Winter had come.
Five years ago, in the year 300 AC. The maesters of the Citadel had predicted the season would be long and bitter. After all, it was well known that winter lasted as long as the summer that preceded it—and the last summer had lasted over ten years. The longest in recorded history.
Now, winter ruled.
Rhaegar 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, paced inside the Small Council chamber of the Red Keep. For twenty-two years he had worked to mend the realm—piece by piece, house by house—all for a prophecy that had nearly broken it in the first place.
His elopement with Lyanna Stark had nearly torn Westeros apart. The realm had bled for it. Nearly shattered. But he had won. The dragon had risen, and he had begun to rebuild.
It had been a tall order.
He'd had to placate Dorne for the humiliation of their princess, Elia Martell—his first wife. He'd had to soothe the Stormlands after the death of his cousin Robert Baratheon, who had been Lyanna's original betrothed. The Riverlands had been simpler; they'd been divided during the Rebellion and easy to manipulate. A few favors here, a few marriages there. Nothing too difficult.
The Vale had been fractured as well. Lord Jon Arryn, already old and tired by the war's end, had been content with peace. He had lost Robert, his ward, to Rhaegar's sword. Lost his own heir to Aerys' fire. But he gained a young wife, and later an heir. A seat on the Small Council had soothed his wounds, and Rhaegar had to admit, the man was a competent master of coin.
The Reach had stood by the Targaryens throughout the war. They didn't need much to stay loyal, though they were greedy—especially the Tyrells, who wanted their blood on the iron throne. Still, manageable.
The Westerlands had been a nightmare. Or rather, Tywin Lannister had.
Slights upon slights, denied ambitions, old wounds left to fester. Aerys had refused to wed Cersei to Rhaegar. Tywin had bided his time and chosen his side too late. The war ended without a Lannister queen, without any royal favor. Cersei was married off to Edmure Tully—Lord Paramount of the Riverlands. Jaime, his heir, was locked in white armor, trapped in the Kingsguard after Aerys named him one of the Seven—and after he killed the Mad King, saving half a million souls in King's Landing.
That left only Tyrion—reviled, mocked, and unwanted. Tywin would burn Casterly Rock before letting the dwarf inherit it.
The Old Lion was declawed, but still cunning. Rhaegar knew better than to ignore him.
And then, there was the North.
The birthplace of his second queen, Lyanna. One would expect Northern loyalty to their she-wolf turned queen. But Rhaegar had stolen her. His father had burned her kin—her father, her brother—and thousands of Northerners had died trying to get her back.
The North had bent the knee again… but its heart remained cold. Silent. Distant.
For twenty-two years, Lyanna had written to Winterfell every moon. Not once had she received a reply. Rhaegar didn't understand why she kept writing.
He had spent more than two decades trying to fix the realm. Fixing his father's madness. Fixing his own choices. All for a prophecy. He didn't blame the lords for hating him. They didn't know. They didn't understand. The Prince That Was Promised, the dragon with three heads—it had all seemed so clear.
When Lyanna gave him a son at the end of the war, he had nearly wept blood. It wasn't his Visenya, the one he needed. The prophecy demanded three. But three years later, she gave him a daughter—and Rhaegar saw it as divine mercy. A gift. Proof the gods smiled on House Targaryen once more.
Rhaenys, Aegon, and Visenya. The conqueror reborn and his sister-wives.
He just needed to wait. To fix the realm. Let his children grow, come of age.
And they had.
Five years ago, Rhaenys and Aegon wed, appeasing Dorne at last. Two years ago, Aegon married Visenya. The prophecy was falling into place.
Everything should have been perfect.
But it wasn't.
Five years. Two wives. No children.
At first, Rhaegar was patient. They were young. It would come.
Then the whispers started. That Aegon had caught something from a whore when he was fourteen. That he was infertile. That the line was cursed. Rhaegar refused to believe it. Aegon was the promised prince. He couldn't be barren. He was the chosen one.
The only explanation, Rhaegar told himself, was that the prophecy demanded more. Aegon needed to meet his destiny first. He needed to confront the Others beyond the Wall.
