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Daeron and Daenerys Targaryen
They walked closely through the corridor. The two were trying to be quiet, still, Daenerys couldn't quite suppress the low, satisfied laugh that bubbled up from her throat.
"What?" Daeron asked, though he was fighting his own grin.
"Nothing," she said, her voice honeyed with mischief. "Just thinking about how thoroughly scandalized the court would be if they knew what their precious princess was doing some minutes ago."
"Dany," Daeron warned, glancing around the empty corridor. His Northern instincts screamed at him that walls had ears, especially in a place like this.
"Oh, relax. There's no one—" She stopped mid-sentence as they rounded a corner into a small courtyard. Three children, none older than seven, were playing in the early morning light with crude dolls fashioned from bound grass and strips of cloth. The children froze at the sight of the adults, their game forgotten.
Daeron recognized the look in their eyes; they were wary and terrified. One boy clutched his grass doll tighter, as if afraid it might be confiscated for the crime of existing in the lords' path.
"Good morning," Daenerys said gently, but the children were already scrambling to their feet. The oldest, a girl with tangled brown hair, grabbed the youngest by the hand and pulled him along as they fled, their grass dolls bouncing against their sides.
Daeron watched them disappear around another corner, something uncomfortable twisting in his chest. "We frightened them."
Daenerys said pragmatically. "Of course we frightened them. That's the world we're in, Jon."
"Don't call me that here. Even when we think we're alone." Daeron quickly warned her, he knew this world didn't know who Jon Snow was, but if someone heard Dany call him that name, people would start doubting them.
"Old habits. Daeron is a better name for you, but I called you Jon for a long time before we found out the truth," she admitted, linking her arm through his now that the corridor was truly empty. "I liked the way Rhaenyra was screaming your name when you were having sex with her ."
"She wasn't screaming—" Daeron started, then caught the gleam in Daenerys's eye. "You're baiting me."
"Always." She squeezed his arm. "But successfully, which is what matters."
They reached their chambers without encountering anyone else. Daeron closed and barred the door behind them. The room was cold, the fire was not there for them for some reason.
"No fire," Daenerys observed, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. She watched as Daeron immediately went to the hearth, kneeling to assess what could be salvaged from the coals. "You know, we could just call a servant."
"And have them wonder why we're returning to our chambers at dawn instead of waking in them?" Daeron gathered kindling from the wood box, he wasn't afraid that his hand might burn, they never did. "Besides, I can build a fire."
"Oh, I'm well aware of your many talents." The purr in her voice made him glance over his shoulder. She'd reclined against the pillows, watching him with that expression she got sometimes—the one that said she was remembering who he'd been before, comparing it to who he'd become. "The heroic Lord Commander, reduced to playing servant in a time not his own."
"The Mother of Dragons, reduced to playing court intrigue with teenagers," he countered, coaxing a flame from the kindling. The fire caught, crackling to life. He added larger pieces of wood, watching as the flames grew stronger. The warmth began to push back the morning chill.
"Rhaenyra's not a teenager. She's eighteen."
"Exactly my point." Daeron stood, brushing ash from his hands. The firelight painted dancing shadows across the stone walls. He moved to join Daenerys on the bed, sitting beside her with a tired sigh. "We're manipulating a girl barely old enough to understand the game she's in."
"We're ensuring she survives," Daenerys corrected, reaching up to touch his face. Her fingers traced the line of his jaw, gentle despite the steel in her words. "That's different."
"Is it?" But he leaned into her touch anyway, because this—this—was the only real thing in this entire borrowed life. "Sometimes I wonder if we're any better than Littlefinger was. All his schemes and manipulations, and we swore we'd never—"
"We're nothing like him." Her voice turned sharp. "Baelish played games for his own advancement. We're trying to prevent a war that will kill thousands and destroy the last dragons in the world. There's no comparison."
Daeron caught her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. "You're right. I know you're right. I just..." He trailed off, searching for words that didn't make him sound weak. "Some days it feels like we're drowning, Dany. Like we're in so deep, we can't remember which lies are truth anymore."
"Then let me remind you." She shifted, moving to straddle his lap, her hands framing his face. "I am Daenerys Targaryen, last daughter of House Targaryen, and I love you. That's true. You are Daeron Targaryen, son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, and you love me. Also true. Everything else?" She shrugged. "Everything else is just the story we're telling to survive."
