"Life is short and the world is at least half terrible,
and for every kind stranger, there is one who would break you."

111 AC

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In the heart of the godswood, sunlight seeped through a canopy thick with ancient leaves, splintering into flickering dapples that swayed over the dark, verdant boughs. The air lay heavy, rich with the damp breath of earth and bark, an oppressive shroud draped over Naerys's skin. She knew her sister sat far from her now, tucked into Alicent Hightower under the shade of the heart tree, yet laughter drifted as if carried by invisible tendrils through the air, thin and fleeting. Even at this distance, she could feel it; Naerys felt everything—the sighs of the old, knotted trees, groaning under the weight of years; the murmur of leaves stirring above and below; the faint, pulsing crawl of hidden life in the soil, churning and burrowing, their serpentine undulations echoing faintly in her blood, as if they writhed beneath her very skin. All of it mingled with the damp, sticky warmth that clung to her like another layer of fabric. Beneath her mourning gown— the cloth of midnight woven to bind her to the grief she ought to feel as a widow—the heat seeped through her pores. Her gauzy veil had been long discarded, likely claimed by some creature of the wood who found in its threads a new refuge.

But none of this dissuaded her. With her skirts hiked high above her knees, she clung fiercely to the rough bark of an ancient elm, feeling the branches stretch around her, their leafy fingers brushing her cheeks as she ducked below them. The dark wood scraped at her palms, tearing the skin, but she held on, eyes blazing with resolve as they fixed upon her quarry: a gaunt, hollow-eyed cat crouched just a branch away. It had in its jaws a small, downy creature—a bundle of fluff that quivered, letting out faint, fearful squawks.

Far below, the earth spun away beneath her; yet Naerys leaned forward, fingers outstretched as she bared her teeth in resolve, inching closer to the hissing creature and daring it to relinquish its prize.

From below came a sudden exclamation of her name, piercing through the quiet of the godswood, and Naerys's fingers slipped. In a startled flurry, she dropped her skirts, the fabric catching on the bark as her foot twisted precariously. Her stomach lurched as she nearly lost her footing, scrambling to throw her free arm around a higher branch, pressing her cheek tightly against the tree's rough trunk to steady herself. A second call echoed from below, this time sharper with concern, and she dared a glance down to find a head of familiar auburn hair catching the sunlight, the strands gleaming almost crimson. Her gaze met a weary, cerulean one that held an unmistakable shadow of worry. The recognition set her cheeks aflame, and she quickly turned her face back to the tree, the bark scraping her skin as if punishing her for her folly.

"Are you alright, princess? Do you need any help?" came Gwayne Hightower's voice, edged with urgency.

Naerys gave a quick shake of her head, her lips pressed together in stubborn silence.

"Are you quite sure? You look like you might need assistance."

But his voice startled the cat she had been stalking, sending it darting a few branches higher with a hiss. Naerys muttered a choice expletive under her breath—a word she'd heard flung around the Red Keep kitchens—before releasing a sigh of frustration. Then she gathered her skirts once more, planting her foot on the next branch and preparing to climb after her elusive prey, only for her intruder to interject again.

"Princess, you will fall. You must come down at once."

She flashed the older boy a glare, simmering with irritation. "I do not need coddling, Lord Hightower. I am in the middle of something rather important."

"Again with the formalities? I thought we were beyond this, princess. My father is the lord, not I." His mouth quirked in a half-smirk, as if suppressing laughter. "And what urgent matter might you be engaged in, that requires such daring?"

Her breath puffed with exasperation. "I'm trying to..." She waved her arm toward the cat, which sat crouched above her, its wary eyes narrowed as it watched her every move.

"Might I lend my assistance?" Gwayne offered, though humour still laced his tone.

"I doubt it. You would frighten her away."

"And you seem to be doing a fine job of enticing her?"

"Be silent!" the dark-haired girl snapped, but when she extended her hand again, the cat lashed out, claws raking across her fingers, before it leapt with a yowl toward freedom. 

"Princess!"

Naerys yelped, drawing her hand back to press it against her gown as she watched the cat bound downward, alarm flaring in her eyes. "Don't let it escape!"

Gwayne jolted at her request but, with a quick reflex, managed to reach down and scoop up the squirming creature before it could make its escape. He held the indignant thing in his arms, looking up at the princess with a questioning gaze, as if uncertain whether to laugh or to console her as he watched tears mist in her mismatched eyes and the flash of crimson welling in the lines of her palm.

