Chapter Text
Prologue
Gael
Even from the cliffs over Blackwater Bay, Gael Velaryon could still hear the chants of the smallfolk in the streets of the capital ; swarms of them cheering, celebrating the ascension of the new king who claimed he would be better - stronger, than his father. Claims that they met with roaring approval. Claims that she knew would prove a mere falsehood. Every celebratory remark hit her like a knife to the heart, tearing each individual fibre of her apart and flinging the pieces into the waves below: it was truly unbearable. And yet they were cheering for her, proclaiming their love for the new Queen, something they hadn’t had in years. She could practically feel the loving eyes of every young girl in the city, looking upon her as a demonstration of womanly power and beauty, as close to the Mother in front of them as they would ever get.
She tugged aimlessly at her gilded necklace, now the coronation was done with she had no need for this level of stifling finery, the frills and flowers felt suffocating - a sensation befitting of the Red Keep wherein she now resided. Why her husband Maegor had insisted on such a grand occasion she was still questioning, he wasn’t the type for balls or parties these days either (though she suspected her son Maelor may have influenced the event, his tastes were much more elaborate). The necklace gave up resisting eventually, and the beads pooled in her hand, the pearls bright against her dark skin, each one shimmering under the setting sun. She twisted them about with her slender fingers, wondering if the King had slipped away into the dusk as well, if he was similarly watching the crashing waves and the ever changing sky, or whether he had found his own ways to cope as he so often did.
As she watched the clouds roll across the mottled pink sky, her mind began to wander, running through almost a million thoughts a minute. Had the smallfolk noticed the princess’ absence? Had they felt the air of melancholy that clung to the royal family as they took their place in the Sept that day? Had any of them seen the dragon escaping off into the sky in the early hours of the morning? But no matter the answer, it wouldn’t have changed anything, she realised. Her daughter was gone. Disappeared into the dawn before anyone had even noticed she was missing. They could have sent men, dragons, ships - but it would have been no use. If Naevea had wanted to escape, she would never be found. That was one thing she had inherited from Gael, her ability to flee into the night as if she was never even there to begin with. Many would try, she was sure, even now over the bay two young dragons circled, no doubt those of her niece Maysie and middle son Aethan, who just that morning had vowed to bring her daughter home themselves before being talked down by the Kingsguard. She wondered if they would try that hard for her. Aethan certainly would, he was a child crafted so perfectly in her own image that she had no doubt he would mount Vetbryos as he had that morning and follow her to the ends of the known world; that thought comforted her a little.
The wind was beginning to grow cold, and the thin layers of decorative silk that were draped around her slender frame were no longer enough to keep out the chill. Gael considered returning to the Keep, but the thought was fleeting. Her husband would no doubt be in his chambers, pouring over spellbooks and potions, looking for anything that would bring his daughter home to him, the guilt eating him from the inside out. The prospect of returning to that filled her with a sickening dread, she could not look upon his face right now, not after what he had done in the few days since his father’s death. So the cliffs it was, a mild breeze would not harm her surely, her blood was that of sea captains, the most powerful sailors in all of Westeros, a sea breeze would do nothing worse to her than what may befall her in her own chambers.
She continued to roll the pearls in her hands, passing them again and again over each finger, a soothing pattern. Maegor had been overjoyed to gift her the necklace, back when he was barely a man grown, and the words of whispered prophecies were yet to torment him. It was a shame to see it broken, she supposed, but maybe it was better not to dwell on their past in a time like this: the focus should be on the future, the kingdom they now must rule together. The idea of ruling made her stomach turn, especially alongside her husband who she realised she now barely knew. She was loved, she knew that, the people were behind her, they were even behind Maegor - but the Lords and Ladies were not so forgiving as the smallfolk. There were already whispers that a challenge was growing, the Baratheons and Tullys had a marriage alliance now, as did the Tullys and the Lannisters. The Hightowers were growing restless, scorned by the Crown after being refused Highgarden in the wake of most of the main Tyrell lineage falling victim to the ‘Westerly Wasting’ the previous year, it instead passing to a 4th son of the 4th brother of the previous Tyrell lord, recently married to a young Meadows girl. Her husband had been quick to take the previous lord's children as glorified hostages, something that did nothing to quell the whispers he was the sorcerer responsible for the plague. Gael had pleaded with him to let them go, they had no part in whatever correspondence had been found detailing their father’s alleged treason. And yet her words fell on deaf ears. She could not imagine what her husband would do now he was acting as the highest power, no longer just a regent of his ill and barely coherent father.
