Chapter Text
Dreams didn’t make us kings. Dragons did.
The voice echoed around Helaena. Her scratched hands grapple with the darkness cloaking her vision, showing nothing but that wretched Iron Throne; high and twisting above everyone, the seat her ancestors and descendants will die defending. To have their blood, dragon’s blood, on the throne.
Helaena tries to speak but blood fills her mouth. The bottom of her favorite golden dress is torn to shreds, bits of it on the swords forming the Iron Throne.
Red dripped down her neck and ruined her pretty dress. Oh, Mother would scold her for hours. Her knees shaking, she approaches the most powerful seat in the seven kingdoms.
Why have the gods cursed me if dreams do not serve a purpose? She thought. Her tongue is heavy with the taste of iron and the sins of her house. Pain laced along her nerves and her bare feet touch the cold stones.
No one deigned to answer her.
Gods. Kings. Fire and-
An equal line of blazing and vibrant rubies stared at her, unblinking, from the Iron Throne. She recognizes it; the crown of Aegon the Conqueror. The glowing rubies moved as though it cradles a head, a shadow. Helaena walks towards it. She is transfixed in fright and fascination; a potent mixture of disaster and discovery.
Blood. Fire and blood. Fire and blood.
The shadow rose from the Iron Throne; commanding Helaena’s attention. Large and consuming fires circles the Great Hall. Sweat and blood coats her neck, still bleeding out, as she can only gawk at the formidable figure. Targaryen royalty in the fires. An uniter of realms.
The voices chanted inside her skull. Such beauty and terror that gaze inspires in her.
Helaena woke up screaming and sobbing. She pushed the blankets away, her vision blurred with the dullness of her bedroom. No Iron Throne, no fires eating her alive, and her body carry no injuries.
Guards posted outside her bedchamber and slammed the door open. Queen Mother sprints to her, nightwear underneath the flimsy knotted robe, and her brothers in tow, sleepy and annoyed.
Her hands are soft and unscarred. She felt for her throat but there were no holes and no blood ruined her pretty nightgown. Golden waves made it difficult to see who sat in front of her.
“Dearest girl,” Only Mother would speak to her in such a gentle tone. Others speak to her with indifference or disgust. The voices in her head urged her to do vile and reckless things. “Did you have a nightmare?”
Helaena was taught by her Septas to never lie; the gods see all. Her lower lip trembles. I do not know what I’ve been shown. These words in my ears and the visions behind my eyes; oh they terrify me.
Aegon yawns. Aemond elbows him roughly.
Mother tucks some of her golden strands behind her cold ears. “Everything is okay, my daughter. Your family is here.” She assures the frail girl.
Helaena is lost in her thoughts that she couldn’t protest when Mother lies down next to her. Her breaths are loud and the brothers at her feet remind her of something in her dreams; something awful.
She places her head on Mother’s shoulder and she feels lithe arms around her cold skin.
“I’m here,” Mother says, quietly, as though this is the first time she uttered comforting words to another person. “And I’ll be here.”
She will stay when we are gone. Ghosts all around her.
Helaena closes her eyes. A whimper escapes her lips. “I’m so scared. I thought I was dying, was dead already-”
“-Sister,” Aemond calls. The older boy stays in the shadows. “Can we do anything to ease your pain?” He stand sat her right side, his hands cradling hers like the injured bird she nursed back to health.
Weeks later, the sweet robin flew toward the sky. She stares at her brother and knows he cannot escape his fate. And she cannot keep him safe in a pretty golden cage. None of them are weak birds. They are dragons; vicious and greedy beasts.
“It was… Dark. I could no-not see anything .” Mother rubbed her back. “I was dying. Everything hurt.” She inhaled a sharp breath, and her hand flew to her throat; still no wounds or blood dripping down her hands.
Determination hardened on the youngest prince. “I won’t let anything harm you, sister.” He vows in the dark, as Mother watches him with a subtle expression of pride. “You’re the safest with us.”
Lies, lies, we bring danger and death in the same breath. Dragons destroy the greens; we do not plant trees.
Helaena smiles. Aegon observes them with a careful mask of fatigue.
“Would you want company tonight, love?” Mother asks softly, kindly, as she loves them. Mother only sees the crowns on their heads and the glory they bring to their House. But which one?
Helaena bobs her head. Mother slides under the sheets and kisses Helaena’s glistening cheeks. “Thank you.” She whispers.
A maid enters the room with a cup of warm milk. She hands it to the distressed girl. Helaena dutifully drinks as Aemond rubs her icy cold hands. Her eyelids weighed down but she murmurs her thanks to the girl.
Aemond murmurs something with love and devotion but her mind slips past her control. It always does when Mother gives her the night milk. Mother cradles her like a newborn. And Aegon, there is pity in his troubled eyes. She hates that most of all.
The guards guide the princes back to their beds. Aemond looks back, frowning as the women succumb to sleep.
Helaena presses her cheek against Mother’s neck. “I’m sorry if I woke you, Mother.” She admits, shame wrapped in her tongue, her eyes are heavy so she closes them.
Mother presses a gentle kiss on the girl’s knuckles. “Do not apologize. Nightmares can be managed with a bit of milk, darling.” She comforts the girl, pets her hair, and kisses her forehead. “Let us sleep.”
Sometimes, she sees ghosts, but other times, she sees fire and blood.
