KING'S LANDING, 111 AC

⠀⠀⠀⠀Aemma Arryn looked nothing like the resilient woman Vaerya Targaryen had met in childhood. Her Valaryian hair hung in wet tendrils around her round face and her blue eyes were as placid as the bath water she soaked in. She appeared a woman resigned to drowning in the tub, not an eager mother-to-be. The candlelight flickered across her face, only adding to the haunting features of the queen. Targaryen women tended to look otherworldly during times of distress. Perhaps, they were born half-dead and spent the rest of their years waiting for their bodies to catch up with their rotting souls.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Maybe that was the price they paid for greatness.

⠀⠀⠀⠀The princess sat on the cold ground, not minding the hard stone uncomfortably pushing back against her legs underneath the thin fabrics of her dress. Her fingers combed through sections of the queen's hair in an attempt to detangle a few of the knots that had been procured during the last few weeks of the pregnancy. The five premature deaths of her babes in the past ten years had taken their toll on her body and her mind. It did her well to speak with company that was not her king husband or her dutiful nurses and maids. Ever since her return, when her daughter was unavailable, her sister-in-law stepped in and entertained her.

⠀⠀⠀⠀The two had never been particularly close, yet they spoke to one another as if they had been close friends for ages. It may have been that Vaerya was now a woman grown or that she had lost a child of her own, but Aemma was no longer the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms; she was an expecting mother grieving the loss of her other children while attempting to be hopeful for the one inside of her.

⠀⠀⠀⠀"I do hope my brother will be satisfied with the babe," the princess spoke, fingers still diligently working through the silver knots. "You have more than earned yourself a long rest."

⠀⠀⠀⠀The older woman took a few seconds to collect her scattered thoughts. She was forever devoted to her duties as a queen and wife, but her body and heart were failing. She was conflicted. "This is how we serve the Realm, darling. The childbed is our battlefield. That is the price we pay for our royal wombs."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"I know," she affirmed. "You impressed that upon me at a young age. I never properly thanked you for teaching me such harsh lessons with a gentle hand. Because of you, I was a little less scared when I birthed Virion."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Virion?" Aemma asked, eyebrows knitted in confusion.

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Arwyn's true name was Virion," the girl explained. She occasionally forgot that most were unaware of her first child's true name. She had allowed him to be given the name of a commoner to protect him from her late husband, yet she had failed. "He was to be a dragon rider. He had the name of such."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Oh, sweet girl." The queen gingerly placed her bony fingers on the hollow of Vaerya's cheek. "Grief has fangs that are constantly biting at your flesh, slowly inserting poison into your veins. And yet, as mothers, we ignore it for our living children. We must never let them see us falter because we must be the ones they look to. They must look to us more than their fathers. Growing a child is something men will never understand. When we lose a child, we lose them in more ways than just one. We lose a literal part of ourself. We must crush the snake in front of them. Only alone can we cry out in pain. Only alone can we succumb to the poison."

⠀⠀⠀⠀Vaerya saw herself reflected in Aemma's eyes. Is this what she was to become? A woman more dead than alive, still being forced to birth children for the benefit of a man? Was she supposed to give her life to produce it?

⠀⠀⠀⠀"I told Viserys that this was the last time," Aemma continued, her mind leaping from one topic to another. "I have mourned all the dead children I can." She bore into the princess' soul with her gaze. "Promise me that when you can mourn no more, you will apologize but refuse to give any more than you already have."

⠀⠀⠀⠀Was it possible she would be forced to mourn more than just her first son and the children she was forced to leave behind? The thought terrified her. She pulled away from the queen's touch, hoping that the statement wouldn't ring as true or feel as real if they were disconnected. "I don't believe myself capable of mourning anymore than I already have for my children: my innocent Virion, murdered by a madman; and my darlings Baelar and Alaessa, left in Winterfell without their mother for protection."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"You will learn," the queen replied, settling back into the water entirely. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back on the lip of the tub. "You will know when you have reached your limit, but you are fire made flesh, Vaerya Targaryen. Your limit will not come for some time."

⠀⠀⠀⠀The two Targaryen princesses entered the royal pavilion, their arms linked together to make themselves one. Rhaenyra wore a deep crimson dress with a translucent frilled collar, her hair braided in a crown around her head. Matching her aunt, the necklace Daemon bestowed upon her was clasped around her neck. Vaerya was dressed in layers of fabric colored similar to her niece's, only darker. Most of her hair fell loosely down her back with a few braids intricately going every which way on the top of her head. While her attire paid tribute to her blood house, the silver sea horse earrings gifted to her by Lord Corlys proudly represented the other house she chose to associate with.