Eventually, his amusement won, his expression turning into a more open grin. "Now, do you need help getting down?"

"I do not," Naerys huffed, still gripping her injured hand to her chest. Gwayne's expression made her cheeks flush all the deeper, but she kept her gaze on the cat—anything to avoid meeting his observant eyes.

"I must admit," the boy began again, "I never took you for the tree-climbing type. Or are you a knight in disguise, gallivanting about looking for those in need?"

"My sister is the knight," Naerys muttered, thinking of Rhaenyra's bold willful ways and her dreams of riding to battle in glory. "I am...not nearly as awe-inspiring."

"Oh, but you are. Who else would climb such treacherous heights to save a pitiful creature."

"It's hardly treacherous, my lord. The cat was about to eat that poor fledgling. And I didn't ask for your help."

Gwayne chuckled, adjusting his hold on the wriggling cat. "Ah, but had I not intervened, you'd be here all afternoon, hissing at her like a scorned spirit."

The princess flushed, giving him a cross look as she landed on the ground beside him and dusted off her skirts. "I was not hissing." She folded her arms, her lips pursed. "And if I was, it was only because it—" she pointed to the cat, now relaxed and blinking in the boy's arms— "decided my fingers looked like fine prey."

"It seems to like me just fine. The problem must lie in your approach."

"I did not—"

At her tempestuous intonation, Gwayne took a step backward, his grin widening. "Fear not, your bravery shall be sung about in ballads all the same."

Naerys glared at him. "I'll have you know it's better than sitting idly, as I'm sure some of us are accustomed to."

"You wound me, princess," the Hightower boy feigned a gasp. "I am quite capable of heroics when called upon. I just tend to avoid perching in trees and fighting clawed creatures when there's more reasonable ground beneath my feet. I am a rational young man after all."

"Rational? I doubt that's how anyone would describe you." She paused, looking up at him inquisitively. "How did you find me here in the first place?"

"I was looking for my sister," Gwayne began, attempting to hand her the cat, which immediately hissed and shrank back into his arms. "She often visits the godswood with the princess, but I seemed to have been... distracted by your cries for help."

"I was not calling for help!"

Undeterred by his jabs, Naerys stood on her tiptoes, reaching for the small, feathered bundle clamped between the cat's jaws. After a few tries, she managed to pry the creature free, cupping it in her hands with furrowed brows as she brought it close, examining its delicate form with intense scrutiny.

Her companion tilted his head, watching her carefully. "Are you quite alright?"

"I am. But I'm not quite sure about her."

He raised an eyebrow, amused. "Her?"

"Yes, her," Naerys replied, her tone unyielding. "She's hurt, but I wouldn't know how to fix her. Perhaps I should take her to Mother."

"Or you might take her to the aviary instead. The keepers there could help."

"Will they know how to fix her?"

The older boy hesitated, not wanting to dash her hopes even when it was apparent that the creature would not survive long. "They look after all sorts of birds there," explained. "From the ravens that carry messages to the king's own hunting birds. Surely they'd know."

It seemed convincing enough and Naerys turned on her heel, before she was stopped by another one of his inquiries as he called after her.

"And where exactly are you going?"

She looked back, eyes clear and almost scolding, as if the answer should have been obvious. "To find Nyra, of course. I don't know where the aviary is. How would I know where to go?"

Gwayne snorted, shaking his head in disbelief. "I could accompany you, if you wish. To make up for... not rescuing you from the tree earlier. No need to bother the princess, or my sister for that matter."

Naerys glanced away, suddenly hesitant. She too did not wish to interrupt her sister's time with Alicent, knowing how particularly fond she was of their moments of solitude, but to intrude upon Gwayne's time seemed even worse. At least Rhaenyra could be bribed with candied lemon slices and sweet cakes. 

Gwayne shrugged with an easy smile as if he sensed her denial before she even uttered it. "It's not as though I have anything more productive to do with my afternoon. It would be my honour."

 "If... if it wouldn't be an inconvenience, Lord Hightower."

"Only if you stop calling me by my father's title, princess."

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As they wove through the shadowed halls of the Red Keep and into the sunlit courtyard on the other side, the quietness between them deepened, and with it, Naerys's thoughts returned in waves, filling the spaces where her words had gone silent. It was strange—how easy conversation had been back in the godswood, where only the trees and leaves bore witness to her. Now, with the bustling halls around them and courtly eyes flitting their way, she felt her mouth dry up.

