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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 24 hours ago

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Fire on the Mountain - Chapter Four: Is This Happiness

Pairing: Otto Hightower (House of the Dragon) x OFC (Lia Costayne) Warnings: Angst, arranged marriage, canon typical sexism, allusions to smut. Word count: ~9k

Chapter summary: Lia and Gwayne deal with the fallout of secrets being out in the open, and Rhaenyra makes a decision that changes everything.

Author's note: Header by @foxinthegodswood who also beta read this for me - this story would be nothing without you. Thank you for the care and attention you have put in both myself and my writing. I love you.

A week had passed since Lia had discovered Gwayne locked in a passionate embrace with his squire, Leyton, and they had yet to speak. Watching her turn and flee from the armory, Gwayne had known better than to pursue her across the courtyard; chasing and shouting after her would have roused attention and suspicion from anyone who happened to see, which would result in unwanted gossip. Instead, he had dismissed his lover from his company and given up on the idea of sparring for the day. It seemed farcical to train, to put on a display for spectators when his fate was now held precariously in the hands of his betrothed—a girl whose feelings for him he could not decipher. She was not openly hostile towards him, yet she did not seem overly fond of him either. She was privy to Gwayne’s deepest, darkest secret, and the power she now wielded because of that made dread sit heavy as a stone within his belly. He knew Lia had a spiteful streak, and so in the days that followed he anticipated jeers from onlookers as he returned to training. His heart hammered each time he laid his eyes upon Hobert, waiting for his uncle to summon him and angrily berate him in private, to tell him what shame he had brought upon their house. It never came. No stern missives from his father, no cruel japes from his cousin, Ormund, no sorrowful reprimands from his sister, scribed elegantly in long, sloping letters. Lia had not told anyone. It was a realisation that should have brought Gwayne relief, but instead it only served to deepen his unease.

She had nothing to gain by staying silent, so he could not understand it. She was not wielding her knowledge over him and using it to gain an advantage, on the contrary, she had been noticeably absent from him. Grudging as her presence was in the training yard, she was always there, keeping up appearances. Now each time he looked to the crowd, he saw no sign of the gentle pout of her lips, or the bored look that glazed over her cerulean eyes. Gwayne decided that he would be first to bridge the gap, to throw himself upon her mercy before any sinister intentions could rise to the surface and take shape.

He broke his fast alone that morning, and was glad of it; the nerves that gripped his gut were akin to the hollow sensation that settled there before a tourney, but this somehow seemed more frightening. Gwayne knew what to expect from the sharp end of a lance, could brace for impact from the inevitable winding that accompanied a fall from a horse. Facing Lia, however, came with a multitude of unknowns. Should he come prepared to comfort her in her sorrow and wipe away her tears, or arm himself against a flurry of angry, barbed remarks? He had little appetite for the spread of figs, hard cheese and bread set out before him. It was a somber affair to not have the gentle laughter of Leyton beside him as he hand fed him fruit while they reclined together upon the chaise. He had grown accustomed to spending his early mornings in a lover’s haze.By contrast this felt as though he was awaiting his own execution. Leaving the food spread out upon the table before him mostly untouched, he rose from his seat and made his way towards Lia’s chambers.

He was met by Lia’s soft call of “enter” as he rapped his knuckles against her door.As he pushed it open, he was greeted by the sight of Marybel, her handmaiden, standing at her lady’s back, pulling the fastenings of her dove coloured gown closed. Lia was seated at the vanity table, though he could tell from the subtle stiffening of her shoulders that his visit was a surprise to her, and not one she welcomed.

The silence in the room seemed as though it stretched on for an age before Gwayne finally clicked his tongue, still hovering upon the threshold, ready to turn and run and preserve what remained of his dignity. ��If I might have a moment alone with my betrothed, Marybel?”

“Of course, Ser,” she replied simply, smoothing her hands over the back of Lia’s dress before giving her shoulders a gentle squeeze, a gesture that Gwayne found strangely too familiar for someone of such a low station. She turned, offering him a tight smile as she left.

Gwayne nodded politely as Marybel swept past him and out of the chamber, leaving him alone with Lia. He pushed the door closed behind him, only pulling his hand away when he heard the latch click and was satisfied that they had privacy.

Lia kept her back to him, though he could feel the pierce of her blue eyed stare upon him in the reflection of the looking glass she sat before. The soft glow of the sunlight through the window dappled upon her raven curls, highlighting the russet accents of chestnut within their strands. It was those titian hues he settled his focus upon; it lessened the risk of him withering beneath the scrutiny of her gaze.

He cleared his throat, clasping his hands before him, the forest green wool of his doublet suddenly feeling as though it stifled him. "For your circumspection, my lady...I wish to offer my thanks."

She snorted, a mocking, derisive sound that immediately made Gwayne bristle, his eyes narrowing as he settled his weight upon his right foot, cocking his head as he regarded her. "I did not do it as a favour to you," she uttered curtly, twisting the pendant of her necklace between two fingers.

"Then why, may I ask, have you kept this to yourself?"

He watched as she shrugged, letting go of her pendant to lean across the vanity and pick up her boar bristle brush. She did not need to use it—Gwayne could see that her hair was already immaculately styled; half of it pulled up into a bun to keep it away from her face, while the rest cascaded down around her back and shoulders. She was simply trying to look as though she did not care, and she was failing miserably. "It is not something I thought important enough to share with anyone. Do you think so highly of yourself that you assume I have nothing better to speak about?"

She was acting like a petulant child. Gwayne could no longer suppress his amusement at her sullen behaviour, a soft chuckle escaping him as he shook his head. "I have offended you. Am I the first man not to fall for your...obvious charms?"

Lia whirled around to face him then, fury blazing in her eyes, her brows pinched into an angry scowl. "I am not offended. I do not care. But you...you have spoiled everything!"

Confusion settled over Gwayne, his mouth twisting as he struggled to comprehend her meaning. "I beg your pardon?" he asked, taking a cautionary step towards her.

"I did not want to marry you, not at first," she sighed exasperatedly, standing and turning fully to face him, her hands held at her sides, palms up in a defensive gesture. "But then 'Nyra convinced me it would be a good thing, and I started to like the idea. And then you...you..."

Lia sighed exasperatedly, the fullness of her bottom lip protruding in what Gwayne could only describe as a pout. He clutched his middle and the laugh that left him was loud and unrestrained—he could not have held it in even if he had wanted to. She was a brat. "You are annoyed that you did not get your own way, is that it?" he asked, once his laughter subsided.

“How dare you!” she fumed, stalking closer to him. Gwayne supposed that she thought her anger intimidating, but it was not unlike the hissing and spitting of the kittens that made their home in the hay of the stables.

He crossed his arms over his chest, regarding her with an amused smile, as she stood before him, pretty even in her rage. “You spend so much time with the princess that you have begun to act like one yourself. You are spoiled.”

Lia pursed her lips, studying him intently. He could see that her anger still simmered beneath the surface, though she had controlled it enough for the words she spoke next to be eerily calm. “You speak insults too freely for a man with such secrets.”

He sighed, shaking his head. He realised that in all of their time in Oldtown together, this was the most honest and heartfelt discussion they had ever shared together, even if it was a heated disagreement and, as difficult as she was, he did not dislike Lia; he admired her spirit, even when angered. “I speak only the truth. And you will tell no one of what you saw, if you intended to then you would have already. But I do feel your knowledge of me puts me at a disadvantage. Dine with me this evening?”

She reared back, sooty lashes fluttering as she blinked in confusion. “What..?”

“I simply wish to know you better. I feel two years of avoidance is long enough, would you not agree?”

She softened, her brow furrowing momentarily, as she twisted the emerald ring upon her index finger. “Fine,” she finally conceded.

“Excellent,” Gwayne smiled softly, pausing as he turned towards the door to look back at her, “and ensure you get changed first, that gown makes you look as though you belong in the scullery. Reds and golds suit you best.”

Lia did get changed and, despite the offence she had taken to Gwayne’s criticism of her dress, she reluctantly accepted that he was right. The pale grey of her previous attire had made her appear pallid and sickly, clashing with the colour of her eyes. The crimson satin dress she now wore, with its golden thread trim and scalloped neckline, brought out the subtle blush in her cheeks, deepened the hue of her dark curls, and made her eyes appear brighter. As she had entered his quarters that evening, his gaze had raked over her appreciatively, though she could tell it was the dress he was admiring and not what it encased; she had seen both Alicent and Rhaenyra look at her in a similar way, though unlike her friends, she doubted the next time she reached into her armoire for the same gown she would find that Gwayne had ‘borrowed’ it.

Lia discovered that it was pleasant to be in the presence of a man and not feel ogled. She enjoyed the attention that Alyn lavished upon her, but it grew tiresome to never truly feel listened to—not that the stablehand provided much in the way of intellectual stimulation in the first place. Gwayne treated her as a conversational equal, gazing at her over the rim of his wine cup and genuinely concentrating on her words, instead of wondering how soon he could bed her. It was refreshing to have someone she could speak so freely with;the only person who she possessed such a relationship with was Rhaenyra, and she had not seen her since she had begun her tour of the realm in search of a husband. Marybel, while sharp tongued, was guarded in speaking about her own personal affairs, only offering brutal honesty on the occasions when Lia confided in her. Her ability to speak her mind with Alicent had been snuffed out when she had moved to Oldtown. Only able to communicate via raven, Lia knew she could not put anything into her letters that she would not mind Otto being privy to. She had never anticipated finding an unlikely friend and confidant in the queen’s elder brother.

The dinner had begun awkwardly, with Gwayne and Lia sitting at either end of the dining table in the solar of Gwayne’s apartments. A modest, yet luxurious spread of dishes had been laid out before them: almond crusted sturgeon, pigeon pie and stewed plums. They had each picked at their food, neither one quite knowing what to say. However, as the carafe of spiced Arbor gold had dulled Lia’s tongue to the delicate flavours of the food, it had also loosened it considerably, and it appeared to do the same for her dinner companion. Lia divulged more information about herself, and Gwayne became bolder in his line of questioning, rosy cheeked and glassy eyed as he had pried indelicately into the nature of her relationship with Alyn. She had concealed nothing from him as she relayed the details of how her trysts with the stablehand had begun.She explained that while she found the physical aspect of their coupling to be satisfactory, she found her lover lacking in every other respect. Gwayne’s stare, while still the same icy shade as his mother’s, was no longer unreadable to her. There was a warmth there, a sense that now she knew his true nature, he no longer felt he had to hide from her and, in turn, she allowed her own walls to crumble, relaxing into her chair as she tapped her fingertips against her wine cup. Gwayne listened to her intently, tilting his head in such a way that in the low light of the candles he looked so much like his father that it stole her breath away, making her chest feel uncomfortably tight.

