"Your children are not your children.
They are sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams."

111 AC

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇

Viserys Targaryen stood before his wife once more, his head bowed as though the weight of the crown bore down on him, heavier than ever. He could not meet her gaze, at that piercing look of abject disappointment which never ceased to unmake him, even now when he was king of the Seven Kingdoms. It felt the same as before, long ago, when he had been only a prince—her husband, nothing more. 

Before speaking, he cleared his throat, as though repeating the words might change their meaning, as if Aemma had not already heard his earlier attempt to convince her, had not already refused with a look that would have silenced any man.

"Lord Stokeworth has asked for Naerys' hand in marriage."

The queen's face tightened, her brow furrowing. "He is a widower of considerable age, Viserys. You cannot be serious."

"Not for himself," the king hurried to add, "but for his youngest son."

"His youngest son is still ten years older than her!"

Viserys faltered, the argument dying in his throat as she smoothed an unsteady hand over her swollen midsection, and he felt the first flicker of fear ripple through him. His hand instinctively reached out, but he stopped, hesitating, and only when she did not push him away, he helped her lower herself back onto the bed.

"You must be cautious, wife," he murmured, as if that might placate her. "You carry the prince of the realm within you. You carry my heir."

He pressed a kiss to her temple, a gesture meant to be tender, but the expectation in his words crushed the moment. She stiffened, resisting the urge to recoil from his touch. It was all anyone spoke about now, about the heir, about the prince she would birth, as if he would come out of her wielding a sword and wearing the conqueror's crown upon his brow. All the maids and servants hovered about her, not as if she herself was something precious, but simply a vessel for valuable cargo. It made her akin to one of the Sea Snake's ships, guarded because of the goods they carried. 

"You cannot be sure that it is a boy." Aemma exhaled, forcing calm into her body, her tone unaccusing but resigned, exhausted from the years of bearing his hopes only to see them shattered by death.

"I am certain this time," Viserys insisted with the fervour of a man who had come to believe in his own illusions. "It has to be. I've never been more certain of anything in my life. I dreamed of it."

The queen closed her eyes, her lips pressing together into a thin line. She often wondered what his dreams truly meant. Were they divine whispers, sent from the gods to hint at futures unseen, or were they simply the echo of his deepest desires, conjured up by his aching heart? She sometimes dreamed too, of a life far away from the bustling corridors of the Red Keep, far from the dead babes who haunted her every breath. In her dreams, she took her daughters and fled to the Eyrie, to the mountains where the winds could carry away her grief, where they were happy and well-loved, unencumbered by the burdens of the crown.

Dreams were nothing more than the longing to make real what could never be. She had learned it long ago, but perhaps her husband, for all his imperial sagacity, had yet to do so. 

"You cannot marry her off," she finally spoke, trembling with the fatigue of having to plead for yet another piece of herself. "Please. All I do is for you—this," she gestured at her own body, "is for you. So do this one thing for me. Do not give her away." 

Viserys's heart twisted with guilt, yet it was quickly rationalized away, buried beneath the duties of the crown. This was what Ren would have wanted, wasn't it? For his daughter to be wed and live well as any other princess. Naerys would be cared for, and Lord Stokeworth was a loyal man, a stalwart member of his council. Surely his son would be the same. 

Otto Hightower had told him as much—that the realm would begin to whisper otherwise, to question his strength, especially with no heir. They might wonder about the bastard girl, about the honour of the king who could not provide a son but clung to this child who bore nothing but shame.

Perhaps if Naerys were sent away, Aemma's dismay would fade too. Perhaps she would cease to look at him with that sorrowful gaze, even after all the corpses she had brought forth, each one a painful reminder of their combined failure to give the realm what it needed. Yes, he had no other choice. Naerys must be wed, must be sent away to make her own family so that he might finally have peace with his own.

"She is a child."

"Childhood is often an illusion," Viserys replied, the words not his own but Otto's, echoing in his mind like a refrain that could justify all the things he didn't want to confront. "Especially for the likes of her."

She is old enough to know what she is, Your Grace. She will agree to the match readily. The queen has spent these past few years far too focused on the girl. Perhaps if she were sent away, your wife might be able to produce the much-needed heir. 

Aemma's eyes hardened, her lips thinning in disapproval. "The illusions of childhood are necessary. A child should not be denied joy simply because we know it will not last. She is a child. My child. Viserys, please."

She is my babe. I have not asked you for much these past years, only this. 

Almost as if he could read her mind, the king ran a frustrated hand over his face. "She is no longer a babe, Aemma. Were you, yourself, not eleven when we wed? And look how happy we have been, how content."

