Chapter Text
The couch moved slowly. Oh how she wished she could do this trip on dragonback. It would save her from Aegon’s constant whining. Her father fussed over him like a septa over a mural. Alicent had her hands on her belly. Rhaenyra made an effort to meet her eyes as rarely as possible.
She wore a red velvet dress. Her hair was tied by a golden net. She had her maids do coal over her eyelids — it suited her. Brought out the color of her eyes. The first pregnancy barely changed her, if only it gave her a slight roundness to her cheeks and breasts. Alicent wore chained belts that made her waist look slimmer, but anyone could see the swollen belly that carried her second child.
Rhaenyra hated that it came from her father’s seed. She felt dirty noticing it. It was never supposed to go that way.
Alicent tried to continue the charade of being her friend, but so often she would slip into the way of the Queen, as if the crown she had and children she bore somehow made her feel like mother to Rhaenyra as well. It was obscene. Rhaenyra hated these attempts at tenderness far more than Alicent’s anger and orders. Deep inside she knew Alicent was trying her best — Rhaenyra couldn’t handle it. She couldn’t handle seeing her at all, much less talk.
She wanted to hate her.
She could never hate her.
The best thing she could do was to avoid it all together.
“Well, isn’t it splendid!” Viserys mused as he watched Aegon play with a wooden horse as he sat on a nanny’s lap. “The whole of our family off to a celebration and adventure in the Kingswood.”
He smiled at Rhaenyra widely, and was met with a tightlipped smile. She was long past needing her father’s smiles. Alicent smiled tightly. She would never need Alicent’s smiles ever again.
But as the carriage lunged and threw them up, Alicent winced, and Rhaenyra barely managed to stop herself from reaching out to her. Alicent had the maid for it now. She didn’t need her. She never needed her.
“Should you be traveling in such condition?” Still she asked. Rhaenyra had no desire to see an unplanned birth happen in front of her. Not Alicent’s at least.
“The maester said that being out in nature would do me well.”
Did the maesters ever really know anything? They said Aemma would survive her birth as well. They cut her open, and they let her die.
Viserys took Aegon’s hand that he was slapping over his jaw and held it down as he looked at her. “You would be with your own child sooner than late,” he had the gall to smile. “Make me a proud grandsire.”
And would you let me die too, father, to complete your dream? Rhaenyra’s eyes shifted to Alicent’s enormous belly. How could something even fit itself into such a delicate frame?
“It’s not so bad,” Alicent said in a voice Rhaenyra knew so well once; the voice she used when talking about strife she did not wish to bring attention to. The placid, accepting one. “The days are long but Aegon cane quickly and without fuss.”
I do not wish to hear it, Rhaenyra thought. Was he so eager to come into this world to replace her? Did the Gods truly felt such affront to her being heir they sprouted a more suiting child to remedy the mistake?
“You should ride with me today. Join the chase.”
To do what exactly? Pour wine to the lords who ogled her and plotted how to steal her birthright away? Would they let her take up a sword or a bow and join the action, or was she to be secluded to the back, where a woman’s place was? She did not wish to be insulted more than she had to.
“I’d rather not. The boars squeal like children when they’re being slaughtered,” her eyes shifted to Aegon, who had not yet said a word that wasn’t a scream, plump like an overripe fruit in his gold trimmed clothes, a squishy ugly thing. “I find it discomforting.”
Viserys started his old charade about her duties, his attempts to bring her into a state of excitement he had just as infuriating as Aegon’s high pitched squeals. Would he ever be so kind as to just admit it to her face he no longer wished her to be his heir, to cease this humiliating torture of anticipation? He got what he wished for. Just for once could Rhaenyra get what she wished for too?
As she heard the cheering outside when the king and his son stepped out, the bright and boisterous screams of people happy to see them, she sat there in silence of her own.
No one’s here for me.
The day when she was named heir, she saw no smiles and heard no shouts. It was a somber affair, one born of duty.