He pulled her closer, kissing her with all of his passion. When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Daenerys laughed, the same sound he loved more than anything.
"What now?" he asked, though he was smiling.
"I'm just thinking," she said, settling more comfortably in his lap, "about how you managed to bed two princesses in one night. Your wife..." She kissed him lightly. "And your wife's great-great-grandmother." Another kiss. "I'm not sure whether to be impressed or disturbed by the implications."
Daeron groaned, dropping his forehead against her shoulder. "Please don't phrase it like that."
"Why not? It's accurate." Her fingers combed through his dark hair, finding the white streak that had appeared after his resurrection. "Though I suppose 'great-great-grandmother' doesn't quite capture the complexity. What would you prefer? 'Distant ancestor'? 'Progenitor of your bloodline'?"
"How about just 'Rhaenyra'?" He lifted his head to look at her. "And for the record, I only love one of those princesses. The other is... an alliance. A necessary part of the plan."
"Mmm, you seemed quite enthusiastic about that alliance." But her eyes were soft, teasing rather than jealous. "I watched you with her, remember? You weren't just going through the motions."
"No," he admitted, because there was no point in lying to Daenerys. She always knew. "I won't pretend I didn't enjoy it. Rhaenyra's beautiful, and brave, and..." He searched for the right words. "She reminds me of you, actually. The same fire. The same refusal to accept the role the world wants to force on her."
"Flatterer." But she was smiling. "Though you're not wrong. I do see something of myself in her. Maybe that's why I don't mind sharing you with her. Or maybe..." Her smile turned wicked. "Maybe I just enjoy watching you squirm between two demanding dragon princesses."
"You're terrible," he said, but he was kissing her again, his hands sliding up her sides. They fell back onto the bed together, the playfulness shifting into something warmer, more languid than their earlier passion with Rhaenyra.
But after a few minutes, Daenerys pulled back with a yawn she couldn't quite suppress. "I'm exhausted," she admitted, settling against his chest. "Three rounds with Rhaenyra, then that walk back through half the Red Keep... I need sleep."
"Sleep, then." Daeron adjusted so they were both more comfortable, pulling a blanket over them. The fire crackled steadily, warming the room.
"You should be proud, you know," Daenerys murmured, already half-asleep. "Two princesses in one night. Your wife and your wife's great-great-grandmother. Not many men can claim that particular achievement."
"I love you far more than anything here," he said quietly, seriously. "You know that, don't you? All of this none of it matters compared to you."
Her hand found his in the darkness, squeezing gently. "Believe me, I know. You've died for me once already. I'm not likely to ever forget that."
They lay in silence for a while, the fire's warmth and the exhaustion of the night pulling them toward sleep. But Daeron's mind wouldn't quite settle. He stared at the ceiling, watching shadows dance across the stone.
"What will we do now?" he asked, not really expecting an answer. "How do we climb even higher on this ladder of chaos?"
Daenerys's breathing had already evened out, but she mumbled something incoherent, possibly about dragons. Daeron smiled.
Ladder of chaos. That's what Littlefinger had called it, hadn't he? Chaos is a ladder. And here they were, climbing it rung by rung, playing the game they'd both sworn they hated. For good reasons, yes. To save lives, to prevent the Dance of Dragons, to ensure the Targaryen line—and the dragons—survived.
But day by day, this world felt more and more like his own.
That was a dangerous thought. The kind of thought that led to mistakes, to forgetting that they were playing roles, that Daeron and Daenerys from Essos weren't real people but carefully constructed lies. If he started thinking of this as his world, started investing too deeply in its politics and people beyond their mission...
He thought of Rhaenyra beneath him, crying out his name. Thought of the Northern lords who'd welcomed "Daeron" like a long-lost son. Thought of Lord Benjen Stark, who looked so much like his father had, who spoke with that same measured Northern dignity.
Dangerous, he thought again. This is all so dangerous.
But he was tired, and Daenerys was warm against him, and the fire was burning low. Tomorrow he'd worry about the dangers. Tomorrow he'd figure out their next move. Tonight—or rather, this morning—he just wanted to sleep beside the woman he loved, in a world that hadn't yet tried to kill them.
Though give it time.