The signs were there—long summer, longer winter.
But five years into the worst winter in memory… there had been nothing.
No word from the Wall. No sign of the White Walkers. No whisper of wights.
And now, Rhaegar was done waiting.
He needed grandchildren. Now. He needed heirs to show the realm House Targaryen still ruled by divine right. He needed grain and food before famine ignited rebellion. Winter was long and cruel, and the people were growing desperate. Another rebellion now could break everything.
He couldn't allow it.
Rhaegar stopped pacing at last, his silver-gold hair catching the light of the tall windows behind him. Outside, the sky was a dull sheet of grey, the kind that promised more snow before nightfall. The chamber had grown still, heavy with expectation. His Small Council sat in a semicircle of carved wooden chairs, eyes fixed on their king, awaiting his next words.
"Within the moon," Rhaegar said at length, his voice calm but resolute, "I, Aegon, and a small retinue will take the Kings' Road for the Wall."
A sharp intake of breath came from the other side of the room.
"Your Gr—" Jon Connington began, rising half from his seat.
But the king raised a hand, silencing him without a word. The Hand of the King—a man Rhaegar trusted more than most—slowly sank back into his chair, lips pressed into a firm line.
"That visit has been long overdue," Rhaegar continued, sweeping his gaze over them. "And it will happen. No more delays."
He then turned to Adrian Celtigar, Master of Coin. The old man had served loyally since the death of Lord Arryn five years past, and though his loyalty was unquestioned, it was the hunger in his eyes when matters of gold arose that Rhaegar had never quite grown comfortable with.
"Food," Rhaegar said. "What of it?"
Celtigar adjusted the fur-lined collar of his cloak and gave a long, weary shake of his head. "Not good, Your Grace. Winter has struck hard not only Westeros but Essos as well. The prices for food are climbing everywhere—from Lys to Volantis to Norvos. We could empty the royal treasury ten times over and still not feed the realm for more than a year."
A silence followed and Rhaegar exhaled slowly. "What of that new land… what is it called again?"
"The Green Hills, Your Grace," Varys supplied from his corner of the chamber. The Master of Whisperers stood half in shadow, hands folded in the sleeves of his lavender robe, his voice ever smooth, ever calm.
Rhaegar turned to face him. "What do we know of them? If they were able to turn the Red Waste—one of the most inhospitable regions in the world—into thriving green fields, then surely they possess the means to grow food in plenty. Their population is small, far smaller than Westeros, and they hold vast, open land. They must have surplus."
"They do, Your Grace," Varys replied. "According to my little birds and the few associates I trust in those parts, the Green Hills have more food than they know what to do with. However… they import. They do not export. Not to Westeros. Not to Essos. No city has succeeded in negotiating with them. Many have tried. All have failed."
Rhaegar's brow furrowed. "Why?"
"Because they sent men of low status—or slaves—to speak for them," said Connington, his voice thoughtful now. "These Free Cities pride themselves on power and wealth, but they show little respect to anyone they deem 'new' or 'lesser.' I doubt they sent anyone of true stature."
"You are correct, Lord Hand," Varys agreed. "What I've gathered suggests the Free Cities underestimated the Green Hills from the start. They viewed the land as a novelty at best, a threat to be ignored at worst. But with the Dothraki no longer sweeping across the grasslands, the Free Cities have turned inward—feuding with one another openly. To them, sending a high-ranking official to a place they don't understand would seem a waste of time and resources."
"Perhaps," Rhaegar mused, his eyes narrowing slightly, "a visit from royalty would change things."
Celtigar leaned forward, the rings on his fingers glinting in the low light. "You mean to diplomatically strong-arm them, Your Grace?"
"Yes," Rhaegar said without hesitation.
"And who would you send?" asked Connington.
"Rhaenys," Rhaegar answered. "She has experience in diplomacy, and she commands respect. Oberyn will accompany her, along with his daughters. Their presence should impress, and Dorne knows how to maneuver in Essosi courts."
There was a pause, and then another voice broke the silence—low, hard-edged.
