Chapter 1: Rhaenyra’s Mutation
Chapter Text
From birth, Rhaenyra was a miracle. She was the first and only child of Aemma Arryn and Viserys Targaryen to survive past infancy. Her mother was only five and ten at the time, but Aemma knew within her very bones, that her little girl would achieve greatness. She shared her belief with everyone who met the babe. Most humoured the young mother, a few laughed in her face, but when Rhaenyra reached the age of one and ten, Aemma was proven correct when the princess was proclaimed ‘The Realm’s Delight’. Rhaenyra was the only child of the king and was famously spoiled and adored by all those around her.
Spoiled, but not spoiled rotten. She grew to have an expensive taste in fashion and jewellery, dressing in deep purples and reds, with gold and gems decorating her fingers, arms, neck and hair. It would have been distasteful if not for the blinding grin that would always spread across her face when people clapped and cheered at the smallest glimpses of her.
The small folk loved seeing the young princess, who was growing into her Valyrian beauty more with every day. When she rode to the Dragonpit, Rhaenyra would insist on the open-ceiling parade carriages so she could smile and wave at everyone she passed. Like with most of her wants, it was always fulfilled.
Perhaps, that should have been enough warning that Rhaenyra loved putting on a show because one day, around second meal, when she was only seven years old, she became the youngest dragon rider in Westerosi history. The sky was filled with the sound of squeals, laughter and adolescent dragon roars. When her people looked up, they saw their Princess clinging to the back of Syrax, flying just above the buildings.
Shock, awe, horror and countless other emotions ran through the populace, but the sight she made that day was unforgettable. A feat few expected her to beat, especially as the years went by and she transformed from a rambunctious child to a playful young lady-to-be. Her future was seemingly set to follow the countless princesses before her, except for the deafening fact, that she had no brother to inherit the Iron Throne.
But her royal parents kept trying, miscarriage after stillborn, after dead in the cradle, by the time Rhaenyra was five and ten, there was not a single sibling to share her parents’ love with. Viserys held out hope for the newest pregnancy, so much so, he decided to throw a tourney for the unborn heir to the throne. Aemma was less certain.
Year 112 AC
The birthing chamber was eerily quiet, the sound of shuffling and the soft whimpers of a newborn being the only thing to penetrate the suffocating energy in the room. A king kneels silently weeping over his dead queen as midwives watch from across the bed, their hands stained with the blood of their mistress. White sheets splattered and soaked as the bleeding finally slows to a stop, her body giving the last of what she had.
The Maester moves towards Viserys, babe in arms, “Congratulations, Your Grace. You have a son.”
“… It’s a boy?” His voice heavy and forced with the effort of pushing the words out.
Maester Mellos rocks the baby as it starts to let out croaking cries, “A new heir, Your Grace… Had you and the Queen chosen a name?”
“Baelon.”
Viserys looks back to his dead wife, missing the concerned expression on the other man’s face as his son’s cries turn throaty. Sickly.
Movement behind Rhaenyra disturbs her, causing the girl to twist her head around to the people making the rounds, whispering with grim faces. People shoot her sorry looks and that’s all she needs to know. Rhaenyra has lost another sibling.
A thing she had thought she’d grown used to, but inside, something burned and raged. It didn’t feel unnatural, just unusual, it felt right yet scared her. She wanted to go to her mother with this feeling, but knew the woman was resting. Rhaenyra would bring it up at a later time.
Lords and Ladies crowd the area, all that came to attend the tourney, attending the funeral. In the middle of them all lay two pyres, one for an adult and another for a baby, both tightly wrapped in grey shrouds. The salty sea wind doing little to help the teary eyes, only stinking those who remain stoic.
Daemon stalks up behind Rhaenyra, unaware of the embers inside her feel like they’re about to burst out of her chest, “They are waiting for you,” he whispers, his tone far softer than usual.
Rhaenyra can’t find it within her to care, “Ñurho valonqro paghyro jēdunna, lo tolijī kepa ñuha kirimvī rhēdos pendan.”
I wonder if, for those few hours my brother lived, my father finally found happiness.
“Kepa aōha avy sīr ojūdo tubiro toliot jorrāelza,” he tries to comfort, but all it brings is a grimace to her face.
Your father needs you more now than he ever has.
She shakes her head softly, “Trēsy dōrī kesan.”
I will never be a son.
Daemon has nothing to refute her with, only barely managing to look over to his grieving brother, Rhaenyra following suit, both searching for assistance from the man. Viserys, for his part, is absorbed in his anguish and regret. He ordered his wife’s death, he helped hold her down and he now had to watch her burn as the realm watches his legacy follow into the ashes.
Rhaenyra steps forward, her eyes going to Syrax who lets out a short roar. Something about the dragon felt off to her, the bond between them had shifted as Rhaenyra no longer merely sensed the beast’s emotions, she could feel the very fires in her belly.
“Dra…” the command gets stuck on her tongue, Syrax cooing in concern, “Drakarys!”
The beast crawls down the hill, past dragon-keepers, approaching the corpse of her rider’s dam and sibling. She lets out soft noises of comfort, trying to be sweet one last time to the woman she remembered as a hatchling. Within seconds the wood and kindling are alight and with it, something bursts inside Rhaenyra.
She lets out a gut-wrenching scream, the kind that causes a throat to bleed, as she stretches her arms out towards the burning pyre. Churning the feeling inside her, Rhaenyra pushes it out to her fingertips and the calm fire in front of her explodes, sending everyone except Rhaenyra and Syrax scrambling back.
The flames burn hot and high, spitting and spreading in all directions, burning the grass as it spreads, eating away at the green and biting at people’s shoes. Her screams echo as the fire reaches her skirts, setting them ablaze as well. The people watch in horror as the Princess is encased, none sure if the smell of burning flesh is from the corpses or the girl.
Viserys lets out a heart-shattering howl, “Rhaenyra! NO!”
And just as fast as it started, the screams stop and the fire slowly extinguishes itself. As the flames die out, Rhaenyra is revealed, her dress and underthings blackened ash, but her skin as pale and smooth as it’s always been. Not a single burn on her.
She turns to her father as a single tear runs down her cheek, “What… am I?”
All he can think of is what Aemma always said Rhaenyra was,
“A miracle.”
Chapter 2: Rhaenyra’s Mutation Part 2
Notes:
So it’s official, I am continuing this fic, it’s no longer a oneshot.
Please enjoy this chapter and if you don’t, idc
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The days following are a mess, Maesters are called from the Citadel, other holds, a few wisemen from Essos and priests from a diverse range of religions are all summoned to Kingslanding. The Princess is pinched, prodded, leeched and talked about, rarely to, only around her. Their theories run from mass hysteria or hallucination to her being a reincarnated death god and must be sacrificed to save the world. The woman who suggested that was swiftly escorted out and Rhaenyra never saw her again.