No one questions Helaena’s decision, her firm declaration, that no one disturb her in the private sanctuary of her bedroom. Mother smiles, bitterly, and kisses her cheek. “Okay, dearest,” she primly agrees.
Helaena’s breakfast tray lay untouched, except for the few grapes and tea. She sits by the large window, jars, boxes, and her notebooks are open. Her fingers are inked and insects crawl along the fine threads of her dress. This morning, the maids braided her hair in the usual style.
A crown for you, sweet sister, Aemond fondly said, eyes so clear and bright. Fits a queen as you are.
Helaena smiled. The centipede on her arm wrapped itself around her thumb. She returns the pen to its inkwell. “What’s wrong?” She whispers, her finger tracing the rough surface.
If her little darlings could talk, she would be satisfied to never speak to anyone. She wants to know what they think of her, how her world is to their little eyes, and how frightened they must be every single moment of their life.
“Oh, little one,” Helaena mourns. “If fate is only for the heroes, we all would live long and happy lives. And you would be safe.”
Hours blend as the princess resumes her hobbies. Spiders shuffle along the broken branches Aemond gave her, huffing with his elbows scratched. Leaves that Aegon kicked at her face were preserved for the beetles and other creatures she kept.
Her notebook consisted of notes and observations; mostly what her little creatures liked to do, and how many legs and eyes they have. If she’s feeling particularly motivated, she attempts a sketch of spiders, centipedes, and beetles.
Mother once scanned through the sketchbook with dismay. Of course, she would be disappointed with Helaena; she’s a strange girl, as the court and the rats behind the walls all agree. She speaks in our tongue but only the gods understand her. Do not look into her purple eyes. She might see your future and your doom.
Helaena leans back, massaging her reddened palms.
“The morning is beautiful, my princess.” Her maid sheepishly stated. Grandfather chose a meek girl to be her companion. Helaena is thankful she is not a priority in her family. “Would you want a walk?”
She assents, rises from her chair, and fixes the skirts of her dress.
The maid gawks because usually, Helaena ignores her. She hurriedly fetches a coat and informs the guards. “Wh-where would you want to go, princess?” She asks, dimpled grin like that gesture could allow her anxiety to ease.
“The gardens,” Helaena murmurs, spreading her arms as the coat sleeves are slipped in and she fixes the fur-lined collars, adjusts the buttons, and walks amid the guards assigned to her.
She is so small that no one can see her amid the security. Helaena holds the box of her friends. Mother doesn’t like it when she lets the spiders rest on her shoulders or the millipedes hide in her dress sleeves.
Once during breakfast, one of them crawled out of her sleeve and Aegon shrieked so hard he fell back on his chair. His food is on his clothes. Aemond was red in the face laughing.
It wasn’t her fault that Aegon didn’t notice them!
She huffs and enters the garden. It is such a beautiful and enchanting scene. Helaena makes sure to avoid the bleeding eyes of the weirwood tree and to not touch the carved eyes because the gods always observe the realm of men; more to her. She hopes if she avoids that tree entirely, the gods will leave her alone and take this cruel gift with them. It hasn’t worked.
The maid prepares the pillows and blankets and places them beneath another large tree; not a Northern one, with gnarled roots thick enough to lean on.
“Where can I find dragonflies?” Helaena asks.
“Oh, they come and go, my princess.” She replies. “And butterflies.”
Helaena smiles. She has insects that burrow in the deepest of the dirt, eyes sunken deep in the flesh that they have no use for it. But when she removes their tiny eyes, they die; even if they have useless things that cause their deaths.
Now, Helaena wants something precious, and beautiful, and a creature she wants to preserve under a dome, under the guise of time. If she can save a specimen of nature, it is something that isn’t her or anything Targaryen, something pure and a gift from the gods.
Helaena surveys the blades of grass as her maids call for her. Her eyes landed on a marvelous butterfly. That will do! She chases it.
The sun in her hair, golden and flows like a river downstream. She giggles, delighted, more relaxed than ever when she’s with her family or standing at the base of that horrid throne.
The grey wings captivated the princess. She wants to rip it apart and keep it under the press of glass frames. Or she could preserve the body, pinned inside a dome, safe from decay.
But it lands on someone’s shoulder. A cape that reaches down to dirty boots, ones that have been worn in the training yard.
Helaena stops running, her chest heaving, with her cheeks flushing pink. “Oh,” she breathes in wonder. “You’re here.”
Jacaerys Valeryon bows deeply at her. Hickory-brown locks sway with the action, strong jaw but his pink lips look soft. His smile is softer, Helaena decides.
The butterfly flutters away to a small and blooming flower. His grey eyes, perfect shade like her runaway butterfly, shine as though she is a sight that holds joy for him.
“Princess,” he greets. “You are as lovely as the sun.” These words do not flatter her; they are mere proper and kind words taught to them. Kindness and politeness are masks for royals like them. They have no place in the Red Keep, with Targaryens; gods amongst men.
“Do you know where I can find dragonflies?” Helaena asks. “Butterflies can suffice, I supposed.” She sulks, and her hand turns the empty jar in her hands.
The boy eyes the armed men that observe them. “Mayhap I can offer assistance?”
Helaena observes him. If she reaches out to him, she may prevent the chaos that plagues her mind, obscure visions, fire, blood, and death.
And so she does. Her hand in his; it’s too natural, as though it’s meant to be like this.