Chapter Text
Rhaenyra POV
The dragon’s maw loomed before her, a great yawning void filled with flame and death, and yet, Rhaenyra Targaryen did not tremble. The end had come, and she welcomed it like an old friend. She stood on the precipice of fate, her breath steady, her heart calm. For years, she had fought—through wars, through betrayals, through unimaginable losses—but now, at last, the fighting would cease. Her long, weary battle was over, and her fate, it seemed, would be decided in fire.
As the flames surged toward her, she did not flinch. She watched them come with a strange, almost curious serenity, the heat licking at her skin before it claimed her. The sensation was quick at first—a gentle warmth, like the sun kissing her cheeks on Dragonstone—but then the fire grew ravenous. It devoured her. She felt the skin of her arms split and crackle, the blistering heat seeping through her body, as though it sought to consume her from the inside out. Her flesh sizzled, peeling back in layers as the fire laid its claim.
But there was no terror. No scream tore from her lips. She had screamed enough in her life—in anger, in grief, in despair. She had screamed for her lost children, for her stolen love, for her shattered throne. She had no voice left for fear, no energy left to rage. Only the fire remained, and with it, a slow, agonizing release. Her body bubbled and blackened, her flesh melting away, but there was no panic, only a painful acceptance of what she had known from the moment she was cast into the jaws of betrayal. Her end would come, and it would be in fire, as the gods had always intended. She was born only to die.
And still, the flames ravaged her. Her skin, her bones, her very being crumbled beneath their might. She could feel her meat scorching, the unbearable pain of her own body burning from within, but even this pain was a strange kind of relief. She had carried so much pain already—emotional, searing, gut-wrenching pain—and this, this inferno, was simply another kind of release. Her body was breaking, crumbling to ash, but her spirit remained steady, anchored in the calm certainty of her end.
The dragon’s teeth clamped down, sharp as steel, and for a fleeting moment, she felt the bite, the sheer force of the beast cleaving through her. Her bones snapped like brittle wood, and her spine gave way with a sickening crunch. The dragon tore her in half, her body sheared apart, but even in that final moment of destruction, there was no fear—only a quiet resignation.
At long last, the pain would end.
Yet, just as the darkness should have consumed her, a strange voice pierced through the haze of fire and ruin. It was a woman’s voice—firm, insistent. Push. The word echoed in her mind, strange and foreign, tugging her back from the brink of death.
The world around her shifted. The flames flickered out, the burning agony fading, replaced by something else entirely. She felt pressure, deep and unrelenting, coursing through her body as though she were being torn asunder all over again. The pain was sharp, unbearable—but familiar.
Push.
She growled low in her throat, her voice raspy. “I’m trying, you cunt!” she snapped, her old fire returning for just a moment, ignited by the white-hot agony tearing through her body. It was as if she was being wrenched apart, her very insides straining against her will. The pain was brutal, relentless, but she knew it well—this was the agony of birth, the excruciating pain of life breaking free from within.
With one final, mighty effort, she pushed, her body screaming in protest, and then—suddenly—the pressure released. A sharp cry split the air, not of pain, but of life. A babe’s wail, high and piercing, filled her ears. Rhaenyra gasped, her chest heaving, the world around her softening into a blur of shadows and light. She blinked, dazed, trying to make sense of what had just happened.
A voice broke through the haze—gentle, soothing. “A boy, Princess. A little prince.”
A boy. Rhaenyra’s breath caught, her chest constricting as her hand reached out instinctively, though she could barely lift it. “Healthy?” she rasped, her voice as fragile as glass.
The woman’s hands were gentle as she placed the babe in Rhaenyra’s arms. His small body, warm and wriggling, settled against her chest, and Rhaenyra blinked, peering down at him. What she saw made her heart stop.
It was Joffrey. Her sweet, beloved Joffrey.
Tears welled in her eyes as she gazed down at the familiar face. How many nights had she wept for him, her brave boy who had mounted Syrax to defend his dragon Tyraxes, only to be torn apart by a mob? She had seen his body presented to her in pieces, his once vibrant, youthful form reduced to mangled limbs and broken flesh. And yet, here he was, whole, warm, and alive in her arms.
She pressed her lips to his brow, her tears mingling with the soft down of his hair. “Joffrey.” she whispered, her voice trembling. She held him close, the weight of him both a comfort and a heartache, for she knew—somewhere deep in her soul—that this moment could not last. But for now, for just this fleeting heartbeat of time, she had her son back.
Lady Elinda, her familiar face bathed in soft light coming from the arched window, knelt beside her.
“Jace and Luke?” Rhaenyra croaked, her heart aching to see them, to hold them once more.
“They’re fetching a dragon egg for the prince, Your Grace.” Elinda said, smiling kindly.
Rhaenyra’s tears spilled anew. She kissed Joffrey’s forehead once more, her lips trembling against his warm skin. Her brave boy, who had died so young, now nestled in her arms. The gods had returned him to her, if only for a moment. She would cherish every second.
But the door creaked open, and a maid stood in the doorway. Her hands trembled as she delivered her message, but she held her head high. “The Queen has requested that the child be brought to her." she said, her voice soft but steady. "Immediately."
She glared at the girl, recalling the plain-faced creature before her—a mousy thing, with unsightly freckles dotting her cheeks. She remembered her well, one of Alicent’s ladies-in-waiting, scurrying about the court like a shadow, always eager to serve.
Rhaenyra turned her gaze to Elinda. “Who guards my door?”
“Ser Steffon, Your Grace.”
Her heart clenched remembering her protector who died trying to claim a dragon for her cause. She called him inside.
The Kingsguard appeared, his gaze averted in deference. “You called, Princess?”
Rhaenyra’s voice was a razor-edged whisper. “Remove this girl from my presence.”
Ser Steffon frowned looking at the Lady. “Has she offended you, Your Grace?”
"Her very breath offends me.” Rhaenyra said, her voice laced with venom.
The maid’s breath hitched, but she did not back down. “Princess, I am only relaying the Queen’s command.”
“Drag her out of my rooms before I feed her to the dogs.” She said, her voice dripping with disdain, as she cast a cold glance at the girl.
Without another word, Ser Steffon bowed and gripped the girl by the arm, dragging her from the room as she stammered her protests. The door slammed shut behind them, leaving Rhaenyra alone with Joffrey once more.
She gazed down at her son, her tears falling freely as she pressed her lips to his brow. Whatever this place was—this dream, this afterlife—it had granted her this one mercy. She had her child again, if only for a little while. The flames, the pain, the dragon’s teeth—they no longer mattered. All that remained was her son.
Rhaenyra watched as Lady Elinda shuddered beside her, her hands wringing anxiously. “What is it?” she asked, her voice cool yet curious, knowing that the tension in the room was not her own.
