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Rating:
Explicit
Archive Warnings:
Underage SexGraphic Depictions Of ViolenceMajor Character DeathRape/Non-Con
Categories:
F/MOther
Fandoms:
A Song of Ice and Fire & Related FandomsA Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. MartinHouse of the Dragon (TV)Game of Thrones (TV)
Relationships:
Daemon Targaryen/Rhaenyra TargaryenHarwin Strong/Laena Velaryon (Daughter of Corlys)Alicent Hightower/Viserys I TargaryenCorlys "The Sea Snake" Velaryon/Rhaenys Targaryen Velaryon
Characters:
The Greens | Supporters of Aegon II TargaryenThe Blacks | Supporters of Rhaenyra TargaryenOriginal CharactersAemond "One-Eye" TargaryenDaenaera Velaryon
Additional Tags:
Alternate Universe - Canon DivergenceEnemies to LoversDragonsFire & BloodReincarnationHorrorBalletMagic
Language:
English
Series:
Part 1 of The Extinguisher Chronicles Next Work →
Stats:
Published:2025-01-12Updated:2025-11-17Words:629,968Chapters:61/63Comments:218Kudos:485Bookmarks:130Hits:35,405
A Palace All Of Glass
fox2T
Chapter 3: Act I, no. 2
Chapter Text
Rhaenyra Targaryen
100 A.C., 10th Moon
"She is abnormal." a low voice said.
Her ear flexed, but she did not move her neck even the slightest. Rhaenyra Targaryen entered The Sept and from above statues of the gods watched over her with solemn countenance as she dipped her head in reverence to the Mother. She approached a pew, knelt down, and unfurled her Seven-Pointed Star. Sweet, burning incense surrounded her, but those lovely soothing fumes could not divert the serpentine declarations drifting from afar.
"They say she is simple-minded, she cannot even speak," one of them sneered.
From the corner of her eye, she could see two septons huddled together, seething and shooting furtive glances in her direction. Specs of dust that floated around, illuminated by the streams filtering in from the windows of stained glass, cast an ugly darkness over their rugged forms.
The men were dressed in brown robes of the Faith, their bald and wrinkled faces giving them an air of volatility. One of them was tall and thin, with a long, hooked nose and sharp, beady eyes. The other was shorter, donning a round face with a dark spot on the top of his head. They were both muttering something under their breath, and the princess could see craven enmity encircle them like a sickly halo.
"Her dragon hatched yet she did not bond with it. It is an omen, I tell you." the other added, and the malice in his voice made Princess Rhaenyra's esophagus clench.
Envy - she began to read to herself - resuming at the ninth passage. The words on the page lost focus in front of her, soon too a mind had wandered. The text was written in a flowing script, and the ink was a rich shade of blue, almost like the color of the sky on an especially splendiferous day. The parchment was soft and showed signs of frequent use, in the distance she could hear faint rustles of pages turning, the coded murmurs of other worshipers on their benches.
The Sept of the Red Keep was a breathtaking sight to behold, a majestic masterpiece that would make even a non-believer keel over in veneration. Its walls were meticulously carved with intricate designs of the Seven, each line and curve an ode to the skill and brilliance of stonemasonry. Windows allowed a spattering kaleidoscope of colors onto the matching floors that danced like fairies in the sunlight, wrapping bliss around her tender chest, and easily she sunk into a state of delightful respite.
As her small fingers brush over the faint scrawl, she thought of all things to envy - she longed for her father's effortless charm, the way he could turn heads with a coy simper, or her mother's ethereal beauty and a spiritual warmth that could captivate even the most astringent. She envied the power and influence of her grandsire, who commanded respect and admiration the war-torn lords of the kingdom over. She too envied the lords and ladies of the court, with their fine clothes and their easy smiles. She even envied the septons and septas, with their simple lives of prayer and devotion.
But it should be that we do not covet what others have.
The Faith teaches their devotees to direct attentions towards personal possessions, talents, and blessings, rather than fixating on what they lack. Each face cautions against the danger of coveting, as it can foster feelings of jealousy and resentment. Envy was a poison that could gnaw away at ones very being, a ravenous beast that leaves them with nothing but bitterness.
Little Rhaenyra knew she could not allow herself fall victim to such destructive emotions, for they were like glittering jewels, tantalizingly close but forever out of her reach. And so, she closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and offered one more prayer to the Mother, letting go of her envy like a raven from its gilded silver cage. Whether forgiveness is received or not, this would be the will of Seven.
"You look rather down today, sweetling."
A warm voice called out, but when Rhaenyra turned around, she found nothing but the empty space in the pew beside her. She shook her head, convinced that her imagination had finally run wild. A sting went down her spine and she straightened it, the burning ache in her chest that never seemed to go away was felt in force. Lids squeezed shut, willing the tears that threatened to spill over stay put.
Several hours went by before she was finally pulled from her studies. Rhaenyra lifted her head from the script, interrupted by a tap on the shoulder. She turned to see her mother's lady, standing beside her with a gentle smile.
"Your mother requests your presence in her chambers," Amanda repeated, her voice lofty and musical.
Princess Rhaenyra stepped into her mother's apartments, the sound of her name drifting through the room as she was announced.
Curly waves of incense infused the interior with a warm, comforting glow. The walls were hung with tapestries of deep red and gold, depicting scenes of valiant knights and fair maidens. The floor was strewn with rose petals, which crunched softly underfoot.
Her mother was seated on a plush chaise surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting. Aemma's dress was of shimmering sterling, her hair perfectly coiffed down her back and adorned with several small dragon-winged hairpins. The ladies all wore their finest dresses, with jewels and precious metals adorning their hair and necks. They cooed and fawned loudly as she curtsied, praising her manners.
