Afternoon light fell in pale gold bars through the tall windows of the Red Keep's smaller dining hall. A long table had been laid with white linen, silver pitchers of small beer, a bowl of butter, trenchers of brown bread, and a platter of cold trout dressed with parsley and lemon.
King Jaehaerys lowered himself into the chair at the head with the care of age, one hand braced on the table's edge. "Let us eat," he said, his voice hoarse but firm.
Benches scraped. Skirts whispered. The others settled into their places.
Lord Taron Arryn sat beside his wife, Lady Janyce, with their two sons near them, already warned into rare stillness. Across from them sat Prince Baelon beside Viserys, who greeted the Arryns with easy courtesy. Aemma had Rhea near her. At the far end of the table, Daemon sank into his chair with a soft thump. His expression was sour. His fingers tapped the wood once before he checked himself.
Jaehaerys raised his cup of watered wine slightly toward Lady Rhea.
"Rhea," he said, "it pleases me to have you at the table."
Rhea inclined her head. Her smile was neat and polite, her hair pinned tight beneath a bronze hairnet, her gown a deep russet that suited her.
"You honor me, Your Grace."
Across the table, Daemon took up a piece of bread and tore it neatly in half without sparing her a glance.
Baelon asked Lord Taron about the mountain roads, and Taron replied that they had been passable enough this season, though the higher ones remained cold despite the coming of summer. Viserys asked after little Jeyne, and Taron's face softened.
"Three years old now," he said. "And so dear to her grandparents that they would not hear of bringing her south."
That brought a small smile to Aemma's lips. She turned to Janyce.
"And what sort of gown should a little princess wear first, when she is old enough to totter through the halls?"
"Blue, perhaps," Janyce said. "Or cream. Nothing too delicate. Babies are merciless with fine things."
Aemma laughed. "Viserys would wrap her in pearls if I let him."
"Gladly," Viserys said. "Every pearl in the realm, and call it moderation."
A low chuckle came from Baelon.
Daemon put down his bread.
"The Vale keeps freer customs than court, it seems," he said, not quite looking at Rhea. "I had not known one might come from the saddle straight to the table."
The table grew quieter. Jaehaerys glanced up but said nothing.
Rhea's smile did not shift.
"Mountain roads do not always grant the luxury of changing at leisure, my prince," she said. "One learns to arrive ready."
The king's mouth curved faintly before he returned to his meal.
A brief silence followed.
Viserys cleared his throat. "Lady Janyce, how fares the Vale's harvest?"
Janyce replied at once. "Better than last year, praise the Seven. Though the upper villages still complain of thin soil."
"A useful custom, no doubt," Daemon said, cutting across the flow again. "One imagines the horses of Runestone must be very well accustomed to noble company."
Baelon turned his head slowly toward him.
"Daemon."
He did not lift his voice. He had no need.
Daemon's jaw worked once. Then twice. But he said no more and dragged his knife through the trout on his plate without raising a bite.
Jaehaerys next began to tell a story of a hunt in his youth, when a stag had nearly thrown one of his companions into a stream. Aemma caught at it gratefully and asked Taron if he remembered their father's old falcon, the one that had once clawed a servant bloody for daring to feed it late.
Janyce joined in, her tone bright and steering. Viserys asked whether the Kingswood's deer were larger than the red deer of the Vale, glancing between Daemon and Rhea as if he might bridge a ravine with ordinary questions and goodwill.
Rhea answered with courtesy whenever anyone addressed her. Yes, she had seen the gardens. No, she did not find the city too loud.
Every reply was measured. Each fell softly.
Daemon said nothing. His expression only hardened. He watched his father laugh at something Taron said. He watched Viserys offer Rhea the platter of cheese, which she declined with a smile.
His cup halted halfway to his mouth.
He put it down again with a hard little thunk against the linen.
"I find I don't have an appetite," he announced.
His chair legs grated sharply across the floor as he pushed back.
Baelon's brows drew together, but Daemon was already on his feet. He gave Jaehaerys a light bow.
"Your Grace."
Then he turned toward the door.
"Daemon…" Aemma began.
But he had already gone. One step. Then another. His boots clicked against the stone, and the door closed behind him with a clean, quiet click.
For one breath, no one spoke.
Then Janyce caught Rhea's eye.
It was only a small glance. A slight tilt toward the empty chair.
Rhea understood.
