Chapter Text
“Congratulations, Your Grace. You have a son.”
Such seemingly joyous words did not light up the room. The Queen Aemma lie dead on the birthing bed, cut open and empty, the handmaidens frozen on their feet, horror and grief carved into their pale faces. The sickly King Viserys gripped his beloved wife’s hand with tears streaming down his cheeks, he spoke:
“It’s a boy?” The child gurgled, making his presence known, and the Maester looked down at him, and then to his King, “A new heir, Your Grace.” He spoke, with a satisfied tone, seemingly ignorant to the loss of life that had occurred from his blade. Of course, the Queen was but a vessel for heirs.
The King did not feel any joy, his wife lay dead beside him, yet Maester Mellos continued, “Had you and the Queen chosen a name?”
The name nearly broke in half with a cough when he spoke it, “Baelon.”, and the tears the King had tried to push down all but came pouring down his eyes.
The newborn prince did not live for long. The cause was beyond the Maesters’ understanding.
The funeral pyre was assembled with Queen Aemma’s and Prince Baelon’s corpses wrapped in cloth and readied by the Silent Sisters. The court gathered for the traditional ceremony, and The King wept.
The Princess Rhaenyra, the King’s only living child, wept too, her face wet and red at the sight of her mother and brother about to be sent to the Gods. Her dragon Syrax stood atop of the hill next to the pire, awaiting her command.
Her uncle, Prince Daemon took a step closer to the Princess, speaking to her in a hushed tone, “They’re waiting for you.” It was Targaryen tradition after all, to be taken by dragon fire after death. Rhaenyra was a child, but she respected her lineage, was proud of it, even. This was much too painful, however.
The princess spoke to her uncle in High Valyrian, “I wonder if, during those few hours my brother lived, my father finally found happiness.”
The prince answered, “Your father needs you, more now than he ever has.”
“I will never be a son.”
Rhaenyra took a step forward and looked at her father. His incessant quest for a son had killed her mother, his wife, the Queen.
And so she spoke Dracarys, and her mother’s sacrifice burned to ash in the wind.
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In the late hours of the aftermath of that tragic day, The King was asked to the Small Council chamber, still in his mourning clothes, his face dry and red, exhausted. The men of the Council stood up, bowing their heads and sitting back down once the King was settled.
He looked around, confused, noticing the absence of his only daughter, the cup bearer, “Where is Rhaenyra?”
The Hand of The King, Otto Hightower, spoke up firmly, “Your Grace, this is the last thing any of us wish to discuss at this dark hour, but I consider the matter urgent.”
The King shook his head, “What matter?”
“That of your succession.” The Hand paused, then continued, “These.. recent tragedies have left you without an obvious heir.”
Just then, The Master of Ships, Lord Corlys Velaryon, a proud man, loudly affirmed, “The King has an heir, My Lord Hand.”
Otto ignored him, focused on The King, “Despite how difficult this time is, Your Grace, I feel it important the succession be firmly in place for the stability of the Realm.”
Another voice, Lord Lyonel Strong, quickly joined the discussion, “The succession is already set, by precedent and by law.”
“Shall we say his name?” Lord Corlys quipped, pacing near the table, “Daemon Targaryen.”
“If Daemon were to remain the uncontested heir, it could destabilise the Realm.” Maester Mellos gave his input, he was not a supporter of the King’s brother. Few at the table of men were.
“The Realm? Or this council?”
The Hand spoke again, his all-knowing, prideful attitude lacing his tone, “No one here can know what Daemon would do were he King but no one can doubt his ambition. Look at what he did with the Gold Cloaks. The City Watch is fiercely loyal to him! An army 2,000 strong!”
“An army you gave him, Otto.” The King quickly interrupted, his growing frustration evident, “I named Daemon Master of Laws, but you said he was a tyrant. As Master of Coin, you said he was a spendthrift that would beggar the realm.” His anger seemed to win over, he raised his voice, “Putting Daemon in command of the City Watch was your solution!”
The Lord Hand seemed unfazed by the King’s anger, “A half-measure, Your Grace.” The man reasoned, “The truth is, Daemon should be far away from this court.”
“Daemon is my brother.” King Viserys followed, a finger raised, “My blood. And he will have his place at my court.”
