Chapter Text
Aemma stared out the glistening, stained-glass terrace. The windows depicted the triumph of the Dragon of Aegon I the conqueror, black and gold catching the afternoon light, yet the dark vibrant colors seemed only to magnify the pallor of her own sunken face. Her lips were a dry, thin line, pressed together as if to contain a scream she dared not release. (Even if she dared, she knew her voice would be hoarse that no sound was to be set free.)
A mop of white-gold hair, once her pride, clung in damp strands to her temples and the nape of her neck. Even the light chill of the late afternoon air could not soothe the heat radiating from her. Her exhaustion was a rather visible thing; the crescents beneath her eyes were bruised and dark, bearing the weight of nine months of expectation and the terrifying knowledge of what tomorrow held, the birthing bed. Oh, how Aemma despised the birthing bed.
Her womb, a swollen, taut globe beneath the silks of her loose gown, was a ticking clock. Any moment now, the first contraction would strike, announcing the beginning of the end- or the beginning of the true nightmare. She lifted her hands, delicate and trembling, and placed them gently atop the immense swell of her stomach. The child within gave a lazy, heavy roll.
"A son."
The word was a prayer, a plea, and a shield all at once. If it was a son, her life, her pain, her burden, would be validated. Viserys would smile, the realm would cheer, and the ghost of her own near-death, her body mangled by the failures before, might finally retreat. Please.
But the glass held a dangerous reflection; Aemma of House Arryn, a Queen who felt less like royalty and more like a sacrificial ewe dressed in velvet.
With her white-gold locks and lilac blue eyes, she was every bit of Targaryen as she was every bit Arryn.
She remembered the Grand Maester’s kind, yet empty words- “Queen Aemma, you are made for this, for giving the King his heir.” -and she saw them for the cruel truth they were. She was not a woman bearing a child; she was a vessel, entrusted with the future of a dynasty, and the moment the child left her, her utility was spent. She touched the intricate silver ring on her finger, the metal cold against her feverish skin, and felt a profound, unnerving isolation although she had always felt such feelings since she had wed Viserys at age one-and-ten.
Outside, a great shadow swept past the high window. Not a cloud, but the immense, dark wing of a golden dragon, casting the terrace into momentary, icy gloom. Aemma shivered, knowing the shadow was a warning. The blood of the Dragon demanded a terrible price, and she knew, with the cold certainty of a dying woman, that payment was due tomorrow.
A few hours later, the terrace was cooling, but the air remained thick and heavy with unspoken dread. Queen Aemma sat upon a low, velvet-cushioned couch- a small, pale silhouette against the darkening black and gold of the stained glass. A handmaiden, her face carefully blank, wielded a fan with practiced, rhythmic sweeps, stirring the stagnant air around the Queen like a tired ghost. A silver tray of prepared sweets and spiced milk sat untouched nearby; food was another duty Aemma could no longer stomach.
The Queen looked up as the door whispered open, her eyes lifting slowly, as if the mere act were a great effort.
"Mother!"
Rhaenyra walked into the room, a vivid, sharp contrast to the room’s oppressive stillness. She was still clad in her soft, well-worn riding leathers—a second skin of protection and freedom. Her boots carried a faint, clean scent of dragon-smoke and fresh air, and her white-gold braid, having escaped its tie, was wild around her shoulders and waist. She smiled brightly, the sun-kissed arrogance of the Targaryen bloodline gleaming in her amethyst eyes. Viserys Eyes.
Aemma sighed softly, a sound of both exhaustion and relief, and managed a weary, yet lovingly genuine smile. "Hello, dear."
Rhaenyra grinned, all toothy, uncomplicated joy, and settled heavily beside her, the stiff leather of her garments crackling slightly against the smooth velvet of the couch. The sheer, vibrant life of the girl made Aemma feel even more brittle inside.
"You know I don't like you to go flying while I'm in this condition," Aemma huffed, a gentle reproof.
Rhaenyra giggled, resting her head against the couch’s high back. "You don't like me to go flying while you're in any condition."
Aemma raised a thin brow. "Touché." The Queen’s hand instinctively drifted to the immense swell of her abdomen, a subconscious check on the precious, dangerous life it contained.
