Chapter Text
The masses roar their adulation, a thunderous chorus proclaiming, "Long live Queen Rhaenyra! The true ruler of the Seven Kingdoms!" The voices that once derided the very thought of a woman on the Iron Throne now swell with feverish devotion. Perched upon Syrax, Rhaenyra surveys the city she has conquered, her triumph marred by a profound bitterness. The taste of victory is acrid, a hollow echo of dreams once cherished. The jubilant cries of the crowd grate against her ears, a discordant symphony that mocks the sacrifices made and the lives irretrievably lost in this brutal struggle for power. Her grip tightens on the reins, knuckles whitening, as she wrestles with the discord between the fervor of triumph and the gnawing ache of her deep losses. She has claimed the throne, but at what price?
Aemond abandoned King's Landing, seeking glory and battle at Harrenhal. It was a gift, a ripe plum dropped into Rhaenyra's waiting hands. The city, its six gates unguarded, lay vulnerable, a dragon without its fiery breath. Black banners soon fluttered from the Red Keep, and the usurper's reign extinguished before it had truly begun. The Greens, outnumbered and outmaneuvered, put up a feeble fight, their spirit broken by the swiftness of their defeat. Queen Dowager Alicent saw the futility of resistance. With a heavy heart, she ordered the surrender. The victors were swift and merciless. Gwayne Hightower, felled in battle. Otto Hightower met his end at the executioner's block, his whispered schemes silenced forever. Lords Wylde, Rosby, and Stokeworth with their loyalty to the Greens sealed their fate.
But Alicent vanished like smoke on the wind. No trace remained, no whispers of her escape, no witnesses to her flight. It was as if the earth had swallowed her whole, leaving behind only the echo of her name.
So much to mend, so much to rebuild. King's Landing, scarred but not broken, needed her touch. The coffers were empty, the markets silent, the people's loyalty a frayed thread. And then there was Alicent—
A firm knock at the door pulls her back to the present. The council awaits, and the Iron Throne stands empty. The time has come for Rhaenyra to ascend, to embrace the mantle of power, to claim her birthright, and responsibility that has been thrust upon her. She rises from her desk, a queen reborn from the ashes of war, ready to face the challenges that await her. Rhaenyra traverses the Great Hall, each step a queen's measure, her head held high. The lords and ladies flanking her, their bowing figures a mere backdrop of insincere homage, blur into shadows at the edge of her vision. At the foot of the Iron Throne stands Daemon, his gaze smoldering with ravenous hunger. The crown, an intricate creation of weary hands, lies in wait, a gleaming bauble to sate his boundless ambition. Rhaenyra casts him but a fleeting glance. Let him revel in his trinket, his ephemeral taste of power. As long as he remains bound to her, a wolf on a gilded leash, his cravings pose no real threat to her reign.
The coronation rituals blur together in a swirl of incense and solemn pronouncements. Each oath sworn, each hand kissed, each ceremonial robe donned, pulls Rhaenyra deeper into the role she has fought so fiercely to claim. But it is the weight of the crown upon her brow, the cold steel of Jaehaerys the Concilliator’s legacy pressing against her skin, that finally solidifies the truth: she is queen.
No longer a princess, a daughter, a mother, or a wife, but she is Rhaenyra Targaryen, the Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm. And she will not fail.
As she sits upon the Iron Throne, listening to the endless petitions and grievances of her subjects, a wave of weariness washes over her. Why did I ever want this? she wonders, her gaze drifting towards the narrow window that offers a glimpse of the vast, open sky beyond the Red Keep. The memory of soaring through the clouds on Syrax's back, where freedom felt as vast as the heavens, seems like a fading echo of another life. Now, her days are consumed by a relentless parade of meetings, the pettiness of lordly disputes, and the ever-present shadow of conflict. The exultation of victory has long dissipated, leaving in its wake a weighty burden of duty. The complaints of a minor lord drone on, a mere murmur like the incessant hum of a summer insect. Lord Corlys steps forward to unravel the minutiae of a land dispute, a quarrel over tariffs. The specifics blur, their words melding into a dissonant symphony as Rhaenyra's thoughts drift, lost in the distant horizon of her yearning dreams.
A hollow ache echoes within her, a constant companion since King's Landing fell. It's a spectral limb, an emptiness she cannot quite define. Is it in the thrum of her pulse, a beat missing? Or perhaps in her mind, a forgotten word, a thought elusive? She traces the contours of her memories, seeking the source of this ache, but all that remains are fragmented images, blurred edges of a past that refuses to be forgotten. And at the heart of it all, a name: Alicent.
Lord Corlys dismisses the petitioners with a languid sweep of his hand. As the crowd departs, their voices drifting into a distant murmur, a sigh of relief escapes Rhaenyra’s lips, like the soft whisper of the sea upon the shore. The old Sea Snake catches her eye, a silent acknowledgment of her distracted demeanor. Shame envelops her, a wave of crimson heat coloring her cheeks. She chastises herself inwardly, feeling that she has faltered—failed to embody the unwavering strength and focus that her subjects demand from their queen.
The Great Hall stands empty, a cavernous echo of the voices that once filled it. Lord Corlys’ gaze lingers upon her, his concern a palpable weight in the silent room. She returns his gaze with a brittle smile, a fragile mask that hides the tempest raging within her soul. As she rises from the Iron Throne, a sudden, sharp pain pierces her palm. Blood, dark and gleaming like rubies cast from a shattered crown, stains the cold steel of the throne. The Queensguard rush forward, their faces etched with alarm, but she dismisses them with a curt gesture. She will not be coddled, not when her wounds are far deeper than any physical injury.
Alone in her chambers, Rhaenyra examines the gash on her palm, the blood rising like a dark portent of ill fortune. A shiver traces her spine, a chill that whispers of foreboding. Perhaps the Iron Throne itself rejects her, a vengeful god displeased with its new mistress. She clenches her fist, trying to stanch the flow, but the wound remains stubbornly defiant. Summoning the maester with a voice taut and strained, Rhaenyra waits as he cleanses and binds the injury. Yet even as his ministrations begin, a shadow crosses the threshold—Mysaria.
It is Mysaria she trusts, more each day, with the tangled affairs of the realm. The woman moves through the shadows, her secrets as numerous as the stars in the night sky. Yet, Rhaenyra senses a truth in her, a loyalty that transcends the whispers and intrigues of the court. Mysaria understands the pulse of the people, their needs and desires, in a way that Rhaenyra never could. She is a bridge between the throne and the streets, a conduit for the voices of those who have been silenced for too long.
Daemon remains blissfully unaware of her dalliances with Mysaria. For now. But soon, the truth will be out, and he will be forced to confront the bitter reality of their mutual infidelity. Not that Rhaenyra has ever truly been faithful to him, she muses. Their marriage, like so many others among the nobility, was a transaction, a union forged in the fires of ambition and political expediency, not love. And yet, as she gazes upon Mysaria's naked figure, a tangle of dark hair and pale limbs sprawled in post-coital repose, a flicker of something akin to tenderness stirs within her. It is a fleeting sensation, quickly extinguished by the embers of passion that have become her sole solace in these times. She has long since resigned herself to the fleeting nature of desire, to the shallow depths of physical gratification.
The only love she knows now is the love of power, the intoxicating thrill of command, the satisfaction of bending others to her will. It is a cold, calculating love, devoid of the warmth and intimacy she once craved. And yet, it is all she has left, a desperate grasp at something tangible in a world that seems to crumble around her.
A gentle touch upon her spine, the soft pressure of Mysaria's lips, jolts her back to the present. Rhaenyra's eyes flutter closed, a sigh escaping her lips as she surrenders to the moment. For now, this is enough. This fleeting pleasure, this stolen intimacy, is all she can allow herself.
Alicent's face swims into focus, pale and tear-stained. She kneels before the Iron Throne, hands clasped in supplication. Rhaenyra tries to make sense of it, the scene playing out like a half-remembered dream. Alicent's lips move, pleading for the lives of her sons, but the words are muffled, distant.
Rhaenyra finds herself speaking, her voice sharp and cold, cutting through the haze. She sees Alicent flinch, her shoulders slumping in defeat. Regret claws at Rhaenyra's throat, a bitter taste in her mouth. The words, once spoken, cannot be unsaid.
Alicent—
A hand on her shoulder, Elinda’s voice a gentle intrusion.
Rhaenyra stirs, the remnants of her dream clinging to her like cobwebs. She rises from the bedchamber, her limbs heavy, her heart a leaden weight in her chest. The day stretches before her, an endless parade of duties and obligations. Daemon advocates for a swift return to Harrenhal, to challenge Aemond and the remnants of the Green army. Though victory has settled over King's Landing, the war's embers still smolder in distant lands. Yet Rhaenyra’s gaze, clouded and contemplative, sees another path—a path of mercy and restoration. She summons her council, directing them to address the suffering of the smallfolk, those who have borne the harshest toll of the conflict’s wrath. Ravens are dispatched to the merchants of Westeros, carrying promises of fair recompense for their grain and livestock, a gesture of healing for a land scarred by strife. Her master of coin voices his discontent, lamenting the emptiness of the treasury, yet Rhaenyra stands firm. The loyalty of her people is a treasure surpassing all the gold in the realm.
In the shadows of the bedchamber, Mysaria perceives a subtle shift in the currents of passion that once surged so fervently between them. Rhaenyra lies beneath her, her form taut and unyielding. The vibrant fire that usually blazed in her eyes has waned, leaving behind a distant, haunted gaze.
"My queen," Mysaria murmurs,"what troubles your heart?"
Rhaenyra's lips part, but the words seem to catch in her throat. Finally, a single name escapes: "Alicent."
Mysaria's brow furrows, a flicker of understanding crossing her face. She knows the power that name holds over the queen. "Tell me," she urges, her voice soft yet insistent. "What is it you need?"
"I must know where she is," Rhaenyra says. "If anyone knows what became of the Queen Dowager during the Fall, I must find out."
Mysaria's eyes narrow, a hint of suspicion clouding her features. "Why this sudden concern for your enemy?" she asks, her voice laced with a hint of jealousy.
"It is not... it is not what you think," Rhaenyra stammers, her cheeks flushed with shame. "I simply need to ensure... that she is not gathering support, that she poses no threat to the realm."
The excuse lingers in the air, a fragile guise for the deeper yearning that haunts Rhaenyra’s heart. It drifts like a stale perfume, masking a truth too raw to be spoken. Both women sense the farce—a vain attempt to cloak a longing that defies reason and allegiance. Yet Mysaria offers a nod of acquiescence. "As you wish, my queen," she replies, her voice a smooth veneer of dutiful compliance. "I shall see to it as you command."