"Your Grace," said Stannis Baratheon, the Master of Ships. He had sat quietly all this time, as was his way, but now his blue eyes locked onto the king's with steady disapproval. "Prince Oberyn is well known in Essos for the same indulgences he flaunts here. Send him, and they may see it not as diplomacy… but provocation."
Rhaegar considered that. Stannis was a cold man, but honest. Brutally so. And he wasn't wrong. Oberyn was intelligent, but unpredictable. Charismatic, but dangerously undisciplined. Sending him could sour the mission before it even began.
"Very well," the king said at last. "Viserys, then. My brother will accompany Rhaenys. Oswell and Prince Lewyn will go with them, along with a modest retinue. No excess. Only enough to show dignity and strength."
The king let his words linger in the air a moment longer, watching his council absorb the decision. Then, with a small nod, he dismissed them all for the day.
Chairs scraped softly against the stone floor as the councilmen rose one by one and filed out, their voices hushed. Only Rhaegar remained, staring out the window again, his thoughts already moving north—to the Wall, to the gathering storm, and to the uncertain future beyond it.
The garden was quiet beneath the weight of winter. Bare branches clawed at the pale sky, and the once lush hedgerows now stood brittle and colorless, stiff with frost. Snowflakes drifted from the heavens in a lazy, melancholic dance, landing in cold silence upon the flagstones. The air smelled of frozen earth and damp stone, and the distant sound of a wind chime—one she'd hung herself summers ago—barely stirred in the windless chill.
Rhaegar Targaryen walked slowly down the gravel path, the crunch beneath his boots the only sound besides the faint whisper of falling snow. The heavy folds of his black-and-silver cloak stirred behind him, a quiet echo of his presence. His breath fogged faintly as he drew closer to the solitary figure by the tree.
She was facing away from him, standing as still as the statue of a queen. Her dark cloak hung around her like a shadow. Even in the gray of winter, her presence struck him: tall, graceful, poised with that silent confidence that had never quite belonged to a child. She had been a little girl not so long ago, but there was no trace of that in her now.
"Rhaenys," he said, gently—almost hesitantly.
She turned, slowly, her face calm and composed beneath the edge of her hood. Snow clung lightly to her dark hair, catching like stars against black silk.
"Father," she said, dipping her head with practiced ease.
There was no warmth in her voice. No sharpness either. Just the cool, measured civility she always used with him now, like the gentle but firm distance one gives to a formal stranger. It struck him, not for the first time, how little of her heart she ever allowed him to see.
"I wanted to speak with you before your departure," he said as he stepped closer, letting his eyes search her face for some trace of emotion.
"So I've been told," she replied smoothly, offering the faintest ghost of a smile.
It sat strangely on her lips—lovely and empty.
He paused near her, watching how she kept her posture straight, her hands clasped loosely in front of her. She faced him without flinching, but there was nothing open in her gaze. It was the look of a trained falcon—still and sharp and far away.
"You understand why I've chosen you for this mission," he said, letting his voice remain calm but firm, testing the water.
She inclined her head, the movement as elegant as it was guarded. "Because I won't embarrass you."
He blinked, surprised by the quiet edge behind her words.
"Because you're diplomatic. Precise. Respected."
"Of course," she murmured, her lashes lowering just slightly. "And obedient."
He let that word settle between them, feeling its weight. It stung more than he'd like to admit—not because it wasn't true, but because it was.
"You've done well as a princess of the realm. I trust you'll do just as well representing the Crown in the Green Hills."
Her expression didn't change. If anything, it hardened slightly behind its polished exterior.
"And I will, Father."
There was a pause, filled with the subtle sound of snow melting against stone.
He studied her, as if hoping he could read something in the silence. She looked back at him with the patience of someone who had long since learned how to suffer pleasantries.
"Viserys will go with you," he continued. "So will Oswell and Prince Lewyn. I wanted you to have both family and protection."
"Generous," she said, voice smooth as glass.
Still, her tone gave him nothing. No thanks. No irritation. Just the shape of a response. She had become very good at that—giving just enough, and never more.
"I know the court has weighed heavily on you. Perhaps the distance will do you good."
She offered him another smile. This one was fuller—composed, charming even. But it chilled him more than her silence.
