102 AC
The weirwood's face watched them in silence, its red eyes half-lidded, its carved mouth twisted into an ancient grief that had no name. Beneath its pale branches two children ran laughing through the grass, their voices sharp and bright against the stillness of the godswood.
"Come on, little sister," the boy called over his shoulder, breathless but grinning. "You'll have to be quicker than that."
"That's not fair," the girl protested as she chased him, skirts gathered in her fists. "You didn't count this time!"
He laughed and darted around the great white trunk, black hair flying loose, his steps long and light for a child of six name days. The girl followed, silver-white hair bound up in a careless knot, her violet eyes fierce with determination even as her legs struggled to keep pace.
They circled the tree twice more before she finally caught him, small hands clutching at his sleeve. "Tagged," she declared triumphantly.
Daemion Waters only laughed harder, allowing himself to fall back into the grass beside her. Rhaenyra Targaryen collapsed moments later, cheeks flushed, breath coming quick and shallow as she stared up through the red leaves swaying overhead.
They lay there for a time, the sounds of the castle distant beyond the stone walls. Somewhere far off a bell rang. Somewhere closer, ravens cried.
"Rhaenyra."
The voice cut through the quiet like a knife through cloth.
Both children turned their heads to see Alicent Hightower standing at the edge of the godswood path, her green gown immaculate as ever, auburn hair braided neatly down her back. She frowned at them, hands clasped before her.
"You started without me again," she said.
"You were taking forever," Rhaenyra replied at once. "We waited outside your door."
"For an hour," Daemion added solemnly, as if delivering sworn testimony.
Alicent's frown softened despite herself. "An hour," she echoed, unconvinced. "And yet you still look quite alive."
Rhaenyra scrambled to her feet and seized Daemion's hand. "We're not finished yet."
Before Alicent could protest, they were off again, laughter echoing beneath the heart tree while she watched, shaking her head.
Later, much later, when the sun had begun its slow descent and the shadows stretched long across the yard, Daemion lay sprawled on a stone bench with a book resting against his knees. The pages were old and yellowed, the letters inked in a careful hand.
And so Aegon Targaryen flew down upon the Black Dread, and Harren the Black and all his sons were burned within their towers…
Daemion read the words aloud, savoring them.
"For stone does not burn," he continued, "but men do."
"I'll burn a castle one day," Rhaenyra announced from beside him, chin lifted proudly. "With Syrax."
Alicent gasped. "Rhaenyra!"
Daemion glanced up, amused. "Why not?"
"Ladies shouldn't speak of such things," Alicent said quickly. "Much less do them."
Rhaenyra scowled. "Visenya was a warrior queen."
"She was," Daemion said, reaching out to ruffle his sister's hair. "And you could be one too."
Alicent flushed, color creeping up her cheeks. "My father says it isn't proper. That a lady's hands should remain clean."
"The ladies of the North carry blades," Daemion said mildly. "And the Dornish women too. They manage just fine."
Alicent hesitated, then smiled, small and uncertain. "I don't think it would suit me," she admitted. "But… thank you."
She rose a moment later, smoothing her skirts. "We should go, Rhaenyra. Your lesson."
Rhaenyra groaned but took Alicent's hand, pausing only to wave at Daemion as they left him behind with his book and his thoughts.
Daemion did not return to reading.
He stared instead at the sky above the Red Keep, blue and empty, and thought of things no six-year-old should have to think about.
He had been born in silence, or so the servants whispered when they thought him asleep. Born to a woman who did not wear a crown and never would. Born without ceremony, without songs, without a septon's blessing spoken before the realm.
Yet the king had come.
King Viserys I Targaryen had taken the child in his arms, they said. Had named him. Had brought him into the Red Keep rather than sending him away to be hidden, as bastards so often were.
Daemion remembered none of it, of course. But he remembered the way people looked at him now—some with kindness, some with unease, some with thinly veiled contempt. He knew what the word Waters meant. He knew why he would never sit the Iron Throne, no matter how much dragon's blood ran in his veins.
And still, his father had kept him.
In the South, bastards were often forgotten, discarded, or worse. Daemion knew this. He heard enough whispered conversations to understand it well enough.
That was why, lying alone beneath the sky, book forgotten at his side, he felt something close to gratitude settle heavy in his chest.
A bastard he might be.
But he was a royal one.
And that, he knew, would change everything.