Rhaenyra went low when she bowed to the Princess Aemma, small hand smoothing out the folds of a lustrous red and pink gown, then her big purple eyes drifted upward.
"My Rhaenyra!" her mother exclaimed giddily, beckoning the babe close. She took her in her arms, kissing both cheeks and then her nose. "Did you enjoy your morning prayer?"
She nodded in response and a flash of juniper shortly accompanied at the edge of her vision.
"Such a shame," a Hightower by the name of Gwyneth, leaned in close to one of her companions for a mirthful hush. "All that reading must have addled her tongue."
The ladies observed the girl with remote fascination, their scrutinizing eyes roving over her every move. She heard them whispering to each other, their voices like the buzzing of bees. They exchanged glances and tittered behind their fans, all while keeping up the impeccable façade of politeness and cordiality. That condescension ran through her in neat segments. Did they gander her stupid and slow, or did they see her just stubborn and willful?
The princess could not know, and the princess could not care.
For their goal was to provoke her - a reaction is what the carp are in search of. Regrettably for them, she had been learned devastatingly well and knew better than to give way to their taunts. To be clear, Rhaenyra found the common rather smarmy whilst they bounced their rubbered gums; sly digs no more clever than the leavings of a flea-ridden dog. She could sense the disdain in their voices, their comments dripping with the candied poison of false compliments and insincere flattery. It was as if they were speaking to a doll - something to be admired and handled with care, but ultimately of little value.
So she instead chose to focus on small joys that could be found within her current vicinity. The soft swishing of Aemma's dress as she moved, the glint of the light on her mother's jewelry, the warmth of the sun through the arched terrace door.
"I would ask what you might desire for your upcoming name day, but I am sure you will simply opt for nothing."
Rhaenyra blinked up from her mother's lap. "Books."
This earned one of Aemma Targaryen's rare smiles. "That is a given, is it not?"
"Prince Viserys Targaryen, future heir to the Iron Throne." The doorman called out.
The wooden barrier swung open and indeed - there her father stood. His presence commanded attention, and the ladies-in-waiting quickly turned their heads towards him and curtsied deeply, their eyes downcast as he approached the side of his consort. He looked rather formal in his bright red doublet, the shiny thread catching light with every movement.
Princess Aemma rose from where she sat and greeted her husband, embracing him merrily. The daughter watched from a distance as her parents spoke in hushed tones, their words almost inaudible. The prince looked rather troubled, and Rhaenyra saw suspense building. It did not take long for the princess to dismiss all but two from her chambers, and the ladies soon dispersed after bowing respectfully.
As the last of them exited, Viserys turned to his daughter and offered a small smile. "Hello, my little princess." he pat her head affectionately, taking a seat on the chaise beside his wife. Rhaenyra took that chance and sidled up next to him.
He turned to Aemma, his face grim. "There have been reports of unrest in the Riverlands. The lords have requested our aid in quelling Tully's rebellion. It's this business with-" Her father paused, his voice tinged with frustration. "I swear, every time I turn around, one of them is asking for something."
Aemma nodded sympathetically, tacking on, "What is this I hear about Lord Bar Emmon being accused of embezzling funds from the Driftmark treasury as well?"
"Apparently Corlys and Rhaenys have encountered a whistleblower of some sort...But that is hardly a priority," Viserys continues, "It has also been brought to the king's attention that I still have no son. And if something were to happen to me...or worse, to my father."
The atmosphere in the room thickened as Viserys' voice grew increasingly tense. Aemma's brow furrowed in frustration, her dewy features twisted to and fro. Rhaenyra quietly looked ahead, reticence in tune with a heavy, preening dread.
"We have been wed for years, Aemma," Viserys began again, his voice low and dangerous. "Yet still, no son has been born to us."
"Do you think I am not aware of that, Viserys?" she griped right back, "Do you believe me to be slacking on my duties? Believe that I am not doing all that I can to give you what you want?"
"Trying your hardest?" Viserys reeled. "You spend your days with your ladies, gossiping and embroidering, while I have the pressure of the Small Council running down my back. Is that your idea of trying?"
Aemma rose to her feet, her fists clenched at her sides. "What would you have me do? Spend my entire days in your bed, my legs agape as I await your seed?!" she screamed. "I am doing everything I can to bear you a son, but I cannot control the will of the gods!"
"The will of the gods," The first son jeered. "Is that what you call it? Perhaps it is your own will that is lacking, my wife. Perhaps you are not as committed to our marriage as you claim to be."
Princess Aemma's face burned redder than the beating wings of a ladybug. "How could you suggest such a thing? I have been nothing but faithful and devoted to you. I have given all that I am to you, Viserys!"
"Then prove it," he said, his voice cold and commanding. The prince stood up as well, towering over her like the imposing giant he is. "Prove it by bearing me a son, and then we shall see what your devotion is worth."
Rhaenyra flinched when her mother's eyes suddenly flickered to her, still situated on the chaise of plush maroon, and she seemed to realize for the first time that her daughter was still in the room. "Rhaenyra," she said sharply. "You may leave now."
The girl wasted no time dropping down to the carpeted floor, dragging her book with her, grateful for the chance to escape. Unease settled in the pit of her stomach and refused to go but felt much relief as she fled the solar.
Outside the door, the Arryn woman was waiting, with a smile like a beacon and a candor that wiped all gloom straight away. "Princess, your raven has returned with a message attached," she said, soft voice full of excitement. Rhaenyra in turn beamed, grateful for her staying behind to relay this information.
