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Then
In her childhood, her uncle had on two occasions told her of an old tale to frighten children, about a princess from some distant land. It went like so: from the day she was born, the princess had lived with her eyes closed. In some versions, her uncle had explained, it was said that a sorceress had cursed the princess before her birth, declaring that if she were to ever open her eyes, magical flames would consume her entire body and burn her alive. In other versions, however, there was no curse, only a strange rule, conceived from nothing. The years went by, and she never opened her eyes because no one had ever told her she could. Her family taught her to keep them that way always; if it was how she came to exist, so should it forever be.
The princess walked tripping into things, but never opened her eyes even with the most sudden of stumbles or most painful of falls; she did not know of any other way to live. She opened doors, savoring the gesture of doing so, looking for exits, but rarely passed through them: thus, she had never left the castle, no matter how much she dreamed of the world outside.
On her twelfth name-day, in a sudden incendiary rebellion, the princess awoke from sleep in her chambers, got up, and decided to open her eyes. She did so in the tallest tower of the castle. There were no magical flames, and instead came a dreadful shock: blinded by the brutal light of day, she misstepped and fell down the window, screaming until her body splattered wholly on the ground and stained it with blood and gore.
The first time Rhaenyra had heard this story, she was five years of age and cried, terrified of the ending. Her uncle Daemon was the man she trusted the most, aside from her father; therefore, she had thought the tale must surely be true. She had spent the rest of the day covering her own eyes with small hands, afraid to open them, which had led to a scolding given to her uncle by her mother, for telling her such inappropriate stories. Her father, in turn, had laughed when he heard of it, and said to Daemon: It used to be I, the one who frightened you with these tales, when we were children, did it not?, and her uncle had laughed along with him; Little Rhaenyra had thought, at that very moment, that he seemed happier than he had ever been; in the future she would remember that day with unusual clearness and realize that her uncle had only ever been truly happy or truly devastated when it came to his elder brother.
The second time Rhaenyra had heard the story, she was eight years of age, and found it incredibly amusing. She could not understand why her younger self had been so affected by it. What a silly story, she had told her uncle; had it been me, I would not have been blinded by the light. And he had said, I agree, it is a silly story. You are a very smart girl.
When she was two and ten — the age of the princess when she fell from the tower — her uncle no longer told her children's stories. He would instead tell her detailed tales of his voyages beyond the Narrow Sea, of victories in tournaments, of bloody brawls, of the smell of burning flesh, of the nights with wine and women. There had been no more complaints from her mother about inappropriate stories, so Rhaenyra had presumed she must be a child no longer. She used to listen to it all attentively, with eyes bright and wide, and thought it deeply unjust how she was not allowed to travel alongside him. As he told the stories, Daemon slowly stroked his niece's hair.
Now
"He is terribly ill," declared Princess Rhaenyra, heir to the Iron Throne, in Prince Daemon's chambers on Dragonstone, after their visit to Red Keep; "weakened. You saw him, in the throne room, did you not? He will not live much longer. Shouldn't you, his brother, return to keep him company? Shouldn't I, his daughter?"
An idea that was distressing to her; spending her days tending to her father, a man wasting away, the vicious legacy of the Throne and of Aegon’s Dreams devouring him from the inside out. The lost look in his eyes, the smell of urine and rot. But within the princess emerged a childish, selfish notion that, as long as she could be present at her father's side, the Stranger would never appear to take him away.
Another childish notion was the one that she could make that place into something of a home again, somehow; for herself, her husband, and their children. Why couldn't she? Would Red Keep be forever tainted to her, and her to it? She had half a mind to return as she had promised Queen Alicent, to try and erase the animosity between the two and rebuild something beautiful and true.
Daemon did not believe these possibilities. "We should, in fact, return to regain control of that council of idiots.”
"Undoubtedly, by being there, we will have a proper view of the decisions that are being made on behalf of my father. However..."
"Does it not make you angry?"