The lords had bent their knees for her, but they will never truly love her. Their support was a precarious thing, a fragile fleeting moment until a worthy candidate with a cock between his legs was in their sights, no matter how small.
Why should she placate them; no matter what she did, she’d never have the simple adoration they reserved for her brother, still wet from the birthing bed. She could be the youngest dragonrider in history and he could never hatch his dragon in the cradle, but still he would be more of a king in their eyes then she’d ever be.
She wished sometimes that she would toss him up and let Syrax burn him to a crisp before his body hit the floor.
She was never nice, Rhaenyra realized that. She had no wish to be nice. Nice was reserved for wives and children, both of which she didn’t wish to be. She saw no point in trying to be nice now.
“Excuse me, Your Grace,” Otto said and just after that Rhaenyra realized how quiet the tent was. All eyes were on them — all listening to their fight. A viper’s nest.
Without saying anything else, Rhaenyra stomped out of the tent, fuming at the edges from the absurdity of the situation. She was the heir to the Iron Throne, the future queen, and still all saw her as no more than an advantageous proposal. To whom she would be shipped off to? Somehow she was sure that when Aegon was old enough to pick a wife, it would be a woman of his choosing. Someone ready to take her place behind him.
All that these men wanted was to put her behind them.
She marched forward to the outskirts of the camp, further away, until she was far enough to escape the prying eyes. She was stopped by a voice that sounded vaguely familiar.
“The hunt is not to your liking, Your Grace?”
The man stood over a stump of wood filled with rabbit corpses, one hand holding the knife. He was taller than her, twice as large, with wild brown curls and a smile that made her want to stop for a moment — not the type of smug smile the Lannister gave her, but a more genuinely amused one. She was far too angry to choose the graceful silence.
“I could not say it is,” she narrowed her eyes slightly. Her eyes slid over his frame, taking the sigil on his chest, the red blue and green. Lord Lyonel’s offspring. So this must be Breakbones, the Strong heir. He sure did look strong.
“May I inquire as to what soiled your mood, Princess?”
“You may not,” Rhaenyra clasped her hands behind her back, head raised high. She took a step forward and jerked her head towards the pile of rabbits. “You may show me how to do what you do.”
His eyebrow flew up. “You want to skin a rabbit, Your Grace? It’s not a task suited for a Princess. You’ll get your hands dirty.”
A little smile tugged on the corner of her lips. “I do not fear a little blood.”
Instead of answer, he flipped the knife and offered it to her handle first, and Rhaenyra took it with a firm grip. She never planned to skin animals today, but something about it made her feel excited. Not the violence of it — but the fact that she could. She held knives before, but the art of it was never taught to her.
It surely would be taught to Aegon.
Rhaenyra stood next to him. “What do I need to do?”
“Take the rabbit by the legs. Do you feel the knee joint? Slice around it, just deep enough to break the skin. You’d feel the change of skin to muscle as you cut.”
The skin broke so easily from her blade. The first cut was way too deep. The knife was so sharp that just a little pressure cut through it. Harwin Strong took a rabbit itself and showed her how it had to be done, and she matched him as she cut over the second leg.
“Cut down the leg, towards the spine. Now put your hand under it and pull it away.”
Funny. Rhaenyra thought it would be wet, but as she pulled her fingers under the skin, she just found it slimy. The body was cold; the kill was done some time ago. The muscles underneath were almost soft, smooth and weirdly pleasant to the touch. The skin didn’t come off as easily as she thought, but she found pleasure in putting in strength to do it.
She cut the last incision, following ser Harwin’s lead. “Not you just pull it off like that.” With one strong push, he ripped off the skin, like one would take off a sock. Rhaenyra put her best effort, but she had to tug and tug as the skin was coming off in pushes, inch by inch.
“I can help you,” he started to say, but Rhaenyra shot him off with a look.
They stayed silent until the last bits of the hide were hanging over the rabbit’s head. Rhaenyra thought she may experience some displeasure; nausea the ladies so often express at a task so gruesome. She didn’t feel a thing.
