Chapter Text
Later, she would drum her fingers on the table and think she should have seen all this coming.
There certainly had been signs — and hells, there had been precedents and centuries of tradition.
Still, Rhaenyra had never felt that humiliated — and even though she cursed her naivety, berating herself for not being able to foresee this exact outcome, she felt a peculiar sting, a bite, fangs breaking her skin and dripping with venom that seemingly went straight into her heart.
She promised herself she would not cry — tears might be making her throat close, and she might feel like she was suffocating, choking on her own despair and humiliation, but she vowed that neither her father nor his trusted advisors would see her dejection.
“Of course, Your Grace,” Rhaenyra simply replied, bowing her head. “I understand completely. It has been an honour, and I am glad you are recognising my role.”
Her father smiled.
“I am very glad you understand it, daughter. Rest assured, I do not intend to discard or disregard you. You will be cared for, and a suitable match will be arranged for you.”
Rhaenyra wondered if he had always been so blind. She genuinely could not comprehend how a promise of being sold to a man was supposed to make her feel better about the loss of her position, about the betrayal, about the disinheritance.
She was but a girl, everyone had always said, shrugging or shaking their heads. Everyone had expected a boy to come out of her parents’ union, everyone had seen her as a mere placeholder.
And yet Rhaenyra had foolishly allowed herself to hope that this was not true. Her father trusted her — he had formally appointed her as his heir when her mother died, recognising her worth at long last. Back then, Rhaenyra was grief-stricken and tempted to spit at him that had he done it earlier, her mother would have been alive — but she had swallowed her words, for the King had proclaimed her as his successor, and she had hoped it would bring them reconciliation.
Well, reconciliation had lasted for two years.
She steadied her hand, not turning to twisting the ring on her finger — it was best to appear completely composed and calm. Everyone in this room was looking at her and watching her closely for any sign of weakness, any hint of pain.
Rhaenyra would not give them the satisfaction of witnessing a scene between the King and his daughter — a fickle, mercurial Princess who was clearly not worthy of being her father’s heir.
She felt the burning gaze of Otto Hightower — the viper was proud and arrogant, sitting with his head high. Everything had fallen into place for him, and he could not help but gloat — the light curve of his mouth, this obnoxious smirk, was driving Rhaenyra insane.
Of course, he had succeded. Offering his daughter to the King, making sure she became Queen and produced offspring. How lucky he was to have a grandson and not a granddaughter — and to see him live to his first nameday, thus solidifying the position of House Hightower.
And now, Aegon would be the next ruler of the Seven Kingdoms — the way the gods intended, no less, with the long-standing tradition of male rulers.
“Also, we have decided that should something happen to me until Aegon reaches maturity, you, Rhaenyra, will be his regent. You have been attending all the meetings and gathering experience, and with your husband, you surely would be able to advise your brother.”
Her father was so cheerful — Rhaenyra fought the urge to scoff. This was not an honour — this was a humiliation, a burning, cruel mockery, and the longer he was talking, the more difficult it was to keep her tears at bay.
Maybe being a regent — what was there to look forward to? She had no doubt that either her own husband or Otto Hightower would try to snatch even this privilege out of her hands should it come to it. The King might believe he was offering her good terms and significant power, but in reality, she would be deprived of anything the moment he died.
Well, she already was, to an extent, was she not?
“I am sure Princess Rhaenyra sees how much trust you have put in her, Your Grace, and appreciates it,” Otto Hightower said with a benevolent smile — but in truth, it was nothing but a condescending taunt, a way to show Rhaenyra her new place.
Nothing. No one. Just a girl who had played her role and was now seen as less than her infant brother.
Rhaenyra glared at him — she wanted to do so much more, wanted to throw something at him or scream. Otto was nothing but a snake, a sly, cunning, endlessly plotting viper who had ruined her family and stolen so much from her. He had taken her friend and turned her into Queen, had made her father look the other way, at his long-awaited son, and now he was enjoying the triumph of his plot.
She cleared her throat and turned to her father again. “This is most judicious of you, Your Grace, but I shall hope you will have a long and prosperous reign so my regency would never be necessary.”
The murmur of esteem from the members of the small council was her reply. They seemed to approve of her tact and diplomacy, of how she was dealing with the news — probably because to them all, it was nothing outrageous, nothing to think too hard of.
The King had a boy — it did not matter if he had just turned one or if he still did not know how to walk or talk. Aegon was born a man, and this somehow made him worthier than Rhaenyra, who had been attending the meetings of this council as a cupbearer and as an heir for many years.
All her knowledge, all her experience — nothing in comparison to a babe with a tiny cock between his legs.
What could she even do? No daughter would openly wish for her father to die as soon as possible to get the chance to taste the sweet power of regency. Even if she had been callous like that, what would the King’s death earn Rhaenyra? She had no husband, and that would mean having no protection that came from being either a daughter or a wife.
Her father clasped his hands and went on and on about her allowance, about how he would amass a suitable dowry for her and ensure that her husband was most gallant and kind, someone of high station and great wealth so she might live comfortably to the end of her days and have children of her own, never destitute, never lacking.
But Rhaenyra did not listen, her gaze fixated on the crown her father was wearing. It was of solid gold, refracting light streaming through the windows, but she could not help but hate it.
She had always found it rather ugly compared to the headdress Aegon the Conqueror wore. Gold did not look regal enough to her — rubies, on the other hand, spoke of their heritage and status, of how they had won these lands with fire and blood.
She should not be surprised her father did not opt for the Conqueror’s crown, though. Their ancestry and power were now just tales and myths, the erstwhile otherworldly might of House Targaryen no more.
In the early days of her being the heir, Rhaenyra had dreamed about her accession. She imagined vivid pictures and scenarios in her head, all about her overturning the laws and decisions her great-grandsire and father had made. Rhaenyra could spend hours dreaming about ordering a new crown forged for herself — something that would match her personality better, something that would combine the real strength of her House and the elegance of being the first woman to rule the Seven Kingdoms.
That would be just the tiniest of changes — but she would begin with a new crown as a symbol of the new era, of the new order.
Ever since she was a child, she could not understand how her family had allowed others to dictate their actions. Compromises and trade-offs were inevitable, she had learned it soon enough, but Rhaenyra still struggled to comprehend how any crowd could force her family to forsake their heritage and main pride.
