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therogueflame · 3 months ago

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The Bronze Reign Chapter 8 - The Color of Obligation

Hi,

this was supposed to be like 4-5k words shorter i am so sorry lmfao

The song for this chapter is Flickers by Son Lux

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Summary: Vysaria returns to King’s Landing to find her fate already decided. Tensions simmer, a bold toast is made, and a choice lingers in the dark. By morning, the truth is not what it seems.

WC: 10.4k

Warnings: 18+, angst, viserys is struggling lmfao, daemon targaryen, secret pregnancy, arranged marriage, underage marriage

Vysaria Targaryen (fem!oc) x Gwayne Hightower (kinda?)

previous chapter

MDNI!

King’s Landing, Mid 112 AC

The raven came at dawn.

Vysaria did not see it arrive, only heard the quiet murmur of voices beyond her chamber door, the soft rustle of parchment being passed from hand to hand, the shuffle of boots retreating down the stone corridor. She had spent weeks on Dragonstone, long enough for the sea air to feel like home, long enough for the fire in the mountain to settle into her bones. But none of it mattered now.

She sat at the edge of her bed, the letter open in her lap, its words sharp and final.

The time has come. You are to return to King’s Landing at once. Your betrothal has been announced to the realm. The court awaits your arrival. Viserys Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm.

A command, not a request. A decree from her father, not a letter from a man who claimed to love her. There was no warmth in it, no mention of how he had longed for her return, no question about what she had found on Dragonstone. Only duty. Only expectation.

The ink was dry, the seal unbroken when it reached her hands. He had made this decision long before she was ever told.

She read it once, then again, as if hoping the words might change, as if something softer might emerge between the lines—something more than the sharp edge of command. But there was nothing.

Before she could fully process it, before the weight of the letter could settle, she was handed another. Both letters arrived at the same time, one bearing her father’s seal, the other a different mark.

Vysaria didn’t hesitate. She cracked the wax, unfolded the parchment, and let her gaze fall on the careful, precise handwriting of Rhaenys Targaryen.

You are walking into a den of vipers. Your father has made his decision. Otto Hightower ensured it was done on his terms. You are of the blood of the dragon. Do not let them forget it.

There was no title, no formality. Just a warning, one written in ink as dark as the wings that carried it.

Vysaria exhaled through her nose, her grip tightening around the letter.

The court awaited her. The betrothal had been sealed. And she was expected to return with a smile on her lips and a bow in her spine.

She rose so abruptly that the chair scraped against the floor, the parchment crumpling in her grip as she strode toward the door. The sharp crack of her boots echoed down the corridor, each step faster than the last, the letter burning in her hands. The halls felt too narrow, the air too thick, and the torches along the walls flickered as she passed, their flames snapping in her wake. Servants stepped aside without a word, knowing better. She knew where to find him, she always did.

The tension in her chest coiled tighter with every step, her breath sharp, her pulse thrumming beneath her skin. Without hesitation, she shoved the door open. The heavy wood slammed against the stone, the impact sending a shudder through the sconces, their light flaring briefly before settling. The room smelled of leather, wine, and the lingering scent of smoldering fire. Daemon didn’t look up. He was leaning against the table, fingers curled loosely around his cup, one boot propped on the chair in front of him. He tilted his head slightly at her entrance, but his gaze remained fixed on the dark red liquid swirling in his hands.

She threw the letter onto the table. It slid across the wood, coming to a stop just inches from his fingers. He reached for it, slow and deliberate, unfolding it with a quiet ease that deepened the knot in her stomach. He read it once, then again.

She watched him closely. He must have known this was coming. She waited for the inevitable smirk, the taunting amusement, for him to scoff at her father’s will. But it never came. Instead, he folded the parchment neatly, letting it fall back to the table.

“That didn’t take long." His voice was light, but there was an edge to it, something sharp curling beneath his casual indifference.

Vysaria crossed her arms. "You knew this was coming."

Daemon finally met her gaze, studying her with an expression that made her stomach tighten. He let the silence stretch, deliberately drawing it out, before rolling his shoulders and reaching for his wine. "Of course, I did." He swirled the liquid absently, not looking at her. "It was only a matter of time before your dear father sent for his wayward daughter. He cannot have you enjoying your freedom too much."

His smirk twitched as he spoke, brief and fleeting, barely reaching his eyes before it disappeared. He took a slow sip of his wine, as if the matter were no more than idle conversation, as if she hadn’t come here with her chest tight and hands clenched to stop herself from shaking.

Vysaria’s nails dug into her arms. "Do you find this amusing?"

Daemon snorted softly, setting his cup back onto the table. "A little."

Her jaw clenched.

Daemon’s smirk vanished as quickly as it had appeared. His hands pressed flat against the table for a fleeting second before he pushed off, closing the space between them in a single, fluid motion.

Vysaria barely had time to react before he was in front of her, so close she could feel the heat radiating off him, his breath still laced with wine and fury. The flickering firelight sharpened the tension in his jaw, the barely restrained storm behind his eyes.

"Do you think I’ve done nothing?" His voice was low now, but still laced with heat. "Do you think I haven’t had to bite my tongue every time they speak your name in that chamber? That I haven’t sat there and listened as Otto Hightower lays his plans, knowing full well what he means to do with you?"

She felt his breath on her skin, every word weighted with something raw. His fingers curled into fists at his sides, but his voice stayed steady, no louder. "I've been trying to protect you in the only way I can. I've kept my actions quiet, ensuring no one sees you as a threat. If they did, they'd strip away whatever control you still have."

Vysaria’s body was rigid, her breath sharp as she tried to ignore how her pulse raced at the sudden proximity between them. "Then why does it feel like you’ve done nothing at all?"

His eyes flashed, dangerous and intense, and his head tilted just enough for their gazes to lock. "Because you don’t see what it takes to keep you from losing everything."

She laughed, short and humorless. "No, uncle. What I see is you doing nothing while my father hands me to a man I do not know, while he takes the last piece of me that is mine to give and gifts it to the Hightowers as if I were some political prize wrapped in silk."

His hand lifted, just barely, as if instinct alone had driven him to grasp her, to make her understand. Instead, he curled his fingers in midair and forced them back to his side. "You think I do not know what this is?" His voice was quieter now, more dangerous than before. "You think I do not want to put my sword through Gwayne Hightower’s heart and send him back to Oldtown in pieces? You think I do not want to burn this all down?"