Elinda’s eyes darted toward the door. “The Queen will not like that her command was disobeyed.”
Rhaenyra exhaled sharply, a hint of a smirk tugging at her lips. “I care not what the Queen likes or dislikes.” she replied with a light scoff, as though the matter was entirely trivial.
Her ever-gentle lady smiled softly and said, “It does not seem proper, does it, that the Queen insists upon seeing all of your children at once, forcing you to carry your newborn across the castle to her chambers?”
Rhaenyra blinked in shock, the indignity of it settling like a stone in her chest. Where had Alicent found the audacity to command her, still bloodied and weary from birth, to parade her child through the Keep simply for her pleasure? The thought stirred a mixture of outrage and disbelief within her, the insult all the more galling for its brazenness.
Lady Anella Strong approached and gently took Joffrey from her arms, offering a warm bath for the newborn. Rhaenyra hesitated, reluctant to part from her son, but her body ached for its own cleansing. The blood, sweat, and exhaustion clung to her like a shroud so she let her take him.
“Lady Nila,” she called softly to her other Lady Strong, “go to the King. Tell him I have given birth to another son of House Targaryen and that I would like to present him to His Grace.”
Her lady dipped into a curtsey and hurried off, leaving Rhaenyra to lean upon Elinda’s steady arm as she was guided to the bathing room. the maids were efficient, the bath was quick, far too brisk to truly relax her sore muscles, but enough to restore some semblance of dignity. The Maesters had always disapproved of her frequent bathing, especially while pregnant or immediately after birth, but Rhaenyra had long since ceased to care for the opinions of old men who smelled of wet soil and had never known the pain of childbirth.
As warm water sloughed away the remnants of her labor, she felt, for the first time in what seems like a lifetime, like herself—a princess, not a mere vessel for birth. The attendants helped her into a heavier sleeping shift than the sheer one she’d worn before, warding against the chill, and Elinda carefully draped a black overdress across her shoulders. Rhaenyra glanced toward the wardrobe, her gaze catching on a glimpse of blue fabric.
“Bring me the Arryn blue.” she said softly, nodding toward the dress that peeked from within. Elinda quickly retrieved it and placed it gently over her shoulders.
In the soft light coming from the high windows, Rhaenyra caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. For a fleeting moment, her reflection startled her. She looked so much like her mother. A sigh escaped her lips, soft and sorrowful, as Elinda braided her silver hair into a loose plait, falling gently over her shoulder.
Once ready, they returned her to her chamber, where a fresh mattress with clean, crisp sheets awaited. With a dismissive wave of her hand, the midwives and their attendants finally left, carrying with them the bloodied sheets, remnants of the day’s ordeal.
She was finally left alone with her son. Eagerly, she reached for Joffrey, freshly bathed and swaddled. She kissed his soft brow, whispering sweet words of love and promises of protection as her ladies tidied the room in hushed tones as they too left her in peace.
The door creaked open again, and Rhaenyra looked up, startled by the figure that appeared—a man with dark skin and silver hair, smiling broadly. “Another boy! I was told I have another son!” His voice was filled with joy, as though this birth were a miracle.
Rhaenyra blinked in disbelief. “Laenor?” she asked, incredulity thick in her voice as she stared at him. This man, though undeniably handsome, was not her Laenor. Her Laenor had the oale skin, aquiline nose, silver-white hair, and lilac eyes of pure Valyrian blood. This man was different—entirely. Her heart pounded in confusion. What in the Seven Hells is going on? she thought.
He strode forward with all the confidence of a husband, taking Joffrey from her arms and bouncing him gently in his grasp. “Was it still terribly painful?” he asked, his expression sincere as he gazed at her with concern.
She blinked again, utterly bewildered. “My labor?” she asked, her tone dripping with incredulity.
He nodded seriously, as if this were a reasonable question. Rhaenyra exhaled sharply, her patience thinning. “Yes, it was terribly painful, Laenor.” she said flatly, her voice devoid of its usual warmth.
He grimaced, sympathy flickering across his features. “I once took a lance in the shoulder.” he offered, as though this comparison would bridge the chasm between their experiences.
Rhaenyra stared at him in disbelief, the sheer audacity of the remark stealing her breath. She tilted her head, her voice dripping with dry sarcasm. “How terribly awful for you.”
Just as the room settled into an uncomfortable silence, a sharp, arrogant knock echoed through the chamber. Rhaenyra had not even called for them to enter when Ser Criston Cole burst in, his gleaming armor catching the sun light, his white cloak trailing behind him. His eyes blazed with fury and contempt, locking onto her with a hatred that seemed to burn brighter than the sun shining out.
“The Queen will see the child.” he demanded, his voice sharp and biting, as if he were issuing a royal decree.
Rhaenyra’s lips curled into a slow, dangerous smile, her eyes narrowing. “Where is she then?” she said, her voice soft but laced with iron.
“I will take the child to the Queen.” Criston Cole declared, stepping forward with an air of authority that thickened the atmosphere around them.
But Rhaenyra’s voice rang out, loud and unyielding, halting him in his tracks. “And how do you intend to accomplish that? Will the mighty knight wrench my son from his mother’s arms?”
Her words sliced through the tension, sharp as the daggers hidden beneath the fine silks of her gown. She regarded him with a mixture of disdain and amusement. “It must make you feel quite powerful, doesn’t it? Terrorizing a babe and his feeble mother.” She turned her gaze to Laenor, who frowned, clutching their son to his chest with a protective instinct that shone through the weariness in his eyes. Rhaenyra offered him a conspiratorial smile. “Look at this little man! He thinks he’s suddenly powerful just because he hides beneath the Queen’s skirts.”
A laugh escaped her, laced with derision, and Criston’s face flushed with indignation—whether from anger or embarrassment, she could hardly be bothered to discern.
Laenor looked down at her in surprise, his face splitting into a grin that mirrored her own mischief and venom. “Men like him only feel powerful when they terrorize those weaker than themselves.” he said, a note of amusement threading through his voice.
Rhaenyra giggled and leaned closer to Laenor, whispering loudly for Criston to hear, “He’s still hurt that I did not run away with him to live in poverty in the Free Cities.” Laenor’s laughter rang out, startling Joffrey, who squawked in protest.
“Shh,” Rhaenyra admonished playfully, taking her son back in her arms, undeterred by the intruder’s unwelcome presence. Rhaenyra turned back to her husband, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Imagine me as a tavern wench!”
Laenor chuckled heartily, “Serving ale? Washing the dishes? Why, all your wages would surely go to splendid fabrics for your dresses!”
“And oils for my hair!” She joined him in laughter, the warmth between them palpable.
But then, Ser Criston interjected, his tone dripping with disdain. “Aye, you’d fit better as a whore!” he spat, venom lacing his words.