The lady Amanda was quite the beauty, dresses always adorned with intricate embroidery that paid tribute to the sigil of House Arryn. The cobalt organza shimmered like moonlight on a still lake, and the blue and white colors of her attire complimented her pale complexion perfectly. She was petite, with a slender build that was accentuated by a wistful mode in which she carried herself. Chestnut brown hair that was pulled back into a neat chignon, a few loose strands framed her cat-like features.
Rhaenyra found herself drawn not only to the woman's beauty, but also to her kindness. There was none of that nasty slyness in Amanda's smile, no hidden agenda lurking behind her interested gazes.
"Thank you." she said, bowing slightly to her mother's lady.
The Princess trudged down the dark, winding staircases, out of the holdfast to rook's nesting. As she pushed open the heavy wooden door, a blast of cold air hit her, sending a shiver through the thin fabric of her dress. The rookery was brightly lit, shedding much light on rows of ravens on their perches and asleep in their cages. The birds seemed to watch her with unblinking eyes, and their balking calls to one another sounded like a sweet sinister whisper.
There were no maesters present, which was not common, but she continued on anyway down the narrow aisles. The sound of fluttering wings echoed throughout, in addition to the patter of scurrying rats. Then, there was a rustling from the end of the room. She paused and listened, holding her breath as the sound grew louder, and she could hear what appeared to be the scraping of claws.
Her hand instinctively went to the dagger her mother had embedded with the cover of her Seven-Pointed Star. She cautiously approached the source of the noise and saw a faint glimmer beneath the shadows, her footsteps were muffled by a light fettering of straw on the ground. As the girl did, her fears were outright confirmed.
The cat-sized dragon fledgling was behind one of the perches, its scaly golden body a stark contrast to the dark stone. Molten yellow eyes glinted in the summit of noon, and betwixt razor sharp teeth which were bared in a snarl, drops of scarlet fell like tears of the damned from its gaping maw.
Little Rhaenyra stumbled back and fell to the ground, her blade and book dropped from her hands with a clatter and thud. Her pulse thrashed loudly within her ears, the sound of it permeating off the collapsing walls as she panicked for an escape, but the creature had already blocked her path with wings partially spread, its scaly tail lashing back and forth.
She was trapped.
The hatchling's gaze bore into her, and it made her skin crawl. But she could not just sit there, frozen with fear. She had to do something, so she reached down, her fingers fumbling for the hilt of the small chrome dagger that lay on the rocky surface.
It began to zero in, moving towards her with a slow, measured gait, but before it could get any closer, a shroud fell across Rhaenyra's face, and she looked up to see Ser Willis Fell, her assigned guard, standing between her and the danger.
He was a formidable figure, his plate armor clanking as he shifted his limber body into a defensive stance. Without hesitation, he drew his sword, his eyes never moving away. The little beast let out a fierce roar and lunged at the Kingsguard. Ser Fell deflected the attack with ease and it landed with a clunk on the ground.
He charged forward, his sword held high, and the hatchling scrambled back, its eyes darting around frantically for a way out. The dragon hissed and lunged, but the knight was much too quick. He swung his sword in a swift arc, narrowly missing the fledgling's head. The creature backed off, snarling in frustration.
Ser Willis moved in again, sword singing vicious tunes as the Kingsguard thwarted every advancement. The girl stared, nonplussed as the dragon flapped and ascended to the air, slipping through a narrow crack near the top of the rookery. Ser Willis watched on, only sheathing his sword upon absolute certainty.
Princess Rhaenyra let out a shaky breath, hand still vibrating uncontrollably around her weapon.
"Are you alright, Princess?" The man asked, at last turning to her. He looked her over thoroughly, checking for injuries in a rounding compass.
Rhaenyra stood, brushing the straw from her dress, still fixed on the opening through which the creature disappeared. Her eyes then darted to the corner where it had been. The other ravens were agitated, flapping their wings and squawking loudly. The cage that had held her own was eerily quiet, and as she began to near it she found the bird lying motionless on the ground.
Her stomach dropped at such a ghastly sight - the once proud and majestic avian was now a deformed, mutilated mess, its wings torn and scattered around. She looked upon the shredded remains of her raven, a cruel vision, the thick onyx plumes that once gleamed and shone, now tangled and matted with blood.
The murder released their screeching song of death around her, and Rhaenyra entered a bubble of stillness, mourning the loss of this small life that had been stolen away.
For a very long time she remain there, finally bending down to collect what was left of the message when her thoughts returned again. It was nothing more than a jumble of torn parchment, impossible to decipher, writing all but lost and obscured by the red stains. Rhaenyra clenched her fists and crumpled the paper into a ball.
'Could this be the price of complacency?' She pondered.
Ser Willis Fell stepped forward and offered to escort the princess back to her chambers. His voice was steady and reassuring, providing her with some sense of comfort in the bleak aftermath.
Princess Rhaenyra always found the broad-shouldered Fell guard to be an enigmatic figure. He was a man of few words, but his demeanor belied a heart of gold. Though he rarely spoke of his past, the girl heard murmurs of how he hailed from a noble family in the Stormlands, and that his older brother whom he worked alongside - Willam - looked not a thing like him. It was as if he had seen things that no one should have to see, or maybe she merely admired his unwavering loyalty to herself and family, even when it meant going against the council of his fellow knights.
"I would appreciate that." The shaking girl replied, gratitude evident on her gingered features. He nodded and she was grateful for his steadfastness, but even more grateful that he did not linger on the elephant present. They reached her chambers and Ser Willis opened the door, allowing her to enter first.