"I am content to serve, as I always have."
"You are more than service, Rhaenys."
For a moment, the mask slipped—just slightly—and her eyes, always calm, held a flicker of something deeper. Tired. Bitter. Far older than her years.
She met his gaze squarely, her voice quiet but firm. "Not in this court, I'm not."
The words cut more than he'd expected. Not because they were loud, but because they weren't. She wasn't angry—just truthful in the only way she dared be.
He didn't know what to say to that. Not really. So instead, he stepped closer, letting his hand rest gently on her shoulder. She didn't pull away—but she didn't lean in either.
"Come back safe," he said after a beat.
"I always do," she answered gently.
And with that, it was done.
She curtsied, smooth and graceful as ever, and then turned with her cloak swirling behind her like a curtain drawing closed.
He watched her retreat through the falling snow, silent as a shadow, and felt, with a heaviness he could not name, that she wasn't just leaving for a mission.
The solar was warm, despite the biting cold outside. A small fire crackled in the hearth, its glow dancing over Martell silks and Dornish tapestries that lined the walls in measured precision. The scent of rose oil clung to the air—subtle, elegant, controlled. Much like the woman who sat at the writing desk, her posture straight, her expression unreadable.
Elia Martell did not look up when Rhaegar entered. She never did anymore. She finished reading the parchment in her hands, folded it with methodical grace, and set it down before turning her dark, calm eyes toward him. Beneath the polished surface of her gaze, however, there was something flickering—something that would never show in her words or her posture, but was always there. A quiet weariness. A sense of inevitability.
"My lord husband," she greeted, as if addressing a diplomat. "To what do I owe this rare visit?"
"I leave on the morrow," Rhaegar said, stepping into the flickering firelight. "For the Wall. With Aegon and Arthur."
Elia blinked once, slowly. A beat passed, then another. The words were not unexpected, but the cold weight of them seemed to settle in the room like an unwelcome guest. She remained perfectly still, though the thought prickled at her. About time you took the black, she thought, with quiet venom. Though I suppose the vows would've inconvenienced you far too early in life.
"I had heard," she replied, her voice soft and smooth. "You've always had a talent for dramatic destinations."
Her tone was as controlled as ever, but there was an edge there—a faint hint of something sharp and tired, though she kept it hidden behind the mask of civility she had perfected. His words were hollow in her ears, lost to the space between them where too many unspoken things lay.
He ignored the jab. He always did.
"I wanted to speak with you before I go."
"Then speak."
He hesitated—not out of fear, but from uncertainty. After so many years of distance wrapped in politeness, even their silences had grown ceremonial. Her eyes flickered to him—no, past him—her gaze sliding away like water over a smooth stone. This wasn't the first time they had stood in this very room, only to speak of nothing at all.
"There's unease in the North," he began. "The cold is harsher than ever. Strange rumors out of Eastwatch and the Shadow Tower. If something stirs beyond the Wall, I must see it for myself." he lied.
Her lips parted, not in concern, but in mild disbelief. "You, personally?"
She couldn't quite mask the quiet disbelief in her voice. A part of her wondered if he understood how far removed he had become from the world around him, or if he simply didn't care. She could hear the faintest edge in her tone, though, no doubt, it would be lost on him.
He gave a faint nod.
"You do realize, Rhaegar, that most men who journey to the Wall are required to stay there."
Something glinted in her tone—humor, sharp as a needle. Beneath the surface, there was an undeniable sting. Let him go. What difference does it make?
He exhaled, a brief thing. "I intend to return."
"That's a shame," she murmured, almost too low to be heard.
Her words were casual, but her heart twisted. How easy it was to pretend she didn't care—how easy it had become to mask the ache that had always been there, just beneath the surface. She was unused to being this visible to him, but here they were. And still, she felt nothing but a quiet resignation.
He glanced at her, but she had already risen to pour herself a cup of wine, her expression smooth, distant, refined. She hadn't even noticed how her fingers trembled, just slightly. The coolness of the glass helped steady her.
"I've sent Rhaenys to the Green Hills," he said after a pause. "With Viserys and Prince Lewyn."
