Blood of the Elder Flame

 The air above the Red Keep was still—unnaturally so—as though the gods themselves held their breathe.

Evening cast the sky in muted gold and bruised violet, the kind of dusk that turned city rooftop into silhouettes and set dragonstone towers ablaze in orange. From the tallest balcony overlooking the city, Princess Vaena Targaryen stood alone, her sliver hair braided in the style of Old Valyria: long, looped, and crowned in coils that shimmered like firelight. A long cloak embodied with dragons trailed behind her, pooling in slow waves over the stone floor, as silent and regal as the women who wore it.

Below, King's Landing simmered. People bustled home from market squares. Smoke lifted from chimneys. Children laughed, unaware of the coming storm.

Vaena's sharp violet eyes-brighter than her brothers', colder than her father's-scanned the horizon, the wind toying with the loose strands of her hair. 

She hand retuned to this balcony every evening since her father, Jaehaerys the Conciliator, passed the crown to her younger brother. Not because she wanted the view. But because it reminded her where the power now sat. And how quickly it was slipping from her family's hands.

"You should not watch the city as though it were a threat," came a voice behind her, light but careful.

Vaena didn't turn. "Should I not? The last time we ignored quiet corncers, rebellion nearly gutted the Crownlands."

Her sworn sword, Ser Lorent Velaryon, stepped beside her, arms crossed behind his back. He'd been her shield since she was thirteen and had never once tried to soften her with courtly lies. But even he looked wary now. "It's not the city I'd worry about, my lady."

"No," Vaena murmured. "It's the castle."

The Red Keep was rotting. 

Not in stone or structure—but in spirit.

In the Small Council chambers, Otto Hightower's voice had grown louder. His presence stretched further. And worse, Viserys-her beloved, gentle, too-trusting brother—had begun to listen. 

That was the true decay: when blood listened to whispers from beyond blood.

Vaena pressed gloved finges to the cold stone. "Otto Hightower poisons everything he touches. He speaks like a man devoted to duty, but he thinks only of legacy. His own."

Ser Lorent said nothing at first. "You've said this before. To the king."

"And I will say it again," she replied, sharply. "Until someone listens."

"He's your brother."

"He's a fool," she snapped. Then, more quietly, "But a fool with a kind heart. And kind hearts can be easily carved out."

In the Great Hall, Viserys sat slumped on the Iron Throne like a man weighted down by the very metal beneath him.

Vaena entered through the side, flanked by Ser Lorent and her lady-in-waiting, Alyra Hill, whose face twisted in disapproval as soon as she saw Otto leaning over the king whispering something that made Viserys frown.

"Again?" Alyra murmured. "He's always with him lately."

"Yes," Vaena muttered. "Like a shadow you can't shake."

Her footsteps echoed as she approached.

Otto straighten the moment he saw her. He gave her a cool, performative bow. "Princess."

"Lord Hand," she returned, equally cold. She turned to Viserys, softening her voice. "Brother. I'd speak with you."

Viserys looked up with tired eyes. His crown sat awkwardly atop his head-too large, too heavy, too wrong. "Now, Vaena?"

She resisted the urge to sigh. "It concerns the safely of the realm."

Otto interjected smoothly, "The council meets within the hour, Your Grace. Might it wait?"

Vaena turned to him, expression steely. "I was not speaking to you."

Viserys shifted uncomfortably. "Perhaps..tomorrow?"

There it was. 

The shift.

The slow, sour rot of doubt in her brother's voice. She felt it like a blade between the ribs.

She bowed stiffly. "As you wish...Your Grace."

Later that night, in her private chambers, Vaena scribbled furiously across parchment. Letters. Warnings. Stragties. She wrote by dragonfire-Vhaelyx, her sleek, warmed the coals from the window ledge outside. 

The wind howled. A storm was building. 

As it always had.

Vaena sealed a letter in red wax and pressed her sigil into it—an older dragon crest, predating the one Viserys now wore. One of her own design. She handed it to Alyra. 

"Take this to Dragonstone. Personally. To Daemon."

Alrya paled. "Your brother won't be pleased."

