Chapter Text
Rhaena
Once the last haze of milk of the poppy had burned itself out of her blood, Baela found her thoughts returning in sharp, inconvenient pieces.
“I mean—yes, I want to see him,” she said, words tumbling over one another. “I want to make things right. But he cheated on me. I’m sure of it!” She dragged her hands down her face. “With a Lyseni man. I think. And the Dornish princess.” Her voice climbed despite herself. “What if that’s his great gift? What if he brings back a mistress—or a lover?” She covered her face again. “If he does, I might truly lose my wits.”
Aegon stood by the window, half-turned from the room. “I doubt it,” he said, eyes never leaving the scroll in his hands. Whether he meant the gift or Baela’s threat was unclear.
Daenaera sat beside him, carefully brushing her doll’s hair. Her curls were loose, a fur hat perched neatly atop her head in the northern fashion, framing her face and making it seem smaller somehow. A thick white gown swallowed her slight frame, padded enough to keep out any chill. She looked like snow fairy.
Beside her, Aegon was all black. No hat, only the narrow gold band circling his pale hair. Black tunic, black gloves, black boots, black rings. Rhaena eyed him, lips twitching.
“Do you ever wash those?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.
He finally glanced up. “You know,” she went on, “I could have a proper black tunic made for you. Something fine. Gold thread, perhaps. A little effort wouldn’t kill you.”
“How exhausting,” Aegon muttered, returning to his scroll.
“You haven’t even picked Laena up,” Rhaena pressed. “Alyn and Baela will be leaving soon. You should bond with her. It matters.”
“I’ll see to it,” he said, flicking his hand as if swatting a fly.
Aemma stood nearby with Laena cradled in her arms. She wore dark blue velvet trimmed with pearls, an unmistakable show of loyalty to the new queen. “Do not worry, my lady,” she said gently. “Whatever you left unresolved will mend itself once you lower your guard around my lord.”
Baela hesitated. “You think so?”
“Alyn is a patient man,” Aemma replied. “He will recognize sincerity when he sees it. And if he does bring back a mistress—well,” she allowed herself a thin smile, “you may always chase her off.”
“Alyn is not Corwyn,” Aegon said quietly.
And his ambitions are not the same.
Rhaena watched the room grow still, as if some unseen window had been opened and all the warmth drawn out at once. No one answered Aegon. There was nothing to answer. Alyn had married Baela for love, yes—but also for their grandfather’s memory, for the weight of Baela’s name, for the certainty of her blood. He had never wanted courtly life. He wanted an heir, Driftmark, ships under his command.
Not like her own husband, who burned to see his name carved into stone and parchment, chased by maesters and singers alike.
Now there was Laena.
With a child born, Alyn could leave Baela in King’s Landing if he chose. He could take the girl to Driftmark and call it duty, call it prudence. If the marriage proved too much; too angry, too sharp, too wounded perhaps it would even seem the sensible course. Rhaena knew that much.
Baela clearly did not want that.
“It’s my fault,” Baela said at last, her voice dulled by exhaustion. “I let this go on too long. I let him leave too soon. I should have seen it coming.” She stared at nothing. “What if he doesn’t want me anymore?” A tired breath escaped her. “I suppose I should lie in the bed I made.”
Rhaena opened her mouth, then closed it again.
A knock came at the door, clean and brief. Corwyn entered with Gaemon at his side. The boy looked absurdly proud in his golden outfit, cheeks round and unmarked. The cold had spared him sword practice, and with it his role as whipping boy. Not a bruise on him. Rhaena smiled despite herself.
“The carriage is ready,” Corwyn said. He did not linger. He never did. He closed the door behind him, making it clear he would ride ahead.
Aegon reached for Daenaera, who had dozed off without any of them noticing. Seven was too young to sit through quiet despair and half-spoken fears. As she stirred, she caught hold of Aegon’s cloak, and Rhaena saw how he slowed his pace without thinking, how he adjusted his stride to hers.
It struck her then how right they were.
Not lovers, they were too young for that. Friends. That mattered more. Despite the years between them, despite how little time they had truly spent together, they understood one another in the small ways that counted. With time—gods willing they had much of it—that understanding would deepen into something stronger.
