Chapter Text
PRINCESS RHAENYRA TARGARYEN
The chill of the sky clung to her as Rhaenyra guided Syrax back toward the Dragonpit, the dragon’s scales glimmering faintly in the pale morning light. She had told her mother she would ride today, and she had supported the idea, though a lingering shadow clung to her eyes. The fever of the past three days had passed, yet her body still remembered its weakness, and her mind hummed with the residue of their shared dreams. That much was clear: mother and daughter had seen the same visions, strange and terrible, and neither could deny the weight they left upon them.
Rhaenyra itched to do something — anything — to wrest control from the obvious future that lay before them, a future heavy with fire, loss, and the cruelty of fate. But whenever she looked at her mother, pale and still, caught in a web of shock and indecision, and felt a surge of frustration. Syrax moved beneath her with quiet grace, sensing perhaps the tension in her rider. Her hands itched on the reins, not merely to guide the dragon, but to seize her destiny by the throat before it could tighten its grip.
Ser Harrold was already waiting as Syrax’s powerful form slowed to a graceful landing. The dragonkeepers stepped forward immediately, murmuring reassurances and guiding her onto the platform of her nest. Rhaenyra gave them nothing more than a brief nod before turning, leaving Syrax to settle, her mind to burdened for more than that. Ser Harrold inclined his head, perceptive as ever, and she returned the gesture with the faintest curl of her lips, a small acknowledgment that they both understood.
The carriage awaited nearby, wheels creaking softly against the cobbles as she climbed in, brushing off her riding gloves. As the familiar enclosure of its walls wrapped around her, Rhaenyra allowed herself a moment to breathe, to let the sun’s pale warmth spill across her face. And then she thought, with a clarity born of restored health and the freedom of early morning, that they had so much time.
And yet even as that thought settled, another feeling pressed heavier on her chest: she did not want to be heir. Not truly. Was it worth, all that loss and grief? Her mother, her beloved, those yet unborn — and Daemon, and the shadows she had glimpsed in dreams, of children and dragons and kings — so much grief, so much death. The crown, the throne, the legacy, all of it felt like fire, consuming before it could warm.
The carriage rolled swiftly back toward the Red Keep, the city still shrouded in morning mist. Her aunt, Amanda, was waiting, brisk and composed despite the hour. “Princess,” she called, hurrying to meet the carriage. “The king and queen have summoned you to the king’s chamber.”
Panic pricked at Rhaenyra’s chest, her hands tightening around the railing of the carriage as if to brace herself. For a heartbeat, she thought she was motherless once more.
Amanda’s calm voice cut through the rising tide. “Your mother is well,” she said, placing a gentle hand on Rhaenyra’s shoulder. “Do not let your mind run ahead. All is as it should be.”
Still, Rhaenyra did not slow. She slipped from the carriage with quick, determined steps, moving toward the Red Keep’s inner halls with the urgency of a heart that feared any delay. Her aunt’s reassurance followed her, but only faintly, like a distant echo.
She walked into the king’s chambers and froze for a moment in the threshold. There was her father, smiling brightly, as though the morning sun had taken shape in human form, standing beside her mother. But even a blind man could have seen the tension coiled in her mother’s posture.
“Rhaenyra,” Viserys said, his smile never faltering, “come closer, child.” He gestured with a hand that radiated ease and fatherly pride.
Her father’s voice was warm, untroubled, as he spoke. “We are happy to announce, Rhaenyra, that your mother carries a new addition to our family.”
The words should have brought relief, even joy, yet all Rhaenyra felt was the tightening of her chest. Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes, not for celebration, but for fear. If her mother was with child, then the fevered visions from their shared dreams could not be ignored. She had felt them as surely as she felt the blood in her veins, glimpses of cruel inevitability.
This pregnancy would not be kind. Rhaenyra knew, deep down, that her father would insist upon what he believed necessary to preserve the line, to secure the throne.
Viserys’s voice softened, almost proud, as he continued. “The maester examined her this morning and confirmed it. He says all signs point to a healthy child. Luckily the fever caused no harm on the babe.”
Rhaenyra could do nothing but look at her mother. And her mother, coincidentally enough, could not meet her eyes. Aemma’s gaze was fixed somewhere beyond the walls of the chamber, distant and trembling, as if she were balancing herself against an unseen weight.
