"Jesus can reject his father but he'll never escape his mother's blood."

111 AC

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**Trigger warning for Aemma's birth scene and Naerys's resulting psychosis**

Naerys's head throbbed like a drumbeat, a searing furnace behind her eyes that worsened with each step toward the queen's chambers, and by the time she reached the great oaken doors, her vision had begun to swim. The king's faint murmur beyond the threshold was the only solid sound, but even that could not drown her mother's keening whimpers that seeped through the thick wood. They were muffled out here, but within her mind, they were deafening. 

The Kingsguard stood sentinel at the door, their faces grim, and the youngest of them shifted uncomfortably as he caught sight of her. Her nose had begun to bleed again, a steady trickle staining the cuff of her sleeve as she pressed it tightly against her face, while her other hand fisted her gown.

"I wish to see the queen," Naerys declared, summoning every bit of fierce composure she had studied in her sister. 

"Princess," the sympathetic knight greeted her with a bow of his head. "Her Grace has begun her labours. The king has instructed that none disturb her."

"Please...I must see her, I need to..."

The knight's face softened, but he denied her request all the same. "When the babe is born, you may see her. She will wish to be with you then, but for now, you should rest. You do not look well. Shall I send for a maester?"

"No!" she snapped, sharper than she intended, her entire frame oscillating with the effort it took to stop herself from launching herself right at them. What good would that do her, if she kicked and clawed and bit her way through them? They would think she was having one of her fits and simply haul her back to her chambers on the other side of the Red Keep where she would be even worse off than she was now. 

The cacophony in her head grew and she swayed where she stood, her legs feeling like reeds. The knights exchanged uneasy glances, and one of them stepped forward, his hand half-raised to steady her, but she flinched. Then she turned and hurried down the hallway and around the corner, eager to get as far away as possible from their scrutiny. 

She would have to find another way, then, and for once, she was grateful that she had allowed herself to be caught up in Rhaenyra's schemes as a child. It was the only reason she knew what she knew now. Several hidden passageways wove through the underbelly of the castle, and though Naerys was unfamiliar with most, her sister—who had learned from their uncle—seemed to know them well.

Naerys considered returning to the tourney fields to fetch Rhaenyra but then thought better of it as she began to drive her hands across the cold stone wall, heedless of the still-sticky blood staining them. When her fingertips brushed past an invisible spot, there was a faint creaking, and a carved panel of the wall swung inward.

The space beyond was pitch dark and musty, the acrid scent of mildew pricking her nose. She sneezed, suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of fear. She did not like the dark. It had always loomed too large in her imagination, an endless void waiting to swallow her whole. It was where the devourer did his best work, after all, but there was no time to hesitate, and she stepped through the opening with a deep breath, sliding the panel shut behind her. The faint light of the corridor vanished, and a suffocating blackness enveloped her, making her feel like she had sealed herself inside her own tomb.

When her outstretched hand swept against dusty cobwebs, she froze, her breath hitching and her heart hammering in her chest. The silence was oppressive, her own breathing the only sound besides the steady wailing in her mind. 

Inside these walls, the noises of the outside world had disappeared entirely, as though the castle had ingested her, and she was walking through its hollow veins. Each step echoed faintly, and the damp air smothered her, but she was compelled by the clamour in her head that served as a compass, growing louder with each blind corner and turn. The passageways had begun to feel disturbingly familiar, too much like the endless corridors of her nightmares, weaving until they inevitably led to something monstrous. Her gait was the same too, laboured as if she trudged through something viscous, pulled by an invisible string that bit into her very sinew and dragged her toward her destination. 

She felt foolish stumbling through the dark like this. What did she expect? That the channel would miraculously lead to an opening in her mother's chambers? That she could slip inside unnoticed by the king and her myriad of attendants to be by her side? She didn't know, but she had to try. Surely, the queen's room was important enough to warrant a path. 

