Chapter Text
King’s Landing, The Red Keep – 112 AC
"Is this some kind of joke?" I whispered in shock, my voice trembling as I stared at the reflection in the ornate mirror before me. Well, her mirror. The polished silver showed a face I knew all too well—just not my own. Pale skin, a cascade of silver-gold hair, and violet eyes that could only belong to one person.
"Who the hell did I piss off to become her? The Black Queen?" My words were almost a growl as I gripped the edges of the vanity, the cold metal biting into my fingers.
That's right. One moment, I was just me, heading home after another long day, and the next... a car came out of nowhere. I don’t even remember the impact, not really. It was too fast. No flashes of light, no angelic choirs—just darkness. And then I was here.
The next thing I knew, a maid was shaking me awake, her voice trembling with reverence as she called me Princess Rhaenyra.
Yeah. That Rhaenyra. The Black Queen herself. The one and only Maegor with tits.
"Shit!" I hissed, banging my forehead against the mirror. The pain was sharp but grounding. "What the hell am I supposed to do now?"
A chill ran down my spine as the reality of the situation sank in. Like any true fan of George R.R. Martin’s work, I knew exactly what this meant. I was in Westeros, specifically in the middle of one of its bloodiest eras: the Dance of the Dragons. This cursed city, this blasted Iron Throne—it was nothing but a death trap wrapped in centuries of blood and steel.
The irony wasn’t lost on me. This was the throne that no one truly won, only survived. For a time, at least. And now I was stuck in the middle of it, wearing the face of a woman destined to fight for power and lose almost everything in the process.
"I don’t want it. I don’t need it. I won’t seek it out!" I muttered, pacing the room in a frenzy. My words echoed off the stone walls as if mocking me. But the universe didn’t care what I wanted, did it? No one here was asking for my opinion.
This wasn’t just bad—it was catastrophic. I knew how this all played out, and it wasn’t a pretty story. Rhaenyra’s ambition, her choices, the carnage that followed—this was the bloody foundation for the later horrors of Westeros. The Dance of the Dragons wasn’t just a civil war; it was a prelude to the Long Night. The loss of dragons, the crumbling of alliances—it all paved the way for the dead to march on the living.
And now I was supposed to be the architect of that disaster?
No. No way in hell.
But the question remained: What now?
Option one: I could kill Otto and Alicent Hightower. The thought was brutal, almost unthinkable, but I couldn't deny its practicality. Otto was the architect of so much of the misery to come, a man who would sacrifice anyone and anything for his ambition. Alicent? A pawn of her father, but one who grew to wield her own power in devastating ways. Removing them would prevent so many problems before they even started.
That would leave Laena Velaryon free to marry my… father. Gods, the thought made my stomach churn, but it was a better match than Otto's schemes with Alicent. Laena was strong, fiery, and proud—a woman who could help stabilize the realm. There was a tragic beauty to her, though… didn’t she have complications giving birth in the future? The timeline, or my memory of it, felt like a tangled web I was trying to untangle with shaking hands. And yet, what choice did I have?
If Laena and Daemon had children, maybe—just maybe—her legacy would carry on, and I wouldn’t have to shoulder the burden of fixing this entire mess alone. Gods, this was so much more complicated than any fan theory or late-night discussion thread ever prepared me for.
And Rhaenys. Oh, Rhaenys. The Queen Who Never Was. She wouldn’t usurp me—not openly—but she wouldn’t welcome another queen sitting the Iron Throne either. Not after what she endured. Still, Rhaenys was pragmatic, perhaps even more so than I gave her credit for. Corlys, on the other hand, was ambitious, the kind of man who saw power and reached for it without hesitation. Could he be pacified? Maybe. If I promised to marry my firstborn to Laena’s… that might work. Or it might just create another powder keg ready to explode.
But then again, did I even want my children anywhere near that damned throne?
No. Absolutely not. Fuck progression. Fuck rights. I know—I’m a feminist, and I’m all for female empowerment. But let’s be real: what kind of empowerment is it to sentence my bloodline to the endless tragedy and cruelty that comes with the Iron Throne? I refuse to curse my children with the weight of that chair. They deserve better. They deserve freedom, happiness, a chance to live. Not to be pawns in a game I already know is rigged.