Finally, after a week of study, Grand Maester Mellos steps forward to make the official assessment of the Citadel, “The Princess is likely a case of change, an outlier that has the potential to spread and become the norm. It has been observed before. Like when the ancient Valyrians took a seemingly random step and became dragon-riders. Princess Rhaenyra has taken a similar, unintentional, step. Perhaps her body is mutating to be more dragon-like and could be seen as the natural progression of her heritage.”
“So you do not know for certain? Perhaps, you assume, you guess? I expected more from you all than just ‘we have no idea’. My daughter was consumed by flame, walked away unscathed, and the best you can do is, ‘likely’?” Viserys rises from his throne, the days having been rough on him but they had enhanced his anger.
Daemon unhelpfully interrupts, “Mayhaps the grey rat has a point, Brother. We are ‘Fire and Blood’, after all. Rhaenyra must have taken it too seriously,” he scratches his cheek where a light stubble has started to grow in. His attitude was its usual flippant self, but his appearance had taken a hit with the stress, “Or it could have been the Gods trying to tell us all something? Who can for sure?”
“… The Gods? I can see it,” Viserys sits back down, nodding as he relaxes as best he can in the stabby chair, “Rhaenyra is no mere miracle. She has the Gods’ Blessing, she is a gift to the realm as she always has been. Aemma was right, like she often was.”
A small spark of sass from Daemon had ignited a forest fire of delusion in Viserys. The pieces seemed to fall into place before the King’s eyes. Why he and Aemma couldn’t have more kids, they had Rhaenyra and she was all they needed. Why the girl’s dragon blood ran so hot and loud as a child, it was an early sign of her greatness. Why Viserys was chosen over Rhaenys, the Gods foresaw through him, they’d get Rhaenyra…
“Rhaenyra the Unburnt,” the words stumble out of his mouth, bouncing around the throne room and the collective realises his meaning.
Something ugly twists inside Daemon, catching him off guard. He shakes away the feeling and slinks away to share the news. His eyes catch on Otto, who watches the king with a calculating, but not completely unhappy expression. That didn’t help Daemon’s mood.
The doors to Rhaenyra’s chambers were uncomfortably guarded, four Goldcloaks and two Kingsguard, all standing at attention. Officially, it was to prevent any foreign or unknowns waltzing in, but unofficially, it was to keep the Princess in. Not that many who saw her display at her mother’s funeral believed it would. The doors were wooden and the men, while clad in armour, were just meat at the end of the day. Wood burnt and meat cooked.
Coming straight from the Throne Room, Daemon strolls past them, entering his niece’s chambers without a knock. Inside was the Princess being endlessly fussed over by her closest lady-in-waiting, Alicent. Another Hightower standing with a Targaryen. The thought of him, or even Aemma when she was alive, having a Hightower so close by made Daemon feel sick and angry. She curtsies, holding the wine jug she was about to pour Rhaenyra to her chest, nervous like a hapless faun. Why his brother and niece enjoyed these people’s company, he couldn’t and wouldn’t understand.
Rhaenyra looks over to him, giving him a strained, but honest smile, “Uncle, how kind of you to make some time for me.”
“You are always in my thoughts,” he strides over, grabbing the wine jug from Alicent, dismissing her with a look, “You happen to be in most of the court’s thoughts recently, near constantly. Or mayhaps I am mistaken, and they only talk about you near constant. I cannot speak on what those fools and snakes have running in their heads.”
He leans against the back of the dining bench his niece is sat on, stretching across her, into her personal space, to pluck the goblet from her hand. Daemon fills it to the brim, a few drops slip from the rim onto the floor, and he gulps it down. Rhaenyra watches with great fascination as his throat bobs beneath the stubble he’s started to sport.
Her uncle likes to keep a traditional male Valyrian look, clean-shaven with long simple styled hair. Seeing him not present himself in such a way, without blood or tourneys to excuse it, was an odd sight. Another point to whatever she is, not being a miracle as her Father says, but another step towards her family’s downfall.
“And what do they say, the snakes and fools and holy men at court? Anyone suggest I be dissected? I have yet to have that, but it is still early,” she rests her head against his arm, relaxing into the familiar warmth, one so different from the one inside her.
Her words manage to snag the Rouge Prince’s tongue, he had planned something witty, slightly cutting in just the right way they love to banter, but ‘dissected’, like a bug? Daemon had caught a look at Aemma before she was wrapped in her funeral shroud, she was basically dissected and the thought of it happening to Rhaenyra does monstrous things to his guts.
He clears his throat, staying the nausea in his stomach, “The Maesters believe it to just be the next step in Targaryen supremacy. The Doctrine will need to be updated. ‘Targaryens are not like other men, they were made by the Gods to ride dragons, wed brother to sister and, a recently discovered ability, control fire’. Let the Septons preach that into the small folk’s heads. It will surely calm any panic following the rumours that have spread by now.”
“It could have been a one time occurrence,” a soft, uncertain voice speaks up, Alicent fucking Hightower, “The Princess was grieving her mother, so mayhaps the Gods felt her great despair and wanted to help her release it.”
Daemon goes to say something barely witty and incredibly cutting when Rhaenyra stands up, her back to both of them, “No, you are wrong. I know what happened with my Mother’s pier will happen again.”
The Prince and the lady take a few steps around to see what she’s looking at. Rhaenyra has her hand slightly raised and the candles on the table in front of her are… dancing.
The flames flicker, reaching up past that of a candle that size should burn, then down to nearly extinguishing. Then Rhaenyra raises her hand further and the fire lifts off the wicks, swirling in circles, faster and faster until it’s just a line of orange before their eyes.
“I know because the burning inside me has not stopped,” Rhaenyra closes her hand and with it, the flames in the air are snuffed, leaving a trace of smoke in its wake, “I pray this is the Gods’ doing, for if this is a curse or something worse. We may all be doomed.”
Within the week following the death of Queen Aemma and the new natural heir, Prince Baelon, a Small Council meeting is called about the matter by King Viserys himself. Unlike a certain canon conversation, this one occurs midday instead of at night. The room is fuller with the Rogue Prince sitting in his place as Captain of the Gold Cloaks and Princess Rhaenyra as cupbearer, Viserys knew they both must be present.
The man leads the talk, sitting at the head of the table, his talking bauble placed in front of him, “The realm has been without a properly named heir for many years. There has been, of course, Daemon,” Viserys gestures to his brother seated beside him, who returns the gesture with a bowing nod, “However, things have changed, a great many things.”
“May the Gods protect and care for Her Grace now that she is in their embrace,” Maester Mellos interrupts, his face grim, his eyes physically closed and unable to see the incredulous expressions his words cause.
Viserys clears his throat, drawing everyone’s attention, “Yes, thank you, Mellos. I needed to be reminded that my wife is dead and I will never see her again,” he looks over to Rhaenyra who refills Daemon’s cup with a clenched jaw, her uncle placing a comforting hand over hers, “I was more so speaking about the gift the Gods has brought the realm. My daughter.”