Rhaenyra glared at him, her brow furrowing in indignation. “I do not recall you paying for my services all those years ago.” she shot back sharply, leaving both men momentarily speechless with surprise.
“You tarnish my honor! My white cloak!” Criston whispered loudly, nearly vibrating with rage.
She arched an eyebrow at him, a playful smirk dancing on her lips. “Oh? The Cloak which I put on your shoulder? Did I force you to bed me?” she asked innocently, her voice lilting with feigned sweetness. “Were you truly frightened, Ser? The young princess, intoxicated on ale, threatened you at knife point, didn’t she? Were you sobbing and begging me to stop as I deftly removed your armor?”
“Do you even know the first thing about removing an armor?” Laenor snorted, unable to contain his disdainful laughter as he regarded the knight.
“I am quite capable in many things apparently.” she declared haughtily, exchanging scathing looks with her husband, the bond between them palpable and fierce. Turning her gaze back to Criston, she continued with glee, “Oh, poor, poor weak man, so taken advantage of by a mere girl of six-and-ten! I daresay you must still have nightmares of that fateful night, returning to your chambers in tears after I took your precious maidenhead.”
Her laughter bubbled forth, infectious and joyous, as Laenor nearly gasped for breath, caught between laughter and disbelief at the audacity of her words.
Yet, Criston remained relentless in the face of their disdain, he straightened his back and glared at her.
“This is a royal command that the prince be brought to the Queen immediately.” he asserted, his voice taut with authority, “and refusing it is treason.”
Danger flickered in Rhaenyra’s eyes, a tempest barely restrained as she met Criston’s contemptuous glare. Just as the heat of her ire began to boil over, she caught sight of Lady Nila lingering uncertainly behind him, her gaze flitting back to the corridor worriedly.
Rhaenyra softened, her features easing into an expression of quiet resolve. “If it is a royal command,” she said, her voice smooth and gentle, “then I shall present my son to the Queen immediately.”
Laenor regarded her with concern as she struggled to rise, her body still heavy with pain. She didn’t need to feign the way she nearly doubled over, a reminder of the trials she had just endured. “Forgive me, Ser Criston,” she breathed, “it’s just that I am in terrible pain, but I will go to the Queen.”
The knight’s sneer only deepened, the corners of his mouth twisting with disdain. "I'm glad that the Princess still remember whose authority reigns in the Red Keep."
“That's my authority!!” The booming voice of her father echoed from the corridor, sharp and thunderous, cutting through the tension like a bolt of lightning. Criston’s eyes widened in panic, and he bowed his head in a flurry of contrition, his fists balled tightly at his sides.
Criston Cole’s eyes narrowed, a tempest of loathing swirling within their depths as they locked onto Rhaenyra. But she met his glare with the smallest, most insultingly sweet smile, one that spoke volumes of her disdain. She could almost hear the grinding of his teeth, a sound born of frustration and humiliation.
In that charged moment, the King entered her chamber, leaning heavily on his cane, the very embodiment of paternal authority. His visage was flushed, but not with fatigue; it was a vibrant, righteous anger. “I am the King! There is no other authority in the Seven Kingdom greater than my daughter's but me! How dare you enter my daughter’s room, demanding that she trek across the castle after just giving birth!” His voice rang out like a clarion call, prompting Joffrey to whimper softly in her embrace.
Instinctively, Rhaenyra pressed a gentle kiss to her son’s forehead, bouncing him lightly as she glanced between her father and the unfolding discord. “Father, it’s perfectly fine,” she began, adopting a simpering tone and infusing her expression with faux concern. “I have done it before with Jace and Luke. Surely, the Queen merely desires to meet my children. If my mother, Queen Aemma, was still alive, she would have done the same.”
King Viserys regarded her with a mix of incredulity and irritation. “My Aemma would never be so cruel as to force you from your bed immediately after childbirth!” he retorted, the anger in his voice a protective shield.
Criston, in his folly, attempted to salvage the Queen’s honor. “The Queen merely wishes to see the Prince, the princess does not have to go.” he interjected, his tone dripping with barely concealed condescension.
Yet, in a rare display of paternal ferocity, the King raised his cane and delivered a sharp blow to Criston’s head, the crack reverberating through the chamber as the knight’s head snapped aside, crimson beads dampening the side of his head where the wood met flesh. Rather than falter, Criston kneeled humbly, a stark contrast to the arrogance he had displayed moments before. Rhaenyra gasped, a mixture of shock and barely contained delight bubbling within her as she witnessed the scene unfold.
“Ser Harrold,” her father commanded, “remove this mongrel from my sight and summon the Queen at once.” It was Ser Steffon who stepped forward, dragging the disgraced knight from her room. As he departed, Rhaenyra could not stifle a smile, one that Laenor readily noticed. He returned her expression with a warm grin, their shared amusement a moment of solace amidst the turmoil.
“Father,” she called softly, her voice gentle as she looked upon him, her heart swelling with affection for her sire. “Come, meet your grandson.”
King Viserys, still winded from his passionate outburst yet visibly calming, sank heavily into the chair beside her bed. The ire that had ignited his features began to ebb, replaced by a tender glimmer of pride and love that warmed the room. With delicate precision, Rhaenyra transferred Joffrey into her father’s one remaining arm, her hands hovering protectively around him as he nestled against the King’s chest.
The sight of the small child cradled in his grandfather’s embrace seemed to soften the King’s demeanor, allowing the anger that had once consumed him to dissolve into a warmth that enveloped them all. Rhaenyra watched as a new bond began to flourish.
Rhaenyra felt the sting of unshed tears pricking at the corners of her eyes as she gazed at her father, almost whole again—frail, yes, but present, alive. After all this time, she had wondered if she would ever see him like this. She had been gone for so long, practically exiled from the Red Keep since her hurried marriage to Daemon. Reflecting on it now, she wasn't entirely sure it had been her father's choice to banish her. He had been so weak, so sickly, already at the mercy of the Greens by the time she had settled permanently at Dragonstone.
Daemon may had been right all afterall. Perhaps her father had been slowly poisoned, kept alive but weakened, so that Otto and Alicent Hightower could reign supreme in the Red Keep, wielding Viserys’ fading power as their own. The thought twisted her stomach, but the truth would forever elude her. She would never know.
Steeling herself, Rhaenyra turned to Laenor, her voice soft yet determined. "Husband, I beg you to go to the children in the Dragonpit. Bring them back to the Red Keep. I want them close." She felt the ache in her heart grow stronger, the need to hold her sweet boys again, to remind herself that despite all the venomous intrigue swirling around them, her sons were safe.
Then, with a graceful step, she closed the space between her and Laenor until she was just a whisper away, her lips near his ear. “But first, stop at a tavern. Buy drinks for everyone in celebration of the new prince,” she said with a playful, dangerous glint in her eyes. "Tell your most gossipy knight about how Queen Alicent commanded her mad dog guard to drag me across the Keep's stairs to see my child while I was still bleeding."
