Chapter Text
She was born of blood and to blood she would return.
“I fear I’ve gone mad.” Rhaenyra whispered to herself as she watched the red of her palm soak into the Iron Throne.
It was past the hour of the wolf yet here she was, in the throne room with nothing but a candle and her dripping blood for company. From the depths of her soul she could feel Syrax stirring awake. Her golden lady was as curious as she.
Daughter. Heir. Queen.
The Iron Throne had called and she answered. It asked for her blood and she gave it freely. She was both aware yet not of her doing. She knew that she had passed through Meagor’s tunnels — a secret her uncle had bestowed upon her — though she had no recollection of waking or walking through it.
Come daughter, rise.
The flames of the candle didn’t so much as flicker as she moved to kneel upon the throne and press her hand against its back. The swords grew warm under her flesh, sweltering perhaps to those without dragons’ blood yet to her it brought comfort.
Behold your legacy.
Her palm was soaked red though there were no stains upon the iron. For a rather inane reason, it felt like an offering to the Gods. For what? She didn’t know. But she would not refuse their call, not that she had much of a choice.
“Do you feel it too my lady?” Syrax purred through their bond in response, though she felt unconcerned.
Rhaenyra too thought that the peculiar pull didn’t feel dangerous, rather guiding her towards something that must be done. Exactly what? She couldn’t say. Her mind was still a bit blurred, not truly understanding.
‘Twas then the lone flame she held grew higher. Burning brighter for only a moment’s glance of billowing shadows before it outed with a breath that wasn’t hers.
Nor anyone else’s.
But darkness met her before she woke again and with a silent caress, Rhaenyra swore it called her daughter.
━━━━
Rhaenyra sat on the steps of the Iron throne closest to her kepa, listening to the petitions of both small folk and noble alike. It was tedious work when the petitioners were mostly men who thought themselves entitled to the world and wanted compensation for it.
It had also been less gratifying for the past sunturn that her moon blood had arrived. Rhaenyra had always enjoyed her kepa bringing her along to listen to his rule for it was the one time she was allowed to speak her thoughts on somewhat relevant matters.
Though for the past few moons, many noble men brought themselves or their sons to prostrate before her. It was pathetic to think she’d ever choose them. Even more ignorant to think, she, who grew learning at the knee of her uncle and then the base of the iron throne, would debase herself with someone not of Valyrian descent.
Rhaenyra was the blood of the dragon and she’d be damned and denied entrance to Balerion’s realm before that came to pass. Syrax would have to eat her whole should such a time come.
With a smile fit for the Realm’s Delight, Rhaenyra staunchly ignored the men below her, nodding along to her Kepa’s decrees and rarely chiming in. There were other matters on her mind. A dream that left a scar on her hand, if it was even a dream at all.
She had woken with a slit through her palm and her bed hangings open. Rhaenyra did not remember leaving her bed that night nor did she remember returning. The most she recalled was Syrax stirring awake as she knelt upon the throne. She didn’t remember how her palm came to be slit, only that she bled on iron.
Rhaenyra remembered thinking of her Gods before darkness consumed her. She thought she’d heard voices or perhaps that was just her mind. It was peculiar. Even her lady dragon was confused as they flew through the skies that morn.
Though Rhaenyra thought it to be her Gods’ doing. Daemon had read her the legends of their house. He’d told her of the known myths of Valyria, of the doom and of their ancestors. The Gods gave the Targaryens dreams of warning. Perhaps hers was something more lucid yet similar. A warning of what? She yet not know…but it took her blood with it.
“Last of the day.” Ser Harrold Westerling announced as the doors were held open for a rather scrawny woman to enter. She looked to be of Flea Bottom if the scars on her arms were anything to go by.
“State your name and purpose.” Otto Hightower stated with something of a sneer that was quickly masked when he turned to the king. For a second son with nothing but his title of Hand to his name, Otto was quick to judge.
