The parchment arrived in the dead of night, carried by a raven whose dark wings had cut through the misty Dragonstone air.
Rhaenyra clutched the letter in trembling hands, her eyes trailing over the hastily scribbled words.
It was Baela’s handwriting, urgent and uneven, as if she had written it in great haste.
“He means to call into question Lucera’s legitimacy.
And by extension, yours and my own claim to the throne.”
Jacaerys regarded her with dark eyes, his mouth twisted into a scowl that mirrored his father’s perfectly.
He had grown into the spitting image of Harwin Strong, with the same broad shoulders and sinewy arms; the same brown eyes and wide jaw; and the same hair of soft brown curls.
They even shared the same bulging tendon that pulsed in their left cheeks whenever they gritted their teeth in displeasure.
“We should have seen this coming.
Vaemond has always sought power for himself,” he spat, crossing his arms across his chest.
“And with Grandsire wounded and teetering on the edge of death, what better time to make his play?”
Rhaenyra hung her head, despondent.
She had seen this coming.
From the moment they had received word from Driftmark that Lord Corlys had suffered a grievous wound in battle, she had known a storm would descend upon her.
However, she had hoped it would not come now, not when she was open and vulnerable, absent her greatest weapon.
“Vaemond cares only for Driftmark.
Nothing else.”
Her eldest shot her a glare.
“It matters not what he cares for.
Everything he does will still end up reflecting on the greater succession.” Straightening his back, he sucked in a breath.
“His challenge must be answered.
We must sail to King’s Landing to argue our own case.”
“And how do you mean to do that?
The gates are closed to me.” She violently pushed back the lump in her throat.
Eight years she had spent languishing on Dragonstone, away from her father.
Yet neither time nor distance could dampen the hurt she had felt after she had received his letter of banishment.
It was his handwriting, crisp and clear and steady despite his failing health.
But the words were undoubtedly Otto Hightower’s.
“You have disgraced your cousin’s memory.
Disgraced the whole of House Velaryon.
Brought shame to me…”
She had expected him to be wroth.
He had always opposed the idea of her wedding Daemon.
Her daring uncle was too volatile, too cruel, and mercurial to be allowed access to the throne.
His nature was fire and blood, and if Rhaenyra wanted to uphold the Conqueror’s dream, she needed more than that.
He should have thought that before he had wed again and sired children.
Otto Hightower was determined to seize everything they had built for himself and his blood.
And not answering him with fire and blood meant she would never be able to uphold the legacy her father so championed.
“He will never see it that way,” she had told Daemon after their wedding.
As soon as the priest had departed, the two of them had moved toward the Dragonmont, where Caraxes and Syrax dwelled in the caves for their ceremonial flight.
Clad in the white and red Valyrian garb, her husband cut the image of an old god of the Freehold.
The very sight of him sent her to manic burning, and she had half a mind to eschew the flight to drag him to bed.
“He will.
He must.” He hissed, blood dripping down his chin.
“The dragon has three heads.
He belongs with us, not with them.”
The mouth of the cave came into view, and a pair of molten slits lit up the darkness.
The smell of smoke and burnt flesh sent Rhaenyra’s heart to thundering.
“I doubt Otto Hightower would agree.”
Her husband turned to her, fire in his eyes.
The source of the blaze slithered out of the darkness to answer his call.
Caraxes released a strangled hiss, black teeth gleaming like daggers.
“He does not get a say.” He drew nearer, his hand snaking around her waist.
His flesh burned under her fingers, hotter than any heartfire.
“Once this is done, we fly to King’s Landing to mount Otto Hightower’s head on a spike.
And then, when the city is purged of every last drop of green, we take our rightful place at Viserys’s side.
Three heads, ruling as one.
Just as the Conqueror did with his sisters.”
The desire became unbearable.
As Syrax sounded a call in the distance, she crushed her lips to his.
The taste of blood filled her mouth, mingling with the smell of fire and dragon flesh, and Rhaenyra knew she had never made a better choice in her life.
But just as quickly as they were lit, all their plans were put out like a candle.
Whispers of her sudden marriage spread to the Red Keep like wildfire.
And absent Rhaenyra to explain her reasoning, her father was left thinking that she had committed the most grievous error.