The sound in her head became serrated, but she still clung to it until the tunnel eventually led her to a dead end. Desperation scraped at her composure as she pressed her twitching hands against the uneven wall, searching for a hidden catch or seam that might open a panel. However, her efforts yielded nothing but silence, and claustrophobia began to creep in instead. She hadn't realized how narrow the space had become, pressing closer until it was barely wider than the span of her arm. 

But she knew she was in the right place. Her mother's muffled moans drifted from just beyond, faint but unmistakable, and the screaming in her head had fallen eerily silent, granting her a reprieve now that she was so close.

This passage didn't lead directly into the room; instead, she noticed a narrow slit carved into the stone—a spyhole, rough and irregular, intended for someone much taller. She strained onto her tiptoes, stretching her short stature to its limits, but even jumping barely brought her closer, and the slit remained just out of reach.

For a fleeting moment, she considered retreating, returning the way she had come, but the thought was unbearable. She couldn't leave—not without seeing her mother, without reassuring herself that she was still safe and well. She just had to see.

Curiosity has always been your undoing. 

Ignoring the mirthful voice, she traced the jagged contours around her. Bits of stone jutted out here and there, though none seemed sturdy enough to offer a proper handhold, but when her gaze strayed back to the spyhole, an idea began to form. If she pressed her back against one side and her feet against the opposite wall, she would be able to shimmy her way upward.

The first few attempts were pathetic as she slipped and wavered, landing on the floor with a muffled thud, frustration bubbling in her chest, but she refused to give up. Gritting her teeth, she steadied herself and tried again, over and over, until the gods took pity upon her. 

She had managed to push herself up, inch by agonizing inch, though the jagged stone tore at her dress and bit into her skin, leaving streaks of grime in its wake. Her legs wobbled from the effort, and her back ached from the awkward angle, pressed just below the opening, but she paid it no mind. Twisting her neck as far as it would go, she craned her head toward the slit, straining to catch even the smallest glimpse of the room beyond.

Finally, when her gaze aligned with the opening, she forgot all her discomfort, frozen in place as if she too had become part of the stone that formed this place. 

The king knelt at the queen's bedside, his fingers clasped around hers as though she were the last relic of a dying god, held with the reverence of a penitent seeking salvation. Naerys, stupid girl that she was, mistook the hunger in his grip for love—a father's love, a husband's love—a thread of hope she dared to cling to. Surely not all husbands were cruel and wicked, not all husbands wished harm upon their wives. Hers had just been an unhappy coincidence, but her father was nothing like Willem Stokeworth.  

Foolish child. She was always mistaking things for what they were not, cursed to chase illusions that crumbled to ash at the touch.

Around them, the maesters and midwives circled like vultures drawn to the stench of decay, their movements frantic, their whispers like the rustling of wings over carrion. Sweat glistened on Aemma's brow, her face a mask of agony, but their useless dabbing did nothing to staunch the tide of her discomfort. When Maester Mellos gestured the king to the far corner of the room, Naerys strained to hear, thankful for once for her uncanny gift, because though they spoke in hushed tones, the words reached her ears as if whispered directly into them.

Mellos's face was a study in apprehension, the lines etched into his weathered features deepening as he spoke. But then, his gaze shifted, sliding past the king to land directly on her. It was as if he could see past the layers of stone between them, right into the very marrow of her. And see her he did, with eyes that were not eyes, only smooth unmarked skin stretched taut over the indents in his skull where the organs would have rested. His mouth too, though it continued to form words for her father, no longer existed. No sound should have come from him, but it did, and all Naerys could do was stare.

Then he grinned that lipless smile she had come to associate with depravity. 

The girl blinked, and the world righted itself. Mellos was himself again, whole and unremarkable, speaking to Viserys in that grave, even tone, but her heart continued to pound as if she had glimpsed something even the gods would turn away from. 

"There is a choice," the elderly man revealed. "During a difficult birth, it sometimes becomes necessary for the father to decide. To save one... or to lose them both."