And though Rhaenyra didn’t despise the man as much as her uncle did, she held no liking of him. He was ambitious, yes for that she could commend but he overstepped his station time and time again. And her father did nothing to correct him. It was irritating how her father could embrace the man as if kin, yet banish his own brother with every whisper of the hand.
But she knew it didn’t matter who was whispering to her father as long as they were gentle; Otto took advantage. Viserys the peaceful. It was the greatest thing she despised. But his demeanour worked greatly in her favour, it was how she got him to agree to daily flights with Syrax, skirting the piety lessons the septa tried to instill in her.
Stupid of them to think she’d ever bow to their Gods and men.
“Ainsley Ser.” The woman sneered in return but bowed to the king as his gaze turned to her. Rhaenyra found it amusing. “My king, I was one of few taken from Flea Bottom to slavers’ ships. They whipped us into compliance to be sold before we were saved. Before I had honest work. Now none would take me, not even the street of silk. I was told my scars too gruesome for it.”
“And what do you wish we do?” The hand asked, sounding bored, the way Rhaenyra knew men did when a woman brought forth problems they deemed unimportant. She scowled down at the man below her, not that he’d see.
“The Rogue Prince rescued me and thought I’d find work here.” The woman gritted out. Rhaenyra smirked.
But before Otto could respond, she’d already swirled to look up at her father, the red stones on her dress clinking. Fixing her lips into a sweet smile she spoke, “There is work needed if she’s able to embroider. Last moon a seamstress left for her homelands to give birth. If you’re so inclined, my ladies and I could handle her accommodations?”
Her kepa smiled down at her and agreed as she knew he would. Turning back to the woman who looked more than surprised she asked, “Can you embroider, miss?”
“Yes my princess.”
“Very well. Ser Steffon, please alert lady Prunella.” She looked to the knight beside her sworn shield who nodded then looked back to the woman, “Ser Steffon shall escort you to my lady. She will take care of you till I arrive.”
“Thank you my princess. Your Grace.” The woman bowed to both of them before leaving.
Once alone, Rhaenyra stood and stretched her arms and back before turning to her father and offering her arm. He looked rather amused as he took it. “What?”
Viserys simply laughed and shook his head at her fondly, “Nothing my dear. Nothing at all.”
“Well then, shall we see to muña now or are there other matters you must attend to?” Rhaenyra’s gaze flickered from her kepa to the hand that awaited them as they climbed down the steps.
“His grace has a meeting with the Lord Lyonel, princess.” The Hand commented as she expected.
“I will see you tonight, we shall dine in your mother’s chambers.” Viserys patted her hand and kissed her cheek before sending her off to her sworn shield.
And so Rhaenyra did her duties of the day, taking care of the lady now in their household and attending to her noble ladies. Later that evening she dined with her mother and father as promised and talked about all things good and fanciful. The dream and her hand pushed to the depths of her mind but not forgotten.
━━━━
‘Twas when night fell that she dreamt again.
This time it was a swirling storm of whispers and the throne. Of fire forging the wicked seat and of magma running hot beneath her feet. She dreamt of a burning chamber and blackened fingertips.
And with each vision that floated through her head, she felt the tug of the iron throne in the pit of her stomach. She felt its call to feast…to reign. She felt its hunger for blood…
Rhaenyra woke covered in sweat and a fast beating heart though her hands held no injury. She woke with a gasp as cool air hit her face and the voice of her youngest of ladies flirted through to her.
“It’s time to wake my pri— Rhaenyra.” Elinda Massey, the newest of her ladies called as she pulled open the almost see through drapes around her bed. Rhaenyra had always hated the thick ones that stifled her and so she stuck to the white linens.
Sitting up, she smiled softly at the girl, “Have the servants prepare a cold bath this morning please.” She’d need it.