Each time a maid or a young noblewoman passed, there came a chorus of giggles, whispers that floated past her in delicate fragments, as though she were the unwelcome curiosity in their gaze. She couldn't help but notice how Gwayne drew their attention, his striking charm weaving him effortlessly into the hearts of those who found his occasional presence at court a rare treat. He cradled the cat still, a protective arm beneath its form, and the sight of him—so gentle and determined—drew eager eyes and laughter, luring one lady after another, each stopping to pet the cat and exchange light banter.

Naerys tried to make herself small, but she felt conspicuous at his side, an ugly contrast in the periphery of his grace. He was all smooth elegance, and each person he greeted received his good-natured jests, leaving them with cheeks pink and sighs barely concealed. Unlike his sister, he did not live year-round in the capital; Oldtown had nurtured him for most of his life. He was a rarity in King's Landing, and his allure spread like fire through the court's gossip-hungry halls.

And she, was... what, exactly? A bastard girl draped in the colours of mourning, following along like an afterthought, an invisible shadow trailing a young lord too kind to leave her behind.

She knew she should not care, should not dwell on her inadequacies, but her mind gnawed at her, unwilling to release her from the endless loop of self-doubt. She glanced at Gwayne again, catching a side-long view of his concerned expression when he looked at her. For a brief moment, her chest ached, for there had been a time when that might have inspired in her something close to hope. She had indulged in a childish affection for him, entertained the fantasy of kind words and glances, but now, all her hopes felt faded, snuffed out like candles in the sept that had been left too long unattended.

An ugly little mongrel. 

That is what Willem Stokeworth had called her. And why would Gwayne think differently? He was a man. Why would he ever look beyond her birth? And gods forbid he found out what she really was? A murderer with monstrous appetites. 

The whispers and laughter of passing ladies only reinforced her belief. Why would he see her, a lowly bastard, as anything more than an obligation, a duty to the crown and nothing more? Surely, his presence here was just altruism, a polite escort that she would mistake for something else only to be reminded of her foolishness later. She clasped her hands tightly, fingers curling against the delicate bones of the bird she held, bracing herself against the hollowness growing in her chest.

Focus on the bird, she told herself.

A voice cut through Naerys's reverie. "You seem to be in a hurry to leave me behind."

Startled, she turned back to see that, somewhere along their walk, she had strode ahead without noticing, her steps brisk, almost as if an unconscious eagerness to put distance between them had taken over her. Now, Gwayne trailed a few paces behind, though he quickly closed the gap, his gaze steady, a small smile playing on his lips as he asked, "Trying to run away again?"

Caught off guard, Naerys could only shrug, her composure wavering when he reached for her hand. She felt her breath hitch, the warmth of his touch against her wounded palm too intimate, too much, and she pulled her hand back swiftly, tucking it beneath her sleeve as if it had burned. She barely registered the flicker of hurt that crossed his face before he masked it, only to reach calmly into his pocket and retrieve his handkerchief.

"Your hand is still bleeding," he noted insistently. "If you won't see a maester for it, you should at least keep it clean. Who knows where your bird has been?"

Wide-eyed, the princess looked up at him, startled but reluctant, her injured hand remaining hidden beneath the folds of her dress. With a sigh of mild exasperation, the boy crouched down, gingerly preparing to set the cat on the ground, only to hear her urgent plea.

"Don't let it go!"

He straightened, lifting an eyebrow in surprise. "Oh? And why is that?"

"It...needs to be taken care of too," she murmured, casting her gaze downward. "After. It's probably hungry."

With a chuckle, Gwayne shrugged, then reached up to lift the creature to his shoulder, where it perched comfortably, its tail swaying in time with his stride. With ginger fur that was a dull imitation of the boy's own auburn curls, the sight was so absurd that Naerys couldn't help a timid giggle.

Gwayne caught the sound, eyes brightening, and without a word, he extended his hand to her once more, expectant. "Well, come on, then?"

"I'm fine!"

Her companion's eyes narrowed playfully as he feigned deep seriousness. "You know, the maesters of Oldtown once treated a man with infected blood. A gruesome sight. His entire body swelled up—turned the colour of a dead fish." His lips twitched as he fought against laughter. "I'm afraid you might suffer the same fate, if you don't let me wrap it up."

Though he exaggerated, he saw his words sink in as intended, and Naerys's hand shot out immediately. With great precision, he took her scratched palm and began to wrap it in the silken cloth, his fingers working with a practiced delicacy. It was easier to busy himself with this task, all the while pretending not to notice the bruised knuckles or the crooked fingers.