Vaena's voice was iron. "Then he'll be angry. But he'll read it. He always does."

The Small Council chamber was colder than usual, as though even the fire in the hearth had grown weary of pretending there was warmth left in the room.

Vaena stood at the far end of the long, oaken table as the lords murmured amongst themsevles-her brother, Viserys, flanked by Otto Hightower, as always, and the ever-watchful Ser Harwin Strong, who offered her a tight nod as she entered. Lord Beesbury fiddled with his ink pot. Lord Lyonel Strong said nothing, his intelligent gaze fixed on the king.

"I thought I was not needed," Vaena said cooly, hands folded before her. "Or have the rules changed now that Hightower speaks in your sleep?"

Otto did not so much as flinch. "The princess speaks in jest."

"No," Vaena reilped. "I rarely jest. Especially when discussing matter of war.. and leeches."

Viserys groaned, pressing a hand to his temple. "Seven help me, not again."

"Again, and again, and again," Vaena said, approaching slowly. "Until you listen."

Otto turned towards her, smiling thinly. "The princess has long believed I harbor ill will towards the crown."

"I believe you harbor ambitions, Lord Otto," she said, each word honed to a point. "And when ambition thrives in silence it turns to poison. Ask our ancestors. They knew what happened when Targaryens trusted clever men over kin."

"Viserys is king," Otto said. "He does not need—“

"He is my brother," Vaena snapped, her voice crackled like thunder. "I bled for him in the wars you only read about in your books. I soothed him when he was sickly, rode for him, stood guard while our mother died screaming in childbed, and watched as our father's throne grew colder. You do not get to tell me what my brother needs.

The silence that followed was deafening. 

Viserys looked...broken. Embarrassed. Ashamed. 

Otto, to his credit, said nothing more.

But Vaena saw it. The flicker of triumph in his eyes.

Because now she was the storm. Loud. Sharp. Unruly. And Otto would use it.

That night, Daemon's reply came.

Delivered not by raven, but by Caraxes, who circled above the Keep with a roar that sent every rat in the city scurrying underground. The letter was bound in black leather, sealed with silver wax.

Vaena unrolled it with steady fingers.

"Skoros morghūlats? Skoros kostilus?

-Daemon"

She read it three times. Her lips twitched. 

A mermory rose—one sharp enough to cut:

Daemon, fifteen, all wild eyes and bruised knuckles, bloodied from a training yard brawl. She had scolded him, stitched his lip herself. 

"You fight like you're trying to die," she's hissed.

He had looked up at her, lips red, grin wide. 

"And you rule like you're already dead."

Now she smiled. Just a little. 

He would come.

By morning, the summons came.

Not from Viserys.

From Otto.

Vaena narrowed her eyes as she was led to the Tower of the Hand. A place she loathed. It smelled of dust, ink, and something older-like decay behind stone.

Otto greeted her alone. Too polite. 

"I thought it best we speak," he said. "Just us."

"That usually means you're about to try and strangle me with silk. 

He gave a quiet chuckle. "You are... sharp, Princess. Perhaps too sharp."

"You should be afraid of sharp things," she said, settling into a chair. "They draw blood."

Otto folded his hands. "The realm is changing. And you..are not."

She waited.

he leaned forward.

"Your prencse unsettles the king. You press him with talk of war and fire. You do not smile for the lords. You do not charm the court. You are a sword in a hall that craves songs."

Vaena raised one silver brow. "You mean I'm not useful to you."

"I mean," he said slowly, "that you are a danger to peace."

"No," she corrected. "I am a danger to you."

Otto smiled thinly. "Perhaps you should go to Essos. On behalf of the crown. A diplomatic journey. Extended."

She stares at him. For a moment, she could almost admire it.

"Why not kill me?" she asked.

He spread his hands. "Exile is cleaner. And Viserys would allow it. For the good of the realm."

Her voice turned to ice. "You already convinced him, haven't you?"

He didn't answer.

He didn't have to.

Back in he chamber, Vaena paced like a cage dragon. Rage boiled beanth her skin. 

"Umbas daor, ñuha lentor."

She would not go queitly.

But if she had to leave...

She would leave fire behind.