She stands up, her hold steady on the wine jug while her voice is shaky, “Father?”
“Rhaenyra has been blessed by the Gods, what for, we may never know or understand. Their opinion is clear on this matter, their support is for her. They took my sons, my wife, all the heirs before me, because…” Viserys holds his hand out for her to take, she does, setting the wine down, “The Gods want Rhaenyra as my heir, our next Queen. I have been a fool about countless things, but this will not be one of them,” He squeezes her hand with a proud fatherly smile, “I called you all to hear your thoughts on this before I announce the news.”
Daemon and Otto stare each other down, both daring the other to raise a complaint, except…
“A wise decision, Your Grace.”
“Well said, brother.”
For once they were in agreement.
A fact that brings Viserys great joy, the glee on his face seemingly brightening the room even as the stare down becomes a full-blown glare. Agreeing with Otto Hightower was not something Daemon took even remote pride in and it made Otto second-guess himself, not something he enjoys doing, because if he is willingly on the same side as the Rogue Prince something is wrong.
“Wait a moment, why are we considering this? Because the Princess did a little light show? How can that- thing she did qualify her as heir? If it really was a gift from the Gods, should she not be sent to serve them and not the realm?” The Master of Ships, Corlys Velaryon interrupts, disbelief clear in his voice.
As king, Viserys was surrounded by ambitious men, but he knew his cousin, by marriage, was one of the more obvious cases, “Who else would you argue should be heir then, Lord Corlys, your wife mayhaps? ‘The Queen That Never Was’?”
“No, the King’s closest living male relative, your brother, Prince Daemon. He has proven himself in battle, has protected the people and upheld the law. Is that not why you made him Captain of the Gold Cloaks? He has proven himself, what has Rhaenyra done other than set herself on fire?”
Slighted as his opinion is swiftly discarded by the other lord, Otto stops him, “I caution you, Lord Corlys. A seat on the King’s table does not make you his nor the princess’ equal,” he pauses, making sure eyes are on him before continuing, holding the room in his hands, “Naming his firstborn child is merely a tradition set be us Western Lords, House Targaryen hold no obligation to follow it. His Grace has every right to name his successor and we should all keep in mind that not following which has been clearly omened by the Gods, could bring ruin to the realm.”
Daemon snorts, the fact he and Otto were still on the same page was almost fucking fascinating, “Who are we to disagree with Gods? The Seven, the Old Gods, Lord of Light, the Fourteen Flames. So many to piss off, which one actually gave Rhaenyra powers?” Daemon questions, having thought about it since the possibility was first brought up.
“Mutation,” Mellos interjects.
“What?”
“The official term is mutation, the Princess is a mutant. Just calling her abilities ‘powers’ is an insufficient term when describing what she is capable of.”
“And what is she capable of, exactly? Have you tested her limits?”
“As of yet, the possibilities her mutation poses are… measureless.”
The words sink in to all in the room, especially Rhaenyra. They were referring to her like she was some kind of newborn deity or at least, very heavy-handedly ‘blessed’ by some kind of God or Gods, they couldn’t decide on which. She did, however. Burning the dead via dragon flame triggered the mutation? It screamed Fourteen Flames to her, but as the royal family were ‘technically’ followers of the Faith of the Seven, Rhaenyra kept her mutation’s origins to herself.
“Then we are all in agreement, Rhaenyra shall be my heir.”
Notes:
Next Chapter;
•Rhaenyra and Viserys mostly
•Small time skip
•A new kingsguard is chosen
Chapter 3: Rhaenyra’s Mutation Part 3
Notes:
I foresee a few more chapters focusing on Rhaenyra but there will eventually be focus on other characters.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“You are all excused,” Viserys waves one hand at the table’s occupants, but holds tight on Rhaenyra’s with the other, “Not you, we must speak.” His tone was oddly serious.
“Your Grace, perhaps it is best I stay,” Otto adds, noticing the shift and trying to grab it before the situation slips from his grasp further than it already has.
Viserys shakes his head, standing from his seat, prompting the other counsel members to follow suit and begin leaving as told, “This is private, but I thank you, Otto. Your support has been enough. Please, enjoy the rest of the day, spend some time with your daughter. Seven Hells, do I know you work yourself too hard.”
With an unnoticed clenched jaw, Otto bows his head at the three royals, “As you wish, Your Grace.” Nursing a stinging ego, the man retreats out of the room, head already full of plots to refine and implement before he even closes the door.
“Thank the Gods he’s gone,” Daemon unhelpfully comments, leaning back in his chair and setting his boots onto the table, “Miserable cunt always has to be there, watching, plotting, nattering away worse than a washerwoman. I tell you, brother, I continue not to see his appeal. Do you enjoy surrendering yourself with greedy, self-serving arses?”
“Mayhaps I just miss your company while you are out and must compensate for it,” Viserys snarks, “And here I was, gladdened that you and Otto were finally getting along.”
“Hold on,” Daemon pushes his chair back as his feet slam onto the floor, raising to his full height, “We were not ‘getting along’. That shit is planning something, likely to do with Rhaenyra. The fact neither of us raised an argument with your decision does not mean Lord Cunttower and I are even remotely close to being friendly. It means he sees a way he can exploit the situation, or just keep me away from the throne.”
‘Or from you’ was unsaid, but Daemon screamed it in his head.
“If you are accusing Otto to be using my decision, why did you agree with it? By your logic, what do you get out of this?”
The question causes Daemon to pause. Sentimentality or weakness of any kind was not something the man was used to expressing. Not to his brother who flips between seeing Daemon as a misbehaving puppy and an actual monster. Giving his brother any ammo to use against him should Viserys get mad, it was not something Daemon often was want to do.
“Because it was your decision, brother,” the words seem sticky even as they come out of Daemon’s mouth with more calmness than he actually feels, “You came to your decision of your own free will, your own thinking. Otto and men like him would have had you name Rhaenyra your heir to spite me. But that did not happen, you made a sound choice. As my King, I am not against opposing you, but as my brother… Nkye tepagon ao issa ry.“
I give you my all.
Viserys clasps Daemon’s shoulders, pulling him into a crushing hug, “Your words mean more than I can express, especially now of all times. However, this is a conversation that must be had between ruler and heir,” he pulls away, keeping a hand on Daemon’s shoulder, “But do not go far, I don’t wish to see Caraxes flying away from these skies, got it?”
“I understand, brother,” Daemon states, his eyes gliding over to Rhaenyra before turning and leaving the room.
If Rhaenyra wasn’t mistaken, she would dare say she saw the spark of envy in Daemon, but the thought perplexed her, causing her to touch the Valyrian Steel necklace around her neck. Why would her uncle hold such emotion towards her? A few ideas come to Rhaenyra’s mind. Her stomach twists uncomfortably so she turns to her Father, hoping the sight of him will calm her nerves.
