Chapter Text
The moon tea has gone cold by the time Rhaenyra remembers why it was given to her in the first place.
She knows she should drink it. It was the king himself who had sent it, after all. But when she lifts the cup to her lips, she swears she could almost smell him.
The smell of sandalwood. A hint of wine. A trace of smoke.
Of fire.
Of blood.
Daemon.
The memories of last night’s excursions return with cruel clarity: the heat between their bodies, the drifting sound of laughter and music, the dim glow of the candlelight in the brothel. She recalls the way he had looked at her; there was a glint in his lilac eyes, a rogue through and through. He has always looked at her, she knows, but this time it had been different.
Daemon looked at her not as his niece, but a woman. As Rhaenyra.
Perhaps it was the war. Perhaps it was the way her body is now filled out in all the right places. It was dishonorable—the way his hands traced the tops of her breasts, tightened at the curve of her waist. The princess had not cared. She was—is—a woman grown. Of age.
It happened, then. She could still remember how rough his hand felt when he took her to one of the upper rooms. His eyes enticed her to the dark, his touch a promise of what was to come. Not fit for a princess, he had said, but Rhaenyra merely raised a brow, looking down at her peasant clothing and the poor excuse of a hat in her hand. Who said I was a princess?
Daemon had laughed and kissed her deeply.
One moment they were in the middle of it all, consumed by silks and perfumes and sweat. Next, she’s beneath him, their clothes strewn across the floor and their bodies tangled together in a disheveled mess. He’d taken her again and again until her thighs ached and all she could mutter was his name. How foolish she had been to think that would have been the end of it.
Not a few hours after she returned to the Red Keep, the king had called for her.
Someone had seen them.
Absentmindedly, she lays a hand on her belly and turns her head towards the window. The skies are clear. Rhaenyra imagines if she stares hard enough, she would see a blood red dragon soaring through the clouds, a familiar silver haired prince riding atop him.
But Daemon is long gone now, and her heart with him.
With one last glance to the cup, Rhaenyra pours its contents into the fireplace and watches as the flames swallow them whole.
* * *
Rhaenyra knows what kind of person Laenor Velaryon is before she married him.
She is not blind. They’ve spent most of their childhood together, and the princess always had a keener eye than most people give her credit for. She’d seen him linger a little too long with the other lords’ squires, sees the easy smile he exchanges with Ser Joffrey in the training yard, the way his gaze seems to wander whenever a pretty knight passes by.
She did not mind, in truth. Laenor is Laenor. Her cousin is kind, gentle, and she could not begrudge him for his preferences when she herself has some secrets of her own. One involving a particular uncle of theirs.
The betrothal did not come as a surprise, either. It is to be expected after all. A Targaryen and a Velaryon marrying together has always been the norm. Her brother Aegon is but a babe, and the Celtigars, although Valyrian, are deemed too weak compared to the Velaryons. With a dragon and the correct amount of wealth, Laenor is the obvious choice.
They’ve spoken of it once—his preferences. It happened before the wedding, and her cousin did not need to say much because she already knew. They understood each other well enough.
Their marriage would be a duty. They need only to bring forth an heir.
She does mind, however, when he brings Ser Joffrey in her chambers during their wedding night.
“What is the meaning of this?” Rhaenyra asks, one eyebrow raised in confusion when Laenor quietly closes the doors, Ser Joffrey in tow. Said knight is still wearing the same clothes he wore during the ceremony.
She stands by the fireplace, her sheer nightgown doing little to hide what lies beneath from his eyes. It did not matter though, she knows where his preferences lie.
Ser Joffrey looks sheepish, rightfully so, as he looks pointedly at her cousin, now her husband.
Laenor does not look embarrassed in the slightest. “Rhaenyra, I know what is expected of us tonight. Of me.”
It takes her a moment to respond, eyes shifting from him to Ser Joffrey, the latter avoiding her scrutiny. “And how do you mean to do that, exactly?”
“He is here because I asked him to be.” Her husband steps closer, cautiously, as if he were approaching an agitated dragon. In a low voice, he tells her, “We could lie to each other. Pretend that this marriage is something it is not. But,” he takes her hands in his, “I’d rather not begin our marriage with a lie.”
Her gaze flickers towards Joffrey once more.
“What about him?”
At the mention of his paramour, Laenor softens, only slightly. “He knows me. He knows what I am capable of. This, our wedding night,” his eyes briefly fall shut, as if the admission of it pained him, “I cannot. It is difficult. I thought that with him helping us, we ought to not make a misery out of it.”
Rhaenyra wants to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. Never did she imagine her wedding night to be like this. Her, the Realm’s Delight, the most beautiful woman in the kingdom, needing help from her husband’s own lover to entice him to her.
Outrageous.
“I appreciate the thought.” Her voice sounds uncertain, still trying to make sense of the situation she now finds herself in. “Although this entire arrangement seems… strange. Is it not?”