Laenor’s eyes widened, catching the gravity of her words. “You want them to know?” he asked, his voice hushed but tinged with excitement.
Rhaenyra nodded, her smile cold and calculating. "By nightfall, I want all of King’s Landing to know. I want them whispering at every corner about how the Queen tried to summon me in my weakest state. I want her known as Alicent the Cruel."
A slow, predatory smile spread across Laenor’s face. "I’ll pay every tavern in King’s Landing if I have to." he replied, his tone brimming with mischief.
Rhaenyra smiled back at him, a secret shared between allies. Perhaps this Laenor—a schemer and protector in his own right—was not so different from her Laenor. Together, they would plant the seeds of whispers and rumors, stoking the flames of scandal and ensuring that the city would be theirs by dawn. With the vague flashes of another separate life she had when she was laboring, Alicent had did it to her for years now. It is time to return the favor.
Rhaenyra stood before the mirror, not minding as the maids flutter about, preparing her chambers for the night. The flicker of candlelight cast soft shadows on her face, but her eyes were drawn downward—to her body, a body that felt so foreign now. Her breasts, heavy with milk, were nothing compared to what they had once been. She sighed, recalling how Daemon had adored them, holding them as if they were treasures in his hands, his large palms barely able to contain them. Her breasts had spilled over, full and enticing. Now they felt...diminished.
Turning slightly, she studied her reflection. Her waist—tiny, almost girlish—was more fitting for a maid of eight-and-ten summers, not for a mother of three. Her thighs, too, were disappointingly slender, lacking the fullness she once carried with pride. Rhaenyra did not look bad, of course; in fact, she supposed she looked quite the part of a courtly lady. But the figure she had loved, the figure that made her feel powerful, desired and envied was gone.
"Oh, how I miss my bosom." she lamented internally, running her fingers along the neckline of her gown, which now felt woefully empty. She glanced at her face—unchanged, beautiful as ever—but her body had deflated, as if the fullness of her pregnancies had taken all the strength and life from it, leaving only the shell of a woman who once carried herself with such voluptuous confidence. The court would no doubt approve of her thinness. Fashionable, yes. Pleasing to her eyes, no.
Her mind wandered to Alicent. How that woman used to mock her for her figure, teasing that she looked more like a milkmaid than a princess, while Alicent herself resembled a pale, slender reed—curveless and delicate. Alicent looked so unappealing, like a child whose growth was stunted by hunger. And now? Rhaenyra’s thoughts stilled at the memory of Alicent's recent visit. The woman looked a decade younger, impossibly rejuvenated. It was unsettling.
The words echoed in her thoughts, the scene replaying itself like a story she could not set aside.
"I will remind you that you are just my Consort." her father had said, his voice low and dangerous. "You are not my daughter’s mother. This will be the last time you will command her."
Rhaenyra had stood there, stunned into silence. It was as if the very air in the room had stilled, her heart thudding heavily in her chest. She had never heard her father speak so harshly to Alicent—never seen him cast such disdain in her direction. Always, Viserys had been lenient, his fondness for Alicent softening even her most grievous trespasses. But now... now, his patience had worn thin.
And Alicent, her once-steady voice now trembling with desperation, had responded. "I am your Queen, Viserys!" she had pleaded, her eyes wide with disbelief, as if begging him to recall the vows he had made.
Rhaenyra smiled bitterly at the memory as she smoothed a hand over her sleeping gown, the silken fabric whispering beneath her touch. She remembered the way her father’s lips had curled then, a sneer so unlike the man she had known.
"Aye, I made you Queen," he had said, each word a slow, deliberate strike. "I can unmake you."
The sight of Alicent had been something out of a sweet dream—her face blanching, her body trembling as if the weight of his words had sapped her of all strength. Slowly, achingly, the Queen had dropped to her knees before him, her eyes downcast, her voice small and broken. “I overstepped,” she had whispered, barely audible. “I will never do it again. Please… forgive me.”
Rhaenyra’s grip on the edge of the dressing table tightened as she remembered the moment her father had turned his gaze towards her. With a single gesture, he had commanded Alicent to apologize to her—the one woman the Queen despised most. The daughter she could never replace.
Alicent, still kneeling, had turned to her, lips trembling as she uttered her apologies. The words had tasted of ash in the Queen’s mouth; Rhaenyra had seen it in her eyes. Her humiliation had been palpable, a bitter thing that Alicent had swallowed down as best she could.
Rhaenyra, for all her strength, had been struck dumb by it. Her father had always been protective of her, yes, but never had he so much as chastised Alicent—not even when it had been for her sake. She had always been too much her father’s dutiful consort to suffer his displeasure, no matter the wrong she had done to Rhaenyra. But now... now the tides had shifted, and it was as though her mother’s shadow loomed ever larger over the court.
Her gaze lingered on her reflection, her thoughts deep and faraway. Perhaps invoking her mother’s name more often would be wise. If her father could still summon the memory of his beloved Aemma, still feel the wound of her loss, then perhaps Rhaenyra could wield that memory, that grief, to her advantage.
She remembered seeing Criston’s face outside her door, his head was bowed but she knows he was seething seeing the Queen he served humbled so much.
Vague, troubling flashes danced in the back of Rhaenyra's mind, shadows of memories that weren’t entirely her own. They came unbidden, slippery and impossible to grasp fully. But when she confronted Ser Criston earlier, speaking of a night she didn’t recall living through, she had done so with absolute certainty. As if the memories belonged to her, yet didn’t. The shock on his face told her it was true—this body, her body, had once shared something so scandalous, so beneath her station, with her once Sworn Shield.
‘A guard.’ she thought, barely suppressing a shudder of disgust. A man of low birth, no less. What a foolish decision, one unworthy of a Targaryen princess. Rhaenyra's lips curled in disdain.
But had she not been fond of Ser Criston once? She could still remember the glances they exchanged, the warmth of their shared moments. But even in her fondness, she had never considered acting on it—such a thing would have been beneath her. No, she had her dignity. That was why she laughed in his face when he foolishly asked her to run away with him. And that laughter, that rejection, had scarred him deeply. It had turned him into the bitter, hateful man who now cowered behind Alicent's skirts like a beaten dog.
Her thoughts crystallized, her expression hardening with the weight of her pride. She was not some foolish girl who pined after men beneath her station. She was Rhaenyra Targaryen, and she would never lower herself so.
But this girl… whose body she now inhibits obviously did so and she wanted to shake her shoulder of how utterly foolish that decision was.
The maids finished their tasks, bustling around her room. "Leave us." she commanded, her voice cold and imperious. The room stilled instantly, save for the rustle of skirts and the soft murmur of "Yes, my princess." from the departing women. All save for Lady Elinda, whom Rhaenyra beckoned to stay with a languid wave of her hand.
