as she puts his cock inside, both of them sighing at the connection. Always feels like coming home, he thinks, watching her move above him in the candlelight. "She has... fuck... she has influence. The Hightowers control Oldtown, the Citadel, the Faith..."
She clenches around him, making him groan. "But right now, stop thinking and fuck me properly."
She rides him hard, taking what she needs while he watches her chase her pleasure above him. *Beautiful,* he thinks, *and twice as deadly.*
"Gods," she gasps as her first orgasm hits. "Don't stop, don't you dare fucking stop."
He flips them, driving deeper as she wraps her legs tight around him. "Never," he promises against her throat. "Not until every enemy is ash and every dragon soars free."
"Yes," she hisses, already building toward another peak.
She leans down to kiss him, hair curtaining them both. "We need Rhaenyra," she murmurs against his lips. "Daemon suspects too much. We need the heir's protection."
"She wants us." His hands slide up to cup her breasts, thumbs circling slowly. "I saw how she watched during the melee."
"Then we give her what she wants." Daenerys sits back up, increasing her pace slightly. "Both of us, if necessary."
The thought sends an unexpected jolt through him. "You'd share?"
"Dragons don't follow the rules of lesser creatures," she quotes her own words back at him, clenching around him deliberately. "Besides, I've seen how you look at her."
"How I..." He loses his train of thought as she does something incredible with her hips.
"Like she's a puzzle you want to solve." She's riding him faster now, chasing her peak. "It's the same way you used to look at me, before."
He pulls her down for another kiss, swallowing her moan as she comes around him. His own release follows, spilling deep inside her as she trembles above him.
They lie together afterward, her head on the uninjured side of his chest. "The Hightowers will move against us within the week," she says quietly. "We need allies before then."
"The feast tomorrow night," he suggests, carding fingers through her silver hair. "We make our move on Rhaenyra then."
"Mm." She's already half asleep, worn out from their coupling. "Wear the black leather. She likes dangerous men."
And we're the most dangerous of all, he thinks, holding his dragon queen close as she drifts off.
Alicent Hightower
Queen Alicent sat by her chamber window, her fingers tracing the embroidered hightowers on her brother's torn surcoat. The fabric was still stiff with dried blood in places, a tangible reminder of what that northern savage had stolen from her. Her green eyes stared unseeing at the courtyard below, where servants scurried about their evening duties like ants, blissfully unaware that their queen was plotting vengeance.
Father is right, she thought, her grief hardening into something colder and more focused. Patience and cunning will serve better than rage.
A soft knock at her door interrupted her brooding. Alicent hastily wiped her eyes and smoothed her hair, though she couldn't entirely hide the evidence of her tears.
"Come," she called, her voice steadier than she felt.
A young serving girl entered with a nervous curtsy, her eyes downcast. "Your Grace, Lord Larys Strong is asking to meet with you."
"Send him in," she said, setting aside Gwayne's surcoat and arranging herself in her chair. She did not know what he wanted with her, but maybe he could help her.
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