Days melt into one another. Mysaria's network of informants yields no trace of the vanished queen. Alicent Hightower remains a phantom, her disappearance a riddle wrapped in an enigma. Rhaenyra's restlessness grows, a coiled spring threatening to snap. One morning, as the sun paints the sky with hues of gold and crimson, a decision crystallizes within Rhaenyra's mind. She will visit Helaena.
Rhaenyra finds Helaena engrossed in her peculiar pastime, her slender fingers tracing the delicate wings of a butterfly. Insects, those tiny creatures often overlooked or despised, hold a strange fascination for the princess. They crawl upon her palms, their delicate legs tickling her skin as she watches them with a childlike wonder. With tentative steps, she approaches the bed, her eyes fixed on the intricate patterns traced by the insects' delicate legs. She strives to feign interest, to bridge the chasm that has grown between them, but the words catch in her throat, unspoken.
Helaena's words emerge like fragments of a half-remembered dream, a riddle wrapped in a sigh. Rhaenyra struggles to decipher their meaning. "I found it lost," Helaena murmurs, her gaze fixed on the delicate creature perched on her fingertip, its wings shimmering with colors. "But it did not wish to be found. Wounded, it was. In need of care, yet wary of touch."
The butterfly flutters against Helaena's pale skin. Rhaenyra watches, mesmerized, as her sister gently strokes its delicate wings, her touch a whisper of compassion in a world ravaged by violence and betrayal.
A hush falls over the chamber as Rhaenyra speaks, "I am... seeking your mother, Helaena," she confesses. "Do you know where she might be?"
Helaena's eyes blink slowly, her gaze drifting to the butterfly resting on her palm. "I do not believe she has found herself yet," she murmurs, her voice a cryptic whisper. "There is no certainty that you will be the one to find her first."
As the silence envelops them, Rhaenyra’s thoughts drift like leaves on a still pond. She watches Helaena, whose presence is both comforting and disquieting. There is a fragility to her, a delicate balance between reality and the ethereal as if she exists in a realm only she can see. There is a quiet strength in Helaena's composure, a resilience that mirrors the butterfly's delicate grace. She is reminded of the power that exists within her half-sister, a power that eludes the grasp of those who seek to control it. Sisters by blood, yet separated by the chasm of circumstance and the weight of the world’s expectations. The longing for a sister has always been a quiet ache in Rhaenyra’s heart.
She ponders the idea of finding Alicent, but the search seems less urgent now. Perhaps, she muses, the journey to find others begins with finding oneself.
Daemon proposes a search, a scouring of the land for Alicent, a quest to uncover any gathering of loyalists to Aegon's cause. She agrees, a queen yielding to necessity, and sends her men to scour Westeros, to turn every hearthstone in search of the missing queen. While the search unfolds, Rhaenyra tends to the realm.
The weight of the crown presses down upon Rhaenyra's brow, an ever-present reminder of the isolation that accompanies power. She drifts through the grand halls of the Red Keep, a queen encircled by courtiers yet deeply alone. The throne room, with its lofty pillars and chill stone, feels more like a prison than a seat of authority. The burdens of queenship, a multitude of duties and decisions, weigh heavily upon her heart. Each decree, each command, holds the power to alter the destinies of many, yet there is no soul with whom she can share this immense responsibility. Daemon is present, but a growing sense of distrust tinges on her thoughts when it comes to her consort.
She drifts through the halls of the Keep, her gaze distant, her mind wandering to the days of her youth when the world was simpler, when the future held promise rather than burden. Rhaenyra’s mind turns to her father and the legacy he left behind. His reign had been marked by its own trials and tribulations, yet he had always seemed so certain, so unwavering. She wonders if he too had felt this crushing loneliness, this relentless pressure. The memory of his gentle counsel and steadfast presence brings a pang of longing to her heart.
Ravens arrive from every corner of the realm, their dark wings carrying messages of disparate truths. Each bearer arrives with a story as fragmented as the sky's scattered clouds. A shepherd reports that Alicent is headed westward toward The Vale, yet her intentions remain shrouded in mystery. Another raven tells of her return to Oldtown, the Hightowers’ ancestral seat, but despite rigorous searches, no trace of Alicent is found. A farmer from the Riverlands speaks of a woman with auburn hair who traversed a vast field and crossed into The Neck. Yet, the farmer’s tale is but one thread in the intricate web of her disappearance. Meanwhile, a fisherman recounts a more unsettling sight: Alicent, he claims, smuggled herself aboard a ship bound for the Narrow Sea. That very vessel, now a ghost upon the waters, has yet to return, leaving only ripples in its wake.
The men eventually return, their hands empty, their faces marked by the weight of their fruitless search. Daemon, with a weary sigh and a gesture that dismisses the futility of their efforts, turns his attention to more pressing concerns. The council is summoned, their focus shifting to the urgent threat posed by Prince Daeron and his army of Greens ravaging The Reach.
She finds herself gazing intently at the map of the known world spread across the Queen’s chambers. Her fingers trace the contours of Westeros, drifting slowly over the vast expanse. Her thoughts flit to the message delivered by the fisherman. With a gentle movement, Rhaenyra guides her fingers toward the Narrow Sea. A fleeting, subtle smile graces her lips. Should Alicent have ventured beyond the Narrow Sea, it would signify more than a mere geographical crossing. It would echo a fulfillment of their childhood promise. The distance that separates them now seems both a barrier and a bridge to the past they once shared.
Yet, the promise of the Narrow Sea carries with it shadows of peril. The waters are not merely a dividing line but a realm infested with danger. Pirates are ruthless and predatory, they lurk beneath the waves, preying upon any ship that dares to traverse their domain. The very vessels that brave these treacherous waters are often seized, their occupants doomed to captivity or, worse, to a life of enslavement. The thought of Alicent potentially falling into such a dire situation is a heavy weight on Rhaenyra’s heart. She contemplates the grim possibility that Alicent, perhaps by now, has been captured, sold into a life of servitude, and is suffering in conditions far beyond her imagination. The very idea is abhorrent, a nightmare that seems almost too cruel to bear. Even after the years of estrangement and the distance that has grown between them, Rhaenyra cannot bring herself to wish such a fate upon her. The complexities of their relationship do not extinguish the vestiges of compassion that linger within her.
Prince Daeron has emerged victorious in the Siege of Longtable. Rhaenyra goes to the council chambers and is greeted by the grim sight of Ser Rickard's corpse, sent as a macabre message. The Queensguard swiftly removes the body, leaving her alone with Daemon.
“The little imp will no longer have plans to descend here unless I slaughter them first,” Daemon says, attempting to persuade Rhaenyra.
“I need Prince Daeron alive, Daemon. I do not want any more of this bloodshed—”
Daemon steps closer, his presence almost overwhelming. “Do you wish to be a queen seen as weak by her adversaries? Killing your challengers is the only way for you to find peace with your birthright!”
“I wish to be a queen who is merciful and just!” Rhaenyra’s voice trembles with conviction, yet the weight of Daemon’s words hangs heavily in the air.
Daemon’s fierce gaze does not waver. “Mercy will not protect you from those who seek your downfall. Strength, unwavering and ruthless, is what they fear.” He steps back, shaking his head, until he begins to laugh mirthlessly. “I see what this is now. This—this obsession over keeping the usurper pups alive because of that cunt who still holds you by the throat! This is why you hesitate all the time!”
“It is not because I falter, Daemon; it is because I refuse to make decisions rashly!” Rhaenyra retorts. “Do not mistake it for weakness. Your temper flares while mine I control—like how a ruler must.”
With that, Daemon’s hand shoots up in anger and grips Rhaenyra’s jaw, his eyes glaring with fierce intensity.
“Daemon, let go of me.”
“Have I not been enough for you?” he sneers. “Have I not been loyal, soiling my hands for your rule? And you insult me? Belittle my advice? Make me feel small in your council, casting me as the villain while you pine for Alicent Hightower?”
Rhaenyra clenches her jaw. “It is your actions, past and present, and your lack of remorse that make me mistrust you.”
Daemon’s grip tightens momentarily before he releases her, his eyes searching hers for any sign of doubt. Rhaenyra’s heart pounds in her chest, a tumult of anger, fear, and a deep, aching sadness.
She retreats a step, her fingers brushing the spot where his grip lingered, leaving an imprint of his force upon her. “Do you not see, Daemon?” she says, her voice trembling yet resolute. “It is not your loyalty I question but the manner in which you wield it. You mistreat your Queen behind closed doors—what does that make you?”
Daemon grips the edges of the chair. “I do what must be done because I know it benefits you and the realm,” he utters slowly, “and it will bring peace, no matter how harsh my methods. The realm will prosper, and the smallfolk will be at ease. But when your mercy has worn thin and the realm feels its instability, do not come bleating to me.”
With a final, scornful glance, he turns and exits.
Rhaenyra convenes her small council. She speaks with a voice both commanding and weary, her words edged with the gravity of the moment. “Continue our efforts to aid the smallfolk,” she directs, “and remain vigilant. We must fortify the army with reinforcements from the noble houses.”
Lord Corlys rises to deliver his report, his voice draping the council in a somber cloak of grim tidings. “Your Grace,” he begins, “Aemond has laid waste to the villages of the Riverlands, leaving ruin in his wake. Yet, while his wrath wreaks havoc there, he is unlikely to return to King’s Landing soon. Our greater concern lies with Prince Daeron. Should he go unchallenged, he might advance his forces to our very doorstep. He was sighted advancing to Tumbleton. But this, alas, remains to be seen.”
Rhaenyra listens. Her advisors offer varying perspectives on handling the prince and his forces, each suggestion laden with the weight of potential consequences. But Rhaenyra’s desire is singular and resolute: she wants Prince Daeron brought alive, a decision that unsettles her council. By the meeting’s end, Rhaenyra declares her intention to set off to address matters crucial to the realm. Her council choruses their concerns, anxious about her safety and the ambiguity surrounding her journey. She dismisses their apprehensions with a regal finality, turning to Daemon with a gaze that holds both command and a plea for trust.
“I ask you, Daemon, to reign in my stead,” she commands, knowing the prospect would delight him. “But heed this: do not defy my wishes regarding Alicent Hightower's children. Bring Daeron to King's Landing. He is not to be harmed. I will set out once this is done.”
Daemon’s eyes flicker with a mixture of frustration and loyalty, but he nods, accepting her decree.
Days later, when Daeron arrives in Tumbleton, Daemon has already laid out his plans. Under the cover of night, Addam is ordered to seize the prince before any dragons can lay waste. Thus, Daeron is brought to Rhaenyra in an empty chamber, a place where she can speak to him privately. The young prince before her is a far cry from the boy she remembers from his childhood days in the Red Keep. Among her half-brothers, Daeron had always shown a kindness toward her sons, although he was sent away to Oldtown before any deep brotherly bond would form between them. Now, his face bears the marks of his struggles, lidden with cuts and grime.
