After The Dragons Danced

[neyra]

The Dreamer

The sight of Morning brought cheers from the city. Rhaena Targaryen knew it would, from the dreams hounding her night after night since her dragon emerged from its egg, scarcely a moon's turn ago. Yet it still surprised her. Ensconced in the safety of the Vale, she'd heard of the city turning against the dragons that lived within. How the city's denizens managed to kill five of them, she could not fathom, but they had.

In the distance, she could see the ruined edifice of what had once been the Dragonpit. Built by the Conciliator, it had been a home to their dragons for decades. No longer. The massive dome that had been the pit's crowning glory lay cracked and broken, leaving behind rubble, and buried within, the bones of those that died that mad night. King's Landing had battled dragons and come away victorious. The Dragonpit had been the battlefield, now it was a grave.

Unlike her, Morning was not one to waste the chance of basking in the glory being showered upon her due to fear. Still perched on her shoulder, her glorious hatchling unfurled her vivid pink wings and gave a shriek that was nothing to the growing raucous that followed them through the King's Way to the Red Keep. She made a pretty sight.

Though still weary of any hidden archers that might attempt to take aim at her drake, Rhaena took time to glory in the cheers; waving this way and that, as the folk along the King's Way showered her with carnations and wreaths of roses. There was no danger to her or Morning, ultimately; she was surrounded by knights of the Vale and ten of the remaining score of Dragonkeepers she'd picked up from Dragonstone as she sailed from Gulltown.

"The city adores you, princess," Lady Jeyne said beside her, waving as she was.

"I fear the adoration is for Morning, my lady," Rhaena replied, gesturing to her drake, now perched atop her head, her obsidian claws trying their damnest to disentangle the braid she had painstakingly put her hair into that dawn.

Lady Jeyne laughed, in the pretty way she normally did. The maid of the Vale did everything prettily, save for sending her men to fight for the queen, her own kin, which she did none of. The smile on her face curdled at that thought. She reminded herself to be thankful. The Vale had kept her safe and away from the war. It was in there that her dragon hatched and the dreams first began. She shuddered to think what would have befallen her without the safety of the impregnable Eyrie, dragonless as she had been.

Aegon's High Hill loomed in the distance. The seven towers of the Red Keep seemed like fingers clawing into the morning blue sky, uncharacteristic of the winter that had blanketed the realm in snow, ice and sleet this past year. Before today, she'd only ever been to King's Landing and the Red Keep twice in her life; once to receive the king's blessing when she was only half-a-year old, and the second to attend the usurper's wedding to his sister.

There was a certain beauty to the red castle, she had to admit. The cruel iron ramparts that crowned the seven towers, the immense grim barbican, the massive curtain walls studded with archer's nests, the vaulted halls and covered bridges; it was all callously magnificent. Her ancestor, Aegon the Conqueror, had ordered the castle built. Maegor the Cruel had seen to its completion, before beheading every worker that had laboured on it. Blood and bone built the Red Keep, Father used to say, and blood and bone was all it left of you after a long enough stay.

Though born and raised amidst its harsh beauty, Father loathed this place. The endless intrigue and subtle games of power self-important lords of the realm played to gain more power for themselves felt a constant noose around his neck, he'd complained. He'd been determined to keep all of it away from them. Alas, in their rush to find comfort and safety, they had shut their eyes to the danger coming for them. Her beloved taking the kinslayer's eye for his theft of Vhagar had been the small crack that assured war in the future. Alas, in their infinite blindness, small cracks had grown into colossal chasms, and in time, those chasms became canyons that swallowed them all.

Father, Jace, Joffrey, Cousin Rhaenyra and her beloved were all dead. Those that would shield them from the realm's ugliness were gone. Only the four of them remained; Aegon, Viserys, Baela and her. For good or ill, the cup had passed to them. It was for them to play the damnable game of thrones, or their descendants would be the ones to suffer in their stead, as she'd seen in the dreams.

She often wondered whether Daenys' dreams had been as detailed as hers were. Her ancestor had foreseen the destruction of the Old Freehold. It was only her intercession that saved their house and their dragons. Rhaena had seen the fall of the dragons too; the beasts dying out two decades from now, and her descendants left to nothing more than two little children fleeing from city to city across the Narrow Sea before bartering themselves for an army of useless savages.

How strange did that sound? The only remaining house of dragonlords in the world, forging an ill-fated alliance with unwashed horselords. The last dragon, a small, pitiful thing with weathered wings, dying within Rhaena's own lifetime. Her beloved Morning, so named for the new dawn she would bring to her family after the darkness that was the war, vanishing from history. Father would have guffawed if he'd ever heard her tall tales. Rhaena herself had found them hard to believe at first, but the clarity with which she saw those tales, written of both their past with stunning accuracy, and the future they were marching onto, filled her with a conviction she'd thought impossible to muster.

Whether she would be remembered as Rhaena the Dreamer did not matter. Whether she would be remembered at all by the new history they would forge accounted for nothing. What mattered was that they acted to save themselves and their descendants; both the cruel and kind, the usurping bastards and failed conquerors, the mad kings and unlikely rulers, the warrior princes and gentle maesters, the famous sons and forgotten daughters. It was her duty to give them a better future than they would have had, a future where none could tear them down.

Before her attention could turn to the fate of their descendants, there was Viserys, her brother. For so long, she'd believed him dead, drowned beneath the waters of the Gullet as battle raged around him. Above all others, his death had been keenly felt, almost shattering her. Valonqar was most like her; dragonless, the lesser amongst more impressive siblings, a burden on the rest of the family. Unlike her, however, he'd never complained. He'd instead strived to unlock his potential, driving her to do the same. The joy of Morning's hatching soured with the knowledge of Viserys dying without ever being bonded to his own mount.

But he was alive and well. The dreams had shown her so. They had to get him back, safely, soundly, and quickly, before he would be forcibly married to the harpy that birthed his children only to abandon them when they were little more than babes. There was only one way for that to happen, and she finally saw it in the distance as Rhaena and the Valemen behind her rode into the Red Keep's courtyard.

Ignoring the cheers and welcomes by the rest of court, Rhaena kicked her palfrey into a canter, straight for her twin sister. Stableboys and serving girls darted out of the way, some cursing her recklessness, Rhaena uncaring of them. She hastily dismounted the horse and ran straight into the arms of the other half of her soul.

"You're alive!" Rhaena said, her voice tight with emotion and eyes wet with tears, "I was so, so worried!"

"I'm alive, idaña," Baela Targaryen replied, her voice breaking, their embrace tightening. Morning squirmed between them, but soon found a way to wrap her tail and neck around the both of them, joining the embrace as well.

Even when the dreams came, the cessation of Baela's letters had her heart in her throat. They were the one thing that kept her sane during her time in the Vale, knowing that the one she'd shared a womb with was well and healthy and whole, as bullheaded as she was in her determination of going into battle beside Jace.

Those letters stopped coming right after she heard of Father's fatal battle with the kinslayer, and for almost a year, Rhaena had drowned in worry about Baela. It had been better knowing Father's, Luke's, Jace's and even Viserys' fate - when she'd thought him drowned at the bottom of the Narrow Sea. With them, she could mourn, as heart-wrenching as the grief for their deaths were. But to not know… that was a different kind of pain, one that drove her almost to the point of madness.

The knowledge of Baela's safety that came with the dreams gave her reprieve, but it was nothing compared to holding her in her arms once more, feeling her heart beating beside hers.

She disentangled herself from her twin and examined her, as if gazing upon her for the first time in her life. Baela was more slender than she remembered, almost to the point of gauntness. Rhaena knew of the ordeal she had endured, but seeing its evidence on her made her heart break all over again.

"I'm sorry…" that I wasn't there for you. That I did not claim a dragon of my own and join you in battle. That I chose my own safety instead of risking it all like you did. But all she said, was "…about Moondancer. I heard…"

"We tried to finish the usurper off for good," Baela replied, "but we failed. Moondancer… was braver than she had any right to be." It was then that Baela saw the dragon coiled about her like a stole for the first time.

"Morning, I take it," she asked, gesturing to the hatchling, now dead to the world, all the enthusiasm shown during their procession across the city faded.

Rhaena only nodded, trying desperately to maintain her courtly poise in the midst of the fresh tears flowing down her cheeks and the snot leaking out of her nose. Baela had no such cares as she took her in another embrace, this one more urgent than the last.

"You're a dragonlord now," Baela said into her ears with a wet voice, "It is fitting, I suppose, that one of us remains so."

Rhaena eased the suggestion almost instinctively. It had been a matter she had turned over in her head countless times, "There is Silverwing."