Not only had she supposedly murdered her husband, a son of a mighty house, but she had done it to wed her uncle.
The last man her father had wished her to marry.
Nothing could move Viserys then.
Even after Daemon flew to court to challenge the banishment, circling the Keep thrice on Caraxes, the gates of the city remained closed to him.
Daemon refused to speak of it.
The fact that his brother had not even deigned to come out of the Keep to affirm the banishment to his face cut him deep.
He made her swear never to mention his name on Dragonstone again and resigned himself to their fate.
Even when Rhaenyra had not.
She released a strangled breath, circling the painted table.
King’s Landing stood as a constant eyesore at the western edge.
“We go as petitioners, not family,” Jace reasoned.
“Vaemond is staking a claim to our inheritance.
By all rights, we should be allowed to dispute it.”
“I am certain Otto Hightower will not care too much about our rights.”
“Then we must make him care,” her son continued, his determination not waning.
Once again, Rhaenyra felt immeasurable relief to have him at her side.
He had been the picture of diligence these past few years, working tirelessly to mold himself into the perfect heir.
He strode over to the table, seizing one of the toy ships to place it on Driftmark.
“Vaemond will not sail from the Stepstones to King’s Landing right away.
He will first go to Driftmark to muster support amongst other Velaryon kin for the petition.
That will take him weeks.
Months, if we get lucky and Irish pirates blockade the gullet.
That gives us plenty of time to gather our own allies.”
“And which ones are they?” she mused.
“I have been away from court for years.
Save for the Casswells, what little support I had has long since gone.”
Her son shook his head, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip.
“I will send a raven to the Eyrie.
Summon Lucera back.
That should…”
“No,” she fired without thought, her stomach clenching.
“She stays at the Vale.”
The thought of taking her girl to King’s Landing turned Rhaenyra’s stomach.
“Driftmark is her inheritance.
She has every right to defend it.
And she can bring the knights of the Vale to do it.” He paused, frowning.
“Is that not why you sent her there to be fostered in the first place?”
Their eyes met, and Rhaenyra seized the ring on her index finger.
That was only part of the reason, of course.
Banished and friendless, Rhaenyra knew she had to act quickly to secure her position.
Her father had not gone so far as to disinherit her yet, but with Alicent and Otto whispering to him every day, she knew that possibility was imminent.
She needed allies.
Lady Jeyne seemed like a good choice.
Not only was she kin from her mother’s side, but she was also a woman, and as such, she knew all too well how tenuous it was for someone of her gender to keep power.
Nobody in her household had been thrilled at the prospect.
Daemon had feuded with half the Vale in the past over his right to Runestone, and a part of him was convinced Lady Jeyne would not take too kindly to him foisting a child of his on her domain.
Her son and stepdaughters were equally displeased.
Jace rued having to lose his sister, while Baela and Rhaena begrudged her for taking away a companion they had grown most close with.
Only her Luce seemed untroubled by it.
“I should like to go,” she had told her one night, as they sat in the confines of her chambers, reading from one of her books.
“I have read that the mountains of the Moon are one of the loveliest places in the world.”
“I am certain Lady Jeyne would be thrilled to show them to you.” Rhaenyra’s hand was in her girl’s hair, stroking the supple curls.
They had grown long and beautiful in the last few years, as had she.
But despite her loveliness, nothing could change the sorrowful frown she bore on her face.
It haunted her still.
Though Rhaenyra could not tell if it was the wound she had dealt Aemond or the pain of losing his friendship.
Perhaps it was both.
“I have told her to let you fly your dragon as much as you want.” A slight smile quirked her lips, and Rhaenyra crushed her to her chest.
As much as it pained her to send her away, it needed to be done.
She departed not long after, arriving at the Eyrie on her thirteenth name day.
Rhaenyra had longed for her every day of her life but took comfort in the letters she sent, in the joy she had discovered there.
I could not be spared from duty.
But she can.
She must.
“Lucera has done well in the Vale.
She has grown close with Lady Jeyne and her lords.
I will not rob her of the comfort and safety of the Eyrie to thrust her into a den of vipers.”
Her son wished to argue; she could tell.