Dragons.
Perhaps naively, Rhaenyra had believed her reign would bring them back. She liked imagining herself perched on the Iron Throne, imperious and haughty, and knowing that she had reversed the silly law of renouncing dragons. Her edicts and orders would direct her loyal subjects to scour the caves of Dragonstone in search of dragon eggs to hatch and bring back the mighty creatures — and she would claim one for herself, just like her ancestors had been doing for generations before House Targaryen became too enamoured with Westeros and indolent sitting on the throne.
The eternal pact of unbreakable support between her House and the Faith — it was ludicrous, and Rhaenyra had dreamed of rooting it out, of laughing into everyone’s faces and daring them to question the will of the dragon.
Now, however, all her aspirations and hopes tasted like ash.
She would not be changing the world, she would not be bringing dragons back. She was just a powerless, simple girl warming a seat for her brother, polishing the chair with her arse until Aegon could grow up and take her spot.
Restoring the order. Letting men discuss manly things.
She would be relegated to embroidering pillows and arranging flowers — just like any other lady in the realm, meant to attract suitors and keep her mouth shut so as not to scare them away. Half of those men were dimwits, and the other half were brutes — Rhaenyra had no desire to wed anyone, disgusted by the mere prospect of faring this life so meaninglessly, bleak and forever overlooked and silenced.
Dazzling dreams of leaving a mark in the history records were now shattered — the only mark she would leave upon this world would be crooked stitches and blood on the sheets when her future husband bred her to death.
Although even those could be easily removed, as proven by Alicent — she was not sleeping on crimson red sheets smelling of death and decay.
“Now, I believe we should switch to the topic of our external affairs,” someone said, bringing to the end her father’s endless speech about how grateful to the gods he was to have two children who ensured the continuity of his line.
Rhaenyra shifted in the chair, folding her hands in her lap. She was not expected to contribute anymore — if she ever had been, a clueless girl — but at least this would mean she would be able to seethe in peace, forgotten by everyone, just a bleak shadow lost in her own thoughts.
However, Otto Hightower was clearly not done with his blows for today.
“Surely, we must excuse the Princess and allow her to retire for the day,” he said, clearing his throat, grasping way out of reach, seeking to expel her out of this room immediately, not even giving her the dignity to sit through this last meeting.
Rhaenyra’s hands balled into fists, nails digging into the skin of her palms. She turned to her father, not even pleading with him — simply waiting for his command, for another instance of him acquiescing and giving his loyal Hand what he wanted.
Even something as petty as this, the King would easily grant Otto, disregarding her feelings completely.
Her father frowned and waved his hand. “Oh, Otto, why rush things? I am sure Rhaenyra does not have anything more interesting or important planned for today.”
“She could visit the nursery and spend some time with her brother and Queen Alicent.”
The gnashing of Rhaenyra’s teeth must be heard beyond the Wall — but she said nothing, did not even scowl. It took remarkable strength to keep her head high, to ignore the disrespect in the Hand’s words, but she had been preparing for this moment her whole life.
Somewhere deep inside, this fear had always lived, coiled and snug in the dark corner of her heart. Rhaenyra might not have expected being cast aside, certainly not that effortlessly, but she had harboured apprehension and anxiety. It was a subtle thing — a nightmare, a sleepless night, a difficult conversation during a small council meeting she struggled to fully comprehend. In moments like those, her tiny fear woke up and stretched lazily, reminding her of its existence, and it must have trained her to always be on edge, to always give her best to these people. Never display a weakness, never let them strike.
Should her father throw her away just like that, she would not go to the nursery. She did not want to bond with a child who had stolen everything from her, nor with the girl who used to be her friend and turned into a snake. Instead, Rhaenyra would compose herself just enough not to crumble outside this chamber and then walk straight to hers, bolting the door and muffling her ugly cries with her pillow.
But something in her father’s mood changed, and he shook his head. “Rhaenyra should remain with us. My heir is too young to attend the meetings — there is no use in an empty chair, so she might as well stay here and learn. Who knows, she might have to teach Aegon one day or serve on his council.”
It was a poor victory, another reminder of her new position a dagger to Rhaenyra’s heart, but it was a victory nonetheless. Slowly, she turned her head to look at Otto Hightower, and as their gazes locked on each other, she smiled.
The King might not want to keep her as his heir anymore, but she was still his daughter — and her father surely loved children, still occasionally putting her above his trusted advisor.
The man pursed his lips together but had no choice but to bow his head — he should be content with what he had achieved today, but leeches could never have enough blood. No matter how much it feasted, it always wanted more.
Her complete downfall would have to wait.
“What news do we have from across the Narrow Sea?” Her father asked, deeming the topic of inheritance and her role in the fate of the realm resolved and not worthy of further discussion.
Rhaenyra leaned back in her chair and watched all the men on the King’s council. Sagacious, wise, prudent — there were many words to describe them, and yet ‘brave’ was not one of them. Not a single advisor had stood up for her, no one had said a word in her defence.
They were all too happy to be done with this awkward situation of a woman potentially ruling over them. Aegon’s birth and new status must be a relief for them all; the natural order of things was restored, and no calamity loomed on the horizon.
“Prince Daemon keeps amassing forces, Your Grace,” Lyonel Strong began.
“He is no Prince,” Otto Hightower almost spat, annoyed at the name being pronounced with even an ounce of respect.
Lyonel Strong bowed his head and continued: “Regardless of the title, my lords, he is gaining in the Free Cities, having formed an alliance between Myr, Lys and Tyrosh — they have styled themselves as the Triarchy, joined by his will and kept in his iron fist.”
“Iron fist?” Otto scoffed. “What nonsense.”
“It will be a wonder if he manages to keep them united for longer than a moon,” Tyland Lannister chimed in. “They are not known for being cordial with each other, always looking for gain above friendship, all their alliances fickle.”
“Then we have nothing to worry about,” the King said with a shrug. “If they will dissolve by themselves, then I see no danger to us.”
Lord Strong cleared his throat. “If I may, Your Grace. Ser Tyland is right, of course, — these cities are known for valuing gold and opportunities above any kind of loyalty. And if they have agreed to subdue to Prince… to Daemon’s will, it must mean something is giving them the impression that the gain will be worth the effort.”
