We Are as the Gods Made Us - Chapter 1 - seeing_blue (2024)

Chapter Text

She was born Rhaenyra Targaryen, eldest daughter of King Viserys I and Queen Aemma Arryn and their only surviving child.

She was born loved by her parents and the Seven Kingdoms, but being a daughter in this world made that love a dreary, disappointed beast, one which draped itself over her shoulders and sunk its leeching fangs into her slim neck. Always feeding. Always draining. Always fattening. Always, always, always reminding the ones-who-were-not-sons and the ones-who-were-not-heirs that they were undeserving.

Love. What could love do when a woman born in Westeros only wanted respect and justice?

Even a princess was denied this. Even a queen.

When Rhaenyra was five, she came to her father in the small council chambers after a meeting. He lit up the moment he saw her and dismissed Lord Hightower, who obeyed and acknowledged her on his way out.

Before he could utter a single word, Rhaenyra turned to him with a face too grave and reviling for such an otherwise quiet, amenable child and said:

“You are going to kill Mama if you keep trying to make her have a son. And if you do kill her, then you will make me unhappy. I might hate you forever, even.”

Then Rhaenyra’s face softened to violet-eyed beseeching.

“I do not want to hate you, Papa.”

While her father sat blank and horrified in his chair, Rhaenyra put her arms around his large shoulders and hugged him. There were few things he cherished more in this world than her hugs.

The love of a daughter was a pure thing.

“Why…” he stammered, at an understandable loss to her dark change and darker words. “Whyever would you say such things, Rhaenyra?”

As she had planned to answer when she witnessed Mother weep in a bloodied shift for a final time, rage and injustice melting her very marrow, Rhaenyra tilted her little head toward her father’s ear and sweetly whispered, “I saw it in a dream, Papa.”

If any words could freeze the blood of the dragon, it was those words. And when Father hugged her back, he trembled like he stood uncloaked in the pits of winter.

-

She was born Rhaenyra Targaryen, a child without innocence, for she had lived a life already but her mind carried into this beautiful, blessed body. Without that shroud, she saw the world for what it really was.

Was it worse to know the horrors that surrounded her? Or was it worse to discover it one injustice, one tragedy, after the other? To already lie broken, or to be broken over time?

Rhaenyra never expected the answers to come to her. They remained musings, as most existential things were.

She hid her melancholy well, however, under the guise of studiousness and responsibility. Many in the court admired her for this, her parents most of all. Even though Father sometimes looked at Rhaenyra like he expected her eyes to roll in the back of her head and spout prophecies (she was saving that spectacle for when she truly needed things to go her way), she largely remained his darling girl. And although Mother chided Rhaenyra for putting such ideas about stopping to conceive in his head, she walked more lightly. Whether her parents would stay faithful to her proclaimed dream was uncertain, but for now, Rhaenyra enjoyed the peace within her family.

Even the court maintained peace when it learned of the king and queen’s decision to abstain from producing heirs for the time being. She and her mother spun it in the lady’s court that Viserys could not bear to see his wife in pain, nor could he suffer through more loss. It was wise of him, and kind, and just, and what could potentially be seen as Aemma Arryn’s weakness was turned into Viserys Targaryen’s benevolence.

Lord Hightower did not press the issue either, and when he asked Rhaenyra her thoughts on it during her weekly studies with him, she spoke truthfully.

“I am gladdened that my mother can smile again. The realm is at ease as well; there are no wars, no usurpers, no illnesses, no famines. My father remains secure upon the Iron Throne because there are no present threats to endanger him. The need for an heir is not a pressing issue at the moment.”

Rhaenyra offered a small smile—a pretense of hope.

“And perhaps my mother’s body will become strong again. A brother may yet await me in the future.”

She couldn’t think of anything worse.

“So, you do not believe that Queen Aemma has failed in her duties?”

What a treasonous question. Lord Hightower only ever voiced them aloud when it was just him and Rhaenyra. He learned that she never repeated what he said, and in return, he never repeated what she said regarding her father, mother, and the Targaryen dynasty. It was a wicked game, one where the only options were to keep playing or experience mutual destruction, but Lord Hightower hadn’t agreed to tutor Rhaenyra on a whim. He recognized her intelligence, unnatural or not, and wanted to cultivate it despite the tragedy of her female circ*mstance. She didn’t need to worry about the potential consequences of their game because Hightower wouldn’t give her up—not when he could gain her trust and confidence so early on at the same time.

Rhaenyra also needed to learn from the best if she was destined to be a sacrifice for the Iron Throne. And one day, Otto Hightower could very well be her enemy. She had to understand how he thought and schemed if she were to beat him.

Expression smooth, Rhaenyra replied, “I do not. A woman’s worth does not solely reside in her ability to bear children for her husband.” She smiled to convey nothing but harmless amusem*nt. “However, this is a lesson you shall never understand, Lord Hightower. And what do you say about what occurs when one fails to understand? Forgive me, I forget…mayhaps you could remind me?”

Lord Hightower’s chin tilted ruefully. “What you fail to understand will be your undoing.”

“Mm, yes. That. Also, the Faith teaches that the Mother loves all women equally under her eyes, even though those who cannot bring the gift of children into the world. Are you implying that you do not follow this doctrine?”

Questioning a Hightower’s religious devotion was diving into dangerous waters; they could outspeak just about anyone concerning the principles of the Faith and its application to every single aspect and issue in Westeros. Lord Hightower was as vicious and unrepentant as they came, but growing up in a devout environment taught him how to appear unfailingly humble and honest even as he slithered through the court.

Rhaenyra’s insult was toothless, though, so Lord Hightower didn’t verbally eviscerate her and instead stated, “Alas, our state is one of perpetual failing.”

His response almost got a scoff out of her. Vicious and unrepentant, indeed. He was also a shameless man, admitting that he used the excuse of perpetual failing to languish in sin. But Rhaenyra knew this about Lord Hightower already, so they moved on to other subjects for the rest of their time together.

At the end of the session, Lord Hightower idly remarked that his only daughter and youngest son would be traveling to King’s Landing. He believed that his daughter, Alicent, would get along splendidly with Rhaenyra.

Rhaenyra smiled back that she was eager to have a friend.

-

She was born Rhaenyra Targaryen, the descendant of dragonriders, of conquerors, of kings.

“Grandfather?”

“Yes?”

Rhaenyra looked up from the book she was reading to King Jaehaerys, who insisted that she called him grandfather even though he was her great-grandfather. The old king was supported by a small mountain of pillows and covered by a heap of blankets. He would die, soon, both due to his age and the winter weather that sapped warmth from his frail body.

But although Jaehaerys was dying and sometimes confused Rhaenyra for Saera in his drifting hallucinations, his eyes were startlingly clear tonight. They fixed upon a five-year-old Rhaenyra and beckoned her to speak.

Outside, unforgiving rain pelted against the keep. A distant roll of thunder rumbled through its red stone.

“If we are to protect the world of men from the ever-winter, then why have we not bound our family together with House Stark? The North fought against the cold darkness that inhabits the land beyond the Wall before. When it is to come again, should we not have already strengthened our ties with them—and strengthened our chance of victory?”

Even though this secret was meant for kings and their heirs, Rhaenyra confessed to Jaehaerys that she knew of it. Dreamed it. And since death swiftly approached, he was a safe person to confide in. Jaehaerys also recognized Rhaenyra for what she was: a child who did not speak or act like a child when few eyes were upon her. Whatever he thought of her and the Dreams, he did not say. They would go with him to the Stranger.

But Jaehaerys listened, and that was what mattered.

“A fine question,” he rasped, mouth twitching in some semblance of a smile. “But…what Stark could be convinced to marry a Targaryen? To leave their hold in the North for the despicable South? Where their gods were all burned by Andals, and the people are disloyal?”

“If they knew that we could aid the other in the Long Night...”

“Mayhaps…” Jaehaerys then weakly coughed, so Rhaenyra offered him a sip of water from the bedside goblet. The drink strengthened his wry tone. “Yet even so, what Targaryen could be convinced to marry a Stark? We are a proud people, and we have little desire to spend any of our time in the cheerless North, where it is cold and far from our seat of power.”

Rhaenyra smiled a little. “You have given this thought.”

“Some.”

Growing somber again, she said, “One Targaryen prince will finally do it. But he will be so consumed by this same prophecy of a song of ice and fire, and the coming of the prince who was promised, that he will do it all wrong. It shall lead to the end of the Targaryen dynasty, though there is not much of a dynasty to speak of save for dead dragons and mad kings by the end. But the realm will never recover, and it will be further ruined by the nobles of Westeros. It is only then, Grandfather, that the Long Night will strike.”

At Jaehaerys’ frown, Rhaenyra clasped his withered hand and ran a thumb over parchment-like skin. “But not all would be lost,” she said just above a whisper. “A girl shall rise from the ashes in Essos with the name Targaryen, and she will come bearing three dragons. With them, and with her the love she earns, she will set right the vile sins of our Valyrian ancestors by toppling the slave empires and freeing those in chains. And in the North, a boy with Targaryen and Stark blood will discover his birthright. But more importantly, he will be a good man, and he will try to do right by the living. Even gods will rouse from their slumber to bear gifts to those in need. It is these people who ensure that the Long Night will not be allowed to come upon a defenseless Westeros.”

“And…do they prevail?”

“I’d like to believe so. It is the only option, is it not?”

They sat in silence for some time, until Jaehaerys’ eyes drifted shut. However, he murmured, “Alysanne and I…we once visited Winterfell. It is a beautiful, formidable place. And one day, we…we flew along the span of the Wall. To view what no other dragonriders had, with nothing but ourselves, our dragons, and the lonesome guardian beneath us…what freedom. What freedom.”

His frail hand tightened around her own. She watched as a single tear rolled out the corner of his eye, catching in furrowed wrinkles and shining in the firelight. Distinct grief swelled in Rhaenyra, brought on by the reluctant love she held for King Jaehaerys, a great king and a man who had wronged all the women in his life.

She tried not to love in this world, once, as an act of rebellion. It was short-lived. The heart that had grown in Rhaenyra Targaryen’s chest was the same traitorous thing that she carried in her last life.

Instead of reading, Rhaenyra began to recite Valyrian poetry from memory. The language fell from her lips like water upon the smooth rocks of a stream. It was a poem about the exaltation of soaring amongst the clouds on the back of a dragon. Jaehaerys grew fond of it once he could no longer ride Vermithor.

She spoke this poem, and others, for the old king who had raised so much of Westeros out of the muck deserved to think of freedom with his wife and dragon in his final hours, not of a dark future that was solely her concern. No, let Jaehaerys feel the cold northern wind upon his face and the heat of his dragon. Let him hear the sound of his wife’s laughter and deep wingbeats. Let him be free from the weight of the crown.

Jaehaerys Targaryen, the First of His Name, died peacefully in his sleep. Rhaenyra did not let go of his hand once.

When Vermithor’s mournful roar shattered through all of King’s Landing, every citizen knew that the king was dead, and Rhaenyra bowed her head at the sound of a dragon who had lost his dearest rider.

She still dreamed of that night, so clearly that she wondered if her consciousness actually traveled back there, weaving itself between the loom and the tapestry.

-

She was born Rhaenyra Targaryen, and on the early morning of her first nameday, she watched the egg in her crib hatch.

A weaselly little thing tumbled out, covered in bloody membrane and eggshell and chirping bewilderedly at the sudden emergence into this world. In search of warmth and companionship, the dragon crawled into Rhaenyra’s lap. Its weight and prodding force became too much for her to support, and she fell backward onto the soft cushions. The hatchling nuzzled its slimy face into her neck. Although its claws dug into Rhaenyra’s skin, they were too soft to pierce through. Rhaenyra didn’t hesitate to wrap her arms around the dragon’s waist, and she turned on her side to give it better warmth.

They laid in the crib beneath her blanket, breathing in unison. Rhaenyra whispered that the dragon’s name was Syrax, for it could not have any other name.

When the nursemaid found them, she thought the hatchling had killed Rhaenyra and screamed loud enough to wake the entire keep. Mother and Father raced in, fearing that their daughter was dead, and instead saw her bonded to her dragon. Then they laughed and laughed, and it took some time for Syrax to be pried from Rhaenyra so she could be washed of hatchling fluid and readied for her nameday celebration.