"A long journey," Elia noted. "She must be beside herself with gratitude."
"She's a capable envoy."
"She is." Elia turned, cup in hand, and looked at him plainly, her eyes unreadable but no longer as distant. "And she's free, for a while. Let her enjoy it."
The words hung between them like a thin thread, fragile yet sharp. Elia's eyes never left him, her gaze steady, but there was something flickering in the depths—a shadow of something she would never voice aloud.
Rhaegar's brow creased slightly. "She said nothing about being unhappy."
"She wouldn't," Elia said evenly. "Not to you."
He didn't argue. He rarely did anymore—not with her. His certainty was a wall she could never breach, but it had been like this for years. Each time he assumed something of her or their children, she could only smile softly and nod, pretending not to see the cracks in their world.
"I trust you'll manage here in my absence," he said, his tone more of an assumption than a question. "I'll leave instructions for everything. You'll have no trouble."
"I'm sure," Elia replied, her voice absent, as though she were discussing the weather. She glanced at him briefly, the weight of her words hanging in the air, before she turned to the window. Outside, the sun was fading, casting long shadows across the courtyard.
Rhaegar lingered for a moment, as if searching for something in her face that might offer a glimpse into the emotions she so carefully masked. But no such thing was to be found. Her expression was the same as it always was—quiet, controlled, unbothered.
"Well," he said, finally. "I should be on my way. The preparations are not yet complete."
"As you say," Elia murmured. She gave him one last glance, her dark eyes unreadable.
He nodded and turned to leave, his heavy footsteps echoing in the hall. As he passed through the doorway, a final thought crossed his mind—a fleeting doubt, a whisper he dismissed before it could settle. Would she truly be all right in his absence? But the thought was gone almost as quickly as it came, swallowed by the certainty of his own purpose.
Elia, alone now, allowed herself a single, quiet exhale. The room felt empty, though the walls were still rich with the tapestries of her homeland. She took a sip from her wine, her gaze drifting back to the window as the fire flickered behind her, casting dancing shadows over the room.
Rhaegar would leave, as he always did. And once again, it would be she who remained, playing the role she had worn for years—polite, composed, and utterly unseen.
He stood in the doorway of their chambers, his silver-gold hair catching the light of the hearth. The fire crackled softly behind him, casting shifting shadows that seemed to accentuate the distance between him and Lyanna. She sat near the fire, her profile illuminated by the soft glow, but there was something in her posture that felt distant, closed off. Her eyes flicked toward him, but she didn't speak, waiting for him to make the first move. And he did, as always.
"I leave soon," Rhaegar said, his voice steady, but there was a quiet tension in his words. "Aegon, Arthur, and I—we will be making our way to the Wall."
Lyanna didn't react immediately, though she felt the words like a slap, the weight of them sinking into her chest. She should have expected it. He had always been bound by the threads of his destiny, and nothing—least of all her—had ever been able to pull him away. But hearing it out loud, hearing it from him, after all these years of putting his duties first, it felt like something in her finally cracked.
"Is that so?" she replied, her voice calm on the surface, but beneath it, the words felt like ice in her throat. She didn't want him to see how much it hurt, how much it stung to hear him speak of leaving again. But she knew that he was already blind to it, to her, to everything that had been fraying between them for so long.
Rhaegar nodded, his gaze still fixed on her. "It's been long overdue. We need to see the Wall. Understand its true significance. There's no time left to wait."
The words hit her harder this time, the finality of them wrapping around her heart like a coil of cold iron. She clenched her fists in her lap, but her voice didn't waver. "No time left... or just no interest in anything that doesn't involve Aegon and your precious prophecy?"
She couldn't stop herself from letting the bitterness slip through. It wasn't fair to him, but it had been building inside her for so long, and tonight, it came rushing to the surface. She hated it, but it felt like the only thing she had left—her own voice, her own anger, her own frustration that he had never seen, never understood.
Rhaegar's eyes flashed with something, perhaps guilt, or something deeper, but he quickly masked it. "You know as well as I do how crucial this is. Aegon—he's the one who must lead. The realm depends on it."