Rhaenyra Targaryen
Rhaenyra woke to sunlight streaming through her chamber windows. For a blessed moment, she simply lay there, luxuriating in a bone-deep satisfaction she'd never experienced before. Her body ached in the most delicious ways—muscles she hadn't known existed protesting their vigorous use throughout the night.
When she tried to rise, her legs trembled slightly, forcing her to grip the bedpost for balance. A laugh escaped her lips before she could stop it. Well, she thought, heat rising to her cheeks, that's one way to start the morning.
Her handmaidens had already laid out a gown of deep crimson. Perfect. She felt bold this morning, felt like she could conquer the world. Or at least navigate whatever schemes Alicent was plotting.
After dressing and allowing her ladies to arrange her silver-gold hair into an elegant braid, Rhaenyra set out through the Red Keep's corridors. She needed food, needed to restore the energy she'd so thoroughly expended. The memory of Daeron's hands, Daenerys's mouth, the way they'd moved together, the way the two had played her like an instrument—
"Good morning, Rhaenyra."
She jerked to a halt, her pleasant reverie shattering. Princess Rhaenys stood in the corridor ahead, wearing a gown of deep blue. Her dark hair was pulled back severely, and her eyes looked at Rhaenyra like a hawk.
"Hello, my beloved aunt," Rhaenyra said, speaking with more warmth than she felt for the woman. Rhaenys had always been too perceptive for comfort.
"Good morning to you too," Rhaenys said with a thin smile like a knife, and Rhaenyra waited a few moments, but Rhaenys simply stared at her as if looking at her for the first time in a long time. Rhaenyra decided to just ignore the woman and walk past her. She continued her walk, but not even three steps ahead...
"Wait a moment." Rhaenys's tone brooked no argument. "I want to talk to you."
Of course you do. But Rhaenyra settled onto a stone bench carved into an alcove, gesturing for Rhaenys to join her. "Of course, Aunt. What troubles you?"
Rhaenys sat like a Princess, studying Rhaenyra with an expression somewhere between amusement and concern. "You look like you had quite a lot of fun last night at the party."
The flush returned to Rhaenyra's cheeks before she could stop it. Did she look that obviously satisfied? She forced a casual smile. "Well, yes, I did. Thank you for asking. Did you?"
A knowing chuckle escaped Rhaenys. "Well, yes, but clearly not as much as you did. I'm not as young as you anymore."
"You're a dragon, Aunt," Rhaenyra said, recovering her composure. "There's no such thing as age for you. We burn too hot for time to touch us, just like our dragons."
"Speaking of dragons..." Rhaenys's tone became sharper. The casual aunt vanished, replaced by the woman who should have been queen. "Do you know who controls Silverwing and Vermithor? Do you truly believe someone outside the family could have claimed them?"
Rhaenyra's heart kicked against her ribs, but she did not allow herself to show it in her face. This was the question she'd been expecting, dreading. "Really, Aunt? I thought you understood how impossible it is for an outsider to claim a dragon."
"With the right blood," Rhaenys said softly, her gaze boring into Rhaenyra's, "even an outsider has the power to claim one. Purple eyes, perhaps. Valyrian features hidden under Northern coloring."
She knows. Or suspects. Gods, how much does she know?
Rhaenyra forced herself to hold her aunt's stare, drawing on every lesson her father had taught her about projecting authority. "I don't know about that, Aunt. But my father, the king, told me that even Targaryens have been killed by dragons they couldn't claim—let alone anyone else." She paused for a moment. "Princess Aerea, while she tamed Balerion, whenver he took her, it cost her life and I don't think the princess desired to be away from her home. It's said that Orys Baratheon was almost killed by a dragon when he tried to tame her, and Jace Targaryen was burned alive when he tried to tame a dragon. Our blood is no guarantee of acceptance."
"But those with our blood have a chance," Rhaenys pressed. "And this Daeron, this mysterious fighter from the North with purple eyes and Valyrian steel—"
"Has Northern features," Rhaenyra interrupted smoothly. "Dark hair with that single white streak. A warrior's build, not the refined look of our House. And Lady Daenerys may look like me, but plenty of Lyseni pleasure slaves share our coloring. That doesn't make them dragons."
"Yet you've taken them under your protection." It wasn't a question.
