Chapter Text
page one
An arrow tears through the soft flesh of her side, her scream is echoed by her dragon’s cry.
Selaena can see Baela and Aegon in the distance. She must reach them. Baela will die at the hands of a false king. She urges Starfall forward through the blinding pain. The she-dragon roars, a mourning call. She knows what is to come. Selaena has never been more prepared to face the Stranger. Her hand curls around her side. Only for one more moment. She just needs one more moment.
“Naejot, Starfall, Naejot,” she cries. Forward, forward. Another arrow pierces Starfall’s wing and she releases a scream so terrified Selaena sobs. “Naejot.”
Neither she nor her dragon will survive this. But Baela and Rhaena will. They will be outlive her and their parents. Selaena had promised their mother she would look after them should she pass.
Moondancer roars, teeth ripping into Sunfyre’s side. They approach Aegon’s flank. He does not notice, too distracted by Moondancer and Baela’s frontal assault.
“Drakarys,” Selaena screeches. The word is nearly drowned out between the screaming dragons and wind, but bright flames leave Starfall, searing into Sunfyre. She hears Aegon howl.
Starfall slams straight into them and they careen to the ground. Baela screams her name from above, Moondancer diving to reach them in time. Selaena closes her eyes, gripping her saddle so tight her nails break and bleed. They hit the ground hard. She’s thrown off, the side of her head smashing against rock. Distantly she sees Aegon and Sunfyre plummet. Starfall lays on her side, struggling to breathe. She uses her elbows to drag her limp body toward her oldest friend. One leg is crushed, the other knee broken beyond repair. She’ll never walk again, but she will not survive this. Not with her head and stomach bleeding so freely.
“Sister,” Baela yells, landing near them. She kneels in front of her, eyes wild. “Quickly, join me on Moondancer. We must get you to a maester.”
Selaena shakes her head. “I will not leave Starfall.”
“She is as good as dead,” she says. Her hands tremble as they grasp hers. “Please, we may yet save you.”
“I have accepted my death Baela,” she tells her sweet, strong sister. Tears stain their dirty faces, blood and dust mixing together. Baela is not one to cry, but as she holds her dying sister she sobs. “They will arrive soon. Leave, now. Go back to Rhaena. She needs you.”
“She needs us, Selaena,” she says, desperate. “We will return together.”
“Watch out for her, Rhaena has always been tender-hearted. Be there for each other as Mother told us. And fucking live, Baela. Live for me. Do you understand?”
Baela shakes, gasping out another sob. “I promise you, sister. I swear it.”
”Good, now you must leave. They cannot catch you,” she says. Baela brings their foreheads to touch for the final time. Her sisters, her baby sisters. Would Mother be proud of her sacrifice? Will she see Jacaerys in death? They had promised to meet should one of them die before the other.
And he had. Shot down at sea. They did not even have a body to burn. Her dearest friend, her husband, dead.
“What of you?” Baela asks in a whisper. She sounds young and she feels like a little girl again, running through the halls of their childhood home in Pentos. How she longs for those days. She had never thought they would come to an end. A little girl forever.
“I will die like Mother,” she says. “I will have a dragonrider’s death.”
Baela nods, pressing her closer. “Avy jorrāelan.”
I love you.
“And I, you,” she answers. “Go. Do not look back, Baela.”
Her sister stands and Selaena takes one last look at her, memorizing her features. Their final goodbye marred with the blood of dragon. Baela does not turn as she walks away despite the tremble in her shoulders. She holds her head high. Their father’s daughter, always.
Selaena looks to Starfall. Her breathing is weak, labored. Their time has come and she will greet the Stranger like an old friend.
“Goodbye, old friend,” she whispers, bloodied hands staining her silver mouth. “I’m afraid we must part ways.”
Starfall releases a pained keen, tail thrashing. She shushes her, stroking her snout.
“Drakarys,” she cries with the last of her strength. She will not rot in a cell. She will not allow the Greens to have her body. “Drakarys!”
Starfall hesitates, cooing softly, but she knows they are to part. Selaena can feel it in their bond, searing inside her very soul. Her dragon, her dearest companion, opens her jaws and Selaena bows her head in farewell.
As her dragon’s flames engulf her, Selaena’s mind strays not to her family and their safety, not who will win this damn war, but to her deepest regret. The mistake that has haunted her for the last eight years:
Rejecting the betrothal between her and Aemond Targaryen.
She does not regret marrying Jacaerys. She does not regret loving and being loved. How could she forsake something so sweet? But she had a duty, one she pleaded to get out of. If she’d married Aemond, could they have avoided all this death? When Lucerys was killed by that monster’s hand, she wanted nothing but vengeance. She was hungry with it, that starvation driving her mad. She’d arranged for the death of Helaena’s child alongside her father. A son for a son.
When news of Jaehaerys’ death reached them, she felt nothing. There was no satisfaction. The hunger did not but fade into a pit in her stomach. Blood spilt in Lucerys’ name and yet she mourned still. Her grandmother dies next, burnt beside her dragon. She held her younger sisters who cried for revenge and does not tell them a thirst for blood will not help. Then lovely Helaena threw herself from atop a tower. More blood, more death. All for not. Aemond was killed on the same day, a death to be celebrated had it not been at the cost of her father. Jacaerys is felled. Nothing but a broken dragon left behind. This time her sisters hold her.