Rhaenyra’s gaze softens, a mix of nostalgia and sorrow washing over her. “Daeron,” she begins, her voice gentle but firm. “You have grown so much, yet the shadow of war has touched you in ways I wish it had not.”
Daeron, defiant yet weary, meets her eyes. “What do you want from me? Why am I here?”
Rhaenyra’s longing for peace swells within her like a tidal wave, a force both fierce and fragile, cradling her beneath its undulating surface. It reflects her deepest wish to reclaim some semblance of harmony. She offers him a pardon, a rare and precious gift, not out of naivety but out of a deep-seated conviction that true and enduring peace must begin with forgiveness. She knows, with a clarity born from the harsh lessons of power and betrayal, that asking Daeron to bend the knee is no simple matter. Daeron's gentleness is not without its burdens. His lack of natural leadership, molded by the overshadowing strength of his siblings, makes his position all the more precarious. Rhaenyra recognizes this, for she, too, has lived under the weight of expectations, feeling the constant pressure to live up to a legacy that is both a blessing and a curse.
She speaks of Alicent with a calm that belies the tempest within her. “I will bring your mother back to you,” Rhaenyra says. “Unharmed and alive, if you agree to cease your conspiracies, if you choose to stand down.”
Daeron stands there, the weight of his decision pressing upon him like the oppressive silence of the chamber. He knows now that his situation is as precarious as it is perilous; his mother’s fate, hanging in the balance, casts a long shadow over any hopes of defiance.
“What assurances do I have?” Daeron asks, his voice a mix of challenge and vulnerability. “How can I trust that you will keep your word?”
“You have my word,” she replies softly. “And I know it may mean little to you now. But trust must begin somewhere. Let it begin here, between us. Your mother’s safety is my pledge to you.”
Daeron’s skepticism is palpable, his eyes narrowing as he confronts the reality of Rhaenyra’s offer. “If you send Daemon to get to her, then forget about it,” he says with a bitterness that cuts through the stillness.
Rhaenyra’s gaze remains steady, her resolve unshaken. “No,” she says simply, “I shall find your mother on my own.”
The door creaks open, and the fisherman steps inside, his presence a stark contrast to the grandeur of the room. His clothes, worn and frayed, speak of a life lived at the mercy of the sea. His eyes flit nervously around the chamber before settling on Rhaenyra. She regards him with a gaze that is both inscrutable and commanding, her silence a pressure that seems to squeeze the very air from the room.
As he begins to speak, his voice quivers, each word trembling like leaves caught in a gale. “Your Grace,” he starts, his eyes fixed on the floor, “I told the truth of what I saw. Queen Dowager Alicent, she wore no finery, only the common garb of a humble traveler. She had sold her jewels of what seemed to be her last possessions of value to pay for her passage. A sailor agreed to her terms, and the ship... the ship was bound for Braavos.”
Rhaenyra contemplates the implications of Alicent’s choice of sanctuary. Braavos is a haven for those who wish to vanish into its labyrinthine streets, to become a mere whisper in the murmur of its canals. For Alicent, it is a potential refuge, yet it is also a place fraught with its own perils. The city's reputation for its elusive and complex nature suggests that while Alicent might find safety, she may also face challenges far removed from those she left behind. The fisherman is then rewarded with a generous sum.
To facilitate her journey, Rhaenyra sets her sights on Pentos and dispatches a raven with a message to the prince of Pentos. In her missive, she conveys her desire to keep Syrax’s presence concealed, ensuring that the sight of a dragon would not raise unwelcome alarm. Rhaenyra understands that her mission requires stealth and subtlety, and the presence of her dragon might compromise the very discretion she sought to maintain. Having secured the permission for Syrax’s temporary abode, Rhaenyra turns her attention to the next phase of her journey. From Pentos, she will undertake the remaining leg of her quest on horseback, traversing the distance that lay between her and Braavos.
Rhaenyra finds a moment of solace as she stands beside Syrax. She leans her forehead gently against the dragon’s iridescent scales, feeling the warmth and subtle tremor of her great beast.
“ Kostōba Alicent jorrāelza, ñuha riña ,” she murmurs softly.¹
Syrax responds with a gentle huff. Alicent’s name stirs something within the dragon.
“ Kiz ,” Rhaenyra continues, her voice growing more resolute as she speaks to her dragon. “ Aōt jēdroma ūndegon. ”²
The promise is uttered with determination, a conviction that fuels her resolve.
Prince Reggio agrees to house Syrax on the condition that Rhaenyra aids Pentos when in need of forces against the Triarchy.
“I am not a dog to be called upon your heel, Your Grace,” Rhaenyra says, her voice steady and resolute. She sips the sweet, finest grape wine that the prince has opened for her, the taste rich and deep. She knows well of Reggio’s past allegiance to Daemon and her cousin Laena during their residence here, and this knowledge colors her words with a sharp edge.
Reggio’s eyes meet hers. He is a man of many faces, and his smile is both welcoming and wary. “It is not my intention to make you a mere hound, my queen,” he replies, his tone smooth and diplomatic. “But the Triarchy’s threat is ever-looming, and our alliance would be mutually beneficial. Syrax’s presence alone would deter many would-be aggressors. Do not forget: the Triarchy aided the Greens through Tyland Lannister.”
Rhaenyra’s gaze remains unyielding. “My dragon is not a pawn for your games. If I agree to aid you, it will be on my terms.”
Reggio inclines his head slightly, a gesture of concession. “Very well, your terms then. But remember, Pentos has sheltered many in times of need, and such kindnesses are rarely free of expectation.”
Rhaenyra nods, the bargain struck. “And I shall answer your kindness with my graciousness. You have my word.”
Silence falls upon them as they continue with their feast. Yet, curiosity gnaws at Prince Reggio, a man not easily satisfied with mere formalities. His gaze, sharp and inquisitive, settles upon Rhaenyra, and he finally voices the question that has been lingering in his mind.
“If I may ask, Your Grace,” Prince Reggio begins, his tone courteous yet probing, “you have the Seven Kingdoms to rule. Why the sudden interest in finding a… mere collateral to your reign? Surely, this Alicent Hightower could not be this important now, nor is she a threat?”
Rhaenyra feels a surge of irritation, a biting retort on the tip of her tongue. She restrains herself, choosing her words with care. “As much as I enjoy your hospitality, my prince, my business here remains mine to address.”
Prince Reggio, not one to be easily dissuaded, leans forward slightly, his eyes glinting with curiosity. “Ah, but I wonder why you sent me a letter, not to request for a search party to find Alicent here in Essos.”
Rhaenyra’s expression remains inscrutable, her resolve unyielding. “She is my mission,” she replies simply, her voice carrying the weight of finality. “That is all there is for you to deduce how sensitive this is.”
The prince, sensing the firmness in her tone, leans back, a contemplative look settling on his face. After a moment of silence, he speaks again, his voice now filled with a resigned respect. “Very well, Your Grace. If your path leads you onward, I shall offer what aid I can.”
He gestures to a nearby servant, who departs swiftly, returning shortly with a splendid steed. The horse, a magnificent creature of strength and grace, stands before Rhaenyra, its coat gleaming like polished ebony.
“This is one of our finest, a horse of noble lineage and enduring spirit. He will bear you to Braavos with speed and reliability,” Prince Reggio says, his tone earnest. “No one knows who you are here, I presume, but your striking hair would give way. Braavosians are weary of those who resemble the likeness of their slave-lords.” Prince Reggio advises, his eyes lingering on her silver locks that glint in the torchlight. “Take care to conceal it as best you can.”
Rhaenyra inclines her head in acknowledgment. “Your generosity shall not be forgotten, Prince Reggio. You have my deepest thanks.”
“And your dragon and your might?” Prince Reggio's tone carries a hopeful note, his eyes searching hers for a glimpse of commitment.
“I shall consider it,” Rhaenyra responds, her voice measured and deliberate. The promise is neither a refusal nor a guarantee, but a space of contemplation between duty and desire.
"Why not travel with one of the ships in the harbor, my queen?" Prince Reggio offers. "You can cross Braavos in a shorter time."
"I could," Rhaenyra replies, "but I cannot shake the prospect of finding Alicent along the roads. There may be a possibility."
“Very well.” He bows slightly, his expression softening. “I bid you fare luck and well, Your Grace. May your journey be swift and your quest fulfilled.”
With a final nod of acknowledgment, Rhaenyra turns to her dragon who awaits in the stable’s darkened pit. The great beast, sensing the farewell, lifts her head, her golden eyes reflecting the dim light like embers. Rhaenyra approaches, her hands gentle as she caresses the dragon’s scales, speaking softly as though to a beloved companion.
“ Vezof jin azantys, ñuha ragero riñu ,”³ she murmurs, her voice laden with affection and sorrow. “ Kivio amāzigon riñu, se ñuhys, maghagon Alicent iā King’s Landing .” Syrax rumbles softly, acknowledging the promise with a mix of loyalty and resignation. ⁴
Rhaenyra turns away, her gaze shifting to the horse before her. With a practiced ease, she mounts the horse, feeling the familiar shift beneath her as the animal responds to her weight. The horse, though not mighty like her dragon, is sturdy and reliable—qualities essential for the path that stretches before her.
She gives a gentle squeeze of the reins, the subtle signal that sets their journey into motion. As she departs from Pentos, the city’s high walls recede into the distance. Rhaenyra’s journey into the heart of the unknown begins with a brisk pace. The road soon veers away from the well-trodden paths of civilization, leading her into the wild embrace of the terrain. The land unfolds with a raw and untamed beauty: rolling hills covered in brambles, forests where the trees stand like silent sentinels, and streams that babble with the secrets of ages past.
Each day presents new challenges, and each night brings its own form of solitude. The weather is fickle, changing with the whims of the wind. One day, the sun shines brightly, casting a warm glow upon the landscape. The fields of golden wheat sway gently in the breeze, and the sky is a vast expanse of cerulean blue. But the next day, the weather turns. Dark clouds gather on the horizon, and a chill wind sweeps across the land. Rain begins to fall, first as a light drizzle, then as a torrential downpour. The road becomes a mire of mud, and Rhaenyra finds herself drenched and weary. She seeks shelter beneath the broad branches of an ancient oak, its gnarled limbs providing scant protection from the elements.
Despite the hardship, she presses on. They cross swift rivers, the waters cold and biting, and climb steep hills where the wind howls like a mournful specter.
Food becomes scarce, and Rhaenyra learns to make do with what she can find. She bears some knowledge on how to cook food in the wild, skills imparted to her by Harwin Strong, who had taught her the ways of survival. She forages for berries and herbs, and catches fish from the streams that crisscross the land. The nights are cold, and she wraps herself in her cloak, huddling close to the small fires she builds to keep the darkness at bay. Her thoughts often wander to her children and to the purpose that drives her forward—to Alicent. And she feels warm somehow.