Rhaenyra did not stay another moment in the king’s chamber. She stormed out, her skirts whipping around her legs as she fled down the halls, Ser Harrold quick to follow but she ignored him, her mind a storm of fear and fury.
By the time she reached her chambers, her heart was hammering, her breaths short and ragged. She threw the door open, and in a sudden, furious motion, slammed it shut against Ser Harrold. Rhaenyra’s hands flew to the nearest objects: a vase, a small carved box, the pages of a book left carelessly on her desk. They crashed to the floor, splintering and tearing as she tore through the room, throwing anything she could find. The sound echoed like cannon fire in the small chamber, a desperate symphony of her rage and frustration.
Why won’t she fight?! Why won’t she fight for me? For us?! Her chest heaved, tears pricking at her eyes, but she would not let them fall. She spun toward the window, throwing the curtains aside. Pale morning light fell over the mess she had made, highlighting the splintered fragments of her outburst.
Her mind turned over the scene she had left behind: her mother, pale and trembling, unable—or unwilling—to meet her eyes; her father, smiling as though everything were well. The fevered dreams, the images of fire, blood, and loss, pressed upon her relentlessly. And still, her mother had not acted, had not risen to fight, had not even seemed willing to prepare.
Rhaenyra threw herself onto the bed, pressing her face into the pillows, her body trembling with helpless grief. Outside, she could hear Ser Harrold shift in the hallway, quiet and patient, waiting, alert, but he did not intrude. She wanted to scream, to strike, to shake the world until it understood her fear and fury.
Rhaenyra sank onto the edge of the bed, her fists still clenched at her sides, and for a long moment, she could not breathe. The fury that had driven her out of the king’s chamber ebbed, leaving a hollow ache in its place, one far heavier than anger alone. Her chest tightened, her vision blurred, and finally the dam broke.
Tears spilled freely down her cheeks, unchecked and hot, as the reality pressed down on her: she was going to lose her mother.
The fear she had carried, the warnings whispered in fevered dreams, were no longer distant threats—they were inevitable. The thought of Aemma, pale and fragile, caught in the crossfire of duty, prophecy, and a father’s devotion to the throne, pierced Rhaenyra to her core.
She buried her face in her hands, shuddering, wishing for Syrax, wishing for flight, wishing for anything that could push back the cruel certainty of what was to come. She could not stop it, could not warn her mother in a way that mattered. She could only weep for the woman who had borne her, for the queen whose gentle strength had always been a quiet guide in a world so often harsh.
Queen Aemma Arryn
Aemma remained seated in her chair, the morning light filtering softly through the tall windows, Viserys at her side. His hand rested lightly on hers. Yet not quite touching the storm that churned beneath her calm exterior. “Why did Rhaenyra react like that?” he asked, concern knitting his brow.
“She must be tired from her flight,” Aemma replied softly, her voice measured, even. She expected him to believe her — and he did, as she had known he would — leaning down to press a brief, tender kiss to her cheek before straightening. “I must tell the Small Council of the splendid news,” he added, his smile bright, untouched by the weight she carried.
Aemma rose, steadying herself against the chair, and returned the gesture, pressing her lips to his cheek. She could feel the ash in her tongue, the bitter residue of fear and foreknowledge, but she kept it silent. Duty demanded composure. Duty demanded appearances. Ser Arryk followed silently behind her as she moved through the corridors, the echo of her steps mingling with the still, misted morning of the Red Keep.
As she walked, her mind wandered to the patterns of her life, to the long, deliberate years that had brought her here. She had known from childhood that she would marry Viserys, and from the moment that was decided, her world had been measured by duty and expectation. To be the wife of a Prince of the blood meant more than love; it meant obedience, care, and the fulfillment of roles written long before she could choose. And when Viserys had been named heir to the throne, her duty had sharpened to a single, piercing point: she must give him a son, the heir to carry their house and their bloodline into the future.
Yet all her careful tending, all her prayers whispered into the night, had so far yielded only one child to survive — Rhaenyra. Aemma’s chest tightened at the thought, the weight of her failures pressing down like the stone walls of the keep themselves.
