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Helaena’s earliest memories were of fire and blood. Of great battles waged by churning rivers and in open fields, on stormy seas and high in the skies. Of roaring dragons and screaming children and weeping women and dying men. Of poisonings and cruel murders and whispered secrets and regretted orders. Of brutality and betrayals and bloodshed. Of the fall of a dynasty and with it the magic of this world. Of two queens once bound by the deepest love only to be torn asunder.
It was not until much later in life that she learned her memories were not the normal sort, that most people did not recall the dreams that came to them in the cradle.
But how could she have ever forgotten?
How could she have forgotten the sight of her elder brother, broken and burned and bitter? Of her mother half-mad with grief and regret. Of her younger brother’s lost eye and the deeper wounds that never healed. Of her dragon’s roars as she broke through the great ceiling of the Dragon Pit, only to be butchered by terrified and enraged smallfolk. Of her elder sister—her muña—destroyed by grief and made crueler because of it. Of her own sweet babes, butchered and torn to pieces.
Those were not the kinds of things anyone could forget, even if those dreams had stopped coming to her before she’d even learned to speak, even if those dreams of what was to come had transformed into nothing but bitter memories of another world that might have been had her mother made a different choice that fateful day.
She remembered.
She would always remember.
And she would cherish each loving smile her mother gave her muña when she thought no one was looking. She would cherish the way her muña so tenderly touched her mother’s arm and whispered in her ear. She would cherish Aegon’s foolish japes and oft crude humor. She would cherish Aemond’s bright eyes and wry wit. She would cherish Daeron’s cocksure attitude and adventurous spirit. She would cherish Jacaerys’ furrowed brow and other expressions of concentration. She would cherish Lucerys’ sweet nature and shy laughs. She would cherish Victerys’ impish grins and penchant for mischief. She would cherish Visenya even when she was being a terror.
Because she knew just how different all of their lives might have been, had their mother not gone to their muña that day.
∞
Her mother used to cry often, when Helaena was a babe. Never loudly, of course, and never in public, but often. She had many hazy memories of large, fat tears sliding silently down her mother’s face to splash onto the floor, or to be swiftly wiped away, or to sometimes fall upon Helaena’s own cheeks. She vaguely recalled the way her mother’s chin would wobble before her jaw would clench, the way her bloody fingertips would drift to her mouth again and again. Sometimes her mother would stop herself before her teeth sank into her own flesh, but often she would not.
She knew now that many of those tears—tears of grief and melancholy and loneliness and fear—had been caused by her father and grandsire.
Her muña never brought her mother to such tears.
Save for once.
Helaena had not meant to eavesdrop that day. Naught but a curious five-year-old at the time, she’d been following a particularly swift ladybug and wandered away from her nursemaids, who so often seemed to forget that she was even there, even when not distracted by Aemond and Aegon. She’d followed the lovely creature into the godswood, where it was quiet and peaceful and empty most days.
But that day, it was not empty.
She froze and hid behind a tree at the sound of voices, voices she soon recognized as belonging to her mother and muña. They stood beneath the great weirwood tree, unaware of her presence.
Her mother was pacing back and forth, plainly agitated, while her muña watched her, hands planted firmly on her hips in a way that made the faint swell of her belly more noticeable.
“Gods, Alicent, will you please talk to me? It has been more than a moon’s turn now. I understand your upset. Truly. Do you think I fared better seeing you grow round with my father’s child—?”
Her mother whirled to face her muña, expression somewhere between irritation and disbelief. “Is that what you think this is about? That Laenor has gotten you with child?”
Her muña hesitated, suddenly looking uncertain. “Yes?”
“Oh, Rhaenyra.” Her mother’s shoulders slumped, and her whole body seemed to grow smaller. “I am not angry about that. I could never be angry about that. I am pleased that you will soon have an heir. I am even more pleased that we shall soon have another child. But I . . .”
“What, My Love?” Her muña approached her mother slowly, as if fearful of frightening her. Her words were infinitely tender, and she was using that tone Helaena knew was reserved especially for her mother.
“I am terrified,” her mother whispered, and now there were tears in her eyes. “All the time, I am terrified.” She swallowed, trying to blink away her tears. “I do not wish you to die.”