Her breath caught. He wasn’t joking. Not now. The flickering firelight carved them into the space between shadow and heat, trapped in something neither of them dared to name.

Daemon exhaled sharply, his gaze flickering down to her lips before returning to her eyes. His voice lowered, still sharp but quieter now. "You think I’ve done nothing. You think I’ve just stood by and watched. But I’ve been holding my tongue, keeping my sword at my side while Viserys plays his games, waiting for the right moment to act without losing more than we already have."

Vysaria’s chest rose and fell with sharp, uneven breaths. "Then do something. Say something that matters. Fight for me instead of pretending this is how it has to be."

His breathing was steady but strained, and he didn’t answer right away. When he finally did, there was no mockery in his voice, no detachment—only something raw, something barely contained.

"You want me to fight?" His voice was a low snarl, his breath hot against her skin. "Then tell me what you would have me do. Take you from here? Spill Hightower blood at your feet? Throw you onto Caraxes’ back and let the world call me a thief, a traitor, a villain?"

Vysaria’s throat tightened, her head tilting back slightly as she refused to look away.

"Say the word, and I will do it," he whispered, his voice low, but it was far from soft. His body was rigid with restraint, his hands flexing at his sides. "But do not stand here and tell me I have done nothing when I am the only one who has ever been willing to burn for you."

The air between them grew thick, suffocating.

Her voice was barely a whisper. "Then burn."

The silence stretched, heavy and unyielding. The words cut through the tension like steel, severing the restraint that held them both in place.

Vysaria was the first to move. Her breath steady, her hands clenched tightly at her sides, she stepped back, forcing distance where there had been none. Daemon remained still, rigid, his jaw clenched as if fighting something that wanted to break free.

She turned, and the door groaned as she pulled it open. The dimly lit corridor beyond offered no comfort, no relief from the storm that still burned in her chest. She didn’t look back as she stepped through, her footsteps swift and purposeful, echoing down the stone halls.

Daemon didn’t call after her. The moment the door swung shut behind her, the tension in the room snapped.

Something crashed against the wall, the shatter of glass breaking through the suffocating silence. The fire in the hearth flickered violently at the sudden movement, the flames catching the glint of wine splattered across the stone. Daemon stood where she had left him, his breath harsh, his fingers flexing before clenching into fists. His cup lay in pieces at his feet, the red staining the floor like something deeper, something worse. He ran a hand through his hair, eyes closing for a long, dragging breath.

The days passed in uneasy silence.

The fight had left its mark, lingering in every space they shared, in every word left unsaid. Vysaria did not seek him out, and Daemon made no effort to close the distance between them.

She had spent nearly two months on Dragonstone. What had once felt like exile had become something else, solitude perhaps, but not peace. The island had given her time, time to think, time to wait, though for what, she was no longer sure.

She had walked the blackened cliffs, ridden the winding paths along the coast, stood beneath the Dragonmont where the heat still pulsed beneath the earth. She had flown, soaring across the sky on Vermithor’s back, carving through the clouds, pushing higher, faster, until the ache in her chest was drowned by the rush of the wind.

But it had not changed what waited for her beyond the sea. Viserys had called her back, and now, there was nothing left but to go.

The morning air was cool and crisp, the sky stretching vast and unbroken, streaked with the first hints of gold from the rising sun. The sea was calm beneath the cliffs, waves rolling steadily against the black stone, their rhythm unchanging. The wind carried the sharp scent of salt and smoke, stirring the edges of Vysaria’s cloak as she stepped onto the stone terrace where the dragons waited.

It had been a few days since their fight. They had not spoken beyond what was necessary. There had been no apologies, no acknowledgments, only space and silence.

The keepers worked around Vermithor, their voices hushed, their hands careful as they tightened the last of the straps. The great bronze beast shifted slightly, exhaling a slow breath that sent heat curling into the crisp morning air. His golden eyes flickered toward her as she approached, watchful but patient.

Across the terrace, Caraxes prowled. His long, serpentine body coiled with restless energy, his tail curling against the stone as he let out a sharp, guttural growl. The Blood Wyrm had always been temperamental, but today, he was more agitated than usual. Daemon stood beside him, adjusting the buckles on his gloves before securing the last strap along the saddle. He had been here when she arrived, waiting, his expression unreadable, his movements sharp and practiced. He did not look at her right away, but he spoke first.

"You took your time." His tone was even, but there was something clipped beneath it.

Vysaria pulled her gloves tighter around her fingers. "I had none to waste."

His mouth twitched, something close to a smirk, but it never fully formed. "And yet here we are."

Her eyes flicked toward him. "Are you ready?"

Daemon’s gaze met hers for a long moment. His grip flexed against the reins, but his face gave nothing away. "I have always been ready."

She let out a slow breath, then turned toward Vermithor. The keepers stepped back as she pulled herself into the saddle. She heard the faint rustle of leather as Daemon swung himself onto Caraxes behind her, his movements fluid, effortless. The morning light gleamed off Vermithor’s bronze scales as his wings stretched wide. Across from him, Caraxes let out a piercing cry, the sound ringing across the cliffs. The wind picked up, carrying the scent of fire and salt as the dragons shifted beneath them, their massive bodies tensed, eager for flight.

Without another word, the dragons leapt, and the sky swallowed them whole. The cold morning air rushed against Vysaria’s face as Vermithor’s powerful wings carried them higher, the wind tearing at her cloak, her hair whipping behind her. The world below shrank away, the black stone of Dragonstone fading into the vast stretch of sea. The steady rhythm of his flight settled into her bones, the rise and fall of his great body beneath her a familiar weight.

Beside them, Caraxes cut through the sky, his long, serpentine body twisting through the air with effortless grace. The Blood Wyrm moved like he was never quite content, shifting, adjusting, always seeking.

Vysaria let her eyes drift toward the horizon. This flight would be her last bit of freedom for a while. Soon, she would return to the Red Keep, to its stone walls, its watching eyes, its whispered plots. Soon, she would be in the presence of her father, Otto, Alicent, and the man she was meant to marry.

