fina5

Summary: In the span of a week, the peaceful life of Princess Valaena Velaryon is destroyed. At its start, the Iron Throne is usurped, casting the realm headlong into war. Her mother is annointed Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and she Princess of Dragonstone. At its end, her brother Lucerys is slain by her husband, Aemond Targaryen. In a story of love and tragedy, betrayal and hope, Valaena must embark on a perilous journey to win a war against her own kin, daunted by friends and foes on either side of the fray.

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Light

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135 A.C.

When they drift past the first sequence of perimeter buoys surrounding Driftmark, Baela jumps ship. Cleanly, she dives into the water and slips away under the waves.

“Fuck,” Aemond curses. The sea wind muffles his voice as he bickers with Daeron.

Unconcerned with their quibbling, Valaena remains fixated on the bundle in her arms. Shortly after their voyage commenced, Aenar had succumbed to slumber, rocked to sleep by the waves. Her gaze has been pinned to his serene face ever since. She admires his long, white-blond eyelashes, the curve of his nose, and the peaceful bow of his mouth. She mourns the loss of the baby fat that once filled his cheeks, not so plump now as they were two moons past.

My featherbed is deep and soft

and there I'll lay you down

The waves shorten, and their boat comes to berth. The bottom of the dinghy scrapes against the rocky shore on the near side of Driftmark. Soon, the boat is jostled more than it was at sea. Belatedly, Valaena registers shouting, with Baela’s voice rising above the rest. “Take the Kinslayer and the Oathbreaker!” The commotion wakes Aenar, and he begins to wail. The rest of the children scream, too, and crowd Valaena for comfort. Aemond and Criston are forcibly hauled from the boat by men draped in the colors of House Velaryon. Aemond goes relatively easily, whereas Criston struggles against his captors, fruitlessly grappling with them as they pin his arms behind his back.

Stood along the craggy incline of the isle, Addam hails, “Naejot māzīs, Seasmoke!” The distant croon of a dragon answers him.

Daeron, enthralled by the hubbub, leans over the port side of the boat as if to intervene. Mindful that she needs his aid, Valaena pulls his attention back to their charges. With her hand on his arm, he looks back to her. “Let us unload the children,” she says.

His stare incredulous, he questions, “Do you realize what Ser Addam intends?”

She glances between his terrified gaze and the beach, where Aemond and Criston are forced onto their knees. She hazards a guess, “To burn them?”

A score of emotions war on his face, with exasperation prevailing. “Yes!” Leaping from the boat, he leaves her to manage the children alone. She works to calm them, murmuring soothing noises and brushing away their tears. Thankfully, several of her grandsire’s men come to help her and the children disembark.

Help arrives for Addam, too. Seasmoke alights on the cliffs with a terrible flourish, his claws scraping along the stone, and his warm breath sweeping across the seaside glade. Great and terrible, he looms over the small gathering of humans. With a preliminary command, Addam points to Aemond and Criston. Seasmoke’s large gray eyes focus on them and narrow to slits.

Daeron plants himself between Aemond and the snarling beast. Addam calls down to him, “Step aside, Prince Daeron. There is no cause for you to die this day.”

Daeron stands firm. “Do what you wish with Cole but leave mine brother.”

His voice hard, Addam contends, “Your brother killed mine. Justice must be done.”

Summary: A mosaic of Bakugou Katsuki's life and his relationship with Midoriya Izuku throughout the years, as told by his loved ones.

Chapter Seven: Kid

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Izuku arrives home after a long day of hero work, intending to hop in the shower and relax in front of the television. He is waylaid by Katsuki, who is in the midst of screaming his head off into his phone in the middle of their living room. When Katsuki spies him coming through the door, he lowers his voice somewhat, but his intensity persists.

“Oh, you do,” he asks the person on the other end of the line. “Because what I don’t understand is how the fuck you fuckers can be so fucking incompetent that you make such a huge fuck-up like this!” 

Toeing off his shoes, Izuku pities whosoever has earned Katsuki’s ire. Just yesterday, he had to run interference between Katsuki and their new interns from Yuuei, who had invoked his fury by failing to address each other by their hero names while on patrol. The kids had been practically inconsolable by the time Katsuki was through with them, revived only by a nod of approval from the man when they finished their shifts without any more mistakes.

“Yeah, you better have your lawyer on it! And while they’re at it, tell ’em that they’re gonna be hearing from me!” With an angry flourish, he hangs up and throws his phone at the couch before hunching over and loosing a guttural scream.

Hesitantly, Izuku approaches him. “Kacchan, what’s wrong?” When he receives no response, he adds, “Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s fine. And if it’s not, we can face it together.” For whatever reason, this elicits a turbulent laugh from Katsuki. His concern grows as his boyfriend continues to laugh far longer than is his wont. “Come on, tell me what’s wrong.” Cautiously, he sets a hand on Katsuki’s shoulder. “Do we need a lawyer?”

This question seems to snap Katsuki out of his hysterical stupor. Straightening, he wipes his hands down his face. “Yeah. Do we know any?”

Izuku wrings his hands as he thinks. “There’s Toshinori’s estate lawyer.” Last year, they had to help Toshinori set up a trust as part of his estate, and they met with his lawyer no less than half a dozen times. “I think her name was Murai? I can ask him for her number.”

Turning toward their home office, Katsuki murmurs, “I think I have it around here somewhere.”

Apprehensive, Izuku follows him. “Kacchan, why do we need a lawyer?”

Marching up to their desk, Katsuki begins rummaging around in it. He extracts a slip of paper from one of the drawers, stalks out of the room, grabs his phone, and dials out. After a moment, he says, “Yeah, is this Murai Tanaka’s office?” He waits for a response before continuing, “This is Bakugou Katsuki. I need an appointment with her. Now. When is she available?” He goes quiet again. He glances over at Izuku, who feels inexplicably as though Katsuki is staring into his soul. “That works. Thanks.” He hangs up, sliding his phone into his pocket and moving his hands to cover his face again.