“Now cut the head off just below the remaining skin. It may take some effort, but…”
Rhaenyra put the rabbit down and with one vicious blow she severed the head from the spine with a crunch. Ser Harwin smiled.
“You have a decisive hand, Your Grace.”
She felt herself smiling at it.
But before she could say anything, ser Criston found them with an urgent look on his face. He paused as he saw a skinned little body in her hand, a bloodied knife in the other. It felt nice.
“Princess, His Grace wishes to see you immediately.” She had a wish to send him away, but he must’ve sensed it. “His Grace said it is most urgent.”
She found her father near his Hand, in a more private part of the tent, with two Kingsguard over at the entrance. His cup was full. He looked at her with something bittersweet on his face. As she entered, Viserys gestured for her to take a seat.
Rhaenyra took a cup that was offered to her. She had a bit of blood on her hands and under her nails. She didn’t hate the look of it. She quite liked it, actually.
“What was it that you wished to speak about, father?”
Viserys took a sip from his cup before speaking, leaning on his chair. “What could I speak of to you?”
She scoffed. “Did Jason Lannister find you?”
Something in Viserys’ eyes twitched. “Jason Lannister is an excellent match.” She opened her mouth to protest, but he spoke over her. “But I do not want to see you marry him if it’s not what you desire.”
“I don’t desire to marry at all!” Her grip hardened on the cup.
“No one exists above this duty, Rhaenyra!” Her father all but screamed. “Ever since you came of age I’ve been slowly drowning in a lake of parchment! Marriage proposals, all!”
She felt a noose roping itself around her neck, suffocating her with every word. Which one of them offered a better price for her? Which one had bought her? Was it a fleet of ships, she wondered, or was it some lord with a heavy purse? How much was a princess’ hand worth these days?
“Have I no say in this, is that what you’re saying?” Rhaenyra bit through her teeth.
“I have tried to discuss it with you many times, but you’ve refused me at every turn.” His eyes flickered briefly to Otto Hightower. “And since you refuse to make a choice of your own or even entertain the possibility, I believe we reached the best conclusion.”
She was standing on the gallows and the rope was tight around her.
“Something that would offer you what you wished so much for and secure your standing. Something that would bring the realm at peace.”
She was to be sold to the highest bidder. Nothing done for the good of the realm was ever done in a woman’s favor.
“You will marry Aegon.”
The executioner pulled the lever and she lost the ground, and she was hanging.
“But he’s barely a child!” All that she could say.
“You marry him when he comes of age, Princess. No one expects you to marry a two year old boy,” Otto inclined, so infuriatingly calm. She hated how he always sounded so calm. “But a marriage like this would strengthen the realm and put to rest any discontent. It is the most advantageous.”
She would never exist outside him, wouldn't she? He was barely even alive, barely a proper human, and already she was expected to make it easier for him. To be sold to a lord was one thing, but to be so freely given to a child born solely to replace her was an insult she couldn’t handle. It was below humiliation. Was she another toy to be played with?
She shoved the cup of wine from the table as she rose, the shattered glass crunching underneath her footsteps as she marched outside.
As she entered the more common area, almost against her will her eyes fixed on a tiny boy with silver hair. Rhaenyra could barely believe it.
This child. This was supposed to be her husband?
Aegon’s tiny hands smashed the wooden horse on the floor, and the maids around him laughed and giggled as if he did something impressive. He just ruined a thing. He smiled so proudly, his little violet eyes gleaming.
Rhaenyra hated him.
He was everything her father ever wanted — a boy with Targaryen features and apparently a Targaryen temper. She was everything he was and more; but oh, she was a girl. A girl was not supposed to have a temper. A girl would not be praised for smashing a toy, and she would not be encouraged to play with a wooden sword like her pathetic brother. Rhaenyra never had a heir’s tourney. Her title was born out of spite and necessity, as fragile as every conversation she had with her father. As her own sanity was when she thought of having a child a decade her minor as a husband for the rest of her life.