"Of course! Of course it does. But there is nothing too drastic to be done as of now. My father needs support, not political disputes within the family. And it is difficult for me to understand, Daemon, why you do not wish to go back after everything we saw. Why it is so complicated for you to worry about your own brother."
"This is worry! Do you think me content, seeing my dying brother being sidelined while the green cunts do whatever they please?”
"Then why do you not return with me?"
"Because you seem to wish to postpone the inevitable. Viserys will die, and your claim has weakened. I will only set foot in that decaying castle again if we mean to secure the throne for ourselves!"
Secure the throne for me, Rhaenyra corrected him in her head, but said nothing. And did not need to; Daemon immediately fell silent when he realized what he had said, and looked away to face the crackling of the fireplace.
I refuse to believe that that old fool will die soon, and die without ever having done anything for me, while all I ever did was to in attempt to protect him; confessed Daemon then, in a resentful, though sorrowful voice; Rhaenyra knew it to be a lie, knew that Viserys had done much for Daemon, yet understood the feeling, as until yesterday she would likely have said the same thing. Now she was not sure what to say or feel any longer.
The Stranger shall come, nevertheless, with little care to what one feels.
Recognizing that it would be useless to try making Daemon comprehend her, so busy he was with his own anger, the Princess decided to leave him be, gazing at the fire in solitude.
Then
On her thirteenth name-day, Rhaenyra had asked her father for a set of armor, custom-made uniquely for her, much like those worn by the King's Watch. She had made this wish without fully expecting to see it granted, although she thought of trying anyway, later contenting herself with basking in the indignation of having received a no, complaining to Lady Alicent of the unfairness of it until she had grown weary of her own words — and made her friend weary as well.
And what use would a young Princess have for a suit of armor?, asked Viserys, after laughing at his daughter’s request.
Even if for some miraculous reason her father had granted the gift, her mother would have never allowed it; not after the recent incident where she had walked into Rhaenyra's chambers and found the Princess admiring her own reflection in the mirror, naked from the waist down and holding a small cylindrical object made of rolled fabric to the front of her crotch, imagining herself with a cock.
No, Viserys had not given her a suit of armor, but a grand celebration, with a bountiful feast and distinguished guests; and as much as she did not care for the never-ending, tedious socializing with nobles and distant relatives she encountered only once a year — I thank you for your kindness, Lord; I am glad you are enjoying the music, Lady; What a lovely gift, dear cousin — Rhaenyra had been pleased enough eating, strolling through the hall, observing exponentially drunk guests, and stealing herself a few glasses of wine.
Perhaps later, when most of the adults found themselves distracted by their frivolities, the Princess would drag Alicent out of the hall, as she often did, with a glass of wine in each hand, convincing her to drink as they perambulated through the castle, laughing a bit too loudly — Rhaenyra, be silent!, she would say, in between giggles —, their voices echoing through the unusually empty corridors. Perhaps, if their journey demanded it, they would end the night on the courtyard under the weirwood, looking up at the stars; or sitting on a high balcony with their legs hanging out and swinging; or on the bed of one of them, sharing secrets under blankets, their minds spinning euphorically with drink.
But no; at that particular celebration, Rhaenyra had not escaped with Alicent. She had had instead a conversation with Viserys, after he had drunk two or three glasses. He had said: My dear daughter. I hope you are thoroughly enjoying yourself on your name-day. To which she had replied, with a smile, amused by the redness on her father's cheeks: Although I would have preferred the suit of armor, Father, I am enjoying myself quite a bit, if you believe it.
King Viserys had not looked like a king in the slightest then, planting a tender kiss on his daughter's forehead, his posture relaxed and his eyes heavy with wine. He said, If the gods will have it so, you shall soon receive the greatest of gifts. A little brother. My own heir. It will not be long now.
Amusement vanished from Rhaenyra's countenance in the blink of an eye, upon having heard her father's words. Even on her name-day, the King had thought only of the son he did not have.