The next morning came like a blade. Clean. Cold. Merciless.

Vaena stood in the throne room once again—but this time, she was summoned, not arrived.

Viserys sat high upon the Iron Throne, flanked by Otto Hightower and a ring of knights who avoided her gaze. 

Only Daemon looked at her.

He stood in the shadows behind the throne, arms crossed, unreadable. He had arrived on Caraxes before dawn, without pageantry, without escort. The Rogue Prince was many things—rash, wild, often reckless—but he was not slow when it came to his sister.

Viserys’s eyes were glassy. He would not look at her directly.

The court was half-empty. A private affair. A quiet disgrace.

“Vaena Targaryen,” the king began, his voice as fragile as the man who wore the crown. “By the advice of my council… and in the interest of peace… I—“

“Don’t,” Vaena said, her voice low.

She took one stop forward. Then another. And no one dared to stop her.

”Look at me,” she said.

Viserys did. Slowly, And she saw they boy she had raised—lost inside a man who no longer knew himself.

“You’re sending me away,” she said. “because he told you too.” 

Otto did not flinch. He didn’t need to.

Viserys swallowed. “You speak with fire. You strike without care. You…unsettle the court. You unsettle me.” 

“I’ve unsettled your enemies more.” she said bitterly. “Would you exile your sword during a war?”

”There is no war,” he insisted.

Vaena’s laugther was dry. “Then you’re blind. Or worse—you’ve been made blind.”

She turned to Otto. “What did you promise him? Quiet nights? A court of silk? A realm without fire?”

”I promised him peace,” Otto said.

She turned back to Viserys, stepping closer, her voice cracking with restrained fury. “If I go, brother, know this, you break something that will never be whole again.”

Viserys looked away.

And said nothing.

The silence was her answer.

Daemon moved, fast as a viper.

He crossed the room in three strides, grabbing his brother by the collar and dragging him halfway down the throne. Steel hissed as the guards stepped forward—but stopped at Vaena’s raised hand.

”Don’t.” she said. “Let them speak.”

Viserys looked up at Daemon, ashamed but stubborn.

”You coward,” Daemon spat. “You listen to Otto Hightower like he’s your queen. You dismiss your blood. Your sister. The one who bled for this family.”

”She speaks with fire,” Viserys said, his voice small.

”And fire is what we are,” Daemon shouted. “She is what we are. The rest of them are men with gold and ink. She is Valyria. She is the blood of the dragon. And you’d send for away for peace?”

“She frightens the court."

"She frightening you,"Daemon snapped. Because she sees the rot you refuse to name."

Vaena stepped forward.

Daemon turned to her, voice softening. "Say the word. We'll leave together. You, me, Caraxes. We'll take Dragonstone—make our own court. Let the leechess choke on their ink.

She smiled, eyes shining.

And shook her head. 

"No," she whispered. "Not like this. Not while Rhaenrya is here. Not while the realm still listens to the crown."

"Then you'll go?" Daemon asked, disbelieving. 

"I'll go," she said. "But I will return."

And to Otto, she added—loud enough for the throne to remember it,

"When I do, the court will burn clean."

Later, in her chambers, Alyra packed quietly, her eyes wet.

Vaena watched from the balcony as Vhaelyx, her dragon, circled overhead—restless, sensing her fury. Her fingers trembled as she fastened her cloak.

Daemon entered without knocking.

He stood in silence, jaw tight, gaze hot with helplessness. 

"You should have let me kill him," he said finally.

Vaena looked at him. "And prove them right? That we are nothing but fire and ruin?"

He said nothing.

"Protect Rhaenrya," she said. "They'll go after her next."

Daemon frowned. "You think I wouldn't?"

"I think you'll want to burn them all. And you mustn't—not yet."

She stepped forward, cupping his cheek. "Wait. Watch. And when the moment comes, strike."

He leaned into her touch, fierce and broken. "I will."

Vaena stepped back, cloak flowing behind her like wings.

"When the wind turns," she said, "you'll know."

And then she mounted Vhaelyx, soaring into the clouds, high above the Red Keep that cast her out.

Below, Otto Hightower watched from a window.

