Chapter Text
Standing beside the Iron Throne, Rhaenyra forces her body to stay still. With a raised chin and straight back, she stares at a distant point above the heads of courtiers gathered in the Throne Room. Still, she feels their curious eyes on her face and the mocking smiles they direct at her.
It is perhaps the most humiliating moment of her life, but she does not let her mask slip, even if only for a heartbeat. Dignity is the last thing she has left, and Rhaenyra will sooner fall upon the swords surrounding the Iron Throne than let the court see how deep the king has cut her with his decision.
In her head, she counts her breaths as she waits until this sad farce is over. As soon as it ends, Rhaenyra can leave the Red Keep once and for all. At least her father has given her this – a place where Rhaenyra can hide and lick her wounds, a keep where she can drown in her shame and misery, far enough that court gossip will not reach her too swiftly.
Why he has graciously given her Dragonstone, Rhaenyra will never know. Mayhaps out of love he had for her mother or guilt, for he was the one who killed Aemma Arryn, the queen beloved by all. His reasons are of no consequence, anyway. The one thing Rhaenyra knows for sure is that her father didn’t do it out of love for her. She is only a daughter, after all. What does a daughter mean to a man who has spent his whole life dreaming of a son?
Now that he has his precious male heir, Rhaenyra is not needed anymore. Out of sight, out of mind. Mayhaps, that’s why he gifted her Dragonstone. With a keep of her own, Rhaenyra can disappear and stop tormenting him with her face that every day resembles more and more the face of the wife he has butchered.
Finally, with a booming voice, the king announces his new heir – Prince Aegon of House Targaryen, a babe of two, the boy the king fathered on Rhaenyra’s best friend. The room explodes in applause, laughter and cheers as if Rhaenyra needs more proof of how eager everyone has been to replace her. How pleased everyone is to see her humbled for daring to seek her purpose beyond what her gender allows.
Behind her back, Rhaenyra clenches her hands to the point of pain to stop herself from moving. She will not let them see her pain, she thinks as she digs her nails into her skin until it breaks and blood spills from tiny cuts.
Alicent - Rhaenyra’s once best friend and the mother of the new heir - glances at Rhaenyra nervously as the booming applause echoes in the Throne Room. It is a small comfort to Rhaenyra that Alicent looks even worse than Rhaenyra feels. No one knows what has happened, but a few days after the memorable hunt for Aegon’s second name day, the king has imprisoned Alicent’s father. Whispers of high treason spread all over the court, and there’s only one punishment for the crime so severe. Death.
Rhaenyra regrets she will not be there to witness the end of Otto Hightower. It would please her to watch as the life leaves his eyes, but it would require her to stay in the Red Keep, and for that sacrifice, Rhaenyra is not prepared. The man who has orchestrated her downfall is not worthy of the pain Rhaenyra would suffer if she stayed longer in the capital.
Finally, the farce is over, and she can leave the room. She’s not even out of the door before the whispers start. She hastens her steps as she crosses the corridors, heading for her room, where a bag with her stuff waits.
It’s not easy to escape, though. “Rhaenyra!” a familiar voice calls.
She can ignore it. She doesn’t have to be a dutiful princess anymore; she doesn’t have to mind her manners and respect her elders. She can continue her walk until she’s in her room, where she can shut the door to the face of unwanted guests. She doesn’t do that, though. What does yet, another insult mean in the sea of everything her father has done to her? She takes a deep breath and straightens her shoulders. “Are you here to gloat, princess?” She asks through clenched teeth as she turns around to face her cousin. “Do you want to say ‘I told you so’?”
Rhaenys doesn’t say anything as she closes the gap between them. “I wanted to tell you that if you ever wish for company, you will always be welcome at Driftmark.”
A bitter sound escapes Rhaenyra’s lips. “I don’t need your pity,” she growls, anger unfurling in her chest like Syrax’s wings. As if Rhaenyra’s fate doesn’t please Rhaenys. With Rhaenyra pushed down in the line of succession in favour of a son, Rhaenys can sleep soundly, knowing it has not been her the Great Council found lacking. That is simply the order of things.
“It is not pity I offer you, Rhaenyra, but a company should you ever feel alone,” the woman says calmly. The sad smile on her lips makes Rhaenyra even angrier; she does not want anyone to feel sorry for her. Rhaenys steps closer. “You did admirably there. It is quite a difficult position your father has put you in, and few would have the strength to face it with as much dignity as you did.”
“Dignity is all I have left,” Rhaenyra whispers before she can stop herself.
Rhaenys chuckles. “You did better than me in that regard. I didn’t even get an apology from the Old King, but you got Dragonstone.”
“Anything to get rid of me.”
In truth, Rhaenyra did not think to ask for Dragonstone or anything else. When her father announced his decision, Rhaenyra was too heartbroken and desperate to get away from him to think about demanding anything. Her whole life, she has longed for her father’s love and attention, respect, and purpose; now, Rhaenyra knows these things will always remain out of her reach. Instead, she got a castle with no memories woven into its cold walls and spies dressed in Kingsguard armour. An exile wrapped in pretty words to appear less harsh fate for the king’s firstborn child.
Rhaenys grabs her hand and squeezes it tightly before letting go. She offers Rhaenyra one last smile before she turns away, leaving Rhaenyra alone in the corridor.