His cadence was lower now to appease her, as if that would lessen the blow, but she had learned long ago that even the softest blows could bruise, and this was no exception. Her bones ached inside her distended figure, but it was something else that ached within her. Her very soul, raw and tender like the first spring blooms, seemed to wilt in the coldness of his words.

Aemma longed to scream at him, to let the storm inside her heart rage. To ask him where their marriage had left her—with him finding comfort in another woman's arms, and her left to mourn alone. He would never see how her happiness had withered under the relentless march of duty, of failed pregnancies, and of the eternal pressure to deliver him an heir. But she could not, would not, scream at her king, so all she did was beg. 

"Viserys, please. Regardless of her age, she is my babe. Do not take her away."  

"She is not even yours, wife. Mayhaps, you will find something else to occupy your time, especially now that we shall have a new babe to tend to, to coddle as you do her."

The king felt the sting of guilt for dismissing Ren's daughter in such a manner, but he was resolute. His wife should not be focusing on a child that was not hers, but rather her own babe who was due to be born soon. Nonetheless, he did not miss the way she flinched at his words, her mouth dropping open a little. 

He dared to say Naerys was not hers. The child she had nursed at her breast, held close to her chest, felt stir in her arms in the quiet hours of the night—how could she not be hers? The girl she had carried in her arms—if not her womb—for far longer than just nine moons. The notion that Viserys, the man who had sired her, could so easily dismiss that bond sent a pang through Aemma's chest, and she swallowed the lump in her throat, the familiar taste of defeat bitter on her tongue.

She had long ago come to terms with her place in this court, in this world where she had but one purpose. She knew it, and yet sometimes she mourned for the child she had been, no older than Naerys now, when she had been plucked from the Eyrie and thrust into this gilded cage. Her mother's fate had been her own, and her mother's grandmother's before her—women with royal wombs, destined to die giving life. She knew too well what it meant to be so young, thrust into the role of wife, mother, and queen. She had bled for Viserys, suffered for him, and now he would ask the same of her girl.

In that very battlefield she entered with each passing year, Aemma knew her time would come. One day, she too would fall as her babes had, for the grave seemed to claim them all, leaving her to wonder when it might finally take her as well. She feared for her daughters, dreading the thought that the same cruel fate might be woven into the fabric of their lives. If this curse of maternal death and broken bodies was passed down through blood, then her daughters were bound to suffer as she had. Even Naerys, who had not been born of her flesh, would not be safe from this dark inheritance. 

"You must take your midday repose now. The day has been long and the maesters have prescribed ample rest," Viserys squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. 

"You must ask her!" Aemma blurted desperately. "You must give her a choice."

"Of course."

Otto had assured him that consent was practically guaranteed. He was the girl's sire, her father, and most importantly, her king, and she would not dare deny him this. 

"You must ask her and not compel her, Viserys. You must tell her that she has a choice, and only if she agrees will I give my blessing. A girl cannot be wed without her mother's blessing."

The king flinched at the raw emotion she displayed, but his resolve did not waver and he was kind enough not to point out the obvious mistake in her statement. "I will ask her," he promised, his voice as smooth as the silk that draped their bed. "But rest, Aemma. You must not concern yourself with this. You carry our next king."

Her hands instinctively went to her belly. Another child, another hope for a future that might never come. The dreams her husband had spoken of so often, dreams of sons and crowns and thrones, felt distant to her now. To dream was to wish for something out of reach, and she had learned to keep her hopes tempered.

"And the marriage," she implored, her determination a faint echo of its former strength, "it must not be consummated until she is older. Much older."

Until she is older than I was. Until I am certain she will not share my fate. 

Viserys hesitated, his brow furrowing slightly, but he relented with a sigh. "Of course, my queen. The Stokeworth boy will wait. He will have no interest in a child, not until she has grown and flowered. He probably has appetites for companions his own age for now."

Aemma swallowed the bile that rose in her throat, closing her eyes to retreat into herself, to the tranquil darkness where her thoughts could not betray her. She didn't want to watch him leave, didn't want to see the broad shoulders of her husband—her king—turn away from her once more, leaving her alone with her indignation.

For a moment, she allowed herself to dream again. Perhaps Rhaenyra, fiery and fierce Rhaenyra, would be stubborn enough to sway her father's will, or perhaps Naerys would surprise them all and deny his request. Then she'd be free to be a child, to laugh and play for a little while longer. She also dreamed of a world where babes did not die in their mothers' arms, where wives were not vessels for their husbands' ambitions, and where she herself might have been more than just the womb of the realm.