Anxiously, Izuku asks, “What’s going on?” He wonders if there is something he has done that has now come home to roost. He panics, trying to think of what it could be. He got thrown into a bus by a villain last week. Has their liability insurance determined that their agency was at fault? He took a magazine with Katsuki’s face on it from a convenience store yesterday. He offered to pay for it, but the clerk insisted he have it free of cost. Had the store owner learned about it and decided to report him for theft?

Katsuki heads off his train of thought, run off the tracks. “Chill out. You’re not in trouble.” His frown worsens, and he looks away. “I am. Or, well, that’s up to you.”

Turning skeptical, Izuku questions, “Why? What did you do?”

Summary: A mosaic of Bakugou Katsuki's life and his relationship with Midoriya Izuku throughout the years, as told by his loved ones.

Chapter Six: Blood

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A loud buzz sounds as the door slides open. Ochako waits for the guard to give her the go-ahead before stepping into the room, watching as Himiko perks up at the table she staked out for them. This is the first time in ten years that they have been allowed to meet without a thick slab of glass between them.

For the first decade of her sentence, Himiko was imprisoned in Tartarus with Dabi and the other surviving high-ranking members of the Paranormal Liberation Front. At the ten-year mark, she was moved to a lower-security high-security prison, Aeaea, one that permits inmates to meet family and friends in a communal visiting room. As Ochako nears her, Himiko ensnares her in a bone-crushing hug.

“Can you believe it,” Himiko shrieks in her ear. “I’m actually allowed to touch you here!”

Ochako squeezes her back, laughing as she relishes in the embrace. The last time she and Himiko touched was in the Gunga Mountain Ruins, holding each other after Himiko had given her an almost-fatal amount of blood to keep her alive.

“That’s enough,” declares the nearest guard. Reluctantly, Ochako lets Himiko go.

Taking a seat across from her, she hunts through her bag for her bimonthly blood donation. Himiko squeals as she slides it across the table toward her. Gently grasping it with both hands, she says, “Thanks, cutie.”

“You’re welcome, cutie,” replies Ochako. “So, how’re you holding up here? Has the transition gone well?”

Himiko nods. “Mhmm! I’ve made a bunch of new friends, and they’re all so cute, but they’re still a little scared of me, so we haven’t had a chance to really bond yet.”

Ochako hums in understanding. She knows well how terrifying Himiko’s first impression is. “I’m sure they’ll come around.” On balance, she thinks, Himiko is amiable and charming, so long as one can overlook her more obsessive tendencies.

Grinning with all her teeth, Himiko asks, “So, what’s new with you?”

Typically, their visits are spent discussing Ochako’s life more than anything else. Himiko rarely had updates while she was in solitary confinement, and she could not care less about whatever was in the news. “Well,” she starts, wondering how best to break her news to Himiko. Ultimately, she decides to rip off the bandage. “I started dating someone. Deku-kun.”

Abruptly, Himiko slams her hands onto the table. “What! Since when?”

“Two months ago,” she answers, preemptively wincing.

Himiko scrutinizes her. “Was this before or after you visited me that last time in Tartarus?”

“Just slightly before,” she confesses. Himiko gasps, plainly outraged that she neglected to mention this during her last visit. She jumps to explain, “It was way too soon to tell anyone. I wasn’t sure about the relationship yet.”

Turning eager, Himiko leans toward her. She waggles her brow. “And now?”

“Eh,” she supposes, shrugging.

Summary: A mosaic of Bakugou Katsuki's life and his relationship with Midoriya Izuku throughout the years, as told by his loved ones.

Chapter Five: Dada

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A creak sounds in the night, rousing Izuku from his slumber. Vaguely, he hears the clod of light footsteps, drawing him further from his dream, in which he is still teaching at Yuuei and trying to mediate some adolescent argument in the middle of class. Fleetingly, he is almost glad the dream may be over despite the sleep it will lose him.

He is certain he is awake when a tiny hand pokes him, accompanied by a tinny voice. “Dada.” 

Stifling a groan, Izuku holds the covers open. He slurs against his pillow, “Hi, baby. Do you want to sleep with Dada?”

Itsuki stays put. “My tummy hurts.” 

Sighing, Izuku resigns himself to his fate. Sitting up, he hunts for his glasses, and his son comes into focus as he sets them on the bridge of his nose. “Your tummy hurts?”

Itsuki, standing hunched over with his hands clenched over his stomach, moans, “Yeah.”

When Izuku presses the back of his hand to Itsuki’s forehead, it feels warm, though that alone is not unusual for this kid. Itsuki has always run warm. Even as a baby, he would often present with a thirty-seven-point-five-degree fever, and they would rush him to the emergency room only for the attending doctor to tell them that some kids simply run hotter than others.

Standing, he ushers Itsuki into the hall. “Come on, let’s go to the potty.” 

Itsuki shuffles alongside him, sniffling. “Dada, I don’t wanna throw up.” 

“I know, baby, but you’ll feel better.” He sets his hand on the knob of the bathroom door just as Itsuki whines, high-pitched and uncomfortable, and fire, bright and orange, streams out in front of him. The flames get the door, the door jamb, the carpet, and Izuku’s arm.

Summary: A mosaic of Bakugou Katsuki's life and his relationship with Midoriya Izuku throughout the years, as told by his loved ones.

Chapter Four: Gift Certificate

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After the war, when once more resources could be spared, Tartarus was rebuilt to exceed its former glory. What was considered an impenetrable fortress before became a black hole, inescapable for all those sentenced to reside there for eternity.

Todoroki Touya was swallowed by this black hole nearly ten years ago. He resides in a frigid cell, too cold for him to do much more than light a small flame within the clasp of his hands. As he inherited his mother’s constitution, he does not much mind the chill. Rather, he resents his jailers for the indignity it wreaks upon him, especially as it disallows him the pleasure of hot soba when his brothers and nephew visit.

“Fucking cold soba,” he gripes, glaring between his soup and Shouto.

With his status as the ranked Number Two Pro-Hero, Shouto has the privilege of visiting Touya whenever he pleases, and he is allowed to meet with him in his room, rather than through a pane of thick, bulletproof glass. Today, he brings with him two additional visitors, Natsuo and his nephew, Tatsuo. Touya abides their visits with some reluctance, though he usually behaves, especially when they bring with them food from the outside world. For the occasion of his birthday this year, Shouto chose his favorite, cold soba, much to Touya’s fervent displeasure.