Seeing no one around, Rhaenyra breaks into a run and doesn’t stop until she’s in her room. Only after she locks the door, Rhaenyra allows her mask to fall. She slides down to the floor, tears already welling up in her lilac eyes, and her hand travels to her mouth to stifle the sob that threatens to tear its way out of her lips.
What is she to do now?
Her head falls against the door with a dull thud. Rhaenyra closes her eyes and takes deep breaths to calm down. She can’t let people see her with bloodshot eyes and tear-stained cheeks. She has to hold onto her tears and fury until she’s at Dragonstone, and the sooner she gets there, the better.
With one last sniff, Rhaenyra gets to her feet. Surveying the room, she makes sure everything is packed and ready to be shipped to her new seat. Since she will never return to King’s Landing, there’s no need to leave stuff behind. The only thing she refuses to take with her is the gold ring with a three-headed dragon carved on its face that her father gave her shortly after he named her his heir. No, the ring will remain in King’s Landing, with her father’s broken promises and empty words.
She grabs the bag filled with necessities and prepares to leave her childhood bedroom once and for all when someone knocks on her door. Rhaenyra stills, narrowed eyes glaring at the door. She hopes it’s not her father. He may be the king, but if she’s forced to endure his presence even for a heartbeat longer, Rhaenyra doesn’t think she could hold her rage.
“Princess? May I come in?
Ser Criston. Yet another reminder of her father’s cruelty. He has given her two knights of the Kingsguard to protect her on Dragonstone but forbade her from bringing Ser Criston. The knight she has picked herself, and one whom she trusted, is to remain in King’s Landing.
She wipes her cheeks and pushes her braid over her shoulder before calling for Ser Criston to enter her room.
The knight looks just as sad as she feels. This forced separation is confusing to him for sure - after all, hasn’t he been her sworn sword for almost three years?
He shifts a little, his armour clinking as he clasps his hands behind his back. “I wanted to say goodbye,” he says, eyes filled with sorrow. He is probably the only person whose sadness at her fate she can tolerate and believe. Ser Criston has been her friend who kept her company when her father and Alicent betrayed her and kept her safe when she felt like swords were gathering behind her back. “I’m sorry I can’t go with you. I wish the king has changed his mind.”
The one person Ser Criston can’t protect her from is the king. And on this matter, Rhaenyra’s father has been unmoving.
Rhaenyra’s chin trembles, but she bites her lip before tears fill her eyes again. “I wish you could go with me, too,” she says, trying to smile. “Alas, your loyalty to me would make you a terrible spy. It is not your fault,” she reassures, walking over to the knight and grasping his hand. “I-” she pauses, not knowing what to say. How can she find words to express her gratitude for everything he has done for her? She sniffs again. “Thank you for your loyal service, Ser Criston. You are a true knight worthy of your place in the Kingsguard. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
With that, she walks out of the room, leaving behind her friend and her home forever.
The sky is already growing dark when Rhaenyra and Syrax reach their destination. As they burst out of clouds, Dragonstone spreads below them in all its gloom. It’s a bleak picture that Rhaenyra looks upon. A lonely fortress on a wet island, surrounded by stormy waters and the scent of sulfur heavy in the air.
I will spend the rest of my life here, Rhaenyra thinks as she stares at the castle that protrudes from the shroud of fog and smoke. Pearly grey mist curls snugly around towers and turrets shaped to resemble dragons and wyrms, keeping the stone dragons in its cold hold. A shiver runs down her back, and she reaches with one hand to wrap her cloak tighter around her, already longing for warmth.
Flying above the bridge brings the memory from three years ago. Without telling anyone, Rhaenyra has come to Dragonstone to face her uncle and demand the return of the dragon egg he has stolen. She felt strong then, bold and brave as she finally stepped up from the meaningless tasks her father had assigned her. Had she been wiser and less blinded by her love for the man, she would have recognised the king’s intentions even back then. If he had been earnest in his desire to make Rhaenyra his heir, he wouldn’t have wasted her time, forcing her to act as a cupbearer during the Small Council meetings. He would have taught her about governance and started to prepare her for the day she would ascend the Iron Throne. No, Rhaenyra has never been anything more than a placeholder until the king’s son, the true heir, is born. She has just been the last to see the truth of it.
She circles above castle towers, twisting between the Windwyrm, The Stone Drum and Sea Dragon Tower. The sky above her is purple like a fresh bruise, with dark swollen clouds that herald rain.
There’s beauty in the ancient seat of her ancestors Rhaenyra is sure of it. Mayhaps one day, she will see it. Mayhaps one day, she will look at the twisted black stone, the grotesques, gargoyles and statues of dragons, and they will steal her breath away.
Today is not that day, though.
She guides Syrax to the Dragonpit, where dragonkeepers await her. As she dismounts, they bow deep before walking over to lead Syrax into one of the caves, where Rhaenyra’s she-dragon can make her lair. At least, Syrax will be happier here on Dragonstone, Rhaenyra thinks, a sad smile on her lips as she watches the dragon disappear into a dark tunnel. Dragons thrive best on Dragonstone, she has heard time and time again.
“Welcome to Dragonstone, princess.”
Rhaenyra turns around. A group of men she has not noticed before stands at the bottom of the steps leading to the keep. A maester in simple grey robes stands in the front. He is an old man like most maesters are, but unlike grand maester Mellos, his eyes do not look at Rhaenyra with contempt.