"Did you sleep?" Rhaenyra asked, her tone shifting swiftly from joking to worried. The joy slipped away from her eyes like a curtain drawn.
"I slept," Aemma hummed, vague and evasive.
"How long?" Rhaenyra pressed, leaning closer. The familiar, maternal scent of her daughter- smoke, leather, and youth -was a welcome comfort.
"I don't need mothering, Sweetling," Aemma hummed, though she knew she was lying. She desperately needed care that had nothing to do with breeding.
"Well, here you are," Rhaenyra said bluntly, her voice laced with sudden, clear-eyed resentment, "Surrounded by attendants, all focused on the babe. Someone has to attend to you."
Aemma looked at the girl, so vital, so free, and felt a profound, aching pity. "You will lie in this bed soon enough, Rhaenyra. This discomfort is how we serve the realm." Her voice was numb, reciting a grim lesson learned over years of miscarriages and disappointments. The words were a hammer blow, hitting not only Rhaenyra, but Aemma herself.
"I'd rather serve as a knight and ride to battle and glory," Rhaenyra scoffed, a joking grin returning. It was the easy answer, the one that masked her true nature. For all her talk of freedom and dragons, Rhaenyra was a true Princess of the court; the notion of actual grime, sweat, and danger was merely an attractive fantasy. She'd hate the dirt on her silks, the blood on her sword or under her perfectly cared for nails.
Aemma let out a weak, genuine laugh. It was a rare moment of lightness, a thin crack in the wall of fear built around her fragile heart. But as she gazed at her beautiful, perfect, untouched daughter, a darker thought surfaced, tightening the knot in her chest.
Viserys only wants her to serve as a vessel, 'just as I am.' And with the morning to come, Aemma feared she might soon fail in her duty once more, leaving Rhaenyra terrifyingly alone to fulfill hers.
Aemma’s eyes lost focus for a fleeting, terrifying moment, gazing almost vacantly past the glass, past the city, into a future she knew was irrevocably chained to the birthing room. The warm, tired smile vanished, replaced by an unsettling numbness as she recited the harsh creed of their bloodline.
"We have royal wombs, you and I. The child bed is our battlefield. We must learn to face it with a stiff lip." Her voice was soft, devoid of dramatic flourish, making the words sound less like an ambition and more like a terminal diagnosis. This wasn't instruction; it was a prophecy passed down through generations of Targaryen women who were expected to bleed, deliver, and endure. Especially after Aegon the Conquerors rule where they conformed to the Religion of the Seven.
Then, just as swiftly, the blankness dissolved. Her eyes regained their warmth, crinkling slightly at the corners as she turned back to her daughter. It was the shift of a well-worn mask, pulled smoothly back into place. "Now take a bath. You stink of dragon, My Sweetling."
Rhaenyra’s bright smile faded, replaced by a flicker of worry. She bit her bottom lip, her young mind struggling to reconcile the soft mother with the grim prophetess. The conversation felt sharp, final, like a lesson for a future she didn't want to inhabit. "Alright, if you insist." She stood, giving her mother one last, lingering look before turning toward the door.
~
The royal bath was a gilded indulgence of scented oils and warm water, but Rhaenyra’s mind remained stubbornly on the cold pronouncements of her mother.
She dismissed her own handmaidens with a curt wave, needing the heavy, opulent silence. The riding leathers, which had felt like freedom and power moments before, were now a cumbersome layer she impatiently peeled away, leaving them in a dark, discarded heap on the marble floor.
Submerged in the rose oils and gardenia-scented water, Rhaenyra found no comfort.
She closed her eyes and saw her father, King Viserys, hovering over his solar table, poring over the model of Valyria-a kingdom sunk beneath the ashen waves, a symbol of ruin preserved in miniature. Lately, his eyes had been strange, focused on her with an intensity that had nothing to do with her jokes or her dragon. It was a calculating stare, cold and distant, as if she were a piece on his map, a valuable, necessary possession.
You will lie in this bed soon enough, Rhaenyra.
The words echoed in the silence, cutting through the steam. They were not just Aemma’s words; they were the law of the Dragon. Rhaenyra was the only surviving child, the named heir, the beloved-but her true, singular function was to keep the line alive. To be pure. To be perfect. To provide.