But even though they were parted, the bond between them surged with magic and love.

For three years, Syrax staunchly remained by Rhaenyra’s side. Nobody ever was foolish enough to compare the dragon to a hound, but sometimes when Syrax would trail after Rhaenyra or get her dinner scraps or curl up at the foot of the bed, she humored herself with the similarities. Syrax didn’t strengthen her case by beating her tail against the ground whenever Rhaenyra scratched the sensitive spots behind her jaw.

Father and Uncle Daemon were always delighted by the sight of the little princess and her little gold dragon. Why would Rhaenyra ever need a Kingsguard to accompany her when she had Syrax to bite off the fingers of would-be offenders? And it was true that Syrax didn’t care for most of the Kingsguard, save for Rhaenyra’s sworn shield, Harrold Westerling. He was the only person not of her immediate family who Syrax would take food from.

Once her mount grew half as tall as her and twice as long, Rhaenyra reluctantly moved her to the Dragonpit so she would have more room and not intimidate so many servants (she didn’t care about intimidating the nobles). She visited Syrax often and taught her how to hunt animals like goats and sheep. The dragonkeepers said that she easily distinguished between beasts and people thanks to her upbringing, and she didn’t snap or spit at the handlers like others. The two were well-mannered dragons.

They called Rhaenyra the youngest dragonrider since the Doom. This was only after Rhaenyra ignored her parents’ warning that she could not ride until both she and Syrax were older. But by the time Rhaenyra was seven, Syrax was the size of a pony with a wingspan that could support extra weight. She went to the Dragonpit under the guise of visiting her dragon, and since she was such a thoughtful, well-behaved child who always came to Syrax’s side, nobody thought anything different.

When Ser Harrold realized that she was mounting Syrax without a saddle, there was already a flurry of wings and a shrill, eager roar. The dragonkeepers fruitlessly ran after them, but a moment later, the two had taken to the sky.

Do you see me, Jaehaerys? Alysanne? Rhaenyra asked while her blood sang with magic. She and Syrax climbed higher and higher, until King’s Landing sprawled beneath them. Do you see my freedom?

The ride did not last long, no more than five minutes, but Ser Harrold was near death with worry when Syrax landed and Rhaenyra slid off, disheveled and unharmed. She apologized to him and the dragonkeepers for causing alarm. She did not apologize for flying.

And after she eventually apologized to her parents for being “irresponsible” and “unthinking” and “uncharacteristic of her nature,” Father shelved his sternness and eagerly asked how she enjoyed her first flight. It displeased Mother, but she also secretly delighted in seeing her husband and daughter happy.

Uncle Daemon commissioned her first saddle that was ready not a week later, made from supple black leather with red-stitched dragons and flowers. They rode together, Daemon and Rhaenyra, Syrax and Caraxes, above Blackwater Bay and the Kingswood, far away from the future.

Her melancholy remained flightless and forgotten during that time and all the times after.

Rhaenyra commanded that Syrax not be chained. She would be responsible and not attack the dragonkeepers, nor would she antagonize any of the citizens of King’s Landing. If she did, then Rhaenyra would be very disappointed in her dragon, wouldn’t she? And Syrax couldn’t fathom the thought of upsetting her rider, so she most assuredly would not.

She spoke to the dragonkeepers about this subject with Syrax at her side. Ser Harrold couldn’t decide if he should laugh, weep, or kneel at the sight of it.

Uncle Daemon just chuckled when he heard of the spectacle and japed to Father that his daughter was already holding court in the Dragonpit. Father was tickled at the thought, and he said that his daughter would make a fine princess indeed.

“A fine queen, Papa,” Rhaenyra corrected pleasantly, if albeit with the same plain face of truth that she wore when she told him to stop killing her mother. “I will make a fine queen.”

Her words had the family wrong-footed for the rest of the week.

Finally, her father broached the subject. He found Rhaenyra in the godswood, lying among the grass and flowers and listening to Ser Harrold read to her. The Kingsguard was ashamed that he’d been caught not standing alert, but before he could express his regrets, Father chuckled and waved him off.

“Fret not, Ser Harrold. The duties of a sworn shield are many. And let it be known that I am aware how my daughter can persuade even the staunchest of men to do her bidding.”

“Of course, your Grace.”

“Would you give us a moment, Ser Harrold? I wish to spend some time with my daughter in this peaceful godswood.”

“Yes, your Grace.”

Ser Harrold stood with as much dignity as he could muster and retreated to the other Kingsguard, though he left his white cloak that Rhaenyra sat upon. Father took his place, and Rhaenyra didn’t waste time cuddling up against him. His warmth bled through black clothes. Their hands interlaced. Once, his same hand guided hers over a candleflame, which licked harmlessly against their skin, and he whispered reverently that there was magic in their blood.

“You must make friends your own age.”

“Ser Harrold is a perfectly acceptable friend. Cousins Laenor and Laena are also amenable when they visit.”

“Otto’s daughter will arrive soon. Mayhaps you shall find a friend in her.”

“Mayhaps. But I am a difficult child for other children to get along with. Alicent may not understand why she mislikes me, but mislike me she will.”

“You are not difficult.”

“Not difficult for adults, you mean. It is different with children.”

Father did not argue the point.

“Rhaenyra,” he then started, his gaze fixed on the old oak tree that served as a paltry substitution for a weirwood. “You spoke of…of being queen, some time ago.”

“A month ago, to be exact. You should not have waited this long to talk to me about it. You should have also corrected me the moment I spoke those words.” She dropped her voice to mimic Father’s cadence. “‘Rhaenyra, you are a princess, not a prince.’ ‘Rhaenyra, Daemon is set to inherit the throne, not you.’ ‘Rhaenyra, you are much too young to be thinking such things.’ More, of that same nature.”

He released a huff of air, both indignant and amused. “You…are not wrong, my sweet.”

“So, why have you waited until now?”

“I wished to think.”

“You were afraid.” Rhaenyra made sure that her voice never sounded cruel or cutting, but its youth seemed to amplify the tone instead of suppressing it.

Father gently carded his fingers through her loose hair. If he was hurt by her statement, he did not show it.

“Did you…dream of it?”

Rhaenyra hummed. “Not so much dreamed, Papa. I simply…know it will be. As surely as I know the sun will rise and set with each day, and the tides will come and go.”

She tilted her head up to look at him so he could take in her serious face and the violet-colored eyes that they shared. “I am not a man, but neither can Mother become pregnant again. Neither can Uncle Daemon inherit; you know this as well as I. He will plunge Westeros into chaos, because chaos delights him. He doesn’t mean to be that way, I don’t think. His love and hate are vicious twins. But if Daemon cannot be king, and Mother cannot give a son, then it must be me.”

Father, whose expressions were always so open to her, broke a little at the melancholy Rhaenyra didn’t have the strength to hide.

“I don’t want to be queen. None of Westeros will want it. But I fear that if I am not, and if my reign is not secure and absolute, then terrible things will happen to the Seven Kingdoms. It will be at its weakest when it needs to be at its strongest. And perhaps it is inevitable, the crumbling turmoil, but…I must try.”

He cupped her cheek. “Rhaenyra…”

“Please, Papa, do not speak of the matter to anyone. Let Daemon continue to be heir for now. Let life be as it is.”

They sat there for some time, where her father held her close to him and occasionally pressed kisses to the top of her head while he thought about his solemn daughter and her ominous words.

Then, he quietly whispered, “You will make a fine queen, indeed. I can see it all now.”

-

She was born Rhaenyra Targaryen, and when precious Alicent Hightower said, “My father told me that you will be like your great-grandmother, the Good Queen Alysanne,” she smiled graciously and distracted the girl with flowers and toys.

When Alysanne held Rhaenyra at three years old, she wept. The family and servants averted their eyes as the queen clutched Rhaenyra close to her breast and whispered in Valyrian, “My daughter, my little daughter.”

Rhaenyra did not struggle, letting Alysanne find comfort in a face and form that reminded her of daughters long dead. Perhaps she was Daenerys, the first tragedy of many. Perhaps she was Alyssa or Daella, Rhaenyra’s sister-grandmothers who shared the same fate of dying from childbirth. Perhaps she was Maegelle, who devoted her life to the Faith only to die with nothing but greyscale as her terrible god. Perhaps she was Saera, declared dead by her father when she abandoned them for a free life in Lys and never replied to her mother’s letters. Perhaps she was Viserra, whose own uncanny gracefulness at her young age didn’t stop her from riding drunkenly to her death. Or perhaps she was Gael, returning to her mother from Blackwater Bay where she drowned herself with a stillborn in her arms.

Rhaenyra remembered that morning when Gael was found floating in the foamy water. Alysanne did not wail upon the news of her last daughter’s death; she merely sat still, very still, as if she had already been broken so much that she could not make a sound with this final sundering of her spirit.

Gael had been a singular light to the Targaryen family, the miracle of miracles, their Winter Child. Despite her intellectual disability, she was never mocked or scorned for it—she was loved, and by Alysanne most of all. She regularly made wreaths of flowers of Rhaenyra and Syrax to wear even though the small dragon frightened her, and they often played hide and seek. Everything about Gael was good.

Even when Alysanne revealed to the family that Gael was pregnant due to a tryst with a traveling bard, they did not react like they would have with another royal daughter. Bastard or not, they would welcome the babe when it arrived. Alysanne sent her to a pretty, secluded villa hedged between the Kingswood and the bay to be cared for the duration of the pregnancy.

But her child came into the world dead and malformed, with scales along its spine and no eyes or nose. And Gael decided that she could not live either.

Her death devastated the family. So for Jaehaerys to make them lie to the court that she had died of summer fever to conceal the truth of her suicide deepened the wound.

Whether Jaehaerys mourned for his daughter as well, Rhaenyra didn’t know, but she believed that he did. How could he not?

For Alysanne, however, Gael’s death meant her own. Rhaenyra could smell it on her great-grandmother, beneath the scent of medicinal herbs, while tremoring, needle-thin arms wrapped around her. This was why they had come: to say their goodbyes in her final days.

How cruel it was, that for bearing thirteen children, only two of them stood beside their mother. And Vaegon had not seen Alysanne since they sent him away to the Citadel over twenty years ago; he was a stranger amongst his family, looming in a corner and making nary a sound despite the archmaester chains linked around him. Grandfather Baelon couldn’t even speak to Alysanne, so strangled he became that the words suffocated in his throat.

But Alysanne did not call for her sons; no, she merely imagined that Rhaenyra was daughters lost, murmuring indecipherable thanks with sickly sweet breath.

This was the great dynasty of Jaehaerys Targaryen. A wife once so strong, shattered to the point of death. Heirs once so numerous, now dwindled to nearly nothing. The Doctrine of Exceptionalism once so guaranteed, now proved thoroughly false.

When Jaehaerys ordered the family to leave the room so that he might spend time alone with his beloved wife, Mother tried to coax Rhaenyra out of Alysanne’s arms. Yet Alysanne would not let go. However, before anyone could make a mess out of it and cause greater distress, Rhaenyra whispered to her great-grandmother in Valyrian, “It’s alright, Mama. We’ll see each other again, won’t we?”

Her words calmed Alysanne, who then allowed Mother to take her away. Rhaenyra watched over her mother’s shoulder as Jaehaerys sat next to Alysanne on the bed, lifted her hand, and pressed a tender, brokenhearted kiss to her knuckles.

Silverwing set flame to Alysanne’s pyre the next morning, and the dragon’s mourning song haunted Dragonstone the entire day. Her ashes were placed alongside her children’s urns.

Thus ended her reign, not after many years of joy, but after many years of sorrow and injustice.

No, Rhaenyra did not wish to be like Good Queen Alysanne.

She would have to be better. Wiser. Smarter. Crueler. The lords of Westeros would not be able to relegate her to wife and mother. They would know her as queen. A just queen, a fair queen, and a queen they did not want to f*cking cross.