Later that morning, after a short ride on Syrax where Rhaenyra showed her dragon the dream then visiting her mother with Alicent, there was still the ache of the throne plaguing her thoughts. And so she sent Alicent on an errand, then quickly made her way back to her chambers where her lady Jocelyn Strong awaited.
“I need to do something alone.” Rhaenyra clasped her hands in front of her and smiled ever so prettily. She’d changed out of her riding leathers and adorned a golden dress that had Syrax embroidered on its chest with golden beads hanging from it.
The epitome of the Realm’s Delight but wholly Rhaenyra.
Jocelyn raised her brow with a smirk, used to Rhaenyra’s adventures in the keep’s tunnels. Though this time there was an intended destination. The girl simply nodded and chimed, “Don’t get lost this time.”
“That was once!” She raised a hand to her heart, mock hurt. But she was thankful for Jocelyn.
The girl had been with her since she was nine and Jos ten after her uncle had returned from one of his many banishments to find her lacking attending ladies. He’d quarrelled with her father then before talking to her mother for Rhaenyra was soon to come of age.
Now here they were.
While Alicent was her dearest and eldest friend, Jocelyn was her most trusted. As much as she loved Ali, her friend had the tendency to judge anything out of what the faith and duty condoned.
In Jocelyn she found a most trusted confidant for she had come to be her first official Lady and was with her a full sunturn before the rest of her ladies came. Her joyful sister Marya joined soon after along with the ever cynical Prunella Celtigar who were now three and ten and five and ten respectively. The last of her ladies, who came to her around a sunturn ago, was her sweet lady Elinda now ten.
Rhaenyra’s household was now filled with the sisters she never got to have and she loved them for it. They kept her secrets as she kept theirs. That was something rare in the Red Keep and she fully coveted it. Thus with a blown kiss Rhaenyra twirled and left, her jewels clinking as she walked briskly through the tunnels.
Her lady would cover for her.
She always did.
Her feet took her to an entrance to the throne room behind one of the many tapestries. The doors were locked from the outside and guarded staunchly. None would disturb her.
The iron throne was a grandiose thing made of conquered swords. It was forged by dragon fire into a seat made for rulers. The banners of her house framed the seat and from afar she could see why everyone thought it menacing. She could see why the Lords craved to sit their blood upon it.
However to her it only looked welcoming. It looked like home. When Rhaenyra was little she remembered asking her mother if she would grow to sit upon it. Unfortunately the answer was a resounding no. She was told that unless she had a brother to marry she would not be Queen.
Of course as any spoiled child would do, she cried.
Now here she was at four and ten, climbing the steps of the iron throne because of some mystical ache to be near it. It felt like that of her bond with Syrax yet not tied to her heart but gut. It felt indescribable.
Not for the first time since she woke with her hand slit, she questioned if she was indeed mad.
The seat was meant to be uncomfortable. To remind each monarch of the weight ruling held. It seemed that it did no good to her father but to her it felt right. Trailing her fingers across the iron, she sighed as she sat. The tug of her gut easing if only slightly.
“What else?” She mumbled to herself or was it the throne? This couldn’t be all it wanted from her. No, there was something she was missing. But what was it? She barely knew why she was there beyond the pull.
And then she felt it. The same trance-like state of her not so dream was creeping upon her. She could feel in the depths of her chest, Syrax perked up from where she was curled within the Dragonpit.
Rhaenyra suddenly raised her hand as she felt a sting. The same hand that had been wrapped in cloth was bare. She hadn’t wrapped it again after her ride with her golden lady and now the slit looked non-existent in the warm glow of the light.
How strange. The cut was red just this morn, she was sure. Her ladies had seen it. So did her father and mother. She’d blamed clumsiness of course but still it was there.
But she didn’t get enough time to examine all of it when a voice suddenly echoed through the room, starling her.
“Such treasonous acts from my dear niece! Should I call the kingsguard?” Her uncle crooned in high Valyrian, suddenly appearing from the side of the room through one of Meagor’s tunnels. This one looked to be behind a tapestry of intertwined dragons.