She imagined the birthing room-not the glorious battlefield of knights, but a hot, bloody, closed-off hell. The idea filled her with a profound, bitter terror. She was meant to be above the grime, above the pain, soaring on Syrax. But tomorrow, her mother would face that battle, and Rhaenyra knew, with chilling certainty, that her own turn was fast approaching. The walls of the Red Keep suddenly felt very high, very thick, and very much like a golden gilded cage.
She did not want to be a vessel. She wanted to be a dragon.
With a frustrated splash, Rhaenyra emerged from the bath, water sheeting off her pale, perfect almost pearlescent skin. She reached for the thickest velvet robe, wrapping herself tight, as if armor could be woven from silk. The terror of the Womb-as-Battlefield was replaced by a defiant, rising determination; She would find a way to serve the realm on the back of a dragon, not upon a blood-soaked bed.
The steam from the bath faded, carrying away the last vestiges of the dragon’s scent, replaced by the heavy sweetness of rosewater and Myrish lace. Rhaenyra’s personal chambers were a flurry of soft activity. Her handmaidens moved with quiet efficiency-two young girls whose futures, like Rhaenyra’s, were bound to the gilded machinery of the Red Keep.
Cyrene Celtigar, a slip of a girl of three-and-ten, with her short black hair and scattered freckles, watched Rhaenyra with soft, knowing purple eyes-the violet stare that sometimes marked the Valyrian houses. She was already adept at keeping silent.
Laurene Redwyne, a year older and possessed of long, striking hair that fell in a shimmering, near-magenta cascade, focused intently on the silk gown spread across the bed. Laurene’s blue eyes were bright with the ambition and romance of a girl who still believed the Red Keep was a palace of dreams, not a trap.
Together, they began the ritual of transformation.
Rhaenyra stood perfectly still, allowing herself to be encased. First, the fine linen shift, then the royal purple silk, the empire waistline cinched high beneath her bust, falling in rich, heavy folds. The material was beautiful, meant to conceal and flatter the emerging figure of a woman, but to Rhaenyra, it felt like being bound in soft, costly chains. Every pull of the lace, every tuck of the tulle, was a silent confirmation of her required role: Heir. Vessel. Princess.
Cyrene worked on her hair. She sectioned the platinum-gold strands with delicate fingers, weaving them into an intricate crown that rested high on her head. Then came the adornments; smooth, milky pearls nestled beside deep purple amethyst gems-stones that symbolized her very royalty and purity. The weight of the jewels was a subtle pressure, a constant, physical reminder of the crown she was expected to bear, both metaphorically and literally.
Meanwhile, Laurene attended to the details. A light, flattering dusting of powder to smooth the perfect planes of Rhaenyra’s face; a subtle, rosy tint to her lips. Finally, a heavy, expensive perfume—scented with winter rose and night-blooming jasmine-was dabbed onto her pulse points, replacing the faint, lingering smell of the dragon she loved.
Rhaenyra stared at her reflection in the polished silver mirror. The girl who had emerged defiant from the bath was gone. In her place stood a flawless, unnervingly still image: the Princess. Every inch of her was controlled, perfected, and meticulously prepared.
The transformation was unsettlingly complete. She looked undeniably beautiful, a vision of Targaryen perfection, but beneath the silk and gems, the dread had only sharpened. The perfume could not hide the fear; the lace could not soften the knowledge.
She was now dressed for the night of waiting, ready to be presented to her father, the King, in a purity that felt utterly and terrifyingly false. She was perfect, yes-but perfect for sacrifice. She did not want to see her father or the small council, it would be soon that she is to be married off to a young lord, after all Rhaenyra is of 'wedded' age.
Rhaenyra turned slowly from the silver mirror. Her reflection was startling-a masterpiece of royal artistry, cool and untouchable. The purple silk shimmered under the sconce light, making the gems in her hair catch fire. She saw the two girls standing slightly back, waiting for her approval.
She felt the weight of her role settle over her shoulders, heavier than the velvet cape that lay waiting.
"Thank you, Cyrene," she said, her voice soft, yet ringing with the clear authority of a Princess. Her eyes briefly met the younger girl's soft, purple gaze. Cyrene merely dipped her head, her movements quiet and deferential.
Rhaenyra then turned to Laurene, who looked upon the Princess with open admiration—the pure, untainted awe of a girl still dreaming of a courtly romance. "And thank you, Laurene. The placement is exquisite."