Where Alicent Hightower would land on Rhaenyra’s board was uncertain, but she wouldn’t let her stomach eat itself over the matter. For now, she was a friend—and one that didn’t mind Rhaenyra’s too-serious demeanor or her long, studious silences. She was raised the youngest child of five who spent more time in reverent septs and libraries than anywhere else; being quiet and sitting still was part of her nature. So, Rhaenyra didn’t mind Alicent either.

Hopefully, she could keep the girl from being torn in two by this friendship and her father’s plotting. Hopefully, she would have an ally.

-

She was born Rhaenyra Targaryen, and when she was eight, word came that Cregan Stark, heir to Winterfell, just celebrated his thirteenth name day. Hours later, Rhaenyra informed her parents that she wished to be betrothed to him.

“Too long have the Starks’ loyalty been unrewarded,” Rhaenyra said to them with her hands clasped behind her back and her silhouette proud. “It would do the Seven Kingdoms good to have that Northern fierceness and honor instilled in the Targaryen bloodline.”

“But—Rhaenyra!” Mother exclaimed. “You are much too young to be thinking about this.”

“I would much rather think about this and have a say in my own future than let anybody else make it for me.”

Because she understood that she would not find much happiness in this life, but she could find control and security. Marrying a Stark provided potential benefits for her descendants. Marrying Cregan, who had remained true to the heir that he swore obeisance to in his later years, offered finer details to those benefits. He would most likely be a loyal husband and consort, and his faith in the Old Gods and belief in magics would allow her to tell him of her knowledge and plans without scorn.

Of course, Rhaenyra had no idea what kind of man Cregan would actually become, and especially if he spent his life as consort in the South and not heir and ruler in the North.

What were her other alternatives, though? Laenor, who had no interest in women and no interest in ruling the Seven Kingdoms? Qoren Martell, who despised Targaryens with all the desert heat of Dorne? Lorent Tyrell, second son to a Great House that many still considered usurping, power-grabbing traitors a hundred years later? A Lannister? Other nobles from countless other houses who would seek to use her power and treat her with disrespect?

Or worse, her own uncle?

Rhaenyra loved Daemon, as any niece would. But unfortunately, she lacked the typical Targaryen disposition toward romantic relations with family members. She’d never want her uncle as a husband. And realistically, she’d never want Daemon as a husband. There was a restless beast in him—one he currently had little control over. He wanted to triumph, not rule. It was why he would always be a good hound to set upon Rhaenyra’s enemies and the realm’s threats, but she didn’t need to marry him for that unending loyalty.

It all came back to Cregan Stark, for many reasons.

Her marriage proposal burdened Father. He no doubt thought of the prophecy that drove Aegon to unite Westeros. Now his daughter bade him do what even Jaehaerys and the Targaryens before him could not, which was binding the two bloodlines together.

A bloodline of ice, and a bloodline of fire. A song.

“Have you dreamed it, Rhaenyra?” he asked late one night.

(It would always be something he asked her throughout their lives. It would always be something she used to her advantage.)

“Of course I have, Papa,” she lied. But it was still the truth, was it not? “Not if I marry a Stark, but what should happen if a Targaryen does not until it is nearly too late.”

Father spoke just above a whisper. “What happens then?”

So, Rhaenyra told him similar things that she told Jaehaerys hours before he died. But unlike the Old King, Father now held the definitive power to strengthen Westeros against the cold dark. The prophecy that he dedicated a small amount of obsession toward had tangibly presented itself to him. How could he not reach out and brush his fingers against it, if only to feel the edges of its feathers as it flew onward to the wintry horizon?

“We have the chance to change the future, Father,” Rhaenyra said. She held his hand, connecting them, grounding them, fortifying them. “Even though we will not see what shall become of our choices and our risks, I believe that we must try to do what we can in the present. Otherwise, what will happen because of our decision to stand still?”

That night, Father showed her the song hidden in steel on Aegon the Conqueror’s Valyrian dagger.

From my blood will come the prince that was promised, and his will be the Song of Ice and Fire.

Rhaenyra grasped the hilt and examined it. She then vowed in front of the skull of Balerion the Black Dread that this dagger would be the blade plunged into the Night King’s heart. Father regarded her with awe and reverence and love in the firelight whispering her name.

The next morning, he announced that Rhaenyra Targaryen was his heir and the future queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

Two weeks after that, the betrothal between her and Cregan Stark became official, and the Seven Kingdoms rejoiced in and reviled the match between a dragon and a wolf.

-

She was born Rhaenyra Targaryen, and she was grateful that her quiet, purposeful dramatics manifested differently than Uncle Daemon’s theatrical displays.

The night before Father announced Rhaenyra’s place as heir, he and Mother told Daemon about the decision. And at the break of dawn, he resigned as master of coin and flew to Dragonstone to brood and sulk and f*ck his way through the dragonseed-infested brothels on the island.

He wouldn’t return unless his brother asked him to return, which, given their propensity for stubbornly holding out to see who would break first, might not happen for years.

“I do not believe he has ever desired the throne,” Rhaenyra said to Lord Hightower the day after when they discussed her heirship during their lesson.

“No? His avarice has only ever stopped short?”

Rhaenyra smirked for a second. “His avarice differs from yours.” She no longer had to tack on my lord given her new title. “Yes, he wants the throne, but…he does not want the throne. Merely the assurance that he would have the support of his brother and family should he take it.”

“Mm.”

“Surely you must understand him in some way. Second sons always struggle to be free from the shadow of their elder brothers, just to be seen.”

“There is a difference between being born the second son of a lord and being born second son of a king.”

“Is there? Do you not wish for recognition? For a place and a position to conduct your own influence of power? For fathers and elder brothers to simply say that they are proud of you and what you have accomplished, and that you still have importance in the world?”

She studied Lord Hightower. The man who could possibly one day be her Hand maintained an impassive expression. She learned the same façade from both him and her parents, although their impassivity manifested differently. Father kept his face pleasant; Mother kept her face openly inquisitive; Lord Hightower kept his face neutrally cool.

Rhaenyra didn’t mean to mirror her mask after Lord Hightower’s most of all. It simply aligned with her inability to smile as much as a child—a person—should.

“What my uncle covets is twisted up in fallacies and hypocrisies and insecurities,” Rhaenyra went on, “but he would never betray his brother, myself, or House Targaryen. Let him lick his wounds away from court. Then, when the time is right, I will see to it that he returns and is put in the proper direction for the good of the realm. He is far more useful than you believe him to be.”

Lord Hightower disagreed, though the unfamiliar observer would think the conceding tilt of his head indicated otherwise. Perhaps he would always disagree—Daemon was unpredictable and uncontrollable in his eyes, and coupled with his hatred for Lord Hightower, it made him a threat to everything the second son had sought to lay claim.

But the Rogue Prince was not nearly so complex as Lord Hightower thought him to be. All Daemon ever wanted was for Viserys to hug him and say, “I’m proud of you, little brother.”

No, she wouldn’t deny that he was dangerous; a cry for attention could bathe the streets in blood or start an unsanctioned war in a few years’ time. He shouldn’t, however, be alone to suffer his resentments. He was family, now and forever.

Rhaenyra allowed four moons to pass before she told Father that he needed to make amends with Uncle Daemon.

It was one of the first times Father had been genuinely upset with his daughter, particularly about how he needed to go to Daemon on Dragonstone and not the other way around. Father even pulled the, “You’re only a child—you cannot understand these matters!” argument, which he knew wouldn’t get him anywhere with Rhaenyra and Mother the moment he spoke it.

“She has never failed to prove that she understands matters perfectly, Viserys,” Mother intoned, gentle but firm. “And she is right. We cannot afford division, nor should we want division to linger in our house.”

Father spluttered, “I do not want it!”

“No, and neither does Daemon, but both of you are so gods damned stubborn with each other that you would rather let the rest of us suffer while you quarrel.”

“He is wasting his talents on Dragonstone,” said Rhaenyra. “And you have been morose since his departure. I imagine he’s much of the same countenance.”

“I have not been morose,” he weakly countered.

Rhaenyra and Mother clicked their tongues in unison, which struck Father like a physical blow.

Verging on defeat, he slumped into a chair. “But…I cannot simply leave King’s Landing. I have to attend to my duties. There are meetings to be had, petitions to be heard—”

“My,” Rhaenyra drawled, “tis a sight to behold the dragon king cowering.”

Father was struck again.

“You can afford to be gone for at least a week,” Mother said, not correcting Rhaenyra but also soothing Father’s nerves. “I doubt you will need to be away that long, however. You and Daemon are ever so slow to forgive, but once you have, it is as if no time has passed at all.”

“I shall go with you as well, Papa. Uncle Daemon should see that I am heir, but I am also still his niece, and I need him by my side as much as you do.” She offered a smile. “And the dragonkeepers say that Syrax is big enough to carry two people over short distances. We may fly together and avoid a ship altogether.”

Father calmed somewhat at the prospect of not being alone in this quest and getting to fly again after so long. He had only ridden Balerion a handful of times before the ancient dragon rumbled his last breath, and she believed he felt that he could not claim another dragon out of respect for the bond he and the Black Dread shared, however briefly.

Rhaenyra and Mother whittled Father down until he conceded to all their demands, although he gave Rhaenyra a pale, pleading look when she said that once he brought Daemon back, they would then focus on repairing the frayed relationship with his cousin Rhaenys.

Lord Hightower was displeased with this turn of events, and he wholly and rightfully blamed Rhaenyra for it. Still, he swore that he would conduct matters properly in the king’s absence.

It was a wonderful thing to hear Father’s joy as he and Rhaenyra ascended into the sky on Syrax’s back. The sun shone brightly, and the ocean was a glittering, resplendent blue beneath them. They talked here and there, but mostly they basked in the gift that their magical blood gave them: the gift of dragonriding.

And Father would do well to remember his heritage.

The first time Rhaenyra visited Dragonstone, the air was heavy from the waning life of Queen Alysanne, like the magic within the rocky, stoic island reacted to her dying. But magic was an inexplicable thing. A force beyond comprehension. No, men were not meant to ride dragons, and their control was more of a relationship than a pact, but magic allowed it. And magic sang within the dragons, too, as much as it sang within her.

Magic was an inexplicable thing. Rhaenyra felt it, nonetheless. And once she recognized it for what it was, she could never forget its presence. Always there, lurking in the curves of her bones and the flow of her blood. Always reaching out for Syrax, and Syrax always reaching back, to take strength in each other. There was a reason why her dragon had been growing at an almost abnormally rapid rate these past few years.

Wasn’t it funny? Funny that she had magic, and she died and was reborn as a princess, in a world that was once fictional?

Funny.

Which made it so strange that Rhaenyra struggled to do more than smile whenever her feet were on the ground.

But she still did smile when she saw Uncle Daemon again. He was a good uncle, indulgent and doting, and oft her companion when they flew their dragons together. No, she would never have the romantic feelings that Rhaenyra of the Story harbored, but she loved him.

Daemon missed her too, it seemed, and whatever harsh feelings he had been nursing on Dragonstone evaporated the moment he saw her. He hugged her like he always did after he returned from some escapade or another. Her feet lifted off the ground, and were she wearing skirts, they would have fluttered as he spun her in a circle.

“Kepa,” she greeted without preamble. “We have come to bring you back.”

And just as it was brilliant to witness Father’s joy on Syrax, it was brilliant to watch the realization set into Daemon’s face when he saw that Rhaenyra was not alone.

Wincing at his sore, stiff muscles, Father helpfully elaborated, “It was not my idea.”

Daemon barked a laugh. “No, I cannot imagine that it was.”

Rhaenyra clasped her hands behind her back and began to walk toward their ancestral home, braid whipping in the harsh coastal wind. Her blood seared through her veins as the magic welcomed her home. Above, Syrax and Caraxes spiraled around each other in a winged dance.

Without looking back, she called, “Come along, kepi.”

(“Gods be good,” Daemon muttered. “She already looks like a queen, doesn’t she?”

“I think, brother, that she may be the greatest ruler yet. It is a terrifying thing to be her father.”)

At the end of three days, Rhaenyra and Father returned to King’s Landing with an appeased and resolved Daemon Targaryen.

Master of coin did not suit his preferences.