“So, what of you and Leyton?” she asked, as he reached over to refill both her cup and then his.

He smiled softly as he leaned back in his seat, his gaze fixed upon his wine before he slowly lifted it to meet hers. “He is the only person I have ever loved.”

Lia envied the confidence with which Gwayne spoke. She had never had such feelings for anyone, at least not ones she could be certain of. She pushed away her plate so that she could rest her elbows upon the table as she propped her chin upon her hands. “And is he the only man you’ve ever been with?”

He shook his head, swallowing his wine as he set his cup back down. “No. My days of serving as a squire were…immersive. But Leyton is the only man I wish to be with now.”

She hummed in acknowledgement, wondering out of all of the questions her mind raced with, which she should ask next. “So, have women ever appealed to you?” was the one she finally settled on.

Gwayne pursed his lips, considering her question a moment as he drummed his fingers upon the tabletop. “I suppose not,” he admitted, “but that’s not to say I cannot see the appeal. As I sit here now, I observe that you are beautiful, but it does not stir the same feelings in me that I have when I see a beautiful man. Does that make sense?”

Lia nodded, sipping her wine to disguise the way she beamed pridefully at the compliment she had plucked from his confession. “Have you ever been with a woman before then?”

He raised his eyebrows momentarily, before shaking his head. “No. I had the opportunity to.During my training, there were boys who would sneak off to the pleasure houses. It just never occurred to me to accompany them. I have never lain with a woman, but perhaps it is time I became acquainted with the act.”

Lia blinked, uncertain as to whether she had misheard him. “I beg your pardon?”

Gwayne shrugged, and Lia could see in the movement of it that he was in his cups, no longer as rigid in his posture as he usually was. Not that she had a right to judge, her own mind felt thick with the effects of the wine. “If we are to be married, then that union will be expected to be fruitful. It would be helpful for us to see if that is an act that is even possible for us, considering my lack of experience…and…well, yearning to do so.”

She laughed, an attempt to break the tension, hoping that he would smile back and tell her it was all a jest. When he did not, her eyes widened as she stared at him in disbelief. “Are you suggesting we lay together? That’s wildly inappropriate.”

“Inappropriate?” he scoffed. “Is it not the stablehand that warms your bed most nights? Surely coupling with your betrothed would be seen as a significant improvement.”

Lia crossed her arms across her chest, sitting back in her chair, as annoyance prickled its way across her flesh. “I will not be made an experiment of.”

“This is not for my own gratification,” he told her with a sigh. “Surely it is better for us to know if…if we can before we are married?”

He had a point, she supposed. The last thing Lia wanted was to be trapped in a marriage with a man who could not bear to touch her. Even if she did not love her husband, it would trample her pride to dust to know she could not inspire even the basest of urges in him. “You are right,” she admitted grudgingly. “So what do you propose?”

“We will try tonight,” he announced, standing so abruptly that it tipped his chair over backwards, “it would be unavailing for us to delay any longer.”

Lia wanted to protest, to tell him it was too sudden, too much, however, she allowed both the Arbor gold and her curiosity to guide her, and accepted Gwayne’s hand as he offered it to her.

Not even wine could be relied upon;its merciful oblivion had abandoned Lia, leaving her to face the cold reality of how humiliating her current predicament was. She lay naked, sprawled across Gwayne’s bed, while he knelt before her in a similar state of undress. He was exquisite to look upon; the years he had served as a knight had sculpted his body to proportions she had only seen replicated in statues, even his alabaster skin looked like marble. It was not that that troubled her, however.It was what hung beneath the thatch of russet hair that lay between his thighs. When Alyn took her to bed, his manhood was rigid, jutting proudly from his body as he crowded into her space. She had never gazed upon a man who was not ready to perform, but she knew as her eyes drifted to Gwayne’s appendage that carnal pleasure was the furthest thing from his mind. It was a sad sight to look upon, hanging there limp and lifeless. It almost made her want to laugh, but she held it back, sensing her mockery would not aid their situation.

“Will…will it do anything?” she asked, propping herself up on her elbow.

Gwayne frowned, looking down at himself and then at her. “You need to give me a moment. This is uncharted territory for me.”

They had undressed with their backs to each other before climbing awkwardly onto the bed. They had not kissed, had not even touched. There was no lust in Gwayne’s eyes as he had looked over her. In fact the way his eyes had widened momentarily as his gaze settled upon what lay between her thighs made Lia want to curl in on herself in embarrassment. To be looked upon with horror did nothing to stoke the flames of her own desire, she felt she would sooner rut against the mattress.

He reached out, giving the soft mound of her breast an experimental squeeze, which made Lia hiss through her teeth at the sudden jolt of pain. “Careful,” she scolded, swatting his hand away, “you are not grasping the hilt of a sword!”

“Forgive me”, he murmured, cheeks turning crimson, “we ought to begin more simply. Perhaps a kiss?”

His lips were chaste against her own, their mouths not slotting together in a way that made any sense to her as they attempted to deepen the gesture, and Gwayne pulled away with a frustrated huff, raking a hand through his auburn hair as he settled back upon his haunches.

“I am sorry,” Lia offered, sitting up, clutching the bedsheets against her bare chest.

“It is not you,” Gwayne sighed, hanging his head as his shoulders slumped in defeat. “It is me, my failing.”

“It is not a failing,” Lia urged, reaching for his hand and squeezing it gently, “it is simply who you are, and I am glad of it, glad to know you better now.”

Gwayne smiled softly, choking out a soft “thank you” as he lifted his eyes to meet hers, so filled with sadness that it made her want to cry. It was not fair, none of it was, and if she could make it better for him she would.

“Now put your breeches back on,” she quipped, offering him a wolfish grin to lighten the mood, “your soft cock is unsightly.”

The crisp night air was refreshingly welcome against Lia’s skin as they sat upon the balcony of Gwayne’s chambers. The pair of them occupied a small wooden bench. Lia had slipped on Gwayne’s white linen undershirt, the hem of it skimming the tops of her thighs as her feet rested upon his lap. He had looked surprised when she had lifted her legs to place them on him, but had not pushed them away, instead he affectionately encircled one of her ankles with his hand, absentmindedly stroking the inside of it with his thumb. He wore only his breeches as the two of them looked up at the night sky, drinking what remained of the wine from their earlier dinner.

“I suppose that settles the matter of us getting married then,” she said wistfully, glancing over at him.

“We still could,” he suggested, turning his head to look at her, “we get along well, a marriage for convenience is not such a bad thing.”

“It is not what I want though,” she insisted, drinking deeply as she turned her attention to the stars that glittered like jewels in the inky black sky.

Gwayne exhaled deeply, giving her ankle a gentle squeeze. “My father will be furious.”

“Hightower fury means nothing to me,” she shrugged, hating the way her heart raced at the mention of Otto.

“You have spent too much time around Targaryens,” he smirked. “So it is a love match you long for?”

Lia clicked her tongue, considering his words, before nodding. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

“Well, it is not the stablehand who has won your heart, that much is clear. So who has the indomitable Lia Costayne set her sights upon, hm?” Gwayne grinned as he teased her, making her chuckle softly.

“No one,” she said, though the words felt cumbersome and untrue upon her tongue.

“A mendacious statement,” he shot back. “Tell me the truth of it. Is it your pretty princess who sends your heart aflutter?”

The question forced the laughter from Lia’s lungs like a punch to the gut. She loved Rhaenyra, deeply, but was not in love with her. They had never done more than kiss, and Lia could never imagine the princess in any sort of romantic dalliance where she viewed the object of her desire as anything more than her plaything. “Ridiculous,” she breathed, as her laughter subsided, “Rhaenyra is my friend.”

Gwayne stared at her, looking pensive for a moment, his pale eyes soft, before he shoved her legs unceremoniously from his lap. “Come, the night is young, and there is fun yet to be had.”

Though their two year betrothal had not led to a marriage, it had blossomed into a friendship – slow to take root, but once it had, it bloomed fast and fierce. Gwayne introduced Lia to a world outside the walls of the Hightower, showing her the myriad of inns and dens that were nestled upon narrow side streets in Oldtown. People paid them no mind wherever they went, either not knowing who they were, or if they did then they simply did not care.

By day, Lia played the part of the dutiful wife to be, watching Gwayne spar in the training yard and taking walks along the coastal paths. By night, she would slip out, accompanied by Gwayne and Leyton to visit rowdy ale houses and pleasure dens, where they would sample fine wines and strong ales, watch the erotic displays performed by silk clad dancers from the Free Cities and laugh until their throats were hoarse. Gwayne was skilled at playing the lute, and had begun to teach Lia. To her amazement, she found she was rather good, now able to play almost all of ‘Six Maids in a Pool’ without making any mistakes. Leyton had an angelic voice for singing, and she enjoyed harmonising with him, finding that their voices complimented each other nicely.

Over the two months that followed, the ache of Rhaenyra’s absence, of missing her life in King’s Landing became easier to bear with Gwayne and Leyton to lean upon, and it roused far less suspicion from Hobert now that the two were spending more time together. Though the question of when they would actually marry still remained, they were still able to continue to rely upon the excuse of Septon Rowan having fallen ill—his recovery had been mercifully slow. There was still a longing inside of Lia, however, it burrowed behind her ribs, always just out of reach, and now amount of wine, merriment or debauchery could quite sate it.