As she stared out into the bay, watching the waves lap against the sharp rocks, she wondered if she could have followed her daughter. Would Naevea have let her? Would she have ridden Abragon over the Narrow Sea and escaped the cruel reality that now faced her? It was only a passing thought, she could never have left her boys. Her sweet, sweet boys. Aethan was as close to perfect as she could imagine, smart and kind with a soft smile that he never failed to flash her, even when she could see the welts on his arms from his brother’s sword. Baby Viserys, though he was now ten and one and barely a baby, his dreamy look and childish love for adventure - he had scaled every wall in the castle, and on Dragonstone, trapsed down every passageway searching for magic: anything that would make his egg hatch. Even Maelor, strong, wilful Maelor; a well documented cruel streak didn’t stop her from loving him, and him loving her in return. His only moments of vulnerability came curled up in his mother’s arms after a verbal altercation with his father, still just a scared boy at heart. What would happen to them if she left? But the more she dwelled on it, the more she wondered if in fact, her staying would do them more harm. Each one of them loved her so deeply, would it be worse for them to watch her suffer at the hands of their father, who they were already trying so hard to cling onto as he drifted further into the clutches of his own mind. Maybe, the illusion would remain in place if he had to take her place as a parent.
She couldn’t stop the thoughts of the boys watching as she slowly pulled away from their father, as she already was. Every flinch, every shake, every night they didn’t speak at dinner - would it be so bad to let them believe she had loved him until the end? If she were to slip away now, it would be blamed on the loss of her daughter, the immense grief drove her to flee, maybe to search the Free Cities for any sign of her only baby girl. No one ever need know she was escaping what was sure to be a reign that would tear her beloved family apart. Briefly, she considered taking the boys with her, but it was a fleeting fantasy. Maelor would never leave his father, the man was his idol - as was the crown he had been promised as his birthright. Aethan would never leave without Maysie, he adored the girl as much as anything on the earth, they were to be married in the following moons - she could not rob him of the only true love he may ever know. And Viserys was far too young, he would never make it across the Narrow Sea without crying out for his home, there had already been too much strain on him in the past week - she could not do that to him.
She turned, turned, turned the pearls in her fingers, thinking back to her own mother. A daughter of the Bar Emmon Lord, reserved and secretive - dying after childbirth with Gael’s younger brother Larys for which her father had never forgiven him, or himself. There were barely memories of her, only the words of the Velaryon household that reached her ears. She had been a witch, a spell caster, or maybe even part dolphin. Each tale more ludicrous than the last. Gael had only been three when she died, and the only words she remembered her mother saying to her were as she lay in the bed she would pass in, barely lucid but still aware enough to give her daughter one last word of advice: “If you call to the sea, it shall answer you. Return to it and it shall take you where you desire.” And that was what she repeated to herself now as she stared towards the rocks of Blackwater Bay. The Seven had never answered her prayers, but maybe the Sea would. She began repeating the same words she had in the Sept into the waves, “Keep my family safe, let me be free.” The same two phrases on a loop as the waves continued to pummel the rocks below. Strange, the waves seemed closer, as if they were rising to meet her, almost lapping at the cliff edge when they had been feet below her mere moments ago. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine stepping into the seas of Driftmark, the sand beneath her feet and the water against her skin. And imagine she did, as Gael Velaryon begged the sea to protect her, and drifted to meet it.