“But currently, the city is overripe with filth and crime,” Rhaenyra had told Daemon. It was her idea, after all, on where to redirect his fervor. “King’s Landing needs someone who serves as the king’s swift sword of justice for people who have known nothing but injustice all their lives. You, Uncle Daemon, will take the city guard, beat them bloody, and refine them into some of the finest, fiercest, most loyal law enforcers that Westeros has ever seen. The guards need somebody to inspire them, and the criminals need somebody to put the fear of the old gods and the new into them. Not just anybody can do that. Not even kings and queens.”

A feverish spark ignited in Daemon’s violet eyes.

“We cannot scorch away this vile sickness with our dragons. So you, Uncle Daemon, will be our dragon. Commander of the City Watch. Together, our family will turn King’s Landing into one of the greatest cities in all the Seven Kingdoms.”

She did not smile, not exactly, but the magic that made her believe that she had fangs and claws and fire heightened her emotions.

“And when the lords inevitably attempt to revolt against my inheritance, they will look at what you have done upon our command to restore order and think twice before they move against me.”

Indeed, Rhaenyra preferred this kind of theatrics.

Daemon would not be allowed to run rampant with his new appointment. Rhaenyra would ensure that Father kept a vested interest in his activities and not just skim over vague weekly reports. This would also prevent Lord Hightower from proclaiming Daemon a beast and citing sound evidence as to why he should be dismissed from the position. Rhaenyra herself would perform her own checks and inquiries.

And he should be happier and stay more in line, after all, since Father told him that he already sent a letter to Lady Rhea Royce granting their longstanding request to have their sham marriage annulled.

But that was not all.

Many would call Father a weak king in the decades to come. Currently, however, he was a king relatively new in his reign who had just proclaimed his daughter heir. He listened to the wisdom of the small council and his queen, and until a son came along, he was wise to name his daughter. The Seven Kingdoms were at peace. The weaknesses had not yet been truly observed, confirmed, and preyed upon, and Rhaenyra’s inheritance had not yet the time to be criticized and condemned.

So, in this interim, they could not remain idle.

Lord Lyonel Strong had only served as master of law for two moons, but he did not dismiss or cower at Rhaenyra’s proposal. He listened to her seriously and pointed out sound flaws in her forming designs that they corrected together. In the larger meetings with the small council, Lord Strong advocated for Rhaenyra and battered back any arguments with his infinite knowledge of the law. Even Lord Beesbury had to acquiesce once he saw that she had already drafted an initial cost summary, as any good proposal needed—and much to Father’s delight. Lord Hightower himself approved, stating that the proposal would solidify Viserys’ first honorable act as king and foster the smallfolk’s love for their future queen, whose idea it was in the first place.

Father was more than willing to put it into action.

Then Rhaenyra included something she had not previously enclosed.

“To commence this proposal of improving the city, I wish to hold court in Flea Bottom.”

Stunned silence, of course, followed—then immediate protests.

“Rhaenyra!” Father exclaimed. “You cannot possibly think to travel there yourself! It is one of the most dangerous districts in all of King’s Landing.”

“I am well aware. But how can we think to improve the lives of our capital’s citizens when we know nothing of them? When we have rarely stepped outside of the Red Keep save for tourneys, weddings, hunts, and secret revelries? We must see and hear for ourselves of what we ought—nay, what it is our duty—to improve.

“And I will not do this alone. You will be with me, Father, as will Mother. As will this entire small council. We must present ourselves as a concerned family with an earnestness in our endeavors. I must present myself as a charitable, caring queen to set a foundation for their favor. The small council’s presence will show that we are unified in our cause. It will also remind the lords who sit at this table…” Rhaenyra’s eyes swept over the noblemen’s faces, “of the injustice and impoverishment that has so often been belittled or ignored by those who hold their positions.”

“It is not safe,” Father feebly pointed out.

“And is that not a testament to our house’s failure to make it safe? How can any ruler believe that their realm is secure and prosperous when the very city they dwell in is not?”

Father pressed two fingers to his temple to alleviate his oncoming headache.

The arguing went back and forth for another hour or so. Phrases like “astoundingly unprecedented,” “a threat to the king and heir,” “possibility of contracting dangerous illnesses,” and “no place for a girl of eight,” were thrown around, as predicted.

Rhaenyra gained the upper hand when she included that Daemon’s introduction of his reformed city guard would occur on the same day, and they would be protected by every member of the Kingsguard. After that, arguing continued for another hour. But Rhaenyra did not falter once, so by the end, the small council and Father bent to her will.

It was this day that they first glimpsed the kind of queen she would be, and although they were agitated, they were also not displeased.

A moon later, the people of Flea Bottom found themselves swarming in what constituted as the district’s square, where an ill-kept queen’s fountain burbled water out of. They hung from windows and sat atop roofs and perched on barrels and crates. Many simply craned their heads or put their children on their shoulders to witness King Viserys Targaryen, Queen Aemma Arryn, Princess Rhaenyra, Prince Daemon, the small council, and two dozen of the stamping new city guards adorned in their gold cloaks fill up the square.

The maesters would name this day the Court of Flea Bottom, though the name itself was coined from Lord Velaryon when he mentioned it in a good-natured jape. They would describe Rhaenyra Targaryen as the child princess that the citizens immediately adored, for she stood fearlessly beside her gallant parents and sharp-eyed uncle. She heard the cries of the suffering and held the hands of the afflicted. She did not avert her gaze from the ugly reality of the slums, just as she did not allow her family or council to do the same. Accounts would state that the child’s well-known solemness did not mean she bore a cold heart. Indeed, compassion and resolve burned in her eyes and in her words, so much that nobody could believe she was false in her gestures.

The Court of Flea Bottom put faith into the reign of Viserys I Targaryen—as well as faith in the reign of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen.

And that faith turned into something more when the Crown distributed a large sum of money toward making drastic improvements to Flea Bottom and King’s Landing at large, continuing the efforts of Jaehaerys the Conciliator and the Good Queen Alysanne. It would take years to complete, but the work would be done, and Rhaenyra did not intend to sit indolently while everything was underway.

-

She was born Rhaenyra Targaryen, and when she realized who she was, she decided to f*cking do something with her power.

She had been a regular person in her last life, her true life. This life was but a dream that she would wake from when she died. And like most people in her last life and this life, she survived by controlling what she could while the cruelty and chaos of the world—of the rich and powerful—beat her down.

And also like most people, she quietly raged and raged and raged.

All she wanted was for her family to be safe and happy, yet so many decided that it was impossible. Unfeasible. Financially irresponsible. God, her world was a sh*thole. But at least Earth had toilets instead of literal sh*tholes like here. Plumbing was but one of many items on her long and complex list of making the Seven Kingdoms a better place than Earth ever had been.

Because now that she had power, she was going to do everything that hadn’t been done for her when she needed it. What other alternative was there? To watch the horrors of this period, sit back, and believe that it was the way of the world? To live a life of apathy, ignorance, and greed when she and so many others had suffered beneath its rule?

Rhaenyra would not let this society abide. She would make her changes the lawful, peaceful way when she could. And when some lord inevitably revolted against what he called tyranny or some term regarding the rulership he disliked, she would remind him and the rest of the men that she was not just a fluke of a female heir, weak and soft-hearted.

She had a dragon, and a dragon would do what dragons did best.

But that remained a distant issue. Until then, Rhaenyra continued to build herself for the crown, diligent as she always had been. Now, however, her mornings were spent in the training yard, just early enough that it didn’t have too many watching eyes. Uncle Daemon and Ser Harrold disagreed on many points about how to teach Rhaenyra the art of swordfighting—almost to a hilarious degree, especially when Daemon called Ser Harrold a “weak-wristed westerman”—but they agreed on one thing: Rhaenyra needed to know how to defend herself. They were her supporters when she brought up the desire to learn as any male heir would. Upon her parents’ initial reluctance, Rhaenyra reminded them that she rode a dragon, and learning how to swing a sword was much less dangerous. They acquiesced not long after that.

Just as Rhaenyra would use her dragon to defend the realm from those who would see it weakened, she would use her sword to deliver justice to those who enacted injustice.

And when she turned ten, Father promised that Blackfyre was hers, should she choose to carry the ancestral sword.

“I fear I may not be tall or strong enough to swing it,” Rhaenyra confessed as she stared at the sword’s coloring, which reminded her of a darkly iridescent puddle in a gas station parking lot. She did not care for such conjured memories, though, so she pushed it from her mind.

Father chuckled and drew her close. “I have watched you train and heard your progress from both your esteemed instructors. You will wield, my daughter. One day. I have seen it.”

She frowned. “You have seen it?”

Just above a whisper, Father recounted a dream of his. She came to him a woman grown, beautiful and valiant, wielding Blackfyre against all manner of enemies who would threaten the peace. A grey wolf lurked at her side, and Syrax sang above her.

Nobody ever called Rhaenyra valiant before, in this life or the last. It did strange things to her heart.

And although Father might have had a true Dreamer vision, it also could have been his mind whirling together his hopes for her and the knowledge that he already possessed. But either way, it was of great importance to him and to her. His daughter having Dreams of her future as queen and the fate of the realm was one thing—his own Dream confirming it gave him all the more reason to defend her legitimacy, as well as her betrothal to the Stark heir.

To be graced with a Dream invigorated Father, and he renewed his dedication to kingly duties. This caused him to somewhat neglect his replica of what Rhaenyra dubbed Little Valyria.

“He was always meant to be a scholar,” Mother said to Rhaenyra one night while they sat near the detailed replica. “He was not raised to rule. Everyone knows it, including himself. He was meant to be the keep’s chief historian or earn links at the Citadel.”

“A spare Targaryen in case of crisis.”

“Indeed. But for all the wisdom of King Jaehaerys, he never did think that women could rule like a man. He ruined his marriage because of it, over time, and inevitably denied cousin Rhaenys her birthright.”

Mother cast a level gaze to Rhaenyra. “And what happens when a man who was never meant to be king rules?”

“He does not rule. Others rule for him. They take advantage, wheedling away at his strength and authority like water on a dock post.”

She nodded once. “I help keep him strong when I can through the queen’s court and with my own counsel, but my part alone is not enough. You are heir, and not only have you grown up in the Red Keep, but you have been taught by some of the most cunning bastards in all the Seven Kingdoms—many of whom would not blink to weaken your father should it serve them. You also have your father’s ear, more so than anyone else. More so than the Hand. Never allow another to replace you as you grow older.”

Twining her finger around a loose strand of Rhaenyra’s hair, Mother said, “Use all of this and more to protect him, House Targaryen, and yourself. Make those men fear the consequences of angering you, for they will not fear your father. Ensure they know that however expert Daemon may be at wielding a sword for our house, it is you who will cut deeper than any Valyrian blade, all without raising it.”

“I will, Mama. I swear.”

Mother brought Rhaenyra into her arms, then, where she dwelled as both a child and an heir. They were two things that should never coexist, but it did not affect Rhaenyra like it would have if she were of the Story. All she saw was the long road in front of her, winding through a life she never wished.

Nobody ever wished for the lives they had, though.

-

She was born Rhaenyra Targaryen, and when she passed her eleventh year, she flew to Driftmark with Princess Rhaenys to spend three moons under the tutelage of the Queen Who Never Was.

The name was an irritating mouthful, and many forgot that it contained one essential detail about Rhaenys Targaryen. She was raised to be queen, and she certainly hadn’t given up those qualities even though the lords of Westeros decided to name a man instead of her. While her husband was fearsome in his own right, Rhaenys was a dragonrider who ruled Driftmark and kept any would-be enemies crushed down like the unforgiving waves that broke upon the craggy island.

So, naturally, Rhaenyra had to learn from her.

“Otto Hightower may be the death of House Targaryen,” Rhaenys informed one day. That was one of the many things Rhaenyra loved about her distant relation: she was succinct, cutting, cool. “I would be disappointed if you did not know this, yet you do.”

“I do, yes. But Father loves Lord Hightower—he is a brother in a way that Daemon can never be, and Otto does love him back in his own way. Rooting him out will not be simple. I have learned from him all my life, however. Either he will one day understand that rooting me out will be just as difficult because of what he taught me and concede with the reality of my place and power…or he will find out that masters rarely survive their students, should they be set against each other.”