That same longing was almost as painful as the ache in her skull as she awoke, following a night in a pillow den with Gwayne, Leyton, and Alyn—they had even managed to convince Marybel to come along—and the five of them had delighted in watching scantily clad men and women breathe fire and gyrate for their collective enjoyment. Though the Dornish red had been juicy and sweet the previous evening, it had not aged well come the morning, leaving a foul and sour taste upon her tongue that left her feeling nauseated. She grimaced at the sunlight that pierced like a dagger through the gap in the curtains, grousing to herself as she disentangled from the heavy limbs of Alyn, who remained sound asleep, snoring so loudly it made Lia feel as though her head would burst. He was still a frequent visitor to her bed, though she found less pleasure in it lately, realising she did not crave his intimacy quite so intensely now that her loneliness was abated. She did not have the heart to tell him she was no longer interested though, so continued to endure him for the sake of not having to watch his honey coloured eyes grow sad as she told him he bored her. She would work out a way to gracefully end things eventually, but today was not that day, not when she felt as though she clung by her fingernails to the bridge between life and death.

Cursed Dornish wine.

She slipped from her chambers, making her way down the stone spiral staircase to the floor below as quietly as she could, and entered the room that she had only dared to go into twice since arriving at The Hightower—Otto’s study. It was a dark room, every bit as foreboding as the man it belonged to. Its only source of light was a small circular window set high up into the wall, which cast a rounded sunbeam against the floor to ceiling bookshelf at the far end of the space. The furniture was all elegantly carved walnut, the deep hue of the wood further adding to the absence of light. A large writing desk took pride of place in the centre of the room, behind it a high backed armchair upholstered with plush forest green velvet. It was here that she curled up, breathing in the comforting, familiar scent of sandalwood just as she had done on the day she had arrived in Oldtown, and the morning that she had discovered Gwayne and Leyton together in the armory. She kept her visits infrequent, lest the smell she loved so dearly faded away, but this morning with her heart aching and her head pounding, she felt she needed the indulgence, and she allowed her eyes to slip closed, lulled back to sleep as the niggle behind her ribs finally allowed her peace.

She was woken abruptly by a firm hand shaking her shoulder, startling her from her slumber.

“Get up,” Marybel commanded sternly, as Lia blinked slowly up at her, staring uselessly at her with bleary vision. “‘Tis the hour of the lion, you slept past breakfast and I have been looking everywhere for you.”

“Mmph…well, now you have found me,” she murmured sleepily, rubbing at her eyes. “How are you so fresh this morning? I feel like death.”

“It is the afternoon, and I drank only ale last night,” Marybel replied haughtily, crossing her arms as she stood up straight.

Lia stretched languidly, lifting her arms high above her head, as she unfurled her legs from beneath her, pushing them out until they were straight beneath the desk. “Your vivacity sickens me.”

Her handmaiden rolled her light brown eyes. “What are you doing in here?”

“I was sleeping, until you woke me up,” Lia huffed, tucking her legs back beneath herself as Marybel loomed over her, the delicate petals that were her lips downturned in obvious displeasure.

Marybel tutted. “Yes, but why?”

Lia shrugged, keeping her attention fixed upon one of her curls as she twirled it around her finger. “Your brother snores rather loudly…and…and it is comforting in here,” she finally admitted.

“Comforting, hmm,” her handmaiden mused thoughtfully, eyeing her with suspicion. “You will find quill and parchment in that top drawer. I shall be back to fetch you for your bath in an hour.”

Lia reared back in confusion, her head bumping the backrest of the armchair as her brow furrowed. “What? Quill and parchment? For what?”

“I think it is high time you stopped sulking about the castle like a lovesick child,” Marybel told her flatly, looking over her shoulder at her as she headed towards the door. “yYou will write to Otto, or I shall do so on your behalf.”

Lia watched, her jaw agape, as Marybel departed, closing the door behind her with a soft click of the latch. It was not unlike her to be so forthright, but this shocked even Lia. She knew she could have her handmaiden relieved of her position for taking such a tone with her, but she would not, for the simple reason that there was a small part of her she kept buried beneath thick denial that knew Marybel was right. She held her head in her hands, groaned loudly in frustration, then pulled open the desk drawer, before she had the opportunity to give it a second thought and change her mind.

Otto,

It has been more than two years since we last spoke and, truthfully, I do not know where to begin. Please forgive my silence, my words were withheld in anger, but I realise that in holding onto those feelings I have served only to deprive myself of family. I read all of your letters, I promise. I just did not have the heart to reply.

I see my mother, father and brothers often now that I am closer to the Whispering Sound, but having been raised at court I have grown to view you as my guardian more than my own father could ever be. I felt that you sent me away as a punishment, but my life here in Oldtown is a pleasant and comfortable one, and I realise that what you did was a gesture of kindness. I only wish that that gesture did not keep me so far from both you and Alicent.

I hope that serving as the king’s Hand is still a position that keeps you busy and fulfilled. I am sure the Keep is much easier to manage without my presence. Perhaps if your duties allow it, you could plan a visit. I know Gwayne would like to see you, and Hobert and Ormund too…and I suppose I would too.

I have used the wax stamp you gifted me for my fifteenth name day, do you like it?

Please do not be too cross with me when you write back. I will try to be more forthcoming with my letters from now on.

With love,

Lia.”

Otto read the letter once, twice, three times, his eyes softening with each pass of ‘with love’. “Sweet girl,” he muttered softly to himself, “I could never be cross with you.”

Lia’s voice resounded in his mind as he read her words, imagining the way her blue eyes sparkled with mischief as she looked up at him, that roguish smirk of hers tugging at the corner of her mouth. The Keep was not easier to manage without her. It had been a long time since either Gwayne or Alicent were infants, and he had not missed the ceaseless squawking that accompanied the presence of babes. Each time he visited his daughter’s chambers, he departed with a headache, the cries and shrieks of both Aegon and Helaena an annoyance he could do without. He loved his grandchildren dearly, but the duties of Hand of the King were not suited to child rearing. He was constantly reminded of Lia’s absence—going to her chambers when Aegon had irritated him by smearing his sticky hands upon his doublet, only to find she was not there. He sought her out in the alcoves of every corridor as he made his way to and from meetings of the small council, only to feel his shoulders sag in disappointed realisation as he remembered where she actually was.

As her silence had stretched on over the last two years, his only news of her told secondhand through the letters that Alicent received, he had begun to wonder if he had made a mistake in sending her away. Perhaps she would have been better off if he had kept her in King’s Landing. As much as the continued delay of her nuptials to Gwayne irked him, he knew that Lia would not put off such an obligation without just cause. The problem was that Otto did not know precisely what that was;Lia could be vengeful when provoked, but she would not refuse to marry Gwayne over simple annoyance at having been sent to live in Oldtown.

Otto had felt his chest swell when he had entered his chambers to find her missive upon his desk, the sight of the golden wax stamp with both its flame and chalice making his heart beat faster. He had not been expecting to hear from her, but her letter could not have come at a better time; it was a welcome balm to the inner turmoil of the news he would have to soon deliver to the King.

Dawnbreak had brought news to him of Rhaenyra having been spotted the previous evening cavorting in a pleasure house with her uncle, Daemon. It was insult enough that Viserys had not removed her as heir now that he had a son.However, to keep her instated as such when she was openly fornicating in full view of the public eye was a travesty that he would not allow to pass in silence. Daemon’s presence in King’s Landing had created a tense atmosphere with the Keep.He had returned, full of apologies, but Otto knew better than to take them at face value. It would only be a matter of time before he revealed his true purpose for coming back, and it seemed he had already—attempting to grasp at the throne by latching onto his niece.

Otto lifted Lia’s letter to his nose, breathing in the delicate scent of vanilla and honeysuckle that clung to the page. He folded the parchment, tucking it away in the inside pocket of his doublet, as though the mere presence of her words would steel him against the unsavoury news he was burdened with delivering. He then stood and slowly made his way towards the King’s apartments.

“My dearest Lia,

Please forgive the time I have allowed to pass between this letter and my last. It has been a busy time here, and with two children tugging at my skirts, I struggle to find a moment to sit down and put quill to parchment, though you are never far from my thoughts.

How is Gwayne? It gladdens my heart to know that the two of you are spending more time together. I hope that means that a date will soon be set for your wedding. You will make such a beautiful bride.

Helaena recently had her first birthday. She is a quiet child and I worry for her.My touch does not seem to comfort her, on the contrary, it makes her cries louder. It is unfortunate, as Aegon is now at an age where he longs to grasp everything, so keeping him away from his sister is a constant battle. They are both rosy cheeked and healthy though, and I am proud of them.

Rhaenyra has returned already from her tour of the kingdom, and the king is not best pleased about it. Rhaenyra claims she did not like any of the suitors that were put before her, and decided to return home after trouble broke out between the Brackens and Blackwoods. I do not know who she will marry now.

Daemon has returned from the Stepstones. The king is happy to have him back, and Rhaenyra too. I wish you were here, Lia. I miss you terribly. Please write to me soon with some happy news.

Your friend, always,

Alicent.”

Lia frowned as her eyes moved over Alicent’s elegant handwriting. The queen did not sound herself—there was an issue that she was skirting around, not making mention of, for fear of who would read it. She now knew how her friend must feel when she was purposefully vague to her in her own letters, and she did not like it. She wished she was there too, not only because she missed Alicent terribly, but also because she would then be privy to the gossip she was so clearly missing out on.

It came as no surprise to Lia that Rhaenyra had abandoned her search for a husband. Spoiled as she was, the princess had never been one to endure situations she did not enjoy if she did not have to. She could only begin to imagine the spotty faced boys and wrinkled old men that had vied for her hand, and giggled to herself as she imagined the look of disgust upon Rhaenyra’s face.

Lia pondered whether the unease within the Red Keep was based around Viserys’ anger at Rhaenyra having squandered her opportunity to find a husband, or if the ill feeling lay with Daemon’s unceremonious return. He had not departed on good terms prior to the war in the Stepstones, so she wondered what must have transpired for the king to not have sent his brother straight back out of the city gates. What bothered her most, however, was that Rhaenyra had returned to the capital and not once made the effort to visit or even write to her. Lia huffed in annoyance, tossing Alicent’s letter onto the table beside the chaise, before reclining back against its cushions.

“Too preoccupied with her brute of an uncle to bother with me,” she muttered to herself.

Despite her sullen words, there was a part of Lia that was curious if the years had been kind to Daemon. He had a sort of unusual handsomeness to him that she had only ever seen in people of Valyrian heritage. He was strange to look at, but the square cut of his jaw and wide set of his eyes held an allure, especially when combined with the majesty of his tourney helm. She still remembered the bitter jealousy she had felt at Baelon’s tourney when Daemon had asked for Alicent’s favour instead of hers. She doubted he would be so eager for it now that she was married to his brother and had birthed children that pushed him further down the line of succession.