The throne was a poisoned chalice, an artifact of destruction masquerading as power. No one sat it for long without being burned, either by the swords it was forged from or the schemes it inspired.
No, I’d take my children and get as far away as I could. Driftmark, maybe? That could work for a while—Corlys could keep a secret if it served him. Or even further—across the Narrow Sea, into Essos, to some corner of the world where the name Targaryen didn’t come with the weight of dragons and conquest.
Still, even as the plan formed in my mind, the weight of it bore down on me. Could I really pull this off? Could I rewrite history, or was I just delaying the inevitable?
Option two: I let the Hightowers conspire to their heart’s content and push Alicent onto the throne. Let them play their games, whisper their schemes, and bask in their fleeting triumph. I’d step aside, let Viserys deal with the fallout of his own mistakes like the grown man he is supposed to be. This was his mess, after all, not mine. The Velaryons, Hightowers, and Daemon could battle it out among themselves while I focused on something far more important—the survival of Westeros.
The North. That was the key. While the South squabbled over crowns and dragons, I’d head North, strengthening it in preparation for the true threat: the Others. If there was one thing history made painfully clear, it was that no one else in Westeros would take the threat seriously until it was too late. But the North? The Starks? They would listen. They always had a unique clarity about duty, honor, and the harsh realities of life. They were the oldest house in Westeros, their bloodline rooted in the very land itself, with the largest expanse of territory and countless abandoned castles that could be reclaimed.
The Starks had always been fair to their allies, treating family and loyalty as sacred. With their support, I could ensure my sons—who would carry Targaryen blood—had a place to thrive far away from the chaos of the Iron Throne. A place where they could grow strong and free of the burdens of Southern politics. A place where Stark blood and Targaryen fire could merge and endure beyond Winterfell.
The Wolf’s Den was a perfect starting point. Located at White Harbor, it had the potential to serve as the home for the North’s Eastern Fleet. From there, trade routes could open up, linking Driftmark and even Essos to the North. Sand and glass from Essos—precious resources scarce in this frigid land—would be invaluable. Lifesaving, even, during the long winters when survival was measured in what you could store and make use of. Corlys Velaryon, with his unerring eye for opportunity, would undoubtedly see the untapped potential of the North as a market worth investing in.
But the delicate matter of White Harbor required careful handling. The Manderlys were fiercely proud and territorial. They wouldn’t take kindly to anyone, even a Targaryen princess, encroaching on their domain. I’d need to position myself as an ally, someone who could bolster their power rather than diminish it. White Harbor, the Wolf’s Den, and Sea Dragon Point could form a northern trade triumvirate, with each location supporting and enhancing the others rather than competing.
Still, I hesitated. There was one glaring issue. If this timeline matched the books, the Wolf’s Den wasn’t a castle anymore—it was a prison. Its walls still stood, but its purpose had changed long ago. I couldn’t make it a noble seat, not without significant rebuilding, and even then, its history would weigh against it. I wasn’t entirely sure which timeline I’d landed in, and that uncertainty gnawed at me.
If the Wolf’s Den was still a prison, then its value lay in repurposing it for trade. A hub, not a seat. The income generated there could fund the reopening of the White Knife River, transforming it into a navigable waterway capable of connecting the North’s scattered settlements. Rivers that once ran silently through isolated forests and valleys could become vital trade arteries, linking Moat Cailin, White Harbor, and even Sea Dragon Point. If I could pull this off, nautical trade would weave the North together in ways it had never been before.
And Sea Dragon Point? That isolated, windswept area on the western coast was another critical piece. Vulnerable to Ironborn raids, it was the North’s Achilles’ heel when it came to seafaring threats. Fortifying it wouldn’t just be prudent—it would be essential. Every house in Westeros had suffered at the hands of the Ironborn at some point, so no one would question the decision. If anything, they’d applaud it.