Silence fell upon them. Everyone seemed to try to calculate the potential risks of such an arrangement — and Rhaenyra found herself intrigued by this conversation.
Usually, the talk about diplomacy did not invoke much interest in her. She could read her maps and know all the ambassadors attending their feasts, but she was never that keen on trade and alliances, on wars and supply lines.
Now, however, she was almost vibrating with some kind of excitement — because the news of her uncle had made all these men shut up, had made them scratch their heads and appear so lost.
Everything Rhaenyra knew about Daemon was that he was vicious, rude, a disgrace to their family and a stain on their name. He had left the continent before she was born, refusing to comply with the ridiculous treaty between their House and the Faith of the Seven, and since then, he had been excommunicated and proclaimed to be an abomination.
He was Rhaenyra’s age when he fought off the guards who tried to prevent him from accessing the Dragonpit and simply leapt onto his dragon to escape the unjust edict. Rhaenyra tried to imagine doing the same, tried to see herself in the same situation — but she was rather certain she would not have mustered the courage to do something as brave and reckless as his flight.
For all they knew, he had run to Lys and climbed the social ladder there — no one knew whether he had taken the dragon eggs as well, and if he had, whether he had sold them to someone to curry favours and achieve promotions, but his station only grew.
From a fugitive Prince stripped of all his ranks and titles to a gonfaloniere, to a magister and subsequently the First Magister — and even after that, he had managed to climb even higher, overthrowing the elected system of rulers and becoming the first man to rule Lys as a true King might.
Rhaenyra knew little of how exactly he had achieved any of this, but she had no doubt having a dragon helped — just a sight of such a ferocious beast must have been enough to secure positions and votes and then subdue everyone to his will.
And now, he was consolidating forces, expanding his authority beyond Lys.
She played with the marble orb, casting glances at the men of the council. For the first time in many years, she was interested to hear more about her uncle’s intentions, especially considering she seemed to deduce them already.
It had been speculated that one day, Prince Daemon might wish to return to his homeland — he was the only dragon rider in the world, and he might as well conquer Westeros all over again. Others countered that the Seven Kingdoms were no longer fractured bits of land and were not as defenceless against dragons as in the age of Aegon and his sisters.
Moreover, he only had one dragon — and as Dorne had proven, one dragon rider could be easily dealt with.
But Daemon seemed rather disinterested in Westerosi life, abandoning his family for good and building a new life in Lys. Rhaenyra had no doubt there was a certain appeal to such a lifestyle, the authority stemming from something as rare and commanding as a dragon, and deep inside, she envied her uncle.
She did not have any means of escape — and now that she had been humiliated and disgraced, she wished for nothing more than to disappear and build her life anew. This realm had nothing for her anymore, and she would forever be a laughing stock — but Daemon was not.
Daemon was feared. Daemon’s name was spoken in whispers and with angry expressions, but never with indifference or pity. He had been punished for his little riot, forbidden from coming back and removed from the family tree and the succession, but it did not seem to affect him at all.
Rhaenyra wished she had been born earlier — simply to be able to also ride a dragon and follow her uncle, the man she knew nothing about, across the Narrow Sea.
Suddenly, sitting in this chair, feeling so small and insignificant in the room full of people who did not care for her downfall, Rhaenyra felt a pang of regret she had never tried to learn more about him. He probably was not a good man, that much should be true about him, for no good man would be able to climb the ladder of power so effortlessly. Still, he could be a good example of resilience and ruthlessness, and Rhaenyra wondered if he had felt some similar desperation when another stupid decision was made by her family.
She did not know if he was righteous or outright evil, she did not understand anything about him, his life shrouded in mystery.
But it was not too late to get to know him.
“Do you think he seeks to attack us?” The King spoke, drumming his fingers on the table. “Surely, there must be another reason. I simply do not see him as a threat to us, not in the current situation.”
What a shame you do not, Rhaenyra mused, struggling to contain the rush of agitation she was suddenly feeling.
“Perhaps he only seeks to claim the Stepstones for himself,” Tyland Lannister said nonchalantly. “That might affect our trade, but I cannot see him ever attacking the Seven Kingdoms.”
Everyone nodded, and Rhaenyra bit the inside of her cheek. The Stepstones might indeed be Daemon’s target, for he surely must have enough men and weapons to throw the pirates out of the damned islands, but somehow, she was sure this was not the conquest of the barren isles her uncle had been plotting.
Maybe it was only possible to see through the plots when one had hit rock bottom, discarded and forlorn. Maybe desperation opened eyes and made it easier to read souls, even the ones of a stranger.
A lot of this was wishful thinking, Rhaenyra knew. Everyone might be right — Daemon did not have enough strength to bring Westeros to their knees. Too much time had passed since Aegon’s conquests, too many changes had been made. Even King’s Landing was now protected by weapons meant to shoot dragons down, a technology purchased from Dorne when Jaehaerys had struck a deal with the Faith. Surely, a rapid takeover would not be possible — and they were safe, even if all the Free Cities combined their forces.
Should Daemon attempt an invasion, he would just be shot down by a scorpion bolt — a quick death, the end to all the pursuits.
But should he have a spy inside the walls of the Keep…
Rhaenyra kept her thoughts to herself. She was no longer the heir to the throne, and she did not have to voice out her concerns or provide any input. She was just a pretty Princess who was keeping her father pleased by occupying a chair that would belong to her half-brother, no more than a nice figurine to look at.
“Lord Corlys will not like the advancement of this so-called Triarchy should they succeed,” Lyonel Strong warned them. “Not to mention that they might use the islands to prepare for further expansion.”
The implications of his words were clear, and Rhaenyra fought the urge to tap her leg in jittery anticipation. Her plan was sharpening in her mind with each passing second, and even though she had absolutely no reason to believe it would come to fruition, she could not think about anything else.
What were the chances Daemon would even listen to her? They were complete strangers, and for all he knew, she was the daughter of a man who had abandoned him, having forgotten their brotherly bond and continuing the ruination of House Targaryen.