But even as she settled into bed, Rhaenyra could not escape the premonition that danger lurked around each corner. She closed her eyes to push the thoughts from her mind. It would soon be a time of renewal and growth. Perhaps she was long overdue in letting go.
With that, little Rhaenyra drifted off to sleep, lulled by the impending rain against the castle's pane.
101 A.C., 5th Moon
'It is always the same argument. It never changes.' She did not not know if this was a good or bad thing. Rhaenyra dug another scratch to the appendix of her journal. 'One-hundred-seventy-two.'
The page was barely half-full and not to be so likely until it was found, of course, an insight as to why her days seemed numbered to start. Why the grimness weaving knots in her nerves could not be set aside any longer.
Solace could not be achieved through coercion either. The sweet lemon pies and peach cakes and melon candies that would once melt the uneasiness away were losing effect. This useless task had formed her center once again, and it would sometimes even quell sensations so horrendous they left her with a queer smarting in her chest. But when pen touched paper, and reflection came, her blood would cool at last.
"My Princess," She glanced up to find Septa Violante dwarfed by one of the red-wood bookshelves. "I see you have discarded the Maiden book. I do not believe this is what the passage dictates." Violante looked to the girl's quill. "You are meant to be recounting the great Andal King, Ser Hugor. Instead you are scribbling away...again." the Septa motioned to the First Faith page opened and mused beneath her elbow.
She studied her great-grandfathers most trusted female advisor from beneath her lashes and pulled that hardcover forward to mask the small black book.
"I would beg Her Highness to perpetuate with independent studies less and invest to studies of The Faith more." this seemed a matter she was unwilling to debate.
The mass of white-gold waves cascaded down Rhaenyra's shoulder as she leaned forward, those heavy curls splayed across the wood surface and cast a soft golden ring on the pages of her open Seven-Pointed Star. Damask sleeves of blood red lace spilled onto the desk and she pushed her chin onto her hand. The half-lid moon of her eyes erred a boredom devastating.
It was sorrow and a bit of tension the princess felt however, even more so when old Violante set off a series of disapproving clicks. Skin, bones, and visibly incensed, the woman moved aplomb steadily, her flowing robes of evergreen and calming blue billowing around her like a soothing mist. A static voice that betrayed this tranquil demeanor, resonating facile wisdom as she imparted her teachings, was instead like steel against stone.
"The Princess has an extraordinary aptitude for learning. It seems to be, though, when she desires and only what she desires. Could it be that His Grace has misjudged her talent?"
The Princess was unperturbed, and though it could not be ignored how she would dare question a King to insult a babe in passing, the grating harridan would not be humored either.
She began to recall her lesson, which took no more than one hour to breeze through. Of Hugor of the Hill, Andal monarch prime. A man whom the Seven gave much unwaveringly to for little in exchange. Few achievements claimed and are sparse - lost to the winds of time, one would assume. The man was but a head and more still, Rhaenyra found her time much better spent in shallow meticulous contemplation than in tedious obscure denomination.
'Let her web spin.' The Princess made a yawning gesture, and without even thinking her hand found a bundle of soft silk. She brought the doll into her arms and placed it beneath her chin, using it as a makeshift pillow.
The withered lady regarded the toy carefully, eyebrows shooting up after a long stretch of observation. Her face twisted into something quite nasty.
"You would do well to remember, my dear, that Prince Daemon is not to be trusted," she snapped all of a sudden, her voice laced with an undercurrent that shook the princess to her core. "He is a man who takes pleasure in the suffering of others, and who delights in the shedding of blood and the destruction of lives."
Rhaenyra shuddered as the Septa crossed behind her like creeping dusk, she could feel the weight of the woman's words bearing down, crushing with their unrelenting intensity. "He would cut off a man's hand for sport, would bed a woman and leave her sullied and shattered," She carried on, her voice low and ominous. "He is a plague on the realm. You would do well to stay far from the sinful demon."
A voice interrupted Violante's evil monologue.
"The King has requested you join him in Small Council, Princess." The runner rose from his bow, his voice so soft that the crimson pillars and shelves all but swallowed it.
Mahogany groaned as Rhaenyra shifted. 'Again?'
Perhaps it was a mistake that she chose to portray a docile image, as it seemed to lend privilege into settings deemed wholly unfit for a babe of four. There could be no solving the puzzle that lay before her. Since before the princess could walk, it is said that she could often be seen with a book between her little hands, fumbling across the pages with a bizarrely inquisitive pouter.
Not to mention, the girl had very little desire to scream and shout and aside from the day she was born, very few could count on one hand instances or bouts of tantrum. It was consensus that there had never been a child so tenable, and easily sated, and she assumed the King had folly in flaunting this to his lords.
Her uncle told her, "You are the blood of the dragon, in truth, my niece." but she did not feel it so.
More oft than not the girl felt much the imposter. It would become difficult even to kiss and cuddle her lovely lady mother or lord father, even as those arms were once Rhaenyra's most favorite place.
The Septa's bony fingers came around Rhaenyra's slender arm like a vice before she could slide from her seat. "Remember, my dear Princess, that the Seven Hells are a desolate abyss, where naughty children who neglect their studies are condemned to suffer the most harrowing punishments imaginable."
Vivid imagery of fiery pits and tortured souls flashed through Rhaenyra's mind when she writhed in her chair to escape that taut grasp. The library door cracked open once again, and this time - undistracted - she would follow the source with little time for reaction.
"Rhaenyra!"
The Spring Prince swept into the hall flanked by his Kingsguards. He did not wait for Rhaenyra's greeting, he only scooped her into his arms and spun her around high and fast. "Will you join us this morning for Council, my sweet girl?" Prince Baelon asked hopefully.
A smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. 'Do I have much a choice? If I say no, you will spend the day at large sulking over me.' Is what she might have said had she the mood for petulance in that moment. "Yes."
He seemed to notice it anyway and chuckled as he nuzzled her hair, "I will not make you feel the villain this time if you do not wish, you have my word."
Her head tilted, because she found it so very odd. How simple it was to play innocent with the others, as most are won with a nod or shrug of the shoulders. But they could not so easily be fooled. From the Targaryens, Rhaenyra could not hide this developing peculiarity, nor could she mask her feelings from them. The royal family would gaze at her behind a looking-glass and unwind threads of probing beneath her dermis. It was an uncanny hyperawareness that The Old King would jokingly refer to as The Crone's Avatar.
Underhanded slights did not go unnoticed, so she would in turn become a model of amiable opulence, allowing only a peep of exuberance when necessary.
The princess twisted in his arms and her dark purple eyes seemed to glow from within as she gaze unto him. She leaned in close and through cupped hands whispered, "I am honored Grandfather, truly."
The Heir seemed contented by this answer, and the huge smile that split across his beautiful features would attest. "Let us be off, then?"
As usual, The Red Keep was quite chilly, yet scornful rays of sunlight filled the windows. They reflected off Baelon's silvery-white hair like the shine of fine pearls. The crisp air was filled with the sweet scents of daisy and lavender, mixed with his own scent of leather and gold. Her small fingers wrung into the smooth silk of his red and black doublet as she held on to him tightly.
"When I return at the top of the week, we must resume your horse-riding lessons. It has been quite some time." She nodded in agreement, likewise eager to be back on her young black mare once again.
Rhaenyra watched from her grandfather's arms as he entered the Small Council room. He approached the table and planted a kiss atop her forehead before handing her off The Old King.
"Good morning, Your Grace," Baelon said with a slight bow. "We have much to discuss today."
"Indeed we do," Jaehaerys replied, cradling Rhaenyra in his arms. "But let us enjoy a moment of peace first, shall we?"
Rhaenyra giggled as the king tickled her belly, her tiny hands grabbing at his long beard. All fell into astonishment, the council members looked on, amused at the sight of their austere king and the young princess.
Finally, Jaehaerys settled Rhaenyra back into her grandfather's lap and turned his attention to the matter at hand.
"Lord Tully's rebellion in the Riverlands continues to be a thorn in our side," the king said with a sigh. "His encroachment on our lands and his refusal to pay tribute cannot be ignored."
The Master of Coin, Lord Celtigar, spoke first. "Your Grace, with all due respect, we cannot afford a prolonged conflict with the Riverlands. Our coffers are already strained from recent campaigns with the Dornish, and the next winter will only make matters worse."
Lord Tyrell, the Hand of the King, nodded in agreement. "We must find a way to settle this matter peacefully, if possible."
"And if not? Shall we simply allow Lord Tully to continue his defiance?" The Prince, always eager for a fight, startled at the suggestion.
Rhaenyra's grandsire glared at Baelon, his eyes narrowing in warning. "No, we shall not allow it. But we must consider all options before we take action. The Riverlands are vital to our kingdom's prosperity, and we cannot afford to lose their support."
Lord Celtigar spoke again, his voice measured and calm. "Your Grace, we could offer Lord Tully more lands and resources. Perhaps we could even offer to help him deal with the bandits that plague his lands near the Marches."
The small council meeting was in full swing, with various lords and advisers voicing their opinions on the matter at hand. The princess could only look on discombobulated for the most part as she was unable to keep up with the rapid fire method at which they bounced from subject to subject.
The King cleared his throat, refocusing the council on the matter at hand. "Lord Hand," he said, looking to his right for guidance.
The Tyrell shrunk all consideration back to himself. "My lords, I fear we have not yet found a satisfactory solution to the issue at hand. Lord Tully's rebellion and encroachment cannot be ignored, nor can we simply march our armies into the Riverlands and expect a quick and easy victory. The terrain is difficult, and the Tullys have always been a proud and stubborn people."
It was then that the Velaryon drew the attention of the room with a slight raise of his hand. "If I may interject, Your Grace," he began. "While I agree that Lord Tully's actions cannot go unpunished, perhaps we should consider the consequences of further conflict. We must not forget the recent revelation regarding Lord Bar Emmon and his betrayal. It would be wise to proceed with caution."
He raised an eyebrow, intrigued by mention of the Sharp Point house and their wrongdoings. "What do you mean, Lord Velaryon?" he asked.
The silver-haired lord shifted in his seat, adjusting the cuffs of his mint green doublet. "I have reason to believe that Bar Emmon was not acting alone in his embezzlement scheme," he said, his voice low and measured. "There may be other lords involved in similar activities." Corlys, who had been quiet up until this point, leaned forward in his chair. "I can confirm this, Your Grace," he said. "We received an anonymous tip regarding the whereabouts of Bar Emmon's slush fund, and I took immediate steps to investigate the matter. As it turns out, the whelp had been siphoning it to several other lords in exchange for their loyalty."
His implications sunk in and The Old King looked troubled, his brow furrowed in concern. "This is a serious matter," he said. "We must act swiftly to root out any corruption within our ranks."
Prince Baelon sighed. "As if we needed more proof that these so-called lords are nothing but greedy, power-hungry vultures," he muttered.
Jaehaerys shot his son a warning glance. "Careful, Baelon," he said sternly. "We must not paint all lords with the same brush. There are good men among them, just as there are bad."
Retaliation had the prince glaze his eyes, but he said nothing more. The rest of the meeting continued in much the same vein, with each member of the council presenting their own arguments and concerns. But the revelation of layers in treachery hung over the proceedings like a dark cloud, putting a pall over even the most optimistic of proposals.