But there was more to gain than just security. Fortifying Sea Dragon Point could drive a wedge between the Velaryons and the Ironborn. The Sea Snake’s dominance over Westerosi waters had long irked the Ironborn, and increased Northern competition would only exacerbate the tension. Manipulating the prideful Lannisters into supporting the endeavor would be child’s play. Their disdain for Corlys would make them eager to back any venture that undermined him, even if it indirectly strengthened the North.
Then there was Moat Cailin. Its location at the Neck made it the North’s natural first line of defense against Southern invasions, but its dilapidated state made it nearly useless. This ancient fortress had withstood countless assaults over the centuries, yet now it crumbled from neglect. Rebuilding it would take immense resources, but as the only princess of the realm, my dowry would be more than enough to fund the project.
Syrax would make this easier. My dragon could transport timber and stone from Sea Dragon Point, Driftmark, and other locations, cutting the time and cost of reconstruction in half. With proper rebuilding, Moat Cailin wouldn’t just defend the North; it would stand as a reminder that the region was stronger than ever—impenetrable to Southern armies for generations to come.
Trade could also address another pressing issue: the overcrowding of King’s Landing. Flea Bottom, with its teeming masses and dire poverty, was a disaster waiting to happen. Relocating those people to the North wouldn’t just give them better lives—it would provide the workforce I needed to build new settlements and expand existing ones.
Take Winter Town, for example. It had so much untapped potential. Winterfell itself was larger than the Red Keep, yet Winter Town was barely more than a seasonal refuge, coming alive only during the harshest winters when the smallfolk sought shelter. What if it could be more? With the right resources, Winter Town could become a true northern capital—a bustling city that showcased the resilience and ingenuity of the North. Not just a place to survive but a place to thrive.
Even the Reach and Westerlands could be drawn into the North’s trade web. Their pride would demand they match or exceed the North’s innovations, especially if Velaryon ships began trading freely in northern waters. Their long-standing rivalry with Corlys would make them easy to manipulate, playing them off each other while ensuring the North stayed neutral and quietly prospered in the shadows.
Piece by piece, the vision came together in my mind. A network of trade, reconstruction, and defense strong enough to outlast the chaos of the South. Let the Hightowers and the Velaryons squabble over their precious Iron Throne. Let the flames of war consume their armies. The North would rise, not as a pawn in the South’s games but as a bastion of strength, independence, and resilience.
This was how I would secure a future for my children—not as pawns in someone else’s deadly game, but as kings and queens of their own destinies. A future unbound by the cursed legacy of the Iron Throne. A future worth fighting for.
But that’s for later. First and foremost, I needed to secure a match with Rickon Stark. Not only would it tie me to the North and its vital resources, but it would also ensure I had a shield of loyalty and strength against the machinations of the South. Besides, the Starks were known for their fair treatment of their spouses. I could do far worse than a union with the future Lord of Winterfell.
I paused, frowning as the thought occurred to me. How old was Rickon? Ages tended to be all over the place depending on whether you followed the books or the show. Gods, I hoped he wasn’t some gawky, awkward boy. That would be awkward to say the least. Then again, in this timeline, most matches were political, and age wasn’t exactly a primary concern. Still, I couldn't help but wish he was at least somewhat close to my apparent age.
"Shit!" I sighed for what felt like the hundredth time. "This is going to be hard."
At least there was one small silver lining to all this chaos. Aemma Targaryen, née Arryn, had only passed away a short time ago, and Viserys had yet to name Rhaenyra as his heir. That was a crucial detail. If I refused the title of Crown Princess outright, it would remove me from the Hightowers' scrutiny. Those self-righteous pricks wouldn’t fear my claim to the Iron Throne if I was safely married off to a “savage,” as they’d no doubt see the Starks.
All I had to do was ensure that Viserys granted me a royal decree before my departure—one that allowed my children to bond with dragons or claim dragon eggs should they not hatch. The wording would need to be precise. It should guarantee that Targaryen heritage remained a prerequisite for dragon ownership, but it also needed to exclude any grandchildren who didn’t carry the Targaryen name. That clause would protect me from future accusations of hoarding dragons for some grand rebellion.
