As I stepped into the carriage, I was greeted by two beautiful women. The elder, seated on the right, was Alicent Hightower, Rhaenyra's lady-in-waiting. She wore a light blue gown, her figure adorned with only a modest amount of jewelry.
The other was younger than Alicent — barely twelve years old — and my own lady-in-waiting. She was Ashara Dayne, a young noble from Dorne, with sun-kissed skin, hair black as midnight falling to her waist in long braids, and lilac-colored eyes that seemed to see more than they should.
"Did you enjoy yourself, Vhaehra?" Ashara asked sweetly, shifting so I might sit beside her.
I nodded eagerly, smiling. "I did. Even gave Rhaenyra a bit of a fright."
Ashara chuckled softly, but before she could reply, Alicent spoke.
"Is my lady Rhaenyra here yet?"
I inclined my head, informing her that Syrax had just landed in the pit. She bowed and departed, leaving Ashara and me alone.
Ashara had become dear to me — more than just a companion. Once, I spoke to almost no one, too shy or too anxious to form friendships. But Ashara had coaxed me from my shell, and for that, I would always hold her in my heart.
"Bahamut grows quickly, my princess. I wonder how large he will be in ten years… perhaps he will surpass Caraxes or Meleys."
The thought of Bahamut towering even over the Red Queen made me smile smugly. "Of course he will. He's destined to be the largest and mightiest dragon in all of Westeros."
Ashara's lips curved in amusement. "Oh? Mightier even than Vhagar?"
Before I could answer, the carriage door opened, and Rhaenyra entered with Alicent at her side, cutting our conversation short.
Once we were all seated, the carriage rolled toward the Red Keep. It had taken some shameless persuasion — begging, even — to convince Rhaenyra not to run to Father about my harmless prank.
The rest of the journey passed pleasantly enough. We gossiped about courtly affairs, speculated on which knights might shine in the upcoming tourney, and traded playful boasts. I delighted in telling Ashara and Alicent how I had "won" a race against Rhaenyra, while Rhaenyra protested that we hadn't been racing at all, earning laughter from the others.
Upon arriving at the Red Keep, the courtyard was alive with the clamor of training soldiers, the clang of steel, and the bustle of servants at their daily labors. We parted from Rhaenyra, who went to see Mother, while I retired to my chambers to bathe — I had no wish to attend my first small council meeting smelling like a stable.
I take pride in appearances; they keep one in the good graces of court, and I intend to remain there. Even the Hand, Otto Hightower, who once brushed me aside to tend to his duties, had begun to take me seriously after several discussions on matters of governance. Indeed, it was he who convinced Father to allow me to observe the council.
In my chamber, the handmaidens quickly scrubbed me free of dirt and the stench of dragonfire. Exotic oils and herbs replaced it with a scent like the gardens of Highgarden. They dressed me in a black gown with white frills at the cuffs and hem, falling just below the knee. Black stockings, white shoes, and a blue ribbon tying my hair into a ponytail completed the ensemble.
"You look absolutely beautiful, Lady Vhaehra," Ashara said from the window.
I met my own gaze in the mirror and nodded. She isn't wrong. Cute as a button, and I've no shame in using it to my advantage.
"All right, I'm off, Ashara. I'll see you later."
I left my chambers, nearly skipping across the stone floors, greeting lords and ladies along the way.
Rounding a corner, I spotted Otto Hightower speaking with Lord Beesbury. I curtsied. "My lords, I trust you are well this fine day."
Otto smiled faintly. "Princess Vhaehra, the meeting is about to begin. Lord Beesbury and I were just discussing the Crown's expenditures for the month."
His appraising gaze, honed over years as Hand, lingered on me. He held me to high standards — I knew that — and though he thought it a shame I was born a woman, he never let it show beyond his eyes.
"Shall we?" he said, opening the door. We entered, and I took my place at the side of the chamber as Otto and Beesbury seated themselves.
Soon, the rest of the council filed in, followed by my father, King Viserys. Pride swelled in me. This was my first step toward doing more than simply existing as the second princess of the realm.
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This… this is not what I was hoping for.
I sighed inwardly. Thus far, the small council meeting had been anything but the moment I'd been anticipating. Instead of weighty decisions, it was filled with idle chatter and matters of little consequence.
The fault, as ever, lay with my father. He could manage a realm, yes, but in truth it was the councillors who steered much of its course. When confronted with a matter that demanded a firm hand, Father too often waved it aside, unwilling to be drawn into conflict.
If you do not solve these problems now, they will only fester and grow.
Across the table, Lord Corlys Velaryon caught my gaze. He offered me a faint smile and the barest nod — a silent acknowledgment that we both shared the same frustration.