They broke the embrace and Baela shook her head with uncertainty, "I do not think I could. Not after… not after the war… not after Moondancer…"

Rhaena thought of telling her everything right then and there, but there were scores of people milling around them, some of them courtiers that were staring at them openly, waiting to greet their returned princess. It would not do for strangers to hear of her dreams. The war had taught her that a lord's allegiance is to themselves first, not their lieges. Who knew how the tales would spread, especially now that her dreams were the only true advantage that her family held above the rest of Westeros. They did not have their dragons yet, nor an army that was truly their own.

So, Rhaena wiped her face clear of the tears and snot, and with a practiced smile on her face, greeted those that had been sent to welcome them alongside his sister.

The sight of a stable-hand unloading the satchels on her horse took her attention.

"Wait!" she told the man, "I'll carry those myself."

Knowing better than to gainsay her, he let them go, moving away from her palfrey altogether. Baela helped her deftly untie both satchels from the saddle, with her taking one and her twin the other. Ever curious, Baela peeked inside, and understood at once why she elected to carry them themselves.

Rhaenyra had so graciously given her three dragon's eggs from Syrax's last clutch to take with her to the Vale, entrusting her with the future of dragon-kind should all go to ruin during the war. After Morning's birth, two of those eggs remained unhatched, both of which she had never let out of her sight. She'd watched them like a hawk, even more so when the dreams came. In the next two decades, in the those harrowing nightmares, something had caused dragon's eggs to stop hatching entirely. She could not allow that to happen this time. Not again.

"Where is Aegon?" Rhaena asked, as they made their way into the castle, the Dragonkeepers falling into lockstep behind them.

"In his chambers," Baela answered, "The wolf keeps him under heavy guard in Maegor's. The man is mad… mad I tell you. He desires war with Storm's End, Casterly Rock and Oldtown. Thank goodness the Corbrays rid him of those delusions."

"Corwyn is already here?" Rhaena asked. That would make her plans much, much easier.

"Aye, and her brother, Lord Leowyn. They arrived yesterday, after bending the knees of the Crownlander lords. Lady Jeyne did us a great service in sending them."

Lady Jeyne had entered the castle long before them already, seeking to appraise herself of the situation in the capital. Even in the Vale they knew of Lord Stark's plans of continuing the war, and more war was not something the maiden of the Vale desired, especially now that her men would be in the fray.

"I thought you would desire war with those that have taken so much from us.," Rhaena pried, "the rebellion was a Hightower plot, with the Lannisters being part of it. The Baratheons, our own kin, betrayed us for the chance at gaining a higher standing. The Baela I know would jump at the chance to see them brought to their knees."

Baela's reply was filled with weariness, "The bloodshed has gone on too long. We've got our vengeance on those we could. The usurper is dead by Grandfather's hand. The kinslayer was slain by Father's own sword. Both the usurper's sons are dead; the eldest by Father's doing, the youngest torn apart by a mob. Their deaths drove their mother to despair. She impaled herself on the iron spikes outside Maegor's. Their whore grandmother is descending into madness. This business is done."

Rhaena chose to ask, "What of the Triarchy. They attacked Driftmark and took our brother and your beloved from us?"

There could not be more exhaustion in her reply if she even tried, "Jace and his dragonriders served them with dragonflame, did he not? I hear their alliance is broken. They will soon go to war with each other, as they have for centuries." Baela took a breath, before finishing her thought, "Nonetheless, Jace and Viserys is dead. Nothing we do will ever bring them back."

You don't know how wrong you are on that, sister, Rhaena wanted to yell. Alas, not here, in the midst of the castle, where the walls have ears and voices of their own to bring news of whatever was talked about those far away.

It did not bode well that Baela herself was this unenthused by the prospect of justice. Like Father, she had always been courageous, never afraid to leap into danger when required of her. She knew for certain that for Viserys, Baela would trudge through the fiery mountains of Valyria themselves to ensure his safety.

Walking through the corridors, it was clear that Lord Stark had the castle firmly in his hands. On each hallway and door, hard men with shaggy woollen cloaks and full beards stood guard, all with the livery of the grey direwolf sown onto their armour.

"What of Grandfather?"

Baela's face turned sad once more, "Being held in the dungeons, arrested on charges of regicide. His guilt is to be proven on the morrow, and then execution will follow. I among many have tried all I can to dissuade Lord Stark of that, but he is adamant that the usurper's killers should face justice."

Rhaena smirked to herself as they entered Maegor's Holdfast, on her way to Baela's chambers, "Worry not, I will deal with the wolf. Grandfather will be free."

Politely dismissing the Northmen from Baela's chambers proved to be a trial for her patience, but they ultimately agreed to her kindly-worded command. The black-armoured Dragonkeepers took their places, with two taking stationed at either side of the door to the main chamber, and two others at the door to the bedroom. The rest stayed in the main chamber; they would be deployed to Aegon's quarters.

It was only after they were safely in the bedroom, with the doors barred by the chests bearing her luggage, that Rhaena took hold of her sister once more and whispered with urgency into her ear in their mother-tongue.

"You need to claim Silverwing. Viserys is alive. He is in Lys, and he's alive. You need to take Silverwing and fly there to get him back."

The shock writ on Baela's face could be forgiven, Rhaena supposed.

---

The Warrior

"What?" Baela whisper-shouted into his sister's ear.

"Viserys is alive. He is a currently a captive of a magister named Bambarro Bazanne of Lys, being kept at his manse. Bambarro wishes to see who emerges victorious in the war, and offer ransom for either his person or his head." Rhaena whispered into her ear in fast-flowing dead dialect of Valyria that was spoken in the topless towers of the Freehold itself, so they could not be overheard nor understood.

"How do you know this?" she asked, matching her tongue.

Rhaena sighed, "I've been having dreams…"

"Dreams…" Baela asked.

Rhaena nodded, "Like Daenys' dreams… I can't go into much detail yet, at least not here, but my dreams, like hers, chronicle catastrophe for us, our line, and the dragons."

"What?" Baela asked again, stupefied.

Rhaena took her hands in hers, and there was nothing but earnestness in her lilac eyes as she spoke next, still careful to keep her whispering tones low, "I know you are sceptical of dreams and portents, but believe me, I have been having them, night after night since Morning hatched. I've seen the next century and a half, and all the tragedy and misfortune that befalls our descendants. It all traces back to us. We can do much and more to prevent all of it."

Rhaena was right. Baela did not believe in dreams or prophecies; even in Daenys the Dreamer. It made more sense to her that the Targaryens had suffered some mishap at court and had to flee the Freehold with some urgency or face death. To her, Daenys and her dreams were tall tales that Aenar the Exile came up with to hide the shame of the Targaryens. None would ever willingly leave the grandeur of the Freehold.

She took another look at Rhaena's eyes, and found no sign of jest there. She was telling the truth. Whether the dreams were true or false, she had seen Viserys in Lys, being held captive by some magister. Would she let her stubborn notions risk her brother's life?

The war had taken so much from her. Her father, her mother in all but name, her beloved, two of her brothers, her dragon… All of them were gone. If there was a chance to get at least one of them back, no matter how slim that prospect, shouldn't she take it? Wouldn't she move the earth itself for the odds of abating some of the devastating grief and loss she had suffered?

"I may not believe in dreams, but I believe in you, Rhaena," she replied.

Baela would need a dragon to get him back, she knew. The magisters across the Narrow Sea were the soul of avarice. If this Bambarro Bazanne truly had Viserys, only the fear of dragonflame would cow him.

Replacing Moondancer was not something that Baela thought she would ever do. Their bond with each other had been forged years before she had emerged from her egg.

In her dreams, she still flew upon those pale-green and pearlescent wings, soaring above all the fire and ash that had become her life after the war. After being taken and chained by the usurper, only the dreams of Moondancer kept her sane, kept her alive for all she knew.

During those days, the usurper would have her freed in the mornings and brought to the courtyard to see his golden wyrm devour the remains of her dragon. At first, she would struggle and yell and shout for it to stop, for him to have mercy. With tears falling down her face, she would tell him that he had won, that he was the true king, that their queen was only a pretender.

Moondancer's corpse did not get any reprieve. Day by day, morning by morning, more and more of her would be fed upon, until one day they brought her and there was nothing more left of her other than black stains that would eventually be washed away by the winter rains. By then, she had stopped yelling and begging for reprieve. Only silent tears fell down her cheeks, all the hatred and desperation that burned in her soul so brightly extinguished.

Even when his golden wyrm finally died of the wounds inflected upon him by Moondancer, there was no malicious joy to be felt. Still, she was kept bound, fettered and caged, together with Aegon.

After Moondancer, she had been done; done with war and battle. Her well of courage and strength had run out, she had been convinced. She had wept often since then, for she was breaking the last promise she'd made to Father, right before he flew off to the Riverlands to hunt down the kinslayer.

"You are the oldest among your siblings now," he'd said, "It falls on you to protect and defend them where I cannot."

The rain was beating down on her face, and she looked up at him with eyes that stung with tears, "If by some chance I do not return…"

"You will return, Father, I know you will."

