we play an ugly game

THE SECOND DAUGHTER (I)

Otto Hightower knew you from the day of your birth.

He was sitting with King Viserys as they waited for the news brought to them by the Maester.

“Another girl, Your Grace…” The man looked down as Otto observed the King’s reaction.

Viserys sighed and took a sip of his drink.

“Gods damn it,” he muttered to himself.

Princess Rhaenyra was the Realm’s Delight – the first daughter, the apple of her father’s eye. Her gender was nothing but a small misfortune – a forgiven one.

Princess Daenyra was the Realm’s Disappointment – the second daughter that only proved that gods did not wish to bless the King with sons.

In every way possible you seemed to be lacking whenever compared to your sister.

Rhaenyra claimed a young yellow green-eyed dragon named Syrax when the Princess was seven years old.

You were given an egg that was never destined to hatch. Ser Otto witnessed you many times when you were sitting by the fire with your mother caressing your silver hair as you weeped and begged the gods of Old Valyria to make the dragon come. It did not.

Rhaenyra was her father’s favourite, meanwhile you were always seen with your mother or in solitude. You found your escape in big volumes from the Red Keep’s library and in embroidery by Queen Aemma’s side. 

In all the ways Rhaenyra rebelled against the rules, you were trying to earn your father’s love by acting properly. It was not working. To Viserys you remained mostly invisible.

But not to Otto Hightower. Your father’s ambitious Lord Hand was observing you closely for years, already forging a plan for your future.

You were sitting by your mother’s side, embroidering a blanket for the babe that was about to come any day now.

Another blanket for another babe. You had embroidered so many already but none turned out to be useful. Your parents’ attempts to have more children had been futile so far.

Your mother’s maids were busy around her, helping her to relax and cool down. Queen Aemma was fanning herself and complaining about the heat. Her belly was huge and it looked as if she was about to burst.

You winced a little, spotting the stitch wrongly placed upon the fabric. With a sigh, you went back to fix the mistake. It was small and for the most unrecognisable but in each thing you were doing, you had to be perfect.

“Ah, Rhaenyra!” Your mother smiled at the sight of your sister entering the room. You pretended not to see her as you focused on the embroidery even more now to have an excuse to ignore her.

You could smell from your seat by the window that Rhaenyra had been riding her dragon. You were jealous of that but jealousy was an unfitting word.

Jealousy was ugly and often unfair. Yet you were a Targaryen of the same blood as her, the same violet eyes, the same silver hair… And the gods denied you something that was your birthright. 

No, you were not jealous. You were furious at the injustice.

“You know I don’t like you to go flying when I’m in this condition,” Queen Aemma smiled at her older daughter and you tried very hard not to roll your eyes.

“You don’t like me to go flying while you’re in any condition,” Rhaenyra pointed out. “You would rather have me sit by your side all day with a boring book or a piece of fabric to embroider like Daenyra.”

Her words hurt but you raised your head to crack a smile.

“Did you sleep?” Rhaenyra asked, sitting between you and your mother.

Each time she was doing this, you couldn’t help but think… Go to our father, you have him, he’s all yours. Leave mother to me. She’s all I have in this world.

But you couldn’t say that, of course. She was her mother as much as yours and there was nothing in this world that would be entirely yours. 

“I slept,” your mother answered.

“How long?” Rhaenyra inquired.

“I don’t need mothering, Rhaenyra,” Aemma smiled. “I have Daenyra for that.”

“Mother,” you mumbled out with a head nod just to let her know you were acknowledging her words.

“You, my girls, will lie in this bed soon enough,” Aemma took Rhaenyra’s hand to squeeze but she granted you her loving smile. “This discomfort is how we serve the Realm.”

“I’d rather serve as a knight and ride to battle and glory,” your sister shook her head.

Your mother laughed and so did you. But you knew she was not jestering about the matter.

“We have royal wombs,” Aemma explained. “The childbed is our battlefield.”

“I will never do that,” you wrinkled your nose. “This is all so terrifying.”

You were young but you had seen enough of your mother’s miscarriages and stillbirths to know that being pregnant had to be the worst terror a woman must endure.

“You will,” Aemma said, entirely sure of her words. “And you will face it with a stiff lip.”

“She will complain so much that the whole Realm will know,” Rhaenyra teased you.