Her uncle had absolutely no need to help her — her issues with her father and his council were of no consequence to him, and Rhaenyra could not fathom such a ruthless man taking pity on her. She wanted revenge, yes, she was burning with rage and resentment — but the man must be quite content in his land, having built his own life and achieved his own glory.
Not to mention she had absolutely no idea how to even contact him.
Surely, she could not just send a raven to a traitor — it was ridiculous to even think about leisurely strolling into a rookery and sending a message across the Narrow Sea with an invitation to invade her homeland and help her avenge her dignity. No maester would send the bird to Lys, and she would have to be more creative than that if she wanted to even try to communicate with Daemon.
She also knew nothing of his personality. He might indeed be cruel and vicious, and by inviting him into their land, she might unleash something she would not be able to undo. Her uncle might bring ruin and war, and the revenge would grow out of control, taking thousands of lives.
However, she struggled to care about it. All she wanted was to ensure Otto Hightower got this gloating, triumphant smirk wiped off his face, and if that included setting the world ablaze, she might as well do it.
The conversation went on and on, gradually dying down and switching to other topics — Daemon’s affairs across the Narrow Sea had been deemed unimportant, and the matters of taxes, roads and feasts had been raised instead. Her father found way more comfort in talking about tourneys and celebrations, and this allowed Rhaenyra to dive deeper into her thoughts and scheming.
All this was reckless, she knew. Even if she managed to somehow contact him, even if he found her offer compelling enough — how could he possibly take the throne? There would be war, there would be bloodshed, and while Rhaenyra did not care for the likes of Otto Hightower, she could not bet on a player if he was bound to fail.
Without some kind of a plan, it was way more likely for her uncle to fall from the skies stricken by a bolt or an arrow than to claim the throne and provide her with the satisfaction of seeing Otto’s smile disappear.
She desperately needed to figure out what might make it easier for all this to happen — and her head was spinning, everything she had ever learned or heard about battle strategy suddenly resurfacing, a blur of terms, names and regiments floating in her mind.
When the meeting was dismissed, she rose to her feet slowly. Rhaenyra noticed Otto Hightower following her with his gaze, an annoying smirk plastered to his face — clearly, he must be thinking she was defeated and dejected, her aloofness stemming from the lack of an official position now.
She would let him savour his victory — the appearances no longer mattered when she was about to commence something way more powerful and cunning than simply pushing a girl into King’s bed. Otto’s plan had been uncomplicated at all, brilliant in its efficiency and audacity, but Rhaenyra would raise the stakes.
If that plan were bold and successful, she would show them all what it meant to actually succeed in this game.
Whatever happened, whatever this silent declaration of war brought them, she would emerge victorious. Rhaenyra did not care who would win in a civil war should it truly break out, did not care if her stranger of an uncle would sit on the throne or if he would be overthrown immediately — all she cared for was vengeance and retribution.
If she were not meant to sit on the Iron Throne, she would ensure that no Otto’s grandchildren were either.
If she had been cheated out of her inheritance, if her mother had died for nothing, she would burn the legacy of her family to the ground.
She just needed to figure out how to do it.
Outside the door, Ser Criston was waiting for her. She started walking quickly, twisting the ring on her finger, oblivious to his presence two paces behind her. Her silent musing resumed, the endless stream of thoughts about how she could potentially send a message across the Narrow Sea and not be ridiculed for such an attempt.
If her estranged uncle was indeed planning an invasion, a second conquest of Westeros, why would he even need her? He must have his own spies, his own informants, and yes, probably no one was as high-flying and important as the Princess herself, but Daemon did not make an impression of a man who did not have control over everything.
But this, too, was just an assumption, a speculation, nothing more than an image of him she had painted in her head. Rhaenyra tried to think about what she would do should the roles be reversed, some stranger claiming to be her relative asking to come with fire and blood and help avenge the wounded pride — she was not sure she would take the invitation seriously.
Not to mention, he might not be a cunning or clever man at all. He could be simply evil and vicious, a ruthless cutthroat who had paved his path with corpses and not his wits.
“Bad news, Your Highness?”
Ser Criston’s voice cut through the haze of her coiled, tangled thoughts, and she had to shake her head to come back to reality. They were walking through the Keep, her feet taking the familiar sets of turns and stairs leading to her rooms, but she was hardly present.
“Mhm.”
She had no desire to confide in Ser Criston — he had been nothing but loyal to her, a good friend in times of loneliness and alienation, but Rhaenyra was too focused on her schemes to pay him any attention now.
Still, the knight seemed to want this conversation to continue, sensing some disquiet in her.
“We can take the horses out for the ride, or I could escort you on a stroll through the gardens — ”
Rhaenyra came to an abrupt halt, clasping her hands in front of her and turning on her heels.
“I have just been disinherited by my father’s order, in front of his whole council and much to the delight of Otto Hightower,” Rhaenyra said through gritted teeth. “I doubt a stroll or a riding session would fix anything, Ser.”
With that, she started walking faster, her sworn shield awkwardly clearing his throat and keeping up with her.
The world did not seem to end with her disinheritance. The servants were moving briskly, the courtiers were idly chatting in the corridors, and the sun did not stop shining. On the surface, this was just like any other afternoon after a small council meeting — and the majority of King’s Landing was still unaware of the change in the succession.
But on the inside, Rhaenyra felt bitter. She almost wished for the sun to grow dim and stop blessing them with warmth; she almost hoped for a violent storm to come and shake everything, ruining everything about the order of things she now despised.
She was no god, no mystical creature of great strength, so she could not command the sun to fall beyond the horizon and punish the arrogant. She was no daughter of the divine, so she could not plead to the elements, for no cries of hers would be heard by the mighty skies and seas.
However, she could summon a hurricane of a different kind — the one that had a name and a creature capable of breathing fire.
Once in her room, she asked her white knight not to allow anyone into her apartments and bolted the door. She needed time to think.
It was good to finally be alone. Inside this room, there were no curious gazes, no shameless stares, and she could try to think her desperate plan through.
Rhaenyra felt like she was drowning in her own thoughts and conflicting desires. This whole idea was hardly sane, and she had no doubt that she was playing with fire, but it did not deter her in the slightest. Quite the opposite, she seemed driven to the flame, her inner hurt seeking an outlet in the most violent of ways.