But he gritted his teeth and averted his gaze.
Rhaenyra strode over to him and pushed a curl out of his eyes.
“We must fight this battle alone.”
Jace’s face lit up.
“So we will go?
To King’s Landing?”
Releasing a breath, she planted a soft kiss on his forehead.
Dread was picking wounds in her flesh, but she took strength in his stoic resolve.
I can do this.
I must.
“What choice do I have?”
The gates remained closed.
Despite the fact that she had sent word of her arrival well in advance, no one came to greet her at the entrance to the Keep.
“We should have flown in,” Jace grumbled, adjusting his riding cloak.
He had been insisting they fly Syrax and Vermax into the inner courtyard ever since they had set sail, to display their strength and rouse her supporters.
Rhaenyra gainsaid him.
“And cause my father more grief?
Daemon has done that plenty the last time he was here.”
Her lord husband had raged from atop the parapets, demanding that Viserys come out and face him.
His presence had already forced the Keep into a frenzy and bade Otto Hightower to line the walls with archers and scorpions as a means to deter him.
Rhaenyra had heard it said that Alicent’s brazen second son had meant to mount Vhagar to duel her husband in the skies.
He is all fire, no temperance. Enjoying the story? Read on at g.com.
She needed to do better.
Though she had agreed they should fly the dragons across the city to the Dragonpit, she insisted they continue the rest of the way in a carriage.
The risk of riding to the Keep was that she had no means to force the gates open.
“Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, heir apparent to His Grace, King Viserys, first of his name.
“Ser Steffon Darklyn announced, peering at the ramparts above the gate through the slits of his steel helm.
No one acknowledged his words.
The guards were there, Rhaenyra knew.
She could feel eyes following her as she paced before the double oak and iron gate.
After a moment of strained silence, Jace leapt out of the carriage.
“This is absurd.” Her boy threw himself against the wood, his fist beating it with ferocity.
“Open the gates!
In the name of the Princess!”
“Jacaerys!” Rhaenyra cried, frantically scanning the parapets.
She could have sworn she had heard the loud crank of a loaded crossbow.
“My Prince, please.
Step away from the gate!” Ser Steffon joined in, moving to seize him by the forearm.
He barely made it two steps when the wood parted with a loud hiss of iron hinges.
“Princess,” a familiar bald head poked through the slits.
Lord Alyn Casswell seemed to have aged fifty years since she had last seen him.
His skin was the color of chalk powder, dry and flaking in patches.
The black beard he kept close-cropped was peppered with shocks of gray and white.
Though he had worn his finest wool doublet and cloak, inlaid with threads of gold and mother of pearl, it was crinkled and buttoned only halfway up.
“Lord Casswell,” Rhaenyra offered her hand for the man to kiss.
“Forgive me,” he knelt.
“I was not informed of your arrival.
I rushed here as soon as I could.”
Jace shot her a poignant look.
“It is quite alright, my lord.
It seems no one else was either.
I am here to see my father.”
Casswell shot up like an arrow, his saggy cheeks wobbling.
“Good, Princess, you should.
I have been trying to see the King myself but to no avail.
They have refused anyone attendance…”
“Lord Casswell,” a voice cut him off.
Rhaenyra’s muscles seized when a figure in white stepped through the gate.
It was remarkable just how unchanged Criston Cole was.
His swarthy skin was still smooth and unblemished, marked only by a few faint lines on his forehead and around his eyes.
The locks of hair she had once admired so fiercely were still a solid black, cropped close to frame his face.
But his eyes were what struck the most familiar chord in Rhaenyra.
Cold and unflinching.
Filled to the brim with resentment.
The same resentment he had carried since the day she had refused his offer to elope.
He strode out through the gate, clad in his Kingsguard armor, his white cloak billowing behind him.
“I thank you for greeting the princess.
I would be more than happy to take over now.”
“Ser Criston, I…”
The look Cole gave him was enough to freeze the seven hells.
“Run along.
You are needed in Maegor’s Holdfast.”
Rhaenyra watched the man stumble inside, almost tripping over the hem of his half-fastened cloak.
Before Cole could even open his mouth to speak, she rushed him.
“What is the meaning of this, Ser Criston?