But up here, there was only the open sky, the wind rushing past her, the sun rising higher with each passing moment. The sea stretched endlessly beneath them, its rolling waves catching the morning light. The farther they flew, the closer King’s Landing loomed ahead, the Red Keep rising from the city like a fortress waiting to swallow her whole.

s Vermithor and Caraxes soared over the capital, heads turned, hands shielded eyes, and whispers filled the air with awe and speculation. The dragons circled once before descending toward the Keep’s courtyard. Below, the guards scrambled back, their hands tightening around the hilts of their swords as the dragons landed, the force of their descent scattering dust and gravel across the stones.

Vermithor folded his wings as he settled, his massive claws scraping against the courtyard floor. Caraxes hissed, coiling slightly before falling still.

Vysaria exhaled, loosening her grip on the reins.

The moment her boots touched the stone, the world around her sharpened into focus. The dust from the landing still lingered in the air, thick with the scent of dragons and disturbed earth. Servants and guards stood frozen, eyes darting between Vermithor and Caraxes, unsure whether to bow or flee.

At the center of the scene stood Viserys and Aemma.

Her father looked stunned, his mouth slightly parted, brow furrowed in disbelief as he stared at Vermithor. It was clear he was trying to reconcile the sight before him with whatever expectation he had held for her return. He must have imagined her coming back in quiet compliance, her exile over, her duty fulfilled. But instead, she had returned astride a dragon he likely feared would never accept her. Aemma’s expression was softer, though her gaze flickered between Vysaria and Viserys, as if waiting to see how he would react before allowing herself to show any relief.

Behind them, Otto and Alicent stood stiffly, their faces carefully composed. Otto’s gaze was assessing, his lips pressed into a thin line, but something calculating lurked in his expression. He had expected her back, but not like this. Alicent’s fingers twisted together at her waist, her shoulders tense, her face set in a polite, practiced mask, but her eyes told a different story. She looked relieved, hesitant, and something else entirely—something Vysaria did not have the patience to name.

Standing just behind them was a man she did not recognize, though she knew who he was before anyone spoke his name.

Tall and broad-shouldered, with the unmistakable auburn hair of House Hightower, his features were sharper than Otto’s, his green eyes cool but bright with curiosity. His expression was neither unkind nor expectant, merely watchful, as if taking her measure the same way she was taking his. He stood at ease but not without purpose, his weight balanced just so, the posture of a man trained for battle but carrying himself with the refinement of court. Gwayne Hightower. Her betrothed.

The thought settled heavy in her chest, but she forced her limbs to move, her spine straight as she stepped forward. Daemon fell into step behind her, his presence a steady weight at her back, his movements unhurried but pointed. He did not rush to her side, did not overshadow her, but he was there, a step behind, watching everything, waiting.

Vysaria kept her gaze forward as she approached her parents, her boots measured against the courtyard stone, her expression betraying nothing. When she finally stopped before them, she dipped her head in greeting, her voice calm, unwavering.

"Father. Mother."

Viserys blinked as if remembering himself. He glanced between her and Vermithor, still lingering in the courtyard like an unspoken challenge. When his eyes met hers again, there was something in them she could not quite name—something that flickered between pride, disbelief, and caution.

"You flew here," he said, as if the words barely made sense in his own mouth.

She lifted her chin slightly. "I did."

His lips parted like he might say more, but Aemma spoke first, stepping forward, her hands reaching for hers. "You look well," she said, and the warmth in her voice was genuine, though there was a searching quality to it, as if reassuring herself that Vysaria was truly standing before her.

Vysaria allowed her mother’s hands to clasp her own, the warmth grounding, familiar. "It is good to see you again."

Viserys exhaled sharply, his focus still locked on Vermithor, his mind clearly still struggling to catch up to what was in front of him.

"You did not send word," he muttered, shaking his head. His gaze flicked past her, landing on Daemon, whose smirk was barely concealed.

Daemon spread his hands slightly, his tone casual. "Surely the sight of two dragons was enough notice, brother."

Viserys’s eyes narrowed, though there was no real anger, only frustration and disbelief. He ran a hand down his face, exhaling through his nose before looking back to Vysaria.

She knew what he wanted to ask, why now, how, but instead, he only said, "I suppose we have much to discuss."

Behind him, Otto cleared his throat.

"If I may, Your Grace," he said, his voice smooth, measured, "this is a most momentous day. The princess’s return is an occasion worthy of acknowledgment, as is her triumph." His eyes flicked toward Vermithor, the calculation behind them sharp. "I am sure all of court will be eager to hear of it."

It was not a compliment. It was a statement of intent. A subtle reminder that every pair of eyes in King’s Landing would be watching her now, dissecting every step, every word, every breath.

She had been gone, and now she had returned in a way that no one could ignore. Viserys only hummed in response, nodding slowly before gesturing behind him.

"You have not yet met Ser Gwayne," he said.

Vysaria did not lookg immediately. She had felt Gwayne’s stare from the moment she landed, had known he was assessing her, that he was waiting to see if she would acknowledge him first.

When she finally turned, her gaze met his.

He inclined his head, his expression unreadable but his voice smooth. "Princess."

She studied him, the firm line of his jaw, the controlled ease in which he held himself, the way he did not falter under her scrutiny. He did not smile. He did not try to charm. He simply waited.

Vysaria inclined her head in return, her voice measured. "Ser Gwayne."

His lips pressed together for the briefest of moments, almost as if in approval, before he took a step back, folding his hands neatly behind him. She did not look at Daemon, though she felt his gaze burning into the side of her face. Viserys exhaled again, rubbing his temple before nodding toward the keep.

"Come," he said. "We have much to discuss."

Vysaria lifted her chin, taking one last glance at Vermithor, at the sky that had been hers for just a little while longer, before stepping forward, her mother’s presence at her side, her father leading the way.

The Red Keep loomed ahead, its walls familiar yet distant, the heavy gates yawning open in quiet welcome. The morning light stretched across the courtyard, glinting off polished armor and the sharpened steel of guards standing at attention. Beyond them, the great doors leading into the keep stood wide, the darkened halls within waiting to swallow her whole.

Viserys and Aemma stepped forward first, their pace steady, their presence commanding. The king’s shoulders were drawn back, though his steps still carried the lingering weight of his surprise. Aemma moved more gracefully, her head high, her hands lightly clasped in front of her. She did not look back to ensure Vysaria was following. She did not need to.