The Princess wished to just go back to her chambers, and had not left the hall entirely by then only because Prince Daemon had intercepted her in the corridor. Leaving your own celebration so soon?, he had asked. I came to notice I do not have much interest in those people, she replied.
“No need to be like that. Surely you think people can be entertaining."
"Not them."
"Well, throughout your life, you will come to find other people, my niece. The world exists beyond the confines of this glorified prison."
"You say this, and yet you refuse to take me with you to beyond the prison."
“You have too much faith in yourself, if you believe you would be able to bear to travel in the conditions in which I travel. Are you not but a young maiden?”
“I am in no mood for teasing today, uncle.”
"I see that. But I am not only teasing. You know it is no fault of mine; it would be unseemly for a young lady. Although, believe me, I would love to take you if I could."
"You can. I am no longer a child."
Daemon smiles, and briefly strokes his niece's hair. "One day. In the meantime, take pleasure with the people you have now. But remember that we are of the dragon's blood, and at the end, we have only ourselves."
"My father, being of our blood, does not seem very interested in unity."
"Why do you say so?"
She had not said what she had been thinking, which was: If he wanted union, he would make me heir. Instead, she taunted: "He seems to want to keep you as far away as possible, uncle. Would you not agree?"
Daemon did not seem affected by the taunt. "Sharp tongue, niece. Then, I suppose we will have to count on one another. You may not understand it now, but you will, in the future."
And in the future: while she was not particularly religious, Rhaenyra would pray multiple times to any god that might hear her: May I receive support this time. Even grown, she felt as a child, begging to be seen. May I receive support this time, as I am birthing. May I receive support this time, raising my children without a husband. May I receive support this time, as the Iron Throne seems more and more unreachable, and my father more and more sickly.
Now
Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon slept apart after their quarrel. Rhaenyra dismissed the maids as soon as they had finished taking off the Princess's garments and undoing her hair. They showed concern for the Princess when she began to grimace in pain while holding her swollen belly, but she insisted on dismissing them as she wished to feel the pain alone.
As she laid upon her bed in deep discomfort and nausea, Rhaenyra thought: this time, I will not make it. It was not the first time or first pregnancy in which she had this conception; nothing about the process had become easier for her over the years, or more natural, so the logical conclusion was that it was only a matter of time before a birth finally put an end to her life.
Strangely, she remembered Alicent then, right after remembering her mother. She imagined herself in both of their places, and shuddered as she tried to decide which fate would be less frightening: to live forever trapped in the Red Keep, giving birth to children of a marriage without choice, or to live forever trapped in the Red Keep, until finally dying with her womb torn from the outside in. Was there even any difference? She imagined this, not for the first time, for a long while; until the hour of the owl, until the pain subsided, and until her thoughts became meaningless noise, leading her to sleep, at last.
Then
My love, your mother is with babe again, did you know? You will soon have a little brother, or little sister; Queen Aemma had said to Princess Rhaenyra when she was two and ten, almost thirteen. She had heard similar things before, a few times — in fact, if she were to stop and think about it, it seemed difficult to remember a time when her mother hadn't been carrying a babe or trying to have one.
Regardless, the Princess had put her ear to her mother's belly, and closed her eyes, waiting to hear something, and her mother had laughed, sweetly, and said: Rhaenyra, you will not be able to hear anything yet, it is still too soon. That one had been, perhaps, the last pregnancy in which hope could still be heard in her voice.
What are we going to do, Mother, when he is born?, asked Rhaenyra, for she knew even then that the King and Queen were trying for a boy. And her mother had answered: Your father will surely decree that we have a great celebration in all of King’s Landing, which will last for days. And if it is a girl, what will be decreed?, asked Rhaenyra. Her mother had grinned and replied: I do not know about your father, but I will decree that we love her very much.