Outside the door, a faint shuffle of footsteps sounded, and unbeknownst to Aemma, a Yitish maid lingered just beyond, her ears pricked, her mind already working, like a predator-sensing weakness, knowing that even kings and queens could bleed.

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇

The light filtering through the stained glass windows of the Grand Sept was a kaleidoscope of colour, casting its fractured brilliance onto the smooth marble floor, and the air inside was heavy with the scent of incense, swirling in hazy tendrils above the altar, where a cluster of candles flickered. Naerys shifted uncomfortably on the cold stone, her knees pressed into the unforgiving floor where she had been kneeling for what felt like an eternity, though in truth, it had likely only been several minutes. Yet time seemed to stretch in the silence, broken only by the rustle of robes and the occasional sigh of a breath taken in deep contemplation. 

She had run through her list already, asking for things big and small, important and trivial. First, she prayed for her mother's health, her words hurried and full of unspoken fear. There was another babe on the way, and Naerys couldn't bear to think of her mother's heart breaking anew if something went wrong. Her next words were for her sister—beautiful, wild, and unburdened by anything. After that came the other things with less enthusiasm, as if she were shy about asking for them: for the gods to help her find Rhaenyra's lost brooch, for the next game of Cyvasse against Ser Harrold Westerling to go in her favour, and for her mother to let her stay up late enough to watch her sister's midnight rides on Syrax.

And then, she ran out of things to say.

Naerys' fingers drummed against her thighs, her gaze darting around the vast space. The intricate carvings on the pillars caught her eye, each one telling its own story, and the Seven glared down at her from their high perches, stern and unmoving, their judgment written in the shadows of their marble faces. She felt minuscule beneath their watchful gaze, her earlier prayers now seeming childish and inconsequential. Surely, there were far more pressing concerns in the realm than a lost piece of jewelry or a silly game of strategy. She sighed, her impatience growing with each passing second.

Beside her, Lady Alicent Hightower knelt in direct contrast, the epitome of piety. Her hands were clasped in a perfect imitation of their septas, with her head bowed low in reverence. Not a single movement betrayed discomfort, and in the dim light, her face appeared ethereal, the faint glow from the candles casting her features in delicate relief. Naerys, by comparison, felt like a restless child. Her fidgeting hands and roving eyes disobeyed the comportment expected in such a place, and though she tried to mimic the older girl's posture, her limbs ached, and her mind refused to settle.

Eventually, Alicent's gaze lifted, her eyes knowing as they found Naerys. An indulgent smile played at the corners of her lips, the kind that came with understanding the youthful impatience of someone who had not yet learned the art of serenity.

"I would not have forced you to accompany me, had I known you would be this agitated, princess."

"You didn't force me, my lady. It was this or... going with my sister to see Syrax." 

"Would you not have preferred that?"

"I've already done it several times, but I've never been inside the Grand Sept. And..." the princess hesitated, her tone growing more sheepish, "I've lost her most favourite brooch that she lent me. I don't have the courage to face her until I find it."

An incredulous giggle escaped Alicent, a sound so out of place in the solemn space that it almost startled her. Hastily composing herself, she pressed her lips together, her amusement subdued but not entirely gone. "I can help you look for it if you'd like. After we're finished, of course."

Naerys offered a hopeful smile, though her next words were spoken with a certain nonchalance. "That's all right. I asked your gods for help. Maybe they'll find it for me."

Alicent nearly let out another chuckle, but managed to suppress it, knowing it would echo far too loudly. There was something endearing about the younger girl's faith in the divine's willingness to help with such a negligible personal matter, and it reminded her of herself, because what else was there to hold onto, if not the gods? 

"Very well, princess," she conceded indulgently. "But if you wish, you may wait for me outside. I wouldn't want you to inconvenience yourself any further on my account."

In truth, Alicent's offer was as much for herself as it was for Naerys. The girl's squirming was beginning to distract her from her own prayers, and she valued her moments of reflection too much to let them be interrupted any longer.

Naerys brightened immediately, the prospect of escaping the stifling stillness too tempting to resist. "Yes, my lady, as you wish."

With a stifled groan, she rose to her feet, her knees aching. She rubbed them briefly with a wince, before turning towards the grand entrance, her footsteps echoing lightly in the expanse. 

Outside, the air was cooler, the breeze a welcome reprieve from the atmosphere within the Sept, and Naerys paused at the top of the stairs, stretching her limbs, her eyes closing briefly as she savoured the freedom of movement. The city lay sprawled before her, bustling and alive beneath the late afternoon sun, its noise a distant hum compared to the noiseless sanctity she had just left behind.