He smiles at her, sad, but relieved. Placing a hand on her back, he leads his daughter over to the windows overlooking Kingslanding, “I once believed our control over dragons was an illusion… You changed that belief. The people say we are closer to Gods than men. They say that because of our dragons, without them… we are nothing.”
Viserys places his hands on Rhaenyra’s shoulders, making her look at him, “The dragons and what the Ancient Valyrians did to get control of them brought their doom. We must mind our histories or it will do the same to us. A Targaryen must understand this to be King or Queen,” He lifts his hands to hold her face softly, “We are on the cusp of another event that could lead to our doom. Your mutation, your Gods’ Gift, could bring you ruin or achieve greatness, far beyond what I and the kings before me have. Your powers,” he pauses as his mind reminds him what Mellos said, but he decides ‘fuck that guy’, “Your powers are like the dragons, you must control them like you do Syrax. I have no doubt you will be able to master them, but I must say this regardless. As your father, your King, your fellow Targaryen, you must have complete control over your powers, never let them grow wild. A wild dragon is a danger to the realm and its people. As their Queen, you cannot be a wild dragon.”
Rhaenyra nods, rubbing her cheeks against her father’s warm, soft palms from a life of indulgence and little swordsmanship, “I understand, Father,” A hesitant smile grows as she looks over to the Small Council table. She raises a hand and the small lit candles on it start to burn brighter. The flames then lift off the wicks and ball together. With a pinched expression of concentration, Rhaenyra shifts the ball of orange and yellow to a rudimentary dragon, “I have been practising in my chambers.”
Viserys lets an airy astonished laugh, prompting Rhaenyra to pull the flames towards them. She steps out of his grasp and holds out her hands. The fire settles on them, licking up her fingers and making them look like candles. A bit strays too far down and nicks her sleeve, causing the Arryn blue silk to blacken and curl away. Rhaenyra lets out a soft gasp, losing her concentration and the flames go out instantly. Her fingers graze the burnt area, her skin is still perfect, but the tiny patch of dress crumbles away, leaving an ashy residue on her fingertips.
Before she can properly mourn her dress, Viserys wraps her up in his arms, “Rhaenyra, my daughter, my only child. I have wasted the years since you were born wanting for a son. You are the very best of your mother. And I believe it, I know she did, that you will be a great ruling Queen.” He presses a kiss into her hair, “A dragon’s saddle is one thing, but the Iron Throne is the most dangerous seat in the realm. There is something else I must tell you. It might be difficult for you to understand, but you must hear it.
Our histories tell us that Aegon looked across Blackwater from Dragonstone, and saw a land ripe for the capture. But ambition alone is not what drove him to conquest…
It was a dream.
And just as Daenys foresaw the end of Valyria, Aegon foresaw the end of the world of men. It is to begin with a terrible winter gusting from the distant North. Aegon saw absolute darkness riding on those winds and whatever dwells within will destroy the world of the living. When this Great Winter comes, Rhaenyra, all of Westeros must stand against it and if the world of men is to survive, a Targaryen must be seated on the Iron Throne. A king or queen strong enough to unite the realm against the cold and the dark.”
All the way from the Dragonpit, multiple roars can be heard.
“Aegon called his dream, ‘The Song of Ice and Fire’. It’s a secret passed on from king to heir since Aegon’s time. Now you must promise to carry it and protect it. Promise me, Rhaenyra.
Promise me.”
“I, Viserys Targaryen, first of his name. King of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, do hereby name…
Rhaenyra Targaryen Princess of Dragonstone, Blessed by the Gods and heir to the Iron Throne.”
Year 113 AC
Five Months Later
Rhaenyra walks beside Viserys as they leave the Small Council room, members of various enthusiasm trickle out behind them. The Princess hooks her arm around her father’s, resting her head on his shoulder as they walk.
“So the crown is at war for the Stepstones,” She lightly states, understanding that it technically means the age of peace started by Jaehaerys is over.
“No,” Viserys interrupts her thoughts, “We are not at war. The Seven Kingdoms remain on good terms with the Free Cities and we are not jeopardising that. They are our most profitable trading partners.”
“But Daemon and Lord Corlys are going to fight the pirates, who are funded by the Free Cities. Does Daemon not speak for us?”
“No, he does not. Those men and their armies will be engaging in battle without leave from the Crown. When they return, they will face punishment.”
“Not at this moment, though. While they still reside in your halls and are well within your reach for discipline?”
He pulls her close as they walk, ducking his head down towards her, “Officially, the Crown does not endorse them, but should they return victorious, I cannot exactly punish a war hero. It would set a bad precedent.” He winks at her as they reach their destination.
A balcony overlooking a small courtyard with seven knights and six squires standing with flag poles. As King Viserys greets them, Rhaenyra scans the sigils. Noting their supposed accomplishments as they are announced by the new Lord Commander, Ser Harrold.
House Caron, Stormlands. Known for producing warriors and singers. This one, Ser Desmond caught a poacher. Rhaenyra wondered if he sang too. A singing Kingsguard would be entertaining, to her father at least.
House Mallister, Riverlands. A long supporter of House Targaryen since the Conquest and certified hater of the Greyjoys. A loyal and grudge-holding knight whose only notable achievement is winning a melee. Men like Ser Rymun are a common occurrence within the Kingsguard, a safe choice for her father to make.
House Corbray, the Vale. They had a man in the Kingsguard during Jaehaerys’ early rule, all Rhaenyra remembered from her studies was that the man was fiercely loyal to her Grandfather. She also recalled a Corbray trained Maegor the Cruel. She wasn’t sure if that was a point for or against this Ser Corwyn.
House Rowan, the Reach. They fought against Aegon then fought against Maegor. Not exactly looking great if her father wants longstanding loyalty. Rickon Rowan had won a jousting tourney and that made him good on a horse, or so he boasts.
House Crakehall, Westerlands. Remarkably unremarkable for a House that’s seen so many visits from dragons over the years. This Ser Clarent had caught a thief and cut off the man’s hand personally. He seemed unreasonably proud of that fact.
Ser Criston Cole, Stormlands. This one had Rhaenyra’s attention. Son of the Steward of House Blackhaven. Fought in the Dornish Marshes as a foot soldier and was knighted after razing two watchtowers with Ser Arlan Dondarrion. A man who’s seen real battle, Rhaenyra was certain he was the best pick.
But finally, House Tarly, the Reach. Famous for their skill in battle and especially their willingness to dive headfirst into it. Ser Denys in particular had killed and skinned a bear all by himself, against his party’s pleas otherwise.
“-done indeed, Ser Denys. May that coat never rot as a testament to your prowess,” Viserys lays on the praise for each knight.
The Tarly shuffles awkwardly, “I am afraid it already has,” he lets out a performative chuckle, “I am skilled in swordsmanship, not tanning, Your Grace.”