Why the fuss about dragons? Simple. Even if the Dance of the Dragons never happened in this timeline, I couldn’t risk the South’s stupidity with such a powerful asset. The future needed dragons—free from the corrupting influence of the Iron Throne. If nothing else, they’d be safer in the North, far away from the ambitions of the Hightowers and Lannisters.
Now that I thought about it, it would be even smarter to tie a clause about the North’s development into my dowry negotiations. A royal decree allowing House Stark to bolster its fleets and expand its territories would serve as a vital defense against Ironborn raids—and as repayment for decades of neglect from the Iron Throne. After all, the North had long been left to fend for itself. That line of reasoning might even tug at Viserys’s sense of fairness.
I could also play the role of the humble, dutiful daughter who found her “Aemma” in the North. A tragic tale of a princess sent to a cold and distant land, desperate to earn the acceptance of its stern lords. After all, it was no secret that many northern lords frowned upon their new Targaryen rulers. Framing myself as a bridge between the two worlds might win me Viserys’s favor—and make any Hightower whispers of rebellion seem baseless.
Yes, that could work. The faster I could get away from King’s Landing, the better. The real challenge would be engineering a meeting with Rickon Stark. Ideally, I’d make an impression that left no room for hesitation. But how to meet him?
My eyes flicked to my reflection in the mirror, and for the first time, I saw something more than panic and confusion in the violet eyes staring back. A wide smile spread across my lips as the pieces began to fall into place.
“The funeral,” I whispered, excitement blooming in my chest. "Queen Aemma’s funeral was private, but all the lords and ladies will come to King’s Landing soon to pay their respects and, of course, to push their daughters on Viserys.”
That was it! The very same event that would lead to Rhaenyra being named Crown Princess and sworn fealty by the lords of Westeros would bring the Northern contingent to the capital. If Rickon Stark followed his father south of the Neck, it would be my chance to meet him. I’d just have to be careful—direwolves were never truly safe in the South.
If I could charm him and secure his loyalty, the rest would fall into place. The Starks valued honor and family above all else. If Rickon saw me as someone worthy of trust, as someone willing to align herself with the North rather than use it as a stepping stone for ambition, I could secure his hand in marriage and escape this pit of vipers.
“Now,” I murmured, the beginnings of a plan forming in my mind. “I just have to survive the next few weeks without drawing too much attention. Easier said than done in this blasted city.”
But I had no choice. This was my chance to rewrite history, to forge a life free of the Iron Throne’s curse, and to prepare for the storm that I knew was coming. It was time to stop being a pawn and start playing the game.
The plan to marry Rickon Stark and begin reshaping the North was clear in my head, almost soothing in its logic. I paced the chamber, my fingers idly tracing the edge of the table, still grinning like I’d solved a riddle no one else could. The North was a blank canvas—stark and cold but full of potential. The thought filled me with an odd mix of dread and excitement, a flutter of nerves I hadn’t felt since the last time I attempted… anything resembling strategy back in my old life.
The sharp knock on my chamber door pulled me out of my thoughts. My smile faded, and for a moment, I froze, staring at the door like it had grown fangs.
“Princess?” came a muffled voice. One of the maids, by the sound of it. “The king requests your presence.”
Well, there it was—the chaos calling. I hesitated, my hand halfway to the doorknob. If this was what I thought it was—that conversation—I’d be walking right into my first real move in the absurd game Westeros called politics.
My fingers brushed my hair instinctively, realizing it was still a tangled mess from my earlier pacing and muttering. "Uh… one moment!" I called, glancing around the room for some semblance of composure. I was no fool. Being summoned by the king wasn’t a casual affair. I had to look the part—dressed in my Targaryen best.
When I finally opened the door, the maid curtsied, a faint tremor in her hands as she held a folded dress of black and red. The sigils of my house—dragons, flame, power. I let out a breath and nodded, stepping aside to let her in.
“All right, let’s get this over with,” I said, more to myself than to her.
The maid bobbed her head, and before I could protest, her hands were already at my sleeves, pulling at laces and ties. It was… mortifying. My 21st-century instincts screamed at me to tell her I could dress myself, thank you very much, but I bit my tongue. Westeros wasn’t exactly the place for “do it yourself.”
“Do you, uh, do this often?” I asked, wincing as she tugged a particularly stubborn knot.