(“I will return to you, Selaena,” her father told her. “Watch over your sisters.”
He had said goodbye without the words.)
Rhaenyra, the true heir to the Iron Throne, yet lived. She was placing all her hope in her. A future for her sisters and half-brothers she will never see. She mourns and she mourns, but she mourns her decisions. She mourns the peace a betrothal between her and Aemond would’ve brought. If she could wake in her childhood chambers young again, she would change everything.
Selaena Targaryen burns in this life, tears streaking down her face. She is remembered as another causality during the Dance of the Dragons. The peaceful future she’d prayed for comes years later, long after whatever remained of her had rotted beside her faithful she-dragon. Rhaena names one of her many daughters after her elder sister. The second, and last, of her name.
History remembers her as Selaena the Sacrifice. A daughter, a sister, and a widow.
May the Father watch over her forevermore.
page two
She wakes to dying embers and the smell of lilies.
Her mother’s favorite scent. She used to wear perfume made out of lily and rosemary. Selaena had taken up using the bottle after Laena passed. The smell had brought her comfort, as it does now.
Death is more peaceful than she thought. It feels like waking up in your childhood bed, tucked in tightly by your parents.
She opens her eyes.
The chamber is eerily familiar, akin to the one in Pentos. She hears the door creak open, a maidservant stepping inside politely.
“Good morning, my lady,” the maid says, curtsying. “Would you like help getting dressed?”
Selaena stares, slowly sitting up and looking about. She knows this room, had grown up on it. The last time she’d been here she was a little girl, her mother still alive.
Laena. Her mother.
“Where is my mother?” she demands, ripping the blankets off her. Cold stone burns her bare feet but she ignores it. Surely, surely the Father will be kind enough to allow her to see her mother once more.
“In her chambers, I believe,” the maid replies, eyes wide. Selaena wastes not a moment more before she’s rushing down the hall.
The maid calls after her. A lady should not go running around in her nightgown, she’s aware, but it all matters little to her. She has not seen her mother since she was a girl. Laena had been ripped away from her and her sisters too soon. And when they’d mourned, Aemond chose to steal her dragon. He deserved to lose an eye for they had lost part of their heart.
Selaena shoves the doors to her mother and father’s shared chambers open. Her mother, still in bed and swollen with child, startles. She inhales. She’d forgotten what her mother’s face looked like. The older she grew, the murkier her mother’s image became. Her grandparents and father always told her they looked so alike, but she did not look in the mirror and see Laena.
“Mama,” she whispers and a dam breaks. She releases hiccuping sobs, throwing herself into Laena’s awaiting arms.
“My sweet, what has happened?” she asks, rubbing Selaena’s back. She rocks them back and forth slowly. Lily and rosemary fill her nose and she is home. Had death always been so kind? An eternity spent as a child in her mother’s arms.
“Mama,” she cries again. Laena wipes her cheeks, face pulled tight with concern. Selaena, the oldest daughter, had been forced to grow up sooner rather than later. Mature, they called her. A compliment, but all she heard was a childhood she’d given up.
The doors swing back open, Daemon striding in, one sword on his hand. “Selaena, who has hurt you?”
She only shakes her heard, unable to sound words over her sobs. The maid from earlier enters, hair frazzled and out of breath.
“I believe Lady Selaena had a nightmare, she woke up distressed,” she says, looking nervously to her father. He pays her little mind.
“Is this true?” her mother asks and Selaena can only nod. Daemon approaches them, carefully placing a hand between her shoulder blades. He used to do that to ground her. Her father was never an affectionate man, but she and her siblings had been loved by him. Aemond had claimed yet another from her life.
She rests her cheek on her mother’s shoulder, sniffling like a little girl. She is. Her hands are smaller, legs shorter, curls free and hanging down her back. She’s returned to a body she has long forgotten. A body that does not know grief the way her heart and mind do. She had thought—after all she had done—she would burn in one of the seven hells. It is easy to call Aemond a monster when she has committed the same atrocities. His thirst for vengeance had killed him, as hers had. The all consuming hatred had served none in their family.
They all paid a heavy price for their sins.
Baela and Rhaena poke their heads in, small faces worried.
“What’s wrong with Selaena?” Rhaena asks.
“Your sister’s had a nightmare,” Laena replies so she does not need to speak.
“Must’ve been scary,” Baela says, crawling onto the bed. Oh, her brave Baela. She hopes her sisters still live and fight. Here, in her mind, they are young again, cheeks round and eyes wide. They will lose that shine. She remembers vividly how Rhaena had fallen to the floor with a cry at the news of Lucerys’ death. Aemond the Kinslayer haunts her and she hates him.
“It was horrible,” she manages to croak. Brothers fighting, dragons feasting upon each other, their family fracturing.
Daemon removes his hand from her. “It was but a dream. No harm has come to you.”
That is because she’s dead. A death akin to the woman who holds her now. She wonders if Laena would’ve been proud of her. Asking this Laena, the one she’s created in her mind, will break the illusion.