Touya’s appearance has changed somewhat since his return to their lives before the war. He has retained his blue eyes and white hair, but his skin differs greatly. He has had skin grafts all over his body, leaving it in mottled shades of brown, ranging from his natural, pale complexion to rough, tan patches. He also no longer has any of his piercings, the warden having deemed them a security risk. Altogether, his countenance is softer, less unsettling and disturbing, though it often leaves Shouto wondering how his brother would choose to fashion himself had he not been driven to burn himself beyond recognition.

Having grown disinterested in his own portion of soba, Tatsuo sits in his father’s lap and aggressively taps his chopsticks against the table. For the most part, the adults ignore this disturbance, though they give him their attention when he asks, “Um, uh, Uncle Touya, can I ask you a question?” It is the fourth time this afternoon that he has interrupted the conversation to start a new discussion this way, but he is still at a cute age, with pale, white eyelashes and big, blue eyes, so none of them much mind.

Chewing with his mouth open, Touya responds, “No.” Dismayed, Tatsuo pouts at him. He stares the child down, remorseless, until finally relenting, “What?”

Satisfied by his acquiescence, Tatsuo returns to idly stabbing at the table with his utensils. “Um, why are you in jail?”

“You know why I’m in jail,” Touya reminds him.

“Um, no, I don’t,” he replies

“Um, yes, you do,” insists Touya.

Irate, Tatsuo stands on his knees, digging one of his feet into his father’s crotch and thus causing Natsuo to hiss. “No, I don’t,” he shrieks, gnashing his teeth. Having stood his ground, he calms, retakes his seat, and arranges his chopsticks to steal some noodles from Natsuo’s bowl. As he stuffs them into his mouth, he says, “My mommy says you killed a lotta people.” 

Touya nods. “Yup.”

“But why,” wonders Tatsuo.

“Mostly for fun,” Touya answers, shrugging.

Summary: A mosaic of Bakugou Katsuki's life and his relationship with Midoriya Izuku throughout the years, as told by his loved ones.

Chapter Three: Collectible

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As the glass doors slide open, Masaru loses his grip on his son. The slippery three-year-old escapes his grasp, darting into the toy store. His small blond head bobs as he weaves through the throng of other kids and parents, making for the prominent display in the middle of the store. Masaru follows at a sedate pace, unconcerned about losing sight of Katsuki when he knows there is nowhere the little boy would rather be than in front of a hundred iterations of his favorite hero—except, perhaps, in front of the man himself.

“All Might,” Katsuki cheers, throwing his hands into the air and hopping up and down. When he catches sight of Masaru, he informs him, “This is what we need, old man.”

He nods as Katsuki returns his attention to the array of toys before him. Scowling, he peruses the shelves. Masaru, hoping to help him along, picks up a boxed figurine on the top shelf. “What about this one?”

Katsuki turns up his nose. “No way. That’s from All Might’s Golden Age. Deku already has that one.” 

“Alright.” He goes down a shelf. “What about this one?”

“That’s All Might’s Silver Age costume. Deku has that one, too.” Katsuki grabs another doll from a lower shelf and looks up at Masaru, his eyes wide and pleading.

Surprised at how quickly Katsuki has made his selection—his son is very particular—Masaru wonders how they will spend the rest of the afternoon. He had promised Mitsuki he would keep Katsuki out of her hair until dinnertime. “Do you want to get him that one?”

Katsuki enlightens him, “This is also All Might’s Silver Age costume, but it’s possible.”

Not sure what Katsuki means, Masaru inspects the description on the box. “You mean posable.” 

“No, I mean possible,” Katsuki shouts, stamping his foot. “It means you can move the arms and legs.” 

Sighing, Masaru chooses not to correct that which Katsuki certainly misheard in a commercial. “Alright, so, he doesn’t have this one?”

“No, he has both of them. But I don’t have this one,” Katsuki says.

Masaru sucks in a patient breath. “Katsuki, we are here to get a present for Izuku, not you. Your birthday was three months ago.” 

Summary: A mosaic of Bakugou Katsuki's life and his relationship with Midoriya Izuku throughout the years, as told by his loved ones.

Chapter Two: Porsche

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Saying good-bye to Mina is always hard, though Eijirou has found the task even more distasteful since they made their relationship official after she broke into the Top Thirty on the Billboard Chart. Tonight is no exception.

“I’ll miss you, baby,” he says, staring out at her through the car window.

“I’ll miss you, baby,” she parrots, reaching over the glass to tap him on the nose.

“Not as much as I’ll miss you,” he responds, extending his arm out into the night to return the favor.

“For fuck’s sake,” Katsuki shouts, seated off to Eijirou’s right. He had agreed to drive Hanta, Mina, and Eijirou home after the festivities of the night, including their class’s reunion dinner and an hour or two spent at a karaoke bar afterward. His mission nearly halfway done, the delay is clearly frustrating him. “You see each other all the time! Just say goodnight!”

Twisting to face him, Eijirou holds up a placating hand. “We’re almost done, man.”

The animosity in his glare receding ever so slightly, Katsuki mutters, “Yeah, right,” and turns his gaze back to the dashboard.

With Katsuki mollified, however temporarily, Eijirou turns back to Mina. She has a fond look on her face, not at all put off by their familiar bickering. Her expression is endearing, so much so that he wishes he could get out of the car and join her for the night, but he has the third shift tonight, and he does not want to keep her up. “Get home safe.”

Her grin softens. “I will.”

“Of course, you will! I’m dropping you off right in front of your apartment,” yells Katsuki. 

She flashes a peace sign. “Thanks, Bakubabe!” He returns the gesture with a middle finger.

Eijirou rolls his eyes at Katsuki’s dramatics but decides to show him mercy. Craning his neck, he silently beseeches Mina for a quick smooch, which she grants him. They say goodnight one final time, and she skips through the door of her apartment building.