He'd shaken his head and held her cheek. Father had never been one to shield them from a truth, no matter how hard that truth was. "The kinslayer rides your mother's dragon now, the largest in the world. If she prevails against me, ensure your siblings remain safe. Flee, if you need to. Fight, if you must. Whatever you judge ensures their lives, judge and do. Promise me, Baela… promise me,"

The tears had been flowing then. That was the only time in her life that she'd ever seen Daemon Targaryen shed tears. The embrace that followed their tears lasted a lifetime. As the sun set that day, the Bloodwyrm had taken off westwards, Sheepstealer quick on his heels. That was the last time Baela had seen her father.

There would be no more failure from her, she swore. For the first time since Moondancer's death, she felt the ever-present grief burn away, and the courage that Cousin Rhaenyra oft said she inherited from Father return anew.

"I will claim Silverwing, and I will get Viserys," Baela told her sister.

"Good," she smiled, "I'll have Ser Corwyn, his men and the Dragonkeepers guard you as you head West. When do you intend to leave?"

"Now," she replied, "All I need is a good horse and a new dragon's saddle."

Her twin sister's smile turned into a smirk, "Very well."

---

The Targaryens and their Dragons

• Aegon Targaryen (b.120 AC)
• Baela Targaryen (b.116 AC)
• Rhaena Targaryen (b.116 AC) - Morning
  A female dragon born in 131 AC, hatching from an egg laid by Syrax and sired by Caraxes. Morning is a beautiful dragon, with vivid pink eyes, scales and bright pink wing-membranes. Her flames, horns, crests, wing bones and claws are black as midnight.
• Jaehaera Targaryen (b.123 AC)

 

[neyra]

The Negotiator

"Valonqar, you have to eat," Rhaena told her brother after minutes of him still moodily playing with his food.

"Where is Baela? We always break our fast together" he whined.

"I told you, Baela left yesterday in the afternoon, heading west, on royal progress, like the ones the Old King and Good Queen used to make."

That was the lie she had chosen to explain Baela's quest to any lord or lady of the court who sought to ask after her, of which they were numerous. Already, there were rumours swirling that her sister had gone mad with her grief and stricken out of her own, and that Ser Corwyn Corbray had gone out with his men to search for her.

Though unsettling, those rumours were to their advantage for now. Only Corwyn, Baela and the two Dragonkeepers that had gone with her knew her true mission. The fewer that did, the better. As vulnerable as they were, they needed all the advantages they could hope to find. Keeping any adversaries, of which they were many on the back-foot was the largest of those advantages.

"Why?" her brother asked.

"Because the realm has been torn apart by the war, and we need to learn their grievances so we can help mend it once more."

"If any man has any grievances, he should come here and lay them at our feet. There is no need for Baela to needlessly put herself in danger," he reasoned.

"She will not be in danger. Ser Corwyn and five hundred of his men are with her, along with two Dragonkeepers that will guard her day and night. She is safe as can be."

"Ser Corwyn and any consequential Vale forces only marched south once the war ended. They were Mother's kin, and still disloyal. They would slay Baela for half a groat if it gained them anything."

Rhaena was momentarily struck mute by her brother's cynicism. Though, she supposed there was some truth to that. In the end, the only defense she had was, "Ser Corwyn is a valued friend of mine. He guarded me and offered me much care while I was a ward of Lady Jeyne. He would not harm a hair on Baela's head and risk my displeasure. In fact, if he does return with Baela unharmed, you should name him as part of your Kingsguard when you are officially crowned. He is a consummate warrior, and was chosen over his lordly brother as the wielder of Lady Forlorn."

The only reply he got was a nod.

"You should eat," Rhaena pointed out after another several minutes of silence, this time his brother not even touching the veritable feast that was laid in front of him.

Along with the Dragonkeepers, Rhaena had brought along some of Dragonstone's remaining cooks -the ones that had survived the usurper's onslaught - that had known them and their preferences in dining. To break their fast on this grey morning, she had them make Aegon's favourite morning meal, hoping it would lift his seemingly ever-dulled spirits. It did not.

Rhaena had to remind him again, after another long moments of silence, "Valonqar, you should eat."

With a rather put upon sigh, Aegon finally dug into his meatloaf. It was there that she noticed the cuts on his forearm. Instinctively, she took his arm in her own and rolled up the sleeves of his velvet tunic.

"What happened?" Rhaena asked, concern in her voice. Aegon tried to snatch his arm away, but her grip was firm and unyielding. Slowly, the realisation of the source of his injuries dawned on her. The cuts were too orderly patterned and too numerous to have been made by accident each time. Some were healed and only left scars, others were scabbed over, and there were a few that were still red and angry.

Rhaena's eyes drifted to his brother's belt, where the dagger was still sheathed. The king's dagger, passed down from Aegon the Conqueror to every king since, but Maegor. It was made of Valyrian Steel with a bejeweled dragonbone hilt.

"Hand me the dagger," she instructed.

"No!" Aegon whined, "I am your king!"

"You are," she replied, softening her voice, with her hand outstretched, "But I am your sister, your older sister."

Aegon deflated, and freed the sheath from his belt, handing it to her.

"When did it start?" she queried, trying her best to keep her voice free of any judgement.

There could not be more shame and anguish in her valonqar's voice if he tried, "After Mother's death, when the usurper kept me in the dungeons. I smuggled a knife from one of the meagre meals he gave me."

Tears were shining in her eyes now, "The pain… the pain keeps me from… from remembering…"

Suddenly he was shaking uncontrollably, and Rhaena was upon him in an instant, holding him, reminding him that he was not alone any more, that he did not have to bear his burdens by himself any longer.

Fuck. The dreams had never mentioned this. The historians had named her brother the Dragonbane; a singularly joyless man with a debilitating fear of all things dragons and with a darkness that never seemed to leave him. The historians had failed to chronicle just how dark that darkness went.

Not for the first time since the dreams began, she cursed herself for how much neglect she had shown not only her brothers, but their family as a whole. She had married a bloody Hightower, and went to live in Oldtown, wanting nothing to do with King's Landing. It seemed she had become an addle-headed half-wit as she aged. The worst part is that, unlike Baela, she had no right to. Baela had fought, bled and sacrificed her dragon for their safety, while she had not.

During the war she'd been especially sheltered, safely protected from the harshness of war from the impregnable castle that was the Eyrie. And afterwards, she had sought a life of obscurity and domestic bliss, ignoring the family she had been born into to sire dragon-blooded whelps for fucking Hightowers. At least she was not addle-headed enough to give those whelps dragon's eggs. Or maybe she was, and the historians had not thought that detail important enough.

"You'll be well Aegon," she told him, "You have me and Baela, and we're not going anywhere." Not this time, not again.

It took long moments for him to finally calm. She thought of telling him the truth about Viserys, but decided against it, ultimately. Better not to give him unrealised hope that might turn into ashes in their mouth.

"Will you come to court?" she chose to ask. After being made Hand of the King just before she arrived, Lord Stark was trying all those suspected to have been part of the plot to slay the usurper.

Aegon only shook his head, "I'm sorry about your grandfather. I tried my best to have him pardoned and even restored to his position in the council. Sadly, I am only a boy, and an uncrowned king. My word has no weight in law."

"Worry not," Rhaena told him, "I will get Grandfather freed. After you are crowned, you should appoint him as your hand and regent. Save for each other, he's the only person we can truly trust, and he was our greatest ally. He served your mother faithfully."

"But, he betrayed Mother. He forewarned Addam when she had called for his arrest."

"Aye. And any grandfather would do the same, especially when those calls for arrest were mistaken," she could understand Rhaenyra's reasoning, but her paranoia cost her three dragonriders and the fiercest navy on the continent, "Addam did go on to die for the queen. Were it not for him, King's Landing would have been ruled by the bastard betrayers."

Her brother looked thoughtful, "Would he agree to a place on the council after all he's suffered?"

"He will. I can assure you of that. Now, please eat up, you have lessons to attend, and I have to go watch those trials."

The trials went exactly as they did in her dreams. The usurper's Grand Maester, four of his Kingsguard, twenty-two of the castle staff judged complicit, along with the Flea, and the Clubfoot were marked for death. Grandfather was the last to be called to the front of the court.

"Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake," the herald called out, a Stark man who spat out the word snake, "Lord of the Tides and Master of Drifmark. Charged with the crimes of murder, high treason and regicide."

Even chained, he stood ramrod straight, and walked with the same poise he had always possessed for as long as Rhaena knew him. For the first time, however, he looked his age, weakened and weathered by the time he had spent imprisoned. He gave her a weak smile when he saw her.

"Anything you wish to say in your defence?" Lord Stark, seated upon a wooden bench beneath the Iron Throne, asked him with contempt in his dark grey eyes.

He only shook his head, before he made his reply, "What I did, I did for the good of the realm. I would do the same thing again. The madness had to end."