“She is spooked, Daemon,” her mother chastises. Rhaena sits beside her, holding her hand.
“She is not a horse,” he says. “She is a dragon, we do not spook.”
“She is a child.”
“She is sitting right here,” Baela says, interrupting their argument. Selaena gives her a watery smile. Her father is obviously not convinced but he goes quiet. She knows he is only worried.
Eventually her crying subsides but she does not pull away from Laena. If her time here is limited, let her be taken in her mother’s arms. She wants the innocence of girlhood in death.
“Rhaenyra will soon give birth,” Laena says, more to Daemon than her daughters.
“Hopefully this one will share their parents’ features,” he responds gruffly. Selaena stares. This conversation is unnervingly familiar. She’s heard them speak of Joffrey’s birth before.
“Daemon, truly?”
“I speak the truth.”
“Not in front of the children.”
Her stomach is twisted in on itself, heart trapped in her throat. She has been here. She has heard this exact conversation before. Her memories are murky, but they’d broken their fast when Laena mentioned Rhaenyra’s pregnancy. Selaena shivers and Laena shifts her closer.
This is not right.
Something is wrong.
“Will we visit them?” Rhaena asks curiously.
Her mind swims. Perhaps her mind craves the normalcy of her childhood. They chatter around her but she can no longer hear them. She knows Daemon will say no, that Laena will argue that they may be able to, and both her sisters will express disappointment. This is all wrong. Selaena pinches the back of her hand and it stings. Pain should leave in death. None of this is real, a figment of her imagination before her soul is whisked away. But her hand is throbbing with life.
She turns her head and meets her own eyes reflected in the vanity near her. Silvery-blonde curls stretching down her spine, dark violet eyes, brown skin no longer ridden with lines of stress. The face of her youth; the face of a stranger. She stares and stares and stares.
Nothing changes.
Rhaena is giving her an odd look. Baela is trying to understand whatever their mother and father are discussing (it’s about Rhaenyra but when is it not). She pinches herself again only to have Rhaena grab her hand.
“Are you alright, sister?” she asks.
Laena stops talking, looking down at her. “What is the matter?”
“I fear I am ill,” Selaena whispers.
Very, very ill.
page three
Her mother forces her to remain in bed for the next week.
Every night Selaena squeezes her eyes shut and expects to wake up to flames. She never does.
She slips into restless slumber, wakes in her Chambers. Is this a trick? The Father’s punishment for her sins: to live everyday knowing this will be ripped from her?
She is sick with worry, too nauseous to eat, too guilty to sleep. Her mother checks on her frequently despite the complications this pregnancy has brought her.
“Darling,” she says softly, rubbing Selaena’s back, “what ails you?”
Selaena curls deeper into her blankets, unwilling to look at her mother. What if the Stranger decides to wake her at this moment? She has not the stomach to face her current reality.
“I don’t—I am unsure what is real anymore,” she tells her mother so quietly she can scarcely hear it. Laena pauses, gently tugging the blankets away from her face. Their violet eyes meet, nearly the exact same shade. She sees her mother in her as she must see herself in her daughter.
“What do you mean?” Laena asks. There is nothing Selaena can utter that won’t make her seem mad.
If she is to believe this offering, that meant the Father has given her another chance at life.
How was she to explain the war between the Blacks and Greens? That Aegon was a usurper bastard with no honor? That Laena would die in two moons attempting to give birth to the babe inside her? That Aemond would take Vhagar and lose an eye? How could she look her mother in the eye and tell her she’d planned the death of a child?
“I feel stuck,” she says, a partial truth. A mere fraction of it.
Laena cups her cheek and Selaena commits her smile to memory. She won’t forget the way it curves in this life.
“Come,” she says, standing. Selaena’s brows furrow. “We will ride Vhagar together to clear your mind.”
“Are—Are you sure?” she asks. “The babe—“
”I know my limits,” Laena says patiently, offering her hand. “Let us go before your sisters see.”
page four
Vhagar is exactly as she remembers.
She makes a noise as Laena approaches and Selaena’s steps falter. Soon she will choose Aemond as a rider. Soon he will lose an eye in retribution. Her mother strokes Vhagar’s snout affectionately. She does not even know the babe inside her will kill her.
If she has truly been sent back, is she to make changes? She is only one person burdened with memories from a future not yet passed. What can she—
Aemond.
His hunger to vengeance began when Lucerys cut out his eye. That moment, a childhood fight gone wrong, resulted in Lucerys’ death and the beginning of the end. If she stops it, will their futures change? Marrying Aemond will help bring peace. If she marries him, births babes, surely that will force Aemond to their side. He may be able to convince the Greens to step down, see reason. Otto Hightower would not kill his own grandchild and great-grandchildren.
Rhaenyra and Daemon will have no reason to kill Aegon and Helaena’s son if Lucerys does not die. Aemond will have no reason to kill Lucerys if he does not lose an eye. She can save them from grief only she will remember.
Doubt lingers in every crevice of her heart.