One such night, she is abruptly awakened by a sound that chills her blood. A low, rumbling growl echoes through the forest, and the underbrush rustles with ominous movement. Rhaenyra’s eyes snap open, her senses immediately alert. She sees the hulking shadow of a bear emerging from the darkness, its eyes gleaming with a predatory hunger. Instinctively, she reaches for her dagger, the weapon feeling small and inadequate in her hand. The bear advances towards her.
She recalls Harwin’s teachings, the lessons imparted in moments of quiet instruction. “Do not show fear,” he had said. “Animals sense it. Make yourself appear larger. Use fire if you can.” She glances at the dwindling fire beside her and, with a swift motion, grabs a burning branch. The flames flicker and dance, casting eerie shadows on the forest floor.
With a shout, she thrusts the flaming branch towards the bear, hoping to intimidate the beast. The bear hesitates, its eyes narrowing at the sudden light and heat. For a moment, it seems uncertain, swaying on its massive paws. But hunger drives it forward, and it lunges, a blur of fur and teeth. She knows she cannot keep this up for long. The bear is relentless, driven by a hunger that cannot be easily sated. Desperation fuels her movements, and she grabs a nearby fallen branch, hefting it like a club. She meets the bear’s next charge head-on, swinging the branch with all her strength. The wood cracks against the bear’s skull.
The bear recoils, shaking its head, but it is not defeated. It rears up on its hind legs, towering over Rhaenyra. With a cry, she charges forward, aiming for the bear’s exposed underbelly. The beast slams down, and one of its claws rakes across her arm, tearing through fabric and flesh. Pain sears through her, but she does not falter. Rhaenyra knows she has but one chance. She thrusts the burning branch into its face, the flames searing its flesh. The bear roars, a deafening cry, and staggers back. She drives the dagger into its heart, a swift, decisive strike.
The bear collapses. Rhaenyra stands over it, her breath ragged, her heart racing. The forest falls silent once more. She takes notice of her wound when fresh, hot blood runs down her right arm. She glances back at the lifeless bear and thinks she at least has ample food for the next days of her journey until she reaches Braavos. She washes her wound with water and with a practiced hand, she binds her wound, using strips of cloth torn from her tunic. The pain is sharp, but she grits her teeth and perseveres. She carves away enough meat to sustain her, storing it in her satchel. As dawn breaks, Rhaenyra mounts her horse and continues her journey.
Days pass, and the landscape changes. The forest gives way to rolling hills, their slopes covered in a blanket of wildflowers. The air is fragrant with the scent of blossoms. Rhaenyra savors these moments of beauty, her gaze lingering on the wildflowers that paint the hills in hues of violet and gold. Rhaenyra finds herself speaking aloud to the absent Alicent, as if her voice might somehow bridge the miles between them.
“This is the freedom you longed for, Alicent,” Rhaenyra murmurs.
Her thoughts drift back to that fateful night on Dragonstone, when Alicent had made her wistful offer. Alicent’s voice had been soft, yet laden with the weight of her desire to escape—a yearning for freedom from the chains of duty and expectation. “Come with me,” Alicent had said.
But Rhaenyra had chosen a path bound by duty and resolve, a path that, though unyielding, left her with the lingering regret of what might have been. She had let Alicent slip away, and with her the tantalizing notion of freedom.
Shaking off the weight of her thoughts, Rhaenyra focuses on the journey ahead.
Braavos emerges from the mist like a vision from the legends of old, its silhouette defined by stark, angular lines against the gray sky. As her boat approaches the islands, the Titan of Braavos comes into view, a colossal figure that stands sentinel over the harbor. Its immense form, carved from the very rock of the island, stretches its arms wide in a gesture of welcome and warning. Rhaenyra disembarks from the boat with deliberate care. She pays the eager young boatman with a nod of gratitude then he departs to tend to his vessel. Her horse follows her with measured steps as she leads it onto the stone quays of the harbor.
The wind carries the scent of salt and seaweed, mingled with the faint aroma of stone and fire. The city’s architecture reveals itself in sharp relief against the morning haze. Braavos presents a striking contrast to the verdant landscapes she has left behind. The harbor is bustling with activity. Men and women go about their tasks, their voices a murmur of trading and commerce. The streets wind their way through the city like veins through a living entity. The waterways that thread through Braavos are serene, their surfaces reflecting the gray sky and the towering facades of the buildings that rise above. As she guides her horse through the narrow passages, she notes the absence of greenery within the city itself, save for the carefully tended courts and gardens of the wealthy.
Rhaenyra feels the weight of countless unseen eyes upon her. No official portraits have been sent to this distant realm, nor have royal emissaries made visits to the Iron Bank during Viserys’s reign that could have warranted the smallfolk’s recognition of her. Still, an uneasy awareness tugs at her senses. She draws her cloak closer around herself. She navigates the narrow streets, her horse trailing patiently behind, her thoughts preoccupied with the task ahead.
A sudden movement catches her eye—a swift, furtive shadow darting towards her. Before she can fully react, a young thief, cloaked in ragged garments, reaches out with nimble fingers to snatch the small pouch hanging from her belt. Rhaenyra’s instinct flared into action. She pivots, her hand moving with practiced precision to grasp the thief’s wrist before she can make off with her prize.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Rhaenyra demands, her tone sharp and unyielding.
The girl shakes her head vigorously, her voice quivering with a mix of defiance and dread. “I—I meant no harm, my lady!” she stammers, trying to wriggle free. “Just needed a little something to get by.”
“I think you are well aware of what you wanted,” Rhaenyra sneers, her gaze steely and unrelenting. “A pity, really, that your grasping hands couldn’t find a more honest livelihood.”
The girl’s eyes narrow, a spark of stubborn pride igniting despite her predicament. “And what would you know of honest living? You look like someone who wouldn’t survive in the city’s underbellies.”
Rhaenyra’s lips curl into a wry smile. “True enough. Yet, I am acquainted with the value of bargains. Now, tell me, would you rather lose your fingers or perhaps make something of your ill-gotten gain?”
The girl’s defiant posture falters, and she looks up at Rhaenyra with a mixture of curiosity and caution. “What? That I become your personal guide through these miserable streets?”
Rhaenyra releases her grip slightly, enough to allow the girl some freedom but not enough for her to escape. “Precisely. I am searching for someone in this city. Someone who may have sought refuge here. I now need someone who knows the ins and outs of Braavos—someone who won’t merely try to pick my pockets.”
The girl’s eyes widen at the offer, though skepticism still lingers. “And what’s in it for me? Besides, you think a mere guide is worth more than what I could fetch on the street?”
Rhaenyra’s gaze remains steady, her tone now carrying a hint of persuasion. “You have two choices: continue with your petty thievery, which might lead to a far less favorable outcome, or assist me in finding what I seek. I can offer you a fair price for your troubles—more than you’d likely earn from petty theft.”
The girl’s expression softens slightly, the allure of a more substantial reward beginning to outweigh her initial resistance. “And if I help you find this person, what guarantee do I have that you won’t leave me to my fate once you’ve got what you want?”
Rhaenyra considers this for a moment, her eyes meeting the girl’s with an earnestness that surprises even herself. “You have my word. And while my word may not be worth much to a thief, it is a promise. I will see that you are compensated well, and I’ll ensure that you remain safe from those who might otherwise exploit your situation.”
The girl’s resolve wavers, her defiant stance gradually giving way to a begrudging acceptance. “Alright, fine. I’ll be your guide. But if you so much as think of shortchanging me, I’ll make sure you regret it.”
Rhaenyra nods, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Deal. Now, I am as famished as you are. Find me a tavern that serves great food, and we shall break our fast.”
With the prospect of a heartier meal now within reach, the girl named Aster’s eyes light up with a glimmer of anticipation. She leads Rhaenyra through the streets of Braavos with an air of purpose and quiet satisfaction, guiding her to a modest yet welcoming tavern nestled between shadowed alleyways. The scent of roasted mutton and other meats wafts invitingly from within, mingling with the aroma of wood smoke and spices. Rhaenyra settles into a worn wooden bench, her senses delighted by the hearty fare that soon arrives. The roasted mutton, succulent and rich, is accompanied by a variety of savory dishes—each bite a welcome contrast to the sparse rations of her journey.
Aster devours her meal with the enthusiasm of one long deprived of such luxuries. Rhaenyra watches with a bemused expression, cautioning the girl as she takes large mouthfuls.
Aster merely grunts in response, her cheeks bulging with food. “Whoareyoulookingforanyway?” she mumbles through a mouthful, her words muffled by the roasted potatoes.
Rhaenyra raises an eyebrow, a hint of amusement playing at her lips as she shakes her head. “Chew and swallow first,” she instructs, her tone both firm and patient. “Then you may speak more clearly.”
Aster nods and, with careful effort, chews and swallows before repeating her question. “Who are you looking for, anyway?”
Rhaenyra takes a sip of her wine, savoring the warmth it brings to her weary frame. “I am searching for… a friend. A woman,” she replies, her voice steady and earnest. “She has been missing for some time, and I believe she may have sought sanctuary here.”
Aster’s eyes widen slightly, her curiosity piques. “What does she look like?”
Rhaenyra considers her words carefully, drawing a breath as she conjures the image of the woman in her mind. “She has long auburn curls and fair skin,” she begins, her tone carrying the weight of both memory and longing.
Aster raises an eyebrow. “You’ll need to be more specific, lady. A lot of women could match that description. Braavos is filled with faces that could blend into any crowd.”
Rhaenyra clears her throat. “She has eyes like a doe’s, wide and gentle. She is of my age, though slightly shorter in stature. I cannot be entirely certain, but she often wore a necklace with a seven-pointed star, a symbol of her faith.”
Aster nods slowly, her gaze thoughtful as she absorbs the details. “A seven-pointed star, you say?” she murmurs, a flicker of recognition lighting up her eyes. “That might help us a bit. Braavos worships the Many-Faced Gods, sure, but people come from all over with all sorts of beliefs.” Aster’s expression shifts from casual interest to one of cautious determination. “I can ask around,” she offers. “But information comes at a price. People talk, but they don’t always tell the truth unless there’s something in it for them.”
Rhaenyra leans in slightly, her face earnest. “I understand. Any assistance you can provide, even if it’s just leading me to the right people, would be invaluable.”
Aster considers this, her young face set in a serious frown. “Alright, alright. I’ll do what I can. But don’t expect miracles. Braavos is a place where secrets are traded like gold. You might need to grease a few palms and maybe even make a few promises.”
Rhaenyra nods in agreement. “I’m prepared for that.”