“A pity,” a crack in the King’s expression, but he recovers, “Good Sers, I thank you all for coming, but it will not be I who picks the next member of the Kingsguard.” He holds out a hand and brings Rhaenyra to stand on a small platform, “The man who is chosen will not just protect me, they will protect their Queen after my rule has ended. Rhaenyra, make your choice,” he squeezes her hand when he sees her nearly blurt out a name, “Think about this throughly. A Kingsguard is not as simply chosen as looking over their list of achievements, their potential is the most significant aspect.”
Rhaenyra gets his meaning, sighing as it means he doesn’t necessarily want her to pick Ser Criston. He wouldn’t overturn her decision, but he would be disappointed if it seemed she didn’t even try giving the others a chance. She closes her eyes, thinking over what made the other knights even remotely desirable. Instead of focusing on the guards, something else catches her attention.
Below the balcony, inside the Red Keep, completely out of Rhaenyra’s sight, she feels it. A fire. Likely a couple candles lit to enlighten some dark hallways, but she feels it just the same. An idea comes to mind.
Targaryens used their dragons to intimidate and solidify their rule, perhaps she should start doing that now.
Scrunching her face, focusing on a burning fire further away than she’s ever tried. She pulls the flame off their wicks and pulls them towards the courtyard.
Seeing a rushing fire coming towards them, many knights and squires scramble back. Rhaenyra begins to grin as she makes the fire chase after the fleeing heat of the bodies. Satisfied with her demonstration, Rhaenyra snuffs out the flame by squeezing a fist.
She opens her eyes to see a lone knight remaining in the courtyard, her smile drops, it's not the one she wanted, “Why do you not cower, Ser,” he is visibly shaking, “Or was I mistaken, and you froze at the sight of my flames?”
“No, I did not cower, nor freeze- for I know the Princess is kind and just, like her cousin, Lady Jeyne, whom I wholly trust and I extend that trust to you, the Realm’s Delight.”
“But you were scared, Ser Corwyn?”
“…Mayhaps a little, Princess.”
Her lip twitches in amusement, “Come forward,” she commands.
As he does as he’s told, Rhaenyra looks him over, paying attention to him for the first time. He’s a couple of years older than her and- on his hip, his sword must be Lady Forlorm, the Valyrian steel sword of House Corbray. She hadn’t noticed that before, he should have led with that.
And a Valeman, a knight from her Mother’s home region doesn’t sound too bad.
Rhaenyra looks to Viserys, “Father, I choose Ser Corwyn Corbray.”
“A choice well made,” after he’s diplomatic response, he lowers his voice for just her, “And an entertaining show of strength on your part.”
Notes:
The first major change to canon. Goodbye Criston Cole, you have now been sent back to the Dornish Marshes and will fade into obscurity, very very few will remember your name.
So long, Kingmaker 🫡🖕
Chapter Text
The Red Keep’s sept was a place rarely visited by Targaryens, beyond any official religious duties to keep the peace with the Faith, but Rhaenyra’s visits were even less than that. Her siblings and Mother were burnt by dragonfire, in accordance with the Fourteen Flames, and their ashes kept on Dragonstone. She never had a personal reason to come.
However, Rhaenyra knew Alicent, a Hightower from Oldtown, was highly religious, her upbringing saw her going to the Starry Sept weekly, if not more. So finding her friend was rather simple if the girl was not in the usual spots.
Rhaenyra can feel it before she even enters, she can feel the candles, hundreds maybe a couple thousand all throughout the Sept as they insisted on lighting them for the dead, to pray, to… fucking everything. She never had an issue before but as her first time since awakening her powers, the heat, the power it promises, it’s almost nauseating.
Riding Syrax was like a retreat, the only fire within Rhaenyra’s range when in the sky was the heat from within her dragon. It was like a dormant fire. The beasts were naturally warm to the touch, hot when about to breathe fire, but when they weren’t, when whatever they did to create fire wasn’t active, their body temperature drops and Rhaenyra stops being able to feel a controllable fire. A relief almost.
The Sept was nothing like that, always a constant nagging sensation, her mind picking up on every single candle.
Rhaenyra see Alicent kneeling before a statue surrounded by candles all at different points of burning, “The Mother, Alicent? Why do you pray to her?”
Alicent didn’t hear the other girl walk up behind her until the princess spoke, causing the Lady to startle and fall onto her butt, “Rhaenyra! You-“ She lets out a long breath, calming her nerves and returning to kneel, “I pray for mercy.”
“For what sin have you committed that requires mercy? Did you nick a bite to eat when bringing me food?” Rhaenyra places her hands on Alicent’s shoulders, leaning down to tease the girl, “Did you forget one of your chores? Or-“ She fake gasps, “Did you forget to sing your hymns before and after each meal?”
Alicent pushes Rhaenyra's hands off her with an eye roll, the tension from her body seeps away, “The Gods are no laughing matter, they are not to be mocked.”
“Have you not heard?” Rhaenyra stands beside her kneeling friend, holding out a hand and making the flames of the candles burn higher, “I am blessed by the Gods, they would not strike me down for mere fun.”
The sight causes Alicent to shuffle uncomfortably, “Rhaenyra, stop it. Tampering with the candles is sacrilege. The Gods may favour you now, but if you were to anger them… Kneel with me,” She tugs lightly on Rhaenyra’s skirts.
“Why must I?” The Princess whines, but does so anyway.
Alicent hands Rhaenyra a candle and a wood lighting taper, “I usually come here to feel close to my mother. The quiet helps me... My longing for her grows as does my need for mercy, from her, from the Gods, from…” It seems she wants to say more, but she doesn’t, “It must all seem foolish to you.”
“It does not,” Rhaenyra lights her candle and clasps her hands together, “I can see the need for mercy, guidance. If I believed the Seven are the ones who made me a mutant, I might even pray to the Stranger.”
Her words cause Alicent to pause, “You do not believe the Seven Faced God made you like this? Who else could it be?”
Rhaenyra tilts her head towards her friend, lowering her voice so as to not be overheard, “I believe it was the Fourteen Flames.”
Alicent lets out an involuntary gasp and a soft whisper, “Paganism?”
“Yes, I am a Targaryen, my blood is of Old Valyria. I hatched an egg in the cradle and now fly a dragon. All those are gifts from the Fourteen Flames. I awakened my powers with help from dragon fire while doing a Valyrian funeral rite. Who else could it be?” Rhaenyra stands up, she never did actually pray for anything, “These aspects of one God did not bless me. There would be evidence if they did.”
Alicent stands up, trying to shush Rhaenyra while shooting worried looks around the Sept, “Stop it, please. You cannot be serious about this.”