T
Rhaenyra walked into Prince Daemon's chambers and per usual, her eyes struggled to adjust to the wide expanse of darkness. It was like stepping into a black pit, with only the faintest bit of illumination from the candles. The walls were adorned with weapons and armor, and there was a general sense of disorder and chaos, clean and tidy as the place was. She walked up to his desk and peered at the pile of maps that were splayed out haphazardly. The books turned open, she recognized some titles - military tactics and warfare strategies, histories of great battles, and treatises on the art of war.
The Prince could not be found, so she sat cross-legged on one of the cushions beside the long couch and opened her bible. Hardly even a few minutes had passed before Daemon entered Maegor's solar. His tall, lithe form seemed to glide across the floor, as if he were almost weightless. His hair fell to the middle of his back like a serene river.
The Princess' voice was soft, "Uncle."
Daemon turned to her with a wicked smile. "Niece," he replied, kneeling down beside her. "What brings you to my apartments so late in the afternoon?"
"Seldom have I seen you these last moons..." She grumbled dejectedly.
"And whose fault is that?" Daemon said with a chuckle. "You are always so busy with your studies and little friends, barely having time for your poor old uncle."
"That is simply not true," Rhaenyra protested. "And I haven't any 'little friends,' as you put it. I have only my duties."
"Ah, yes, your duties," Daemon said, his tone turning serious. "But tell me, little Rhaenyra, do you ever think about what it is you really want?"
"What I want?" Rhaenyra repeated, taken aback. "Of course I do. I want to serve my family and my kingdom. I want to be a good daughter."
"And what of love?" Daemon inquired. "Do you ever think about that?"
"Love?" she felt a flush rising in her cheeks. "What does that have to do with anything?"
"Everything, my sweet," he insisted, his pale eyes simmering with an otherworldly shine. "It is a fire that fuels us all. Without it, we are nothing but cold, empty shells - artists without a canvas."
Rhaenyra's innocent curiosity deepened and her heart fluttered. Never had she surmised the term as such before, not in the way that her uncle suggested, at least. Her mind fumbled as she attempted to make sense of his advice.
"What do you mean?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "What is love?"
Daemon's ethereal presence was soothing to her, as always, but his stare was intense, like a beam that could pierce through her soul. He leaned in closer to her, his breath warm on her cheek.
"Love is a feeling," he began, voice like a caress. "It is the warmth that fills your heart when you see someone you care about, the longing that makes you ache when they are not around. It is the force that drives us to do great things, to sacrifice ourselves for those we hold dear."
"But what of duty?" she asked, her brow furrowed in confusion. "Is it not more important than love?"
Daemon chuckled, a low and throaty sound that made her head tilt like a little bird.
"Duty is important, yes," he said, "but it can be a cold and unforgiving mistress. Love is what gives us the strength to face our duties, to beat on even when the path is most trying. Without love, duty is but a burden. Ultimately, it is through the unity of love and duty that we find true fulfillment and purpose, just as the Seven-Pointed Star illuminates the path to enlightenment and salvation. Whether we are serving our family, our kingdom, or our faith, we must strive to embody both sides of this coin."
"Do you love me, Uncle?" she blurted out, surprising herself with the question.
Daemon's mauvy gaze softened, and he reached out to tuck a strand of her silver-gold hair behind her ear. "I wonder."
She opened her mouth to reply, but the prince cut her off. "Enough of this aimless chittering," he said, rising from his crouch. "I have a better idea. Let us play a game of chess."
After hesitating for a moment, she then nodded. "All right, but I warn you, I am not very good."
"I will not be fooled by your modesty." Daemon said, grinning. He produced a chessboard and set it up on the table between them. "White or black?"
"White," Rhaenyra demanded, unable to shake the feeling that her mischievous uncle was up to something, but she could not back down now.
As they began to play, she found herself becoming increasingly absorbed in the game. Daemon was a formidable opponent, but she managed to hold her own through the first sequences. The pieces moved back and forth across the board, each sliding movement more carefully considered than the last. But as the game progressed, Rhaenyra began to notice something strange. Daemon's moves were becoming more and more erratic, as if he was losing his focus.
And then he made a fatal mistake.
Rhaenyra saw her opportunity and seized it. She moved her knight to a strategic position and then launched a devastating attack on Daemon's king. In just a few moves, she had him checkmated.
The Rogue Prince stared at the board in disbelief. "Well done," he said, his voice tight as he studied the checkered plaque. "You have beaten me fair and square, it would seem."
She sat in silence, contemplating Daemon's words as he cleared the board and reset. She had never really thought about love before. Her parents' constant bickering left little room for such frivolities. But her uncle's words permeated into her subconscious, and she felt a twinge of something begin to slip away.
"Perhaps they would have no reason to argue, were I a boy." She said aloud, unwittingly, unsure of where such a trivial thought had risen from.
Prince Daemon, perhaps now accustomed to her spontenaeity, offered a mysterious smile. But before he could respond, a servant burst into the solar, breathless and frantic. "My Prince!" he gasped. "Prince Baelon has returned from his hunting trip, and he's badly injured. They are bringing him to the Tower of the Hand."
Daemon's expression hardened. "Go." he ordered the babbling man. Hurriedly, he scurried out of the room.
The Princess looked up at her uncle in alarm. "Is he going to be all right?"
He stood and his figure was a looming tower over her. "We shall see." he said, a hint of steel in his voice. "Come, let us go to the Tower of the Hand."