⠀⠀⠀⠀The pair only let go of one another as they reached their seats. They hurried to sit down as King Viserys had already begun his grand speech. The older princess sat on the empty stool next to Laenor, who did his best to hide his excitement at seeing his half-sister. Laena, who sat on the other side of him, reached across his lap and grasped her sister's hand. She squeezed the young girl's hand tightly before looking over her shoulder to offer her mother and stepfather the sweetest of smiles. Vaerya once again looked like the young girl Rhaenys and Corlys had raised in Driftmark: happy and carefree. Her mother wished to freeze time and allow her eldest daughter to live in it forever, but alas, not even a Targaryen could do such a thing.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Vaerya missed the glare of contempt Alicent Hightower threw her way. The brunette wished more than anything that the Dragon Princess would tragically disappear, leaving her to be the only one to comfort the Realm's Delight. That way, it would be just Alicent and Rhaenyra again — how it should be. Ser Otto Hightower certainly did not miss the look his daughter gave the princess. He should have been mature and at least silently signaled her to stop, but he was happy that his daughter shared his dislike for the other girl. Good, it was one less thing he would have to reprimand out of her.

⠀⠀⠀⠀The enormous crowd in the stands cheered as the king finished announcing the beginning of Queen Aemma's labors and wishing for the luck of the Seven to shine on the combatants. He did not even get the chance to sit down before the Heir's Tournament officially started with two jousters. The first lances were dulled and shields splintered by the time he took his seat. As always, such events did not interest Vaerya; she found them unnecessary and a waste of coin. Wholly bored, she immediately zoned out, her face practiced in animatedly reacting but her mind elsewhere: Winterfell with Erock and the twins.

⠀⠀⠀⠀She found herself surrounded by the walls of the fortress as she stood in the giant courtyard. She hummed a Valaryian nursery rhyme to the little girl she held close to her chest. Both mother and child were dressed in thick layers of fabric and coats of fur to keep them warm against the continuous snowfall. She herself was a dragon meant for fire, shivering slightly in the elements. Her babe, however, was a dragon made of ice, cooing excitedly as flakes of snow landed on her exposed cheeks. Her beloved called her name, waving from across the way with their son in his free arm. The man smiled adoringly and beckoned her over. She began to cross the courtyard. And though she could feel herself slowly beginning to freeze, she was happy. Oh, so happy.

⠀⠀⠀⠀"What do you know about this Ser Criston Cole, Ser Harrold?" With Rhaenyra's voice, the fantasy melted away, and she was in King's Landing again. She let out a soft exhale of disappointment before intently listening to Ser Harrod's answer. If something had caught her niece's attention, it was worrying knowing.

⠀⠀⠀⠀"I'm told Ser Criston is common-born, son of Lord Dondarrion's steward. But other than that, and the fact that he's just unhorsed both of the Baratheon lads, I really couldn't say."

⠀⠀⠀⠀The sound of beating drums filled the air as the next joust was prepared for. The black banner of House Targaryen was put on display, and a line of several worthy contestants filed into the stadium atop their horses. The Master of Revels threw up his hands, inciting the crowd to cheer louder for what was coming. They did so.

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Prince Daemon of House Targaryen, Prince of the City, will now choose his first opponent!"

⠀⠀⠀⠀Daemon galloped past on his steed, his metal armor blinding the audience as he rode past. He circled the railing that divided the field before slowing his horse to allow him to assess each potential opponent before him. The princess could only view the ornamental red plume on his helmet and the detailed metal wings that protruded from it. He turned again, taking in the line of knights once more. He finally stopped in front of a knight donning a green vest. The woman only shook her head in disapprovement, though a slight smirk sat on her lips.

⠀⠀⠀⠀"For his first challenge, Prince Daemon Targaryen chooses Ser Gwayne Hightower of Oldtown, eldest son of the Hand of the King."

⠀⠀⠀⠀The unchosen contestants left, and the two men remaining took their beginning stances on opposite sides. For the first time, the prince turned to the pavilion. His eyes first found the Hand's, throwing a challenge his way with the slightest tilt of his chin. He then swept his gaze from Rhaenyra to Vaerya. He admired her from afar, noting how she sat with her back straight and hands gripping the edge of her seat. In the world, he alone had her full attention at present. He reveled in it. He continued to hold her eyes in his own until signaling his horse forward.

⠀⠀⠀⠀His gaze may have gone elsewhere, but hers did not. She could do nothing but watch in anticipation as the two men charged at one another. Gwayne's lance hit Daemon's shield, sending the prince flying backward on his horse. A small gasp fell from the woman's lips, but she maintained her composure well. She knew he was not down for good; he never was. He immediately sat back up, grabbed a new lance from his squire, and raced toward his opponent.

⠀⠀⠀⠀The audience gasped and clapped as the Hightower was thrown from his horse after the Targaryen tripped the steed with his lance. Alicent covered her mouth in shock as the prince continued forward, leaving her brother to inhale his dust while sprawled on the ground. Otto sat up straighter, leaning forward to gauge the damage his son had endured. Tears threatened his daughter's eyes, but he gave her a stern look: she was not to show any weakness here, no matter what.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Vaerya was the first to approach the elevated railing and look down upon the winner of the joust. "Well done, dear brother." Her violet eyes were alive and moving, enthralled by his presentation and checking for any signs of wounds on his face. "Your displays never cease to amaze me."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Anything for your attention," he cheekily replied before Rhaenyra and Alicent joined her at the railing. The younger girls looked down upon him, one with a proud smile and the other with a timid frown. "Now, I'm fairly certain I can win these games, Princess Vaerya. Having your favor would all but assure it." He tilted his lance towards her, awaiting her response.

