Chapter Text
my cup runneth over
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Rhaenyra was not born in King’s Landing, and she was not born a Targaryen, though she had always thought herself one. It was hard not to, when she had no recollection of a home beyond the walls of the Red Keep, nor of a family that did not wield the famed surname.
She had been twenty-some months old when she first arrived in the Crownlands, in the midst of that awkward in-between stage of babe and child where words and walking were possible but not to a particularly successful or even fully intelligible.
Her memories of this arrival were secondhand, built off of stories told by her sister, Aemma, or the Baelon the Brave himself of whom she was allegedly besotted with at the time. It was an embarrassing thing, all the more so for the fact she believed it. How could she not, given the first few memories she did have of him were filled with nothing but all-consuming fondness?
Truly, she had few memories of him that consisted of anything less. If her sister's words were true, he had been kind to her from that very first day, even when he had no reason to be—just as he still was all these years later.
But no matter the kindness he offered her, and no matter the adoration she gave in return, she never considered that her feelings for the then prince and now King would result in this.
She never imagined she would marry him.
☀️ Chapter One ☀️
She had never questioned the fact he liked her. Not even as a small girl—but then, at that time she was perhaps too young to question anything at all.
Then, there was a time when she was too confident to understand or accept anything less.
She eventually grew old enough to get a sense for the silent signs that said she was annoying someone, even when they didn't say anything at all.
(She didn't have to say anything at all in order to annoy some members of court...)
She began to understand polite hints that she was not wanted, the requests for her to go away veiled in the confusing language that everyone in court seemed to use.
And yet, she never experienced such things when in the presence of him.
He did not just put up with her, he seemed to appreciate her and genuinely treasure the time with her in a way that made her feel much more important than her age and title would indicate. She liked feeling that way, and she liked him too, and so they became rather inseparable.
Their bond was unchanging, even when his title did change. He was suddenly King, yet he still made time for her—he even made her his cupbearer.
She had heard the rumors by then, of what he was to her—that she was more than his niece. The timing of Baelon's visits to Vale was convenient—or at least slightly suspicious.
One could not help but notice that Rhaenyra was born in the year following the last of these visits.
Baelon had married his sister, once. Was it so impossible for him to bed one that still lived while in close proximity?
If he had, the resulting child would certainly resemble Rhaenyra.
And, it would explain her dragon.
She never asked him about the rumors—it did not matter to her, not really. She did not remember her real father, and so she had little idea of what a father should be, nor any desire to have one. She didn't need one, not when she had Baelon.
Whether she was his bastard or niece, it was of little concern—either way, he was her Kepa—and it was secondary thing to what she treasured most, which was, of course, his love for her.
Yes, by the time she began to serve as his cupbearer, his love was as obvious as the like that had predated it. Another thing she did not question, but appreciated so deeply she could not even imagine trying to voice it.
(She had done a great deal to earn it, though.)
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She had been too excited to truly consider the oddity of it when he proposed the idea to her.
And by 'the oddity of it' she was referring to the fact her then-betrothed and now-husband had sons who were old enough to be her father. And he…he was old enough to be her grandfather, even though she did not think of him as such.
(Not even the rumors made such claims as that.)
No, he was her Kepa. The name she had called him from the time she could speak, and continued to call him even after he was crowned and his station demanded he be called His Majesty the King.
He shared the nickname with his eldest son, her favored guard, and any older man she deemed important enough to call upon but not so important to acknowledge their name or title—or, he had. But as she grew older, she grew out of using the word for anyone other than him.
He was the only man who had really earned it and he had always been her clear favorite.
He’d never treated her quite like a daughter—did she know what it was to be treated as a daughter, though?
He had always spoiled her, doted on her, listened to her, and made her feel important in a way other men made no attempt to.
He had adopted her if not as a daughter then as an honorary Targaryen—taking her on flights whenever she requested one, without any care for the fact she was too small to climb the saddle without help. Her love for dragons and their acceptance of her led to him demanding an egg be placed in her chambers.
(Well, perhaps she demanded it, the details were a bit fuzzy to her now.)
The heavy iron pot that held the egg was fascinating to her young self, and she spent hours just staring at the shining scales and bright embers it sat atop.