She turned her head against the cushion, pointing her gaze towards the balcony windows, and as if summoned into being by the mere thought of her, Lia saw the distant but still great, golden bulk of Syrax glide gently over the horizon, coming to land on her usual perch upon the coast. Lia moved quickly from the chaise, excitement fluttering in her stomach like butterflies as she scrambled to find shoes and a warm cloak. She had so much to tell Rhaenyra, and just as many questions to ask.

“I could not bear it a moment longer, Lia,” Rhaenyra confessed, as the coastal winds whipped her long silver hair about her head as they walked arm in arm along the clifftop path. “There were men even older than my father, and boys…children!”

Linking arms with her friend after months apart felt like coming home, as though a missing piece of her had reattached itself. Rhaenyra had missed this, the simple act of being in Lia’s presence, of being able to talk to her, to say the things she would never be able to reveal to her father or Alicent. She had thought of Lia when she had been presented with the awful array of suitors. She had longed for her company when she had felt lonely and out of place in her home, suffocating beneath the weight of her father’s disappointment and Alicent’s gentle disapproval. It was not until the events that transpired with Daemon, then Criston, and her subsequent betrothal to Laenor that Rhaenyra felt as though if she did not see Lia at once, to unburden herself of the feelings she had to keep locked away, to herself, she would implode beneath the weight of it all. It was that that had driven her spontaneous decision to mount up on Syrax and fly to Oldtown.

“So, who will you marry now? I expect your father is angry with you,” Lia commented, brushing an errant curl away from her forehead.

“He was angry, and as such he has chosen a match for me,” she admitted, choosing her words carefully.

“Well, go on then,” Lia said excitedly, coming to a stop and taking Rhaenyra’s leather clad forearms in her hands as she turned to face her, “do not keep me in suspense. Who is it?!”

Rhaenyra knew her answer would be anticlimactic. Laenor Velaryon was not an exciting marriage prospect by any means, and she could see from the way that Lia’s face fell as she gave her answer that her friend’s feelings mirrored her own. “It is a match to unite the realm’s two most powerful houses, nothing more,” she explained with a dismissive wave of her hand, turning and slotting her arm back through Lia’s as they continued to walk. “So what of your wedding to Gwayne?” she asked, glancing over at the slow rolling waves of the sea, “I have yet to receive my invitation.”

“There will be no wedding,” Lia explained. “We are not getting married.”

“Why not? I thought you were going to make the effort to get to know him. Do you have nothing in common?” Rhaenyra asked, turning her attention towards Lia.

“‘Tis rather a matter of one thing we have in common that we should not,” Lia explained, her lips drawing into a smirk.

Ordinarily, Rhaenyra would press the issue, insist that Lia explain herself, but she had come here to speak of her own news, and had not yet divulged even half of what she intended to say, so selfishly, she changed the subject back to herself. “I allowed Criston to bed me,” she blurted, so suddenly that she did not even realise at first that Lia had begun to laugh.

The relief that settled upon her at finally having told someone made her feel as though she would float away on the sea breeze, weightless as she was for having shared her secret. She found herself grinning as she watched Lia toss her head back, her hair cascading down her back as she giggled at her revelation. She heard the gentle grumble of Syrax in the distance, as though her beloved mount shared in her sense of comfort.

“It is about time,” Lia teased, bumping her shoulder with her own. “That man has fawned over you from the moment he first laid eyes upon you. So, tell me all about it, and be sure to spare no detail.”

Rhaenyra took a deep breath, preparing to confess to the full extent of her misdeeds. “Well, Daemon and I went out in Flea Bottom, and we visited a pleasure house–”

“You went with your uncle to a pleasure house?!” Lia interrupted, stopping once more and grasping the princess by the shoulders. “‘Nyra, what did you do?”

“Nothing, I…” she sighed, trailing off. She saw none of the disappointed accusation that had lingered upon Alicent’s face when they had had a similar conversation. Lia’s blue eyes sparkled with curiosity and her grin was one of excitement, so Rhaenyra relented, deciding to tell the truth. “Nothing really happened…I mean we were going to, but then he left me, and then…”

“Then you tripped and fell into Criston’s bed?” Lia asked with a raise of her eyebrow, and Rhaenyra could not hold back her own laughter as she swatted playfully at her friend’s arm.

“I have missed you,” Rhaenyra admitted softly, her eyes lifting to meet Lia’s as she took her hands in hers.

“You need not have,” Lia replied, cocking her head, “by all accounts, you have been home for some time.”

She rolled her eyes at the subtle barb of the remark, rubbing her thumbs across the rings upon Lia’s fingers. “There were matters that needed to be resolved first. I could not leave while that vulture still perched upon my father’s shoulder, dripping poison into his ear.”

Lia’s brow furrowed in confusion, her eyes narrowing as she stared at her. “What do you mean?”

“Otto Hightower,” Rhaenyra spat the name as though it left a bitter taste in her mouth. “He told my father about Daemon and I visiting the pleasure house together.”

“So?” Lia shrugged, “it was the truth.”

She scoffed, dropping her hands back at her sides, offended by her friend’s lack of support. She had expected her to be on her side in this. It was clear she did not understand the full extent of the matter. “My succession is not safe as long as that scheming, self serving man is my father’s hand. He means to undermine me, to supplant me as heir with Aegon.”

“Do you really believe that Alicent would allow her son to be named heir instead of you?” Lia argued, “she loves you, Rhaenyra, she would never allow that.”

Rhaenyra’s patience was wearing thin, she was tired of this discussion, wishing only to return to the laughter they had shared just moments before. “It does not matter now,” she uttered irritably, “what is done is done.”

Lia raised her chin slightly, eyeing her with suspicion. “Rhaenyra, what did you do?”

“I told my father I would not marry Laenor unless he removed Otto as his hand,” she explained, hoping that would put an end to it.

She watched as her friend gasped, stepping back from her as her eyes widened in horror. “Do you have any idea of what you have done?!”

Rhaenyra hated the anger she saw in Lia’s face, she longed to tell her how ugly it made her look, just so that she would smile at her once more, but as she reached for her, she snatched her hand away. “Lia, please, I came here because I wanted to confide in you about Criston, can we not just–”

“I do not care if you have bedded the entire fucking kingsguard,” Lia spat, her nostrils flared in fury, “it is not that that I take issue with.”

“Then what is it?” Rhaenyra shouted back, her own rage simmering beneath the surface of her skin. She heard Syrax the angry growl of her dragon echo along the coastline, mimicking her displeasure. “I did what I had to do to protect myself. I thought you of all people would understand.”

“Why on earth would I understand?!”

“Because you bed whomever you choose, Lia, and perhaps I just wanted the same for myself,” Rhaenyra could feel the way her lashline burned with unshed tears and she hated it, swiping angrily at her face with the back of her hand, as if the simple act would be enough hold them at bay.

“My being here is not a choice,” Lia’s own voice trembled as she swallowed back tears of her own, “but you did have a choice, Rhaenyra, and you squandered it. Does it ever occur to you that you are freely given what others must toil for? All you had to do was choose a husband, and your claim to the throne would have been safe. Does it not matter to you that Otto’s grievance with you will deepen, that he will be more determined now than ever to see his own blood upon the throne? You have created your own admission of guilt by pressing for his dismissal.”

“It does not matter to me what anyone else thinks,” Rhaenyra said softly, the solitary tear that ran down her cheek was rapidly turned cold by the bite of the sea breeze.

“No, it never has to you,” Lia said sadly. “If only we could all live without such consequence.”

“Lia, please…” she whispered tearfully, swallowing around the lump in her throat. Why could she not understand? She had to do what she had done, she had no choice.

Lia only shook her head, sniffling quietly. “Have you given any thought to what will happen when Otto returns here? Of course you have not. Do you think you will still be able to visit? Go home, Rhaenyra. I think that would be best for both of us.”

Rhaenyra stood frozen to the spot, weeping openly as she watched Lia retreat from her. Her cries were carried away on the wind, drowned out by the crashing of the waves and the gentle lowing of Syrax in the distance. Watching the only person in the world who could have understood her not only refuse to, but also walk away, brought with it the sobering realisation of her reality shattering down around her. Rhaenyra was utterly alone. Through her own actions she had isolated herself from everyone she cared about, and suddenly her perceived victory against Ser Hightower no longer felt quite so triumphant.

Lia’s eyes were puffy from crying as she lay prone upon her bed, her cheek pressed tightly against her pillow. She had sobbed all the way back to The Hightower, shutting herself away in her bedchamber the moment she had returned. She had hated dismissing Rhaenyra like that, but felt she had no other choice.

She was not cross with her for having cavorted with her uncle, strange as it was, and she did not care that she had bedded Criston. What she despised was that Rhaenyra fought to keep a responsibility for which she had no respect. Lia was not foolish, she knew that those in positions of power enjoyed their vices, but they did not flaunt them so openly, or seek to discredit those who discovered them.

Her heart ached for Alicent, and now her letter made so much more sense. The poor girl was alone in that castle, the only family she had had there was now cast out for the simple act of attempting to protect the dignity of the crown. Rhaenyra had been wrong to insist upon Otto’s removal, and she seethed at the spoiled entitlement that had led her to believe she was right to make such a demand, and the spinelessness of Viserys to honour it.

Lia knew she should dread the return of Otto to Oldtown, that life was about to become much stricter for her and Gwayne, and that the pressure of marriage would be impressed upon them more keenly with him in such close proximity to them both. Truthfully, however, her heart raced at the thought of being reunited with him. She had not seen him in almost three years, and she wondered if his hazel eyes would still regard her with the same softness, if he still bristled and glowered in the same manner when he was annoyed. She smiled at the thought. Angry as she was at Rhaenyra’s carelessness, at least it meant she would be enveloped once more in the familiar scent of sandalwood, without fear that she would wear it away.

The staccato rapping of Gwayne’s knuckles against her door startled her from her reverie and she wiped her eyes, sitting up against the headboard before calling out “come” to him.

He appeared solemn as he entered her chambers, slowly approaching her bed before perching on the edge of it. “I have news,” he told her, plucking a roll of parchment from his pocket. “I fear you are not going to like it.”