She glanced up, startled, then quickly averted her gaze. “Only when called for, Princess.”
“Right.” I cleared my throat, fighting the urge to cover myself as she worked. “Guess I’m just… not used to it.”
The maid paused, clearly unsure how to respond, before returning to her task. The dress she helped me into was heavier than I liked, the fabric stiff and rich with embroidery. The colors suited me—black with accents of red—but the weight was suffocating. I lifted a sleeve, inspecting the tiny dragons stitched into the seams, and sighed.
“Thanks,” I said, forcing a smile as the maid stepped back and curtsied again. “I suppose I should get going.”
With a final glance in the mirror, I followed her out, my boots clicking against the stone floor as I walked. The hallway stretched ahead of me, lit by torches that cast flickering shadows on the walls. Red and black banners draped from the ceilings, and the air smelled faintly of smoke and old stone. It was nothing like the show. There was no golden deer motif, no green septas looming in every corner. This was Targaryen through and through—dragons everywhere, watching from every surface.
A white cloak fell into step behind me—one of the Kingsguard. I didn’t look back, but I could feel his presence, the clink of his armor a steady reminder that I wasn’t alone. It wasn’t Ser Criston Cole, thank the gods. I hadn’t named him my sworn shield yet, and I had no intention of ever doing so. That man was a ticking time bomb of bitterness and betrayal. No way was I letting him anywhere near me or my future children.
As we approached the door to the chamber, my steps slowed. I glanced at the towering figure of Balerion’s skull behind the massive iron gates. The sheer size of it was enough to make anyone stop and stare, a stark reminder of the power House Targaryen once wielded.
The Kingsguard opened the door, and I stepped inside, blinking against the dim light of the chamber. Viserys stood at the base of the skull, his back to me, his shoulders hunched as if the weight of the realm rested entirely on them. Which, I supposed, it did.
“Father,” I said, my voice steady despite the way my stomach flipped.
Viserys turned slowly, his face lined with weariness but his eyes warm. “Rhaenyra.” He gestured for me to approach, and I obeyed, my boots echoing against the stone floor.
“I’ve been thinking,” he began, his tone contemplative. “About our house. About our history.” He paused, his gaze flicking to the massive skull behind him. “What do you see, when you look at the dragons?”
The question caught me off guard. I opened my mouth, then closed it again, scrambling for an answer that wasn’t, ‘Uh, cool fire-breathing lizards?’
“They’re… power,” I said finally, choosing my words carefully. “But also… responsibility. They’re what makes our house strong, but they’re also what could destroy us.”
Viserys tilted his head, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “A thoughtful answer. You’ve been listening to your lessons.”
I nodded, swallowing the impulse to roll my eyes. Lessons were the least of what I’d been listening to.
He stepped closer, his expression softening. “You’re my only child, Rhaenyra. My blood.”
My heart skipped a beat. This was it. The moment.
Viserys took a deep breath, his voice steady but tinged with hesitation. “I have made my decision, Rhaenyra. I intend to name you as my heir.”
For a heartbeat, everything froze. The weight of his words pressed down on me like a mountain. Heir to the Iron Throne. The words swirled in my head, louder and louder, until all I could hear was the roar of dragons in my mind.
Logic? What logic? I wasn’t exactly in the best place to think rationally. I was a 21st-century woman who had somehow been yeeted into a world where political backstabbing was a national pastime, and now I was expected to rule over it? I’d read books, watched the shows, and binged enough anime about this kind of thing to know it never ended well. And besides, Rhaenyra Targaryen wasn’t the type to act with cold logic. If I suddenly pulled a Vulcan, everyone would start doubting me.
No, this wasn’t a chessboard—it was a stage. And if this was the game of thrones, I’d have to play my part.
I blinked a few times, letting my lips tremble slightly before the first tear slid down my cheek. Then another. And then, like a dam breaking, I threw myself into the role with everything I had.
“I… I can’t!” I sobbed, my voice breaking as I covered my face with my hands. “I can’t do it, Father! I… I won’t!”