⠀⠀⠀⠀She could now see the intricate details of his armor. Two dragons were expertly etched into his breastplate, teeth and claws bared at one another. It reminded her of Viserys and Daemon, two dragons always fighting one another. Her decision—which he already knew—would certainly spark another. She retrieved the crown of laurels, making sure to make eye contact with the king; she wanted him to know where she stood and who she would side with if the time came.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Vaerya dropped the favor and watched it fall to the hilt of the lance. "Good luck, My Prince." The last words were said in High Valaryian, and his heart repeatedly rammed against his chest. He was hers; she had affirmed it so. He nodded in acknowledgment before leading his horse away and disappearing off the field.

⠀⠀⠀⠀The next joust was far more violent, with one knight physically pulled from his mount by the other. The assailant stole the man's weapon and proceeded to behead him with it in a fit of rage. "And the day grows ugly," Rhaenys commented, not phased but annoyed at the display of violence.

⠀⠀⠀⠀"I wonder if this is how we should celebrate the birth of our future king," Corlys replied, his voice low so only his wife could hear. "With wanton violence."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"It's been seventy years since King Maegor's end. These knights are as green as summer grass. None have known real war." She studied her nails before looking up to see her youngest daughter gripping the hand of her eldest. "Their lords sent them to the tourney field with first full of steel and balls full of seed, and we expect them to act with honor and grace. It's a marvel that war didn't break out at first blood."

⠀⠀⠀⠀"It's okay, Lae," the princess reassured her frightened sister. She could not look at her, though, her eyes glued to the violence below them. There was something intoxicating about the blood being spilled. There was a lure to giving into one's carnal urges. She imagined the men below them felt as she had when she killed Madwen. Part of her longed to have a cock to be able to join them, to be able to be that free and powerful just one more time. "Dragons do not fear blood. We feed on it." Her voice trailed off. "We crave it."

⠀⠀⠀⠀Only two contenders were left now: Prince Daemon Targaryen and Ser Criston Cole. The next duel would determine the Champion of the Heir's Tournament. Both men charged, and a quick series of blows were exchanged before moving on to their second lances each. It all happened in a blur, but Vaerya was on her feet when she processed the scene. The prince had been disarmed and knocked back, his body dragged across the middle railing as his horse continued forward. Then he was flung to the ground, rolling about, but on his feet in a matter of seconds. He immediately called for Dark Sister.

⠀⠀⠀⠀"Prince Daemon Targaryen wished to continue in a contest of arms!"

⠀⠀⠀⠀Criston Cole had dismounted by now. He revealed his sidearm: a morning star. The princess wanted to yell out for the tournament to cease, but she found herself incapable of anything but anxiously gawking. Cole swung first, the spiked ball nearly missing her brother's head. He countered, swinging his heavy sword offensively, forcing the knight to take several steps back. The knight did not falter long, swinging his own weapon every which way in retaliation. Daemon's shield was splintered in a few rapid moves, and only a lone chunk of wood remained.

⠀⠀⠀⠀As Criston began to swing again, the prince spun out of his reach and around to his blind spot. Not quick enough to defend himself, the knight was forced to the ground, where the prince did not let up his attacks. Cole did not get back up. The Prince of the City turned to face the crowds and threw his arms up. He declared himself the victor with a loud shout.

⠀⠀⠀⠀He pointed at the princess—the object of his greatest desires—and smiled widely. She openly returned it. This was a public declaration of his devotion to her. He wrote her a love letter in the only way a dragon truly could: penned in blood.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Her heart dropped as she watched him fall to the ground. His opponent had regained his footing during their amorous exchange and was returning the favor of beating him into submission. The prince crawled towards his sword, which was kicked out of his reach. This is what made the princess move. The lowly knight had just disgraced her house and the entirety of her family by treating the ancestral weapon as such.

⠀⠀⠀⠀She launched herself over the railing of the pavilion and landed with a hard thud on the mulch a few feet below. Her body ached upon impact, but it was nothing she was not used to. As a dragon rider, she had taken many falls from worse heights. She lept up, leaving the panicked screams of her family behind her as she sprinted towards the men who were too busy with one another to notice her.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Before anyone could stop her, the princess was upon the knight like a wild animal. She threw her entire weight against him, knocking them both to the ground as he was unprepared for such an attack. While he reoriented himself, she reached across to her brother's belt and pulled out Nightkiss, which she had given him for luck earlier that day. She held it to Criston's throat, sharp edge pulling the tiniest thread of blood from his tanned skin.

⠀⠀⠀⠀"He yielded," she sourly spat. It took her restraint not to give in to the urge to seek revenge upon him for harming someone she loved. She was fire made flesh, Aemma said. She wanted to rip open his flesh and make him feel the fire of the dragon, reducing him to nothing but ash. "Now you will do so too."