She can’t say the same about the rest of the men crowding the steps. Rhaenyra doesn’t need the talent she has learned in King’s Landing, for even without it, she can see scorn shining in the eyes of the men who welcome her. They do not wish to serve her. The king has spared the men of the realm from the fate of having a woman ordering them around, but the men in front of her are not so lucky.
One of the knights steps forward. “I am Ser Alfred Broome,” he introduces himself in a proud voice as if his name means something. His dark beady eyes rake over her body, and only barely he manages to suppress the sneer curling his lip. “I have the pleasure of being the castellan of Dragonstone.”
Not for long if I have anything to say about it, Rhaenyra thinks. She doesn’t offer the man anything but a stiff nod.
“And I am maester Gerardys,” the maester says with a bow. “I’m at your service, princess.”
She likes this one much more, but the memory of grand maester Mellos’ satisfied smirks is still fresh on Rhaenyra’s mind. The old fool has been generous and loud with his flatteries after the king – in his wisdom – changed the succession.
She stands still like a stone statue without a heart or a soul and regards the men in front of her with a blank gaze as they introduce themselves. Most of them make it clear with the tone of their voice and the looks they give her that they do not want her there. If hurting her with their rejection and lack of faith is their goal, they fail sorely. After all, Rhaenyra has already suffered the worst wound to her pride and the even worse sting of rejection. Who are few small men compared to the father, whose love and affection she craved so desperately?
By now, Rhaenyra’s heart is a mess of scars and cuts that bleed anew whenever she remembers the day her father announced the change of succession.
“I have made a mistake,” he whispered, more to himself than to her. Still, she heard those words, and now they are carved into her being, echoing in her ears. She knows the whisper of his words will linger with her for the rest of her life.
That is what she is to her father - a mistake, a blunder he committed in the heat of a moment when anger at his brother got the best of him.
She blinks, chasing away the painful memory. She will not think of it anymore, Rhaenyra promises herself, even though she knows she will break that promise time and time again. Still, she’s determined to keep her father out of her head for as long as possible. If Rhaenyra doesn’t deserve a place in his heart, he definitely doesn’t deserve to occupy her thoughts.
Once the introductions are over, Rhaenyra follows the castellan into the castle. Maester Gerardys walks next to her and tries to make conversation. As they climb up the stairs, he points at various places and tells her their history; the Stone Drum, where Aegon the Dragon planned his conquest; the small sept; Aegon’s Garden with tall, dark trees and wild roses.
Mayhaps one day, she’ll be interested to hear those stories and explore the places he mentions. Today, though, she dreams of a bed and thick fur to fight off the cold that slowly turns her blood into ice. Today, she wants a dark room to hide in and solitude so she can let her mask slip off her face and the tears fall.
The morning dawns grey and cold, the gloom spreading slowly through the island. Rhaenyra stands in her bedroom in the Sea Dragon Tower, staring lifelessly at the stone walls as she searches for something that would endear the place to her. The apartments once belonged to Queen Visenya, and though the warrior Queen has always been Rhaenyra’s favourite, right now, she finds them less intriguing than she expected.
In truth, the room looks like every other room on Dragonstone. Dragons are carved into the stone walls. The large obsidians in dragons’ eyes gleam and glimmer in the flickering light falling from the candles scattered on every flat surface. There is a four-poster bed in the middle of the room with scarlet covers and shiny black fur to warm the occupants during the long cold nights.
A desk stands pushed against one wall, with papers and books still filling up its drawers as the servants have not yet cleaned the room thoroughly. They have expected Rhaenyra to pick Rhaenys’ or Aegon’s chambers, or perhaps the one her great-grandparents occupied during their stay at Dragonstone. Yet Rhaenyra felt it is Visenya’s room that fits her best. Visenya is oft described as stern and severe and rarely smiling, and Rhaenyra believes that is her fate too. In a way, they are alike - Visenya has been the less-loved sister and wife, and Rhaenyra is the less-loved daughter.
Dressed in her black gown, Rhaenyra walks to the window. The view is lovely, she has to admit; she can see the winding steps leading to the castle and the green grass and rough stone of Dragonmont. Down below, dark waters of the Narrow Sea spread endlessly before her eyes until they kiss the grey sky. She leans against the wall and stares at the waves washing over the stony beach, water engulfing each rock and pebble in its icy embrace before it returns to the sea.
Then she notices the ship swaying at the docks. The black sails with the red three-headed dragon of House Targaryen billow proudly in the wind as a group of men bustles around, dragging wooden chests and trunks from the deck.
Two knights of her father’s Kingsguard climb up the winding steps. Even though the sky is covered with grey clouds that do not allow even a peek of the sun, the knights’ white cloaks shine against the grey stone of Dragonstone. Mayhaps it’s the stark contrast between the pristine white cloth flowing from the knights’ armour against the dreary surroundings of the Targaryen fortress that makes the cloak sparkle even without the sunlight.
Her father’s spies have arrived at last. She has half-hoped they might drown in the cold waters of Blackwater Bay, prayed for a storm to wreck their ship or lightning to strike them during their journey. Yet Rhaenyra’s prayers rarely are heard, and the same happened in this case.
Rhaenyra watches their climb with narrowed eyes. One betrayal hurts more than others, for, even from a distance, she can recognise Ser Harrold Westerling. Before Ser Criston became Rhaenyra’s sworn sword, protecting Rhaenyra had been Ser Harrold’s primary task. She grew up with the older man’s steady presence; she trusted and cared for him. Yet, he’s here on the king’s orders, eager to report her secrets to the king.