“Oh, Alicent—”
“No.” Her mother retreated from her muña’s touch. “Do not tell me all will be well. Do not reassure me that you are young and strong and healthy. Do you think I don’t already know that?” Her mother trembled, tears streaming down her cheeks. “You are the strongest woman I know, Rhaenyra. But your mother died in the birthing bed, as did both of your grandmothers. I have every right to be frightened.”
“You do,” her muña agreed gently, approaching her mother once more and opening her arms to embrace her.
This time, her mother allowed it, clinging to her muña and sobbing so loud that it hurt Helaena’s ears. Until now, she’d only ever seen her mother cry silently.
Her muña stroked her mother’s back. “My Sweet Alicent,” she sighed. “I understand this fear as well. I have felt it every time you were brought to the birthing bed.” She squeezed her gently. “But I am not as old as my mother was when she tried to birth Baelon. Nor am I as young as my Grandmother Daella was when she died giving birth to my mother. I know I cannot ease all of your fears in this, but I can promise you that I will do all in my power to stay here with you. And our children.”
Her mother sniffled, but when she spoke, it was with steely determination. “I will be there,” she vowed. “As you have always been there for me.”
Helaena turned away and hurried out of the godswood as quickly as she could, having no interest in seeing her muña kiss her mother.
When Jacaerys was born five moons later, Helaena was among those few to witness her mother coldly threaten to have half-a-dozen different men’s heads placed on pikes if they did not stand aside and allow her into the princess’ birthing chamber. Helaena herself was deemed too young to witness her muña give birth, though she later overheard servants whispering about the queen’s tenderness towards the princess and her ferocity towards the grand maester, who had apparently received threats of dragon fire from both princess and queen.
∞
It was her muña, not her father, who finally recognized her dragon dreams for what they were. For all that her father believed in the dreams and portents of their ancestors, he had never noticed or heeded her words. The visions that came to her at night and the voices that whispered to her during the day were often muddled and hard to decipher. And they were even harder to place into words even once she began to understand their meaning.
She had tried to warn her father not to sit the throne the day that he received the final cut that would cost him his arm. She had tried to warn her mother not to leave the Keep that day a riot broke out in Flea Bottom and began to spill into the rest of the city. Thankfully, her mother had returned home unharmed. Had she not, her muña would likely have taken to the skies on Syrax in fiery retribution.
She told Aemond again and again that he would find no dragon in King’s Landing, that his mount dwelled elsewhere among salt and smoke and sea. But her brother just stared at her in confusion, although he never once mocked her. She told Jace that he must take care in the training yard, trying to explain that she had foreseen flashing scales and fangs dripping death. He did not understand her, and so when the snake struck, he was not prepared. Her mother sat by his bedside for days afterwards, praying fervently for the gods not to take him. Her muña and Ser Laenor personally oversaw the hunt for every snake that had managed to slither into the city.
When she dreamed of a fire and of hearing the bellows of Lord Lyonel Strong and Ser Harwin, she went to her muña, hoping she would understand. Her muña listened patiently, albeit with furrowed brow. When she confessed to not understanding, Helaena was unable to hold back her tears, miserable that no one ever understood, that she was forever cursed to see what was to come and powerless to change it. Her muña shuffled closer to her, but did not try to gather her in her arms, simply waiting until she was calm again to begin asking a series of questions.
What did she mean by tongueless fireflies?
Could she be more specific about this great water?
What towers had she seen smoking?
How could three rivers be set ablaze?
Who was the grasping beast with darkness in his eyes?
It was a long, painstaking process, and by the end, they were both frustrated and exhausted.
However, her muña understood enough to order Ser Harwin to remain in King’s Landing and not accompany his father back to the seat of House Strong, though she was unable to impose the same order on Lord Strong himself.
When word reached the Red Keep that the King’s Hand had perished in a fire at Harrenhal, her muña immediately sought her out, asking if this was what she had dreamed.
“Whispers did not follow them this time, but death still found one,” she said simply, not knowing how else to explain what she had seen and sensed.
But her muña nodded all the same, thanking her and promising that she would listen better in the future.