“There. You happy,” he asks Katsuki. Eijirou finds himself a little peeved by Katsuki’s boorish behavior, but he supposes it is to be expected. Katsuki has been in a terrible mood nearly all night, ever since Izuku rejected his offer to sidekick at his new agency.

“No,” Katsuki grumbles. He twists the knob to start the car and pulls away from the curb.

From then on, the ride is silent, painfully so. Eijirou would do anything for a bit of conversation or a chance to play some music, but Katsuki hates it when he fiddles with the radio, so he has little choice but to stiltedly broach, “So, how about that karaoke, huh? Those snacks were great, and the drinks looked good, but I’m working tonight, so, you know, had to refrain.”

Katsuki does not respond, staring out past the wheel.

Sighing, Eijirou decides he may as well address the elephant in the room—or car, whatever. “Listen, about earlier, you know, with Midobro. You shouldn’t take it too hard, man. He’s just starting out again, and he needs time to get his footing, but he’ll come around.”

At the moment, the car is idling at a red light. When the light switches to green, Katsuki pulls over into a no-parking zone, turns off the engine, tosses the keys at Eijirou, and gets out of the car. Before Eijirou can so much as utter a word in protest, Katsuki storms off into the crowd on the sidewalk.

Summary: A mosaic of Bakugou Katsuki's life and his relationship with Midoriya Izuku throughout the years, as told by his loved ones.

Chapter One: Salmon

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The room smells of artificial citrus, the scent distinct but not too poignant. There is another scent, too, something ataractic like lavender or roman chamomile, though Izuku cannot quite place it. The walls are painted sage and decorated with accent pieces and framed credentials. The chair he sits on is comfortable, with plush cushioning and good lumbar support. Altogether, the atmosphere is soothing, he supposes, or distracting, at the very least. He might even say it is pleasant, if not for the reason they are here.

“I have fucking ass cancer,” Katsuki exclaims, his gruff voice pitching up somewhat. The older man scowls at his doctor, seated behind the large, wooden desk between them.

They first met Doctor Takeshi three weeks ago, a few months after Katsuki started losing weight inexplicably and just a week after he began complaining of frequent belly pain. Takeshi ordered a colonoscopy, two years ahead of Katsuki’s next routine test, and, now, here they are, sitting on comfortable chairs in a warm doctor’s office, hearing the worst news of Izuku’s life. Worse than when he found out he needed give up One-for-All, than when Toshinori died, than when his mom passed. What could be worse, he wonders, than learning his husband has cancer?

“Clinically, we call it colorectal cancer,” says Takeshi.

Katsuki leans back, rubbing at his eyes and grumbling to himself, “Well, fuck me in the ass.”

Feeling borderline hysterical, Izuku remarks, “Probably not a good idea right about now.”

Lowering his hand, Katsuki turns a glare onto him. His wrinkles make his frown all the more severe, more so than it ever was in their youth. “You over here making fucking jokes? I have cancer, and you’re fucking giggling?”

Defensively, Izuku exclaims, “I didn’t laugh!” He feels guilty, nonetheless. “I’m sorry!”

Katsuki expels a gusty sigh, shaking his head as he turns back to his doctor, though he spares a thought to set his hand on Izuku’s thigh. At his touch, Izuku feels himself unwind, not having realized how tense he was.

“So, what’s the next step, Doc,” asks Katsuki.

Summary: In the span of a week, the peaceful life of Princess Valaena Velaryon is destroyed. At its start, the Iron Throne is usurped, casting the realm headlong into war. Her mother is annointed Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and she Princess of Dragonstone. At its end, her brother Lucerys is slain by her husband, Aemond Targaryen. In a story of love and tragedy, betrayal and hope, Valaena must embark on a perilous journey to win a war against her own kin, daunted by friends and foes on either side of the fray.

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Ambers and Honeys

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135 A.C.

Climbing through Sea Dragon Tower, Aemond curses his brothers. After six moons of dread and despair, he has at long last returned to Dragonstone to meet his wife and child, yet he does not have the clarity of mind for rejoicement. Rather, he is plagued by thoughts of Aegon and wherewith and wherefore he is here, of wherewith and wherefore Daeron is here with him, and all of Daeron’s incessant questions.

With several stories beneath them, Daeron has grown somewhat breathless. “Did you fly on one of the twin’s dragons? Do they fly well on their own? Who was that third boy? Did you—”

Swiveling on his heel, Aemond stops abruptly. Daeron stops, too, and quiets, staring up at him in anticipation of the answers for his myriad inquiries. Aemond pays him no mind, staring past him as he contemplates the need to turn back. In his haste, he forgot Viserys. He left him with Aegon, who would be sure to kill him was he to discover his true name.

Though he is still drawn to the apartments above his head, he knows he must retrieve Viserys before he advances farther. He brought the boy all this way for one purpose, to unite him with his sister and win back her love. Cursing, he starts back down the stairs. Daeron pesters him with a fresh barrage of queries. “Why have we turned back? Why are we running? Why will you not answer me?”

Aemond continues to ignore him, all the way back to the castle’s front hall. There, he finds Helaena, with a child’s hand grasped in each of her own. Without slowing, he plucks Viserys from the ground and accosts her, “Where is Aegon?”

She glimpses back toward the courtyard. “The twins are telling him about their dragons.” Looking back to him, she wonders, “What happened to Aegon’s face and hand?”

Belatedly, it occurs to him that he neglected to tell Helaena of her husband’s injuries during their time in Lorath. He answers curtly, “Valaena lit him on fire.”

Helaena is nothing short of intrigued. “Really?”

Uninterested in revisiting the old tale, he moves the conversation along. “Did he notice Rys?” She nods. “What did he say?”

“Who,” she questions.

“Aegon,” he clarifies.

“About what,” she asks.

Vexed, he hisses, “Helaena.” Only Viserys reacts to his frustration, giggling, whilst Helaena keeps her same, placid expression. Shushing the child in his arms, he enunciates, as calm and clear as can be, “Did Aegon say anything about Rys?”

At last, her confusion clears. “Oh. Yes.”

He waits for her to say more, but for naught. Impatiently, he demands, “What?”

“He asked who he was,” she answers.