Alicent’s son that she would have to wed. What a bitter irony the Gods had. How would she look into her eyes?
Oh, but Alicent had no problem looking into Rhaenyra’s eyes as she wed and bedded her father. Wasn't there a sort of perverted revenge she could bring upon her? The son she had, the first one ever, promised to Rhaenyra. Did Alicent argue over it, Rhaenyra wondered? Or was she the one to propose such a thing? She once thought Alicent was pure of heart and noble in her intentions, traits Rhaenyra never saw in herself and therefore was trapped in Alicent’s light like a moth to a flame. She used to think Alicent to be her better.
That was what she loved about her.
She still remembered how the light of the candles flickered over her auburn hair, how it made her look so ethereal, as if she was on fire. She remembered her fingers on her arm, tight and comforting. She wiped the tears from her cheeks as she grieved her mother, and Rhaenyra felt like she had an anchor to this world among the sea of grief.
She remembered her own hand on Alicent’s back, the warmth of her breath over her neck as she dared to pull her in. She smelled so nice. Like cinnamon.
Rhaenyra could barely remember her own mother’s shade of eyes, but she could never forget how Alicent smelled as she hugged her.
If she only knew that she perfumed herself not for her, but for her father as she went to his chambers every evening. How much of what she told her met her father’s ears through her lips?
She trusted once, and look how richly she paid for her moment of weakness. Rhaenyra would never trust again. Rhaenys once told her with a hearty laugh how much of the snake garden King's Landing was, but she didn’t believe it. She was chosen by her father as his heir, she had people she knew would be there for her. She thought that she had some loyalties still.
It all crumbled when Rhaenyra heard her father’s declaration of the upcoming marriage, and as the world turned to dust around her, the only thing she heard was Rhaenys’ condescending laugh and her bitter, vengeful smile.
She couldn’t stand it a moment longer.
She put her gloves on, and before anyone could stop her she hopped on her horse and sent it galloping.
Distantly she heard a scream and the thunder of hooves behind her, but she only kicked her horse’s rear harder, making it ride faster. The camp disappeared to a lush forest, and she sent her horse through the trees into the depths, the wind blowing her hair from her face. But no matter how hard she rode, she could not escape the tears welling in her eyes. She bit her lip to stop them from coming. She was a Targaryen, a dragon, and dragons didn’t cry.
Daemon was off to the Stepstones, fighting a war, riding his dragon to battle and wearing black armor with Dark Sister strapped to his hip. Even though he went against the King’s wishes, he was fighting for the realm and no one would punish him for it. If he won, he’d return as a hero. The only battle Rhaenyra would see would be the one that took her mother to the grave.
Or was she expected to play mother to Aegon now? Was she and Alicent so similar in her father’s eyes?
Was it his way to make her take up the womanly duties, by preparing her brother for the crown? Was she ever worth a damn in his eyes?
Out of nowhere, ser Criston dashed in front of her on his horse and grabbed her raines, their horses colliding before stopping. Her horse rose on its legs, but she feld on fastly. It didn’t break Criston’s grip on the reins as she hoped it would.
Well, at least it was Criston. It could’ve been worse.
They stopped just on shore of the lake, the fallen leaves creating little beds of the water surface made it look dirtier than it really was. Rhaenyra didn’t know this part of the Kingswood, but well, it’s not like she rode out here very often.
“What happened back there?” Ser Criston asked, still holding her reins gingerly as if afraid she’d dash into the water just to escape.
She didn’t have to answer, but she wanted to tell someone. She suddenly desperately felt a need to be heard, to share her frustrations openly. Once upon a time she would’ve told Alicent, but she could never trust Alicent again — and in pursuing a friendship with her Rhaenyra never really felt a need or a want to make friends outside of her. Why would she? She had Alicent.
Out of all the Kingsguard knights Cole was the one that felt like her knight, not her father’s. She was as good as it could get.
“A child! He wants me to marry a child!”
“Which one, Princess? The realm is full of them.”