“You better go take a bath,” you shrugged your arms. “You stink of a dragon.”

The sight of your mother’s beautiful body being wrapped in a common cloth and tied to a pile of wood made you realise what had truly happened.

She would not miraculously appear in your chambers to take you for a stroll. She would not caress your hair by the fireplace. She would not let you hide behind her any longer.

Aemma Arryn was gone. All gone. And so was the babe. 

No, she was gone because of the babe. And because of your father. You hated them both. You hated men.

Men took her away from you – the only person you had in your life. What would fill that hole in your heart now? It was big and overwhelming, gaping and dark. Stinging and burning and nothing seemed to be a comfort.

A part of you was on that pile right next to your mother. The little girl you had once been… She was in her mother’s arms, waiting to be burnt with her.

And now you had to become a woman strong enough to endure this life on her own.

Without a parent to love her, without a friend to keep her company, without a dragon to protect her.

You couldn’t bear to look at your father so you were standing between Uncle Daemon and your sister. 

Your sister. 

Today you felt a string of connection with her like back in the old days when you two had been little children.

You even held her hand and she squeezed it back. She did that without a word but no words were needed that day.

“They’re waiting for you,” Uncle Daemon whispered to Rhaenyra and you let go of her hand so she could take a step further.

She was the eldest and she had a dragon so it had to be her who would set the pile on fire even though everyone knew you had been closer to Queen Aemma. But the customs did not care about the truth. The principles existed for the reason and it was to keep order in this world.

The eldest daughter was the one to fire the pile at her mother’s funeral.

Perhaps it was for the best. You would not know how to act. The loss was too big to be able to let go of the last physical remaining of her and no one else would understand. No one else was being affected as much as you by her passing.

Everyone else had someone else. Except for you.

Rhaenyra did something surprising. She held your hand again and dragged you to stand by her side right in front of the pile.

“D–” She stuttered and you squeezed her hand tighter to give her courage. “Dracarys,” she ordered as she looked up at Syrax.

The beast breathed out its fire as most people looked away.

But not you.

You kept watching as the flames swallowed whatever remained of your beloved mother.

And whatever remained of the little girl you had once been.

When your father married young Lady Alicent, you were hurt. You felt like it was too early and she was a surprising choice indeed. But she was Rhaenyra’s friend, not yours. Therefore, you moved on quickly without any vile emotion in your heart. After all, your father was the King and he still had no sons. It was only natural that he would get married again.

Queen Alicent gave birth to a boy first – a young Prince named Aegon. You remembered the day it happened. You were waiting for the news by your father’s side as proud Ser Otto announced the news. Rhaenyra winced and looked away but you smiled.

A male heir at last.

Rhaenyra was no longer the future Queen. She was equal to you. For a girl as young as you it was obvious that Aegon’s birth brought an end to the oath of loyalty towards her as the rightful heiress to the throne.

“Congratulations, Father!” You wrapped your arms around his neck and he smiled nervously before patting your back.

“Thank you, Daenyra,” he mumbled out and took a step back to approach your older sister now.

You looked down, feeling rejected as you fidgeted with your fingers.

“Do not pout, Rhaenyra. You are my heiress still,” you heard your father say. You furrowed your brows.

Then you startled a little, feeling the gentle touch on your shoulder. As you looked up, you saw Ser Otto.

“Do you want to see your brother, Princess?” He asked, carefully.

You nodded and followed him out of the chambers.

Queen Alicent was not much older than you, therefore seeing her exhausted after birth in her bed caused a knot to form in your stomach. Yet, it quickly relaxed when you were given young Aegon to hold.

“Oh, look at you, little one,” you cooed to the boy. “You have hair and eyes just like mine,” you leaned in to kiss him on the forehead.

“Be careful, Alicent. Princess Daenyra might steal your son,” Ser Otto laughed and you chuckled at his words.

“I might,” you agreed with a nod, looking in awe at the boy in your arms.

A strong, healthy Targaryen boy that your mother had not been able to give your father. The feeling was rather bittersweet but you liked to think of your mother as if she was a warrior that had died on the battlefield. She would like it this way.

“I love him already,” you whispered and smiled at the new Queen.

Perhaps she would give you siblings you could love and be loved back by them. To them you would be a much older sister they could look up to. And you were willing to play your role like Rhaenyra had never played it for you.