Is this how you greet the Crown Princess?
With barred gates?
Let us pass.”
The smirk that quirked his lips was enough to make her want to scream.
“Princess, my apologies.
But the King’s decree still stands.
You and your lord husband are not to set foot inside the Red Keep.”
“I know well what my father decreed,” she hissed, narrowing her eyes.
“I should just like to hear it from him.”
The knight’s smirk deepened.
A part of her could not believe she had once admired that cocksure grin of his.
It was positively vile.
“I am afraid that will not be possible.
The King has expressed that he does not wish to admit you.”
“The King?
Or was it the Queen?”
The knight did not answer her jab, not that he needed to.
He is Alicent’s creature through and through.
He did not so much as sneeze without her leave.
“It does not matter.
The Queen and the Lord Hand speak in His Grace’s voice.”
“My father speaks in his own voice.
And I am not moving from here until I see him.”
The two of them locked eyes in a battle of wills.
The fury raging within her slowly dampened the more she realized his smirk was not faltering.
“Princess, please…
your Lord Husband has already made a spectacle once.
There is no need to bring more shame to your family by repeating his blunders.”
The fact that she resisted striking him for his insolence was a miracle from the gods themselves.
“You dare…”
“We do not come as family.” Stepping forward, Jace gently seized her by the forearm to pull her away.
“We come as petitioners.
Vaemond Velaryon means to put in a formal petition to decide the succession of Driftmark.
As rival claimants, we have the right by law to present our own case before the crown.”
Pleasure ripped through her like a bolt when that smirk fell ever so slightly.
“Old law, set in place by the Old King Jaehaerys.”
“Yet still law,” Jace countered.
If Rhaenyra closed her eyes, she could almost hear Harwin’s voice.
“The Lord Hand will have to decide on its validity.”
“To my knowledge, only a king can overturn laws.
So unless you are insinuating that Ser Otto has committed treason and seized the throne, you will let us pass as petitioners.”
Her hand entwined with Jace’s as she shot Ser Criston a look.
The smirk was gone now, replaced with a resentful stare.
To her undying vindication, he slowly moved aside.
His silent defeat must have served as a signal for the guards to open the gates at last.
Hand in hand with Jace, she climbed back up into the carriage, her heart in her throat.
Nobody greeted them in the inner courtyard either.
The muddy red walls of the Keep were silent and barren, devoid of the usual heraldry she had known during her girlhood.
The inside was just as unwelcoming.
Gone was the usual color of exotic busts and murals her father had sourced from across the Narrow Sea.
In their place stood emblems of the seven-pointed star and a mural depicting Hugor Hill receiving his crown from the gods.
The smell of holy oils and incense permeated the desolate halls, and when she inhaled, she almost choked on the bitter film.
Gods.
What has happened?
She knew the Keep would have changed in her absence, but this was as if she had stepped into a different castle.
There was nary a Valyrian tapestry in sight, and she half expected to glimpse Hightower banners hanging about the walls instead of the three-headed dragon.
Stumbling upon some serving girls carrying water to the kitchens, Rhaenyra bid them to prepare apartments for her and her boys.
Jace meant to follow her up to her father’s chambers, but she refused him.
“I must go alone,” she announced.
He meant to protest, but she quickly tasked him with helping his little brothers settle in so he could not go on arguing.
With her head held high, Rhaenyra ascended the serpentine steps up into the tower where her father’s solar stood.
In the years she had been away, she had received increasingly worsening reports of his health.
The last letter Lord Casswell sent informed her that Father was now confined to his chambers.
He was seldom seen leaving, save for the balcony or, at times, the castle sept.
As expected, Ser Harold Westerling stood watch outside his doors.
“Princess,” the old man gave her a curt nod, his blue eyes pinning hers.
“You have returned.”
“If you mean to tell me that was an ill-advised decision, I fear Ser Criston has beaten you to it.” Balling her hands into fists, she came to stand before the knight.
“I mean to see my father.
And rest assured, Ser, neither you nor anyone else can stop…”
Before she could finish, his mailed hand reached behind him to push the doors open.
“You have been missed,” he said, and with the soft clangor of armor, he stepped aside to let her pass.
Rhaenyra held his gaze, her lips curling into a soft smile.