∞
The first time she fell, it was Aegon who ran to her.
He nearly stumbled over his own feet in his haste to reach her, and when he hauled her back up, his hands were rough and more intent on righting her than being gentle. He grumbled about her clumsiness and that Mother or one of the maids should have been watching her. He huffed that he would not accept blame if she tried to point the finger at him simply because he had been the one to startle her. He refused to apologize for stepping on her centipede.
She hugged him all the same.
Despite how overwhelming the sensation was, despite how her mind began flashing with images she could not yet decipher, despite how a dragon’s agonized roar echoed in her ears.
She hugged him, because in his violet eyes—their muña’s eyes—she saw concern. True and genuine, albeit tempered by annoyance.
Even at the tender age of two, she understood that her elder brother’s empathy must be nurtured. While it would be many years before she truly understood the monster he might have become, at that time, she understood that much.
When their mother swooped in, she fussed and clucked and worried whether or not to call a maester. “You must be more careful, Helaena,” she chided. “You might have been seriously hurt.”
Helaena shied away from her mother’s touch, gentle as it was. While it no longer hurt her as it once had, she still found the sensation discomfiting.
Her mother’s eyes dimmed as her hands fell to her sides.
Thankfully, the sadness was soon chased away by the appearance of her muña, who rubbed her wife’s back comfortingly. “Children fall, Alicent.” She smiled at her and Aegon. “What matters is that they rise again.” So saying, their muña reached out to affectionately ruffle Aegon’s silvery hair. “You did well, Aegon, coming to your sister’s aid. You must always remember, as a prince and one day a knight, that it is your duty to protect and defend those weaker than yourself.”
Aegon’s chest puffed with pride at their muña’s praise.
∞
Of all her brothers, Aemond had always been her favorite. He was kinder than Aegon, more gallant—at least to her—than even Jace, more studious than Luke, less arrogant than Daeron, and quieter than Vic. In her opinion, he had inherited the best traits of both their mothers. He had their mother’s fierce and unwavering loyalty and commitment to what was right, but also her cleverness and willingness to be vulnerable around certain people. He had their muña’s protectiveness and righteous wrath, her willingness to rain down fire and blood upon those who threatened their family, but also her softness and steady devotion to that very same family.
He had always been her champion, even though he was a year her younger. Of all her brothers, he was the only one who had never teased her or made mean comments about her insects. Although, none of her brothers made the mistake of mocking her pets more than once, for their mothers were swift to doll out punishments for such cruelty.
While Aemond did not understand her love for the unusual and misunderstood creatures she collected and protected, he was still willing to listen to her talk about them—something even their own mother usually could not manage for more than ten minutes. He’d once even brought home for her a red scorpion from his and Muña’s visit to Dorne, though their mother had gone white upon seeing it and ordered him to immediately dispose of it. While her brother had of course obeyed, he’d later brought her the intact corpse so she might have that, at least.
It had pained her greatly, those many years when Aemond was without a dragon of his own. She offered on several occasions to let him ride with her on Dreamfyre, but he always declined. “Thank you, Sweet Sister,” he would say, “but I wish for my first flight to be on the back of my own dragon.”
A week before their family was to visit Uncle Daemon and Aunt Laena on Dragonstone, she dreamed of bronze scales flashing in the moonlight and of hearing her brother’s terrified screams transform into triumphant laughter.
She told no one of this dream, for fear of inadvertently changing its outcome. Her mother, for all that she had married two dragons and birthed four more, was still frightened of the actual beasts. She worried every time her wife and children took to the skies, despite Muña’s constant assurances that she would keep them safe. And Muña, though herself a dragon to her core, might also have objected to Aemond attempting to claim the Bronze Fury, who was one of the oldest and largest of the dragons after Vhagar, simply for her mother’s sake.
The night Aemond claimed his dragon, the moon hung full in the cloudless sky. Helaena sat by her window, watching the towering shadow of the Dragonmont. She could not see far enough through the darkness to pick out the shape of her younger brother scaling the jagged rocks, but she knew he was there. She looked down at the spider that had crawled onto the windowsill, as if it wished to watch with her. “In another world,” she whispered to the arachnid, “his would have been Visenya’s mount.”