Rhaena imagined the songs already. She hoped she would live long enough to hear them sung!
Aegon
Corwyn had always been good at stepping aside when matters grew unpleasant. Aegon did not resent him for it. Someone had to bear the weight. He lowered his gaze again, not toward Daenaera at his right, who walked quietly with her hands folded in her hand muff, but to the scroll resting on his hand. Jeyne was dead.
The words had not changed since he first read them, yet they felt different each time his eyes passed over them. The letter had come from Jessamyn Redfort. The ink had run in places. There were still faint marks where tears had fallen and dried.
Jeyne Arryn, Lady of the Vale. Regent. His ally. His friend.
She had died at forty, taken by a chest cold while staying at the Motherhouse of Maris in Gulltown. Jessamyn had written that she passed in her arms. The detail had not been necessary, yet it lingered with him more than the rest. A cold. After wars, after plots, after all the dangers they had navigated together, it was a winter sickness that ended her.
The Vale would not mourn quietly, of court not, they wouldn’t have learned not to make petty wars over inheritance by now. Even before the burial rites were complete, conflict had begun between the branches of House Arryn. The Eyrie had never been free of pride.
Alayne Arryn would have the news by now. Perhaps she was already gathering banners. Perhaps she was still pretending there was room for negotiation. Jeyne had held the Vale steady through years that might have broken a lesser ruler. Now that steadiness was gone.
Aegon squeezed the scroll once more, slower this time.
One more ally buried. One more region poised on the edge of dispute. And he had not even had the chance to say farewell once again.
As they left the room, Aegon made certain that Ellyn had the small box in her hands—the one that held Daenaera’s crown. The warm fur hat would have to come off when they reached the hall below. A lord should be greeted properly, especially when the gift had come from his own hand. Customs mattered, even when he found them tiresome.
He glanced ahead and caught the expressions on his sisters’ faces, and on Aemma’s as well. All three looked displeased, their mouths drawn thin. Aegon did not ask why. He already knew.
At the far end of the hall stood Unwin Peake, his Hand, pacing like a man with nowhere to direct his anger. He was shouting at the other regents again, his voice echoing sharply against the stone. Alyn Velaryon’s promised treasure beyond price had clearly unsettled him. It had grown into something larger in Peake’s mind—less a gift, more a threat.
The explanation Peake had offered was almost insulting in its clumsiness. Mushroom, ever helpful when there was mischief to be spread, had carried it to Aegon with a grin. Lord Peake feared he would not survive if Baela’s child proved to be a boy. He claimed to worry that his sister would attempt to set that child above the king, to usurp him in time.
Aegon had nearly laughed.
The list of Peake’s reasons for wanting Alyn gone grew longer by the day. How, exactly, did Lord Velaryon intend to secure this supposed treasure? With a blade? Was he planning another war, this time with Lys, as he had once clashed with Braavos? Peake had already sent the young admiral ranging across the length of Westeros, hoping distance would accomplish what authority could not. Yet Alyn was returning all the same, likely weighed down with praise and perhaps with coin as well.
Aegon allowed himself a small smirk. Was Peake still smarting from the ladies’ jokes about his empty coffers?
Even so, the question lingered. What was this treasure? And why did it unsettle so many men who claimed not to care?
It had been enough to disturb Aegon’s sleep, turning his thoughts over and over in the dark.
Whatever Unwin Peake desired, Alyn Velaryon could not simply be cast aside. The smallfolk adored Oakenfist. To them, he was the man who had broken the pride of the Sealord of Braavos and brought the Red Kraken of Pyke low. Peake knew it. Everyone did. The Hand was feared, obeyed, and quietly despised, while Alyn was celebrated.
Even within the Red Keep, Aegon sensed the shift. There were those who whispered that the regents would be better served with a different Hand. Some went further, daring to say Alyn Velaryon’s name aloud.
With the city buzzing over Oakenfist’s return, there was nothing Unwin Peake could do but wait.
And so, for once, so did Aegon.
The walk to the carriage was dreadful, as it always was.