Vysaria moved next, her feet measured against the stone. Gwayne Hightower fell into step beside her.

He did not walk too quickly or too close, did not shift his weight too often or let his eyes linger where they should not. His movements were smooth, controlled, practiced. She had known many knights, many lords, many men who had spent their lives perfecting the careful dance of courtly presence. But Gwayne Hightower did not seem to be performing.

"You ride a magnificent beast, Princess," he said, his voice smooth, deep but not overbearing. "There are not many alive who can claim such a feat."

She kept her gaze forward, her posture unwavering. "No, there are not."

A flicker of amusement crossed his face at her short response, but if it disappointed him, he did not show it. He adjusted his gloves, his fingers briefly flexing before he spoke again. "I had not expected you to return by air. It was quite the sight."

Vysaria was not sure what she had expected from him—arrogance, entitlement, the quiet smugness of a man who had already won—but there was none of that in his tone. There was no flattery either, no empty courtly pleasantries meant to coax favor from her. Just observation, offered plainly, like a man stating the obvious. It should have been easy to dismiss him, to ignore the presence beside her and focus on the familiar walls of the Keep ahead.

But Gwayne Hightower was handsome.

Not in the golden, effortless way of his Lannister counterparts or the cold, sharp features of the Velaryons, but in the way that suited him. Auburn hair, strong jaw, sharp green eyes that missed nothing. He carried himself well, with the ease of someone who knew his own presence was noted, yet did not demand attention in the way lesser men might. He was not looking at her now, but she knew that he was aware of her, just as she was aware of him.

Vysaria drew in a steady breath. "You should not have expected anything less," she said finally.

This time, he smiled. It was not a smirk, not mocking, not even particularly pleased. Just small, knowing, as if something had settled in his mind about her.

"Of course not."

Behind them, Otto and Alicent followed in quiet step. Otto’s expression remained unreadable, but Vysaria could feel the weight of his attention. Alicent’s fingers fidgeted together at her waist, twisting nervously as her eyes flickered toward Vysaria with unspoken words on the tip of her tongue. She seemed to want to speak, but the words never came, her gaze shifting away just as quickly, her hand occasionally brushing against her father’s as if seeking comfort in his silent presence.

And behind them all, Daemon followed. His steps were slow, deliberate, his boots striking the stone in a steady rhythm. He had not rushed to her side, had not placed himself before her as he so often did when things turned political, when he felt the need to shield her from courtly scrutiny with his own brand of reckless defiance. But he was there. His presence loomed, even without a word.

The procession moved forward, the walls of the Red Keep drawing closer, the last of the open air behind them fading away. The scent of the Keep met her before they reached the doors—warm stone and burned candle wax, the faint trace of parchment and aged wood, the unmistakable smell of a place that had stood for centuries, bearing witness to every whispered plot, every spoken command, every betrayal, every oath. She had spent years in these halls, knew every turn, every shadow, every secret passage hidden within them. But stepping inside now, after weeks spent on Dragonstone, after finding her freedom in the open skies, felt different.

As they stepped through the gates and into the familiar halls of the Red Keep, the cool air of the castle pressed in around them, heavy with the scent of stone, burning candle wax, and the faintest trace of myrrh lingering from the previous night’s offerings. The warmth of the morning sun faded behind them, replaced by the dim glow of torches lining the corridors.

Aemma’s voice broke the quiet. "Come, my love," she said, touching Vysaria’s arm gently. "You should wash and change. There will be a dinner this evening with the Hightowers, and I doubt you wish to attend while still smelling of dragon."

Vysaria resisted the urge to sigh. She had spent nearly two months wrapped in the scent of smoke, salt, and dragonhide, and it had stopped bothering her long ago. But she knew what her mother was truly saying. The day was only just beginning, and there were expectations to meet. Viserys gave a small nod, still absorbing the sight of her standing before him, her presence heavier now with the weight of what she had returned on. He had yet to say anything more of Vermithor, but she knew he would. Otto remained silent beside him, his face carefully neutral, though she could see the wheels turning in his mind.

Gwayne Hightower dipped his head politely. "Until this evening, Princess."

His voice was even, his green eyes watchful. He was assessing her just as much as she was assessing him.

Vysaria returned a polite nod. "Until then, Ser Gwayne."

It was a formality, nothing more. The dinner itself would be a formality, though she understood the purpose. It was a display, a quiet show of unity between House Targaryen and House Hightower following the announcement of the betrothal.

A betrothal that had been decided long before she ever left for Dragonstone.

Aemma turned, guiding her toward the royal apartments with a quiet authority that did not invite argument. Vysaria let herself be led, casting one last glance over her shoulder. Daemon remained near the entrance of the Keep, watching her go, his posture relaxed but his gaze unwavering.

She did not know if she expected him to follow. She did not know if she wanted him to. She turned away and followed her mother deeper into the Keep.

The royal apartments had been left as she had last seen them, though the air within felt heavier, thicker, as if carrying the weight of her return. Servants had moved with quiet efficiency to prepare her chamber, fresh linens laid across the bed, a warm bath already drawn in the adjoining room. The water steamed, scented with crushed lavender and myrrh, the delicate oils swirling in lazy tendrils across the surface.

Vysaria stood at the edge of the bath, hands resting at her sides, her reflection caught in the tall mirror against the far wall. She had bathed quickly on Dragonstone when necessary, often scrubbing herself down with little patience before collapsing into bed, the scent of smoke and sea always clinging to her skin. But this was different.

This was courtly ritual, the slow, deliberate process of cleansing not just her body but her presence, her image, the lingering remnants of Dragonstone that did not belong within these walls. The servants helped her disrobe, their hands careful, their movements silent. She stepped into the bath and sank beneath the water, letting the heat press into her muscles, forcing the tension from her shoulders. Her hair floated around her, silver strands darkened in the water, drifting like silk against her skin.

Aemma stayed in the adjoining room, seated at the small vanity. Her reflection lingered in the mirror, her eyes following Vysaria in quiet contemplation. "I know this is not what you wanted," she murmured softly, her voice barely breaking the silence between them.

Vysaria closed her eyes, resting her head against the edge of the tub. "What I want does not matter."

Aemma’s fingers traced along the surface of the vanity. "No, it does not."

She said nothing else.