Viserys stiffened, his breath catching in a sharp inhalation, but Naerys didn't understand yet. Nonetheless, the implications swirled like a storm cloud over her father's expression, dark and foreboding.

"There is a technique," the maester continued cautiously, "taught at the Citadel. We could save the child. It would involve... cutting directly into the womb to free the infant. But the blood loss..."

He trailed off, letting the words hang in the air like a noose, and the king exhaled. "Seven hells, Mellos."

His gaze drifted to the queen's prone body with an unreadable expression, and something inside Naerys began to flounder, halfway between a prayer and a plea. Why did he falter? Why did he stand there, like a dithering fool confronted by two equally unbearable choices? There was no choice. There was only her. Her mother, the mother of the realm, the woman Viserys Targaryen claimed to love beyond measure.

This man was her king and her father, something that should have granted him twice as much wisdom. He was supposed to know what to do, to make the right choice, the noble choice. Some part of her still believed it—naive, needy Naerys that she was. It was the belief of a child who had not yet learned that fathers could betray the very things they claimed to hold dear.

She swallowed hard, her thoughts tumbling into a frenzy. He had betrayed her before—sold her hand to a drunkard, and perhaps she had deserved it. She was, after all, only the filthy proof of his transgressions. But her mother...

Aemma Arryn was the woman he loved. The woman he praised before the court, before the gods, before all the realm. He would not fail her, would he? Surely, he could not. The dying thing in her chest flailed harder, a parched thing waiting to be quenched by the words she wished she could rip from his gullet. 

The choice should have been obvious—should have been. Why did he not fall to his knees, weeping, begging Mellos to save his wife? Why did he not grab the maesters by their robes, commanding them to do whatever it took to spare her life?

To cleave her mother's womb, to spill her blood like that of a slaughtered lamb—how could such a thing even be considered? Why was it taking so damn long?

Then he spoke and the dying thing died, but that sinister creature inside Naerys prevented her from looking away. She knew she should have, but her muscles locked into place, her neck so skewed that it would ache for days after, yet still she did not look away. 

"You can save the child?"

Maester Mellos looked like he had anticipated the king's choice. "Yes, Your Grace, but we must either act now or leave it with the gods."

But as they walked toward her mother with a new predatorial purpose, Naerys was reminded, not for the last time, that there were no gods, only men scrabbling for slivers of immortality. 

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The world around Aemma Arryn had dissolved into a haze, the edges of reality dulled by the lingering fog of pain and the meagre comfort of milk of the poppy. They had given her just enough to temper the agony, though in her mind it was far too little. She had wanted to laugh, to weep, or to rage when the maester let a paltry few drops fall onto her tongue—an insult to the monumental affliction tearing through her. Had he ever known the torment of childbirth? Of course not. No maester had, and yet they lorded their knowledge over her like scripture.

But now, her mind had quietened, lulled by the drug into a deceitful serenity. Viserys had returned to her side, his lips brushing her wrist with an almost frantic tenderness, and she recognized the look in his eyes as contrition.

"They're going to bring the babe out now," he muttered, and Aemma felt a flicker of something—a laugh she could not summon, a rebuke that wilted before it could take form. 

How reassuring. As if they haven't been trying for hours.

But she didn't have the strength to say it, so instead, she nodded, the motion small and weary, her compliance as mechanical as a porcelain doll's.

"I love you," Viserys whispered, the words heavy with meaning she couldn't quite grasp.

She wanted to believe him, to hold onto the fraudulent leash of his devotion, but before she could let her thoughts linger on his confession, the energy of the room shifted. The maesters and midwives moved in unison, and the pillows beneath her head were pulled away, leaving her neck strained. And then came the hands—cold, clinical, invasive—gripping her ankles, dragging her lower.

A chill slithered over her skin as they lifted her damp chemise, exposing her swollen belly to the frigid air. The sudden vulnerability jolted her from the insidious calm of the poppy milk, and her pulse quickened as she turned to her husband for an explanation.