She clenches her fists and steps away from the window. It is early still, and yet Rhaenyra’s mood is already down, though one advantage of Dragonstone is that she doesn’t have to pretend. On Dragonstone, she can allow the rage burning inside her to make her features sharper; on Dragonstone, she doesn’t have to fake her smiles. The mask of the delightful little princess Rhaenyra has left in the Red Keep, with her innocence and naivety and foolish faith in her father’s love.
Tossing her hair over her shoulder, Rhaenyra strides out of her bed chamber and into the large solar. She picks her favourite armchair - one shaped like a dragon mid-flight - and sits down, readying herself to receive her unwelcome guests. Her hands caress the dragon skulls carved into the armrests as she listens for the sounds of approaching knights.
When they’re ushered inside, Rhaenyra notes with a pleasing glint how their eyes widen a little when they see her. If they hoped to see the Realm’s Delight, they’re in for an unpleasant surprise. Rhaenyra is tired of delighting people who have no respect for her; in truth, she’s tired of delighting anyone. For too long, Rhaenyra has been forced to please and amuse people around her. What has she gained in return for her kindness and charming smiles but ridicule, contempt and worthless oaths?
After their initial shock, the knights school their reactions well. They bow and say the right words, and Rhaenyra offers them replies in a cold voice. It’s as if they’re reciting lines someone else has given them; it’s meaningless, anyway. They all know why they’re here - Rhaenyra is meant to fall into nothingness so the king’s son can shine at the court; the knights are meant to keep a watchful eye over her and inform the king of her doings.
“Can I have a moment with you, princess?” Ser Harrold asks once they’re done with false pleasantries.
She wants to refuse him, but the knight has always been stubborn. If not now, he will find her later, bother her with his presence and rub his betrayal into her face until she relents. She shows her displeasure with a deep sigh but nods in agreement. Ser Lorent Marbrand exits the room, leaving Rhaenyra alone with Ser Harrold, who has always been so kind to her but has now decided to forsake her.
For a few heartbeats, they remain in tense silence. Rhaenyra doesn’t give the knight permission to sit down, and Ser Harrold doesn’t ask. Instead, he looks at her with sadness carved into the lines marring his face. “You’re angry with me, princess,” he says.
She can’t bear to look into his eyes. Standing up, Rhaenyra walks over to the window, turning her back to the knight. “I am,” she says, gripping the rough stone of the wall with her fingers. “I have trusted you. I have always been kind to you. I have thought of you as a part of my family,” she says, swallowing her tears. Every word, like a new dagger thrust into her chest, deepens the cuts her father left in her heart. “And yet, you’re here. As the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, your place is next to the king, which means you must have volunteered. Tell me, Ser Harrold, why are you so eager to play the spy? What have I done to deserve your betrayal?”
“Princess,” the knight gasps. He takes a few steps, closing the distance Rhaenyra put between them, but pauses when Rhaenyra’s shoulders stiffen in a silent warning. “That is not why I am here.”
She doesn’t believe him. Rhaenyra stays quiet with her back still turned to him, a cold dismissal ready on her lips.
Ser Harrold sighs. “Do you know why the Kingsguard swear to never take wife or father children?”
Rhaenyra rolls her eyes. “So their loyalty wouldn’t be compromised, and they would not be tempted to abandon their duty.”
“Yes,” Ser Harrold says, and his voice sounds the same as it did when Rhaenyra was a little girl and gave the correct answer to one of the knight’s many questions. “Queen Visenya modelled the vows of the Kingsguard after the vows men of the Night’s Watch take to ensure the loyalty of the Kinsguard will belong to the king. And it works, to the point. You see, what Queen Visenya didn’t consider is that some knights would serve the king for so long that they start to see the king’s family as their own. Our loyalty is still tested. I was in Red Keep when you were born, princess. I watched you grow from a charming little girl who has smiles for everyone into a beautiful and intelligent woman. Becoming the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard is the highest honour a knight can hope for,” he says with a sad sigh. “Yet, when the king told me of his plans, I regretted ever being named one, for it meant I could not go with you.”
Slowly, Rhaenyra turns around. Her cheeks are wet with tears that fell without her permission.
Ser Harrold takes a step closer. “When the king asked who should be sent to serve you on Dragonstone, I volunteered. If I cannot remain with you, I want, at least, to make sure the men who will protect you are honourable and loyal and skilled. Ser Lorent was of the same mind, though he is lucky and can stay at your side.”
Feeling again like a little girl who has scrapped her knee, Rhaenyra falls into Ser Harrold’s arms, tears flowing from her eyes like a river of sorrow. “Why has he done this?” she sobs into Ser Harrold’s chest, the last of her resolve breaking. “Why am I never good enough?”
Ser Harrold pats her back, allowing Rhaenyra to weep and ask questions neither of them knows the answers to. “I don’t know what made the king change his mind, princess, but let me assure you, it was not easy for him.”
Rhaenyra doesn’t believe him. She may trust his sincerity, but she won’t be fooled into thinking that her father felt conflicted about changing the succession. I have made a mistake, he whispered that day in the Small Council chamber. Rhaenyra is the mistake he was talking about, an error of judgment, a decision made too hastily.