“If they sent a rainbow, perhaps I could put some credence to them being behind my mutation, but all the evidence points to the Fourteen Flames,” the candles in the Sept start to burn higher, brighter, hotter as Rhaenyra’s words become more hurried, “And if not them, my next best guess would be the Lord of Light, with their prophecies and fires and human sacrifices. What if they cursed me, using my powers as a way to bring ruin to the last great family of Old Valyria, their old enslavers? Or worse, what if their Red God saw the burning of my Mother and brother as a sacrifice and gifted me with this!”
Rhaenyra slams her hand on the altar and in a wave, all the candles in the Sept go out, the smell of smoke fills the air and obscures their vision. Now no longer being overstimulated by so much fire, Rhaenyra calms down, her voice now resigned, “I must believe it is the Fourteen Flames, the religion of my family. For if it is not, my mutation might not be a gift, but a curse.”
The Princess then turns and leaves the Sept, not hearing Alicent whisper, “A curse?” Nor does she sense the abnormal heat from within Alicent’s body now that it is not warmed by the candles.
Days pass and the girls barely speak. Not a totally unusual occurrence as the last few months saw Rhaenyra learning how to rule from Viserys. Each day she used her powers and thus, every day she reminded him why she was heir. Every time she manipulated a flame, his eyes would light up and his mouth would open, spilling lessons and lectures he wished he knew as a young king. They would spend most of the day together, learning, teaching and grieving together. The pair had grown closer than ever before, but some secrets remain hidden.
For a time.
“I could never replace your Mother. No more than I intend to replace you. But you are my only child, our line is vulnerable, too easily ended,” Viserys holds Rhaenyra close as they walk towards the Small Council room, “And by marrying again, I may begin to ensure we are better defended. With more Targaryens in the world, you will have blood you can rely on. It pains me that I was unable to give you a sibling, but this will give me another chance to.”
“You are the King, your duty is to fill the realm with potential heirs, yet the way you describe your reasoning sounds as if you only mean to marry for me. So I might have a brother or sister,” Rhaenyra teases, hiding the long-standing desire for a sibling. Like Viserys and Daemon. Like Aemon and Baelon. Like Visenya and Rhaenys.
He chuckles, one of those soft, quiet chuckles he reserves for his daughter and her antics, “I prayed to the Gods for a son for years, mayhaps I should begin praying for another daughter,” He boops her nose, “Another you, so they might deem my prayer worthy of listening to for once.”
Rhaenyra presses her face into his shoulder, protecting her face from any more fingers, “Mother… would’ve understood this. I remember how happy she was when people started calling me ‘The Realm’s Delight. She would hardly disagree with another one of me.”
“I…” The words get stuck in Viserys’ throat,” I miss… Her. Your mother. My… Aemma… I will never fully recover from her loss and it pleases me to know that I’m not alone in my grief.”
He presses a kiss onto her forehead just as the doors open to the Small Council Chamber. Inside, the lords appointed to the table stand around, as well as a few other faces. The one that catches Rhaenyra’s eye is Alicent. Why would she be here? Hiding away behind her father, Otto, the man barely containing his anger while conversing with Daemon. The Prince, however, is rocking in his chair, a self-pleased smirk on his face as he effortlessly ragebaits the Hightower.
“Good morrow, my lords,” King Viserys announces, gaining the room’s attention as he steps away from Rhaenyra and stands at the head of the table, “I have decided to take a new wife.”
The room holds its breath. Corlys looks optimistic. Otto tensed, his eyes shooting towards Daemon as if the man were about to start breathing fire. Alicent looks like she’s about to vomit and Daemon seems to be completely unaffected. Only, Rhaenyra knew her uncle better than that, she noticed him pause at Viserys’ words and she could see his hand move to rest on the pummel of his sword, a nervous tick she knew he had.
“I intend to marry the Lady Alicent Hightower by Spring’s end.”
What.
The room erupts into noise, the loudest being Corlys and Daemon.
“This is absurdity!”
“Cunttower’s spawn, are you mad?”
“My house is Valyrian, the greatest power in the realm.”
“Can you not see this is another grab for power, authority? You cannot be this blind, brother.”
Viserys slams his hand down on the table, “I am your king.” His tone was calm, sturdy, unflinching, until he looked to his daughter.
Her eyes were staring, not at Alicent, but at the Lady’s stomach. The world goes on around them, but she doesn’t hear it.
Rhaenyra hadn’t consciously noticed it before. They hadn’t spent any real time together the last few months after all. Plenty of time for things to develop in secret. For an abnormal mass of heat to begin forming within Alicent’s belly. It was small, maybe a month or two by Rhaenyra’s guess based on her knowledge of babies sizes in the womb from her mother and the estimation she had with her current mastery of her powers. A babe naturally that warm must have Targaryen blood and Daemon would rather cut his cock off than lay with anything related to Otto so…
A bastard.
Rhaenyra looks to her father, praying he was unaware, that he only proposed because Otto convinced him Alicent was the best option for a second wife. But as the two looked at each other, she knew he knew. About the babe. The bastard.
Rhaenyra presses her eyes shut, trying to shut out the betrayal. Her thoughts screamed. ’How long after Mother’s death did this start?’ ‘Did they wait?’ ‘Did it start before she died, when the Queen was bedbound?’ ‘How long was Alicent using her friendship with the Princess to sneak into the King’s bed?’ And most of all, ‘Why did it have to be Alicent?’
A loud familiar voice knocks Rhaenyra out of the trance, “Let me save you the trouble and exile myself! I won’t be staying to watch the catastrophe you bring tying yourself to that girl.” Daemon shouts, storming out of the room with Corlys following after him, the Lord buzzing with anger.
Not him too.
Rhaenyra watches him go, the betrayal seeping in deeper.
Why is it so hard for people to stay by her side?
Notes:
Rhaenyra: I’m basically a gift from the gods
Rhaenyra: nothing can hurt me, not even fire
Rhaenyra: this hubris won’t come back to get me
Alicent: dealing with sleeping with her bff’s dad and committing a lot of sins*
Rhaenyra: what’s up, my favourite will we, won’t we situationship?
Rhaenyra: been thinking about me?
Alicent: fucking constantly
Viserys: I pick Alicent
Otto: YES!
Corlys: NO!
Daemon: Should have been me
Viserys: what
Daemon: fuck you, I’m leaving
Chapter 5
Notes:
As one commenter perfectly said, Rhaenyra’s mutation is really just minor fire manipulation. She can’t create fire, nor will she learn to. She is immune to fire, all fire and heat. Most Targaryens from the Dance of the Dragons time have powers that relate to their deaths. It’s the Gods’ alternate way of stopping the fall of dragons and Fourteen Flames worship, just stop the Targaryens from dying like they canonically do. Rhaenyra can’t be burnt by dragon fire (she can be eaten by one but shhh it wouldn’t be as iconic or impactful if Rhaenyra was immortal or had impenetrable skin). That had the side effect of controlling fire. Most Targaryen, or I should say Mutants in general, as they start to marry into other Houses later down the line, don’t have particularly strong mutations. Sometimes it relates to their canonical deaths, their canonical lives or sometimes it’s random because I want them to be.