And smiled.

Essos was not peace.

It was heat and noise and blood and silk. It was a thousands languages in one market square. It was a map of broken empires—each daring you to make the same mistake they did.

And Vaena Targaryen, dragon of the elder flame, moved through it like a women in mourning.

Not for herself.

For her family.

She arrived in Pentos by dragon, her descent slow, deliberate, a warning cloaked in elegance. Vhaelyx wings cast great shadows over tiled palaces and terrified pigeons. Men bowed. Some ran.

None looked her in the eye.

She liked it that way. 

In the villa gifted by the Magisters, Vaena did not rest. She wrote. She studied. She watched. She made no alliances—but she made herself known. The whispers followed her quickly.

The Exiled Princess.

The Dragon Queen Who Might Have Been.

The Sister Banished by a Coward King.

And quietly, beneath the cover of courtesans and coin, she began to collect.. pieces.

A sellsword captain with debts and secrets.

A bastard from Lys with merchant blood and a ship called Ash Whisper.

A healer who once served the Golden Company.

A scribe who had memorized every Valyrian house to ever fall.

She told them little.

But they followed.

Back in King's Landing, air had changed.

It was heavier, as if the walls remembered Vaena and resented her absence.

Viserys noticed it first in the Small Council chamber. The fire in the hearth refused to light. The room felt colder. Aemma's laughter—never loud to begin with—had grown quiet.

He couldn't sleep.

Not well. Not deeply.

And when he did, he dreamed of her.

Not Aemma.

Vaena.

Sometimes she stood by the sea, hair whipping in the wind. Sometimes she was younger, smiling as she handed him a wooden sword. Sometimes she stood before the Iron Throne in flames, and he could not tell if she was burning—or becoming fire itself.

He awoke each time gasping. 

Otto would ask if he was well.

And Viserys would lie.

Queen Aemma was with child. Again.

The maesters whispered hope.

But hope, in the Red Keep, often came with blood on its heels.

Vaena's absence wrapped itself around the royal family like a cloak. Rhaenrya grew sullen. She asked fewer questions. She smiled less often.

She wrote to her aunt once.

And received no reply.

In Pentos, Vaena read the letter over and over again.

A small scroll. the ink blotted. The signature shaky.

"Do you miss me, Auntie? I miss you. I know you had to go. I know Father says it's for peace. But it doesn't feel like peace. It feels like when Mother used to cry, and no one aksed why."

"Please come back soon. I have so much to learn. You said I would be a queen. But no one here will say it."

—Rhaenrya.

Vaena pressed her fingers to the words and shut her eyes. 

The fire in her veins pulsed. Slow. Growing.

She did not reply.

But she wrote another letter.

And sent it not to Westeros.

But to Braavos.

At court, Otto grew bolder. 

His daughter, Alicent, stood at the king's side more often now.

She smiled softly. Poured wine. Asked careful questions about the babe to come.

Viserys did not notice. Or pretended not to.

But Rhaenrya did.

The child, once loud and curious, grew silent in her father's presence. She studied Alicent with narrowed eyes and turned her head when the girl tried to braid her hair.

"Would you like me to read to you, Princess?" Alicent asked sweetly.

"No," Rhaenrya said. "You're not her."

Alicent blinked. "Who?"

"My aunt," Rhaenrya replied. "She teaches with dragons."

In Pentos, the first letter form Braavos came back.

Short. Coded. Clean.

"The Faceless God does not forget fire."

Vaena smiled.

And then came the day. 

Aemma's labor began.

And everything else... stopped.

Viserys paced the corridors like a madman, white as milk. Otto whispered calm assurances. The septas prayed. Rhaenrya sat beside her bedchamber door, silent, eyes red.

The maesters made noises.

Then silence.

Then blood.

So much blood.

And when it was over—

Aemma was dead.

The babe died shortly after.

The realm tilted on its axis.

Viserys did not speak. 

Not for hours.

Then not for days.

When he finally did, he only asked one thing.

"Send for her."

Otto flinched. "Who?"

Viserys looked at him with hollow eyes.

"My sister."

The Narrow Sea was silent the morning she crossed it. 