Rhaenyra scrambled to her feet, her small hand clutching tightly to Daemon's fingers as he led her out of the solar and through the waning halls of Maegor's Holdfast. They emerged into the sun, and Rhaenyra blinked as her eyes adjusted to the brightness. She could see a crowd of people gathered at the base of the Tower, their voices raised in concern.
They entered the Hand's chambers and she caught a glimpse of her father's face, filled with worry. He turned to them as they approached, and Rhaenyra could see the fear etched into his features.
"Father," Daemon said, striding forward to stand beside the bed where The Spring Prince lay in sheets of sweat, dazzling face scrunched and contorted. "What happened?"
Baelon groaned in response, his body wracked with shivers. "A boar," he managed to gasp out. "It gored me. I was fine at first, but I suppose it was worse than I thought."
Rhaenyra watched aghast as the maesters worked tirelessly to soothe Baelon's distress. There was no blood, no open wound, he only clutched his side and groaned in agony.
It was almost inconceivable to behold.
A pair of arms wrapped around Rhaenyra's middle and she was lifted into the air. "My daughter should not be here right now." Princess Aemma said sternly, already moving towards the door. She clung to her mother, but her eyes never left her grandfather's form on the bed. Her heart thrummed away, fear and worry mingling with a sense of helplessness.
As she was dragged from the room, her little mind dwelled on what could be causing such excruciating pain without any visible injury. She knew that the maesters had given the prince some sort of medicine, but she could not be free of the feeling that something was off kilter, the entire ordeal.
Later that night, after Aemma had put her to bed with wishes of sweet dreams, Rhaenyra snuck out between the covers and pulled every medical text she could find from the enormous shelves. The girl began to scour page after page for any information that could help alleviate her grandfather. She started with the anatomy texts detailing internal injuries, public journals from the maesters, but found nothing that matched his symptoms.
Completely discontented, she remembered reading somewhere that certain herbs could be used as sedatives. So she turned her botany collection inside out for any book that might contain such plants, eventually coming across a small, ostentatious tome on herbs and their medicinal value. Frantic eyes scanned the pages until they found what they were looking for. The context listed several that were known to have relaxant properties, but Rhaenyra knew to be cautious. Some of the herbs were highly poisonous and could cause more harm than good if not used properly.
Without time to spare, the princess snuck out of Maegor's and back into the Tower of the Hand. She crept silently to where Baelon lay sweating and groaning in his bed asleep. The maesters were nowhere to be seen, and Rhaenyra seized the opportunity to investigate what had been administered.
The jar was small and unassuming, but she could tell that the contents were thick and sticky. The princess unscrewed the lid to take a cautious sniff and was met with something acrid and unpleasant. She could feel her nose wrinkling in distaste. She dipped her finger into the jar to examine what was left over of the liquid and happened to notice a small label on the side, indicating that it contained a mixture of willow bark and poppy seeds.
Willow bark was a common pain reliever, but poppy seeds were a powerful sedative that could cause respiratory distress in large doses. If Baelon was being given this mixture, it could explain why he was groaning in his sleep and struggling to breathe.
The events that followed spun her tense and uncertain. Determined to uncover the truth, Rhaenyra spent the next two days surreptitiously observing the maesters and their methods of treatment. She watched as they administered the same medicine, despite her grandfather's obvious discomfort. Rhaenyra spent her time in the tower restlessly watching over Baelon as the servants tended to him. Daemon was always there, a calming presence in the midst of chaos around them.
On the third day, Rhaenyra decided that she could not wait for her grandfather's hurting to subside. The young princess descended from the tower at dawn and made her way to the maester's apothecary. She knew that some of the best healing herbs could be found in the gardens that surrounded the castle walls, and picked a few that she'd seen her mother use in the past. Rhaenyra then went to the kitchen and grabbed a small bottle of honey, which has been known to soothe most aches.
The apothecary was a small room lined with bottles and jars of various herbs and complex spices, air thick with the scent of dried flowers and crushed leaves. Prudently, the labels on the bottles were examined to decipher the ingredients and their effects. After the measured items were neatly chopped she threw them in a mortar and pestle, grinding the ingredients down to a fine powder.
She mixed the honey into the powder until it formed a thick paste, but her portioning was careful, as the ingredients were rare and expensive, and her mother would not approve of her using them without proper permission.
Finally, when it was ready, she returned to the tower. She waited until the lingering maester had left the Hand's solar and approached Baelon's bedside. Carefully, the labels were replaced and the vial of the original medicine was swapped with her own concoction, making sure it was well hidden among the other supplies. She then discreetly disposed of the original jar, ensuring that none would be the wiser.
"Nyra?" The Princess' heart leapt into her mouth as she whipped around.
The Spring Prince was staring her down with glassy eyes.
Baelon lay in the bed, his once-strong body now frail and weakened. His skin was ashen, and his breaths came in shallow gasps. His metallic hair was damp with sweat, his eyes were sunken and hollow. It was difficult to believe this the man known as the Spring Prince, for now he looked little more than a withered autumn leaf.
Rhaenyra's heart ached as she gazed upon him. She could see the suffering on his face, despite his attempts to hide it. He may have been a great warrior, and a prince of the blood, but he was still mortal, vulnerable to the dangers of the world.
"Grandfather..." The little girl whimpered, approaching his side. "How are you feeling?"
Baelon managed a weak smile. "I am well, my dear," he lied, for he did not want his granddaughter to worry. "How have you been? Keeping up with your studies?"
She nodded, but did not wish to speak about her studies at all.
Although if she had, perhaps the next devastating blow would not have come to the surface. "I apologize...for not visiting the Sept with you of recent. I have not been avoiding you...I just-"
Rhaenyra crawled into the bed and mindfully cucooned herself into Prince Baelon's good side. "Your apology is accepted." She whispered, and the prince chuckled deeply. It clearly pained him.
