As dusk bled across the skies of King's Landing, a lacquered white carriage creaked through the gates of the Red Keep. The guards saluted as it passed, and the gold-and-crimson banners fluttered in the evening breeze.
Bang!
Before the horses had even fully halted, Rhaenyra leapt out with the fluid grace of a dragonrider. She turned, her silver-gold hair swaying behind her, and opened her arms wide with a bright smile. "Come on, Aemond. I'll catch you!"
Her mood had soared since morning—from sour clouds to sunlight. After a full day spent at the Dragonpit, with Dreamfyre and Syrax soaring across the skies, she was practically radiant.
Aemond stood hesitantly at the edge of the carriage's platform, clutching the frame, his violet eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Are you sure?"
Rhaenyra scoffed. "Just jump, you little lizard."
He's barely the size of a wineskin, she thought. What's the worst that could happen?
Aemond stared down at the ground, then swallowed hard. "Alright then. I'm coming!"
He squeezed his eyes shut and toppled forward.
Rhaenyra braced herself, but the boy's solid little body hit her like a sack of flour. Thump! She staggered back, almost losing her footing, her arms straining as she caught him.
Thankfully, Ser Criston Cole stepped forward just in time, steadying them both.
"That was close," Aemond huffed, patting his chest like a seasoned soldier after a skirmish. "You almost let me splatter!"
Rhaenyra winced, rubbing her waist discreetly. "You weigh more than you look."
They shared a glance—one of those rare, silent acknowledgments forged through mischief and near-misses.
"Let's go," she said finally, stretching out her hand.
"Hehe. We're probably heading back just in time to get scolded," Aemond giggled, slipping his small hand into hers.
Together, they walked through the Red Keep—one tall and commanding, the other short and stocky, yet both unmistakably Targaryen. Their platinum hair shimmered under the lantern light, drawing nods and greetings from passing lords, knights, and court ladies alike.
Aemond skipped a little as he walked, sneaking side glances at Rhaenyra. Her expression was light, her eyes untroubled. Perfect.
"What are you staring at?" she asked, still riding the high of the day's events.
"Oh, nothing," he replied sweetly. Just thinking about how to fool you.
He grinned and declared, "Rhaenyra, we're the best pair in the world."
Something about the childlike sincerity in his voice softened her heart. She smiled.
"Let's hurry," she said, masking her warmth. "We'll miss supper."
Aemond darted ahead, laughing.
But behind that laughter was calculation. His bond with Alicent gave him a foothold in what would one day be known as the Green faction. Meanwhile, his bond with Rhaenyra gave him a hand in the Black. In the coming years, when the factions solidified, he would already be planted on both sides of the board.
He would be the kingmaker, not the pawn.
But neither of them knew they were being watched.
Maegor's Holdfast, the Queen's Chambers
Alicent Hightower stood by the tall windows overlooking the inner courtyard. Her emerald dress shimmered in the fading light as she leaned forward, watching the siblings through the glass.
She had waited all day.
As she observed Rhaenyra and Aemond laughing together, a twist of emotion darkened her face. Her fingers, pressed tightly against her belly, trembled slightly.
A sudden, sharp pain pulled her attention downward. She looked at her palm and noticed she had scratched herself—blood pooled beneath her fingernails.
Jealousy, fierce and unbidden, had risen in her chest. She didn't even know why. Perhaps it was because Aemond, her confidant and surrogate little brother, was now giggling with the girl she most distrusted.
Creak.
The chamber door opened.
"Alicent," Viserys called out, voice light, "Rhaenyra and the others are back. Come, let's attend the banquet together."
But she did not answer.
He frowned and stepped toward her. Before he could speak again, she turned and said curtly, "I know."
Then, with quiet resolve, she swept past him and disappeared down the hallway.
Viserys stared after her, baffled.
---
Later That Night
The banquet had ended without incident. Roast duck, lemon cakes, and Dornish red had flowed freely. Rhaenyra was unusually cheerful. Aemond, full of both food and schemes, had slipped away the moment he could.
He darted back to his room with a stuffed belly and a full mind.
Dinner conversation had inevitably turned to dragons—specifically, Dreamfyre. Aemond's failed attempt to bond with her was handled with gentle persuasion.
"You're still young," Viserys had said. "There are many dragons on Dragonstone. When you're older, you may find one who matches you."
In truth, Viserys remained conflicted. He feared the power of dragons, yet depended on them to preserve House Targaryen. He disliked Rhaenyra's fierce independence but refused to remove her as heir. He wanted to grant her security—without power.
A contradictory king, torn between ideals and necessities.
---
Rhaenyra's Chambers
Rhaenyra returned, eager for a bath, only to be summoned by her father.
She sighed, tired and annoyed, but went.
In the shadowed halls of the Red Keep, she walked beside Viserys down winding corridors until they reached the underground crypt—where the skull of Balerion, the Black Dread, lay beneath a halo of candles.
The giant, blackened skull loomed like a monument to lost glory.
Viserys stared at it for a long time before speaking.
"You seemed happy today," he said. "That gladdens me."
Rhaenyra said nothing.
"You are of age now, Rhaenyra," he continued. "Have you taken a liking to any noble sons?"
Her expression twisted. "No."
"Good." He sighed with relief.
She narrowed her eyes. "Father, you can speak plainly."
Viserys cleared his throat awkwardly. "You and Aemond seem to get along. Perhaps it would be best if he remained here in King's Landing."
Rhaenyra's jaw clenched. "What are you suggesting?"
"He is Daemon's son," Viserys said cautiously. "A good child. He could be… helpful to you."
"So you want to keep him near me like a political pet?" she snapped. "You think he'll be loyal if I'm nice to him?"
"Rhaenyra—"
She cut him off with a glare, then composed herself.
She did like Aemond. He was clever, warm, and surprisingly thoughtful. But he was still a child. Just a boy with a baby-fat smile and stubby fingers.
She had never thought of him as anything more.
Viserys seemed to sense her frustration and changed the subject. "The Kingswood Hunt begins tomorrow. You should rest."
With that, he turned and left.
Rhaenyra stood alone in the tomb, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows over her downturned face.
Everyone wanted her to act. To choose. To fight.
But she didn't want to devour anyone—or be devoured.
The Iron Throne was a battlefield, not a birthright.
As she turned to leave, she froze.
A prickling sensation ran down her neck.
She was being watched.
Her eyes snapped toward the shadows behind the altar.
"Who's there?!"
A figure stirred. Grand Maester Mellos coughed politely and stepped out, nodding as if nothing had happened. Withou
t a word, he walked away.
Rhaenyra stared after him, her fists slowly clenching.
Even here? she thought. Even now?
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