Laurene’s magenta-red hair brushed her shoulder as she curtsied low. "It is my honor, Princess. You look positively perfect."
The word 'perfect' hung in the air, cold and sharp. Perfect.
Rhaenyra offered a faint, tired smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. She knew Laurene meant it as the highest compliment, but to Rhaenyra, it felt like the final turn of a key. She wasn't beautiful; she was impeccably prepared. (She was sure her smile looked just like her mother's fresh from the birthing bed,)
She walked past them, the heavy, expensive perfume leaving a sickly-sweet trail in her wake. "I must go see my mother now."
As Rhaenyra stepped out of the chamber, cloaked in her perfect beauty and her rising dread, the two handmaidens exchanged a quick glance. Laurene’s gaze was still bright with admiration, but Cyrene’s purple eyes were shadowed, filled with the quiet, unsettling understanding that, for a Targaryen woman, perfection often meant being ready for the worst.
The Red Keep was sinking into the evening. Torches cast flickering, anxious light along the stone corridors, the shadows stretching and crawling like predatory things. Rhaenyra moved through the halls with the practiced glide of royalty, her purple silks whispering against the marble floor-a beautiful, fragile figure navigating the monumental silence. She kept her back straight, resisting the urge to run back to her dragon. She was the Princess, and she was dressed for duty.
She found her mother precisely where she had left her. The chamber was darker now; only the dying light filtering through the stained glass and a few strategically placed oil lamps illuminated the space, making the Queen’s small, still form look like a pale, precious statue carved from moonlight.
Aemma was no longer fanned. The handmaidens had retreated to the corners of the room, their presence now less about comfort and more about silent, professional constant vigilance.
"Mother?" Rhaenyra’s voice, normally clear and commanding, was hushed, muffled by the sheer wealth of velvet and silk that encased her.
Aemma turned her head slowly. Her lilac-blue eyes, ringed by exhaustion, registered Rhaenyra’s transformation. The sight of her daughter, radiant and adorned, seemed to strike her with a sudden, fresh wave of pain-not physical, but a deep, mournful regret.
"Ah, my beautiful girl," Aemma murmured. Her smile was a paper-thin facade, ready to tear. "You smell like a summer garden."
Rhaenyra walked to the couch and knelt beside her, heedless of the costly silk pooling on the floor. She took one of Aemma’s hands; the Queen's skin was strangely cool, almost clammy, despite the faint sheen of sweat on her forehead.
"The air is cold," Rhaenyra observed, rubbing her thumb across the back of her mother’s hand.
"It is merely the hour," Aemma said. She took a slow, deliberate breath, and her fingers tightened around Rhaenyra’s hand-a sharp, involuntary spasm that vanished almost before it began. A bead of sweat traced a path down her temple.
Rhaenyra felt the tension in her mother's grip, a hidden knot of muscle beneath the skin. "Did something hurt?" she whispered.
Aemma shook her head, her movement minimal, almost imperceptible. "A sharp stitch, Sweetling. Nothing. Merely the babe… preparing." She offered another weak smile, but her eyes held a terror that had nothing to do with a simple stitch. It was the look of a creature already caught in a snare, knowing the hunter was just about to pull the rope.
"You should sleep," Rhaenyra insisted, her own heart beginning to thrum with a frantic, intensely protective instinct.
"And you, my love, should be abed when you are no more restless. Tomorrow will be a day for patience and waiting. Enjoy the tourney, my dear" Aemma’s hand lifted, stroking the intricate pearls woven into Rhaenyra’s hair. Her touch was possessive, almost desperate. "You look so very much like the Dragon now. So perfect. Stay pure, Rhaenyra. Stay… whole."
Before Rhaenyra could question the unnatural emphasis on those words, Aemma's face tightened again. This time, her eyes squeezed shut, and the grip on Rhaenyra’s hand became bone-crushingly tight. It lasted a second longer, a deep, silent, bodily tremor.
The silence that followed was suffocating. Rhaenyra knew, with a certainty that chilled her to the bone, that the nightmare had begun. The ticking clock had struck.