His hands remained on hers, their pressure warm but insufficient against the icy dread unfurling in her chest, and his empty reassurances dissolved into ash before they could reach her.

"They're going to bring the babe out," he repeated, and this time his drivel struck her fully. 

What could they possibly try now that they hadn't already?

Rough hands pried her fingers away from her belly, pinning her arms to the bed. The strength of their grip made her limbs quiver, and panic surged through her veins like wildfire, consuming the last vestiges of composure the opioids had granted.

The truth of it was simple and stark: she was afraid. Every birth terrified her, the spectre of death always lurking at the edges of the room, but this was far worse. This fear grated her lungs and whispered things she did not want to hear.

Her eyes locked onto Viserys's again, but his gaze betrayed him. He looked at her not with hope, but with mourning, a sorrow she recognized from the funerals of friends and kin, a grief reserved for the dead.

What sort of man mourned the living?

The maesters spoke around her, but their words blurred into a meaningless hum. She wanted to fight, to break free, to demand the truth, but really, she knew it already, felt it in the grinding of her bones and the twisting ache in her womb. She was not yet dead, but the room had already begun to treat her like a corpse.

Feeble whimpers spilled from her lips, and Aemma felt the childish urge to call out for her mother—a woman she had never known, a caricature she had conjured in childhood dreams. In those dreams, her mother was amicable, her disposition as soft as the clouds that clung to the mountains of her first home. A mother's love, she had always imagined, was a shield that stood between her child and the cruelties of the world. A father's love, by contrast, was a whetstone, grinding the child against the harsh truths of life until they were shaped to his will.

Her father had been the one to give her to Viserys after all, binding her life to his ambitions with the unyielding hand of duty. And now, in this cruellest of moments, she faced the bitter irony: most mothers stood by their daughters in labour, offering whispers of solace, but she, a queen of the Seven Kingdoms, had nothing but the sterile presence of maesters and the treachery of her husband. Draped in silks and crowned in gold, she could command an army of servants, but not the comfort of a mother's touch. 

How strange that one could never truly outgrow the need for a mother. Even now, in her final moments, the absence haunted her, and with it came guilt. Soon her daughters—fierce, precocious Rhaenyra and sweet, timid Naerys—would feel this same ache, this same absence.

Her mind splintered further when Maester Mellos raised a scalpel in her direction, its edge catching the chamber's dim light like the gleam of a distant star. Cold steel drifted closer, and terror sank its talons into her, making her thrash wildly, a fragile butterfly pinned beneath a giant's thumb.

"No! No, no, no—no!"

The words tore from her throat, her distress filling the air like the keening of a dog about to be put down, but they were deaf to it. A woman's denial meant little in the face of a man's resolve after all. 

Her daughters—they could not leave her daughters without a mother. Who would braid Rhaenyra's unruly hair and wipe soot from her cheeks after a day of reckless riding? Who would rouse Naerys from her nightmares and lull her back to peace with songs? 

No! No, no, no, nononononono.

"I'm making the first incision, Your Grace."

Just as the maester began his morbid task, Aemma tried one last time to beseech her heartless husband. 

"Viserys please."

It was a futile plea against the inexorable. A mother was meant to be a living barrier, and yet, what good was she now? What use was a mother who could not even hold her ground against death?

They were not just taking her life—they were stealing a mother from her daughters.

But deep in the marrow of her, lay a simpler truth: Aemma Arryn did not want to die. She was scared, she did not want to die, and as the blade kissed her skin, her thoughts shattered into a kaleidoscope of memories. 

In her last moments, as she unravelled completely, it was not the din of the chamber she heard but the rustle of wind through the Vale, and her final thought contained only the azure sky of the Eyrie, vast and eternal, as if even the Stranger could not touch the place where she had once been free.