He continues to prompt her. “And what was your reply?”

“I cannot explain everything to you,” she tells him and, gripped by some impulse, wanders off with Maelor.

Muttering under his breath about ladies’ love of talking until there is actually something one wishes to hear from them, he turns back toward Sea Dragon Tower. He stifles yet more frustration as faces another impediment. With yet another question set on his lips, Daeron stands in his way. “So, who is this?”

Thankfully, Viserys is well trained by now, and he answers for Aemond, “My name is Rys.”

His attention diverted, Daeron greets the boy pleasantly, “Hello.” When he looks back to Aemond, he has his same question set on his face.

Ruefully, Aemond mourns that he did not draw up a colorable lie before he departed from Lorath. Granted, he had not expected to meet anyone here but Valaena and Baela, both of whom surely would have recognized Viserys at once, and without threat to the boy.

He decides it best to tell a simple tale. “I took a liking to him in Essos, so I took him with me.”

Faintly horrified, Daeron repeats, “You ‘took him?’ Did his parents give their blessing?”

Thinking of how Rhaenyra and Daemon might react were they to learn that he came upon their youngest son, alone and unsuspecting, Aemond laughs. “No.”

Wincing, Daeron chastises softly, “Aemond.” Hardly ashamed, Aemond gives him a flat look. Sighing as though disappointed, Daeron straightens. This forces Aemond’s gaze upward, and it occurs to him that Daeron, the little shit, has outgrown him. It seems to occur to Daeron, too. He smirks, inquiring, “How is the air down there, Brother?” Scowling, Aemond shoves past him and starts back toward Sea Dragon Tower.

During this second trek, Aemond asks the questions. “Wherefore are you and Aegon here?”

At his side, Daeron regales him with a whimsical tale, nearly so whimsical as the tale of his own travels through Essos. As Daeron tells it, Aegon took Dragonstone a few months past, though he was here as early as the year’s start, unbeknownst to all. Later, Daeron ventured here with Valaena after his dragon and their army in the South fell. At first, he was taken to King’s Landing so that Rhaenyra might relieve him of his head, but Valaena convinced her to augment the Queensguard with his sword, and she named him Valaena’s sworn protector.

Hearing this, Aemond is brought up short. He stops and turns toward his brother. “You turned your cloak?”

This characterization earns Aemond a glare. “Only to right the wrong of turning it in the first place.”

Troubled by his tone, Aemond steps in close to him. Unshrinking, Daeron stands his ground. Aemond does not allow this to deter him from scolding his little brother, supposing that few people appear intimidating with a child on their hip. Voice low, he intones, “What, you’re Black now? You truly think our half-sister should rule?”

“You and Mother and Grandsire always said she would kill us if she took the throne, but she showed me mercy.” Daeron waves his arm in a wide arc. “And consider that all three of our mother’s sons live. It is three of her sons who have been slain.”

Aemond is diverted by the tally. He knows the count to be too high not only for Viserys, but for another, as well. Carefully, he sets Viserys down so that he does not hear. Pushing Daeron farther down the hall, he inquires, “Three?”

Ducking his head, Daeron divulges, “Aye. Joffrey was struck down two moons past.”

“How did it happen,” Aemond questions, worried for how it will affect his relationship with Valaena.

Haltingly, Daeron details a week of riots in King’s Landing, punctuated by the deaths of Daemon, Joffrey, and two of their family’s dragons. He says that Rhaenyra and Aegon the Younger were forced to flee lest they be slain, too, and now, they are nowhere to be found.

Disquieted, Aemond wonders, “Who rules the Seven Kingdoms?”

“Rhaenyra is missing. Aegon hides out here.” Daeron shrugs. “No one.”

Aemond is somewhat struck by the gravity of his words, for so much has been sacrificed so that one of his elder siblings could sit the Iron Throne. Ultimately, however, he decides that such is not his concern. Not now, when there are far more pressing, far more personal matters at hand. Starting down the hall again, he commands Viserys to keep up with him, uncaring if Daeron does the same. He keeps a steady pace. When they pass Rhaenyra’s rooms, he steers Viserys away from her door, the little boy having roamed toward it on instinct.

When at last they come upon Valaena’s apartment, Aemond is astounded and thoroughly chagrined to find Criston keeping sentry before it. The sight of the knight standing watch is reminiscent of one moons past, before he and Criston both were cast out of Dragonstone. Thinking of the marks the man left on Valaena before his departure, Aemond seethes, though his voice is measured as he hails him. “Cole, you’re back.”

The turncloak is as insolent as ever. “As are you, my prince.”

Aemond lets his displeased stare linger a moment longer before attempting to brush past him. Unfortunately, he does not get far. As he places his hand on the door’s knob, Criston catches his wrist. “Lady Valaena is not allowed any visitors.”

Just as he had when last Criston pulled this stunt, Aemond lifts his right hand from the door and opens it with his left. As he shoves past him, he impels Viserys through the door ahead of him lest Criston get a good enough look at the boy to recognize him. Daeron trails them, closing the door behind him.

The solar is empty when they enter. Worming out of Aemond’s hold, Viserys makes for the bedchamber. Aemond follows at a slower pace. For all that he has envisioned meeting Valaena again, he finds it daunting now that the moment is upon him. He is uncertain of how pleased she will be to see him, especially now that he knows she has been Aegon’s prisoner for two moons. He prays that, as intended, Viserys will mollify her.

He comes into the room to find Viserys climbing onto the bed, where Valaena lies, sound asleep. Aemond would think it odd for this time of day was he not so preoccupied by the sight of her, so clearly with child.

She is ensconced within her linens, the bedclothes tucked all the way up to her chin, though it is clear what lies beneath them. With her laid out on her back, her stomach protrudes into the air, taller than is her head, even with its perch on her pillow.

Aemond is stunned, to say the least. To think that he would return home to find his wife with child—another child—all with him having known naught about it, having suspected naught, as well. He supposes the timing is right. It looks right. By the gods—

Summary: In the span of a week, the peaceful life of Princess Valaena Velaryon is destroyed. At its start, the Iron Throne is usurped, casting the realm headlong into war. Her mother is annointed Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and she Princess of Dragonstone. At its end, her brother Lucerys is slain by her husband, Aemond Targaryen. In a story of love and tragedy, betrayal and hope, Valaena must embark on a perilous journey to win a war against her own kin, daunted by friends and foes on either side of the fray.