"For the crimes of murder, high treason and regicide, I sentence you to death by execution," then turning to his men, "Take him to the dungeons, he'll die with the rest in the morn."

Grandfather flashed her another smile as he was led past. She would not let him die. Beyond her regard of him being their grandfather, they needed him. In her dreams, the regency council had been filled with ambitious men who aimed for nothing more than to further their own standing, at her brother's expense. One of those men had even tried to kill her brother. To avert that disaster, they needed Grandfather. He was their blood, and he'd bled and died in the war . His fleet had been reduced by a whole third during the Battle of the Gullet, yet he remained their ally. Father had trusted him enough to wed his daughter, despite them being on opposing sides of the Great Council. They needed him, and she needed him free.

She knew just how.

---

The Raven Archer

Alysanne Blackwood fetched another arrow from the quiver the squire next to her was holding. Unlike the ones she had used in actual battle, this one was not made of weirwood, but pine.

"Again I ask, are you certain about this, Lord Cerwyn? I do not wish to beggar you," she told the Northern Lord. The rest of the yard guffawed, while Lord Ellard Cerwyn only harrumphed and took his stance, retrieving an arrow from his own quiver. His was made of weirwood, with scarlet red fletching.

Lord Cerwyn was a massive bear man, tall with broad shoulders and arms as thick as the bark of a tree. He owed his size to his mother's blood, for she had been an Umber, or so she had been told. Ellard was as stern as his closest friend, Lord Stark of the North, she had come to learn, but to her great disappointment, was completely devoid of any of his good humour.

"You take your first shot," he told her gruffly, as he ran his hand up and down the shaft of his weirwood arrow.

"Very well," Alysanne told him. She thought of a clever retort to add, but decided against it. It would be too much to hurt both his pride and his coffers.

"Lord Cerwyn, for any shot my aunt makes that you can't match, you'll owe us a hundred golden dragons. If you match all her shots, we'll give you a thousand golden dragons," her nephew repeated the instructions.

Lord Cerwyn gave him a look that was laced with contempt.

"This one is a simple shot," Alysanne said, as she notched her arrow, "An arrow to the bullseye."

With a thunk, the arrow flew, and struck home, exactly on the bullseye. Her lordly nephew cheered, while the rest of the Blackwood party clapped for her. Alysanne removed her own arrow from the target as Lord Cerwyn notched his to his bow. Like her, his arrow struck the bullseye.

"You'll not make a beggar out of me quite yet," he said to her.

"We shall see, that was the just the beginning," Alysanne said with a smirk.

For the next shot, Alysanne had his nephew bring out an apple and hold against his face, his hand not even trembling. They had practised this half a hundred times, and never once had Alysanne hit Benjicot. He was confident enough that she would not maim her, and she was proud of that. The arrow thrummed through the air and pierced the apple dead center just as she thought it would, leaving her nephew holding only air.

Lord Cerwyn looked stupefied, "You cannot expect me to do that!" he blustered.

Alysanne gave him a mischievous smile, "Remember, if you yield a shot, that is five hundred golden dragons."

The bump on his throat visibly bobbed up and down.

"I'll make it easier for you then. Put the apple atop your squires head, and I'll count my shot matched."

That is just what Lord Cerwyn did. One of his weirwood arrows was notched, the bow was drawn, and with a whoosh, the arrow was loosed…and missed the apple and the trembling squire's head entirely, going to impale itself on the wall behind him.

"Bloody boy couldn't stay put!" he began to protest, "You all saw him! I would have hit that if not for him!"

"A hundred golden dragons," his nephew declared, and the rest of the field continues.

"Care to go on?" Alysanne asked, "Or will you finally concede that I am better?"

"We continue," he declared.

All cheering and hooting ceased when Princess Rhaena walked into the yard accompanied by three knights suited in gleaming black armour, their helms crested with dragon scales. Dragonkeepers, she remembered reading about them. The princess herself was clad in a splendid black gown with the three-headed dragon prominently wrought in tiny red rubies upon her torso. Beautiful as she and the garments were, the sleeping dragon coiled about her neck like a stole is what earned most of her attention, and no doubt the attention of the rest of the training yard. As was customary, they honoured her with bows and curtsies.

"Good morn, my lords," the princess greeted them, a bright smile on your her face, before turning to her, "my lady. Please, don't let me interrupt you. I am only here to watch. This seems much more lively than the affairs of court."

Lord Cerwyn commanded in that gruff voice of his, "What is your next challenge, my lady?"

With a smirk on her face and a new arrow notched to her bow, she called out to his nephew, who had a new apple in hand, "Ben, throw the apple."

Once Aly had drawn the bowstring, Ben tossed the apple, a green one this time, and with the surety of thousands of shots, loosed her arrow. A thunk, and the apple was impaled into the pale red stone of the Red Keep.

Beside her, the princess was clapping in appreciation of her, in the courtly, poised way she seemed to do everything.

"Match that, and all the debt you owe me shall be rescinded, my lord," she told Lord Cerwyn, whose mouth was still agape.

The astonishment upon the lord's face faded when he saw the princess watching him intently. His own arrow notched and his bowstring drawn, he bade his squire throw a red apple. Lord Cerwyn's apple splattered on the ground, and the arrow that was meant to hit it was impaled into the wall right beside her green apple.

Alysanne gave Lord Cerwyn a conciliatory smile, "That is two hundred golden dragons, I believe. Would you like to continue?"

"I would stop here, if I were you, my lord," the princess spoke from where she had stood sentinel, watching them. The pink dragon on her shoulder had awoken now, and was perched on her shoulder as the ravens perched on her home's heart tree every dusk, "Lady Alysanne has ever been an exceptional archer, since she was a child."

Lord Ellard took that for the command it was, and after a nod and a bow, he and his retinue exited the yard in their own pleasure.

"Forgive me for interrupting you, my lady," the princess said, trying for a conciliatory tone.

"I believe he was about to yield, princess," Aly replied with a smile on her face.

She gave a light laugh, "I disagree. Your contest would have continued until he remained with nothing."

"Men and their pride," Aly said.

Princess Rhaena gave another airy laugh.

"Your skill has only grown since I last saw you," she told her as Aly went to tend to all the arrows she had loosed, plucking them from the various targets and walls she had shot them into and arranging them in her quiver.

It had been eight years ago now, during the wedding of the false king to his younger sister. She let the strangeness of that notion pass. None questioned the Targaryens and their queer practices.

"Prince Aemond was not as pleased with my skill as you were, I believe," she quipped. The princess' expression only became more grave. Alysanne would have slapped herself then and there. Leave it to her foul mouth to land her in troubled waters

"I'm sorry," she said sincerely, pausing in the packing her arrows "that was ill-thought."

"No need to apologise. He lies at the bottom of the Gods Eye, with my father's sword thrust hilt deep into his one good eye," the princess said that with quite a bit of derision.

"And the Riverlands were well-rid of the blight that was him and his dragon. Prince Daemon's sacrifice will be remembered and honoured in the lands watered by the Trident for years to come."

"I will take solace in that, at least. The war… it has taken so much from all of us. I heard about your brother. And what your nephew has seen in his young age…"

"I avenged my brother. Put an arrow into the heart of the Bracken brute that slew him. As for my nephew, he'll be well. Bloody Ben his men call him," Aly chuckled, "He still has nightmares of the slaughter by the lakeshore."

"We all know much of nightmares now," the princess said, "My grandmother used to say that war exacted a price on all those who fought it, whether they won or they lost."

"My grandfather used to say that war determined not who was right, but who was left."

The princess gave her a chuckle, "Your grandfather is a wise man. Lord Royce Caron, right?"

"Aye," Aly answered. The princess offered to carry her bow, "It's quite heavy."

"Your quiver then,"

"That's even heavier."

"Let the Dragonkeepers help you with them," she offered instead. Aly handed the longbow to one of the black-armoured sentinels alongside her. As much as she made a point of seeing to all of her belongings, she was quite tired after an entire morning of shooting.

"We would have been kin in another world, you know," the princess said as they started back in the direction of the castle.

The story was as infamous today in Raventree Hall as it was half a century ago. Daella Targaryen, the sweet shy princess that was the apple of Queen Alysanne's eye, had been brought on tour in search of a groom. Grandfather charmed her, as he charmed everyone, and plans were even being set for their wedding. Only, the princess thought the Old Gods false, and feared that she would be sentenced to the eternal damnation of the seven hells.

"Queen Aemma would have been your aunt. Queen Rhaenyra, my siblings and I would have been your cousins."

"Alas, your great-aunt thought us barbarians who worshiped trees," she blurted it out without thinking twice.

The princess, strangely, laughed, in that sweet way she always did, "My great aunt was afraid of a great many things, even her own shadow, I suspect."