It had been no more than two weeks when Rhaenyra woke to the screams of a maid, the chatter of a newborn dragon, and the sound of tiny flapping its wings—ineffective given the creature's age, but showing its eagerness to fly.
(Rhaenyra was eager, too.)
He had given her the gift of belonging. The gift of being a Targaryen. The gift of flight.
(The gift of being a wife, the gift of being a mother to his children, and the gift of being queen was all still to come.)
When he had smiled down at her, tipped her chin back, and asked if she would be his Queen there was no thought of anything else beyond relief of getting to stay. The enthusiasm for the match and the title didn’t come until later, and even then, they were very much secondary to the solace it offered. She felt light enough to fly, even without the help of Syrax, for every bit of anxiety she had felt for years was suddenly abated with just a few words.
She was sixteen then—old enough to be married—old enough that people had begun to whisper about why she wasn’t. Her closeness to the king would end in scandal if not resolved by her departure, she knew that, as she had for years.
People would gladly forget the gossip of him having a bastard—of her being that bastard—when seducing and sullying his young niece was a plausible topic. It was even more deliciously perverse than her being his daughter. A mere rumor of an affair with her would do more harm to his reputation than having a bastard, but he was a man—a King, he would survive it.
(Her reputation, however...)
A woman's reputation was everything, and it was not something she could afford to lose—not if she wished for a future. For a husband. For children.
And so, even if she did not want to leave, she did not see what other choice she had.
(And then, he asked her to marry him!)
His proposal fixed everything. And any oddity given their age or the age of his sons seemed far less odd than the thought of being parted from all she knew and loved.
Because she did love him. She always had. And he loved her, too.
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He was a kind husband, as she expected he would be.
He had always been affectionate with her, though never inappropriate. She had known the feeling of his lips against her forehead, his arms around her, and his hand on her shoulder for as many years as she had been in King’s Landing. She had once thought all Targaryen’s tactile by nature, but it no longer seemed so—it seemed rather specific to Baelon, as if he needed the reminder of one's presence beneath his fingers, evidence of their life in the heat of their flesh and beat of their heart.
This had not changed, but it had...evolved.
(Things were different now that she was both a woman and his betrothed.)
His touches had lingered in the weeks leading up to their marriage, fingers brushing lower and squeezing tighter in a way that promised future intimacy. And after they had taken their vows…
(Things were different now that she was his wife.)
Well, as he had certainly not grown cold in the aftermath of seeing her crowned. He’d grown hard.
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He had sensed her nerves upon entering his chamber, and soothed them with a charming grin and plea for her to share her troubles. She had scoffed, she wasn’t troubled, she was just…curious and perhaps a bit concerned by what she did not know. But as he always had, he encouraged this facet of her personality, and he did not hesitate to answer the questions most brides would be too embarrassed, shy, or afraid to ask of anyone at all, much less their husband.
She knew him too well to feel any such things. There was no space for fear or embarrassment in a relationship built on the sort of love and affection he had always offered her.
When she removed her robe that night, her cheeks were flushed. But it was with nervous anticipation for what was to come, not with concern for what he might think of her.
He’d never called her anything less than beautiful. She was certain more skin being exposed would only garner more praise.
(She was right. She was always right.)
He was gentle until she asked him for more, and then she was moaning too much to ask for anything at all.
When they were done, his length was soft and his spend dampened her thighs as it lazily leaked from her folds. It was a matter of gravity she supposed, given that she was atop his chest—but it was fitting, given that she felt rather lazy herself.
She had been mapping the muscles of his torso, a single finger dragging through the notches and ridges she had often admired on sculptures but never had the opportunity to feel in flesh. His form was still firm but the skin atop it wasn’t stretched as taught as the men she saw on the docks or in the training yard. The soft flesh diffused the outline of his muscles, hiding his strength from those who did not know his history in battle and commitment to training even now.
(But she knew. After all, she knew nearly everything about him.)
She had always thought it rather obvious he was strong, a man still in his prime, trim and without any sort of gut or goiter. He may be older than any other option she had been presented with when contemplating a husband, but she did not think any other would be as handsome.
Nor would they be as kind.
And they almost certainly wouldn’t have a dragon.
Truly, he was everything she had ever imagined wanting in a husband, if not more. Age mattered far less than their bond, compatibility, and love, three things she was reminded of in the aftermath of their first time coupling, for while she admired her new husband's form he admired her.