Tipping her head back, she squinted at the vast, cloudless sky, hoping to catch sight of Syrax's golden form streaking across the heavens. It was a silly notion, of course—Rhaenyra could be anywhere above the city or even beyond the horizon, but they liked to make a game of it, and every time her sister took to the skies, Naerys sought her out. 

Her reverie was abruptly broken by a voice.

"Looks like she got you too."

Startled, Naerys turned and saw a boy leaning casually against the cool stone wall near the entrance. His auburn hair glinted in the sunlight, framing an undeniably handsome face, and his blue eyes—brilliant and clear as the gems her mother wore on her wrists—seemed to sparkle with amusement.  Caught unaware, she ducked her head shyly, her gaze dropping to the stone beneath her feet as if it might open up and conceal her.

In the Red Keep, she could usually let her hair fall over her face, obscuring her incriminating eyes, but today, her mother had insisted on braiding it back—much to her frustration, and she felt terribly exposed, the cool air brushing the back of her neck like a taunt.

She swallowed nervously, gathering her wits, and chanced another glance at the boy. He was still looking toward the Sept, his expression one of amused indifference, waiting, no doubt, for his pious sister. The sun gilded his features, making him look noble, but there was something relaxed about the way he stood, arms loosely crossed over his chest, that made him seem approachable.

Naerys felt her pulse accelerate. Why did she suddenly feel so silly? This was not a momentous occasion. It was just... Gwayne Hightower. She had seen him in the Red Keep before, spoken a word or two perhaps in the company of their respective sisters. 

The boy repeated himself, his tone probing. "My sister, I mean. Looks like she managed to drag you to the Sept with her. I was wondering which of you she'd bring first."

Avoiding his gaze, Naerys shook her head. "She did not have to try very hard, Lord Hightower," she replied, a bit too quickly. The words sounded stiff in her mouth, and she winced inwardly. Did she sound as awkward as she felt? 

Gwayne chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck, as if the formality made him uncomfortable. "Gods, no. That's my father, not me." 

Naerys' fingers twitched, an instinctive need to pick apart the threads on her sleeve overtaking her, and she dared to glance up at him once more, just in time to catch an odd, almost imperceptible expression that made her falter. Was he annoyed? Did she ask too much?

"Are you here to pray?" 

Damn her stupid mouth. Here she was asking more. 

The muscle in Gwayne's cheek twitched again, and for a moment, she feared she had said something wrong. A brief wave of panic washed over her. Maybe he believed her a simpleton for babbling on so, but instead of answering right away, he simply shrugged, his gaze lingering on the Sept's entrance.

"Just here to see my sister, that's all."

He almost felt guilty at the crestfallen look that crossed the princess's face, because the truth of the matter was not something he wished to elaborate on. Though he did not hold onto the Seven with the fervour expected of him—much to his sister's dismay—he did try. Today he was trying, except he hadn't even managed to make his way inside, but at least he had made it to the threshold. Alicent understood. She was devout enough for both of them, she liked to joke, and on most days that was enough. 

Naerys' relief was short-lived, for at that moment a dragon's shriek echoed from above. Syrax. Heart leaping in her chest, her eyes widened in surprise, and she instinctively bobbed a curtsy, the motion rushed and clumsy. Then she hurried down the Sept's steps without so much as a farewell.

A mix of exhilaration and mortification coursed through her as she nearly stumbled over the last step, resisting the urge to hike up her skirts to her knees, for it would have been terribly undignified, and she could still sense Gwayne's presence behind her. Had he noticed how flushed her cheeks had become? Had he seen the way she fumbled her words? Gods, she hoped not.

The brief exchange replayed in her mind repeatedly, and her breath hitched as she imagined what Rhaenyra would say when she found out—there would be no end to her sister's teasing. But even as the humiliation settled in, there was a childish part of her that felt giddy, her heart doing an inexplicable somersault.

She had barely made it halfway down the steps when she heard Gwayne calling after her.

"Leaving so soon?" His tone was laced with amusement, and the girl felt her cheeks flame anew. She could feel him beaming before she even turned around, making her contemplate the notion of sprinting down the stairs and out of sight. 

Eventually, though, she stopped and glanced back over her shoulder, trying to summon some semblance of composure. Gwayne had pushed away from the wall and was now strolling toward her, hands casually tucked into the folds of his cloak. There was a certain smugness to the way he moved, like he was already fully aware of his effect on people—though perhaps she was giving him too much credit.