She was pacing the room nervously, twisting the ring on her finger and unable to calm herself down. Whenever she tried to sit down, she spent no more than a minute in one place, immediately jumping to her feet again and walking in circles. Never prone to biting her nails, Rhaenyra did not seem to be able to control her urges, her heart beating faster and faster.
How did one commit a treason like this? How did one muster the courage to invite an enemy into their home for the sake of revenge?
She sincerely hoped it would be for the best. Perhaps, with her help, there would be less bloodshed and violence — if King’s Landing fell with little resistance, it would surely save a lot of smallfolk’s lives, not to mention the nobles and the King himself.
Somehow, she had no doubt that Daemon would seek retribution one way or another. A day would come when he would return to Westeros — and it was high time she placed her bets wisely, siding with someone who had the forces of three rich Free Cities and a fire-breathing dragon.
To an extent, she would be protecting her own family — driven by hatred towards Otto Hightower and his incessant scheming, she would ensure that her half-brother did not get to sit on the throne, but she would also try to bargain for her and her father’s lives. As Daemon’s accomplice, Rhaenyra should be able to name her price — and it would be a quiet and safe life away from court, away from these intrigues and succession matters.
It was not an unreasonable thing to ask — her uncle would conquer the Seven Kingdoms with her help, and she would live until the end of her days without the need to get married or worry about her half-brother stealing something else from her. Surely, Daemon would understand her request, and with her renouncing any right to the throne, she would be able to strike a deal with him.
Rhaenyra sat at her desk and took her writing tools out of the drawer. Whittling the quill with a small knife, she tried to think of the exact words she could put on the parchment. Never in her entire life did she have a need to compose a letter with an invitation for a usurpation, and her usual eloquence was lacking now.
Dipping the tip of the quill into the ink, Rhaenyra took a deep breath. All she had to do was sound both respectful and confident — the last thing she needed was for her uncle to think she was just a stupid little girl playing games she did not understand. She needed to convey that she might be of direct assistance to him and offer to establish communication — Rhaenyra was savvy enough to realise that he would not jump on dragonback and fly here immediately.
No, most likely, they would be exchanging some letters at first — and she swallowed thickly, thinking about how she still had no idea how to dispatch this message. Even if he found a way, what was the guarantee she would receive a response? And, most importantly, how would Daemon write to her, should he even take interest in her proposal?
This was a question for another day, though, and Rhaenyra took another deep breath and rubbed her eyes. It did feel like the most important thing she had ever done — but it also could be nothing, a letter never delivered, a scheme never fulfilled.
Mastering the tone was not an easy feat to accomplish, but after a few tries, Rhaenyra was satisfied with the wording of her letter. Offering to commit treason was not something she had expected to write in her life, but the text turned out to be quite well-composed. She had not divulged anything of importance just yet, even though she had made sure to include in the letter enough clues and hints to ensure that her uncle understood it was truly a royal writing to him from King’s Landing and not some kind of an imposter.
Trust was crucial in this endeavour, and Rhaenyra chuckled to herself, thinking how naive she was to hope that a man she had never seen would want to listen to her. Even if she had correctly deduced his potential aspirations to claim the throne, she might as well be a spy for her father.
And so, Rhaenyra did not put too much hope into this missive. Having poured her anger onto the parchment, she already felt better about the whole situation, and when she dispatched the letter, she would be confident that she had done everything she could to avenge her dignity.
There also would be small battles. She did not plan to give up on going to council meetings, and if Otto Hightower tried to throw her out once again, she would do her best to manipulate her father and make sure her place by his side was not taken at least for the time being. Aegon was a babe and had no use of the place in the council or a marble orb, and Rhaenyra might have lost her place as an heir to someone still sucking on a wetnurse’s breast, but she was not keen on losing in appearances as well.
Not to mention that her attending the meetings might provide her with useful knowledge on the council’s plans in regards to defence against Daemon and diplomacy. This insight, she would then secretly use and trade for freedom.
Vengeance was a powerful force igniting Rhaenyra from the inside, but she could not get ahead of herself. Sealing the letter with red wax and using her own ring to add a distinctive sigil onto it, she mused that her uncle would probably not even recognise the person sending him the message until reading it fully.
Would he even deem a letter from a Targaryen important enough to open — or would he toss it into the fire immediately upon receiving it, laughing at the stupid attempt to contact him?
She walked to the window, observing the sun rolling beyond the horizon as it was about to set. Today had drained Rhaenyra, but she could not allow herself to stop, not yet. First, this invitation to treason needed to be dispatched, and she still had not figured out how to actually do it.
From her room in the Keep, he could not see much of the city, but she could catch glimpses of the sea. Blackwater Bay, an inlet of the Narrow Sea separating her from the Free Cities and that mysterious uncle of hers — could water be her messenger? Could she use the tides and the waves to deliver the treacherous letter, the one that now burned her palm?
It was weightless, really, by no means a scroll of significant length. In cohesive and eloquent words, Rhaenyra had managed to convey everything she wanted — a wicked invitation that sounded more like a cry for help or a tantrum of a petulant child.
She still had time to reconsider. Even if she went to the docks today, looking for a ship bound for Lys, she could only realistically do it at nightfall. Clearly, she could spend the hours separating her from sealing her fate forever contemplating her course of action or changing her mind entirely.
But the longer Rhaenyra looked at the parchment, the more ready she felt. The hours did nothing to dull the resentment that had been brewing for moons, if not years, and even if she were making a mistake, she could not bring herself to honestly care about the consequences.
She had already lost her mother and now her inheritance. She was expected to marry someone her father and his council deemed important enough, a pompous lord who would only seek to bed and breed her — what punishment could she fear? Her life had been endangered and practically forfeited, and it was simply a matter of doing something to prevent a horrible fate.
If the road ended in pain anyway, she might as well spare herself the humiliation, at the very least.
She would be inconspicuous and careful. Instead of openly sulking and brooding, attracting the attention of the court, she would carry on with her day — take an evening stroll, dine, ask for herbal tea, retire to bed — and only then, only when the bustling castle fell asleep, would she sneak out of it, her search for a Lysene ship commencing.
