✦ New Faith ✦ Aegon Targaryen

○ thirty eight ○

Tanda chose not to dwell on the events in the throne room, on Lord Darklyn’s defiance, or on the execution that had followed. Yet the memory lingered, haunting her through both waking hours and fitful sleep. It felt strange, unsteady, to know that the man responsible—her husband, her king—was the same person she now carried a child with. That same unease greeted her upon waking, mingling with the sharp nausea that had become a new morning routine.

Without delay, she lunged for the metal bucket placed discreetly by her bedside, the echo of her retching bouncing off the stone walls. She’d spoken with the maesters; they had reassured her that such discomfort was part of the early months of pregnancy, a small price for life itself. But it felt far from small in that moment.

Ringing the bell, she called for her handmaidens. Before long, they filed in—Cecilia and her sister Cilna, and the quieter pair, Milly and Yveni. She’d finally learned all their names, noting the subtle dynamics among them. Cecilia, hailing from Rosby with her sister, had been a steady, cheerful presence.

“Milly,” Tanda murmured, her voice still faint, “breakfast here, please—something simple.”

With a nod, Milly vanished, slipping away toward the kitchens. Tanda glanced up at Cecilia, who, smiling, held a bundle of dresses in her arms.

“These came from the Dowager Queen,” Cecilia said, laying each gown carefully into the wardrobe. “She had them made to fit comfortably while…” her voice softened, “…while the baby grows.”

Tanda’s smile faltered at the mention of Alicent. Though the Dowager Queen had been supportive—praying with her, showing gestures of kindness—the memories of Aegon’s reluctant ascension weighed heavily. The crown had been Alicent’s will, thrust upon him despite his hesitation.

“Please thank her,” Tanda murmured, her words courteous but lacking warmth.

As Cecilia placed the last dress away, she glanced over her shoulder. “Any color you’d prefer today, my queen?”

Tanda considered, biting into an apple Milly had brought, its tartness waking her senses. She had no love for open displays of alliances, but now that she stood beside Aegon, there was little reason to hide. “Green,” she answered.

---

Later that morning, Tanda drifted toward her High Valyrian lessons. Once, she’d felt a flicker of excitement for these classes; now, with fatigue lingering and her body weary, her patience for it waned.

Settling into the grand, drafty library, her gown pooling heavily around her, she prepared for Maester Dervil’s instruction. She struggled through each phrase, her accent bending the delicate syllables of High Valyrian into something unrecognizable.

“Repeat after me, Lady Tanda,” Maester Dervil prompted gently. “Vezof ēngos.”

“Vez… ehng-gohss?” She winced, immediately aware of her mistake. Her cheeks flushed, and she ducked her head, embarrassed.

The maester’s expression remained calm. “Closer. High Valyrian is meant to flow like breath. Try again—Vezof ēngos.”

She took a deep breath, whispering the words again. “Vezof… ēngos.” Her tone softened, but the words still felt foreign, stiff as iron.

Dervil offered an encouraging nod. “Improvement, Lady Tanda. High Valyrian doesn’t come easily. Even the Targaryens train for years to master it.” He paused, glancing up with kind eyes. “You’ve already shown resilience, my queen. In time, it will feel more natural.”

Tanda’s gaze softened, a rueful smile on her lips. “Perhaps, though it feels as comfortable as armor on a fish.”

Dervil chuckled, a rare warmth breaking through his formal demeanor. “Then you’ll wear it until it’s second nature.”

Tanda nodded, eyes glinting with determination. Despite everything—the isolation, the uncertainty—she was learning, adapting.

Vezof ēngos
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Blood of the dragon