Lady Elinda was the youngest of her ladies-in-waiting, one of the few who had remained steadfastly by her side, even when Rhaenyra was run out of King’s Landing—when lords and ladies alike closed their gates to her and her son. Elinda had been there, tending to her, loyal when all others faltered. Rhaenyra’s memories flickered back to a time when she had sent this brave girl to King’s Landing during the war, while the city was still held by the Greens as she work in secret for her cause. She blinked rapidly, that certainly did not happen in her lifetime but perhaps in this one it will. Elinda had risked her life for her, both in that past and now, in this strange second chance. There was no one else Rhaenyra could trust so implicitly.
“Sit with me.” Rhaenyra said softly, gesturing toward the chair beside her. Lady Elinda obeyed without hesitation, her wide eyes full of worry and devotion. Once Elinda was settled, Rhaenyra allowed her voice to drop to a confessional whisper. “When I was in labor, I dreamt. I dreamt of death…” she told her the deaths of her children, the fall of the dragons… all the betrayals, the tragedies and eventually, her own death. “I did not expect to wake up here, in the past, alive once more.” She let the words hang heavy in the air, feeling the weight of them settle between them.
Elinda’s breath caught, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. “You... you died, Princess?” she asked in a tremulous whisper. “In this dream of yours, you died? And... and the children too?” Her hand reached out instinctively, trembling as she grasped Rhaenyra’s, squeezing it as if she needed to be certain that the princess was still in front of her, still real.
“I did.” Rhaenyra confirmed, her voice steady despite the tremors running through her thoughts.
Elinda trembled visibly, her face paling. “It was just a dream, Princess,” she said, her voice shaking as she tried to reassure herself more than her mistress. “None of it happened. It... it was just a nightmare.”
Rhaenyra sighed, leaning back in her chair. It was foolish to expect anyone to believe her. She was fortunate, at least, that her lady didn’t think her mad. Still, a burden had lifted from her heart, lightening her soul now that she had shared this secret with someone. She looked at Elinda again, her expression softer. “Yes... perhaps it was just a dream,” she conceded. Then, in a quieter voice, she added, “But Targaryen dreams are not something to be easily brushed aside. Daenys the Dreamer can attest to that.”
Lady Elinda straightened, a newfound resolve in her voice. “We will prevent it, Princess,” she declared with unexpected strength. “We shall strive to make sure it never comes to pass.”
A small smile curved Rhaenyra’s lip. “I knew I could trust you, my lady.” She gave her hand a gentle squeeze, though her gaze sharpened in warning. “But no one must know of this.”
Elinda nodded fervently, her expression earnest. “No one shall know, Princess. Your secret is safe with me.”
Rhaenyra smiled at her again, though her gaze soon drifted downward, taking in the sight of Lady Elinda’s gown. Her expression twisted into a grimace. “What are you wearing?” she asked, her voice laced with barely concealed disgust.
Elinda startled, glancing down at herself in confusion. “My gown?” she asked, smoothing the fabric self-consciously.
“A gown?” Rhaenyra scoffed, raising an imperious brow. “That is not a gown—that is a maid’s dress.” she snapped, then exhaled to calm herself as the younger woman almost jumped in fright. “You are a lady of noble birth, from House Massey,” Rhaenyra interrupted, her tone sharp but not unkind. “You will no longer wear that rag in front of me again, am I understood?”
Elinda’s cheeks flushed deeper as she nodded, mortified. “Y-yes, Princess.”
Rhaenyra stood, pulling Elinda to her feet with her and guiding her toward the wardrobe. “Come, I shall not have my lady looking like a servant.” She opened the door and went towards the back where she knows her old dresses are stored and pulled out a resplendent red gown, the very one she herself had worn as a maiden. “This,” she said with a smile, handing it to Elinda, “shall be yours now.”
Elinda looked at the gown with wide eyes, astonishment and fear swirling in her gaze. “I couldn’t possibly wear your royal gown, Princess.”
Rhaenyra huffed, her smile softening. “I will not allow you to continue wearing such rags. You are my lady, and you will look the part. Now, try it on.”
With much cajoling, Rhaenyra managed to convince Elinda to choose three gowns to her liking, each more splendid than the last. As Elinda hesitated, marveling at her newfound finery, the door to the chamber creaked open.
In bounded Rhaenyra’s sons, their faces lit with excitement. She immediately knelt down, her arms wide open, and the boys rushed to her, their smiles bright and full of joy. She enveloped them in her embrace, her heart swelling with the warmth of their presence. At least in this moment, all felt right once again.
Luke’s curls bounced wildly as he fidgeted in place, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "Muña, is it true? Can we sleep here tonight with you?" His feet barely touched the ground as he hopped in place, anticipation bubbling in his young voice.
Rhaenyra’s heart swelled with affection as she reached out to smooth the stray curls from his eager face. "Of course, my sweet boy." she murmured with a soft smile, her fingers gentle as they brushed his cheek.
"Yehey!" Luke exclaimed, his joy spilling out as he launched himself onto the grand bed, his arms spread wide as he landed face-first on the covers. His laughter filled the room, bright and uncontainable.
Jace, more measured than his younger brother, stood by her side, a frown creasing his forehead. "Are you sure, Muña?" he asked softly, his eyes filled with concern. "I know you need to rest after the birth of Joffrey. You should not strain yourself."
With a tender smile, Rhaenyra cupped his face, her thumb tracing the line of his brow before pressing a kiss to his head. "I am sure," she whispered, her voice warm and steady. "I want both of you near me tonight."
At that, her eldest son finally let the worry melt away, a small smile tugging at his lips. He moved to the bed and began arranging the pillows, ensuring there was ample space for all of them. The bed was vast, easily large enough to accommodate her and her boys, with room to spare.
She exhaled softly, glancing at her children, her heart aching with unspoken thoughts.
What really is happening? she wondered. She could not dismiss the life she had lived, the one filled with loss and heartbreak. It was too vivid, too real to be brushed aside as mere fantasy. She had lived it, breathed it, wept and loved in it—it was not a dream, no matter how impossible it now seemed. Yet here she was, with her children, safe and sound. That is all that matters, she reminded herself.
The nursemaid entered the room, cradling little Joffrey, swaddled in soft silks. Rhaenyra took him into her arms, the weight of him grounding her in the present. “You and your companion will stay in the sitting room,” she instructed the nurse, her tone gentle but firm. “so that I can call upon you easily when Joffrey needs tending in the night.”
They look uneasy, not sure if it will be proper to stay in the Royal rooms but the maid curtseyed deeply and nodded before retreating.