And no celebration?, pressed Rhaenyra, who had always enjoyed the excitement of a grand feast and dance, where she could always try getting lost within the crowd. Her mother had answered: I will try to arrange a decree for a feast, my love. And then, turning her back to her daughter, she sighed and whispered, humorously, more to herself than to anyone else: And I shall drink much, much wine.
Princess Rhaenyra had found it so strange to be two and ten; she knew only one other twelve-year-old girl and they were not even remotely similar. Rhaenyra, sharp and loud in all that Alicent Hightower was soft and quiet; by that point they had already found a relatively harmonious rhythm for these contrasts, although it had not always been so. When Alicent first appeared at court, they were both eight years old, and Rhaenyra had been so terribly bothered by the fact that the new girl was taller than her. She walked about silently, with her head lowered, and even still the little Lady was a few centimeters taller than the Princess. Years later, Rhaenyra would grow very tall at the age of eight and ten, surpassing Alicent; whereas Alicent would remain the same for the rest of her life.
The resentment would soon dissolve when Rhaenyra had come to realize the bliss of having a friend. The two girls were rarely seen apart during the day, always hand in hand or arm in arm; Rhaenyra could never have imagined that there could be a someone in the world who seemed to have had been made specially for her. How ever were her days on the Red Keep like before Alicent Hightower?
For a time, in their childhoods, the differences between the two only increased, and became entangled together; Rhaenyra's pointy corners to Alicent's soft corners to Rhaenyra’s pointy corners once again. Until eventually — at the age of two and ten — Alicent had had her first flowering, and the differences, for some reason unfathomable to young Rhaenyra, had become hard to ignore. Lady Hightower, Alicent's mother, had said that she was becoming a woman. And Rhaenyra's own mother had said that it would soon be her turn, and that she would have to start behaving like a woman, too. Rhaenyra had not wanted to be constantly reminded of her supposed duty to be a woman; she just wanted to be in Alicent's company and forget.
Although forgetting had become increasingly difficult, with Alicent’s body getting fuller; her hips, thighs and breasts. A constant reminder, which disturbed and fascinated Rhaenyra in equal proportions. She had started to notice these changes in herself, too, when shortly thereafter she had had her own flowering, and somehow knew it would change how the rest of the world saw her. On that moon’s turn her uncle Daemon had returned from a long journey, which had lasted nearly a year, and upon reencountering her said: And whoever might be this beautiful maiden? Seven hells, could it be my niece, all grown?, leaving Rhaenyra feeling sheepish.
Every touch to skin had now become unbearable and irresistible, in equal amounts, in some way. Her uncle's hugs starting to feel different. Her cuddles with Alicent gaining a quiet importance when they had once been commonplace and ordinary.
They would lay together under the weirwood, and the Princess often rested her head on her friend's lap to tell stories or to listen to them. She would tell her of her fantasies, and inquire Alicent about her own’s. She hadn’t had many, but she had books to read to Rhaenyra, and a few memories.
She would ask Alicent about Oldtown, occasionally, and Alicent would tell her what she could, though she had said she remembered little of her old life there. Her stories were nothing like Daemon's dramatic tales, which would cause her to flush with wonder and anticipation, but it had been no bother at all for Rhaenyra to hear them, even if she would at times focus more on her friend's face rather than her words.
It was not long after this time that Alicent's mother had died. It had been the very first funeral Rhaenyra had a clear memory of attending. An unnerving callousness had been born in her friend's eyes following that day. Soon Rhaenyra would come to recognize this same callousness in her own eyes, and years later once more, more and more; never again a stranger to death.
Now
In the wake of a dream about Queen Aemma — a dream she did not remember much of, but which left some kind of longing in her heart — Rhaenyra saw that she had little sleep, possibly because of the restless movements in her womb. It was just after the hour of the nightingale, still dark, and most of Dragonstone had not yet risen.