The realm. Always the realm. She could hear the words as if they were carved into his soul. But what about her? What about their daughter, Visenya, who had never known a father who truly saw her, who truly stayed? Lyanna stood abruptly, the movement sharp, like a knife's edge cutting through the tension that had been hanging between them for years.
"Aegon, always Aegon," she said, her voice rising in frustration. "What of Visenya? What of me? What of us? You think I don't see it? You're so obsessed with the future that you've forgotten about what's here, what's real."
His expression faltered for just a moment, but then it was gone, replaced with the same distant, determined mask that she had grown so used to. She hated it. She hated him for making her feel like an afterthought, like a footnote in the grand story he was writing with the ink of his obsession.
She could feel the sting of those words more than she could bear, but she pushed on, forcing herself to meet his eyes. "I've been standing here, waiting. Waiting for you to come back, waiting for you to see me. But you don't, Rhaegar. You never have."
There it was. The truth. The one she had been trying to ignore for so long. He had never truly seen her—not in the way that mattered. He had seen the woman who could stand by him, who could bear his children, who could play the role of the dutiful wife. But that was all. There had been no room for her heart, her needs, her love, not in the way that she needed him to. Because of how they got together.
"I haven't been a good husband," Rhaegar admitted, his voice softer now, but the words sounded empty. She had heard him say them before, in different ways, but nothing ever changed. "I know that. But what I do is necessary. You can't see it now, but in time, you will."
Her chest tightened at the familiarity of his words. "You always say that. You always promise that someday it will make sense. But here we are, Rhaegar. Here we are, and nothing's changed. Not for us. Not for me. You will leave again, and I will be here. Alone."
The finality of it hung in the air between them, and she couldn't help the tears that burned in the corners of her eyes. She wouldn't cry. She wouldn't. But she could feel the weight of everything she had been carrying crash down on her, the pain of loving a man who had never truly been there when she needed him most.
"I will leave soon," he said again, his voice softer now, almost pleading. "I need to go. And I need you to—"
"I don't need to do anything," she cut him off, her voice hard and bitter. "Leave, Rhaegar. Go. But don't come back thinking things will be the same."
She turned her back to him, unable to look at him any longer. Unable to stand the way he still thought he could fix everything with words. He had broken everything—they had broken everything—and now she would be the one left to pick up the pieces.
Her eyes stared out at the gray sky, a reflection of the storm that raged inside her. There was nothing left for her to give. No more waiting. No more hoping. He was already gone, long before he ever walked out that door.
Elia stepped softly into the chambers of her eldest child. Eldest child, not daughter. Rhaenys had not truly been Elia's daughter for many years now, a painful truth the queen could no longer ignore. It was a betrayal she could not escape, and the weight of it pressed down on her heart every day. She had once been a mother who doted on her children, who believed that she could protect them from the horrors of the world. But over time, her focus had shifted, and she had let the unthinkable happen.
Her eyes lingered on her daughter as she sat by the fire. The girl—no, the woman now—was no longer the carefree child Elia had raised. Rhaenys had become someone entirely different, someone who Elia could barely reach anymore. She had been so consumed by her second child, Aegon, her one and only son. He was the heir, the future king of the realm, and she had thought, had convinced herself, that by supporting him, by securing his claim, she was doing what was best for the family. She had made that choice with a conviction that had blinded her to the damage it had done.
Aegon had proven himself unworthy of his birthright, yes, but it had been too late when Elia had finally realized the depth of her mistake. Rhaegar, her husband, had betrayed her too, abandoning his marriage vows and bringing a foreign child back to the Red Keep. Rhaegar had shattered their family and betrayed the love that had once bound them. But it was her son, Aegon, who had brought Elia to her knees, abusing his elder sister turned wife in ways that could never be undone. She had watched helplessly as Rhaenys endured the cruelty of a boy she had once thought capable of greatness. Bruised skin, cruel words, humiliation—these were the scars she had been unable to heal.