When her eyes found him he was already watching her, amused by her gall no doubt as his lips twitched into something of a smirk. It didn’t look like he was there for long, thank the Gods.
“For what? That I beat you to the throne?” She wondered if he’d believe her if she told him of her dreams. Of the pull of the throne. They were cut from the same burning cloth yet Daemon’s beliefs only went so far.
“Cheeky girl. You’ve greeted me on my future chair.”
“Yours or my brother’s?” Rhaenyra cocked her head as she took him in. His hair was braided that day. With dark sister on his hip and clad in the black of their house, he looked very much of a Targaryen prince. “I didn’t know you were back, kēpus.”
Daemon strode until he was at the base of the throne, looking at her with something unknown to her in his eyes. He looked as if he were committing the sight of her to memory. “Why are you on the throne?”
“I don’t know.” Rhaenyra winced. It was a lousy excuse but what was she to say?
“Don’t you?”
She paused at his words. Taking in the shifting of his emotions he scarcely showed to anyone but her. Or rather was it that no one else cared but her? Though she knew her uncle didn’t care that she was seated on the throne. He’d more than once griped to her about the old thing when her father started getting small scrapes from it.
“Perhaps I do.”
They both were still in the silence for a moment, simply watching each other and existing without a care. It was the first time they’ve seen each other in moons and while she wasn’t attached to him as she was when she was younger, she missed him.
Daemon moved closer then as if seeing her thoughts. Coming to stand just before her on the very steps she sits to hear petitions he spoke, “I brought you a gift.”
Rhaenyra cocked her head as he held out a necklace for her to see. Grasping it she felt its hefty weight and gazed upon the five crimson jewels embedded in intricate spirals. The middle held the biggest one, with three tassels of purely carved steel hanging from it. It was gorgeous.
“Do you know what it is?”
“Valyrian steel. Like dark sister.” Rhaenyra breathed in awe. She didn’t know how he’d managed to find it but here it was, just for her. Looking from the piece of jewellery to him she smiled, “Put it on me?”
Remaining seated, she unhooked the necklace her Lady Marya had picked out for her that morning and held her hair to the side. Daemon suddenly dropped to his knees before her, hooking the necklace around her.
“Now both you and I own a small piece of our ancestry.” Daemon whispered ever so reverently, taking her chin in his fingers he pressed their heads together for a few blissful seconds before pulling away and standing.
“Thank you kēpus.”
“Now remind me why you’re here? You haven’t come to court in an age.”
“Perhaps I’ve come to see you.” He mused.
Rhaenyra rolled her eyes with a fond smile as she stood, beginning her descent from the throne that still called for her. “And how exactly did you know where I was?”
With an exaggerated put upon sigh, Daemon confessed. “I heard there was a tourney being held in my honour.”
“The heir’s honour kēpus.” She corrected with a laugh.
Daemon smirked at her in amusement before bowing mockingly, “Same thing until your mother brings forth an heir.”
And oh, how offended she’d be if she didn’t know him. They knew her mother’s predicament all too well for it not to ring true. Even her mother had said as much moons ago when the maesters told her that she was with child.
“I wish you the best of luck in this tourney then.” Rhaenyra smirked as she breezed past him and to the tunnels, “Let’s hope you don’t get thrown off your horse this time, lest Caraxes wonder if he needs a new rider.”
His laughter was the last thing she heard as the tapestry fell shut behind her.
━━━━
Was this punishment for her thoughts? For her jesting words? Was this the beginning of her spiral? Did she not care for her mother enough? Did she miss something vital to her survival? Rhaenyra couldn’t breathe much less think.
Her muña, the gentle and kind Aemma, had died in childbirth.