The two of them met Lord Stark listening to the rantings and ravings of Lord Cerwyn just as they entered the castle. Stern as her lord of the North was, he blushed when he saw her, but that smile faded when he saw who was beside her. As expected, he greeted them with the customary 'my princess' and 'my lady', with kisses on the back of their hands.

"The wolf has taken a great liking to you, I see," the princess pointed out.

Aly struggled not to stumble and stammer at that observation. She was not going to deny it, "The liking is mutual."

"Has he claimed your hand?" the princess asked.

"Not yet, but that is only a formality at this point."

"It may be a formality, but it is rather an important one," she told her as they entered her chambers. The Targaryen Dragonkeepers followed the princess into her chambers, the disquiet of which she tamped down. The princess was just weary of assassinations, she told herself, they had been a dime a dozen in the war after all.

"I have a way to hasten his claiming of you, and your hand."

"I'm listening."

The princess' demeanour turned serious, "My grandfather has just been sentenced to death by beheading, for the crimes of ridding us of the usurper. Ask him to undo his sentencing for the promise of whatever you can give him; he will ask for your hand in return." She then took her hands in hers, "My grandfather's death will ignite the dying embers of this war that we have suffered so much. All his efforts at making peace would be undone. Worse still, it would be war between those who were once allies."

"Make this offer, and we all benefit. The life of one of my few remaining family survives, peace is preserved, and you spur the seemingly ever-delaying Lord of the North to take you as his Lady of Winter."

Aly answered with a smile on her face, without requiring a beat of consideration, "Worry not, princess, I will." A hand for a head was quite a reasonable offer.

"Thank you, my lady," she then let go of her hands, "I promise you, I will not forget this. You will always have an ally in me, and hopefully, in time, we can be friends too."

"We certainly can, princess."

The princess smiled, bid her good day, and vacated her chambers, her knights falling behind her. It would not be a bad thing to have a friend in the sister to a king, she decided, and the prospect of that would make her more appealing to her husband to be.

Also, she knew that the princess' offer was a double-edged sword.

The dragon's orange-yellow gaze had been trained on her as the princess made her offer, and she'd had to fight the urge of squirming beneath it. And how she worded it; worse still, it would be war between those who were once allies. In another light, that could be read as a threat. Princess Baela, her short-haired twin, was on a progress throughout the realm, doubtlessly courting allies, whether old or new. Better not to wake the dragon. She would make sure that Sea Snake of hers was freed, and if she was to tame a wolf for herself in the process, what harm would that do?

---

The Wolf

Cregan did not like this godswood.

He was born a Stark, at Winterfell far to the North, where the godswood was the home of the gods, the true gods. The three-acre old forest there had been untouched in the thousands of years after the Children of the Forest had planted it. The carved face of the weirwood tree within had watched as Brandon the Builder set the first stone on Winterfell's Great Keep, and has stood in the eons since.

The godswood here was bright and airy, a place of song, where ladies in their colourful gowns frolicked in the sunshine, where the air was spicy with the scent of flowers. No weirwood grew here, and the heart tree was a brown oak tree, surrounded by elm, adder and black cottonwood.

Nonetheless, it served it's purpose as a place of prayer, where he could seek his absolution for the executions he would do in the morn. The man who passed the sentence should swing the sword, the gods had decreed. The blood of the damned could be washed only from the man that had damned them.

Once that was done, he would stay only for the wedding, and return to Winterfell with all haste. And good riddance to that.

Every day he spent at this cesspit of a castle, he wondered at his rather foolish ambitions of conquering the Seven Kingdoms and taking the dragon's throne for himself. Of finishing the war that others had started, and sweeping through an exhausted continent with his northmen. 'Why shouldn't a king with Stark blood sit the Iron Throne?', he'd asked his sister.

And so he had waited for the dragons to obliterate each other in their nonsensical war, before daring to bestir himself and marching his forces south.

'They were still collecting their last harvest, or else the North would starve', he had told the dragon queen, 'The North is vast, and it would take time to gather their men'. All of it was a lie. They had been done collecting the harvest months before even Prince Jacaerys had landed his dragon in Winterfell's courtyard, more than two years ago now.

It was shortly after the princeling had left Winterfell upon his dragon, that the notion of ruling the Seven Kingdoms occurred to him. Before the dragons came to Westeros, the Starks had been kings for eight thousand years, before the Valyrians had even tamed their dragons, let alone forged their Empire. If there was any with legitimacy of rule once the Targaryens died, it was them. So he let the war unfold, anticipation swelling within him every time he heard of a dragon and their rider having fallen in battle.

At Winter's arrival, the old, the helpless and those without hearth, home and family would venture out into the snow to go 'hunting', with no intention of returning until spring came forth at last. As the Dance raged on through the rest of the realm and winter fell, he'd held back all the men. Food and hearth and home would be there aplenty for the northmen once the entire continent bowed to a Stark.

Rodrick Dustin and his Winter Wolves disobeyed his command and marched two thousand men south, but alas, they were dead, and they were only a small part of the armies he could raise.

Like he'd desired, the dragons died and Cregan marched. The rest of the realm was devastated. Conquering the lord's castles would be easily done. A king with Stark blood would sit the Iron Throne.

Finally arriving at court had thoroughly shattered his ambitions. Honour was foreign in the vaulted halls of the Red Keep; here, a king could be poisoned as easily as he could breathe. Men cared not a whit for their oaths, be they knights, men-at-arms or the king's closest advisers. They were all snakes, he realised, be they of the sea or the grass. A Stark would never be safe here, their place was at Winterfell.

Once justice had been dolled out for those who had killed the king, he'd soon be well on his way back north. Usurper or not, pretender or not, a king should never be killed by such treachery. The Sea Snake, the Clubfoot and their cronies would pay for their crimes two days from hence.

All thoughts of conquest, treachery, regicide and murder vanished from his mind immediately he saw her. There she was, her knees bent in prayer before the heart tree. Moonlight streaked through the leaves of the wood and made her hair shine. She'd chosen to have those dark curls unbound, leaving them to cascade down past her waist. She was beautiful, not in the frivolous flowery way like the princesses and the other southron girls were, no, hers was a true beauty, bestowed on her by the gods.

Lady Alysanne must have heard her footsteps, "My Lord. Good eve. I was just praying."

"For what, my lady?" he asked, curious.

"For peace, and an end to the war."

The dreams of razing Storm's End, the Hightower and Casterly Rock came back momentarily, but so did the words of the Maiden of the Vale, the pleas of the Dragon Twins and the childish commands of their princely brother, "The war has ended."

"Not until you free the Sea Snake."

"Why would I do that?" the war would not continue because of one man's demise. And if it did, that would be a just cause for his men to die for.

"For the realm," she answered.

"It is better for the realm that traitors die." The queen's own children were the Sea Snake's own grandchildren, and yet due to his ambition, he had betrayed that same queen to declare for the king, only to bring about his death to crown little Prince Aegon.

"For the honour of our prince."

"The prince is a child. He ought not have meddled in this," the young prince had made the grave error of not only pardoning that snake, but giving him a place on the king's council, "It is Velaryon who brought dishonour on him, for now it will be said until the end of days that he came to his throne by murder."

"For all those who will die should Alyn Velaryon seek vengeance."

"There are worse ways to die. Winter has come, my lady."

Alysanne Blackwood took his hands in hers, "For me then. Grand me this boon, and I shall never ask another. Do this, and I shall know that you are as wise as you are strong, as kind as you are fierce. Give me this, and I shall give you whatever you may choose to ask of me."

Cregan frowned as the opportunity presented itself to him, "What if I ask you for your maidenhead, my lady?"

Alysanne laughed, "I cannot give you what I do not have, my lord. I lost my maidenhead in the saddle when I was thirteen."

Cregan thought as much. His lady was a fine rider and a horse breaker without peer, "Some would say you squandered on a horse a gift that by rights should have belonged to your future husband."

"Some are fools, and she was a good horse, better than most husbands I have seen."

He could not help but laugh. In the midst of the darkness and treachery of the capital, she was burning light, "I shall try to remember that. Aye, I'll grant your boon."

"And in return?"

Cregan did not hesitate, "All I ask is all of you, forever. I claim your hand in marriage."

The grin on her face was rather bright, "A hand for a head. Done."

---

Authors Note:
If you're enjoying the story so far and would like to read up to three chapters of it, you can do so here.

That last conversation between Black Aly and Cregan, where she convinced Cregan to free Corlys, did happen in canon, though I never understood why Aly would advocate for the Sea Snake's release. Maybe it was because she was afraid of war continuing in general. I feel that this version of events does make things make more sense and ties motives of our characters together.

Please do tell me what you think of this chapter and the story so far in the comments below or over on the Discord.

Do check out my other story, Intractable (A Daemon Targaryen/Lady Mysaria AU), if you haven't already.