She had tried. She had done everything she could to shield her daughter, but it was too late. Rhaenys was no longer the child she had once held in her arms. And Aegon... Aegon had become something monstrous. A king? No, never. A ruler? Perhaps, but a ruler of a broken kingdom. Elia had failed both of them, but she had failed Rhaenys the most. And now, standing in her daughter's chamber, she understood that it was her own neglect, her own misplaced devotion to a son who had become a tyrant, that had led them here.
But there was still a chance, however small. A chance to offer Rhaenys a life away from this madness, a life away from the bloodstained walls of the Red Keep, from the iron throne that had ruined them all.
Elia's voice broke the silence as she stepped further into the room. "Mother," Rhaenys said, lifting her gaze from the book she had been reading. Her voice was calm, unbothered, but there was a glimmer of something—something Elia could not quite place. It was as if her daughter were still distant, an unreachable stranger. "To what do I owe this late visit?"
"I came to say goodbye," Elia whispered, her voice trembling with the weight of years spent failing her child.
For a long moment, Rhaenys did not respond. Her eyes flickered with a strange unreadable emotion, but she did not speak. Then, in a tone that held neither anger nor warmth, she asked, "Anything else?"
Elia's heart lurched, and for a brief, fleeting moment, she wondered if her daughter had already closed herself off entirely from her. But she steadied herself, taking a deep breath, steadying her trembling hands. She could not carry this guilt anymore. She needed to say this, needed to tell Rhaenys what she had never said before.
"Rhaenys," she began softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "I know I have failed you as a mother. I... I have been too focused on Aegon, on securing his future, on making sure that he would sit upon the throne. I thought that by doing so, I was protecting our family, protecting you." Her eyes filled with tears, but she did not let them fall. "In doing that, I lost you. I let you slip away. And now... now it's a mistake I'll carry with me for the rest of my life. I can't change what's been done. But I can try. I can try to give you something. A chance... a chance to escape."
Rhaenys remained silent, her gaze unwavering. Her eyes flickered with something—indecision, or perhaps understanding—but her voice remained steady as she asked, "What do you mean, Mother?"
Elia took another deep breath, struggling to steady her shaking hands. She had no right to ask this of her daughter, but she had to, for both of them. "Tomorrow, you will leave for the Green Hills. It will be a diplomatic and trade mission. But once you're there, you don't have to come back. You don't have to serve this cursed throne. You don't have to serve this kingdom, or anyone in it. You can stay there. Make a life for yourself. Find peace, Rhaenys. Find something that belongs only to you, far away from this madness."
Rhaenys's eyes flickered with something—uncertainty, hesitation, a question. The firelight danced in her eyes, its shadows masking what lay beneath, but there was no anger, no outburst. Just that same unreadable expression. She spoke, her voice calm but firm, "And what of my duty, Mother? My duty to House Targaryen, to the realm?"
"I'm not asking you to abandon it," Elia said, her voice thick with emotion, her heart breaking. "Just to set it aside, just for a while. You've given so much already. Too much. You owe them nothing. Not anymore. I won't ask you to sacrifice anything else." Her voice broke, and she had to swallow to keep from choking on the words. "You have already given so much, Rhaenys. I- No, you didn't give. They took. They took and took and took. No more. They won't take anything else from you."
Rhaenys's face remained unreadable, but the air between them seemed to thicken with an unspoken understanding. A hesitation hung in the silence, and Elia felt the weight of the years of pain between them pressing on her chest.
"You will be safe, Rhaenys," Elia said quietly, her voice softening. "Uncle Lewyn will stay with you. As a member of the Kingsguard, he will protect you. You won't be alone."
For the first time in years, Rhaenys's expression softened, just slightly. Her lips parted, but she said nothing. The distance in her eyes remained, but something else, something more human, flickered there for a moment. Then, her voice, steady and sure, filled the room again. "I will do my duty to House Targaryen and the realm, Mother." She reiterated.
Elia wanted to sigh, her heart heavy, this wasn't what she wanted to hear. "I know you will," she said, voice breaking again. "But once it's done... Stay away, find your own happiness because you'll never have it here."
In that moment, Elia realized that no matter how far Rhaenys went, no matter how much she tried to make up for the years of lost time, nothing would ever be the same. But it was enough. Perhaps it would always be enough.