Naerys willed herself to remain steady. "I didn't want to disturb you further."

The older boy raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a slight smirk. "Disturb me? Princess, you were hardly a disturbance. If anything, I was starting to think I had scared you off."

"Not at all! I—" She trailed off. Why did speaking to him always make her sound like a blundering idiot? She quickly shifted her focus to her shoes, pretending there was something incredibly interesting about the cobblestones beneath her feet.

Gwayne laughed, and though it wasn't a cruel sound, it flustered her all the same. "You're quite terrible at lying, you know," he jested, folding his arms across his chest as he stopped in front of her. "It was impossible not to notice the way you practically fled. Do tell me what terrible tales my sister has regaled you with regarding my behaviour. I promise I am not as appalling as she might have led you to believe."

Naerys felt utterly trapped by his playful smile. "I—I wasn't fleeing," she stammered, though it was clear from his expression that he didn't believe her for a second. "It's just... Syrax. I thought... I thought Rhaenyra might be nearby."

His grin widened, his eyes gleaming with mischief as he leaned in conspiratorially. "Ah, of course. The dragon. How could I forget? I'm sure you were simply eager to see your sister, and not, say, escaping a horribly awkward conversation."

"Awkward conversations seem to be my trademark," the princess muttered to herself, and though she hadn't meant for him to hear, Gwayne snorted at her words. It was the last straw, and she fisted the fabric of her dress, ready to make a run back to the Red Keep, dignity be damned. She had already embarrassed herself enough, so what was a little more? 

Seeing her at a loss for words, the Hightower boy's smile softened slightly, and he stepped back, giving her space. "You look like you're about to run away again."

"I...was not."

"That's not how it looks like from over here."

Naerys raised her chin defiantly, her bashfulness forgotten in the face of an argument. "Mother says that a lady should not run from problematic matters."

"Oh?" Gwayne snickered. "I am the problematic matter then?"

"Yes—no!"

Several moments of cumbrous silence later, the boy relented. "I didn't mean to upset you. It's just... you make it too easy."

"I do not."

"Ah, and you have a penchant for arguing."

"I do not—never mind," the princess huffed, much to his amusement. "I shall be heading back now, my lord."

"Won't you thank me for this extremely enlightening conversation before you go?"

Naerys shot him a scowl, his self-importance bleeding into his words, making her forget her initial embarrassment entirely. "I've had better conversations with the cook's dog, actually."

"Dear gods, I was not aware that dogs spoke." Gwayne raised a hand to his lips to feign surprise. "And do tell, what revelations do they impart to you."

"You are mocking me."

"I assure you, I am entirely sincere, princess."

Naerys' lips twitched into a smile despite herself. "Liar."

"Calling a young lord a liar? How improper!"

When she dropped her gaze to the floor in mortification, Gwayne's tone became sincere, and he gave her a bow. "Shall I walk you back? Or would you rather flee before I have a chance to poke fun at you some more?"

"I think I've endured enough for one afternoon, thank you very much. And you must be here to escort your sister when she is done. That is why you are here in the first place, are you not?"

"My sister will be here," Gwayne smiled fondly when he glanced back at the Sept. "You must not be familiar with her prayers, but they can go on for quite some time. I shall return for her and she would still not be done."

"Dear gods, her poor knees."

"I wonder the same thing myself," Gwayne agreed as he began to lead her in the direction of the Red Keep. "I shall spare you—for now, but only if you let me walk with you."

"You already seem to be walking, without need for my permission," Naerys pointed out. 

"Yes, so hurry along and join me, won't you?"

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇

The heavy doors of the Red Keep groaned as they closed behind her, and Naerys felt a wave of warmth sweep over her. The air inside was cooler but the faint spring in her step remained from her encounter. Her fingers toyed with the fabric of her gown as she ascended the stairs to her chambers, distracted by the giddy thoughts racing through her mind. There was a lightness in her that she rarely felt—she was glad Rhaenyra hadn't seen the exchange, already imagining her older sister's sharp wit at the expense of her obvious, childish infatuation.

When she reached her destination, her mood dimmed slightly upon seeing Fei waiting inside, her figure standing near the window with her back turned. The Yitish woman was as motionless and her presence was almost unnerving in its quietness. Naerys had known Fei her entire life—eleven years of being cared for by the strange woman who had accompanied the king all the way from the distant Golden Empire. Yet despite that, she never quite knew how to feel about her. Fei's eyes were sharp, too sharp, and though she was sometimes kind, there was something in the way she spoke that made her uneasy, as if she knew things Naerys did not. Things she could not understand.