Aster’s eyes narrow with a hint of mischief as she adds, “Just remember, lady, not everyone in Braavos is friendly. Some folks like to make a sport out of leading strangers astray. Stay sharp, and don’t let your guard down.”
Rhaenyra smiles at Aster’s candid advice, appreciating the young thief’s straightforwardness. “Thank you for the warning. I will be careful. And for your help, you have my gratitude.”
Aster grins, the glint of youthful cunning returning to her eyes. “No need to thank me yet. I still owe you and you still owe me.’
As they make their way back to the harbor, Aster begins to share her story. “I’ve been on my own for as long as I can remember,” she starts, her tone unusually soft. “An orphan since I was a babe. Had a foster parent for a while, but she died of old age when I was eight. Learned to pickpocket to survive. Life’s tough, but you get used to it.” She glances at Rhaenyra, a glimmer of pride in her eyes. “If it weren’t for the dirt, you’d see I’m a fair maiden. Tried working at a pleasure house once, but I didn’t like how men handled me. So, I ran away. Better to fend for myself.”
Rhaenyra listens, her heart heavy with sympathy for the young girl’s plight. She can see the resilience in Aster, the fire that has kept her alive in such a harsh world.
“You are not from Essos, are you?” Aster asks suddenly, her keen eyes studying Rhaenyra closely.
Rhaenyra tenses. “What makes you say that?” she retorts, her voice guarded.
Aster smirks, her eyes alight with curiosity. “Well, for one, you have a pretty face. Your eyes are unlike any I’ve seen here. And I can see your hair peeking through that shoddy cloth wrapped around your head...” Her eyes widen as realization dawns. “You’re a Targary—”
Before Aster can finish, Rhaenyra clamps a hand over the girl’s mouth, her eyes flashing with urgency. “Not so loud,” she hisses, glancing around to ensure they are not overheard.
Aster’s eyes are wide, her initial shock giving way to a mixture of fear and excitement. Rhaenyra removes her hand slowly, her expression softening. “You must not speak of this to anyone,” she implores. “It is dangerous for both of us if my identity is revealed.”
Aster nods, her youthful bravado returning. “I get it. Your secret’s safe with me.” She pauses, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. “But it’ll cost you extra.”
Rhaenyra scoffs, her disdain evident as she regards the girl beside her. Aster, unperturbed, simply shrugs. “Fine,” Rhaenyra concedes, a reluctant acceptance in her voice. “You shall be rewarded for your silence.”
With a nod, Aster takes the lead, her steps quick and assured as she guides Rhaenyra through the alleys. They reach the harbor. Aster pauses, scanning the crowd with a practiced eye. She spots a tall, weathered man standing by a ship, his posture relaxed but alert. Tomas, a sailor who has recently returned from Westeros. Rhaenyra’s emotions swell in anticipation.
“There he is,” she whispers, nudging Rhaenyra. “Tomas, just back from Westeros some weeks ago.”
She approaches Tomas, her cloak pulled tight around her to conceal her features. “Tomas,” she calls softly, drawing his attention.
The sailor turns, his eyes narrowing as he studies her. “Who’s asking?” he replies, his voice gruff.
Rhaenyra says, stepping closer. “I hear you’ve recently returned from Westeros. I seek information about a woman who may have been aboard your ship. She has auburn curls and wears a seven-pointed star.”
Tomas’s eyes flicker with recognition, but he remains guarded. “Aye, I might know something. Auburn hair, yes. The necklace, I didn’t see. What’s it to you?”
Rhaenyra glances at Aster, who nods encouragingly. “Please, it is of utmost importance. I must find her.”
Tomas sighs, his expression softening slightly. “I remember her. She was desperate to leave, paid well for passage. King’s Landing was in disarray. But once we reached Braavos, she disappeared into the city. Haven’t seen her since.”
Rhaenyra feels a pang of disappointment but presses on. “Do you know where she might have gone? Any clue, any name she might have mentioned?”
Tomas scratches his head, thinking. “She spoke little, kept to herself. I reckon she might have gone to the Iron Bank to seek loans. Or perhaps to the Sept-Beyond-the-Sea. The sept is located on an island southeast of the House of Black and White. She might have gone there.”
As Rhaenyra absorbs this information, Aster speaks up, her voice full of curiosity. “So you’re the one who got her out of King’s Landing? Must’ve been quite the trip.”
Tomas shrugs, his demeanor aloof. “Aye, it was. But it’s just another job to me. Though she was a strange one, always looking over her shoulder.”
Aster pipes up, her tone incredulous. “So you just let her vanish? Didn’t think to keep an eye on her?”
Tomas sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Braavos is a big place, lass. People come and go all the time. Hard to keep track of everyone, especially someone who wants to stay hidden.”
Rhaenyra nods slowly, a sense of urgency gnawing at her. “Thank you, Tomas. Your information is invaluable.”
As she turns to leave, Tomas’s eyes narrow, scrutinizing her more closely. “Wait a moment,” he mutters, stepping closer. “There’s something familiar about you...”
Rhaenyra tenses, but holds her ground. “Is there?”
Tomas’s gaze sharpens. “Aye, I’ve seen you before. You’re—” His voice drops to a whisper, “You’re the Queen.”
“I ask for your discretion. The fewer who know of my presence here, the better.” She hands him a few gold coins, instructing him to exchange them for Braavosian currency at the Iron Bank. Tomas accepts them gratefully and swears to keep her secret.
Aster, who has been watching the exchange with wide eyes, steps forward, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. “Well, this just got a lot more interesting,” she remarks, her tone teasing. “Looks like I’m guiding the Queen herself around Braavos. Who would’ve thought?”
They cross the island toward the Sept-Beyond-the-Sea, her cloak billowing softly in the sea breeze. The cityscape of Braavos recedes behind her, replaced by the rugged terrain of the island that houses the sept. The entrance is flanked by two imposing statues of robed figures, their eyes cast downward in a perpetual vigilance.
Rhaenyra steps cautiously into the sept, her footsteps muffled by the plush, dark rugs that cover the ground. She is met by a solemn figure clad in simple robes—the septon of this sacred place.
“Welcome to the Sept-Beyond-the-Sea,” the septon intones. “What brings you to this hallowed ground?”
Rhaenyra explains her purpose with measured words, detailing her quest to find the Queen Dowager. The septon listens intently, his gaze unwavering. He nods slowly.
“I have not seen Westeros since I was assigned here as the septon,” he says, his voice echoing softly in the vast, solemn hall. “But I recognize you, Your Grace. Yet,” he continues, his tone heavy with regret, “I am afraid that the Queen Dowager never graced her presence here.”
The weight of his words presses down on her shoulders, the reality of her fruitless search settling over her like a shroud. She draws a deep breath, striving to maintain her composure. The grandeur of the sept seems to mock her.
“Then where could she be?” Rhaenyra asks, her voice tinged with frustration. “I have followed every lead, every whisper of her whereabouts, only to find myself at yet another dead end.”
The septon regards her with a mixture of sympathy and solemnity. “In matters of faith and destiny, sometimes the path is not clear,” he says gently. “The Queen Dowager’s journey may have led her elsewhere, beyond the reach of our knowledge.”
Rhaenyra sighs deeply, the sound escaping her lips like a weary lament. The very notion that Alicent would seek refuge within these hallowed walls seems both improbable and deeply disappointing. Of course, Alicent would not turn to the septons for sanctuary. The septon’s presence here, though serene and wise, is a reminder of the very institutions Alicent had once sought to escape. To seek solace among the devout would be to submit once more to the chains of doctrine and restraint from which she had fled. The notion that Alicent might have sought refuge among family seems more an idle hope than a feasible prospect. Her own connections in Braavos are tenuous at best.
Rhaenyra and Aster make their way back to the heart of Braavos. Rhaenyra tasks Aster with finding an inn. Her requirements are simple: a place where the darkness does not creep too close, nor where unsavory characters lurk in the corners. They soon discover a modest inn with warm, welcoming lights spilling from its windows. The innkeeper, a stout woman with a kind face, accepts their gold and shows them to their chambers—two separate chambers, each furnished with a simple but comforting bed.
Yet Rhaenyra finds herself unable to embrace the tranquility of sleep. She paces the small confines of her room, the soft creak of the wooden floor beneath her feet. She finds herself grappling with thoughts of Alicent—where she might be, and why her search seems so fraught with peril and difficulty. The longing to find her, coupled with the dread of failing, coils tightly around her heart. A soft knock on the door interrupts her brooding.
Aster steps into the room “Can’t sleep?” she asks, her tone light yet laced with genuine interest.
Rhaenyra, turning her weary eyes toward the girl, nods. “No, I seem to be at odds with my thoughts tonight.”
Aster settles into a nearby chair and regards Rhaenyra with a thoughtful expression. “Is your friend really that much more important than your people?” she asks, her voice carrying a hint of innocence and challenge.
Rhaenyra’s brow furrows and she sighs deeply. “Why would you think that? It is not a matter of importance, but of necessity. The smallfolk are the reason I persist, for their plight and their future.”
“Then why not bring your dragon to find her instead?” Aster counters. “You’d save yourself a lot of trouble, is all.”
Rhaenyra’s gaze drifts to the window, her mind wandering through the possibilities and constraints of her situation. “If she knew of my presence and my dragon’s, she might flee farther away before we even have a chance to find her.”
Aster is silent for a moment. “Well,” she finally says, “it’s Alicent above all else for you. Sorry to your people, I guess.” With that, she retreats to her own room, leaving Rhaenyra to her thoughts.
Rhaenyra watches as the raven soars into the morning sky. The bird’s flight carries with it her carefully penned message to King’s Landing, assuring the council of her well-being and the continued pursuit of her quest. As the raven diminishes into the horizon, Rhaenyra allows herself a moment of quiet contemplation.
She is struck by a peculiar irony. Had it not been for the pressing task of locating Alicent, she might never have ventured so far from her known realm to witness the wonders across the Narrow Sea. The exploration of Braavos, though born of necessity, has revealed a land rich with experiences and sights. In a way, it feels as though the gods, in their capricious wisdom, have bestowed upon her a twisted blessing—a rare opportunity to see beyond the confines of her own world.
As the days slip away like grains of sand through an hourglass, Rhaenyra feels the weight of her quest pressing ever more heavily upon her. Aster becomes an extension of her will, moving through the city with the nimble agility of a fox and the keen senses of one well-acquainted with its underbelly. Rhaenyra entrusts the girl with the task of probing the networks of information, seeking out whispers and rumors that might lead her to Alicent.
One evening, as the sun dips below the horizon and the city’s shadows grow long, Aster returns to Rhaenyra with a glimmer of desperation in her eyes. She speaks of the famed assassins of Braavos, those whose names echo with both fear and respect throughout the city’s tangled alleys. “They are known as the Faceless Men,” Aster says. “Their network is vast, their knowledge unparalleled. If anyone knows where your friend might be, it is surely they.”