When Vysaria finally emerged, the servants wrapped her in warmed towels, the scent of lavender still clinging to her skin. They worked in quiet precision, tending to her hair, combing through the damp strands with oils of sandalwood and rose, the light floral scent weaving through the air.

Her gown had already been selected for her. Deep Targaryen red, trimmed in black velvet, the bodice embroidered with threads of gold, delicate dragons woven into the sleeves. The neckline sat wide across her collarbones, the fabric snug at her waist before flowing into soft, layered skirts that trailed elegantly behind her. It was a gown meant to remind, meant to command attention, meant to show exactly who she was.

The weight of it settled around her as the maids worked, fastening the clasps at her back, adjusting the way the fabric draped across her shoulders. The last touch was a thin golden chain resting along her throat, a single black pearl dangling at its center.

The dining hall was smaller than the grand feasting hall, meant for more intimate gatherings. Candles flickered along the long table, their flames casting golden light against the polished wood, reflecting off goblets of dark Dornish wine. The scent of roasted meats and spiced sauces filled the air, the low murmur of voices carrying as the table was set.

Vysaria sat beside Gwayne Hightower, just as expected. She had told herself that this would not bother her, that she would endure the dinner as she had endured every other political gathering in her life. But sitting beside him, close enough to catch the faintest trace of his cologne, close enough to feel the warmth of his presence, close enough to see the sharpness in his green eyes every time she glanced his way, was proving more unsettling than she had anticipated. He had not said much to her yet.

She was aware of Daemon, seated farther down the table, his presence unmistakable even without looking at him. She could feel his gaze flicker toward her every so often, though he had not spoken directly to her since they arrived.

Gwayne finally broke the silence between them, his voice even, measured, polite. "Have you had the chance to reacquaint yourself with the Keep?"

Vysaria took a slow sip of her wine before answering. "It is much the same as I left it."

"Some things do not change," he said, cutting into his meat with precise ease. "But others do."

She looked at him then, searching his expression for any hint of what he meant. Before she could speak, Otto’s voice carried across the table.

"It is good that you have returned in time for the final arrangements, Princess."

Vysaria stilled. Final arrangements.

She let the words settle, her fingers tightening slightly against the stem of her goblet before she carefully lifted it to her lips. She had known the wedding would happen. She had known her fate had been decided for her before she had even left Dragonstone.

The wine was rich and dark, clinging to her tongue with a sweetness that did nothing to mask the growing tension in her chest. The conversation carried on around her, polite, measured, carefully chosen words exchanged between her father and Otto as if this was nothing more than a formal gathering rather than the quiet cementing of her future.

Gwayne Hightower did not press her for conversation, did not look at her expectantly, did not shift uncomfortably in his seat like some men might in the presence of a woman they had been promised. He ate at an easy pace, his movements deliberate, his posture relaxed but never careless. She should have been grateful for that, should have been relieved that he was not attempting to charm her with empty flattery or bold remarks meant to test the waters of her temper. Instead, she felt something colder settle in her stomach.

She was trying not to notice him. Trying not to acknowledge the way the candlelight caught in the strands of his auburn hair, the way his sharp features had been softened slightly by the warmth of wine, the way he seemed content to sit beside her without pushing for her attention. He was quiet in a way that did not read as uncertainty, watchful without being overbearing, careful in a way that made her uneasy. She had expected arrogance, had prepared for it, had told herself she would meet it with resistance and keep herself distant. But Gwayne Hightower did not seem arrogant at all, and that made it harder to dismiss him outright.

Across the table, her father was speaking, his voice carrying just loud enough for all to hear. He was speaking of the wedding now, speaking of unity, of tradition, of the strength that came from the bonds between great houses. He spoke of duty, of alliances, of the future.

She barely heard him. Her mind was caught on Otto’s words from earlier. Final arrangements.

The finality of it sat in her chest, heavy, unmoving. She wanted to ask when, wanted to demand how soon, wanted to turn to her father and force him to say it outright rather than let it slip through polite conversation like an afterthought. She wanted to hear it from his lips, not from Otto’s.

Her mother’s voice cut through the droning pleasantries. "Surely there is no rush," Aemma said lightly, reaching for her goblet, though her eyes flickered to Vysaria before settling on Viserys. "Preparations of this scale require time."

Vysaria glanced at her mother, searching her face, looking for something beneath the surface of her carefully chosen words. Aemma had known of this match. She had known of it before Vysaria had left for Dragonstone, had likely been one of the few to caution Viserys against it, but she had not fought it. She had not spoken against it in any way that had truly mattered.

Viserys gave a soft hum, turning his goblet in his hands. "Time, yes, but not excess. There is no need for delay. The arrangements are already set, and the ceremony will be held before the month is out."

Vysaria’s fingers stilled against the stem of her goblet. Before the month is out.

The words rang in her head, louder than the hum of voices, louder than the faint sound of silver scraping against porcelain, louder than the distant howl of wind beyond the stone walls of the Keep.

She turned to her father slowly, her breath even, her voice quiet but deliberate. "That soon."

Viserys met her gaze, something flickering in his expression, something that looked like hesitation but faded too quickly to be real. "It is a good match," he said, as if that alone would be enough. "There is no reason to wait."

There was no anger in his voice, no cruelty, no force behind his words, only that quiet finality, that weight of expectation that had always been there. Her throat tightened. She had known. She had always known. But hearing it spoken so plainly, so decisively, left her feeling like the floor beneath her had shifted. She had time to react, but only just. She lifted her goblet again, hiding the brief moment it took to steady herself behind another slow sip of wine. When she set it down, her expression was unreadable. Gwayne Hightower had not turned to look at her, but she knew he had heard.

Alicent looked as if she might speak, but whatever words had formed on her lips never passed them. She kept her head bowed slightly, her hands resting delicately against her lap, her fingers lightly curled as if resisting the urge to reach for something that was not there. Otto looked pleased, though his expression barely shifted.

She had known Daemon would be watching, had felt his presence from the moment they sat, but she had not turned to him, had not sought his reaction. She would not do so now. She did not need to. She could feel the tension radiating from him, could imagine the sharp way his jaw had set, could picture the slow, deliberate way he had likely turned his goblet in his hand, the way his fingers had likely curled against the stem. But he said nothing. No one did.