Immaculate brow perched, Rhaenys drawled, “Confident, are we?”

“Am I mistaking my confidence for delusion?”

Rhaenys contemplated the question, then honestly replied, “No, I do not believe so. But you mustn’t ever let the necessary, iron belief in yourself and your right as queen twist into such. The realm has allowed kings to be delusional; it will not allow you to be.”

“I understand.” Rhaenyra gazed out at the sea, and even from the balcony where they conferred, the salt spray occasionally speckled her ruddy cheeks. “The time I have spent with you has made me consider just how I wish to present myself to the realm. I thought I would fall into Lord Hightower’s way of moving through court because we are both quiet people with grand schemes. Emulating my character after him would not be the worst decision. He has made it far in life with the manner that he conducts himself.”

“But?”

“…But I do not like to hide my intentions behind demure assurances and subtle suggestions. It tires me. Saddens me.”

“And your melancholy will not forever go unnoticed,” said Rhaenys, though not piteously. “You should curtail it in what ways you can, as soon as you can. How do you intend to craft your character, then?”

“I believe I will be honest, like you, but not as callous.” Rhaenyra shot the older woman a smile, who took no offense to the named trait. “It suits you well, but as much as I adore watching you strip merchants and minor nobles of their dignity with a few words, I doubt I could ever consistently present myself that way. And if I’m not consistent, then I make myself vulnerable.”

Rhaenys hummed to agree.

“Mayhaps it would do me well to take after my betrothed’s people and culture. Honest and solemn. The court already knows that I’m a child who doesn’t smile often—I may as well craft that into something akin to grimness. But, of course, more elevated.”

“I needn’t caution you against becoming blind to the workings of the court like Northerners are.”

Rhaenyra smiled more at that. “No, you do not.”

With a fair amount of wry humor, Rhaenys said, “They’ll call you something like the Dour Queen if you choose to utilize these traits. It won’t be spoken in kindness.”

“It won’t. But it will be but one name of several, and no matter what they whisper or cheer, I shall never let them forget who rules.”

Then Rhaenyra cast her gaze to Syrax and Meleys, who were but birds against the grey island sky. “And when they do inevitably forget, whether it be Lord Hightower or another upstart, I won’t hesitate to remind them.”

“Fire and blood,” Rhaenys hummed, casting the words out to the sea, to the future.

Rhaenyra echoed in the same grave tone that would forever be her voice, “Fire and blood.”

-

She was born Rhaenyra Targaryen, and the day that Mushroom was presented to court as the fool, she did not smile at a single one of his inane jokes and tricks. While she stewed in her judgment, her family and those at her twelfth nameday feast all howled with laughter at this dwarf who pretended that his farts were powerful enough to make a kerchief billow.

She wasn’t a prude; she had…she had people, once…warm-handed and warmhearted…that she would laugh with over all sorts of bodily noises and boogers and belly slaps. But this before her?

Mushroom didn’t disgust Rhaenyra, no, but what he did was a reminder of how much she despised the state of this world. That even the noblest of nobles could be reduced to braying mules over a funny-dressed dwarf doing cartwheels and reciting bawdy jokes. For he had two choices in his life: master the art of debasing oneself or suffer discrimination and poverty.

The fool immediately noticed that Rhaenyra remained the only one who wasn’t red-faced and keeling with laughter. He bided his time, however, until their gazes fully crossed. Then he pranced over to the other side of the royal table, bells jingling, and it was only because he had the fool’s mantle that Ser Harrold did not keep him from approaching any closer. Even so, his tense posture and harsh gaze was full of warning—warning that Mushroom believably pretended not to notice.

“Why, what is this?” he asked. “Does the lovely princess not find Mushroom amusing? What should Mushroom do to make the princess smile on her nameday?”

Father, Mother, and the entire court watched on. Rhaenyra was not cruel enough to dismiss him by saying that she would never find him amusing—also, it would likely encourage him to annoy her further with his antics. But neither could she tell Mushroom that she was amused by him; burdening herself with false smiles for the duration of his performance and all the ones after was too much effort.

So, Rhaenyra said, “He should bring the princess a bouquet of flowers. That would make her smile.”

Mushroom flashed her a crooked grin, hopped back, bowed deeply, then made a show of bobbing around the feast hall to entertain the court during his hunt. He plucked random flowers from vases and wreaths, and on a few occasions, Rhaenyra lost him to the crowd. But by the time Mushroom finished his quest, he had a weighty assortment of flowers all tied up in a silk ribbon that he probably charmed off a noblewoman. Much to her fascination, the arrangement was put together and complementary.

Rhaenyra stood and accepted the bouquet. She half-hid her face behind the fragrant blossoms so the whole court wouldn’t be privy to her offered prize. However, Mushroom was close enough to see her mouth curve into a gentle smile.

He clutched his heart and staggered backward. “The princess has smiled for me!” he proclaimed. “Mushroom is undeserving! He has been given no greater gift!”

The court crooned and clapped, and the party went on. Rhaenyra watched him for the rest of the night, assessing, considering. She did not doubt that Mushroom felt her attention, but unlike the attention he was so used to, this attention saw past the performance, past the fripperies and jokes and laughter.

She did not wonder for long about what the fool made of it.

Three days later, Mushroom was called to the godswood.

“Speak your mind, Ser Harrold,” Rhaenyra said while she and her sworn sword watched him approach.

“You are far too young to be concerning yourself with this…craft.”

“I am two-and-ten. If I am old enough to start bleeding, then I am old enough to have informants.” She wryly glanced up at Ser Harrold. “This is merely in an official capacity. My maidservants and other trusted palace staff have been giving me all sorts of sordid information and rumors for years.”

Ser Harrold made a pained face.

“But why him, princess? To name him a deviant would be much too mild.”

Rhaenyra did not answer, for Mushroom had waltzed within earshot. When he came before her, he removed his cap and bowed deeply. “Princess. To what does Mushroom owe this great honor?”

“What do you believe is the reason I have called you?”

Mushroom raised himself upright again. A dainty flower stem was now between his fingers. Lifting it to his nose, he smirked, “Tis certainly not for Mushroom to humor the princess. She does not find him amusing. It hurts poor Mushroom’s heart that he cannot make her laugh like so many of her subjects.”

He offered the flower stem to Rhaenyra.

“Mayhaps Mushroom has been chosen as the princess’ royal florist.”

She took it and ran her calloused thumb up the soft underbelly of a petal, waiting.

His plain-faced expression changed then. Not malevolent, but sharper and sardonic.

“Ah. Princess Rhaenyra wishes for Mushroom to be her little toadstool in this place she calls home.”

Placing the flower stem in his tatty breast pocket, Rhaenyra said, “You may play the fool in court, but they are greater fools to think that you are a hopping lackwit. They speak freely in your presence—they may even speak to you about what they believe you won’t understand. This makes you, Mushroom, one of the most dangerous men in the Red Keep.

“And because of this danger, I would not have you untethered in service and free to say whatever you wished to whomever you wished for a few measly dragons. So, for as long as you desire to remain at court, I ask that I and I alone retain your true skills.”

Rhaenyra reached into the deep pocket of her outer skirt and pulled out a coin pouch the size of her hand. Mushroom’s eyes bulged.

“Fifty dragons, or three months’ pay for whatever you deem fit to inform me. Do what you will with the coin. Should it lead you to brothels and taverns, all I request is that you keep your ears open even in those locations. Men are particularly vulnerable when their co*cks are busy and their bellies are full of wine. Don’t waste the opportunity while you are also enjoying yourself.”

Mushroom darted his tongue over his bottom lip. “And…if Mushroom is truly foolish enough to refuse Princess Rhaenyra’s most generous offer? What should happen to him?”

“Nothing unfortunate. I cannot stomach the nastier points of spycraft. At least not yet.” She glanced at Ser Harrold, who stood unhappily beside her. “I am only two-and-ten, after all. I would simply state my displeasure of your antics at court, and my mother would quietly dismiss you. Then you’d be off on your adventures again, finding success and coin there as well. But I think you rather enjoy it here, and you will enjoy it more by accepting my most generous offer.”

He did, readily so, by bowing yet again. The flower stem bowed with him. “The Princess Rhaenyra is too gracious. Mushroom shall be forever in her debt. He is henceforth her most faithful servant.”

It needn’t be spoken aloud by the princess, the fool, or the sworn shield of what should happen if Mushroom betrayed Rhaenyra in any form. Two-and-ten she might have been, and forever a woman, but she had a dragon who would burn anyone she commanded.

Mushroom, however, never made her doubt his keen intelligence by risking it with traitorous deeds. Why would he, when he was so much more than a stunted, stupid fool to her?

Rhaenyra asked for his name, his true name, and she leaned down to let him whisper it in her ear. It would be the first of many secrets he shared.

-

She was born Rhaenyra Targaryen, and when she was called to her father’s chambers two moons after she turned fourteen, she did not suspect anything amiss. While she admired Father’s new additions to Little Valyria, Mother delicately cleared her throat and said:

“I am with child.”

Rhaenyra stared at the white replica of the Temple of Morghul, unblinking.

“…What?”

“It was not intended,” Father went on, almost pleading. His feet shuffled across the floor as though he wished to approach her. “Your mother, she has been diligently taking moon tea ever since you forewarned me. And all these years—nearly a decade!—it has proved effective.”

Mother’s sigh was a soft, strained sound. “And yet…”

The temple caught slivers of sunlight through its miniscule windows and pillars, giving ghostly life to a monstrous, long dead empire.

“And yet you did not think to continue taking it when you became aware of your pregnancy?”

Rhaenyra hardly recognized her own voice, even if it sounded the same as it had the morning she woke up and no longer possessed the body of a child, just a form with too-large limbs and aching, budding breasts.

Neither parent immediately responded.

“Your anger, your fear, it is understandable,” Mother continued evenly. “It was not an easy decision, yet mayhaps there is a reason why—”

“There is no other reason than that moon tea is not a guaranteed prevention. Do not utter a word about fate or the gods. The only fate that will come of this, Mother, is your death.”

All her work so long ago had ensured that this wouldn’t happen! Yet that was the issue, was it not? The weight of the matter lessened with time, and as each year passed, so too did the fear of a solemn child’s prophetic words.

Foolish, foolish Rhaenyra, thinking that she could trust her parents to not cling to the possibility of having another child to love when a mishap like this occurred.

(She had known the feeling, once—that great gust of shock, followed by the terrible freefall of loving a life yet unknown, but would be known. Then the excitement, oh, the excitement! It was ruinous, in only the way transcendent change could be.)

But what about her love for them? For her mother, the woman who cherished her so unequivocally that it used to make Rhaenyra mute with shock? The complicated woman who birthed her into the first life was nothing like Aemma Arryn. No, Aemma Arryn was everything, everything she had yearned for and more when she didn’t walk among dragons and rulers. How could she possibly bear to lose this mother now?

Rhaenyra had never been destructive. So, she would not let the gathering tempest of emotions raise her fist up and bring it down on the Temple of Morghul. Instead she imagined it: the smashing of the carved, delicate stone; the chalk of its residue on her skin; the echo of its cracking wreckage in the chamber. Her breaths would come heaving and satisfied.

“You must excuse me, Mother, Father. This news is difficult to bear, and I apologize that my reaction cannot be more cheerful.”

They did not stop her as she departed.

Ser Harrold sensed Rhaenyra’s unusual distress, which worried him, but he remained silent on the familiar journey from the Red Keep to the Dragonpit. It was only when Syrax approached her, warbling in comfort from the bond they shared, that he neutrally said, “You wear no riding leathers, Princess.”

“No, I do not. I will suffer the consequences without complaint.”

She mounted Syrax in her fine skirts and delicate shoes. A calm came over her as the golden dragon loped forward in great, graceful heaves and took to the sky. Unbraided hair whipped sharply against Rhaenyra’s cheeks; the wind cut through fabric meant for walks in the garden. But it was here, in the broad sky, that Rhaenyra could breathe.

Maybe we can stay up here forever, she thought to Syrax, who could hear the emotions behind her thoughts if not the thoughts themselves. We can sleep on the clouds and pluck out the stars for food.