They’ll still want Aegon on the Throne. A worthless, whoring drunk of a cunt, and they thought him king. No. They refused Rhaenyra her birthright because she was not born with a cock. Loathsome men. She should tell her father and have them killed—
No. Revenge had done nothing for her, for any of them. It had brought ruin to their house. The loss of her sons had driven Rhaenyra half-mad. Maegor with teats they called her. She had faced so much loss it would’ve driven anyone to ruthless measures. They had no right to judge her. None.
But it had destroyed who she was. Selaena cannot allow this.
“A short flight,” Laena says, holding out her hand. “Starfall is not large enough to ride yet.”
She has not visited her she-dragon since returning to her childhood body. Too nervous, perhaps. Selaena can feel the heat of her flames searing into her. A dragonrider’s death. The very one her mother will soon face.
Selaena takes Laena’s hand.
It is the first and last time they will fly together.
page five
The wind in her face is a familiar feeling. Selaena has missed it.
“Being up here has always calmed my thoughts,” Laena tells her. She clutches her mother’s waist, careful of her stomach.
“This is freedom,” she says. She had always imagined flying away on Starfall. Leaving the war, the Game, the Throne, everything, behind. She’d tried to convince Jacaerys once, begging him to go with her.
(“We will be free,” she said, nails digging into his arms. He smiled at her so, so sadly. She knew, then, he never would. Too good, too loyal.
Strong, her traitorous mind whispered.
“I cannot leave my family, neither can you,” he said. “The guilt will kill us both.”
But guilt had not killed him. War did, men did. He had not even said goodbye before he left.)
“Women will never truly be free,” she says. Selaena wonders what kind of face her mother is making. She stares forward, Vhagar’s wings snapping around them. Laena has always pushed for Selaena to marry a boy of her choosing. Daemon had used this reasoning to get her out of being betrothed to Aemond.
It had not saved them.
“We can find peace in our prisons,” she replies. Marriage, the birthing bed. They are expectations. Mere wombs for men to put a babe in.
Selaena had loved Jacaerys, loves him, but she did not wish to have his children. Her mother had died—will die—of childbirth. But Jacaerys was heir, he was to be king after Rhaenyra. So she did not tell her husband her fears. A queen, a dragon, should never fear what was expected of her.
(She cried in Baela’s arms when she learned she was with child.)
”Still, you are too young to worry about marriage. What has truly troubled you?”
“I am uncertain. Perhaps—Perhaps I worry for you and the babe.” Another sliver of truth.
Laena touches the hand at her waist. “We will both be fine. Your eleventh nameday approaches, darling, I would not miss it.”
Selaena does not tell her she will.
“I love you, Mama,” she says instead, pressing her face into her mother’s back. Her scent is home, her touch hope. This burden of knowledge pains her. She wishes for the bliss of ignorance.
“I love you, too, Selaena. More than you will ever know.”
page six
Rhaenyra births her third son.
Laena goes into a labor she will not survive.
Daemon holds his oldest daughter as his wife and mother of his children burns before them.
It is the will of the Father. Blessed be he.
page seven
Selaena, foolishly, assumes knowing her mother is destined to die will ease the pain.
She cannot save her from the fate of womanhood. As she holds Baela and Rhaena in her arms, whispering words she does not believe to comfort them, she swears she will save them. For her mother, who had died a dragonrider’s death. For the future she will never allow to pass.
The scent of burnt flesh lingers long after Laena’s body is gone. Haunting and haunting. A ghost in her mind.
Selaena Targaryen vows to protect the lives of her family even if it means giving up her own.
page eight
The funeral is held at High Tide.
Their grandparents greet them warmly. Selaena hugs Rhaenys tighter, her death—that will not pass—fresh on her mind. Killed by Aemond and Aegon. Those fucking Hightower bastard—
Rhaenys cups her cheek. “You resemble your mother so much when she was your age. Oh, my girls.”
And then she is pulled into another hug. Selaena stares over her grandmother’s shoulder, gaze burning into the sea.
The beginning of the end will happen tonight. The tear that will separate this family for good. She has to stop it.
page nine
Jacaerys is just as she remembers him to be in their childhood.
His face is still chubby with the unshed fat of youth, but he lives. She throws her arms around him, tugging him close. In this life they will not be husband and wife, but she has the memories of the last one. Ones where they had shared stolen kisses in the shadows of night, where they wed, where they shared a bed, where she grew heavy with a babe that would never breathe. She had made the mistake of choosing to marry for love and he had paid the ultimate price.
Beneath the yearning of revenge lays guilt so heavy it threatens to drown her.
Jacaerys and her may never love each other as husband and wife, but he will live. He will be free to marry Baela, who will be queen beside him. They will love and care for one another and they will fucking live.
“I’ve missed you,” Jace says, face pressed to her hair. It is not only Laena they mourn today. They’ve never truly acknowledged it, but she knows Ser Harwin Strong is his true father, not her uncle, Laenor. He mourns a father he cannot have and she holds him tighter.
“I’m sorry,” she tells him, “for your loss, as well. I know Ser Harwin was kind to you all.”
He stiffens before drawing away from her. “Thank you.”