Viserys’ expression shifted from proud certainty to wide-eyed panic. He took a step toward me, his hands lifting awkwardly, as if unsure whether to comfort me or hold his ground. “Rhaenyra—what’s wrong? Why are you crying? I thought—”
“You thought I’d want this?!” I wailed, my voice rising in pitch as I gestured wildly toward Balerion’s skull looming behind him. “Do you even understand what you’re asking of me?!”
His mouth opened and closed like a fish, his pale face going even whiter as he stumbled back a step. “I… I thought you’d be honored. You’re my blood, my firstborn.”
“Your only child!” I interrupted, my voice cracking for emphasis. “And you want me to sit on that—that throne? That cursed chair that’s killed nearly everyone who’s ever touched it? You’re asking me to follow in the footsteps of people who burned entire cities to ash, who killed their own families, who—”
“Rhaenyra!” he said sharply, his voice breaking through my tirade.
I sniffled loudly, dragging the back of my hand across my tear-streaked face. The movement was dramatic, deliberate, and utterly Oscar-worthy. “You don’t understand,” I said, my tone softening as I took a trembling step closer to him. “I can’t do this. I can’t sit on the throne. Not after what it did to Mother.”
That struck a nerve. Viserys froze, his expression crumpling as he stared at me. “Your mother…”
“She died because of you!” I blurted, my voice raw with emotion. Okay, that was a low blow, but the point of acting was to commit, and I was committed.
Viserys paled, his hands falling to his sides. “That’s not—”
“You wanted a son so badly,” I pressed, the tears streaming down my face now genuine, fueled by anger and adrenaline. “You wanted an heir so much that you let her go through miscarriage after miscarriage, stillbirth after stillbirth, until her body just—just gave up! And now you want to crown your daughter?!”
“Rhaenyra, I never wanted—” His voice cracked, and he stumbled back another step, his gaze darting away as if looking anywhere but at me could absolve him of guilt.
I didn’t let up. “Do you think that’s what she would’ve wanted? For you to spit on her sacrifice like this?!”
The room was dead silent except for the sound of my shaky breathing. I glanced down, biting the inside of my cheek hard enough to keep my sobs from turning into giggles. This was going better than I’d expected.
“I…” Viserys faltered, running a hand over his face. His shoulders slumped, and for the first time, he looked utterly defeated. “I never meant for any of this to happen.”
I sniffled again, letting the silence stretch for just a moment before dropping the next bomb. “And now you’re meeting with Alicent.”
His head snapped up so fast I thought he might get whiplash. “What?”
“How could you?” I demanded, my voice trembling with righteous indignation. “How could you even think about taking another lover so soon after Mother’s death? After everything she went through for you? For this family?”
Viserys stumbled back, his hand gripping the edge of the table for support. He looked like I’d just struck him across the face. “I… It’s not like that,” he stammered. “Alicent is… she’s just… a friend.”
“A friend?” I repeated, raising an incredulous eyebrow as I crossed my arms. “You’re meeting her in secret, Father. Do you think I don’t notice these things? The whispers? The looks? You haven’t even mourned the queen properly, and now you’re—”
“That’s enough!” he snapped, his voice shaking with frustration and guilt.
I froze, staring at him as if wounded, then let my arms drop to my sides. “You’re right,” I said quietly, my voice barely above a whisper. “It’s enough.”
The weight of the silence that followed was suffocating. Viserys looked like he wanted to say something, anything, but the words wouldn’t come. I turned away, wiping at my face with trembling hands.
“Father,” I said softly, my voice steadier now. “If you truly want what’s best for the realm… think carefully about what you’re asking of me. And about what kind of legacy you want to leave behind.”
Without waiting for his response, I turned and walked out of the chamber, my footsteps echoing in the stillness. The white cloak fell in behind me, and I could feel the weight of his gaze as I made my way back to my chambers.
I barely made it through the door before I let out a shaky laugh, collapsing onto the bed. “Damn,” I muttered to myself, wiping at my face again. “Maybe I missed my calling as an actress.”
But even as the adrenaline faded, the weight of what had just happened settled over me. I wasn’t out of the game—not by a long shot. But I’d managed to survive my first real move. For now, that was enough.