Aegon couldn’t sleep and you took over from his nanny willingly. You would often do that and help Queen Alicent around children. Newborn Aemond, sweet little Helaena and nearly three years old Aegon who would cling to your skirts and follow you around. Now, when the Queen was expecting again, you were spending even more time with your half-siblings.

Meanwhile, Rhaenyra was looking for a husband and failing miserably. She was picky and clearly unhappy with the idea of marriage despite the fact she was still seen as the heiress by your father. She needed a husband because the Realm needed a King.

King Consort, that was. What an odd thing.

You took Aegon for a walk around the Red Keep to tell him stories about paintings and trophies. As you walked down the corridor with the boy, you spotted the rooms leading to the throne room were ajar.

“Come, Aegon,” you dragged the boy towards the doors. The guard standing by them didn’t know what to do at first but he eventually stepped back.

You entered the huge room and picked Aegon up so he wouldn’t hurt himself on any melted sword. Carefully, you led him on top and sat on the throne with the boy on your lap.

You took a deep breath in. Not many people knew you were sometimes sneaking in here when your father was not around. Now Aegon knew.

He was looking around with wide eyes and you reached inside your pocket to take one lemon cake out of it.

“There, Aegon,” you handed it to him and the boy gladly took it. “What do we say?” You asked, leaning in to kiss his chubby cheek.

“Thank you, Nyra,” he blushed and giggled as you tickled him a little.

“You have a sweet tooth, don’t you, my Prince?” You teased him.

He didn’t reply, just munched on the lemon cake.

You pitied him. He was the son your father had spent his whole life wanting, yet now when he was here, your father did not seem to be very interested in him. Rhaenyra was still the favourite.

You had once thought she was getting special treatment from the King because she was older but once a boy would arrive, she would be degraded and treated equally to you.

That had not happened.

So there you were, an unwanted daughter and the Realm’s Disappointment, sitting with a young boy on your lap that was equally unloved by the father you two shared.

“How do you like it here?” You asked him. “It’s our father’s throne, do you know?”

The boy nodded.

“It’s nice,” he only answered.

“It might be yours one day,” you caressed his silver hair. “You’re his son.”

You adjusted him on your lap and kissed the top of his little head.

“If I’m King, can you be my Queen?” He asked and you chuckled.

You were Targaryens, that was not unheard of.

But you were much older than him.

“No, I do not think so, sweet brother. But I will support you and help you whenever you need me,” you promised him.

“Good,” he nodded.

The doors opened at this very moment and you saw Ser Otto walking inside the room. He froze at the sight of you with Aegon on your lap, sitting on your father’s throne.

“My Princess!” He gasped. “You should not…”

“You are right. I should not. That is why you will keep it a secret,” you teased and stood up carefully to walk down and hand him his grandson.

“Have you been feeding him lemon cakes again, my Princess?” Otto sighed. “He eats too many sweets.”

“I’m sorry. I spoil him too much, I know,” you cracked a smile.

“We should put him to bed now. It is very late,” Otto pointed out and you nodded, walking out of the room with him.

Aegon fell asleep in his arms as you walked towards the nursery. When his grandfather realised that, he looked at you curiously.

“Your sister struggles to find a husband,” he pointed out.

“She does,” you nodded.

“I have talked to the King already. Her indecision cannot delay your own matrimony, my Princess,” Otto whispered and you froze.

You could not understand. You were only ten and seven… Rhaenyra was ten and nine and only looking for a husband. You hoped she would take another year or two and only then you would be asked to get married.

Perhaps they would forget about you as they often would…

“I… I think Rhaenyra should get married first,” you pointed out. “She is older and her marriage holds an importance to the Realm…”

“Do you not want to be first at something?” Otto asked, rather boldly.

His words struck you as you bit on your lower lip and took a deep breath in.

“Perhaps,” you admitted. “It depends who I would have to marry.”

“Worry not, my Princess. I chose well for you.”

He chose well? Out of all people… Your fate was in Otto Hightower’s hands?

You were not sure what to think about that.

Your Targaryen blood was boiling already but your mother had taught you what duty meant. And a part of you wanted to prove to everyone that you could play the role of a proper Princess like Rhaenyra could not.

“Who did you choose for me, Ser Otto?” You asked, raising an eyebrow.

“My nephew, Ormund. He has recently become the Lord of Oldtown.”