Despite all the tensions and the possibility of conflict, the trade between Westeros and the Free Cities still existed, and some would even go as far as to say it was flourishing. Rhaenyra knew not if many ships were going to Lysene shores, and she assumed that it was probably the most hostile city to them as of now, but she hoped there would be at least one merchant willing to earn some additional gold for delivering her message to Daemon.
It was apparent that she would need help, though. Rhaenyra bit her lower lip, thinking about how she had never visited the shipyards and the docks before, not once in her entire life, and then sighed resignedly.
She did not want to ask for Ser Criston’s help, but it seemed inevitable now.
The knight was not a bad companion — Rhaenyra could even consider him as her friend on some occasions or, at the very least, a dog loyal enough to follow her and not ask too many questions. Sometimes, however, he was prone to becoming nosy, thinking he knew the answer to her troubles or the true nature of the world, and Rhaenyra feared tonight would turn out to be one of such cases.
Still, she had no other choice but to ask him — and even though she had no intention of revealing the truth about the nature of her nighttime visit to the shipyards, she understood full well that without him, she was doomed to fall.
Rhaenyra had never ventured outside the castle walls after nightfall — and whenever she did end up in the city, she was properly guarded, attending the sept or the market, but not the docks or Flea Bottom. A Princess alone at night would be a sweet target for miscreants and drunkards, and Rhaenyra was not stupid enough to assume she could safely navigate the streets of King’s Landing on her own.
A white cloak escorting someone through the city in the dead of night would also be a telltale sign that it was a royal roaming through the alleyways and corners, but at least Ser Criston was skilled with his sword, and should someone try to attack them, he would be able to feign them off.
It was onerous to maintain her calm composure when she had so many thoughts racing through her restless mind. Rhaenyra did her best to carry on with her day, nervously waiting for the sun to set and the dusk to engulf the city — the food tasted like nothing on her tongue, and the touch of the maid brushing her hair and changing her into a nightdress, Rhaenyra easily ignored, focused on the turmoil of her roaring emotions.
She felt simmering rage — but also some kind of wicked confidence, stemming from the dark, hurt part of her heart and soul. It was making her determined to see this plan through, and Rhaenyra quickly got dressed again, tucking the sealed scroll under the belt of her dress.
It was a shame that she did not own any plain clothes, something that would conceal her identity as a Princess, but she had managed to find a simple dress that did not have too much detail and gemstones sewn into it. Made out of simple dyed linen, it was comfortable to walk in, and Rhaenyra would not really mourn it should she get it irrevocably dirty or torn.
Throwing a coat over her shoulders, she thought about her hair. It was distinctive — and perhaps it would be a good thing when it came to talking to someone who could be her messenger, proving the seriousness of her intentions. It was an intricate balance: she needed to both protect herself from potential dangers and be memorable and imperious enough to be treated seriously.
When the man delivered the letter to Daemon, she wanted her uncle to know it was actually a Targaryen herself seeking to contact him and no one else.
This was why she could not simply send Ser Criston on a mission. No one would think much about a knight walking alone in the middle of the night, but he had no credibility, no station to be actually commanding and believable. Rhaenyra could not send a maid either, for she would most likely talk, and her secret would not be safe with anyone.
Even taking her guard with her was a risk — he might report to his Lord Commander or the King himself, incredulous about the true reason for Rhaenyra’s nighttime escapades. However, it was a necessary sacrifice for her own safety — the plot would certainly not work if she were found dead in a ditch come tomorrow.
And Ser Criston was loyal to her. He might be sworn to protect the King, but it was Rhaenyra who had elevated him, and his duty was to her in every sense — she had made him her sworn shield, and he had not given her any reason to suspect him spying on her for the King or the Queen.
Perhaps he would be able to keep his mouth shut about this little adventure of hers — although she still did not plan to divulge everything about her scheme to him.
He would not understand, Rhaenyra knew. No one would — and perhaps she was actually mad for acting this foolishly, potentially unleashing a force she had no way of controlling, ready to set her homeland ablaze.
But she preferred to think herself wise rather than stupid — it was her only hope to regain the dignity Otto Hightower had stolen from her, and despair would lead her nowhere.
When she called for Ser Criston to come inside, her hands were no longer trembling and neither was her heart threatening to jump out of her ribcage. Only cold determination remained, her soul devastated and barren, and one might think her resigned — but it was the opposite.
On the surface, she created an impression of having accepted her fate — but on the inside, there was anticipation of being part of something greater.
For better or for worse, she was now entangled in the web of intrigue, and it had better end up with her being victorious.
“Princess,” the knight said, surprised to see her fully dressed for travel at such an hour. “Is something wrong?”
His hazel eyes betrayed concern, and the crease of his brows spoke of confusion. Clearly, he could not imagine what could possibly make Rhaenyra get dressed on her own and look like she was ready to escape the castle, but she would spare him the wondering.
“I find myself in need of a chaperone,” she replied firmly, folding her arms on her chest. “The city is not a safe place for a woman like myself in such an hour, and I would count on you for help in this matter.”
Ser Criston’s scowl only deepened. “Pardon me, Your Highness. I do not quite understand what the pressing need to leave the Keep is — ”
“I wish for air, away from court and my stepmother’s people.”
She had heard that King’s Landing could stink, and it was probably the worst place to promenade if fresh air were what she was after, but she had no other choice but to lie like that. The knight would never agree to escort her to the docks if she told him she had to pass a letter to her traitor of an uncle.
“But Princess — ”
“I shall go with or without you,” Rhaenyra said firmly. “And I think it is in your best interest to go with me, lest something happens to me.”
The man swallowed thickly — he could not quite refuse her, being in her command, but everything inside him must be telling him this was a horrible idea. Still, Rhaenyra remained unmoved, waiting for his answer.
She did not jest — one way or another, she would sneak out of this castle, and Ser Criston had to understand the seriousness of her intentions, for he straightened his back and nodded.
“Whatever you command, Your Highness.”
“Great!” Rhaenyra clasped her hands in front of her. “Then, I want you to take me to the sea, preferably in the most discreet way possible.”
She pulled the hood of her coat over her head, hiding her shining silver hair. The letter was tucked in safely, and she was ready to go — hopefully, this little promenade would end with her successfully dispatching this message.