When her thoughts turned to Rhaenyra, Aemma felt a familiar ache twist through her chest. The dreams still lingered at the edge of her consciousness. She had trouble accepting that she, of all people, could bear such visions. Half Arryn, raised among cold mountain halls and rigid expectations, she had never imagined herself touched by the sort of mystic foresight the Targaryens were famed for. And yet, in the quiet moments, she still saw flashes of fire, heard echoes of dragon wings, and glimpsed futures she could not yet name.
She remembered vividly watching as Viserys declared Rhaenyra his heir. Her stomach had dropped, an icy void opening where hope should have lived. She had felt reeling, as though the world itself had shifted beneath her feet. If Rhaenyra — her daughter, her only surviving child — was enough, if a male heir was not mandatory, then what had been the point of her own suffering? Why had she lost so many children, so many fragile lives, in the effort to fulfill a duty that suddenly seemed, in some cruel way, unnecessary?
Aemma had been wed and bedded at thirteen name days. By the time she had reached Rhaenyra’s age, she had already endured a miscarriage, a cruel precursor to years defined by the precarious balance of life and loss. Her existence, from then on, had been measured in the quiet agony of whether she could produce a male heir — a son to carry the Targaryen line. And in the span of twice as many years, she had lost five babes, each death carving deeper into her heart.
And if the dreams were real then this pregnancy would bring death. But it would not be fate itself that claimed her. It would be Viserys, her husband. The man who had taken her hand and whispered his love countless times.
She had thought he loved her. She had believed it, countless times, in the soft light of their chambers, in the glittering ceremonies of court. He had held her hand as whispers and stares fell upon her belly like knives, as the court’s judgment weighed heavy on her shoulders. He had showered her with gifts, with attentions, with gestures meant to soothe the heart and smooth the treacherous edges of her role as queen and wife.
And yet, she knew — the knowledge was bitter and sharp as Valyrian steel in her mind — that he would cut her open. He would order it, for the sake of a prophecy, for the sake of a child whose birth might fulfill or thwart some vision of fire and blood. All her obedience, all her devotion, all the teachings of a wife and queen, would be meaningless against the cold, inevitable weight of a man who placed prophecy above his wife’s life.
Her chest tightened, and she felt a tremor run through her limbs. The court’s smiles, the gifts, the whispered assurances — all of it felt hollow now, a cruel pretense masking the truth. She had done everything she had been taught to do, everything a woman was to do as a wife, and yet it would not save her.
Aemma walked astride, her steps measured and deliberate, each motion a careful assertion of control. She was not interested in giving even an inch of advantage to the courtiers she could see beginning to mill about in the corridors, their eyes flitting with curiosity and gossip. Every glance, every whisper, she imagined as a blade ready to strike at her, and she refused to falter beneath it.
When she finally reached her chambers, she found Amanda already there, along with the two other ladies-in-waiting.
Aemma’s gaze swept over them, sharp and unyielding. “You may go,” she said firmly, voice steady, though there was an edge to it that made the words slice through the polite murmurs. One by one, they left, filing out with careful bows, leaving only Amanda behind.
“What is wrong?” Amanda asked gently, voice soft, eyes searching.
Aemma wanted to say that everything was well. She truly did. The words formed in her throat, earnest and careful. But she could not speak them. Amanda knew her too well; she had grown up alongside her, shared her earliest fears and joys, had left the Vale to walk this perilous path at her side. She saw the tremor in Aemma’s hands, the taut lines of her shoulders, the panic lurking behind her eyes.
Something inside Aemma began to close, tight and inescapable, squeezing her lungs, twisting her chest. She could not breathe. Not fully. Not deeply. Not for long.
“I… I can’t…” she whispered, the words barely audible, swallowed by the weight pressing down on her. She felt the first tremors of tears, the sting of helplessness, the cruel inevitability she had foreseen in the dreams and in the quiet moments of reflection.
Amanda moved closer, her hand steady on Aemma’s arm, guiding her gently toward the nearest chair. “Ser Arryk,” she called softly to the guard who was guarding her door, “the Queen is asleep. She is not to be disturbed.” Aemma almost laughed at the absurdity of it all — asleep? She had never been more awake, more aware of the knife-edge of mortality pressing against her chest.