Author's Note: I have changed the summary for this fic.

Chapter Twenty-Six: Dreamwine

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135 A.C.

Sat on Dragonstone’s throne, Aegon cannot hide his grin as Valaena and Baela are dragged into the Great Hall. Both are fettered wrist and ankle, Baela’s chain singing as she thrashes wildly. Valaena is impassive as Criston leads her to the foot of the throne, her steps careful. Both girls are bloody and singed, the soot on Valaena’s face streaked through with tears.

As the girls are brought to a stop, their guards leave them but do not stray far, lest either doxy rush him. Stood to the right of the throne, Marston Waters calls, “All hail King Aegon! Aegon the Dragonheart, Second of His Name, King of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.”

Baela spits as high as she can, though this does nothing to diminish Aegon’s joy. He spreads out his arms in greeting. “My dear cousins, how glad I am to see you both again.” His eyes fasten to Valaena, who is rounder than he remembers. “Valaena, you’ve gotten fat.”

Inflamed, Baela answers for her, “Fuck you.”

Ignoring her, he points to Valaena’s rotund belly, pronounced by her flimsy, blood-soaked nightgown. “Do you know, it is treason for you to have stepped outside of your marriage to mine brother. And now, you’ve married again, Lady Stark. It will be a wonder that you are not remembered as the second whore of Dragonstone.”

Whereas Valaena had scowled somewhat when called Stark, this latter appellation fails to make its mark. “Call me what you like,” she dispassionately replies. “So long as you admit the order of things.” 

At the implication that she is Princess of Dragonstone, a title which he feels should not exist, he smarts. Grasping Blackfyre’s hilt, leant against the side of the throne, he poses, “Is it not a man who should sit this throne? Any throne? Is that not the order of things?”

She raises her chin. “Her Grace my mother has created a new order.” 

“As you say, Niece,” he allows, smiling pleasantly, though his grip on Blackfyre tightens. Pivoting, he announces, “Now, enough fanfare,” and nods to Marston.

Marston steps away from Daeron, who he has minded till now. Idly, Aegon eyes his youngest and only remaining brother, not quite sure what to make of him. This night, Daeron has not been nearly so obliging as Aegon would expect. Notwithstanding, he stops short of interfering with Aegon’s plans, staying put as when left alone.

Moving to stand behind Valaena and Baela, Marston places a hand on either girl’s shoulder. He orders, “Kneel and swear obeisance before the king.”

Valaena declines, shrugging off Marston’s hand. Baela refuses with yet more vehemence, whirling and slashing him across the cheek with her nails. “My cousins the Queen Rhaenyra and the Princess Valaena can command me. You cannot.”

Marston does not seem to appreciate this slight, though neither does he possess the nerve to give the girl the clip she deserves. Undaunted himself, Aegon needles her, “Come now, Baela, I should not like for us to get off on the wrong foot.”

Looking back to him, Baela rakes her eyes over him and remarks scathingly, “That would be your left foot, yes?”

Incensed, Aegon feels a sharp twitch in his left cheek, the flesh there thick and stiff. Resentment broils within him, hot enough to burn, just as Valaena had done to him near a year past. Malice bubbling beneath his mangled skin, he turns his eyes onto her. Discreetly, she casts her gaze aside.

Too late, with his attention already fixed on her. “Valaena,” he calls. She glances back up at him. “Have you put more thought to how you should like to pay the debt you owe me?” Her lip curling slightly, she appears confused, so he clarifies, “Words or flesh?”

The words evoke a memory, so clear he can see it in her eyes. Two boys and a girl, he had demanded of her in Rook’s Rest. A year past his children’s disappearance now, and she has not yet made satisfaction his loss.

She says nothing, so he asks again, simpler, “Where are Helaena and the children?”

Before the war, he little minded when his children were absent. He found them bothersome, often shrill and unpleasantly sticky, but they were his. Jaehaerys, in particular, he thinks especially valuable, as the boy is to be his successor. For near the entirety of the war, he has been without his heir, having to settle for Aemond and, worse now, Aenar, Valaena’s own son. His queen consort being absent has also been a great inconvenience, the vacancy left by Helaena granting Alicent far too much latitude.

Just as she had in Rook’s Rest, Valaena remains silent. Aegon raises his brow, though he is largely unsurprised. “Do you not wish to answer?” He gives her yet another chance to make good, but foolish, she flaunts it. “Then I think we require a whipping girl.” With the prompt spoken, the doors to the hall creak open, and Valaena’s handmaid is led into the room.

As the girl—comely enough to distract him on some other day—is made to kneel, horror dawns on her mistress’s face. With no small amount of glee, Aegon recalls how fond of her servants Valaena has always been. “Aegon,” she begins before biting her tongue. After a moment’s thought, she tries again, “Uncle,” and stops again, hearing her blunder as he does. This address, more deferential than the last, is an admission of defeat. Still, she presses on as he grins. “I do not know.”

At this, he feels his face contort in surprise. Whilst before, Valaena told him she had Helaena’s trust, she now claims no such confidence exists. “You do not know?” She shakes her head. He sighs, disappointed. “You do your handmaid no favors.” Lifting his hand from Blackfyre, he signals to a nearby guard, designated a headsman, who readies his own sword.

“No! Aegon! Aegon,” she cries, panic gripping her. Earnestly, she entreats him to believe, “I do not know where they are. I told Helaena to go someplace where she and your children would be safe, and none, including myself, would ever find them. I could not possibly tell you where they are. I could tell you a lie to satisfy you now, but it would be a lie.”

As if credulous, he leans forward, a look of contemplation pinned to his face. After a moment, he looks to the handmaid. “Girl, what is your name?”

At first, the woman does not seem to realize he speaks to her. When she does, she answers, her voice shaking like a leaf, “Aster, Your Grace.”