Hearing the princess's footsteps, the maid turned and bowed deeply, her hands clasped before her in that way she always did, one more custom she couldn't quite shake off. Fei's deference toward her felt wrong, misplaced, for Naerys was no trueborn princess. Just a bastard, and yet, Fei bowed as if she were someone of far greater importance.

"Look what I found, princess." 

It was Rhaenyra's brooch—the one she had lost, and Naerys' face brightened instantly, her earlier unease forgotten in her excitement. She hurried forward, taking it from Fei's outstretched palm and turning it over in her hands, examining it carefully. 

"Thank you!" she exclaimed in relief. "Nyra will be pleased. I thought she'd tear the whole castle apart—and then me—looking for it."

The corners of Fei's lips lifted slightly. "The princess will be grateful," she concurred. Then, after a brief pause, her tone changed, becoming almost pondering. "You are to be married soon."

Whether it was a mere idea or a declaration she did not know, but Naerys froze, the brooch slipping slightly from her fingers. The lighthearted joy that had buoyed her minutes ago drained from her entirely, leaving her cold, and she forced a weak, breathless laugh, hoping to dismiss the remark as nonsense. "Married? No, you must be mistaken. My sister is older. It will be her turn first."

Fei's expression didn't change, but there was something sharper in her eyes now, something that made Naerys feel vulnerable. "The princess is the king's firstborn. He would not be in as much of a hurry to be rid of her."

Rid of her? 

The words hit like a physical blow, striking a chord deep inside the false princess, a chord that trembled with insecurity, fear, and the bitter truth she often tried to ignore. She had always known her place, always understood that she was different—less than—but hearing it spoken so callously left her reeling. Her father had never said such words to her, never treated her like something to discard., but Fei's words made it real in a way that no amount of judgmental gazes or gossip ever had.

She did not even think to dispute the woman's credibility, because her statements were a mere echo of the truth she knew deep in her tainted marrow. Of course, her father wanted to be rid of her. Surely, he too had grown tired of all those who questioned his honour, all on her account. Perhaps she should be grateful that he wanted to do so by marrying her off, instead of having murdered in her bed. 

Her mother might have laughed at her thoughts, telling her that she had been letting the castle staff share far too many sordid tales. 

Fingers tightening around her sister's ornament, she stammered, "But... Mother wouldn't allow it. She just wouldn't."

"It is the queen's wish. I overheard them speaking myself."

Oh.

"You would not be foolish enough to believe that she of all people would be opposed to the concept," Fei continued firmly, like someone scolding a fretful child. "She isn't even your mother."

The words, delivered with such cold certainty, tore through Naerys, and her eyes filled with tears almost instantly, blurring her vision as she stared down at the trinket in her hands. She isn't even your mother. The phrase repeated itself in her mind, each time more painful than the last. She had always known this, of course, but to hear it spoken so bluntly felt like a slap to the face, stripping away whatever comfort she'd managed to find in her tenuous place within the royal family.

Fei watched the tears spill down Naerys' cheeks with a hardened expression. She felt an urge to seize the melancholy child by the shoulders, to shake the sorrow from her slender frame and awaken her to reality. How could this delicate creature—the same bloodstained infant, veiled in the remnants of her own caul, that Fei had peeled off her mother's corpse—have grown into such an inept of what she might have been? A brittle mockery of the woman who had carried her. Though Fei had always believed that the High Priest's lineage would breed strength, she found herself wondering if the blood had run thin after all.

"I do not want to marry," Naerys spluttered. "I do not want to leave everyone behind. Perhaps if I speak to Fathe—the king—"

"And what will you say to the king, princess? Will you beg him to keep you? When he has already kept you longer than anyone expected? Do you not understand how fortunate you are? What is done with bastards in the real world?"

Naerys flinched, feeling pathetic. Of course, she knew what happened to bastards, had heard the stories in court. She had always been aware of the precariousness of her position, but it still made her nauseous.

"You must go."

More slipped down the girl's cheeks. "I do not want to."

"You have to."

"But I..." Naerys' voice cracked, her gaze dropping to the floor as tears slipped down her cheeks. "I don't want to go."

Fei studied the girl—a near-perfect reflection of the past, and it frustrated her to no end. "The queen is pregnant."

"I know," the child responded with a hiccup.

"She has raised you for years now, though you are not her own. You must be grateful."

"I am."

"The king is eager for the babe as well. They both grow tired of the reminder you present—the king, for the mistakes he wishes to forget, and the queen, for the sins she is forced to forgive him for, over and over. You understand, don't you, princess? You must leave. At least for a time."