“The Faceless Men?” Rhaenyra echoes, her voice tinged with both skepticism and wariness. “You speak of them lightly, but they are not to be trifled with. Their services come at a steep price.”
Aster’s eyes widen, and she leans closer, her voice urgent. “But you’re a Queen, aren’t you? Maybe they grant favors to those of high standing. And surely, you can afford the ‘steep’ price they demand.”
The suggestion hangs in the air between them. Rhaenyra’s mind churns with the implications of engaging with such elusive figures. The Faceless Men are renowned for their skill and discretion. Yet, their reputation is also marred by whispers of their capriciousness and the heavy cost of their services. She closes her eyes momentarily, drawing a deep breath as she wrestles with the dilemma before her. The pursuit of Alicent has become a quest fraught with uncertainty, and the Faceless Men represent both a potential solution and a formidable risk.
“Very well,” Rhaenyra says. “If we are to pursue this course, we must tread with care. The Faceless Men are not easily appeased, and their terms are rarely straightforward. We must approach them with the utmost respect and readiness for whatever demands they may impose.”
Aster nods, a flicker of relief passing across her face.
With the dawn of a new day, Rhaenyra and Aster set forth towards the House of Black and White, the revered sanctuary of the Many-Faced God, where the enigmatic Faceless Men dwell. Their journey through the city’s winding streets is marked by a palpable tension, each step taken with deliberate caution. The House of Black and White emerges before them, perched upon a rocky knoll of somber grey stone. Its exterior, devoid of windows, exudes an air of inscrutability, crowned by a roof of black tiles. The grand wooden doors, standing twelve feet high, command attention. The left door is fashioned from weirwood, its pale surface stark against the darker tones, while the right is carved from ebony, its deep hue absorbing the light. At the center of these doors, a moon face is intricately carved: ebony set into weirwood, and weirwood into ebony, a symbol of the duality that lies within.
As they ascend the steps, the oppressive silence of the House envelops them.
Inside, the atmosphere is thick with the scent of incense and the quiet murmur of prayers. The temple’s interior is a realm of twilight, where the statues of various deities stand vigil, their faces illuminated by the flickering light of countless candles. Worshipers move with hushed reverence, lighting candles before the statues and offering their prayers to the Many-Faced God. In the center of the temple, a dark pool glistens with a sinister allure. Those who seek an end to their suffering drink from its sweet, dark waters, finding release in the alcoves that line the walls.
Rhaenyra and Aster are met by a figure clad in the simple, unadorned robes of the Faceless Men. His face, devoid of emotion, is a mask of inscrutability. He regards them with a gaze that seems to pierce through to their very souls.
“What is it you seek?” he asks, his voice a soft, measured whisper.
Rhaenyra steps forward, her bearing regal yet humble. “We seek knowledge,” she begins. “I am searching for a woman, one who has taken refuge in Braavos. She has auburn curls and wears a seven-pointed star. Her name is Alicent Hightower.”
The Faceless Man’s expression does not change, but there is a flicker of something—perhaps recognition, perhaps indifference. Rhaenyra calls him in her mind the Indifferent Man. “We are not in the business of finding the lost,” he replies. “We are the harbingers of death, the servants of the Many-Faced God. Our purpose is to bring the gift of peace, not to aid in personal quests.”
Rhaenyra’s heart sinks, but she steels herself, knowing that she must persuade him. “I understand your purpose,” she says, her voice steady. “But I am no ordinary seeker. I am Rhaenyra of House Targaryen, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. The woman I seek is of great importance, not just to me, but to the realm. Her safety is paramount, and her loss could bring turmoil.”
The Indifferent Man’s eyes narrow slightly, a sign that her words have struck a chord. “Even queens must respect the will of the Many-Faced God,” he murmurs. “Our services are not for sale to the highest bidder, regardless of their station.”
Rhaenyra takes a deep breath, choosing her next words with care. “I do not ask this as a queen seeking to assert her power, but as a person seeking the aid of those who see beyond the surface of things. The Faceless Men are revered not just for their skills, but for their wisdom and their connection to the deeper truths of our world. Help me, and I will ensure that the respect and reverence for the Many-Faced God extends beyond the confines of this city.”
A silence follows her plea, the weight of her words hanging in the air. The Faceless Man remains still, contemplating. At length, he speaks. “You are wise to speak thus,” he says. “Very well. We shall see what our network can uncover. But know this: the price for our assistance is not measured in gold or power, but in understanding and reverence for the path we walk. Are you prepared to pay such a price?”
Rhaenyra nods, her resolve unwavering. “I am prepared,” she affirms.
The Indifferent Man inclines his head. “Then we shall begin our search. Return here in three days’ time, and we will have what you seek.”
“Wait,” Rhaenyra calls out. The Indifferent Man pauses, turning his inscrutable gaze back to her. “My only wish is that you tell me where she is, and I shall go to her. Do not trouble yourself with bringing her here. I beg of you.”
The Indifferent Man considers her request, his expression as unreadable as ever. “Very well,” he says at last. “If that is your desire, it shall be so. Return in three days, and you will have the information you seek.”
Rhaenyra and Aster depart the House of Black and White, their steps echoing softly in the silent temple.
Aster notes Rhaenyra’s pensive silence. “We did all we could,” she says softly. “Now we must trust that the Faceless Men will keep their word.”
Rhaenyra only answered her with a prolonged silence.
The days pass slowly, each one filled with the tension of anticipation. Rhaenyra spends the time with Aster, visiting notable places in Braavos such as the Drowned Town, the Stones of the Silent God, and the Purple Harbor. It feels exhilarating, to say the least, and walking amongst the smallfolk of the city gives her a semblance of normalcy, different to the feeling of riding Syrax and seeing the towns from the skies.
On the third day, they return to the House of Black and White. The Indifferent Man is waiting for them, his expression as inscrutable as ever. “We have found her,” he says simply. “I am afraid she is not in Braavos. Alicent Hightower resides in Norvos, on its outskirts, within the forests.”
Rhaenyra’s heart skips a beat. “What?”
The Indifferent Man regards her with his usual calm. “Are you not satisfied with our work?” he inquires, his tone even.
Rhaenyra shakes her head, trying to collect her thoughts. “N-No,” she stammers. “I just did not expect she would go so far.”
The Indifferent Man’s gaze remains steady. “The paths of those who seek refuge are often winding and unpredictable,” he says. “Norvos is where she has found her haven, for now.”
Rhaenyra nods, her resolve firm. “The payment,” she begins, her voice steady despite the weight of her words. The Indifferent Man remains silent, his impassive demeanor betraying no hint of his thoughts. Taking this as a cue to proceed, Rhaenyra continues, “You shall receive all the reserves that my late father, King Viserys, allotted to me in the Iron Bank. I will draft a deed so that the bankers grant you access to my vault without question.”
The Indifferent Man’s gaze remains unyielding. “Is your gold the most precious thing in your life, Rhaenyra of House Targaryen?” he inquires, his tone imbued with a subtle edge.
Rhaenyra’s eyes narrow, her patience fraying. “I assure you that my vault is abundant with gold reserves. It will be more than sufficient to meet your demands.”
The Indifferent Man’s scrutiny remains unyielding, his gaze like the cool, unfeeling eye of a statue. The silence wraps around Rhaenyra like a shroud, pressing upon her with an unrelenting insistence. At last, the Indifferent Man’s voice breaks through the quiet, “I suppose the payment will be commensurate with your request. I expect it immediately.”
Rhaenyra, steeling herself, retrieves a parchment from her satchel—a document prepared with painstaking care and exacting detail. With a swift, practiced motion, she pens the necessary transfer, authorizing the release of all the remaining wealth secured in her vault. Once the deed is signed and sealed, Rhaenyra and Aster take their leave of the House of Black and White.
“I... I suppose this is where my service ends,” Aster says, her voice laced with a hint of uncertainty. She glances at Rhaenyra with wide, questioning eyes. “Are you still going to Norvos? It’s a long journey from here. Aren’t you concerned about your kingdom?”
Rhaenyra smiles genuinely at Aster, the warmth of her expression softening the lines of her face. “I have capable and trusted men who can govern in my stead,” she replies. She reaches into her satchel and produces a pouch brimming with coins. With a gesture of heartfelt gratitude, she hands it to Aster. “For all your troubles.”
Aster gazes at the pouch with a mixture of awe and hesitation before accepting it. “I suppose you love this woman so deeply that you’ve sacrificed your wealth,” she says, her voice holding an edge of bold innocence. “If the Faceless Men had demanded more, I wager you’d give up your throne without a second thought.”
Rhaenyra is momentarily taken aback by the girl’s fearless candor. Yet, Aster’s words ring with a certain truth. At this very moment, Rhaenyra should be commanding from the Iron Throne in King’s Landing, draped in the finery of her position, dispensing justice to those who have wronged the crown. Instead, she finds herself in a foreign land, clad in simple traveler's garb, accompanied by a petty thief whom she has come to regard as a friend. In her pursuit of Alicent, Rhaenyra has forsaken the comforts and privileges of her royal life, along with the burdens of queenship, venturing to the farthest reaches of the known world. And all of it, she realizes, is for the sake of being with Alicent.
“I suppose so,” Rhaenyra murmurs softly.
Aster smiles in satisfaction, a glint of mischief dancing in her eyes as she sidesteps any further confessions. “I shall arrange for someone to prepare your travel from Braavos,” she offers with a hint of earnest warmth. “I will see to it that you are escorted to the meeting point where towns converge. This way, you won’t face the journey alone, and your travel to Norvos will be a matter of a day or two’s ride.”
Her smile broadens, a gesture of sincere goodwill. “Consider this,” she adds, “as my parting gift.”
Rhaenyra’s gaze softens at Aster’s unexpected kindness. There is a depth in Aster’s gesture that speaks not only of her resourcefulness but also of a rare and genuine empathy. Aster secures the services of a merchant known for his discretion and reliability. This merchant will guide Rhaenyra through the bustling towns and beyond, ensuring that she is not alone on her perilous journey to Norvos.
“Thank you. You have been very kind to me, Aster,” Rhaenyra says, her voice carrying a note of genuine gratitude. “I hope you make good use of the rewards.”
Aster’s eyes glisten with a mixture of pride and wistfulness as she accepts Rhaenyra’s words. There is a fleeting shadow of sadness in her expression, but it is quickly masked by her resolute smile. “It’s the least I could do,” she replies. “May your journey be swift and your search successful. I hope you and Alicent can live happily together.”
The merchant named Elios is a man of cheerful disposition and boundless enthusiasm. His presence is a curious blend of warmth and levity, a stark contrast to the somberness of Rhaenyra’s quest. His voice, though often off-tune, carries a melody of its own—a tuneless but spirited cheerfulness that fills the air with an odd sense of comfort. As the sun dips beneath the horizon, casting long shadows across the road, Elios's exuberance remains undiminished.