They troubled him, as did the silence that accompanied them, but he could hardly imagine someone intentionally hurting the reserved princess. Perhaps it had been an accident—a fall, or some mishap she was too stubborn to admit. Yet, there was a hesitation in her every movement, a trepidation colouring their interactions that had not been there before on his previous visits to King's Landing.

Just as his fingers finished securing the makeshift bandage, Naerys pulled her hand away, her fingertips leaving his hold as if his touch had become suddenly unbearable. Before he could speak, she had already turned, striding ahead, her slight figure moving quickly enough that he had to jog to catch up.

Gwayne watched her with a mixture of amusement and concern. There was something both endearing and puzzling about the way she kept her distance, that hesitant shyness as she skittered forward, avoiding his touch as if it could turn her to smoke. He didn't mind it, but he wished she would linger just a moment longer, if only to reassure himself that her injury was nothing more than the incidental clumsiness of a child. He would ask his sister about the matter, for surely she would know. 

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Hours later in the late afternoon glow, the queen's chambers were awash in a mellow, golden haze. Shadows from the tall, arched windows crept across the floor, mingling with the tapestry of flowers and broken stems that lay scattered around Naerys like remnants of a sunlit meadow. The air was heavy with the scent of crushed petals—primroses and lilies, with an occasional hint of lavender where stems had broken under her weaving hands.

The girl herself sat cross-legged, her brow furrowed as she bent over her work, fingers steady but lined with tiny red pricks from the stubborn thorns. The crown of flowers in her hands was a tangle of yellows and reds, and the green silk handkerchief tied around her left hand caught her eye now and then, sparking a quiet thrill that she tried her best to quell. 

The calm of her task was broken only by the heavy weight of the tabby cat sprawled across her lap with all the contented ease of one who owned the place. It had finally taken a liking to her after a visit to the kitchens and, smitten with her offered scraps, had followed her ever since. The day's other creature—the little bird she had attempted to care for—was back in the aviary now, much to her chagrin, but the keepers had insisted that she could not possibly care for a fledgling falcon all on her own. 

It had brought her a measure of joy to learn that the chick was a falcon—a creature of her mother's bloodline. At Aemma's insistence, a dragon egg had once been set in Naerys's cradle as a babe like a dormant promise—a symbol of the power she was supposed to awaken, to become. But it never hatched. It had remained lifeless, as though it, too, saw her as something less than worthy of her father's blood. A hidden truth she carried, an unspoken shame. She was no dragon, only a girl of fragile roots and clipped wings, bound to the Targaryen name by lineage but unwelcomed by its fire.

But if the little falcon could learn to trust her, perhaps she could be an Arryn, like her mother. Each day she would visit the bird in the aviary, she decided, and let it know her face, so that it too would claim her as its own as Syrax had claimed Rhaenyra. Then she might belong—if not to the fire, then to the sky in some way. 

Above her, the queen reclined on her chaise, watching her daughter with a lazy smile as her maids fussed around her, plumping cushions and tidying her skirts. She stretched languidly, the gentle swish of her gown blending with the sound of fanning feathers as she let her gaze fall on Naerys.

"Sit up, child." She tapped her shoulder. "Don't hunch like that. You'll give yourself a crooked back, and believe me when I tell you, back pain is quite a nuisance."

But Naerys only curled down further, determined to master the two recalcitrant stalks in her hand, as if sheer willpower could coax them into place. "I've got it, Mother," she mumbled, biting her lip.

"Would you like me to help?"

"You'll hurt yourself. The thorns are quite prickly. I'll make you another one if you like—if you've not had enough already."

Aemma lifted the overflowing pile of flower crowns in her lap with a theatrical sigh. "If you make me any more, Naerys, I fear I shall drown in them." She laughed, a light sound like bells.

Naerys rolled her eyes, unable to hide her grin. "You would not, Mother."

"I very well might."

Before the girl could reply, the tabby in her lap stirred, stretching out with a satisfied purr that pushed its paws right into the crown she'd been weaving, tumbling the petals into disarray. The sight was so absurdly sweet that Naerys couldn't even muster irritation. She scooped up the cat instead, cradling it against her chest as it nestled into her, eyes half-shut with sleepy contentment. It was still very lean, and she could feel its bones shift beneath its skin. She would need to feed it more. 

The queen's gaze softened as she watched. "Might you let me finish that for you, dearest? Or else you'll never complete it in time."