Chapter One
Daenara
Storm’s end was a rotten castle. The walls wept from the almost constant monsoons, the doors creaked and slammed from the violent winds that swept the cliffs of the Stormlands Coast, the floors were always seeped in a layer of mud and water brought in by anyone who entered. No amount of work from the servants would make it clean anymore, and maybe never had, but this particular Spring had been wet and wild. What frustrated Daenara Targaryen most though was how little her husband seemed to mind. Lord Wilhelm Baratheon had grown up in this castle, was used to the way it seemed to uncomfortably bend to the elements without ever truly succumbing. When she would complain to him about the cold, or the damp, he would simply laugh and remark that she had chosen the Stormlands after all: it made her want to slap his face even more than usual. Perhaps, then, it was the nature of the castle itself that was dragging her mood down on that morning - rather than the news of her brother’s coronation that she had been neglected to be invited to.
“He’s an ass.” She twisted a fork around and around, lounging back in one of the grand chairs in the dining hall. A plate of food sat in front of her, eggs and mushrooms and copious rashers of the best bacon and yet she had the appetite for none of it. “He didn’t even send a raven. I’m his sister, his own blood, and he does not even think to let me know that he is planning a coronation? I had to find out from Viserra that our father was finally dead.” She speared a mushroom far more aggressively than necessary as Wilhelm shrugged, placating her and refusing to rise to whatever bait she was trying to throw out. “What kind of world is it where a daughter must find out second hand through her sister that her father, useless as he is, has passed. Not only that, but that our dear brother has ascended to the throne.” What went unsaid was that the throne, by all rights she believed in, should be hers.
In the spirit of the morning, she was dressed almost ready for war. Her long white blonde hair was half pulled into two braided buns, with the rest free flowing down her back, smaller braids twisting and weaving through soft waves. Deep purple eyes glared down at the table, brought out by dark eyeliner and a faint rouge across her cheeks. Most ladies wore subtle makeup, but Daenara had a flair for the more dramatic style, more popular with actresses and whores than women of the court. Her fashion was equally extravagant, all dark colours with elaborate silver embroidery mimicking a chestplate of armour, matched with a hard iron necklace adorned with the traditional red stones of her ancestral house. Under no circumstances would she adopt the dreary Stormlands fashions, she had argued, the Royal House should be honoured far above the house of her husband. There was even a crown that she kept stowed in her cupboards, the crown that had last belonged to her grandfather, King Vaegon, first of his name, but dated back much further to the time of King Valarr. It was a simple crown, a dark iron ring encrusted with rubies, swords and fire and dragons engraved into the sides showcasing the victories of the Targaryens in their many wars. The stories said the Spring King had it commissioned in remembrance of all his family who had perished, a reminder of tragedy and triumph. Daenara preferred to focus on the triumph of it all. Though she had never dared to wear it outside of the confines of her own chambers, the way it sat against her head felt like a jigsaw clicking into place - one day, she told herself, she would wear it atop the iron throne.
Today would not be that day, much to her chagrin.
Breakfast remained uneaten, simply speared and swatted at in a seething frustration that threatened to boil over. Wilhelm hadn’t looked her in the eye since they had sat down, and his avoidance only drove Daenara deeper into her anger. “For the gods’ sake, Will. Do you have any intention of doing anything today except avoiding my eyes lest I turn you to stone? This is a snub against your house too.”
Her husband had simply shrugged, “We sent our daughter on dragonback. That’s a response.”
She scoffed, folding her arms against her chest and pushing back from the wooden table, “A poor one. What is a girl of eight and ten on a juvenile dragon to do against her uncle who deals in blood magic and rides the largest dragon in the realm? Not to mention his brat of a boy.” There was extra venom dripped around the word ‘girl’, her daughter by all accounts was a woman by now, ready to wed for many years now, and to a good match too - but Wilhelm had for once grown what resembled a backbone, dragging his feet in favour of coddling his daughter. He certainly noticed the venom now, his expression hardening as he swallowed the slight thrown at him.
“She is capable.” His grey eyes met hers, narrowing as he drew his chair back. “As are you, I delegate to you to respond how you must. I have arrangements I must attend.” Snatching his cup, he strode from the dining hall.
