I was prepared for trouble, but not for this!

Rhaenys PoV

I was feeling super pissed. These old bastards decided to name my cousin as king despite myself having the stronger claim. They just chose him because he was a man. Just having cock makes you a better choice for king—how absurd! My ambitious husband was seething in rage as he stormed out of the council. I sighed, as his ambition is too much for a man. 

I got away from the sham council and rode out on Meleys. She could also sense my bad mood as she snarled at anyone who got close. I went away flying on Meleys. This is the only moment when I can truly enjoy peace. No politics, no suck up nobles, no nagging from my husband. This is the moment I can just be me, Rhaenys, not the Targaryen princess or lady Velaryon.

But it seems today won't be any good. Just as I flew over the Kingswood, I heard sounds of fighting as I was flying low still. I guided Meleys to the scene where I saw a young kid kill a bandit while getting slashed at. I commanded Meleys to land on top of the remaining bandit, wanting to see if the kid is still alive. Usually, I would not care for such things; this is common after all. Any moment could be your last. But as I approached the bleeding boy, I saw him holding a beautiful valyrian steel sword.

"That's not possible," I mutted with surprise. Why would a young boy carry a Valyrian steel sword, which is clearly a new one? He looks like a Targaryen, so probably a bastard. As I used my hankerchief to wipe away the blood on his face, I was struck with a very familiar feeling, as if I knew him. The kid reminds me of someone, but I can't imagine who. I decided to pick up the boy and take him to a nearby maester; hopefully he won't lose that eye. 

As we flew to the nearby castle, I surprisingly found out that the council matters had escaped my mind. I stared at the boy barely alive and felt something deep within. Perhaps it was my maternal instinct, as Laenor is around the same age as this boy. I smiled at the boy sadly and spoke, " It is up to your fate whether you manage to survive this little one. So try your best to live."

3rd person PoV

The castle came into view as Meleys descended gracefully, her crimson scales gleaming in the sunlight. The garrison and servants below scattered, some bowing their heads, others rushing to make way for the 'Queen Who Never Was'. They were used to her unannounced arrivals but not to her bearing a bloodied child in her arms. The boy's fragile form seemed so small against her, his face pale and smeared with dirt and blood.

"Summon the maester immediately," Rhaenys commanded as she dismounted, her voice firm yet laced with urgency.

A servant dashed off toward the maester's quarters, while another brought clean linens and water. Rhaenys carried the boy herself into the castle, her mind swirling with unanswered questions. Who was this boy? What was his connection to House Targaryen, and why did he carry a Valyrian steel sword, a rarity in the world? The familiarity in his features haunted her. She was certain now—he reminded her of someone, though the memory refused to surface.

Hours passed. Rhaenys sat by the boy's side, her fingers brushing the hilt of his sword, which lay on the table nearby. The craftsmanship was exquisite—Valyrian steel, sharp and unyielding, with a faint ripple pattern like dragonfire frozen in metal. This was definitely a custom piece. But who would forge such a treasure for a boy?

She studied him more closely now, noting the silver-blond hair matted with sweat and blood, the high cheekbones, and the pale skin kissed by the sun. He had the look of a Targaryen, no doubt, but there was something else. His features were sharper, his jawline and nose distinct from her family's usual traits. A bastard, perhaps, but of whose line? Meleys stirred restlessly outside, her guttural rumble vibrating through the walls. Rhaenys rose and stepped out to calm her dragon, whispering soothing words in High Valyrian.

As she returned to the boy's bedside, a faint sound escaped his lips—a groan, weak and strained. His eyelids fluttered, and his fingers twitched as if grasping for something.

"Easy now," Rhaenys said, leaning over him. Her voice was gentler than it had been in years, as if speaking to her own son. "You're safe."

The boy's eyes opened partially, an icy grey color, the other swollen shut. His lips parting to form a single word in his delirium.

"...Mom?"

Rhaenys froze, her breath caught in her throat. The word was barely audible, more a whisper of longing than recognition. But it struck her like a thunderbolt, stirring something buried deep within her heart. She reached for his hand, clasping it tightly.

"No, little one," she said softly. "But I'll make sure you live to find her again."

The boy's eyes drifted shut again, his brief moment of consciousness fading as quickly as it had come. Rhaenys sat back, her mind a storm of thoughts. That single word—mother—lingered in the air, unsettling her in ways she couldn't explain.

She glanced again at the Valyrian steel sword resting on the table. Its presence was a puzzle in itself. Such weapons were rarities, heirlooms passed down through noble houses, each one a story etched into history. That the boy carried one suggested he was no ordinary child. Someone had armed him with it—someone who expected him to fight. But why?

The door creaked open, and her husband, Corlys Velaryon, stepped in. His expression was stern, though his eyes softened as they landed on her.

"Rhaenys," he said, his deep voice filling the room. "The council's decisions are an insult, but you've been gone for hours. What's this I hear about you bringing a boy back with you?"

Rhaenys gestured toward the bed where the child lay. "I found him in the Kingswood, fighting off bandits. He was badly wounded, but he survived. Look at him, Corlys. Tell me he doesn't remind you of someone."

Corlys approached, his brow furrowing as he examined the boy. He took in the silver hair, the pale skin, and finally the sword. His hand hovered over the blade, his expression hardening.