Perhaps not so friendless.
The first thing that hit her was the smell.
Old heartfire embers clashed with the sharp stench of potions and tinctures.
Darkness covered the room like a blanket, and Rhaenyra realized the servants had only parted the curtains enough to let a single ray of light peek through.
She gingerly approached, her slippers whispering against the stone.
Before her, the scale model of the Old Valyrian Capitol consumed half the chamber.
Even in the dimness, the thing was a work of wonder, comprised of dozens upon dozens of houses, citadels, and towers sculpted from clay, stone, and metal wire.
However, despite the fact that it was twice as large as it had been when she was here last, it was coated in a thick layer of dust and cobwebs.
Dread pooled in Rhaenyra’s gut.
Her father would never leave his model so neglected.
Whirring on her feet, she gingerly approached the adjacent chamber.
The smell of smoke gave way to the faint scent of corrupted flesh and blood.
Her vision blurred.
“Who goes there?” a faint voice whispered.
Behind the bed curtains, a figure came into view.
“Aemma?”
The mention of her mother’s name made the sickness resting in her throat vanish.
“No, it is me, my King.” Parting the linen curtains, she gingerly moved to sit on the feather bed.
“It is Rhaenyra.”
Her father released a shuddering breath, peeling open his remaining purple eye.
Tears blurred her vision.
Mother have mercy.
He looked like the specter of the Stranger himself.
Buried under mountains of covers, her father had become nothing but bones.
His skin was dry and translucent, marred by dark spots and thin purple veins.
Rhaenyra was certain that if she reached over to touch him, it would come off on her fingers like wet parchment.
“Rhaenyra…” he croaked, laboring another breath.
She peeled her lips into a smile, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Yes.
I have returned.”
When his hand reached for her, she leaned in, elated to at last feel his touch.
His skin was as tepid as river water, but she paid it no mind.
“It has been so long…” he coughed, spit flying through his remaining teeth.
The smell of rot coated the roof of her mouth.
“…you have returned…
my only child…
why have you returned…”
She brought his hand to her face, planting a kiss on his open palm.
“To see you.
To defend our legacy.
Just as you wanted.”
A rattle sounded in his chest.
“Legacy…
how…
you have already destroyed it.”
The fingers that were so gingerly trailing her cheekbone wrenched free.
Fire lit the purple iris, and for the first time, she could see her father, the King, the man who had once tamed Balerion and spoken to her about the Conqueror’s dream.
“Father, please…”
“You should not have come.”
The words were like a blow.
She leaned away, her heart seizing.
“Is he with you?” he demanded.
Her jaw clenched.
“No,” she forced out, her lower lip trembling.
“No, he is not.
He has left.”
“Go.
Beg at his feet.
But know you will beg alone.” Daemon’s voice was like a knife, plunging deep into her heart.
“He should not return,” her father’s voice bid her push her grief aside.
“You should denounce him…
seek penance…
for your sins…”
Rhaenyra glared at him, anger quashing her grief.
His words, Alicent’s voice.
Her father was the blood of the dragon, and dragons did not concern themselves with the sins of mortal men.
Just as she had thought, the queen had been filling his head with nonsense these last eight years.
“Father, hear me.” She leaned again, her hand gripping his.
“I did not order Laenor’s death.
That was Ser Qarl.
It was a dispute between companions, and we had nothing…”
“I am certain Daemon would like you to think that.
Just as he wants everyone to believe his first wife died by accident.”
The mention of Rhea Royce left a sour taste in her mouth.
Daemon had never spoken of it.
But she was no fool.
To lose the wife he so despised so close to her own wedding was too convenient to be a mere act of the gods.
It matters not.
“That is in the past,” she countered.
“He has changed.
Whatever his faults, he is ready to defend us.
To defend the legacy of House Targaryen.”
The word stirred her father, and his breathing quickened.
“Legacy?
You cut that up when you had your girl take Aemond’s eye.”
Sickness rose in her throat.
Again, it was as if she were hearing Alicent’s voice.
Is he lost to me?
No, she could not believe that.
“It was an accident.
Lucera never meant it, and neither did I…”
“I charged you to bring the two branches of our house together.