 

[neyra]

The Sea Snake

Beads of cold sweat were trickling down his brow as he was startled awake from his fitful sleep. Another nightmare. No matter how gingerly he sat, the pain in his hip flared, another reminder that he was old and broken. The faint light of the crescent moon streaked into his cell through its single window. The sky was cloudless, the glittering stars in the night sky clear.

Corlys Velaryon stood, and, supporting himself with his cane, walked slowly towards the window. The scent of the night air and the subtle but perpetual stench of the shit that riddled the city reached him as he took a breath, reminding him that he was alive. At least this time, he was not smelling his own shit. Unlike the whore, Cregan Stark had the decency of caging him in a cell designated for nobility. Such cells were attended to once a day, and the captive's chamberpot was emptied.

The nightmares became more vivid as the weeks and months blurred by. These days, they would torment him every time he shut his eyes, trying to sleep. They would remind him of how much he'd lost in the war for the bitch queen's throne.

In those dreams, it was the face of his wife, stern and strong and unyielding, that he saw most often. She appeared to him as she'd been when they had just married; young, lovely and full of life, a woman just out of her girlhood and with her entire life ahead of her. When he saw himself, he was a younger man too; The Sea Snake, the dashing adventurer just returned home from voyages taken to the farthest reaches of the Known World, the man that had single-handedly lifted the dwindling fortunes of his house to heights previously unknown.

The words she told him on the day she'd declared her betrothal before the entire court came back to him, 'We can go back to the ends of the earth together, my love, but I'll get there first, as I'll be flying.' Like always, he smiled at the memory. That was the day he knew he found his queen, the day he knew he would make himself a king, as he thought was his due. The folly.

The pleasant memory would only last a moment longer, however, before he would see her falling from the sky, Meleys' headless and lifeless body under her, smote upon the ground. The copper armour she loved to wear would then melt into her skin as the bronze flames of their daughter's Vhagar engulfed her, turning her to ash. That was all that remained of his wife, nothing but ash, as if she never even existed.

That was all that remained of Corlys' life and legacy in truth. All he pursued so relentlessly since he was only a boy was ruined. The strength of the Velaryon navy had been cut down by almost half. Spicetown, the fishing village he transformed into a thriving city more resplendent than King's Landing could ever hope to be, was a ruin. High Tide, the crown jewel of his life's work, the beautiful pale fortress he had built with stone and marble and silver, had been destroyed.

All of it was because of the mad queen and her stupid war. He had been right in his assessment of her; she burned everything she touched.

Corlys usually did his best to avoid the uncomfortable thoughts of his ruin, but lately, he no longer had the strength to. In the morn, his head would be separated from the rest of him. The young wolf's words came back to him, unencumbered, 'Aegon was an oath breaker, a kinslayer, and a usurper besides, yet still a king. When he would not heed your craven's counsel, you removed him as a craven would, using poison… and now you shall answer for it'.

Aye, the conviction with which Lord Stark had pronounced his judgement assured him of his fate. Reflection was all that was left for him to do. So he walked back to the small bed, put on the heavy woollen cloak atop it over his head, glad of the warmth it brought. He then lay down slowly, his knees complaining as he did so, and let his mind wander unobstructed, reliving the memories of his life.

Surprisingly, his memories took him back to his youth, when he was a much younger man, before he was the Sea Snake, still full of hopes and dreams and ambition.

The form of Daella Targaryen appeared in his mind's eye; the sweet, shy princess that was so unlike every other Targaryen he had ever met. None of the pride and senseless arrogance of her kin was present in her. Corlys cursed his ambition once more for rejecting her suit of marriage all those years ago. She would have made a splendid wife, he knew, and a kind, gentle mother to any children they would have had.

But for a man like him, a woman who made a good wife and a gentle mother was just not enough. No, he needed one that would make him a king. Only Rhaenys Targaryen, the sole child of the king's heir, the far future queen, was worthy of the Sea Snake. Not only would she ensure his children would be dragonriders, but that one of them would be king after him. His blood would rule these lands for eons to come.

Oh, how his delusions shattered. The gods had seen fit to send his ruin in the form of a spoiled princess, a pretender queen named Rhaenyra Targaryen. Oh, how he loathed even the taste of her name on his tongue. How had he, Corlys Velaryon, let a little slip of a girl not even a quarter of his age destroy everything he had built?

He had been glad, so very glad, when Viserys came to High Tide and begged for Laenor's hand for his heir. Rhaenys had warned him against it, that war would follow Viserys' death, that no son would sit idly by and allow their sister to sit Aegon's throne over them. He had laughed then. Whatever war would follow would be short and devastating for any who sought to usurp them, he had reassured her. They had Meleys, Seasmoke, Syrax, Caraxes and Vhagar on their side. All his grandchildren would be dragonriders too, he was sure of it. He had made sure of it.

Laenor's queer tastes had been accounted for; he had him lay with the beautiful Marilda and sire a child upon her, before the wedding between him and the princess was to take place. Sure, the methods used to coax pleasure out of his son were queer and humiliating for him, but what mattered was that it worked. He would just have to do the same with his princess after they wed, and all would be well.

The princess had turned out to be nothing more than a senseless harlot. She had her own desires, and she would fulfil them, regardless of the treason she committed. Corlys swallowed something foul and bitter when he remembered the first brown-haired, brown-eyed whelp presented to him.

At that time, he had not truly grasped the depth of the cretin's entitlement. When the dragon's egg in that babe's cradle hatched only a few days after his birth, he'd reasoned with himself that it must have been the Baratheon and Arryn blood lurking in both of his parents that caused the boy to have such common features. So he gave him a storied Velaryon name, Jacaerys.

A seed of doubt was cast in his mind, however, when Addam was born soon afterwards, Valyrian heritage clear in his look. The birth of the second babe he named Lucerys, caused that seed of doubt to sprout. Soon thereafter, he had his son lay with Marilda again, hoping against all hope that the next babe sired between them would resemble his half-brothers, to put to rest his suspicions. His hopes were dashed into the sea, however, for Alyn was born soon after Lucerys, again with silvery hair and amethyst eyes.

That was when his hatred for the harlot was truly set in stone. He did not even bother bestowing her third whelp with a Velaryon name, instead letting his son give him the common name Joffrey, for his paramour supposedly. He did not understand. His son claimed the bastards as his. The couple paraded the boys as trueborn heirs of the two most powerful families in the Known World. Laena was nothing but a doting aunt to them and even agreed to betroth them to her daughters.

He'd wanted to speak out, to travel to King's Landing and disavow the boys as not being of his own seed in front of the king, but he could not. Those same dragons that he had counted on so staunchly as his support, now had their jaws pointed firmly at his throat. Daemon would certainly not allow any shame be wrought upon his beloved niece.

Laenor declared in no uncertain terms that he would turn against him, should he try to dispute his bastards' parentage. 'You can only watch as the entirety of your legacy is inherited by mongrels, father.' He'd said, a vindictive smirk upon his face, 'I believe it to be sufficient payment for all the shame you've had me endure.'

He had futilely tried to beget another son upon his wife then, not caring for her advancing age. It was the only option left to him. Addam and Alyn were sired in secret. Bringing them forward would be rash, and would only serve to put them and their mother in danger. Laenor had no care for them, he'd never even seen them. There was nothing but hatred and contempt in his eyes when Corlys informed him of their birth.

More than that, it seemed all the realm knew of his son's proclivities. They were more likely to believe that Addam and Alyn were his sons and not Laenor's. Rhaenys would certainly not be pleased to learn that her beloved husband had not only sired bastard children out of wedlock, but was also putting them forward to be heirs to Driftmark.

So he quietly despaired for a decade, doing nothing as his son and daughter died, and as he was then forced to have the bastard whelp he had named Lucerys as his ward. He was a good lad, Corlys had to admit, and would have made a splendid lord of Driftmark, were he trueborn. The boy displayed the same enthusiasm for sailing that reminded Corlys of his youth, fighting and eventually overcoming the seasickness that plagued him. He had begun to tacitly accept him as heir after a time, and even took him on a few voyages.

After one such voyage, he fell ill with a fever, and his nephew Vaemond had the courage to do what he did not. He went to the king, declared the fatuous princess' children as bastards, and put himself forward as the true heir and future lord of his seat. For his trouble, he got his head removed and his corpse fed to the bitch's dragon. Vaemond's sons and Corlys' other nephews went to the king in protest, and some of them lost their tongues or their lives as a result.

The rest of his kin looked at him in askance, expecting him to answer the injustice done upon House Velaryon. He could not, and so most of them turned against him during the war. Many ships of his navy turned cloak and fought for the Triarchy when they attacked their blockade of the Gullet. In the chaos of battle, they were torched by dragonflame just as the Three Daughters' fleets were. The large Velaryon tree was trimmed so vastly that the remaining scions of his family could be counted on one hand.

All of it was because of a bastard and his hag mother.