She set down her napkin and rose. Her hands folded before her skirts. A faint color had climbed her neck, but her voice remained steady when she faced the king.
"Your Grace, I must ask pardon for my husband's manner," she said. "He was not warned I would join Lord Taron's party south. I would not have had your table troubled on my account."
Jaehaerys regarded her for a long moment. Then the corner of his mouth curled.
"Rhea," he said, "if my table were to fall into disorder each time Daemon showed his temper, I should never dine in peace."
His eyes warmed a little.
"You bore it well. I am glad he has a wife with steadier judgment than his own."
Rhea bowed her head. "Your Grace is kind."
Baelon gave a single approving nod.
Janyce smiled softly at Rhea and dipped her chin in quiet support.
Near the end of the table, little Godric leaned toward Osric and whispered, not quite softly enough, "The prince left his fish."
Osric shushed him at once.
Aemma let out the smallest laugh, and the room breathed again.
Driftmark had already come into view.
Aegon stood at the front of the boat, one hand resting lightly on the rail as the vessel cut through the water. The sea was calm enough that morning, with the wind carrying the sharp smell of salt and the faint cry of gulls overhead. Ahead, the island rose from the water in grey stone and green slopes, and the pier stretched out like a waiting hand.
Even from here he could make out figures gathered near the dock.
Small at first.
Then clearer with every pull of the oars.
Servants. Guards. A few cloaks moving in the wind.
People waiting for them.
Aegon turned slightly and looked across the deck.
Gael stood near the side of the boat, dressed in green and yellow that caught the sunlight whenever the fabric shifted. She was leaning a little over the edge, watching the water break and fold away beneath the hull with quiet fascination, as if she had not grown tired of the sight even after the journey.
Aegon smiled faintly.
"We're here," he said.
Gael looked up.
Her face brightened, and she straightened from the rail before walking over to him. The breeze tugged lightly at her hair as she came to stand beside him at the front of the boat.
"So soon?" she asked. The island was plainly right before them now.
"You have been too busy watching the sea to notice."
She gave him a small smile and looked ahead.
The details began to sharpen. Weathered wood along the pier. The dark shape of mooring posts. Men, already moving into place to catch lines when the boat came in. And at the front of those waiting—
Gael's smile widened.
"Rhaenys."
Princess Rhaenys stood at the pier in a gown of grey and light blue, the colors soft against the brighter sea and sky. The wind pulled at her skirts and stirred loose strands of silver-gold hair at her temples as she watched the boat come in with a smile already forming.
The boat slowed.
Wood knocked against wood. Ropes were thrown. Hands caught them. Orders passed in short, skilled voices. The vessel settled against the pier with a low creak.
Aegon stepped ashore first, then turned and offered Gael his hand. She took it and came down lightly beside him.
Rhaenys did not wait for ceremony.
She stepped forward, smiling fully now.
"So," she said, looking from one to the other, "you do still remember the way to Driftmark."
Gael laughed softly and moved into her embrace. Aegon followed a moment later, and Rhaenys greeted him just as warmly.
"We have been busy," Aegon said.
"So have we all," Rhaenys replied, though her tone was lightly scolding. "And yet some of us still manage to visit family now and then. You live close enough that I ought to see you more than this."
Gael slipped her arm through Rhaenys's with easy affection. "We are here now."
"Yes," Rhaenys said, giving her hand a small pat. "At last."
Her eyes flicked to Aegon then, amused.
"You should know Corlys has been restless since last night."
Aegon let out a quiet breath of laughter. "I can imagine why."
"Ah, men and their swords," Rhaenys said. "He has been waiting to show half the castle that House Velaryon has its own Valyrian sword now."
Gael laughed.
"Come," Rhaenys said with a smile. "You have kept us waiting long enough."
She turned and began leading them from the pier toward the castle, with the servants and guards falling in behind at a respectful distance.
Myr
The room stank of sweat, piss and the sour rot of too many bodies packed too close together.
Saera sat with her back against a timber post, one knee drawn up, one arm resting loosely across it. Iron rang softly whenever someone shifted. Chains dragged. Somewhere to her left, a woman coughed and kept coughing until it turned wet. A child whimpered once, then went quiet after a sharp hiss from its mother.
Torchlight swayed along the walls. Not enough to warm the place. Only enough to show the filth.