The night was cold and the air was crisp after a rainy evening. Most people in King's Landing were asleep already. The only people you saw passing by were drunkards and criminals fleeing at the sight of your sworn guard.

He was not happy with the idea. But it was supposed to be your one final and innocent wish before leaving the Red Keep – to see the dragons.

So there you were, following the man closely and fully aware of danger, straight towards the Dragonpit. Your wedding gift from your sworn guard, the very same that had been given to be at your service ever since you had been ten and two.

Each time someone’s eyes wandered for too long on your face, you couldn’t help but think of one thing. Your death would be of no importance.

Each time another random drunkard smirked at the sight of your silver hair escaping the cloak’s hood, already imagining attacking you or stealing from you, you couldn’t help but realise that if this happened, the kingdom would forget about you over a moon.

That was the fate of the Realm’s Disappointment.

But the wheel of fortune would turn tonight. You were determined to turn it yourself.

You took a deep breath in as you entered the Dragonpit. Your poor sworn guard was thinking you only wanted to see and admire the beautiful beasts. He had no idea of your real plan.

You walked cautiously around the pit, feeling the fiery breaths of serpents with ancient Valyrian bloodlines. They observed you as if they already knew what the purpose of your visit was. The beasts were following your every movement and gaze, curious about what you were about to do and how you would approach the matter. One step in the wrong direction could provoke them. But one step in the right direction could change your fate forever.

And then you saw her – beautiful Vyrmora, The Prism Wing. Daughter of Meraxes. Nearly as big as Vhagar and Vermithor.

She had never been claimed before. Perhaps she was patiently waiting for her rider just like you had been waiting for your dragon for your whole life.

Her scales reflected green and violet light. Her eyes were green and snake-like. For the first time ever, she was letting you close. Closer than ever before. In fact, she walked up towards you as if she was choosing you herself. That filled you with courage.

You reached out with your hand and she purred, lowering her head. You touched her nose and caressed it. She sighed.

“Dohaerās, Vyrmora,” you ordered. “Dohaerās.”

She hesitated and huffed.

“I need you,” you whispered. “I need you to protect me in Oldtown. I will be all alone there. They send me away to get rid of me, to marry a man I know nothing of. I need you, my girl,” you pleaded.

The beautiful beast lowered her head even further, her huge green eye scanned your whole body. In front of her you were vulnerable, risking your whole existence as one of her breaths could end your life.

But with her you were unstoppable. You could burn the whole Oldtown if you wished. And that was the main point of your motivation to finally claim the dragon. If they were sending you to a different part of Realm to marry a stranger, you were not going to arrive defenseless. You were a Targaryen, after all.

You did not want to arrive scared. You wanted to have the upper ground. The Hightower was tall but your dragon could sit on top of it and burn it if they ever tried to hurt or disrespect you.

Vyrmora bowed her head.

“Kirimvose,” you whispered, breathing out of relief and leaning your forehead on her cheek.

Ormund Hightower was annoyed as he took a deep breath of the incense smoke. 

“My Lord,” the servant bowed his head as lowly as possible. “The… The curtains for the Princess’ chambers… They… They arrived but…”

“What is it?” Ormund asked, sighing.

“They seem to be red,” the servant swallowed thickly.

Ormund’s face became stern in an instant.

“No,” he only said. “They must be green. Everything must be green for our Princess. She will become a Hightower now.”

“Y-yes, my Lord…” The servant hurried away to fix the mistake.

Ormund smiled to himself and sat back by his desk. He hated the idea of marrying a Targaryen. And he hated all the chaos that preparations for the wedding were bringing.

But he was not a fool. He knew the benefits of this union.

Once again he opened the letter from his uncle, Ser Otto Hightower.