Naerys laughed, glancing down at the wrinkled, half-crushed creation in her hands. "The tourney is tomorrow, isn't it? I have until then, if only this creature would let me be."

Her new charge simply yawned, its paw draped lazily across her lap as if it had every intention of staying put. 

The door creaked, and Naerys looked up to see her sister slip into the room, a familiar brightness in her eyes as she tiptoed carefully across the foliage-strewn floor. Rhaenyra moved with her usual tenacity and took a seat by their mother's feet on the chaise, gathering her hand with a playful squeeze. Behind her, Alicent lingered in the doorway, dark hair framing her face. She inclined her head politely to the queen but kept her distance, a hesitant reserve that set her apart from the others. Still, Rhaenyra's presence was enough to bring liveliness to the air.

"And what have you two been up to all morning?" the princess asked. 

Aemma smiled indulgently. "Your sister has been making garlands for the tourney," she said, gesturing to the growing pile on the floor.

"Oh? Is that so?"

Naerys nodded, setting aside her sleepy tabby and rising to carefully select one of her finished projects—a wreath of yellow primroses and lavender—and walked toward Alicent. Her dress shed a trail of petals as she walked, leaving a floral path in her wake, and the Hightower girl looked taken aback when Naerys offered it to her. Her eyes widened briefly before she accepted it with sincere gratitude, running her fingers over the lavender blooms before her gaze drifted to the princess's hand, noting the handkerchief wrapped around it and recognizing the Hightower sigil embroidered on the fabric.

"Oh, did you hurt yourself?" she inquired.

Naerys's cheeks flushed as she shook her head hastily. "It is nothing."

Alicent studied her for a moment longer, a gentle worry lingering in her expression. "Are you quite sure?"

The princess nodded, glancing away. "Don't tell Nyra."

She dreaded her older sister's reaction, still remembering the commotion she had made about her broken fingers. She could be fiercely protective, and Naerys didn't want her fussing any more than she already did. Alicent nodded in understanding, giving her hand a comforting squeeze.

"I shall pray for you," she consoled in a whisper meant only for her. "May the gods grant you recovery."

Meanwhile, Naerys's tabby, evidently feeling neglected, padded over to Rhaenyra and began pawing at the hem of her dress. The Targaryen princess let out a delighted laugh and bent down, scooping up the creature with gentle hands to examine it, tracing a finger over its soft fur as the cat purred in contentment.

"And who is this little mischief-maker?" 

Naerys shrugged. "He has no name as of yet."

"Well then, we should give him one together. Let us put your High Valyrian to the test, shall we? See how you've been faring with your lessons."

A good-natured huff escaped the younger girl as she returned to her spot on the floor, and the cat leapt from Rhaenyra's lap back to Naerys, curling up on her dress with a possessive purr, as though it had chosen its true home. 

"So...where's mine, sister?"

"Where's your what?"

Rhaenyra rolled her eyes at her feigned ignorance. "Where's my garland? If Alicent gets one, I assume you made one for me too."

"Still working on it," Naerys explained sheepishly, showing her the mess of red marigolds and roses that had come undone. 

"And yours? Don't tell me you didn't think of making one for yourself?"

"I did, but it's not for the tourney."

"Oh? What else could it be for then?"

Naerys pointed at their mother's head which was crowned with a circlet of pink and blue—peonies and forget-me-nots. 

"That's not a favour," Rhaenyra declared.

"Yes, it is," her sister argued. "Favours are for luck, so I give mine to Mother so she can have all my luck,

"That is not how it works, Naerys."

"How would you know?"

"I just do!"

"And besides, what else would I need a favour for?" Naerys scoffed. "It's not like anyone's going to ask for it."

"Naerys you never know—"

"And I won't be going! It'll be too hot and bothersome for Mother to attend, and I can't leave her."

Rhaenyra opened her mouth to refute her claim, but then thought better of it, recalling her reason for venturing into her mother's chambers in the first place. 

"Did you sleep?" she demanded, fixing the queen with an admonishing look.

"Yes, Rhaenyra, I slept."

"How long?"

"I don't need mothering from my own daughters," Aemma protested. "Naerys here does enough, always hovering."

Rhaenyra nodded in approval at her younger sister. "Well, who else will hover if not us? All your attendants only focus on the babe. Even father, all he can talk about is his new heir. Someone has to attend to you."

"Naerys makes sure I sleep. Why the silly girl never lets me out of her sight"

"As she should." Rhaenyra reached out to tug on a lock of her sister's unbound hair, and the younger girl ducked away with a scowl. 