Maester Mellos sighed at the King’s words, “Let him keep his place at court, Your Grace, but if the Gods were to visit some further tragedy on you, either by design or by accident—“
“”Design”? What are you saying?” The King asked, his outrage carefully cloaked, “My brother would murder me, take my crown?” He waited for an answer, but no one gave him one, “Are you?!” The King paused, “Please. Daemon has ambition, yes, but not for the throne.” A sarcastic chuckle escaped him in disbelief, “He lacks the patience for it.”
Lord Otto refuted, “The Gods have yet to make a man who lacks the patience for absolute power, Your Grace.”
The King stared The Hand down, The Hand looked away.
Maester Mellos opinionated again, “Under such circumstances, it would not be an aberration for the King to name a successor.” The words seemed to crack open the minds sat at the table of men, “Well who else would have a claim?”
Silence. Then the Lord Hand spoke up, “The King’s firstborn child.”
Lord Lyonel was quick with his reaction, “Rhaenyra? A girl? No queen has ever sat the Iron Throne.”
“That is only by tradition and precedent, Lord Strong.”
“If order and stability so concerns this council, then perhaps we shouldn’t break 100 years of it by naming a girl heir.”
Patience seemed to have suddenly run dry for The King.
“My wife and son are dead!” He shouted, “I will not sit here and suffer crows that come to feast on their corpses!”
King Viserys rose from his chair, the men followed his action, and he walked away in a fury. The succession was tabled for another grim day.
Outside, The Princess Rhaenyra could not find sleep and wondered out of her bed chambers. She had listened to the discussion from behind the closed doors. Tears ran down her face.
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“What will happen now?”
The two young girls sat in the Godswood, shaded by pink leaves and warm colours under the sun. Two weeks had passed since her mother’s death, and Princess Rhaenyra was left wanting for comfort, her closest friend’s lap would do.
Delicate hands ran through her silver hair, and a soft voice answered from above her, “I do not know, Princess. It seems the Council must decide.”
Rhaenyra did not know how to feel about political matters, if the current climate could be called such a thing. Was she allowed to be at peace? Her Lady Mother had died, and so had her brother, and with them died the promise of an Heir to the Iron Throne. Her Lord Father had not spoken a word to her since the funeral, and the lords and ladies of court watched her, some with respect, some with disdain, most with pity. Rhaenyra did not know what to make of it all. She was but a motherless child, after all. She felt a constant sadness, yet at that moment, basking in the scent of Alicent and the summer breeze, she felt at peace.
“I miss her so.” She whispered, her eyes closed, playing memories of her childhood.
The tip of a finger traced along her nose bridge, a small act of closeness Rhaenyra was surprised to receive from her friend out in the open, “I miss mine own mother, too. Death, it is grim and shattering. It is something we must live with.”
Rhaenyra hummed. No more tears would come from her eyes at the mere thought of her dear mother, at least not so easily.
“I have found that praying helps, there is much comfort in the Gods.” Just then, the Princess opened her eyes, looking up at Alicent as if to watch her was to listen to her words better. Rhaenyra couldn’t help but think her friend looked quite beautiful. She decided to speak it out loud, unafraid of consequences.
“You are beautiful, Alicent.”
A blush rose to the Lady’s cheeks at the compliment, a smile growing in her face as she looked down at violet eyes with a chuckle, “You must join me in the Sept someday, Princess. Maybe you will find solace with the Gods as well.”
“I’m afraid, I have no need for solace, I have found it in you.”
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“Good morrow, Your Grace, My lords.”
“Princess.”
It was a bright day, now a month after the death of the Queen, and the King had finally felt apt to resume his duties as sovereign. Princess Rhaenyra had also been summoned, of course, as the royal cupbearer.
She looked radiant. Despite being so young, only fourteen years of age, dressed herself in fine baby blue silks with white fabrics and simple silver jewellery, dawning the colours of House Arryn, her mother’s. Her hair was braided into a single braid that came down to the centre of her back, swaying along to her steps.
The Princess walked into the room feeling a pair of old eyes on her she chose to ignore, and instead picked up the jar of wine, ready to pour.
The King coughed, his voice shaky, “What do we have to discuss today, My Lords?” Rhaenyra did not dwell on the fact that he had yet to speak with her about her mother, or about anything at all really. She also chose to overlook the blood she spotted on the handkerchief her father coughed into as she poured his wine.