It is but empty words. Selaena knows no amount of apologizes, no amount of comfort will ever fill the hole of losing a parent. She will miss her mother forever. But empty words are all she has to give. He cannot know what she truly plans on giving up.
The funeral proceeds but she is barely there. Physically, she stands between her sisters, clutching their hands tightly. Mentally, though, she is far, far away. Above the clouds on Starfall’s back, Jacaerys and Baela flying beside her. In her mind they are laughing. They are free to fly wherever they choose. Anywhere and nowhere. She will marry Jace, a Valyrian wedding, with Baela as their witness.
In her mind, and only there, she is happy without consequence.
The sight of Aemond rips those images away from her. He and Aegon—obviously drunk, the disgusting wretch—stand near their mother. Aemond, at least, looks solemn. Aegon appears bored, as though her mother dying inconveniences him.
He deserved to see his son dead, he deserved—
She sucks in a steady breath. To fall back on the hatred Daemon taught her is a simple task. Anger that boils and bubbles and burns is familiar, safe. She knows what to do with rage. This sadness, this emptiness, this guilt, it threatens to kill her. At least with fury in her veins she felt ready to die.
Now she stares at Aemond blankly seeing all he could be. He notices, violet eyes meeting hers. His brow furrows. He does not know the destruction he will bring. A child of only nine namedays, a year younger than she.
Heat flickers in her mind. Was his face the last Lucerys saw? How scared he must’ve been. Her face has to have darkened, for Aemond startles.
Selaena looks away, back to her uncle, Laenor. She mourns her mother, she mourns her love with Jacaerys, and she mourns marrying the vile, wretched man standing before her.
page ten
The night chokes her.
Selaena waits for a commotion, anything. She had not been there when Aemond’s eye was cut out in her last life. She’d tucked herself in the library to cry in private, only emerging when she heard shouting.
Viserys, her own uncle, tried to bring peace.
(“Daemon,” he said, looking older than he was. “Your oldest, she should marry Aemond. It would—It would bring this family together.”
She knew her father was against the idea, but she’d still panicked. The boy who’d stolen her mother’s dragon, who’d hit her sisters? She would not marry him. She’d rather die.
“I will not marry that—that monster,” she cried, clinging to Daemon. Alicent made a horrified noise, still reeling from her son’s lost eye.
Aemond had finally noticed her presence then. They’d never interacted before. There wasn’t a need. But he’d glared, blood leaking down his little face, remaining violet eye fierce.
In her previous life they’d never utter a word, but they both knew they hated one another.)
She paces the halls, pushing into the chambers her sisters should’ve been sleeping in. The beds are empty. Selaena mutters a curse and darts down another hall. She isn’t sure where she is when she hears yelling. With a shove to the doors, she finds them bleeding and bruised.
There is a dagger in Lucerys’ hand.
She screams as he moves, throwing herself at him.
You fool, she wants to cry, this will bring about your death.
She has no time for that, though. Her body slams into Luke’s smaller one and they tumble to the floor. Someone gasps behind her. Baela shouts. Below her, dirty, bloody Lucerys looks ready to vomit.
Her palm is warm.
She looks to the side. Her hand has clutched the blade, steel digging into the soft skin on her palm. Red leaks down her wrist, past her elbow, and drops to the ground.
None of them move. She thinks they scarcely breathe.
“Why would—“ Aemond is cut off by Baela racing toward her.
“Selaena, your—your hand,” she says, panicked. She drops the dagger. It clinks against the ground uselessly.
Selaena stands, leaving Luke on his back. She faces Aemond, breath in her chest.
He stares at her with two perfectly horrified eyes.
She nearly cries. As though in a trance, she cups his cheek with her bloody palm. He is not even aware he would’ve lost it tonight. He would’ve paid the price of thievery with the loss of his vision on one side.
And they would all suffer for it years later.
Not now, though. She’s fixed it, hasn’t she? She has won. Selaena’s hand drops back to her side. Aemond does not wipe the blood smeared on his cheek.
She turns back to the other children who are watching her.
“What caused this?” she asks despite knowing the answer. Her palm is beginning to sting.
“Aemond stole Mother’s dragon,” Baela immediately answers. Rhaena joins her twin. They’ve always been ready to defend the other.
“Vhagar was supposed to go to me,” their youngest sister says vehemently, throwing Aemond a dirty look. “He is—he is a thief!”
”I am Vhagar’s rider now. If you wanted her you should’ve claimed her sooner,” he snaps, bristling behind Selaena. He does not move away from her, though. Perhaps he realizes she’s the only barrier between them.
“It is the day of our mother’s funeral,” Selaena tells him, forcing her voice to remain calm. He winces. “You lack tact and respect to our mother and us by doing this tonight.”
Aemond frowns sharply, glancing away from her. He holds his head high still, but he doesn’t argue her point. She knows he isn’t sorry, not truly.
Baela sneers. “He’s a—“
”But he is correct,” Selaena continues, cutting off whatever insult Baela was about to hurl at him. “If Vhagar thought him unworthy she would’ve killed him. She has claimed him, there is nothing we can do.”