A stillness that only came before a storm.

Vhaelyx cut through the clouds like a ghost— silent, pale, and cold-eyed. The dragon did not scream. He watched the capital from above, and the city beneath him did not cheer. It cowered.

It had remembered.

And so had the court.

They tried to meet her at the gates with ceremony. A welcome party of stiff-lipped lords, red banners, and templated phrases.

Vaena dismounted without a word. Her boots hit the stone with the sound of finality. She wore black--not for mourning, but for armor. Her hair was braided, coiled like a crown. Her cloak boar no sigil. Her dragon, Vhaelyx, watched form the ramparts like a silent threat.

And behind her walked no one. 

Because she had come alone.

A statement.

A reckoning.

The gates opened for her like a grave.

Rhaenrya ran to her first.

Not as a princess.

As a child.

"Auntie—!"

Vaena knelt, catching her mid-run, pulling her close, breathing her in as if she might disappear.

You've grown," she whispered.

"You're here,"Rhaenrya sobbed. "They said... I didn't think—“

"I came,"Vaena said softly. "And I'm not leaving again."

The Red Keep was different.

Cleaner. Queiter.

Too quiet.

Like a house waiting for someone to shout.

Otto did not greet her. Nor did Alicent. But the guards nodded—hesitant, unsure.

They remembered her.

Fear is harder to erase than respect.

Viserys waited alone in the same chamber where he had once dismissed her.

When she enteredm he did not rise.

He looked older. Weaker. His eyes bloodshot, his fingers trembling. A man pulled backwards into time.

"Vaena," he breathed.

She said nothing.

Only stood.

He struggled to rise. And failed.

"I tired to keep the peace," he said,"I thought... if I could make the realm quiet—if i just.."

"Let Otto chain your limbs?" Vaena asked coldly.

"I didn't know he was," Viserys murmured.

"You did," she said "You just chose not to see."

Silence. Thick. Heavy.

"I was alone," he said finally.

"So was I," she whispered. "But I built something out of it."

He lowered his head. "I'm sorry."

Vaena stepped forward. Her voice softened. "I know."

She didn't touch him. Not yet. But her presence warmed the room.

"You were a fool," she said. "But you're not a monster."

"I don't know how to fix this," he admitted.

"You don't need to," she said. "That's why I'm here."

Later, Otto came to her.

Not as a Hand. As a man pushed back by fire.

He bowed.

A fraction too long.

"My lady."

"My lord," Vaena replied, folding her hands.

"His grace has...reinstated your council," Otto said stiffly.

"I did not ask to be reinstated," she said. 

Otto looked up, eyes hard. "He trusts you again."

"No," she replied. "He remembers what happens when he doesn't."

She stepped past him. 

But stopped.

"You'll find," she said, "that I do not come back gentle. I come back as I am."

"And what is that?" he asked.

She smiled.

"Targaryen."

That night, the court dined in silence.

Rhaenrya sat at her aunt's side.

Daemon was absent.

Otto's voice was quiet.

Alicent avoided Vaena's eyes.

And at the head of the table, the king looked less like a ruler—

And more like a man remembering how to feel again.

The air shifted when Vaena Targaryen returned to the Small Council.

She walked in without announcement.

Draped in black. Hair braided like a crown. A Valyrian steel dagger at her hip—not ceremonial.

Real.

No one rose. Not even Otto. But all turned to her.

Viserys spoke first. “My sister has resumed her seat by my leave.”

Otto stiffened. “The Princess has long been… passionate in her counsel.”

“Which is precisely why I need it,” Viserys replied.

Vaena offered Otto a faint smile. “Did you miss me?”

“I missed the quiet,” he said.

“Then you’ll hate what’s coming,” she replied.

Within days, her presence became a stormfront.

She attended every council meeting. Spoke only when necessary. Watched everyone.

And slowly—very slowly—the tide began to shift.

She had no official title. But she wielded influence like a blade.

When lords tried to bypass Rhaenyra in matters of land, Vaena was there to correct them.

When courtiers whispered that the line of succession could change if Viserys remarried, Vaena cut them down with words dipped in wildfire.