The corridor had become a stage. Lords and ladies bent lower and lower with each step Aegon took, each trying to outdo the other in courtesy. Silks rustled. Jewels flashed. Smiles stretched too wide. It was competition disguised as loyalty. Ridiculous, yes, but also necessary. They would not stop, and he could not ask them to.
He kept his face still and walked on.
Garmund stood among them, spine straight, head high. He did not bow as deeply as the others, though he bowed enough. Aegon’s eyes passed over him without pause, but it was not Garmund he was searching for. Not tonight.
They reached the carriage at last. Aegon offered Daenaera his hand and helped her inside, steadying her as she gathered her skirts. Rhaena and Baela followed. Aemma would ride elsewhere, with Baela’s companions—the Arryn girl among them, always hovering close.
As the door shut and the carriage lurched forward, Aegon allowed himself to think.
Garmund and Rhaena were keeping something between them. That much was obvious. They had grown careful in one another’s presence, careful in a way that did not escape him. He had learned to watch for such things.
Did it concern Unwin? Had they uncovered some piece of his Hand’s plans? Or was it tied to Lady Samantha and her latest proposal, that bold little maneuver dressed as diplomacy? Rhaena had been unusually firm about shielding Garmund from certain decisions. Too firm.
Why?
The city rolled past outside the window. Aegon’s reflection stared back at him faintly in the glass.
Rhaena’s voice returned to him from days earlier, after the hunt. She had spoken quietly, as if afraid the trees themselves might listen.
“Unwin won’t rest until his legacy is secure. That’s all he wants. He won’t let even a pebble stand in his way. Watch your little servants, brother.”
At the time he had dismissed it as one of her warnings, spoken out of instinct more than proof. Now he was less certain.
A pebble.
If the obstacle was small enough to be called that, then it was not a lord. Not a rival house. Something smaller. Someone smaller. Gaemon came to mind at once. A whipping boy. A bastard. A child with just enough blood in him to be inconvenient to the wrong man. Or perhaps it was not Gaemon at all. Perhaps the pebble was someone else entirely, someone Aegon had not thought to guard.
He disliked not knowing.
Once inside the carriage, with the door shut and only his family present, Aegon finally allowed his composure to slip. His shoulders eased back against the leather seat, and a faint frown settled over his face. He had held it in long enough for the corridor, long enough for the watching eyes.
He preferred the smaller carriages, the ones with softer cushions and less display. They were quieter, less performative. But appearances mattered. With a new heir born, the regents had insisted they use the great royal carriage commissioned in King Jaehaerys’ time, meant for a monarch surrounded by children and kin.
It was difficult to ignore. Silver fittings caught the light at every corner. Rubies studded the outer panels. Black steel dragons coiled along its sides, their wings spread as if guarding those within. Its size alone demanded attention. Even merchants from Yi Ti, who boasted of excess, would have paused to admire it. Inside, the walls were covered in deep red. The floorboards were dark, polished smooth by years of use. The reinforced wheels spared its passengers from the worst of the cobbled streets; the jolts of King’s Landing reached them only as muted tremors.
Silence settled for a moment.
“Whatever you are hiding,” Aegon said at last, not looking at either of them, “the both of you had better speak of it before Baela leaves.”
He spoke mildly, but the warning was there.
Rhaena swallowed. “It is not ready,” she answered. “Once Baela departs, I will follow soon after. My remaining business lies in Dragonstone. When it is settled, I will return and explain what you do not yet know.”
Aegon’s gaze shifted to her then. “Baela is not the only one leaving, Rhaena.”
He turned toward Baela, who was already narrowing her eyes.
“The Vale grows restless,” he continued. “And the nobles more so. Jeyne’s death has stirred old ambitions. Her will and the matter of succession have divided the Arryn branches. Conflict has already begun.” He let that settle between them. “It will not be long before Corwyn insists on riding north to settle it himself.”
Rhaena let out a gasp before tears welled up on her eyes. A silver strand falling on her face as her head turned to the side as if it would hide her crying face. Jeyne had been her mentor and guardian for years, was she not?
The words of condolences hanged on his mouth but nothing came out. A shared glance with Baela assured him no words were needed.