Ser Harrold pulls away slightly, sweeping her tears with his gloved hand. “And I assure you, princess, Ser Lorent and I are not here to spy on you, and neither has the king asked us to do so. Your father promised you the freedom to make your own choices, and he intends to keep that promise. We are to inform him only if you need something. Nothing else.”
Rhaenyra has thought herself too heartbroken to suffer more blows, yet once again, she’s proven wrong. Ser Harrold - the honourable and kind knight - might think her father is a benevolent king, intent on keeping his promise, but Rhaenyra knows the truth. He doesn’t care about me at all, she thinks. She can almost hear her heart as it shatters in her chest. He only wants to know if I need anything so I wouldn’t cause any more trouble for him. A happy princess is a princess who doesn’t become a political headache for the king.
Out of sight, out of mind. Rhaenyra hasn’t realised how determined her father is to make that happen.
How foolish she has been to think that her father cannot hurt her anymore.
Days blend together. Every morning, the sun tries and fails to break through thick grey clouds, only to give up in the evening, allowing the island to drown in darkness. In the night, storms rage above Dragonstone. The clapping of thunders echoes between the castle walls, and when the lightning strikes Dragonmont, flashing silver light, the dragons carved into the stone look fearsome and feral.
It’s those nights when storms shake the island that Rhaenyra finds most pleasing to explore the castle. While everyone cowers and quivers in fear, she roams the empty corridors, cloaked in resentment and despair, with a crown of sorrow resting atop her head. People have once called her the Realm’s Delight; songs and poems have been written about her beauty and charm, praises spilling from the lips of men and women.
Now, she has another name – the wraith of Dragonstone, they whisper when they think she cannot hear.
Let them whisper, Rhaenyra thinks as she crosses the gallery leading to the Stone Drum. The wind whips at her hair, tugging the silver-gold locks around her head. There’s a chill in the air that heralds the end of the summer, but Rhaenyra barely feels cold anymore.
She enters the Chamber of the Painted Table and looks around, checking if she’s alone. The servants have already been there, as proven by the fire roaring in the hearth.
Rhaenyra sits in the armchair in front of the window and stares at the sky. She loves those stormy nights on Dragonstone. That is mayhaps the one benefit of being on the island instead of King’s Landing. On Dragonstone, she can lean comfortably in her favourite armchair and watch as the storm rages outside. No one bothers her as she wastes her nights gazing at the choppy waters of the Narrow Sea. Tiny ships far in the distance struggle against the foaming waves that rise and fall without fail. Every now and then, lightning cuts through the black sky, leaving a silver web in its wake that disappears within a heartbeat.
She always falls asleep before the first light breaks the sky and wakes up with soft fur on her lap and a pillow behind her head. She doesn’t know whom she should thank for it, though she suspects it might be Ser Harrold or Ser Lorent. The knights keep their distance but always remain nearby, ready to protect her from danger. Mayhaps it is one of the servants, the same one who always makes sure there’s food and drink waiting for her in the room, and the fire is roaring in the hearth.
I should show them some kindness, Rhaenyra thinks as she wakes up. Every morning, she makes a promise to herself to show her gratitude, smile more and offer kind words to people who serve her. Every time, sorrow and heaviness in her heart win, forcing her to break the promise. Despair is a persistent companion – once stuck to her side, it doesn’t allow her to shake it away no matter how hard she tries.
A flash of white catches her eyes. Like a cloak on Ser Harrold’s shoulders, the snow-white shape sweeps through the sky and disappears before Rhaenyra can identify it. She stands and stretches her arms and legs, wincing at the dull ache in her muscles.
Striding out of the Chamber of the Painted Table, Rhaenyra’s eyes search for the white shape. It’s strange to feel curious again. The bubbling excitement for the unknown flutters in her belly, where, for so long, only misery and resentment were simmering.
It almost sweeps Rhaenyra off her feet.
With her eyes fixed on the windows, Rhaenyra doesn’t see maester Gerardys until she bumps into him. Before she can fall on her behind, strong hands catch her, helping her find balance. “Is everything alright, princess?” he asks. They did not interact many times in the past, but whenever they meet, maester Gerardys is always amiable towards her.
She brushes her hands against the skirt of her dress, trying to collect herself. Rhaenyra’s well aware of what she looks like in the mornings after she spends the night in the Chamber of the Painted Table or what she looks like most days. With dark shadows under her eyes, tangled hair, and black dresses she insists on wearing, Rhaenyra is far from the graceful princess people have expected to see.
“I saw something odd,” she says. “A flying white shape? Too big for a seagull but too small for a dragon, not that we have any white dragons here.”
Maester Gerardys nods his head, humming quietly. His lips curl in a smile. “I believe I know what it was. Do you want to see it?”
For a moment, Rhaenyra wants to demand the man to tell her. She wants to command him to stop wasting her time with foolish mysteries and secret smiles, so she can go to her bedroom and lie down. Yet the memory of the fluttering in her belly stops her. It felt good to feel something different than despair. She nods her head.
“Then come with me, princess.”
As they walk through dim corridors, maester Gerardys tries to engage her in conversation. He babbles about some matters that he insists require her attention and asks questions about opinions on Dragonstone. Rhaenyra forces the replies out of her mouth, but her voice sounds hoarse to her ears, and the words feel strange on her tongue. She has grown unused to talking, and now her tongue feels clumsy and stiff, as if it’s too swollen to move properly.