Rhaenyra isn’t meant to be a super powerful mutant, her legacy is what makes her a renowned mutant.
Also I know Rhaenyra’s powers aren’t ‘new’ to the HOTD people. Magic is still more alive than compared to Game of Thrones/ASOIAF, that’s why people have gotten used to it. Rhaenyra being a mutant is just the current ‘theory’ from the Citadel, and because Maesters are upity assholes, of course they demand everyone agrees with them or be considered wrong. It’s also why I’ve never used the term ‘X-Gene’, they don’t have microscopes and technically can’t prove their theory. Their theory will be proven correct when other characters start to be mutants and only their children become mutants, thus an inheritable trait. Right now, Rhaenyra is the only mutant old enough to manifest her powers (or knows how to).
The X Gene in this universe can only be passed down if at least one parent has powers. The X Gene is more likely to have daughters. The X Gene, after the first handful of generations, show up about 50% of the time. It’s not so bad for the non-mutant Targaryens because since the Dance was prevented, dragons still live during the Mad King’s reign.
Also, I’ve read all the comments, yall are bloodthirsty so here you go ig?
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Year 115 AC
Three Years Later
When every person in your support system either leaves or betrays you, it’s important to recklessly throw yourself into work until you’re too exhausted to think about how lonely you are. Rhaenyra understood this misguided advice very well. In one hour, her uncle Daemon left for war, Alicent’s betrayal was revealed and her Father’s possible infidelity was brought to her attention.
She also had a bastard baby brother, but no one other than her seemed to care. Alicent and her father might have been married by the time Aegon was born, but he still came a ‘month early’ in perfect health. Perhaps Rhaenyra wouldn’t have cared so much if she were able to bond with the said bastard brother, but for some reason Alicent was so vehemently against them interacting, hiding him away and intercepting any attempts. Rhaenyra got the message, she was not welcome there.
The only things she had left were her duties, her dragon and… her fire.
In three years, Rhaenyra had trained hard and was on her way to mastering each one. She was listened to and was heard while speaking in Small Council Meetings. She shadowed each member and learnt how each role would factor into her eventual reign. Her favourites were Lord Lyonel Strong, Master of Laws, Lord Lyman Beesbury, Master of Coin and of course, Ser Harrold Westerling, Lord Commander of the City Watch.
Syrax learnt to hunt, even if it was one goat, which was released in an open field and the dragon awkwardly hobbled after it, only catching it on account of her much larger limbs. It was a great achievement in Rhaenyra’s eyes, as it took over a year, but the Princess could now say her dragon could hunt. Kind of.
Most importantly, her mutation. She had put on many shows, creating animals and house sigils out of flame for audiences. The people had finally begun to not fear being set on fire by an inexperienced Princess. The court gossip was swept onto one rumour or scandal to the next. The Princess controlling fire just became another Targaryen quirk. In private, her chambers or some deserted area she got to on dragonback, that’s where the real feats were accomplished.
A small crowd surrounds the King, Queen and Prince Aegon, now two years of age, surviving longer than any of Rhaenyra’s other siblings. The Lords were taking turns complimenting the boy, comparing him to his father, thus complimenting the King at the same time. Normal courtly pleasantries and ass kissing.
Rhaenyra could handle it most days, but today, as people ready to go on a three-day hunt for her brother’s name day celebration, the voices made her want to burn things. It made her relieved, damn near thankful when Tyland Lannister approached, “Your Grace, I bring urgent news from the Stepstones. The Crabfeeder has dug in for siege on Bloodstone while his men sabotage our fleet under the cover of dark.“
“Not today, Tyland,” Viserys remarks, forcing a smile to stay on his face as he looks between Aegon and the lion.
“The matter of the Stepstones is regrettably urgent,” The Lord tries to reason, glancing to Rhaenyra, hoping she’ll speak up.
She merely watches with a smirk, hidden behind her cup, as Viserys slowly loses his good mood, “It’s been three years. It can wait another three days.” He then turns, sending a secret annoyed face to Alicent as he walks past, like they’re sharing a personal jape at Tyland’s expense. The sight made the Princess nauseous.
Seeing he won’t get anywhere with the King, the Lannister walks up to Rhaenyra, bowing and keeping his voice low, “With the Triarchy now sheltering in Bloodstone’s caves, the threat of the dragons is blunted.”
Viserys announces something to the room, urging them to eat before they depart. Rhaenyra rolls her eyes, nearly sneering as the Lords slop food onto their plates. She takes Tyland by the arm and pulls him to a quiet corner, “What are you asking of the Crown, my Lord? Prince Daemon and Lord Corlys fight in the Stepstones without our leave and we hold no obligation to send help.”
“Princess, please,” the word seems to surprise him as he glances around them, lowering his head towards her, his voice barely more than a whisper, “Their sellswords have been withdrawing in droves. Even the mercenaries can see that it is a losing effort. The Velaryon forces have suffered heavy attrition, Princess. The seeds of dissent are sown amongst the rank and file. Daemon has driven the men hard. They have begun to question his command.”
Rhaenyra can’t help, but let out a snort, “He must be furious.”
“That-“ he pauses, caught off guard by her casual disregard. He clears his throat, “Such a notion has not been included in my reports, Princess.”
“What has then, my Lord? Other than Lord Corlys and Daemon failing to keep their men in check, their years-long effort being for naught.”
Tyland opens his scroll, scanning for something, “One report says Daemon was abed for a few days due to injuries. A hit from a flaming arrow while riding Caraxes. He has since recovered and returned to the siege.”
“Burns that left him bed-bound for days,” Rhaenyra could imagine it, the way animal flesh and fat bubbles and melts. She remembered touching a too-hot teapot as a child, attempting to snuff out candles with licked fingers as a young girl, the feeling of sunburns on her cheeks. But since her mother’s funeral, the concept seemed laughable. Her mutation made her immune to heat and all its effects. She could understand Daemon’s jealousy now, she would never suffer from fire like he had. “I will speak with my father.”
“Thank you, Princess.”
“Well, isn’t this splendid?” Viserys remarks as the carriage jostles everyone, “The whole of our family off to celebration and adventure in the Kingswood.”
“Not all, Father,” Rhaenyra adds, eyeing as a particularly hard bump causes Alicent to cup her swollen belly. Sibling number two, this one, at least, wouldn't technically be a bastard.
The King sighs dramatically, still not understanding where Rhaenyra gets her melodramatic personality, “Not now, daughter. Can we not just enjoy ourselves without worry for once?”
“Daemon was injured, bound to a bed for days from an arrow. He could have bled out, or succumbed to infection. And we would have been here, disregarding him as he died. The news of his death arriving days after, days you would have us smearing his name.”