Gods, more bad news, that was the very last thing she needed.

“Well?” she asked, “what is it?”

“My father, he is–”

“Coming home,” she finished for him, “yes, I know.”

Gwayne frowned, tucking the note away once more. “How do you know?”

“Rhaenyra told me,” she replied, twisting the emerald ring upon her index finger anxiously, as she remembered how she had told her to leave.

“Is she here?” Gwayne asked, glancing quickly around the room, then back at Lia.

“No, I made her leave.”

“Why?” Gwayne asked, shifting closer to her as he searched her face for answers.

“I cannot tell you,” she sighed.

Secrecy was something they would have to grow accustomed to once again. There was much and more they would no longer be able to freely discuss once Otto returned.

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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 7 months ago

Text

Fire on the Mountain - Chapter One: Prologue

Pairing: Otto Hightower (House of the Dragon) x OFC (Lia Costayne) Warnings: Canon typical death and mild angst. Word count: ~8.4k

Chapter summary: Lia suffers bitter disappointment at the king's tourney, and finds herself uncertain of her future in the wake of an unexpected shift in dynamic.

Author's note: Header by @vampire-exgirlfriend who also beta read this for me - this story would be nothing without you. Thank you for the care and attention you have put in both myself and my writing. I love you.

The wheels of the carriage squeaked and rattled over the bumpy roads of King’s Landing, accompanied by the thumping of the horses’ hooves that pulled them towards their destination. Lia shifted uncomfortably, repositioning against the plush cushions that she sat upon. It was not the instability of their short journey towards the Dragonpit that irked her, however.

Click. Click. Click.

She cast her gaze down towards Alicent’s fingers, the sound of her nails moving against her skin was audible even over the din of the wheelhouse. The flesh was red, raw and bloodied, and Lia had to force herself to suppress the way her lips attempted to curl in disgust, instead leaning forward to place her own hand over top of Alicent’s, squeezing gently, a comforting gesture that halted her friend’s nervous habit.

Alicent smiled softly at her, but Lia could tell from the way she lowered her eyes that she was embarrassed at having been caught outwardly expressing her anxiety. Lia could not help but pity her, she had plenty to feel worried about herself, but had never allowed it to manifest itself in such an unseemly manner. House Costayne was sworn to the Hightowers, and so it was no question that Lia, youngest daughter of Lord Owen Costyane, would serve as a companion to Lady Alicent, the young daughter of the Hand of the King. Whisked away from the Whispering Sound at the age of six, the two years in Oldtown had been extraordinary—the largest port in the Reach, full of bustling excitement and things to see, all temptations to a precocious and formerly sheltered little girl. When King Viserys took the throne, Lord Otto called his daughter to the capital to be a companion to the young princess and of course, Lia joined as part of Alicent's household.

At the age of fourteen, she had spent more of her life away from her family than with them. They were leagues away, and the memory of the castle in which she was born was but a distant memory. The silver chalice and black rose that adorned the Costayne House sigil felt more tangible to her than the faces of either her mother or father.

She could not pretend that she had suffered in their absence though; she had had every luxury she could ever desire at her disposal, and though her family were far away, at least they still lived. Alicent had suffered through the loss of her mother, and had to keep her composure through all of it. The royal court was no place for the weeping and wailing of a young girl. Lia supposed that if she had been forced to endure that, then she would likely have taken to picking her nails bloody too.

The death of Alyrie Florent had brought Lia and Alicent closer together, and with it their shared bond with Princess Rhaenyra had blossomed too. Lia helped to bring Alicent out of her shell, allowing her an outlet for behaviours that were otherwise considered unseemly for a young lady at court; they gossiped, laughed loudly, and did so with the unspoken bond of secrecy that runs like an invisible thread through the fabric of friendship. Alicent had a calming influence on both Lia and Rhaenyra, serving as the voice of reason that helped to keep them out of trouble–most of the time. Oftentimes, it would take but a look from Alicent for both girls to know they had gone too far, a trait she had doubtless inherited from her father. It had taken just a simple widening of those big brown eyes to halt Lia and Rhaenyra’s ascent up through the branches of the Heart Tree in the Godswood; a foolish attempt to gain a vantage point in order to spy through the higher windows of the Red Keep, that would likely have resulted in broken limbs. Rhaenyra shared Alicent’s knowledge of propriety, though not her love of it, and the wild, adventurous side of her played well with Lia’s, her status as The Realm’s Delight allowing them a margin more leniency than most would be afforded.

The three girls were inseparable, yet in the unwavering foundations of their bond, Lia had never felt more uncertain about her own future. Otto clearly had plans for Alicent, and Rhaenyra’s comfort was secured in her position as the King’s daughter, however, no such fate awaited Lia. She was every bit the spare part, aware of the fact that her destiny is one she will have to build on her own. As such, she delights in being Otto’s confidant, sharing news of the movements of Rhaenyra and Alicent in exchange for his favour. It had begun innocently enough, a fatherly figure taking an interest where the patriarch of her own family was unable to. She had taken pride in recounting her lessons to him, beaming up at him with girlish exuberance as he had listened carefully, amusement glittering in his eyes. It had never occurred to her that he had any ulterior motive, and so the unspoken vow of secrecy she afforded Alicent slipped in front of her father, allowing him to be privy to the gossip they indulged in and the adventures that they embarked upon with Rhaenyra within the walls of the Red Keep. As Lia had grown older, she had started to suspect that Otto’s questions served a deeper purpose than simple interest, however, it did not deter her; acting as a confidant to the King’s Hand would not be without its advantages. She hoped that when the time was right, the loyalty of both her and her family would not be forgotten.

The wheelhouse pulled to a shuddering stop just outside of the Dragonpit, and Lia moved to push the door open, stopping as they were plunged into sudden darkness. A forceful gust of air shook the carriage. They had arrived just in time for Rhaenyra’s return on Syrax. Lia and Alicent hovered apprehensively by the door, waiting until they heard their friend’s dragon thump heavily against the earth, before tentatively peeking out. Lia was brave enough to descend the small set of wooden steps to the ground below, while Alicent opted to remain in the safety of the wheelhouse, standing in its doorway.

She could not help but feel envious of Rhaenyra, watching as she slid gracefully from the back of her golden dragon, pulling her riding gloves off with her teeth, staring up at the great beast in admiration as it was coaxed back to the pit by the dragon keepers. Lia longed for the sense of adventure and freedom that the princess experienced high above the clouds of King’s Landing, the walls of the Red Keep felt as much a cage as they were an extravagance at times.

Though as Rhaenyra drew closer, the sulfurous stench of dragon radiating from her leathers, Lia wrinkled her nose in repulsion, deciding that if she were to experience freedom then she certainly had no desire for it to be atop the back of a dragon.

“Syrax is growing quickly,” Alicent commented, nodding towards the dragon’s retreating form. “She will soon be as large as Caraxes.”

“That’s almost large enough to saddle two,” Rhaenyra replied with a grin.

“I believe I am quite content as a spectator, thank you,” Alicent quipped, the gentle smile reserved only for Rhaenyra spreading across her mouth.

“And you?” Rhaenyra regarded Lia with a raise of her eyebrow.

“I prefer to keep both my feet firmly on the ground, I am afraid.”

Rhaenyra tutted. “Cowards, both of you,” she jested, stomping up the carriage steps.

The three of them huddled together on the same seat on the way back to the castle, talking excitedly about which knights they expected to be in attendance for the tourney being hosted by King Viserys in honour of the impending birth of Queen Aemma’s second child.

Their laughter carried through the Keep’s corridors as the three of them walked back towards Rhaenyra’s chambers, linked arm in arm, Rhaenyra sandwiched between Alicent and Lia.

While Alicent and Lia reclined comfortably on couches, nibbling on candied lemon slices, Rhaenyra went to change out of her riding gear. The two exchanged a surprised glance as she reappeared in a yellow gown, much too quickly to have bathed. Lia could not imagine being allowed to conduct herself at court smelling quite so pungent; it was a privilege only afforded to royalty. Her and Alicent had to always present themselves as clean and well groomed, a necessity that Lia did not mind at all. She was well aware of her own beauty, and took a level of care with her appearance that bordered upon outright vanity. She would never dream of being seen outside of her chambers without her long, dark curls having been meticulously brushed and styled. Whereas Rhaenyra, Lia often thought, could have been mistaken for one of the scullery maids were it not for the finery she dressed it. She was lucky she was pretty.

Rhaenyra swept into the Queen’s apartments, leaving her friends to stand awkwardly in the doorway, looking in on the queen and her ladies. They both greeted Aemma courteously, and she responded with a polite hello and a strained smile.

A sense of unease crept over Lia’s flesh at the sight of Aemma, fanning herself as she lay on the settee by the open balcony windows. She looked more uncomfortable every time she saw her. It was not a state she wished for herself, though it was an inevitability. Such was the role of a woman, though Lia hoped her fate would be one more fortunate; she was all too aware of the fruitless pregnancies that Aemma had endured prior to this one.

“Take a bath, you stink of dragon,” Aemma gently scolded her daughter.

Lia bowed her head, concealing the way her lips curved upwards in amusement, suddenly pretending that the golden stitching of her ivory coloured gown was the most interesting thing in the world. She kept her blue eyes fixed upon the cuff of her sleeve, her fingers absentmindedly fiddling with the delicate golden rings upon the fingers of her left hand. At last, someone was saying it aloud. A statement only a queen could get away with saying to a princess.

Rhaenyra ignored her mother, settling beside her. “Did you sleep?”

“I slept.”

The princess huffed. “How long?”

“I don’t need mothering, Rhaenyra.”

“Well, here you are, surrounded by attendants all focused on the babe. Someone has to attend to you.”

“You will lie in this bed soon enough, Rhaenyra. This discomfort is how we serve the realm.” The queen’s voice was tired, though of the pregnancy or of this oft repeated conversation, Lia could not tell.

“I’d rather serve as a knight and ride to battle and glory.”

“We have royal wombs, you and I. The child bed is our battlefield. We must learn to face it with a stiff lip.”