As she felt her dream fading, the Princess got up to wash her face in the herbal water of the basin next to the divan. She thought about her mother and tried long and hard to mold the dead woman’s face in her mind, and next, to mold memories of her, but the details eluded Rhaenyra like the water through her fingers. She then found herself wanting to tell these memories to someone who besides herself could keep them. So she wished, while she remained in her chambers with no other thoughts, watching the silent light of dawn invade her vision and bring Dragonstone to life, eventually leading the maids to her, who upon their arrival dressed the Princess as usual, and asked as usual about the babe.
From time to time, Daemon would enter, or remain, in her chambers in the early morning, while the maids dressed her, and observe Rhaenyra in the body mirror. Whereas Rhaenyra would then examine her husband's face in the very same mirror, and her own, side by side, regarding how the masculine features of her configuration blended with his; a sight that did not displease Rhaenyra at all. When she beheld her face in a reflection, it was not too hard to be reminded of Daemon when he was young, or at least how she remembered him to be. Their eyes like two small, hungry flickers; indeed, it was an easy comparison.
She lets out a sigh. Daemon had not come to visit her that morning. Upon getting dressed, she went looking for her husband. On the balcony of the war room, he was already up and looking out over the newly dawned sea, and distractedly entwinned a loose thread from the seam of his garment between his fingers. She joined him.
"Good morrow, my love."
"Good morrow."
"I dreamed of my mother last night."
"Did you?"
"Umm."
A moment passed when the two were simply taking in the salty air and listening to the sounds of the shore. Prince Jacaerys was doing his morning flight near the island with his dragon, Vermax; both small in the distance.
"Do you remember how she used to scold you constantly for telling me scary stories? She would get so infuriated," an involuntary smile appeared on Rhaenyra's face with her own account, "but she always welcomed me into her bed in case I was too frightened to sleep alone."
With only a brief, absent laugh from someone who had only heard half of what was said, it was clear that Daemon was absorbed in his own thoughts; or in his own boredom. He did not turn to look at her. Maybe it was for the best; at times, Daemon would look into Rhaenyra's eyes as if he were looking at his own reflection in the mirror. Or maybe he was seeing Viserys in them; only the gods could tell.
It was only recently that the Princess allowed herself to notice how Daemon seemed to have exchanged one exile for another; a niece for another. He was a man who seemed to want something that was far away, or that perhaps did not even exist in this world. A millennial legacy, perhaps, or a perfect past that never was, in Ancient Valyria, where he could live happily next to his brother at last. A concept that Rhaenyra had some difficulty comprehending, as he had all she had ever imagined wanting: a free youth, the world in his hands, and a cock between his legs. And Rhaenyra had wanted him, too; sometime in the past he had been all she seemed to have.
However, in every moment like this one, he resembled less and less the hero of her childhood and more an ordinary man, unable to give her anything but empty promises. Once her main pillar, which had appeared to be solid as the truth of blood in their veins; now, revealed to be a fragile structure, crumbling with the agonizing passage of time.
The indifference she received from her husband pushed her mother out of her mind, fleetingly, and replaced the pain she felt with a different one entirely. Her thoughts only returned to Aemma again when she encountered Jace in the hallways, wearing his flight garments; she greeted her son with a kiss on the forehead and said to him: Flying this early? So dedicated. Go take a bath now, yes, my love? You smell of dragon.
Later, Princess Rhaenys Velaryon arrived mounting her own dragon, bringing news of inevitable fates.
And so
You looked radiant, King Viserys had told her after she had been crowned heir. She recalled feeling two things, then: tenderness, at having finally received her father's trust, and sorrow, at the way that, even at this important moment, Viserys could not quite look her in the eye for too long — and would remain unable to long after.
Up the hill of Dragonstone, wearing the crown that had belonged to Viserys on her head, subjects kneeling in front of her, and burdensome grief clinging to her back, Rhaenyra did not think herself radiant; gone were her days of Realm’s Delight. But she thought of herself as King, and it had to be enough; although she could never be anyone’s son.