"This is no ordinary child," Corlys murmured. "He bears the blood of Old Valyria. That sword alone... it's worth a fortune. Where did he come from?"

"That's what I intend to find out," Rhaenys said, crossing her arms. "But there's more. When he woke briefly, he called me mother. I don't know if it was delirium or something else, but it felt... strange."

Corlys's gaze lingered on the boy, his mind clearly working through the implications. "If he is of Targaryen blood, he could be dangerous—or valuable. You know what such claims can lead to."

"I do," Rhaenys replied, her voice firm. "But I couldn't leave him to die. He's just a child, Corlys."

Her husband sighed, rubbing his temples. "And what do you propose we do with him? If word spreads that we've taken in a boy who looks like this, questions will be asked. Dangerous questions."

"For now, we keep him hidden," Rhaenys said. "Let him recover. When he's strong enough, we'll ask him. We'll decide what to do then. Until that time, no one outside this room knows of his existence."

Corlys nodded reluctantly. "Very well. But tread carefully, Rhaenys. The court is a viper's nest, and even a whisper of this could ignite a fire we can't control."

Days passed. The boy's recovery was slow but steady, his wounds healing under the maester's care.

When Daeron finally regained full consciousness, his gaze met Rhaenys's with a mixture of fear and determination.

"Where... where am I?" he asked, his voice hoarse but steady.

"You're in safe hands," Rhaenys replied, sitting beside him. "You fought bravely, Aerion. Not many boys your age could take on a band of grown men and live to tell the tale."

Aerion's eyes flicked to the sword resting nearby, his expression guarded. "Who are you?"

"I am Rhaenys Targaryen," she said, watching his reaction closely. "And you, Aerion, carry a blade that shouldn't exist. Tell me—where did you get it? Who gave it to you?"

Daeron PoV

Shit! Fuck! Damn! 

Why does this keep happening to me? I just barely survived, and I'm face to face with a princess! And unlike the usual trope, she's asking me about the key issue right off the bat! How do I answer her? I don't want to lie to someone who saved me, but telling the truth isn't an option either. 

I think for a while and answer,I've had it for as long as I can remember. It was always with me—probably left by one of my parents before they... before they were gone."

Rhaenys studied me, her expression unreadable. "You never knew them?" she asked softly, though her tone carried the weight of suspicion. "Not even their names?"

I shook my head, "No. I grew up hearing stories about how they abandoned me or died. The people who raised me didn't care much for details; only that I was another mouth to feed."

Rhaenys asked me another key question: " If you were left there with such a sword, the first thing someone would do is steal it. You were only a child. So why didn't they take it?

My mind raced as she asked that. It was a fair question—a brutal one, really. If I was left as a child with a sword so valuable, how had it stayed with me all this time? Why hadn't someone just taken it? It's a question I hadn't prepared for, and I cursed silently at how sharp she was. I took a deep breath, trying to piece together an answer that would hold up under her scrutiny.

I gave out a nervous smile and replied, " I don't know. When I got the sword, it was in pretty bad condition; the scabbard was covered in mud and vines. I cleaned it before I left the orphanage; only then did I find out it was a real sword inside. Maybe the others thought it was just a keepsake from my parents not worth much?"

Rhaenys raised an eyebrow at my answer, her sharp eyes scrutinizing me as though she could see right through me. "Covered in mud and vines, you say?" she repeated, her tone skeptical. "A Valyrian steel sword forgotten and discarded like some common relic? It's... improbable."

I felt my throat tighten, but I forced myself to keep my expression calm. "Improbable doesn't mean impossible," I replied, trying to inject some conviction into my voice. "I was just a kid with nothing. Who would expect a weapon like that to be in the hands of someone like me? Maybe it was fate, or maybe it was just dumb luck."

She crossed her arms, clearly not fully convinced but choosing not to press further—at least for now. "Luck does have a way of favoring some," she murmured, almost to herself. "But luck alone doesn't explain how a boy with no training managed to survive a fight with armed bandits."

My mouth went dry. This was another question I hadn't prepared for. "I just... I did what I had to," I said, avoiding her gaze. "I didn't think. I just fought. I've had to fend for myself before, you know. It wasn't my first time facing danger."

Her expression softened slightly, though her eyes still glimmered with suspicion. "Survival instincts," she mused. "Perhaps. But you wielded that blade like someone who's had practice, Daeron. Are you sure there's nothing else you're not telling me?"

I hesitated, my mind racing for a way out of this. "What could I possibly be hiding?" I said finally, my voice quiet but steady. "I'm just a kid who got lucky. Nothing more."

She stared at me for what felt like an eternity, then finally sighed and turned away. "Rest, Daeron," she said, her tone resigned but firm. As she walked to the door, I couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt. She had saved my life, and yet here I was, dodging her questions and twisting the truth. But what choice did I have? The truth wasn't something I could share—not with her, not with anyone.

When the door clicked shut, I let out a shaky breath and stared at the sword resting on the nearby table. Its dark steel seemed to shimmer in the dim light, almost mocking me with its existence.

"Fate, huh?" I whispered to myself. "If this is fate, it's got a cruel sense of humor."