Lia lost herself in her thoughts as Rhaenyra conversed with her mother, continuing to twist the rings upon her fingers and shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, as her mind conjured scenarios she would prefer not to dwell upon. She wished for a secure position in life, but did not want to be confined to the birthing bed. She longed for power, to have authority, over herself, surely, and perhaps over others, yet did not share the princess’ desire to fight in battle. Her days of climbing trees and skinned knees were well behind her.

She was roused from her thoughts as Rhaenyra hurried past her.

“Where are you going?” Alicent called after her.

“I am late!” She replied over her shoulder, running in the direction of the Small Council chamber.

Lia propped herself up on her elbow, lying on her side as she watched Alicent carefully stitch delicate powder blue flowers into the fabric suspended within her embroidery hoop. Her own lay discarded beside her, she had given up when the thread had become knotted, in no mood to attempt to fix it.

“Alicent…” she began slowly, “do you ever think about why your father wanted to bring you to King’s Landing?”

Alicent kept her eyes upon her needlepoint, her tone matter of fact as she continued her work. “To instruct me in what is expected of a highborn lady.”

Lia huffed, leaning across and tugging Alicent’s sleeve to get her full attention. “Yes, but why?”

The other girl sighed, lowering her embroidery hoop into her lap and fixing Lia with an exasperated stare. “To give me the best possible opportunities in life, so that an appropriate match may be made for me.”

“And that is enough for you, is it? To simply be married off to a man who is not of your choosing?”

She lowered her gaze, her voice soft. “My mother did not choose my father, and yet they were very happy.”

“But is that what you want?”

“What is it that you are trying to get at?”

Lia hummed, flopping down onto her back against the plush rug that they sat upon in the solar, clasping her hands across her front as she stared up at the vaulted ceiling. “I am unsure of my own purpose, what it is that I want.”

Alicent nodded in understanding. “Well, there will be plenty of eligible knights at the upcoming tourney. Gwayne is going to be there,; he is competing in the jousting.”

She scoffed, recalling the gangly boy of ten, a mop of hair the colour of rust, that they had left behind in Oldtown all those years ago. “Ah, yes, how fares your older brother?” she asked, turning her head to the side to look at her friend.

“He is a knight now,” Alicent said proudly, “and quite handsome too.”

“Handsome?! How would you know?”

“He tells me so in his letters.”

The pair burst into peals of laughter, stopping abruptly as Otto stalked into the room, casting a disapproving glance at both of them. “Do the pair of you not have lessons to attend this afternoon?”

“We were waiting for Rhaenyra, so that we might all go together,” Alicent said apologetically, scrambling to her feet and smoothing the skirts of her dress down.

Lia rolled her eyes, knowing their fun was over, and rose to her feet too, running her fingers through her dark curls, rumpled from having laid upon the floor.

“Well, the Small Council has concluded its business for the day, and with it Rhaenyra’s duties as cupbearer, so run along. Do not keep your septa waiting.”

“Yes, Father,” Alicent said quietly, making her way out of the solar. The skirts of her pale blue gown swished behind her, the cascade of her auburn hair down back appearing as Autumnal leaves against a cloudless sky.

Lia readied to follow suit when Otto reached out, gently grasping her forearm and halting her movements. “I trust you are behaving yourselves?”

“Always,” she said with a saccharine smile, moving to pull away from him.

He tightened his grasp, and Lia lifted her eyes to meet The Hand’s, his gaze steely and unblinking, apparently unaffected by the mischief that glittered within her own. “The Princess is…spirited. Do not allow her to lead you or Alicent astray.”

She slipped away from him, pausing once in the corridor to look back over her shoulder at him. “You have raised a well mannered young woman, Ser Otto. She will heed your wishes, though I cannot say the same for myself.”

Lia did not know why, but she had always enjoyed testing how far she could push Otto Hightower. He seemed to have more patience for her misdeeds than that of Alicent’s, and there was a certain thrill to watching his features pinch into annoyance. Perhaps it was because she allowed him to be privy to the secrets of her and her two friends, and he did not wish to sever that connection with too harsh a scolding for misbehaviour. She still remembered when he had taken it upon himself to instruct her in the art of handwriting, claiming that hers looked as though “a spider had fallen into the inkwell and then scurried across the page.” She had taken her quill and flicked the end at him, watching as spots of black had splattered across his doublet. He had scowled, snatching up her wrist, but then she giggled. His grip on her had loosened and his expression had softened. If she did not know him better, she would have sworn she saw the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Rhaenyra did not turn up for lessons, leaving Lia and Alicent to endure the presence of the stern Septa Marlow without her. Lia would not have minded, except for the fact that that day’s lesson was history, her least favourite subject. She endured a scolding for not remembering that Princess Nymeria departed Rhoyne for Dorne, and by the time the hour was over she felt tired and irritable.

Alicent had always been more studious than she was, her ability to focus surpassing Lia’s, who was far too easily distracted by the world around her. The comings and goings of the Red Keep’s staff was far more interesting to her than what was contained within any book. She preferred to focus on the whisperings found within darkened alcoves of the castle, than the monotonous drone of Septa Marlow.

“Come,” Alicent said, pulling a thick historical tome from the library shelf. “We shall study in the Godswood, the fresh air will help you to remember.” There was no heat in the subtly pointed look she directed at Lia, so she followed without complaint, merely returning a glare of her own.

They had been seated beneath the heart tree in the Godswood not five minutes when Rhaenyra arrived, quickly settling herself between them, as was her customary place within the confines of their group. She placed her head in Alicent’s lap, and her legs across Lia’s, letting out a sigh as she gazed up at the clear blue sky through the branches of the tree.

“You did not attend lessons today,” Alicent said to her, hefting the book onto the grass beside her.

“I did not,” Rhaenyra replied simply.

Lia spied the Valyrian steel and ruby necklace that now rested around Rhaenyra’s neck. It had not been there earlier. She leant over, lifting the pendant delicately between two fingers.

“A gift from your father?”

Rhaenyra furrowed her brow, as though she found the idea ridiculous. “A gift from Daemon.”

“He’s back then?” Lia’s interest is piqued. Daemon had never paid her much attention. As a ward of House Hightower, she was of no consequence to him. However, he was endlessly fascinating to her; his volatility and reckless behaviour served an endless supply of gossip.

“Mmmm,” she hummed, “to take up his position as Lord Commander of the City Watch, and compete in the tourney.”

“And give you gifts,” Lia teased with a smirk, letting the pendant drop softly back against Rhaenyra’s clavicle before settling back against her palms upon the grass.

A look of worry flickered across Rhaenyra’s face, her mouth turning downwards as her gaze grew distant. She studied her fingers for a moment, then asked “So what did I miss today?”

“History,” Lia said bitterly, “Princess Nymeria’s escape from Rhoyne.”

“Have you read it?” Alicent asked her.

“Of course I have read it,” Rhaenyra said, “there was no need for me to be there.”

“Then when Princess Nymeria arrived in Dorne, who did she take to husband?” Alicent silenced Lia as she opened her mouth to answer. “Not you, you actually turned up today,”

Rhaenyra groused, shrugging her shoulders as she continued to lay across their laps. “A man.”

Alicent scowled, her tone clipped with annoyance. “And what was his name?”

“Lord something,” Rhaenyra replied petulantly.

“Gods, if only you had been there today,” Lia giggled, “you would have made me look good. Septa Marlow was furious.”

Rhaenyra smirked, playing with the rings upon her fingers. “She is funny when she is furious.”

“You are always like this when you are worried,” Alicent commented softly.

“Like what?” snapped Rhaenyra.

Alicent did not hedge her words, the only one to speak to their princess in this way. “Disagreeable. You are worried your father is about to overshadow you with a son.”

“I only worry for my mother. I hope for my father that he gets a son. As long as I can recall, it is all he has wanted.”

“You want him to have a son?” Lia asked.

“I want to fly with you both on dragonback, see the great wonders across the Narrow Sea, and eat only cake.”

Lia snorted as Alicent clicked her tongue. Lia did not mind the idea of seeing the great wonders, or existing solely on cake, however, the notion of taking flight on Syrax made the prospect seem far less exciting.

“We are trying to be serious,” Alicent protested, glancing warily at Lia, “well, at least I am.”

“I never jest about cake,” Rhaenyra said with a smirk.

“You are not worried about your position?” Lia asked, her curiosity piqued, masking the envy she felt that Rhaenyra possessed a position that could be threatened in the first place.

“I like this position,” she told Lia, wiggling her feet in her lap, making her laugh aloud, “it is quite comfortable.”

“Rhaenyra! Lia! It is impossible to have a serious conversation with either of you!”

The princess groaned, moving out of their laps and sitting cross legged in front of them. “Princess Nymeria led her Rhoynar across the Narrow Sea on ten thousand ships to flee their Valyrian pursuers. She took Lord Mors Martell of Dorne to husband and burned her own fleet off Sunspear to show her people that they were finished running.”

Lia raised her eyebrows, impressed by her knowledge, glancing over at Alicent to gauge her reaction. Before Alicent could respond, Rhaenyra leaned across and tore the page free from the book, letting it flutter into Alicent’s lap.

“So you remember.”

Alicent chewed her lip nervously. “If Septa Marlow sees this book–”

“Fuck the septa!” Rhaenyra interrupted.

Not for the first time, Lia felt envy burn acrid in her chest. Only a princess could get away with defacing a book from the Crown library and not have to suffer the consequences. She wondered if Rhaenyra had any awareness of the power she yielded over both her and Alicent. And if she was aware, would she even care?

Lia meandered through the halls, slippered feet quiet on the stone floor as she made her way to the library the next da She looked up, her attention stolen by Otto walking in the direction of the Small Council chambers. Changing course, she fell into step beside him, taking in the way his features were furrowed into annoyance. There could be only one explanation for it.

“So, you have heard that Prince Daemon has returned to the Capital?” she asked with a wry smile.

Otto paused, eyeing her carefully before ushering her into a nearby alcove. “What do you know?”

Lia shrugged. “Little and less. He gifted Rhaenyra a necklace, Valyrian steel.”

“An empty gesture,” he remarked bitterly, an exasperated sigh escaping him as he adjusted the collar of his forest green doublet. He cast a cursory glance over his shoulder to ensure they were not being watched, before fixing her with a heated stare.

“Oh, I am not so sure, you would be surprised at what people are willing to share if one is generous.” She reached up, tapping the bronzed hand that was pinned to his breast, as if to punctuate her point.