Watching his back retreat, Daenara couldn’t help but feel a small twang in her chest, something resembling guilt. Wilhelm was bordering on a drunk, was a notorious rake in his youth, and was a mediocre politician on a good day; but she cared for him as much as her hardened heart would allow. There was something in the way his dark hair never quite fell right, always a little messy and dishevelled; the way his face was slightly scarred from one too many failed hunts and jousts; the way that no matter what - he had never once treated her as anything less than his equal. It was well known that she was the one who truly ruled Storm’s End, but Wilhelm was involved in as much as he could safely be exposed to. There was an understanding - she was usually right on the matters of politics, the inner workings of the courts and the realm and how to manipulate them, but he was the expert on the matters of the people, the intricacies of the social circles, how to charm and befriend those who were necessary assets. Unconventional as it was, the system was yet to fail them. In fact, they had almost assembled their own council, with Wilhelm’s brother Peter as their Master of Arms being her confidant on matters of war and battle, and the exceptional Maester Renford always there to be of assistance.
It was Renford that greeted her as she left the dining hall a while later, having taken time to cool her head. “A raven, from King’s Landing, my lady.” The man was short, and young for a Maester - though his skill was second to none in the realm she was sure. Auburn curls threatened to catch in his chain, and a well trimmed beard framed his jaw nicely. Steely blue eyes pierced through long, dark eyelashes and thin, questioning eyebrows. Daenara had never asked where he had come from, or why he joined the citadel, but she had noticed more than a passing resemblance to some members of their vassals the Dondarrions. However she also imagined pressing that matter would only bring more strife than she had patience to deal with. They made only polite conversation in the walk to the Rookery, Renford doing his best to defrost the icicles that had grown around the castle’s atmosphere in the last day or so. His discussions of the successes of flood control and storm relief efforts were certainly dull enough to put a damper on any bubbling anger in her heart still. That was until Daenara sat to read the message that awaited her.
A neat scroll was placed on the windowsill, wrapped carefully with a thin golden ribbon and stamped with the sigil of her husband’s house. There was only one person in King’s Landing who wrote letters like this - Maysie. Her daughter had always taken particular care with her letters, making sure the string was tight and the wax seal perfect, even when the matter was urgent (something that had frustrated her septa and parents alike). This morning, however, the sight of the neatly prepared letter warmed something in Daenara, despite Maysie only departing two nights ago, her absence had been felt like a dark cloud over the castle. She had never been away so long, especially not alone, usually travelling with either her father or mother on only the most important occasions, or when her pleas to attend tourneys were satisfied. Some may call it overprotective, Wilhelm had called it necessary, stating the harsh relationship between their family and the ruling branch as a reason to keep his children as separate as he possibly could. Had he had his way, he most certainly would have sent his eldest son Joseph to the coronation. Her son was a man grown at eight and ten, a proficient swordsman, charming politician and a passable dragonrider, though he preferred horseback for any form of combat. The dark curls of House Baratheon reached almost to his collar now, and he carried his father’s pale complexion and angular features. All that connected him visually to his mother’s Valyrian heritage was his striking purple eyes. Maysie, despite being his twin, was most like her mother in almost every way except her dark hair. Rounded features, an almost ethereal and whimsical air to her. All soft curves and girlish beauty. As she grew, the softness never left her as it did most, perhaps why her father was so reluctant to let her go. By all accounts, Joseph would have been the more traditional choice as a thinly veiled threat to her brother, but Maysie had batted her thick eyelashes and Wilhelm relented - as he so often did.
It felt almost a shame to open the letter now, destroy the care that had been put into presenting it, but the contents inside must be urgent for such a raven to be sent so late at night to be arriving now. Pulling apart the rolled parchment, Daenara stared at Maysie’s writing; the usual neat letters slightly wonky and scrawled down, the ink blotting and clumping in ways she typically would never let it. There was something frantic to it. The prose was equally as rushed in its composition, jumping from event to event as she had clearly attempted to summarise the day’s events in a hurry. Her eyes darted across the page, each line of the message more concerning than the last. When she finished, she felt almost exhausted, her heart pounding from her chest. Perched upon the windowsill, Daenara pressed a hand to her mouth, taking a deep breath into her lungs to try and quell the unsettlement the message brought.