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He had said he loved her. Even now, Naerys could hear her father's repeated droning, as if it would stitch together the agony of what was being done to her mother. She wanted to turn away and shield her eyes, but something held her captive.

Incorporeal fingers wrapped around her jaw to hold her head in place, and skeletal appendages peeled her eyelids back so she could not blink, so she would not miss a single moment. Whatever force it was wanted her to see it all. No, it demanded she see, carving the scene into her memory like an artist etching agony onto the canvas of her mind.

Her mother's screams filled the chamber, worse than anything she had ever heard. It was no longer the echo she could banish as a figment of her imagination, but a terribly real sound that everyone else bore witness to as well. She was pleading for help, for mercy, for someone to save her, but no one did, not even the girl who loved her most, right in front of her but still too far away to be of use. 

Her captors held her down, their hands seizing her wrists and ankles as though she were a prisoner and not their queen. Their faces were blurred as if Naerys were seeing them through water, yet their incriminating hands were abominably visible. 

The scalpel parted Aemma's flesh as easily as silk, exposing layers of muscle and gore that poured in a flood that seeped into the sodden bedding. The metallic tang filled the air, mingling with desperation as she writhed, her cries becoming incoherent once agony overtook her.

The king apologized again, professing his undying love, but he was just another one of her tormentors, another shackle in the apparatus of her suffering as the maesters plunged their hands into her womb. 

Naerys squirmed but could not look away. 

They reached into her mother's sacredness, desecrating her as the scullery maids did the pigs before a feast, probing as if searching for treasure in a grave. All for the sake of something that did not even exist yet.

Then the scene splintered before her, half reality, half dreamscape. 

In one, the brutal truth played out: the butchery, the carmine-slicked hands, the gaping wound that was Aemma Arryn. In the other, the maesters' gazes found her, past the tapestries that concealed her hiding place, and their mouths stretched into wide grins. Then with their hands still buried in her mother, they began to eat.

Their mouths worked hungrily, their featureless faces smearing with cruor, and the sound of chewing filled her ears. They devoured the queen, piece by piece, while still smiling at Naerys with those aberrant faces, never looking away from her. 

She wanted to cry, to burst through her confinement and wrestle the beasts away from her mother, but all they allowed her to do was watch as the two realities bled into one another, physical horror mingling with monstrous, dreamlike absurdity.

When Aemma Arryn's voice ultimately reduced to a ragged whisper, then utter silence, Naerys felt something inside her fissure. She did not even hear the caterwauling of the babe they had managed to pry out, or maybe she did, because, for a single foul moment, she wished that it would die too. 

And soon it would. 

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In time, the queen's chambers emptied, the commotion fading with the king's retreat to trail after his new heir. What remained was a grim stillness that blanketed the room like a shroud. Aemma's lifeless body lay abandoned upon the sheets soaked with her ichor, robbed of breath and dignity, save for this fleeting moment of solitude. Soon the maids would scrub away the horrors, and the Silent Sisters would arrive to prepare her for the pyre, but for now, the room was a tomb, holding only a mother and her daughter.

It was then that Naerys lost her courage.

Her legs, unable to hold her up any longer, gave way, and her toes slipped from their fragile grip against the wall. She tumbled gracelessly, the impact jarring her ankle with a crack. There was pain of course, pulsing and immediate, but it felt far too distant, and the only thing she could think of was the grotesque symphony in her head: crunching, tearing, slurping.

She pressed her hands over her ears, desperate to block it out, though she knew it was futile. It wasn't real—it couldn't be real. It wasn't coming from the room, silent now in the aftermath of slaughter, because it was inside her.

Naerys squeezed her eyes shut, practically vibrating with fear as she chanted to herself.

"It's not real. It's not real. Please, let me wake up. Please."

But even in darkness, she saw it. The visions continued behind her eyelids—hands wrenching flesh, teeth devouring sinew. She opened her eyes with a start, gasping for air, and that was when she saw him.