Otto’s much larger hand clutched hers, enveloping it, though it did not pull hers away. Her eyes shifted to where their hands now rested upon his chest, the gesture stirring something within her that she could not quite identify, filling her with both warmth and unease.

“I know a girl as clever as you cannot be swayed by trinkets,” he said softly, the low timbre of his voice vibrating through their connected hands.

Lia swallowed thickly, slowly pulling her hand back and letting it drop to her side, though still able to feel the place where his palm had rested. She felt an overwhelming need to push back against whatever had transpired, and so doubled her efforts to be cheeky. “If you are not feeling generous, perhaps Prince Daemon may have additional trinkets to spare.”

Otto straightened, his expression turning stony.

There it was, the annoyance that she felt much more at home with.

“You should not covet the actions of that brute of a man. Keep away from him.” He glared down at her, a silent warning before leaving her alone in the alcove, as he continued on his way.

Lia smiled to herself. Provoking Otto suddenly seemed much more appealing to her. If she could capture the interest of Daemon, then perhaps the Hand of the King would be more forthcoming in furthering her position at court, and making clear his plans for her.

“My dearest Lia,

It is with deep regret that I must inform you that your mother and I will be unable to attend the King’s tourney. Your mother is suffering a fever and we did not wish to risk the journey to King’s Landing when our efforts must be spent upon ensuring her recovery. Your mother has requested that your brothers stay here at the Whispering Sound, as she fears her worry over them both competing will worsen her condition.

We have passed along our apologies to the Lord Hand, however, please send him my regards. I hope that life in the capital is treating you well and that you are behaving as befits the royal company that you keep.

Warmest wishes,

Your loving father, Lord Owen Costayne”

Lia gripped the parchment tightly between her fingers, having lost count of the number of times she had read it since it was brought to her by the maester two days prior. She lost herself in the words, the din of hoofbeats and roar of spectators fading to nothing as her eyes flitted between the letter and the lists, as though if she concentrated hard enough she could will her brothers into attendance.

Rhaenyra sat beside her, equally morose, her brow pinched in worry. Shortly after the tourney began, King Viserys had announced to all in attendance that Queen Aemma had begun her labours. It was obvious that Rhaenyra would rather be at her mother’s side than watching this display. However, it had not been allowed.

Sitting on the other side of Rhaenyra, Alicent had picked her nails bloody once more. A combination of worry for both the Queen and her older brother, Gwayne, who would be competing in the tourney.

Lia crumpled the parchment between her fingers, stowing it up her sleeve as she leaned forward, looking out across their elevated position on the stands, eager for a distraction.

“Who is that?” she asked, nodding towards a young man she did not recognise.

“The Tarly squire?” Rhaenyra responded, clearly as keen to focus on something else as she was.

“Mmhmm,” Lia affirmed, glancing back at her.

“Lord Massey’s son, I think. He is promised to Elinor Stokeworth, they are to be married as soon as he wins his knighthood.”

“Best get on with it,” Alicent chimed in, leaning forward conspiratorially, “I heard that Lady Elinor is hiding a swollen belly beneath her dress.”

Lia and Rhaenyra gasped, the three of them quickly falling into fits of giggles, though she was pulled out of her mirth when she felt a firm hand upon her shoulder. Looking back, she saw Otto seated directly behind her. He leaned in close enough that both his breath and his beard tickled softly at the shell of her ear as he spoke quietly, isolating her from the huddle of her two friends.

“I thought you might offer your favour to Gwayne.”

She pulled back, regarding him impassively, before speaking much louder than he had to her. “Actually, I intend to offer my favour to Prince Daemon,” she said with an amused smirk, “I have not yet had the pleasure to welcome him back to the capital.”

Otto’s nostrils flared in obvious annoyance, his gaze unblinking as he exhaled heavily, sitting back against his seat beside the King, though his focus remained upon her. His eyes raked carefully over the delicate manner in which she had pinned up her ringlets, revealing the slender slope of her neck. Lia suppressed a laugh as she turned back towards Rhaenyra and Alicent, pleased with her efforts, and the three of them continued to share gossip about those participating in the lists.

She eyed the knights carefully, wondering to herself if any of them would be a suitable match for her. There was no denying that Daemon cut every bit the imposing and extravagant figure, the plume of his dragon shaped helmet blood red and striking against the grey of the stone walls. It was a pity he was already wed, albeit unhappily, to Lady Rhea Royce. Daemon’s presence within King’s Landing had always been so sporadic, coupled with Lia’s being too young to appreciate what a handsome man he was, that she supposed he was never destined to be a suitor for her anyway. A pity, but it would not stop her from expressing interest, if only to incite the look of irritation on Otto’s face that she had grown to enjoy so much.

So engrossed in what was going on, she did not notice when King Viserys slipped away from his seat. Daemon rode towards the stands, a cocky grin upon his face as her, Rhaenyra and Alicent rushed to the railing to greet him.

“Lady Lia,” he drawled with a courteous nod, “a fine young woman you are growing into.”

She felt her skin flush at the compliment, glad of the fact she had opted to wear her house colours for the occasion; she knew that the gold and black of the gown complimented her complexion. It was an effort to resist the urge to both giggle and look behind her for Otto’s reaction.

“You flatter me, my prince,” she responded sweetly, “I wish you luck, though I am not sure you will need it.”

“I am confident that I can best my opponent, but I would ask for the favour of the Lady Alicent Hightower to ensure my victory.”

Lia’s face fell, her heart sinking in disappointment. She watched Alicent move sheepishly back towards their seats, meeting her father’s eye as she took the intricately woven band of flowers and ribbon. She knew from Otto’s sour expression that it was merely a ploy from Daemon to further upset the King’s Hand, having already beaten his son spectacularly in the lists. However, the rejection stung all the same. She wanted it to be her favour that Daemon had asked for.

As she took her seat again, she grasped her own hoop of feathers and twine, half turning to toss it haphazardly into Otto’s lap. “Here, you might as well have it,” she muttered sullenly, “I have no one else to give it to.”

Misery clung to Lia like a black shroud as she leaned back in her seat, visibly sulking and crossing her arms, as she watched the tourney, but did not really see it. She had hoped that the day would prosper a potential match for her, though, with Alicent’s favour already given away, Rhaenyra was her only rival. There was no way she could compete with a princess.

Her lips twitched with smug satisfaction when the mystery knight with the red and black spotted shield bested Daemon; a small retribution in Lia’s eyes for having snubbed her favour for Alicent’s. She did not bother to join her friends when they rushed back to the railing, both eager to greet the man who managed to unhorse The Rogue Prince, not even swayed by Alicent’s gasp of “he’s Dornish.” What was the point? She saw the way his dark eyes glittered with interest, but it was not interest directed at her; no, they glittered only for Rhaenyra.

Lia knew that she could be the most comely of maidens in all of the Seven Kingdoms and it would do little to sway a suitor when presented with a Targaryen Princess. She could not help the jealousy that swirled like a maelstrom inside of her as she watched Rhaenyra throw her favour down towards him.

The smile that graced the princess’ fair features as she returned to her seat only faltered as Otto touched her delicately on the shoulder, the colour draining from her face as he whispered to her. As the news spread throughout the royal box, Lia’s eyes remained fixated upon the floor of the stands where her favour now lay, trampled under foot as people rushed back towards the Red Keep. It was crushed, and with it her hopes for the day.

Queen Aemma was dead.

The wind whipped Lia’s dark curls around her face as she stood upon the clifftop, the bite of the icy sea breeze nipping at her cheeks. The wrapped bodies of both Aemma and her short lived son, Baelon, laid prone upon the pyre that stood before the modest crowd gathered for the funeral. Syrax looked over them from her perch, awaiting Rhaenyra’s command, her neck undulating with discomfort under the feeling of her rider’s grief.

She could not imagine a more brutal death; cut open like livestock in the birthing bed, and for naught. The babe that had been tugged from the Queen’s womb had lived but for a few hours after her passing. Her heart ached for Rhaenyra, who choked on the command of “drakarys!”, the word faltering with unshed tears as she ordered her dragon to engulf her deceased mother and brother in flames.

Lia knew she felt pity for Rhaenyra, but was she truly sad that Aemma was dead? She did not know. She knew it was proper to express condolences, but she did not think she was experiencing grief. Would she feel sadness at her own mother’s passing? She was as much an acquaintance to her as the Queen had been, considering how many years had passed since she had last seen home. It was a disquieting thought, and one she was eager to push from her mind.

She desperately wished she had a hand to hold, to squeeze for comfort, and could not help but notice the way that Alicent gripped her father’s with such intensity that her knuckles were white. Stood to the other side of him, Otto had ensured that Lia’s arm linked through his, a gesture which she found oddly mature in comparison to the childlike manner in which Alicent’s fingers entwined with his. Perhaps it is just because she is not family, she pondered, though memories of the intimacy with which he had held her hand to his chest just a few days prior linger at the back of her mind. She was being treated as though she was a lady, when she had never craved more to be comforted as though she was a little girl.

A cavernous void opened between Lia, Alicent, and Rhaenyra in the weeks that followed, filled only by loss. Lia spent much of her time alone, not knowing how to comfort Rhaenyra in her grief, for it had made her angry. Her tone was curt whenever Lia attempted to engage her in conversation and she had withdrawn so far into herself that she did not know how to coax her back out. Deep down she knew that her friend was justified in her bitterness towards her father, for he had killed her mother in his desperate attempt for an heir, an heir that barely lived long enough to draw his first breath.

Lia wondered what her own expression of such grief would look like, had the circumstances befallen her.

Otto had become more protective of Alicent. He sought Lia’s company less often, instead looming over his only daughter like a shadow, summoning her to his quarters to speak to her of things that Alicent would not allow Lia to be privy to. In all of her years in King’s Landing, despite missing her family, she had never felt lonely. Now it was a feeling that overwhelmed her with such potency that she had picked up a quill more than a dozen times, hurriedly scrawling a plea to her father to allow her to return home. Each time she had thought better of it and tossed the balled up parchment into the fireplace. She had yet to find her purpose within King’s Landing, but she knew in her heart that her fate was not to run away like a mewling child, simply because her friends were preoccupied.