Despite her mood, Rhaenyra let out a little laugh, but quickly it turned bitter. “My brother.”
Ser Criston aas silent for a little while. Rhaenyra didn’t look at him, she wasn’t really interested in his reaction. She watched the water.
“Would it be so bad, Princess?”
She turned at him as her eyebrows shot up, a look of anger crossing her face. “You have to be joking. In what way is it good for me? Another confirmation that I was named heir as a desperate measure?”
She scoffed and her horse stomped its feet as if mirroring her rider’s desires. “Was I named heir so that I would only further raise the standing of a lord he chose? But now that there’s a proper boy he always wanted, my father feels too guilty of openly denying me so he instead tries to make a queen for a child heir instead? It makes things so much easier for him.”
“May it be something he didn’t do for himself?”
Rhaenyra couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Just hours ago she promised herself to never give her trust so easily, and the first time she broke that vow Gods immediately punished her for it.
Ser Criston felt her brewing mood and quickly added.
“You don’t wish to marry, Princess, as I gather. It would be years before Aegon comes of age. No lord would dare to ask for your hand in the meanwhile.
“One day he will be grown up enough,” she said and her voice carried the weight of an executioner's verdict.
The water and the subtle song of rustling leaves created such a peaceful ensemble, like a salve for a troubled mind. Rhaenyra knew very well the pressure of the skies and popping ears as Syrax flew down so fast she could barely breathe, the harsh wind that froze her face and fingers, the numbing ache in her thighs as she held onto her dragon in tricky turns. She was the blood of the dragon, and the sky, no matter how vicious it could be, was her second home, but she forgot she belonged on the ground too. She so often forgot how beautiful it could be.
One thought of returning back to the camp to her father and his band of leeches, to the hungry lords waiting to pounce, to fucking Aegon with his annoying shrill and perfect Targaryen eyes, was almost enough to make her jump into the lake and hug a rock until she drowned.
“It’s a beautiful day,” she said. “We should take in the Kingswood.”
Rhaenyra clicked her tongue and turned around her horse, sending it along the shore and into the forest. She didn’t check to see if Ser Criston would follow, she didn’t really care.
But he did, of course. He was her knight.
She hid her smile before he could see it.
Ser Criston wanted them to go back. Rhaenyra desperately didn’t want to. She came to like the sounds of Kingswood at night, the many sounds that lurked around their campfire, the shadows thrown by the dancing flames. She liked how the sun crept over the lush greenery, how it sent so many flickers over the ground. She had only ever seen sunrises from the Keep or from the dragonback, and up there it was a lot like watching the sun come over the sea. Endless, all consuming. It was much more fractured in the forest. They rode up to catch the last moment of dawn from a vintage point, Ser Criston wanted her to see how it lit up the woods. It was a rare sight, he said.
A rare sight indeed.
When she fled the camp yesterday, Rhaenyra was on the verge of tears, consumed by her desperation, the fears that plagued her. The hatred. Oh, how many things she hated. How it consumed her, how fiercely it burned inside her. Sometimes she feared it could burn her alive.
It didn’t truly go away. One night in the forest could not erase everything that haunted her.
But as she walked the camp with blood on her neck and in her hair, she devoured the astonished eyes of the people. Her posture was straight, a easy gaunt to her steps she so often saw in her uncle Daemon. She knew where it came from now. She was unbothered by the stares. Let them see, she thought, let them witness. She was no pompous lady.
She was their future Queen.
She walked towards her father’s table. Ser Criston dragged the body of the white hart after him, strapped to his horse. All murmurs died down as she stopped in front of the King.
“The King of the Kingswood for you, Father,” she spoke in clear voice. “From Westeros’ future Queen.”
Rhaenyra’s eyes briefly met Otto’s as she marched to her tent. She would remember the look on his face, cherish it. She would go to bed seeing the face he made at her, eyes wide and lips opened, and she would smile at it as she went to sleep. But right now she just wanted to wash herself.
Blood felt nice when it was warmer. Still it made quite the show.