Naerys did not speak, too busy listening to the way her heart splintered repeatedly, every word a barbed wire wrapping around her lungs, suffocating her. She wondered briefly if the woman was lying, but what reason would she have to do so, and in her childish naivete, she could not find it in herself to doubt her claim. 

Fei, sensing her surrender, continued. "You must allow them to be a family, especially with the new child. The king is convinced it will be a boy—an heir, and the queen will have him to nurture, to love. She will tire of you soon enough. Best not stay past your welcome."

There it was—the undeniable truth. Aemma Arryn had never made her feel unwanted, and neither had her sister, or even her father. They had been nothing but compassionate and loving, the way they might have been to one of their own blood, but they did not live in a vacuum and were not safe from the scandals of the court. Now that she would no longer be needed, would they finally change how they behaved?

The girl is obedient, at least. That is something. 

Fei could already see the deference in her downcast eyes, the way she swallowed the poison handed to her without protest. Good. The seeds of insecurity had been sown long ago, and now they bore fruit without much effort on Fei's part. She had her own reasons for wanting Naerys gone, far away from Aemma Arryn's watchful gaze, reasons that reached far beyond the girl's role as a reminder of the king's indiscretions. 

"Do you see now?" A hint of false sympathy crept into the older woman's tone. "It is for the best. You will be spared the hearsay and might even find peace away from all this."

There would never be peace for the likes of her, but who was she to deliver that blow as well? 

Naerys' lips parted as if to argue, to plead, but no words came.

"When the king asks for your consent, what will you do, child?"

"I...shall give it," the dark-haired girl conceded, though the words were dragged through her gullet with great difficulty. 

Fei smiled then, a proper satisfied smile. "Wonderful....and a reminder."

"Not a word of this to anyone else. I know," Naerys mumbled as if reciting something from memory that she had said far too many times. 

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Later that night, when the castle had fallen into stillness, Naerys sat before her mirror, the glow of a single candle casting a flickering light over her weary form as she worked a comb through her tangled hair. The strands snagged in the teeth, made rough by her earlier frustration when she had yanked the pins from her braids with all of the grace expected from a mongrel like her. The air in the room was heavy with the scent of melted wax and the lingering warmth of a hearth fire long since reduced to embers, but she dared not call someone to relight it. 

Just as she was reaching to blow out the last candle and surrender to the oblivion of sleep, a knock sounded at her door. It was measured, like the person behind it was accustomed to restraint, so it could not possibly have been her sister. Before she could respond, the door creaked open, and in waddled the queen herself, her hand resting protectively atop the gentle curve of her stomach.

Aemma's face, usually serene, was drawn into a frown, her lips pressed thin. "Imagine my disappointment," she began in reprimand, "when my youngest did not visit me as she always does each night."

Naerys stiffened where she sat, her hand frozen mid-motion, the comb still caught in the muddle of her dark hair. Her breath hitched, but she forced herself to meet the woman's gaze through the reflection in the mirror. The queen's eyes were shadowed with something she could not name—something that made her heart ache all the more, and she mumbled an apology.

"I am sorry."

The girl felt the familiar sting of guilt as she realized how far her mother had come just to see her. The queen's own chambers were on the opposite end of the castle, far removed from this lonely, forsaken wing that Naerys now called home. It had been the king's decree to move her here, after her nightly terrors grew too disruptive—screams that echoed through the Keep's corridors, fits of thrashing that shook her bed until the sheets were soaked through with sweat and tears. Here, at least, no one would hear her.

Rhaenyra always tried to soothe her, making light of the situation with her usual charm. "You're special, Naerys," she'd said, "special enough to warrant being assigned an entire sector of the castle, while the rest of us have only our chambers."

She was a good sister, as far as sisters went, and she spent every free moment she had in her company so that it would not become too lonely, but the princess had many friends and many who vied for her attention, and eventually Naerys' wing began to feel like an exile. And as if that was not enough, she would be sent even further away now. 

Aemma shuffled over to the bed, her movements slow and laboured, and with a sigh, she lowered herself onto the edge of the mattress, her expression softening as she beckoned to Naerys. "Come here, child."

The girl hesitated, her limbs tense with the desire to refuse, but her heart, burdened by both affection and guilt, would not allow her to disobey. She rose from her chair, the comb dangling precariously from her head, and moved to sit cross-legged in front of the queen. Aemma's hand reached out, tenderly picking at the knots in her hair with nimble fingers, and the touch was far too maternal. For a moment, Naerys allowed herself to lean into it, closing her eyes as her scalp was massaged with care whenever the queen pulled too hard.