The conversation picked up again, drifting to other matters, other pleasantries, other words meant to fill the space that had been left in the wake of the announcement. Vysaria sat perfectly still, her breath measured, her expression carefully composed. She had learned long ago that there were moments in life where speaking changed nothing.

This was one of them.

The conversation around the table carried on, though Vysaria barely heard it. Her wine sat untouched now, her fingers resting lightly against the polished wood of the table, her posture measured, her expression carefully composed. The weight of her father’s words still settled in her chest, heavy and unmoving. She had expected to have time. Even if the betrothal had been set in stone before she left for Dragonstone, even if the wedding had been inevitable from the moment Viserys first entertained Otto’s suggestion, she had not expected to return only to find that it had already been planned down to its final details.

She glanced toward Gwayne, who had not so much as shifted at the announcement. If he was surprised by how soon the wedding would take place, he did not show it. He sat with the same steady presence as before, his movements controlled, his attention never too fixed on any one thing. She wondered if he had known. If Otto had told him before the dinner, or if he had simply assumed it would be sooner rather than later. The thought barely had time to settle before a voice broke through the hum of conversation.

"I told Gwayne about your riding," Alicent said suddenly, her voice light, pleasant, carefully placed into the conversation at just the right moment. "About how well you sit in the saddle."

The words landed with such ease that for a moment, Vysaria almost believed them to be innocent.

Her gaze flickered to Alicent, whose smile was warm, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her eyes full of quiet expectation. There was intention behind this, a subtle attempt at drawing something out, at coaxing familiarity where there was none. It was carefully placed, a bridge meant to be walked across, the conversation steered toward her and Gwayne with the ease of a practiced hand.

Gwayne, to his credit, did not miss the shift in conversation. He set his goblet down, his focus shifting toward her, his tone smooth but absent of the cloying pleasantries she had come to expect from men trying to win her favor. "I would have guessed as much. From what I have heard, few can match you."

Vysaria reached for her goblet, taking a slow sip before responding. "I expect my skill in the saddle was the least surprising thing Alicent could have shared about me."

Alicent let out a small laugh, though there was something tight in the sound. "You should have seen her when we were younger," she continued, glancing toward Gwayne with a knowing smile. "She always preferred a horse to a hall."

Vysaria set her goblet down with deliberate care, tilting her head slightly as she met Alicent’s gaze. "And now I prefer a dragon to a horse," she said smoothly. "Though I suppose you wouldn’t know much about that."

Alicent’s smile tightened, her fingers tightening around the stem of her goblet before she forced herself to take another sip of wine. She recovered quickly, but not without a trace of tension.

Beside her, Gwayne let out a quiet breath, his expression unreadable, simply present and listening. He shifted, picking up his goblet again, offering an awkward, fleeting smile before quickly hiding it behind a sip. His posture remained relaxed, but there was a subtle unease in the way he carried himself, as if unsure of how to respond..

"Perhaps we can ride together soon. I may not have a dragon, but I do have a stallion who thinks he’s one," Gwayne said casually.

Vysaria’s fingers tapped lightly against the stem of her goblet, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Then I suppose he’s stubborn, reckless, and difficult to control.”

Gwayne’s lips quirked slightly. "Only when he doesn’t respect his rider."

Her gaze flickered toward him again, but he was focused on his plate, his knife gliding through the roasted boar before him. He spoke easily, without expectation, as if it didn’t matter whether she accepted his offer. Something about that irked her, more than she was willing to admit.

"Then I’m sure he’s well-trained," she said, her voice dripping with something more than polite curiosity.

Gwayne speared a piece of meat and met her eyes, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his gaze. "He is."

There was nothing challenging in the way he met her eyes, but he did not look away quickly either. He did not try to soften his presence with a well-placed jest, did not adjust his tone to coax her into a more pleasant conversation. He only watched her, his green eyes calm, sharp, quietly assessing.

For a moment, she wondered if Otto had coached him before this dinner. If he had been told to keep his tone easy, to let her bristle and not rise to meet it, to make no demands, no claims, no missteps that would turn her against him so soon. But the more she studied him, the more she doubted it.

Vysaria shifted her attention back to her plate, slicing into the soft bread beside her untouched meat. "We’ll see if your stallion can keep pace with my dragon."

Across from them, Alicent lifted her goblet, her smile still fixed in place, though the tension in her shoulders hadn’t fully eased. "I’d love to see that. It’s been too long since we last rode together, Vysaria."

Vysaria took a slow, deliberate sip from her goblet before setting it back down. "Some things are better left in the past."

Alicent’s fingers tightened around the delicate stem of her cup, her smile faltering just slightly. Gwayne exhaled through his nose, his gaze steady but unreadable. If he had picked up on the tension in their words, he gave no sign of it, his expression remaining neutral as he continued to eat.

From farther down the table, Otto’s voice carried through the hum of conversation.“I expect your time will be better spent on wedding preparations than on riding, Princess. The ceremony draws near, and there are still matters that require your attention.”

Vysaria forced herself to remain still, though every instinct urged her to shift, to push back against the tightening noose of expectation. Otto had spoken so plainly, so decisively, as if her presence in this room alone had already sealed every last detail.

Viserys did not immediately meet her gaze, but when he did, his expression was already set. His lips pressed together in a way she knew well, a silent warning against protest. His hands remained on his goblet, his fingers drumming lightly against the polished silver before he lifted it to take a slow sip of wine.

"She has only just returned," Aemma said lightly, though there was something measured in her tone. "Surely she is allowed some time to reacquaint herself with the Keep before the preparations consume her."

Otto barely glanced at her. "Time is not a luxury that should be wasted. Every detail matters in a union such as this."

Vysaria turned her goblet slowly between her fingers, her voice calm, steady. "And yet, I have spent weeks away and somehow the world still spins without me. I am certain the final arrangements would continue with or without my input."

Otto’s lips pressed together, his shoulders drawing back ever so slightly. "The court will expect its princess to take her proper place in these decisions. It would be unseemly for you to arrive at the sept unaware of what awaits you."

Gwayne, still seated beside her, finally spoke, his voice even. "Let her breathe, Father. The princess may still find a moment for herself before duty takes her entirely."

Vysaria blinked, more at the ease of his tone than the words themselves. He had said it with no great emotion, no firm declaration, simply a reasonable thought placed in the space between Otto’s demands and her own silence.