The faceless maester stood before her now, his sleeves soaked crimson. He towered impossibly close, the hem of his garment brushing against her feet in a mockery of her attempt to retreat. Nevertheless, Naerys scrambled backward, her palms thudding against the walls, but the narrow passage offered no escape.

His hood was thrown back, and though the shadows should have obscured his features, she saw him perfectly. Or rather, the lack of him. His face was smooth, save for the smeared red where a mouth should have been. Blood dripped from the concave approximation of his lips, straight onto her forehead. 

Naerys whimpered as his skeletal hands reached toward her. "Please....please let me wake up. Please...Mama. I want Mama."

The creature did not answer. Its fingers, cold as death, pressed against her stubborn lips, probing at their edges even as she clenched her mouth shut, shaking her head in denial as tears streamed unchecked down her face.

"No. No, no, no, please..."

But its grip only grew stronger, pinching her lips apart and forcing its way between her teeth to wrench her jaw open with unholy strength. Naerys's resistance disintegrated, and with it, her silence.

She screamed.

A coppery taste flooded her mouth, as the thing bled directly into her, or maybe it was forcing her to partake in its macabre feast. She screeched again, even as the sound ripped her throat raw, even as her lungs burned begging her for reprieve. She did it over and over until the room spun and reality unfurled like the ribbons of her mother's skin had.

Her assailant beamed as if her suffering was the answer to a question he'd long pondered. He was testing her perhaps—just how far could he push her before she went truly mad? And gods, the taste was unbearable, searing her tongue, coating her teeth, sliding down her throat like molten iron.

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When the maids returned to the site of Aemma's undoing, it was as if they had walked into a scene torn from some cursed tale. They whispered of walls that wept in mourning for their fallen queen, the chamber quaking with unnatural echoes, not unlike her final cries, reverberating through the air in warped mimicry.

Worse still were the jarring sounds of slamming, like some tortured being trapped within clawing for escape, seeking vengeance beyond its prison. None who fled could fathom the source of the unholy racket, and they certainly could not have imagined that it was caused by the youngest princess.

Naerys, after all, was supposed to be at the tourney with her sister. That was the common belief, one quickly proved wrong when the news of the queen's death spread. The nobles began to gather in grim procession for funeral preparations, but even when the girl failed to appear among them, there was no search conducted. She was often not where she was supposed to be, and in the grand scheme of things, no one cared for her whereabouts.

It was Daemon Targaryen who found her, though not intentionally. He had begun the hunt only to appease his distraught niece, for there was little he could deny Rhaenyra. However, instead of looking for Naerys in the obvious places, he slipped into the labyrinth that wormed its way through the Red Keep instead. Perhaps he did so to escape the spectacle of grief around him, or perhaps it was merely a habit, the lure of hidden passageways offering him solace. 

It was by chance alone that he found the girl.

At first, he did not even recognize her, the curled phantom in the flickering torchlight. Her eerie stillness was broken by the occasional twitch, but it was the sight of her hands that made him stop. One of her palms was clamped between her teeth, and upon closer inspection, he saw that she had chewed right through the skin. Her mouth glistened with the remnants of the cardinal mess, and she seemed to be sucking on the still-fresh wound, bizarrely reminiscent of children when they sucked on their thumbs for comfort. 

Daemon watched the girl with narrowed eyes when she finally registered his presence, and her frantic attempts to inch away from him pulled an irritated curse from his lips. She was already backed against the wall like a cornered beast, and her wide, unfocused gaze stirred a familiar disdain within him. 

How was it possible that something like this had sprung from the bloodline of kings? Theirs was a lineage forged in fire, and even Viserys's dead wife, only half Targaryen, had possessed bones of steel beneath her courteous demeanour, a resolve that could not be bent once she set her mind. 

But this child was not fire, nor fury, nor steel. There had to be something wrong with her; Daemon had known it from the moment Viserys stepped off that ship, cradling her as though she were some precious thing. Even then, she had lacked the flush of dragon's flame, her cheeks a shade too grey, resembling something freshly unearthed.