The note had opened on the news of a shock marriage arrangement, King Maegor returning to the times of older Targaryen Kings and betrothing his two eldest children - Maelor and Naevea. While there had been whispers of this from him in the past, shut down adamantly by their father, she had never expected that fool to try and follow through - the practice had been pushed into disuse for a reason. Relations with the great houses were shaky enough already, keeping a low profile would have been far more advisable. It was not outlawed for them, no, the doctrine of exceptionalism still stood, but the situation with the faith had been far better since sibling marriage had become a thing of legend. All houses dabbled in marrying cousins, no one had a leg to stand on there, but for her brother to make such a rash decision on his first day on the throne? It was a blessing that it had fallen through. Maysie went on to detail how this had spiralled out of control, with Naevea flat out refusing to marry her elder brother in a fit of fiery rage. ‘Good,’ Daenara thought to herself, ‘the boy is cruel, vain and arrogant - no one should have to suffer him.’ While her daughter had not been present at the conversation, she had heard the account from Naevea herself, who returned to their chambers only briefly to throw her most prized possessions into a small bag Maysie provided her, the one she had arrived with. Promptly, she then mounted her dragon, a beautiful blue and purple female who had once belonged to Princess Jaene, and fled into the early morning sunrise without another word. Everyone assumed she was bound for the free cities, she had never been one for the customs of Westeros to begin with, preferring to sneak around the streets at night, frequenting playhouses and brothels alike since she was but five and ten. It was no wonder then, that when she considered a future across the sea, or a future as a wife to her most awful brother - she chose the former.
Maysie did not dwell on the coronation too long, only really mentioning the somber atmosphere that followed the Princess’s departure. It had been a grand affair, the smallfolk seemed ecstatic, but the royal family were less than happy about the situation - especially Gael Targaryen. Gael had always been kind to Daenara, The ‘Siren Queen’ as they called her, born from salt, sea and debatably sorcery. Her dreamy demeanour and soft heart felt so in juxtaposition to that of Maegor that Daenara and her sisters had all sniggered at the pretence their father kept up that it was a friendly match as well as a political one. The letter detailed how despite her best efforts, tears still crept from her eyes throughout the entire ceremony. This was no surprise, truly, but what was - and what was currently pressing a weight against Daenara’s heart - was what had apparently happened to her that night. From the view of an outsider, Maysie could not detail the full events, only that she and Aethan had returned from a brief search effort of the Bay to find the King locked in his chambers and the Keep in a shambles. The servants were tight lipped, especially around the Prince, but word got around. Gael had thrown herself from the cliffs over the Blackwater. No one knew exactly where, only that a maid had seen her on the path there, and her shawl was found washed up on a beach. There was hope that she had not fallen from such a height, that she may simply be found on a beach nearby. Searches continued through the night, led by Aethan and Maelor, while the King could be heard chanting and yelling from his private chambers. The words detailed how Maysie had stayed with young Viserys that night, as he wept softly into his cousin’s arms until the small hours of the morning. She had concluded the letter after the Prince fell asleep, and signed it with a kiss to her own mother - no doubt shaken by the events of the day.
Daenara’s stomach continued to churn, the thought of Gael being so upset by the events of that day that she would throw herself into the bay? Things there must have been sinister, to a level that wasn’t detailed even in Maysie’s letters. If there was one thing Daenara knew about Gael, it was that she loved her children, she wouldn’t leave them unless there was good reason. Sadness turned to rage in her chest, burning as she thought of her brother locked in a room, chanting curses and spells in a paranoid frenzy as his wife and children begged him to return to them, help them. He was no more fit to be a father than he was a king.
Renford remained by the door to the Rookery, somberly running his hands over themselves, “My lady-” he did not have to finish, she thrust the paper towards him,
“Read it for yourself, Renford.” And read it he did, much less furiously than she had, taking his time to understand each sentence, consider the intricacies of the words written and how they may fit into the puzzle of his knowledge. When he finished, he carefully placed it back on the small wooden table, shaking his head and muttering something inaudible under his breath.
“It’s worse than I even considered.” She laughed a little, dry and cold, shifting herself off of the small ledge she was perched on.