“But…” Rhaena‘s lip trembles. Her sweet sister, Selaena’s heart aches. She will get her dragon, though. It will take time but it will happen. Vhagar more than likely wouldn’t have accepted her if she wanted Aemond.
“I know, darling,” she says, using the pet name their mother always did. She misses her now more than ever. Laena would’ve settled this dispute diplomatically. Always good with her words, always kind and fierce and confident.
Jacaerys assists Lucerys up, holding his brother’s shoulder firmly.
“He called us bastards, Selaena,” Jace says. His voice is stiff, but strong, and he looks at her like he’s challenging her. She must’ve upset him by defending Aemond.
He does not understand there is a worse outcome. Her sisters, Jacaerys, Lucerys, all of them will forgive her for this night. Aemond would’ve allowed these events to fester and poison his mind. He would’ve been a kinslayer, but she’s stopped that, right? Aemond stands silent behind her.
“Is this true?” she asks him, twisting to face him. Aemond does not seem as though he regrets saying it. Perhaps he regrets speaking the thought aloud.
“Yes,” he says, lips pursed.
All three of Rhaenyra’s sons are bastards. Anyone with eyes would’ve been able to tell, but nobody is foolish enough to say it. Aemond is a fool.
“That is treason. Your tongue could be cut out for uttering those words,” she spits at him and his glare shifts to her. She returns it.
Thief. Kinslayer. Murderer. Monster.
“Your hand,” Baela says, drawing her attention away from him and to her palm. The cut is deeper than she thought, aching when she flexes her fingers.
“We will not speak of tonight to anyone. It was all an accident. Aemond claimed Vhagar and you all fought. I came rushing in, worried Lucerys would draw the dagger and grabbed it.” Selaena looks at them.
“The dagger is mine,” Jace says.
“Then I was worried you would attempt to stab Aemond,” she amends with a terse shrug. “Everything else will be forgotten.”
“He called us bastards,” Luke argues. His nose is bloody and more than likely broken. Selaena frowns at the sight.
“And he should not have,” she agrees, “but neither of you should’ve brought out a weapon. Jacaerys you are the Princess’ firstborn. You should know better.”
She feels guilty for admonishing them, but she needs their silence. The acknowledgement that they were bastards drove the family further apart. She wants to scream this is the only way to save them from their fates, but she cannot. The weight of her past is suffocating. There are worst dates than one cursed with knowledge, though.
“But—“
”Enough!” she cries, loud enough to finally bring the attention of the Kingsguards. Useless oafs. They should’ve been watching them.
“What’s happened?” Criston Cole asks, one hand on his sword. Her lip curls at the sight of him. He had been the one to trick Rhaenyra, resulting in her grandmother’s death and her grandfather betraying them.
“There was an argument, it has been settled,” she replies tensely, bloodied hand curled into a fist.
(Aemond sees the way she glares at Ser Criston and wonders.)
She feels someone grab her wrist and she whips her gaze down. Aemond pushes her hand open, presenting her cut to the Kingsguards.
“Selaena needs a maester,” he says seriously. Her blood has dried on his cheek, flaky and red. Good, she thinks. Better hers than his.
They rush her into the Hall of Nine, Maester Kelvyn is brought to her immediately. He guides her to a chair and she holds out her hand for him. The pain is worth it. Every time the needle enters her skin she feels more alive. Each prick brings new air into her lungs. Hope warms her soul.
This is her second chance.
This is their second chance.
Daemon and Rhaenyra rush in. She immediately inspects her sons, cupping Luke’s face when she sees his broken nose. Daemon tends to her younger sisters first before he turns to her. His jaw is tight.
“Who did this?” he asks, but he’s not speaking to her. It’s only then she realizes Aemond has been standing at her side the entire time. He looks at her father unflinchingly. An impressive feat.
She wants to keep these two as separate as she physically can. The last time they fought—the only time they did—resulted in their deaths. Both their bodies and dragons lost to sea.
“It was—“
”My fault,” Selaena supplies, ignoring Aemond’s glance. “They were fighting and I grabbed Jacaerys’ dagger by the blade. It was a mistake, I wasn’t thinking.”
But she had been. She’d known exactly what she was doing by throwing herself at Lucerys while he raised a knife to his uncle. The scar on her palm would be evidence this her was different.
Selaena Targaryen had died from the fire of her dragon, this Selaena was reborn from those ashes with only one goal:
Prevent the Dance of the Dragons.
The other children reluctantly lie, claiming what she said as the truth. Rhaena tells their father Aemond stole Vhagar from her, a very tears spilling down her round cheeks. A new rush of hate fills her at the sight. She does not look at the boy standing valiantly beside her.
Daemon gives him a look she cannot decipher, but shushes Rhaena, thumb on her neck. He knows there is nothing they can do. Vhagar has accepted Aemond, and unless he dies, no amount of crying will change her mind. Aemond is her dragonrider now.
The very same dragon he used to fight Daemon. She supposes there’s some irony in it.
Alicent and Viserys enter next. The Queen is frantic, searching for her son. When she spots him, she rushes toward him, pressing her fingers against the dried blood on his cheek.
“Are you hurt?” she asks. Aemond shakes his head but does not pull away from his mother’s hold. He also does not stray from Selaena’s side.