He promised he would give her whatever she asked for when it came to matters of the flesh. Pretty young wives deserved nothing but pleasure.
“And,” He said with a smile, “There is none prettier than you, and you wear pleasure so well.”
It was a good thing, given how frequently she wore it in the months that followed.
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When whispers about the king's cupbearer's new role as cockbearer made it to her ears she couldn't help but laugh. Because it was true. She caused his cock to fill with blood with the same sort of ease required to fill a goblet with wine.
One was much more fun, though, even if they were both rather bitter on her tongue.
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No one was surprised when her stomach began to swell, less than a year into marriage and yet the seed of life was already taking root.
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She approached childbirth as she did everything else, with a stubbornness, determination, and confidence that left no room for failure—no room for death.
“Kepa, do not fret—I cannot promise that none shall die on the day the babe comes, but it shall not be me! I hear it is terribly painful and my temper may get the best of me. My screams may revert me to my childish tantrums, which often involved throwing things...”
“Yes—that is the only reason I shall allow you to stay—I do not need company but someone must ensure that I do not accidentally, say, strangle a servant. I am unlikely to listen to a midwife, they are not trained to handle a dragon.”
“Not that I would listen to a dragon keeper, either, a dragon rider such as my husband, however…”
“You have always been the best at soothing my wails and tears, hm? Even if my guards would likely say you now inspire them when you visit my chambers. Poor fools do not know the sound of a woman’s pleasure, despite our best efforts!”
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Prince Aenys II Targaryen was born swiftly—contractions building for a full day but his arrival came just hours after the pain grew too unbearable for her to stand. The worst of it lasted minutes, as if he was stubborn in beginning his descent but eager to finish it when he had truly started. It was very quick, almost dizzying with how people around her moved while she alternated between biting her tongue and screaming—but then, the cord was cut, blood staunched, and the bundle of ruddy skin and wailing babe pressed against her sweat-drenched skin.
She was not fond of infants, but he was…he was beautiful.
“You’re beautiful,” Her husband said, more focused on her, more nervous for her, than he was for the babe. She knew it wasn’t because the babe displeased him—he just knew what it was to lose a wife to the aftermath of childbirth, and thought there was no child worth such a price.
She liked that very much—that he valued her above her womb, even if she had little doubt she would win the battle that was giving birth.
She had—and the evidence was in her arms, screaming loudly, something that did not phase her the way she expected, no, she thought they sounded like the roars of a creature wishing to spit flames. Rather like the flapping of Syrax’s wings when she had just hatched. Freed from the confines of an egg or womb, the sudden change allowed—no, forced—them to show the world they were alive and strong and determined.
Just as every dragon should be. Just as every Targaryen was. She could not possibly give birth to anything less.
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After, when she had been cleaned and slept for a time, she woke to find Baelon holding their son. It made her smile, even though her body ached, for he would be a good father, just as he was a good husband.
(He had almost been a father to her, too, after all.)
When he noticed she was awake he was quick to approach, sitting on the bed and twining his fingers with hers, while the crook of his arm supported the infant.
"Are you in a great deal of pain?" He asked, sympathetically. She nodded because it was true but, "Not so much that I would not do it again—but I certainly would not wish to do it nineteen more times." She teased, making him laugh—though it was a forlorn sound, the sort he always made at mentions of his first wife.
If she had birthed a girl she would have asked if he wished to name it after his late wife, or his mother. But since it was a boy...well, Aenys I married her Velaryon namesake, and that name seemed to fit the babe as well as any other.
Baelon's attention had returned to the bundle in his arms, and he sounded very fond when he said, "He is a handsome babe."
Rhaenyra had thought so too, when he was first placed on her chest. But now she had recovered some and she was less convinced. He was very wrinkly, with no discernable features that resembled either of them.
No, the beauty was in the fact they had created something, someone, together, not the actual child. At least not yet. She was sure he would be handsome someday but for now...
"Not as handsome as my husband." She teased. "Though, I suppose he has made me scream louder than you have."
He laughed, squeezing her hand before releasing it and brushing her cheek with his thumb, "Something to remedy, perhaps, when you have recovered."
She would hold him to that. But first, she would sleep.
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