He smiles warmly. “Good-bye, Aster.”

Valaena screeches, lunging toward Aster, but Marston withholds her. The sword drops, and she hits the floor in the same moment as does Aster’s head, having gone limp in Marston’s grip.

Blood pools along the floor, seeping into the cracks in the stone. Aegon straightens in his seat. He suggests, “Let us try this again.”

Two men step forward to drag Baela away from Valaena. Gasping wetly, Valaena tries to grasp for her, her hands clenching in her skirts, but Marston keeps his grip on her, and the fabric slips through her fingers. Even as the men push at her, Baela still refuses to kneel, choosing instead to go slack and let her body hang awkwardly between them. Aegon rolls his eyes.

His solace is that, at last, Valaena takes him seriously. She begins sniveling, her voice nasally. “No, I don’t know. I don’t know.” Finally, she gives in, kneeling before him, her hands clutched as high as her chain will permit. She blubbers, “Please. I swear—I swear, I do not know where they are. I don’t know, I swear. I swear to the Seven, to the old gods, to the gods of Old Valyria! I swear on my life.” She must realize he does not think much of that. “I swear on Aenar’s—on my son’s life, I swear—”

“All right,” he interrupts, grown tired of her weeping, whatever pleasure it gave him at first. Besides, he supposes, Baela is a useful pawn so long as her father and grandsire live. By contrast, Valaena does him more harm than good. He makes this clear, informing her, “Do you realize, if you’ve no knowledge of my family’s whereabouts, you’re of no use to me.”

Valaena, still shivering from fear, takes his meaning. She protests, “I’m your kin.”

Amused by this newest attempt at groveling, he replies, “So, what?”

Hysteria threatening to return, her breath comes fast, and her voice cracks. “I’m with child.”

His amusement waning, his voice hardens. “So, what.” He waves the headsman forward.

Summary: The ground falls out from beneath Valaena Velaryon’s feet within the span of a week. The week begins with the death of her grandsire, making her mother queen and her Princess of Dragonstone. It ends with the death of her brother Lucerys at the hands of her husband, Aemond Targaryen. From there, Valaena embarks on a perilous journey to win a war against her own kin, forced to discern who are friends and who are foes on both sides of the conflict.

Chapter Twenty-Five: The Fall of Dragonstone

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135 A.C.

At dawn, the moon turns the sky red, bathing the lands of white and gray in blood. Three amethyst eyes look out across the hills as a storm gathers. Wind and lightning lash at the landscape, scourging the sand to reveal great, cavernous paths. As night settles over the land, one traveler takes to the trail set out for him, whilst the other forges ahead in the sky.

Across the sea, four lilac eyes close forever. Valaena towers over two of them, having gouged them out herself. On Dragonstone’s shore, two sets of legs lie still as she stands on their toes. When the sky clears, the tide swallows one of them, and the other burns.

Valaena blinks up at the ceiling as her mind clears. Another night has past, leaving with it another strange dream. For weeks, she has dreamt of purple eyes and stormy, bloody skies. She has dreamt of Essos, with its sandy plains and rolling hills, recognizing it despite having never ventured so far east. She thinks she dreams of Aemond sometimes, but she can never recall seeing him once she wakes. On some nights, she is sure she dreams of a girl with three dragons. The girl looks much like a dragon herself, with moon-white hair and violet eyes. The girl reminds Valaena of a storm, much like the one that brought Aenar to her.

This past night is strange for the dream it brought her. Usually, she wakes as soon as the girl sets out across the sky, perched on the back of a black dragon. This night, her dream concluded in Westeros, rather than Essos. Distinctly, she recalls a vision of Dragonstone, and it pulls at her like the tide. It is nearing a moon now since she left the isle, and she longs to make her return.

Sequestered in Winterfell, Valaena thinks she should be angry. She waits for resentment to build within her for her mother, her step-father, her eldest brother, her new husband, but any piece of it that does soon wilts for the winter. All she feels is a bleak melancholy, set deep in her bones.

That, and the early stirrings of the babe within her belly. The child speaks to her in light whispers of touch, too young yet to respond to her own caresses. Some days, this connection is all that preserves her, while on others, it drives her further into despair. The child is her last link to Aemond, alongside its brother, and she deplores that it will never meet him.

Languishing in bed, Valaena bemoans her life as it is now. For the first time in her existence, she feels directionless, unsure of how to conduct herself. So much as she might have once claimed that she did not belong to Aemond, she sees this now for a falsehood. They married too young for her to be wholly her own, and the same was true of him. Thrown together, they were cast in the same mold, taking on each other’s mannerisms and tastes. Without him, she wonders which thoughts and impulses are purely her own, and which to follow.

In the absence of surety, she has settled on doing only as others expect of her. Always, she has lived at the mercy of others—her grandsires, Otto, Alicent, her mother. It has long chafed at her, but no longer does she see cause to fight against it. It is simpler to be the sort of princess for whom none worry, one that does as she is told and naught else.

After the Sun has climbed over the horizon, Valaena goes through the motions of readying herself for another day in Winterfell. When Lily helps her dress, she smiles at all the appropriate junctures of the maidservant’s stories. When Lily asks whether she prefers black or red for her gown, she answers red. When Baela summons her for breakfast, she goes, even as her bed calls for her return.

Daeron accompanies her to the Guest House, taking the seat beside her when they reach the dining room Baela has reserved for them. When Baela arrives, she does so in a huff, plopping down opposite to Valaena.

With a contrived cheerfulness, Valaena says, “Good morrow.” Looking down at her plate, she laments the absence of fish there. Ever since she arrived, she has been craving anchovies. Unfortunately, Cregan tells her that all of the fishing spots north of White Harbor have dried up for the winter.

Grumpily, Baela spoons some sugar into her tea and then lets the utensil fall with a clunk. “You shall never believe what Jace did last night.”

Happy to focus on someone else’s worries, Valaena beckons for her to spill her—or rather, Jacaerys’s—guts. Without further ado, Baela divulges, “He asked me to marry him before the heart tree.”

Her brow raising, Valaena sips from her own, unsweetened tea. “Did he?”