And yet the truth hit her harder than the words could: she was going to die.
She was going to die and leave Rhaenyra behind, to suffer a life of misery and grief in a world that demanded too much from those born to Targaryen blood. And somehow, even in the midst of that terror, there was a faint, terrible relief. She could not do this anymore — could not be bred, measured, weighed, and cut like she had been. She had reached the limit of endurance, and death offered an escape she could not resist.
She felt herself slump against Amanda, her sister’s arms finally around her, the weight of familiarity and bloodline anchoring her shaking frame. Tears spilled freely, muffled against her sister’s shoulder. It had been years since Amanda had held her like this — years since she had been allowed the comfort of family rather than the strictures of courtly manners. Since she had been elevated to queen, she had been untouchable, governed by protocol and childbed, yet in this moment, she needed her blood sister more than anyone.
Amanda held her tightly, murmuring soft reassurances, but Aemma barely heard the words. She closed her eyes and let herself feel safe again, if only for a moment. For the first time in as long as she could remember, she allowed herself to be small, fragile, and afraid. She could not fight, could not breathe, could not endure alone — and in Amanda’s arms, she found the fleeting, desperate comfort of being human.
It felt like hours before Aemma could draw a proper breath. Each inhale had been shallow, each exhale caught halfway in her chest, until finally, at last, her lungs opened and air rushed in like a tide breaking through a dam. Amanda’s arms held her steady, and for the first time in days, she felt some semblance of control returning.
“I saw… everything,” Aemma whispered at first, voice trembling. “My own death… it will come. I… I will die, Amanda.” Her words were raw, jagged pieces of confession, and when Amanda’s hand tightened over hers, tears pricking her own eyes, Aemma felt the weight of grief and fear spill over.
She went on, voice steadying with each detail, yet still heavy with anguish. She told Amanda of Viserys marrying Alicent Hightower — of all people, of all the families in the realm, it would be her — and how the court would abandon Rhaenyra, her daughter, to a life of expectation and disappointment. She spoke of Rhaenyra’s marriage, to a man incapable of giving her heirs, of the children she would bear — the brown-haired boys, the sons of love and duty, yet born into fear and grief.
“And Luke…” Aemma’s voice faltered, catching on the thought. “He… he bore a resemblance to me. As though a part of me lived on in him, and yet…” She shook her head, tears streaking her cheeks, “even that could not save him. Nor Jace. Nor Joffrey.”
Amanda’s own tears fell freely now, her lips pressed to her sister’s hair as she whispered, “Oh, Aemma…” but Aemma could not stop.
She spoke of the war — of blood spilled on fields and in halls, of hateful children forced to fight and die for the ambitions and mistakes of their parents. Of dragons torn from sky to ground, of flames and smoke blotting out the sun, and of Rhaenyra standing in the midst of it, her courage fierce yet shattered by grief. She spoke of the losses that would come, the betrayals, the twists of fate that no amount of love or duty could prevent.
When Aemma finally fell silent, Amanda cupped her sister’s face in her hands and wiped the tears from her cheeks as if she were a girl of six again, skinned knees and all, rather than the woman grown, the queen of the Seven Kingdoms. There was a gentleness in the gesture that startled Aemma.
“This is enough,” Amanda said softly, voice steady but imbued with quiet conviction. “If we know what is to come, then we can change it. We can bend the future, Aemma, rather than letting it break us.”
Aemma blinked, startled. She watched as Amanda rose and crossed the room, calling softly for the ladies-in-waiting with the hanging bell outside the chamber. Aemma sat very still, her eyes following Amanda, who seemed to slip effortlessly into command. Her sister’s words were casual, even domestic.
“Lemon cakes, and a tray of tea — and bring a flagon of wine as well.”
The chamber was quiet after the ladies withdrew, only the soft hiss of the fire filling the air. Aemma’s hands twisted together in her lap until her knuckles whitened. She lifted her gaze, watery and uncertain, to Amanda.
“Do you…” Her voice caught, thin and fragile. “Do you believe me, Amanda? In truth?”
Amanda did not answer at once. When she spoke, her voice was steady, iron-bound in its calm.