Lord Otto cleared his throat, “Before we begin, Your Grace, I have a report I feel compelled to share.” The King looked confused, and after a sigh, The Hand continued, “Last night… Prince Daemon bought out one of the pleasure houses on the Street of Silk, to entertain officers of the City Watch, and other friends of his.” Otto did not dare look in King Viserys’ face as he delivered the report, “He toasted Prince Baelon, styling him… “The Heir for a Day.””
The table of men was speechless. Rhaenyra stood in the corner, listening to how her mother’s sacrifice was mocked by her dear uncle, gripping onto the jar of wine with both hands with almost enough strength to shatter it.
“I corroborated this report with three separate witnesses. The evening was, by all accounts… a celebration.”
As the Princess watched her father’s face twist with anger and the pain of betrayal, she imagined the clear jar held in her hands break, wine spilling all over her blue silks. She imagined she would dig out thick glass shards from where they were buried in her skin, bleeding, and stab her uncle with them.
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Behind a member of the Kingsguard, Rhaenyra quickened her step down the halls and stairs of the Red Keep, past the royal apartments, past the dining halls, past the kitchens and the help’s apartments, and finally past the library, into the cellars of the great castle.
Melting candles decorated the altar in the centre of the cellar, wax melting onto the floor, its scent filling the room, and in the middle of it sat Balerion. The Conqueror’s dragon, at least what was left of it, its skull, stood framed in candles almost as a worship to his existence. The dragons that House Targaryen owed its great history to. In front of it, stood her Father, placing his weight onto his cane, coughing quietly, holding a hand above the candles as if he thought himself resistant to the fire, like a dragon. Only then did the King notice his daughter standing by the door.
“Father.” She greeted. The King did not spare her another glance, directing it instead at the floor beneath them, and then at the skull of the mighty beast, he spoke, “Balerion was the last living creature to have seen Old Valyria before its doom… Its greatness and its flaws.” He finally turned to her and asked, “When you look at the dragons what do you see?”
Rhaenyra felt her face flush, sudden anger threatening to spill, “What? You haven’t spoken a word to me since mother’s funeral, and now you send your Kingsguard down—“
King Viserys interrupted her sternly, “Answer me, it is important.” He continued, “What do you see?”
The princess’ anger subsided, she nodded and took a determined look at the remains of her ancestry, “I suppose I see us.” Her father stepped closer at the answer he was given, curious, “Tell me.”
“Everyone says Targaryens are closer to Gods than to men,” Rhaenyra explained, squinting, a knowing look in her eye, “but they say that because of our dragons. Without them we’re just like everyone else.” She looked her father in the eye, unafraid of admitting her thoughts on such things.
The King nodded, seemingly surprised, and spoke again, in a slight chuckle, “The idea that we control the dragons… is an illusion. They’re a power men should have never trifled with.” He began to pace slowly, the sound of his cane echoing through the room, “One that brought Valyria its doom. If we don’t mind our own histories it will do the same to us.”
“A Targaryen must understand this to be King… or Queen.” The words had Rhaenyra’s chest tighten at their implications, yet her father continued his words, “I’m sorry, Rhaenyra. I have wasted the years since you were born…” He chuckled, almost as if his own decisions were not by his hand, “wanting for a son.”
The princess could almost feel the room closing in on them, on her, the words seemed to blur together but she kept her focus.
The King looked at her with love, and favour, for the first time in many moons, “You are the very best of your mother, and I believe as I know she did, that you could be a great ruling queen.”
Her father’s cane was now in front of her, as was she, as he took her hand in his, and she finally spoke, her voice trembling, “Daemon is your heir.” The King shook his head, “Daemon was not made to wear the crown, but I believe that you were. You must listen to me. This is no trivial gesture, Rhaenyra. A dragon’s saddle is one thing, but the Iron Throne is the most dangerous seat in the Realm.”
Her father took a long, withering breath, and spoke, his voice crackled and unsteady, “There’s something else that I need to tell you. It might be difficult for you to understand, but you must hear it.” Rhaenyra had not seen her father so serious in her life.
“Our histories, they tell us that Aegon looked across the Blackwater from Dragonstone and saw a rich land ripe for the capture. But ambition alone is not what drove him to conquest… It was a dream.” The Princess was confused at her father’s words, but something in her heart kept her feet locked in place and her ears attentively listening. “And just as Daeny’s foresaw the end of Valyria, Aegon foresaw the end of the world of men.”