“It is not my blood,” he says, purposely looking at Selaena’s palm. Maester Kelvyn has finished his stitches, wrapping the cut carefully. It aches in a way someone wholly living will feel.
Daemon reaches down, as though to touch her hand, but stops. “How is it?”
“It will scar,” the Maester replies. “We’ll have to watch to ensure it does not become infected.”
“I see,” he says, tone clipped. “You will be alright, Selaena.”
He’s trying in his own odd way. Daemon is not an affectionate parent in the traditional sense, so she learns to look for his love in other ways. He means to reassure her. A scar on a woman, even one on her palm, will undoubtedly decrease the amount of proposals she may receive.
Had she been the Selaena of her previous life, she may have weeped. She is not her, though.
Viserys is speaking to one of the Kingsguard, eyebrows furrowed. No doubt trying to piece the story together. They’ve all lied about the truth, and they repeat it to the King and his queen. None suspect their own children.
The best lies are ones of partial truth. Rhaenys, who stands with her sisters, had taught her that. Corlys holds a tearful Rhaena, no doubt upset about the loss of her dragon and their mother.
Viserys pinches between his brows. Already he looks more tired than she’s ever seen him. Soon he will be but a rotting corpse on the cusps of death and life. Selaena has never been close with her uncle, but she knows Daemon loves him. Their relationship is strained. She wonders the betrothal between Daemon’s oldest daughter and his second son was to mend what was broken.
“When will this infighting cease?” the King asks, looking about the room with steel in his eyes. Aemond flinches. By the fireplace, tucked to the side, Helaena and Aegon stand. He looks nervous, but Helaena is gazing at the ceiling.
She feels the urge to apologize to her cousin. Selaena had been behind the death of her and Aegon’s son. Helaena, Daemon, and Aemond all died on the same day. She remembers the grief, she remembers her swollen stomach paining her.
(She remembers pushing and screaming and pleading for relief.
It does not come. Their son is dead and his father is drowning.
She remembers and remembers and—)
“Selaena.” Her father squeezes her shoulder. None of that has happened, she reminds herself. Already she has made a change. She can make more. The desperate need to hope keeps her afloat.
“Well?” Viserys asks when none reply. “We are a family but you all act as though we are at war.”
What little he knows.
Helaena and Aegon are recently betrothed. It was the only reason Viserys had mentioned Aemond. Though he might have been attempting to soothe Alicent’s rage. He did not know his wife well, though, for her son to be wed to Daemon’s daughter was an insult. Especially after Selaena had called him a monster.
She still believes it to be true. She’s just wise enough to keep the thought to herself.
“You exile your family, brother,” Daemon says with a mock smile. His hand is still on Selaena’s shoulder, as though it is keeping her stable.
“Do not act innocent in my decisions, Daemon,” he responds, winded. Selaena does not need their petty argument over the past to ruin her plan.
“You’re right, uncle,” she says loudly, flexing her fingers to feel the pain of her stitches. It burns and aches but it feels good. “This family does need to stand united.”
Viserys looks at her for the first time. They’ve had a handful of conversations, none she can recall.
“I’m glad you agree,” he says and she takes it as him urging her to continue. She fixes a smile so wide it hurts her cheeks.
Jacaerys stands by his mother, looking at her curiously. She wishes she could say goodbye. He will never grow to love her but she fears she’ll never stop loving him. She has never known how to love anyone else.
“A betrothal between Prince Aemond and I,” she says with as much confidence as she can. “It will bring both sides together, don’t you think?”
Viserys is the only one who appears happy for the suggestion. Alicent frowns so sharply she’s surprised it doesn’t stay fixed that way. Daemon and Rhaenyra share a look, before Daemon speaks.
“I had hoped for you and Jacaerys to wed, daughter,” he says but there’s an underlying question. What are you planning? She touches his hand on her shoulder gently. I’m saving you, she thinks.
“Yes,” Jace immediately cuts in, “we should marry instead, Selaena.”
Her heart squeezes at the excitement and hope in his voice. They’d celebrated their betrothal once upon a time. They are not but memories now. Only she will ever know the love they shared.
She must leave it in her past, with the Selaena who bore no scar on her palm.
“I agree,” Aemond speaks from beside her. They hold each other’s gaze, both asking the same question. “To the betrothal.”
Why?
They have no time to talk, though.
“A brilliant idea,” Viserys says with a nod, gazing at his son with pride. Aemond flushes at the attention. She—and every other person here—is acutely aware of the fact Viserys’ ignores his other children. Alicent looks close to tears.
(“She is a manipulative, self-serving bitch, the daughter of the greatest cunt to ever live,” Daemon had told her once.)
“But they are so young—“ Her words are quickly dismissed by the King.
“They will not wed now, my love,” he says and she pretend not to see the Queen twitch at the pet name. “Selaena will be seven-and-ten in six years, the wedding would proceed then.”
Aemond will only be sixteen namedays, but her and Jace had married at that age.
“If… If you are sure, my king,” Alicent says, admitting to defeat. Helaena and Jacaerys were to be wed once, but she’d gotten her way then. Viserys leaves no room for argument from her now.