Before the war, he had thought that at least all his sacrifice would be worth it. Jacaerys and Lucerys, falseborn as they were, would marry their cousins, Baela and Rhaena, who at least had Velaryon blood from their mother. At the onset of the war, he thought they would be victorious. They had more dragons to deploy on the battlefield. More lords of the realm swore to support the inane queen's claim. They had the most experienced battle commanders in him and his good-son. He thought this whole mess would be behind them within a moon's turn. Oh, how soundly mistaken had he been.

Lucerys and the usurper's son were slain in turn, sparking the war in earnest. The Riverlands were conquered soon afterwards by Daemon and his dragon. Save for losing his false heir, things looked to be going well.

That was until his wife died, sent by the shrewish queen against the usurper's forces besieging Rook's Rest, only to find Sunfyre and Vhagar lying in wait. She did not turn away from the prospect of facing the two dragons, instead choosing to go to her death fighting to take at least one of them with her. And she'd almost succeeded, for the usurper's golden wyrm was left maimed, rendering him useless for most of the remaining war.

Rhaenys' demise had been his breaking point. Corlys had decided to withdraw his forces and retreat to the comforts of High Tide, leaving the queen and her bastards to fend for themselves in their wretched war for the throne. His wife and children were dead. The remains of the bastard he'd named Lucerys lay at the bottom of Shipbreaker Bay. The twins were Targaryens, daughters of Rogue Prince, even with his daughter's blood flowing through their veins. He had nothing else to fight for.

Jacaerys had been the one who to change his mind. He offered him the Handship, legitimised his true grandsons as they deserved, and even let them claim dragons alongside three other dragonseeds. Addam succeeded in that regard, becoming the rider of Seasmoke, his father's dragon. Alyn unsuccessfully tried to tame the wild dragon Sheepstealer, fortunately coming away from that ordeal with only mild burns.

Addam Velaryon was then named heir to Driftmark at the prince's urging, as was his due. Jacaerys had not been fool enough to even dare press Joffrey's claim to an inheritance he had no legitimacy to, not with the threat of losing the Velaryon navy for his mother's cause looming.

Finally, his actual grandsons got their due, even amidst all the loss and turmoil. Prince Jacaerys' actions earned him Corlys' begrudging respect. He would have made a capable king, he could admit, certainly a much better monarch than his moronic mother.

Jacaerys did not live long, however.

After his grandson claimed Seasmoke, Hugh and Ulf, the two betrayers, claimed Vermithor and Silverwing, and the brown girl Nettles tamed Sheepstealer, Jacaerys sent Joffrey and Rhaena, together with Joffrey's dragon and three dragon's eggs to the Vale. He then sent his two young half-brothers, Aegon with his young dragon Stormcloud and Viserys with his dragon's egg, to Pentos aboard a ship. All in an attempt to keep his family safe. The latter two would be anything but.

On the way to Pentos, the ship carrying the two young princes met the Triarchy fleet sailing towards the Gullet to break the Velaryon blockade. Aegon barely escaped the Triarchy forces on his juvenile dragon, flying back to Dragonstone in the midst of a storm of scorpion bolts being launched at him. He came in haste to seek help in freeing his brother Viserys from the enemy's clutches. That was the only flight little Aegon took on Stormcloud before the dragon died from half a hundred wounds.

Jacaerys and his dragonriders responded immediately, flying to set the enemy fleet ablaze and trying to rescue young Prince Viserys. In the chaos of the battle, Jacaerys, looking for Viserys, flew too close to the sea and was shot out of the sky. The Triarchy forces and Corlys' rogue kin reached High Tide and Spicetown, sacking both and putting them to the torch. The enemy was put to rout yes, but it was a victory with too much loss for it to be considered one, and Viserys was lost and dead.

After that battle, the queen and Jacaerys' dragonriders took the capital, and that was when her foolishness was put on display for the entire realm to see. Corlys laughed at the memory of her idiotic reign. Her downfall came from the common folk of the city, not from his daughter's dragon now ridden by the Kinslayer, not even from Ulf and Hugh, the dragonseeds that betrayed her and fought for the usurper instead. No, it was from the common folk. A monarch had to be singularly addle-headed to rouse their anger.

Her short and mediocre reign began unravelling when they took the Red Keep, only to find the treasury looted. The usurper's Master of Coin was brutally tortured to find out where the gold had vanished to. He revealed nothing. Instead of sourcing coin by seizing the treasuries of the lords that supported her half-brother, or borrowing from the Iron Bank to pay them back once the war came to an end and trade was restored, the witless wretch, with the advice of her illustrious new Master of Coin, imposed taxes on the common folk of the city. Common folk that had suffered hunger since the Riverlands went aflame under the Kinslayer's wrath and the supply routes from the Reach had been seized by the usurper's youngest brother and the host he commanded.

As she deployed her dragonriders all over the realm to deal with The Greens, (her husband and Nettles north to hunt the Kinslayer on Vhagar, Ulf and Hugh south to destroy the usurper's youngest brother and the host he commanded) dissent in the city was sown. That imbecile soon became known as Maegor with Teats for worsening the hardship they had fallen on instead of trying to alleviate it.

The usurper's wife killed herself, and word spread throughout the city that their cruel queen did it. The usurper's toddler son was torn apart by innkeeps far south in the realm, and the denizens of the city were certain that the lunatic on the Iron Throne was behind it.

The dissent came to a boiling point when the city folk stormed the Dragonpit by their tens of thousands and killed five dragons, at the urging of a one-armed street urchin who convinced them that only with the death of the dragons would they be liberated from the hardship they were facing. They were right, he supposed.

Instead of mounting Syrax, who resided on the Red Keep's courtyard, and turning away all who tried to storm the Dragonpit, the brainless queen fled the city after her only remaining falseborn son tried to do the same and died for it, while she just watched. Despite himself, Corlys chuckled. Her bastards were truly mongrels.

Even he knew that one could never mount a dragon that was bonded to another. Joffrey assumed her mother's mount was familiar enough with him to accommodate a short flight. He was thoroughly disabused of that notion when the dragon shook violently, throwing the mongrel from her back, sending him falling to his death. Syrax then went feral, destroying a part of the city with her flames, before joining the carnage in the Dragonpit and getting killed by tens of thousands of city folk. Five dragons died that night, along with well more than a hundred thousand of the common folk that killed them.

Maegor with Teats fled King's Landing soon afterwards and went to Dragonstone, straight into the waiting jaws of the usurper. Aegon, her sole remaining child, watched as she was roasted and devoured by Sunfyre, who had healed enough from his ordeal in Rook's Rest and promptly flew to seek out his master on Dragonstone, killing Baela's Moondancer and the wild dragon Grey Ghost in his wake. Sunfyre died soon afterwards, however, from the fresh wounds he took fighting those two dragons.

Corlys had been in the Black Cells when he'd heard the news. Despite being near the point of death from starvation and the injuries he had suffered during his imprisonment, he had found the strength to be glad of the Black Queen's demise. Her dying in the most ignoble way possible served her right. She'd had him chained and beaten for rescuing his trueborn grandson from her executioner's blade.

When Ulf White and Hugh Hammer proved themselves traitors and turned their cloaks, she'd ordered all dragonriders deployed by Jacaerys be attainted for treason and detained. Daemon, in the Riverlands hunting Vhagar, sought to protect Sheepstealer's rider instead of obeying his beloved queen's word. He therefore sent Nettles away and went on to face the kinslayer and Vhagar by himself, both dragons and princes dying in the resulting duel.

That asinine queen had dared to order Addam be tortured to 'ascertain his loyalty'. Corlys could not have that, of course, so he forewarned his grandson, urging him to flee to one of the Free Cities and await the end of the war. The two Targaryen factions would obliterate each other and all their dragons, he had reasoned, leaving his house, House Velaryon, as the only remaining house of dragonlords in the world. Addam could easily claim the Iron Throne for himself if he so wished, being a descendant of Old King Jaehaerys through his firstborn son. And with him having Seasmoke, none would gainsay his ascension.

Addam, Corlys found out, did not share his vision. He was instead plagued by delusions of loyalty. Instead of finding solace in the cities across the Narrow Sea, he flew to gather fresh levies from the Riverlands to attack Tumbleton, where the traitor dragonriders roosted, to prove himself to the dragon queen. Addam and Seasmoke died in that battle.

Once Corlys was discovered to have aided Addam in his escape, he was seized, beaten as if he was some common born miscreant, and then thrown into the Black Cells. He languished in the darkness for weeks until Larys Strong pulled him out, compelling him to give the usurper his allegiance, or Baela, now the usurper's hostage after Moondancer died battling Sunfyre, would be beheaded.