To Syrax, sleeping on the clouds was not possible, as they were but mist and water, and stars were far away lights—and likely much less delicious than flame-charred meat.

Rhaenyra laughed at her dragon’s frank response.

They coasted on the air together for some time, lazily circling the bay area. When a series of whistles broke her from thoughtless wandering, she looked over her shoulder and saw Caraxes languidly flying toward them.

Of course Daemon would join Rhaenyra. Whether he found out the source of her unprompted flight or instinctually assumed that something caused it, the truth was that should one of them be in the air, then the other would often accompany.

Caraxes and Syrax twined in loose, lazy spirals, like two strands of hair that Alicent would always twine together before she learned how to properly braid. When the sun became laden with evening orange, rather than returning to the Dragonpit to face the reason why she left in the first place, she instructed Syrax to land along a secluded area of the coast, not far from where Gael stepped into the sea with her lifeless child and let it take her.

Rhaenyra’s skin smarted and chafed, but there was a lightness to her physical exhaustion. She kicked off her slippers and let her feet sink into the damp, shell-rough sand, then wandered to a cropping of rocks. Daemon followed and dismounted. He sat down beside her, silent and large—but not as large as he used to be, now that she was no longer small.

He waited for her to speak, for he could be patient when he desired. When it mattered. And Rhaenyra, she mattered to Daemon.

The tumbling waves softened any edges to her words. “Mama is pregnant.”

Daemon shifted, revealing that he had not known earlier. “Ah.”

“I…warned Papa about her becoming pregnant again when I was young. That she would die. It prevented her from suffering through countless miscarriages and stillbirths, but I feel it in my heart that in spite of this, the babe she carries now will claim her life.”

The Rhaenyra of the Story was around this age when the tragedy occurred. Even if Father didn’t cut Mother open for a child who lived for a day, the end remained the same: Queen Aemma Arryn would die in the birthing bed, leaving Rhaenyra motherless.

What did she tell Father back then to prevent this entire mess? That she would hate him for it.

(Could she still? Those words had been so easy to say, but now? Her dear father, whom she also loved with two lives’ worth?)

Rhaenyra made a sad noise in the back of her throat. “I am frightened of who I will become if I lose her. Naught but a ghoul, joyless and shadowed. And a ghoul cannot rule the realm, nor does the realm deserve it. A ghoul cannot defend Father from the vultures, and when he inevitably remarries and sires more children, a ghoul may not have the spirit to defend itself when its claim is contested by a younger brother.”

“Do not speak so certainly of this.”

“Look at me, kepa. Fourteen, and solemn as a widow. I can’t help it.” Death had changed something in her, something that she maddeningly yearned to have back at times. Yet all she could do was scrape her hands through its ashen remnants, only feeling the flames when she was with Syrax or on Dragonstone. “I won’t be able to cope like a normal person would. Not even like you, when Grandfather Baelon died.”

Daemon’s gaze deepened. Grief shuttered across his features, but he released a small chuckle and said, “You should not be able to remember that time.”

She did, though. How Daemon disappeared when Caraxes’ fire still burned his father’s body, and how he was dragged back a week later by the Kingsguard, drunk and disgusting and near-delirious. Father had yelled at him for acting so disgracefully, and Daemon rasped that he didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything.

He didn’t mean those words, but it hurt Father, and it added another fracture to their relationship. Were they also bound to forever be at odds? What else would come inevitably even though Rhaenyra raged to change its course?

“Oh, tala. What cruelty your magic is, to claim your childhood as its cost.”

Rhaenyra drew in a breath. The sea air painfully salted her lungs.

Daemon clasped her shoulder, right in the same spot reserved for gruffer, stronger grips whenever he praised or advised her in the training yard. He even bowed his head forward, eyebrows raised, but instead of barking at her to watch her footing, he said, “f*ck fate, and f*ck this fatalistic view of yours. Nothing is written, Rhaenyra. Dreams this, Dreams that—if you let visions and all their vague foretelling consume your life, then a ghoul you will surely become, despairing over the uncertain future rather than setting the course in the present.”

Dreams. That was what she told her family had come to her.

But…Christ, she never had Dreams. Just knowledge of one story unfolding. When had she decided that the two were tantamount?

Something had been written, but this was not it. She was not the Rhaenyra of the Story. She saved her mother from years of suffering, she had herself betrothed to Cregan Stark, Flea Bottom was no longer a festering wound on King’s Landing, and she had been named heir for years. Those were changes—deviances from fate.

Rhaenyra could not lose her mother, no, but it did not mean her mother was already lost.

“You are right.” Puffing a single laugh, a smile came over her. “Thank you.”

Daemon shook her shoulder, then released it. He fondly regarded her as his niece and nothing more, which was how she made it—and would always make it—be.

He stood. “Come. Enough of this melancholy; you will find plenty of time to wear that grey face later. But tonight, you will join me on patrol.”

“I’m too small to pass for a man, even disguised.”

“Then you will not pass for a man.”

And she did not. Daemon shoved her into the smallest set of leathers that the guardsmen of lighter build wore. It was loose in some places, and prayers to the Seven held up her ill-fitting trousers more than anything else. With her white hair stuffed into a leather cap, she ventured out into King’s Landing with Uncle Daemon, his contingent, and Ser Harrold—who did not condone Rhaenyra’s sudden plans yet could not stop her, so he had no other choice but to join the patrol as well. The Kingsguard gave away her identity, though the sight of the princess in the city was not an altogether surprising one, so it caused little commotion. She frequented all parts of King’s Landing, particularly Flea Bottom, these past years. The improvements made in the district had a drastic effect on its residents; there was less crime, less sickness, less squalor. This result also rippled out into other areas because of similar plans that Rhaenyra drafted and the Crown enforced.

And thanks to this, the patrol was calm. Rhaenyra watched Daemon and his men settle a few drunken disputes when the hour grew late, mostly with threats and laughter that dissolved any ire. He also forced a visiting merchant from Pentos to pay his exorbitant tab at a brothel. It was that or the city cells (another one of Rhaenyra’s installments, backed by Lord Strong). Daemon smiled that wicked smile of his and informed the merchant that few of its current residents would approve of a slaver in their midst.

“But—I am no slaver!” the merchant exclaimed. “Pentos has no slaves!”

“Yes, that’s the official stance of your people, isn’t it? But I can assure you that most smallfolk don’t quite recognize the difference.”

So, the merchant paid with his coin—and with his rings, earrings, an ornamented dagger, an ivory comb from Qarth, and the pigment used to dye his mustache. Only then did Daemon and the madam of the house happily send him on his way.

Her unmarried uncle was a beloved benefactor of the brothels, not only for his spending habits in the establishments but for his strict protocols of protecting them. Of course, there were formal laws in place now at the behest of Princess Rhaenyra and Queen Aemma, but they needed enforcement. Daemon never once stopped taking his role as commander seriously—and because of this, he earned a new moniker: Protector of the City.

The unofficial title, a take on Protector of the Realm, might have angered any other king. Daemon was fortunate that his brother only found it endearing. While it title stroked his ego, it also gave him an earnest pride, and he was not keen on sullying it. And Daemon’s positive reception caused no small amount of consternation to Lord Hightower, which her uncle never wanted the Hand to forget or give a good enough reason to reproach.

However, while there was no love between the two men and plenty of barbs cast at each other whenever they inhabited the same room, there was also less outright animosity. With any luck, it would stay that way.

Daemon whor*d and drank and fought—a sinner in the eyes of the Seven—but he had a discovered goodness in him, a desire to fulfill his sworn duty to the citizens of King’s Landing.

He also loved his niece, and thanks to bullying Rhaenyra into joining the patrol, her mind stayed occupied and her body became exhausted. She fell asleep immediately upon returning to the Red Keep. Mother’s circ*mstance did not return to the front of her thoughts until the next morning.

Neither parent was happy about being informed that their daughter and heir had prowled around King’s Landing at night. But before they could reprimand her, Rhaenyra apologized for her behavior concerning the pregnancy. She would continue to worry, yes, but she was not unhappy anymore.

“And more so, I am happy for you, Mama. I am eager to meet my dear sibling.”

Those were the words her mother needed to hear. It didn’t matter that she was unsure if she spoke the truth or not.

-

She was born Rhaenyra Targaryen, and eight months after Mother told her that she was with child, she cradled the dying, weeping woman’s head in her lap upon the birthing bed—and decided with divine, striking fury that she refused to allow this death.

For the duration of the pregnancy, Rhaenyra hovered by her mother with all the incessance of a fly. The grand maester had his own instructions and opinions on how the queen would birth a healthy babe at full term, and while not all of them were wrong, Rhaenyra held a distinct knowledge of medicine and anatomy that Westeros lacked. So, she implemented them. Aggressively. It primarily centered around what to eat and drink, which went uncontested, but when she said that Mother needed to walk more instead of laying in bed all day—since she had no bleeding and showed no signs of preeclampsia—Grand Maester Mellos tried to tell her otherwise.

Rhaenyra won the ensuing argument thanks to Mother, who stated that she felt better after a calm walk about the gardens, so she would continue the activity until her body dictated otherwise. She might have stayed silent if Rhaenyra hadn’t staunchly ingrained the notion of bodily autonomy and the right to advocate for oneself in her mother over the months.

It quickly became no secret among the court about the contention between Mellos and Rhaenyra.

Yet other than the expected headbutting (and the expected whispers of what would happen should the babe be a boy), Mother’s pregnancy went along as fine as it could. Oh, there were the aches and displeasures of growing a child, but she informed Rhaenyra quite regularly that this pregnancy felt like it did when she carried a daughter inside her fifteen years ago. It was a good omen. A hopeful one.

Father was talked into holding off on a tourney to celebrate the newest addition to the royal family until after the birth. Still, a lively tension culminated in the Red Keep and King’s Landing as everyone waited to welcome the next Targaryen.

Even Rhaenyra felt it fizzing in her chest when the months passed into the final term. There would be a baby to hold, to cherish, to look at and comprehend fragile infinity.

Then, shortly after Rhaenyra, Mother, and Father broke their fast together one morning, the labors began.

Queen Aemma agonized for hours. Rhaenyra was at her side, constantly dabbing a cool cloth on her forehead and giving her sips of water. She offered her hands and wrists and forearms for Mother to brace against with every violent contraction, with every unsuccessful push.

“She is fully open,” Mellos told Rhaenyra while Mother fell limply back against her pillows, skin sweaty and pale. Once Mother’s contractions began, the two wordlessly set aside their opinions of one another for the sake of the queen. “Yet the babe will not come.”

“Mayhaps a change in position can help them along.”

Mellos nodded in agreement.

Rhaenyra heaved Mother off the bed so she could prop herself against the edge. The adjustment was promising at first; gravity tugged on the child, allowing Mother to push harder than she had been for the past two hours. Then her strength waned again after another hour of labor, which forced her back into lying down.

There were a myriad of reasons why Mother couldn’t deliver, but the phrase failure to progress sent a bolt of dread through Rhaenyra. Although the fear of it in her first life never manifested, it had returned to curse her in a world where it was fatal.

Mother was weakening at an alarming rate, too, which indicated that something else was wrong. A drop in blood pressure? Another deadly consequence should it continue, for both her and the baby.

What could Rhaenyra do?

What should she do?

(“You’re going to feel a bit of pressure is all.”)

Then blood soaked the white shift bunched up between Mother’s legs.

(“I read that childbirth is like a bad car accident. Sometimes you can walk away mostly unscathed. Sometimes you can walk away with things that have changed and hurt forever. And sometimes you just die.”)

“Princess…”

Rhaenyra held up a hand to quiet Grand Maester Mellos. She didn’t look at his grim, sympathetic expression—she just kept her eyes on her precious mother, whose chest rose and fell in shallow pants.

“I will inform them.”

She stepped out of the chamber.

Father jumped to his feet when he saw Rhaenyra. Uncle Daemon, who was too restless to sit, turned from the window that he had been staring out of. Ser Harrold also stood on duty, and because he spent fifteen years at Rhaenyra’s side, he instantly recognized that something was wrong.

At the sight of them, Rhaenyra was nearly overcome with an emotion that did not often break through this life’s casting.