“The tale you speak of is too mad to be anything but truth,” Amanda said softly. “And yet it has not come to pass. That means it may still be unwritten. And if it can be unwritten, then we must see to it that it is.”
Aemma stared at her, unable to take comfort in that calm certainty. Her throat worked around words that clawed their way out, ragged and choked.
“No.” She turned from Amanda, stumbling to the window where the weak daylight slanted across the stone floor. Her palm pressed against the cool glass, as if it might steady her, but it did not.
“This babe will be the death of me,” she whispered, her breath fogging the pane. “And if not this babe, then Viserys will.” Her shoulders shook once more.
“I have tried so hard, Amanda,” she wept. “So hard to bear him an heir. But I cannot carry little pieces of myself only to grieve them in the aftermath. I cannot watch more babes burn.”
Her hands clutched at her belly then, protectively and despairingly both, as though she could shield the life within from the truth she had already seen. Her knees weakened, and she sank onto the edge of the chair, sobs wracking her chest.
Amanda moved swiftly, kneeling before her, taking her hands into her own.
“You will not face this alone,” Amanda murmured, her grip strong, her gaze unwavering. “Not so long as I draw breath. Do you hear me, Aemma?”
But Aemma only shook her head, tears dripping freely down her cheeks.
“And what of Rhaenyra?” Amanda asked. At once, Aemma’s wet eyes lifted, startled, stricken. Amanda held her gaze, refusing to relent.
“If this vision of yours comes to bear its fruit,” Amanda pressed on, “then it is not only you who will suffer. Rhaenyra will too. She will lose her children, Aemma. One by one, the vipers in this keep will strip them from her, until she is caged in her own home by the Hand and his daughter. Until she cannot even trust the stones beneath her feet.”
Aemma shook her head violently, a broken moan tearing free from her throat. But Amanda did not stop.
“And worse,” she whispered, her words falling heavy as stones. “Your daughter will be burned alive before the eyes of her own son. And that boy—your grandson—will live out his life in misery, with her screams etched into his soul. Is that what you would leave him to?”
Aemma’s hands flew to her mouth as if to keep the sound of her anguish contained, but the sob broke free anyway, raw and keening. Tears blurred her vision until she saw nothing but the blurred outlines of her sister’s face, stern and unyielding.
“No,” Aemma gasped. “No—my sweet girl… she should be safe. Safe and happy, away from all of this—away from the crown, away from these thrones that kill us piece by piece.”
Her body shook as though her very bones rebelled at the thought. “She was meant for joy, Amanda. For laughter and sunlight, not for ashes and blood.” Amanda would not release her. Her hands stayed firm, her voice sharp as a blade.
“If this comes to pass, then think on what it means for Rhaenyra,” she pressed. “Your only child, alone in this pit they call a court. Isolated on every side. With a coward for a husband who will never lift a finger for her. The Velaryons will show her their banners, their words, but not their loyalty when it matters most. And Viserys—” Amanda’s lip curled, her voice turning scornful—“Viserys is too weak to shield her. Too blind to see that his daughter will need a foundation, allies, a stable reign if she is to sit the throne. He will not give her that. He cannot.”
Aemma’s breaths came faster, uneven, her chest trembling under the weight of each word. Amanda leaned closer, refusing to yield.
“And so your daughter—your legacy, your sweet girl—will be left to claw against the storm alone. And what will the histories call her then, Aemma? Not the beloved princess. Not the bright hope of her house. No. They will remember her as a daughter trapped in a war already written in stone, fighting until she breaks.”
The words shattered something in Aemma. Her head snapped up, tears cutting harsh tracks down her face, her voice rising with a rawness Amanda had never heard from her before.
“And what would you have me do, Amanda?” she cried, almost screaming. “What in the gods’ name am I meant to do? I am to die! Do you not see? I am already lost—I am already gone!”
Her fists struck weakly against her sister’s shoulders, trembling with fury and despair all at once. “I will leave her alone whether I wish it or not. Alone, and I cannot stop it. So tell me, sister—tell me! What can I do from the grave?”
The chamber rang with her broken voice, the fire snapping in the hearth as though answering her anguish. Amanda caught her wrists gently but firmly, holding them still, meeting Aemma’s wild eyes with her own steady ones.