If maester Gerardys notices her struggles, he doesn’t mention it. Instead, he looks almost interested in everything she says, like she’s a mystery he wants to uncover, a secret he wishes to know. It’s so different from her experiences with maesters at the Red Keep, and every new question he asks makes her stumble with surprise.
Finally, she can’t take it anymore. They’re atop the Sea Dragon Tower outside the chamber the maester occupies, where he has been leading her this whole time. She stops, watching the man with narrowed eyes. “Why are you asking me all those questions?”
Maester Gerardys stutters. He opens and closes his mouth, whatever questions he has on his mind fading into nothingness as Rhaenyra glares at him. Suspicion blooms in her chest. She has been worried about Ser Harrold and Ser Lorent, but mayhaps it’s the maester she should be wary of.
“You’re the princess of Dragonstone,” he says once he regains control over his voice. He sounds baffled by her question. “I wish to get to know my mistress.”
“So you can report everything you find out to the king?”
“I serve the princess of Dragonstone, not the king,” he says with a respectful bow.
“You serve the Citadel,” Rhaenyra points out. In a way, it’s even worse. The king has already proven he doesn’t care about Rhaenyra; grand maester Mellos has always shown a queer curiosity about her doings. He has been especially interested in everything that involved Rhaenyra and dragons.
Maester Gerardys chuckles. “In theory,” he agrees, smiling at her. “But truth be told, the Citadel doesn’t like me much. They sent me here when Dragonstone stood empty, probably hoping I’d die before the new master of Dragonstone would arrive.”
Rhaenyra frowns at his words. She has never heard a maester speak in such a way about the Citadel. “Why’s that?”
Maester Gerardys offers her his arm. Hesitantly Rhaenyra takes it and allows the man to lead her into his office. “You see, princess, Citadel has certain expectations of its students. They don’t like when the students question the fundamental truths or take an interest in matters the archmaesters deem unworthy.”
“Which one of those crimes are you guilty of?”
He ducks his head, smiling almost shyly. “Taking an interest in unworthy matters, I’m afraid.” He points to an empty chair at the desk, silently asking her to sit. “In truth, it is magic that intrigues me. Arcane arts, the so-called higher mysteries, but can you blame me, princess? The archmaesters should know that calling something higher mysteries will draw students in, not away.”
Rhaenyra raises her brow. “Citadel doesn’t deem magic a subject worthy of learning?”
“They don’t understand it, no one truly does, and often when we don’t understand something, we fear it. Fear of the unknown keeps us from reaching greatness, and it holds us back, not only in our strive to gain knowledge but in other matters too. It has been that way for centuries.”
For a moment, Rhaenyra wonders whether fear made her father change the succession and whether the same fear made lords of the Seven Kingdoms vote against a woman at the Great Council. She shakes her head, huffing. It’s not fear but greed, she decides. Lust for the power the men cannot allow to slip out of their hands.
“I believe this is the object of your curiosity, princess,” maester Gerardys’ voice snaps her out of her thoughts. On his arm sits a beautiful white bird.
“A white raven,” she gasps, standing up to admire the bird from up close.
“Yes.” Smile blooms on maester Gerardys’ lips as he runs his hand over raven’s head. “I believe the summer is over.”
She won’t miss the cruel summer that brought so much heartbreak into Rhaenyra’s life. Mayhaps, for once, autumn will prove to be kinder.
They sit in Gerardys’ office for some time, discussing the secrets of ravenry, while morning turns into the afternoon. Despite the announcement of the end of summer, for the first time since Rhaenyra arrived at Dragonstone, the sun breaks through thick clouds and warm gold light spills over the castle walls.
Rhaenyra walks over to the window and takes in the sight of Dragonstone bathed in sunlight. It is breathtaking, just as she suspected. The black stone glows as the sun kisses its surface, making the statues of dragons and gargoyles appear to be moving. The Narrow Sea, which always looks so dark and ominous, now sparkles like a field of azurites.
A smile blooms on her lips. Everything looks better in colour. For such a long time, Rhaenyra has seen only shades of grey, but now she finally notices other colours. They are everywhere - in the verdant green of the grass covering the hill and on the sandy beach where ivory and bronze shimmer before the waves wash over it. She looks down, where a corner of Aegon’s garden peeks from behind the wall, and it, too, is full of colours - red, orange, purple and various shades of pink.
“Dragonstone is not without its charm, princess,” maester Gerardys says as he stands next to her.
She hums quietly, admiring the beauty spreading before her eyes. The urge to take Syrax for a flight is sudden, but it grips Rhaenyra so firmly she cannot shake it away, even if she tried. Syrax took her to the skies many times since Rhaenyra came to Dragonstone. Although before, the wish to fly always came from the need to get away from the people, to be alone with only clouds to witness Rhaenyra’s tears. Now, Rhaenyra wants to marvel at the beauty of nature from high above. She wants to soar between the clouds and relish in the sun’s kisses on her skin.
“I feel like taking Syrax for a flight,” she tells maester.
“Excellent idea,” Gerardys replies as she turns to leave. “And if I may be so bold…, smiling suits you, princess.”
It happens without her consent or any warning. Almost as if guided by some strange force, Rhaenyra’s lips curl up and spread until a grin appears on her face. A happy laugh bubbles out of her mouth before she can stop it. The first laugh in three moons.