"Say," Elios begins, his voice cutting through the gentle hum of evening, "it’ll take us three more days to reach the cross-sections where we’ll turn eastward. How about we build a fire tonight? The air is growing cold, and you look as though you could use a warm meal and a good night's rest."
Rhaenyra, contemplating the encroaching chill and the comfort of a fire, nods in agreement. "I think that would be wise," she responds, her voice carrying a note of gratitude. They dismount from their horses, the rhythmic clink of tack and the soft rustle of leather against fabric marking their movements. The horses are tied to the nearest trees. As Elios ventures into the surrounding woods to gather firewood, Rhaenyra’s gaze follows him for a moment before she turns her attention to the task at hand. She surveys the cart and its contents, seeking something useful to aid their efforts. Her eyes fall upon the pots and pans neatly arranged within, alongside a bundle of cured meat that Elios has brought along.
Elios soon returns, his arms laden with an armful of dry branches and kindling. He sets the wood down with a contented sigh and begins to arrange it in a careful stack. His cheerful humming resumes, a pleasant counterpoint to the quiet rustle of the night.
When Rhaenyra attempts to cook the meat, Elios chastises her in a gentlemanly manner, his tone light yet firm.
“You are a guest! You mustn’t move a muscle for such menial tasks,” he declares.
“Nonsense,” Rhaenyra retorts, her eyes flashing with determination. “You have been a kind companion on my journey. You should at least allow me to stretch my sore arms and legs. Besides, we can retire early if I help around.”
Elios concedes with a nod, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Alright. You can prepare our supper while I set up our tents.”
They go about their respective tasks, the camaraderie between them evident in their easy cooperation. Rhaenyra is astonished at the stash of spices and herbs Elios has, some jars even hailing from the distant lands of Yi Ti. The aroma of exotic seasonings fills the air as she works, adding a touch of luxury to their humble campfire meal.
When their tasks are complete, they gather around the campfire. The flames cast flickering shadows on their faces, creating an atmosphere of warmth and companionship. As they enjoy their supper, Rhaenyra falls into conversation with Elios, her curiosity piqued by his tales.
“You have been a merchant since you were a boy? Do you ever do it alone?” Rhaenyra asks, her voice tinged with genuine interest.
“Aye! I have had it in my bones, so they say. I may not look like it, but I have crossed distant lands. I just came back from the Golden Empire, you see.” Elios munches on the fried meat of thinly sliced lamb, his eyes twinkling with the memory of his adventures. “You seem lonely. I do not mean it in a way that you are unmarried, but you are looking for someone in an unknown land. That must be tough.”
Rhaenyra unknowingly traces her ring finger, only to notice that she has left her wedding ring behind.
“You never seem to get lonely, and you never run out of enthusiasm,” Rhaenyra remarks, her voice tinged with curiosity and perhaps a hint of envy.
Elios smiles, but there is a sadness in his eyes that belies his cheerful demeanor. “Oh, I do get lonely, though I might not show it. My wife, bless her soul, made me promise on her deathbed that I would never be sad. To honor her memory, I sing songs and keep a light heart.” He sighs, his gaze distant as he recalls his lost love. “Sadness visits me sometimes. You can’t help it. It’s like a shadow that lingers at the edge of your sight, never fully gone but not always in focus.”
Before his memories can swallow his mood, Elios turns bright and strides to his cart, where he produces a four-stringed instrument. With a cheerful grin, he claims that he often listens to the moonsingers and tries to mimic their serene voices in his own gruff and deep one. Rhaenyra smiles endearingly at the man, charmed by his effort to strum his instrument until he finally settles into a mellow rhythm. Elios begins to sing. The song tells of an everlasting love for a departed one, a promise to keep their memory alive while striving to live even amidst grief. The words are simple yet profound, speaking of loss and longing, but also of enduring hope and love that transcends death.
As the melody flows, Rhaenyra envisions Alicent’s face, the warmth of her smile, the light in her eyes. These memories bring comfort and pain in equal measure. She wonders where Alicent is now, whether she is safe, whether she thinks of her too.
Elios’s voice trails off, the last notes lingering in the cool night air. Rhaenyra grins at him, a rare lightness in her eyes. “That was lovely.”
“Thank you, thank you,” Elios replies, offering a playful bow. “The hour has grown late. It’s best to retire to our tents. Sorry if it’s not much, but it will keep us warm.”
“Thank you. Good night.” Rhaenyra moves to her modest tent, feeling a rare sense of contentment. For the first time in days, she can sleep comfortably with a blanket. As she burrows into her makeshift bed, she allows her thoughts to drift toward Alicent.
She counts the days until they can finally meet again. The question that lingers in her mind is whether Alicent will be delighted or horrified. Will she embrace Rhaenyra, or will she shun her away? The years have altered them both, and Rhaenyra cannot help but wonder how much of the Alicent she once knew remains. Rhaenyra imagines Alicent in Norvos, living a quiet life away from the tumult of court and conflict. The vision brings a bittersweet smile to her lips. She yearns to see Alicent’s face, to hear her voice, to know that she is safe. This is no longer a quest to quell a rebellion that Alicent might build against her in Aegon’s name. She doesn’t expect a warm welcome from Alicent, but perhaps if Rhaenyra sees her, even from a distance, and knows that she is doing well, alive and unharmed, then maybe Rhaenyra can leave the woman in peace. Perhaps, in that way, they both can heal.
With this thought, she finally drifts into a fitful sleep.
Rhaenyra awakens to a scene of terror.
The muffled warmth of sleep is abruptly shattered by a rough hand pressing over her mouth, smothering her cry before it can escape. Her eyes blink open, adjusting to the dim flicker of early dawn filtering through the thin fabric of her tent. The oppressive darkness reveals a shadowed figure looming over her, his face obscured by a rough cloth that masks his identity. A bandit, she surmises with a cold clarity.
“Ah, what a pretty little thing you are,” he hisses, his breath hot and sour against her skin. “Rumors have whispered of a queen from Westeros wandering alone in these parts. And here you are, a perfect prize. I shall have you.”
Fear coils in Rhaenyra’s gut. She wonders where Elios is and whether he has already met a similar fate. The cold edge of the bandit’s knife presses threateningly against her neck. Desperation surges through her; she is a queen, for the gods' sake! It is inconceivable that she should fall prey to common brigands. In a sudden burst of adrenaline, Rhaenyra seizes her chance. With a swift and brutal kick, she strikes the bandit in his groin. His roar of pain is a ragged, guttural sound. The hand loosens its grip momentarily, and Rhaenyra wriggles free. She scrambles from the tent, her senses heightened by the urgency of the situation.
Outside, the scene is a chaotic tableau of conflict. Two burly bandits are wrestling with Elios, their rough hands binding him with coarse rope. The merchant’s protests are muffled but distinct, filled with a mixture of anger and fear. As Rhaenyra’s eyes dart around, she spots the hulking figures of the bandits. The largest among them, a man with a scarred face and brutish demeanor, catches sight of her.
“Well, well,” the burly bandit jeers, his voice a growl of malice. “Seems we have another guest to entertain. You’re quite the spirited one, aren’t you? Too bad for you, the entertainment’s over.”
Rhaenyra’s heart pounds in her chest as the bandit lumbers toward her, a menacing grin splitting his face. She snatches up a dagger from the ground, her fingers trembling with both fear and resolve. Just as she steels herself for a confrontation, an unexpected whistling sound pierces the air. The burly bandit’s eyes widen in shock, his mouth forming a silent “O” as the arrow embeds itself in his neck. He collapses with a heavy thud, his life extinguished in an instant.
But before relief can wash over Rhaenyra, a second bandit seizes her from behind, his arm wrapping around her throat with a vice-like grip. “Hold your fire!” he shouts into the shadowy woods, his voice dripping with panic and menace. “One more arrow, and the woman dies!”
From the treeline, the female archer-hunter steps forward, her bowstring taut and her eyes steely with resolve. “Let her go,” she commands, her voice calm but edged with authority. “You are outmatched. Release her, and you might live to see another day.”
The bandit tightens his grip, his eyes darting wildly between Rhaenyra and the hunter. “You think I’m a fool? I’ll slit her throat before you can draw another arrow.”
A tense silence falls over the clearing, the air thick with anticipation and dread. The hunter’s gaze never wavers, her bow steady and her fingers poised. “If you harm her, your fate is sealed,” she warns. “But let her go, and I will show mercy.”
The bandit’s resolve falters for a moment, his grip loosening just enough for Rhaenyra to draw a shallow breath. “I know who you are. Heathens! You and your people should get lost in those lands. They are ours!” he scoffs, though there is a hint of desperation in his voice.
In a swift, fluid motion, the hunter releases her arrow. The projectile flies true, striking the bandit through the eye and ending his life before he can react. His body crumples to the ground, releasing Rhaenyra from his deadly hold. She stumbles forward, gasping for air and clutching her throat where the blade had pressed.
The hunter is at her side in an instant, her eyes scanning the area for any remaining threats. “Are you hurt?” she asks, her voice softer now.
Rhaenyra shakes her head, her breath still coming in ragged gasps. “I... I’m alright,” she manages, her voice hoarse. “Thank you.”
The hunter nods, her expression remaining vigilant. “We must move quickly,” she says. “There may be more of them nearby. We cannot stay here.”
Elios, having freed himself from his bonds, approaches with a look of profound relief. “My lady, I am so sorry. I should have been more vigilant.”
“It is not your fault, Elios. We were caught unawares.” Rhaenyra assures him.
The hunter gestures toward the edge of the clearing. “Follow me,” she instructs. “I know a place where we can rest and tend to your wounds. It is not far.”
Fortunately, Elios' cart remains unharmed by the bandits, so they mount their horses and follow the hunter. As they ride, Rhaenyra asks for her name. The hunter, with a voice as steady and clear as a mountain brook, replies, "Neith."
Neith leads them through a narrow path. The air is thick with the scent of pine and damp earth. Soon, the forest opens up to a clearing bathed in the soft glow of twilight. Small tents dot the landscape, arranged in a circle around a large bonfire. Bisons graze peacefully on the outskirts. Rhaenyra realizes that Neith belongs to a tribe. The people of the tribe emerge from their tents, their faces etched with curiosity and warmth. They move with a quiet grace, their clothing adorned with intricate patterns that speak of their deep connection to the land and its creatures. Neith calls out in a language unfamiliar to Rhaenyra, and several figures emerge from the shadows, their eyes reflecting the flickering firelight. They approach with cautious curiosity, their movements fluid and graceful. Neith speaks to them in hushed tones, and a few nod before disappearing into the tents.