He'd agreed, thinking the idiocy plaguing Maegor with Teats had been vanquished once the usurper's dragon made a meal out of her. It had not. A shorter, sadder reign of Aegon the Usurper followed the short, sad reign of her dim-witted sister. Instead of trying to unite the war-torn realm under his banner by marrying his daughter to Rhaenyra's son, as Corlys advised him to do, he sought vengeance on all lords flying the banner of the accursed queen. His folly was even greater than his sister's, and Corlys did not think that possible.

With Sunfyre dead, the charred husk that was the usurper did not have a dragon to enforce his will. The attacks he made on the petty lords of the Crownlands only served to rouse the rest of her dead sister's remaining loyalists. Jeyne Arryn, Rhaenyra's own cousin, inexplicably found ships to finally sail her men down the Narrow Sea. Stark and his northmen bestirred themselves from their frozen wasteland and marched south, a whole two years after he and Jacaerys signed the grandly named Pact of Ice and Fire, where the prince promised his firstborn daughter to Cregan's heir.

Somehow, the Riverlands respawned even more men and slaughtered the traitorous Baratheons, Rhaenys kin and now the usurper's greatest remaining supporters, whose forces had been largely unbloodied before then, as Lord Borros chose to instead march south to deal with the pesky Dornish, even after the kinslayer betrothed himself to his eldest daughter. The usurper was left exposed and naked, with hosts marching on the capital from all directions.

War would come to King's Landing once more, and at that point, he was exhausted of it. His time in the Black Cells had done much to make him weary. The madness had to end. And so, aided by an unlikely ally in the Clubfoot, he had the usurper poisoned and hailed the young prince as king when the Rivermen reached the gates of King's Landing. He thought the war well and truly over, until Stark and his host of northmen reached the city and took it from the Rivermen.

That the young wolf harboured ambitions of conquering the entirety of the realm for himself, Corlys could clearly see, veiled as those ambitions were by the pretext of preventing future rebellions when the boy lords whose fathers were slain in the war grew to manhood. 'Small babes become large men in time, and babes suck their mother's hate with their mother's milk,' he'd said.

When Corlys pointed out how Aegon thought the same and perished for it, Lord Stark accused him of regicide in view of the entire court, and had his men seize him and imprison him once more to await execution.

Seventy-eight years; Corlys had lived seventy-eight years and in all that time, he'd never imagined dying for regicide. Adventurer, sailor, builder, king, husband and father, all those titles he had imagined for himself, but never Kingslayer. The rest would never matter. Only ash remained of the towns and castles he had built. He could scarcely walk up a flight of stairs, let alone brave the seas aboard The Sea Snake as he did in his youth. The wife that was to make him a king was dead. The children that were to rule after him were dead too.

Memories of them brought nothing but pain and guilt. What had he given them for the entirety of their lives, apart from grief, pain and suffering due to his ambition? Laena, his pearl, had suffered for almost a decade, betrothed to a Braavosi wastrel by his will. Daemon had been the one to rescue her by slaying the vagrant and marrying her instead. That had ended in tragedy scarcely four years later with her death while birthing a son.

Laenor, his son, his brave boy, the first dragonlord in House Velaryon's storied history, died with an empty soul, ashamed to the point of plotting against his own father. Plunging his dagger into his killer's chest was not retribution enough for that.

Alyn, the grandson he'd kept hidden out of fear for so long, was the only one left to him now. And what would he leave him? Driftmark more of a pittance than it had been when the first Jacaerys Velaryon left Valyria. The Velaryon fleet no longer sailing the waters of the Known World's seas unchallenged. The pitiful legacy Grandfather left him lessened even more. The proud banner of the seahorse drowned in ash.

Despite himself, Corlys laughed, long and hard and throaty, until tears streaked his weathered cheeks when the realisation occurred to him. No matter how much he despised and mocked Maegor with Teats and her dolt of a brother for their follies, Corlys had truly been the greatest fool of them all. He'd risen high, driven by ambitions of legacy and glory, and had achieved all of it, only to throw it all away.

He married a princess who would have been queen. He sired children that rode dragons. He built a city on the dreary island that was his home, making it the greatest port in the Known World. Under his stewardship, House Velaryon had risen to heights unknown.

And yet, all that was gone now.

In two days he would die, and Corlys Velaryon would die with nothing, being nothing.

Suddenly, he was wishing for the morn to come sooner. There would be no sleep for him tonight, the nightmares would not allow it. At least when he died, he would no longer be there to be tormented by them. There were the seven hells, perhaps, where he would burn for eternity for his sins, but that appealed more to him than the mummer's farce that was now his life.

A chuckle escaped him. Even at the point of death, his unassailable pride remained.

The rapping to the door and the shimmying of keys into its lock burst him out of his ruminations. The rusty hinges groaned and creaked as it opened. Had Lord Stark decided to finish him off now? That would only be for the best, he mused. Gingerly, he sat up, anticipating northmen coming in and shoving him roughly onto the block. It would be less painful for his hips were he to be seated than lying on his back.

To his infinite surprise, his granddaughter was the one to step into his cell, running straight for him and taking him in a deep embrace. Tears were stinging his eyes as she squeezed him even tighter, the pink dragon coiled about her neck letting out happy squeaks and whoops at her bondmate's happiness. Corlys did not deserve an ounce of her affection, he knew.

"'Tis so good to see you, grandfather," she said, trying and failing to keep her voice even.

"'Tis good to see you, Rhaena," he replied, "How did you manage to get Lord Stark to let you visit me."

His granddaughter smiled, with those light lilac eyes of hers. Eyes that reminded him so much of her mother and grandmother. Laenor had been the only one out of his family to get his indigo eyes, while her daughter, grandchildren had inherited Rhaenys' lilac ones.

"I've done better than that," Rhaena told him, "You're free to go."

The words struck like a punch to the chest. For the first time in a lifetime, he was left speechless, "What… what do you mean free to go?"

"Free to go, as in, you have been offered a full pardon of all the crimes you have been accused of," she took her hands in hers, "Your time to die has not yet come."

"How?" was the only thing Corlys could ask.

"Even the fiercest of men have their weaknesses," was her only reply.

The Dragonkeepers alongside her came into his notice for the first time. The rigid Northmen that normally guarded him were gone. Only then did he truly begin to take it in.

"I'm truly free?" Corlys asked.

Rhaena chuckled, "Yes you are, Grandfather. Yes you are. Shall we leave this horrid place?"

That was not an opportunity to pass up, no matter the guilt rising within him at accepting the offer. Corlys had not been a very good grandfather to the twins. How they still held such high regard for him, he did not know. Regard enough to have him saved from the prospect of execution, regard enough to have him pardoned for what he knew were unforgivable crimes.

Instead of returning to his chambers in the Tower of the Hand, or him being assigned new quarters, he was led by Rhaena through the castle and out into the gardens, Valemen joined by the black-armoured Dragonkeepers walking behind Rhaena. All of them stood aside as Rhaena guided him deeper into the one-acre forest, and they were left alone.

"You have my gratitude, Rhaena," Corlys began saying, once they stopped at the front of heart tree, "For freeing me."

"You are my grandfather," his granddaughter replied, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, "I could not let you rot in the dungeons any longer. We have much to do anyhow."

"What exactly, pray tell?" Corlys' curiosity was piqued. Not much thought was given to what he might do if freed. That had never been a consideration of his since the wolf had him put in a cage.

"Set the realm to rights. Rule," she began, "Only three of us are left now, with only one dragon, a hatchling under our control." She gestured to the sleeping drake around her neck. "The rest of the realm circles us like carrion crows, waiting to feast on our corpses. You, grandfather, are our blood, and the only one that we trust. We would ask you to serve as the Hand in the King's Council."

Rhaena held out the brooch, pure silver, wrought in the shape of a fist. His mind flashed back to another time, during the war, Prince Jacaerys holding out a similar brooch, begging him to return to the fold. It had taken much being lost for the offer to be made to him in the first place by the mad queen, and much cajoling by the prince for him to accept. Here his granddaughter was, making the same proposal, even after everything that had occurred between them, even after all she'd lost because of him.

There would be no cajoling this time.

His grandchildren were the only legacy he had left, as fire and ash had consumed all else that he'd built. This was why the gods had seen fit to spare him, he realised, like a sailor clinging to life desperately on a piece of wreckage. As the Hand of the King, he could try and assure their futures somewhat.

He could try and atone for all the devastation he had brought upon the lives of their parents, his children.

"I accept," was the only answer he gave, and the Sea Snake fastened the badge of office onto his weathered tunic. There was a knowing smile on his granddaughter's face.

---

Author's Note:

If you like what you've read so far, you can read three more chapters of it here.

This chapter is basically my attempt at untangling the mess that was the Velaryon story during the Dance era. A lot of it seems disjointed and illogical when reading Fire and Blood, but this is how I've pulled those threads to something coherent, while giving Corlys a motivation for being allied with his granddaughters and the king.

As always, give me the thoughts on it in the comments below or on Discord.