Deciding she could bear her own company no longer, Lia emerged from her quarters, seeking the comfort of a familiar face. She found it in Alicent, but as she was about to call out to her, she faltered, thinking better of it. There was something strange about the way her friend carried herself, her gaze downcast, trepidation in her step. Lia slipped into an alcove, peering out discreetly from behind the wall. Alicent was not dressed as she usually was, the royal blue gown she now wore was much too grown up. She narrowed her eyes as she studied the fabric. It was a dress that had belonged to Alyrie.

Curious to see why Alicent had suddenly taken to wearing her late mother’s clothes, Lia quietly followed behind her, mindful to keep her steps light and maintain her distance, so as not to get caught. She froze as she saw Alicent slip through the door of the king’s apartments, a feeling of dread forming a pit in her stomach. Rhaenyra had not spoken to her father properly since the passing of the queen, so what possible reason could Alicent have for keeping such close company with him?

It was with this question in mind that she stormed into Otto’s quarters the next day, a seething and lingering anger bolstering her. She did not knock, though her intrusion was met with only the slightest raise of an eyebrow by the king’s Hand as he looked up from his writing desk.

“Lia, to what do I owe the interruption?” he asked, his tone friendlier than she had been anticipating, causing her courage to waiver as her outrage quelled slightly.

She opened her mouth to speak, stammering over her words as she struggled to get them out. Why on earth was he not annoyed by her just bursting in? She had been prepared to be met with resistance, and it completely unraveled what she had planned to say. Closing her eyes and exhaling heavily, she shook her head as if to clear her mind and tried again.

“Alicent has been visiting the king.”

Otto pursed his lips, carefully placing his quill back into the ink pot, before he leaned back against his chair. “She has,” he said matter of factly, “the king is alone in his grief. Alicent has been of great comfort to him.”

Lia blinked rapidly, a wave of nausea churning her stomach, as she realised that this was not only information that the king’s Hand was already privy to, and he did not have an issue with it, but he was also the one that has arranged these visits in the first place. She narrowed her eyes as her shock and disgust turned to sudden anger, simmering hot beneath the surface of her skin.

“So it would not be an issue were I to offer him comfort also?” Lia asked, her jaw jutting out defiantly.

Finally, a flicker of annoyance passed across Otto’s face, his brow furrowing as he clasped his hands upon the desk. “You shall do no such thing. And you will speak of Alicent’s visits to no one.”

“Or what?”

“Or,” he began, rising from his seat, suddenly towering over her, “the pleas to return to the Whispering Sound that you crumple into the fireplace may just find their way to your father.”

Her blood ran icy cold as, simultaneously, her cheeks blazed with heat. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came to her. Tears of humiliation pricked her eyes. He knew. Of course he knew; the Hand had spies everywhere, she had acted as one herself on many occasions.

Otto’s expression softened as he took in her look of upset, and he sat heavily back in his seat with a sigh. “There is no need for tears, you—”

“Why am I even here? You may as well return me home,” she interrupted, her voice thick with emotion.

His features remained gentle and impassive as he regarded her silently for a moment. He then reached into a drawer of his writing desk, pulling out her favour and holding it out for her to take. Each feather and intricate loop of twine was undamaged, in seemingly pristine condition. She examined it in wide eyed wonder as she accepted it from him. It was as good as the day she had made it, no longer crushed as it had been when she had last laid her eyes upon it.

“How? Why?” She whispered, disbelief and confusion causing her brow to furrow.

“You may have need of it yet. Your time here is far from over. Now run along, I have important matters to attend to.”

She wanted to protest, to press him for further answers, but instead the authority in his tone had her obediently turning and leaving with more questions than she had initially arrived with.

The late afternoon sunshine beat down upon Lia as she sat on a stone bench in the gardens, the soft rays warming her skin, casting the last of its amber brilliance in the hours before dusk. She held her favour delicately, fearful that too tight a touch might cause it to break apart again, as she studied it for imperfections, wondering how it could have been so expertly mended, and why.

“I would have thought you would have given that away at the tourney.”

Lia startled slightly, lifting her head at the sudden sound of Rhaenyra’s voice. A playful smile graced the princess’ lips as Lia watched as she came to sit beside her. Rhaenyra reached out a delicate finger to stroke across one of the favour’s feathers.

Lia returned her smile, though it did not meet her eyes. “I found no one I liked enough to give it to.” It was a half truth, but admitting that Otto had it repaired and returned to her would have raised questions that she is unable to answer.

Rhaenyra hummed in acknowledgement, before facing forwards, her eyes fixed upon the row of rose bushes planted into the flower beds in front of them. The two girls sat in uncomfortable silence, until Lia could bear it no longer.

“I am sorry I have not been there for you, it is not an easy thing to lose your mother,” she said softly, glancing sideways at Rhaenyra.

Rhaenyra shook her head, turning to face Lia, gripping her hand in one of hers. “It is me that should be sorry. I have not made it easy for you, for anyone, to comfort me. I was just so, so…”

“...angry?” Lia offered, intertwining their fingers. The warmth was soothing, and she had not realised until this moment just how dearly she had missed her.

“Hmmm. Did you know that Father sent Daemon away?”

Lia’s eyes widened, though it was no surprise that Daemon, prone to coming and going as he pleased, was no longer in the capital. Tt was a shock to her, however, that this time his absence was at the command of his own brother. “What for?”

Rhaenyra swallowed thickly, averting her gaze. “My father would not say, but I have heard whispers. He made a jest about my brother to a crowd in a pleasure house, apparently.”

“And your father banished him?”

“I am sure there is more to it than that, especially considering that Daemon has been removed as my father’s heir.”

Lia raised her eyebrows, her lips parting slightly as she struggled to take in the information. It appeared she had missed an awful lot in the weeks that she and Rhaenyra had not spoken. “So, who will be his heir now?”

“He has asked me to be.” Rhaenyra appeared less sure of herself than usual as she said this, her voice quiet and uncertain, as though she felt simultaneously crushed by the weight of the responsibility, but also terrified it would be taken away from her again.

Lia smiled at that, a gesture of both gentle comfort and genuine happiness, though she could not help the pang of envy she felt at both her friends having secured their futures. Alicent’s own advancement under the watchful eye of Otto, and now Rhaenyra’s succession to the Iron Throne.

“You will make a fine queen.”

Rhaenyra gave Lia’s hand an affectionate squeeze. “So, where is Alicent?”

‘With your father, most likely.’

Lia knew she should not say; it would have devastating consequences for their friendship, and Otto would be furious. Yet she could not help the pang of guilt she felt at withholding such information from Rhaenyra.

“I am unsure. Does she not know yet?”

Rhaenyra shook her head. “I had hoped to find the two of you together. I will need you both to help ready me for my proclamation. I feel too nervous to allow my lady’s maids to do it.” She paused, her fingers tightening once more, twisting their hands together further. “Lia, I need you, I need my friends.”

Lia’s heart ached for her, and she leaned in, resting her forehead softly against Rhaenyra’s in silent assent. The two girls remained like that, the void between them bridged by a desperate need to cling to the other for support.

Lia stood on a wooden step stool to the side of Rhaenyra, the tips of her fingers sore from the sheer number of pins she had had to press into the princess’ intricately braided hair, simply to keep her headdress in place. She pulled back to admire her work, a small smile pulling at her mouth. The intricate gold and black halo was positioned perfectly upon Rhaenyra’s head. Satisfied, she stepped down to move towards the bureau to fetch the jewelry.

Alicent stood behind her, helping to drape the heavy black cloak around Rhaenyra’s shoulders, beaded gold and red dragons adorning the lapels. It was not until Lia moved back towards them that she noticed Rhaenyra’s sombre expression in the looking glass.

She stood rooted in place, running her fingers over the smooth gold of the earrings, not quite knowing what to do.

‘We could run away from all of this.’

‘Let us cross the narrow sea on dragonback and eat only cake.’

It appeared that Alicent had also noticed Rhaenyra’s sadness, as her hands had stilled upon her shoulders, her gaze soft and sympathetic as it met the rincess’ in the reflective surface.

Wordlessly, Rhaenyra tugged Lia towards her and the three girls embraced, as much a gesture of comfort for them as it was for her. A silent reassurance of ‘I am okay. I must do this.’

Lia clung tighter, part of her wanting to reassure her friend, another simply wanting to smother the voice in her mind that raged in jealousy over the fact that Rhaenyra would one day rule the Seven Kingdoms, yet somehow had the audacity to feel sad about it.

As Lia entered her own chambers to ready herself for the ceremony, her eye was immediately drawn to the emerald green fabric that lay across her bedspread. As she drew nearer, she saw that it was a gown, long sleeved with a plunging neckline, and intricate golden thread in the seams. She ran her fingers over the material. The brocade felt expensive to the touch, far grander than anything she had worn before. There was a note sealed with wax resting atop it.

“A trinket, and a gesture of generosity - O.H”

Lia did not need to peer into a looking glass to know her cheeks had turned scarlet. A gift from Otto, and with the timing of when it was delivered to her, she knew he would be expecting her to wear it to the proclamation.

She felt far too grown up, the dress accentuating dips and curves upon her body she was unaware she even had until she had put it on. Yet another step away from girlhood, but towards what she had no idea.

Lia had never felt self conscious before, but she was certain that, as she walked through the corridors of the Red Keep, she shone like a beacon, a lurid invitation for all that she passed to stare at her. She longed to run back to her quarters, to tear off the dress and change into something more unassuming, but knew that a refusal of such an extravagant gift from Otto was a line that even she dared not cross.

As the lords of the Seven Kingdoms gathered in the Great Hall of the Red Keep to swear fealty to Rhaenyra as the heir to the Iron Throne, she looked every bit the future queen in her Targaryen finery, and it was not until Lia saw this that she understood the significance of Otto’s gift.

Her friends were ascending towards womanhood, and she must too.

Lia watched on, with Otto stood between her and Alicent. She wanted to feel pride for her friend.However, it was hopelessness and uncertainty over her own future that held her firmly in their grasp. She stood in the presence of two future monarchs, but what was to become of her?

“You look lovely,” Otto leaned down to murmur in her ear, his breath ghosting across her neck.

And as she felt the warmth and weight of his hand come to rest upon the small of her back, it seemed as though the walls of the castle closed in around her as tightly as the bodice of her gown.

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