“It is,” he admits. “But I also think it’s honest. Better this way than not trying at all.”
Rhaenyra contemplates. Thinks. It seems that is all she has been doing these past few moons, anyway.
Her eyes flit towards the pair. Laenor, and then Joffrey. What a pretty picture they make.
For a moment, silence fills the space. Both knights look at her expectantly, waiting for the words that have yet to fall from her lips.
And then, she laughs.
It is sudden, surprising even herself. She quickly turns her face towards the fire, covering her mouth to stop the peals of uncontrollable laughter from spilling even further.
“This—“ she tries to speak, shoulders still shaking, “this is absurd.”
Laenor’s mouth twitches. “I fail to see the reason for your laughter, princess.”
“You brought your lover to our wedding night.”
“I did.”
“To help us.”
“Yes.”
The laughter leaves her gradually, silence creeping in the chambers once more. “Gods, Laenor. This is so…” She exhales, running a hand through her hair. “I do not know what to say.”
Rhaenyra settles on a nearby chair and takes a gulp from the abandoned cup of Dornish red. The taste is so strong that she nearly gags.
“I spent the entire day being busy with the wedding preparations, overseeing the guest list and being nearly tied to my chair by my ladies in waiting so I could look perfect for the ceremony,” she speaks, leaning against the soft cushion as a headache begins to form. “And now here you are, explaining to me how your lover must help us in consummating our marriage.”
She does not see it, but she hears Ser Joffrey cough awkwardly.
The princess regards him properly for the first time.
“And you, ser,” she says, “you are certain you wish to do this?”
“Of course, princess.” He hesitates only briefly before adding, “Anything for the good of the realm.”
This is an unexpected surprise, truth be told. Preposterous, yes, but it is not like she did not think about it. With Laenor having his own preferences, she knows she has to resort to some other measure to strengthen her own claim and bring forth an heir. She simply did not imagine it would be this way.
“Think about it,” her husband says, “the Crown needs an heir. I myself cannot do the act alone, you know this, but I am willing to try everything in my power to give you a legitimate child.”
Rhaenyra takes a deep breath.
“Very well.”
Both her husband and his knight exchange glances.
“You ensured he was not seen when he came in, yes?” She asks, making her way towards the bed. “We need to be certain there will be no whispers in the morning.”
The whispers would never cease, in all honesty.
Laenor nods as they follow her. “Ser Criston was called somewhere else and I pretended to speak with Ser Harold so Joffrey could enter from behind him.”
She snorts. How very smart of him, her husband.
And so their little arrangement unfolds.
Rhaenyra sits by the foot of the bed. Waits. What is to happen, she does not know.
Laenor and Joffrey begin. Their familiarity with each other is evident in every touch, an ease between them that she feels like she should not be in the room. In fact, it seems like she is not there at all; there is no awkwardness between both knights, no hesitation. As if there is a quiet understanding in every movement.
Briefly, her mind wanders to two nights ago, when it was her who was in this very situation with another silver haired man. Did they look like this, too?
She looks away—more than once, when the sight becomes too much to bear.
And when Laenor eventually calls for her to come closer, there is no reluctance in his voice. No unwillingness. Just invitation, open and warm.
Rhaenyra stands up.
Joffrey moves aside to give her enough room, remaining close by his lover’s shoulder.
What follows next is less graceful than the romantic ballads she has heard the bards sing. It is not what she envisioned for her wedding night, but it is more than what she expected. It is awkward, measured in some places, but Laenor does his duty. Just as he promised.
For her part, she finds she does not resent him for it.
As Ser Joffrey quietly dresses, Rhaenyra opens the door that leads to the secret passages. It is masterfully hidden, needing only a slight push to reveal the small crevice. Laenor watches them from the bed.
“So you are not seen,” she explains, straightening her nightgown in an attempt to restore some semblance of propriety. Her bruised lips and tangled hair say otherwise. “Take a left turn, and then two right turns. Follow the torches and you’ll find yourself in the kitchens. There should be an unlit lamp in there somewhere.”
The knight nods, gives another longing look to Laenor, and leaves without so much as a sound.
The Dornish red still tastes bitter when she takes another sip. The fires have calmed down, and only the faint crackling sound of embers fill the room.
“I never imagined for it to go like this,” Rhaenyra admits as she sits down next to him on the bed. There is some distance between them now, yet she feels they are more open with one another than they ever were.
Laenor chuckles, a genuine sound. “Neither did I.”
She snorts. Perhaps, she thinks, they might make this marriage work.
But fate seems to have a different plan, for not even a week later, she meets Harwin Strong.
* * *
Harwin is not Daemon. Rhaenyra knows this almost immediately.
His hands are gentler, caressing her oh so softly, carefully, as if she might break at any moment. There is none of the teasing she remembers from her uncle—no clever quips or sly remarks to make her laugh. No playfulness. No challenge. Harwin, for the most part, is simply attentive.