Rhaenyra knew her mother would not survive for long. At least the more cynical part of her did. She knew it when, at barely five moons of the latest pregnancy her mother couldn’t bear standing. She saw it with every moon that passed, how the gauntness of her muña’s eyes worsened and the lack of life seemed to seep from her pores.
But that was how she usually was throughout all of the pregnancies. With every loss did her mother wither away bit by bit. But Rhaenyra didn’t think this would be the one to kill her. No. The midwives had said everything was fine. That her mother was healthy. As fucked as the maesters were they said the same!
So what had changed? What had changed in the span of hours? What had fucking changed to send her mother to Balerion’s realm?!
Rhaenyra couldn’t breathe. She could feel nought but her thoughts.
There were hands grasping her. Voices talking over her but she was too busy trying to breathe. She felt Syrax crying out to her but she couldn’t move.
She couldn’t breathe.
Daemon was before her suddenly, pressing his head to hers and clasping her hands in his. “Breathe Rhaenyra. I need you to listen to me and breathe.”
She gasped out a choked sob. Her uncle quickly picked her up and carried her away from the prying eyes. Burying her face into his doublet she cried and cried and cried even as they reached her chambers.
He’d stayed with her then. Even as her tears dried and she barely talked. Even as her father came and they drank and cried and drank some more.
Her father had stayed with them until late that evening, away from the court, already sharpening their talons. She’d curled up at his side like a little girl and cried again as he rubbed circles into her back. Daemon was on his other side, patting his brother’s back as he too cried.
Even when her father left, Daemon stayed with her the entire night. Neither of them slept, simply existing. It was only when morning came did they move. Most Lords of the kingdom were already present for the tourney and so the funeral would be held immediately.
Her ladies dressed her in Black. The only jewellery to be seen was the Valyrian steel necklace around her neck. Her eyes were listless as she walked arm in arm with Alicent and Elinda. Jocelyn and Prunella walked behind her while Marya walked ahead of them.
It was to protect her from the ravenous eyes of the court. The vultures had already begun swarming, picking piece by piece of weathered flesh. Every voice, mutter and loud whisper that plagued the halls of the Red Keep drove her insane. She wanted to claw out their eyes and burn every tongue that wagged.
The Queen’s funeral hadn’t even begun.
The pyre was there, just in front of Syrax who cried out to her. Neither of them could drag their eyes away. Her muña had raised Syrax too.
Rhaenyra moved to stand beside her father and was unsurprised to see Rhaenys on the other side of him with Laena and Leanor, Corlys just behind them. Though as soon as she arrived Daemon came to stand next to her, leaving his brother to comfort her.
She had to burn her mother like he did with his father. He understood her plight more than anyone there.
The rites were said but she heard none of it. All she could hear was the beating of her and Syrax’s heart in tandem. They were comforted by each other yet not even their bond could mask the pain.
“They’re waiting for you.” Her uncle whispered gruffly. She swallowed.
“Dracarys.”
Syrax roared as she lit the pyre aflame. Rhaenyra’s heart ached in turn, her hands clenched to her sides trying futilely to steady herself. But of course Daemon noticed as he pulled her hand in his and squeezed. It was grounding to know that he was there with her. There when she needed him the most.
“All for the heir of the day, did my mother die.” She whispered softly though she knew he heard her when the grip on his hand tightened.
“I hope he’s happy.”
The rest of the day was a blur of activity she cared not for. As the fire burned itself out and her mother and brother’s ashes were collected and placed in an obsidian jar, Rhaenyra retired to her chambers.
━━━━
The days following her mother’s funeral were a whirlwind of activity that Rhaenyra cared not for yet had to endure.
The first was her uncle’s banishment. She had to grit her teeth to not curse him in the midst of the small council. He’d gotten drunk in some corner of flea bottom and toasted to Rhaenyra’s own words.
‘To the heir of the day!’
How Otto got that information when the Gold Cloaks were only loyal to Daemon, she did not know. What she did know however, was that the hand was growing bolder especially if he had the audaciousness to admit he’d been getting updated about Daemon’s doings.