"Daeron saved Laenor's life, your son's life, and my future husband, I am grateful for that, not wary like you," Rhaenyra said with a little smile, and Rhaenys looked a little guilty for a brief moment. "And he defeated my uncle in single combat, which earns respect. As for Lady Daenerys, she's been nothing but courteous. Should I shun them because you think they have dragons? Because Alicent is angry that her brother got himself killed? She was wary of them even before her brother became a corpse,"
Rhaenys's expression softened slightly, but her eyes remained calculating. "Corlys has heard of rumors. People have reported to have seen a silver dragon with a rider. Silverwing is the only silver dragon we have, there are rumors for Vermithor too, but those are much rarer, but still, there is someone out there who has tamed at least one of our most powerful dragons, and Lady Daenerys and her husband appear at the same time, I think is a big coincidence,"
Rhaenyra stood, smoothing her skirts with deliberate care. "I don't believe such stories, Aunt. Dragons choose their riders, yes, but they choose from among those with the blood of Old Valyria. If you and your husband have someone in mind you wish to accuse, you're free to go before the king and tell him yourself. Present your evidence, make your case." She met Rhaenys's eyes directly. "But accusations without proof are just poison dressed as politics."
"And if I had proof?"
"Then you wouldn't be questioning me in corridors, would you?" Rhaenyra smiled, but there was steel beneath it. "You'd be in my father's solar, laying out your case for all to see."
A long moment passed, aunt and niece locked in silent combat. Finally, Rhaenys inclined her head—not quite acknowledgment, not quite surrender. "You've grown cunning, niece. Your father would be proud. Or perhaps worried."
"Both, probably." Rhaenyra softened her tone slightly. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to eat. Last night was... exhausting. Between the feast and the dancing and entertaining various lords, I barely slept."
The partial truth slipped out easily, though Rhaenyra suspected her aunt heard all the things she wasn't saying. She turned to leave, but Rhaenys's voice stopped her.
"Rhaenyra."
She glanced back.
"Whatever game you're playing," Rhaenys said quietly, "remember that dragons are not pieces on a cyvasse board. They're fire made flesh. When they burn, everyone near them gets scorched."
"I'll remember, Aunt. I wish you a good day."
Rhaenyra walked away, feeling Rhaenys's gaze boring into her back with every step. Only when she rounded the corner did she allow herself a shaky breath. Her legs still trembled, though now it had nothing to do with the previous night's pleasure and everything to do with how close she'd come to revealing too much.
She knows, Rhaenyra thought grimly. She doesn't have proof, but she knows.
She would need to warn Daeron and Daenerys. The Velaryons were circling, and if they weren't careful, the whole carefully constructed house of lies would collapse around them.
But later. Right now, she desperately needed food, and perhaps another private conversation with her new allies about exactly how they planned to keep their dragons secret when half the court seemed determined to uncover the truth.
Daeron Targaryen
The godswood of the Red Keep was nothing like the one at Winterfell—smaller, quieter, it didn't feel as old, but the weirwood made it the home of his gods. Daeron sat cross-legged beneath its bone-white branches, Stormsong laid across his knees as he ran the whetstone along its Valyrian steel edge.
Father did this every morning, he thought, remembering Eddard Stark in the Winterfell godswood, with Ice across his lap. Said a dull blade was a warrior's shame.
So Daeron maintained the ritual, even though Valyrian steel never truly dulled, even though he was supposed to be some bastard sellsword from the North rather than the secret son of Rhaegar Targaryen. Some habits were too deeply carved into his bones to abandon.
He sensed the approach before he heard it—years of ranging beyond the Wall had taught him to feel when he was no longer alone. A shadow fell across the stone, and a voice called out, warm with Northern humor.
"Daeron, can that sword be any sharper than it already is, or are you doing it just to scare people?"
Daeron turned to find Lord Benjen Stark standing there, dressed in traveling leathers, his dark hair pulled back from a face so reminiscent of Ned's that it hurt to look at. Not identical, no. Benjen's features were slightly softer, his frame leaner. But the eyes, the bearing, the quiet strength...
"Lord Stark." Daeron stood quickly, remembering to bow. "I didn't expect to see you here."
"This is a place for the Old Gods, they watch us here, it might not be as impressive as the one in Winterfell, but a holy place is a holy place." Benjen smiled, gesturing toward the ground. "May I sit with you? The sword of the North...can I call you that?"