Her sworn shield hesitated, but then spoke quietly:
“Perhaps do not put your hood on just yet, Princess. Inside the castle, it would invoke only more suspicion should we be seen by anyone.”
“Is everyone not asleep yet?” Rhaenyra grumbled but obeyed — the knight was right. She was a bit fidgety and unsure about how she should be acting, and it was showing.
“The servants and the guards never sleep, Your Highness. If anyone sees us, we will be able to explain it by you wishing to take a very late walk in the gardens, however uncommon it might appear.”
She nodded — it made sense, and she would do as Ser Criston told her. Getting out of the castle was of paramount importance, and she did not want this plan to fail miserably.
Luckily for her, they did not encounter any curious maids or castle guards on their way out of Red Keep. The knight led her to an exit she had never used — probably, this one was meant for servants and staff and not royals themselves. Rhaenyra had not expected to walk pompously out of the main gate, but it was nonetheless fascinating to learn something new about the castle she had been calling home for her whole life.
As they were about to descend the steps, Rhaenyra pulled a hood up to cover her hair and inhaled the night air of the city.
It was bustling, it was exhilaratingly alive. She had always known that the people outside the walls of the Keep had different lives, subdued to a quite hectic schedule that was nothing like the one of a Princess or a King — but experiencing it firsthand was incredible.
There were taverns open, people singing and spilling drinks, some brawls breaking out, some street performers entertaining crowds. Ser Criston did not allow her to stop and properly take in the sight of the revelry, though, holding her by her forearm and asking her numerous times whether she had had enough of this little adventure.
It was a shame she could not enjoy the buoyant spirit of merriment that seemed to be a feature of King’s Landing past sunset, but Rhaenyra had to remind herself she was actually on a mission — and she could not let herself get so easily distracted.
Gathering her skirts to ensure they were not covered in a thick layer of mud that would betray the truth about her nighttime escapade, she walked briskly. The docks were her destination, and even though Ser Criston could not really comprehend what had made his Princess yearn for sea breeze at such an ungodly hour, he had kept his word, guiding her straight to the port.
Her eyes were wide as she took in the sight of many a ship docked there. Merchants from different parts of the world were loading and unloading their goods, sailors chanting as they worked on sails and oars, whores walking barely clothed to entice the men who might yearn for a woman’s touch. It seemed that this place was truly never asleep, and she chuckled, watching boxes of exotic fruits, rolls of silks and other mysterious trunks being carried around.
“Are you satisfied now, Your Highness?” Her knight asked, clearly agitated and uneasy about the whole trip. His hand was on the pommel of his sword, and he was looking quite like a hawk, glaring at everyone as they made their way past fussing workers, whores and beggars.
Rhaenyra did not answer him immediately, too busy looking for a ship that would sail to Lys. There was no guarantee there even was any, for the trade route may exist, but it by no means meant that someone would be docked in King’s Landing on a random night. She searched for familiar sails with her eyes, remembering the lessons in cartography and history she had been taught, where the tutors made her recognise not only the sigils of Great Houses but also the flags and symbols of cities across the Narrow Sea.
All that incessant talking by her personal tutor had proven to be of incredible use now — she had spotted the ship she needed, and her heart started beating faster.
She picked up the pace, making Ser Criston hurry as well. As they walked closer, Rhaenyra noticed that the crewmen were working on unloading their shipment — boxes of red fruit that only came from Lys and Myr, the ones that had seeds inside them that bled with juice and shone as bright as scarlet blood in the morning sun.
“You cannot — ”
But Rhaenyra did not care for her guard’s warnings. Swiftly, she made her way to the ship, wrapping her cloak around herself even tighter.
She had no idea how she was going to explain to Ser Criston her sudden interest in this particular ship, for it had surely turned into something bigger than simply taking the air, but that was a problem for later.
Rhaenyra tried to locate the captain — someone who would be literate and intelligent enough to understand who she was, maybe even having access to her uncle’s court. Frankly, she had little idea about how the Free Cities were now governed under Daemon’s rule — did Lys resemble King’s Landing in any way? Did her uncle sit on the throne with people bowing to him — or was his power more delicate, more subtle in nature, requiring more reticent governance?
Still, she really needed to pass this message — and even if the ship’s captain did not know her uncle personally, it was better to try than to walk back defeated.
There he was — or at least she assumed he was the captain of the ship, standing further from her and overseeing the unloading of the boxes and sacks. He was dressed differently to the rest of the sailors, more richly, in a fashion that spoke of him being Lyseni and not from their country — and Rhaenyra bit her lower lip, trying to steady herself.
It turned out that he had also noticed her — their eyes briefly met, and he frowned.
“Are you looking for something?”
The man’s voice was deep and his accent was rather thick — yes, he must be a foreigner, a Lyseni of high enough station to speak Common well and dress so richly, probably owning this ship and being a respected merchant.
Ser Criston was about to step in front of her with his blade unsheathed, but Rhaenyra raised her hand.
“I am, yes,” she replied in High Valyrian.
It was her first time actually speaking it — and she was well aware that people of Lys did not speak exactly this dialect, having developed their own, but she hoped that this fact only made her accent and struggles with pronunciation less of a hindrance and embarrassment.
She had been taught the language despite having no real practice in it — before her time, Targaryens used High Valyrian to communicate with dragons and read old books salvaged before the Doom, but now, with their ancestry renounced, there was little use of it.
Rhaenyra assumed she had received lessons in it out of habit — her family simply did not have time to think about changing her studies, and she carried on with learning what everyone before her had been taught. Besides, knowing High Valyrian could at least facilitate diplomacy with some of the Free Cities and give access to ancient texts in libraries, should she ever need them.
She loved the language — there was something commanding about it, something almost magical. Granted, she had no one to speak to outside of her lessons that had ended a while ago, the basics being taught and remaining a thing of the past, but Rhaenyra had read the few books in High Valyrian stored in the castle library over and over again.
Once, she even requested more be brought from Dragonstone, which made her mother stare at her in terror and her father sigh loudly. Back then, she could not comprehend why it was not possible to simply go to the island that was not even that far away — and quite frankly, she still did not.
Yes, the dragons were known to have become hostile, roasting the intruders and hunting men who dared set foot on the shores of Dragonstone, but she was quite certain the creatures would not harm a true Targaryen, even after the bitter betrayal.