“You can act before the grave,” Amanda whispered. “While there is breath in you, you are not yet lost.”
Aemma could not summon a refutal. The words stuck like glass in her throat, cutting whenever she tried to speak. Her sobs faltered into silence, and she sank against her sister, hollowed, her gaze drifting to some place far beyond the chamber walls.
She remembered the day Rhaenyra was born. How her heart had nearly burst from joy and terror both. She had been so small, so fragile, and Aemma had feared—oh, how she had feared—that the gods would snatch her away in the cradle as they had so many of her babes before. She had wanted nothing more than to run from the court, to take her daughter into the quiet countryside, away from the games of power, away from prying eyes and whispers and knives. She had wanted to shield her sweet girl from the horrors of this world.
But Rhaenyra had not been fragile. No, she had surprised her mother at every turn, with more fire in her than Aemma had ever known how to hold. A spark too bright to contain, fierce and unyielding, a little dragon even before she ever touched a dragon’s egg. That fire had been her pride and her terror both.
And then—then the Hightowers came.
Aemma’s hands curled into fists before she realized it, her nails biting into her palms. She saw how their presence had dimmed her daughter, step by step. That relentless, cloying Alicent, her simpering father Otto—together they had smothered her flame beneath honeyed smiles and prayers, stealing what made Rhaenyra burn.
A hot wave of hatred surged through Aemma, so sharp and sudden she trembled with it. Hatred so strong it stunned her, for she had never been a violent woman. Never raised her hand in malice. Yet now she saw their faces in her mind’s eye, and gods help her—she wanted to rip them apart with her bare hands.
Her breath came in shallow bursts, her shoulders shaking, and Amanda, watching her, saw the shift—the rage searing through her sorrow, raw and untamed.
Amanda’s gaze lingered on her sister, watching the tremor in her shoulders, the way her hands balled into fists as though she could claw the very air. For a heartbeat, Amanda almost pitied the Hightowers—almost—for she had never before seen Aemma Arryn look as if she could kill.
Amanda leaned closer, her voice low, urgent, threading itself like a whisper of steel into her sister’s ear.
“This is it, Aemma,” she said. “Your chance. The gods have handed you a cruel lot, but in this cruelty lies choice. Fate may have doomed you, but it has not yet doomed your daughter. You can change this. You can give her more than a weakling for a father, more than vipers snapping at her heels. You can shape what comes after.”
Aemma’s eyes lifted, wide, rimmed red with grief and rage alike, and Amanda gripped her hands hard enough to steady the trembling.
“You must not waste it,” Amanda pressed, fierce now. “Do not go meekly into death. Do not let them turn Rhaenyra into a pawn, or leave her to stand alone. If you have ever loved her—as I know you have, more fiercely than anything—then seize this, Aemma. Seize it with both hands.”
For a moment, there was only the sound of Aemma’s shallow breathing, her tears shining on her cheeks. Amanda’s words hung in the air between them, heavy, inescapable.
“This is your chance to change your daughter’s fate,” Amanda whispered, softer now, her forehead pressing against Aemma’s. “And gods help you, sister… if you let it slip through your fingers, then her fire will be snuffed out, and your legacy with it.”
Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen
The sharp rap at her door startled her from her musings. She had been lying flat on her back, eyes fixed on the carved canopy above her bed, tracing the same lines and knots of the dark wood for what felt like hours. It was easier than thinking, easier than remembering the sting of her father’s words that morning—the announcement that had lodged in her chest like a stone.
“Princess?” came Ser Harrold’s voice through the oak. “ The Lady Amanda requests an audience.”
Rhaenyra blinked, confusion threading through the fog of her thoughts. Amanda? At this hour? She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her voice sharp with curiosity. “Let her in.”
“Your mother has summoned you,” Amanda said without preamble.
Rhaenyra’s brows arched high, her lips pressing into a line. Summoned. By her mother. A fresh spark of irritation flared in her chest. She exhaled through her nose, rising with a huff.
“Very well,” she muttered, snatching up the robe that hung over the back of her chair. She shrugged it on, belting it tight. Of late, she had favored clothes like these—garments she could slip into quickly, garments that spared her needless company. The thought of being in the same room as Alicent sent a shiver crawling up her spine, a queasiness settling in her stomach until she snapped herself from the thought.