Sword of the North. The title sent warmth through Daeron's chest, even as it twisted the knife of his deception deeper. "You can call me whatever you wish, my lord. Forgive me, though—I don't have a chair for you."
"Don't bother." Benjen was already settling onto the moss-covered ground. "I'm not like the other lords here. I can sit on the ground just fine." He drew his own sword—good Northern steel, well-maintained—and produced a whetstone from his belt. "Mind if I join you?"
"Please." Daeron sank back down, resuming his work on Stormsong. For a moment, they sat in companionable silence, the dual whisper of stone on steel filling the quiet godswood.
Daeron felt his eyes burn for a moment. He looked up, and he could almost see them, Robb, rushing towards him, asking why he was alone in God's Wood, telling him that his father was getting worried. Then, Jon saw his father. Jon had been told to fetch him in God's Wood, this has been Jon's first time seeing his father cleaning his blade in God's Wood, his father had told him that his own father used to do that, and his father had admited that because he was fostered in the Vale, he does not remember much of him, but he does remember this, cleaning a Valyrian Steel Sword in God's Wood.
"Steel dulls without care, boy. So does a man's honor. Tend both." His father had told him that day.
"You maintain your blade like a Northman," Benjen observed, his tone conversational. "Most sellswords I've known treat their swords like tools. Functional, nothing more. But you..." He nodded toward Stormsong. "You treat yours like a companion."
"My mother taught me that," Daeron said, the lie coming easier now. "Said a warrior's sword was an extension of his arm, and you don't neglect your own body."
"Wise woman." Benjen studied him with those too-familiar grey eyes. "This Northern mother of yours—she from the wolfswood? The mountain clans? Where was she born?"
Careful. "She never said exactly. Died when I was young, and she... she didn't like to talk about her past. We lived in a farm near the mountains."
"Hmm." Benjen returned his attention to his blade, but Daeron could feel the assessment continuing. "And your father? The one who gave you those purple eyes?"
"Never knew him." That, at least, was partially true. "Mother said he was Valyrian, probably from one of the Free Cities. A merchant, maybe, or a mercenary. He was gone before I was born."
"Must have been hard. Growing up without a father."
You have no idea. "I managed. Mother did her best, and after she died, I learned to rely on myself."
"The North teaches that," Benjen agreed. "Self-reliance. We have to, with winters lasting years and help days away at best." He paused in his sharpening. "You fight like you were trained by someone who knew what they were doing, though. Your mother teach you that too?"
"Some. The rest I picked up from whoever would show me. Learned from a dozen different sword masters in a dozen different cities." Daeron met Benjen's eyes. "Why all the questions, my lord?"
"Curiosity." Benjen's smile was disarming. "And maybe a bit of Northern stubbornness. You remind me of someone, though I can't quite place who. The way you move, the way you think three steps ahead in a fight. It's familiar somehow."
Daeron's grip tightened on his whetstone. "I've been told I have a common face."
"Not common. Distinctive, actually. Those eyes of yours, that white streak in your hair." Benjen tilted his head. "House Targaryen is known for their purple eyes, about the blood of the dragon running through unexpected veins."
"Plenty of Lyseni and Volantenes have purple eyes, so does House Dayne," Daeron countered, keeping his voice level. "Doesn't make them dragons."
"True enough." But Benjen didn't look entirely convinced. "Still, if I were a betting man—which I'm not, much to my brother's relief—I'd wager there's more to your story than you're telling."
"Every man has secrets, Lord Stark."
"Fair point." Benjen returned to his sharpening. "Just remember, lad—secrets have a way of coming out, especially in a place like this. The Red Keep has more ears than the godswood has leaves."
They fell into silence again, and Daeron tried to enjoy the moment despite the uncomfortable probing. This—sitting with a Stark, maintaining his blade beneath a weirwood—was as close as he'd ever get to those mornings with his father. Even if it was all built on lies.
"Daeron?"
He looked up to find Daenerys approaching through the trees. She stopped when she saw Benjen; her expression changed.
"My lord," she greeted with a small curtsy. "Forgive the interruption. I was coming to call my husband for breakfast, but I see you're occupied."
"No interruption at all, Lady Daenerys," Benjen said, rising smoothly to his feet. Daeron followed suit. "I should return to my own duties anyway. The Jousting will be soon, and after that, there will be a long travel back to Winterfell."
"Safe journeys, Lord Stark," Daeron said, clasping the man's offered forearm.