“It is a tragedy, My Lady.” Renford paused to run a hand through his hair, small cracks appearing in his usual unflappable demeanour. “Such events are troubling to say the least, knowing the King’s temperament, I fear this may have more consequences than even I can predict.” He was speaking in much kinder words than she would, the sentence "he is about to burn the city to the ground” came to mind more than such a diplomatic assessment of Maegor’s temperament. The city that had her daughter inside it. Daenara whipped around, pulling her skirts up and shaking the dust from them, she must get her daughter out of harm’s way; and for that she would need to speak to her husband. In this state, any letter she would send to the capital would be filled with fury, with none of the sickly charm that Wilhelm tended to wrap his words in - a sickly charm that she needed desperately right now. With a quick nod to Renford, she strode from the room, black boots pattering against the stone floors that marked the way to her husband’s study.
Wilhelm sat in a simple wooden chair, cushioned with yellow velvet that bore the stains from one too many stray ink blots. Most lords would have requested a new chair, but he found the worn look charming, saying it gave the small study some more character. The walls were laden with books, histories and legends alike, though he had never read a single one of them - he always asked what use history was to him when the present was so interesting? Instead, she had pored over the history books day after day, the details of her family’s reign, each and every political move that led them to the point that they were today. The regency of King Aegon III, the Blackfyre Rebellion, the failures of King Aenys I - she found insight in each and every one of them. It was no surprise then that Wilhelm was not in the study to read, instead he sat scribbling on a stack of paper, no doubt a correspondence to one of his bannermen. The recent storms had sown discord across the stormlands, minor houses debated who was responsible for flood cleanup on disputed land, none wanting to spend the extra coin on seldomly used fields. Allegedly, the Bucklers and the Fells had even come close to arming over the matter. Daenara had no reservations about interrupting such activities; soon floods would be the least of the realm’s worries.
“I need you to draft me a letter.” Her voice was firm, not yet raised but threatening to be. When Wilhelm did not respond, she planted a hand either side of his paper, narrowing her violet eyes to shoot daggers at the top of his head. “It’s urgent, Will.” Still, he did not look up, simply dotting the end of a sentence and placing the quill back in the ink pot next to him.
“You might remember your manners and I’ll consider it.” That got a roll of the eyes,
“Now is not the time” She hissed, putting her hand beneath his chin and lifting it, though not so violently that he objected. In fact, the smirk on his face would imply that he was enjoying this.
“What on earth could be so urgent to convince you to disturb my work. I have vassals to manage, floods to control, I’m a busy man.” His tone was light, jokey, but Daenara had no time nor patience for that. Not when her daughter was in the clutches of a madman.
“Your daughter.” She spat, removing her hand from his chin and folding it across her chest. Wilhelm matched her icy stare, grey eyes meeting purple as neither would relent and move their gaze.
“What about her?” The flippant attitude with which her husband was approaching the topic made her want to slap him, his lack of awareness was so tiresome at times like these.
“I need you to demand she return. In nicer words than that. To whoever can get her here the fastest.” A look of confusion crossed his face for a second, a flash but enough to swell the seas of rage building in Daenara once more.
“Return?” Wilhelm tilted his head slightly, an air of bemusement in his voice, as if there were some puzzle piece of this conversation she was missing.
“Yes, return. She has no need to remain there any longer, and with this morning’s news that I am sure she relayed to you as well, I assumed you would share my concern.” Her husband’s face went pale as a sheet, as if his blood had been entirely drained through that one sentence.
“I don’t understand, Daenara I-” He stumbled over his words slightly, but she did not have time to process what he had said before he found his sentence once again. “I asked Renford to tell you-” The shake to his voice made her whole body run cold, she had never seen him so nervous.
“Tell me what?” The words were barely audible, almost a whisper, but soaked in anger, and they hit Wilhelm exactly where it hurt, whatever life was left draining from his face. His explanation that followed came spilling out all at once, a tumble of sentences loosely tied together with stutters and apologies that she could barely ascertain meaning from. All she could pluck from the jumble was that a second raven had arrived that morning, one from the King she had not been privy to, and he had taken ‘her’ advice, finally stopped this ‘ridiculous farce’ of keeping Maysie in Storm’s End. While the rest of her husband’s flustered ramble had blurred into a haze of anger and confusion, she was sure his final sentence would stick with her for as long as she would live.
“She cannot return, Daenara. Maysie is to be married in three moons time, to the Prince Maelor Targaryen.”