Rhaenyra placed Joffrey in his cradle, her fingers lingering on the dragon egg beside him. The pale gold shell shimmered in the candlelight, its amber veins glowing warmly. She traced the surface with a tender reverence, knowing that one day it would hatch into Tyraxes, her son’s fierce companion. Her heart ached at the memory of the future—of Tyraxes, chained and alone, killed during the storming of the Dragonpit. Syrax, too, her beloved golden lady, had met her end there, valiantly fighting off the mob despite being able to just fly away.
It hurts that in her frail state now she cannot yet go to her Golden Lady, her eyes stung with unshed tears, but she pushed them away, focusing on the warmth she still felt in her chest, a connection to her dragon that burned deep within her soul. Syrax is not gone. She just cannot go to her yet but she can feel her in her very being.
Turning to her sons, she asked, “What did you do today after your visit with me and Joffrey?” Her voice was light, inviting them to share their day with her.
Jace straightened up from the pillows, his expression thoughtful. “We had lessons with Maester Munkun about the Houses of the Westerlands.” he said dutifully.
Luke, however, was less pleased. His lips jutted into a pout as he crossed his arms. “He screamed at me when I got something wrong.” he grumbled.
Rhaenyra’s gaze sharpened instantly as she fixed her second-born with a steady look. “Does he always scream at you, my sweet?”
Luke shook his head. “Only when I get things wrong,” he admitted, his small face scrunching in frustration. “But he never screams at Aegon, and Aegon barely gets things right! It’s not fair!” His voice was indignant, the injustice of it weighing heavily on his young heart.
Rhaenyra’s eyes softened, though the spark of anger on behalf of her child remained. "No, it is not fair, my sweet." she agreed, her voice gentle but firm. "And you should never have allowed it to continue." She glanced at Jace, whose expression was troubled, but she smiled in reassurance. "You should have told me, sweetling.”
Jace looked down, guilt flickering in his eyes. “Aegon would tease us,” he mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper. “He’d call us babies if we complained.”
Her heart hardened at the mention of her half-brother, but she forced herself to soften her tone. “Aegon’s words mean nothing,” she said firmly. “You are not babies for confiding in me. I want to know if someone mistreats you—whether it’s a Maester or a maid or the Queen. It does not make you weak; it shows how much you trust me. And I want that trust, always.”
Jace’s face brightened at her words, nodding solemnly. “I will always tell you everything, Muña.”
Luke, ever eager to follow his brother’s lead, chimed in with a beaming smile. “I’ll tell you everything too, Muña!”
Rhaenyra rewarded them both with a tender smile, her heart swelling with pride. “Good. I cannot protect you if I do not know what’s happening, and I will always protect you, my sweet boys.”
Their small, eager nods reassured her, though the moment was short-lived as the door to the chamber creaked open. Laenor stepped inside, freshly bathed, though the faint scent of ale still clung to him. The boys’ faces lit up as they bounded off the bed and ran to him, wrapping their arms around his legs.
“Father!” Luke called eagerly, tugging at the hem of Laenor’s doublet to capture his attention. “Muña said we can sleep here with her tonight!”
Laenor raised his brows in surprise, a fond smile tugging at his lips as he ruffled Luke’s unruly curls. His gaze shifted toward Rhaenyra, who had already made herself comfortable on the bed near Joffrey’s cradle. “Are you certain, Rhaenyra?” he asked, his tone gentle but laced with concern. “You need your rest, especially after the labor.”
With a serene smile, Rhaenyra nodded. “I have two night nurses stationed in the sitting room.” she reassured him, her voice calm and composed. “These two will sleep soundly through the night, and I will hardly need to lift a finger.”
Laenor seemed satisfied by her answer, though still slightly apprehensive, as he settled into a padded chair beside the bed. He gave a soft tug on the cradle to rock it gently, his eyes softening as he watched Joffrey stir.
Meanwhile, Jace and Luke clambered onto the bed beside their mother, pulling the bedding snugly around their shoulders. Rhaenyra turned toward them, her heart swelling with affection as Luke burrowed his small head into her still-soft stomach. She stroked his arm with one hand, while the other moved to gently comb Jace’s curls away from his face, her touch tender and soothing.
As the room quieted, Rhaenyra began to hum, her voice soft and lilting as she sang an ancient Valyrian lullaby. Her melody floated through the chamber like a gentle breeze, each word woven with love and longing.
In the tower, high and cold,
She gazes out, her heart grown old,
A sea of flames, the world below,
Where once her children used to go.
She calls their names upon the breeze,
But silence answers, no reprieve,
Her arms are empty, heart undone,
Her grief a weight that blocks the sun.
Her voice softened, rich with emotion, as her fingers idly traced circles on Luke’s arm.
“O come to me,” she whispers low,
“My children, where did you all go?
I’d give my breath, my very soul,
To hold you close, to make you whole.”
Jace’s eyes fluttered shut, lulled by the familiar warmth of his mother’s presence, while Luke clung tighter to her side. Rhaenyra’s voice rose slightly, the lullaby taking on a wistful, almost haunting tone.
The flames dance wild across the shore,
Like memories lost, forevermore,
Yet in her mind, she sees them still,
Playing free on yonder hill.
Laenor glanced over at her, his gaze softening further as he watched the tenderness with which she tended to their sons. He rocked Joffrey’s cradle gently, the soft creaking a faint accompaniment to her song.
But what is that, upon the sky?
A dragon’s roar, a distant cry,
With wings of dusk and eyes aglow,
It rises from the fire below.
Rhaenyra’s voice wavered slightly, her thoughts drifting to the dragons of their blood—creatures of fire and strength, like the family they had built. She continued to sing, her voice now more of a gentle whisper as she imagined the comfort of such creatures carrying her away from grief.
It soars to her, with mighty grace,
A savior from this lonely place,
The tower fades, the flames retreat,
As she’s lifted on its wings so fleet.
Jace stirred but remained still, his breaths deep and slow as he began to drift into slumber. Rhaenyra kissed his brow before turning her attention to Luke, whose eyes, heavy with sleep, blinked up at her.
They fly across the fiery sea,
To fields of fire daisies, free,
And there, beneath the sky’s embrace,
She sees her children’s laughing face.
The song lulled to its final verses, her voice gentle and cradling, like the arms she had wrapped around her boys.
No longer bound by grief or pain,
She calls their names, they come again,
Their hands in hers, her heart alight,
Together in eternal flight.
As the last note fell from her lips, Rhaenyra let out a soft sigh, her heart full of both sorrow and love. She glanced down at her sons, now soundly asleep beside her, their small bodies nestled close.
Laenor’s gaze softened as he looked at her, but then, with a whisper, he remarked, "That was rather depressing."
Rhaenyra let out a light chuckle, her eyes warm as they drifted to their sleeping children. “Effective, though.” she replied, gesturing toward the two boys, now soundly asleep.
"How was your venture into the city?" she asked, switching to Valyrian, her tone curious but relaxed.