If Rhaenyra didn’t want to bash someone’s head against the wall before, she did when her father sent for her to join him in Balerion’s shrine. It was her second bout of endurance when he’d begun by asking her questions when he didn’t even bother to look, much less talk to her since the day her mother died.
He’d asked about their house, of dragons and of dreams. She’d answered with the Gods, of their blood and of survival. He’d told of Aegon the Conqueror’s dream then. The Song of Ice and Fire. Passed down from king to heir until its time should come.
It ended with her being named heir, the weight of the crown on her head while the weight of the prophecy rested on her shoulders. How fitting it was that everywhere she turned, dreams of warning and blood plagued her. How fitting that this madness was made her reality.
But her tongue and mind would be the death of her it seemed.
For from the moment her eyes closed that night she dreamt of terrible things. A mother’s blood spilt. Gutted like a fish by men too comfortable in their lives. A weak man bending to the will of sheep. A choice made by these same men who thought themselves Gods.
She would burn them all.
The final head of her endurance came as a double edged sword. Rhaenyra awoke gasping in tears, with a maidservant of her mother’s household at her chamber doors.
It couldn’t be real. It couldn’t. It couldn’t. It couldn’t. She bid her entry anyways, hugging the pillar of her bed to keep her upright.
“I’m so sorry princess, I came before but you weren’t here and I had to tell you this in person.” The handmaiden crooned as she bowed deeply to her.
“Go on.” She whispered, fearing the words she knew were coming. The Gods had shown her and now she was to hear it.
“Queen Aemma did not die from the babe my princess. The child was twisted in the womb and the midwives were working on it slowly but the Maester said it was too long. He spoke with the hand who then advised his grace to cut her open. The King agreed.” The handmaiden spoke shakily, “The midwives disagreed but were overruled. They are forbidden from speaking of it, my princess.”
“Th-thank you.” Rhaenyra choked out. The dream swirling in her head for it was real. Her mother had died screaming to be spared. She had died bloody and frightened, begging her King husband to stop.
Her father Viserys didn't listen. No, of course he didn’t. Of course he’d chosen to listen to a man with his own ambitions. Of course he’d choose his ever so wanted son over his wife. Her mother.
“He killed her.” Rhaenyra whispered. The words were ash on her tongue.
She’d cried in his arms. Threw herself at her kepa and wept for she thought he’d shared her pain. But no, his was different. Viserys’ grief was that of guilt, perhaps even the loss of a son but his tears were not shed for Aemma.
She’d cried in the comfort of the arms that butchered her mother.
Rhaenyra paced, tears streaming down her face as her hands clenched and unclenched. She could feel Syrax heed her cry. Her girl, raging in the dragonpit, pulling at her chains.
“HE KILLED HER!”
A flower vase was chucked at the wall, shattering into minuscule pieces.
“HE KILLED MY MOTHER!”
The water jug was thrown across the wall. The saucers and tea cups of the morn smashing against the wall as the tray was flung.
“HE KILLED HER FOR WHAT?! A DEAD SON?!”
Rhaenyra dropped to her knees and let out a guttural scream. Chains in the dragonpit broke apart as the golden dragon cried in despair yet she didn’t move to escape. No, she moved to shroud herself in the depths of the pit.
She wasn’t sure when her ladies had come in but they were with her now. The Strong sisters dropped to the ground beside her. Marya taking whatever it was she held out of her hands while Jocelyn took her into her arms, rocking her as she cried and screamed.
“He killed her.”
Rhaenyra wept and wept, screaming until her throat was sore and her insides burned. She cried with everything in her until her eyes had gone dry and her breath had shuddered into a semblance of calm.
Elinda knelt before her, cupping her cheeks as she whipped away her tears. Prunella had arrived in the midst of her screams. She sat beside her and Jos, helping the girl to hold her up. The only one missing was Alicent.