"Doesn't Fei help you get ready for bed?" Aemma asked in concern. "Where is she tonight?"

Naerys remained silent. How could she explain the bitterness that festered in her heart—the revulsion that had grown at the sight of her maidservant for the time being? She would forgive her eventually, but for now, she was allowed her peevishness. 

"You're unusually quiet tonight, Naerys. Is something the matter?"

Shaking her head, the girl blinked away the tears that threatened to spill. She bit her lip, hard enough to draw blood, grateful that her back was turned so that her mother—no, not her mother—couldn't see the turmoil on her face. But the compassion in Aemma's voice, the affection laced in every word, sent an indescribable pain through her chest. It was a cruelty she couldn't name, this love the woman claimed to have for her—this pretense of maternal devotion. How difficult it must be for the queen, to love the living reminder of her husband's betrayal, but how easy it was for Naerys to love her in return. 

How she wished, more than anything, she would cast aside the mask of affection, speak plainly, and send her away without pretense. Then it would be easier. Then she would not miss her so much, even as they sat here together. 

When she had finished, Aemma nudged Naerys lightly as if nothing were amiss. "Go fetch your book, will you? Perhaps we might pick up where we left off last night."

Her silence was becoming harder to maintain, and Naerys stood, her limbs rigid, and crossed the room to retrieve the worn book from her desk, handing the volume to the queen without a word. Aemma took it with a smile, her fingers brushing over the pages as though it were an old friend.

She had always been a good mother. Even at her young age, Naerys understood that few in her position would have made such an effort. The queen had learned the customs of Yiti for her, studied their lore, and read to her from books filled with strange and foreign tales. She had told her of all the gods—the Drowned God of the Ironborn, the convoluted Valyrian deities, and the Seven who reigned over Westeros. She spoke of them all, but most fondly of the Lion of Night and the Maiden-Made-of-Light, the gods of a birthright neither of them understood, but ones Aemma tried, nevertheless, to learn for her sake.

"And which god are we praying to tonight?" Aemma's words floated into the air, a question meant more to soothe than seek an answer.

"The Lady Alicent prays to the Seven. Who do you pray to?"

The queen's breath caught in her throat for a moment. How could she tell her daughter the truth, that she had long stopped praying to any god at all? What was the point when they had never listened? She had prayed once, fervently, with the faith of a young bride and the desperation of a grieving mother. She had begged for mercy, for reprieve, for life—only to find herself left wanting, her prayers unanswered.

"Never mind about me, sweet girl," she murmured, patting Naerys' cheek. "You pray to whoever brings you the most comfort."

If only that were true, the girl thought bitterly. She would have prayed to Aemma herself if it were, or to her sister, for they were the only ones who brought her solace, her very own Mother and Maiden, and the only ones who warranted such devotion. 

But that made the pain all the more unbearable, and her face crumpled immediately, her chest constricting as fresh tears welled in her eyes. The dam finally broke, and when she dissolved into quiet sobs, her mother pulled her close. 

"I am sorry."

Aemma's brow furrowed with concern, and she pressed three kisses to her temple. "Whatever do you have to be sorry about?" 

Naerys shook her head, unable to speak the words. How could she apologize for something as fundamental as her existence? How did a child apologize for being born, for the sins woven into her bloodline like an endowment she could never shake?

The queen herself was beside herself with worry. She had lied to Naerys. She hadn't told her about the marriage, about the plans that had already been set in motion, the arrangement that would send her away, perhaps forever. But tonight, even when the truth hovered so precariously between them, she could not bring herself to shatter the fragile peace that remained.

Not tonight. Not yet.

"Shhh," she cooed instead, holding her daughter close. "I am here. I will always be here, my darling babe."

She wished that it could be true, that she could hold her girl forever, but even as she whispered her reassurances, Aemma knew the truth. Her words were nothing more than the kind of lie mothers told their children to make them feel safe, even when the world was anything but. 

But surely, everything would turn out for the better. Naerys would act like the child she was; she would throw a tantrum like she had every right to and Viserys would be defeated and everything would turn out alright.

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇

A/N: all hail Viserys Targaryen, world's worst dad to literally everyone lol. We're taking ALOT of creative liberties with Gwayne's character/background since I don't know much lol. He will eventually be sent off to Oldtown but for the most part he's at King's Landing with Otto/Alicent for plot purposes. 

As usual, don't be a ghost reader. I live for yalls comments/questions/concerns/reactions, even a keyboard smash is highly appreciated and encouraged!