~
Rhaenyra moved through the halls, her pursed lips the only sign of the storm brewing beneath her ribs. Her purple silk skirts fluttered like the wings of a trapped bird as she approached the heavy oak doors of the Council Chamber. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of roasted meats and the casual, booming laughter of men who had never known the terror of a "battlefield" that didn't involve steel.
As she entered, the laughter hit her like a physical blow. King Viserys sat at the head of the table; his face flushed with grease and good humor.
"So, I said to him, 'Well, I believe you might be looking up the wrong end!'" Viserys chuckled, leaning back as the lords joined in-all except Lord Corlys Velaryon. The Sea Snake sat with his weather-beaten skin taut, his sea-green eyes narrowed in a cold, salt-rimmed glare.
Corlys rose, unrolling a map of the Stepstones with a sharp snap that cut through the laughter. "My lords. The growing alliance among the Free Cities has taken to styling itself 'the Triarchy.' They have massed on Bloodstone and are presently ridding the Stepstones of its pirate infestation."
"Well, that sounds suspiciously like good news, Lord Corlys," Viserys said with a half-smile, reaching for a piece of fruit.
"A man called Craghas Drahar has styled himself the prince-admiral of this Triarchy," Corlys pressed, his voice vibrating with a warning. "They call him 'The Crabfeeder' due to his inventive methods of punishing his enemies."
Rhaenyra stepped into the light of the room as her heels clicked. Viserys raised a brow, his focus shifting from the map to his daughter. "And are we meant to weep for dead pirates?"
"No, Your Grace," Corlys said, his voice tight with withheld fury.
"Ah, Rhaenyra, you're late," Viserys noted, though his eyes softened as they raked over her. He saw the pearls, the royal purple, the flawless mask of the Princess she had become in the last hour of dutiful prepping done by handmaidens. "The King's cupbearer must not be late. Leaves people wanting for cups." He looked into her eyes, Aemma's eyes.
"I was visiting Mother," Rhaenyra said softly as she inclined her head. She stood perfectly still, the epitome of femininity, yet her heart felt like lead.
Viserys smiled, a look of profound, terrifying pleasure crossing his face. To him, she was a beautiful ornament, a reflection of the purity and prestige of his house. He didn't see the worry in her lilac-like eyes; he saw a girl who looked exactly as a Targaryen princess should.
As the council drifted into talk of Daemon’s City Watch and the mounting costs of retraining gold cloaks, Rhaenyra began her rounds. The wine sloshed crimson in the cups- the color of the dragon, the color of the blood she knew was being spilled in the Queen's chambers.
As the crimson liquid rose to the brim of Viserys’s goblet, Rhaenyra felt the heat of his stare. It wasn't the warm, bumbling affection of the father who played with stone models; it was the heavy, suffocating gaze of a man searching for a lost soul. Across the table, Otto Hightower’s quill paused, the ink pooling in a dark blot on the parchment- a silent witness to a King who was starting to see ghosts in the living. What ghost was he seeing, when no ghost was needed?
"Shall we discuss the Heir's Tournament, Your Grace?" Otto Hightower asked with a wry, knowing grin.
"I would be delighted," Viserys chimed, his eyes lighting up. "Will the maesters' name day prediction hold, Mellos?"
Grand Maester Mellos adjusted his chains. "You must understand that these things are mere estimations, my King, but we have all been poring over the moon charts, and we feel that our forecast is as accurate as it can be."
Rhaenyra reached Lord Corlys, the wine decanter poised. He held out a hand, stopping her with a silent, sharp gesture. Rhaenyra huffed, a small flicker of her true spirit emerging, and stepped back briskly.
"The cost of the tournament is not negligible," Lord Beesbury sighed. "Perhaps we might delay until the child is in hand?"
"The tourney will take the better part of a week," Viserys declared, his voice rising with a frantic kind of certainty. "Before the games are over, my son will be born, and the whole realm will celebrate."
"We have no way of predicting the sex of the child," Mellos reminded him, his voice clipped.
Viserys glanced at the Maester, his jaw setting. "There's a boy in the Queen's belly. I know it. And my heir will soon put all of this damnable handwringing to rest himself."
Rhaenyra watched her father, her grip tightening on the silver flagon. The men spoke of the child as a conqueror, a savior- but she could only think of the "stitch" in her mother's side and the dark crescents under her eyes. To the men at the table, the child was a crown; to Aemma, it was a sentence. And Rhaenyra, standing there in her beautiful silks, realized she was the only one in the room who truly understood the price of the "Heir" they were so eagerly awaiting.