And you failed,” he wheezed.
“You chose fire and blood over peace and unity.”
Her fingers trembled, and she gritted her teeth.
The anger was sizzling now, as hot as an untempered sword.
“Yes.
I chose fire and blood.
I had to.” She hissed, leaning so close she could count each individual lash on his remaining eye.
“You speak of peace and unity, but yet it is you who quashed any chance of either the day you wed anew and sired sons.”
His only response was to wheeze and clutch at his bandaged head.
The stench of rot was so potent it was as if the stranger herself were in the room with them.
“I was forced to do what was necessary to protect my children.
You may not wish to hear this, but peace without strength cannot be upheld.
Daemon understands that, as do I.”
Her father gazed back at her, his purple eye half shut.
Sorrow darkened the faded iris, and she shuddered.
“So that is why you have come?
To kill your kin?
Seize power for yourself?”
The blow was fierce, but Rhaenyra steeled herself.
“No,” she forced, her voice thick.
“I have come to defend my legacy.
Just as you charged me to.” She allowed a brief pause so her words could sink in.
“Vaemond Velaryon sails to King’s Landing to petition the crown to be named heir to Driftmark.”
Her father’s sparse brow furrowed.
“Why?
Has something happened to Lord Corlys?”
“Wounded in battle.
He presently courts the Stranger.
It may not be long before he comes to take him away.” She let resolve wash over her.
“I mean to argue for Lucera.
The heir Lord Corlys had chosen years prior.
“Against her better judgment, her hand brushed against his fingers.
It was like clutching charred wood logs.
“If you ever cared about my legacy, defend me.
And my children.”
He sucked breath after breath, straining beneath the covers.
“You were all I had left of Aemma.
My Aemma.” The tenderness in his voice shattered her.
“And you turned your back on me.”
“Father…”
“Go,” he rattled.
“Return to Dragonstone.
Plot your power grab there.
Leave me, just as you had before.”
He moaned, shutting his eyes as his hand reached for his head.
She sat by his side for the longest time, waiting for him to change his answer, to offer her comfort and forgiveness just as he had all the times before when she had blundered.
Instead, all he offered was a labored wheeze.
She hardly remembered the trek back to her chambers.
Her skin alight, she stumbled through the oak and iron door of her old apartments.
Sweat dripped down her back, and leaning against a chair was all she could do not to topple over.
“Mother?” Jacaerys was at her side in an instant, taking her forearm to steady her.
“What has happened?”
“Is Grandshire alright?” her Joffrey asked, passing a toy dragon to Aegon.
“No, no, he is not, he…” Shaking off Jace’s grip, she rushed over to her maidservant to check on Viserys.
Her beautiful babe was fast asleep in her arms, his head of silver curls buried in the crook of the woman’s neck.
“We must prepare.” She nervously brushed the hair out of his eyes.
The soft breaths he puffed through his nose melted her heart.
“I expect the guards will be coming to escort us out soon.”
“What?
He refused you?” The look of shock on Jace’s face mirrored her own.
He too had expected Grandsire to be moved by her, just as he always was.
“Yes, he is lost to me.” The stab of pain she felt in her gut was so potent she had to clutch her belly to make sure she was not bleeding.
“The Queen has him completely under her spell.
We must prepare ourselves.
We fight alone.”
The breath left her lungs, and she stumbled over her words.
Again, Jace rushed to her side, his arms extended.
This time, she did not have the strength to deny his embrace.
They have all gone.
Her mother, Ser Harwin, and even Laenor.
For all his talk of protecting her and their babes, he had leapt at her offer of escape the moment she had presented it.
It was a good thing, she had reasoned.
A kindness that freed him from the burden of his responsibilities.
And freed her to pursue true strength and protection for herself.
And yet even that protection has left you.
Daemon may have vowed to never abandon her again, but it was all farce.
The moment they had disagreed, he had mounted Caraxes and flown away, not a thought spared for her and her feelings.
Father was all I had.
He was the one constant in her life, an immovable object she could always lean on when she stumbled.
Now that comfort too had been taken from her.
The last and most painful blow.
I am alone.
Releasing a strangled sob, she buried her head into her son’s shoulder.
Then, she wept.