She fell asleep just like that, with the feel of her grandfather's hand making circles into her scalp.
T
It was as if it happened just yesterday.
The sun had begun to set on King's Landing, the city was alive with excitement for the upcoming tournament. There was excitement in the air, the titter of anticipation as the knights prepared.
Lords and ladies from all corners of the Seven Kingdoms were in attendance, dressed in their finest and adorned with their most prized jewels. The air was filled with the sweet scent of perfume and the lively chatter of the crowd. Their seats were preordained, and Rhaenyra noticed Prince Daemon already present, so she immediately took the space beside him. His usual dark and brooding demeanor seemed to have softened, and he wore a slight smile on his lips.
Rhaenyra sat in her seat, her bored eyes trained to the arena below. She watched as the jousting tournament unfolded before her, each pass of the knights' lances eliciting a cheer or groan from the crowd. Looking down at the lists where the names of the jousters were displayed, she saw no persons of interest. Her parents sat behind, seemingly enjoying the spectacle, but the little girl could hardly focus on anything let alone two men poking each other with long sticks.
The day's events began with the tilt of the apprentices, where young knights honed their skills in the art of jousting. The crowds cheered as the competitors charged down the field, their lances shattering upon impact. The day wore on, the competition grew more intense. Knights from some of the most prominent houses in the realm competed, each hoping to be the victor of glory and splendor.
As the sun began to set, the final joust of the day approached. The alight in the air was beginning to mellow, and the crowd's excitement reached a fever pitch.
"And now for the final match of the evening, The Spring Prince will be dueling the Black Gate Watcher, Ser Harwin Strong!" the announcer called out.
The crowd erupted into cheers and applause as the Spring Prince emerged from the tourney gates, but Rhaenyra felt her world come tumbling down. She sprang from her seat and ran to the ledge, gripping the stone until her knuckles turned white.
Prince Daemon was not far behind, and from that angle she could see perfectly the way his pulse hammered against the delicate skin of his neck. Her grandfather had been recently sick, she knew it well, and the thought of him engaging in a brutal joust filled her with fear.
'He is not yet recovered!' She screamed in her mind, her thoughts racing. She felt a cold sweat break out on her forehead. 'Not even one week since he had been bedridden with an injury that left him screaming like a newborn, and now he takes to the field as if in full health?!'
Her fear turned to terror when the joust began and the two riders thundered down the field with their lances lowered. She held her breath as they drew closer and closer, until the sound of wood splintering filled the air.
Calls for another round were heard as Ser Harwin's lance shattered into a million pieces. Baelon and Harwin both halted their horses at the end of the tilt, their squires rushing forward to provide them with fresh lances. It was not blatantly evident that Baelon is bad condition, but she knew for certain that he was not at operating at full potential as he struggled to hold his lance steady.
The riders took their positions once more, the signal was given, and the two riders thundered down the field. Her eyes were bulging as they drew closer and closer, the deathly rods aimed straight at each other. The crack of wood rang out to belts of thunderous applause and celebration, but Rhaenyra's eyes were fixed on her grandfather.
His lance had struck true, but a harsh cry escaped him as he did so, and a doom came over her as The Spring Prince wobbled in his saddle, struggling to keep his balance.
It was then that everything seemed to slow down. Rhaenyra saw her grandfather's lance slip from his grip, and watched in horror as it swung back towards him. She could see the fear in his eyes attempting to dodge it, feet thrashing in his stirrups, but it was too late. The metal rod struck him full force in the chest, and he was thrown from his horse.
Time seemed to stand still, she watched him fall and her heart was in her throat when he hit the ground. The sickening crack that accompanied as he landed sent a wave of nausea down her spine. The crowd's cheers turned to gasps of horror as they took in the sudden occurrence.
Prince Daemon was the first to move. He vaulted over the railing of the royal box and sprinted across the field to his father's side. Rhaenyra watched in awe as he knelt beside Baelon, his hands moving quickly as he assessed the damage.
Others soon followed, but the princess was frozen, unable to move or think. All around her, the chaos of the crowd was deafening, but it felt as though she was in a world of her own, where nothing existed but her grandfather, unmoving on the ground beneath his heavy armor. The only sound she could hear was the pounding of her own heart, and the panicked voice in her head repeating over and over again, "No."
As she watched from afar, she finally caught glimpse of Baelon's neck at an unnatural angle. The realization hit her like a blow to the stomach, and she felt bile rising in her throat. She knew what it meant even before Jaehaerys, now splayed on the field, confirmed it with a choked cry of, "NO!"
The crowd had fallen silent now, the cheers and jeers replaced with a stunned hush.
When the reality of the situation set in, Rhaenyra felt her legs give out beneath her. She sank on her bottom to the stone floor of the royal box, her hands shaking as she covered her face. She could feel the hot tears streaming down her cheeks. The little girl wished to be anywhere but here, with the broken body of her beloved grandfather lying on the ground in front of her. The screams and cries rising from the jousting field faded away as her little world came crashing down around her.
Prince Daemon's steady voice was a distant murmur. He gave orders to the maesters and knights who had rushed to their side, ever her even and unbothered uncle. The girl felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up to see her mother's reddened face.
"Come, my dear," Princess Aemma said softly, "let us go inside." Rhaenyra was numb with shock, unable to comprehend what happened, and the only sound she could hear was the dull thud of her own pulse.
But one thing she knew was certain - Baelon was gone, and with him so too had gone a part of Rhaenyra's heart.
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