Too attentive for her liking.
He watches her every single movement. Notes what makes her sigh and what makes her grip his arms a little tighter. It is almost like he worships her, like she is the Maiden in a mortal body and him her loyal follower.
She finds it all amusing. Dramatic, even. Rhaenyra has never thought herself particularly divine.
Perhaps this is what makes it easy. She has the heir of Harrenhal wrapped around her finger, and he comes at her beck and call. There are no promises made between them. No questions about what is to be their future. She simply seeks him after a night with Laenor and his lover, and Harwin drops everything he does just to tend to her needs.
And he is good. Knows what to do with his mouth, his hands. Rhaenyra moans and sighs beneath his touch, but sometimes, in the midst of it all, she closes her eyes and imagines that it is not him beside her, but a certain lilac-eyed prince with silver hair.
Daemon.
Always Daemon.
All of this should have been enough, in truth. Between her odd arrangement with Laenor and her secret rendezvous with Harwin, she feels somewhat content. She has been doing her duty to the realm and to herself, a feat not any noble lady could boast about.
Yet she cannot help but go back to that specific night and long for her uncle across the sea, far, far away. What she would give to climb atop her dragon and go to him. How easy would it be to defy her father and leave all of Westeros behind, duty be damned.
But what good would it do?
Daemon had left her. Sailed away across the Narrow Sea to gods know where without so much as a goodbye, not even a hint as to where he has gone nor a raven to let her know about his whereabouts. He left her with nothing but the bittersweet memories of that fateful night and the consequences of what they have done, all for her to bear.
Rhaenyra supposes it did not mean anything to him, anyway. She was just another woman, another body to warm his bed.
Maybe that’s what stings the most: he gets to live his life as he pleases, and she is stuck here, burdened by the weight her father has placed upon her shoulders.
And burdened she is, for as the moons come and go, the weight of her duties becomes heavier. Who knew there could be numerous council meetings within just a fortnight? That the Crown must find a solution to every single problem of its people? The amount of feasts she has overseen, she could not count on one hand. Laenor remains ever at her side, unwavering, and Harwin provides her with a small reprieve whenever she seeks him out.
And Daemon… he becomes a memory she buries deep into her mind.
It is not until two moons later that Lady Elinda Massey approaches her with a nervousness Rhaenyra does not often see, her gaze lowered.
The princess sits by the balcony of her chambers, enjoying her morning meal beneath the soft warmth of the sun. The food smells more aromatic than usual, and she finds herself taking seconds, thirds, fourths of honey cakes and apple tarts. The savoury dishes are tossed to the side, untouched.
She is in the midst of taking long sips of iced milk with honey when Lady Elinda arrives.
“Princess.” The Massey girl curtsies. She is mousy, this lady in waiting of hers. The youngest of her household, but her service is nothing short of excellent. “The servants informed me of happy news.”
Rhaenyra quickly wipes her mouth with a napkin. “And what happy news might that be?”
Elinda hesitates, hands clasped; it is evident in the way her fingers tighten around one another. “The sickness you have been having as of late—it is not something to worry about after all, princess.”
“Oh, is it?”
She nods, though she continues to avoid looking at her. “In fact, it is believed to be a sign of good fortune.”
The princess raises a brow, intrigued. “My sickness?”
“The servants report that…” Lady Elinda fiddles with her thumbs. “You are with child, princess.”
For a moment, Rhaenyra lets the words settle in the air.
Her—with child. Pregnant.
“Your sheets have remained clean these past two moons, and the servants have taken notice of the morning sickness and your aversion to specific dishes. Meat, in particular.”
There are many reasons for a missed moon: stress, exhaustion, pressure. As heir to the Iron Throne, the Crown has many demands and she must fulfill her responsibilities. She has been sleeping little and spends too much of her time drafting charity projects and going through the ledgers to calculate the costs. Not to mention her lessons about taxes and trades and laws—it is rare to have a moment for herself.
But it does not explain the sickness. The unusual cravings. Her distaste to specific smells. The way she has avoided lamprey pie for a moon now, which surprised even her father as it has been her favorite ever since she was a child.
Her mind begins to count backwards.
Briefly, she notices Elinda take her leave from the corner of her eye. Rhaenyra grabs a nearby feather and parchment and starts to count the days, fingers shaking as she nearly spills the ink in a hurry.
When, exactly?
It has been a little bit more than two moons after her last courses. She should not be mistaken. Her memory never failed her. Her wedding night with Laenor occurred a fortnight later, and she began to seek out Harwin only a couple of days after.
And then she remembers—
Daemon.
He took her to the brothel two nights before she wedded Laenor.
Seven Hells.
Her heart sinks, and she feels the world closing in on her as the realization fully settles.
She is with child.