Her arrival had, at least, been good for a laugh. Daemon had relished the spectacle of noble Viserys returning from foreign lands with a bastard in tow. Their father had been apoplectic for weeks on end, and the court's whispers had been even more condescending. Men sired bastards all the time, but for his brother to bestow the Targaryen name upon his instead of trying to hide her away was as scandalous as it was comical. For once, the Rogue Prince was not the target of the realm's appraisal, and he had this peculiar little wraith to thank for that.

Fleetingly, he considered leaving her here to whatever disease she was plagued with as she scraped her fingernails against the ground, trying to dig her way out of existence. But even the Daemon Targaryen had a conscience, or at least a semblance of one.

There was Rhaenyra, for one. She would never forgive him if he left her sister to rot in some dark corner of the Red Keep. Aemma, too—sweet Aemma, whose kindness toward him had remained steady despite his brother's tempers—would have wanted her safe.

And then there was Viserys. Dutiful, loyal Viserys, who had done what so few men ever dared. He had not abandoned the girl to preserve his reputation. Instead, he had raised her as his own, brought her into his court and given her his name. Bastard or not, the king had made her part of their family. Daemon couldn't fathom why, and he thought him a fool for it, but that did not matter.

What mattered was that he cared for his brother in ways he could never properly express. He had rebelled against him, raged against him, but Viserys was also the only person in the whole world whose approval he thirsted for. And for that reason alone, he could not abandon the girl now, no matter how much her pathetic nature annoyed him. 

With a heavy sigh, he grasped her free hand with uncharacteristic gentleness and pulled her up. As she stood, his light fell upon her dress, and a familiar ornament winked up at him. The falcon pin was dotted with blood, but it was unmistakable and he used his sleeve to wipe it clean. All the while, his niece said nothing, allowing him to lead her out, except she now had an obvious limp. 

"Seven, fucking, hells." 

With another exasperated groan, he tucked his torch into one of the brackets that lined the stone walls and hoisted her into his arms. The tunnels had grown wider, giving him ample room to do so, and Naerys offered no resistance, though her teeth remained embedded in her hand. Daemon scowled at her, trying to pry it out, but she recoiled and the way her eyebrows furrowed, he had a feeling that she would begin to squall if he tried any harder. 

"Have it your way then, you stubborn child," he spat gruffly. 

It was faster this way, instead of waiting for her to drag herself forward on what appeared to be an injured ankle. She was dead weight in his arms—even a sack of potatoes might have moved around more, but at long last, they managed to reach her chambers. 

Inside, Rhaenyra was waiting, still in her tourney dress, though it was crumpled and smeared with the residue of her grief. Her hair was dishevelled and she sat curled at the edge of the bed, knees pulled to her chest and her red-rimmed gaze fixed distantly on nothing at all.

This was as close as the princess dared to come to her mother—this room that the queen had frequented. To step into a dead woman's chambers now felt like trespassing on the final remnants of her life, and her own room was too lonely, so here she had come, seeking solace in the space her sister called her own.

When Daemon entered, the creak of the door startled her. She jolted upright, her face collapsing in a mixture of relief and despair. For a moment, she looked only at him, gratitude softening her expression, until her eyes fell on the bedraggled child he carried, and that was enough to shatter her composure entirely.

When her uncle set Naerys down, Rhaenyra didn't hesitate. She dropped to her knees and pulled the girl into a fierce embrace, her sobs coming in great, heaving gulps as she buried her face in her shoulder. 

She doesn't know. She couldn't possibly know.

Naerys had likely run away from the tourney, bored or overwhelmed by the noise and the crowd, and it was now her duty as the older sister to deliver the awful news. It had to be her. 

But how could she say it, when the mere thought made her want to weep? How could she put words to a truth that even she could not bear? Only hours ago, their mother had been with them, laughing as they had shown off their finery. She had promised to listen to every detail of the tourney when they returned, to share a lively evening of stories and smiles.