The King coughed almost violently, desperate, taking a handkerchief from his pocket and covering it in blood soaked spit, holding onto his cane with a viscous grip.
“Father, you must rest, you are ill! I shall call for your Kingsguard—“
“No—!!” Her father coughed out a scream, “You must listen, daughter, please!”
Rhaenyra quieted as he regained his composure, wiping his mouth and his sweat off his forehead, “The end, ‘tis to begin with a terrible winter gusting out of the distant North.” Her father was tired, sick, dripping in sweat in a candlelit room, but he did not stop, the weight of his words fell heavy on her shoulders, yet, it did not discomfort her.
“Aegon saw absolute darkness riding on those winds, and whatever dwells within will destroy the world of the living.” King Viserys took her hands into his once again, squeezing, “When this great winter comes, Rhaenyra, all of Westeros must stand against it. And if the world of men is to survive, a Targaryen must be seated on the Iron Throne. A King or Queen, strong enough to unite the realm against the cold and the dark. Aegon called his dream ‘The Song of Ice and Fire’.”
Rhaenyra felt a cold chill thrill down her spine when she heard the words. She did not know if she liked it, but she did not dwell on it, as her father held her hands even tighter, but let go of one to clutch at the Valyrian Dagger held on his belt, and continued once more, “This secret… it’s been passed from King to Heir since Aegon’s time, now you must promise to carry it… and protect it. Promise me this, Rhaenyra. Promise me.”
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A moon’s time had passed, and the weight on Rhaenyra’s shoulders grew ever heavier, still, it did not much faze her. On that day, the sun peeked ever so slightly through her curtains, touching her face, nearly burning her. Before she could turn away, a knock was heard, “Yes?”
Sir Harold’s voice sounded from beyond her chamber doors, “Good morrow, Princess. It is time, your handmaiden’s are here to dress you, might I let them in?”
Rhaenyra looked over at her dressing area, at the large and expensive mirror, and the selection of jewels, charms, headpieces and everything a lady of her status could need, imported from far away places in the world she’d so dreamt of visiting, and the weight grew heavier. Her shoulders began to falter.
“Princess? Is everything alright?” Sir Harold’s voice awoke her from her sudden daze, and so she spoke, voice slightly wavering, “I do not wish for handmaidens to help. Please send for the Lady Alicent.”
“Of course, Princess. Right away.”
Alicent came in moments later, and Rhaenyra pretended she had not figured that her friend had been wandering the halls close to her chamber, chewing on her fingers. She helped her dress, tightening her corset and slipping on her sleeves, gently, of course. Alicent was always ever so gentle with her.
“What worries you?” She asked, her voice soft and mellow, “You seem… out of focus. Is it the ceremony?”
In under an hour, her ceremony would begin, to officially name her Heir to the Iron Throne, and all the Lords in the land would bend the knee and swear fealty to her. It started to weigh heavier, now on her chest, too. At her silence, Alicent moved to stand in front of her, clasping their hands together, and offered a small smile, “All will be well, Rhaenyra. Westeros is here for you. They respect you.”
“They respect my father, The King. I am but the girl he’s chosen as heir.” Rhaenyra sighed, and Alicent frowned, “Do you not believe he’s made the right choice?”
Under normal circumstances, to question the King’s will would be reason enough to have her tongue removed, but Rhaenyra knew that when they were alone, they were not Princess and Noble Lady. They were just girls.
Rhaenyra chuckled, still holding onto her friend’s hands, “It isn’t that. I believe that I… I will learn. I will rule. But will the men of the realm let me? Most despise us, just because we do not possess their same… appendages.” They giggled about such a thing together, outrageous matters to speak of as noble maidens, but they did not care.
Alicent moved behind her again and picked up a wooden hairbrush and she spoke, “Men may not see us as more than mothers, but you are more than that, Rhaenyra. You are heir, and you will be Queen. You will be Mother of the Realm.”
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As the men bent the knee to Rhaenyra, the weight grew ever heavier, her chest began to tighten and her palms sweat. But she did not let it be seen. Alicent was right, and so was her father. She was the heir now, and soon enough she would rule over Westeros. She was not a mere girl. She never was. She was Rhaenyra Targaryen, Princess of Dragonstone, and Heir to the Iron Throne.