Otto turned toward him, his expression unreadable. "There is little time for distractions, Gwayne."

Gwayne met his gaze easily, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly before he took a sip of wine. "And yet, a moment of ease never harmed a bride on the eve of her wedding."

Vysaria expected Otto to push back, to correct his son in that mild, dismissive way of his, but he did not. He only inclined his head slightly, as if making some note to himself before shifting his attention back toward Viserys. Gwayne settled comfortably back in his chair, his focus returning to his plate, as if he had never spoken at all. Vysaria did not thank him. She did not acknowledge his words or pretend as if they had eased anything. But she did notice him.

The conversation hummed around her, shifting between matters of court, trade, and idle pleasantries, but Vysaria barely registered it. She sat poised, her goblet in hand, her appetite all but forgotten. Every now and then, Gwayne spoke to her—not often, not intrusively, but enough to remind her that he was beside her, that this was real, that she was soon to be his.

And she was noticing him. She hated that she was. Across the table, Daemon was noticing too. He had not spoken to her all evening, but she had felt him. He had spent the meal watching, his goblet resting loosely in his fingers, his lips curled—not quite a smirk, not quite a scowl, but something quieter, something that waited.

Then, in the midst of a lull, when the conversation had settled just enough, Daemon moved. He lifted his goblet, slow and deliberate, and the shift in the room was immediate.

"To the bride-to-be," he said, his voice smooth, rich, carrying through the hall with an ease that immediately drew attention.

The table quieted. Vysaria’s fingers curled around the stem of her goblet, but she did not move.

Daemon’s violet gaze locked onto hers, sharp and knowing, his smirk curling at the edges. "To the one who left these halls a girl and returned a woman." His tone was too even, too casual, too deliberate. "To the long nights spent in great discovery. To the lessons learned in fire, in heat, in the dark. To the kind of knowledge that cannot be taught, only… shared."

Viserys choked on his wine. His goblet clattered against the table, the sound cutting through the silence as he coughed violently, red-faced, reaching blindly for a napkin while Aemma pressed a steady hand to his back. Across the table, Otto’s fingers stilled, his expression unreadable but tight, while Alicent’s knuckles whitened around her goblet, her eyes darting between Vysaria and Daemon, horrified.

Vysaria did not react. She could feel the shift in the room, feel the way every glance flickered toward her, toward Daemon, toward the space between them that had become something unspoken yet undeniable. But Daemon was not finished.

His goblet tilted slightly in her direction, his smirk deepening, his voice dipping just enough to make his meaning unmistakable. "And, of course," he mused, "to the groom." His gaze flicked toward Gwayne, deliberate, pointed, territorial. "May he come to know her as intimately as I do."

Viserys let out another strangled sound, something caught between a cough and a sharp inhale. Aemma’s patience wore thin as she turned to her husband, pressing a firm hand against his back. Otto’s jaw locked, his goblet untouched, his expression dark. Alicent looked as if she had stopped breathing entirely. And beside her, Gwayne only smiled.

It was small, composed, unreadable, not amused, not offended—just aware. He lifted his goblet with the same measured ease as before. "A worthy toast, Prince Daemon," he said, his voice smooth, untouched by the weight of the moment. "It seems I have much to look forward to."

Daemon’s smirk remained, but something in his grip tightened. "That you do."

Vysaria took a slow sip of wine, her pulse steady, her breath even. She had told herself she would loathe Gwayne Hightower. She was beginning to fear she would not. And Daemon had made it abundantly clear that he had noticed. The rest of the meal passed in strained conversation, though no one fully recovered from Daemon’s toast.

Viserys had barely touched his food after choking on his wine, his gaze flickering toward Vysaria and Daemon throughout the remainder of the dinner, his grip on his goblet just a little too tight. Aemma remained composed but watchful, her expression betraying little. Otto’s expression had not shifted much, but his silence spoke louder than any remark he might have made. Alicent hardly spoke again, her eyes lowered, her fingers twitching against the stem of her goblet as if resisting the urge to hold it any tighter.

Gwayne, for his part, had taken everything in stride. If he had been rattled, he had hidden it well, continuing to eat and converse where appropriate, offering no reaction to the lingering tension Daemon had carved into the evening. But Vysaria had felt the shift.

There was a new scrutiny now, a new weight pressing against her as she felt the quiet glances, the unspoken questions lurking behind polite smiles and measured tones. She knew what they were all thinking. They did not need to say it aloud.

When the meal finally concluded, Viserys rose first, his tone measured, formal, dismissive. "That will be all for tonight."

Servants moved swiftly, gathering plates, clearing goblets, preparing the space to be emptied. Otto cast a glance across the table toward Gwayne, his expression unreadable, but the weight of it unmistakable. Gwayne met his father’s gaze, holding it for a brief moment before giving the barest nod. Whatever passed between them was silent, but understood. Alicent hesitated as if she might linger, her gaze flickering toward Vysaria, but she said nothing. Instead, she rose, smoothing her skirts as she followed Otto toward the doors. Vysaria moved to stand, intending to leave as well, but Viserys spoke again.

"Vysaria. Daemon."

She stilled. His tone had shifted, the formality stripped from it, replaced with something far more pointed. Daemon barely moved, only lifting his goblet to take one final sip of wine before setting it down with a calculated ease. The last of the guests departed, leaving only the three of them in the dim glow of the dining hall. The doors shut behind them. Viserys let out a slow breath, his fingers pinching at the bridge of his nose before he turned toward them fully. His voice was low, strained, irritated.

"What the fuck was that?"

Viserys had barely finished speaking before he stepped forward, his face red with anger, his breath coming fast and uneven.

"Did you touch her?" His voice was sharp, cutting through the heavy air between them.

Daemon let out a slow breath through his nose, shaking his head as if Viserys were being unreasonable. "Now, now. That’s hardly a question fit for a dinner table."

Viserys slammed his goblet onto the table, the wine sloshing over the sides. His hands curled into fists at his sides, his shoulders tense as his chest heaved with barely contained fury. Daemon only smiled. He moved with the ease of a man who did not see danger, a man who had never feared his brother’s wrath. With infuriating patience, he lifted his goblet and took one last sip of wine, savoring the moment before setting it down with deliberate care. Then, with slow, practiced ease, he reached up and clapped a hand on Viserys’ shoulder.