Blinking through the heat that seared her eyes, she numbly said, “Mama’s body won’t let her deliver the baby. She is dying.”

Father made an anguished, strangled noise and collapsed back into his chair, which forced Rhaenyra’s gaze down to the floor. When she lifted it again, it was to Daemon and his cold expression of grief.

Do you remember what I said that day? she wanted to ask. Watch, as your niece becomes the very ghoul she spoke of.

But it was unlikely that Daemon would stay. He ran from despair before it could rot in him, and he could not bear to witness his niece’s own descent into it.

And then she looked to Ser Harrold. Her sworn shield wanted to do nothing more than hug her, yet duty and rank prevented him amidst the king and prince.

“Rhaenyra,” Mother moaned from the birthing bed. “Rhaenyra…!”

(“I’m scared, I’m scared—”)

Oh, god.

She couldn’t do it.

Syrax’s song roared in the back of her mind. The despair heightened. Heat curled up her throat and against her teeth.

“Come. We must say our…”

Rhaenyra’s voice stumbled and did not rise again. She held out her hand to Father. When he couldn’t stand on his own, Daemon wordlessly took his arm and guided him to his feet. Father then crossed to clasp his trembling fingers around hers.

Together, they strode in. Viserys placed himself on one side of the bed, and Rhaenyra knelt on the other.

Mother did her best to smile at them through her pain and fatigue.

“I am…not to survive this, am I?” she whispered. “It is as you said, my sweet. Forgive us. Forgive our foolish hope.” Another contraction spasmed through Mother’s body; she writhed and gasped. More blood gushed out of her, only blood. When the contraction faded, her half-lidded, plum-colored eyes focused on Rhaenyra again. “I had so…wished for you to meet Baelon.”

(“Would you like to meet your sons?”)

So filled with ash was Rhaenyra’s mouth that she could not make a single sound; it blackened her tongue and coated her gums. So, she drew Mother’s hand up and placed a kiss upon clammy knuckles. Drops of dragonfire seared the corners of her eyes.

Mother turned her head to Father, but whatever words passed from her chapped lips were lost to Rhaenyra. Syrax’s thunderous wingbeats deafened her ears.

But she could still see. And she saw Father weep quiet tears, and she saw Mother accept her death with grace, and she saw Grand Maester Mellos inching closer to the king to whisper an alternative that could save the babe. She saw the funeral pyre with two wrapped forms upon it. She saw Alicent in the candlelit sanctuary of the sept, whispering a prayer under her breath for Rhaenyra to smile again. She saw a young man, dark-haired and grave as he searched her face with grey, uncertain eyes.

She saw the coming of the Story, perhaps different in its pages, but all leading to the same inevitable.

She saw miles of land aflame with dragon corpses strewn across the rotten earth.

She saw snow falling down on the chamber.

It collected on Mother’s cheekbone, on the top of Father’s head, on the bloody shift, on the midwives’ shoulders, on the windowsill, on the back of her arm. She felt the flakes’ cold pinpricks, but they melted from the heat of the dragon’s blood.

Then the snow was gone, as were the wingbeats, and she heard another weak whine of pain from Mother.

A rage so consuming cracked open Rhaenyra’s chest, like how the Doom tore Valyria apart and drowned it with lava and ash and seawater.

(“Hello, Hayden. Hello, Spencer. I’m your mama. Hello.”)

Rhaenyra almost brought her pointed, jagged teeth down on Mother’s thin wrist to draw blood—to jolt her out of the darkening haze, to make her remember that she was still alive!

And she would continue to be for years to come.

Compelled by a force greater than herself, Rhaenyra lunged from her kneeling submission and onto the bed. She lifted Mother’s head and shoulders up, shoved the pillows out of the way, and placed Mother back down on her lap.

She looked up at her daughter, whose feverish hands cupped both sides of her face, and weakly rasped, “What are…what are you doing?”

(“What are we doing, bringing them into this world?”)

Rhaenyra smiled. “It’s going to be alright, Mom.”

The English words were unmarked by her highborn Westerosi accent.

Syrax’s shattering roar shook the entire tower. The golden dragon, who had never been chained in the Dragonpit, heeded the distress that cried out through the sacred link of their bond. She flew to Rhaenyra’s aid—to give her the power needed to perform the impossible.

Magic was an inexplicable thing. There was no controlling it, no commanding it. There was only reaching out and being strong and willing enough to direct it without letting it consume you in return.

And magic, magic always demanded a cost in whatever way it deemed fit.

As Rhaenyra stared down at her mother, as Syrax’s wings funneled gusts of hot air in through the windows, as midwives screamed and Mellos braced against the far wall and Father shouted her name and Ser Harrold and Uncle Daemon burst into the room, she thought of her boys. Her sons. Hayden and Spencer, bright-eyed and beautiful with their sandy hair and freckles. How Hayden had more brown in his hazel eyes than Spencer did. How their little hands could fit so easily into hers. How they laughed—oh, their laughter! What she wouldn’t give to hear their high, happy, raucous giggles as their father tucked them under each arm and spun around in a circle.

She had lost them; she had lost the man who made her believe that she could leap into the cosmic, frightening, exhilarating unknown of having children and thriving in it. She had lost the chance to be better than her parents ever were; she had lost the chance to love and love and love her boys with unfathomable joy for the rest of her otherwise average life. She had lost everything! God, she had lost everything!

The agony of their absence—the agony of living again knowing that they were gone forever from her—was like pulling ribs out from under her skin. They splintered off, tore from muscle, and ripped through the flesh of a girl who she never should have been, coming out brittle and slick with crimson. What the rage of the Doom had not destroyed, the cost of magic claimed, and it greedily drank its painful price of memory in return for its accursed gift.

Rhaenyra’s tears fell upon the red-flushed cheeks of her mother.

I was a mom once, she spoke in magic’s tongue. I know how we risk death for the chance of life.

The chamber walls shuddered beneath Syrax’s weight. Another roar cleaved through the Red Keep, proud and pained and harmonious.

Rhaenyra tipped her head back, chanting in a Valyrian dialect long vanished from the world save dragon-memory. Yet at the same moment, she was singing in the kitchen with two tiny boys who had breakfast all over their hands and faces, as well as listening to a strange mother hum a strange lullaby to her that held all the love she had given to her own children.

The grey shroud that wrapped itself around Rhaenyra all this life was removed by the thrashing of the magic. With its muting presence gone, she could pour every drop of intent into willing her mother to live.

I was a mom once, she spoke in magic’s tongue. I didn’t want to leave my boys. I won’t let you leave your daughter.

What parent wanted to leave their child behind?

What child wanted their parent to leave them behind?

Mother screamed and bucked as magic violently carved through her insides. When it found its sacrifice, it sunk its jaws around the neck of a babe already destined to die within the day. Rhaenyra’s screams coincided; dragonfire heat blazed through her throat and mouth. The skies burned orange.

(“Mommy will always love you. Forever and ever.

“Forever and ever?”

“Forever and ever?”

“Forever and ever and ever and ever.”)

Rhaenyra hooked her arms under Mother’s.

“PUSH!”

With an animalistic shriek only made by people being burned alive and women birthing, Mother arched her back off the bed and forced the child who would never draw breath out from the womb.

Sated, the magic that granted Rhaenyra violent audience winked out like candleflame.

Coldness followed.

Syrax’s roaring ceased, and the windows once more framed blue. Mother went limp, but she breathed in great gulps of air between her moans. Her blood-soaked shift cloaked a little body that rested between her legs.

Baelon. Named after her grandfather, a man with a great big laugh and great big hands that would wrap around Rhaenyra’s waist and lift her off the ground. The last words she had spoken to him a day before his death were, “I’ll take care of everyone.”

Who else would? The duty was named hers the moment she felt love in her breast for the strangers she could call nothing but family.

He smiled through his pain and fever, whispering back, “I know, dearest granddaughter.”

Baelon. Oh, little Baelon. She was sorry that he could not feel the warmth of being in her arms.

But Rhaenyra chose to take care of her mother, and she did not regret it.

“Ye gods,” Ser Harrold whispered in the eerie quiet afterwards, broken only by receding wingbeats and Mother’s breathing.

Blood salted Rhaenyra’s lips, moving sluggishly from her nose. She drifted back to the grey shroud. Her body slumped to the side, though she didn’t feel much else other than the slight upending of a world that grew more and more distant from her.

“…Princess…!”

As her head hung off the bed, through closing eyes, Rhaenyra saw two pairs of small, bare feet. Their heels dug into the floor, and their tiny toes curled and uncurled. She strained to lift her gaze to her boys, to reach out and feel their fingers on her palm—

Black veiled her vision, but she continued to dream of them. Together. Happy.

-

She was born Rhaenyra Targaryen, eldest daughter of King Viserys I and Queen Aemma Arryn and their only surviving child.

When she returned to the second life in which she was a princess, Mother was at her bedside, humming a strange lullaby.

That was right. She had the mother that she always wanted. A mother who was alive.

She had the father that she always wanted, too. They were a family she didn’t have to make herself.

Once Rhaenyra was certain that Mother’s presence was real, she searched for Father. He was not in her bedchamber, but the stack of books and half-carved stone figures on a nearby table indicated that he had not abandoned her while she slept.

The elegant prayer wheel at the foot of her bed also told of dear Alicent’s presence.

Mother let out a soft gasp of surprise when she noticed Rhaenyra’s awakened state.

Rhaenyra, however, spoke first.

“You’re…meant to be resting.”

A teary laugh escaped Mother. She sat on the bed and brushed her knuckles against Rhaenyra’s cheek.

“It has been nearly a fortnight, sweetling. Although I am not fully recovered, I have been permitted to rest here, with you.”

Then Mother began to cry.

“Rhaenyra…oh, Rhaenyra. I do not even know how to explain what happened…nobody does. Yet I do know for certain that you saved me.”

Releasing a tired, troubled breath, Rhaenyra murmured, “I’m unsure what happened as well. It simply…came to me. And Syrax, she…she has always been a source of magic. I would have boiled from the inside out had she not been there to aid me in bringing it forth.”

A silence spanned between them, with Mother peering at Rhaenyra as the grim, inexplicable event beleaguered her heart and mind.

“Through the pain,” she eventually began when she found the courage to speak, “I caught such—strange glimpses of a life not my own.”

Rhaenyra stared at the prayer wheel, counting each point on the woven star.

“There were two boys. Two precious boys. And although I did not know their faces, I felt love for them…a love that did not come from my heart, but from the heart of my daughter.”

Father, Mother, Warrior.

“And I know—as surely as the sun rises and sets with each day—that they were your sons.”

Smith, Maiden, Crone.

“How is this so?”

Stranger.

“Because they were my sons, Mama. In another life. Another dream.”

Queen Aemma could have reacted with disbelief or revulsion or dismissal. Instead, her mother enveloped Rhaenyra’s cold hand with her own and whispered, “My sweet girl. What sorrows you have endured alone. I would gladly take them from you, if I could.”

Rhaenyra’s lower lip trembled. At the sight of this, Mother joined her on the bed and took her up in an embrace. They laid there for some time in gentle silence. Mother soothingly rubbed Rhaenyra’s back, and while she didn’t shed tears, a great, old sorrow gathered in her. She was too weak to fight it, so the moment it wrested itself from her control, quiet words tumbled out.

“I didn’t have a good mother, then,” she confessed into the rose-scented nook of Mother’s shoulder. “Not like you. So I couldn’t bear to lose you.”

There was more to her reasoning, but they were but branches on the tree—a tree which had fifteen years to grow strong from love. How could she stand an axe being taken to it?

“Nor I you,” Mother breathed into the crown of Rhaenyra’s head.

They took comfort in each other’s grief, in each other’s love, and although Rhaenyra spoke little of her twins, she spoke of them. Mother said that she would have cherished Hayden and Spencer from the moment they were born, for no matter the chasm between one life and the next, they were her daughter’s life and blood.

And she was certain that Rhaenyra had been a good mother, even though she shouldn’t have needed to tread motherhood so carefully out of fear that she would become like the woman who raised her.

“Mayhaps I had already learned from someone whose face and heart I did not yet know. Time and death are not bound as we are. It is a nice thought, believing that you were with me then, in some way.”