Without another word, she gestured for Amanda to lead the way. The corridors were hushed at this hour, torches sputtering in iron brackets, the stone floor cool beneath her slippers. Each step seemed to echo louder than it should. When at last they reached her mother’s chambers, Amanda pushed the door open with a steady hand. Inside, her mother sat at a small table, lamplight pooling around her in a halo of tired gold. She looked pale but composed, a quiet determination in the way she held herself.
Rhaenyra dipped her head slightly, forcing the mask of courtly decorum she had been drilled to perfection in. “Your Grace,” she said, voice even, though the tightness in her chest betrayed her.
Aemma sighed, a long, quiet sound that carried more weight than any reprimand. At the same moment, Rhaenyra noticed Amanda moving to close the doors from inside, shutting out the hall and the curious ears that might otherwise intrude.
“Come closer, Rhaenyra,” her mother’s voice came soft, tired, yet commanding in its own quiet way.
Rhaenyra hesitated for a fraction of a second, then obeyed, crossing the room and settling into the chair beside Aemma. She kept her body language closed off, arms folded lightly in her lap, her posture taut like a drawn bow.
Aemma’s gaze took her in, noting every stiffened shoulder, every line of guardedness. She opened her mouth, hesitated, closed it, and did so again. Rhaenyra, caught mid-glance, saw Amanda give her mother a sharp, almost imperceptible look, and then Aemma’s lips pressed into a thin line as if steeling herself.
Finally, she spoke. “There are many things we must speak of, Rhaenyra,” Aemma began, voice quiet but steady. “But first… I would like to apologise.”
Rhaenyra’s brows rose slightly, but she remained silent, letting her mother continue.
“I was raised to believe,” Aemma said slowly, choosing each word with care, “that a wife’s duty was to give her husband heirs. That it was the highest calling of a woman, and yet… I was never taught the meaning of the other duty: the duty of a mother. To guide, to shield, to protect my children.”
“I was so caught up,” Aemma said, her voice low but firm, “in trying to bear a male heir, in trying to fulfill what was demanded of me… that I failed to see what mattered most: that you needed me, Rhaenyra.”
Rhaenyra felt the sting of tears welling in her eyes, but she willed them not to fall.
Aemma reached for her hands, holding them tightly, warmly. “What we have seen… it will not come to pass,” she said, voice steady and sure. “We shall take these dreams for what they are: warnings. Nothing more. And starting now, I will make sure that they mean nothing.”
At those words, Rhaenyra could no longer hold back, tears spilling freely down her cheeks. Aemma gently brushed them away, her thumbs tender against her daughter’s skin. Rhaenyra could not help but lean into her mother’s touch, feeling the warmth, the strength, the determination radiating from her.
Aemma cupped her daughter’s face with both hands, eyes locked on hers. “I will move mountains to make sure this does not become our fate. I have not lived a life other than being bred, Rhaenyra, but I will not choose duty over you. You are already beautiful, intelligent, capable, and… stubborn beyond measure. You need me more than any prophecy ever could.”
Rhaenyra could not stop the crying now, her body shaking with the weight of years of fear and longing. Aemma muttered softly, “Come here, my sweet girl,” and pulled her into a fierce, protective embrace. The world outside the chamber—the politics, the whispers, the cruel games of the court—vanished. For the first time in days, Rhaenyra felt seen, safe, and unbroken in her mother’s arms.
The moment broke with a faint sniffle, and the two of them pulled back slightly, cheeks still wet from tears. Rhaenyra blinked, and then noticed Amanda just beyond the table, trying—and failing—to hide her own tears.
For a heartbeat, the sight struck them both as so absurd that they burst out laughing, the sound shaking through the chamber and loosening some of the tension that had gripped them so tightly.
Amanda wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, still chuckling. “We will need to send for more refreshments if we are to continue this,” she said, her voice light, but her eyes sharp with awareness.
Rhaenyra straightened, gathering herself enough to ask, voice wary but curious, “And exactly what are we doing?”
Aemma wore now a smirk on her face, and she leaned back slightly, exhaling. “Why, of course,” she said, her voice crisp and unflinching. “We need to get rid of the Highwhore.''