“Thank you for a pleasant morning, maester Gerardys.”
Nothing changes overnight, a few hours of the sun do not heal the pain of her father’s rejection, but somehow, the pain dulls. The sting of rejection doesn’t cut as sharply whenever the memory invades Rhaenyra’s thoughts. She doesn’t rage or cry when the news of the birth of the king’s new daughter reaches Dragonstone. Satisfaction doesn’t fill her belly when a raven brings a letter with information about Otto Hightower’s death.
She exists, taking a day at a time, learning how to leave with the pain. Some days are better than others, but even the worst doesn’t leave Rhaenyra crippled in bed with grief and despair, as has been the case before.
Maester Gerardys, when she confided in him one evening, said every wound needs time to heal. Mayhaps he is right. Mayhaps one day, Rhaenyra will wake up without the dull ache in her heart. Mayhaps, one day she will wake up and feel happy.
As days bleed into months, the island changes. It’s ironic how during the summer, Dragonstone has been drowning in the gloom, but the moment autumn arrives at their door, colours wash over the island. Rhaenyra takes Syrax for a flight every day, noting different shades of yellow and red, pink and green as they sweep above the ground and how beautifully the colours blend together.
Today as she lands, maester Gerardys waits for her at the Dragonpit. It’s not unusual for him to come there while Rhaenyra is with Syrax, for, as the man has confessed, magic intrigues him deeply. Dragons are magical creatures, and Rhaenyra notices the hunger in his green eyes as they sweep over Syrax whenever the she-dragon crawls out of her lair. It’s not the look many others have whenever they see a dragon - it’s not filled with fear, greed or envy. Instead, maester Gerardys wears curiosity and wonder on his face.
Today, he gives her a different look. Rhaenyra frowns as she dismounts before approaching the man with wariness. “What is it?” she asks, not wasting time on pleasantries.
From one of the many pockets hidden in his grey robe, Gerardys takes out a tiny scroll. He holds it for her, and Rhaenyra looks at it as if he’s offering her a poisonous snake. “The king sent a letter for you, princess.”
Rhaenyra’s heart breaks into a gallop in her chest as she fights the urge to shudder at his words. “What is it?” she repeats, forcing her voice to sound strong and steady. “Has my father changed his mind? Has he decided to take Dragonstone from me or force me to marry some foolish lord?”
It’s so like him to give something only to take away just as Rhaenyra grows to love it. In that regard, Rhaenyra’s father is like a god – he gives only to take away. Bitterness washes over Rhaenyra like a wave; it fills her from the inside, sweeping into her blood until there’s nothing else left. The flame that slowly she had rekindled is snuffed once again with a single letter from the king, a few words scribbled on the yellowed parchment.
Peace is a fleeting thing.
Maester Gerardys’ eyes widen. “No, nothing like that, princess,” he reassures her. “Dragonstone is yours in perpetuity. The king cannot take it from you if he doesn’t wish to look like a child playing with toys. I may not know your father well, but that is not a good look for a king, and few would wish to be seen as that by their subjects.”
It does little to calm Rhaenyra’s heart. “Does he wish to marry me off then? Or does he send a royal order of some sort?”
“No, but-”
“Then I do not want to know,” Rhaenyra interrupts him. “Throw it away, burn it down or send a reply in my name. Do whatever you want. Unless he sends a royal decree I have to follow, I do not want to see any letters the king sends me.”
The king does not have the right to send private correspondence to her, and the father who held Rhaenyra when she was a girl is dead to her, gone and buried along with any happy memory she had of him.
Slowly and hesitantly, maester Gerardys nods. “As you wish, princess.” He hides the scroll inside his pocket and takes another one. “You also received a letter from Driftmark. From Lady Laena Velaryon.”
It’s time for Rhaenyra to act hesitant. In the ten moons she spent on Dragonstone, Rhaenyra has not taken Rhaenys up on the invitation to Driftmark. Although alone, she has no need for company, relishing in the solitude and silence Dragonstone provides. Maester Gerardys claims it’s bad for her health - humans are sociable creatures, and when left alone for too long, life seems to seep out of them.
She takes the scroll with a trembling hand and unrolls it slowly. As her eyes sweep over her cousin’s words, a smile breaks on her lips. “My cousin claimed Vhagar,” she tells Gerardys.
“Queen Visenya’s mount.”
“And my grandfather’s,” Rhaenyra adds. She takes her eyes off Laena’s beautiful cursive and looks at the sky, where grey clouds travel across a pale blue backdrop like ships sailing across the Narrow Sea. Is she ready to entertain company? “She wants to visit,” she says, glancing at maester Gerardys.
“That’s a marvellous idea! A company of a friend your age will do you wonders, princess. You should not spend whole days with boring old men like myself, Ser Harrold or Ser Lorent.”
Rhaenyra chuckles quietly. “You’re far from boring,” she says, and it’s true.
Maester Gerardys’ knowledge has no limits. So far, he has known the answer to her every question, no matter the subject. And she doesn’t even have to ask the man for him to share some of his knowledge. Oft maester Gerardys offers odd little pieces of information without any prompting from her. If they take a walk in Aegon’s garden, he shows Rhaenyra herbs. Explains which ones are used for healing and which can be used to make poisons, warning Rhaenyra against their deadly nature. If they find themselves in the library, Gerardys always has a book to recommend, whether poetry, a compilation of myths and legends or a recounting of some king’s reign.