It was supposed to be a good day. A day of celebration. And now...how could she tell her? 

Rhaenyra's thoughts spiralled faster, consumed by all the things she could never again say to her mother, so she did not even entertain the possibility that the little girl she sought to shield had already witnessed the worst of it. Lost in the haze of her own woe, she did not notice the blood that spilled from her sister, or the ravenous way she sucked on her own skin, entirely unaware of the world around her. 

Before she could find her words, a knock interrupted them, revealing Fei and Maester Mellos, summoned by Daemon to tend to the young princess. At the sight of them though, Naerys blanched, her eyes widening with the first flicker of sentience since she had been found. A faint sound escaped her throat—too garbled to be called a word, but too human to be dismissed, and her sister's head snapped up instinctively. 

The self-mutilation, the spectral look in her eyes—it was too much for Rhaenyra to comprehend, and she beckoned the maester closer, her voice thick with alarm.

"Gods, what have you done to yourself? You must be treated at once."

Naerys shook her head, her movements jerky as she scurried behind her sister, clutching her dress and pressing her face against the fabric as if it could hide from view. She refused to meet Maester Mellos's gaze, even as the aged man approached tentatively. 

"Come now, Naerys," Rhaenyra coaxed, sniffing back her tears as she tried to reason with her. "You're hurt. How did you even—"

She reached for her hand, attempting to pull it away from her mouth, but the dark-haired girl's jaw remained firmly locked. The taste of copper was revolting in her mouth, but it was the only thing that kept her silent. The rhythmic pulsing was a strange sort of comfort, and it also kept away the creature that danced at the edges of her vision, always threatening to force its wicked morsels past her lips. Better to gag and choke on her own blood than to swallow the vile offerings of her nightmares.

This was still the dream. It had to be. She was trapped, and though Daemon and Rhaenyra were new additions, fabricated by the devourer's twisted games, surely it was just another elaborate scheme to lure her into... what, she didn't know. But she only had to wait. She would wake soon, and her mother would be there to banish all remnants of dread.

The next few moments unravelled far too quickly.

Too aghast by her sister's mental state, Rhaenyra thrust her toward the maester, and the girl's taciturn protests turned to jerking motions of defiance instead, as he pried her hand away from her mouth. His abrupt intake of breath mirrored the revulsion on everyone else's face when they noticed the lesion—a jagged gap where a chunk of flesh had been torn away.

But then Naerys glanced up at him, and he had no face.

Blank and smooth like a wax effigy, he loomed before her, and the dam she had painstakingly built to keep her terror contained ruptured, and the screams erupted once again, filling the room with a terrible urgency. 

The maester tightened his grip, renewing his efforts to subdue her as Naerys thrashed violently. Her shrieks didn't cease, their sharp crescendo alarming everyone, and it took more than Mellos alone to wrestle her writhing form back into bed. Daemon stepped in, scooping her flailing limbs into his arms to deposit her beneath the covers, while Rhaenyra hovered close, her face pale as she murmured soothing words. Together, they held her down as her presumed healer brought a small vial to her lips, forcing cloying liquid into her mouth that turned her stomach. 

And then, there was nothing.

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A/N: I've been putting off writing this chapter for a whole month because of how mentally taxing it was. I feel like this fic is borderline horror movie vibes lol, but that is what I was going for, so hope it wasn't too bad. Also reminder that Naerys's issues aren't meant to be a portrayal of any particular real-life mental illness. What is happening to her is a combination of bad genes, bad luck, blood curses, and eldritch deities (usual cult stuff). 

Rip Aemma Arryn, you deserved better though. Also, Daemon is not into Naerys romantically please lol, his feelings are just normal non-targ non-incest uncle/niece shenanigans. As usual, the validation monkey in me would love to hear yalls thoughts on the chapter, so leave a comment please and thanks <33 appreciate all the support and interaction!!