Viserys stops sharing his wine with Aegon, a frown on his face as he imagines the scenario, “Is that how you mean to participate in this celebration? Spending your time politicking when you could be joining me in the hunt? Or showing off your powers? Daemon will be fine, Rhaenyra. We will deal with the Stepstones when we return, just-“ he sighs, “Just, please, enjoy yourself. You despair over every task you believe is entrusted to you. Relax, drink, eat, laugh, leave the worriment for the next Council meeting.”
Not exactly the response she wanted, but not a ‘no’ so, “Thank you, Father.”
The Royal tent was filled with soft noise, laughs and the sound of the feast being enjoyed. With the sun out, no candles were lit, but outside she could sense the fires being used to cook meats. She wondered if she were to lose her temper, would anyone be upset that she burnt the roast boars and birds.
Rhaenyra stalks through the tent, passing by servants, knights, lords and finally, the ladies. A small group of highborn women, sitting around chatting alongside the Queen. It almost reminded Rhaenyra of the Women’s Court her Great Grandmother would host.
“Lady Johanna was reported to have been abducted when one of Lord Swann’s ships sailed through the Stepstones.” Almost.
Alicent speaks up, “What will happen to Lady Johanna?”
“She’s to be sold to a pillow house in the Free Cities, if you believe the rumours.” Ceira Lannister sagely answers. The mother of Jason and Tyland Lannister, Rhaenyra almost pitied her for that fact.
A man approaches the circle of women, gaining their scrutinising eyes as they see it’s the Clubfoot, “I fear the Gods did not make me for hunting. Might I sit with you, my ladies?”
“But of course. Please join us,” Alicent tells him, her voice so soft and polite, “Larys Strong, the youngest son of our Master of Laws, Lord Lyonel.”
A few of the women attempt courteous smiles, but they fall away just as quickly as the conversation continues, the man forgotten, “My lord husband says no king has ever been able to tame the Stepstones for long. It’s an inhospitable place suited only for savages.” Says another lady, a Hightower of some kind, Rhaenyra guessed.
Ceira intervenes as her eyes land on the ear-dropper, “Perhaps the Princess… can give us some insight.”
With a short chuckle, Rhaenyra steps into the circle of sitting ladies, “Oh, I’m not sure how I could. I’ve never been to the Stepstones, I couldn’t speak on the nature of its inhabitants.”
“Your dear uncle is the great mind behind this war, is he not?” The Lannister lion strikes a courtly jab.
“I wouldn’t know, I’ve not spoken to Daemon in years. I receive news from the Stepstones like everyone else.”
“Right,” there’s a silence Ceira lets hang, “Well, he’s made a mess and the King must put an end to it.”
“Send fleets and men and clear out the Triarchy for good,” Lady Redwyne adds.
Rhaenyra, annoyed by the woman’s complaints when said woman has done nothing for the realm yet speaks as if she knows best, “We received a new set of reports earlier today and I believe action will be taken in response. But I encourage you to have more faith in the Crown, such brazen criticism might have people thinking you do not support the King’s decisions and by extension, me and the King himself.”
This gets the ladies’ attention, a few sputtering out apologies, but Rhaenyra doesn’t care to hear them. She sends Alicent a look, a warning perhaps, not even Rhaenyra was completely sure what she wanted to convey. She turns and leaves the tent, avoiding her father’s searching eyes.
Exiting, she grabs something off the table to nibble at while walking and watching as people bow to her when they get too close. She tries returning the gestures with a smile, but the Realm’s Delight found herself gravely empty of delight.
“I wonder, Princess…” that voice, she heard it just that morning, but it lacks the reluctant respect Tyland had grown to have, meaning… “Was your own second name day as grand as this?”
“I honestly don’t recall and neither will Aegon,” Rhaenyra responds to him.
He starts to walk up to her and she internally groans. “Lord Jason Lannister,”somehow the more irritating of the identical twins.
“I gathered from all the lions,” She snarks, it was weak, but so was this man. She wasn’t going to waste her best insults on him.
“I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced,” he snaps his fingers and a servant comes over, pouring a chalice of wine.
“Your twin serves on my father’s council.” A fact, nothing particularly engaging for Jason to latch onto.
Unfortunately for Rhaenyra, Jason finds something, “Tyland is…” he takes the now full chalice, “frightfully dull, Gods love him.” He hands her the wine, his speech speeding up as if he’s trying to sell it to her, “The finest honeyed wine you’ll ever taste. Made in Lannisport, of course.”
“Of course,” Rhaenyra takes a sip. It’s fine, not a Dornish red but far from being undrinkable. She could understand why he would boast about it, not many were able to get ahold of merchandise from Dorne to truly appropriate their alcohol.
“The Kingswood,” Gods he’s still going? “A fine hunting ground. But the best spot is to be found at Casterly Rock, near my home. Have you been?”
“Um, once… on tour with my Mother when I was young,” the memory dampens her mood even more, “And honestly can’t recall much of that either.”
“The Rock is thrice the height of the Hightower in Oldtown, taller still than the Wall in the North. It’s been said that,” he steps towards her, turning her to look towards the lowering sun, his hands on her shoulders, “if one were to stand in the tower… on a perfect day, one could see clear across the Sunset Sea.”
He smartly takes his hands away, but doesn’t step back, standing too closely behind her, “It must be quite something.” Rhaenyra could feel his body heat, could feel him heating up in his crotch area.
“Mmm… I don’t have a Dragonpit, of course, but.. I do have the means and resources to build one.” He says it so casually, as if it was something already spoken about before.
Rhaenyra could feel the bonfires getting stronger by her emotions, but she wanted him to say it clearly, to give her a reason to burn, “And why would you need a Dragonpit?” She keeps her back turned to hide the anger on her face.
“To house dragons, of course. I’d do anything for my queen… or… lady wife.”
And there it was. The numerous fires suddenly burst upwards, burning high enough to see over tents and canopies. With a slow twisting of her hand, the heat at his crotch stops being hormones and start to hurt as the blood starts to simmer in his veins. Jason gasps, falling to his knees and clutching his pants in a panic.
“Thank you for the wine, my Lord,” the pathetic sight causes her to calm, so she relents, “Please, pass on my message to other misguided suitors, let me save them the attempt.”
He watches with tears in his eyes as she turns and leaves, dropping the chalice onto the ground, spilling its content without a care. The smell of burnt meat fills the air and Jason prays that it’s not his cock.
Notes:
Rhaenyra: Oh you thought I could only do fire puppet shows?
Rhaenyra: BOOM! Melted your penis off.
Jason: *crying
Jason: WhY
Rhaenyra: in a bad mood 😝
Alicent: She’s cursed, a threat, ungodly
Alicent: she cannot come near my precious son
Rhaenyra: your baby ugly anyway
Rhaenyra: ugly bastard baby
Daemon: *nearly dies
Rhaenyra: skill issue lol
Rhaenyra:
Rhaenyra: wait that’s my uncle, he needs help
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