“Father, are you certain?” Rhaenyra asks.
“Yes,” Corlys is quick to agree. “I believe Jacaerys would be a better suiting match.”
He only wants his blood closer to the Throne. An ambitious man, her grandfather. She loves him as all granddaughters do, but she remembers his betrayal.
“Thank you, cousin, Grandfather, but Aemond will make a good husband,” she says as sincerely as she can. “He and I are of Targaryen blood, our children will be as well. I believe this marriage will bring us closer. Unless, Aemond minds—“
”I do not,” he says determinedly. “I wish to keep our blood pure. Selaena is of both Velaryon and Targaryen.”
And so it is decided. In six winters Lady Selaena Targaryen, eldest daughter of Daemon Targaryen, will marry Prince Aemond Targaryen, second son of King Viserys.
Nobody celebrates this but the King.
page eleven
Daemon does not approve of her actions, she can tell.
“I trust you have your reasons,” he says and she nods.
“Of course, Father. How else would we keep Vhagar on our side if not by claiming her rider?”
That makes his face relax and he smiles at her.
“A clever mind like your mother.”
It is easy to lie to her father as long as it benefits him.
Her sisters, Jacaerys, and Lucerys at the next ones to question her. They surround her the following morning, bursting into the chambers she resides in. Selaena had not slept well, tossing and turning while suffocating on her thoughts.
What if this was worse? What if she could not change anything? What if the war still occurred?
Baela leans over her, eyes narrowed. “Do you like Aemond?”
Selaena rubs sleep from her eyes, sitting up. “What?”
“Why else would you want to marry him?” Rhaena asks, pouting. “You acted like you were in love with him.”
She most certainly had not, but they are children. (So is she.) They do not understand politicking yet.
“I’m sorry,” Luke bursts, tears in his dark eyes. “I did not mean to cut you.”
She pets head mop of curls in an attempt to soothe him. While her sisters are mad and Luke continued to tearfully apologize, Jacaerys stands behind them, silent.
“Will you be okay?” he asks. “Marrying that… Marrying him, I mean.”
Selaena smiles. “I will be alright. All of us will be, I swear it.”
“Well,” Rhaena says, “if you’re happy.”
She is not, might never be, but she has accepted being content.
“I am.”
“If he hurts you, I’ll have Moondancer eat him,” Baela offers, lips pressed together. Her dragon is not yet large enough to seat her, much less beat Vhagar in a fight. Selaena accepts her offer anyway.
“And if the betrothal were to end, I would still marry you,” Jace adds. Her chest tries to not concave.
“Thank you,” she says. “All of you.”
page twelve
For the rest of the day, Selaena avoids her family.
She is too exhausted for their questions, their shows of concern. While it is appreciated, she wishes for a moment by herself. So she hides away in the library. Rhaenys had told her Laena would sit for hours reading.
Selaena misses her mother. She will never stop missing her, she thinks.
Aemond is the one to find her. He does not immediately approach her, though he clearly sees her. She can tell he’s only pretending to look at the books.
“You are to be my husband, Aemond,” she says, studying the book on the desk in front of her. “You need not loiter.”
It takes a moment, but he walks up to her. He doesn’t sit, remains standing beside her like he did last night. “Why?”
That seems to be the question everyone is asking.
“Why do you think?” she replied, flipping a page.
“I don’t understand,” he says, frustration palpable. “We have never spoken before.”
“Must we?” she asks, lifting her gaze toward him. Two eyes. It’s odd to see him without the scar.
“I want to understand,” he says. Selaena stands quickly, surprising him.
“A marriage to Jacaerys would’ve been beneficial,” she says. It would’ve made her queen consort. Marrying a second son does not even make her a princess.
“But you chose me?” he asks with a frown.
She steps forward but Aemond remains rooted in place, jaw clenched. Selaena is a few breaths taller than him, enough to force him to look up and her down.
“I did not save you out of the kindness of my heart,” she hisses. “I did not lie for you or become betrothed to you because I thought it fun. This is my duty.”
“You did not have to agree to marry me,” he says, scowling. Her lips lift into a humorless smile.
“No, I did not, but I have and it will not be changed,” she says. “I will marry you, give you babes, and stand by your side until I die.”
His face flushes at the mention of children.
She continues, unperturbed, “I want your loyalty in return. Not to our loveless marriage, but to my word. If I tell you to wield a sword for me, you will. If I command you to fly on Vhagar and burn down King’s Landing, you will.”
“I would not—“
Selaena raises a hand to cut him off. “I will not ask it of you. If I married Jacaerys, it would drive our family further apart. Our marriage will bind them. The Queen and my father will share grandchildren. Do you understand what I mean?”
He can’t, not truly. They are but nine and ten namedays old. Far too young for this. But, she thinks, he’d been too young to lose an eye and Lucerys had been too young to lose his life. This world does not care. The Father does not save every babe born without breath.
(He had not saved hers. Selaena had cursed him for it, holding a tiny, limp corpse in her blood arms.)
“Yes,” he says, staring at her with two gut wrenchingly violet eyes. “I understand.”
And she, despite her better judgement, believes him.