Lord Corlys had his own grievances. Earlier in the session, he had attempted to raise concerns about the Stepstones — the islands lying east of Dorne — but was swiftly dismissed. Merchant ships from Driftmark had already been attacked, choking the flow of trade. The culprits were no common pirates, but forces backed by the Free Cities, chiefly the so-called Triarchy: Tyrosh, Myr, and Lys.
Father leaned forward now, chuckling over some dull jest of his own making.
"So I told him," Viserys said with a grin, "that he might be looking up the wrong end."
A ripple of polite laughter followed — the sort courtiers give when they know it is expected, not earned. I kept my face neutral, though the urge to frown grew stronger with each passing moment.
Corlys chose that instant to press the matter again. "My lords," he said, drawing the council's attention. "The growing alliance among the Free Cities has taken to calling itself the Triarchy."
He rose, circling the table, and unfurled a map upon it. "They have massed upon Bloodstone," he said, pointing to the largest of the Stepstones. "At present, they are ridding the islands of their pirate infestation."
"Well," Father said lightly, "that sounds like suspiciously good news, Lord Corlys."
If it sounds 'suspiciously good,' it is rarely good at all, I thought, irritation pricking at me.
"A man named Craghas Drahar styles himself Prince-Admiral of this Triarchy. They call him the Crabfeeder, owing to his… unsavory methods of punishment."
Ah, so that was his name. I had heard it once before in passing, though without context.
"Are you asking me to weep for dead pirates, Lord Corlys?" Father replied, tone mild to the point of dismissal.
"No, Your Grace. Merely that I believe—"
The door opened. Rhaenyra entered, making her way to Father with quick steps.
"Rhaenyra, you're late," Viserys chided with mock severity. "The King's cupbearer must not keep his lords wanting for wine." He murmured the last part with a sly grin.
"I was visiting Mother," she replied sweetly, kissing his cheek before slipping into her duties. She glanced at me with a smug look that needed no words.
I prayed she would keep silent about my earlier antics; the thought of losing my riding privileges with Bahamut soured my mood further.
Instead, I turned to Corlys and made my choice. "Father," I began, keeping my tone respectful but steady, "may I voice my thoughts on this matter?"
"Vhaehra, I brought you here to listen. You are too young to speak on such things," he answered, voice stern.
I bit my lip, bowed my head. "I understand, Your Grace."
But then Otto Hightower spoke. "Now, Your Grace, while she is young, the princess is keen-minded. I, for one, would appreciate her opinion your grace."
That earned him a grateful smile from me.
Father exhaled slowly. "Very well. If Otto is to vouch for you… let us hear your thoughts, Vhaehra."
"Thank you, Your Grace. And you, Lord Otto."
I stepped forward to stand beside Lord Corlys, eyes on the map. "As you know, the Stepstones are claimed by neither the Iron Throne nor the Free Cities — for good reason. Yet they are vital to both. Much of our sea trade passes through them, and many ports depend upon those routes: King's Landing, Driftmark, Gulltown, Maidenpool—"
"I am aware," Viserys interrupted. "Do you wish me to start a war over a handful of pirates?"
I steadied myself. "No, Your Grace. My point is this — we cannot allow the Triarchy to seize the Stepstones. Once the pirates are gone, they will control the islands and the trade routes. Who is to say they will be better than the pirates? They could impose crushing tolls, or blockade our ports entirely. What benefits us today could, in time, prove a noose around the realm's neck."
I stepped back. The council absorbed my words in silence. Father looked faintly agitated; Otto's expression remained unreadable; Corlys seemed pleased enough to clap my shoulder.
"Well said, Princess," he told me. "It is as she says, Your Grace — those trade routes are the lifeblood of the realm. In the wrong hands, they could strangle us."
Father drummed his fingers on the table. "I will not send innocents to war, Corlys, if that is what you wish. I will, however, send a letter to this Triarchy — to address these concerns, and seek terms before we speak of swords."
"Thank you, Your Grace," Corlys replied, returning to his seat.
Beesbury cleared his throat. "If I may, Your Grace — there are also matters regarding your brother's spending on the City Watch."
At the mention of my uncle, Viserys' attention sharpened. Daemon's expenses had been considerable — new training regimens, improved equipment — all at great cost to the Crown. Whether the gold cloaks were worth such investment remained to be seen.
The rest of the meeting passed without much of note, save for the endless talk of the so-called Heir's Tournament. I disliked the name. The child was not yet born, and already the realm whispered of succession.
At present, my uncle Daemon stood next in line. Few in the Seven Kingdoms wished to see him on the Iron Throne. Should my father have no son, Rhaenyra would likely be named heir — a prospect that stirred quiet rivalries and dangerous speculation.
I pray to the Old Gods and the New for a brother, so that these whispers might finally be silenced.