“If the king’s word is so easily rewritten,” she said once, voice calm, “perhaps his laws are parchment. And I wonder what else might be undone with enough ink.”

Silence.

Otto said nothing.

But he watched her now—not like an opponent. Like a threat he didn’t know how to contain.

Rhaenyra flourished.

Not in songs or soft courtesies. But in swordplay.

Every morning, she and Vaena sparred in the lower training yard.

Steel rang in the air like bells of war.

“I want them to respect me,” Rhaenyra panted after a particularly hard round.

Vaena handed her water. “They won’t.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re young. And because you bleed.”

Rhaenyra frowned. “Then what’s the point?”

“The point,” Vaena said, stepping close, “is not to make them respect you. It is to make them fear disrespecting you.”

That evening, Vaena joined Daemon in the royal gardens.

He’d returned two nights earlier from Runestone, his mood sharp as ever, his tongue sharper.

“I heard you’ve taken up sword lessons,” he said, sipping wine. “What’s next? War games at supper?”

“Perhaps,” Vaena replied. “If it helps Rhaenyra rule.”

He looked at her sideways. “She listens to you.”

“She sees me for what I am.”

“And what’s that?”

“A warning.”

Daemon chuckled. “To whom?”

“To anyone who thinks she won’t be queen.”

He leaned closer. “You still want it. The throne.”

Vaena’s smile was soft. “No. I want her to have it. I want her to keep it.”

Daemon studied her. “And what do you want for her?”

She didn’t answer right away.

Then: “A husband who won’t shackle her. A partner who won’t kneel. Someone the realm will fear beside her.”

A pause.

His eyes gleamed. “You mean me.”

“I mean us,” she said. “You. Me. Her. Family. The rest can burn.”

Elsewhere in the Keep, Otto Hightower lit a candle. Dipped his quill. And began a letter.

To Oldtown.

To House Hightower.

To allies who remembered what it meant to fear dragons—and who would not let a girl or a disgraced princess rule them.

And far above, in her chambers, Vaena sat with Rhaenyra by the fire.

“The realm is changing,” Vaena said.

Rhaenyra looked up. “Will they let me be queen?”

Vaena tilted her head.

“They won’t have a choice.”

King’s Landing did not sleep easily anymore.

Not since the elder sister returned.

There were whispers in the halls, in the kitchens, in the godswood. Servants who once walked with lazy confidence now kept their eyes down. Maids folded linens like they might be watched. Stewards stepped more quietly past the doors of the Princess Rhaenyra, for fear of interrupting one of her “lessons.”

Because lessons from Vaena Targaryen were not like those of septas.

They included maps, war councils, histories of rebellion. Swordplay in the early morning. And phrases in High Valyrian that cracked like thunder:

“Zaldrīzes dohaeriros iksan.”

“Ñuha lentor daor morghūltas.”

But court politics moved like a river—slow and deep—and Otto Hightower had been navigating it long before Vaena was banished.

It began small.

A casual mention of Lord Hightower’s daughter at a feast. Alicent in pale green, her smile demure, her voice soft as silk.

“She brings the king comfort,” one lady said.

“He looks well around her,” said another.

“She might be what he needs,” said a third.

The words did not name it.

But they didn’t need to.

Vaena noticed immediately.

At supper, she watched how Alicent refilled Viserys’s cup without asking. How her hand lingered a moment too long on his shoulder. How Viserys smiled at her, not with desire—but with relief. Like she was a balm to his grief.

“Clever girl,” Vaena murmured to Rhaenyra.

The princess followed her gaze. “You don’t like her.”

“I don’t trust her,” Vaena replied. “Which is worse.”

Rhaenyra’s jaw tensed. “Neither do I.”

Vaena smiled. “Good.”

Later that evening, Daemon found her on the battlements.

“You’re brooding,” he said.

“I’m planning,” she corrected.

“Oh? What for?”

Vaena didn’t look at him as she replied:

“A marriage.”

He blinked. “Yours?”

“No. Rhaenyra’s.”

Silence.

Then, “To whom?”

She turned to him slowly.

And said nothing.