Bars divided the chamber into long holding pens. Men in one. Women in another. A few older children shoved wherever there was room. Above them ran a narrow walkway where guards paced at intervals, boots knocking against the planks. Every so often one of them glanced down the way a butcher might glance over hanging meat.
Bought. Counted. Moved.
That was what this place was.
A waystation for flesh. Slaves.
Saera kept her face turned half-away, silver hair hanging in dirty knots over one shoulder. What had once been soft skin was streaked with grime. The thin dress they had thrown on her after stripping her finer clothes barely deserved the name. It clung where it was damp and hung loose where it had torn. Her feet were bare. One ankle was bruised dark beneath the iron ring.
Even now, filthy and disheveled, she drew eyes.
A woman crouched nearby, narrow-faced and hollow-cheeked, with one side of her mouth marked by an old scar. She had been watching Saera for some time before she finally spoke.
"How'd they catch you?"
Saera glanced at her.
The woman lifted one shoulder. "You don't look born to chains."
Saera let out a short breath through her nose. Not quite a laugh.
"I was in Volantis," she said, her voice dry with annoyance, "minding my own fucking business and enjoying my life. Then a few bastards decided I would be more useful elsewhere."
The scarred woman gave a crooked snort.
Saera went on. "Next thing I knew, I was trussed up in the belly of a slave ship with half a dozen fleas, two dead girls, and a man who vomited every time the waves hit. Then I arrived in lovely Myr." She looked around the pen. "And now here I fucking am."
A man in the next holding space barked out a laugh.
"Enjoying your life, were you?" he called. "Must've been a fine fucking life."
Another leaned against the bars and stared openly at her legs.
"Still might be," he said. "Once they wash her."
A few low chuckles followed that.
Saera turned her head slowly and fixed him with her eyes.
"Come closer and say it again."
The man grinned, showing broken teeth. "Oh, I'd come close enough."
Saera smiled then. A small, cold smile.
"And I'd bite your cock off before they dragged me away."
That got a burst of ugly laughter.
"Feisty bitch," someone muttered.
The broken-toothed man held her gaze for a moment longer, then spat to one side and looked away.
Saera settled back against the post as though nothing had happened.
But inside, her thoughts moved fast.
Volantis.
Myr.
Not sold at once. Not thrown into some common market stall. Brought here instead. Watched. Kept separate enough.
This was not random.
She had spent years surviving by reading rooms, reading men, reading hunger before it turned into danger. She knew vanity. Lust. Greed. Boredom. She could charm one, mock another, flatter a third, and make each think it had been his own cleverness that opened the door.
But this…
This smelled different.
Too deliberate.
Soon bootsteps sounded beyond the main door.
The chamber shifted at once.
Captives straightened. Guards on the walkway looked down. One of the slavers barked something in Low Valyrian near the entrance, and the bolt was drawn back.
The door opened.
Several men came in. Armed. Hard-faced.
Between them walked a better-dressed man.
Not lavish, but fine enough. A dark blue robe trimmed at the edges. Rings on two fingers. Soft boots. He wore perfume too, faint beneath the stink of the chamber.
Saera noticed all of it in a glance.
Her spine straightened a little.
Her hand rose to brush loose hair from her face. She shifted just enough to let the torchlight catch her features. Not too eager. Never eager. A little tired, a little wounded, a little dangerous. Men liked that.
The scarred woman beside her noticed the change and gave her a quick side look.
Saera ignored her.
The well-dressed man walked slowly along the pens, saying little. He did not leer. Did not pause over breasts or hips like the others did. He merely looked. Studied.
When he came to her section, Saera lifted her eyes to his.
Not pleading.
Never that.
Only a faint, knowing softness. The beginning of an invitation. The sort that promised she might be trouble worth having.
He stopped.
For the briefest moment, Saera thought: there.
He studied her face.
Then he smiled.
Saera's smile held.
Barely.
He stepped closer to the bars.
"You may stop that," he said mildly.
Her brows rose just a little. "Stop what?"
"The look." His gaze dipped over her, then returned to her face. "I am not the one interested in you."
Saera said nothing.
His smile deepened. "The magister is."
Saera kept her breathing even. Kept her chin lifted. Kept the old, polished mask in place.
Then he spoke again.
"Princess Saera Targaryen… "
Her stomach dropped.
***
📜 Milestones:
250 Power Stones → +1 Chapter ✅ (+50 from myself)
***
Thanks for reading!
Read ahead here : patreon.com/Deep__aureate