"Don't touch my hair!" 

Rhaenyra gave her a wink and waved her hands in the air, scissoring her fingers to mimic the motion of a pair of shears, at which her sister scooted even further away. 

"Do not tease your sister, Rhaenyra." Aemma nudged the girl with her foot. "And do not make too big a fuss over me. It is simply the way of things. You will lie in this bed soon enough. This discomfort is how we serve the realm."

A muscle in Rhaenyra's jaw tightened as she shook her head resolutely. "I'd rather serve as a knight and ride to battle in glory."

"The childbed is our battlefield, darling girl."

Naerys's hands stilled at their words. She was not Rhaenyra, not built for the grand, roaring battles that her sister fantasized about. But she was also not made for the sort of war her mother described. That battlefield was even more foreign to her, a place she refused to call her own, for she had long known that path wasn't meant for her. 

She remembered watching her mother grow heavy and weary with each child that never lived, her once-familiar form changing, the lines of her face etched deeper with each pregnancy. She would swell until she was a stranger to herself, her body pushed to the very edge of what it could bear. She'd heard her cries echoing through the halls, and watched her waddle, gasping for air and wincing with each step. She had seen the blotches and discolorations that appeared like some creeping illness and the hair that fell out in clumps, seemingly lost forever to the toll of bringing forth a child. 

The labour itself was a nightmare she could hardly fathom. The whole castle always held its breath when the time came, and she remembered the bloody stains on the sheets, the hollow eyes of the queen when it was over—an expression emptied of strength, emptied of peace as the Silent Sisters were summoned to prepare another who had not survived. The whole scene was monstrous to her, raw and violent, nothing like the tranquil image the septas liked to spin of maternal sacrifice. 

No, Naerys knew she wanted nothing to do with it. She'd rather be left as she was, unbothered and complete. Even the thought of a child after birth, with its endless crying, its need to be coddled and soothed at all hours, repulsed her. She knew she could never endure sleepless nights rocking an inconsolable babe, nor did she want tiny, grasping hands clawing at her, demanding every ounce of her time and patience. It was hypocritical of her perhaps—Fei had said she had been an unsettled child prone to fits of shrieking—but Aemma Arryn was a saint for putting up with her. Naerys was not a saint. 

The thought of her own skin stretched too tightly over her bones, her belly rounding out like some grotesque fruit, her veins darkening and rising up along her limbs, bloated and unnatural, was horrific, and the idea of a growing life consuming her from the inside made her shudder. It was as if she'd be surrendering her own form, her identity, her very self, to something that demanded all her strength and left her empty once it clawed out of her.

At least her husband was dead, releasing her from the looming expectation of motherhood. Perhaps now she would be left in peace, spared from whispers of heirs and the burdens of the cradle. She just wanted to be happy and free. She just wanted her mother to be happy and free.

"We have royal wombs, you and I," Aemma continued, oblivious to her younger daughter's inner turmoil. 

"Only you and I?" Rhaenyra scrutinized her choice of words and the queen stilled. "Not Naerys?"

Aemma looked down at the dark-haired girl, her eyes narrowed in perusal, and it unnerved Naerys. Could she see inside her head? Could she pick her way through the mess that was her mind and decipher her vile thoughts? Did she know that she had committed even worse actions? Did her mother no longer love her? Had she finally grown sick of her?

Although Aemma Arryn could not penetrate her daughter's thoughts, she knew something seemed to be bothering her, something she refused to share and it saddened her. Perhaps after the babe came and she was in a better state of rest, she would pry it out of her, but for now she could only pat her head in a gesture of maternal comfort, offering what she could even with the secrets between them. 

"Yes, well I suppose Naerys too," she conceded in response to Rhaenyra's question. "But you know how she is. She has no mind for such things."

"Well, neither do I!"

"Perhaps you might break the news to your father then, if you feel that strongly about it," the queen advised. "Now go take a bath before you attend his council meeting. You stink of dragon"

Rhaenyra threw up her hands in exasperation before standing to stretch her arms above her head. "Look after Mother, Naerys," she warned, shaking a finger in her sister's face sternly, which Naerys swatted away. 

"I always do, Nyra. Now go, before Father reprimands you about your constant tardiness."

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A/N: lol this fic is a love story...a love story to Aemma, mic drop, the end, no other love is beating the love Naerys has for her. Anyways, Naerys is the OG child-free girlie lmfao. 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!