“I need you to do something for me, good Ser,” Rhaenyra continued, trying very hard to make her pronunciation as perfect as she could, having no idea how to address the man she was talking to.
He raised an eyebrow and measured her with his gaze. “I speak Common, girl.”
“I know,” she said with a shrug. “But so does he.”
She tilted her head to indicate that she meant her guard, and it might have been the moon reflecting in the silver of her hair or the shiny white armour of the member of Kingsguard, but the captain of the ship seemed to regard her differently now, some faint suspicion transpiring in his stern features.
“I believe your ship is bound to Lys,” Rhaenyra continued, aware that she did not have a lot of time before Ser Criston started wondering what the conversation was about. “And I need you to do me a very small favour.”
It was bold of her, it was audacious. She could not quite pay the man for his service, she could not promise him anything — and she was completely prepared to be laughed at, some cruel mockery about her stupidity escaping the man’s lips. It was entirely possible that he would want to have nothing to do with her, ignoring her and leaving her stranded, but it was worth a try.
Maybe her determination would charm him — or maybe she could play the role of a very destitute, distressed lady, begging for help.
The man folded his arms on his chest. “That would depend on the favour, Princess. What sort of thing could possibly bring a creature as important as you are to the docks, seeking out a ship like a stray cat looking for shelter? My ship does not take passengers if this what you are after — only whores, but you might not like this either.”
He was grinning, clearly taunting her, but Rhaenyra did not allow herself to falter at his cruel words and insinuations.
“Does your ship take letters?”
This gave her vis-à-vis a pause, for she had taken him aback with such a simple answer. This was, indeed, a small favour, a weightless letter that would not take any space on a ship as grand as this one.
Rhaenyra was not stupid — this whole conversation would be reported to her uncle nonetheless, the Princess initiating contact with Lyseni when the war was not out of the realm of possibility, and if the man had to talk to Daemon anyway, he might as well take her little message with him.
These ships did not just carry fruit and fabric for sale — they were also here to gather information, listen to gossip and assess the situation. And with this, Rhaenyra could eagerly help.
Having a spy in the royal family was way more effective than observing the Red Keep from the outside, wondering what was going on inside its sturdy, mighty walls.
Quickly, she took her scroll and offered it to the man. “Deliver this to my uncle, Prince Daemon himself. I believe he will be interested in what I have to say.”
She might appear composed, familiar words in High Valyrian getting stitched together into convincing sentences, but inside, she was shaking. Her heart was beating so fast that she was not sure she could even breathe, completely overwhelmed by the importance of this clandestine meeting.
She was giving a letter to a stranger — a letter which could get her hanged or beheaded, should the wrong person get hold of it.
And yet it appeared that Rhaenyra was to have at least some luck today — for the man took the scroll, hiding it in his pocket.
“Lyseni are ruled by no Prince, dear.”
Rhaenyra forced out a smile, mustering all her inner strength to ignore the condescending address.
“Whatever you call him, then.”
With that, she turned on her heels. Ser Criston was staring at her, troubled by the scene he had just witnessed but could not comprehend, and Rhaenyra smiled at him. Someone passed her, carrying an open box of exotic fruit, and she took one, throwing it up and catching it with her hand.
“Simply wanted to try this delicacy, Ser Criston,” Rhaenyra said reassuringly, walking towards him. “The captain was very kind to allow me to have one for free.”
“Your Highness — ”
“We can return to the Keep now,” she interrupted him, hoping that the knight would drop this attempt to interrogate her. It always annoyed her when he allowed himself too much, thinking he had any right to interfere in her private business.
Resigned and somewhat relieved, he offered her his arm, and as Rhaenyra held onto it, she turned around to catch one more glimpse of the Lysene sails.
She wished for benevolent winds for the crew and their swift, mighty ship — the sooner it crossed the Narrow Sea, the better.
Rhaenyra thought about returning to the docks a fortnight later — it was excruciatingly painful and boring to wait for any outcome of her treasonous act, and she had absolutely no idea how she was going to hear back from Daemon.
If he would even deem her worthy of his attention.
Perhaps she could look for the same ship, hoping that it had already returned, bearing good news of her uncle’s response. However, Rhaenyra had no way of knowing when it would be in King’s Landing again, and sneaking out every night just to haunt the shipyards would raise too many suspicions.
Her sworn shield was still glancing at her here and there, worrying about her sudden inexplicable desire to take a stroll in the city — and even though Rhaenyra had not dared to repeat her request, staying in the Red Keep at all times, she knew that he would not let her carry on her secret adventures.
She would have to cajole him somehow, Rhaenyra mused, returning to her chamber after dinner with her father and his new family. She had done her best to ignore everything that was happening around her, too deep in her musings about any reply from Lys, for it was the only thing she could focus on these days.
Was a fortnight enough to start looking for a way to find that man she had talked to? Rhaenyra berated herself for not inquiring his name — it did not seem fair that the captain knew who she was, but she had left without even knowing how to address him. Had she learned his name, she could have asked about him somewhere in the city, figuring out if he was coming back.
But as she entered her room and bolted the door, she was immediately aware that something had shifted. Narrowing her eyes, Rhaenyra looked around her chamber, sensing some bizarre danger — had there been an intrusion? Did she have to call for Ser Criston to step in and deal with it?
However, there was no assassin in her room, no dangerous trespasser. The only thing that had changed since she left this space was her table.
It was always cluttered, for Rhaenyra was not known for her tidiness and proneness to the meticulous organisation, but she could recognise when someone had gone through her mess — or had added to it.
On her table, there now was a book she certainly did not own — and the grainy scarlet fruit, a present from Lys that could as well have been a signature.
Rhaenyra dashed to the table, taking the book in her hands. It was not in Common — the title was written in glyphs of High Valyrian, and as she opened it, a note fell out of it.
Crouching on the floor to pick it up, Rhaenyra grinned — her answer had appeared in her room, materialised seemingly out of nowhere, but it was here. She had not been ignored, and her desperate plan had truly been set in motion now, with no way back.
“Our Prince hopes you like Valyrian poetry.”
With the book in one hand and a tiny note in another one, she hummed — the contact had been made, and she, too, hoped that the verses would be to her liking.