A tall woman with long gray hair steps forward, her presence commanding yet serene. “Welcome,” she says. “I am Eira, chieftain of the Khajir tribe. Fear not, you are safe here.”
Rhaenyra allows herself to be led to one of the larger tents. Inside, the air is warm and fragrant with the scent of herbs. She is gently seated on a soft bed of furs, and Neith kneels beside her, examining the wound on her neck.
“This will sting,” Neith warns as she cleans the gash with a tincture. Rhaenyra grits her teeth, the pain sharp but bearable. Neith’s hands are steady and practiced, her touch both firm and reassuring.
Eira enters, carrying a bowl of steaming broth. “Drink this,” she says, offering it to Rhaenyra. “It will help with the pain and give you strength.”
Rhaenyra accepts the bowl gratefully, the warm liquid soothing her parched throat. Elios, meanwhile, is being attended to by another member of the tribe, his jovial demeanor intact despite their ordeal. “Quite the adventure we’ve had, eh?” he remarks to Rhaenyra, attempting a grin despite the pain etched on his features.
“You could have cost each other’s life and yet you jest,” Neith says to Elios. “The trail you took is supposed to be forbidden for passage as bandits frequent that area.”
“But that trail was the closest shortcut! Rhaenyra here wants to go to Norvos,” Elios defends.
Neith turns to Rhaenyra, her expression thoughtful. “You are not the first one to have taken up that trail. Many who are unfamiliar with these lands do. The last time, a woman was almost taken by bandits, had it not been for our patrol who rescued her.”
At the mention of it, Rhaenyra’s attention perks. “A woman? What did she look like?” she asks, her voice edged with urgency.
Neith looks at her with a wary eye. “A beautiful woman. Her most distinctive feature is her auburn curls.”
Rhaenyra’s eyes widened. “And her name?” she whispers, her heart pounding.
Neith maintains her gaze, her expression unreadable. “She calls herself Alicent.”
Rhaenyra’s breath catches in her throat, a mix of relief and anxiety flooding her senses. She clutches the bowl tighter, her mind reeling with the implications of Neith’s words. Alicent is alive and not far from where they stand.
“Where is she now?”
Neith sighs, her eyes softening. “She was taken to Norvos, as she wished. Some of us ensured her safe passage to the boundary of the city. She left a few moons ago.” She pauses, scrutinizing Rhaenyra's reaction. “You are a friend of hers?”
Rhaenyra stands immediately, the sudden movement causing a wave of dizziness to wash over her. “I-I have to get to her right now.”
But Neith stops her with a firm yet gentle hand. “You are not in a condition to pursue her. The hour is late, and danger is more profound in the dark. Face her when you’re both ready.”
Rhaenyra feels the weight of her exhaustion, her body protesting against her will. She reluctantly sinks back down, her mind racing. She closes her eyes, allowing the warmth of the fire and the tribe’s presence to anchor her. Neith’s words echo in her mind: "Face her when you’re both ready." Rhaenyra knows she must gather her strength, prepare herself for the meeting that will undoubtedly stir old emotions and unspoken words. She must be ready to confront not only Alicent but the years of silence that have built walls between them.
As dawn breaks, the camp stirs to life. Neith’s tribe moves with purpose, tending to their morning tasks. Rhaenyra watches them, feeling a sense of gratitude for their hospitality and the wisdom they have imparted.
“Why do you tend close to the bisons?” Rhaenyra asks Eira.
Eira smiles, her eyes reflecting the morning light. “They are our lifeline. They provide us food, our garbs, our shelter. Where they go, my people go with them. There is devotion and respect between each other.” Rhaenyra marvels at the symbiosis between the tribe and their herd. The bisons move calmly among the people, their massive forms gentle and unperturbed. Children run between their legs, and elders murmur soft words of gratitude as they collect their fur.
Eira continues, “We believe in harmony with the land and its creatures. The bisons are our kin. We follow their paths, and in return, they sustain our lives.”
There is a purity in this way of life, a simplicity that stands in contrast to the complexities and treacheries of the court she has known. Here, among the bisones and the tribe, she feels a rare sense of peace. As the day unfolds, Rhaenyra walks among the tribe, observing their rituals and customs. She sees the respect they show to the earth, the reverence in their actions as they prepare their meals, and the joy in their duties. It is a life of balance and unity. The sun reaches its zenith and the tribe gathers for a communal meal. Rhaenyra sits among them, feeling a sense of belonging that she has not felt in a long time. The food is simple yet nourishing, the conversations filled with laughter and stories of their ancestors. Elios sings songs merrily much to the amusement of everyone.
Neith approaches. “We have prepared provisions for your journey,” she says, her eyes meeting Rhaenyra’s. “When you are ready, you will have all you need to reach Norvos.”
Rhaenyra's heart swells with gratitude. "I… This is very kind of all of you," she says, her voice trembling slightly as emotion overtakes her. "How can I repay you for this generosity?"
Neith raises a hand, her gesture both firm and gentle. "We have no use for coin or gold," she replies. "This is our way. We ask only that you honor the sacred lands and the people who dwell upon them, no matter where your path may lead."
Rhaenyra contemplates Neith's words and nods.
Neith's gaze softens, and she studies Rhaenyra with a look of recognition. "We know who you are," she continues. “You are of Valyrian descent. A dragonlord. My ancestors have crossed paths with yours long ago."
"Your ancestors," Rhaenyra murmurs, "they must have witnessed the rise and the Doom of Valyria.”
Neith nods. "Indeed," she replies. “They spoke of the dragons with awe and reverence. None of us have seen one. Curious that you are not with one either.”
A shadow passes over Rhaenyra’s face, her gaze turning inward as if seeking solace in the recesses of memory. “It is best that way,” she says quietly.
In the morrow, Elios and Neith join Rhaenyra at the crossroads where the towns converge. The morning sun casts a golden hue upon the scene, illuminating the gentle curves of the landscape and the solemn faces of the trio.
Elios turns to Rhaenyra with a grin that barely conceals the sadness in his eyes. “Well, my queen, it seems our paths must now diverge,” he says, “I must head east, to trade and to sing my songs. You, however, must follow the southern road.”
Rhaenyra meets his gaze, her eyes softened by gratitude and sorrow. “Thank you, Elios. May your travels be safe and your heart ever light.”
Elios chuckles, though there is a sheen of unshed tears in his eyes. “And may you find what you seek. May it be your friend or your soul.”
Neith steps forward. “Our paths part here as well,” she says. “But know that you leave with our blessings and the protection of the Anqarin.” She hands Rhaenyra a small pouch filled with herbs and a token carved from bison bone, a symbol of their tribe’s respect and goodwill.
Rhaenyra takes the pouch. “Thank you, Neith.”
Neith inclines her head, her eyes meeting Rhaenyra’s with a solemn promise. “Remember the sacred lands and the bonds of friendship forged here. They will guide you when the road is uncertain.”
With a final embrace, Rhaenyra stirs her horse southward, her heart heavy with parting yet buoyed by hope. Elios and Neith watch as she takes her first steps on this new path, their figures growing smaller in the distance.
As Rhaenyra rides along the winding road, she spots a caravan of traveling merchants making their way along the road. Their carts are laden with rich and supple textiles, vibrant colors spilling over the wooden edges like a cascade of jewels. The sight fills her with a renewed energy, for Neith's words echo in her mind: Norvos is within reach.
Before long, the city of Norvos rises before her, a marvel of stones. Norvos is a city of two halves, united by a massive stone stairway known as the Sinner's Steps. The high city perches atop the tallest hill in the region, its mighty stone walls encircling the ancient nobility’s homes. Here, the fortress-temple of the bearded priests stands as a witness to time and faith. Rhaenyra’s heart pounds with each step closer to the city. The lower city sprawls at the hill’s base, a labyrinth of narrow streets and bustling markets. She can see the high city above, a silhouette of power and mystery against the sky. She knows that her path lies not within those walls, but in the outskirts, among the forest. She recalls the advice given to her by the Faceless Man on Alicent’s refuge. Rhaenyra turns her gaze to the forest that borders the city. The trees stand tall and ancient. She feels a strange pull, an instinct that guides her steps away from the crowded roads and into the verdant depths.
The sounds of the city fade into the background, replaced by the serene symphony of nature. After some time, she discovers a small cluster of houses on the outskirts of the forest. These homes blend seamlessly with their natural surroundings. Smoke curls lazily from their chimneys, and the scent of woodsmoke mingles with the fresh, earthy aroma of the forest. Rhaenyra’s heart quickens with anticipation as she surveys the area, looking for any sign of Alicent. Her eyes are drawn to a smaller cottage set apart from the others. A gated fence surrounds it, and within the enclosure, chickens cluck and peck at the ground. Rhaenyra's instincts sharpen, and she decides to hide herself among the thick foliage to observe. She waits with bated breath, her gaze fixed on the cottage, hoping for a glimpse of the woman she seeks.
A cart trundles down the path and stops in front of the cottage. Rhaenyra’s heart leaps as she sees a figure emerge from the cottage, cloaked and hooded. The figure moves with a familiar grace, and as the hood falls back slightly, a cascade of auburn curls is revealed.
It is Alicent.
Rhaenyra’s breath catches in her throat. She watches as Alicent interacts with the driver of the cart, exchanging a few words before placing a cage that houses two chickens onto the cart. The sight of her, alive and seemingly well, sends a torrent of emotions rushing through Rhaenyra. Her mind races with conflicting desires—the urge to rush forward and embrace Alicent, to reveal her presence and dispel the uncertainty of their separation, battles with the need to approach with the utmost caution. As Alicent finishes her task and turns back towards the cottage, a subtle shift in her demeanor catches Rhaenyra’s attention. Alicent pauses for a moment, her head tilting slightly as if sensing something out of place. There is a moment of stillness, and Rhaenyra’s heart holds its breath. Alicent’s gaze sweeps the surroundings, but she sees nothing out of the ordinary. Rhaenyra remains perfectly still. As Alicent resumes her task, moving back into the cottage, Rhaenyra allows herself a moment of silent contemplation. She knows that the time to reveal herself must be chosen with care, that their encounter must be as carefully measured as the journey that has brought her here.
For the first time on this journey of flesh and spirit, Rhaenyra allows her tears to cascade freely. A smile tugs at her lips, sweet, tender, yet tinged with a mournful bitterness. She braces herself against the ancient bole of a tree. Her heart feels ensnared once more, caught in the merciless grip of fate, as though it were once again between Alicent’s teeth.
--
1 This translates to "We are going to find Alicent, my girl."
2 Translation: "Yes. You will see her again."
3 Translation: "We part for now, my fierce and faithful friend"
4 Translation: "I promise to return as swiftly as I am able, and together, we shall bring Alicent back to King’s Landing."