But not here. The ripples created by her mothers had changed many things, altered many destinies. There would be no flaming pyre for Aunt Laena, and no watery grave to follow. Harwin Strong still lived, but Larys Strong lay cold in his grave. Vhagar slumbered among the dunes, and she would not be disturbed this night. Her brother’s eyes would soon meet their match, and he would not need to close one this time.
A small smile curled her lips when, in the distance, she heard a dragon’s roar.
∞
Her mother’s touch used to burn her.
One of her earliest waking memories was the feeling of hot fingers clutching her tight, desperately trying to rock and soothe her, but all the while scalding her instead. No more than a babe at the time, she’d been able to do naught but sob and wail her discomfort. She understood now that her mother had not meant to harm her, that she hadn’t even known the power she possessed. The power to topple dynasties and make Kingdoms run red with blood. The power to set brother against brother, father against son, cousin against cousin. The power to begin the dying of the dragons.
Of course, such power could never be wielded by one person alone. Her muña possessed a piece of that power as well, but the heat of her hands had mostly dissipated by the time she began scooping Helaena from her cradle to coo and cluck and make strange faces at her.
Her grandsire’s touch had burned even more than her mother’s, though his banishment before her first nameday meant that he’d had few opportunities to hold her. Even in that short amount of time though, she’d learned to fear the sight of him, to fear the grasping gleam in his eyes, the harsh cadence of his voice as he addressed her mother and made her wilt. He’d never tried to conceal his ambitious nature from her, from either of them. He’d believed her mother meek and submissive to his will, and he’d believed her unable to comprehend the way he was weaving the war banners that would have become their shrouds.
He’d been wrong. On both accounts.
She remembered the first time her mother had touched her and it had not burned. She remembered sensing that something had finally untwisted within her, that some dark cloud had finally receded. She remembered that it was the first time she had not cried in her arms, desperate to escape the fire.
She remembered that it was the first time her mother had truly smiled at her.
∞
The last night of her father’s life was a peaceful one. Her mothers saw to that. Helaena had dreamed that the king would not rise the next morn, and so she’d taken her mothers aside and told them—as clearly as she could—that King Viserys’ time was nigh. When her mothers finally understood her, tears gathered in both their eyes as they clutched each other’s hands. Neither could be surprised by this, she knew, but that did little to soothe their pain. Her muña loved their father, and her mother, in her own way, loved her husband.
A banquet was held that evening, attended only by family. Her father sat at the head of the table, old and frail and sickly and diminished, but radiating a quiet contentment. To his left sat Uncle Daemon, looking more subdued than Helaena could ever remember seeing him, as if he, too, sensed that this night would be his brother’s last. Muña sat to their father’s right, as befitted her station as both his Hand and heir.
The conversations were lively and amiable that evening. Her brothers, Baela, and Rhaena jested and japed with one another, Corlys and Rhaenys cooed over Little Visenya, Ser Laenor and Aunt Laena discussed taking the children on a sailing trip, Uncle Daemon teased her mother about some shared memory that had her muña swatting his arm without malice.
When their father called for music, Aemond asked her to dance with him. She accepted, and they were soon joined by Uncle Daemon and Aunt Laena, by Jace and Baela, and by Luke and Rhaena. Her mothers wore matching smiles as they watched them all, and her father’s remaining eye was shining with joy, and perhaps a few unshed tears.
It was nearing the hour of the eel when the time came for her father to retire for the last time. Helaena led her siblings in bidding him goodnight with a gentle kiss to the withered cheek that remained to him. Her mothers and Uncle Daemon escorted him from the hall, no doubt so they might say their final farewells in private.
She watched them depart, heart feeling lighter than it probably should have, on the eve of her father’s death.
As a babe, she’d dreamed of fire and blood. But those dreams had ceased plaguing her long ago, and while they would never truly leave her, they no longer troubled her as they once had. Too many choices had been made over the last twenty years. Too many different paths had been taken. Too many bridges had been built.
Tomorrow, the king would be dead.
But the queen who rose to take his place would do so with the full might of House Targaryen at her back.