"And you, sword of the North." Benjen's grip was firm, his eyes searching. "Watch yourself in this place. Dragons and wolves make dangerous company for each other."
With that cryptic warning, he strode away through the godswood, leaving Daeron and Daenerys alone beneath the weirwood.
"He knows something," Daenerys said quietly once Benjen was out of earshot.
"He suspects. That's different from knowing." Daeron sheathed Stormsong. "But yes, we'll need to be more careful."
"Come eat," she said, linking her arm through his. "You can brood about Northern lords after you've had food."
"I don't brood."
"You brood in your sleep." She smiled up at him. "Now come. I'm starving, and I refuse to eat alone while you sit here sharpening a sword that's already sharp enough to split hairs."
He let her lead him away, but cast one last glance back at the weirwood. Somewhere in the distance, Lord Benjen Stark was making his way toward the stables, carrying questions that Daeron desperately hoped would remain unanswered.
The North remembers, he thought grimly. Let's hope it doesn't remember too much.
Alicent Hightower
The knock at her chamber door was so soft that Alicent almost missed it. Three taps, a pause, then two more, the signal Larys Strong had suggested for their private meetings. She set aside the prayer book she'd been pretending to read and moved to the door, opening it just enough to peer into the corridor.
Lord Larys stood there, leaning on his cane with that perpetually annoying expression that revealed nothing. Behind him, the corridor stretched empty in both directions, but Alicent's heart still hammered against her ribs.
"Quickly," she whispered, pulling him inside and closing the door. She pressed her back against the wood, listening for footsteps, for any sign they'd been observed.
"Your Grace," Larys said calmly, settling into a chair without invitation. "I assure you, our meetings are perfectly confidential. I've taken great care to ensure no one marks my comings and goings."
"You can't be certain." Alicent moved to the window, looking down at the courtyard below. Servants crossed the stones, guards stood at their posts, any of them could be watching, reporting to Rhaenyra or worse, to Daemon. "If my husband discovers I've been meeting with you privately—"
"He won't." Larys's tone held absolute certainty. "The king has more pressing concerns than his wife's occasional consultations with a loyal lord. Besides, I come bearing information worth any risk."
Alicent turned to face him, studying the clubfooted man who'd proven somewhat useful since Gwayne's death. "What have you learned?"
"Patience, Your Grace." He smiled that unsettling smile of his. "First, I must preface this by saying I have a plan—but it's a bit radical. Then again, so are the circumstances we find ourselves in."
"Stop speaking in riddles," Alicent snapped, her grief-sharpened temper flaring. "If you have something to say, say it."
Larys inclined his head, unruffled by her tone. "As you wish. I've been conducting research in the Citadel's records, books on dragon behavior, accounts from the Conquest, observations from the Dragonkeepers. Fascinating reading, truly."
"And?"
"And I found something rather interesting." He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "According to multiple sources. Dragons sometimes come to aid their masters if the master's life is in danger."
Alicent stared at him, her mind racing to follow where this was leading. "You're suggesting—"
"I'm suggesting," Larys interrupted gently, "that if we wish to prove who controls Silverwing and Vermithor, we need only create a situation where their supposed riders are forced to call upon them. A life-threatening situation, perhaps."
The blood drained from Alicent's face. "You want to threaten their lives? Force them to reveal their dragons or die?"
"Not threaten, Your Grace. Actually endanger." His expression remained placid. "A carefully arranged accident. A hunting mishap in the Kingswood, perhaps. Or a fire in their chambers—nothing that directly implicates you, of course, but something dangerous enough that if they truly command dragons, they'll have no choice but to summon them for aid."
"That's..." Alicent's throat went dry. "That's dangerous. If you're wrong, if they don't have dragons, they are Viserys's guests, he will not be happy about it, and if he starts looking into it."
"One of them killed your brother, Your Grace. In front of everyone. And the other—well, if my sources are correct, she's been sharing Princess Rhaenyra's bed. Hardly innocent by any measure."
"I am well aware who killed my brother, Clubfoot. Do not remind me." Alicent ordered with a voice that made the little lord shudder a little; he bowed his head a little.
"My apologies, Your Grace. I meant no disrespect, but I think my plan can work, your grace."
"What exactly are you proposing?" she heard herself ask.
Larys smiled.
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