“He killed her for an heir yet seeks to crown me.” Rhaenyra whispered, the burning rage quieting into a steady fire. “Was it all for nothing?”
None of them spoke for a while, simply existing until her tears dried and her heart slowed. Looking around her chambers for the first time she sighed, “Everyone must think me hysteric.”
“Ser Harrold and Ser Steffon had the hall secured. No one heard you Rhaenyra. I swear it.” Prue squeezed her hand.
“And the handmaiden…” she queried softly.
“We took care of your mother’s servants until it’s decided what’s to become of them.” Jos hummed, combing her fingers through her hair.
“Thank you.”
“That’s what we’re here for. We are your ladies. Our duty is to make things easier for you.” Marya added.
Rhaenyra nodded. She couldn’t bring herself to smile even though she was absolutely grateful for each of them. Her uncle may not have been here to share her pain but her ladies were, except, “Where is Ali?”
They were silent for a moment until Prue rolled her eyes, “With her cunt of a father most likely.”
Jos snorted while Elinda giggled at her crass language. None but Rhaenyra much liked Ali but she didn’t care. Alicent was her eldest friend even if her father belonged to the eternal flames.
She idly wondered if she could kill Otto and be rid of his presence. Alicent would weep but she didn’t have to know it was Rhaenyra’s doing. She could get her uncle to do it. Once she’d wrung his neck of course but he would if she asked. Even if he was angry that the throne passed to her.
Which reminded her, “The King will name me heir and have the Lords bend knee in a few days. I need a gown.”
“Oh you needn’t worry princess,” Marya grinned, looking rather deviant as she stood and clasped her hands in front of her, “I took care of it the moment it was announced.”
━━━━
The day had come. Every Lord of the Paramount houses and most of the smaller ones had arrived. None had seen her after the small council meeting to which she was thankful for as it meant not seeing her father and the hand.
That morning as the sun began to rise, her ladies bustled in, waking her. She was washed, primed and adorned in the finest. Her dress was one of splendour, altered only to include Syrax for she would not be named heir without her dragon by her side. It was the deepest of reds with golden beading.
Rhaenyra was covered head to toe in splendour. Her necklace was that of princess Alyssa, ornate and golden that covered most of her neck with earrings to match while the rings she wore were covered in red stones. The last of her masterpieces was the diadem Marya had chosen for her. It was her mother’s, gifted to her by the Good Queen Alyssene. It was a golden circlet with a single red stone at its center and golden droplets that hung down her head.
She was dressed in the fitting of a Queen.
“We must leave now, Rhaenyra.” Alicent came next to her and smiled, “But you look beautiful.”
“Indeed she does.” Prue nodded assuringly at her before knocking on the doors to her chambers to which her sworn shield opened. “We will see you there Nyra.”
As her ladies left one by one, Rhaenyra sighed before taking Ser Harrold’s offered arm. He and Ser Darklyn with a few other kingsguards walked her through the halls slowly and to the throne room where everyone awaited her as was custom.
With the grace only a Targaryen could be blessed with, Rhaenyra glided through the doors as if she was always meant to be crowned heir.
And perhaps she was.
Stopping at the base of the throne Rhaenyra waited with her head held high as the ceremony went on. She gazed at each and every person that bent the knee to her. She memorised each man that hesitated. Each of them that looked at her in disdain. Her eyes captured every face, every ally and every foe alike.
One day she would rule these people and she’d be damned if she was slaughtered and usurped in her own home.
As it all came to an end she turned to the iron throne and bowed her head slightly at the seat that would be hers. Let them think it was Viserys she showed respect to. Let them think her reverent of her weak father. For when time came to reign fire and blood she would show no mercy.
“I, Viserys Targaryen, First of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, do hereby name Rhaenyra Targaryen Princess of Dragonstone and Heir to the Iron Throne.”
And so it begins.