After all, a woman's battlefield was the birthing bed, wasn't it?
~
Rhaenyra walked with Ser Harrold Westerling toward the Great Hall. The midday light was thin and grey, doing little to warm the cold stone of the Red Keep.
"He passed through the Red Keep's gates at first light," Ser Harrold said with a weary sigh, his hand resting habitually on the pommel of his sword.
Rhaenyra felt a spark of genuine amusement-the first in days. "Does my father know he's here?"
"No," Harrold grunted, looking as though he’d aged ten years since sunrise.
"Good." Rhaenyra let out a soft, melodic giggle that echoed through the vaulted hallway.
The heavy doors groaned as Harrold pushed them open. The Iron Throne loomed at the far end of the hall, a monstrous silhouette of melted blades and jagged edges. Atop it, lounging with a terrifying casualness, sat Prince Daemon.
"Gods be good," Harrold muttered, coming to a dead halt.
"It's all right, Ser," Rhaenyra said, her voice dropping into a soothing, gentle tone. She stepped past him, her royal purple silks fluttering like a bruise against the grey stone.
She approached the throne, her hands clasped before her, her head held high.
"Skoros yne sōvegon issari, ñuha dārior?" (What do you think you’re doing, uncle?) Rhaenyra asked, her brow arched in a challenge.
Daemon didn’t move, his amethyst eyes tracking her like a hawk watching a rabbit. "Dēmagon. Iksis bisa dāria dōrī sagon iksā ñuha." (Sitting. This could well be my chair one day.) He offered a sharp, wolfish grin.
"Massa sagon ao execute hen treason. Ao dōrī courts sagon lēkia." (Not if you’re executed for treason. You haven’t come to court in an age.) "Aye... Court iksis sagon dōrī boring." (Aye... Court is so dreadfully boring.) Daemon sighed, finally shifting his weight.
"Skorkydo dārilaros dāria?" (Then why come back at all?)
Rhaenyra stopped at the base of the twisted metal stairs.
"I heard your father was hosting a tournament in my honor." Daemon’s voice was smooth, mischief dancing in his eyes as his white hair spilled like silk over his black dragon-scale armor.
"The tournament is for his heir," Rhaenyra corrected, her voice humming with a low, vibrant energy.
"Just as I said," Daemon countered.
"His new heir." Rhaenyra snorted.
Daemon stood, descending the stairs with the predatory grace of a cat. He stopped just above her, looking down. "Until your mother brings forth a son, you are all cursed with me." He let out a small, dry cackle.
"Then I shall hope for a brother," Rhaenyra hummed sweetly, tilting her head.
Daemon stepped onto the floor, closing the space between them. The smug smirk on his face was mirrored on hers- two dragons sharing a secret the rest of the world was too dull to understand.
"I brought you something."
He reached into his tunic and withdrew a necklace. It caught the dim torchlight- a dark, obsidian-like chain with an intricate, glowing centerpiece.
"Do you know what it is?"
Rhaenyra stepped closer, her breath hitching. "It's Valyrian steel. Like Dark Sister." She whispered the words in awe, reaching out but not quite touching the cold metal.
Daemon pulled it back slightly, his eyes never leaving hers. "Turn around."
Rhaenyra obeyed. She reached up, gathering the heavy, pearl-woven strands of her hair and pulling them away from the nape of her neck. She unclasped her pearl necklace—the symbol of the "pure" princess her father wanted- and let it fall into her hand.
She felt Daemon’s cold fingers brush against her skin. It was a sharp, electrifying contrast to the stifling warmth of her rooms. He fastened the Valyrian steel around her throat.
"Now... you and I both own a small piece of our ancestry." Daemon’s voice was a low rasp in her ear.
Rhaenyra turned back to him, her fingers tracing the dark, ancient metal now resting against her collarbone. It felt heavier than the pearls. It felt like a weapon.
Daemon looked at her- at the purple silk, the pearls in her hair, and the dark steel at her throat. But most of all, he had looked at her. A slow, unnerving smile spread across his face.
"Gēlenka." (Beautiful.)