To My Nephew, By patience, prudence, and no small measure of careful counsel, I have persuaded His Grace to send his younger daughter to Oldtown, there to be joined with you in marriage. You know as well as I that the strength of House Hightower is not built by swords alone, but by the bonds we forge. This union shall bind the blood of the dragon to the beacon of Oldtown, and in so doing, secure our place beside the Iron Throne for generations yet unborn. Princess Daenyra has long dwelt in the shadow cast by her elder sister. Most see only a forgotten daughter; I see untapped worth. There is ambition within her, though she hides it even from herself. Tend to it wisely. Show her the reverence she believes is her due. Grant her the respect she so desperately craves. Place in her hands enough authority to satisfy the hunger she dare not name aloud. Do this, and you shall not gain merely a wife… You shall fashion a steadfast ally, loyal first to you, and through you, to our House. The realm whispers of her as little more than her sister's lesser reflection. Let fools keep their whispers. In Oldtown she may rise beyond them, becoming a Lady worthy of our name. And should fortune's wheel ever turn, as it so often does in the affairs of kings, a woman of royal blood, indebted to House Hightower, may prove a prize beyond measure. Know this above all – her heart is burdened with envy. She watches Princess Rhaenyra receive every smile their father has to offer. Rhaenyra is named heir. Rhaenyra commands a dragon. Rhaenyra enjoys freedoms no younger daughter could hope to claim. Yet Daenyra has walked the straighter path, obeyed where her sister defied, endured where her sister indulged herself… and still finds herself overlooked. Such wounds do not fade. They deepen. A wise man does not seek to heal such wounds entirely. He merely ensures that gratitude for his kindness outweighs resentment toward the world. I trust I need not instruct you further. Your Uncle, Ser Otto Hightower Hand of King Viserys of House Targaryen, First of His Name

As he was reading with a smirk, a sudden screeching noise coming from the skies reached Ormund’s ears. The guards were alarmed and rang the bells. Ormund hid the letter away and approached the window before freezing at the sight of a dragon flying towards Oldtown.

“What in the seven hells is happening?” He asked a knight who had just ran inside the room.

“There is a dragon on the horizon, my Lord!”

“I have eyes, thank you,” Ormund sighed.

“Should we try to shoot?” 

“No. We do not know who that is,” Ormund shook his head. “I will face the rider on my own.”

The knight nodded and stepped away to let his Lord pass.

Vyrmora landed in the middle of a square. Her huge legs crashed the pavement and shook the foundations of the houses around. People were hiding away; some stayed silent and some screamed out of terror at the sight of the flying serpent.

And when she huffed and sighed, you chuckled, taking off your gloves.

“Good girl,” you patted her side and slid down to land on the cracked pavement yourself.

You spotted a few people walking towards you. The man in the middle was dressed elegantly in green velvets and the rest seemed to be his knights and guards.

When he approached you, you saw he was a handsome man, yet with an unpleasant facial expression. He winced at the sight of the dragon and covered his nose with a handkerchief.

“Lord Ormund, I assume? Queen Alicent has warned me about your hatred for odours,” you chuckled. 

“Princess Daenyra…” He bowed his head slightly. “I was informed you ride no stinky beast.”

Vyrmora hissed, causing all the people to gasp. But Lord Ormund? He didn’t even flinch.

And that impressed you.

“I claimed her last night,” you said. “And I decided to arrive here on her back. I know that my servants will arrive in a few long weeks because only today they have left King’s Landing. Personally, I did not want to wait.”

“Nothing is ready yet,” Ormund pointed out, trying his best to hide his irritation.

“I am aware,” you shrugged. “Patience is my virtue most of the time. I am inclined to wait.”

He took a deep breath in. He understood what was happening. You wanted to meet him on your own terms. Instead of a scared bride, he received a woman with newly found confidence. She fell from the sky, broke the pavement and established her dominance as a Targaryen overlord.

Ormund Hightower did not like that at all.

“We care about our people in Oldtown. Your dragon cannot harm any citizen of this city. And it certainly cannot break the pavement, Princess,” he said.

“Of course, Lord Hightower,” you shrugged again and smiled, refusing to let him humble you down.

He sighed and covered his face with a handkerchief again. You giggled at that.

You tilted your head as you took a better look at him. His clothes were incredibly elegant, his hair brown and neat, his eyes piercing blue. He was tall and presented himself as stern and powerful.

He was seven years your senior at the age of twenty and four. 

“You must build a pit for my girl,” you pointed out to break the awkward silence.

“It seems I do indeed,” Lord Ormund gritted his teeth.

Vyrmora looked around and roared, causing people of Oldtown to gasp. You chuckled at that.

“No, Vyrmora. You’ve heard my Lord, sweet girl. We cannot cause trouble here,” you told her as you looked up. “Besides… This is my city now,” your violet eyes found Lord Ormund’s cold blue ones. “And I protect what is mine.”