"Come now," he said, shaking his head as if Viserys were a child throwing a tantrum. "You’ve always been so dramatic."

Viserys reacted before Daemon could say another word. His hand struck Daemon’s arm, shoving it away so violently that the sound cracked through the chamber.

"Do not touch me."

Daemon laughed, full and rich, his body barely shifting from the blow. His amusement only grew as he watched Viserys struggle to compose himself. Vysaria did not move. Her pulse pounded in her ears, her hands curled into fists at her sides.

Viserys turned on her next, his anger sharp and unrelenting. "You have shamed yourself."

Vysaria lifted her chin. "I have done nothing you did not already ask of me."

His brows snapped together. "I did not ask you to spread your legs for my brother!"

The words struck her like a blow. Daemon’s laughter stopped.

Viserys’ chest heaved, his face still flushed with anger, his hands clenched at his sides. His words hung in the air, thick and heavy, echoing between them with the weight of judgment.

Vysaria forced herself to breathe. "No, you simply sent me away and expected me to sit quietly, waiting for you to decide what to do with me."

Viserys’ nostrils flared. "That is not—"

"You sent me to Dragonstone," she said, her voice rising slightly. "You told me to learn what it means to be a Targaryen, to reflect on my future, to find my place. And you are surprised that I learned from the only other person who has ever known what it means to be cast aside by you?"

Viserys’ hands slammed down onto the table. "You were meant to claim a dragon, not my brother’s bed."

"To be fair, it was not a bed we shared, but rather a sofa."

The silence that followed hung between them, but Vysaria’s lips twitched upward, a small smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. She didn’t immediately respond, but the slight amusement in her eyes was unmistakable. Her breath was steady, and the tension between them seemed almost playful, as if they both recognized the absurdity of the moment. Daemon’s lips curled in a similar, almost imperceptible smirk, his gaze flicking to hers before he remained silent. Neither of them seemed particularly bothered by the insinuation, almost as if the humor of it had become an unspoken understanding.

Viserys’ breaths were uneven, his body still brimming with anger. His hands, still braced against the table, were trembling slightly. His fury had not diminished, but something else had begun to seep through it. Disappointment.

She lifted her chin, keeping her voice smooth and controlled. "Then you should have been clearer with your expectations."

Viserys pressed his lips into a hard line, his eyes burning into hers. "Leave," he said, his voice taut with barely contained rage. "Both of you."

Daemon exhaled, shaking his head as he turned toward the door, muttering something under his breath that Vysaria could not hear. She held Viserys’ gaze for a moment longer, waiting to see if he would say something else. He didn’t. Without another word, she turned on her heel and followed Daemon out of the chamber, the heavy doors swinging shut behind them.

The walk back to her chambers felt longer than it should have. The halls of the Red Keep stretched ahead of her, familiar yet suffocating, the glow of torches flickering against the polished stone walls. The echoes of her footsteps filled the quiet, the weight of her father’s words still pressing against her ribs, unshaken.

She had expected his anger. She had expected his disappointment. But hearing the words aloud, spoken with such finality, had left something cold curling inside her. She was not ashamed. But she hated that he thought she should be.

Her chambers were unchanged since she had left them. The warmth of the bath drawn for her earlier had long faded, the scent of lavender and rose oil lingering faintly in the air. The servants had turned down the bed, the soft glow of candles casting shadows along the walls. The silence was welcome, but it did not bring peace. She pulled the pins from her hair, letting the strands fall loose around her shoulders, running her fingers through them absently as she unfastened the delicate clasps of her gown. The weight of the fabric slipped from her shoulders, pooling at her feet before she stepped away, reaching for the thin silk nightdress left at the foot of her bed.

She moved through the motions without thought, her limbs carrying her as if on instinct. She was exhausted, but sleep would not come easily. She was reaching for the small comb on her vanity when a soft knock echoed through the room. She turned, her brows knitting together slightly. It was late. Too late for visitors. She hesitated before moving toward the door, smoothing a hand over the thin fabric of her nightdress as she pulled it open.

Grand Maester Mellos stood in the dim corridor beyond, a small tray balanced in his hands. The soft glow of candlelight flickered against the delicate filigree of the ornate glass vial resting upon the silver tray. Deep amber liquid swirled within, its herbal scent unmistakable, curling into the air like something both medicinal and damning.

Moon tea. Vysaria’s fingers tightened against the edge of the door.

Mellos did not meet her eyes immediately, his gaze lowering slightly as he dipped his head in a gesture of quiet respect. "His Grace thought it best you have this, Princess."

Her pulse was steady. "Did he?"

The Maester lifted his head slightly. "It is only a precaution."

She did not move, did not reach for the tray, did not break her expression of calm.

A precaution. A carefully chosen word meant to disguise the deeper meaning beneath it. Her father had wasted no time.

Vysaria inhaled slowly, then stepped back just enough to allow Mellos to enter. He hesitated before stepping inside, setting the tray gently upon the small table near the hearth. The faint scent of the tea curled into the air, familiar in a way that made her stomach tighten. He did not linger.

With a final bow of his head, Mellos stepped back toward the door. "Good night, Princess."

She did not answer. The door clicked shut behind him. Vysaria stood in the quiet, staring at the tray, at the vial, at the deep amber liquid swirling behind the delicate filigree. The scent of it curled in the air, cloying and bitter, thick with meaning.

She reached for it slowly, her fingers curling around the cool metal, lifting it from the tray. The weight of it sat heavy in her palm, heavier still with the knowledge of what it meant.Her father wanted to be certain. She had never intended to drink it.

She turned toward the window, the cool night air brushing against her skin as she lifted the vial. The amber liquid caught the moonlight, swirling behind the delicate filigree, its scent curling in the air like something already fading. She pulled off the cap, tilting the vial over the stone ledge. The moon tea spilled in a slow, steady stream, vanishing into the darkness below.

When the last drop was gone, she set the empty vial back onto the tray, its delicate frame unbroken, its purpose fulfilled in the eyes of those who would find it. She turned away before the liquid had even finished soaking into the ground.

There was nothing to question, nothing to undo. The choice was hers alone, and she had already made it.

next chapter

All roads lead to war. Read ahead on AO3 (Ch 1–22).

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