Daemon laughed, shaking his head. “You’re dangerous when you don’t speak.”

“I’m dangerous because I don’t speak,” she said.

The next morning, she requested an audience with Lord Lyonel Strong.

He arrived promptly, respectful but wary.

“I seek your counsel,” Vaena said.

That surprised him.

“About?”

She leaned forward, voice calm.

“Succession. Strength. And marriage.”

She slid a piece of parchment across the table.

He read it.

Then looked up sharply.

“Are you certain?”

She nodded once. “I know what I’m doing.”

He studied her.

“Does the king know?”

“Not yet.”

Lord Strong hesitated. Then smiled faintly.

“I always liked your fire.”

Meanwhile, Otto Hightower sent a raven.

Not to Oldtown this time.

But to Storm’s End.

He knew the tides were shifting.

And when dragons dance, men seek higher ground.

The godswood had never looked more like a trap.

Vaena walked its stone paths slowly, hands behind her back, eyes sharp beneath the white branches. The weirwood tree loomed overhead, its face twisted in eternal grief. The red leaves shivered in the wind.

Alicent Hightower sat beneath it, pretending to read a tome on Targaryen genealogy.

Vaena approached silently.

“You’re sitting under a tree that remembers blood,” she said. “Interesting choice.”

Alicent rose quickly, smoothing her gown. “Princess.”

“Lady Hightower.”

They stood for a moment in fragile civility.

“You’ve made yourself quite comfortable in the Keep,” Vaena said, circling slowly.

“I only serve where I am needed.”

“You serve Otto,” Vaena corrected. “Let’s not lie while we’re standing beneath a face that sees all.”

Alicent’s jaw tensed. “I serve the crown.”

“No,” Vaena replied, stepping closer. “You comfort it. With soft words and gentler silences. You pour wine, not counsel. You look like an answer. But you are a distraction.”

Alicent opened her mouth to reply.

Vaena raised a hand.

“You think I hate you,” she said softly. “I don’t. You’re clever. Trained well. Loyal. I might have liked you in another life.”

She paused.

“But in this one, you are a tool. And worse—you know it.”

Alicent’s face broke, if only for a second.

Then she gathered herself. “The king needs healing.”

“The king needs his spine, not his sheets warmed.”

Alicent flushed.

Vaena stepped even closer.

“Do not confuse his grief with love. And do not confuse his attention for security. Because when the fire comes, soft things burn first.”

That night, the king summoned Vaena.

She arrived late.

Let him wait.

He sat alone, crown in hand, robe undone.

“I’m tired,” he said.

“You’re weak,” she corrected.

He looked up. “You said you came back to help.”

“I did. But help only matters when you want it.”

He rose—slowly, shakily.

“Say what you came to say, Vaena.”

She met his eyes.

“Send Otto away.”

The words hung between them like thunder before the storm.

Viserys paled.

“He’s—”

“Not your father. Not your friend. Not your Hand.”

He turned away. “He’s guided the realm—”

“He’s bled it, Viserys,” she said. “He’s wrapped you in fog. He’s quieted every voice but his own. And now he brings his daughter to your table like an offering.”

Silence.

Vaena stepped forward, voice cracking with fury.

“You sent me away to appease him. You let him steal years from us. And now you’ll let him shape your daughter’s future, too?”

“She needs a mother,” he whispered.

“She needs a king who listens to his blood,” Vaena snapped.

The next morning, the realm trembled.

Otto Hightower was stripped of his title.

His banners remained. His influence lingered.

But his seat at the table was empty.

And at the other end of that table sat Princess Vaena Targaryen.

Uncrowned.

Unbowed.

Unshaken.

Later, in the godswood, Alicent sat alone.

Rhaenyra approached her.

“They say your father is leaving,” she said.

Alicent nodded stiffly.

Rhaenyra hesitated.

Then whispered: “I liked you better when you were just my friend.”

That evening, Vaena and Viserys sat in silence on the balcony overlooking Blackwater Bay.

No crowns.

No courtiers.

Just two siblings.

“I miss her,” he said.

“I know,” Vaena replied. “I do, too.”

“What now?”

“Now,” she said, “we begin again.”