Laenor’s lips curled into a playful grin. "Well," he began, his voice low but brimming with mischief, although his words were slow as if he was unsure of their own mother tongue "I bought all the taverns in the capital for an entire day and night. The people will drink to the new prince’s health until their bellies burst."
Rhaenyra raised a brow, a smile playing at her lips. "And what of the other thing?" she inquired, leaning forward with interest.
Laenor's grin widened, eyes twinkling with excitement. He leaned in conspiratorially and whispered, "Ah, my love, I found something even better."
Rhaenyra’s curiosity piqued, and she edged closer, her voice barely above a whisper. "And what might that be?"
With a dramatic flair, Laenor puffed out his chest and declared, "Did you know I possess a hidden talent for composing songs?"
Rhaenyra's brows shot up in disbelief. "Songs?" she echoed, her tone both amused and skeptical.
Laenor huffed, feigning offense. "I’ll have you know," he began, crossing his arms, "nearly five of the shanties sung by the men at Driftmark are my own creations!"
"So you wrote a song, then?" she asked, still unconvinced but thoroughly entertained by his enthusiasm.
Laenor nodded proudly. "Not just one—two!" he boasted, leaning closer as if sharing a great secret. "One about a cruel stepmother who dragged her poor stepdaughter from her bed right after she’d given birth, leaving her to bleed all over their castle."
Rhaenyra’s eyes widened slightly, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.
"And the second," Laenor continued, voice lowering for dramatic effect, "is about a monstrous white knight with dark eyes, darker hair, and an even darker soul. He terrorized squires and young knights alike, all while lusting after a gentle princess. And when she refused to run away with him, he slashed her with his sword."
Rhaenyra let out a soft giggle, her hand quickly rising to cover her mouth as not to disturb their slumbering children. "Gods, I would love to see their faces when they hear that!"
Laenor leaned back in his chair, chest puffed with pride. "Well, my dear, you shall soon have the pleasure. I found a bard—one with a voice to make even the gods weep—and paid him handsomely to sing these songs throughout the Riverlands and Crownlands. He’ll spread them far and wide."
Rhaenyra’s smile faltered ever so slightly. "Wouldn’t it be wiser to have the songs circulate in the capital first?" she asked, her tone thoughtful.
Laenor shook his head. "No, no. If the bard stays here, the Queen will silence him in an instant. The songs would die before they had the chance to be heard." His voice dropped to a whisper, full of intrigue. "It’s better this way. Let them spread in places where the Queen’s reach cannot snuff them out. By the time the tales reach her ears, they’ll already have taken root."
They exchanged a mischievous glance, their shared amusement bubbling up, though they both stifled their laughter for fear of disturbing their sleeping sons.
After a quiet moment, Rhaenyra’s voice turned thoughtful again. "The King has insisted on a tourney and feast in Joffrey’s honor, ravens will fly inviting the Lords to be present here in two months’ time."
Laenor nodded approvingly. "Joffrey deserves to be celebrated, just like his brothers." Then, with a gleam in his eye, he added with a grin, "None of the Queen’s children received such an honor, did they? Only Aegon, whose name day was marked by a meager three-day hunt. Nothing compared to the grand feasts and weeklong tourneys our children have enjoyed."
Rhaenyra huffed, her tone laced with irritation. “Why would Alicent’s children be celebrated when they are merely spares?” she said, her voice tinged with disdain. "They should be grateful they even receive a feast. Coin is wasted on their clothes and food when the Crown is already secure. They ought to have been fostered off to other houses, to seek their own fortunes elsewhere. I certainly won’t have them lingering in the Red Keep when I ascend the throne."
Her expression turned serious as she shifted her gaze to Laenor. "Husband, I need you to go to Driftmark and speak with my uncle. I require changes in my staff and instructors for the children."
Laenor frowned, his brow creasing with concern. "What changes?" he asked, his voice low with suspicion.
Rhaenyra blinked, momentarily searching for a plausible explanation. She couldn’t very well tell him the truth—that when she married Daemon, he had uncovered a nest of spies within her household. Not only those employed by Otto and Alicent Hightower, but even by Lord Corlys himself. She understood her father by law’s intentions—after all, he wanted information on his own grandchildren—but the others? Treasonous. And she knew every face, every name. But she couldn’t share all of that with Laenor.
"Lucerys confided in me," she began instead, her voice quieter, "about how the Maester screamed at him when he got his lessons wrong."
Laenor’s eyes flared, anger lighting in them like a match struck against stone. "He’s five!" he exclaimed, indignation in every word. "He’s bound to make mistakes!"
Rhaenyra leaned into his fury, fanning it further. "Worse still, the Maester barely scolds Aegon when he falters, even though the children say Aegon makes more errors than any of them."
Laenor shot up from his chair, pacing back and forth across the room, his hands threading through his hair in frustrated sweeps. His movements were sharp, restless, muttering beneath his breath. After a tense silence, he turned back to her, eyes burning with resolve.
"I don’t want that man near my sons again." he declared, his voice firm, almost trembling with restrained rage.
Rhaenyra sighed, her shoulders relaxing slightly. "The children cannot miss their lessons, Laenor. They will fall behind, and they need all the knowledge and advantage they can muster."
Laenor shook his head stubbornly, his pacing pausing. "Then one of your ladies-in-waiting should be present. The intimidating one—the daughter of the Hand."
"Lady Anella?" Rhaenyra asked, raising a brow.
Laenor nodded emphatically. "Yes, her. She’s more than capable. She’s tall as a tower, yet graceful as a swan. And her tongue? Sharper than her brother’s sword. She’ll handle the Maester, even if he protests her presence in the schoolroom."
Rhaenyra smiled at the image of Lady Anella standing imperiously over the fussy Maester, silencing any objections with one icy glance. She nodded in agreement, which seemed to satisfy Laenor, who sank back into his chair, still bristling with residual tension.
After a moment, he asked, "But why would I ask Daemon for instructors?"
"Daemon is likely the most well-traveled of us all," Rhaenyra explained, her voice softening. "More so than even Lord Corlys, perhaps. With his dragon, he has freedom most men only dream of. He will undoubtedly know learned men from far and wide—men capable of teaching the future King of the Seven Kingdoms and the future Lord of the Tides."
Laenor shook his head, sighing. "But you know that Daemon isn’t on Driftmark. He’s been living in Pentos since he married Laena."
Rhaenyra raised a brow in curiosity.
"Well, they were in Pentos," Laenor continued, "according to Laena’s last message. They were in Volantis before that."
That gave Rhaenyra pause. Volantis? How very different this lifetime seemed. Daemon and Laena had always loved to travel, but they never stayed away for too long in her other life. The Laena she had known had been a true companion, a dear goodsister she cherished. Losing her had been one of the most devastating moments of her previous existence. Gods, how she wanted to mount Syrax and fly straight to Laena, unburden her heart to her. Unlike Elinda, who had been horrified by her visions and could never quite grasp their truth, Laena would have understood. She was blood of the dragon and raised on the history of their people.