“Yes,” confirms Baela, manifestly irate.

“And did you,” Valaena asks.

Baela throws out her arms. “No!” Slumping back in her seat, she blusters, “Only now, he accedes to marry me!”

Before Valaena can throw some water on Baela’s flames, Daeron fans them. “Always, he has had such gall.”

Baela purses her lips, supposing, “He has, hasn’t he?”

Unfond of the turn the conversation has taken, Valaena interjects, “Daeron, you are not being helpful.” 

Frowning, he responds, “Who sayeth I mean to be helpful?”

“You only defend him because he is your favorite,” Baela accuses her. Jumping on the charge, Daeron nods vigorously at her.

Unconsciously, Valaena glimpses to the left, as she has done amid a thousand other conversations to share a glance or take a cue. Her gaze drops to the floor when she sees that there is no longer anyone there to answer her stare.

Halfheartedly, she prolongs the spat. “Jace is not my favorite.” 

“Yes, he is,” Baela and Daeron say in unison.

Singly, Baela crosses her arms and queries, “Why else would you have your special lunches with him every day?”

Valaena sighs. “Because he feels left out—”

Baela’s hand smacks the table, halting Valaena’s tongue. “Because there is an embargo, to which you agreed.” 

“I did,” acknowledges Valaena, “but it’s gone on too long. He knows he’s done wrong. He apologized—” 

“So, all is forgiven,” Baela remonstrates, nearly at her wit’s end.

Receding somewhat, Valaena makes clear, “I did not say you need forgive him, but bear in mind, you still need marry him.”

Her wit’s end met, Baela switches tack. “What if Aemond had kissed another, hmm? Would all have been forgiven?”

Valaena feels as her face collapses into a glower, displeased is she to have her late husband invoked. Beside her, Daeron shifts uncomfortably. “If Aemond had done such a thing, he would have done so as my husband, not my betrothed, and even so, I would not have forbidden his sister from dining with him.” 

Valaena imagines steam coming from Baela’s nostrils as she blows out an angry breath, glaring daggers at Valaena all the while.

With a sigh, Valaena switches tack herself. “Baela, of course, you are right in this—”

Taking up her spoon once more, Baela declares, “Thank you. Let that be all that is said.” 

Simultaneously satisfied and displeased by this outcome, Valaena relents and finishes her meal.

For the remainder of the morning, Valaena meanders about the castle, listless. The castellan manages to corner her an hour into her stroll. He confers with her on Winterfell’s food stock and the myriad of guests’ needs—all those things which concern the lady of the house. As noon approaches, she is enlivened by the prospect of spending time with her son. At this time of day, she can wake him from his nap and play with him for an hour or so before he need eat.

In the nursery, she finds Aenar awake already, sat on the floor with Rickon running circles around him. Each boy holds a small, wooden sword, Aenar’s clenched in his little fist. He waves the toy sporadically, and, whenever he does, Rickon dashes forward to tap it with his own.

Spying her in the doorway, Aenar drops his weapon and crawls across the floor to her. Put out by his playmate’s inattention, Rickon picks up Aenar’s sword and reproves, “’Enar, don’ put your sword down. In a real battle—” Spying Valaena, too, he gasps, drops both swords, and bypasses Aenar as he rushes toward her. 

“Hello, Mother!” Valaena emits a surprised grunt as Rickon embraces her legs, his hands high on her thighs. “Me an’ ’Enar are playing!”

Summary: Decades after the final battle with the Sith on Exegol, war continues to ravage the galaxy. The Resistance fades from the system’s collective memory, and Rey realizes the only way to rectify the state of the galaxy would be to stop the Galactic Empire from having ever formed. To ensure as much, she uses the last of her strength to will the Force to send her through time so that she may give an important mission to a young Padawan learner by the name of Bahan Naberrie.

Chapter One: Folds of the Universe

If they are to be trained as Jedi, most younglings are chosen by a master between the ages of nine and thirteen, with few outliers. Bahan Naberrie is ten years old when Jedi Master Saesee Tiin selects her as his apprentice.

Seasee never spent much time in the crèche, having come to the Jedi Order when he was fourteen years old, but needs must. He incurs a sparring injury that is more vexing than truly pernicious, but it is onerous enough to warrant temporary reassignment. Rather than venture out on a diplomatic mission with Master Kit Fisto, he oversees the Jedi initiates as they meditate in the mornings.

The younglings struggle to focus, twitching and blinking at their friends and giggling, and he struggles to be patient with them. After the tenth gentle correction with little result, he sighs and sits before the brood, opting to lead by example and meditate himself. Unfortunately, this tactic fails, too, and he opens his eyes to seek out the worst culprit for punishment.

Rather than narrow in on the Nautolan boy in the corner feigning flatulence or the pair of Gungan girls in the middle of the group poking one another, his eyes fasten to a human girl sitting in the back row. Her hands rest on her knees, her fingers straight and still as her breathing, and they remain so even as the other children snort and shriek and squirm. Her eyes are closed, and they open only when she senses his attention through the Force as he harmonizes with her. She blinks wide at him before her gaze drops to her lap, and she shuts her eyes again.

He lets the meditation session run its course, most of the children regaining and losing focus in turns. The girl in the back endures the hour, and at its end, she approaches him, having felt his desire to speak with her. He rises to meet her.

“Yes, Master Tiin,” she asks, staring up at him with guileless eyes. As an Iktotchi man nearing his mid-life, he towers over her, and he knows his large cranial horns and sunken eyes do nothing to soften his appearance. Nevertheless, she does not look timid in the least.

“What is your name, young one,” he inquires, further intrigued by her.

Some measure of amusement flickers across her face, but it is gone as soon as it appeared. “Bahan Naberrie.”

As the other children crowd around the door, clamoring to each other about what they hope will be served for lunch and how they wish to spend the afternoon, Bahan’s attention stays with him. He asks her, “You don’t like to play with the other children?”

“When they’re calmer,” she tells him, nonchalant.

He feels his smile, which he is told looks more like a sneer, make an appearance. She does not cower from it. “Do you have a master?”

At this, she perks up, her excitement beginning to near that of the other children.