Mother’s voice filled with more strained emotion. “…Yes, it is.”

Eventually, they had to leave their moment behind. Mother informed Ser Harrold first that Rhaenyra was awake. Her frightening show of magic didn’t cause her sworn shield to waver, it seemed. Instead of hurrying off to tell Father, he first stepped into the room, took in Rhaenyra sitting upright in the bed, breathed a gusty, taut sigh, bowed to her with a muttered, “Princess,” then went to the small council chambers.

Father burst into the room not five minutes later, flushed and out of breath but overjoyed to see Rhaenyra in better health. She happily let him smother her.

Soon, two other figures entered the room. Daemon gripped Rhaenyra’s shoulders with palpable relief and pressed his forehead to hers. “The next time you decide to conduct your little magics,” he muttered, “do it someplace else. Your fat dragon nearly brought the entire tower down.”

Syrax was not fat. The magic coursing through her merely made her larger than any fourteen-year-old dragon had any right to be.

But Daemon’s simultaneous under and over exaggeration of the incident was meant to make Rhaenyra smile. And smile she did, saying, “Forgive me, Uncle. I shall be smarter next time.”

The other man who came with Daemon was dressed in maester’s robes. The chain draped around his neck bore so many links of various metals that it had to be looped thrice, though the Valyrian steel links shone the brightest. He bore violet eyes and hair shorn close to his scalp, and he was beautiful like his parents despite how the court once claimed he was unattractive as a child because of his fixed frown and scrutinous gaze.

Although he appeared older than when Rhaenyra last saw him twelve years ago, he was still recognizable.

“Hello, Uncle Vaegon.”

The only surviving son of King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne dipped his head. “Do you remember me, Princess, or have you simply deduced my identity?”

“I remember you. Grandfather Baelon placed me in your lap after Queen Alysanne’s funeral. We were having dinner. You were unhappy to hold me until I began asking what the links on your chain meant. Then you grew amenable, and you called me a curious child. We spent much of the night conversing.”

“You were merely three years of age.” Vaegon stated this frankly, however, without judgement or shock.

Rhaenyra nodded once. “I thought I would see you again at the Great Council the year after, but you did not visit.”

With distant bewilderment, she realized that Mother now kept the truth of her unnatural childhood as well. She was no longer alone in carrying the weight of what her past life did to her in this one.

Then the presence of one archmaester and the absence of the grand maester caught Rhaenyra’s attention.

“Where is Grand Maester Mellos?”

Daemon snorted indelicately.

“Brother,” Father admonished, which caused Daemon to sneer at him.

“Oh, Seven f*cking save me, it was on your orders—”

“I did not wish for—”

Vaegon’s answer was succinct. “Dead.”

Rhaenyra let the information glide through her. “Good.”

Daemon’s darkening expression flipped to triumph. Father sagged at the ruthlessness of his family, for not even Mother seemed bothered by it. However, she did console him by patting his arm.

“I am safe to assume that he met an unfortunate accident before he could inform the Citadel of what he witnessed that day, yes?”

“Indeed,” replied Daemon. “Though, less of an accident and more self-inflicted.”

“That takes care of a myriad of potential problems. And the midwives?”

Mother said, “They are sworn to me and were paid generously. They will never tell a soul what they saw that day.”

No, the midwives—and many servant-class women in the Red Keep—were loyal to Queen Aemma. Mellos, on the other hand? He had disliked Rhaenyra even before she butted in on her mother’s pregnancy. And out of all the members on the small council, he was the only one who disregarded her based on her sex. When she once approached him about learning simple tinctures and poultices, rather than indulging her like the rest of the council, he said with an incredible amount of condescension that a girl like herself had no need for such knowledge. The bias of a man paired with the bias of a Cital-trained maester made him an altogether arrogant pig. So, she felt nothing other than shallow pity to hear of his death, especially when his information would have given the Citadel power against Targaryens, their dragons, and the magic in the world.

“The maesters would have used it to weaken us in whatever way they could,” Rhaenyra continued, summarizing her thoughts. She then glanced at Vaegon and conceded, “Most of the maesters.”

Vaegon tipped his head to agree. “Indeed. There are…secret beliefs that many who occupy high positions in the Citadel harbor. It would do well for the Crown to be watchful of it. Even my journey here was strongly contested by several other archmaesters despite Prince Daemon arriving to personally bring me to the Red Keep and tend to his ill niece. They protested on the basis that my family ties interfered with my oaths to forsake all titles, yet its true reason was due to the fact that I have not and never will collude with their clandestine schemes.”

He waved a curt hand. “But that is a discussion for another time and not the reason I have returned to this cesspit. You, Princess Rhaenyra, performed a feat of magic not seen in Westeros for thousands of years. Valyrian magic, no less. Using it to spare your mother’s life nearly claimed your own. But yet you live.”

Vaegon made no mention of his part in ensuring that Rhaenyra wasn’t drowned in magic’s behemoth wake. He didn’t need to—his Valyrian steel links spoke for him.

“And now, we must record it and try to grasp how it occurred.”

“But first,” Mother interrupted before Rhaenyra or any of her other family members enabled a discussion, “she must rest. This conversation can wait a little longer.”

“…Yes, Mama. It can wait.”

Delaying was for the best, in the end. Rhaenyra didn’t want Mother present when she revealed the truth: that she did remember what happened when the magic came to her. Every burning, beastly second. The precious woman would never know the excruciating details of how her daughter almost died trying to save her.

Nor would she know how Rhaenyra felt Baelon’s weak life, but life all the same, slip away.

Vaegon, Father, and Daemon heard the details, however. Not about her former and forever motherhood—that would stay between herself and the queen—but the goriness of everything else. Father asked most of the questions. Vaegon supplemented them with his own and wrote everything in a personalized shorthand that Rhaenyra was interested in learning. Daemon mostly just listened, and whenever Father got too excited about something, he was there to darkly remind him of what that something almost cost. Of what that something did cost.

Other than the family and entrusted midwives, the Red Keep was largely unaware of what happened in Mother’s chambers. Not even the small council—not even Otto, whose irritation from the secrecy simmered under his visage when he congratulated Rhaenyra on recovering from what Vaegon declared a “stress-induced fit”. The explanation left an unappealing taste in her mouth because it was widely regarded as a women’s illness, and thus could lead people to believe that she was weak—but that also made it easy to believe. Poor Princess Rhaenyra, who loved her mother so much that when she heard about the dangerous delivery, she couldn’t bear the news. This reaction, in turn, called a distressed Syrax to the Red Keep as well. Nothing more.

Mushroom reported that overall, the court was sympathetic to Mother’s stillbirth and Rhaenyra’s ailment. When they set sail to Dragonstone for Baelon’s funeral, the citizens of King’s Landing lined the streets and rooftops in vigil during the procession. Their beloved king and queen had lost a child, and their beloved princess fell sick with grief. Songs were already being written of the dark day, when even dragons wept.

“And what do you think happened, Mushroom, on that day?” Rhaenyra inquired. It was a phrase they often said to one another during the five years that he was in her service. What “happened” versus what “they thought” happened. Part game, part quiz, part gossip—and mostly truth.

He smirked and nonchalantly shrugged. “Why, nothing at all, your Grace. A fool Mushroom may be, but not fool enough to answer. He has no need to, you see—he felt the air that day. Tasted it on his tongue. The others in the keep are eager to forget, but Mushroom, no. He will not forget, nor will he speak it.”

The non-answer was an answer all the same, and it made Rhaenyra smile.

Ser Harrold made her smile, too, thanks to being a mother hen donned in armor. Alicent also made her smile because she was simply Alicent—a friend who allowed her too much grace throughout their childhood, a friend who still loved her even though she was abnormal. And with Mother alive, Rhaenyra wouldn’t have to protect Alicent from Otto’s strike at power. That blessing gave her more reason to be glad.

Despite the funeral and unusual circ*mstances, Princess Rhaenys exercised restraint and did not come to the Red Keep until Rhaenyra summoned her. As family, she deserved to hear what happened as well. Rhaenys, as always, then provided Rhaenyra with stony strength and conviction.

“You will carry what happened for the rest of your life, but do not let it shackle you. It would be a disservice to your mother and yourself. Remember the woman you saved rather than the son already lost, for much of the realm would gladly do otherwise.”

Rhaenyra asked Rhaenys to stay until the moon’s turn. She accepted. Her presence bolstered the show of Targaryen unity—and brought Rhaenyra’s favorite cousins back to court. The Velaryons and Targaryens had several boisterous family dinners together, mainly thanks to Corlys, Daemon, Laena, and Laenor. Rhaenys was essential in helping Mother resume her duties. Laena, though still young, became a star among Rhaenyra’s ladies-in-waiting circle, and she often forced Rhaenyra and Alicent into adventure, like when she convinced them to jump off the side of the Sea Snake when Corlys took everyone sailing. Laenor and Rhaenyra drew spectators to the training yard whenever they sparred due to his natural talent against her level-headed endurance. The dragonriders often flew the skies together, entertaining King’s Landing with races and aerial shows while they enjoyed themselves.

The shift in Targaryen family dynamics did not end there. With Mellos’ unfortunate suicide after the guilt of Mother’s failed pregnancy was too much to bear—which the Citadel no doubt suspected—the small council was in need of a new grand maester.

Officially, the Crown had no say in the Citadel’s election. Unofficially, the Crown pushed for Vaegon to fill the position. He was superbly qualified, but his heritage gave grounds for dissent, the argument being that serving as grand maester to his own nephew made mockery of his oaths.

Otto brought up this point during their resumed tutoring sessions (which had evolved into less tutoring and more debates about real and hypothetical issues, swapping gossip, or quietly reading). Rhaenyra countered that rejecting Vaegon for someone from the Reach or, Seven save them, Otto’s family relations itself would also reveal favoritism. Otto couldn’t actually support someone other than Vaegon. He was loyal to the Crown’s interests, correct? But to back the appointment of a grand maester from the Reach would be in his interests, correct? Yet to back the appointment of a different grand maester would create risk because they could be loyal to their own family more so than Otto or the Crown, thus becoming a potential leak, correct? And although Vaegon was a Targaryen, he had no interest in power or acclaim, which made him perfect for the role, correct?

It also made him worst for the role in Otto’s eyes because he wouldn’t be an ally like Mellos was. Though in the same galling sense, neither would Vaegon fall to another’s sway, not even to family like Daemon or Rhaenyra. He was sickeningly neutral.

Otto likely formed an ulcer over his troubles. And Vaegon, serving as the keep’s temporary maester, likely gave him an effective remedy.

After much deliberation (and veiled coercion, written in King Viserys’ hand but with Rhaenyra’s words, as well as Otto’s informal suggestion to take the L), the Conclave elected Vaegon as grand maester. He was as enthused with the elevation as one would expect him to be—which was not in the slightest. Being grand maester took him away from his studies, and he had no love for the court.

Still, he did not complain…though he hid the gaudy, jewel-encrusted link of grand maester beneath the folded collar of his robe.

Tragedy was beholden to time, and as the months marched by, it had faded from immediate memory. Mother and Father still occasionally became sad, and Rhaenyra sometimes stared into nowhere for several moments too long when a certain smell or sound reminded her of the day, of her boys, but they bore their scars as well as they could. They had to bear it for the sake of the keep, the city, and the realm.

The presence of her loved ones kept her grounded and unghoulish. It only took fifteen years to relearn. There was Mother and Father, yes, and Uncle Daemon and Ser Harrold and Alicent…but there was also Aunt Rhaenys and Uncle Corlys now, and spirited Laena and witty Laenor, and clever, libertine Mushroom, and even churlish Vaegon. There were more people, too, who filled in the cracks—who had always filled in the cracks—such as, god, Otto f*cking Hightower. Rhaenyra of the Story would choke her if she could, and rightfully so.

But there was no Rhaenyra of the Story, was there? Just her. Rhaenyra Targaryen. Heir to the Iron Throne.

And she could not do any of this alone.

Then, three moons before Rhaenyra turned sixteen, Lord Corlys demanded before the small council that Westeros go to war for control of the Stepstones.