But her priority now lay with her children. She couldn’t even be certain this Laena was the same as the one she once knew. Laenor certainly was very different from the one in her other life.
Laenor frowned, his tone cautious. "Getting learned men from Essos to teach our children is all well and good, Rhaenyra, but it will be frowned upon by the lords and ladies at court."
Rhaenyra grimaced, her lip curling in defiance. "Who cares about the court? I am more concerned with my children's education."
Laenor sighed, shaking his head. "And that’s precisely why we need teachers who understand the Seven Kingdoms, not foreigners."
Rhaenyra exhaled deeply, exasperation clouding her features. "I don’t trust the Citadel," she muttered. "I am certain they are in league with the Hightowers."
Laenor tilted his head thoughtfully. "There is one in the Citadel, though—someone who may be better than any other teacher or instructor. Someone with intimate knowledge of our family’s history."
Intrigued, Rhaenyra’s gaze sharpened. "And who might that be?"
"Archmaester Vaegon." Laenor answered with a satisfied smile.
Rhaenyra furrowed her brow, searching her memory. Vaegon Targaryen... He was her great-uncle, yes, the one who had suggested the Great Council that ultimately chose King Viserys. But beyond that, she knew little of him. "Is he even still alive?" she asked, skeptical.
Laenor nodded. "He is. My mother, Princess Rhaenys, has ranted about him often enough, calling him unbending and bullheaded."
Rhaenyra deadpanned. "And you would have him teach our children?"
"He’s one of the best," Laenor assured her. "He has a gold mask and rod, which means he specializes in economy. That represents knowledge of royal economies, trade routes, the wealth of empires. But from what mother tells me, he’s also short-tempered and often belligerent."
Rhaenyra raised a brow. "Charming."
Laenor smiled faintly but pressed on. "Despite his temper, he knows our roots better than anyone. Having another Valyrian around would only make this place better."
"And how do you propose we convince the Citadel to send him?" Rhaenyra asked.
Laenor shrugged casually. "You could have the King write a royal decree, recalling him to the Red Keep. The King would do anything you asked of him especially if you come to him in tears fearing your children is being mistreated."
Rhaenyra nodded, albeit reluctantly. "Perhaps... But I still want other instructors from Essos, as well as healers and sworn shields for Jace and Luke.”
"Of course," Laenor agreed. "I can go to Pentos and ask Daemon for recommendations. Having more household knights would be prudent, but their sworn shields should be Kingsguard to further solidify our standing at Court—at least for Jace's."
Rhaenyra will nod in agreement. "I have neglected their safety for too long…" Rhaenyra said thoughtfully, her voice softer. "Grandfather Baelon assigned Ser Harrold as my sworn shield when I was but four name days old."
Laenor snapped his fingers in realization. "Exactly! My father will likely want his own men to guard Luke, though."
Rhaenyra nodded. "The more knights in our Household the better. I want two sworn shields for both boys—one to guard them while the other rests. I won’t have them unprotected, not even at night."
Laenor nodded in agreement, but his gaze softened as he spoke. "I’ll make the arrangements, but I’d like to spend a week with Joffrey first before I fly to Driftmark to speak with my father about the guards. And afterward, I’ll go to Pentos to speak with Daemon and Laena. By the time I return, the Royal Decree should have reach the Citadel and I could then escort the Archmaester here on dragonback."
Rhaenyra nodded but raised a finger in caution. "Just make sure you’re back in time for the tourney."
Laenor grinned, his eyes lighting up with excitement. "Of course! I wouldn’t miss it for the world."
Rhaenyra's breath caught as the hidden door to her chambers groaned open, the sound jarring in the quiet room. Her arms instinctively tightened around her children as a large figure stepped into view. He was immense—broad-shouldered, towering, with a mane of unruly curls and a beard framing his strong jaw. His sheer size filled the doorway, casting long shadows across the floor. Rhaenyra’s eyes widened in shock, her heart thundering in her chest.
But instead of alarm, she saw Laenor smile. He rose from his seat, his demeanor entirely at ease, and greeted the intruder with a warmth that only deepened her confusion.
“I went to the nursery, but the boys weren’t there.” the man said in a low, hushed voice as if sharing a secret. His smile was broad and familiar, and there was a softness in his eyes as they landed on her.
“Ser Harwin!” Laenor stood, clapping the man on the shoulder, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. “The nursemaids are in the sitting room.” he said, before casting a quick wink in Rhaenyra’s direction. Without hesitation, and with an unsettling amount of confidence, Laenor left the room, leaving her alone with this towering stranger.
Rhaenyra’s heart raced. She couldn’t understand why her husband would so casually leave her in the presence of a man she barely knew—alone with her children no less. But as her gaze shifted from Laenor’s retreating form to the man now standing near her, a different kind of dread began to seep into her bones.
The man approached her slowly, his movements steady and deliberate. When he bent down, Rhaenyra flinched, her body tense, yet his touch was unexpectedly gentle. His lips brushed her forehead, and his deep voice, though soft, seemed to vibrate in her chest.
“Princess, forgive me for not visiting you sooner,” he murmured, his words warm and intimate. “I tried, but the King was here, and I thought it best not to risk being seen.”
Rhaenyra stared up at him, her pulse pounding in her ears. His face was so familiar, yet she couldn’t place why. Her mind raced, trying to understand this man’s boldness, his apparent closeness to her.
“May I?” he asked, gesturing toward the cradle, his voice filled with a tender reverence.
She nodded absentmindedly.And then, as her gaze shifted towards Jace, sleeping peacefully, a creeping realization began to settle over her.
Rhaenyra’s wide eyes flickered between the man’s strong features and her sleeping child. Slowly, agonizingly, the pieces began to fall into place. His curls—those thick, unruly curls—were the same dark brown as Jace’s. His jawline, the strong set of his chin, the shape of his eyes… all mirrored in the face of the boy who lay nestled besides her.
Her breath hitched, and her chest tightened in disbelief. She turned, her gaze locking onto Jace, and her heart sank further. The resemblance was undeniable—overwhelming, even. Jace’s features, the ones she had once thought were her own, now stared back at her from Harwin’s face with cruel clarity.
Harwin Strong. The name echoed in her mind, now heavy with meaning. The father of these children. A wave of horror and fury crashed over her as the truth solidified. This was the man. This was the one. The father of Jace—and gods, Lucerys as well and even Joffrey.
Her hands trembled as she clutched her sons closer, her mind reeling from the revelation. If she hadn’t been bound to this body, she would have cursed the foolishness of the girl she now inhabited. What had this foolish girl done?