He has taught her how to manage the books and finances and helped her find her way in various laws she has to navigate. And even when Rhaenyra spends hours listening to petitions, measter Gerardys remains at her side, guiding her and suggesting solutions.
Although he has not seen anything but Stoney Sept, Oldtown, and Dragonstone, maester Gerardys is a man of the world, curious and eager to learn more. And he has become an invaluable member of her household.
“You’re too kind, princess.”
A fortnight later, two dragons appear on the horizon. It is Vhagar’s looming presence in the sky that alerts Rhaenyra to her guests. Queen Visenya’s old mount is hard to miss and expected, but the second, smaller dragon, is a surprise.
She walks to the Dragonpit, fingers playing with her many rings as she nervously tries to summon her manners. It’s been a long time since Rhaenyra played the host, and the nerves that caught her in their ironclad grip at the prospect of visitors kept her awake at night. She shifts on her feet as the dragons sweep down toward the Dragonpit.
Vhagar is the first to touch the ground, and without wasting a moment, Rhaenyra’s cousin slides down the rope tied to the saddle and runs to her. “I brought my brother. I hope you don’t mind,” she says as she embraces Rhaenyra. “Laenor has been eager to get away from mother’s smothering.”
Rhaenyra tries to return the smile as she hugs back her cousin, but it’s a difficult task when she longs for her own mother and her loving embrace. Her father’s rejection has dulled into a faint ache in her chest, but her mother’s absence is still a raging wound. She closes her eyes and swallows the wave of grief that washes over her before turning her gaze to Seasmoke. The dragon is considerably smaller than Vhagar, yet it has grown significantly during the time Laenor spent on the Stepstones.
“I didn’t know you were back from the Stepstones, Laenor,” she says in lieu of greeting when he approaches them. Laenor, too, has grown; the war on the Stepstones turned a young boy into a handsome man. Rhaenyra feels her cheeks flush as Laenor sends her a teasing grin. On Dragonstone, there are few men of her age and even fewer whom she could consider handsome. Yet even the prettiest man serving her on Dragonstone pales against Laenor’s beauty.
“The fighting is over, princess,” he says, flashing his pearly white teeth in a charming smile. “We’ve won.”
“Congratulations on your victory then, cousin.”
“Oh, don’t encourage him,” Laena huffs at her side. “Ever since he has been knighted, battles and tourneys are all he talks about. If people keep feeding his ego, he won’t fit at Driftmark with that big head of his. Or worse, he will find another war to fight and abandon me again.”
“Don’t worry, sister. I will remain at your side for at least the next few moons. Then, I make no promises.”
Envy swirls in Rhaenyra’s belly as she watches the Velaryon siblings. Had she stayed in the Red Keep, would she and Aegon act like that one day?
Then the realisation hits her like lightning during the storm; she has siblings – a brother and a sister she doesn’t know. What are they like? Yet before the curiosity can take root in her chest, a shadow of the king bathes her foolish dreams in darkness. She could not stay in King’s Landing, not after the king dismissed her and everyone in the court whispered about her fall from grace. And even if she had stayed, she would have hated Aegon and Helaena. She would have looked at them and seen her father’s rejection; she would have looked at them and heard her father’s voice, whispering, “I have made a mistake.”
She shakes her head to chase away the painful thoughts and leads Laena and Laenor to the castle. As they climb the winding stairs, Laena and Laenor fill the silence with their voices. Laena tells Rhaenyra how she claimed Vhagar; her blue eyes sparkle as she recounts the day, her girly excited voice carrying in the wind. When she is done, and Rhaenyra dutifully offers her congratulations, Laenor sweeps in with a greatly exaggerated tale of his first battle. He jumps up the stairs, flinging his arm as if he holds a sword, making them laugh with his silly antics.
Neither of them mentions the four years when Rhaenyra has been the heir to the Iron Throne or the day she stopped being one.
“Your uncle won us the battle, in truth,” Laenor tells Rhaenyra while they eat supper. “Men say he was like a god that day, the warrior walking upon the earth. He cut through Crabfeeder’s men, one by one, and killed the Crabfeeder himself – cut him in two. And all this because the prince didn’t want the king’s aid.”
Rhaenyra rolls her eyes. It sounds like Daemon. Though she cannot blame him. For three years, the king has done nothing about the war on the Stepstones, waiting to sweep in until it was almost over and claim the victory for himself. That sounded like Rhaenyra’s father, too. She has seen time and time again as the king did nothing only to reap the benefits of someone else’s work.
When the time comes for them to return home, Rhaenyra feels much lighter and happier than before. She takes Syrax and joins the Velaryon siblings in the sky for a time, chasing after the quick Seasmoke and fearsome Vhagar with a smile playing on her lips.
Maester Gerardys has been correct, as always; Laena’s and Laenor’s company has been good for her.
Almost three moons after Laena’s and Laenor’s first visit, a familiar whistling sound cuts through the fog surrounding Dragonstone. Rhaenyra’s heart stutters in her chest as the sound flitters through the open window in her room like the sweetest song. Grateful that she is alone and no one can see her, Rhaenyra runs to the window.
She holds her breath as her eyes search the grey sky, butterflies fluttering in her belly in anticipation and something else she cannot name. A few heartbeats later, Caraxes bursts out of the evening clouds.